“Okay, Lt. Colonel, let’s come in—”
“Don’t call me that! Stop calling me that!”
“Fine. Jim, get into the house.” Chris took his arm. The Lt. Colonel resisted at first but wasn’t functioning well enough to do much about it. He made his way forward, tripping over the edges of rugs and running into the ends of tables. Chris hoped he wouldn’t fall and get hurt, making Chris have to call an ambulance and explain why he was at Jules’s house in the first place.
The Lt. Colonel made it to the couch, crashed onto it, then started bawling.
Chris sat on the chair opposite the couch and tried to figure out what to do with the man. His face was wet and sticky with tears when it emerged from his hands. He wiped his eyes with shaky hands. “She left, Chris.”
“Jules?”
“Of course Jules. She left. Why wouldn’t she? What does she have here? Me. That’s it. And what a treat I am.”
“Do you know she left?”
“Doesn’t it make sense? Look at me and tell me that doesn’t make sense.”
Chris clasped his hands together and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Sir, you’re being hard on yourself.” He almost winced as he said it because the man could obviously see what a wreck he was.
The Lt. Colonel seemed to be getting a grip. “You religious, Chris?”
“Nah.”
“You know Jason was religious.”
Chris nodded. He knew well.
“The rest of the family had all but given up on me. But not Jason. He never did. He invited me to family gatherings, always came by to see me. He told me he’d help me kick the bottle.”
“He was that kind of guy.”
“He was a little preachy, I’ll say that. Carried that Bible around with him all the time. That was a pathetic-looking thing, worn-out, half the pages falling out.”
Chris laughed. “Yeah. He inherited it from his grandfather.”
“I told him I’d buy him a new one, but he never wanted a new one.” The Lt. Colonel’s eyes filled with tears again. “The truth is that I couldn’t be there much for Juliet because when Jason died, I lost . . .” His voice quivered. “I lost the only friend I had.”
Chris stood, his own throat swelling with emotion, and sat down next to the Lt. Colonel. “Me, too,” he whispered. He patted the other man awkwardly on the back.
“He was a good man,” the Lt. Colonel continued. “What every father dreams of for their daughters. He was like a son to me.”
Chris nodded, smiling at a memory. “Jason was like the brother I never had. My sister, Addy, is terrific, but she likes to mother me too much. Thinks I need a wife, like, yesterday.”
The Lt. Colonel grabbed Chris’s sleeve. “Don’t take family for granted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jason told me once that I should pray. That God was not surprised by the condition of my soul. That He would hear my prayers. I never believed him,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I never said that prayer I promised him I would. But last night I said a prayer for Juliet, prayed she’d come back. Prayed she’d be okay. As bad of a man as I am, maybe God would take into consideration that something good came from me.”
“You’re not a bad man,” Chris said. “You’ve just . . . lost your way.”
The Lt. Colonel pondered this for a moment, then rose and walked to the kitchen. He filled a cup with water. “Jason called Him Father.”
“Who?”
“God. And I wondered if . . . if Juliet considered God to be more of a father to her than me.”
Chris didn’t know what to say. He’d always appreciated Jason’s faith but could never grasp it like Jason did. He believed in God, believed in heaven, but beyond that, there was nothing there for him. He was not a man who had a great deal of faith in anything.
The Lt. Colonel gulped the water. It ran down his chin. He tossed the cup in the sink. “Chris, you have to find her. She’s all I have left.”
Chris stood. “I will. I’ll find her. I am going to need to go through this house again, sir. Go through everything. Try to find any small clue that will help me.”
The Lt. Colonel pointed to the computer on the small desk. “Then you should go through that. That’s where she lived her life, in that little box.” He groaned and held his head as he walked back to the couch.
“I’ve looked there. It’s possible that someone might’ve used her Facebook posts to begin to understand a pattern of behavior, to know where she might go.” He couldn’t get into Patrick Reagan with him at this point.
“Then look again!” His voice boomed as he fell into the cushions. “Look again, for the love of pete . . .” His head tilted back, he closed his eyes and began snoring loudly before Chris could explain that the Lt. Colonel needed to keep his visit discreet.
But it was a gift. He could get a lot more done with the man unconscious.
Chris began to roam the house, giving everything he saw second consideration. In their bedroom, he turned on the ceiling fan because even with the cold, it felt stuffy. He looked again at the closet and in the drawers. He searched for anything buried underneath clothes, hidden under the bed. Nothing appeared out of order.
He opened the drawers of Jason’s nightstand. His gun. Still there, exactly where Chris kept his own. He wondered if Jules even knew that it was in there, or if she kept it there in case she ever needed it. He picked up the framed picture of Jules sitting atop the nightstand by the lamp. It was a black-and-white photo of her at the ocean, splashing in the waves, laughing wildly at something. Her long hair was blown back by the breeze, and the light from a cloudy day illuminated every inch of her face. It was a gorgeous photo, one that he was sure had been Jason’s favorite.
He remembered the day that Jason told him he’d met someone at a backyard cookout. He was enamored with her and talked the entire time they were on duty that day. “If I never hear the name Juliet again,” Chris joked, “I’ll be a happy camper.”
Jason had smiled. “Then you’re going to be very unhappy because I’m pretty sure you’re going to hear it for the rest of my life.”
“How can you know after one day at a barbecue?” Chris asked.
“You have no idea, man. You’re not open to that kind of love.”
“I’m open. I’m just way more of a skeptic.”
Jason laughed. “Yes. I know. That’s why I can’t get you to come to church with me.”
“If you marry this girl, I guess I’m going to have to come to church, then.”
“I guess you will.”
Jason’s voice echoed through his mind as Chris picked up the Bible that rested on the nightstand. It was the one that the Lt. Colonel had referred to, the one that Jason carried with him constantly, even in the patrol car.
The book was heavier than he expected, its leather cover cracked and worn, like a great bomber jacket. He opened it, and the pages, wispy light, fluttered against the ceiling fan’s soft wind. The thing was marked up like a college exam paper. Highlights. Red ink. Dates. Circles. Words.
At the front, there was a place to write a dedication. He assumed the name was that of Jason’s grandfather. The Bible had been passed down to Jason upon the old man’s death. The heritage this thing held . . . What Chris wouldn’t give to know the verses that had guided his own grandparents, whom he pretty much regarded as saints. They’d been religious too, but his own father, who’d served in the Vietnam War, never spoke of God to Chris. His mother sent him to a local VBS every summer, but he figured it was just so she could get some free time from him and his sister.
Chris closed the Bible and set it back on the table carefully, exactly how it had been. Everywhere he looked in the room, he was reminded of Jason. The walls felt like they were closing around him, so he walked out.
The Lt. Colonel was now slumped sideways on the couch, one arm protruding outward, his hand dangling over the back of the couch. His snores seemed to vibrate the pictures on the nearby ta
ble.
Chris wandered from room to room, trying to escape the memories of Jason. He kept pushing them out of his mind and tried to think more logically. Yet nothing was getting him any closer to finding Jules.
He made it out to the detached garage, which he hadn’t yet searched. Even with the sunlight shining in, it was hard to see, but Chris found the lever on the garage door and lifted it up. Light spilled onto a mess of boxes and junk, piled everywhere that the car wasn’t. It smelled musty, like the door hadn’t been opened in a long while.
Chris closed his eyes, trying not to feel the regret that was causing his emotions to slip and slide. He should’ve been here for Jules. He should’ve come over, helped her go through all this stuff. He could’ve knocked this out in a day. Maybe she had needed help deciding what to keep of Jason’s. Maybe she needed someone to tell her it was okay to throw something away.
He started near the garage door, looking through boxes. Many of them were simply marked Jason. One held his police department softball jersey and gear. Another had his college diploma and his police academy documents.
About twenty-five minutes into it, Chris couldn’t hold it in any longer. Everywhere he looked, Jason was there, yet absent, and it was no use trying to find clues about Jules. If there were any here, they’d been buried deep inside a dark box somewhere.
Chris slid to the floor and hid his face in his hands. He could really use a drink right now. He knew where to find it, too.
As he turned, headed for the Lt. Colonel’s truck, something caught his eye. It was basked in shadows in the back corner of the garage, but one sliver of daylight glinted off it and shone like a small prism.
Chris carefully stepped around the clutter. He removed boxes around the object to get a better view.
He moved closer. It was a piece of the hull of a boat.
Jason didn’t own a boat.
IT HAD BOTHERED Jules before that she didn’t know the time in the cabin. She’d wondered if Patrick did that on purpose, so when he came here to write, time was never depended upon or restrictive—he could choose whether to acknowledge it or not.
Now she didn’t care. She’d been lying in bed, on her side, staring out the window, since she awoke. Two hours had passed. Maybe more. She’d watched how the light rose through the window, became clear and bright. But she couldn’t make herself get out of bed.
It was the same feeling as when Jason died. Despair. A lack of will to do anything but hide within herself. She couldn’t even cry anymore. It felt like the death of her soul. The fact was that if Patrick was going to kill her, she wanted him to go ahead and put her out of her misery. And his. What was the point of this life anyway? The people you loved ended up dead, drunk, or in Patrick’s case, insane.
She’d adored him from afar for so long. She’d respected his gift for writing and his need for privacy. He was not known to be involved in literary circles or VIP parties. He loved his craft and loved his books and loved his home state.
But with him, a picture did not speak a thousand words, because if all the pictures she’d seen of him had shared even half of what he was like, maybe she wouldn’t have been so caught off guard. Instead, his pictures exuded warmth. In his official author pictures, he stood by a fireplace or a staircase; there were always books in the picture somewhere. He dressed nicely, in a turtleneck or a suit jacket. He always screamed classy.
Not crazy.
Jules wondered if her father would even know she was missing. It depended on how deeply and often he was binging. He could very well be passed out somewhere for days.
Who was going to save her?
The sound of footsteps caused her to sit up in bed. The door flew open and Patrick Reagan walked into her room, sat down quietly in the corner armchair. He stared at her for a moment. She pulled the sheet toward her even though she was in cotton, button-up pajamas that completely covered her from head to toe.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
“What do you want?” she finally asked. It came out as genuine as she needed it to.
“I want to help you, Juliet,” he said. “That is all that I’ve wanted to do.”
“Help me with what?”
“To see.”
“What? See what?”
He stood, put his hands in his pockets, paced the room as he spoke. “My wife’s name was Amelia. She came down with cancer at sixty. It was very fast. The doctor said that it had taken over her entire body. He told us intense radiation and chemo would prolong her life, but Amelia wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted to die with dignity and didn’t want to be a burden. That was my Amelia. She never wanted to bother anybody or be anything but helpful.”
Jules sat quietly. Watched. Listened.
“She wanted to die here.” He pointed. “She died right in that bed.”
Chills ran over her body.
“And I was with her every day. I watched as the cancer consumed her.” His words trailed off and he gathered his emotions.
“I’m so sorry,” Jules whispered.
“There was so much grief,” he said so quietly that Jules had to strain to hear him. “And when you’re immersed, you can’t think clearly. You can’t see anything objectively. All you can see, hear, or feel is your grief.” His gaze found her. “It’s all that you know.”
Jules nodded, surprised by the emotion she was feeling. In a weird way, she found herself connecting to him. Just hours earlier, she hadn’t understood a thing about what he was doing. But now it felt like they had something together. Death had taken their most precious gifts.
He continued, “I’ve read between the lines, Juliet. I’ve felt the weight of your words. You’re lost, like me. And you can’t find peace because there is no peace without truth.”
“What truth am I missing?” she asked.
“I am going to show you. But you have to trust me.”
She looked at the ceiling, at the words scrawled above her. “I don’t know if I can.”
Patrick walked toward her and her heart stopped. But he sat on the edge of the bed, at the end, his full attention on her.
“They don’t believe I can write anymore,” he said. “And maybe it’s true. Maybe I can’t. Amelia, she was the glue that held me together. She was the straight line through the chaos of my mind.” He tapped his temple. “All this has been unraveling for quite some time.”
Jules sat perfectly still.
“But inside here, I know a secret. And I have to tell it to you. But you’re not ready.”
“How do I get ready?”
He studied her for a moment before speaking again. “Do you know what the sagging middle is, Juliet?”
Jules didn’t know if she should nod or not. She didn’t know if he remembered that he’d asked her this before.
“It is what undoes so many novels.” He glanced at her. “And novelists.” He stared out the window for a moment, the light shining against his ruminating eyes. “It usually happens around chapter 17 of a book. It is the place where the entire story can fall apart. The depths of the second act. The first act has been a dance between the building of the story and the introduction of the characters. The second act comes and we must build up the conflict and set the stage for a climactic ending. But so often, the writer fails at this point, and the story drags. The words are repetitive. They are weighty and sluggish and sometimes simply a bridge to get to the third act, offering nothing but empty content.”
Jules nodded, feeling hysteria building.
“A lot of the critics believe that I am in the chapter 17 of my life. Don’t you?”
“No. You’re wrong. I’ve never believed you’ve lost your touch.”
“My last three books have been disastrous, have they not?”
“Why is that surprising? I don’t believe any writer is going to hit the mark every time.”
“You’re not alone,” he said, standing again. “Critics everywhere believe my time has come to step down off the New York Times list. To go
hide in my cave or die in my cabin or bury myself in a hole.”
“I don’t believe that,” Jules said. “And you shouldn’t either. Writers don’t listen to their critics, do they?”
Patrick blinked slowly at her. “Sometimes they do. When they really respect the critic.”
“I . . . You have to know how much I respect you,” she stammered. “I’ve admired you for a long time. That admiration never went away.”
Patrick smiled slightly. “Thank you, Juliet. I appreciate your kind words.” He took a deep breath. “My dear, it is time for you to get dressed.”
Jules slumped. “I’m not up for much. I just want to go home.”
“Get up and make yourself presentable. You can’t sleep the whole day away.”
She ripped the covers off and stood. “I can’t sleep, Patrick. Don’t you get that? I can’t pretend this is a normal situation. You’re holding me against my will. You’re promising to terrify me. I’m not cozy and warm and fuzzy here. I’m scared.”
He nodded understandingly. “To be expected.”
“And you’re acting kind of crazy,” she said, walking to the bathroom. “You’re yelling at me and saying things I don’t understand.”
He looked pathetically apologetic. “I . . . I know. I sometimes . . . break.”
She paused at the bathroom door. “We need to get this taken care of. We need to get to the bottom of this, Patrick. Do you understand what I mean? You can’t hold me here forever.”
“I enjoy your company.”
She tried not to look repulsed.
“You have a gift, you know,” he said gently.
“No. You have the gift, Patrick. You have to believe in yourself again.”
“I’m tired,” he said, moving toward the bedroom door. “I’m worn-out.”
“Me too. I wake up every day wondering if I’ll hurt any less.”
“It is time to work,” he said and left the room.
Misery Loves Company Page 12