Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, L. L.

  “And you,” he said. His grip was firm and I got no blast of insight from him that I often got when meeting someone new. That could be seen as good or bad depending on how the ensuing conversation went.

  “Maggie said you’d recently had a crisis of faith.”

  I laughed at the absurdity of that statement. “I’m not even sure I have faith, so I don’t know why’d she come up with that description.”

  Mike’s expression was absolutely serious. “She said you had a near-death experience and that it had frightened you.”

  I didn’t remember mentioning the word fear to Maggie, but he was right on that count. “Let’s just say I was extremely disconcerted.”

  “And who wouldn’t be? Do you have time to talk now?”

  I glanced around the bar. The few patrons who’d shown up were either steeped in conversation or had their eyes glued to the game on the tube. “I guess so,” I said, and reached under the bar to come up with a small bowl of potato chips that I sat before him.

  “I’m fascinated by the whole concept of near-death experiences. I did my dissertation on the subject.”

  “You’ve got a degree in death?” I asked with an ironic laugh.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Not only am I a Catholic priest, but I’m also a hospice chaplain. I’ve ministered to people of just about every faith.”

  “What are you doing in Clarence?”

  “It’s a temporary assignment.”

  I nodded. I thought about what he’d said. How I wished the concept of hospice had been more common when my mother had been dying of cancer. She died friendless, but not entirely alone. Richard — who she’d barely known — had been there with her. Not me, who had taken care of her through all the years of her drunken depression. The boy who had taken on the responsibility of filling in the checks to pay our bills. The boy who had her sign her name before mailing them so our utilities and phone wouldn’t be cut off. Or handing them to the landlord — opening the door to our apartment on a chain so he wouldn’t see my mother lying drunk on the couch. How stupid I’d been to think that he — or anyone else — wouldn’t notice the handwriting in the TO and AMOUNT portions of each check was different than that of the signature. But my efforts had kept us afloat for years. I’d had to grow up awfully fast.

  Still, it was Richard — not me — who’d been allowed to be there during her last moments. He’d held her hand as she’d left this earth. Worst of all was knowing she probably preferred it that way.

  Father Mike squinted up at me. “What are you remembering right now? It doesn’t look like it’s particularly happy.”

  I shifted my gaze. “No, it isn’t.”

  He took another sip of his beer, savored it, and set the glass back down on the bar. “Maggie thought you could use a new sounding board. Someone neutral.”

  “Did she?” I asked, not sure how I felt about that.

  Mike lowered his voice. “She told me what happened back in May and how unhappy she’s been about the strained relations between you two.”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply to that statement, so I said nothing.

  “For what it’s worth, I believe she’s genuinely sorry.”

  Sorry didn’t erase the past, but it made it more tolerable to accept. We’d made our peace the night before — I’d somehow have to do a better job of convincing her of it.

  Mike took another sip of his beer and shifted his gaze to the TV where a base hit had just occurred. He turned back to his glass and took another sip. “I don’t expect you to open up to me here at the bar. Hell, I didn’t know if you’d be interested in talking about it in depth at all. But I wanted you to know that when and if you are, I’d be happy to listen.” He reached into his pants pocket, came up with a slightly wrinkled business card, and handed it to me.

  I scrutinized it. “I didn’t know priests carried business cards.”

  “Hey, when it comes to phone numbers — even my own — I’ve got a mind like a sieve. This way I can hand it out without looking like a complete jerk.”

  After talking to Mike Ryan for only a few minutes there was one thing I was sure of — he was no jerk.

  “Thanks. I’m not sure I’m ready to expose my soul to you or anyone else, but I appreciate the offer. And that Maggie respects you is a pretty damned good endorsement.”

  Mike upended his glass and drained it. “Gotta go,” he said, and set the glass back down on the bar. “One of my parishioners is going to cross over tonight. He’s been in a coma for the past two days.”

  “Then why do you have to be there?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s not for him, but his children are in real distress. One daughter in particular. She was her dad’s favorite. She’s just a teen and is absolutely heartbroken. She hasn’t accepted that his death is imminent and her mother asked if I would mind being present.”

  I met his gaze and somehow understood that even if I wasn’t sure of the great beyond, that I could understand that the man before me was capable of comforting someone facing mortality — even if it wasn’t her own.

  “Thanks for coming here tonight,” I said and offered Mike my hand once again. “I don’t know if I’ll call you, but I do appreciate that you came here for Maggie’s sake. She means the world to me.”

  He smiled. “I know things have been rough for you two these past few months, but I honestly believe she feels the same way about you.”

  A spark inside me ignited into a full-blown flame, not that I would share it with this virtual stranger. It was the hope that after a long lonely summer apart, we’d somehow be able to recapture what we once had. Hope made the impossible suddenly seem within reach. We had a long way to go, but my gut told that the effort it would take — and it was not going to be easy — would be well worth it.

  Mike slipped a buck under his glass, stood, and nodded a good-bye.

  I had a feeling I’d be talking with Mike Ryan again.

  For the first time since her arrival, Evelyn had very little to say at dinner that night. The fact that one of the seats at the table stood empty was the cause. Brenda chattered on and on about the novel she was reading, about the diaper service she had hired, and even on the kind of baby food she intended to make for Betsy Ruth once she was able to tolerate solids, but all Evelyn did was stare at the driveway and dare Da-Marr to return from wherever he’d gone after his joy ride on Richard’s boat.

  The long silences were nerve-wracking, which made Richard more antsy and aching to pour himself yet another Scotch, which he didn’t dare do.

  After the dinner plates were put in the dishwasher, the ladies joined Richard in his study where the strained silence continued. No one wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room — or the lack of his actual presence. Richard turned on the stereo, playing Vivaldi, which always sounded so light and cheerful, but he could tell Evelyn thought it frivolous and annoying. She hadn’t voiced her musical preferences, and he was afraid to ask.

  He hadn’t told Brenda about Da-Marr smoking pot in Jeff’s apartment. He hadn’t told her that Jeff had changed the lock. Life on LeBrun Road had become too tense these last few days to mention anything that could be taken in a negative connotation.

  It was almost nine when they heard the thump of heavy footsteps pounding on the hallway leading to the study.

  “Anybody home?” Da-Marr called cheerfully.

  Slowly, Evelyn’s head swiveled toward the door, her face tight with anger.

  Da-Marr paused in the doorway, his expression bland.

  “Where have you been, young man?” Evelyn demanded.

  Da-Marr laughed. “I’ve got a friend here in Buffalo, Auntie. I told you about him the other day. We met at the marina. After we put the boat away, I saw him and we sat in his boat and talked until it was dark. Then we got something to eat. You brought me here to see a different kind of life and do different stuff. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it, looking disconcerted.<
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  “Did you have a good time?” Brenda asked, her voice sounding subdued. She probably wasn’t eager to suffer her sister’s wrath.

  “Yeah. We went for pizza at some joint near the marina.”

  “And what’s the name of your new friend?” Evelyn asked, her voice brittle with suppressed anger.

  “Bobby. Isn’t that the whitest name in the world — next to Richard?” he said and laughed.

  Nobody seemed to find that comment funny — least of all Richard.

  “You could have called,” Evelyn said.

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” Da-Marr said flatly.

  “But I’ll bet your friend did,” Evelyn said, her voice even sharper.

  “I don’t know anyone’s number,” he said and laughed again.

  “I’m sure Richard will give you a list,” Evelyn said and looked pointedly at him.

  “Sure,” Richard said, trying to keep his voice even.

  Evelyn held out her hand. “I think you’d better give me the keys to Brenda’s car.”

  “Oh, come on, Auntie. I was just having some fun with a friend.”

  “I’d like to meet this friend. Are you willing to bring him home to meet us?”

  It was Da-Marr’s turn to look disconcerted. “I guess,” he muttered.

  Evelyn’s hand still beckoned.

  Da-Marr’s mouth tightened, but he dug into the pocket of his jacket and handed over the keys, which he clearly found difficult to do.

  Evelyn grabbed them and stuffed them into the pocket of her sweater. “You need to apologize to Brenda for missing dinner. It was rude. Your hosts have a pile of leftovers.”

  “Sorry, Brenda. But I’ll bet I could eat them for lunch tomorrow,” Da-Marr said and laughed again.

  Brenda shot Richard a worried look, but then turned back to Da-Marr with a forced smile. “All is forgiven,” she said, but her voice sounded strained.

  Evelyn wasn’t quite as generous. “Let’s see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  Instead of being contrite, Da-Marr’s expression hardened. “Auntie, you want me to make more of myself. Didn’t you tell me you want me to stop hanging with low lifes and find a higher class of people?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Then you’ve got to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Of course I do,” she said, but the set of her mouth said anything but.

  Da-Marr gave his most charming smile. “I love you, Auntie,” he said, and sauntered over to give Evelyn a kiss on the cheek. Her anger seemed to melt and she gave him a loving smile.

  “I’m going to bed now. See you all tomorrow,” Da-Marr said.

  “Good night,” Brenda said, and Evelyn and Richard echoed that.

  Their collective gazes remained on the hall as they listened to Da-Marr travel down it and then up the stairs. Finally Evelyn turned back to Brenda, digging into her pocket, she handed back the keys. “Don’t let him drive your car anymore.”

  “Are you worried about him?” Brenda asked, her voice sounding carefully neutral.

  “You better believe I am,” Evelyn said, but whatever it was that preyed on her mind, she didn’t share it. Still, as she resumed her knitting, the lines on her forehead seemed even deeper.

  “Why are you so worried about him?” Brenda asked.

  Evelyn turned on her sister. “He’s a young black man. He’s a good boy. But if you’re a black man in a white man’s world, you are a target. He could end up dead because he’s wearing a hoodie. A rich white boy can be just as dangerous as a black gang member to someone who’s vulnerable.”

  “You don’t think Da-Marr will show good judgment?” Brenda asked. Richard would have asked the same question, but was wary of Evelyn judging him.

  Evelyn seemed to think long and hard before she answered. “No.” She looked back down at her knitting, saying nothing while The Four Seasons continued in the background, but her knitting needles seemed to click with aggression, or maybe it was redirected anger, then suddenly she stopped, picked up her yarn and stuffed it and the baby’s cap into her work bag. “I’m going to bed,” she said, got up, and hurried from the room.

  “Good night,” Brenda called after her, looking worried.

  The CD ended, and the room went deadly silent.

  Brenda was the first to speak. “Evie’s got it, too.”

  “Got what?” Richard asked.

  “The second sight. Just like Jeff. Just like our grandma. Just like me sometimes. She knows.”

  “Knows what?” he asked, feeling totally confused.

  “That something bad is going to happen with Da-Marr. She’s been trying to save him from whatever it is, and she thought bringing him here would do that, but it was the worst thing she could have done.”

  “And what is going to happen?” Richard asked, fearing the worst.

  “I don’t know. But I suspect she does, and she’s never going to tell me or anyone else.”

  “And what part do we have to play in this? Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

  Brenda shook her head, her expression grave. “No.”

  “Will this hurt our daughter?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

  Brenda’s head tilted to one side and she seemed to concentrate for a moment. “No.”

  Richard breathed a silent sigh of relief. But then he wasn’t brave enough to ask his next question aloud: would whatever happened to Da-Marr affect Jeff?

  Brenda turned to look at him with an odd expression, as though she’d heard the unspoken question, and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anymore and neither did he.

  And he felt like a goddamned coward for it.

  Chapter 12

  It was almost one by the time I parked my car in Richard’s garage. The night had dragged, which was unusual for a Wednesday evening, with my conversation with Father Mike being its only highlight.

  I got out of the car. The light on the garage door opener would stay on for three minutes, but I wasn’t about to wait that long. When I flipped the switch to the stairwell, nothing happened. Had my previous night’s visitor made a return call, found he couldn’t get in, and removed the bulb from the fixture?

  I mounted the stairs, stepping carefully as I headed for my apartment. At least with a new lock on the door, I knew no one could have invaded my home since I was the only one with the key.

  I was wrong.

  Something was very wrong.

  I hesitated before touching the door handle, but knew whose aura would still be attached to the metal: Da-Marr’s. But he couldn’t have gotten in. Still, he’d touched the door and found it locked, and he’d been frustrated and angry.

  I fumbled with the key, knowing that behind the door was danger, I could feel it. He’d gotten through my new set of defenses; he had been inside my apartment and … could he have booby-trapped the place?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Slowly, I opened the door. The place was pitch-black. I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. Had he taken the bulbs out of all my light fixtures?

  I fumbled around in the dark, making my way to the kitchen, threw that switch and still no light came on. I opened the microwave door and it lit a small portion of my galley kitchen. So, there was still power in the place. I opened the fridge, letting its light spill into the kitchen as well. I kept a big flashlight in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, and I retrieved it and hit the switch. Nothing. Were the batteries dead, or had Da-Marr dismantled it, too? Back under the sink it went.

  The outside light was on. In my haste to cross the room, I nearly fell over my coffee table and cursed the asshole who had put me in this position. I drew the drapes and the room was flooded with shadows and enough light for me to finally see where I was going.

  I made my way to the bathroom, but the light bulb was missing from that room as well, and a breeze chilled the air from the open — no, broken — window. I move
d closer and stepped on shattered glass. If I looked out, would I find a ladder standing at the back of the house?

  “Herschel?” I called. He was probably under the bed again.

  It seemed as though I could hear an odd hum coming from the vicinity of the dining area. I doubled back and the hum got louder.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” I muttered to myself, and something whizzed past my head.

  Something crackled under my foot, and I leaned against the counter to take a look. A shudder passed through me as I recognized exactly what I’d stepped on: a wasp. By the sound of it, there had to be a hell of a lot more of them buzzing around, too. And if one of them stung me....

  I had to get out of there. I was sensitive to bee venom; would I have the same nearly fatal reaction to a wasp sting? Logic said yes.

  And what about Herschel? What if the angry insects had attacked him? Would he be safe under the bed?

  Next stop, the bedroom, but the light had been tampered with there, too. I’d kill that slimy little bastard. I heard more buzzing, and fumbled my way back to the darkroom which doubled as my supply closet, but more glass cracked under my feet and I knew every spare bulb — including the curly and expensive fluorescents — had been thrown on the floor and smashed in anger. Why was that bastard so pissed at me? What had I ever done to him?

  I groped in the darkness until I found Herschel’s cat carrier. My presence must have angered the wasps, for more of them seemed to be buzzing around the living room. I paused to pull my jacket over my head before I charged forward for the bedroom. Keeping my voice low, I called for the cat, but as this was the second night he’d been traumatized, I knew I’d probably have to frighten him more just to capture him. I closed the door behind me, but I could still hear buzzing.

  Suddenly I remembered the small flashlight I kept in my nightstand drawer, and edged my way alongside the bed until I bumped into it. The bastard hadn’t found that light; its sharp narrow beam pierced the darkness. A wasp whizzed by my head once more and I knew I’d have to get out of there fast.

  I crouched down, again lifting the dust ruffle and shining the light. Two frightened red eyes peered back at me. “Come on, Herschel, I’m getting you out of here.” But instead of moving toward me, the cat made a break for the head of the bed, moving just out of my reach. He was no fool. He’d heard the door of his carrier swing open when I’d entered the room and knew that meant a trip to the vet. “Not this time, buddy,” I said and shoved the bed over a foot until I could grab him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out from under the bed, stuffing him into the carrier.