Prayer for the Dead jb-1

by David Wiltse

  “I see you don’t take it personally. Why is that?”

  “What happened after you shot Sal?”

  “He died.”

  Gold began the serpentine line that intersected the vertical one.

  “Sorry,” said Becker. “I’ve got to learn to let the easy ones pass

  … I had a reaction.”

  “That’s normal.”

  “I saw a shrink for a while.”

  “There’s no record of that in your file.”

  “I didn’t use a Bureau man.”

  “You went to a private therapist for help? Why is that?”

  Becker was silent.

  “Why not use a Bureau therapist?… They’re experienced in that kind of trauma… They’re free.”

  “Spiders do that,” said Becker. “They keep the corpses around them. They paralyze them, suck than dry, and leave the husks hanging there.”

  “What were you afraid the Bureau would find out about you?”

  Becker returned to the window. Gold started to fill in the parabolas on his notepad.

  “I don’t respect you because you can’t really fix anything. You can drug the violent ones or put diapers on the bed wetters or talk the mild cases into giving up out of boredom, but when they’re really wrong, you can’t make them right, can you?”

  “What do you mean by really wrong?”,

  “Some people are wired differently. They like to hear people scream or make them bleed or make them die-and you can’t do anything about those people, can you? You can’t change the wiring.”

  “What do you think should be done with such people?”

  Becker laughed. “Oh, doctor,” he said. “Now really.”

  Eric Brandauer felt like killing somebody. The bitch whose lawn he had just finished mowing had paid him with her nose cocked as if he smelled. He wanted to thrust her head into his crotch; he’d show her what smelled.

  The damned weed trimmer had given out on him and he’d had to use a hand sickle that he hadn’t needed in years, and he took a gouge out of his knee while working around the bitch’s flower beds. She told him he should have it looked at but didn’t offer to look at it herself, didn’t come up with iodine or bandages or invite him m. He had a good mind to put on his ski mask and come back there after dark to pork the shit out of the bitch and smash things up a little. Just to teach her a lesson. Just for old times’ sake. He wondered if he could even find the ski mask anymore.

  Christ, he felt mean. At least the old life had offered some compensations; he’d been able to let off some steam now and then. Profit wasn’t the only motive for burglarizing the bastards. It did the rich fucks good to have someone trash their houses. Let them know how the other half lives in shit most of the time. It taught the men humility to feel their teeth crack. All those perfect teeth, ah those smiles they bought from the braces man. Let them go out and buy some more. They could afford it, and it did Eric a world of good to paste one of them now and then. Sometimes he would wrap his hands before going out on a job, just like a boxer. A good stiff wrapping with elastic, a pair of work gloves to protect the skin, a roll of nickels clenched in the fist-oh, it did their humility a lot of good. Plus it made Eric feel terrific. He was doing a service for them and himself Now that was his definition of a good deed.

  Landscaping, on the other hand, not only didn’t offer any compensations but it didn’t pay worth a damn, either. Here it was Wednesday and he was out of money again. He would have to go to the bank again if he wanted to eat or drink tonight. And he sure as hell wanted to drink. The only good thing to be said about landscaping was that it kept him out of jail. At least he no longer had the cops rousting him out of bed every time somebody lost a VCR. In Shereford there just weren’t any junkies to blame, so all the thefts got pinned on him. And Eric hadn’t stuck a needle in his vein in his whole life. He hated needles. Stick one in himself? He’d have to be crazy. He’d smoked some, popped a pill or two, but nothing serious. Nothing to put him in the same league with the hard-core addicts you had to live with in jail. He didn’t belong there. He might not belong in landscaping, either, but he belonged in jail even less. Which was the only good reason he could think of not to grab the first son of a bitch who looked at him cross-eyed and do a number on his head.

  On a whim, Eric decided not to go to his regular bank but to drive to Guileford instead. It would be dark when he got there and there was an automatic teller machine at the train station where the light didn’t work. Or could be made not to work. He wasn’t promising himself anything, but if everything worked out just right, if some wimp decided to get some money and it was between trains and no one was around and Eric felt froggish, well, he just might jump. He didn’t have to, that was the beauty of it. He would just see how things worked out and how he felt. And if nobody showed, he could always just draw twenty-five out of his own account and go back to Shereford and hassle the waitress at the Peacock Lounge. “Lounge,” he liked that, the place was a saloon-hassle the middle-aged bitch until the bartender was forced to try to make him stop. Now that he wanted to see. That might be even better than whipping ass at the Guileford station. He didn’t see how he could lose.

  Not once in the thirty-five-minute drive to Guileford did Eric look in his rearview mirror. He hadn’t done anything yet; there was no reason to worry about cops who, as far as he knew, hadn’t gotten around to reading minds yet, and so there was no reason to notice the gray Toyota that followed him all the way to the train station.

  Eric drove past the automatic teller machine and turned the corner, parking in front of the office supplies company so that his car was not visible from the machine. That way all he had to do was saunter around the corner, get in the wagon and drive off without worrying whether the victim-if there was a victim, he still had not decided-could identify his car.

  A woman was walking away from the teller machine as Eric rounded the corner, putting money in her purse. Let her go, too far away. Eric was not about to chase anybody down the street. What he wanted was a nice, plump businessman, somebody with enough meat that he wouldn’t fall at the first blow. Eric liked it when they stood there, not quite believing him, not even having enough sense to cover up so that he could get in three or four good licks before they really understood what was happening. And men would not scream right away, the way women did. Most of them had just enough ego to convince themselves it was some sort of contest-see how many punches you can take before you fall. None of them took very many.

  The street was empty when the woman left. A car drove slowly by and Eric waited until it turned the corner before crossing to the machine. He decided to give it a few minutes. It was a whim, after all, not a job. He could take it or leave it.

  The machine was mounted on a concrete wall that had been installed just to house it. On the other side of the wall, between the concrete and the depot, was a small recess, out of sight and in the dark. Stepping into the recess, Eric glanced at his watch before pulling his work gloves up snugly on either hand. Ten minutes, that’s all he would wait, ten minutes, fifteen tops. He was already getting thirsty.

  The situation was ideal. Dyce pulled his car into the spot just to the left of the station wagon. He leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door to check. It opened and came to a rest against the driver’s door on the wagon. Dyce had removed the fuses for the overhead light and the door buzzer so he could work in silence and darkness. Perfect.

  Removing the plastic cap from the syringe needle, Dyce pressed the plunger until a drop of liquid oozed from the tip. Perfect. He kept the syringe in his right hand, resting out of sight on the seat.

  The station was empty. There were no trains due for another forty-five minutes. There was a light on in the office supply shop, but not enough to illuminate Dyce clearly to any passerby. Anyone passing in a car would see only the back of his head, if they even bothered to look. Perfect.

  Dyce put Schubert’s Trout Quintet on the tape machine and turned the volume down
low. He turned slightly to one side so he could see Eric coming around the corner and have at least thirty seconds to go into action. Perfect.

  He settled in to wait. Schubert was beautiful. Dyce felt certain he and the composer would have understood one another.

  Fifteen minutes stretched to twenty, and Eric finally said fuck it. The place was a goddamned morgue. Two cars had passed and that was it. He didn’t need this shit, and he was thirsty and hungry and had to piss. He started to pee in the recess, then decided to do it on the teller machine, just to let them all know what he thought of them. He peed a long time and actually managed to hit the face of the machine. Then, walking back to his car, he remembered that he had forgotten to withdraw some money for himself. He had to stand in his own puddle, cursing, to get the twenty-five dollars.

  When he reached his wagon he was madder than when he cut his knee with the sickle, and now here was some dumb son of a bitch with his car door open so Eric couldn’t get into his truck. The whole street to park on and he had to squeeze next to his wagon.

  “I’m sorry,” Dyce said, leaning across the seat to the passenger door. “Sir? Sir? I’m sorry, but I can’t get my car started. Could you help me, please?”

  Eric leaned down and looked at the man stretched across the seat and decided against ripping the jerk’s door off and handing it to him. Heaven works in marvelous ways its wonders to perform, he thought.

  “Happy to help,” said Eric. He smiled broadly.

  “Oh, thank you, that’s most kind. If you could just hold this flap up so I could get to the wire.”

  “What flap is that?” Eric tugged his work gloves on tightly. He hadn’t had time to wrap his knuckles, but this would do very nicely.

  “Under the dashboard here. You can reach it if you get in the car. It won’t take a minute.”

  The moron thought he could hot-wire this kind of car. Wasn’t even looking in the right place.

  “I’ll be happy to help you out,” said Eric.

  He slid into the passenger seat and hit Dyce in the face. Dyce lifted his right arm, but Eric pinned it against the seat with his left forearm and hit him hard twice more in the face. He grabbed Dyce’s lapels and jerked him forward, then butted him with his forehead. The second time broke Dyce’s nose.

  It was not until he was getting out of the car that Eric noticed the syringe. Sliding across the seat, he knocked it to the floor. Eric looked at it curiously.

  “What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

  Dyce could not speak for the blood in his mouth.

  “What the fuck is this! What are you up to? The fuck you doing?”

  He shook Dyce, slapped him once, not paying much attention to the man, still studying the syringe. Dyce shook his head in denial, tried to spit, dribbled blood onto Eric’s glove.

  “This for me?” Then Eric got really mad.

  Chapter 8

  “ It was good of you to see me so late.”

  “Not at all. This is a service industry. I’m just glad we could work out a mutual time and place.”

  The salesman was still in coat and tie at this time of night, no doubt maintaining his image for a customer.

  “Come in, come in,” said the salesman. He backed away from the door, arm extended like a courtier. “Wife’s not feeling well? I’m sorry about that.”

  “Sorry to impose, but I just thought it was better to meet at your home while she was under the weather. You know how women are.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Although I’ve never had the pleasure to be married myself”

  “A lot of us who’ve been married haven’t had the pleasure, either.”

  The salesman laughed, with a quick, easy flash of teeth and a throaty chuckle, useful for most occasions.

  “I would have come by your office but I get off work so late.”

  “No, listen, no problem. A man needs insurance, I’m eager to accommodate.”

  The windows were covered with heavy drapes. The porch light had been on because a customer was coming, but the living room and entrance hall were illuminated only by a glow emanating from the adjoining room.

  “Not all my customers are so eager to see me. But you may have heard the jokes about insurance salesmen.”

  “I’ve heard a few.”

  “I’ll bet you have. Well, listen, it comes with the job. At least I’m not a proctologist, you know?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Let’s go in the den; my stuffs in there. Insurance is actually the best investment you’ll ever make and, let’s face it, we’re all going to need it someday.”

  “Absolutely.”

  The den was dim and shadowed. What little light came from the single sixty-watt bulb seemed to be soaked up and swallowed by the wood of the bookshelves, the dark leather of the furniture. The lamp itself was turned so that the light hit the wall first and reflected back weakly.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Beck,” he said, waving at a recliner in front of the coffee table that was already spread with insurance materials.

  “Becker.”

  “Becker, I’m sorry. I misheard you on the phone.” Becker leaned forward and looked into the man’s eyes.

  “I hope this is bright enough for you, Mr. Becker. I can turn on another light if you want, but I keep it this way for myself. Too much hurts my eyes. Photo-phobic. Most people find it restful once they get used to it, but just say the word.”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Scott.”

  “Call me Doug,” said the salesman. “Everyone does.”

  The man held Becker’s gaze, grinning slightly, forthright, foursquare, bored already with the sound of his own voice but also eager to make the sale.

  “Tell me, Mr. Becker, what can I do you for?”

  I’ve made a mistake, thought Becker. This is not my man.

  “Do you sell for just one company, or what?”

  “Let me tell you how that works,” said Scott. “I can sell you anything. You tell me what you need, we can find the company that suits you best, and I can sell you that policy… but I have found that for a combination of price and service, generally the best around is Connecticut Surety and Life. Most people don’t consider service when buying insurance, but, Mr. Becker, let me tell you, this is a service industry.”

  Becker leaned back against the leather upholstery and heard the slow hiss of air escaping his weight. He felt the tension ebb from his body and his mind, but whether the sensation was one of relief or disappointment, he could not say.

  Tee was in a jovial mood. He patted the passenger seat before Becker got in. “So.” Grinning widely.

  “You look like you just ate something you shouldn’t,” said Becker. “And it agreed with you.”

  “Me? You’re the one’s been dining out, as I hear it.”

  Tee pulled away from the curb in the police cruiser and swung around the circular drive that terminated Becker’s dead-end road.

  “Janie tells me she served you and Cindi breakfast the other day,” said Tee.

  “Janie speaks to you now?”

  “She’s thawing out. I got her on my back burner.”

  “A little crowded there, isn’t it?”

  “Changing the subject? Tell me about it.”

  “Cindi had eggs, I had a bagel, as I recall it. It was a grand breakfast. Janie was a charming hostess.”

  “I hate gentlemen,” said Tee. “Fortunately, I don’t meet that many. Did she mention me at all?”

  “Couldn’t get her to shut up about you. It seems she has a thing for married cops.”

  “Chief cop.”

  “Even better. She’s contemplating a life of crime just to keep you calling on her.”

  “Well, if I have to, I have to. I’m a martyr to the cause.”

  “Ever take the wife dancing anymore, Tee?”

  “I tried to call you last night. You weren’t home. You weren’t with Cindi, either. Unless she lied to me.”

  “She didn’t lie to you;
she doesn’t respect you enough. I was buying insurance.”

  “Always a good investment. And?”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “And then sometimes we get lucky,” said Tee.

  He pulled onto 1-86, lights flashing to clear a space for himself.

  “She called me last night, but you weren’t around,” he continued. “Maybe just as well because we got more information since then.”

  “Who called, just so we each have the same conversation.”

  “Woman named Helen Brasque, a checkout girl at the Grand Union on Ridge Road. Seems her boyfriend is missing. Hello, says I, that has a familiar ring, tell me about it. The guy’s named Roger Dyce. He lives in Clamden, over in the old military dependent area.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Over by the Sherman access road; we just passed it. You don’t know about that neighborhood? I forgot you’ve been away twenty years. We used to have a missile here. Did you know that? I want to say Minuteman, but that’s not it. Anyway, they had a missile stored in a silo just off the electric company’s area. Less than half a mile from the high school, if you can believe it. You never been past there? The chain-link fence is still up; that’s about all that’s left. The things went out of style or something. I’m not sure what it is; they took it away at least fifteen years ago. Anyway, the point is, the military built some housing to put up the troops who operated it, serviced it, polished it, whatever you do with a missile. About twenty houses, all told, quick-fix jobs, built them on slabs, no cellars, a regular little neighborhood tucked away there pretty much by itself. Not bad houses, actually, a family neighborhood, lots of kids-what the hell am I talking about?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

  “Oh, this guy, Dyce, who was reported missing by his girlfriend. Or she says she’s his girlfriend, but I’m not too sure of that. She doesn’t seem to know much about him except where he lives. Their relationship is fairly recent and-uh-more physical than cerebral, well, you would know about that, wouldn’t you.”

  “Christ.”

  “A man your age. A pretty young thing like Cindi. And I’m younger than you are. Where’s the justice?”