The Heart of the Jungle

by Jeremy Pack

  As he came fully awake, he remembered his introduction to Jason Kingsley, and the fury and confusion rushed back in a torrent. He quickly squelched those emotions before they overcame him. Now that he had released some of the pressure, he was much more in control of his feelings.

  His eyes wandered to a sheaf of documents lying on the coffee table. Kingsley must have left them. Another reminder. He stomped over and snatched them off the glass. After compressing the pages into a tight ball, he tossed them into the trash, wishing he could just forget the whole episode. For all he knew, Kingsley was some sort of crackpot out to make a buck off of his misery---but much of what he said had resonated.

  As though in defiance of the doubts swirling in his mind, he shoved the wadded papers deeper into the trash bin and walked away.

  As he passed the bathroom, he paused and stared at the door. For some reason, his conviction had disappeared. He couldn't take those pills.

  Not right now, anyway. He'd lost his nerve.

  He turned away and wandered back into the living room. Could his whole life with Michael have been a lie? What if the things Kingsley had revealed were true? Were there answers to be had after all? And if there were, what was he going to do about it? The police weren't going to help him. He couldn't go crawling back to Jason Kingsley, not after the way he'd treated him.

  He slipped into his running shoes and walked out into the crisp morning air. The world smelled fresh and young. Warbling birdsong provided a cheerful symphony to accompany him on his morning jog, and the familiarity of it, the simple joy in the melodic trilling, lifted his spirits slightly.

  His regular route took him down a residential street that meandered through the neighborhood and along the edge of a bluff. Tufts of sunny yellow Scotch broom dotted the sloping hillside. As he settled into the routine of placing one foot in front of the other, clearing his mind of the turmoil became easier. Focusing only on maintaining a steady pace and measured, even breathing, he allowed the tumult to subside. He gave himself over to the beauty of the world that he had been blind to for so long. Once upon a time, the carefully tended neighborhood, with its perfectly groomed yards and the broad reach of Puget Sound sparkling in the sun, had the power to hold him spellbound on mornings such as this.

  Those were freer, happier times. Now, as then, he was comforted and renewed.

  Tiny finches frolicked in a courting dance through the air over a dew-dappled lawn, and the smile that came to his lips as he watched them surprised him. He hadn't smiled automatically in so long that the unfamiliar expression was disconcerting. It felt good, though, so he went with it.

  Despite everything, though doubts and more unanswered questions tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he felt oddly hopeful. Why?

  Where was it coming from? Was it because of the release of the night before or something else? Brianna and Michael were still missing and very likely dead; the police had still closed the investigation. He had nothing to look forward to. So what had prompted this change of mood?

  Was it Kingsley?

  A woman clad in a floral-print robe stood on her front porch with a steaming mug of coffee. He didn't know her name, although he had passed her a hundred times during this morning ritual. Today, she waved at him. He waved back absently and continued along.

  The road turned a corner and snaked down the hillside toward the waterfront. He followed the curve. The heady rush of endorphins added their own magic to his strangely upbeat outlook. When he reached the wharf, he stopped at a small coffee shop and stood with his head down, breathing heavily. He knew the downhill jog was much easier than the return, and before the murders, he'd always taken a break before the arduous uphill climb. Lately, he had rarely indulged in that guilty pleasure. He realized as he stood before the entrance to Pearl's that he'd sorely missed it.

  A tinkling bell announced his entry into the quaint coffee shop, and the earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee made his mouth water in anticipation.

  The proprietress greeted him affectionately as he approached the counter. She was eccentric, a rotund little woman with rosy cheeks and a mass of silver hair piled atop her head in a haphazard bun. She was clad in a loose khaki dress with a tribal print. About her neck hung a crude necklace constructed of bits of shell and feathers.

  "Mercy alive. Just look at you. I haven't seen you in weeks." She wormed her bulk around the counter and pulled him into a crushing hug.

  "Timing is perfect, kiddo. I just took some muffins out of the oven." She smiled broadly, her eyes sweeping over him.

  "I think I'll just have the regular this morning, Pearl," he replied, returning her smile with warmth.

  Her joy faded. "Nonsense. You're too thin." She reached out, gently tweaked his cheek, and followed up with a motherly pat. She leaned in and whispered, "Skinny people are bad for business. You have to look well-fed or my customers might think I've gone all granola on them."

  He smiled and shook his head. "Not today, Pearl. I have a long run back up the hill."

  Sighing in resignation, she shook her head and clucked her tongue.

  "Fine, you'll take one for the road. All the butter and sugar is virtually guaranteed to counteract the effects of that healthy lifestyle you lead."

  She turned away with a chuckle and began preparing his drink. "Half a cup of no-lead, coming right up. I never have to brew this stuff," she complained as she rummaged through bags of coffee beans. "Now where'd I put that bag of decaf?" Finally, she found what she was looking for, and in moments, she had a stout brew pouring into a cup.

  She filled it halfway, then topped it off with cold filtered water from a refrigerator. "I don't know how you can drink this. And watered down to boot. It's heresy, I tell you."

  "I'm just not a sipper," Chris explained, placing several crisp bills on the counter and grabbing a newspaper from the magazine rack. "I like my coffee lukewarm." He smiled, as he always did, at the picture frame hanging in a conspicuous place above the newspaper display. It contained a clipping of the article he'd written about Pearl's.

  "Sipping is the secret to happiness, you know. You kids these days don't take time to savor the moment. It's why the world is falling apart."

  "You should pitch that to Folgers," he returned.

  "Don't get fresh with me, young man," she bossed affectionately.

  Wiping the counter with a clean white towel, she continued with her mock scolding. "Decaf." She shook her head and pointed at him with the dripping rag. "Pearl of wisdom: If some scientist hasn't decided it's deadly, you just shouldn't consume it. It isn't natural." She tossed the towel into a concealed bin and sighed mightily.

  "Decaf is worse for you than regular coffee," Chris offered, trying to placate her. "It's full of chemicals."

  "And that's not natural either."

  Chris smiled but did not laugh. He felt good---better than he had in a long time---but not quite able to force a chuckle yet.

  Noticing the look in his eyes, Pearl leaned over the counter toward him. "Blues still got a hold on you?"

  Chris smiled softly. "Actually, I'm feeling pretty normal today."

  Pearl's eyes narrowed, as though she doubted the honesty of his response. "Your aura is bright green, doll. Here, give me your hand."

  She reached out for him, and he patiently allowed her to examine his palm. "Hmm...," she murmured, sliding her pudgy little fingers over his skin. She narrowed her eyes and peered at the lines in his palm as though from a great distance. "Oh my," she intoned, releasing her hold.

  "That bad?" he asked.

  "You need a good hand lotion, kid, something with vitamin E in it. Your skin is a mess."

  "And I thought you were going to tell me my future."

  "I see cracked and bleeding knuckles in your future if you don't moisturize." She leaned closer and appraised him frankly, her momentary humor evaporating. "You want to tell me about your visitor? Brought you some bad news, did he?"

  For just an instant, he was taken aback. Had Pea
rl developed some mysterious fortunetelling talent? He quickly realized that the truth was probably far less esoteric. He gave her an ironic smile. "You almost had me that time. Let me guess, Harvey was... pruning his rosebushes again."

  She chuckled and winked. "He was in here half an hour ago on his way to the ferry." She lowered her voice. "Said he heard shouting and saw 'some guy storm out of there like his ass was on fire'."

  Chris smirked. Harvey's complete disregard for his privacy would probably have been a nuisance if the old man hadn't been so kind to him in the past. Brianna had adored him, and besides, he had such a colorful way of describing things you couldn't help but be charmed by him.

  He frowned as the memory of his encounter with Jason Kingsley resurfaced. "Just some crackpot spouting crap about Michael."

  "What did he say?" Pearl asked, a single tattooed eyebrow climbing her forehead.

  Chris had become accustomed to her probing questions over the years. She wasn't a busybody and didn't tolerate gossip, but she lavished motherly concern on her regular customers, and Chris knew that he was, by far, her favorite.

  He stared out the window in silence, and she placed a warm hand over his on the countertop to draw his attention back to the conversation.

  "Strong and silent does nothing for me, kid. You might as well give it up, because you know I'll gnaw on it like a dog with a bone until you do."

  Sighing, he said, "He claims that Michael was...." The words came harder than he expected. "He said Michael had a... drug problem."

  Her lips turned down in a thoughtful pout as she considered the statement. Chris knew that Pearl had never much liked Michael; something about him made her uneasy. She had hinted as much many times over the years. "Why would he say that?" she asked cautiously.

  Chris shrugged and took a drink of the coffee. "Maybe he's a con artist. Maybe he's some kind of sicko that gets his jollies from other people's pain."

  "What if he was telling the truth? Think there's any way you can confirm it?"

  "Michael was not a drug addict, Pearl. Don't you think I would have known?" His denial lacked conviction. He didn't even fool himself.

  "I'm just saying... this thing obviously has you at odds with your gut. If you ask around, at least you'll be able to put your doubts to rest."

  "And what gives you the impression that I have doubts?"

  Pearl gave him a skeptical look. "Well, suit yourself. I'm not one to meddle." The portly little woman shrugged and patted Chris on the back.

  "Besides," she continued sagely, "you of all people would certainly have seen the signs. Long absences, missed appointments, mood swings--- those kinds of things."

  He pursed his lips, realizing he was being manipulated. Still, he was reminded about all of those late nights when he couldn't reach Michael at the office; all of the cold, uneaten dinners that he'd scraped into the garbage disposal; the once-lucrative investments and the empty bank accounts. "I'll think about it," he said, though his promise lacked conviction.

  Pearl seemed as if she wanted to say something more. She apparently thought better of it and just returned to her station behind the counter. "I'm always here if you need me."

  "I know." Chris smiled tenderly at her and turned to leave.

  He had no spirit for the jog home. Instead, he walked the meandering mile back up the hill, once more oblivious to the beauty of the summer day. His mind was in turmoil, the doubts and indecision like heavy weights upon his back.

  What if everything Jason Kingsley had said was true? What if Michael did have a drug habit? How had he missed it? Could he really have been so blind?

  There was only one person who could tell him. Although he was hesitant to pursue it, he knew he couldn't live with the idea of not knowing for sure. He had spent enough time dealing with unanswered questions. It was time to start seeking the truth.

  CHRIS glanced at his watch and walked through the glass doors of a downtown high-rise. His hard-soled shoes made clicking noises on the polished marble floor, and he shuffled slightly to dampen the noise. He was ten minutes early, though George MacQuery had assured him that his afternoon was clear, so it wasn't likely that he would have to wait long.

  As he stood in the elevator on his way to the twenty-seventh floor, Chris recalled that it was George who had first introduced him to Michael. At the time, Michael had been a promising young associate fresh from a career with the DA's office, ready to take on defense. In his first two years with the firm, he established himself as a rising star, making partner in record time. His strategy in the courtroom was nothing short of brilliant, and his handsome, winning face had charmed more than one jury. He was ruthless when he had to be, but never overtly.

  George would often say, "Michael will rip their throats out, but he'll do it with a smile."

  George had introduced them at a cocktail party. Michael was immediately smitten and wasted no time in letting Chris know it. Even though he'd flatly rejected the advances, Michael would not relent. He was not the kind of person who liked to lose. He saw himself in a contest of wills and knew it was only a matter of time before Chris gave in. He tried every angle until Chris finally agreed to go out with him. Their courtship was a happy time for Chris---he'd just landed a job at The Sounder, and for the first time in his life, he was on his feet and moving in a positive direction.

  In Michael, he had found someone with great passion who could, with a simple turn of phrase or flash of a smile, make the world bow at his feet. He was sexy and exciting but gentle when he had to be---at least in the beginning. Looking back, Chris realized that their relationship had been more good than bad, but they had never shared the quiet closeness of other couples they knew. Michael moved too quickly, was too dogged in pursuing his ambition. He thrived on control, and love would have meant giving in completely to an emotion. That had been impossible for both of them, each for their own reasons.

  So instead of love, they found some measure of security in being together, and that had been enough to keep them bound for five years. It probably would have continued to carry them if Michael hadn't been murdered.

  The elevator announced his arrival, and Chris stepped into the opulently appointed office space. Leslie, the firm's receptionist, greeted him with a bright smile.

  "Chris," she said, coming to her feet. "How have you been?"

  "As well as can be expected," Chris answered truthfully. "I have an appointment with George."

  "I know. I'll let him know you're here." Leslie indicated he should take a seat and dialed George's line. Shortly after Chris sat down, George came around the corner.

  After a warm hug of welcome, George led him into his office and closed the door, then motioned him to a leather sofa and offered him a drink. Chris accepted a bottle of water and admired a new painting George had procured.

  "How are you feeling?"

  Chris regarded him seriously for a moment and took a sip of his water. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject, and quite before he realized what he was going to say, the words tumbled from his lips. "Did Michael do drugs?"

  George was caught off guard, but he quickly regained his footing.

  He stood and turned toward the window.

  His sudden reticence was all the answer Chris needed. It was true.

  Chris struggled to hold the instant flare of shock in check. He was not going to let George escape the question. Instead, he steeled himself and waited for a response. Finally, when the protracted silence became unbearable, he spoke. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  George turned toward him, his eyes troubled. Realization that he could not evade the subject any longer was clear in his timid expression.

  "A lot of reasons." His voice was touched with remorse. "Mostly because I care a great deal for you. I never wanted this to hurt you."

  "Didn't you think I'd find out eventually?"

  "I thought I could convince him to kick the habit before that happened."

  "How long have you known?"

  "Two y
ears. I found out shortly after he won the Brunner Investments case." There was admission in the older man's voice---and something that sounded suspiciously like relief.

  Chris stared at the bottled water he clutched in white-knuckled hands. He didn't want to hear any more, but he had to know. "How?"

  "How did I find out?" George turned away from the window, sat back down in his chair, and splayed his hands on his desk. "Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?"

  Chris met his eyes briefly, trying to decide how much he should say, and then said, "George, just tell me."

  "I thought he'd been discreet. He was good at covering his tracks. But I suppose he had to slip up eventually."

  "You kept evidence from me---from the police. Don't you realize that this could have everything to do with their---" He broke off, still unable to say the word without a struggle. "With their murders? I had a right to know about this, damn it."

  "Chris, you had enough to deal with, and I made the decision to spare you further grief. I was only trying to help."

  He shook his head. He was beginning to feel a rising anger born of betrayal. "I trusted you, George. You're the only person in my life I thought I could trust."

  "Now listen here," George scolded him. "I've known you since you were in diapers. If there is anyone in the world you can trust, if there is anyone in the world who has your best interests at heart, I am that person. I did everything I could to shelter you from these ugly things because, more than anything, you needed time to heal."

  "But if I'd known---"

  "What difference would it have made? Michael and Brianna would still be gone, and you would have been even more brutalized at a time when you were barely holding on. I'm only sorry you found out at all."

  "How could I have been so blind? How could he have hidden this from me so well? How could you?"

  George joined Chris on the sofa and pulled him into a tender hug.

  "Sometimes love blinds us to the faults of those we care about, little dove. Sometimes we don't see a thing that's right in front of us because we don't want to see."