Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  The line went dead.

  I took the phone back inside the house. I was pouring myself a glass of milk in front of the sink when I saw a bearded man looking at the house. He looked like a member of ZZ Top - his beard was so long. He looked as though he wanted to approach the house, but kept changing his mind. He fidgeted with a cigarette. I gulped down the milk and went outside. I looked at him wondering who he was and what he wanted. He looked startled to see me.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  Even from a distance, he smelled of dried sweat.

  “It’s me, Mikey.”

  Scott’s uncle Vernon called me Mikey. He was the only person who did. I could not believe this man was Vernon. The Vernon I remembered was a thirty-something hippie who looked the spitting image of Jim Morrison. He had been a handsome, charming ladies’ man, the leader of a spiritual commune living in the woods. This Vernon looked like Jim Morrison after he’d died and been buried. Age had lined his face, sunken his eyes. He looked used up. He was wearing stained denim dungarees and twenty-year-old boots caked with grey mud. His beard went down to his navel. I thought there were things crawling in it, but it could have been dandruff.

  “Vernon?” I said, for my own benefit.

  He nodded and sucked on his cigarette. He looked at me with red rimmed eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Scott –” Vernon said, then stopped, breathing in long and hard, coughing as cigarette smoke went into his lungs and returned through his nostrils. “Scott is missing?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Vernon absorbed this answer by using up his cigarette in a single intake. He coughed again, hacking up something green and unpleasant. He spat it onto the grass and wiped his mouth, which was barely visible behind his beard. His teeth looked yellow.

  “Man, that’s bad. I would’ve called sooner? Only I didn’t find out until today anything was wrong?” He had a way of turning statements into questions. “I’m concerned about Scott? Today he comes to see me, but he didn’t show up? So like I come into town? And the sheriff and a couple of deputies stop me on Main Street and start asking questions about Scott. And this is before they tell me he’s missing? They told me he’d been missing for days? I asked the sheriff what’s been done, but he gave me the fascist treatment. He got nasty and sarcastic, saying why don’t I ask you because you knew what really happened? I didn’t know you were back in Mistral, Mikey. So I’m asking you, since you and Scott were the best of friends way, way back when this town was a good place. Do you think something bad has happened?”

  I grimaced. “He certainly hasn’t been abducted by aliens.”

  “You sure now?” When I said nothing, he added, “That’s a joke, Mikey. You look as tense as a thing – a guitar string.”

  “I guess I am,” I admitted. “A lot of bad stuff’s been going on. Mistral isn’t the island I remember.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “Things change …”

  I waited for him to go on, but he had evidently finished. “How was Scott the last time you saw him?”

  Vernon sighed and looked out at the ocean, tapping his chest as thought trying to loosen something caught in his windpipe. “The last time I saw him, he seemed troubled.”

  “Troubled how?”

  “Like he was wrestling with his conscience.”

  “Something was wrong then?”

  “I asked him about it, but he lied and said nothing was wrong. But I knew. I could always tell when he was lying because he wouldn’t look me in the optical things, you know, the eyes? He didn’t look me in the eyes that day.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week before he disappeared. He came to the cabin for a talk, like he did when he was a kid. He brought me some groceries and paperbacks. He was always buying me food and stuff because I can’t afford it and the mall doesn’t let me inside on account of my appearance.” He rubbed his beard. “I offend the other customers, apparently. Nowadays they have organic bananas in the stores, what the hell is an organic banana? Like the old ones were made of plastic or something? Did you know we’re having a trade war with Europe over our bananas?” He stopped, as though realising he’d digressed. “Anyway, he also brought some beers and we had a good time? He’s a good one, that boy. I mean, there aren’t that many people around here even want to look at me. I’m different; they don’t dig that. I like fresh air and living outdoors, but you would think that was a crime in this culture.”

  I was in no mood for discussing politics. Perhaps sensing my mood, he stared at the coastline. “Cape Mistral … Cape Mistral is turning bad, Mikey.”

  I asked him what he meant.

  “Strangers are moving in – buying the land – buying the souls – buying the air we breathe. It’s all wrong, Mikey. I’m the last of the commune still living in the woods and I guess they don’t like that. No man is an island. No island should be owned by a man.”

  “Vernon, what were you talking about when Scott lied?”

  “Just general things – I don’t remember exactly what. My mind … my mind isn’t what it used to be. And it’s not as if I keep notes.”

  “Try to remember, please.”

  Vernon rubbed his thick beard. “The great universals, I guess.”

  “The great universals?”

  “You know – love, sex, marriage, the whole nine yards?”

  “He was having marriage problems?”

  “As I said, he didn’t say. He loved that girl – and the kids – but Scott was keeping something from them.” He coughed again. “Got to quit smoking.” He sighed. “Personally, I’d never get hitched. Half the problems of this so-called society are caused by marriages. Love has to be unconditional. Scott is lucky because he has that.”

  “What did he say?”

  Vernon shrugged. “I wish I could remember, Mikey. Maybe it’ll come to me after a good, hard think and a cool beer?”

  I doubted it. Vernon looked as if he was falling apart. He had always been a little far-out, but he had always been hygienic. He would wash his clothes in rainwater every couple of days, but not now. Now he looked like one of the street-people you’d see in LA. There was a desperate quality to him that had not been there before. I went and got him a beer. He thanked me.

  “Mikey, I received the impression Scott was in serious trouble – a moral dilemma - but I don’t know what.”

  “Did he ever mention Heaven and Earth Enterprises?”

  Vernon swallowed beer, gasping, “I don’t know.”

  “He did or he didn’t?”

  “Maybe. I can’t remember.”

  “What about Emerald Point?”

  “What about Emerald Point? Something happened there?”

  “Never mind.”

  “My memory’s not so cool these days, man. It’s fading … fading away. Sometimes I think that the whole world is fading away and nobody cares.”

  I was bothered by the fact I’d seen Vernon’s car outside his house but had not been able to find him. In the past I would not have suspected Vernon of harming anyone, but the way he looked today I could imagine him robbing a convenience store for a pack of cigarettes. I wondered if he was into anything stronger than the occasional joint. “Where were you that night, the night Scott disappeared?”

  “Me? You don’t think I had something to do with it?”

  “No,” I said, “but where were you?”

  “The sheriff asked that. He’s looking for a suspect. He was not very subtle with his questioning.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “Well, I was at home all night.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I had not seen him. And I had looked into his shack. “Can you prove it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No – I was alone, alas.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff? Listening to music, probably
. I have a Sony Walkman. I turn it up and zone out with a couple of joints, just to pass the time.”

  “That’s something you shouldn’t say to a cop.”

  “I didn’t. I was just being honest with you, Mikey. I was probably stoned. I have these headaches and smoking them relieves the pain better than paracetamol. I’m afraid I don’t know what I was doing. Whole days fade away sometimes …” He tipped his head back until the beer was empty. “Ah! That was good.” His face was troubled, however. “Anyway, Mikey, it’s really good to see you. You find Scott, okay? You need help, I’m here for you. I’m going to pay a visit to my cute nieces and Fiona, but first I’m going to take a shower at a friend’s house.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” I said.

  “I’ll be going then …” he said, but he didn’t move. He looked forlornly at the house. I guessed he wanted inviting in for a shower – I suddenly realised I was the friend he was referring to - but he smelled so bad I didn’t want to invite him inside. He worked on my sympathy: “Well, I’ll be going then …”

  “Okay. See you.”

  He nodded. I felt enormously guilty. “Do you need some grocery money?” I reached into my pocket, taking out my wallet.

  “No.” He looked offended. I cursed myself. “Thanks for the beer, man. It’s been good seeing you?”

  He left, and I stood by and let him. He moved like an old man, dragging his left leg slightly. He got in his Buick and revved the engine. It jolted forward, emitting a bang and some smoke from the tailpipe. As it stuttered past the house, he turned and gave the peace sign. I returned it.

  I scratched my hand, which felt like it had been bitten.

  I hoped Vernon didn’t have fleas.

  But I deserved them for the way I’d behaved, I reckoned.

  Chapter 10

  That evening I was having dinner with Fiona in an Italian restaurant a couple of miles out of Cape Mistral. I thought it was a good idea - it got her out of the house doing something to occupy her mind - but so far our conversation had been strained. “How are the kids?” I asked.

  “Fine. My mother’s looking after them. Did I say she had to fly in from Florida?”

  “You did,” I said.

  “I can’t remember saying. My head’s been in the clouds since … you know, since Scott disappeared. I’ve been taking Prozac … but I don’t think it works on me.”

  “It takes a week or so to function. Keep taking it.”

  Fiona nodded.

  I asked, “Is you mother going to stay long?”

  “Until Scott comes back,” she said. Then she added, solemnly, “If he does.”

  “Tell me about your mother.” I wasn’t trying to keep her talking, but now I sounded like Freud.

  “My mother? What can I say? I love her. Elizabeth and Amanda love her. She always brings presents and lets them eat chocolate and ice cream. I’m really glad she could make it. These last few days have been tough without her. I still feel like I’m in limbo waiting for something to happen.”

  “Is your dad coming here as well?”

  “My dad died last year of a heart attack,” she said. “Scott helped me through it. Mom was devastated, though. It was like someone had carved out her heart. She sold the house because she couldn’t live in it again. Reminded her too much of Dad. Florida did her a lot of good, but she still misses him terribly. So do I.”

  I wished I’d never mentioned her father. I’d always had the habit of asking the wrong question.

  Fiona looked down at the table. “I’m afraid, Mike.”

  “What of?”

  “This. This thing that’s happening. My mother’s stronger than I am. I don’t know how to handle this if Scott’s dead. I don’t. I don’t.”

  She fell silent. I asked her how good the kids were at school. It gave her something easier to talk about. But the conversation dried up before the first course arrived, and she asked what progress I’d made as though I was a guru with the secrets of enlightenment. I summarised my talk with Sarah Beck and my library visit and the calls to the frightened union men. Fiona didn’t blink as she listened. She looked intense. She asked short, sharp questions as if studying for an exam. When I was finished, she arched her back and sighed and ran her fingers through her golden hair.

  “So what do we do now?” She spoke quietly, in a neutral voice

  “Tomorrow, I’ll watch Van Morgan, get a feel for the guy. If I think he’s responsible, I’ll make some moves.”

  “That sounded like a line in a movie.”

  “I mean it, though.”

  “God, Mike, this is getting surreal. I can’t believe some stupid snails started this this this thing.”

  “We don’t know that. It could be some other reason.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I didn’t like the look she gave me.

  Did she blame me? Or, worse, did she think I’d called Scott and lured him somewhere to murder him? Did she think I was faking concern?

  I didn’t ask. Dark thoughts weighed down my mind. I looked around the restaurant at the couples holding hands across the tables. The lighting was subdued, like my mood. It was weird how seeing other people being happy, when you’re not, just makes things worse. Suddenly I could see how other people would see my unexpected return to Cape Mistral and wonder if I’d come back specifically to do Scott harm.

  I was number one suspect.

  While we had been talking, I had noticed a man looking at me every time I looked up. That wasn’t unusual in itself – as I was often recognised when I went out – but there was something familiar about him. He was a handsome man in his early sixties wearing a charcoal suit. He had white hair streaked with black around his ears. He was with a woman of his age with her back to me. She was wearing a black dress and a diamond necklace. I ignored the man’s stares for as long as I could, but he wouldn’t stop.

  “Fiona, do you know who that man is with the white hair?”

  Fiona looked and nodded. “That’s Nate Devereaux with his wife Lillian.”

  “Nate Devereaux.” Hanna’s father. “No wonder he’s been watching me. I didn’t know him with the white hair. He’s aged.”

  “He’s coming over,” Fiona said.

  Nate Devereaux stopped at our table. Now his wife was also looking at us, seeing me for the first time in twenty years. She looked horrified. She left her table and followed her husband. She tried to pull him away, but he resisted. He was transfixed. He was staring at me with eyes so wide they looked unnatural. Hate burned within them. Nate and Lillian Devereaux both stood there, holding hands. Nate was breathing heavily through gritted teeth.

  “Michael Quinn,” he said. “Your brother killed our little girl.”

  I said nothing. Saying it was an accident would do no good. Nothing I could say would make the Devereauxs feel better. They had hated my family for twenty years.

  “I’ve wanted to say some things to you,” he said. “Billy Quinn is nothing more than a murderer in my mind. I’m glad he died because he deserved it. My daughter didn’t. She was a sweet girl. We loved her. She would have gone to Harvard and made something of her life. Unlike your deadbeat brother.”

  “He wasn’t a deadbeat, Mr Devereaux. He was a good person. What happened was an accident. He would have willingly given his life to save your daughter’s. He loved her.”

  “He killed my baby,” Lillian said.

  “I’m sorry for what happened. But it’s over.”

  “It’s never over,” Nate Devereaux said. “Our daughter was killed. By now, we would have grandchildren. My wife always wanted Hanna to have a big family because she couldn’t. Your brother took that possibility away. Because he was too drunk and too stupid to do the right thing. He was driving the car. He crashed it.” He smiled sickly. He had thought of something vicious. “I heard alcoholism runs in your family, Quinn. Pity you’re not dead, too. That way you wouldn’t be upsetting our evening and ruining our meal.”

  Fiona grabbed my hand. “Maybe
we should leave?”

  I agreed, but Nate Devereaux shook his head.

  “Don’t bother,” Nate snarled. “We’re going. We can’t stand the sight of you, Quinn. Why don’t you leave Mistral for good this time? Do everyone a favour, make this your last meal.”

  Nate and Lillian Devereaux walked stiffly towards the exit. Lillian tottered on her feet like she would collapse the moment she was outside.

  Fiona said: “God. That was scary. I thought he would swing at you. I don’t understand why he hates you.”

  “He has to hate someone,” I said. I didn’t think a man like Nate Devereaux could live without hate. Losing a brother was tough, but losing your child was tougher.

  “Is everything all right?” said a waiter.

  “Never,” I said to myself.

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Everything’s fine now.”

  During the evening meal, Fiona drank red wine and I drank mineral water. I hated mineral water, and I wished there were some great alternative for non-drinkers.

  “Did Scott tell you how we started dating?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “It’s pretty weird. I mean, in high school I was popular. I wouldn’t even consider him boyfriend material because he wasn’t popular. I cared so much about what other people thought I only dated popular guys. I was a real bitch.”

  I made no comment.

  “Oh, I was. There’s no need to be polite. I know what I was like. I used to dump decent boys because they wore the wrong clothes. Anyway, after I left high school I was going out with Danny Keats. You remember him?”

  “Big dude, captain of the football team. Tall, dark, handsome. He had a reputation as a stud.”

  “Precisely. You missed one salient point: he had the IQ of a two by four. Not that I gave a damn. He was so good-looking I was happy just to be seen with him. His family was rich and influential, too. He was my idea of the perfect man. We would go out each weekend when I came back from college on the mainland. I wanted to marry him after I graduated, but I wanted a ring on my finger before I slept with him. It drove him crazy. One night, we drove to Emerald Point. You know how romantic it is in the moonlight. We kissed and so on. It got pretty heavy. He wanted to take it further. I said no. I said that if he loved me he’d wait. That was when he got mad. He started ripping off my clothes and calling me a whore. There was nothing I could do but scream.”