The King of Lies

by John Hart

  “Jesus,” he said. “I didn’t know you had such a high opinion of me.”

  “Can you do it?” I asked.

  “I wish I could say yes, but I can’t. You want to find out who tossed that chair down the stairs, and I don’t blame you. But I’m not a fingerprint technician and I don’t have access to AFIS or any other fingerprint database. What you need is a cop and a full crime-scene work-up. That’s out of my league.”

  “The cops won’t go there,” I told him. “They don’t believe me, and I’m not sure I want to push it.”

  “Then you’re screwed, man. I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. His answer didn’t really surprise me. But I wanted to know who was responsible. It had happened, and it had happened for a reason. Maybe it had something to do with Ezra’s death and maybe it didn’t; either way, it was important. “What about the safe?” I asked.

  “For that, you need a locksmith or a criminal. I’m neither.”

  “I thought that maybe . . .”

  “What? That maybe I’d know someone?” I nodded. “As it turns out,” he said, “I do. But he’s in lockup. Ten to twelve. Why don’t you just use a locksmith?”

  “Because I don’t know what’s in there, and I don’t want some stranger knowing, either. Not when the cops are so interested.”

  “You hoping to find the gun?”

  I nodded. If the gun was in the safe, then maybe Jean hadn’t killed him after all. And if she hadn’t . . . then I’d get rid of the evidence. Besides, who knew what other secrets Ezra had tucked away in that safe?

  “I’m sorry, Work. I feel like I’m letting you down. All I can tell you is this: People are predictable. When they set combination locks, they usually use numbers that are important to them. You should think about that.”

  “I already tried. Birthdays, Social Security numbers, phone numbers.”

  Hank shook his head sadly, but the twinkle in his eyes was not unkind. “I said predictable, Work, not stupid. Think about your father. Figure out what was important to him. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe,” I echoed, unconvinced.

  “Look, man. I’m sorry you wasted your time. I wish I could help.”

  “Well, there is one other thing,” I told him. “It’s personal.”

  “I can do personal.” He pulled on the beer, waiting.

  “It has to do with Jean.”

  “Your sister.”

  “Right.” Then I told him what I wanted.

  He took out a piece of paper and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about this Alex Shiften.”

  So I told him what I knew. It didn’t take long.

  He tucked the paper away in his shirt pocket just as two women seated themselves at the bar. They were both in their midtwenties, both beautiful. They looked at us, and one of them waved minutely. Hank played it off, but I wasn’t fooled. “Did you set this up?” I asked, gesturing at the women.

  His grin gave him away even before he spoke. “I thought you could use the cheering up.”

  “Well thanks, but I’ve got enough women in my life right now. One more is the last thing I need.” I started out of the booth. He stopped me with a hand on my arm.

  “This one doesn’t have to be in your life, Work. Just your pants. Trust me.”

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

  Hank shrugged. “Have it your way. But listen, before you go.” His voice was low and serious. “Take care, all right? This case is getting big press, even here in Charlotte. Whoever’s working it won’t care about stepping on toes. So watch your ass.”

  For a moment, I thought I’d been indiscreet, that I’d opened myself too much. That he’d guessed at the larger truth. But there was nothing in his eyes beyond simple goodwill.

  “I’ll do it,” I told him, and put a twenty on the table.

  “Hey, man. My treat.”

  “Buy your friends a round on me. We’ll talk later.”

  Outside, the day died a slow, purple death, its breath a sigh of wind on the near-empty streets. A narrow blade of orange scarred the darkening clouds, then faded as I watched. I felt the heat of the day trapped in the concrete beneath my feet; it made me think of hell, yet cooled even as I walked.

  If I was to save Jean, then I wanted to save her all the way, and that meant dealing with Alex. To do that, I needed information. That’s where Hank came in. I wanted him to ferret out whatever truth made Alex tick. Jean loved Alex. Fine. But what did Alex want? Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find the capacity for love in her. Yet she found something in my sister. I just wanted to make sure it was nothing bad.

  CHAPTER 14

  Back on the interstate, I drove as fast as the pickup could handle, and forty minutes later I turned onto her street. The streetlamps were burned out or broken, but I saw a glimmer of light behind her windows. I stepped out of the truck to the sound of a distant bark and the call of crickets in the brush along the track. Somewhere a television played. I climbed the shallow steps to her porch and glanced through the narrow crack of the curtains. The room beyond was dark, but I saw them in the kitchen, at the table. Jean had her back to me; Alex’s face was a dim blur above her shoulder. There were candles on the table, a warm flicker, and I heard Jean laugh. Who was I to judge Alex? I’d not made my sister laugh since that long-ago night when her husband left with the baby-sitter and her world evaporated at a rest stop on I-85.

  I almost left, but still there was a corpse, and the certainty that Mills would not rest. I knocked and heard the laughter die, the scrape of chairs. Then there was Jean, her eyes heavy as she said my name in surprise. Alex, behind her, frowned in annoyance and slipped an arm across Jean’s throat, cupping her shoulder with long, tapered fingers.

  “Hi, Jean,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Her face was warmer than the last time I’d been here, and I flicked a glance to the flinty black points that Alex called eyes. “Didn’t Alex tell you I came by earlier, looking for you?” Jean shifted and I saw Alex tighten her grip.

  “No,” Jean said uncertainly, her head turning a fraction before squaring back on me. “She didn’t mention it.”

  I looked between the two, from Jean’s pale face to the brittle lines of her lover’s. Jean’s eyes were moist, and I thought I smelled wine. “May I come in?” I asked.

  “No,” Alex said before Jean could reply. “It’s late.”

  Jean put her hand on Alex’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “No,” she said. “It’s all right. He can come in.” She gave me a half smile, and I felt a wash of gratitude.

  “Thanks.” I entered her house, smelling the perfume Alex wore as I pushed past her. Jean turned on lights, and I saw that she was wearing a dress and pale pink lipstick. I noticed that Alex, too, was well dressed. The house still smelled of food. “Is this a bad time?” I asked. Jean hesitated, but Alex filled the void.

  “We’re celebrating an anniversary.” She paused, as if she wanted me to ask. “Two years together.” She moved her hand to the back of Jean’s neck. Her point was plain, so I addressed myself to Jean.

  “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” I saw Alex sneer, thought of her taunting words on my last visit. “I know this is a bad time, but it won’t take long.” Alex released my sister and flung herself onto the couch, her hands again behind her head, a look of wide-eyed expectancy on her face. “I’d like to speak to you alone,” I said.

  Jean’s glance moved between us, confusion making her vulnerable, and I remembered how when we were kids, she would go anywhere with me.

  “You should talk here,” Alex said to Jean.

  “We should talk here,” Jean parroted, and I watched her sit next to Alex, the way she settled against her. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Yes, Work,” Alex said. “What do you want to talk about?” Her eyes were laughing. You have the right to remain silent.

  I tried to come up with
the best approach, the best way to raise such a delicate subject, but all the rehearsed lines, all the clever ideas that had come to me during the drive to and from Charlotte dried up and blew away like dust.

  “You don’t have to talk to the police,” I said. She tensed, alarmed, and turned to Alex. “In fact, it would be best if you didn’t.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her mouth working as if to find other words. “The police? What are you talking about?” She seemed frightened, nervous, suddenly alive on the couch. Alex laid a hand on her leg and she calmed visibly. Then, as if accepting the inevitable, she said, “Oh, you mean Detective Mills?”

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “She’s the lead detective on Father’s murder investigation. We should have talked about this sooner. . . . I just want you to understand how this works. What your rights are—”

  Jean cut me off, her eyes wild. “I don’t want to talk about this. I can’t talk about this.” She struggled off the low couch.

  “I don’t—”

  “Detective Mills said not to talk about this with anybody. She said I had to keep quiet.”

  Her behavior puzzled and concerned me. “Jean,” I began.

  “I didn’t tell her anything about you, Work. Honestly. She asked a whole bunch of questions, but I didn’t say anything about you.”

  Alex spoke into the silence of my dismay. “Just tell him, Jean. It’s the only reason he’s here.”

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded, and Jean stared at me as if I were a stranger. Her mouth opened; her lips silvered with saliva from her tongue.

  “Mills thinks you did it,” Alex said. “That’s what she wanted to talk to us about. She thinks you killed Ezra.”

  “That’s what she said?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What did you tell her?” I asked, my eyes on Alex but the question meant for Jean. Alex didn’t say a word, and Jean seemed to be slipping further away. She nodded several times.

  “I can’t talk about this,” she said. “I can’t. Just can’t.”

  I saw that tears had gathered in her eyes. She looked panicked, pacing from side to side like a caged animal.

  “It’s okay, Jean,” I told her. “Everything’s okay.”

  “No!” she shouted. “No, it’s not.”

  “Just take it easy.”

  “Daddy’s dead, Work. He’s dead. Killed. He killed Mom and somebody killed him. Somebody, somebody.” Her voice trailed away with her eyes, which moved aimlessly across the floor. She stopped pacing and began to rock, her fingers twisted white against each other.

  Looking at Jean, at her waxen face, I finally accepted the truth of my worst fear. She had killed Ezra. She’d pulled the trigger, and the truth of that was unhinging her. Her mind was adrift, rudderless behind eyes that saw some unspeakable horror. How long had she been like this? And was she already too far gone?

  I found myself on my feet, reaching to offer what comfort I could. I touched her shoulder and her eyes snapped up, wide and white. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “Don’t anybody touch me.”

  She backed away, hands outstretched. She found the bedroom door with her back and pushed it open. “You should just go home, Work. I can’t talk to you.”

  “Jean,” I implored her.

  Her eyes were still wet, glazed under the dim bulbs. She backed farther into the bedroom, her hand on the door, ready to close it. “Daddy always said that done is done, and that’s where we are. I said my piece, Work. I told that woman nothing about you. Now you go home. Done is done.” A strange gurgling noise escaped her, half sob, half laugh. “Daddy’s dead . . . and done is done.” Her eyes moved from me to Alex. “Right, Alex?” she said. “That’s right, huh?” Then, eyes still wild, she closed the door.

  I felt light-headed. Jean’s words filled my mind. Her words and her face, an expression I could never forget. I started when I felt Alex’s hand on my shoulder. The front door was open and she pointed at it.

  “Don’t come back,” she told me. “I mean it.”

  I gestured helplessly at the door that hid my sister. “What have you done to her?” I asked, knowing that, for once, Alex was not to blame. Knowing and not caring. My arm dropped to my side. “She needs help, Alex.”

  “Not from you.”

  “There’s nothing you can say or do that will make me abandon her.” I stepped closer. “Either you get her some help or I will. Do I make myself clear?”

  Alex didn’t back down, and I felt her finger, hard on my chest. “You stay away from Jean! From us and from this house!” She jabbed at me, her eyes fierce. “You,” she said, jabbing again, “are the problem. You!”

  We stood there. The line had been drawn, but in her eyes I saw a glimmer of terrible truth. I was the problem. Not entirely, but in part. I could taste the guilt.

  “This isn’t over,” I told her.

  “Get the fuck out,” she said.

  For once, I didn’t argue; I just walked dumbly into the sweet night air. The door closed with a click and I heard the bolt drop.

  I was outside the gates, and I was utterly alone.

  I retreated into the womblike silence of the truck and, eyes on the darkened house, I relived the moments of Jean’s deterioration. How long, I wondered, until she tried to kill herself yet once again? The signs were there, and some dark part of my mind spoke nightmare words.

  The third time’s the charm.

  And I feared that it was only a matter of time.

  I started the truck and the engine put a vibration inside of me. I felt the stutter in my heart as the truth of what I’d learned began to squeeze it. There could no longer be any question. Jean had killed him. My baby sister. She’d put two bullets in his head and left him to rot. Her words rang in my head—done is done—and I knew, more now than ever, that it would fall to me to save her. She could never do prison. It would kill her.

  But what course to take? How to keep Mills from putting two and two together? It was not easy math, and I could only come up with one answer. Keep her eyes on me. I’d take the fall for Jean if I had to, but that was the last resort.

  There had to be a way.

  When I got to the park in front of my house, I realized that I couldn’t remember the drive that had gotten me there. I’d been at Jean’s and now I was at the park. Blink. Gone. Scary stuff.

  I turned onto the side street that ran beside the lake, toward home, and saw a pickup truck parked at the curb, facing the lights of my house. As I drew closer, I recognized it. I slowed down, way down. It was Vanessa’s.

  I pulled up next to it and stopped. I turned off the engine. I saw her through the window, hands gripping the top of the steering wheel, her head on her hands, as if asleep or in prayer. If she knew I was there, she didn’t show it, and for long seconds I watched her, aware of my breath in the silence. Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head and turned to face me. In the darkness, I could see little of her, just the outline of features I knew so well. I rolled down my window.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked her.

  “You scared me,” she said stiffly.

  “I didn’t mean to.” She sniffed and I realized that she’d been crying, watching my house and crying.

  “I got your message,” she said. “I thought I wanted to see you. But . . .” She gestured at the house, and I noticed for the first time that there were strange cars in the driveway and that all the lights were on. She wiped at her cheeks and I knew that I’d embarrassed her.

  “You thought . . .” I began.

  For a long minute, she said nothing. A car turned onto the road, and in its headlights she was drawn and beautiful. “You hurt me, Jackson.” A pause. “I don’t think I can let you hurt me like that again. But then you left that message . . .” She broke then, and a tiny sob escaped before she clamped down again.

  “I meant it. All of it.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she suddenly declared. Her hand found the ignit
ion.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me go home with you. Back to the farm.” I would tell her everything—about Jean, about Ezra, but mostly about my feelings for her, and about the shame I’d hidden from her all those years. “There’s so much to say.”

  “No.” Her voice was sharp and loud. Then softer: “I can’t go there. Not again.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No, I can’t. If I did, I fear you would destroy me, and I’ve decided that nothing is worth that.” She put her truck into gear. “Not even you.”

  “Vanessa, wait.”

  “Don’t follow me, Jackson.”

  Then she was gone, and I stared at her taillights; they grew smaller, turned, and disappeared. I closed my eyes but could still see red. Eventually, I went home, parked between a Mercedes and a BMW, and entered the kitchen through the garage. There was laughter in the dining room beyond; it rolled across me as I walked into the room.

  “Oh, there you are,” my wife said. “Just in time for the second course.”

  Then she was up and sweeping toward me, a smile creasing her face beneath eyes I could not read. There were two other couples there, the Wersters and a pair I couldn’t name. They were smiling, amused, and suddenly Barbara was at my side, smelling of perfume and wine. She brushed at my shirt. Up close, I saw that she was worried. No, I thought. She looked terrified. She leaned into me, hugged me, and said very quietly, “Please don’t make a scene.” Then she leaned back. “We’ve been worried about you.”

  I looked beyond her; everybody was nodding and smiling, perfectly groomed above a linen cloth and polished silver. Red wine in cut crystal held the light of a dozen candles, and I thought of Jean and the melted wax on her wobbly kitchen table. I saw her in orange prison fatigues, in line for lunch as something brown and lukewarm was slapped from a spoon onto a molded metal tray. The image cut so deeply, I had to close my eyes. And when I opened them, Bert Werster still sat in my chair. “I’ll go change,” I said, then turned and walked out. I passed through the kitchen, picked up a bottle of bourbon, and walked straight out the back door.