The man leans in close to Damien. “I look like the kind of guy who’d have friends in this part of town?” He claps Damien on the shoulder. Damien’s hand goes reflexively to his service weapon. The man puts his hands up. “Sorry ‘bout that. Got a little too familiar.”
“It’s all right. I just need to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“This about the music? ‘Cause I can turn it down. Guess I got a little overzealous, but you oughta see the system they got in here.”
“No, it’s… we had a report of suspicious activity in the neighborhood, and we’re just having a look. Make sure everything’s hunky dory.”
“Oh. Well, then. Shoot—the questions, I mean!” The man laughs.
“The owners of the house, the…”
“Lavandos.”
“The Lavandos. How do you know them?”
“I work with Dr. Lavando. Sort of. I’m a custodian over at Maine Central Hospital.”
“And how did you come to—”
“He’s a heck of a guy, Dr. Lavando,” the man says. “Real class act, him and his wife both. I got chatting with him in the cafeteria couple of weeks ago. He could see I was kinda down, he asked what was wrong. I told him how my wife kicked me out of the house. I was real broken up about it, and on top of that, I didn’t have nowhere to stay. And so he tells me that his family is going on vacation for a few days and might I like to go ahead and house-sit for them. Can you believe that? I told him I couldn’t possibly, but the guy wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Damien nods. This all seems like a bit of a whopper, but if the guy is lying, he doesn’t have a single tell. He’s speaking as plainly as if he were telling Damien what he had for breakfast. No haziness, nor excessive details.
“You can give ‘em a call if you want,” the man continues, cocking a thumb over his shoulder into the house. “I got their cell numbers.
Damien puts his hand up. “Just a moment. Do you have identification?”
“Oh, sure. Sure.” The man pulls out his wallet and produces his driver’s license. Damien looks it over: Benjamin Harrison. Thirty-nine years old. Resident of Barton, a real backwater out by Monmouth.
“You’ve got a big birthday coming up,” Damien says.
“That I do.”
“And you said the owners’ names are—”
“Lavando. Valerie and Jonathan Lavando.”
“You don’t have any outstanding warrants, do you, Mr. Harrison? Anything that might come up if I call this in?”
The man shrugs. “Couple of misdemeanors. Long time ago. Nothing active.”
“Give me a moment.” Damien takes a step away from the man, detaching the radio receiver from his vest and raising it to his mouth. The man stands, looking calm if perhaps a bit impatient, once again leaning against the frame of the door.
“Dispatch, this is Officer Damien Edwards, over.”
“What can I do for you, Officer Edwards?”
“I need you to run a couple of names for me. The first is…” He holds up the man’s ID. “… Benjamin Harrison. DOB one October, nineteen fifty-six.”
The dispatcher returns after a moment with an account that confirms what Mr. Harrison told him—arrests for reckless driving and public intoxication, but nothing in the past few years and no open warrants.
“Could you also check an address, 79 Moon Drive. Tell me the name of the inhabitants. Over.”
“That address belongs to the Lavandos, Jonathan and Valerie. And their three kids. Over.”
“Three kids? Over.”
“That’s correct. Over.”
“Do you have the ages of the children? Over.”
“All grown or close to it. Michael, twenty-three; Jacob, twenty; and Clara I believe is seventeen. Over.”
“It doesn’t happen to say what Mr. Lavando does for a living, does it? Over.”
“That’s Dr. Lavando,” the dispatcher corrects. “Over.”
“It says he’s a doctor? Over.”
“I sure hope he’s a doctor. He delivered both my babies.”
Damien looks up at the man, who smiles slightly.
“Everything all right over there, Officer?” the dispatcher says. “Anything else you need? Over.”
“No… everything’s fine. Thank you. Over.” Then quickly, he presses the call button again: “Actually, there is one thing.” He takes another step away from the man in the doorway and speaks quietly into the receiver. “This Dr. Lavando… would you say he’s a good guy in general? The kind of guy who would go out of his way to help somebody out? Over.”
“Why do you ask? Over.”
“I’m just looking into something. Want to know if a story checks out. Over.”
“Well, he’s a good gyno. Good enough that I’ve recommended him to some friends. But if I’m being honest, I always found him a little… I don’t know. Distant, maybe. Aloof. Sorta like he was talking down to you. Not like he’s trying to be rude or anything, but like he doesn’t expect you to get what he’s telling you if you don’t got a medical degree or a PhD or something. You know? Over.”
Damien nods. “Yeah, I think I know the type.” He knows it well. Those polo-shirt-wearing, college-bound a-holes he used to encounter when they were home from prep school over the summer, filling up their Beamers at the Cumberland Farms where Damien sometimes worked—they had been, along with the jocks, the other slice of bread on the shit sandwich that was his high-school career. Worse, Damien didn’t even feel any kind of kinship with the preps, real or desired. He never wanted to be one of them, as he did with the jocks. He mostly just wanted to spit in their smug-ass faces, which is part of why pissing down the hillside of their precious Bluffs had always been such an enjoyment.
“Officer Edwards? You still there? I didn’t hear an over. Over.”
Shit. He’s checked out again. Not long this time, thankfully. “Yes, I’m here. Have you got phone numbers for the Lavandos? Their cell phones? Over.”
“Sure do. Over.”
“Tell you what, you want to give them a call and ask them if they got a house sitter while they’re on vacation? Let me know when you reach them. Over.”
“Will do. Over.”
“All right, thanks. Over and out.”
He crosses back over to the doorway.
“Everything check out?” says Benjamin, still leaning against the frame of the door, his left hand at the small of his back.
“Seems to. So far at least.” He glances into the foyer—Jesus, it’s bigger than his goddamn living room. “Where’d the Lavandos say they were going?”
“New York City,” says Benjamin. “They got a little pied-a-terre in Manhattan.”
Damien doesn’t know what the hell that is, but from the gesture Benjamin makes as he says it, he’d guess it’s something fancy. “Did they notify anyone else that you would be here?”
Benjamin shakes his head. “To be honest, I’m not too sure. They gave me a list of instructions along with the keys. I got it all typed out somewhere, but… Like I said, though, you feel free to give ‘em a call. You want me to get you their numbers?”
“No, no. That’s all right. Someone at the station is looking into it.”
“I’ll tell you what, though, the security system they got in this place…” Benjamin points to the surveillance camera above the front door. Its cold black eye gazes directly at Damien. He’s always hated cameras. Hated the scrutiny. “… Ain’t no one gettin’ in here except they’re supposed to. Ain’t enough to have the keys. You gotta know the codes.”
Damien nods. “All right, then,” he says. “So long as we don’t hear any different from the Lavandos, we should be all right. You have a good night.”
“You do the same.”
Damien turns and starts toward the footpath but stops as he reaches the steps at the far end of the porch. He looks over his shoulder at Benjamin, who maintains his casually impassive stance.
“You know,” says Damien, turning around o
nce again, “maybe I oughta take a quick peek inside. Just to be thorough.” He starts to close the distance between himself and Benjamin, who still has his hand on his lower back.
“Ooo… yeah,” Benjamin says.
“Would that be a problem?”
“Yeah, you see, the thing is…” Benjamin glances over his shoulder, then steps out onto the porch, pulling the door almost closed behind him. He leans in toward Damien. “The fact is, Officer, I kinda got some company, if you know what I’m saying. Truth be told, I’ve been kinda lonely lately, seeing as the old lady left, and tonight I went out to the Andromeda Bar and met a young lady.” Damien knows the Andromeda Bar, knows the kind of young lady one is likely to meet there. That might explain the guy’s sore back. “This isn’t strictly anything the Lavandos gave me the green light for, but we ain’t making no trouble. Just having a little fun.”
In one of the windows, Damien sees the silhouette of another person—the outline seems a little big for a lady, but who knows what type this guy goes for.
“Now, to tell you the truth,” the man says, “it’s been a while since I was with anyone but my wife—and God knows how long since I got anything worthwhile out of that woman. And I’m just afraid this girl’s gonna get spooked if there’s a whole lot of poking around. I’m afraid she’ll want to cut our evening short. And that would be a real sore disappointment to me. Fiftieth birthday just around the corner, more or less homeless, can’t even get laid…”
Damien looks Benjamin over. He notices a corner of gauze poking out of the man’s sleeve. “What happened to your arm?”
The man answers without even looking down at the bandage. “Fresh ink. Got it this afternoon, just before I headed over to the bar.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you get it done?”
“Taylor Tats. Over on Campbell Street. Got a buddy over there gives me a discount.”
“Who?” says Damien. “Charlie or the other guy?”
“Not Charlie. Wes. Why, you been there yourself?”
“Hell yeah,” says Damien, getting excited. “Check this out.” He pulls up the sleeve of his uniform and presents the inside of his forearm, showing a midnight blue rendering of a shrieking goat with the wings of a bat.
“Wild,” says Benjamin, nodding. “I’d show you mine, but like I said, it’s real fresh.”
“What’s it of?”
“Pitchfork. Three-pronged. Rising out of flames.”
Damien’s brow furrows. “That supposed to, like, symbolize something?”
“Nah,” says Benjamin, “just thought it would look pretty badass.”
Damien chuckles and nods. “I hear that.”
“Heck, I got an idea. You got a girlfriend? Someone you could call?”
Damien shakes his head. “Not so much. Not at the moment.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to my girl here, see if she’s got a friend might like to come over. Then when you get done with your shift, you come on over, and we can have a party, the four of us. What do you say?”
Damien looks from one side to the other, searching for a response in the porch’s wooden slats. He’s grown so accustomed to being rebuffed that he can respond without hesitation to a put-down; it’s invitations that throw him for a loop.
“Come on, what do you say? We’ll drink some beers—you drink beer?”
“I drink beer.”
“Got plenty of beer. Good stuff, too.”
“Give me a Keystone Light, and I’m fine with that.”
“Ah, hell yeah! I feel exactly the same way. This ‘craft’ bullshit, what the fuck is that, am I right?” Damien laughs. He shakes his head and looks at his feet. He can feel himself blushing. This guy is funny. “What do you say? That sound like a plan?”
“Thing is,” says Damien, “I don’t get off ‘til real late.”
“What’s late?”
“Like four a.m.”
Benjamin whistles. “That is late.”
“So it might not be in the cards for me.” God, he wishes he could say otherwise. A little piece of ass sounds like exactly what he needs right now. And in a house like this… Maybe he could call in sick for the second half of his shift, tell them something he ate put him out of commission for the night. What could they do? He wouldn’t even have to call in. He could spin by his apartment and pick up a change of clothes, park the cruiser up in the cul-de-sac again. No one would be the wiser. Wouldn’t maybe make his quota on tickets for the night, but…
Then again, he can’t afford to give Sergeant Shithead any more ammunition to try to take him down. A stunt like this could get him canned.
“I don’t think I can,” he says.
“You sure about that?”
Damien sighs. “I’m afraid so.”
“I’ll tell you what,” says Benjamin confidentially, leaning in close to Damien, “what do you say we make it a rain check? I’m here ‘til the end of the week.”
Damien smiles. “That sounds all right.”
Benjamin winks. “You know where to find me.”
Walking to the next house on the block, disappointed that he won’t be getting his rocks off but also wound up with anticipation of the party they’ll be having later in the week, Damien realizes that he wasn’t as thorough as he maybe should have been with his new friend. The noise, the suspicious activity on the part of someone who doesn’t actually live there—someone with a criminal record (however modest) and a flimsy story explaining his presence in the house—he should have pushed harder to enter the premises and take a look. He knows this. He knows the protocol, and knows that Sergeant Shithead and Chief Dickcheese and all the asswads in suits at the DA’s office would say that this, of all times, is when he ought to apply a little additional pressure.
But you know what? Screw them. There’s one kind of cop Damien hates even worse than those uptight jerks who make it hard for other cops to do their jobs: that’s a cop who doesn’t trust his gut.
Well, Damien sure as shit ain’t gonna be that kind of cop. He trusts his gut. And something in his gut tells him that this Benjamin Harrison fellow is all right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Transmission
11:07 p.m.
You haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t done anything wrong.
John repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra. He knows it’s true—he hasn’t done anything wrong. He never would have looked at those photographs if he hadn’t been forced to, not in a million years.
So why does he feel guilty? If he were frightened, anxious, disturbed, any of those feelings would be appropriate. But to be wracked with guilt over something he hasn’t even done, to feel ashamed of himself? It doesn’t make any sense.
The thing is, as he ponders the predicament these men have put him in, the blackmail they’ve perpetrated on him, he feels almost—almost—as if the charges were true. Could it be that some part of him thinks he’s capable of committing the crime for which they’ve framed him? Does he have that in him? Absurd. He’s never looked at a child with anything but compassion. He found those images disgusting, abhorrent.
But if not that particular perversion, what else? This may not be his brand of deviance, but surely there are other dark urges stirring in him.
Everyone’s a sinner.
He can barely look at Val. At some point, he’ll have to tell her what happened, but he can’t imagine how he’ll find the words. He feels the mark of it, the taint, the ugliness, seeping beneath his skin like a tattoo, penetrating deeper than any concerns about his bank account or the future of his practice. Even now, as the prospect of contact with the outside world stands just outside the front door, he has all but ceased contemplating how they’re going to get out of this mess, he’s so preoccupied with these irrational pangs of conscience. He is consumed by them.
And what was that business about the lawsuit? He told frogger13 what he could recall about it, an attempted class action against Safeguard Industries that had never materialized. The who
le thing had been resolved in arbitration, his business partners and the company’s lawyers assuring him that everything was fine. He would never have to worry about it again.
Well, he’s sure as hell worried about it now. How could he not be? If nothing else, his reputation is in jeopardy. Even if he’s exonerated on every charge, once accusations like this have flown, there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle.
Stop.
Calm down and think this over.
What was the real aim of that whole charade? To scare him? Let him know what’s coming? No. It was meant to do just what it’s done: to knock him off balance so that he won’t be able to fight back. His precious focus, which had already been wavering earlier in the evening, is now out on holiday. It didn’t leave a forwarding address.
Try as he might to rally his senses—to look for weapons, openings, opportunities—he’s just too damned distracted. Too distracted to take advantage of Dresden’s mounting intoxication and Stanley’s increasing sullenness. Too distracted to work up a plan with Val. Too distracted to think how they might send a signal to whoever is out there on the porch.
Before John can even frame the question in his mind (“What do we do next?”), Dresden is charging back into the room, heading straight for him.
“Did you call someone?” Dresden bellows.
John tries to ask what he’s talking about, but all that comes out are a few muffled protestations. Dresden shoves him back hard. The chair topples over, the impact with the floor knocking the wind out of him. “Did you call the fucking cops?” Dresden says, standing astride John. He tears the duct tape off his face and pulls the towel loose.
“What’s going on?” says Stanley.
“What were the fucking cops doing here? Did you call them?” He stomps his boot down millimeters from John’s ear. “Answer me!”
“No, of course not!”
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me!” Dresden looks over at Val. He nods to Stanley. “Take her gag out.”
Stanley does as he’s told.
“You know we didn’t call anyone!” Val shouts when her mouth is free. “You’ve been watching us the whole time!”
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