A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  “Bobby doesn't talk. He can. Does when he wants to. He can. But he doesn't. Ooh, though. Tell Scott to be careful. Bobby's a strange one. Always the smartest. Don't be fooled about that. Even as babies, always the smart one. Just different now. Seared by the flame of redemption. Licked by the fires of hell. Licked hot and crazy. Be careful, they said. Be careful.”

  “Scott's smart, too, Mrs. Thomas. You'd be very proud of him.”

  “There's smart and smart. Smartest rabbit on earth nothing but dinner to a fox. Nothing but blood on the ground and meat in the belly.”

  Cannonball kept his voice low. “Why is Bobby in Boston, Nancy? Your nurse said he left a few weeks ago after another man came by to see you.”

  Nancy had worked forward in her chair so that her pretty face floated only inches from Cannonball's hard features, but now she leaned back and sighed. “I need to sleep now. Come back tomorrow and sing me a song.”

  By the time Cannonball got to his feet, Nancy Thomas had closed her eyes. By the time he left the small room, she had begun a soft and steady snore.

  The nurse never showed again.

  He let himself out, walked between neat rows of dark monkey grass, and turned down the sidewalk on Roseland Drive. Poking around in his pocket, he came out with the cell phone Scott had sent to him. The old man punched in Scott's number at the motel in Boston and, for a long time, stood and looked at the numbers. But he never pushed the SEND button. Instead, Cannonball Walker punched END, then entered the number of the cab company. He glanced up at the street sign, gave the address, and asked them to please come get him.

  Scott packed up his motel room while Natalie hunkered in the car out front, watching for cops, for Click, for whatever. Her nerves hummed. Her eyes jumped at every passing car. Her breath caught up short every time someone turned into the parking lot. Scott was gone five minutes—one minute up, three minutes to throw everything in boxes, and a minute down. The time stretched Natalie's nerves to exhaustion.

  Scott tossed two boxes in back and climbed in. Natalie put the car in drive. “I can't wait to get into my own bed. God.”

  “Natalie?” He paused. “I don't think your bed is a good place to be tonight if you want a full night's sleep. Maybe it'll be tomorrow before the cops put Dr. Reynolds together with a former protégé accused of murder and a disgruntled employee who he disciplined earlier today for having sex in her office.” Scott looked over to examine her face. “Maybe they'll never put it together.”

  Natalie smiled, but there was no pleasure in it. “That's bullshit, and you know it. It may not be tonight, but they'll link us to Reynolds soon enough.”

  “But if they do put it together tonight, you're probably going to get a visit.”

  “So what? We're covered. We've got Reynolds on CD saying he had an affair with Kate Billings. He admitted he gave her access to the hospital's computer system. We can tie Reynolds to Kate and both of them to Click. And—”

  Scott shrugged. “And what? What does that prove about who killed Patricia Hunter? And more important, what does it say about who had a motive to shoot Reynolds tonight?”

  “Click and Kate, that's who.”

  “And us.”

  “Huh?” She spoke more slowly now. “How do you figure that?”

  “On the recording, he says he's willing to let me go down the river for the murder, and he enters into a criminal conspiracy with you to hide his dealings with Click. Think about it. You secretly record him one night, and he gets killed the next. I mean, I'm just spitballing here, but it's not out of the question for the cops to figure it was a criminal conspiracy gone bad.”

  “That's kind of a leap, Scott.”

  “I feel like I'm trying too hard to convince you that we're in this together. But I want you to know what's coming. Or, at least, what I think is coming.” He hesitated. “You were there at Reynolds's murder. So was I. The cops checked our driver's licenses and made notes. We were there at his murder, Natalie. And if somebody saw me jump out of your car and rush Dr. Reynolds just before he was shot—”

  She interrupted. “Or saw me drop you off and then drive by Reynolds just as the shot was fired.” Natalie gulped for air. “I need to pull over.” Scott reached across to steady the wheel. When they had rolled to a stop, she popped the transmission into park and leaned forward to rest her forehead on the cool top of the steering wheel.

  “I'm sorry.” Scott stroked her back. “I know that's not much from someone who's ruined you life. But I am sorry.”

  Natalie leaned back in her seat. As she did, Scott began to pull his hand away, and she reached out for it. She wrapped both of her hands around his and held it against her breasts. It was a gesture more intimate than sexual. Holding tight to his hand, she said, “You asked for help. I could have said no. When the police came to the hospital that first night, you tried to get me to run out screaming so you could let them arrest you.” She squeezed his hand. “I not only said no, I yanked down your pants and told you to kiss me when the cops came in.”

  “Natalie . . .”

  “Hush. Just be quiet and listen. It was my idea to record Dr. Reynolds. And, last but not least, I'm the one who insisted on going along when you went to the parking garage tonight. And I insisted on . . . what did I say? Giving it a ‘quick drive-by' to see who was waiting for you.

  “So.” She paused to take a deep breath, and Scott saw that she was crying. “What we have here is a woman who has chosen—every step of the way—to become more and more involved in your life and your problems. I guess the bottom line is that you're a friend, you're in trouble, and I've got something of a crush on you. And that's about how mature it seems, too. I've got a crush.” She tried to smile. “Pitiful, isn't it?”

  Scott's eyes moved over her face in the darkened car. “I just hope it hasn't ruined your life.”

  She let go of his hand and wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “No, no. I'm not that stupid. I helped you, Scott Thomas, because it was the right thing to do. The rest is just . . .”

  “Nice.”

  Natalie shot an anxious glance. “Is it?”

  “Yes. It is.” Scott smiled. “But it raises a question.”

  Now she smiled. “Why banish the subject of my girlish crush to the sofa?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “Because, Scott, I said I have a crush on you. I did not say that I'm a ho.” The tears had stopped. She looked tired but smiled a little. “It takes a certain number of dates—you know, invested time, shared interests, your basic outlay of cold hard cash—to move into the bedroom.”

  “So,” he said, “we there yet?”

  “We're close.” Natalie dropped the transmission into drive and pulled back out onto the street. “Yep.” She smiled softly again. “I have to say that we're damn close.”

  Scott leaned back against the seat to think. He knew that the flirtation was a defense mechanism, that Natalie had endured all she could, and that her brain had protected itself by replacing thoughts of desperation with something simpler—by substituting pleasant emotions for unpleasant. He also knew that people in shared danger develop unnaturally strong feelings for each other that would never exist under normal circumstances.

  He knew all this. But, still, the conversation had made him feel better. You can understand, intellectually, that love is nothing but a compendium of needs and still fall head over heels—not that he had, but there was definitely something.

  The neighborhood looked familiar. Scott sat forward. “Are you going to your apartment?”

  Natalie nodded. “If we're going to North Carolina, I need some things.”

  “Are you sure you want more of this?”

  “No.” She smiled again. “But I've gotta do something for the next two weeks. Remember? I got suspended from work for being a ho.”

  Scott laughed. “I thought you said you weren't a ho.”

  “Complicated, isn't it?”

  CHAPTER 39

  The remains of
a room service omelette cooled on the small table where Cannonball Walker sat with legs crossed and fingers drumming. He'd placed a call to John Pastings, and the old banker was keeping him holding.

  Canon would not hang up. He turned in his chair and looked out at the bright start of an unseasonably warm day. Soft green buds peppered the dark limbs of a willow oak on the street corner outside his window. Men in khakis and golf shirts, women in khakis and blazers, trotted up and down the steps of the gas company building across the street. “Business casual” had outfitted the world in khaki.

  “Mr. Walker?”

  Canon was caught by surprise after the long hold. “Uh. Yeah.”

  John Pastings asked, “Have you decided to let our attorneys have a look at that power of attorney?”

  “No. I don't expect that'd do much good, except maybe to let you drag things out. I called to ask you a question about Nancy Thomas.” He paused, but the old banker didn't speak. Canon wondered if it was his imagination that the fat man's breathing seemed to grow louder and more labored with the mention of Scott's mother. “You see, Mr. Pastings, I stopped by to see Nancy yesterday afternoon. It was a very informative visit.”

  Pastings coughed. “You have to understand something, Mr. Walker. You—you've got to know after visiting Nancy . . .” Pastings stumbled, seemingly unable to weave words into a complete sentence.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Pastings?”

  “Scott didn't need to know about his mother.” The banker was almost yelling. He paused to get his voice under control. “Not with her in that condition. And I don't mean her scars. No. I'm talking about her mind, Mr. Walker. What would Scott be today if he'd grown up with a crazy mother who preferred . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Cannonball finished the sentence for him. “Who preferred Bobby? Who preferred her crazy, burned-up son to her healthy one? Is that what you were gonna say?”

  Labored breathing filled the earpiece. “You're down here to stir up trouble, and I'm not going to be a part of it. Tell Scott what you will, Mr. Walker, but I won't be made a part of it. My hands are clean. I've done everything I could to help . . .”

  “Tell me about the embezzlement scheme, Mr. Pastings. What happened to make Robert Thomas set fire to his home with his family sleepin' inside?”

  The line turned silent—not even Pastings's heavy breathing sounded against the hum of the connection. Either he was gone or he'd moved the mouthpiece away from his face.

  “Mr. Pastings? You there?”

  Seconds passed before Cannonball heard a soft click as Pastings placed his phone into its cradle.

  The old bluesman sat and looked at the receiver in his hand. He dropped it back onto its base, and the phone rang almost immediately.

  Cannon picked up the phone. “Mr. Pastings?”

  “It's me. Scott. What's going on down there?”

  Cannonball looked out again at the budding oak. “Still tryin' to get somethin' worth listenin' to out of John Pastings over at the bank. Findin' out some things. Ain't ready to put it all together yet.”

  “But you're finding out enough to make it worth staying a few more days. Is that what you're saying?”

  The old man ran a thickly veined hand across the tight salt-and-pepper curls on his scalp. “I guess that's about the size of it.”

  “I'm coming South. Everything's leading us that way.”

  “You comin' to Alabama?”

  “No, no. To North Carolina. Kate Billings is there.”

  Cannonball snorted. “That one's no good. Wears evil like angel's wings.”

  Scott paused as Cannonball's picture of Kate formed in his mind. He said, “The cops may be looking for me. Dr. Reynolds—my boss at the hospital—got shot last night. I was there when he died.”

  “Some folks get the stink of bad luck on 'em and can't get clean.” The old man sounded disgusted.

  “That supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Shit, Doc. Damn wonder I believe a word you're sayin'. Hell, me sayin' you're carryin' around the stink of bad luck may be about the nicest thing anybody could say about you right now. It's either that or you're the most evil sonofabitch I ever run across.”

  “You don't believe me?”

  “If I didn't, I wouldn't be down here puttin' up with all the shit I'm puttin' up with from John Pastings to try to help you out. No, Doc. We're just callin' a spade a spade, here. You're an unlucky sonofabitch.”

  Seconds passed. Finally, Scott said, “I don't believe in bad luck.”

  “That's too bad, boy, 'cause it sure as hell believes in you.”

  “What's got you so riled up, Cannonball? Is there something you're not telling me?”

  The old man looked out his window some more. He changed the subject. “How you gettin' to Carolina with the cops after you?”

  “I'm not sure. Fly, I guess. We need to get there as fast as possible.”

  “Doc.” The old bluesman dropped his head and rubbed hard at his scalp. “Fast and right ain't the same thing. Fast and good ain't, either.”

  “Yeah, but somebody needs to tell Charles Hunter that he's employing a maniac. Kate has already—”

  The old man interrupted. “She already showed she'll do anything to get next to Hunter. I don't think we gotta worry Charles Hunter until Kate is in his will.” Cannonball chuckled. “She might be tryin' to screw him to death. But other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Now, listen to me.” He paused. “Who's with you? Who is this ‘we' you're talkin' about?”

  “A woman from the hospital. Her name's Natalie Friedman. She helped me tie Kate Billings to Dr. Reynolds. She's . . . she's helped a lot.”

  The old man leaned back against the bed pillows. “You thinkin' with your dick again, Doc? Your track record with women ain't exactly awe-inspirin'. If you'll remember, you thought Kate Billings was helpin' you, too.”

  “I appreciate what you're doing for me down there, Cannonball. But—”

  “But mind my own fuckin' business.”

  “Basically.”

  “Okay, okay. Didn't mean to offend.” Both men let some time pass. “Get back to how you're plannin' to travel. For what it's worth, I don't believe I'd be buyin' an airline ticket with the cops lookin' for me.” He paused to think. “Tell you what. Grab a train to New York. Get a cab to the Madison Hotel on Central Park. There's a garage two blocks behind the hotel. My car is there. I know the owner. He'll know you're comin'.”

  Scott sighed. “You want me to take your car?”

  “What I want . . .” The old man stopped to sigh now himself. “What I want is for you to slow the hell down and think. Drive down the coast. Talk things over with your woman friend. Stop along the way and get some rest, get some pussy. But mostly just take the time to fuckin' think. Folks might stop droppin' dead all around you if you stopped and used that big brain you're supposed to have before you jumped in every pile of shit you come across.” Cannonball paused. “You can consider not gettin' your ass arrested at the Boston airport as an added benefit. And,” he said, “my thirty-eight's in the glove compartment of the car.”

  “I don't want it.”

  “Yeah.” The old man sounded tired. “But you might need it.”

  Scott pushed the END button on Natalie's cell phone just as she walked out of the motel bathroom. She smiled. “You get him?”

  “I got him.”

  She crossed the brown shag rug and sat on the rumpled bed next to Scott. Her hair was damp and smelled of shampoo. She wore a white towel, tucked in at her cleavage. “You look pitiful. What'd he say?”

  Without thought, Scott reached over and rested his hand on the smooth skin of her thigh. “Let's see. I've got the stink of bad luck on me, I think with my dick, and I need to stop and think instead of jumping in every pile of shit I see.” He nodded at the rug. “I think that's about it.”

  Natalie laughed; then she leaned over to kiss him lightly on the lips before standing. “Sounds like a good friend.” She smiled at Scott'
s discomfort. “Any advice?”

  “He said not to fly. Cannonball's car is in New York. He strongly suggested we drive down if we don't want to get arrested.”

  “Really?” Natalie picked up an overnight bag and walked back toward the bathroom. “I can't wait to meet this guy.”

  Sarah Hunter climbed onto the deck of the Boston Whaler and turned to wave to Kate. The boat putted away, hauling five island kids to school on the mainland. As the captain pointed his boat away from the morning sun, the little girl ran to the transom and called out. “Kate? Kate!”

  Kate waved again.

  “Daddy's coming home.” The child's face glowed.

  Her nanny smiled and flashed a thumbs-up before turning to walk away. She had work to do. The homecoming had to be perfect. Kate was glad that Sarah had piloted her little sailboat without incident—that she, the loving nanny, hadn't had reason to call Charles in Boston with news of his daughter's accident. It was better this way, really. Too much tragedy too soon could have sent Charles Hunter spiraling down into insanity or drunkenness. Neither of which would do anyone any good. Neither of which, she thought, would do me any good.

  She climbed into Charles's ragtop Jeep and cranked the engine.

  The day moved slowly back inside the spotless house. Groceries from the mainland were delivered late morning. Kate prepared a marinade for the tenderloin of lamb, placing the spices in a straight line at the top of her cutting board before starting, washing each bowl and utensil as she used it. The tenderloin went into sealed Tupperware with the marinade, the Tupperware into the fridge.

  Too early to start cutting vegetables, she opted instead to carefully wash the asparagus and broccolini, the Portobello mushrooms and baby carrots. Each stalk scrubbed under running water, the underside of each mushroom cap washed until the water ran clear, and then each piece set in a stainless colander to drain before joining its brethren in Ziploc bags. At exactly 2:00 P.M., Kate mixed yeast dough for homemade rolls. Precisely fifteen minutes later, she placed the dough in an opaque glass bowl, covered the bowl with a damp cloth, and put the bowl on a cleared shelf in the laundry room where the afternoon sun always warmed the air.