Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  “Rose, I think Dyer’s dead.”

  Rose’s face stayed relaxed, sweet with the concentration of sleep.

  “He was a good guy—good cop. I wish you’d seen him with the girls.”

  David closed his eyes, wondering if his words would lodge themselves in Rose’s subconscious. They never had before, in any of the midnight talk sessions.

  Confiding in Rose while she slept had begun accidentally. The girls had been babies—Mattie had yet to be born—and Rose was living in the fog of exhaustion inhabited by mothers of small children. For a long while it seemed that every time he cuddled close to her for a talk, or anything else, she fell instantly asleep. In fact, whenever she stopped moving, she fell instantly asleep.

  At first he felt betrayed, even lonely. He missed the attention, the eye contact, the friendship of their conversations. Rose was bright, if opinionated, and he liked to bring things under the light of her intelligence. But after a while he began to appreciate the advantages of one-sided conversation. He could curl close to her warm soft back, trace the nape of her neck, and talk without interruption. There was none of the irritation that festered when she gave advice he didn’t care to take—no quicksilver change of the subject when her grasshopper mind darted elsewhere, no losing his train of thought, and no tense stiffening of Rose’s shoulders when his worries became her own.

  “I think he’s dead, but I keep hoping he’s not.” David scratched his stomach. “I wish I knew why the Elaki are so interested in Machete Man. And why Dyer was interested. There some kind of Dyer/Elaki connection? Or a vice/Elaki connection?” David rolled over on his back. “What was Dyer doing at that Elaki restaurant? He’s going to stick out like crazy, place like the Ambassador, but the whole staff swears they didn’t see him.”

  Rose sighed in her sleep.

  “I know,” David said. “I don’t believe it either.”

  FIFTEEN

  There was a fair turnout at Millicent Darnell’s funeral. David and Mel stood a short distance from the graveside, watchful, but not intrusive.

  David checked his watch. Ten-fifteen and already hot. A breeze would have been nice, something to stir the thick humid air. The minister’s voice droned like the buzz of an insect, and David wished he could swat it away.

  The presence of his mother’s grave less than a hundred yards away was a pressure against his back. Sweat rolled off his forehead, trailed down his cheeks, and was sucked up by the stiff white collar of his shirt. He badly wanted to loosen his tie.

  He bent close to Mel. “Be right back.”

  Mel nodded, his eyes on the mourners.

  The cemetery was lavishly landscaped. The grass was lush and green, though there had been almost no rain in the last few weeks. David spotted the grey heads of sprinklers, hidden in the grass. He stepped over a border of heavy pink begonias and saw apples on a row of crab apple trees.

  A huge bouquet of white carnations marked an old, but tended grave. The flowers were limp under the muggy blanket of air, a brown discoloration edging the blossoms. David inhaled the strong, sweet fragrance and thought of rotting fruit and women who wore too much makeup. A swarm of gnats attacked his nose and eyes, and he shooed them away, mopping his face with a handkerchief.

  He stopped at the edge of a man-made pond. The cement on the sides had cracked; the water was dark green and scummy. Insects dived at the surface. Fat black and orange koi opened their mouths wide, looking up with avid stupidity. He moved away.

  The hump of his mother’s grave had settled a little. The tombstone, newly in place, was stark, simple, affordable. Exactly what she would have wanted. There were no flowers. He had come the day after the funeral to clear away the incredible clutter of wreaths and arrangements sent by friends, coworkers, his father’s relatives.

  Even Rose might not understand his compulsion to rid the grave of clutter. She would not see it for the courtesy it was.

  Rose had never met the mother of his childhood, had never seen her explode in sudden rage when the disorder of their rooms began to press her. Newspapers on the floor made her sputter. She was infuriated by the magnificent fortresses he built—entire cities of boxes, blocks, army men, and toilet paper rolls. During calm, easy moments, she praised his ability to make do with materials at hand, calling it genius. But during the eruptions of anger, she would sweep his beloved cities to the floor, scream at him to throw them away, and retire to her bed, crying.

  Once she had told him that she fantasized about living on the ceiling, where there was no furniture, no mess—just wide-open space. He learned to hang up his clothes, not leave them on the floor; make up his bed before answering the first call of nature; be unsentimental and throw things away.

  But still the furies broke and his mother rampaged for reasons he could not fathom. What caused the rages? The depressions? Sometimes she yelled, sometimes she threw things. He would search her contorted, tear-streaked face, looking for the woman who could cook lasagna you would die for, who knew the answers to impossible math problems, who treated you like a prince when you were sick, who fended off teachers who didn’t like little Jewish boys.

  He had been afraid when they lived in Little Saigo—families were prey in Little Saigo. Lavinia had “wired” an alarm around their room, so the bad ones couldn’t get in without an alert sounding in the police station. How often he had pictured the police cars, sirens blaring, coming to rescue them. He did not know that police cars rarely came to Little Saigo, and that protection came from payment to the tunnel rats, or allegiance to Maid Marion. And it was years later, when the tunnels were a bad, dark memory, that he realized that the “wired” alarm was a fake his mother devised to keep his sleep easy and his heart calm.

  That woman was gone now. Lavinia Hicks Silver, born June second, 1986, had died by her own hand on July second, 2040.

  She was not a Jew. He did not recite Kaddish for her, like he had for his father. He had been eight when his father disappeared—went out for doughnuts and never came back. Seven years later, when his father was declared legally dead, David said the Kaddish for him, every day for eleven months.

  He was aware, suddenly, that Millicent Darnell’s funeral was over, and people were drifting away. He turned and headed for the knot of mourners.

  Mel had edged closer to the crowd.

  “Which one’s the grandson?” David asked. “What was his name?”

  “Dennis Winston. One of those two guys over there. Blue suit or grey suit.”

  The two men talked to the minister, who put his hand on the shoulder of the man in the blue suit. Blue Suit was short, his hair dark and thinning. Grey Suit said something and the minister nodded. The funeral director joined them, speaking seriously to Blue Suit.

  “That’s got to be him,” Mel said. “The one in blue.”

  Mel headed for Blue Suit and David followed. He noticed that Grey Suit had cat hair on his pant cuffs.

  “Mr. Winston?” David asked.

  “Yes?”

  Mel, who had started to speak, closed his mouth.

  “I’m Detective Silver, Homicide Task Force. Mind giving us a minute?”

  Winston looked wary.

  “Yeah, sure. Excuse us, Jeff.”

  Blue Suit watched them curiously.

  Winston walked steadily to a large cottonwood tree, and turned his back to the trunk. He was an inch or two taller than David, his hair blond, fine, and falling into his eyes. His complexion was fair, tinged with pink at the moment. He had deep circles under his eyes, and his pants were loose and droopy under the belt. David wondered if Winston had been dieting.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother, Mr. Winston. She mentioned you several times. You were pretty close?”

  “You’re the detective that took her back through the house. Silver?”

  David knew his face was red. “Yes.”

  “You sat with her at the hospital. Thanks.”

  David’s heartbeat steadied. “I was glad to.”

  Win
ston adjusted his tie. He looked exhausted.

  David thought of Millicent Darnell’s ravaged bedroom. CATCH YOU LATER Machete Man had written on the wall—in lipstick, this time. Usually he used blood.

  Mel cocked his head sideways. “Understand you told your grandmother not to give us an ID on this killer.”

  Winston backed against the tree, oblivious to the snags the bark made in his suit coat.

  “I … she … was very frightened. She thought he might come back.” Winston straightened up.

  “Your grandmother told me that you suggested he might come back,” David said. “What made you think so?”

  Winston pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his forehead. “What about … what he wrote on the wall. ‘See you around.’”

  “‘Catch you later,’” Mel corrected.

  “You don’t know what’s going on with somebody like that. I know you need to catch this bastard, but my grandmother was the important thing. I want … I wanted her to be safe. I never thought … I never suspected she’d be a target.” Winston bit his lip. He wiped his face again and folded the handkerchief. He adjusted his tie.

  “It’s like lightning,” Mel said. “Happens. Nothing you can do about it.”

  “You can stay out of the storm,” Winston said bitterly.

  “When did you put the new locks on her door?”

  Winston paled. “Two … three months ago. I’m not sure.” He rubbed his chin.

  “A good thing you didn’t get to the window,” David said.

  “The lock on it was fine,” Winston said quickly. “It just squeaked. She’d been after me about it for … years, really. God, what if I had? She never would have …”

  “Sure she would have,” Mel said. “Earl would have seen to it.”

  Winston looked closely at Mel. “She told you that, huh? Listen, if anybody could come back and do that, it’d be my grandfather. He’s buried over there.” Winston waved an arm in the direction of the grave site. “She still died though. Didn’t do any good.”

  “I agree with you, Mr. Winston,” David said. “Machete Man is responsible for your grandmother’s death.”

  “Seen it happen a hundred times,” Mel said. “Vic—people survive the attack, but the stress of it, for the older ones, can kill them.”

  Winston’s expression was wistful, and David quelled the urge to pat the man’s shoulder. Winston was younger than he’d first thought—grief had added years.

  “Look at it this way,” David said. “She won. She got away. And her death was peaceful. You took her home, didn’t you?”

  “My place, yeah.” Winston looked past David’s shoulder.

  “Did she get her ice cream?”

  Winston’s smile came, and died. “No. She didn’t feel much like eating anything. She slept mostly. Looked out the window.”

  David wondered if the cat had kept her company. Silence settled over all of them. A bee buzzed by David’s ear, liked what he saw, and flew back, circling. David swiped at it.

  “Is there anything else? I have some things I need to do.”

  “Sure,” said Mel. “That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch.”

  Winston had been moving away, but he stopped and looked at them. “In touch?”

  “You want to know, don’t you, when we catch this guy?” Mel said.

  “Oh. Yeah. I sure do.”

  David watched him walk away.

  “Something not right there,” Mel said. “How come he didn’t ask why we weren’t out looking for Machete Man instead of bothering him? They all say that. It’s getting to bother me when they don’t.”

  “He doesn’t think we’ll catch Machete Man.”

  “Nervous too. Nervous as hell.”

  “He’s afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I got the feeling he was expecting trouble. He lets a squeaky window go for years, then he’s suddenly over there installing locks.”

  Mel scratched his chin. “You think he read about Machete Man and got worried?”

  “He’s scared now, Mel. It’s not like it’s over for him.”

  “You trying to tell me he had something to do with it? Remember, she saw the guy.”

  “People who own cats don’t chop up their grandmothers.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. I remember reading that in the academy handbook.”

  “He did put the lock on the door.”

  “Could be to show what a concerned grandson he is. Maybe it was a copycat thing. He inherit?”

  “We’ll check.”

  “You know, David, it took her a while to tell us about seeing the guy. Her first instinct was not to say anything. Suppose she thought it was Winston. I mean, consider her description—dirty, animal smell, red eyes.”

  “I believe the smell, but the eyes are weird.”

  “The demon killer.”

  “Why give us a description at all?”

  “Denial. It couldn’t be my grandson. She convinced herself she saw something else.”

  They passed Millicent Darnell’s coffin. It was decked with flowers and David sniffed, but could not catch a fragrance. He stopped in front of Earl Darnell’s tombstone.

  Mel looked at the inscription. “What is that, Hebrew?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Can you read it? You must be reading something, you sure got a funny look on your face.”

  “It says … no, that can’t be right. I’m not very good at this.”

  “What?”

  “I think it says ‘the Sox stink.’”

  Mel laughed. “Jewish, huh? How come he’s not buried over on Wharton?”

  “Millicent Darnell wasn’t Jewish. He was waiting for her.”

  “Earl and Millie.”

  David shrugged. “You can’t help liking a guy who got up every morning and fixed his wife biscuits. And left in-jokes on his tombstone.”

  “You get up and fix Rose biscuits?”

  “Rose doesn’t like biscuits.”

  They opened the car doors and waited for the interior to cool.

  “Tell you what, David. If you get whacked, I’ll be sure and tell Rose you want a Hebrew joke on your tombstone.”

  “Thanks, Mel.”

  Mel stretched. “How’d you know which guy was Winston?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  A light flashed on the control board. Mel slid into the front seat. David turned to scan the crowd. People were leaving. Winston was gone.

  “David?”

  He turned quickly. He knew that tone of voice. “What is it, Mel?”

  “They found Dyer. Part of him, anyway.”

  SIXTEEN

  “This case is getting very weird,” Mel said.

  David was quiet. He pictured Dyer giving candy to his girls, keeping food for the kids he ran across in vice. Mel looked at him, and David cleared his throat, hoping his voice sounded normal.

  “They always do.”

  “What?”

  “Our cases. They always get weird.”

  String was in the hallway outside the morgue, tottering on his fringe. Mel groaned. The Elaki was suddenly still.

  “Please to say hello,” String said. “I must apologize for the abrupt taking of leave on our last occasion.”

  “What brings you here?” Mel asked.

  “I was informed by my superior. I am here to assist.”

  Mel smiled. “You ever been in a morgue, String?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead. Right through that door.”

  There were four bodies on tables—all of them covered with sheets. A man and a woman, both wearing blue smocks, sat at a lab table, eating lunch and playing cards.

  “Spid!” The man grinned. “Got you.”

  The woman handed him a carrot stick. She took a sandwich from a brown bag and took a bite. “If you’d bring your own lunch, Bradston, you wouldn’t have to work so hard to win mine.”

  Bradston crunched the carrot. “This way at
least one of us loses weight. Want to go again?”

  “What are you after this time?”

  “I got my eye on that pickle.”

  The woman looked up. “Hi, David.” She spotted the Elaki and stiffened. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

  “I am to accompany these gentlemen.”

  “Say hello, Miriam,” Mel said.

  “Hello, Mel.”

  “You never did come back for your bathrobe.”

  “It wasn’t mine, you shit.” She stood up, still holding her sandwich. “Have this chair,” she told String.

  “They don’t sit,” Mel said.

  “What?”

  “Elaki don’t sit, Miriam.”

  She blushed and motioned for them to follow her toward an examination table. “You guys here to see Dyer?”

  “What there is of him,” Bradston said. He reached toward Miriam’s sack.

  “Keep your hands off that pickle,” she said.

  “Eyes in back of her head.”

  Mel looked at Bradston. “What you playing?”

  “Spid,” Bradston said. “You never played?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Elaki version of poker,” Miriam said. “Probably over your head.” She took a bite of sandwich and stopped beside a table. “Here he is.”

  The sheet was wet. David lifted the corner and pulled it back. Dyer’s head and one of his legs had been fished out of Deer Lake, twenty miles northwest of Possum Head Lane.

  Dyer’s hair, still wet, was matted with dark mud and blood. His eyes were open, sleepy-looking, the face a pinched-looking bluish white. The head was severed just below the chin. The right leg, cut about six inches above the knee, was stretched on the table, also wet.

  A sandal was strapped to the foot. Dyer’s big toe was smashed and was swollen and blue. David looked at Miriam and pointed to the toe.

  “Before death?”

  She nodded. “Somebody stomped on it, somebody wearing boots of some kind. Leather heels. Probably couldn’t resist that open shoe.” She switched her sandwich to her left hand and pried Dyer’s mouth open with her right. “See here?”