by John Moralee
I arrived at the beach ten minutes later. I parked my dad’s car in the lot above it and ran down to the sand. The beach was as gloomy as at twilight in winter. Black and grey clouds clogged the sky. Boone and his deputies had cordoned off the section of beach with yellow tape and the deputies were searching the sand with flashlights. They were having a hard time standing up in the wind. Thunder rumbled across the dark water. A small crowd shivered and watched the coroner. The Tribune reporter Doug Clark and some people from the local TV network tried to cross the line, but the deputies warned them back. I hurried to a deputy and told him I’d been sent to identify the body. The harsh flash of a police camera dazzled, leaving orange halos on my vision as I was let through. The sheriff looked grim and angry. His windbreaker bloated in the wind, almost inverting over his head. He held it down and waved me forward. He had to shout so I could hear him. “Look at him fast, Quinn. The coroner wants him moved before the tide.”
I followed him. I could see the body through the rain. The smell hit me, strong and acrid. I nearly gagged. Breathing only through my mouth, I went nearer.
Boone directed his flashlight beam on the dead body. It was wearing a suit. Hard to tell what make, the water had bleached it. The face … the face was unrecognisable. Maybe it wasn’t Scott. Maybe it was someone else in his car. A car thief. Something. Not Scott.
But the hair colour was the same.
And he was about the right size.
But he looked so alien.
“Well?” the sheriff said.
“I can’t tell.”
“Great.”
“I had no idea he’d look like this.”
“Water turns the flesh soft,” he said, matter-of-fact. “And it looks like the crabs have dined on him.”
Bile filled my throat. “He wears a wedding ring on his left hand, the middle finger. It’s marked with his initials.”
“You hear that?” the sheriff shouted to the coroner.
The coroner nodded. He bent over the body and examined the hand. “It’s there. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe it’s someone wearing his ring,” I said. It sounded lame as I said it.
“The dental records should confirm it,” the coroner said.
I said, “What – what killed him?”
“Drowning, probably. He has a fractured skull, though. Could have been knocked out when the car went into the water. Maybe not. Could be an elaborate suicide.”
“Come on,” I said. “You can rule that out right now.”
“An accurate assessment will have to wait for the autopsy. Which I’ll do as soon as I get to my lab. Sheriff!”
“Move him, boys,” Boone ordered.
“This is an obvious murder,” I said to Boone. “There’s this guy who works for Van Morgan called Zeke Morrow. I bet he killed him. It’s obvious.”
“What did I say about who is the cop? Me.”
I turned away, disgusted. The rain beat down on my face like cold needles. I walked away before the paramedics put my friend into a body bag, but my legs buckled a few steps beyond the police tape and I found myself on my knees, weeping.
Now, I thought, I have to break the news to Fiona.
Lightning spiderwebbed overhead. In the bright blue flashes, I saw Vernon Taylor on the rise above the beach looking down at the car. Vernon looked as if he’d been standing there a long time, thinking, the rain soaking him to the bone. He was even thinner than the last time I saw him. He almost looked like a skeleton. He ran his hands through his long hair, pressing it flat against his head until it looked like a black skullcap. I thought about going over to him, saying something.
But when the lightning faded, he was gone.
Chapter 30
Fiona’s mother Grace opened the door and I answered her unasked question with a nod. She slumped. “You’d better come in, Michael.”
I stepped onto the welcome mat, water dripping off my nose and chin, running down my neck. I removed my coat. Fiona’s mother put it on a radiator. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the bathroom upstairs having a shower.”
I sneezed.
“Bless you,” Grace said.
“I should tell Fiona about it.”
“She’ll be out soon. Tell her then. You want a drink?”
“Just one - a Pepsi,” I said, vowing to keep it to that. I joined her in the lounge. The girls were playing listlessly with their dolls in awkward silence. They knew their lives had changed, but were too young to understand why. I didn’t know why, either. Nothing made sense. A good man like Scott died, but a bad man like Van Morgan lived.
Grace poured herself a Scotch. I imagined it in my hands, drinking it, letting the booze warm my insides. I really wanted to drink the whole bottle, but I shook my head and concentrated on my Pepsi. We waited for Fiona. “How long has she been up there?”
“She’s been in there since the sheriff called about Scott.”
“That’s a long time …”
“What do you mean?” Grace said.
“Does she keep medicines in the bathroom?”
“Oh. You don’t …?”
“Check on her, please.”
She went to check. Seconds later, she called to me in panic. “She won’t answer! The door’s locked!”
I rushed up the stairs to the bathroom. I could hear the shower running. “Fiona? Are you okay? Fiona?”
No reply.
I tested the handle. It was locked.
“Kick it down,” her mother shouted. The children ran up the stairs; Grace held them back.
I stepped back, then kicked the door near the latch. The wood splintered. The latch flew off. The door flew open and banged into the wall and bounced back as I moved inside the steamy room. Steam billowed out of the shower, but there was no one in it. The floor was wet and slippery. It was a big bathroom with a Jacuzzi and toilet and two sinks below a wall length mirror.
I saw blood on the walls at knee level near the Jacuzzi.
Fiona lay on the floor behind it, near the sinks. She was wearing a blue bathrobe that was soaked in blood. Blood was on the floor. Blood was in the first sink, which was overflowing, splashing pink water onto the tiles. Blood was pooled under Fiona. She wasn’t moving, but her eyes were open, staring.
I saw the razor in her open palm. The blade was crimson.
I saw the deep cuts on her arms. Long, jagged vertical marks that went up the veins, not across them.
It was faster to die that way. The blood would have poured out faster. Arterial spray had somehow reached the ceiling.
Somewhere, her mother screamed.
“Don’t let the kids in here!” I shouted. They were wailing, the sound almost ultrasonic. They’d seen. They’d seen.
I looked at Fiona’s arms.
I thought about wrapping them with towels. Stopping the flow.
The blood was not flowing out.
Which meant –
Her heart was not pumping.
Which meant –
She was probably dead already.
“GRACE, GET AN AMBULANCE NOW!” I yelled.
Chapter 31
“Son?”
I woke up on the couch in front of the television. The relief was overwhelming. It was all a dream. Fiona wasn’t dead. Scott wasn’t dead. It was just one terrible nightmare.
“Mike?”
I looked at my father.
And saw the sorrow under the surface, like an iceberg waiting for an innocent ship.
And I knew the nightmare was real.
Fiona was dead.
Scott was dead.
The funeral was in two days.
The coroner had said Fiona was dead before I arrived at her house. She had cut her wrists just minutes after the phone call.
Like that made any difference.
I should have known.
I should have stopped it.
I could have stopped it.
I should have known.
What did that make m
e?
“You needed waking up,” Dad said. “You were calling out for an ambulance again.”
“Is she dead?”
He nodded.
I can’t save anyone, I thought.
“You want some coffee?” Dad said. “Caffeine will make you feel better.”
I said no, but then I nodded.
We’d spent the night keeping Grace and her grandchildren company. The little girls had cried and cried and cried. Grace had cried with them, and my father had held her tightly and allowed himself to become a conduit for her grief, telling her what she needed to hear, listening to what she had to say. The night was long and hard and emotionally exhausting. And all of the time the children suffered, Grace suffered, everyone cried, and outside, outside in the darkness and cold, it rained and rained and rained like it would never stop.
Chapter 32
That night, as I lay awake listening to the rain, the phone rang. I rushed downstairs and answered it before it woke up my dad. I could hear sobbing. At first, I thought it was Grace, but then I realised it was Abby.
“Mike?” she said, so quietly I had to press the receiver hard against my ear. It was after midnight.
“Abby, you okay?”
She paused. “No.”
“He hit you again?”
“A little. Just a slap.”
I swore. “I’ll be right over.”
“No. He’s here. Don’t. He’s asleep right beside me. I … I just wanted to hear your voice, Mike. What you said …” I could hear her breathing, composing herself. “You were right. He won’t change.”
“Abby, leave him. There’s nothing to stay for.”
“I’ll think about it. I will. But I’m so scared. You don’t know what he’s like when he’s angry. Uh-oh. Shhh. He’s just moved. Got to hang up ...”
She hung up. I listened to the dead line for a long time.
Chapter 33
I wanted to drink. I wanted to snort coke. I wanted to die.
But I did none of those things.
It was the day of the funeral. Somehow, I was alone in The Boat House hours before it opened to the public. The window shutters were closed and I could hear rain drumming against them. I had switched on the jukebox, set it to play a dozen of my favourite songs, and now stood with my hands pressed onto the cold chrome top, listening to the melancholy music that matched my mood.
The craving for a drink was powerful, raging through me, unstoppable. I had not touched the rows and rows of bottles behind the counter, but I could feel their power. I could think of nothing else. Just one drink would help me get through the funeral, I thought. Just to steady my nerves. I could stop after one. It wouldn’t be like those other times. It wouldn’t lead to a rehab clinic. I could drink one lousy drink. It wouldn’t mean anything. I knew how to stop. I had willpower. Drinking one drink would prove I had willpower if I stopped after it. It would be like a test. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t drink. But I wanted one. I kept looking at my watch, then at the jukebox, which for some reason I was angry with for playing music.
Someone entered the bar, sneezing. I looked over, not taking my hands off the jukebox. Holding the jukebox was the only thing keeping me standing.
“Michael?” It was Sarah, standing in the doorway surrounded by a grey light. “What’s going on?”
She was dressed in an elegant black dress for the funeral, with a black raincoat over her shoulders. She came over to the jukebox and touched my back. I flinched as though electrocuted.
“You didn’t drink, did you?”
There was a catch in my throat as I said no. I pulled my hands from the jukebox and faced her.
“How did you know I was thinking about it?”
“A hunch when you weren’t at home. Come on, you need to change for the funeral. You can get through this.”
“Only because of you,” I said. “I’m weak.”
“Weak? You’re kidding, right? You wanted to drink, but you didn’t. You were waiting to be found, that’s all. I just want you to know I will always be there for you, no matter how hard it gets because I love you. You can always tell me what’s bothering you. And I can help.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I needed to hear that. I love you, too. I think I’ll be okay now.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Let’s go to the funeral. I can cope with it now.” I turned off the jukebox and heard merciful silence. Holding hands, we walked out into the rain.
With Sarah by my side, I was as ready as possible. I was dressed in a black suit, concentrating all of my energy on standing up. I held an umbrella over Fiona’s mother and the two girls. She held the children’s small hands. They cried into her black dress. My father touched her gently on the shoulder, emanating warmth and sympathy. It was another dark day and a light rain spat on the cemetery with low enthusiasm. There were two dozen people attending, many lawyers from Dyler and Westbrook, including Dyler. I saw a few high-school friends of Scott or Fiona, people I had not seen since leaving for Hollywood. I shook hands and thanked them for coming. Wayne stood there in his dress uniform, a soldier reflecting over casualties of a different kind of war. Vernon was there in a wrinkled black suit he’d probably not taken out of his wardrobe for three decades. He spoke to no one, not even me. He stayed behind everyone else, watching. Fiona’s friends and family huddled together as the priest talked about the double burial. His quiet, dignified voice faltered only once, and in the brief pause I could hear the quiet sobs and the pitter-patter of rain on the tops of the coffins. Sarah held my hand. I stared into the middle distance, seeking something. Solace, perhaps. The world seemed to grey out after a hundred yards, as though nothing existed but the funeral, the mourners and the deaths of two close friends and one unborn baby.
I thought of the coroner’s report. Scott had been hit on the head with a heavy object before his car drove into the water. He had not inhaled water. He had been dead before, but the murderer had made it look like a suicide. There were also traces of opiates in his blood. Scott, a heroin user? Was that his connection with Van Morgan? I could not picture Scott taking drugs, but I could not picture myself taking them either. The unlikeliest people were addicts. If the body had not been found for a few more weeks then perhaps the forensic evidence would not have been available. It was now officially a murder investigation. As if that made any difference. Scott was dead. Fiona was dead. Her unborn baby was dead. Two young kids were orphans.
It was a sick, sad world.
When the funeral was over, the majority of the mourners moved as one to the line of waiting black cars, but a few people stayed at the graveside to complete their private prayers. Vernon came over. He was speechless, but his tears said everything. He sank down next to the grave and spoke to his dead nephew. I had the claustrophobic urge to leave. Sarah approached Vernon and said something that made him look at her. They began talking, but when I came forward, Sarah shook her head and I stayed away. Sarah seemed to be having some success speaking to Vernon, but then he shook his head and walked off. I looked at the coffins and was lost in childhood memories. When I looked up, I noticed Scott’s secretary, Lisa, and she noticed me. She said my name and I went over.
“This isn’t fair,” she said.
She looked troubled, as if she wanted to tell me something.
“What is it?” I said.
“I know this is the wrong time, but I need to say something. I couldn’t say this before, but now it doesn’t matter, what with them being dead and all.” She looked at the grave, then at the grey sky. “There was a nasty rumour about Mr Taylor circulating in the office.” She added, quickly, “I didn’t believe it, but somebody started it just a few weeks before ... you know, his disappearance.”
“What was the rumour?”
“That he was having an affair. There. I’ve said it. I’m sorry.”
“Why would people think that?”
She was reluctant to go on, but she had started so she needed to finish. “Just little t
hings, I guess. He would go out to meet clients, but leave his phone off the hook. Sometimes he would double-book an appointment. Maybe it was just forgetfulness … but it was not like him.”
Scott did not forget anything. He was like a library. Everything was stored, but some things were harder to access. I thought of the two stars by several appointments. Two stars meant something special … like an illicit rendezvous? But it was just hearsay, vicious office gossip, like Lisa said “a nasty rumour.” For Scott to have an affair he would have had to change dramatically from the man I knew into one I didn’t know in the slightest. There was another reason for his behaviour. What if he had gone to Zeke Morrow for drugs?
“Why didn’t you say this earlier?”
“I didn’t want to hurt Mrs Taylor,” she said. “I didn’t want her thinking he was an adulterer. It wasn’t like I believed it. You have to understand there are all sorts of rumours in an office about people sleeping with each other, who’s an alcoholic, who’s a closet gay, that sort of thing. The thing about Mr Taylor was just one of them. He had no vices anyone could name, so I suppose they just made one up. But now it doesn’t matter, I guess, if he was or wasn’t.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “But I reckon you shouldn’t tell anyone else. The family have gone through enough.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Who started the rumour?”
“Who started it? I don’t know. It was passed on by another secretary, I think.” She gave me the name of Dyler’s secretary, Sandra. The one who’d served me coffee in a tiny cup. “It’s an awful lie, isn’t it?”
“The Scott Taylor I knew wouldn’t do it.”
Lisa dabbed her eyes with a pink Kleenex. “I feel sorry for the children. Poor little things.” We both looked at them, sobbing into Grace’s legs. “They’re orphans. How are they going to cope?”
It was a rhetorical question. The children would cope, I knew, but they would never be the same, and they would miss their parents forever, with never a day going by without thinking of them. They would hold onto their memories like gold dust, but time would steal precious moments one way or another until all that was left was a profound sense of loss.