by Nathan Field
“Call the cops. Tell them what you know.”
I blinked slowly. “Thanks. I never would’ve thought of that.”
“Hey, don’t get snarky with me. I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve told you before – I don’t like cops.”
“Why the hell not? Give me a clue, Sam, help me understand. Is it something to do with Sacramento? The shit you never talk about?”
I looked around the pub at the mention of my old home town, searching for pricked ears. Nobody was paying us any attention – they were all engrossed in their own conversations, their own troubles. Except one guy.
He was sitting up at the bar, fiddling with his phone. I thought I’d caught him staring at me, but now his face was turned away. From his profile, I could see ginger-tinged hair, pale skin and a long, hawkish nose. Maybe mid-twenties – a strange age to be drinking alone. And why was his shell jacket zipped up to the neck inside the warm pub? Everybody else was in shirtsleeves; most of the girls were bare-armed. Was he trying to conceal his features behind the jacket’s high collar?
Just then, the young man stood up and made an impatient signing gesture to the barman. I sighed with relief. He wasn’t wearing a zipped-up jacket to hide his face. He was about to go outside.
“You know him?” Bruno said as I watched the young man leave.
“Nah, I just thought I did.”
“More like you’re avoiding the question. So let me ask you again – what happened in Sacramento, Sam? Did you kill someone?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I laughed. “Two people, actually.”
“Oh yeah, you’re hilarious.” Bruno leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Look mate, why don’t you tell me the full story, once and for all? I can’t help you otherwise.”
“This has nothing to do with my scars, or my eyes, if that’s what you’re thinking. And as far as Sacramento goes, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Bruno sat back and blew out an exasperated gust of air. “Then why’d you drag me down here?”
“I’ve got a small favor to ask. Actually, it’s more of a business opportunity.”
“Oh yeah, I love the sound of that.”
“Just hear me out. You know how you’ve always been jealous of my office? Right in the heart of the city?”
“Is that what they’re calling the Tenderloin these days?”
“Only a few minutes from the theater district. A short walk to the famous shops of Union Square.”
Bruno started chuckling, second-guessing my angle. “Spare me the sales pitch. You want me to stakeout your building during business hours, right? To see if I can catch this guy.”
“Yeah.”
“The same guy who killed Ralph Emerson.”
“That’s right.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll do it on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You supply the coffee and donuts. If I’m going on a suicide mission, I’m gonna need some provisions.”
10. “This one’s for you, Loverboy”
After Lucy rushed out of the Sacramento Park Royal, I forced myself to be patient, thinking that the longer I waited, the more she’d appreciate the connection between us. If I was feeling physically ill and having restless nights and walking around like a zombie, she had to be suffering, too. But my self-control didn’t last a week. One evening I snapped and called her house, only to be told by recorded message that the number was no longer in use. The Pipers had either cut their home line or switched to an unlisted number.
Another week passed and I braved a few drive-bys of the Pipers’ Granite Bay residence, hoping to catch Lucy’s Range Rover pulling out of the driveway. I didn’t dare knock on the front door – she would likely renounce me forever – and I couldn’t wait outside the property because there were security cameras monitoring the fence line. Even without electronic surveillance, it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood you could loiter in without attracting attention.
By the third week I began to seriously worry. What if Sterling had found out about us and placed her under house arrest? What if he’d threatened to kill her if she ever saw me again? Or what if he’d already beaten Lucy to a bloody pulp and buried her in the back yard?
I became a nervous wreck – forgetting to eat, turning up late to work, and abandoning beer in favor of straight Jim Beam. I spent every waking moment sick with worry, imagining one horrific scenario after another.
In the end, I had to do something.
One cold winter’s night, almost a month after the Park Royal episode, I made a desperate move. I drove out to Granite Bay and found a phone booth a few blocks from the Piper residence. I then dialed 911 and in a rushed voice, told the operator I was a concerned neighbor of the Pipers who wished to remain anonymous, hence my calling from an outside line. I said I’d been jogging past their house when I was startled by a woman’s screams. It sounded like she was in pain. The screams were troubling enough for me to abandon my jog and hurry to the nearest pay phone.
I hung up when the operator asked for my name, hoping I’d already done enough to prompt a dispatch.
I wasted no time in heading back to the city, wary of being caught in Granite Bay when the police began searching for the mystery jogger. Deep down, only a small part of me believed Sterling had seriously hurt Lucy, but I hoped the obvious hoax would prompt her to contact me, even if it were only to rip me to shreds. In my pitiful state, I would’ve gladly accepted her wrath over her continued silence.
I didn’t have to wait long. Lucy phoned me at the Tribune the following morning. Her voice was frantic; breathless.
“Jesus, Johnny. Why’d you call the cops? He guessed it was you.”
I kept my voice low, pressing the handset close to my ear. “The cops? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb. Sterling smelled a rat as soon as the police showed up last night. That’s why I haven’t been in contact. He knows about us.”
“But how? We’ve been so careful.”
“Fuck knows. Maybe I had the glow of a satisfied woman. It doesn’t matter – he knows I’ve been cheating.”
“So you admitted to it?”
“Of course not. And he doesn’t know who you are. But if you keep pulling stunts like last night, he’s gonna find out soon enough.”
I held back my reply, hoping the pause would give Lucy time to catch her breath. I wanted to reach through the phone and give her a big hug. “I need to see you,” I said finally.
“I can’t…”
“–Yes you can,” I insisted, cupping my hand over the receiver to muffle my voice. A few of my colleagues’ heads were already rising above their computer terminals, smelling a fresh line of gossip. “Listen to yourself, you’re scared out of your wits. This is no way to live, Lucy. You have to leave him.”
“But I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“What about my place?” I hissed, angry that I had to remind her. “My apartment’s big enough for two.”
“But you….” Lucy’s voice dropped away, and she drew a quick breath. There was a loud bang, followed by the sound of hefty footsteps.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
“Don’t you put that phone down!” a voice roared, much closer than I’d expected. “You fucking bitch, give me that!”
Lucy yelped as Sterling’s heavy breathing closed in. It sounded like he was about to explode through the handset. I knew the smart move was to hang up and protect my identity, but I was too worked up to go quietly. I was itching for a confrontation.
“Are you there, you sonofabitch?” Sterling said. His voice was throaty with age but it was still full of venom.
“I’m here,” I said calmly, belying my rapid pulse.
“Jesus Christ you’ve got a nerve. What makes you think you can fuck my wife and get away with it?”
“How about the fact I’ve been getting away with it for the last three months.”
“Fu
ck you! Fuck. You. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“No. I can’t say that I do.”
He made a disgruntled noise. “Well, ignorance doesn’t make you brave. You think a real man squeals to the cops and then runs away like a little girl. Your prank call didn’t work, by the way. I’m a good friend of the county sheriff.”
“It wasn’t a prank call, Sterling. I know you beat your wife.”
“Even if I do that’s none of your fucking business!” He paused, exhaling loudly into the phone. When his breathing slowed, he said, “Anyway, your days of sneaking around are over. I’m going to be seeing you real soon.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’ve got your number you stupid sonofabitch.”
“No, you’ve got the number of the Daily Tribune switchboard. At last count, we had more than four hundred employees. We’re an equal opportunity employer, but looking around, I still think men outnumber women. That’s a pretty big haystack.”
Sterling was silent. “I’ll find you,” he said eventually.
“Maybe, in time,” I said, growing in confidence. “But let me promise you something, Sterling. If you lay another hand on Lucy, next time it won’t be the local sheriff turning up on your doorstep. See, I hear you making threats and swearing over the phone, but behind all that bluster, I know you’re just a weak, cowardly old man. And if we ever cross paths, I’ll beat you so bad that even Viagra won’t get you upright.”
I braced myself for another volley of abuse, but instead the line went eerily silent. Crawling out of the dead air came a deep, malevolent chuckle.
“You think you’re pretty fucking smart, don’t you. But there’s a limit to how smart you can be from that end of the line.”
I frowned, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Then I heard Lucy crying softly in the background. I’d assumed she’d left the room, but she was still there, cowering in a corner. And now she was pleading with Sterling. Begging him, “No. Please no, baby. I’ll be good, I swear.….” Sterling was still on the line, but I imagined his cold eyes drilling into Lucy, letting her know what was in store.
“Don’t you fucking touch her,” I warned.
“This one’s for you, Loverboy,” he said before the line clicked dead.
The drive to Granite Bay seemed to take an eternity as I hit a string of red lights leading up to the highway, and then met resistance from my whining Corolla when I tried to crank the speed above ninety. I was flushed and perspiring by the time I reached the Pipers’ residence. I didn’t wait to see who was home, fishtailing into the granite chip driveway and skidding to a halt behind Lucy’s Range Rover.
Their house was an English-style manor of pale red brick – enormous even by Granite Bay standards. I ignored the neatly winding path to the entrance, cutting diagonally across the sprawling lawn, my shoes slipping over the freshly watered grass. The front door was locked and I pressed my nose up against the window, peering into the grand entrance with its flying buttress staircase and ceilings as high as a church. Nothing moved inside so I rang the bell, repeatedly, then accompanied the clanging by hammering on the brass knocker.
“Lucy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, beyond caring who was listening or what laws I was about to break. The eight-foot-high door was made of solid oak, but that didn’t stop me from driving my shoulder into the meat of the wood as I tried to break it down. After pummeling my shoulder until it was numb, I decided to change tacks. I whipped off my shirt and wrapped it tightly around my hand, preparing to smash one of the entrance hall windows. But just as I drew my swaddled fist back, I saw movement on the staircase. It was Lucy, wearing a light pink chemise, leaning heavily on the banister. She was slowly making her way down the stairs.
I waved to her through the window. She tried to smile, but every step was making her wince. Despite her obvious distress, I was thrilled to see her. Four weeks of pent-up affection was ready to burst out of me.
Lucy opened the door and collapsed into my arms. “Be careful,” she whispered.
It took all of my willpower not to squeeze her tight, but I settled for the soft rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her skin through the thin satin.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“At the lake house,” she said faintly. “Where he always goes…”
“Do you need a doctor?”
Her head shook against my shoulder.
“Can you show me the damage?”
She swallowed, and then took a step back from me. She lifted the hem of her chemise. A wad of bile rose in my throat, forcing me to swallow. It was even worse than last time. The base of her ribcage was badly swollen, and dark red bruising covered her stomach and the tops of her thighs. She looked like a car crash victim.
“Jesus, Lucy. What does he do to you?”
“It varies,” she said flatly. “Most of the time it’s just a push against the wall or a punch in the stomach. Today was worse. He pinned me down with his knees and put on his old boxing gloves.”
“Boxing gloves? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“He doesn’t like to bruise his knuckles. Or his trophy wife. That’s why he never hits my face.”
“Fuck!” My head was screaming; so full of rage I couldn’t see straight. I looked around for something to hit, something that resembled him. I saw a mirror, a flower vase, an antique chair. Then I saw Lucy’s bare feet on the cold slate floor. Suddenly my anger disintegrated, and I was overwhelmed by a terrible, gut-wrenching guilt. I’d goaded Sterling, virtually daring him to lay another hand on Lucy. And he’d risen to the challenge.
“Jesus, I’m so sorry…“
“It’s not your fault,” she said softly.
“Yes, it is. I shouldn’t have threatened him. I didn’t know he was this sick.”
Lucy blinked, sending a tear down her cheek. “Well. Now you do.”
I helped Lucy upstairs and laid her down in bed. I stayed with her as she rested, tending to her bruises with ice wrapped in dish towels. Against my strong advice, she refused to see a doctor, insisting that nothing was broken. “He hits me hard enough to bruise, not break,” she said.
For a while Lucy drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently moaning, occasionally sighing when I sprinkled her forehead with kisses. Whenever she opened her eyes and saw me, she smiled. It was enough to make my heart soar.
After a couple of hours she fell into a deeper sleep. I wandered around the spacious master bedroom, grunting distastefully at the opulent furnishings, the full-sized spa and sauna in the en-suite bathroom, and the ornately-framed portrait of Sterling Piper hanging above a mahogany dresser.
It was the first time I’d set eyes on my nemesis.
At first glance, Sterling appeared to be a classically handsome man in his fifties. Straight-backed and broad shouldered, he had a thick head of peppery grey hair, clear blue eyes, and a healthy glow to his cheeks. I wanted to imagine him weaker, more pathetic, but there he was, a picture of relative virility. Not only that, in his finely-cut navy suit, he looked almost noble.
It was only on closer inspection that I detected the monster lurking beneath. The slight squint in his left eye, the way his lips pulled tightly over his teeth, like he’d been struggling to contain his impatience with the photographer, and the artifice of his military-style posturing. He was a construction magnate, not a fucking decorated war hero.
I thought it curious that there were no pictures of his kids around, but when I began pulling open drawers in the dresser, I found a couple of loose photos among Sterling’s collection of cufflinks and loose change.
The first photo was of a twentysomething Sterling standing next to a pretty girl with long auburn hair. She had a well-fed baby in her arms. Sterling’s head was held high, chest puffed out, immensely proud of his young wife and pudgy heir. Yet something seemed a little off about the smiling couple. There was a coldness between them. Would it have hurt Sterling to put an arm around his wife?
The second photo was a framed family portrait. Sterling was seated at the center – his hair flecked with grey, a touch looser around the chin, but still looking extremely pleased with himself. Standing next to him was a pudgy boy of six or seven – I assumed the baby from the first photo. They’d dressed him in a mini version of his father’s suit, and the kid’s smarmy smile suggested he actually enjoyed dressing like a young Republican. Sitting cross-legged at the front was a girl of four or five. She had shiny brown hair, owlish glasses, and a very adult expression. The sort of girl who couldn’t wait to start getting homework assignments.
But the big surprise was Sterling’s wife. Seated on her husband’s left, with another baby perched on her knee, she looked shell-shocked, as if she’d wandered into the wrong photograph. She’d lost a lot of weight, and her long hair had grown hard and frizzy, like an old woman’s, even though she couldn’t have been long past thirty. Being a mother clearly hadn’t agreed with her.
Lucy had mentioned that Sterling’s first wife suffered from depression. Judging by the change in her appearance between having her first and third children, the illness had come on hard and fast.
Then the penny dropped.
Sterling must’ve beaten her, too. Smacked her around until there was no light left in her eyes.
And now he was working on Lucy.
She was still dozing when the early afternoon sun swung around and soaked the front bedroom in pale yellow light. I moved to close the drapes, but Lucy stopped me, suddenly lucid.
“Don’t, Johnny. Leave them open.”
She was propped up in bed, smiling like a contented pussycat. The sunlight was falling on her face and shoulders. Even with puffy, red-lined eyes and hair like scrambled eggs, she looked incredible.
“I hope you’re not missing work because of me,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” I said, sitting on the bed next to her. “We’re overstaffed anyway.”
“Doesn’t that make it worse? If you’re competing for jobs?”
I shook my head, even though she was right on the money. The paper hadn’t made a profit in seven years, and rumors were swirling around the newsroom that the owners were courting potential buyers. A sale would likely result in a streamlined editorial team, and as one of the Tribune’s least experienced reporters, I was especially vulnerable. It was definitely not the time to be skipping work.