Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  My cell rang and I stepped outside to answer it. I'd breathed in so much smoke I felt like my blood was pure carbon monoxide.

  The caller ID said unknown. I answered anyway.

  "This is John Brown from Scientific Services. We've finished conducting the tests you requested on the item you submitted to us. You asked us to call to give you the preliminary results."

  The DNA test on Ashley Hunter's panties. I'd forgotten all about it. "What did you find?"

  "There were traces of semen."

  "How many individuals?"

  "Only one. If you provide us with DNA samples we can try to match it."

  "Okay."

  I would have to get DNA samples from Decker, Maxwell, Franklin and Kyle King. That should be fun.

  "We were able to isolate faint traces of fecal matter and two hairs on the panties for DNA analysis. The hairs and fecal matter all came from the same person, presumably whoever was wearing the panties."

  "Good. And was the DNA a match with the blood sample I gave you?" Henry Hunter's blood should identify the panties as belonging to Ashley Hunter.

  "Well, that's where it gets interesting."

  CHAPTER 67

  Henry Hunter was still sitting in front of the same window with a view of Ashley's resting place, his huge, gnarly hands resting on the blanket draped over his legs, when I arrived at his house the next morning. The same pictures were on the old wooden dresser in the corner. Family photos of Christmases, birthdays, picnics and sporting events. Ashley, pretty and smiling, was in nearly every photo. Her dead brother, tall and gangly, the spitting image of Henry was in many. Both gone. What had begun years ago as a celebration was now a shrine.

  He studied me with searching gray eyes. "Mr. Pinnut, this must be some hell of a book you're doing research on."

  "It's all in the details, Mr. Hunter. Or so I'm told. There were just a couple of more questions I wanted to ask."

  I picked up a photo of Ashley and her mom sitting in a crowd at a football game. It attracted me because they were both laughing and had their arms around each other. You could have mistaken them for sisters.

  The Tammy Hunter I had met was beautiful, but in an aloof, ethereal way. The Tammy Hunter in this photo was waving a giant football flag over her head and was vibrant and alive. It was almost as if part of her had been taken with Ashley.

  Liz's parting words floated through my head. He stole your heart too.

  Was she right?

  "Mr. Pinnut? Are you okay?"

  "Oh. Yes, sorry. I was just taken by this photo. They look so happy."

  "Yes, the three of them loved going out together; movies, football games, picnics. They did everything together. That's all we have of our children now. Pictures on a dresser."

  I picked up another frame that grabbed my attention. "Is this Ashley's?" It was a framed essay titled "How I Would Change The World."

  "Yes, she won a statewide competition with that. She was only twelve when she wrote it."

  "She must have been a very happy girl." In all of the O's she had drawn a smiley-face.

  Hunter nodded. "She always had a smile on her face. I don't think I ever saw her sad."

  I carefully replaced the framed essay. "I wonder if I could ask Mrs. Hunter a couple of questions."

  "About Ashley?"

  "Kind of."

  "Tammy doesn't like talking about Ashley but you can try. She's outside."

  "Outside?"

  He turned his head toward the window. I followed his gaze until I was looking at the graveyard on the top of the hill. Behind the fence, a small, dark figure moved.

  I walked up the hill through the knee length, wet grass. The legs of my jeans were soaked by the time I got to the small graveyard. There were five graves. Tammy Hunter, wearing coveralls and gloves, was pulling weeds from around them.

  "Hello, Mrs. Hunter," I said.

  She glanced up, smiled and went back to her weeding. She had nearly finished. A couple of full garbage bags lay on the ground next to her. All of the plots except one were weedless.

  "Are these all family plots?" I said.

  "Yes. Henry's father and mother are buried there. Next to them is Henry's older brother, Jason."

  "You named your son after him?"

  "Yes, that's my son, Jason, over there." She indicated the one with weeds still around it.

  I read the headstone on the grave she was working on.

  Forever in our hearts

  Loving daughter and sister

  Ashley Hunter

  12/10/86 - 10/27/03

  "Did you have Ashley's funeral here?"

  "The service was in our church in Leadville." She spoke so softly I moved closer to hear.

  "I suppose all of her friends and family were there?"

  "Of course."

  "Was Dedrick King there?"

  She stopped weeding but remained on her knees, staring at the ground. "I'm not sure. He may have been."

  "Surely he would have been there? He would have wanted to be at his daughter's funeral, wouldn't he?"

  Tammy Hunter gently placed her weeding-trowel on the ground and stood up, facing me. Her hair was tousled and there was a faint smudge of dirt on her cheek. The wind picked up and Tammy looked so small and vulnerable in her baggy coveralls I thought she might be carried away with the next gust.

  "I'm sorry? I'm not sure what you mean," she said.

  "It's all right. I'm not going to tell Henry. He doesn't know, does he?"

  She stood there for a long time before answering. "No, he doesn't know," she finally whispered.

  "That's why Dedrick King paid Henry the insurance money for his back, even though it was his own fault. He didn't want his daughter to be disadvantaged."

  "He wanted her to be able to do the things she desired, like her music and university," she said. "When Henry broke his back, it was going to be the end of her future. How did you know?"

  "I thought it was curious that Dedrick King was paying for Henry's injury after seeing his claim was rejected. But it was the dates of the payments that gave it away."

  "The dates?"

  "Yes. Henry stopped receiving any payments the month after Ashley's death."

  I didn't tell her about the panties and the DNA test. The lab had told me the blood from the handkerchief did not match the DNA of the owner of the panties. Henry Hunter could not be Ashley's father. For the moment, I didn't want anyone to know about the panties. But as soon as I had seen the DNA results, Henry Hunter's insurance payments made sense. I knew I had read somewhere that the insurance payments had stopped after a number of years but couldn't recall when. A quick check of the insurance records had restored my memory. Why would Henry's insurance payments stop the month after Ashley Hunter's death?

  Coincidence? No way.

  "Dedrick wanted to keep helping me but I told him it wasn't right. We would get by on our own." She sighed and stared down the hill at her home. "It hasn't been easy but we make do."

  "Wasn't Henry suspicious when his insurance payments stopped?"

  "No. I told Henry they had re-evaluated his case and found there had been a mistake and we weren't supposed to have received any money. If we didn't take the matter any further, we could keep all the money we had received and they wouldn't try to recover it." She gazed down at Ashley's grave. "Henry believed me." She wiped her eyes. "Henry always believed me," she said softly.

  "Were you still in love with Dedrick? Did you keep on seeing him after you married Henry? Is that how it happened?"

  "No. Nothing like that. Yes, I had loved Dedrick and I was devastated when he broke up with me. But then I met Henry and I loved him from the first moment I laid eyes on him. We were happy. But times were tough back then and a lot of the mines were going bust. In 1986 Henry took a job working down on the oil rigs in Texas to earn some extra money. One weekend I went to a birthday party for one of my girlfriends. There was a lot of booze there. I drank too much, and then Dedrick showed up. He was as
drunk as me and...well, I guess you know what happened next. It was only the once. I knew it was a terrible mistake as soon as I woke up the next day. So did Dedrick. He had already started dating Lucinda, who he married in '87. Both of us agreed to forget all about it. And I did. Right up to the time I began getting morning sickness."

  "Did Kyle King know that Ashley was his half-sister?"

  "No one knew. Dedrick and I knew if anyone found out it would wreck everyone's lives."

  "What about when Kyle and Ashley went out? That must have been a shock?"

  I remembered Dedrick King's reaction when I asked him if Kyle had loved Ashley. "God, I hope not," had been his reply. Now I knew the real reason why he had responded so vehemently.

  "We couldn't let them date. What if they fell in love and wanted to get married? They were half-brother and sister. We couldn't tell them the truth, so Dedrick lied and told Kyle that Ashley would hurt his political aspirations and that he couldn't see Ashley anymore." Tammy laughed bitterly. "Ironic, don't you think?"

  "That was exactly what Dedrick's father told him to split up you and Dedrick years earlier?"

  "Yes. Whoever said we repeat the sins of our fathers wasn't lying."

  "But then Ashley died two weeks later, so it didn't really matter, did it?" I pondered out loud.

  "No. I suppose not," whispered Tammy.

  She pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the garbage bags. "Now, if you haven't any more questions I think I will go."

  "Are you finished?"

  "Yes, I am. Goodbye, Mr. Pinnut."

  I watched Tammy walk down the hill and stood for a long time, looking at the well-tended graves. Then I, too, slowly made my way down the hill.

  * * * *

  I made one more stop before I flew back to New York. The Pleasant Hills Retirement Home was set on a flat piece of land in the middle of an old suburban block. There wasn't a hill to be seen and there sure was nothing pleasant about the ugly, red-brick building that housed the retirees. The lady at the front desk smiled at me. "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, I'm a friend of Dr. Thomas. I wonder if I could pop in and say hello?"

  Dr. Thomas was Kyle King's family doctor from Leadville. He was the doctor who provided Kyle with the alibi on that Thanksgiving weekend.

  "Yes, of course. He's getting very popular, isn't he? Two visits in one day."

  "Someone else visited him today?"

  "Why, yes. A work colleague of his dropped in to see him, a Dr. Tanner. I'm afraid you just missed him. Dr. Thomas is in room 20. Just take the stairs and turn right."

  Dr. Tanner? I took the stairs quickly, a feeling of foreboding building in the pit of my stomach. Dr. Thomas was lying peacefully in bed when I walked into his room. And he was going to continue to lie there peacefully. He was dead.

  There was no sign of any disturbance. He was lying under his blankets with his hands crossed over his chest. He looked like he had passed away in his sleep. I'm sure that was how it was meant to look too. I turned to leave when something under the edge of the bed caught my eye. I bent down and picked it up.

  A toothpick.

  CHAPTER 68

  "He lives here?" I said, dubiously regarding the abandoned building in the South Bronx that Bear had pulled up next to.

  "Whoever Bailey touched was blessed." Bear pushed up the chain-link fence, which someone had cut at the base. The sidewalk leading to the building was cracked and broken. There was a condemned sign on the front door, which was boarded up, as were the windows.

  "What's that smell?" I said, as I followed Bear around the back.

  "Fiberglass resin. The building was used by a boat building company. In here."

  He pulled back a panel on the rear wall of the derelict building. Inside the smell was so strong it almost made my eyes water. Beams of light cut through the gaps of the boarded up windows. Empty paint and resin cans, along with discarded strips of fiberglass, littered the floor.

  "Shane, its Bear." His voice echoed through the empty building.

  "Back here."

  We followed the voice into the next room. It was empty except for two bare mattresses, a couch with a broken leg and two shopping carts stacked with aluminum cans. A man lay on one mattress, smoking, his back resting against the wall. He held a half empty liquor bottle.

  "Tan, this is Shane. Shane this is the man I was telling you about. Can you tell him what you told me?"

  Shane held out a hand. He wore ripped fingerless gloves and his fingers were stained black. Bear handed him a fifty, which disappeared down his sock.

  "For another fifty you can have twenty minutes with Gussie," Shane said, indicating the pile of discarded blankets on the second mattress. The blankets moved and I realized there was a person underneath them. A woman lifted her head up and smiled at me. Her hair grew in long wispy patches and she was missing her top teeth. Her nose appeared to have been broken and never reset.

  "Um, can I give you a hundred not to?" I said.

  "You can fuck off you limp-dick cocksucker," the woman said, and disappeared back under the blanket. In a moment, deep, thunderous snoring filled the room.

  Shane laughed. He, too, was missing a couple of teeth and I wondered if there was something in the resin fumes that I should be worried about. I ran my tongue over my teeth. Still all there.

  "You want to know about Jesus Hernandez?" said Shane.

  "You knew Jesus?" I said.

  "Sure, I was an altar boy at St. Mary's."

  "Jesus was an altar boy? When was this?"

  "Like I told Bear, it would have been in 1998. I was only an altar boy for the one year."

  "You were an altar boy back in 1998?"

  "Of course. Can't you tell from my angelic good looks?" Shane gave me a big, black, gap-toothed smile.

  Shane looked about fifty. His face was deeply lined and his skin was gray and unhealthy. Like the siren under the blankets, most of his hair was gone. I wondered if resin fumes could also kill hair.

  "How old are you?" I had to ask.

  "Twenty six."

  I glanced at Bear, who nodded. It was hard to believe that I had probably seen Shane when he was an altar boy fourteen years ago. I would have been fifteen. I went to St. Mary's every Sunday for Mass with Mom and Dad, so I suppose I must have seen him. But even though I strained my memory I could not think of one altar boy from back then who bore the slightest resemblance to this scarecrow of a man.

  "Tell me about Jesus Fernandez," I said.

  "He wasn't there long. Like I told your friend, he was only there for a week and left. I only remember him because he couldn't speak any English and his name. I was jealous because I thought he had the perfect name for an altar boy. Jesus. No one could beat that for an altar boy's name, could they? But then later I was glad for plain old Shane."

  "Why was that?"

  "Well, because Father Bailey took a real liking to him. No one wanted Father Bailey to like them too much."

  "Did Bailey molest the altar boys?"

  "Those he liked."

  "Did he like you?"

  "I was lucky. I had a skin condition when I was a kid, so Bailey wasn't interested in me." Again, I saw his picket-fence grin. "I know it's hard to believe, but I wasn't always this handsome."

  "Where did Jesus Hernandez live?"

  "That's what I told Bear. He was staying with Bailey. I think he was from Mexico and Bailey was trying to get him into an orphanage or find him some foster parents. I can't remember which. It was a long time ago."

  "How did Bailey find him?"

  "I don't know. He just appeared one day. He couldn't speak any English so I couldn't ask him anything. He was only there a week and then Bailey must have found him some foster parents, because I never saw him again."

  Bear eyes met mine. Bailey never found foster parents for Jesus Fernandez. Jesus Fernandez was buried in Bailey's basement.

  "Did Bailey have a friend, someone he was close to?"

  "Not that I can rememb
er."

  "Okay, thanks for the information, Shane. Here." Without counting, I pushed a handful of cash into his hand.

  "Hey, thanks," he said. "Come back anytime."

  We made our way back through the abandoned building. As soon as I stepped outside I took a deep breath of beautiful, fresh air.

  "That's the fourth altar boy I've spoken to," said Bear. "He's the only one who recalls Jesus Hernandez."

  "You think he's telling the truth?"

  "Yes. What about you?"

  "I think so too. So Jesus Fernandez was an altar boy. I don't remember seeing him. Do you?"

  "No. But that's not surprising. He was only there for the week and what were we, fifteen? The only thing I was paying attention to back then was the length of Minnie William's skirt."

  "Have any of the other altar boys said anything about Father Bailey having an adult friend or mentor?"

  "Not one. I've got the address of one more altar boy we can try on the way home."

  "Okay. Where does this one live?" I asked suspiciously.

  "What does it matter? He lives in Queens. Why are you touching your teeth and hair all the time?"

  We stopped at the fifth altar boy's house but that was a bust. The house, a sprawling, three-story affair with old shingle siding bare of any trace of paint, was surrounded by a six foot tall, iron-bar fence. The garden was huge but completely overrun with brambles and weeds. Ironically, parked under a carport, was a commercial ride-on mower sitting on a trailer, along with gardening equipment such as a leaf-blower, hedge-cutter and grass-trimmer.

  "He's cutting lawns over in Brooklyn today. What do you want to see him for?" said the old lady who answered the door. She had long white hair and a dress that wouldn't have been misplaced on a Quaker. There was nothing gentle about her hard, gray eyes, however, which looked like they could spot a dime fifty yards away.

  "He's a gardener?" I said, bemused. Their garden could have been transplanted from a scene in Jurassic Park.

  "He's been busy," she snapped.

  "For the past ten years?"

  The door slammed in my face. I knocked and knocked again.

  "You just have a way with people, don't you?" said Bear.