by John Evans
“It’s everything I have.” She ignored my comment and shook her head. “Sheesh. This just isn’t my freakin’ night.”
We stood silently for a moment each lost in our own separate cauldron of troubles. Finally, she looked at me. “So, how are you getting home?”
“Cab,” I said, scrolling through my address book for the number.
“Do you have a spare bedroom?” she asked.
“Several.”
As I waited for the dispatcher, I studied Liza. She walked confidently around the kitchen inspecting it—reading it, I suppose, and letting it talk to her. She looked at me and smiled gently. I gave the address and closed my cell phone. Liza was by the table distracted by the casts piled on the floor. She leaned over and picked up a chunk, studied it from all angles, and picked up another.
“I see a big nasty son-of-a-bitch from Easton,” I said, poking gentle fun at her. “Six foot three, three hundred and twenty pounds. Tattooed—a rope of braided hair hanging down his back. Leather vest, no shirt.”
“Me, too,” Liza said. I honestly didn’t know if she was busting my chops or if she had really captured an image of him from somewhere. Then her nose wrinkled with a smile and she winked.
I told her about Stomp’s home invasion and his brief hospital stay.
“Can you imagine,” I said, “what kind of animal he is? Yesterday, he was in traction. He’s like a freakin’ coyote chewing off its own foot to get out of a trap.”
“Well . . . yeah,” Liza said dismissively. I stared at her.
“Go on,” I prompted. “You saw something.”
She picked up a blue chunk “Take a look at this cast,” she said. “It was on his right arm—the one with the tattoo.”
She paused long enough for my mouth to fall open. I had never mentioned which arm was tattooed.
“Just guessing,” she said with another nose wrinkle. “Christ, you’re easy.” She held the cast out to me. “But he is right handed. You can tell how unsteady he was with the serrated knife—didn’t know how to go about it without cutting himself up, working with his left hand.”
She dropped that piece and selected a large tubular section that had been on his leg. “See how his technique improved once his right hand was free? That and the fact that he had a better feel about how to do it.”
“It must have hurt like hell,” I said, wincing at the thought of prying a cast off a broken arm.
“I’m thinking it didn’t,” Liza said and picked up another section of leg cast. “Look at this. Once he made his cut, he wrenched it off his leg, forcing the cast open like a lobster shell. If it hurt him, he would have made another cut so it would fall off.”
“Maybe he was doped up.”
“Maybe he didn’t have a broken leg.”
That thought took me by surprise. I had seen Stomp trussed up like a marionette. Could the hospital have made such a mistake?
“Why would they put a cast on a leg that wasn’t broken?”
“For the same reason they put a cast on an arm that wasn’t broken—as a favor.”
“I’m lost,” I admitted.
“Look, it’s simple,” she said. “Stomp beats up your brother. He attacks you and ends up in the hospital. This is a small town. Your detective friend doesn’t have the manpower to babysit him until they can haul his ass to jail, so he calls in a favor—the doctors dope him up, put casts all over him, and string him up. They’re not detaining him—the doctors are only being cautious. But it doesn’t work. Stomp unhooks himself and escapes. That must have been a picture.”
I envisioned Stomp making his way past the nurse’s station looking like a busted up Herman Munster on the loose. How could they miss him?
“So what do you think?” she concluded.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It seems so . . .”
She placed her hands on her hips and looked at me. “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Sherlock Holmes.”
“It seems impossible,” I said and paused. “But then . . . ‘Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”
Liza looked at me curiously.
“Lewis Carroll,” I explained. “Through the Looking Glass.”
She gave me a nod of approval.
As we waited for the cab, I gave her a quick review of how I helped move Jonah’s stuff for the auction and my walk through with Detective Devereaux. I showed her the teacup where a bullet had landed and the huge holes the police had cut out of the plastered walls to retrieve bullets. At the bottom of the stairs, I pointed to another hole, “That’s where they dug Jonah’s first shot out of the wall. He must have fired from there,” I said thrusting my chin toward the top landing. “Then he fell, breaking his glasses. He couldn’t see much after that . . .”
I said it like I hadn’t been there—as if I had learned that from the police. But I was nearing an uncomfortable part of the story where I would have to present the official police version without unconsciously weaving traces of my own involvement into the tale. Liza was sharp enough to catch the slightest nuance of phrase or tone that would place me at the scene.
The arrival of the cab interrupted my story. Liza and I climbed in and gave the driver directions to the Crow’s Nest. I was relieved when she didn’t ask to hear the rest of the story of Jonah’s death. Maybe she didn’t want to hear it.
***
The Crow’s Nest was an architectural oddity, a sprawling structure filled with extensions jutting out at unusual angles, some hanging from cliffs and others projecting out from the main building. My father liked the idea of being able to see the whole valley around him, so an observation room crowned the building. It was simply furnished with several leather chairs on wheels, a small table, a Celestron telescope for zeroing in on the heavens, and a Nikon spotting scope to check on the neighborhood.
“This is where Mr. Starchy Pants lives, I take it,” Liza said as she stepped out of the cab, surveying the building, nodding in approval.
“I live here,” I corrected, and the words had such an arrogant tone that I embarrassed myself. Like a total jerk, I had tried to impress her with the worldly goods at my disposal. “As the caretaker,” I added. “Mr. Starchy Pants is in Chicago on business.”
Liza smiled. Either I had made a nice recovery or she was very forgiving.
“I need a bed,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”
As I led her through the house to the second floor, I filled Liza in on the history of Cameron Industries and my little rebellion against having to become a cog in the works to fit in. And I suddenly realized how incredibly small and petty my problems had been and how easily they could have been solved right up to the second when Jonah fired his first shot.
We entered a wing of the Crow’s Nest containing guest rooms, each with a full bath and each with a unique view of the valley. My room faced south, toward the Farmhouse below. It was the only room with an unmade bed—the only one that looked lived in. Liza walked to the middle of the room and did a slow pirouette, taking more time surveying this room than she had with any of the others.
“This must be our room,” she said casually.
With those simple words, Liza had outlined our living arrangement, our relationship, and perhaps our future. I smiled.
“You have something for me to slip into?”
I slid open the closet door, and she immediately picked out a Philadelphia Flyers jersey several sizes too large for her.
“Washing machine?”
“First room down the hall near the stairs.”
She stripped to her underwear as if I were her sister and pulled the jersey over her head. Then she carefully ducked her head through the long chain that held the crucifix that fell to her belly. With a quick flick of her wrists, her bikini underwear draped her ankles. She stepped out of them and bundled everything but the sweater into her arms and left.
I stood alone, strangely
attracted by this self-assured young woman who was so filled with contradictions and mysteries—a girl so uninhibited she could undress in front of a man—a total stranger—without a thought, a girl who swore and wore a crucifix, a girl who was not afraid of a man with a gun on a dark, lonely road, a girl who was about to sleep with me—a girl whose grandfather was dead because of me.
It crossed my mind that she was so unconventional that we would be sleeping together as opposed to “sleeping together”—the crucifix holding me at bay like a vampire.
Liza came back only to find me standing where she had left me. “Not undressed yet?” she asked casually as she slipped into bed, pulling the sheet over her. I tried to be as uninhibited about undressing as she had been, but I found myself turning away from her to drop my pants.
“I knew it!” she crowed. “Tighty whities. Sheesh.” And she chuckled.
I didn’t know whether she was delighting in my jockey underwear or the accuracy of her prediction that I would be wearing them. I turned toward her sheepishly in time to see the Flyers jersey arc from her hand to the chair by the wall. I crawled into bed trying to act casual, and when I turned toward her, her head was propped up in her hand, her snowy skin nearly blending in with the sheet, and the chain of her crucifix hung up on a nipple. Christ appeared to be rolling his eyes.
“So,” she began in a tone that might be used over a cup of coffee, “You said you had a long story—let’s hear it.”
“I’d rather hear yours,” I said, trying my best not to stare at her breast.
“Tell you what. We’ll settle it this way—whoever comes first, goes first. She wriggled closer and threw a leg over me as she straddled my hips. Her mouth found mine.
In less than five minutes I was telling her all about the night Dusty and I took a walk on the wild side.
CHAPTER 37
I started by telling her how Dusty drove me to Easton after work one night, and was able to stick to the truth—a straight narrative of our evening. I did not mention that it was the same night her grandfather had died, nor did I mention our reason for taking a dip into Stomp’s world.
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is what Stomp was doing at your grandfather’s house.”
“If he’s on the run, it’s a perfect hiding place.”
She was right, of course, but it seemed too convenient for Stomp just to stumble into the picture—too many coincidences, and I didn’t want to discuss any of them with Liza.
We put Stomp out of our heads for another bout of lovemaking, in which she won the right to tell her story, but she seemed reluctant to reveal much about herself. When I pressed for information, Liza slipped out of the bedroom to put her clothes in the dryer. We talked and snuggled into the wee hours of the night, but most of the talk was about me and, despite that fact that it was her turn, I had to pry.
“Where do you live?” I asked, breaking a lengthy session of snuggling and listening to her breathe and sigh next to me.
“Here,” she said firmly.
I paused, trying to gauge her seriousness, and decided that she might be very serious indeed.
“I mean before here,” I smiled, humoring her in case she wasn’t.
“Somewhere on Fog Hollow Road,” she said, being evasive again.
“I mean, where’s your home?”
“Fog Hollow Road,” she repeated and I understood. “That is my home now—or at least it will be when the estate is settled. Until then, the clothes down the hall are all I have. I guess you could say I’ve moved in.”
“What about the car?”
“It isn’t mine,” she said, and her tone told me that she hadn’t borrowed it.
“Whose is it?” I asked after a pause.
“It belongs to my soon-to-be ex-husband,” she answered and fell silent for a moment. She gave me a quick look. “It’s a long story.”
“We have all night,” I reminded her.
She took a deep breath. “We have better things to do all night. Let me give you the Cliff’s Notes—he’s an asshole.”
Liza snuggled up against me and placed her head on my chest. “I didn’t hear about my grandfather until two days ago. I was packing my bags when the sleaze ball fucker came in and asked me what I was doing—probably thought I was packing to leave him. Turns out he was right. He said I couldn’t go. ‘I forbid you,’ he said—stupid jerk. I waited until he was asleep then took his car. Didn’t even leave a note.”
She was quiet for so long I thought she had slipped into a deep sleep, but then she lifted her head and shifted so she could look into my eyes. “I’m half Romani—a Gypsy half-breed. He’s a full-blown Gypsy asshole and now I’m an outcast."
“Will he come after you?”
“Of course. His half-breed wife ran off with his car. I disgraced him—cut his balls off. He’ll carry that around with him forever. And if he finds me, I’m dead. I know it.”
“You have to ditch the car.”
“That’s next on my agenda. I’ll drop it at an airport—make him think I left the country.”
I thought of Stomp and Devereaux and how much Liza and I were alike—pursued by our past and chained to it at the same time. Maybe that was the answer—chuck everything and run off, start completely fresh in some place like—Brazil. It would be easier with someone like Liza at my side.
CHAPTER 38
When dawn filtered into the bedroom. Liza snapped to attention. “My clothes!” They were still in the dryer. “I’ll never get the wrinkles out.” She rolled out of bed and disappeared.
I followed her down to the laundry room. Liza opened the dryer and pulled out her blouse. “Sheesh—look at this,” shaking her head, holding her clothes in a ball and then tossing them back in. Her crucifix hit the dryer door as she bent down, breasts swinging gently.
We stood naked by the washer and dryer, studying each other. She leaned against the washing machine, right ankle crossed with her toes curled under. I led her back to the bedroom and the phone rang. Devereaux. I pulled on my underwear, hopping on one foot while he talked. His main concern was Stomp and if I was sure he stole the BMW.
“There’s something you got to see at Jonah’s,” I told him. “It explains a whole lot.”
“You need a ride?” he asked, and I had visions of Liza climbing into the back of a patrol car.
“That’s OK. I’ll meet you there.”
Devereaux showed up just after eight and pulled into the place where the Beamer was parked before Stomp borrowed it. He climbed the three steps onto the porch painfully as I opened the door for him. He paused to examine where the hasp and lock had been pried off and stepped to the edge of the porch and peered over.
“There it is,” he announced, and I knew he had found the lock. He did not retrieve it—the three-step climb too painful or perhaps too embarrassing for him. “I’m assuming you didn’t take it off.” It was posed as a question and I shook my head.
Devereaux stepped into the kitchen and his eyes locked on Liza. He said nothing as he studied her. In my call to the police station, I had not mentioned Jonah’s granddaughter.
“And this is . . . ?” Devereaux asked.
“Liza Lovell.”
She stepped forward and offered her hand. Devereaux took it hesitantly as if unsure whether this was a social meeting or the beginning of a criminal investigation. He said nothing in the way of a greeting, acknowledging her with a slight nod.
“This is Jonah’s granddaughter,” I explained as an introduction. “I found her near my father’s place with a bad transmission. She was heading here so I gave her a lift. The lock was gone when we got here. Stomp slipped out and escaped with the BMW. I think he was living here.”
Devereaux remained silent, but the wheels were spinning. “Obviously, he didn’t know it was you.” He left the implication of that remark hang for a moment. “How do you know it was Stomp?”
“We found these,” Liza pointed to the piles of blue cast chunks.
Dever
eaux glanced down and his eyes widened slightly.
“We found the Beamer in Easton near the bus terminal,” Devereaux countered in what I took to be an attempt to change the subject. “Everything seems to be OK. Probably took a bus out of town.”
His tone was unconvincing, and if his subtle reaction to the casts told me anything, it was that he knew they belonged to Stomp. I decided to press the issue.
“These casts are huge,” I began and captured Devereaux’s full attention immediately. “They look like the same kind that Stomp had on in the hospital. You can tell they’re pretty new.”
“Well,” Devereaux said offhandedly, “he won’t get far hobbling around on a broken leg.”
“I don’t know about that, Detective. Look at this.” I picked up the same piece of cast Liza had shown me and went through her explanation flawlessly. Devereaux remained silent for a moment.
“So you think the doctors made a mistake, or what? I think it was done on purpose—to slow him down.”
Devereaux’s tiny eyes shifted slightly and then took a quick glance at the blue pile.
“And your point is . . . ?”
“My point is that, if Stomp is able to run around these woods, I have a right to know it.”
“Where the hell did you come up with that theory?”
Devereaux’s scorn was hollow and I seized the opportunity to give Liza full credit. I pointed at her. Her eyes were steady—challenging.
There was a long pause and finally Devereaux broke into that quirky, misplaced smile of his—a silent admission of guilt. “Well, you know, these doctors are sometimes overly cautious.”
“I knew it!” Liza chirped.
Devereaux’s smile evaporated and he was back to business immediately. He looked at me intently. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. My guess is that Mr. Jessup took a bus to points unknown.”
I wanted something more substantial than Devereaux’s guess, and my silent stare finally moved him to add, “He’s got a lot of reasons to get out of town—fast.”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I had a guess of my own—the Easton police wanted to talk to Stomp about Stemcell’s murder. If that was the case, then Dusty and I were off the hook—temporarily.