Fractured Truth

by Susan Furlong

  One sip. Just one sip.

  No! One day. Twenty-four stupid hours more and I could piss in the cup and be done. Then I could drink. Beat the system first, that’s all I had to do. Beat the frickin’ system. I paced the floor and checked my phone. 8:12 A.M. A team of divers was scheduled to start searching at daybreak. I should be at the scene, doing my job. Yet, here I was, trying to fight my way out of hell.

  I went to Gran’s door. I stood there, with my hand on the doorknob, heard her soft snores rise and fall rhythmically. Every part of me wanted to go to Gran, crawl into her bed, spoon myself into her like I did as a child after a nightmare.

  My life is a nightmare. I can’t let Gran see me like this.

  I thought of the open suitcase on her dresser. Anxiety kicked up and tiny pricks invaded my muscles, like a thousand needles. The Vicodin had numbed me, but no more. My body was a human pincushion, my mind like a starving baby away from its mother’s breast. And Gran was leaving. But she had to go, I knew that. It was dangerous for her here. Bone Gap was like a fortress with invisible boundaries. We had no gates, no guards, but strangers were spotted immediately within our cloistered community. No stranger simply waltzed in here and launched a brick through my grandmother’s window. A Pavee did that. It wasn’t a sudden illness that might take Gran from me, but prejudice and hate and antiquated ideals that no longer held true in today’s world. I couldn’t trust my own people.

  I couldn’t trust my own opiate-depleted mind.

  I walked away from her door with limbs that felt lifeless and heavy as if the blood had drained from my veins. I thought of Maura, cold and truly bloodless, then thought of my pills. My pills. Relief. It’d be so easy. They weren’t far away. Just a few steps away, in a Baggie and rolled into a sock that I stuffed in an old pair of shoes and placed on the top shelf of my closet. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Only they weren’t. Not now. Not ever.

  They called to me. Just one, just one . . . No! I can do this. I can do this.... Go back to bed. Not Gran’s bed, mine.

  I slipped between cold sheets, shivering, nerves on fire, pricking, pricking.... I clenched my muscles as tight as I could, contracting them made the needles go away, if only for a second. Cold, so cold. Wilco joined me. His warm body felt good, comforting. I pulled him close, shut my eyes. Spinning, spinning. Hot, cold, hot. Sweat trickled and my head careened from the whirlwind in my brain.... Fresh air. Away from my pills. That’s what I need. Away from here . . .

  * * *

  We ended up at St. Brigid’s rectory.

  It was mid-morning and a cold wind rushed under the small portico roof and swirled around my body. I shivered, pulled my sleeves over my hands, and hugged myself against the coldness. A concrete statue of Jesus reigned in the corner of the porch, along with a pot of dead geraniums and a pair of mud-crusted boots. My nose twitched with the smell of something foul, like soured milk or old cheese. I sniffed the air, looked at my dog, and then realized the smell came from me. Great.

  Colm opened the door in sweatpants and a crumpled T-shirt. His expression shifted from surprise to concern. “What’s going on? You don’t look so good. Is it your grandmother? Is she okay?”

  “No. Not really. Nothing is okay. I need to talk to you . . . about the case.”

  He invited me in and led me to his office. I shrugged out of my parka and slung it over the back of a chair, while he headed off to the kitchen. In the corner, a large oil painting of the Virgin Mary beckoned to me, arms open, palms outward in a welcoming gesture. An old heat radiator made a faint clacking as it wheezed hot air into the room. Wilco curled next to it, content to settle in for a nap. The room smelled of books and furniture polish and comfort. Something inside me shifted, the shakes subsided, my muscles smoothed. My breathing eased.

  I shut my eyes and rested, opening them again when Colm returned. He handed me a mug of coffee.

  “My grandmother is leaving,” I blurted before he’d even settled behind his desk. What was I thinking? I hadn’t come here with the intention of discussing anything personal.

  “Leaving?”

  I told him about the brick and how my part in the investigation had turned some in the clan against us. “Gran’s received the brunt of it. Her health issues, this brick . . . she’s scared. She wants to leave Bone Gap.”

  “Where does she want to go?”

  “Down south. To live with my aunt. Maybe forever.”

  His eyes widened.

  “She’s like a mother to me.” My only mother, since my own abandoned me as an infant. “I’ll be lost without her.”

  He let out a long breath. “Then, you’re not going with her?”

  “No, with this case, I can’t take time to drive her down there right now. Meg said she’d take her, but—”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. I thought . . . Never mind.” He shifted forward and put his elbows on his desk. “Once an arrest is made, things will settle down. She’ll be back.”

  “Maybe. That’s why I’m here. I need to ask you a couple questions. Get this case settled.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did Maura come see you the week before she died? Maybe to talk to you in private?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I explained to him about the journal, took out my phone, and read the last entry to him. “I’m trying to figure out who she’d told about the pregnancy. I thought maybe she’d talked to you. A confession perhaps?”

  He sat back, slid his hands off the desk to his lap. “Even if she did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. And I’m not saying she did.”

  “She’s dead. What would it matter?”

  “The seal of confession is absolute, even if the penitent passes away.”

  Rules. Everyone sucked up to the rules except me. Even now, I was showing case evidence—which I had on my personal device—to a civilian. I shoved my phone into my back pocket and switched gears. “How about Jacob Fisher? Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “I don’t know a lot, except that the family is struggling. The mother is single, out of work, and trying to feed three kids.”

  “I think she has a job now. Jacob said she was out of town working.”

  “That’s great. I’m surprised, though. She was having health issues.”

  I shifted and took a sip of coffee. Its hot bitter taste penetrated like a sharp jab to my tongue. “Maybe she’s better.”

  He stared at my hands. “Are you feeling okay? You’re trembling.”

  I slid my cup back onto the edge of his desk and slipped my fingers under my leg. “I noticed some food-pantry boxes in the back of Jacob’s truck.”

  “He comes by the pantry once a week.”

  “How does he seem to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s your impression of him?”

  Colm leaned back in his chair. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Just one among several.”

  “I see. I’ve only recently met him. It used to be his mother who came in to collect food for the family. Since her illness, Jacob started showing up. He seems like a nice-enough kid. Quiet. I got to know them from the food-pantry days. I’ve never seen the family in church.”

  “Not churchgoers, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I never see you in church, either.”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  He studied me for a second, his eyes lingering on my face, then dropping to where I kept my hands tucked. I knew what he saw: paleness, dark circles, hollowed-out eyes, the shakes. I wasn’t simply sick, and he knew it. “Maybe it should be,” he said.

  “Please. Spare me the lecture, Colm. I’m going through a lot right now.”

  “More than the case and your grandmother’s illness?”

  “Yeah. More than all that.”

  “What else are you going through, Brynn? Maybe I can help.”

  I pulled my hand from under my thigh, tried to rub away the horrible pain throbbing in my temples, my fingers thump
ing a percussion. “No one can help me.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” I stood. He stood. Our eyes locked. He tried to hold my gaze. Shame made me look away. “I should go.”

  He sighed and nodded, but didn’t make a move to show me out.

  I ducked my head and went around him. “See you later then.”

  Outside in the hallway, a blaze of heat overwhelmed me, first igniting my face, then washing down my body like a bucket of hot oil, searing and viscid, had been poured over my head. When the heat reached my stomach, acid boiled up and rose to the back of my throat, my stomach reeled.

  I bolted for the front door, but barely made it halfway there before heaving. I sank to my knees, my stomach muscles purging its meager contents. My face burned from embarrassment. Not here, not here. Oh, God.

  I sensed Colm behind me, felt his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he whispered. His voice came from far away, drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through my ears. My stomach cramped, another gush of vomit pushed its way up my throat. I gagged, and stomach slime sprayed the floor and splattered my cheeks. The acidic smell of puke burned my nostrils. No, this is not okay. Nothing about this is okay. Please just go away. Please.

  His fingers brushed my cheeks, entwined themselves in my hair and pulled it away from my face. He stayed there, one hand on my back, the other holding my hair at the nape of my neck. I heaved again and again before my gut relaxed. I inhaled, wiped under my eyes, and sat back. Chunky orange fluid puddled on the hall rug and seeped into the crevices in the floorboards. Vomit streams, tiny off-colored tributaries flowing from a lake of puke.

  Wilco appeared and began lapping it up. “No! Get!” I smacked his backside. He yelped and sauntered off, turning back with a hurt look.

  I looked up at Colm. “I can’t believe . . . I’m sorry . . . The rug . . .”

  “It’s okay. The rug is old, anyway. I’ll get it cleaned up.”

  “No. I’ll take care of it.” I stood, swaying from the sudden rush to my head.

  He caught my elbow. “Easy. Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

  “Just get me something to clean the floor.”

  “We’ll take care of this in a minute. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I’m not feeling well, that’s all. Something I ate, probably.”

  “That’s not what this is. I’ve known for a while, Brynn. You need help. You can’t go this alone.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m fine.”

  “Let me help. Let me be a friend to you.”

  “That’s not possible and you know it.”

  His expression went blank.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. I can’t get that close to you. We have too much history together to just be friends.”

  “That was a long time ago, Brynn. We were just—”

  “Kids. I know. We were just stupid kids. And now we’re not . . . we’re not kids.” And here we were. Me: lost, sick, broken, a loner. I had nothing. And Colm? My eyes flitted around the hallway to the sanctuary and foyer, with images of smiling and benevolent and peaceful saints dotting the path, and then settled on his collar. He had so much more. He’d found what I’d never even glimpsed: peace and respect and a place where he truly belonged.

  He tensed, folded his arms across his chest, and took a step back.

  I’d said something wrong. Yet again. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.” Another bout of nausea hit me, rolling through my abdomen like stormy waves. My head pounded and whooshed. I clenched my midsection, pushed past him, and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 27

  After leaving the rectory, I spent the rest of the day at the Highway 2 rest stop, curled under the cold light of one of the stalls. I was puked dry by the time I made it up the mountain that evening. Even Wilco had opted to stay in the back seat, away from my barfy smell. The shakes had set in and my head pounded with every heartbeat. I couldn’t go home. Gran would know right away. She didn’t need the worry. And my bottle was there, and the pills, too. I’d latch onto them like a suckling baby the instant I got home.

  I called Meg and made an excuse, something about the case, and asked her to keep a close eye on Gran. I promised her I’d be back first thing in the morning and begged her to stay one more day.

  Sleep. I could sleep this off. Everything would be better in the morning.

  I’d picked an isolated spot. A small trailhead parking lot not far off the highway. During warmer months, the trail was popular with day hikers. This time of year, few people came out this way. There was little chance I’d be bothered.

  I twisted the top off a bottled water and popped a couple pills. Just ibuprofen. But I’d take anything to dull the pain in my muscles and joints. Not my usual remedy of choice, but it’d have to do. This time tomorrow, it’d all be over. A quick pee, plaster on a smile for an inane session with the shrink, and I’d be on my way. Back to normal. Then I’d take the rest of that day off. Go out and find that gun Doogan had tossed and get rid of it for good. After that? Celebrate with something special. Expensive. Maybe a shot of Old Forester. I’d earned it. No pills, though. I was done with the pills. The booze would have to be enough.

  One more freakin’ night.

  As the sun set, I turned off the ignition and climbed into the back of my station wagon. Wilco nestled in with me, back hunched as he turned around a couple times and plopped next to me. I spooned my body against his and pulled a sleeping bag, which I kept in the car, over the top of us.

  I don’t know how long I’d been staring into the darkness, my body refusing to sleep, when light flooded my vehicle. I bolted up, looked out the back hatch. Someone had their car’s headlights trained on me. I ducked down, shielded my eyes. The light was blinding. I was a sitting duck.

  I scrambled for the front of the car, banged my knee on the seat, fell forward, and cracked my head on the dash. Shit! Wilco became frantic, panting and pacing in the small space. I recovered. Slid into the driver’s seat. No keys! The keys . . . Where’d I put the keys? Wilco pawed at me. I pushed him away, bent down, and ran my hand along the floorboard. Where are the damn keys?

  The window shattered. Glass shards sprayed my body. Wilco growled and snarled and clamored at my side, trying to get past me and to my assailant.

  Another window shattered behind me. The back hatch window. Wilco lunged toward the back seat. Shadows darted around the car. Someone yelled out. A deep, male voice. More voices, all masculine. Scuffling. I scrambled to get out, fumbling, glass everywhere. Footsteps, car doors, and the sound of a car peeling out.

  I’d heard something else, too: “Musker.”

  Pavees did this. My own people. I must’ve been followed.

  I stood shaking in the dark. Wilco came to my side, panting. The smell of doggy adrenaline filled the air, sour and musky and hot-smelling. Tiny pricks of heat stung my left cheek. I touched it. My fingers came away bloody. I sat back in the car, flicked on my dome light, and flipped down the visor mirror. Glass slivers. A dozen or more lodged under my skin.

  I turned to Wilco and checked him over. He was fine. Slivers caught in his thick fur, but nowhere near his skin. Thank, God. Whoever did this would have no hesitation to hurt an animal. Or . . . I grabbed for my phone, shook off the glass splinters that stuck to my palm, and dialed.

  “Meg. Get Gran out of the house. Now.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Dr. Ryan, Daniel Ryan, wore brown trousers, a navy blue button-down cardigan, and wire-rimmed glasses. Old-man attire, odd for someone in his midthirties, as I guessed him to be. Perhaps he thought the ensemble made him look smarter, or older, or more approachable. I was surprised he didn’t sport a mustache for effect as well. It didn’t matter. Despite his efforts, I disliked him the moment I shook his wimpy hand.

  He indicated for me to take the chair across from his desk. “What happened to your face?”

  I traced the bandage on my ch
eek. I’d spent most of the night in the emergency waiting room, getting cleaned up, stitched up, and a prescription written for the pain. A prescription whose presence I could feel even now, hot in my back pocket, begging to be filled the minute I got out of this office. Not that I would—I’d sworn off pills, knew how one step onto that rocky slope would slide me into a black valley yet again. Didn’t want to go there. Still . . . I hadn’t tossed the prescription. Not yet. “I cut myself cleaning up a broken window.” True enough.

  That was the story I’d used at the ER and I’d stick with it. I was sure my attackers were members of my own clan, and we were under enough scrutiny as it was. In time, I’d figure out who they were. Attacking a clan member was unforgivable, especially an elder in the clan, like Gran. Sweet Gran. There were no excuses for what they did.

  Dr. Ryan made some sort of notation on the clipboard balanced on his knee.

  “It looks worse than it is,” I added. Glad he hadn’t asked about the thin sheen of sweat on my forehead or the trembling of my hand. Physical symptoms had calmed, replaced by intense cravings; my mind screamed for a pill, sweet and easy relief.

  Dr. Ryan looked up from his clipboard and smiled. His teeth shimmered pearly white. He probably flossed every night before bed. Stuck those strip things to his enamels to dazzle his patients with his superiority. No way was this guy going to understand me. I squirmed and rubbed moist palms over the knees of my dress pants, navy blue trousers I’d borrowed from Meg’s closet. Appearances mattered, she’d always said. I wondered if the doggy hairs clinging lintlike would count against me. I brushed and picked at a few; seeing that my efforts were futile, I sat back and sighed. They should have allowed me to bring my dog. This would go much better if Wilco were here.