Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

  Dennis had talked to Dr. Forrester about feeling depressed, and it was she who brought up the issue of suicide. Dennis had simply responded, “Maybe.”

  He had agreed to have Dr. Forrester’s files reviewed by the Agency’s medical staff before returning to work but was naïve, in retrospect, to think that they’d know how to treat that interchange.

  He finally stood up and got back into the cab; thirty minutes later, he was unlocking his front door.

  Chapter 43

  The late-afternoon light slanted through the house windows, giving it a cathedral-like feel: cavernous, dank, and musty. He hung his suit coat on the kitchen chair, pulled off his tie, and threw it on the kitchen table. He felt agitated and confused. He opened a bottle of beer and turned on the TV, something he rarely did.

  The channel was set to CNN, and he numbly watched a reporter from Iraq detail the sudden drop in violence against American soldiers.

  He put his feet up onto the coffee table and on top of a book. The book slid a little, and he pulled his feet down and looked at it.

  It was the War Poetry hardcover that he had purchased in Australia. He put down his beer, leaned over, grabbed the book, and opened it to a bookmark that he had made from an American Airlines ticket stub.

  Dennis’s eyes fell to the third stanza of the Wilfred Owen poem titled “Insensibility” that he found himself returning to from time to time. He read:

  Happy are these who lose imagination:

  They have enough to carry with ammunition.

  Their spirit drags no pack.

  Their old wounds save with cold can not more ache.

  Having seen all things red,

  Their eyes are rid

  Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.

  He closed the book and set it down.

  I’m not rid of the hurt of the color of blood, he thought. Blood has followed me my entire stupid life and I can’t escape it. I’m drowning in it.

  And blood was following him now, at least it seemed that way. Something strange had gone on in Massey’s office earlier that day. It wasn’t merely the uncomfortable facts of his childhood, or the mention of his medical records. Massey was doing something, but what was it? It gnawed at him like a beetle boring into his brain.

  The clues, he thought. Stay focused; just pay attention to the clues. Forget the distracting crap in your life he was digging up.

  Why had Massey pulled the psychiatrist into the meeting? Why did he keep harping on his depression and talk of suicide? And when Massey had brought up the one subject he could not deal with—his father’s murder-suicide—Dennis had bolted from the room, looking, he guessed, like a crazed, depressed man.

  Wait, Dennis thought: like a crazed, suicidal man.

  Dennis had bolted from Massey’s office to . . . to do what?

  Jesus, Dennis thought, to kill himself.

  Dennis would have appeared angry, depressed, and capable of suicide to Dr. Norris.

  A TV commercial droned on in the background, and Dennis reached for the remote and turned off the set. The old TV tube crackled as it went black. The compressor in the refrigerator started up, and Dennis listened to it drum on. He felt his heart racing, and he took a huge gulp of beer.

  The scene was perfectly set for that evening; Dennis was going to kill himself with his personal handgun. He was distraught, depressed, and suicidal. Three Agency officials had witnessed his meltdown. It was perfect, really. If he weren’t so startled, he might have smiled out of admiration for Massey.

  Dennis fought a furious pitched battle with his paranoia; was he crazy to think Massey would concoct something so outrageous? Was he losing his mind?

  Or was the shipment of Europium so controversial that Massey and his team would silence whistleblowers like Garder, and now Dennis? Garder certainly thought so.

  If Massey was capable of that, then the scene in his office earlier in the day was the perfect set up. Someone was going to visit Dennis that evening, someone he trusted to let in the house. That person was going to put a handgun to Dennis’s temple and pull the trigger.

  God, it was clever.

  Massey was not going to let a washed-up, obnoxious investigator ruin their clever program. God knows whose idea the program was, or who was actually running it, but someone somewhere decided it was worth doing.

  Dennis had seen this kind of bureaucratic insanity before and was well aware of how threatened individuals became when they were at risk of being exposed. Still, the perversity of his theory was so convoluted that he had to wonder.

  Paranoid or prudent?

  Crazy or correct?

  Reflexively, Dennis looked at the front door.

  No, he wasn’t crazy. Dennis was convinced someone was coming for him tonight.

  He paced the living room, then went into his bedroom and reached into the top drawer of his bedside table. He pulled out the Glock and checked to see if the clip was full. Satisfied, he made sure the safety was on and slid it in his right front pants pocket.

  He went into the living room and paced back and forth, thinking again about what he feared was going to happen. The light was beginning to fade outside, and he closed the curtains on the two front windows.

  And yet, he still felt he was not being thorough enough.

  What was he missing?

  His theory was that Massey—either of his own volition or with others—had created the ideal circumstance whereby his self-inflicted death could be easily explained.

  But how in the hell was Dennis going to be forced to shoot himself in the head when Dennis had no intention of turning over his gun to another person? They must know that? Whoever they were going to send over to put Dennis’s gun to his temple would need to get the gun from Dennis first, then quickly turn it on him and make it look like suicide.

  Too many things could ruin that scenario. Dennis might not turn over the gun; he might turn over an unloaded gun. How was someone going to load it and make Dennis stand still while they put the barrel against his skull? Surely he would fight back, even if there were two people, and the bruises from a fight would not square with suicide.

  It had to be Dennis’s gun; there was a Virginia Commonwealth gun permit identifying that gun’s serial number and his ownership of it. If he was killed using another gun, a ballistics analysis would show it was not a round fired from Dennis’s legal gun.

  Wait, Dennis thought. This is too complicated. I need to calm down. Maybe I am losing my mind.

  He was debating whether to stay in a motel nearby when the doorbell rang. He stood frozen in the hallway. The doorbell rang again. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and tiptoed to the front door, holding the gun behind his back. Gently, he put his eye up to the peephole.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Dennis yanked the door open and stared sharply through the thin glass of the storm door.

  “Dennis?” Judy said, squinting. “Dennis, it’s Judy.”

  She stood outside in the early evening chill and watched Dennis. A small red roll-on suitcase stood next to her.

  He jammed the gun into the small of his back, reached down, and opened the glass door, backing away to let her in.

  She pulled the suitcase in and stood uncertainly in front of him.

  “I tried to reach you, but you wouldn’t answer my emails. I tried your mobile phone, but you appear to have a new number. I was worried to death about you, Dennis. I thought if I just came over—you know, to make sure you were all right.”

  He glared at her.

  “Can I at least have a hug?” she said. “It’s been a long trip.”

  Dennis took a step away from her.

  “Oh,” she said. “I guess this wasn’t a good idea after all.” She looked at her suitcase, then back at Dennis.

  Looking out over her shoulder and into the street beyond, Dennis said, “Where’s your car?”

  “I took a taxi,” she said slowly, confused with his tone.

  “Right,” he said.r />
  Judy sagged and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “This is a disaster,” she said. “I came here because I wanted to surprise you. And I missed you. I thought you might miss me. But in retrospect, it was a stupid idea. You know me and men: oil and bloody water.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Dennis, can you please call me a taxi? I need to sleep. I feel very foolish right now, and exhausted. Please? I don’t want to start crying in front of you.”

  “But why tonight?” Dennis asked.

  “I don’t know Dennis!” she said. “Please call me a taxi. I don’t think I can stand up much longer.”

  Dennis stared.

  “Oh, never mind,” she said, turning and grabbing the handle on her suitcase. She started to drag it out the door, fighting with the storm door.

  He reached out and grabbed her arm from behind.

  “Judy, who sent you here tonight?”

  “Who sent me here?” she said. “What are you talking about, Dennis? I sent myself here.”

  She turned, pushed the glass storm door open, and pulled her roll-on suitcase out on the landing and awkwardly down the cement steps.

  Dennis watched her drag the suitcase down the sidewalk into the darkness.

  “Where are you going?”

  Judy kept a steady pace away from him and down the sidewalk.

  Dennis scanned the neighborhood quickly. The streetlights had come on, and he could see flickering TV sets through windows and bright kitchen lights.

  “Judy, wait,” he yelled.

  She was now almost fifty feet away and moving rapidly.

  Dennis raced down the steps and caught up with her. He grabbed her wrist.

  “Wait. Please, Judy. Just stop for a moment.”

  She turned.

  “What do you want?” she pleaded, her cheeks streaked with mascara-tinted tears.

  “OK,” he said slowly. “I can explain everything if you’ll just come inside. I’m sorry for being like this. It’s been a long day. I’m a little confused right now, but let’s get you inside the house.”

  Judy stared at him in the glare of the streetlight; it shrouded the right side of his face in darkness, making him seem gloomy and strange.

  He tugged at the handle of the roll-on suitcase, but she would not release it.

  “Judy,” he said softly. “Let’s go inside.”

  She let go, and he reached out with his other hand and pulled her and the suitcase along to his front door. After going inside, Dennis looked around the street one more time and then closed the door and set the lock.

  Judy stood next to the suitcase and stared at Dennis.

  “OK, I realize that was kind of a strange greeting,” Dennis said.

  “Really, really bloody strange,” she said.

  “OK,” he said. “Really, really strange, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not happy to see you. In fact, I’m thrilled to see you. You have no idea how thrilled I am to have you here.”

  “You have a bizarre way of showing yourself being thrilled,” she said.

  “Why don’t you take off your coat and just relax,” he said. “You look exhausted—and your mascara is running.”

  “Ha,” she said.

  “I’m trying to get you to relax,” he said, “but I can see that it’s not working so well.”

  “You hurt me,” she said. “I came all this way, and you treated me like a door-to-door salesman. I feel humiliated.”

  “Well, that was a huge mistake on my part, but if you’ll just relax, I think I can explain everything. Really.” Dennis took a step forward and kissed her quickly on her lips. She did not return the kiss.

  “You know there were times when we were in Newton when you frightened me,” she said. “When I thought you might be crazy. You did that again today, and I’m feeling uncomfortable around you.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Not sure I can blame you, Judy.” He sighed. “Well, if you’re not going to sit down, I am.”

  He dropped onto the couch. She stared down at him.

  “I’m trying to decide whether to find a hotel tonight,” she said.

  “I can see that.”

  They looked at each other. Judy noticed that Dennis’s demeanor had altered dramatically. When she had first shown up, he seemed furious. Now he seemed drained and anxious.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Sit down, and I’ll tell you,” he said. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight after what I’m going to tell you.”

  And then he started story, as if he were describing the plot of a movie he had recently watched. Halfway through, Judy took off her khaki-colored raincoat and sat down on the couch. Dennis told her everything in one long narrative thread leading up to her entrance at his front door.

  “So you thought I was part of the scheme?” she asked.

  “Well, sort of, at the time. Yes, I did.”

  “What makes you think I’m not part of the scheme now?”

  “That’s not funny, Judy,” he said.

  “I don’t know why I said that,” she said quickly. “Can I ask you just one question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is that really how your parents died?”

  “Yes, but I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  They looked at each other. The refrigerator’s compressor was the only sound in the house. Judy looked at the book of poetry on the living room table.

  “Are you still reading poetry from that war poet?” she said.

  “Sometimes.”

  They looked at each other in silence.

  “Are you scared?” Judy said.

  “Yes. I don’t know how tonight is going to end. In fact, now that I think of it, the last thing in the world I want to do is expose you to more trouble. I’ll never forget how I felt when I saw you on that bed with your eyes closed in Newton. I thought you were dead.”

  He stood up. “Let’s get you out of here. There’s a Comfort Suites right up the road. I’ll call a cab.”

  “What if you’re overreacting to what happened at work today?” she said. “I’m just trying to raise the possibility that all the stress you’ve been under has clouded your judgment. Maybe this fellow Massey is genuinely concerned about your mental health? I mean it’s a possibility.”

  Dennis looked at her long and hard.

  “I’m just trying to help, Dennis,” she said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “I’d feel better if we got you to another place to stay tonight,” he said. “Maybe you’re right, but again, maybe you’re wrong. In my experience people are generally reluctant to see the worst in human beings. That’s never been my problem. I’m going to call you a cab. I want you to be safe and away from these people.”

  He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and called directory assistance.

  Judy decided not to intervene. She was exhausted, drained, and confused. Sleep would help, and at this point the Comfort Suites sounded as good as any place in the world.

  “Taxi will be here in twenty minutes. I’ll follow you over there after closing up this place, OK?”

  “Is that what you want?” she said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning over and kissing her hard on her upturned mouth.

  The doorbell rang once, then twice in rapid succession.

  “That’s too quick for the taxi,” he said softly.

  Chapter 44

  Dennis rushed Judy down the hallway to his bedroom, carrying her suitcase and holding his forefinger to his lips to quiet her.

  In the bedroom he pulled the pistol from the small of his back and handed it to her.

  “Take this,” he whispered.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Dennis, I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “Just stay here,” he said. “If anyone besides me comes into this room, you shoot them. You got that?”

  “I’m not go
ing to shoot anyone,” she said.

  “Judy, this is deadly serious. Just do what I say.”

  He pulled the bedroom door shut behind him and tiptoed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, he said, “Oh, Christ. Just great.”

  Opening the front door, he shook his head.

  “Marty, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was told you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said.

  Dennis let him in.

  “What the hell happened between you and Massey today?” Marty asked.

  “Nothing, why?”

  “He called me this evening and said I should take you to an emergency room for a psychiatric evaluation. I told him you’ve always been off your rocker and that no shrink is going to be able to do anything about it.”

  “I’m not going to an ER,” Dennis said. “You can tell Massey to stuff that request.”

  “You know, I told him to save his breath but he said you were in tough shape,” Marty said, looking closely at him. “So?”

  “So what?” Dennis said.

  “So, are you in a bad way? Mentally? He said you might hurt yourself and that I should ask for your gun. To be honest, it’s not like Massey gives a shit about his people, so I was a little surprised. He seemed genuinely worried about you.”

  “Tell him to go screw himself,” Dennis said.

  “Yeah, you don’t look like you’re in a bad way. Fine, see you later,” he said, turning to the door. “Just do me a favor, OK? If you do feel in a bad way, would you call me? Any time? OK?”

  “Roger that,” Dennis said, opening the storm door for Marty.

  As Marty stepped outside, a cell phone rang inside his jacket. Marty reached for it and started down the steps with his back to Dennis.

  “What?” Marty said. “You’re crazy.”

  Dennis, now curious, watched him take several steps away and stop. Marty turned and looked back at Dennis while listening intently.