The King of Lies

by John Hart

  Charter Hills was a mental-health facility in Charlotte, one of the best in the state. It was where Ezra had finally committed Jean after her second suicide attempt. Even now, I saw it in stark clarity. Warm colors and fresh flowers did nothing to hide the pain of those condemned behind its tall brick walls; and condemned they were, whether their presence was voluntary or not. I’d visited Jean there many times; she’d never spoken to me, and her physician had told me that was normal. I hadn’t believed him. How could I? She was my sister.

  She’d been long months in that place. It was where she’d met Alex Shiften.

  “Look, Hank . . .” I began.

  “They have no record of a patient named Alex Shiften,” he said, cutting me off.

  “What?”

  “No record at all.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said. “It’s where they met.”

  “I don’t think so, not unless she was there under a different name.”

  I tried to concentrate, but it was hard. “What are you saying?”

  Hank sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. That’s the trouble. It doesn’t add up and I don’t have enough information to even speculate; but something stinks. I can smell it.”

  My mind was still so full of Mills that I had trouble focusing, but none of this would matter if Jean survived the investigation only to be left alone with Alex. She was trouble. Somehow I knew that, and I needed to handle this one detail. Before it was too late. Unfortunately, I was at a loss.

  “What do you suggest?” I asked.

  “I need a picture of Alex,” he said without hesitation.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going back to Charter Hills. Then we’ll see.”

  I felt a wave of gratitude. Hank would not cross the police, fine; but he’d go through with this, for me and for Jean. That made him a stand-up guy in a world that suffered from a lack of them. Somehow I’d make it up to him.

  “Thank you, Hank.” I paused because I had to.

  “Forget about it. It’s a little thing.”

  “Do you want me to mail you the picture?” I managed to ask.

  “Too slow. Put it in your mailbox once the cops leave. I’ll drive up to Salisbury sometime tonight. It could be late. If you’re home, you’ll see me. If not, I’ll take it and go. Either way, I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

  “That’s awesome, Hank. I’ll take care of it.”

  On the other end, Hank started to say something, then stopped. For a long second, I heard his breathing. “You understand? Don’t you, Work?” He wasn’t talking about Alex or Jean.

  “Hey. Life’s a bitch. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you.”

  Then he was gone, and I hung up the phone. I looked at Bone, but he was asleep on the seat next to me. How could so much happen at once? How could the world be normal one day and a smoking pit the next? I closed my eyes and pictured grass that bent in a wind from some faraway place. When I looked up, there was a man at my window, staring through the glass. I was too drained to be startled. It was Max Creason—same hunting cap, same sublime ugliness. He wore a bright red poncho, as if he, too, expected rain. I rolled down the window.

  “Hey, Max,” I said. “How are you?”

  He studied me intently, his eyes bright behind his thick, filthy glasses. Then he gestured at my house. “There’re cops at your house.” His tone was more questioning than definitive, but I didn’t take the bait. It seemed to anger him, for his lips pulled up over his stained teeth, and he made a strange sound deep in his throat. He leaned closer. “When I met you, I didn’t know who you were. Didn’t know you were the son of this murdered lawyer that’s in the paper every day.” It sounded like an accusation. He looked at the house and then back at me. “And now the police are in your house. They think you did it? You’re a suspect?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Max. It’s complicated.”

  “Talk is good.”

  “No. Talk is painful. It’s good to see you again, but this is a bad time.”

  He ignored me. “Come on,” he said, stepping back from the truck. “Let’s walk.”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  It was as if he didn’t hear me. He opened the truck door. “No, this’ll be good. Just let the dog lie. You come on and walk with me.” He gestured for me to get out of the truck, and I gave in. I had nowhere to go anyway.

  So I left Bone to sleep in the truck and fell in beside Max. He led me down the hill to a narrow dirt footpath that ran beside the lake, away from my house. I didn’t look back. He took long strides, and his poncho flapped around his legs. We walked for nine or ten minutes, past the lake, the public tennis courts, and across a gravel parking area. Neither of us spoke until the park was lost behind a small hill. We were on a narrow side street, lined with modest homes. Children’s toys littered some of the yards. Others were immaculate. It was a transitional neighborhood. New-lyweds and nearly deads. But what did any of that matter?

  “I’m gonna tell you a story,” Max finally said. He rolled his eyes at me. “It’s an important one, so listen up. I’m gonna tell you about my hands.” He lifted them from his sides and then let them drop; they were dirty but pale against the red poncho, and his fingers were long.

  “You remember. You asked me before. Now I’ll tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got my reasons. Now shut up. No one in this town has heard this story and it’s not easy for me to talk about.”

  “Okay.”

  “I got these in Vietnam,” he said, and I knew he meant his hands. “I was just a guy, no different from anybody else, halfway through my second tour. We got caught, out on patrol, and we lost just about everybody. A few got away. Not me, though. I took a round through the leg and ended up in an NVA prison camp. There was a colonel running the place who thought I knew more than I did.”

  I saw his hands twitch.

  “Either that or he was just plain mean. In the end, I guess it don’t really matter. He worked on me for a few weeks, messed my hands up pretty good, then tossed me in a hole for five years. I almost died in that place.” His voice seemed to trail off. “Five damn years,” he said again, then fell silent. I could tell his mind was far away.

  “Five years in jail,” I said into the emptiness, trying to imagine it. His voice, when he replied, was bitter.

  “Wasn’t no jail, damn it. It was a dirt-floor cage eight feet wide. Five years, man. They let me out twice a month. Rest of the time, all I could do was sleep, shit, or pace. Mostly, I paced. Four steps and turn. Four and turn.” He looked at me. “I can’t handle closed spaces, Work. That’s why I walk. When the walls close in, I just get out. You know, because I never could before.” He gestured with his whittled-down hands—at the trees, the sky, everything. “You’ll never know what this means.” He closed his eyes. “This space.”

  I nodded, but I thought I might damn well find out one day.

  “But why are you telling me this?” I asked him.

  He opened his eyes and I saw that he was not crazy. Tortured and tormented, but not crazy.

  “I have a problem with authority,” he said. “You understand? I can’t stand the sight of a uniform. And the cops round here have done nothing to make me feel any different. They don’t exactly treat me with love and respect.” A grin split his lumpen face. “I can’t talk to the cops. I won’t. You see?”

  I understood, but I didn’t get it. What did any of this have to do with me? I asked him. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and walked. I hurried after him.

  “You see how I walk,” he said. “All the time. Anytime. Day or night. Don’t matter. The walls close in and I walk ’cause I have to.”

  We turned right, onto a neat street, where the houses all had an individual charm. Max stopped in front of one, a small cottage with green grass and a hedgerow that separated it from its neighbors on both sides. The house was yellow, with
blue shutters and a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. Roses snaked up a trellis that bordered a stone chimney. I looked up at Max, suddenly realizing how tall he was.

  “I’m talking to you because I won’t go to the cops.” My frustration must have shown, because he took off his hat and scratched at the matted hair beneath. “He was killed the night after Thanksgiving, right? It was raining.”

  I nodded, a strange sensation in my stomach.

  “And they found his body in the Towne Mall, the empty one down by the interstate? Where the creek goes under the parking lot?”

  “What . . .” I began, but he didn’t respond to me. It was as if he were talking to himself, but with his eyes so hot on me, I could feel them.

  “I’m tellin’ you this story so you understand. It’s important.”

  “What’s important?” I asked.

  “I’m tellin’ you because I don’t think you killed that man.”

  The sensation in my stomach expanded, heat rushing out into my limbs, my fingers tingling. “What are you saying?”

  “I walk all the time,” he said. “Sometimes by the tracks. Sometimes the park.” A pause. “Sometimes by the interstate.” I realized that I had seized his forearm. It was hard and scrawny beneath the slick plastic. He didn’t even notice. “I remember that night because of the rain and because it was right after Thanksgiving. It was late, after midnight. And I saw the cars, near the mall. There are never cars there at night. It’s a dark place with maybe a bum or two, maybe some junkies, but that’s about it. Once I saw a fight there, a long time ago, but never cars. Not that late.”

  My heart was thudding, my lips dry. What was he saying? I peered through those thick, filthy lenses, looking for something. For some sense of what he was about to say. For some reason not to be afraid.

  “You heard something?” I said. “Saw something? What?” I realized that I was squeezing his arm so hard that my hand hurt, but he showed no sign of discomfort. I forced my hand to relax.

  “Maybe it’s important. Maybe not. I don’t know. But I think that maybe the cops should know. Someone should tell them.”

  “Tell them what?” It was almost a shout.

  “I saw somebody come out from the mall that night—quick, but not running. This person moved past the cars and tossed something into the storm drain, then got in one of the cars and bailed.”

  The enormity of Max’s revelation spilled over me. “Last year,” I said. “Night after Thanksgiving. You saw a person exit the Towne Mall, throw something into the storm drain, and then leave in a car?”

  Max shrugged. “Like I said.”

  “Did you see what this person looked like?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Relief surged through me. He could not identify Jean.

  “It was dark, raining, and this person was far away, wearing a coat and a hat. All dark. But I don’t think it was you.”

  I released his arm, but he paid no attention. “Why not me?”

  “This person was shorter, I think. Medium. You are too tall.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “Who can say? Could have been either.”

  “But you are certain it wasn’t me.”

  Max shrugged again. “For years I’ve seen you. You never do anything. You sit on your porch and drink beer. I’ve known a lot of killers, seen a lot of dead men; I don’t reckon you could kill a man. But that’s just me, my opinion.”

  I should have been offended, but I wasn’t. He was right. In spite of going to law school, getting married, and running a practice, I never did anything. I coasted.

  “What was this person wearing?” I asked.

  “Dark clothes. A hat. That’s all I can say.”

  “How about the cars? Can you tell me anything about them?”

  “One big. One not so big. Not black, I think. But dark.”

  I thought for a minute. “Which car did this person leave in?”

  “The smaller one. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. They were a ways off and I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “What happened to the bigger one?”

  “It was still there when I left. I was just walking by. I didn’t stay. Two days later, I walked by the same place, but the car was not there.”

  “What did this person throw into the sewer, Max? Did you see it?”

  “Nope, but I have a theory, same as you.”

  “Tell me,” I said. But I knew.

  “When a person throws something into a hole in the ground, it’s gonna be something they don’t want to be found. The papers say the cops are looking for the gun that killed your father. I think maybe you look in the storm drain and you’ll find it. But that’s just me talking, and I’m just a guy.”

  I saw it through his eyes. Like I’d been there. Of course it was the gun. And if the cops found it? Game over. But the irony was like a fork in my guts. When they found Ezra in the Towne Mall, it was bad enough, but the memories of that awful day so long ago were just that, memories. But this was the tunnel, the throat, and I had to go there, to get the gun before the cops did. Before Max decided that he should tell someone else. Lord help me.

  “You were right to tell me, Max. Thank you.”

  “You gonna tell the cops?”

  I couldn’t lie to his face, so I gave him the best truth I could. “I’ll do what has to be done. Thanks.”

  “I had to tell you,” Max said, and there was something in his voice, something unsaid. I turned back to him just as a car passed us. His eyes were on that car, and he watched it until it was gone; then he looked down upon me. “I’ve been in this town for nineteen years, Work, almost twenty. I probably walked ten thousand miles in that time. You’re the only person who ever asked to walk with me . . . the only one who ever wanted to talk. That may not seem like much to you, but it means something to me.” He put one of his shattered hands on my shoulder; his eyes were steady on mine. “Now that’s not easy for me to say, but it had to be said, too.”

  I was moved by his sincerity, and realized that we’d traveled our own painful roads in this town. They were different, our roads, but maybe just as lonely.

  “You’re a good man, Max; I’m glad that we met.” I held out my hand, and this time he shook it, best as he could. “So come on,” I said. “Let’s walk.” I started to turn, but he didn’t follow me.

  “This is where I stop,” he said.

  I looked around at the empty street. “Why?”

  He gestured at the yellow cottage. “This is my house.”

  “But I thought . . .” Fortunately, I stopped myself. “It’s a lovely home, Max.”

  He studied the house as if looking for some imperfection, and then, finding none, he looked back at me. “My mother left it to me when she died. I’ve been here ever since. Come on inside. We’ll grab a couple beers and sit on the porch.”

  I stood loose and still, embarrassed by all the years I’d seen him walk past my house, and by all the assumptions I’d made. In some ways, I was as bad as Barbara, and that fact humbled me.

  “Max?”

  “Yeah.” His face twisted in a smile that no longer looked so gruesome to me.

  “May I ask a favor? It’s important.”

  “Ask away. I might even say yes.” Another smile.

  “If anything should happen to me, I’d like you to take my dog. Look after him. Take him walking with you.”

  It would be a good life, I thought.

  Max studied me before he spoke. “If something happens to you,” he said with great solemnity, “I’ll take care of your dog. We’re friends, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, meaning it.

  “Then good. But nothing’s gonna happen. You’ll tell the cops about the gun, and take care of the dog yourself. Now come on. I bought beer just for you.”

  So we sat on his front porch, looked across his tidy lawn, and sipped beer from the bottle. We spoke, but not of important things; and for that brief time, I was not lonely, an
d neither, I thought, was he.

  CHAPTER 19

  I found Bone asleep in the truck, curled in the sun. One look up the hill and I could tell the house was empty, but I couldn’t face it; that body was still warm. So I went to the office. It still felt like Ezra’s building and I thought it would be easier to start there.

  It was a little after four and the street was empty, sidewalks, too. I wanted to be angry, but walked like a victim. I went in through the back door and saw my office first. Drawers were pulled out, filing cabinets stripped bare. Case files, personal documents, all of it. My financial information, medical records, photographs. Even a journal I wrote in once in a blue moon. My whole life! I slammed the drawers shut, the sounds like breaking fingers in the quiet building. I glanced in the break room and saw that they’d helped themselves to drinks from my refrigerator. Cans and candy wrappers still littered the small scratched table, and the room stank of cigarettes. I scooped up trash and stuffed it violently into a plastic bag. I cleared half the mess, then flung the bag to the floor. There was no point.

  I went upstairs to Ezra’s office. It, too, was in shambles, but I ignored the mess and went straight to the corner of rug that hid the dead man’s safe. I took a handful of fringe and pulled the rug back. Everything looked the same: two dented boards held fast by four nails—two of them cleanly driven, two bent and hammered into the wood.

  The cops had not found it, which made me savagely content. If anyone had the right to tear down the old man’s last secret, I did.

  The hammer was where I’d left it, and I used the clawed end to pry at the nails. The bent ones came out, but the other two refused. The claw barely fit into the crack between the boards, but a hard yank brought them up with an animal squeal. I tossed them down and bent over the safe. Hank had said to think about what was important to Ezra if I wanted to open it without a locksmith. So I tried to think clearly of the dead man whom fate had made my father.

  What was important to him? A simple question. Power. Standing. Prominence. Yet it all came down to money.