He was Walking Alone

by P. D. Workman

  There was a place near his hotel that sold pizza by the slice, so Zachary bought himself a piece and went back to his room.

  So far, he hadn’t seen any signs that any of the people he had seen were involved in Harding’s death. They had all seemed genuinely surprised. While Mr. Creedy had expressed a lot of anger, Zachary didn’t think he was the author of the poison pen messages. With a release valve for his anger, he didn’t let the pressure build internally. His wife was a more likely suspect. Did her more calm and empathetic demeanor hide what was actually going on under the surface? Was it all an act?

  When he logged on to his computer to write up his notes, Zachary was distracted by the new emails in his own inbox. Adding to the general clutter of messages were several new messages from Tyrrell. Even though he had determined to simply delete any negative messages from Tyrrell, he found he couldn’t do so without opening them first, and was again assaulted by the red-hot spewings of hate from his little brother.

  How do you think your brothers and sisters felt waking up to fire and smoke and sirens?

  If it wasn’t for you everybody would have been fine.

  You would still have a family if you hadn’t destroyed it.

  Zachary closed his eyes and tried to push the images back, but he couldn’t. He was flooded with the sensations of what Tyrrell described. The fire had started while he slept and he had awakened in a room engulfed in flames. The smoke burned his lungs and made him cough uncontrollably. It burned his eyes, and billowed so thickly through the room that he was disoriented and didn’t know which way was out. He had crawled under the couch for shelter, trying to protect himself from the hellfire that burned around him, but it didn’t block the heat of the flames from reaching him. His flesh seared and his throat was on fire. Even so, he screamed warnings to his family, trying to raise the alarm and to get them out of the house. He knew he was going to die, and his only thought was to save the other children.

  Zachary gasped for breath. He could feel the tears flooding down his cheeks. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t still in the fire, but he couldn’t pull himself out of the whirlpool of memories. The hotel room around him morphed into a burning inferno, and he saw Suzie and her multitudes of children.

  “You have to get out! There’s a fire! Get the children out!” His voice was a croak and he couldn’t shout the words to her as the children screamed in terror and huddled and cried for him to save them.

  Zachary’s phone was in his hand. He fumbled with it, trying to launch the emergency call feature with fingers swollen as fat as sausages. The heat of the fire was so strong his fingers felt like they were going to explode.

  Why wasn’t the smoke alarm going? Could he get out to the hallway to pull the red fire alarm? It was so far away, and by the time he got there, the children would all be burned. The smoke was so thick, he didn’t know which way to go.

  “Zachary? Are you there?”

  Zachary’s hand shook as he held the phone to his ear and tried to croak out an answer.

  “Zachary, it’s Lorne. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  He sobbed with relief as he tried to answer Mr. Peterson’s questions. If Mr. Peterson was there, that meant the fire was over. The ashes were cold and everybody was out. When he had been taken to the Peterson’s house, it had been months later.

  “It was—the fire.” He tried to croak the words out in an order that made sense.

  “Focus on where you are, Zachary. Tell me where you are.”

  He blinked, trying to see through the tears and orient himself. “Hotel.”

  “You’re in a hotel,” Mr. Peterson repeated in a calming voice. “You’re not in the fire. Look around the room. Tell me about it. How many beds are there?”

  “One. Just one.”

  “One bed. Can you tell me the color of the carpet?”

  Zachary wiped his eyes, looking down at the muddy shades of the carpet, designed not to show the dirt, but looking dingy and worn.

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “You’re an artist,” Mr. Peterson reminded him. “Describe it.”

  Zachary struggled. “Greeny brown, like goose poop. With flowers… sort of brownish pink.”

  Mr. Peterson chuckled. “How pleasant. I must have Pat talk to their decorator.”

  Zachary tried to laugh at that, but it was still all coming out as sobs.

  “How’s the smell?”

  It was musty and stale. He could smell the chemicals they used to clean the bathroom, body odor, and old cigarette smoke. For a few seconds, the cigarette smoke triggered a panic response, but he was able to stay in the present, shifting his focus to the bathroom cleaners.

  “The bathroom… bleach and Lysol…”

  “At least you know they cleaned it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What hotel are you in?”

  Zachary had to look at the receipt he had left on the table, but he could see what was actually in front of him instead of billowing smoke and flames. He instantly recognized the logo of the chain, and when he got that out, knew the name of the city.

  “What are you doing in New Hampshire?”

  “Interviewing.” Zachary sniffled and wiped tears from his face. Hie eyes had stopped streaming. “My hit and run case—the victim used to live here, under another name.”

  “Got any suspects?”

  He cleared his throat and looked around the room again. Everything was perfectly normal. There was no smoke, no fire, no burning children.

  “What?”

  “Suspects in your hit and run.”

  “Uh… hard to say. We know who hit him, but not if he was somehow connected to Harding.”

  “You’re sounding better. Are you okay?”

  Zachary took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It didn’t hurt to breathe. Everything was returning to normal.

  “Yeah. Better, thanks.”

  “Do you want me to come? I’ll stay with you if you need me to.”

  “No. I’ll be okay now.”

  “Can you talk about what triggered this flashback?”

  “An email from Tyrrell.” Zachary reached over and closed the laptop without looking at the screen. “An email about the fire.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to read anything from him.”

  “I know… but… what if he calms down? What if after he’s got it all out, he feels better and he just wants to talk?”

  “Do you want to have an attack every time you get an email from him? I think it’s time to report him to the police. This harassment is causing damage. You don’t want to go backward in your treatment.”

  “No. I can’t. You’re right, I just won’t read them. Like I said to start with. I’ll just delete them.”

  “Can’t you report him to his email provider? They could close his account.”

  “He’s using a program that generates unique email addresses for every email. I can’t trace him back to his real email account.”

  “What he’s doing is criminal. Cyberstalking is against the law. You can’t bully people online and get away with it.”

  “Tyrrell’s just… trying to express himself. He was damaged by the fire too, and by being in the system. He’s just trying to heal.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Zachary wasn’t going to be persuaded. “He’s my little brother. He’s hurting.”

  “He probably is,” Mr. Peterson agreed. “But that doesn’t give him the right to hurt you.”

  “I’m okay. It was just a stupid flashback. I’ve had plenty of flashbacks without his help.”

  Mr. Peterson was quiet for a minute. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “No, no. I’m okay now. It’s passed.”

  “Take care of yourself. Make sure to get a good sleep tonight. Have you eaten? Do you need to talk to your therapist?”

  “I ate. I’ll take a Xanax and go to bed. It will be fine.”

  “Call me again if you need me. You
know I’ll be here.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Zachary blew out his breath. “You really helped.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Z

  achary’s first interview with someone friendly to Richard Harding was with Devon Masters, one of the young men who had been in the car with Harding when Hope Creedy was killed. They met at a coffee shop near the university. Devon was a handsome man, though he looked older than Zachary had expected. He had dark hair and a narrow build. Their eyes met across the shop, and they gravitated toward each other.

  “Devon?” Zachary asked.

  “You must be Zachary Goldman.”

  They shook hands briefly. Devon smiled and waited while Zachary got his coffee, then motioned to a table near the window.

  “I like to sit in the sun and watch my students walk to class.”

  “Sure.”

  They sat, and Devon eyed Zachary curiously. “I have to say, I’m not sure at all what this is about. You said you are investigating… what?”

  “I’m investigating the death of Richard Harding.”

  Devon raised an eyebrow. “And who is Richard Harding when he’s home?”

  “You knew him as Brandon Powers.”

  “Brandon?” Devon’s eyebrows went up and his eyes widened. “I had no idea! He died? How?”

  “It was a hit and run.”

  “No! I’m guessing you know about… his history.”

  “I do now, or parts of it, anyway. It took a while for me to get this far, though. He had changed his name, moved out of the state, and started over. But his girlfriend knew who he was.”

  And did anyone else?

  Zachary lifted his coffee cup to his lips, watching Devon’s face. Devon stared out the big window. It was a chilly day, so there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic. Mostly students running from one place to another, not dressed warmly enough, laughing and rubbing their arms, like it was a big surprise that it was so cold on a winter day.

  “Wow.” Devon shook his head. “The end of an era. We didn’t talk to each other, obviously, but I thought about him sometimes. Wondered how he was getting along.”

  “He didn’t call when he got out of prison?”

  “No. We haven’t had any contact since the trial. It didn’t really… it wasn’t a bonding experience, I’ll tell you that. I see Fulton every now and then, but we don’t really do anything more than nod and wave.”

  Fulton was the other man who had been in the car. The other survivor.

  “It must have been pretty traumatic,” Zachary suggested. “First the accident and then the trial.”

  “And being ostracized. For years, I was identified as one of the boys who had been in that car. One of those boys who had gotten drunk and killed a girl. We were all painted with the same brush, even though Brandon was the one behind the wheel.” Devon leaned forward. “He was the one who was supposed to be sober. The rest of us were drinking, but he was the one who had agreed to drive us.”

  “And you didn’t know he had any alcohol while you were together?”

  “I guess I was too far gone at that point. I don’t remember him having anything to drink. Just Coke.”

  “So what are your feelings toward Brandon? Do you blame him for that reputation?”

  “I’ve worked hard to dig myself out and overcome that stigma. And I think I’m a better person for it. We had to grow up fast. We were adults, and you would think that we would know better, but we really didn’t. They say at that age your brain is still developing… We were still acting like kids, irresponsible, not thinking about the consequences of our actions. I can’t put all of the blame on Brandon. I don’t remember a whole lot about that night, but other nights… we encouraged each other to drink too much, to drive too fast, to do stupid and dangerous stuff. We were an accident looking for a place to happen.”

  “So you don’t resent him.”

  Devon spread his hands. “How can I resent him if he’s dead?”

  Zachary’s brain echoed the question. If Zachary were dead, Tyrrell couldn’t resent him. He would be able accept that Zachary had finally gotten his due and Tyrrell could go on with his life again. Maybe he could let the bitterness go and live the life he’d been meant to. He tried to refocus on the case.

  “Did you get any accusatory emails about the accident? Not back then, but recently?”

  Devon visibly shrank back. “What?”

  “Brandon was getting some pretty awful harassing emails. If you were all painted with the same brush, I’m wondering if you got some too. Did the same person made contact with you?”

  “I’ve had some emails,” Devon admitted cautiously.

  “Do you think I could see some of them? Maybe you could forward them to me and I can analyze whether they are from the same person?”

  “I deleted them.”

  “You can probably still forward them—”

  “No, I nuked them. Permanently deleted. I didn’t want to see them again. I didn’t want to be tempted to go back and reread them afterward. They were trash. Once I got a few, I set up filters to catch them and permanently delete them before I could even see them.”

  “That’s smart.” Zachary wondered for a moment why he and Harding hadn’t done the same thing. Zachary was tech savvy enough. But he hadn’t, because he wanted to read them all no matter how they hurt. They were the only contact he’d ever had with his family and even if they pierced him to the heart, he couldn’t delete them without ever seeing and reading them.

  What about Harding? Had he thought to do something like that? Did he even know it was possible? A lot of people didn’t bother tweaking their computers to work the way they wanted them to. They didn’t know what they could and couldn’t do. He hadn’t asked Ashley how good Harding’s grasp on technology was. Harding had learned to use anonymizers, but someone might have helped him with that.

  “Sorry.” Devon shrugged. “I didn’t want them taking over my life. I have enough to do without having to deal with something like that.”

  Zachary nodded his agreement. “And the other man who survived the crash—Fulton—you don’t talk?”

  “Not really, no. We’ve all gone our different directions. That happens as you get older. All those things that once held you together—school classes, social circles, shared interests—they fade as you grow up and take on different responsibilities.”

  “Right. And there was another man with you who also passed away.”

  “Kyle Browne.”

  “Did you keep in touch with his family at all? There wasn’t really anything in the news articles that I read that talked about Kyle. Brandon wasn’t charged with manslaughter in his case, which I thought was a bit odd, considering the way they went after him for the rest of the charges.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Fulton about that. I don’t remember much… but he said that Brandon made Kyle put his seatbelt on before they started, but at the time of the accident, he wasn’t wearing it, so he was…” Devon made a helpless gesture, choking up. “He was thrown from the car. If he’d been wearing his seatbelt, he probably would have been okay, like the rest of us. Fulton clearly remembered Brandon forcing Kyle to put his seatbelt on before leaving. He must have taken it off again after.”

  Zachary nodded. “Well… one thing in Brandon’s favor. You didn’t keep in touch with his family?”

  “No. I never knew them. I knew Kyle from school. I didn’t have any reason to have anything to do with his family, other than to say how sorry I was for what had happened. We didn’t have any contact after the funeral. Nothing during or after the trial. I don’t know what happened to any of them.”

  “Do you know of anyone who held a grudge against Brandon? Someone who was still bitter toward him, even though he had served his time?”

  “I don’t know. Hope Creedy’s family, I guess. I did have a confrontation with her brother once.”

  Zachary’s interest was immediately piqued. “Really? When was that?”

  “It was a
few years ago, I think Brandon was still in prison at the time. The kid was maybe nineteen, twenty.”

  “And what did he want? He confronted you?”

  “Yeah. He was pretty messed up. Wanted a fight. Wanted to punish the guys who had killed his sister. Like it had just happened the day before. It was weird, facing a specter from the past when I had done my best to put all of that behind me.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Ranted on about it. Told me he was going to kill me. But he couldn’t even get one punch in. He was drunk and so agitated… I don’t think he could have hit the broad side of a barn.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Bouncers threw him out. I told him I’d call the police if he bugged me again. Or I’d call his mother. He never showed up again. If he remembered it the next day, I suspect he was so embarrassed he never wanted to mention it again.”

  “You were in a bar?” Zachary wasn’t sure why that surprised him so much. He’d half-assumed that after having been in a drunk driving accident, Devon would swear off of drinking. Social drinking, especially.

  “A club,” Devon said. He looked at Zachary defiantly, like he knew what Zachary was thinking. “It’s my life. I didn’t die in that accident. I can choose whether to drink or not. That’s up to me.”

  Zachary nodded, not disagreeing. “Luke is on my list of people to follow up with, so I’ll see what he has to say. Did you ever have any trouble with his father? Hope’s father?”

  “No. I mean, the guy was angry, but at Brandon, not us. Brandon was the one who was driving. He couldn’t very well blame us for drinking when we weren’t driving.”

  Zachary felt like he was on a see-saw with Devon flipping back and forth between whether they were partially responsible for what had happened or not. He seemed most intent on insisting that he didn’t have any responsibility, but had given that little speech about needing to grow up and how they had egged Harding on in the past.

  “Is there anyone else you can think of? Ideas of who might have sent those emails?”

  Devon shook his head. “No. I never really… there were so many of them to start with, back when the trial was on. Emails, phone calls, people on the street holding signs and trying to tell us how we were going to hell for what we had done. I didn’t really attach any particular face or personality to them, I was just… surprised that so long after the trial, anyone still remembered.”