A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  “A no-smoking blues club.” Cannonball Walker shook his head. “What the hell they gonna do to us next?” The old bluesman had joined Scott between sets. The two men sat drinking bourbon. They were surrounded by a Pima-cotton sea of martini sippers. Recorded music floated through a dozen speakers.

  Scott asked, “What's that they're playing now?”

  The old musician sipped his bourbon, balancing the edge of the glass against a creased lower lip and tipping the whisky onto his tongue. “Clapton.” His sharp features remained impassive. “Trying to sound black.”

  “Yeah, well, ‘trying to sound black' is a pretty good description of most music these days, isn't it?”

  “Lotsa good blues players, jazz, too, lots of 'em white. Most of 'em from the South, though. At least Chicago.” Walker shook his head. “Guess I oughta be happy all these lawyers and stock brokers wanna . . . do whatever it is they're doin' here.”

  Scott sipped his bourbon. Fire rolled down his throat. The scent of woodsmoke saturated his sinuses. Fire and smoke. He'd only ordered the stuff because Walker had, but, sip by sip, it was definitely growing on him. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you again for picking me up the other night.”

  Walker kept his eyes on the tabletop as he nodded his head.

  Scott decided to dive in. “Why'd you tell me not to go up that dirt road where you found me? Have you been up there before?”

  “I didn't tell you what to do. Just said I wouldn't go up in there if I was you. And, no, I ain't never been up that road.” The old man paused to take a long pull at his drink. “Been up plenty of roads like it. Just not that one.”

  Walker's glass was empty. Scott pointed at it, and the old man nodded. The waitress was already there when he turned. She said, “Two more?”

  Scott said, “At least,” and she flashed the bright smile of one who works for tips. Scott turned back to Walker. “What do you mean, you've been up roads like it?”

  Walker shook his head. All he said was “Plain old evil.”

  “What was evil?”

  “You was standing in a cloud of evil. Why I stopped.” Cannonball Walker moved his eyes over the younger man's face. “You think I'm full of shit, don't you?”

  Scott shook his head and shifted in his chair. This was not a man he wanted to insult. “No, I don't. That's your belief system. I respect that. It's just . . .”

  “A superstitious old man from down South don't understand that evil is some kinda boogeyman made up by people to explain the bad stuff life dumps on us?”

  “Well . . .” Scott took a deep breath. “Yeah. I don't think evil exists. People are bundles of genetic and environmental influences. Every few months, some researcher ties one more form of aberrant behavior to a chemical or biological trigger.” The waitress sat two thick glasses of Black Jack Daniel's on the table and took away Walker's empty. Scott looked from the waitress to Walker, whose young eyes seemed to have grown older, before going on. “All that stuff—hormones, brain chemicals, bad experiences—can, when they get messed up, work together to produce some bizarre behavior. People can do horrible things to each other. But, no, I don't believe in the concept of actual evil as a force or entity. And, no disrespect intended, I don't see how anybody can feel the presence of—”

  “Why didn't you walk up that road? Tell me that, Doc. I could hear voices and some kinda music when I rolled down my window.” He paused to drink some bourbon. “You was out there all alone. Had your car stolen. 'Bout to freeze your nuts off. Tell me, what kept you from walkin' up that little road and joinin' the party?”

  Scott rolled amber whisky around in his glass. A flickering flame, from the candle in the center of the table, played across the swirling surface. A chill ran along his spine. “I don't know.”

  “Uh-huh.” The old man threw back his drink, and a wet cough pushed water into his eyes. “I don't know you, but . . . You're a shrink, right? Studyin' to be one?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, how you gonna help people who are hurtin' if all you see is brain chemicals when you look at 'em? You're a good boy, but you're standin' back too far. Sometimes you gotta get up close and smell the hurt, breathe in the evil on a body before you can help 'em.” He paused to scratch at salt-and-pepper hair with those long fingernails. “Too much talkin'.”

  “It might interest you to know that one of the most famous shrinks in the country, a man named Phil Reynolds, told me pretty much the same thing this afternoon while he was reaming me out about a pain-in-the-ass patient I've got.”

  “I'm givin' advice, but old men don't know everything.”

  Scott looked up from his drink. Candlelight fired Walker's black irises. “I know.”

  The old man said, “Maybe.”

  “And about you being from ‘down South,' I was born in Birmingham. Lived there until I was ten.”

  Walker nodded. “Time for the next set.” He stood. “You gonna stay around?”

  “Someone's meeting me here.”

  “A woman?”

  Scott smiled. “Yes. A woman. From the hospital.”

  The old bluesman grinned. “Well, at least you got that right. You do believe in pussy, don't you, boy?”

  Scott colored a little, and Walker took the stage. The old man picked up a battered Les Paul and pulled the leather strap over his head. Some unseen hand turned a spot on him. White curls sparkled in his hair like the glitter that spelled out Cannonball Walker in vertical lettering on the black strap that ran from his shoulder to the neck of his Gibson.

  Leaning into the mike, Walker said, “This one's called ‘Don't Answer the Door.' B.B. King had some luck with it.” He grinned at his audience. “But I do it better.”

  The old man's fingers sat flat on the strings, something like the way Thelonious Monk played piano, but the sound was rich and precise. He began, “Woman I don't want a soul, hanging around my house when I'm not at home.”

  A nearer voice said, “I couldn't find you,” and Kate Billings pulled out the chair vacated by Cannonball Walker. “It's darker in here than out in the street.” She wore jeans and some kind of shiny, clingy blouse. Her hairstyle was a little edgier than Scott had ever seen it at the hospital.

  “Glad you could make it. You're early. I thought Patricia Hunter would have you there till four in the morning fluffing pillows. Maybe brewing herbal tea or something.”

  “No. Actually, I think I'm gonna like this personal nursing thing. I gave Mrs. Hunter her meds, waited thirty minutes, then asked if I could leave a little early.” She laughed. “Worked like a charm.” She nodded at the stage. “Is this the man you told me about?”

  “He's the one.” Scott paused to listen to Walker pick out a heartbreaking bridge. “Great, isn't he?”

  Kate wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I'm kinda into eighties music right now.”

  “Knew there had to be something wrong with you.”

  Kate listened for a few seconds. “Sorry. I don't get it.” The waitress appeared at Scott's elbow, and Kate ordered a “Blue Aztec.”

  Scott asked, “What's that?”

  Disdain colored the waitress's smile. “It's a martini, sir.”

  Kate ignored her. “Scott? You're not a wannabe, are you? I dated a guy like that last year who drove me crazy. Nothing's more embarrassing than a white boy in a do-rag saying ‘whack' every other sentence.”

  “No, no. I've been white my whole life. Had a lot of time to get used to it.”

  Kate seemed to understand that Scott had been kidding; so she showed her teeth.

  Scott added, “You don't have to wanna be anything to appreciate classic American music.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. Listen, what was going on with you and Dr. Reynolds today? You both looked like . . . Well, both of you looked pissed is how you looked. What was that about?”

  Scott paused while the waitress set an oversized, fluorescent blue martini in front of Kate. He was glad for the interruption, since he had no intention of sharing the det
ails of his humiliating meeting with Reynolds, and the pause gave him time to think. “It was,” he said, “about a patient. No big deal.”

  Kate took in a mouthful of blue martini. “It was about my private patient, wasn't it?”

  He nodded at her drink. “What the hell's in that thing?”

  “You're trying to avoid my question.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Okay, okay.” She turned toward the stage. “Guess I'm going to have to listen to some ‘classic American music,' whether I want to or not.”

  Kate made it through “The Thrill Is Gone,” “Hummingbird,” and a newer song called “Every Loser in Town Knows My Name.”

  That was all she could take. “I know you're enjoying this, Scott, but I came here by cab. Could you give me a ride home?”

  He smiled. “Absolutely. I'm sorry tonight was a bust.”

  “Cute guy who likes geeky music beats the reverse every time. Let's just stick to movies or dinner in the future.” She leaned closer. “That's my sneaky way of asking you to ask me out again, in case you didn't pick up on that.”

  “You're just so subtle.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled and ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “That's me.”

  Scott stood, caught Cannonball Walker's eye, and mouthed the word Sorry. As he spoke, Scott moistened his thumb and forefinger in bourbon, then reached out to snuff out the candle on his table.

  CHAPTER 6

  Charles Hunter was used to getting what he wanted. At least he was nice about it. “Thank you for seeing me on Sunday afternoon, Doctor.”

  Reynolds nodded, and his white eyebrows bunched on either side of deep furrows above his nose. “I always think it's important to meet with family members whenever possible. Especially a spouse.” The truth was that Charles Hunter could have requested a midnight hot-tub meeting with Phil Reynolds and he would have gotten it. The man had not only designed the new children's wing, he had kicked back his fees as a donation to the pediatric cancer center.

  Nice begets courtesy. Nice with lots of money begets anything it wants.

  Charles cut to the chase. “How's Patricia doing?”

  Reynolds's eyebrows bunched harder, then floated apart. “Your wife is a difficult case. To be perfectly candid, Mrs. Hunter does not exhibit the classic signs of clinical depression. She has a good appetite, and we've noticed no problem with her sleeping. No insomnia, and she doesn't seem to use sleep as an escape.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  Reynolds held up a palm. “If I may.”

  Charles nodded and settled back in his chair.

  “Your wife is not clinically depressed. But she is exhibiting symptoms of mild paranoia, which manifest themselves in rather . . . This is an uncomfortable thing to tell you. But her relationship with the world is, let's say, stunted. She feels under siege.” Reynolds tried to judge the effect his words were having on the architect. He couldn't.

  Seconds passed before Charles Hunter spoke. “Has Patricia told you that I've asked for a divorce?”

  “No. I'm very sorry to hear that.”

  Hunter nodded. “Doctor, what you just described are my wife's good traits. Patricia's a beautiful woman. I married her too soon after my first wife's death. Told myself it was for my daughter, Sarah. Trey, my son, was fourteen, but Sarah was only seven and needed a mother. My first wife, Jennie, and I didn't have any more children after Trey was born, not for a long time. I was working hard, and Jennie had gone back to school for her master's. Anyway, Sarah was born when I was thirty-six. Six years later, she'd lost her mother. I, of course, had lost my best friend—sappy as that may sound. Jennie and I met freshman year of college.”

  Reynolds didn't speak. He had been trained not to.

  “Anyway, I'm just telling you this to explain that, when Jennie died, I hadn't been on a date with another woman since fall of my freshman year at the University of Chicago.” He stopped talking, as if his point about Patricia had been made.

  “It's tough for the living to compete with the dead. Maybe you could find a way to have a different kind of life than you had with Jennie. Maybe . . .”

  “Damn it, Doctor!” Hunter snapped at Reynolds just as someone's fist bumped at the office door.

  Reynolds said, “Yes?”

  The door opened and a plump, redheaded nurse stuck her head inside. “I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor. But Mr. Hunter has a phone call. They said it was urgent.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia.” He turned to Hunter. “You can take it in here. I'll step outside.”

  As Reynolds rose and walked around the desk, his guest stood and touched his elbow. “I apologize for my tone a minute ago. This has been a difficult time. Patricia says she's here because she lost a stepson. She never seemed to notice that I lost a son, or that she'd left me alone to deal with that loss and to explain to my ten-year-old daughter why, after losing her mother, her brother had to die, too. And”—tears welled in his eyes—“explain to a little girl why her stepmother has suddenly deserted all of us. My son was my life, Doctor. More talented even than me at his age. Straight As since the first grade and a wonderful athlete. A track star. Still in high school, and my alma mater, the University of Chicago, had already offered him a scholarship to study art next summer in Rome.” He paused to breathe deeply. “My son. Trey. A kid. A beautiful seventeen-year-old kid with the world at his feet.”

  Reynolds reached up to pat Hunter's shoulder. “I'll be outside.” Hunter punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. As the doctor closed his office door, he heard the architect clear the emotion from his voice before saying “It was stupid to call me here.”

  Reynolds moved away from the door. He had no wish to hear more.

  Exactly one hour and thirty-five minutes after midnight, bright yellow light from the hallway cut a gash across Patricia Hunter's dark room. She stirred. A hand covered in latex pushed the door shut with a quiet thud, quickly followed by the click of the knob mechanism locking into place. There was no further movement, no other sound, until Patricia's breathing returned to a deep and even rhythm. A small, dry snore punctuated her every few breaths.

  For long minutes, nothing happened. Then came the whispered friction of latex against cloth. A glowing green line began to radiate from the edges of a pocket at the intruder's side; then a latex-wrinkled hand emerged, holding the kind of chemical glow stick that tiny ghosts and goblins carry on Halloween night. Just the small, radiant ends of the stick protruded from a fist that seemed to float through the room without benefit of a supporting arm or body. It stopped at Patricia's bedside table and gently laid the light stick beside the remote control. Now, as the full length of the stick came uncovered, an eerie glow washed the room, and the shape of the intruder stood dark and motionless above Patricia's sleeping form.

  In one swift movement, the dark presence leapt onto the bed, jammed a knee on either side of Patricia's blanketed arms, and snatched a hospital pillow from beneath her head. The sleeping woman started and gasped in air to scream, but the pillow had already sealed her mouth and nostrils and her muffled scream died inside polyester fill. The pillowcase scratched her lips and tongue; the faint yet bitter taste of laundry detergent flooded her mouth and licked at the back of her throat. She gagged and twisted against the covers, fighting and clawing against the dark form pinning her down. Tears flowed into the pillow along with her screams until she vomited and choked and vomited again. Patricia Hunter gagged once more and lost consciousness.

  The murderer remained as still as the murdered—two human forms frozen in place as exactly 240 seconds were silently and methodically counted off inside the only conscious mind in the room. Finally, the latex-gloved fingers of one hand moved away from the pillow to press against Patricia's jugular. Her flesh felt warm but held no more life than butcher's meat.

  The killer climbed down off of Patricia Hunter's corpse, lifted the covers, and fished out her left hand, which was then briefly placed inside a white plastic sleeve. Aft
er returning the plastic sleeve to a coat pocket, the murderer picked up the green light stick and quietly exited the room.

  As the door clicked shut, the digital clock at the nurses' station read 1:41 A.M.

  CHAPTER 7

  Scott's phone rang at 3:00 A.M. He fumbled in the dark for the receiver, picked it up, and said, “Yes? Hello?”

  “Patricia Hunter is dead. Murdered, we think. Come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

  “What?”

  The caller said, “As soon as possible, Scott.”

  Scott managed to get out “Could you repeat . . .” before he heard a click and the line went dead. He lay in bed and thought of calling back but didn't even know who had called. He reached over to click on the bedside lamp. Fifteen minutes later, Scott Thomas cranked his Land Cruiser and pulled out onto Welder Avenue.

  Four Boston Police cruisers were parked near the main entrance when he arrived at the hospital. He drove by and pulled into the parking deck.

  Inside the hospital corridors, a couple of nurses called his name as he hurried to the psych floor without stopping. When the elevator opened on the twelfth floor, a plainclothes officer intercepted him. Three questions later, Scott was ushered to a doctors' conference room. As Scott stepped inside, Dr. Reynolds placed a phone into its cradle on the credenza and spoke to a second policeman. “She's not answering.” Reynolds nodded at Scott without speaking.

  The cop ignored Scott existence as he jotted something in a small notebook. “What time did . . .” He flipped back a page. “What time did Kate Billings get off work last night?”

  Phil Reynolds scratched a thumbnail across a day's worth of white stubble on his jaw. “She works an overlapping shift. That, uh, means not a regular shift—you know eight, four, twelve. Kate's here five days a week from noon till eight P.M.”

  The cop kept writing. “What days?”

  “It varies, I think. I could check for you, but I know she was here yesterday.”

  “That's okay. We're gonna need to talk to her tomorrow, though.”