“Hey, it’s me.” Ezra’s voice is warm and welcome and I perch on the edge of the vintage green beast of a desk. Am I happier that it’s my best friend or that it’s not the creepy stalker? Hard to tell.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he’s saying. “Wondering if you might want to grab a cup of coffee and see a movie.”
“I’m glad it’s you. I didn’t realize you were back in town.” My fingers wind the curly cord of the phone’s handle. “Sure, I’d love to. When were you thinking?”
“Whatever works for you. I’m free tonight and tomorrow night and then again on Friday,” His voice changes slightly, dropping an octave. “How’ve you been feeling by the way? Healing well?”
I grimace. Ezra is my oldest friend. Why does his concern rub me the wrong way? Why does everyone’s worry irritate me so much?
“Fine. I’m good,” I say breezily. “I have to run, I just stopped by to pick something up. Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I tried. Dead battery?”
I pull the phone from my pocket and see that the battery is spent. “Yup, you’re right.”
Ezra chuckles. “I usually am.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the phone. I’ll have to charge it when I get home. My Toyota is too ancient to expel any extraordinary effort at this point.
“Tomorrow night is good,” I say. “Want to meet at the theater?”
“Sure,” Ezra says. “You can pick the movie, but it will have to be the early show. And please, Tayt, no chick flicks.”
I laugh. He knows I hate them as much as he does. Maybe even more. Although I’m pretty sure he didn’t dislike the one that we saw accidently—it looked like an action movie—as much as he said he did. We decide on the time and place to meet and hang up.
***
I find the same parking place I used this morning on High Street and get out, walking quickly in the cold to Mark’s apartment building. Lights are on in both downstairs apartments but the old woman’s apartment across from Mark’s is dark. That’s good. Hopefully granny is tucked in bed snoozing away.
Opening the exterior door to the building, I quietly close it behind me. The stairs aren’t particularly squeaky, but they are wood and I’d prefer not to notify everyone in the building that I’m here. I walk up as quietly as one can in thick winter boots. The smell of leftover dinner hangs above my head in the hall. Something greasy and meaty.
Extracting the small kit from my backpack, I kneel before Mark’s door. There is no light on and no sound coming from behind the door. I hold a tiny flashlight in between my teeth and work at the locks. Success comes in mere seconds for the first deadbolt, then a bit longer for the second and third. While the landlord might not be overly concerned about safety, Mark sure is.
I put my tools away and slowly turn the knob. There’s a loud creak as the door edges open and I stop and hold my breath. I listen, expecting the elderly neighbor’s light to blind me or for the neighbors downstairs to pop their heads out and find out what the noise was. Neither happens. I wait another few seconds and then walk into the darkness, pushing the door closed behind me quickly.
Using the small penlight instead of turning on any lights and get a lay of the land. Unfortunately, the beam is really only meant for close up. It dissipates and fades just a few feet from where I’m standing.
Still, it casts enough illumination to map out the basics. I’m standing in the living room. There’s an extra-long couch along one wall and across from it, a big flat screen TV with speakers mounted on the wall. I walk further into the room. A weight bench with a lot of plates sits in front of the big windows. The blinds are up and the curtains are open. Glad I didn’t turn on any lights. I turn to my right and nearly collide with a stack of CDs. While the nosy part of me wants to see what music Mark likes, I resist. I’m here to get information and get out, the faster the better.
Following the wall I grope at the next doorway and enter a small kitchen. There are no dirty dishes in the sink and a quick peek in the fridge shows several half-full condiments and little else. Passing through the kitchen, I enter an open area with little in it. Maybe it’s supposed to be a den or study. Off of this room is a bathroom and bedroom.
I look in the bathroom first. Few personal items: a pair of fingernail clippers, some wash cloths and towels, a nearly-gone stick of deodorant. The medicine cabinet holds various boxes and bottles of vitamins, ibuprofen, and other things that normally make their home in a medicine cabinet.
Frustrated, I move on to the bedroom. So far there is nothing in the apartment to suggest that there is anything suspicious about Mark missing. The bed is unmade (no crime there), drawers are mostly full of clothes and the book shelf is nearly full. While I resisted my nosiness regarding the man’s musical tastes, I cannot do the same regarding books. It’s fascinating to see what people read. Mark’s taste runs from paperback westerns to New Age philosophy to health books, particularly those featuring raw cooking. Or un-cooking, I guess. There are a few books missing in this area.
There is no computer or tablet in the room, or anywhere else in the apartment that I’ve seen. A small table in the corner of the room looks like where he’d normally plug in. A pair of speakers and notebook and pen rest there, along with a dust outline of a rectangle the size of a laptop.
I flip through the notebook. There are notes about workout plans, a complicated diagram of weight versus height versus fitness exertion, and some scribbled notes about appointments. These quicken my heartbeat until I see that the date is from last year. I flip further forward in the notebook. Finally, on the second to last page, I see something useful. A note about a place called “West Fresh Institute,” and a town that I’ve never heard of in Arizona.
I guess it’s not unusual I haven’t heard of it as I’ve never traveled out West. Once upon a time I planned to live in L.A. Or New York City. It feels like a lifetime ago, like the dreams of another person. I make a note of the institute and spend another couple of minutes poking around in the junk drawer in the kitchen and the living room side tables. There is nothing else of interest. A pile of bills tells me that Mark is up to date with his utilities and that he doesn’t keep a balance on his credit card. I make a note of his landlord’s name and address, found on a contract in a shoebox in the living room. The man’s filing system makes my own look impressive.
Carefully putting the paperwork back where I found it, I sigh. It wasn’t a completely wasted trip, but I wish I’d found more. Suddenly blue lights paint themselves across the room. I freeze, then drop to all fours.
Crappity crap.
The neighbor called the cops. I’m trapped. Think! Think! Think! I search my recent memory for potential hiding spots in the apartment. The kitchen cabinets are large, but I’m not sure they are quite large enough. Under the bed? In the closet? Hysterical laughter starts in my belly, but I squash it.
Think, Tayt, think.
I’ve been in worse spots before. None immediately spring to mind, but I’m sure I have at some point. I crabwalk toward the rear of the apartment, then realize I’ve left all the locks on the door undone. At least I closed the door. But should I change direction and try to slide the deadbolts closed before the officer gets to the door? If I don’t, I’m a sitting duck. Unless the officer is pretty sure there is someone in here and that person is armed and dangerous, I don’t think he or she will break down a locked door to get in. Right?
My brain scrambles madly to think of what C.J. would do in this situation, but between my racing heartbeat and loud breathing, I can’t think clearly.
Switching direction mid-crabwalk, I nearly tumble over. The blue strobe lights are so bright in the otherwise dark room that I feel like I’m at a rave.
There are footsteps on the stairs.
Groping wildly, I ease one of the locks into place. Or try to. It’s stuck and won’t budge.
The footsteps are getting louder. I try the second deadbolt. This one screeches as the two pieces of met
al meet. I throw the third lock, no longer caring about the noise, and scoot back away from the door. The footsteps stop, just outside the door.
Chapter Ten
A knock sounds, loud and quick. I’m halfway to the kitchen, about to see what lies outside the bedroom window. If the drop isn’t too far, or if there is a porch or other low roof below, I might have a chance.
Another knock, insistent.
I poke my head out the back window. There are thirty empty feet between me and a gravel parking area below.
Screw that.
Even if I got the sheets knotted and secured before letting myself out, it’s likely that there is a second officer and/or K-9 unit in the car to watch my descent. Or are they both stationed outside Mark’s front door? I retrace my steps to the door, not bothering to crouch anymore. They know someone is in here, why bother pretending I’m part of the Mission Impossible team?
Heart still hammering in my ribcage, I walk directly to the door, unlock the deadbolts and stand, ready to face my punishment. But the figure at the door is young and has longish hair and smells faintly like manure.
“You’re not a cop,” I say stupidly.
“Nah, man. I’m wondering who called them. The old lady?” He nods his head sideways toward the door of apartment three.
“I’m Derrick, by the way. Who are you?”
I answer without thinking. “Lindsay. Nice to meet you. I’m just stopped over at Mark’s to, um, pick something up.”
Derrick nods, looks down the stairs toward the blue orbs whirling in the dark street.
“You know what’s happening?” He asks.
I shake my head. My heartrate is now semi-normal and I feel like jumping up and down and kissing Derrick on the check for not being a police officer. I restrain myself.
“No idea.”
“Huh. Well, I’m guessing they’re not coming this way. Still, might want to hide your stash, if you know what I mean.”
“Right. Good idea.”
“G’night.”
I watch Derrick tromp back down the stairs. Then I retreat into the dark apartment and lean against the closed door.
***
The next evening, I settle into a club chair near the coffeehouse window, balancing a plate with a pastry and a steaming mug of coffee. Ezra flops into the chair nearest me, his long legs splayed in front of him. He’s already eaten half of his first donut and crumbs tumble down his beard and shirt. I laugh, nodding toward his front.
“Going to get any of that in your mouth?”
He smiles back, picks some of the crumbs off his chest and pops them into his mouth, then takes a long sip of tea. He’s the only man I know who prefers tea to coffee.
“So what did you think of the movie?” He asks.
I move my plate to a little round table near us and take a sip of coffee. The heat of the mug feels good on my cold fingers.
“It wasn’t bad. Could have had a little more storyline and a little less gore, but I’ve seen worse. Did you like it?”
Ezra nods, then shakes his head. “Could have had a little less storyline and a little more gore. Other than that, not bad. But not the worst I’ve seen, you’re right.”
We sip and chew in silence for several minutes. It’s a comfortable silence though, like that between two people who have known each other for a long, long time and don’t feel the need to constantly make small talk. Old time jazz plays on the speakers overhead.
Ezra stares out the window, lost in thought and I absorb the décor of the coffee shop. It features new artwork monthly. I haven’t been in for a while, so it’s all new to me. This month’s artist appears to be a minimalist, painting with only three colors: white, a brown so dark it’s nearly black, and a pale yellow shade. The effect is ... odd.
Ezra has finished his donuts and is reading headlines out of yesterday’s newspaper. I continue nibbling my pastry, some flaky thing filled with almond crème, and listen as he reads the Dear Paula column.
“Huh. Listen to this one. Wounded in Kentucky wrote last week, ‘Dear Paula, my husband of seven years has been cheating one me. I just found out after arriving home from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. I do not want to seek counseling but would love to hear of any of your readers’ ideas for revenge, particularly humiliating ones.’”
I laugh. “At least she’s honest. What did Paula have to say to that?” I ask, taking another bite of the pastry. Gooey, warm filling hits the roof of my mouth and lingers.
He is quiet for a few minutes then says, “She didn’t suggest the woman seek revenge.”
I snort at this. “Of course not. Read it, please.”
“She says, ‘Dear Wounded: Revenge is an ugly word and won’t undo what your husband has done. You’re hurt and need time to heal. Please consider counseling and, if necessary, separation from your husband to process your feelings.’”
“Oh, please. I’ve got some ideas I’d be happy to share with Wounded,” I say.
“You’re not the only one. Dear Paula opened the question up to her readers in this week’s column. Read some of these,” Ezra hands me the paper. I put my plate on the table and take the paper, Ezra’s calloused fingers bumping mine. Five different writers have tackled the problem, suggesting everything from reconciliation to posting the most unflattering pictures possible on every social network available with the word “ADULTERER” attached to each. I laugh out loud at that one.
“Is that the ‘adulterer’ one?” Ezra asks.
I nod, handing the paper back.
“What do you think, Ez? You’re practically a priest now. Should Wounded forgive her husband and welcome him home with open arms?” I ask sarcastically. I don’t know why I feel the desire to needle him. Maybe I haven’t quite gotten past what he’s said about my dad. Ezra’s take on my parents’ relationship still makes me feel hot and itchy when I think about it, which I try to avoid doing.
Ezra grimaces at me, shifts in his seat.
“Forgiveness isn’t about making yourself into a doormat. If the guy is really sorry and if the woman really wants to work it out, then they probably have a chance. But it sounds like she really doesn’t. So, chances are they won’t.”
“But what counsel would you give? I mean, as a priest. I’m curious what goes on in your mind.”
“I guess we haven’t gotten that far in my Confessional 101 class yet,” Ezra says, smiling.
Not for the first time I wonder what Ezra would think of my Sunflower Specials. I’ve imagined telling him many times. Once, after too much champagne at a New Year’s Eve party I’d nearly blurted it all out, while the people around us hugged and kissed and brokenly sang. Auld Lang Syne. Something in me—some bit of common sense I’d retained—had held me back. I was so grateful the next day. But sometimes even now, I wish I could tell him. That he’d tell me he understood what I was doing and why. I don’t expect him to approve of it—that would be pushing it too far. But just to, I don’t know, see and accept it, I guess.
I prop my ankles on his chair. “But what about in general?” I ask. “What do you think about retaliation or the punishment of crimes outside the law? I don’t mean a spouse cheating, but something more, I don’t know, rogue?”
Ezra raises his eyebrows. “Are we still talking about hypotheticals here, or is there something you want to tell me?”
“Hypothetically, of course,” I say, while a little voice sing-songs about Sunflower Specials in my brain.
“Let’s just say for instance that you had a sister,” I continue. “Or me. Let’s say me. Someone comes after me and beats me up or abducts and kills me. If you had the chance to get even with that person afterward and no one would find out about it, would you?”
“Define getting even.”
“You know. Beat them to death, drive them off a cliff, drown them.”
“You’ve spent some time thinking about this,” he says. He’s still smiling but his eyes look different, distant.
I sip some coffee and lean my
head back in the chair.
“Personally, as a man and your friend, of course I would want to do all that and worse. But I’m not just a man, I’m also someone who has been forgiven for things I’ve done. Some of them pretty bad.”
“Oh come on,” I say teasingly. “You doing bad things?”
He shakes his head. “I did plenty when I was messed up and high or wanting to get high. Ugly stuff.” His face wears a shadow suddenly and his eyes have lost the crinkles around the edges. “Ugly stuff,” he says again, his voice a whisper.
Regret pools in my belly and I tilt my head, looking at the man I know as well as the outline of my own face. We’d grown apart during that time in his life. I was caught up in problems with my family and escapist dreams of making it as a successful actor. We’d still been young when Ezra had fallen in with the wrong crowd while his parents’ marriage, which had been dysfunctional at best, abusive at worst, disintegrated. He’d moved in with my family for a while, my mother convincing my dad that it was the right thing to do. But not long after that Ezra had gotten in serious trouble. He’d been sent to a juvenile delinquent center in the southern part of the state.
“Sorry,” I say now. “Sometimes I forget that whole period of your life.”
He shrugs. “I try to forget it too, as much as I can.”
“Well, let me ask you one thing more about this, and then I promise I’ll stop. Let’s say that a person has gone through the legal system but for whatever reason—bad evidence, an unsympathetic jury, a crooked judge—that person never saw their perpetrator punished. Would it be wrong for them to exact some form of punishment, punishment that should have been doled out by our judicial system in a perfect world?”
“But the world isn’t perfect, Tayt. And even if this person sought the revenge they felt that they deserved, it wouldn’t undo what had been done to them. And to tell you the truth, it would probably make their life harder, not better.”
I raise my eyebrows but say nothing.
“Statistics show that people who win the lottery end up unhappy in the long-term, more than those people who don’t. Did you know that?”
Hear No Evil Page 6