by Cal Moriarty
Al woke up fast then, disorientated, stared bewildered at Marty. ‘You’re in the hospital. But don’t worry, you’re OK. At least you were ’til you made contact with that metal bar.’ Marty smiled at him.
‘Funny, man. Real funny.’ Al shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Must have nodded off.’
Marty turned to Grady Jnr. ‘Thanks. For protecting both of them.’
‘Protect and Serve, sir.’ He had Ed’s sense of humor. He was a good kid. Marty watched as he pulled the door shut behind him. His slight frame visible in its frosted glass.
Marty moved toward the bed. The patient was out cold, hooked up to a bunch of machines. Marty put his hand on Al’s shoulder. ‘I thought I’d drop by on my way back to the precinct. This day’s not getting any better. And I can’t say I’m looking forward to tomorrow.’
Al took several large swigs of the Pepsi he’d left on the patient’s bedside cabinet. Marty saw him smiling to himself. ‘Share the joke.’
Al turned to him, almost whispering. ‘I was dreaming about it, that story.’
‘What story?’
‘Alice in Wonderland.’
‘Did you raid the morphine cabinet again?’ Marty raised his eyebrows questioningly at Al.
‘I was chasing that girl.’
‘Which girl?’
‘Alice.’
‘Did you catch her?’
‘No, no I didn’t.’
‘Let’s hope that’s not an omen for the case.’
‘And I thought you weren’t the mumbo-jumbo, superstitious type, hey?’
‘I have my moments.’
Al smiled. ‘I remember seeing it now, a blaze of color, on a screen the size of the world. A treat with my Abuela Perez. Mann’s Chinese. Sure was worlds away from ours. She couldn’t speak a damn word of English but she laughed and gasped the whole way through, her giant bosom heaving up and down in the dark. I must have been three or four and, man, she lavished me with love and ice cream.’
‘You were her favorite, huh? Grandma’s favorite?’
‘I guess. Some of those lines, I’d totally forgotten, until the dream just now. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”’
‘Why indeed,’ said Marty as he watched Al’s puzzled face try again to solve the first mystery he’d ever tried to.
A gentle voice interrupted their thoughts. ‘Detectives. We have a message for you.’ They looked around. A nurse in crisp whites and a tanned face peered in at them. ‘A Mr Rogers?’ They looked at one another. Who? ‘He got a first name?’ Marty asked.
‘There’s none on this.’ She was right in front of them now, pushing the note towards them. Marty looked down at it, written in truly illegible medic’s script. ‘He asked if we’d ensure you didn’t leave. He’s coming to see you. It’s urgent.’ Marty looked at Al. Al looked back at him. Blank.
‘Not a damn journalist?’ said Marty.
‘No, they’re not allowed in the hospital,’ said the nurse.
‘That doesn’t usually stop them, hey Al?’
A wave of recognition crossed Al’s face. ‘Rogers. Tommy. Bomb Squad.’
‘Tommy, yeah, he could have said that, sure,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s noisy out on the desk this evening.’ She looked over at the patient. ‘For obvious reasons.’
Marty nodded. He imagined how many calls they were getting. His own pager had beeped almost non-stop all day. ‘Big Tex, that’s what we call him. Well, you can let him in. Big guy. Hence the name.’ He smiled at her. She smiled back. A good smile, thought Marty. Soothing. And she was pretty with it. And young. Too young. Maybe that’s why she was still smiling.
He watched her as she made her way over to the patient’s side.
Marty noticed Al’s face was contorted. ‘You OK, buddy?’
‘I told her. No rice. Nothing spicy. Nothing fried. So she makes me a chimichanga with rice and refried beans. Maria’s mother. Man, I been suffering two days. I should stretch my legs, walk around the room a little. Might help. Been sitting half the day.’
‘Maybe she’s trying to kill you?’
‘You think?’
‘Got life insurance?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t. It’ll just make her more determined.’
Al laughed.
‘So, this is the book collector? It was his car?’
‘No doubt about it. Clark Houseman. His wife was here earlier. She saw it on TV. Recognized the car. Mangled and everything. She said he always parks in the same place. Walks into town from there.’
‘A creature of habit.’
‘Guess so. Either that or a cheap SOB who doesn’t like paying the city for parking.’
Marty smiled. ‘I sent her home to get him some things. Thought it was better if it was only me here if he woke up.’
‘Couldn’t cope with a hysterical woman, huh?’
Al nodded. ‘Not today, not with no sleep and my guts up in my mouth. Besides, maybe he has some information we could use.’
‘Something he doesn’t want his wife to hear. Is that what you’re thinking, Al?’
‘Yeah, maybe there’s something going on here. With the bombings. Something else, besides financial. You know what I mean?’
‘An affair?’
‘Maybe.’
‘She say anything worthwhile? The wife?’
‘Husband is well in with the Church hierarchy. Been running his own business since he bailed out of college. Successful guy. Family man. Devoted to her and the kids. Provider. Y’know. The usual Faith husband.’
‘How about the other victims, Al? She know any of them?’
‘Nope. First time she saw or heard of Bobbi Lomax was on the news last night. They don’t know Gudsen or Bobbi Lomax. And, Clark, the husband,’ Al nodded over to the bed, ‘he doesn’t talk business at home, so she doesn’t know the names of any of his business associates either.’
‘Maybe he talks business someplace else? Maybe your hunch is right, he’s got someone else he confides in?’
Al nodded his head in Houseman’s direction. ‘She was pretty adamant that he was a devoted husband.’
‘That makes her hopeful. Not right. Did you ask her if she heard of anyone called Hartman?’
‘She hadn’t. What you thinking? He’s some spurned husband. Getting revenge.’
‘That would make sense. Except . . .’
‘There’s two bodies in the morgue that aren’t Houseman.’
‘I put a call out to dispatch. There’s nothing on the record and nobody called Hartman in all of Canyon County.’
‘Maybe you didn’t hear the name right,’ said Al.
‘There goes our only lead.’ Marty exhaled, exasperated. ‘What was she like, the wife?’
Al laughed out loud. The pretty nurse turned to him. He shrugged apologetically at her and whispered to Marty, ‘Not the type to kill three people.’
‘Well, try and kill three people. This one’s still alive.’
‘Just.’
‘And you know as well as I do there is no type. Haven’t you noticed? Everyone but us is completely insane and most of ’em look completely normal?’
‘You got that right.’ A Texan drawl. Big Tex. They turned to see him filling out the doorway. ‘Everyone but us is insane.’
‘Hey big guy.’ Marty stretched out his hand for the no-nonsense handshake he knew was coming.
‘Good to see you, Marty. Sorry I missed you earlier.’
‘I had to go up to the Mission. Interview some bigwigs. Correction. Make an appointment to interview them. It’s a while since I’ve been up there.’
‘This is turning into a habit, hey Tex?’ said Al.
‘Yeah and not a good one. No offence, guys.’
‘None taken,’ said Al.
‘Three bombings in two days?’ said Marty.
‘Place is getting like Beirut,’ Big Tex said. ‘What you boys got so far?’
‘A whole bunch of nothing, by the looks of it,’ said Al.
‘As per. That Houseman?’
‘Yeah.’
They all looked back to the bed where Houseman lay bandaged and motionless. Tex looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he just nodded.
‘Everyone’s telling me all these three victims: Bobbi Lomax, Peter Gudsen, Clark Houseman. Well, they’re all stand-up citizens. Who’d want to hurt any of them?’
‘Maybe they’re just collateral,’ Al pitched in. ‘Perhaps the bomber’s after something else. Someone else.’
Marty looked at him. ‘Well, he sure is taking his time getting there. And today, over at the Houseman site there’s a whole load of witnesses all saying different things – He was walking up the hill, down the hill. He just got to the car and the bomb went off. He was in the car and the bomb went off. Someone saw him find a package on the seat of the car. Someone else thought they saw it on the seat. Another one thought they saw him drop it and then it exploded. Someone else saw him crouch down and pick it up . . . Hopeless.’
‘Well, all of those could be true.’ Big Tex smiled.
‘Sure,’ said Marty. ‘But not all at the same time.’
Tex laughed. ‘You got that right.’ He peered around Marty’s shoulder to the bed. The nurse had finished, she was moving towards them now, towards the door. Tex smiled at her, nodded politely: ‘Ma’am.’ If he’d been wearing his Stetson he would have lifted it for her. As she left the room Tex shook his head in quiet appreciation.
‘Makes you wanna get ill, don’t it, big guy?’ Marty slapped him on the back.
‘Critically.’ Big Tex’s eyes followed her outside. ‘What about him? Houseman. He gonna live?’
Al nodded. ‘They’ve put him in an induced coma. He was fitting, frothing at the mouth and everything. The docs said he’s messed up a bit, internally, also his leg’s half blown off, but the chest injury looked worse than it was. He’s going to survive if they can keep the brain swelling down and can operate on the leg in time.’
‘Good,’ said Tex. ‘’Cos that guy’s going to the chair. I damn well hate it when they die before they fry.’
‘Tex, you been holding out on us this whole time?’
Marty registered Al’s shock, but didn’t reflect it. ‘OK Tex, spill it.’
6
August 21st 1982
Houseman Residence
Outside, in the street, nothing stirred. Not the neighbors, not their dogs nor that wretched motorbike belonging to Cisco, the next-door neighbor’s kid. And, inside, Jack was asleep upstairs. Clark was sat downstairs on the sofa, Edie’s hand outstretched in his, her head tilted right back on the sofa’s edge. He stared at her. No sign of movement underneath the tightly closed lids. Was he imagining it, or was her breathing getting shallower, deeper? He had no idea what to do with her next. Slowly, tentatively, he said: ‘First I’m going to ask you to kiss me.’ Edie burst out laughing. ‘Edie!’
‘It’ll never work, I’m not under.’
‘You’re just not taking it seriously.’
‘Well, it’s not serious, is it? Just a load of hocus-pocus. I guess I’m obviously not the receptive kind. Or whatever kind you have to be to want to be “under”.’
He had to stop himself from telling her she’d been under in Vegas. And that if she’d been under there, she could be under here. It’s just he wasn’t Marvin Mesmer. Someone with years of practice behind him. He was just a beginner. But he wanted to catch up, to learn, as fast as he could. He’d always been a quick learner.
‘Well if you would just focus a minute, stop giggling, I’d be able to do it.’
‘I don’t want to be hypnotized as me, can’t you hypnotize me so I can be someone amazing, someone beautiful? Princess Grace, Farrah Fawcett.’
‘Farrah Fawcett?’ Clark’s face lit up. ‘Now there’s an idea.’
‘Clark!’
‘What? You said it.’
‘But I didn’t mean it. You should love me for who I am.’
‘I do. But I love Farrah for who she is, too. Really love her.’
Edie threw the cushions at him. One slid along the corridor and landed right at the entrance to his den, its door firmly shut. When he got back into the room he heard Edie’s unmistakable purr-like snores. She must have had a day of it with Jack. Well, at least he’d get to watch what he wanted on TV. He sat back down next to her, softly, so as not to wake her up. He clicked the TV on. Pop music blared out. He quickly hit the remote, watching Edie as he did so. He turned down the volume, just enough to drown out her snoring, but not high enough to wake her. It was some variety show. Looked like a rerun. Onscreen, a bunch of beardy guys in satin shirts and tight pants were singing something he kind of recognized. Next to them, in a retro ’60s nod, five girls were dancing in miniskirts and knee-high boots whilst a psychedelic background twirled around and around behind them. Clark stared past the guys, towards the girls to where the background pulled him in deeper. He stared at it, into its centre, as it turned around and around and around. In the room, he could hear Edie’s breathing, in and out, in and out, the clock in the corner of the room, tick, tock, tick, tock and, outside, the weeping birch with its long draped branches rustling in the night breeze. It was almost like a lullaby. He surrendered himself to it and soon he was drifting off someplace, someplace far away in time.
*
Inside the sparsely decorated room, he watched his boy-self, sat uncomfortable, hunched over, at a small table doubling as a desk. A calendar on the wall marked the year, 1968. The month, December. One of the coldest on record. On the desk were schoolbooks, none of them open. He started to walk towards young Clark, but the sound of an argument drifting from downstairs disturbed him as it crept up through the ill-fitting floorboards. As it got louder there was no escaping it, no matter how much both Clarks put their hands over their ears. Glass shattered. He hoped she wasn’t cut again. Clark flung open the door, heavy footsteps on glass crunching along the downstairs corridor. Fast, angry feet on the stairs towards him. He stood, as if frozen, unable to move as his father appeared in front of him. He stopped, glared at Clark, maybe he had gotten too big to hit. Finally. His father mumbled something, Clark thought he could smell liquor on his breath. But he didn’t drink. Or, at least, Clark had never seen him. Clark looked back to young Clark sat bent over his desk, too frightened to even look up. Clark closed the door and crept downstairs towards where he could hear his mother sobbing.
She was crouched over, housecoat on. Around her was chaos, tumbled furniture, liquid seeping into the carpet and at her feet a picture frame. Before he felt his feet move, he was crouched down beside her picking up shards of glass splintered out of the frame. She looked up at him. Her face so lined with woe, he feared if she smiled at him it would crack open like the desert floor. He reached out his hand to dry his mother’s tears. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was small, a child’s. Clark looked behind him to the door where he’d come in. His adult-self was standing there, watching. His mother took his hand, brought it to her lips, kissed it. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He saw that she had the frame’s photo in her hand, unscrunching it. She looked right into Clark’s eyes. ‘He hates me.’
‘No he doesn’t, Mommy.’
‘Hates who I am, hates that my blood’s tainted. Your blood’s tainted.’
His boy-self had heard other arguments. Knew what ‘tainted’ meant. Grandpa had three wives, not just one, and all at the same time. He had heard them shout words like ‘wrong’, ‘disapprove’, ‘embarrassment’, ‘my position’ and a load more. He knew there was a name for it, having several wives, but couldn’t remember it. Something beginning with Polly, like the girl’s name. He looked up at his mother. ‘I hate Father. He makes you sad.’ He smiled at her. Hoped she might smile back. But instead, she started yelling at him.
‘Clark! Oh no, what on earth have you done!?’ His mother’s face filled with anguish and she
grabbed his hand, pulled it towards her. He could see blood running from it. He watched as she turned his hand over, prised it open. Several shards of the glass had pierced the skin deep and blood oozed from each cut. And then he heard another voice. Another woman. And she was shouting also.
‘Clark! Clark! Wake up. Clark!’
Edie was staring right into his face, her eyes wide, urging.
‘Clark, you’re bleeding. Wake up.’
He saw there was blood on his trousers, on the couch.
He looked down as she opened his bloody palm. The small glass had shattered and broken in pieces. Leftover juice ran into the cuts. He couldn’t feel anything. He’d felt more before from paper cuts. Movement on the TV caught his eye, a commercial for painkiller. Pain-free in minutes seemed to be the mantra. Pain-free. He remembered the psychedelic movement on the screen, the lulling repetition of the sounds around him. He looked back down at his hand. A nasty cut. But it was pain-free. Relaxation. Repetition. Suggestion and control. Just like Dr Mesmer. Clark jumped up from the couch.
‘Where are you going? Let me dress that for you.’ Edie was standing up now, moving behind him, the pieces of broken glass in her palm.
‘Not now, Edie.’
‘But . . .’
‘I’ll do it myself, downstairs.’
He could hear her say something, but in a moment he was at the end of the corridor, unlocking the door and down the stairs to his basement workshop. But not before he’d firmly closed the door behind him. And bolted it from the inside.
7
November 1st 1983
Residence of Peter Gudsen (Deceased)
By the time their car rolled up outside the Gudsen home the double shot of Advil was relaxing Marty’s stiff neck. He’d slept the night in his desk chair and let Al crash on the makeshift bed made of vinyl-covered cushions Marty had salvaged from a ’50s sofa which had been headed for the dumpster outside his building. Marty had used it as a bed for months in his apartment, right after the divorce. That had been the sum of his forays into furniture acquisition. He spent most of his time at the station and when he wasn’t there he was over at Murphy’s Sports Bar, a block down from the station and the only place serving booze for a good three miles, except the Hilton and that was too pricey. Murphy’s had comfortable bar stools, a reasonable selection of low-alcohol beer, a TV and home-cooked food. What more could a divorced man ask for, Marty always said, except for the company of a wild woman and stronger beer.