A Thousand Bridges

by Michael McKinney

  I had only one friend who survived my abuses during that time. Mark Thornton was not only brilliant and handsome, but a shoo-in to become a partner in the law firm of Barrett, Barrett and Finch. Because of him I kept my home. Because of him food appeared in my refrigerator and my clothes were returned clean from the laundry. He made of present of electricity and running water.

  We'd met during one of my divorce cases early on, and after a few months of working together, we were surprised to find we liked each other. Nothing complex, we just laughed at each other's jokes and became friends. He never once mentioned the day I stepped between him and Patty Sheevers, but I know he loved her.

  I lost the desire to be a detective after Sheevers' death, but I couldn't get other work, either. The people of Palmetto Bay didn't encourage me to stay, but I couldn't leave. Patty was still there, alive in my house, holding my hand and talking to me in the darkness as I searched for the nerve to join her. I failed in that just as I'd failed to find the ones who had killed her.

  I became an errand boy mostly, and my main employer was Bob Birk, a businessman turning politician. He owned a lot of the beach-front property, along with a few businesses, the school board and the Sheriff's department. Of course, he controlled the last two only because of a deep-seated desire to help the people of Palmetto Bay.

  It was rumored the Bob Birk was considering a run for governor. His succeeding wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

  I had pulled myself back up in the last couple of years, but not too far. I had no intention of having my own business again; I just wanted to be invisible. But, at about the time I thought I was going to pull it off, I met an angry, frightened woman who had nothing left but defiance. And defiance is my favorite emotion.

  TWO

  It wasn't a coincidence, a matter of throwing darts at the Yellow Pages. She specifically wanted me. I don't really have an office anymore, things being the way they are; I just work out of the house. And even that's not necessary - a phone booth would do. Outside of an occasional Jehovah's Witness or a kids' paper drive, nobody usually rings my doorbell. I was cooking dinner and almost dropped the pan when I heard it. Looking every bit a real detective, a dish towel over my shoulder and a bottle of soy sauce in my hand, I opened the door. The first thing she did was laugh - a real laugh, with humor in it.

  "I'm impressed," she said.

  Screen doors are like the Fountain of Youth. They soften reality and remove the rough edges of age and life, and if the wealthy knew that, poor people would be priced out of the screen door market. She looked softly pretty through the screen but, to my surprise, she looked the same when I opened the door and she stepped inside. She was in her middle thirties, I guessed, with thick, dark-brown hair and bright green eyes. Her hair didn't signal her age, but was styled fresh and loose.

  She looked at me as though she knew me, but there's no way I'd have forgotten that face. Her eyes were spaced a little too far apart, but that only heightened the effect her smile created. I tried to act as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

  "What can I do for you?" I said.

  "I need a detective."

  "I can recommend a few."

  "I want you," she said.

  We were still standing inside the front door, my small screened porch at her back. Even though she looked around the living room, I wasn't about to invite her in. I hoped she'd notice I was being rude, but she seemed comfortable.

  "New in town?" I asked.

  "I haven't been here in a long time. But I was raised here."

  "I thought maybe you were a stranger." I was patient with her. "You see, I'm not really a detective."

  "That's not what I heard," she said softly.

  "What?"

  "Patty Sheevers used to tell me you could do anything." Her eyes never left mine. It's strange, I really meant to say something, but it was as though the world stopped in its tracks. I was aware of her in front of me and I knew I wasn't doing what I should, but it had been a long time since anyone had mentioned Sheevers and I froze. She took my arm and led me to my oversized chair, tugging until I took a seat. She sat on the sofa and looked at me across the coffee table.

  "My name is Katherine Furay," she said. "Patty and I grew up together. You probably don't remember me - we never met - but Patty used to come to my house when you were away."

  Sheevers did things like that. She'd say, "I'm not going to stay in this house by myself with you gone," and when I returned there would be a phone number paper-clipped to the screen door. Sometimes just a note saying, 'I'll be home Wednesday.'

  I still couldn't think of anything to say, so I just sat there sweating. She waited until, finally, I leaned forward and said, "Patty's dead."

  "I know," it was a whisper. She took the towel from my shoulder and wiped my face. I felt really stupid.

  "I read about it in Las Vegas," she said, rising from the sofa. She brushed the pleated, chocolate-colored skirt across her knees, a fascinating assortment of curves and angles as she walked out of my line of sight. "But I've sort of been in hiding the last few years. I couldn't come to the funeral."

  "That's okay," I said. "A lot of us missed it."

  "She stopped moving somewhere behind me, then I heard her footsteps, heard her stop behind my chair. "You weren't there?"

  I found the words. "The police didn't let me out until it was over. Her father sent word later that if he ever saw me he'd kill me. He dared me to say I was sorry. Some people think I did it."

  "My God," she said, putting her hands on my shoulders. "No one has ever told you how much Patty loved you?"

  "Please," I said.

  "You were her knight," Katherine Furay said. "I used to get jealous when she talked about you."

  I pulled away from her and stood up, spinning around to face her. "What do you want?" I said. "And why do you keep touching me?"

  My bitterness stung her, and I was immediately sorry. She flinched and drew away from me, and I wondered how many times she had been knocked around. As self-assured as she'd seemed a minute ago, I never would've believed it, but I watched her confidence crash down, silent as a house of cards. One delicate hand drew up, slender fingers circling the other wrist.

  "These are the best clothes I have," she said, and I must have looked puzzled. "I'm trying to find a place to start. Give me a minute." the woman looked at me and took a deep breath.

  "I keep touching you because you're my only link to everything here, and right now that's all I have. Patty used to tell me how good you were and what a great detective you were, and I guess I've built you up a little larger than life. I'm sorry."

  "Kate!" I said it too loud. "You're Kate!"

  She looked at the door, and I thought she was going to make a run for it. "That's what Sheevers called you," I said. "She'd say, 'I'm going to Kate's.'"

  "That's me," she said, gaining a little composure.

  "You had a daughter."

  "I still do," she said, and there was fear in her eyes.

  "Listen," she said, "I'm screwing this up. It's just that I've pretended to have this conversation with you for so long, and you're not saying the things I imagined you'd say. Not at all."

  "Sorry," I said. She laughed again, only a little, but it was like absolution.

  "I want to be honest with you, Kate, but you'll have to believe me." I closed the door and sat back down. She returned to the sofa but stayed on her feet. I leaned against the cushions.

  "Maybe I used to be both those things - good, and a good detective. But I'm not now, not anymore. This isn't bullshit. I'm not wallowing here, but I'm completely and totally serious. I work for the men Sheevers and I despised. Hell, I work for anybody, but not doing detective work." She looked nervous, and she sat down on the sofa's rounded edge.

  "You can't have big dreams and be a detective in this town. Like most everything else around here, it pays something like minimum wage and there's not a great deal of world-class detecting to do, anyhow. If that's no
t enough, I've lost the touch. Not to mention the desire. I simply file papers and run errands and, when they need someone to back up a story, they call me." I shrugged. "That's it."

  We sat in silence broken only by the gentle bubbling of the aquarium, and when I looked down at my hands I realized I was still holding the bottle of soy sauce. I leaned over and placed it on the coffee table. A car passed by and its tires hissed at the road. Part of me wanted her to stay and talk, but a larger part wanted her to leave. She stood up and I didn't look at her. She walked away but, once again, she missed the door. Memories of Sheevers were like broken glass to me, and most nights I sat up late, thinking of her. I saved that for me alone, however, and right now I had an intruder in my life. I tried to ignore her.

  "There aren't any fish in here," she said, and I knew she had reached the aquarium.

  "I know."

  "Why not?"

  "They died."

  "When?" She was so damned curious.

  "I don't know," I said. "A couple of years ago, maybe. I can't remember."

  "So why do you still keep it going like this?"

  I stood up and turned to her, stuffing my hands into my pockets. She was facing away from me, looking into the tank, her fingers touching the water. She didn't seem to have a bad side, and I was glad she didn't know I was ogling.

  "I'm beginning to see a pattern," I said. She didn't say anything. "You're not going to leave until you tell me why you came here, are you?"

  She still didn't say anything. I thought about my food, cold on the stove. I thought about Patty Sheevers, and I would until I could get rid of Katherine Furay. I'd still think about her, but this was different, somehow.

  "Are you religious, Mac?"

  "I'm a Hereditarian," I said. I believe if your parents went to Heaven when they died, you will, too."

  Silence again. She was getting on my nerves. But then, in the stillness of an encroaching dusk, I heard her crying. It was so quiet, such a terribly personal thing, that I was embarrassed for her. The food could wait, and I felt like an ass. I had been trying so hard to remain aloof that I was acting like a jerk, and to make matters worse, I couldn't remember how not to be one.

  I crossed the room and placed my right hand on her back. It seemed I'd said more than enough already, so I kept my mouth shut. She was soft and warm, and under my palm I could feel the ripples of captured air move through her as she fought the tears.

  "I want to believe in God," she said. "It was easy when I was a little girl, but it's so hard now." She leaned back against my hand and hung her head, her brow resting on the cool glass of the tank. When she continued, her voice was so low and toneless I could tell it was part of the speech she'd practiced.

  "When my daughter was fourteen years old, she was raped by Bob Birk at the Sunset Hotel, but she didn't tell me until she found out she was pregnant. I put a gun in my purse and went to his office to kill him, and he laughed at me." Her tears were gone, replaced by a calm, lived-in kind of hatred.

  "He said he wasn't surprised Candy was pregnant, since it was common knowledge that I was fifteen when I had her. He said whoring seemed to run in the family. Then he took the gun away and slapped me. He told me to go home and he'd take care of Candy's problem." Katherine Furay turned to me and her face was like polished stone.

  "God damn it, Mac," she whispered, "he raped my little girl and I let him send her to get an abortion. She came home with an envelope that had five thousand dollars in it, and a note saying I should get Candy out of town and if we ever came back he'd have her taken away from me. And he could've done it."

  This last was said with an aching resignation made worse because I knew she was right. We stood just inches apart in a house that was getting very dark, and the air was thick and warm. Her eyes were black slits with fire inside and her wide mouth was a thin line and, right in the middle of this, my stomach made a noise you could only imitate by burping into a slide whistle.

  Her eyes popped open, and I was overwhelmed by that horrible feeling you get when you not only notice your fly is open, but realize that it has been for some time. She saved me by laughing so hard that she sloshed water out of my aquarium. The laughter had reached hysterical proportions by the time she clutched my sleeve and fell against me, and all my feelings were dwarfed by a sudden and powerful sexual desire. It caught me by surprise, and I almost wrapped my arms around her.

  I was confused and shaken, afraid to speak when she finally caught her breath. She straightened up, sucked in a chuckle, and brushed past me, shooting sparks only I could see. I didn't move. To say my sexual drive had been nothing to write home about would be like saying Hitler had been impetuous. I was hurriedly trying to sort my thoughts into order when she said, "I think I'd better go now."

  "Why?" I said, too fast.

  "Because," she said, "I'm trying to dump five years of hate on you in one breath, and you don't even know me; I'm really very sorry, but I'm so angry and scared, and I'm afraid that all you'll see is a madwoman grasping for an anchor.

  "I put on the best clothes I have to come see you, because I wanted you to listen to me and because I don't know where else to go." The hysteria was returning, but this time there was no laughter.

  "Candace tried to kill herself a couple of months ago, and she almost made it. God, I thought we'd gotten over everything and it had been a long time since her last depression. She was dating a guy in Las Vegas this winter, and he dumped her.

  "Candy's really messed up, Mac," Katherine said. "And I always thought it was the abortion. She was obsessed with death and horribly gruesome things, and after she....did what she did, I took her to a therapist.

  "Wait a minute!" she said. "Here I go again!"

  She turned slightly and slipped her hand into a purse I hadn't even noticed, great detective that I am. She pulled out a pen and pad and flipped open the red leather cover. "I'm going to leave you my phone number in Las Vegas. If you want to help me, if you want to talk -"

  "Hold on!" I snapped up the bait like a hungry fish. "You're not about to dump a story like that on me and walk out the door! Now, sit down and wait until I warm up some food. I'm sure there's still more than one plate in the house.

  I went from room to room and turned on almost every light in a strange kind of exorcism, but she didn't ask and I didn't elaborate. She followed me into the kitchen and sat at the small oak table while I tried to salvage the meal. We ate a late supper of limp stir-fry, but the wine was okay and we were both hungry enough to forgive the little sins of the cook.

  We didn't talk much as we ate. She was too tired and I was too scared, but by the second glass of wine I had relaxed and sorted things out. The way I had it figured, it was her closeness to Sheevers and not her sensuality that had me on the ropes. I was transferring my love for Patty to her closest friend. The sobering fact that her vulnerability added to my lust threw on just enough guilt for a full load, and I forged an explanation I could live with.

  I made a fresh pot of coffee and cleaned the dishes as it perked. Katherine went to freshen up, and when I glanced up from the two filled cups she was leaning in the doorless arch, watching me. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me that way.

  "These aren't exactly office hours," I said. "But I want you to tell me the rest. To be honest, I still don't know why you need a detective. I think a lawyer would do you more good, especially with the rumors that our Mister Birk is going to run for governor on the ultra-right conservative ticket; you know, anti-abortion, and all that?"

  Teaser billboards had been showing up along the interstate as well as some of the more heavily trafficked country roads between downtown Palmetto Bay and the beaches. They all said the same thing: You Know Bob Birk Can Do It!

  Katherine shrugged and I picked up our cups, weaving my way between her and my desk to the larger living room. We settled on the couch and chair with our coffee and I turned on the radio for some background music, but got the beginning of Red Flannery's Talk To
Me America Show, a nationwide radio talk show heavily flavored by Red's opinions, whether the conversation was UFOs, auto repairs, or politics. I turned it off. I suppose I was fidgeting.

  I wasn't sure if it was because of the lamplight that now washed her face instead of the sun, but she looked bone-tired and weary. "Mac," she said carefully, "I haven't even told you the whole story yet. The therapist has put Candy through some pretty intense sessions lately, and she'd started remembering things. Terrible things."

  Katherine stopped as though she'd been unplugged and closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again they were cloudy and distant, and she looked past me to God knows what. I sipped my coffee and took advantage of the pause to look at her, her lips parted, elbows on her knees. She was naturally dark but didn't look like she spent much time in the sun. There was a yellow tint to her smooth cheeks, not sallow, but not right, either. That and her lean face made her look like one of those sad, beautiful Okie women you see in Depression-era photographs. Her shoulders were full and round under the cream-colored blouse, and there was a proud grace in her posture. I could easily imagine her being Sheevers' friend.

  Her teeth were large and white and, of the two in front, one leaned slightly against the other. I watched her face and she was so far away in thought that, as the cacophony of night frogs began their droning prayer for rain, I felt like a voyeur. She finally spoke.

  "The day before we left for Las Vegas three people were killed at Limestone Creek. Do you remember that?"

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  There were four people at the creek," she said.

  "I know," I said. "The drug pusher on the bike."

  "No," she said. "Not him. Candace was there. She saw the whole thing."

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "Try to imagine," she said, still looking through me. "Fourteen years old, two days after an abortion, and she sees her two best friends murdered. Candy pushed it so far down that she honestly didn't remember it happened. It's been tearing her apart all these years and, maybe now, she can be healed."