by Perry Prete
Nicole and Simone sat at the kitchen table, silently drinking coffee, the box of doughnuts Simone picked up on the way over, remained untouched. Nicole kept her eyes focused on the cell phone before her, waiting for it to ring.
Simone was about to speak, looked up then went silent again.
"What? You've done that like ten times now. If you have something to say, just say it," Nicole exclaimed.
Simone put her cup down carefully on the table, "Stop brooding. You're being a child waiting for him to call."
"What can I do if he won't call?" she questioned.
Simone thought for a moment, "Didn't you say that you're getting better control of your, whatever you call it, ability? If you can direct your spirit or your mojo, send it to Paul and connect with him."
"That's a huge personal invasion. They don't know I'm doing it. And I don't know if I'm hurting them or giving them cancer or turning their brain to week-old oatmeal." She tapped the table with her fingers. Her anxiety was evident, but now she was seriously considering Simone's suggestion.
"Why don't you call the police station first? If that doesn't get you an answer, then try your voodoo."
Without saying a word, Nicole picked up the phone, dialed the station and asked to speak with any detective currently working. It took several minutes before she was connected, "Hi. My name is Nicole Blake. I'm a friend of Detective Paul Hammond. I've been trying for several hours to reach him on his cell phone, but it keeps going to voicemail. I was wondering if you could help me?"
There was a short pause on the other end of the line, "We aren't permitted to give that information out," said the female detective. "I'm truly sorry, but unless you're on the detective's emergency contact list, I can't tell you anything. What's your name again?"
Exasperated, she attempted to remain calm, "Nicole Blake."
"Nicole Blake," the detective repeated back, "I'll check his file and see if," there was a pause, "one moment please."
Ken took the handset from the other detective, "Nicole, it's Ken. Paul's OK; he's been hurt. I just got back from the scene. He wanted me to call you anyway. They've already taken him to the hospital. Are you at home? I can have a car pick you up."
Nicole's voice was panicked and cracking, "I'll drive."
Ken sternly interjected, "You're not driving. Paul told me how bad you drive."
"Okay. Not the time for jokes Ken. Seriously, is Paul alright?"
There was a pause from Ken that only added to Nicole's concern, "He's stable, but he has a serious injury. He was taken to surgery; I assume he'll be in recovery by the time you get there. Now, I want to send a car to pick you up. You shouldn't drive."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"The suspect attacked him with a knife, cut him bad. He'll be fine but he needed to have a surgeon close the wound."
"Skinny man?"
Ken thought for a moment, and he realized Will and the skinny man were one and the same, "Will Fleischmann, the skinny man. Yes."
Rage welled up inside Nicole as she thought what Paul had gone through.
"Let me send that car for you."
She thought about his offer, "I have a friend here. She can drive me,"
she barked back and hung up.
*****
Will woke up feeling refreshed, all traces of dizziness and the headache was gone. He stood and looked around the dimly lit shed. He spotted what he thought was a bicycle and pulled it from the pile of junk on top of it. With a quick check to see if was ridable, he opened the door a crack, peered outside, sensing everything was clear, he carried the bike out of the shed to the path between the houses. Mounting the bike, he casually rode away as if nothing had happened.
*****
Ken walked through the hospital with an army of uniformed officers behind him. He spoke as he walked, "Two officers at each entrance, loading bays, doors, windows, I don't care if it's a locked door that never gets used, guard it. Nobody gets by you unless they have ID confirmed by the head of the hospital and me. You all have a picture of the suspect?" They all agreed. He stopped and turned to face the officers, randomly pointed at them, "You two, inside Paul's room, you two outside the room. You four, the same thing with the father. He's still in surgery. Park outside the surgical suite, and if he makes it, sit beside him in the ICU. Understand?"
They all agreed, and the four officers appointed to stand guard left to their respective assignments, the rest went to their assigned location.
Ken walked alone and slowly to the recovery room feeling guilty he had not been with them when the incident occurred. He knew the guilt he was feeling was misplaced but couldn't shake the feeling. He checked in with the two officers standing outside the room, found a seat and waited for Nicole to arrive.
*****
Carl sat in his car, wiping his hands clean even though all residue of blood had been cleaned. Rubbing his palm with the end of his thumb, he pressed hard to wash away the imaginary blood. The stains were long gone, but he wanted to make sure there was absolutely nothing left. Knowing full well his actions were the signs of someone with anxiety issues, he laughed at himself, hoping this would alleviate his feelings of guilt and fear. Not once in his life had he ever been one to act irrationally. He was often impulsive, but rarely irrational. Today was certainly different; he was lost, things had happened that were so far out of his control he didn't know where to turn. He had no leads, no clues, no one left to rely on. He keyed the engine to life and went back to the only place he could think of.
By the time he arrived, the police had completed their search of Will's house. Yellow barricade tape strung across the entrance to the driveway, flapped and twisted in the wind. Carl pulled his car to the shoulder, walked to the tape, ripped it from the tree on the one side then drove up the house, parking out of sight from the roadway.
As he made his way up the drive, there was an eerie silence about the place. The dogs had been taken away, all the wildlife in the area were silent, nothing made a sound. Walking up the driveway, the only sound was the gravel crunching under his shoes. Looking up at the house, there was nothing special about it other than what had happened there earlier in the day. He went to the back door, bright yellow police tape warning the reader it was illegal to entre, ran across the door frame onto the door. He used a credit card to cut the tape; the door was locked, so he raised his foot and kicked. The door didn't budge; he kicked again and again and again until the wood fractured, and the door finally relented. The door swung wide open as Carl entered the house. He didn't bother to announce himself; he knew he was alone.
He thought momentarily about going back to the freezer room, but he didn't think he could handle the stress. Instead, he went upstairs, walked down the hall and found himself standing at the door to the room with a view. The noonday sun was above the house, shadows cut deep into corners of the room and considering the events earlier in the day, a horrible feeling came over Carl. He had trouble entering the room but knew he had to. One foot followed the other, slowly making his way towards the large window. He placed his hand on the back of one of the chairs. With his eyes closed, he inhaled deeply, attempting to calm his nerves, it didn't work. His heart pounded in his chest, his stomach growled at him, his legs became weak. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and he wasn't sure if the weakness was fright or hypoglycemia. He chuckled at his stupidity for not eating and made a mental note to steal something from the fridge before he left. Then again, he thought, considering what Will did in the house, Carl decided to check for something pre-packaged.
He began to rummage through the room, looking for something, anything that might give him an idea where Will would go after escaping his father's house.
*****
At the hospital, Nicole and Simone went to recovery to see Paul. They were granted access through police security and were escorted into the room by one of the officers. The officer stood back allowing the two women to get closer to Paul's bed.
Paul's eyes w
ere closed, the monitor overhead attached to him, beeped with each heartbeat. He sensed as Nicole approached. With tired eyes, he looked at her, still feeling the effects of the anesthetics from surgery. His right-hand slide across the bed for Nicole. She had already begun to cry, hand trembling, she took hold of his hand and squeezed tightly. He gave her a faint smile; his mouth was dry, his lips stuck together.
"You OK?" she asked softly.
He nodded, "A little pain."
"They told me what happened. Maybe someone is telling you to lose a little weight." She squeezed his hand tighter. "When you get out, we can both lose a few pounds. We'll do it together."
"Deal." Paul was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open and slowly drifted back to sleep.
*****
Carl sat on the floor, newspapers scattered on the floor, books open, the two chairs overturned. He was exhausted, hungry and close to collapsing. Looking around the room, he wondered what he had missed. Everything had been opened, examined and scrutinized. There was nothing left in the room that hadn't been inspected. He was certain the police would arrest him, detain him or something worse for breaking into the house. He fell flat on the floor, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Sleep, he thought, should come easy. The ceiling was a pale shade of white, no texture, allowing the shadows of the sun to run unobstructed across the top of the room. His eyes felt heavy; his mind could no longer concentrate as he began to nod off. For a while, he fought the body's need for sleep, but in the end, he gave in.
He wasn't sure how long he laid there, but when he opened his eyes, the room was entirely cast in shadows. The sun was high in the sky, over the house, he had been asleep for at least a few hours. Carl stood, stretched, relieved he hadn't yet been discovered. Looking around the room, he felt a sense of disappointment that his only lead had not yielded any results. He thought about cleaning up then decided against it. Walking towards the hallway, he cast the room one last glance, frowned and closed the door. The door immediately swung open as Carl entered and found the item that caught his eye. He had looked at the framed photograph on the wall a dozen times as he ransacked the room, but it wasn't until now he realized it was what he was looking for.
He stood in front of the photographs in a beautifully ornate wooden frame. Studying the images, he realized how passionate Will was. The mat was cut to showcase two different pictures; one was a larger, black and white, version of the colored photo found in the freezer. The second was taken at a gravesite on a sunny day. The headstone was centered, fleshly cut violets laid carefully at the base, the grass lovingly manicured, the name and dates clearly visible: Evelyn Fleischmann, Born June 14, 1952, Died August 3, 2015. An oval porcelain picture of his mother was affixed to the headstone between the dates. It was hard to see, but Carl moved in closer, squinted and saw that the picture on the headstone was the same as the picture above and from the freezer. The woman in the freezer was meant to look like Will's mother.
*****
Will sat against the headstone, knees curled up; his arms wrapped his legs. He scanned the area; he was certain no one had followed him, he was alone with his mother. He always felt at ease, comfortable speaking with her. There was so much to say, thinking about what he wanted to tell her, how he needed to tell her.
He spoke to himself in a soft voice, barely audible, "You probably already know, Dad is dead, or at least I think he's dead. This girl I was seeing killed him." He laughed, "Or tried to anyway. He always was a stubborn 'ol fart. That was something I never would've seen coming. Like holy shit Mom. Right outta the blue. You would've liked her too, Mom. She was a lot like me," he laughed out loud, "Maybe too much like me."
He adjusted his position on the ground to face his mother's headstone. Will stroked the side of the stone, a sad smile came to his face realizing he missed his mother. It had been years since he had seen his mother and missed her more each time he thought of her. His hand slid across the headstone to the centre ceramic picture of his mother, his finger circling its rim. "I miss you, Mom."
Will heard the grass crunch as a group walked passed and settle around another headstone. They stood in rank, facing the stone, heads down, mumbling a prayer in unison. He watched as they prayed to their God, a prayer to help keep their deceased loved one at peace. "A waste of time," he mumbled to himself. "Idiots."
As the group finished saying their goodbyes, Will turned back to his mother, jumping back when he came face to face with Carl. He stood motionless over Will, hands in his jacket pocket, staring directly at him.
Carl's voice was calm and soft, "Don't worry, I'm here alone." He paused, then laughed. "Not the most intelligent thing to say, is it?" He cast a coy smile, "How's the stitches?"
Will looked down at his injury, rolling his hand over. He had forgotten about the wound, "Fine. You and the doc did a great job. Thanks, by the way."
Carl squatted low, reached for the injured hand. Will didn't resist as Carl took hold and examined the stitches. "A few let go. You should put a bandage on it. Keep it clean." An obvious observation but he was nervous coming face to face with the man who earlier in the day tried to freeze him to death.
"Why did you come to my house?" Will kept his injured hand close to his body.
"A story. Plain and simple, I wanted your story. THE story." Carl held his hand out as if to say everything was alright, that he had forgiven him, as he lowered himself to the ground. Crossing his legs, the two men were about four feet apart. "I'm a reporter," his hand still outstretched.
Will laughed loudly, "Seriously?"
Carl pulled his hand as he shook his head, laughing, "Yup. Seriously, I'm a reporter. I'd like to think I'm better than I actually am but that's up for debate." He raised his eyebrows. "Your dad was sorta my mentor," realizing that in another universe, another time, quite possibly, the man before him could've been a friend. "Carl Kadner," he extended his hand again.
They shook.
Carl slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, showing it to Will. "I'd like to record your story if you'd permit me?" He nodded.
Carl opened the recording app and placed the phone on the grass between them.
"Why?" Carl asked.
"Why, what?" Will seemed surprised by the question, not expecting to be asked such a direct question.
"I think it's a good starting question, an honest question. Why do you do it?"
Will thought for a moment, the reason that the reporter wanted to hear didn't come easily. The answer should've rolled off his tongue. Thinking about the first life he took, the reasons why, maybe it was only one reason. "I missed her." It seemed as if that was the only reason.
"Who?"
"My mother." He looked at Carl as if the answer was self-evident. "I didn't know my father. I mean I knew who he was, what he was, what he made me. I was the bastard child of his affair with my mother."
"Your father told me about a woman he loved more than anything. But he was married, he also said that he could never be with her. Was your mother that woman?"
Carl could see how Will was affected. The man who killed for the sake of his mother, had tears welling up, his lower lip quivered, he rung his hands, too embarrassed to face the man across from him. With his head low, he whispered, "My mother was the only person in the world to my father. I was, I don't know, an inconvenience I guess. An excuse for him to stop by. If things happen in this world for a reason, he got my mother pregnant so that he had an excuse to stop by and see her and pretend he cared about me. He would bring me a gift each time he stopped by but never spent any time with me, never came to my school, never treated me like a son."
Even with his head hung low, Carl could see the tears streaming down Will's face.
"He paid for everything, our house, food, education, everything, gave me everything but what a young man always wants from his father." He wiped his face with the back of his hand then faced Carl, "Do you know my mother never dated another man, never so much as looked at another man, and she cried
each and every time that man left. And I hated her for that. She was weak. I hated him, and I wanted my mother to have someone who would be there for her the way she was there for me. I wanted her to leave my father behind."
"Did she?"
"No," his answer was barely audible. "She died alone, I came home, found her on the kitchen floor. She had cancer and didn't tell anyone. Kept it a secret until the day she died. She was good at keeping secrets." He sniffled. "If you can love someone your whole life and then suddenly hate that person, well, I hated her. I hated her for a long time until I realized she kept that secret to keep me from worrying about her." Will paused, he was deep in thought, gone far away.
"What happened to you?"
Will snapped out of it, "What happened to me?" he laughed. "I missed her. I missed her so much. I had a handful of photographs, old ones, the way I remembered her when I was growing up. I wanted her back. I wanted something back. Something tactile," he held his hand in the air, palm side up, fingers wiggling back and forth. "I needed to feel her, touch her, hold her. So, I started to make her alive, well to me anyway. I needed to be with her again. Does that sound crazy? I'm not mad; I know what I did was wrong. But, if you do something out of love, is it still wrong?" Will looked at him, expecting an answer.
Carl thought carefully before saying anything, "I'm the wrong person to ask. I'm not in charge of determining what's right and what's wrong. I'm not entirely innocent myself." He waited to see if Will would respond, he didn't. He sat there, head down, a runny nose, a look of guilt on his face. "I was in the freezer with her. I saw her. Well, you put me there, so you know that. When the police were going over the room, they found what looks like egg on the body."
Will laughed, "I get mad at my mother. I get so mad at her for leaving, for not telling me, for not getting treatment. Maybe she would've lived. I lost my temper," his words trembled as he spoke. "I think God is getting back at me. He knows what I've done is wrong, to those girls and to my mother. I believe he gave me an aneurysm and it might burst today. Maybe today is my day."