Random Road

by Thomas Kies

  I glanced around the kitchen. Everything was where it should be when Kevin arose. This would be the first time I’d ever cooked anything for him.

  But it would have to wait.

  That wealthy little weasel Jimmy Fitzgerald was going to turn on his friends and take a deal, I just knew it. There was no way I was going to let that son of a bitch catch a ride on this.

  I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the bed next to where Kevin was still sleeping. I leaned down and kissed his cheek.

  He slowly opened his eyes and smiled at me.

  “Morning, sleepy head.”

  “Morning,” he answered in a hoarse growl. “What time is it?”

  The tiny light on my alarm was still blinking so I quickly consulted my watch. “Around ten.”

  He groaned and sat up. “I never sleep this late.”

  “You must have been comfortable.”

  He smiled. “Very.”

  “Hey, I was going to make us breakfast, but I’ve got to go out and cover something. I won’t be long, how about you just laze about here and I’ll scramble some eggs when I get back?”

  He gently put his hand on my waist. “Nice idea.” His voice was still heavy with sleep. “But I want to give Caroline a big hug and then I’ve got to get the Bond-mobile back to the rental company.”

  There was something in his voice when he talked about hugging his daughter that struck me as odd. He’d told me that she was spending the night at Aunt Ruth’s so I knew she was safe.

  I shrugged it off. “Can we connect later this afternoon?”

  His fingers pushed tighter into my waist, and he gave a slight bob of the head. “Sure.”

  I frowned and slid off the bed. “Okay then. I’m going to run.”

  “Genie?”

  “Yeah?”

  His eyes locked onto mine. “I love you…don’t you forget.”

  I smiled. “Love you too.”

  As I walked out of the house, into the rain, I was struck by a vague uneasiness. Something wasn’t right and I couldn’t quite get my hands on it. But hopping into my car, I quickly chalked it up to the depressing weather.

  It took me twenty minutes to get to the wooden bridge leading to Connor’s Landing. The door to the guard’s shack swung open and a figure came out dressed in a blue slicker and a baseball cap with the Aztec Security logo on the front. I was a little disappointed to see that it wasn’t Donnie Burke, the elderly gentleman who’d been working the night of the murders.

  I rolled down the window and the guard asked, “Who are you here to see?” He was of medium height and young, maybe in his late twenties. There was blond stubble on his face and his eyes were bloodshot like he’d been up all night. He had in his hand the ubiquitous clipboard.

  “Becky Elroy.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “Hey, where’s Donnie Burke?”

  He looked up from the clipboard and into my eyes. “You know Donnie?”

  “Yeah, he’s a great guy.” I was hoping to distract him from calling the Elroy residence to see if they were expecting a guest.

  He took a long breath and exhaled. “Apparently, he had some chest pains last night and they rushed him to the hospital.”

  “Oh my God, is he okay?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything. This is Donnie’s shift. I’ve been here since eleven last night ’cause the company hasn’t found someone who can fill in.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry.” I dredged up as much sympathy as I could muster. “Hey, am I good to go?”

  He waved his hand. “Oh yeah, yeah, you’re a friend a’ Donnie’s, you’re cool.”

  I drove through Checkpoint Aztec.

  I hadn’t planned to stop at the Chadwick house but as I drove slowly past it I could see that the yellow tape and the police cruisers were gone. Instead, two white vans marked with the Gold Coast Biohazard Specialists logo were parked in the driveway.

  Once the police finish a murder investigation, one of the most wrenching tasks facing the survivors and family is cleaning the crime scene. What’s left is often blood and tissue. Not only is it emotionally draining and traumatizing beyond the actual crime itself, but it’s literally considered a biohazard to be handled by professionals. I stopped my car and backed up. Then I pulled into the driveway and parked behind one of the vans. The unceasing precipitation made the dash from my Sebring to the front door uncomfortable and I wished that I’d brought an umbrella.

  Any other time I would have rung the doorbell, but instead, I tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. Letting myself in, the first thing I noticed was the pungent, throat-searing smell of chlorine and hospital-grade disinfectant that immediately made my eyes water.

  I closed the door quietly behind me and cupped my hand around my mouth and nose in a vain attempt to keep out the chemicals I was certain were burning my lungs. I walked gingerly through an entryway and into the living room bathed in the glow of intense floodlights where I found four figures in yellow haz-mat suits, filtration masks, and goggles ripping up the carpeting.

  One of them noticed me out of the corner of his eye. Pulling the mask away from his face, he asked, “Who are you?

  It took two full heartbeats before I answered, “Realtor.”

  He studied me carefully for a moment. “We’re not ready for you yet.”

  I figured I was on a roll. “The attorney for the estate asked if I’d come by and take a look. He’d like my opinion on an asking price.”

  “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us. This place ain’t near ready to show. This room is going to have to be completely repainted. There was blood everywhere.”

  I nodded. “That’s what I hear. Look, I just need to take a real quick look around. I promise to stay out of your way. Please?”

  The cleaner mulled that over for a couple of seconds, then slid the mask off and placed the goggles on the top of his head. He glanced around at the other three men and said, “Okay, let’s take fifteen. Give the lady a chance to look around.” The men on their knees stood up and they all slowly trudged out the front door and trotted out into the gray weather to their vans, leaving me in the living room alone with the project foreman. He held up hands to show me the rubber gloves he had on. “I’m Carl. I’d shake your hand, but right now it wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

  “Gotcha’, I’m Geneva Chase.” I glanced around the room remembering my source’s description. The room was huge, nearly the size of my entire apartment. The couches and plush pillows had been removed, as had the rest of the furniture. The fireplace was where he said it was, but there was a spot above it, a large, pale rectangle with wiring in the center, where a large-screen television must have been. The curtains had been taken down and a slate gray light pushed oppressively against the glass. Much of the carpeting had already been torn up, leaving exposed hardwood.

  The room felt completely devoid of life, sterile.

  “It was bad?” I asked.

  Carl frowned. “Bad as I’ve ever seen. Coroner got all the body parts up but there was still plenty of tissue in the carpeting and on the walls.”

  I sighed. “Any of the other rooms have any damage?”

  “The armory,” Carl answered. “No blood, just some broken glass.”

  “The armory.”

  “It’s where Mr. Chadwick kept his weapons collection.”

  “Can I see?”

  He nodded and led me to an adjoining door. Indeed, over the top of the doorjamb was a wooden coat of arms with a single word on it, Armory, in an Old English font.

  The walls were lush, dark wooden panels, like something you see in a castle. The windows were stained glass. Thick carpeting muted any sounds. Tall cabinets with glass doors displayed a dazzling array of antique pistols, rifles, muskets, knives, and swords. It wa
s like walking into a museum.

  Carl pointed to a cabinet across the room. “That glass was busted out and all over the floor. Cops cleaned that up. They think that maybe two of the swords in that exhibit right there were taken the night of the murders.”

  I stepped closer and studied the cabinet. It appeared that there was room for two long fighting blades that might have once been on display but now were conspicuously missing. One of which, hopefully, had been discovered in the home of Henry Morris Fitzgerald.

  “So do you want to take a look at the rest of the house?” Carl offered.

  I didn’t, not really. I’d seen what I came to see, but for Carl to believe I was who I said I was, I said, “Yes, look, I’m only going to be five minutes. Why don’t you take a break with your guys and I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  Carl smiled. “I do hear the coffee in my thermos calling me. You sure you’ll be okay?”

  I smiled back and made a show of pulling my notebook out of my bag. “Hey, I’m a professional.”

  Then I spent the next ten minutes poking around the Chadwick place. It was two stories and beautiful. The ceilings were easily twelve feet high, multiple bathrooms and fireplaces, five bedrooms, a library, and a spacious kitchen. Whether the furnishings were antiques or contemporary, everything in the house was first class and expensive.

  It was difficult to believe that only two people lived in the massive, marvelous old home.

  But I know the long, sad history of this house. I know the stories of the people who owned it and how they died. There are ghosts in this house. Maybe not the spirits that Stella Barry looks for in the dead of night in lonely cemeteries and old asylums, but ghosts nonetheless. They’re a history that haunts the quiet rooms and lurks in the shadows of the long hallways. They’re victims of chance and ill fortune. I was quite happy to bid good-bye to the house and relieved as I waved to the guys sitting in the vans drinking their coffee while the mist and drizzle enveloped us in a wet, gray blanket.

  Stopping at the Chadwick house had only made me more apprehensive of my next and final visit on Connor’s Landing.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I pulled into the paved circle in front of the Elroy home and parked behind Lance’s gray Nissan 370Z. Getting out of my car, I walked over and took another look at the rear license plate. The same tiny shreds of black plastic and duct tape that I’d seen last night were still there.

  I trotted along the wet flagstone sidewalk that was lined with well cared-for rose bushes and climbed the brick steps to the front doorway. As I fingered the doorbell, I expected Mrs. Elroy to open the door dressed in her suburban fashionista designer shorts and top. Instead, when the door swung open, I recognized the pleasant face of the young Hispanic woman who’d helped prepare for the party in the Elroy kitchen a few days ago. Today she was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a navy blue sport shirt.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a smile.

  “I’m Geneva Chase. I work for The Sheffield Post,” I said. “Are Lance and Drew home? I see Lance’s car is parked over there.”

  Hearing that I worked for a newspaper, the smile disappeared and she eyed me with suspicion. “Are they expecting you?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I’m doing a story on local students who took on summer jobs working for the Harbor Association.”

  She studied me briefly and then decided that it all sounded eminently plausible. She told me, “Lance is in the shower and Drew is having breakfast out by the pool.”

  Is she giving me a choice of where I want to go?

  “Come with me.” She led me through the house and into the kitchen that smelled deliciously like bacon. Sliding open the glass door, she motioned with an open hand that I should find my own way to the pool.

  I mumbled a thank you as she slid the door closed again. I negotiated my way through the falling rain and the shallow puddles until I got to the pool. The chlorine scent emanating from the water reminded me vaguely of my visit to the Chadwick house. Drew was hunched over a wrought iron table under a canvas awning attached to the pool house. He was wearing a swimming suit and an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt. A steaming plate loaded with bacon, eggs, and toast lay off to one side of the table. He was staring intently at his open laptop, his thumbs working maniacally at a small, black plastic control panel.

  Focused completely on the computer screen and wearing earbuds, he was oblivious to my approach when I walked up next to him. I stepped back so I could watch as he played.

  I’ve never been a believer that watching violent movies or playing abhorrent video games makes someone a serial killer. After all, I grew up watching Roadrunner cartoons and I don’t go around dropping anvils on people’s heads.

  But I think that being overly exposed to violent material can desensitize you. And what I was seeing on Drew’s computer screen chilled me right to the bone.

  It was all happening from the point of view of Drew’s avatar, a futuristic warrior with the musculature of a steroid addict. He was running through a dark, massive stone hallway and from almost every hiding place, shadow enemies, both human and alien, leaped out in attack. At first Drew’s avatar simply blew them away one at a time with a shotgun but when he ran out of ammunition, he pulled an AK-47 out of a leather sling he carried on his back. Firing at a ridiculous rate of speed, the body count added up quickly. When he emptied the clip, he pulled a fighting blade from a scabbard at his waist and began the carnage with eager bloodlust.

  The avatar sliced through throats and hacked off limbs, one after another. Simulated blood fairly exploded from his victims’ dying bodies. Even though Drew was wearing earbuds, I could hear the shrill screams of agony and despair.

  Finally, deciding that I’d seen enough, I tapped the young man on the shoulder. He twisted around until he could look up from his chair to see me. His eyes stared at me dully, blinking, until the spark of recognition hit. He smiled, put the game on hold and took the tiny speakers out of his ears. “Hi.” He made an effort to stand up.

  I put a gentle hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his seat. “Don’t get up. You’re fine.”

  “You’re the lady from the ferry last night.”

  “Aren’t you sweet to remember.”

  As he blushed, I sat down at the table across from him. I noticed a full-length mirror was hung on the wall of the pool house behind where Drew was sitting. Knowing the narcissism of the Elroy family, I wasn’t surprised. From my viewpoint, in the mirror I could see the back of Drew’s head, part of his computer screen and my own reflection, at least from the eyes up. The rest of my face was hidden by the open laptop.

  On the glass surface of the table in front of me was an empty plate, bowl, coffee cup, and cutlery. “Is Lance joining you for breakfast?”

  “If he ever gets out of the shower.”

  Dying for a cup of coffee, I reached over to a ceramic carafe and poured some steaming brew into the mug I’m sure was meant for Drew’s brother. Then I took a grateful sip and asked, “What’s the game you’re playing?”

  He smiled again. “Final Apocalypse III.”

  How many final apocalypses can you have?

  Swallowing another delicious sip of caffeine, I said, “Look Drew, my name’s Geneva Chase and I work for The Sheffield Post. I’ve got some questions I need to ask you. Is that okay?”

  He frowned. “I guess.”

  “Whose car did you guys take off in last night? What is it? A Nissan convertible?”

  Drew nodded. “370Z…it’s Lance’s. Mine’s just like it only black. It’s in the garage.”

  “Did your dad get that for you?”

  The young man nodded. “Yeah, I got it for acing my grades this year.”

  “At the Handley Academy?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to be a senior when school starts back up in August.”

 
“That’s a good school.” I sat back in my chair. “Why do you suppose there are bits of duct tape and black plastic on Lance’s rear license plate?”

  He jerked. Shaking his head, he said quietly, “I don’t know.”

  “Sometimes thieves obscure their license plates with plastic and tape. That way if someone spots their car, a witness can’t catch the number. And once they’ve gotten away, it’s real easy to tear off.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Drew, did the two of you break into a woman’s apartment over on Briar Street a couple of nights ago?”

  Silence.

  “One of the neighbors identified Lance’s car,” I said. It was only a tiny lie. The neighbor described it as an expensive sports car with a rag top and a license plate that was blacked out.

  Drew chewed his lower lip, thinking while he stared at the screen of his laptop.

  “Nobody got hurt, Drew. No harm, no foul. Tell me what happened that night.”

  The only sounds in that backyard came from the fountain and raindrops as they fell onto the surface of the pool and dripped off the edge of the awning. Somewhere in the distance, the faint music of a wind chime floated on the air as metal struck slowly against metal in the delicate breeze.

  I decided to take a different tack. “Jimmy Fitzgerald was arrested last night. Did you know that?”

  Drew looked up at me, across the top of his computer screen. He frowned, his wide-set eyes focused on me with extreme interest. “What for?”

  “Weren’t you and Lance out partying on Jimmy’s boat last Wednesday night?”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “What was he arrested for?”

  “Jimmy was busted for selling methamphetamines to an undercover cop. Were you doing meth the night you were partying on Jimmy’s boat?”

  Drew nodded slowly.

  “Isn’t meth a little ghetto for you boys? I expected you’d be doing something a little more high-rent, like coke.”

  Drew didn’t say anything and I saw his eyes drop briefly to his computer screen. He tapped out a couple of short sentences on his keyboard and then looked back up at me. “It’s a good high.”