The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Got the flashlight working and headed for the basement steps.

  It looked as if nobody had been here in years. Old sewing equipment hugged one wall: an antiquated machine, three tailor’s dummies, and enough spools of thread to mend a small nation. Her sewing hobby never really got off the ground, despite all the supplies she’d picked up at garage sales. The floor was strewn with boxes covered in dust, cobwebs stretched between them, some labeled with marker, some not at all.

  I pulled the lids up on a few but found nothing other than a whole lot of junk inside. Dozens of dusty, colored bottles in one; another was filled to the brim with packages of crackers, expiration date: October, 1983.

  What on earth was she planning on doing with them?

  Finding anything useful here was an exercise in futility. But then as I headed back toward the steps, the flashlight beam connected with an open box, and I could see an old book that looked vaguely familiar. I pulled it out. Gulliver’s Travels, one of my favorites. Curiosity got the best of me, so I examined the rest of the contents. More books from high school, a jumble of papers, and small objects that I couldn’t see clearly in the dim light. I tucked the box under my arm, then headed upstairs.

  As I reached the top of the steps, Warren moved into the doorway. I jumped. He stood, staring at me.

  “Scared the hell out of me,” I said, feeling my heart thump a few beats ahead.

  “Find anything?” he asked, eyeing the box under my arm.

  I felt an odd twinge of defensiveness. “Just some old books.”

  He nodded slowly as if measuring my words. I broke eye contact by glancing down at the box I was holding, keeping my attention on it as I spoke. “Not much down there except a whole lot of clutter, really.”

  “Quite a pack rat, your mother was. She never liked to throw anything away. It drove me crazy when we were kids. I think she got it from our mother. She was like that too, you know.”

  Small talk. I offered a dim smile.

  “You know,” he continued, staring off into the kitchen, his voice tempered with cautious diplomacy, “I was just thinking I could drive you to the airport if you’d like. Maybe get a bite to eat or something on the way.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said, glancing at my watch, “but I don’t have much time. My flight leaves in an hour-and-a-half, and I’ve got a rental car to return.”

  He mouthed—but did not say—oh, while nodding, as if suddenly getting the point. “No worries, then,” he said, a little too brightly. “I just thought maybe—”

  “Some other time,” I answered back quickly, realizing I was squeezing the box tightly against my thigh. I caught myself eyeing the door, the one I wanted to walk out of for the last time, the one Warren was now blocking.

  He stared at the floor and pursed his lips. I knew the move all too well—a mannerism he’d perfected throughout his political career, one he often used to give the impression he was thinking things over. “There’s this matter of the house,” he finally said. “I’m putting it up for sale. I’d like you to have the proceeds.”

  I shook my head quickly. “That won’t be necessary, Warren, I—”

  “No, really,” he interrupted, “I’d like for you to have the money.”

  “No, really,” I said, feeling my anger swell. “I really don’t want it. Give the money to charity. It’ll be the one good deed that ever came out of her.”

  He looked at the floor again, pushed out a heavy sigh. “You know, Patrick…”

  You know, Patrick always meant trouble coming.

  “I realize you and your mother didn’t always see eye to eye.”

  “Never,” I replied.

  “What?”

  “I said, never. We never did.”

  “But she was my sister, and she’s dead now,” he said, his tone climbing the ladder of edginess, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d try and show some respect for her when you’re around me.”

  “Respect?” That was it. I’d had enough. Enough of Warren, enough of her and this house, enough of everything. All I wanted now, was out. “You see, here’s the thing, Warren: you have to give respect to get it, and she never gave one ounce of it. Not one.”

  “But she was your mother.”

  “Barely,” I said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I pushed past him and headed for the door.

  “Patrick!” he shouted. “Don’t leave this way. I don’t want bad feelings.”

  “You’re about thirty years too late for that, Warren.” As I jerked the door open, the box slipped from under my arm to the floor, and everything inside scattered. I got down on my hands and knees, started hastily shoving items back inside.

  Warren hurried over. “Let me help you with that.”

  “I don’t need your help!” I said. “I don’t need it at all! You’ve done enough!”

  He knelt beside me anyway, and we both grabbed for Gulliver’s Travels at the same time. I gritted my teeth and yanked the book away with force, startling him. He held my gaze for a moment in total silence.

  I scrambled to my feet, stood, rubbing my wrist.

  “Are you hurt?” Warren asked.

  “A scratch. It’s nothing.”

  Warren stood up, “Let me take a look.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He reached for my hand. “Seriously, Patrick, let me—”

  I pulled it away. “I said it’s fine. I’m not going to bleed to death. Okay?”

  “But you could…you know you could.”

  “It’s not that deep,” I said, turning toward the door, anxious to get out of this house and away from Warren.

  “Patrick!” he shouted to me, “Wait a minute!”

  “No, Warren.”

  “But…”

  “I said, no. It’s over.”

  He started to say something else, but I didn’t hear it; I was already out the door. Walking away. Done.

  Finally. Once and for all.

  Inside the car, I immediately reached into my shirt pocket, then panicked. I’d left my pen and pad at the hotel.

  Breathing heavily now, sweat crawling down the back of my neck, I began rifling through the glove compartment like a madman looking for a fix. Found an old map and a broken pencil, the point flattened. With shaky hands I scrawled fragile three times, barely readable, before the pencil tip broke off. I hurled it against the windshield as hard as I could, then felt tears rolling down my cheeks.

  I closed my eyes and dropped my head onto the steering wheel, keeping it there for a long time.

  If I never saw Black Lake again, it would be too soon.

  Chapter Three

  From my earliest memories, my mother’s moments of affection were as fleeting as they were inconsistent. Not many encouraging smiles or gentle touches, and the ones she gave often felt flat and shallow. She carried herself as if to discourage human contact, if not block it entirely. When I was young, I’d often grab for her hand as we walked, but she’d quickly pull it out of reach; the reaction seemed almost instinctual, like flinching from a blow or pulling a finger from a hot flame. Even as we moved through stores or crowded streets, I’d often find myself several feet behind, chasing after her, trying to keep up.

  Once before bedtime in a half knee-jerk, half desperate bid for affection, I threw my arms around her; but I might as well have been reaching around a giant boulder, hard and cold. Her entire body grew stiff and unyielding, and she turned her head away.

  Feeling rejected and confused, I pulled back and gazed at her.

  “I have a cold,” she said, rising and moving quickly toward the door, cool and detached. Then she turned off the light and left my room.

  I don’t think I understood her rejection or its impact on me at the time. I thought all mothers kept their affection under lock and key. In my world, it was normal to want love and not get it, no different from wanting a toy in a store and being told we couldn’t afford it. My mother didn’t indulge in affection because emotionally, she was bankrupt.

&
nbsp; But as I grew older and watched other kids and their parents, I began realizing my world was terribly out of whack. Of course, knowing this, I did what any kid would do: I blamed myself, often wondering what it was about me she found so appalling.

  Then, one day I got my answer.

  We were driving home from church. Something had gotten under her skin—as was often the case—and for most of the day, her mood veered between silent sulking one moment and angry ranting the next.

  “I hate it when you comb your hair like that,” she said with a snarl, alternating her glance between the road and me. “That part in the middle. God, Patrick!”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked, now studying my reflection in the side view mirror.

  She gave a flip laugh that pushed my question into the category of preposterous. “You look like a horse’s ass, that’s what’s wrong with it.”

  The comment stung, and tears filled my eyes. I know she saw them, but she didn’t appear the least bit concerned.

  We drove on in silence for a while, the tears streaming down my face. And then I had to know. “Why don’t you love me?” I practically blurted the words out through my sobs.

  “What?”

  “Love me,” I said. “How come you can’t?”

  She fell silent for a moment, keeping her attention on the road, then let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Because, Patrick…quite simply, you can be rather unlovable.”

  Chapter Four

  On the plane trip home, my mind kept drifting back to the fight with Warren. I was pissed at myself for letting him get to me. I shouldn’t have. I mean, I’d hoped to make a clean break, but cutting off my nose wasn’t part of the plan. Still, all bets were off the moment he started singing my mother’s praises. She was my hot button, and he’d pushed it.

  If I didn’t know it then, I certainly did now: returning to Black Lake was a huge mistake.

  But what the hell did I expect?

  Luckily, for me, I lived several thousand miles away. And my mother was dead. She couldn’t hurt me anymore. Maybe now I could finally bury the past with her and move on, let Warren go as well.

  ***

  After taking a cab from the Oakland Airport to my apartment in Hayward, I let my suitcase drop to the floor and took in my surroundings. Desolation greeted me, followed by wretched despair—my two closest companions these days. There’s something about returning home from a trip that draws one’s innermost feelings of isolation and loneliness to the surface, makes an empty apartment seem emptier.

  I’d been single for a couple of years now but was still reeling from the effects. I suppose it takes time. Samantha and I were together for nearly three years, and while I wouldn’t consider it a nasty break-up, it wasn’t the friendliest, either. I blame myself for that. I was neglectful, took her for granted, gave more attention to crime reporting than her. I’ve been working for News World Magazine, West Coast Bureau, for seven years now. It’s a nice gig. I get to do what I love, work my own hours from home, and as long as I file my stories on time, they pretty much leave me alone. Dead bodies and horror stories over a loving relationship: hardly a fair trade-off, but I took it anyway, foolishly. And lost out big time. Don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone like her again.

  It all came to a head on New Years Eve. I’d promised Sam a long overdue evening out; we’d ring in the New Year at Bella, her favorite restaurant. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks, bought a new dress, got her hair done.

  Then that afternoon, I got a break on a story I’d been working. Unfortunately, the news hardly ever waits for a convenient moment to happen.

  A woman on her morning jog along Half Moon Bay came across a body—or rather, what was left of one. What she actually saw first was a Manolo Blahnik pump sticking up between two boulders. It belonged to Sherrie Jensen, wife of Concord cop Rick Jensen. She’d been missing for almost two weeks. Authorities suspected he’d killed her but had nothing to prove it, and this was their big break. Mine too.

  I got the call at noon and arrived on scene within a half-hour; of course, so did every other major news outlet. This was a big story, and everyone wanted a piece of it, so we camped out, knowing it was going to be a long day.

  Which stretched out into a longer evening. I’d figured it would take some time to extricate the body; I just hadn’t expected it to take that long. But it did. I phoned Samantha all afternoon with updates. Each time I could hear the disappointment in her voice rising to more detectable levels. She knew what was coming; I did, too.

  I called her at 11:00 p.m. to tell her we were still waiting on a body.

  And she promptly hung up on me.

  Finally, the very moment the ball dropped, as if on cue, the rest of Sherrie Jensen’s body came up for air. I’d waited twelve hours for a rib cage with some flesh attached to it.

  Happy New Year.

  I rushed home covered in sweat and grime but still determined to salvage my relationship with Samantha.

  No such luck. She was gone, and taped to my laptop, a note:

  Hope she was worth it. Goodbye.

  Jenson went to Death Row, and I took several press awards, along with an abrupt and unceremonious leap into bachelorhood.

  It takes a certain kind of person to put up with a journalist, but I’m not even sure if one actually exists. Most people I know in the business are either born-again-single or stuck in dysfunctional relationships. It’s a double-edged sword, I suppose. We love our work, and we long for love, but neither seems conducive to the other.

  Since losing Samantha, I’ve resigned myself to singledom and all that it entails. My sink is always piled with dirty dishes, my floor a virtual bed of filthy socks and underwear. I relish in bachelorhood, pound my chest fitfully, then burp into an empty beer glass, telling myself that this is The Life, that being free and single is a blessing.

  Then I ask myself who the hell I’m kidding. Being lonely sucks—everyone knows that, me included.

  I glanced at my answering machine on the kitchen counter. An unblinking zero stared back, mocking me, calling me a loser. What followed was a feeling of unqualified emptiness. I consoled myself by pretending it was okay, that that’s what cell phones are for. Then I chased the thought away.

  After fixing a sandwich, I dragged my suitcase into the bedroom and started unpacking. The book immediately caught my attention; it was inside a plastic bag along with the other items I’d taken from the house.

  I spilled everything onto the bed and only then realized that many of these things weren’t mine. They were my mother’s.

  I cringed: an old change purse I remembered her having, a letter opener I recognized, too, along with an ugly scarf I always hated. Good Lord, I’d just purged the woman from my life. The last thing I needed were reminders of her. I tossed them into the trash.

  Next up, a bundle of photos. Pictures of mother—I pitched them too—then one of me at age five, standing in front of Warren’s 1968 Corvette. I was pretty sure his purpose for taking it was more to show off the car than to capture me. I remembered feeling incidental.

  Flipped to the next one of me at age seven, a dorky school photo: gold ribbed turtleneck pullover, Hair by Pillow, and a bucktooth. I laughed. If there had been a poster child for awkward, I was it, hands-down.

  Looking through the others, I couldn’t help but notice the unifying theme: as the years moved on, my smile seemed to fade. By sixteen, I was practically scowling at the camera—angry, dark, sullen.

  I was getting sicker, and it showed.

  The joy was gone, too. No surprise there. I’d made my full tour of duty through hell by then and had the battle scars to prove it.

  I stuffed the photos away in a sock drawer, then brought my attention back to the other items, most of which I vaguely recognized: a red plastic squirt gun, a few comic books, an old pack of gum with only two sticks remaining. Why she had saved any of these was beyond me. She’d tossed plenty of things far more valuable after I’
d left for college without once bothering to ask if I wanted them.

  But there was something I definitely did not recognize.

  A gold chain and pendant. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a Saint Christopher medal, and while the length was short enough to belong to a woman, I knew I’d never seen my mother wearing it. Turning it over confirmed it: the initials were NAK. I tried to think whether we knew anyone with a name that matched but came up with nothing.

  I placed it on the bed, stared at it, then looked back at the pile and discovered something else: an old, yellowed envelope addressed to my mother, postmarked July 3, 1976, from Stover, Illinois. The letter inside was written on stationary from the Greensmith Hotel:

  C-

  I won’t have access to a telephone for the next few days. Most of the lines are down due to the damage here. About your call during my stay in Chicago. Stop worrying. Trust me, that’s one body they’ll never find. Everything is taken care of.

  -W

  I swallowed hard. No name from the sender, but there didn’t need to be. I recognized the handwriting: Warren’s.

  Chapter Five

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.

  It was as if I’d accidentally stumbled across a conversation between two strangers. Evil ones.

  What the hell do I have here?

  And where was this body hidden that no one would ever find?

  The necklace. I laid it across my palm and studied it. Where did it come from? Was I misunderstanding? Overreacting?

  But they were talking about a damned body, for Christ’s sake.

  Whose body? I had initials on a necklace, a date, and a location. I also had Sully. It might not have been connected…or it might be. He could help me find out.

  I found the phone and dialed his number.

  Jack Sullenfeld was my best friend in college and probably the smartest guy I know. He works as an Intel analyst for the F.B.I., and he’s my go-to guy when I’m on the hunt for sensitive data, information normally unavailable to the public.