"Yeah, maybe," he said. "Look, I gotta go. I need to take care of a few things."
He hung up without saying goodbye.
I shrugged and did my best to put it out of my mind.
I didn't hear from him all week. When I finally decided to be the one to make the effort, his line rang until it finally went to voicemail. I hung up and sent a text instead: "You good?"
No return calls and no replies.
By the second week, I was a little pissed off. I sent three more messages, and in the last one, I outright cursed at him for ducking me: "This isn't how you treat a friend, dick. Call me, maybe I can help."
When the week ended without hearing from him, I went to dial his wife, Lorie, then remembered Taylor saying that it was a personal issue. If Taylor and Lorie were arguing, the last thing I wanted was to get involved. Even though I hated being left in the dark, I decided not to call. Whatever was going on with them had to be bad, and he'd reach out when he was ready.
I laid in bed that night more worried than I've ever been in my life. I don't know what caused it. Like a spider, it crept up on me throughout the day, and in the end, I needed to suppress the feeling that something serious was wrong just to fall asleep.
I remember the last time I glanced at the digital clock before drifting off. The red display had read 2:05 in the morning. I woke again when the alarm clock went off at 6:00, surprised to see a waiting voicemail on my cell. Taylor tried to reach me at 3:33 a.m.
Long voicemails are often a bad sign. I held the phone to my ear and listened but only heard ambient noise, and figured that he must have pocket dialed me.
After scrubbing through a few seconds, I listened, then skipped forward a little bit more. Every time I slowed the message, I heard the low hum of background interference mixed with breathing and little else. I jumped forward again. In the last few seconds of the recording, I heard Taylor say, "…saw everyone but you…" Then the message cut out.
If he didn't see me, then who did he see? I played it back again and listened more closely.
Taylor had been speaking the whole time. I maxed out the volume. His message was disturbing. The low, pained whisper sounded like he had had been speaking to someone else, but I still couldn't make out all the words.
Or maybe I just didn't want to.
When the message ended the second time, I called Taylor. It went straight to voicemail: "You've reached Major Jesse Taylor. I am unable to take your call. Please leave a message and I will get back to you in good time."
"Hey," I said. "I don't know what's going on with you, but call me as soon as possible." I paused a moment, then added, "I'm worried. Hope you're okay."
The day went by without hearing from him and I tried again but only got the same voicemail greeting.
"Seriously, Jesse, what the hell is going on?"
I decided to call Lorie. Her phone rang several times before going to voicemail, as well. Trying to sound chipper, I blurted out, "Hey, Lorie, It's Jon. Give me a call. Just wanna make sure everything's all right… Love you, bye."
I hung up the phone, knowing everything wasn't all right.
***
Later that night my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and was in no mood to speak to anyone except Taylor or Lorie, so I silenced the call. Whoever it was chose not to leave a message.
An hour later my phone rang again. It was Taylor calling. I answered and screamed into the phone, "Where the fuck have you been? I was about to ca—"
"Sir, this is Detective Andrew Yang with the Anne Arundel County Police Department. May I speak to Lieutenant Randon?"
A sinking dread stabbed through my stomach. "Where's Taylor?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, I can't answer any questions until I know I'm speaking with Lieutenant Randon."
"I'm Randon. What's going on?"
"First name?"
"Jonathan Randon. Talk to me."
"Lieutenant, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this." He cleared his throat. "We recovered a body which we believe is Jesse Taylor."
I laughed. "Stop messing around. He put you up to this, right? Put him on the phone."
"This isn't a prank, sir."
"Bullshit."
"It was…I don't know how else to say this. We're calling it an act of God."
I scratched my head. "What?"
"Freak occurrences like this happen all the time. Major Taylor was struck by lightning."
I slumped in my chair. My mind fought back against the truth. How could Taylor be dead? I knew it had to be some kind of mistake and I wanted to say something, anything, but my voice had abandoned me.
"Again, I'm sorry," Yang apologized. "Normally we speak to the next-of-kin in person, but we had no idea where to find you."
"What do you mean next of kin? You haven't called his wife or parents?"
"We sent units to Mr. Taylor's residence. No one answered the door. We called from our office and from his cell. Still no answer. We tried his father and mother as well, then sister and brother. None of them could be reached. You're the only other person listed as family."
"This is crazy. Give me a number to get back to you. I'll get in touch with them."
"443-"
"Wait," I said, suddenly remembering The Death Agreement. "While I got you on the phone, did you find a letter or him? Something for me?"
"A Letter? No. Why?"
"You wouldn't understand. Okay, what's that number?"
It was the same number which I had ignored earlier, and I thought and about all that wasted time before hanging up the phone.
"No," I said to myself. "This is a game. Jesse's not dead."
I realized I was crying. More than crying, actually; I was in the midst of a breakdown, yet somehow still able to analyze the pain as if it wasn't happening to me, as if I were a scientist looking through a window of a cage and thoughtfully considering a lab rat.
Tired of my observation, I retreated into myself, allowing my body to grieve without my mind having to acknowledge the pain.
A pounding on my door snapped me out of the trance. "Randon! Commander Litwell says to keep it down. If you don't, some goons are going to escort you to psych." The soldier stomped away before I could reply.
After that, I was okay–in shock, and the world felt surreal, but I felt well enough to do what needed to be done.
***
I spent hours trying to reach anyone in Jesse's family. First I tried his father and mother, then his sister and brother. Like Detective Yang, I wasn't able to reach them. I called friends, employers, and anyone else I could think to call. No one had seen or heard from Taylor or his family for over a week.
Having exhausted all other resources, I dialed information and asked them to connect me to Howard Taylor, Jesse's estranged grandfather.
The phone rang twice, then someone picked up, and a pained voice said, "Huuuh?"
"May I speak to Howard, please?"
His words dragged out as if he were gasping for breath. "Whaaat dooo yooou waaant?"
"I'm a friend of Jesse, your grandson. I have bad news, sir."
"Whaaat baaad neeews?"
"I'm sorry to tell you but Jesse passed away."
The man went into a hacking cough for several seconds.
"Sir?"
He gave a pained sigh.
"Are you all right?"
"Nooo."
"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in person. From what Jesse told me, you're not very close with your family."
"Mmm."
"I called because I'm having trouble reaching his parents and siblings."
The man went into another coughing fit. I listened to his discomforting grunts and wheezes. The agonizing sounds reminded me of the time Taylor had told me his grandfather was a worthless drunk. He had spoken of how the man had abandoned Jesse's father when his father was just a boy, leaving him alone to care for his mother who suffered from tuberculosis.
Years later, Jesse's father had tried to reconcile. By th
at time, he had a wife and three kids of his own, and he thought the kids should know their grandfather. The reunion went poorly. Jesse had not talked to him since.
"On the off chance that a family member still keeps in touch…" I wiped my hand down my clammy face. "Have you heard from any of them?"
He didn't respond right away. Sobs, stifled screams, and more coughing punctuated the silence.
Finally, he managed to say in a wobbly drawn of rasp, "Ooover the yeeears. Biiits aaand pieeeceees."
"I understand. If you hear anythi—" The call disconnected. I tossed my cellphone onto the bed and kicked my dresser with my prosthetic. "Well, fuck you, too."
I sat for a while, wondering what I should do. I dialed Yang. Forty-eight hours of nonstop amateur detective work had led me to very little. All I had managed to do was verify the grim news that Jesse's family couldn't be located.
"Detective Yang speaking," he said.
"Please say you've reached them." I heard papers shuffling, then the phone went quiet as if Yang had muted his side of the call. "Detective, can you hear me? I need to know if you've gotten in touch with the family."
The ambient noise returned, and Yang said, "No. Nothing yet."
"This is wrong." I clenched my hand around the phone. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all that might help?"
"We don't have anything new."
"With nothing else to go on, can't you at least open an official missing persons report?"
Yang breathed deep, then said, "Not at this time."
I gritted my teeth. "I thought you wanted to solve this case."
"I do. We can't talk about it over the phone. Would you mind coming down to answer a few questions?"
"Fine. I'll take a cab."
"We can pick you up. It will be faster."
"Okay, let me give you my address."
"We already have your address."
"Tell me something," I said. "I'm losing my mind here."
Yang just breathed into the phone.
"Detective…please?"
Yang clicked his tongue. "There is something. We found Mr. Taylor's car."
"Found it? I didn't know it was missing."
"Neither did we. It's what we found in the car that has me worried."
My heart skipped a beat, and I swallowed hard. "What?"
"Industrial-sized trash bags and a hacksaw. Your ride should be there soon. We'll talk more when you get here." Yang hung up.
The news hit me like a bat to the ribs. A sick, helpless dread washed over me and vomit rose in my throat. I covered my lips with my hand, retching. Puke filled my mouth, drops of acidic slime slipping between my fingers. I ran for the toilet…but didn't make it.
***
I took a scalding hot shower hoping to restore my wits. I hopped out of the specialized tub, reattached my leg, then wiped condensation from the mirror. I inspected my bloodshot eyes. After squeezing out a few drops of Visine, I stepped from the steam-filled bathroom.
"What the fuck!" I screamed, covering myself with my hands. Two uniformed officers stood in my living room, each resting a hand on the butt of their holstered service weapon. They looked at each other, back at me, then their eyes dropped to my prosthetic leg.
The larger cop said, "The door was cracked open. We let ourselves in."
The short, brawny cop added, "Hope you don't mind."
"What are you doing in my room?"
The brawny cop said, "Oh, we wanted to make sure that—"
"That you weren't in danger," the larger cop finished.
"Well, I'm not, and I would appreciate it if you would kindly wait in the hallway."
They looked at each other.
"Let me try it this way," I said. "Unless you have a warrant, I'd like you to get out of my living room."
"Technically," the brawny cop said, "we wouldn't need to give you a warrant as these are government quarters. That would go to the base commander."
"I'll be talking to Commander Litwell myself, trust me." I pointed to the open door. "Now, if we understand each other, I'd like to get dressed."
They still did not move.
"The way you're staring at my prosthetic leg," I said, "I'm guessing you'd like a good look at my naked ass, too."
"We'll wait outside," the larger cop said.
The brawny cop said, "Sorry for the inconvenience." The tone he had used translated the words into: Screw you, buddy.
The cops stepped back into the hallway, but left the door wide open.
***
When we reached the police station, the cops passed me off to a man wearing a button-up white shirt and an ugly green tie with a yellow mustard stain down the center.
"This way, please," the man said. When he turned to lead the way, I saw the badge clipped to his waist. He led me to a door marked: Interrogation Four. The walls were white-painted cinderblock, bare, except for what I assumed to be a two-way mirror on the far wall.
The detective motioned to the metal desk and chairs. I took a seat, glancing at the mirror on my right. "Just a moment," he said, smiled, then closed the door as he left.
After fifteen minutes, I got up and tried the door handle, finding it locked. I knocked twice but no one came to let me out. Without any other options, I sat back down and waited. Over an hour later, an Asian man dressed in a brown suit and worn tennis shoes came in carrying two cups of coffee.
"Detective Yang?" I asked, rising from my seat.
The man set the cups on the metal table and extended his hand. "Thanks for making the trip."
I refused to shake his hand but I took the coffee. "Thanks for making me sit here like I'm some kind of criminal."
"Lieutenant Randon." Yang sighed. Then he sat down across from me. "May I call you Jonathan?"
"Jon."
"It isn't like that, Jon. You're not a suspect."
"What's it like then?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you waiting. This case is spiraling out of control, and you're the only person close enough to Mr. Taylor who can give us insight into his motives. Unfortunately that leaves us with a problem."
"Which is?"
"Trust," Yang said. "New evidence has surfaced, evidence the police department would never share with the public. I've convinced my supervisors this information may help you help us."
"I'll do everything in my power. All I want is to track down Taylor's family, make sure they are safe."
Yang's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened for a split second before he smiled slightly. "That's all we want, too."
"I know what you're thinking," I leaned back and crossed my arms. "He would never hurt them. Not in a million years."
"I understand your dedication to your friend. Believe me, I do, Jon."
"Good, so where do we start?"
Yang stood. He crushed the empty paper cup in his hand, then said, "The morgue. I need you to identify the body before we can release it to the funeral home."
***
The sun set as we left the station. Yang climbed in behind the wheel of a white Crown Victoria, and I jumped into the passenger seat. As we drove, he asked about my life, time in the service, and plans for the future. I answered his questions and asked some of my own. I learned he had been a cop for thirteen years, that he was married, though his wife had run off with his brother, and now he looked after his young nephew, and his nephew's mother that his brother had left behind.
"Sounds like you do understand what I'm going through," I said.
Yang nodded as he pulled into a parking spot. After he shut off the engine, he looked at me and scrunched his eyebrows together. "By the way," he said, "when was the last time you heard from Mr. Taylor?"
"Um, well…I saw him a few weeks ago. The last I heard from him though, he left a message on my phone about him not seeing me somewhere, but that's it."
"Not seeing you? Did he expect to see you?"
"I don't know. It was strange. I'm not even sure he was talking to me. It sounde
d like the call was accidental. Like maybe he was talking to someone else."
"Oh." Yang opened the car door. "Can I listen to it?"
"Sure."
I pulled the phone from my pocked, navigated to voicemail, and pressed play.
— Jesse Taylor Voicemail —
We sat in silence after the message finished.
"I don't know what to make of it, Detective."
Yang bit his lip. "Interesting. Odd, but interesting."
"What is?"
"If Jesse Taylor that left that message, my job just got easier. That's all."
"Of course it's him. But I don't see how that's important," I said, confused.
"What if that isn't him?" Yang narrowed his eyes. "Maybe someone left that recording so we would think it was him."
"What are you getting at?"
"Nothing."
"Besides, even if this was some kind of prank, it wouldn't have anything to do with Jesse's death."
"You're right, it's nothing." Yang stepped out of the car. "Come on, let's make this quick."
Stepping from the car, I shook my head, wondering what the fuck he was talking about.
"This way," Yang said.
Instead of going in through the front door, Yang and I walked around to the rear of the building. Graffiti covered the red brick and metal door. A security camera perched above the top right corner of the doorway peered down at us. Yang flashed his badge. The door buzzed and we walked into a dimly lit hallway.
"I hate this place," Yang said as we made our way through the maze of grey cinderblocks. We turned another corner and the area opened up into a waiting room where twelve foldable brown chairs were lined up in three rows of four. Dusty inspirational posters plastered the walls. In one corner, I noticed a display shelf filled with brochures about dealing with loss, all of which looked as though they had been printed in the seventies. One in particular showed a hand holding out a plain cardboard box with red packing tape. The caption read: Don't Pack Pain Away. Another showed two men with long hair and even longer sideburns, their faces pressed together and wet with tears. The caption read: Time Heals All Things.
I heard someone clear their throat and looked up to see an old lady with blue-tinted hair sitting behind a Plexiglas window. Yang walked over to her and slid a piece of paper through the small opening. She read it and pressed a button. Another door buzzed, which I opened and stepped through.
"Hello," a voice called from down the hallway in front of me. "Come on in!"
Yang pushed past me, and I followed him to a frosted glass door printed with the words: Cold Storage. Inside the room, a medical examiner stood over a stainless-steel slab covered in blood.
The Death Agreement Page 3