by Richard Cox
“We’re here to see Detective Gholson.”
“So you’re David Clark,” the woman answered. “Freddie’s boy. Damn shame what happened to your daddy.”
“It’s terrible, for sure.”
Tinted windows cast the reception area in shadowy, industrial light, and the sound of the highway outside was a deep and constant rumble. David was struggling to accept the reality of his presence again in Wichita Falls.
“You come back to rebuild Lone Star? Lord knows someone needs to. Best barbecue in town.”
“Not sure what will happen to the restaurant at this point.”
“Well, I’m sorry for your loss. Can’t believe what got into Bobby Steele. Everybody loved that kid when he played quarterback at Old High.”
The receptionist finally placed a phone call to Gholson, and Meredith fidgeted while they waited for the detective to arrive.
“You some kinda movie star?” the woman asked her, staring.
“No, I run a bridal boutique.”
“You’re pretty enough to be in movies. Around here, though, a girl your size would blow away in the wind.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“I don’t know what you folks eat out in California, but maybe you ought to try some barbecue while you’re in town. Before you waste away to nothing.”
David was about to interject when a door opened at the far end of the reception area, and a stocky man in suspenders appeared.
“Mr. Clark? I’m Detective Gholson. Could you follow me, please?”
David smiled coldly at the receptionist and took Meredith’s hand. They strode together toward the open door.
“What the hell was her problem?” Meredith whispered.
“Mainly where we live. Around here, California means communist.”
Gholson introduced himself to both of them and led them down a short hall. The detective’s office housed two messy desks and a couple of computers. David was struck by how empty the police station seemed to be. At the moment he didn’t see anyone else around, even though today was Friday and presumably a business day even for law enforcement. It didn’t seem like a real police station at all.
“Did you have any trouble finding us?” Gholson asked.
“No,” David said. “Straight down the freeway from the airport.”
“Well, I’m sure you folks are probably tired from your trip and would like to get on with your day. I’ll keep this brief. Your dad’s body is down at Bethania Hospital. Even though we know it’s him, as the victim of a crime we are required to make an official identification. For that we’ll need dental records. As I mentioned on the phone, the circumstances of death left very little in the way of soft tissue. I’m sorry to say.”
David remembered, when he cleaned the barbecue pits at his father’s restaurant, how the heat was so intense it felt like his skin was cooking. To imagine the actual burning of flesh, his own father’s face consumed by flames. . . .
“Have you obtained the records you need?” he asked the detective.
“Not yet. We can check with every dentist in town, but if you happen to know which one he used, it will make the process go a lot faster.”
“I don’t really know,” David admitted. “I might be able to find out by looking through his financial records.”
“That would be helpful. When could you do that?”
“I think we’ll head to his house after we’re done here.”
“That would be great. Because we’d like to release the body to you as soon as possible so you can arrange for disposition. The hospital can recommend a mortuary if your family doesn’t already have a preference.”
Meredith took his hand and squeezed, as if she thought he might want some emotional support. David ignored it.
“Do you have any more information on the fire?” he asked the detective. “Have you figured out what Bobby was doing at the restaurant in the first place?”
“Our investigation is ongoing, but at this point we don’t believe Bob Steele’s actions were an isolated incident. There were two cases of arson in town before what happened at your father’s restaurant, and closer examination has led us to believe all three fires may be related.”
“Why is that?”
“They all seem to be connected to childhood friends of yours, Mr.”
Clark.”
“You mean Bobby set them all?”
“We aren’t sure. But the victims of the first two fires were Alicia Ulbrecht and Adam Altman. I believe you knew both of these individuals when you were in school here, is that correct?”
David turned to Meredith. “Alicia is the girl I told you about, the one who was Jonathan’s girlfriend. And Adam Altman was in our club.”
“That’s awfully concerning,” Meredith said. “Would this Bobby guy have some bone to pick with you and your friends?”
Before he could answer, Gholson said, “Mr. Clark, what was the name of this club you mentioned?”
David had always understood his visit to Wichita Falls would involve more than just taking care of his father’s dead body. He knew there were questions to be asked and answered, and it was possible he might not like what he learned. But however he chose to confront the doubts about himself and his past, they were ultimately philosophical concerns. David had no interest in addressing them with some detective he’d only just met. But he also couldn’t refuse to answer direct questions, and since he hadn’t yet spoken to Jonathan or anyone else, it made no sense to lie. He’d been stupid to visit Gholson first.
“I believe we called ourselves The Boys of Summer.”
“That’s the same thing Jonathan Crane told us. The reason I ask is because someone has been sending emails to this station that make reference to a song by the same name, and this has us pretty confused.”
“I’m sorry?” David said. “You say someone has sent you emails about a song called ‘The Boys of Summer?’”
“Correct.”
David pretended to be unimpressed by this revelation. But the truth was he had been thinking a lot about the song in question since he learned of his father’s death, because the news from Wichita Falls had dislodged a memory he had long since forgotten: Todd playing “The Boys of Summer” in front of the entire club one afternoon. What made this memory significant was Todd’s claim that he had written the song himself. Back then, in 1983, there had been no reason to doubt such a statement. But a year later, when the song appeared on the radio, it should have been obvious to David and all of them that something was amiss. What explanation could there be for Todd having known about a famous song a year before it was released? And why had no one realized it then?
David had a feeling the answers to these questions were like keys that might unlock a much larger mystery.
“When did you receive the most recent email?” he asked Gholson.
“Last night about eight o’clock.”
“After Bobby and my father died in the fire,” David pointed out.
“Yes,” Gholson said. “Also, an officer arrived at the restaurant just before Steele torched the place. What he said to that officer leads us to believe Bob wasn’t working alone.”
“Can you tell me what he said?”
“He said, according to Todd, his life was supposed to end in that way.”
Gholson was looking at him intently, obviously hoping for some kind of reaction. And though David declined to give him the satisfaction, he was nevertheless shaken deeply by this news. Bobby’s reference to Todd suggested he had been suffering from the same sort of anxiety that had plagued David over the past several weeks, a sense that something was very wrong with the world and had been ever since Todd Willis had come into their lives. He had always known he would someday be made to answer for the sins of his past, and if Bobby had mentioned Todd directly, David suspected a moment of reckoning was near. A storm was coming and they were all directly in its path.
“Todd?” he finally asked the detective, as if he were confused.
“I assume he meant Todd Willis. The kid who—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gholson said. “The one who woke up from the coma. That’s the same thing your buddy, Jonathan, said. As soon as I mentioned Todd, he couldn’t wait to tell me how strange the kid had been and how it was his idea that made you boys burn down the restaurant.”
“We didn’t burn down the restaurant,” David said automatically. “Todd did that on his own.”
“You’re sure about that?”
David couldn’t know what Jonathan had told the detective, but it didn’t seem possible he would have admitted to any crimes, no matter how long ago they had occurred. Any deviation from the story they had constructed back then might open a new inquiry into the fate of Joe Henreid, which was something none of them could afford.
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” David said. “I’m here to bury my father, and you act like I’m under some kind of suspicion.”
“No, no,” said Gholson. “Not at all. But whoever is sending these emails, Mr. Clark, is threatening to burn down my town. I’m obligated to follow any lead, no matter how old or how irrelevant it might seem.”
David felt Meredith’s hand on his own, there again to comfort him. He jumped a little because he had forgotten she was sitting next to him.
“My primary task here in Wichita Falls is to get my father’s affairs in order,” David said. “But I’m happy to help you in any way I can.”
“I appreciate that. The first thing you can do, as I said before, is find the name of your daddy’s dentist. Beyond that, I’ll be in touch.”
David stood with Meredith and they shook hands with the detective.
“I’m sorry again for your loss,” Gholson said. “Fred Clark was a pillar of our community and he will be missed. I sure hope you’ll take Penny’s advice and consider reopening Lone Star. Otherwise I’m gonna have to get my dinner from the Branding Iron.”
David smiled, but honestly he could think of no better fate for his father’s restaurant than to see it reduced to ashes.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Gholson.
But not before David first spoke to Jonathan Crane.
29
The constant inbound phone calls were torture. For eight hours every day between Monday morning and Friday afternoon, Alicia was tormented by the same inane questions about the same products over and over and over. But the true misery of her existence was adhering to a rigid schedule, having to wake at five o’clock every morning so she could be on the phone not a minute later than six-thirty. There was no escaping the routine, no room for a long shower or an extra cup of coffee or time to iron a stubborn blouse into submission.
This morning was especially tough because even though she drank only three beers and a shot last night, sleep had been a long time coming. She felt helpless occupying her old room at her parents’ house, as if the pages of her life had flipped themselves backward, or like she was so non-functional as an adult that she couldn’t afford her own place. And the news Jonathan had delivered last night made everything more confusing. Had her house really been burned down as some kind of revenge plot? And did that mean her parents were at risk, too?
Eventually she had fallen asleep, but only barely, so when morning came too soon she decided not to wash her hair. Put on a blouse and slacks that should have gone to the dry cleaner’s a week ago. Made it to the office by 6:28, logged in to the phone at 6:30, and answered her first call at 6:31.
“Thanks for calling Deckard Digital, this is Alicia, how can I help you?”
“You can help me,” an elderly male voice said, “by getting your goddamned program off my computer.”
It was easy to abuse someone you couldn’t see. Without fear of physical retribution, you could throw civility out the window and speak to a fellow human being with contempt that was unacceptable elsewhere in life.
“Of course,” she said. “Which software product is it?”
“I’ve got the word processor and the music mixer and I want them both off! Do you have to know what they are to get them off?”
“Well, the uninstall procedure is different based on—”
“You companies are all alike. You trick us into buying poorly-designed programs and then make it impossible to delete them. I’ve had enough! You’ll be hearing from my attorney!”
The line went dead. She wished she could reach through the phone and clamp her hands around his neck. Would he talk to his own daughter that way?
The phone beeped in her ear again. This was how it went. You didn’t pick up a handset and place it against your ear. You didn’t push a button to admit the phone calls into your headset. No, you were always on, always available to receive a call, and you sat there waiting like the victim of a firing squad, with your back turned to the callers, who picked up their telephones and fired into your head and you were helpless to stop it.
“Thank you for calling Deckard Digital, this is Alicia Ulbrecht, how can I help you?”
“Leesha what?”
“Alicia Ulbrecht.”
“Hi there, Leesha Fullbright. For some reason your music mixer is saving files in my folder full of written documents and I don’t like it. I’m an author and I don’t want my music files mixed up with my stories. You need to fix this and fix it now.”
And so it went. She took twenty-six calls before her break, during which she quickly sucked down two cups of coffee, and then brought a third back to her desk. By lunchtime she had answered forty-one calls. At this pace she might reach ninety by the time she left work at three-thirty.
On her way to the cafeteria she threaded her way through the cubicle maze, the network of gray fabric walls, and listened as other reps repeated the same answers and suggestions she employed throughout the day. She felt the strange sensation of being on a movie set, some dystopian corporate doomworld where she would be sentenced to toil away, on a recurring loop, forever. She walked past motivational posters that lazily paired dramatic landscape photos with captions like PATIENCE and LEADERSHIP and SERVICE. She saw hand-drawn images of mousetraps and cheese, grammatically incorrect flyers advertising departmental promotions, incitements like “Don’t just answer the phone. De-light callers with WORLD CLASS CUSTOMER SERVICE!!! And don’t forget to SALE UPGRADES AND ADDONS!!!” Because it wasn’t enough to simply provide customers with useful assistance. The real goal was to think of innovative ways to sell additional products to defenseless customers who called looking for technical support.
In the cafeteria there were ten or fifteen tables and a television. Diners were sprinkled throughout the room except for six or seven who were clustered in one corner playing bingo. Alicia bought a salad and noticed the cafeteria was out of fat free dressing again. They were always out of fat free dressing.
She found a place near the television and dug into the leafy roughage of her salad. She’d been threatening to go on a diet for a while, but now it was time to get serious. Meeting Jonathan yesterday had been a spotlight trained on the stagnant nature of her life. How many years since she’d seen him? Twenty since high school graduation, twenty-five years since they’d spoken last. And what was different about her life now compared to then? She spent her days at work instead of school. Mother and daughter had traded the role of caregiver. But beyond those two things her life was pretty much the same as it had been when she was a thirteen-year-old girl hoping to be noticed by a boy.
Since her relationship with Brandon ended, Alicia had been biding her time here in Wichita, waiting for her father to retire, assuming she would eventually move to another city where there was culture and more rewarding jobs and more interesting men. She had been waiting for real life to begin while everyone else was raising children and making the most of what they had. And all along Alicia had thought she was the smart one.
Her cell phone rang, and she reached into her purse to retrieve it.
“This is Alicia.”
�
��Hello,” a voice said. “May I speak to Alicia Ulbrecht?”
Because her job involved so much time on the phone, Alicia could not tolerate even the smallest mistake on calls of a business nature. Like someone not listening to the greeting where she already said her name.
“This is Alicia,” she said again.
“Hi, Ms. Ulbrecht. My name is Kat and I’m calling on behalf of Allstate Insurance.”
“Oh, right. I checked with you guys yesterday on the status of my claim.”
“Yes, well I’m required to inform you that processing of your claim has been put on hold pending an arson investigation.”
“What? Why?”
“A criminal investigation raises concerns about the nature of the damage to your property, and Allstate policy requires us to gather more information before approving or rejecting your claim.”
“How can you reject it? I didn’t burn down my own house.”
“We make no accusations, Mrs. Ulbrecht. But, as I already stated, Allstate policy requires us to gather more—”
“When do you plan to gather this information? I’ve been paying premiums to you guys for like eight years. My house is gone and I’ve had to make arrangements to find a place to sleep, and now you’re telling me you don’t want to pay my claim?”
She was near tears and hated herself for it.
“Ms. Ulbrecht, I cannot make an assessment about the validity of your claim or the likelihood of it being approved or denied. But Allstate policy requires us to gather more information—”
“Will you stop repeating yourself?”
“Mrs. Ulbrecht. There is no reason to become belligerent with me. I am required to—”
“I’m required to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
She pushed a button and ended the phone call. The bingo players glared at her with looks of disapproval.
The phone rang again, and this time Alicia planned to ask for the woman’s boss. What right did they—?