Damage

by Mark Feggeler

  Jake swore in the background, apparently oblivious to the fact he had initiated the phone call and was leaving a message. The message continued on this way for half a minute before Ray hung up without deleting it.

  Walter returned from the Greasy Spoon and took his seat two desks in front of Ray. All but one of the desks in the editorial department were lined up in a neat row, each reporter facing another's back. The exception belonged to assistant editor Charlie Lee. His desk sat at the head of the line, in a corner off to the left, facing the others. It had been Becky's station when Ray started his career at the Citizen-Gazette seven years earlier, until the end of his third year when she took over as managing editor and moved into the big office.

  "Not going so good, is it?" Walter said as he read over Ray's shoulder.

  "No, it still sucks," Ray groaned.

  Ray's phone rang. Walter quickly grabbed the receiver. "Office of Raymond Waugh, journalist extraordinaire, recently tormented soul. How may I help you?"

  "Give me that, you idiot." Ray snatched the phone from his hand. He smiled in spite of his prevailing mood. "Hello, this is Ray."

  "Hey, man," Billy said.

  "Hey," Ray responded. "How'd things go after I left? Redmond didn't seem too happy with either of us this morning."

  "Yeah, he read me the riot act," Billy said, cutting himself short. "Anyway, it's all good now."

  "Look, I'm sorry, man," Ray said. "I guess it was just a bad day for us to be hanging out."

  "It's all good," Billy repeated. "Listen, Ray..."

  "Have you heard anything about the wife?"

  "Amy?"

  "Not your wife, stupid," Ray said. "Evan Wallace's wife, Correen."

  "Oh. Uh, no," Billy stammered.

  "Christ, I felt so useless just waiting there for help to come," Ray said. "She kept looking up at me like she expected me to do something. I'm trying to get things done here, but I can't focus for shit. I just keep seeing her face."

  "There was nothing you could've done different, Ray. She jumped from a big height and hit the ground hard."

  The wording caught Ray by surprise.

  "She didn't jump, Billy. Somebody chucked her out that window. Pritchard said so himself."

  "Yeah, I heard him saying something like that to the sheriff, but he'd changed his mind after they went upstairs to check it out. I heard Pritchard myself say it looked pretty good that she must've thrown herself out."

  A prickling sensation crawled across Ray's scalp from his forehead to the nape of his neck. He lifted the day's edition to see his byline on an article stating, with little room for uncertainty, Correen Wallace had been attacked and thrown to the ground. Not only did the article suck stylistically, now he was being told the information it relayed was incorrect.

  "What about the husband?" Ray asked. "Did he shoot himself and then hide the gun? I mean, come on, Billy. You saw the same thing I did. That window was smashed clean out. Are you telling me she took a running start and leapt through it, glass and wood frame and all? That's bullshit."

  "Well, nothing's technically official yet," Billy said. "I'm just telling you what the sheriff and Pritchard was saying. Sheriff figures she shot her husband and then tried to kill herself. They found a shotgun upstairs he figures is the one she used. Figures she's been planning this for a while, cause she made arrangements for the kids to be out of the house over two weeks ago."

  "So they could celebrate their anniversary!" Ray argued. "Not reenact a scene from a Hitchcock movie."

  "Look, whatever," Billy said, clearly finished with this topic and ready to move to the next one. "Have you heard from Jake?"

  Ray needed a minute to process his looming predicament. None of what he had just heard made any sense to him. He couldn't reconcile the happy couple he'd seen the day before to the victims they had found that morning without factoring in an outside influence.

  "Ray," Billy called. "Have you seen him?"

  "Who?"

  "Jake," Billy said.

  "No, I haven't seen him," he answered, irritated the conversation was continuing when he had some serious ass-covering to accomplish. "He left a voicemail, though. Apparently he was ready for breakfast around six o'clock."

  "Okay, thanks," Billy said. "Let me know if he shows up. Got it?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, whatever."

  Ray's head spun as he tried to figure out how proceed. It wouldn't be the first time the Citizen-Gazette ran a correction, but it would be the first for an article he had written. He would have to talk to Becky about it. Fortunately for him, she left the building not long after their brief meeting, carrying his cheeseburger with her as she left for her daily constitutional. He could wait for her to return and explain himself. At the time he wrote the article that had run, his source, a detective with the county sheriff's office, had told him Mrs. Wallace had been pushed. Okay, so he didn't so much say it directly as suggest it, but he had a source and that should be enough. The fact his source later had a change of heart was immaterial. But is that how Becky would see it?

  His desk phone rang again. He didn't recognize the number, and he didn't feel like speaking with anyone at the moment, so he let it ring. Walter watched him not answer it. Two minutes after the ringing stopped, the little red light started flashing.

  "Mr. Waugh," the message began. The caller's feeble voice sounded hollow, as though the man was unable to draw enough breath and had to pause for a shallow one after every few words. "My name is Avery Lowson. I read your article about my daughter, Correen, in today's newspaper. I want to meet with you. Immediately. I am at..."

  Ray quickly grabbed a pencil and wrote Lowson's address on his desk calendar.

  "...the St. Thomas Cottages, Unit C-3. I will leave your name with the lobby attendant."

  The message ended and Ray deleted it. Best he could figure, he had two choices. He could hang around until Becky returned and deal with her first. It was almost twelve-thirty. He knew she would be back any minute. Or, he could head to St. Thomas and meet with Avery Lowson. There was no telling by the message he had left what the old man wanted from Ray, but the uncertainty of the outcome seemed more palatable than the certain tongue lashing he would get from Becky.

  Five minutes later, Ray was walking north along Gorney Street in a misty rain to his apartment for a quick shower and a change of clothes, a copy of the day's paper in his hand.

  Monday, Part X

  Ray rented an apartment a little more than a mile-and-a-half from the office. Not the most convenient walk, most days, but sidewalks lined the entire way and he thought it might feel good to use the time to clear his head. A heavy mist carried along on gusting winds chilled him as he went. His thoughts remained cloudy as the skies above him.

  Correen Wallace: the same woman who, according to Sheriff Redmond, allegedly shot her husband in the chest and jumped to her death, had been mingling with friends at a party and joking lovingly with her husband less than twenty-four hours earlier. He had never personally known anyone that had been a player in such a tragedy, and it would be difficult for him to argue he knew her well, if at all. Still, Ray could not accept the sheriff's hastily drawn conclusion. It seemed convenient, with the purpose of drawing the case to a close.

  His stomach empty, the blood stains on his jacket wet and smearing once more due to the weather, Ray arrived at his apartment to find the front door closed and locked. Off to his right, someone raised a window in the neighboring apartment.

  "The big dummy busted through your back window again," Mr. Moore called out to him. The old man's wispy gray hair flew in all directions around the top of his small head. His voice was heavy with disappointment.

  "I'm sorry for the noise, Mr. Moore," Ray called back.

  The fairly predictable scene before him wasn't quite so bad as he had expected. The television flickered in the dimly lit living room, but at least Jake hadn't cranked the volume. Ray assumed he must have passed out before finding anything interesting to watch. Lying face down
on the sofa across from the television, his coat wrapped tightly around him like a blanket, Jake snored loudly. A sharp, vinegary odor emanated from the sleeping man as alcohol escaped through every pore of his body, mixed with traces of whatever other substance he had abused the night before. Ray left the front door open to help air out the apartment.

  The kitchen looked like the scene of a rave party gone wrong. The contents of the cabinet in which he kept his plates, bowls and glasses littered the floor. To his amazement, only one of the smaller glasses had shattered. He gathered up the broken glass, careful not to cut himself again, and dumped the pieces in the trash. Everything else went in the sink to be dealt with later. Jake didn't stir through the clean up.

  Ray grabbed a granola bar from another cabinet and a diet soda from the refrigerator and dropped himself into the tattered recliner next to his passed out friend. The remote balanced precariously in Jake's open hand. As he lifted it, Ray noticed a two-inch cut running along the inside of Jake's thumb that had dark, dried blood caked around it. Blood covered several of the remote buttons, as well.

  "Dumbass," Ray muttered. "That's what you get for wrecking my kitchen."

  Ray scanned the channels for the one that seemed the most obnoxious. He turned up the volume as loud as he thought Mr. Moore could bear and waited for a reaction from Jake. It took a minute or two, but Jake eventually lifted his head and scanned the room for the source of the noise. When he couldn't find the remote, he buried his face in the sofa cushions and pulled his arms over his head. Ray could barely make out his muffled pleas to lower the volume.

  "What'd you say?" Ray asked after he brought the noise to a low enough level to make conversation.

  "Turn it off!"

  "No, I like this show," Ray responded, and turned up the volume yet again.

  Jake rolled over slowly and tried to sit up, coming to rest at a steep angle. His eyes stayed mostly shut as he rubbed his face and exhaled a great yawn of foul breath into the room. He winced, finally noticing the fresh wound on his thumb. It woke him up enough to cause him to take a good look around and survey his surroundings. The two men stared silently at each other for a moment, then Jake's attention returned to the television.

  "Turn it off," he groaned.

  Ray obliged. Any sympathy he might have had for his hard luck friend had already been tempered by the broken glass in the kitchen. It evaporated entirely when he saw the mud stains smeared on the sofa from Jake's dirty pants and shoes. Ray shook his head.

  "I've been trying to get a hold of you for almost a week," he started. "Where's your phone?"

  Jake made like he was searching his coat pockets. "Lost," he said when he came up empty.

  Ray took out his and dialed Jake's cell number. When he heard the ringing on his end, he held his phone away from his ear and listened for the sound of the other phone. He heard nothing.

  "I told you, I lost it."

  "Yeah, you lost it, all right," Ray said.

  "Man, I had some weird dreams," Jake said through another long yawn.

  "They must have been about you staying sober, cause I expect that would be a weird dream for you. I doubt you even remember what it feels like."

  "It has been a while," Jake chuckled groggily.

  "Five days, dickhead," Ray said. "Six now. I've been chasing you down to see if you're still breathing and you can't even bother to answer your phone, or open your front door."

  "I... lost... my... phone," Jake said, stressing each word. "And when did you come to the house?"

  "A bunch of times," Ray said. "Even last night. I stood there knocking, but I guess you were already out frequenting the finer establishments of Tramway County. What have you been mixing this time? Cocaine and liquor? Heroine and extacy?"

  Jake rubbed his eyes and pressed hard against his temples through greasy blond hair. "Just booze, and a little pot."

  "There's no such thing as a little with you."

  "Wait," Jake said, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did I see you last night?"

  "Are you even listening to me?" Ray asked, disgusted. "I just told you. I went to your place and you didn't come to the door. You might have seen me if you were peaking out the window trying to avoid me, but I sure as shit didn't see you."

  Jake fell silent and stared blankly ahead. His hand lifted quickly to his chest and reached inside his coat, producing a flask-shaped bottle that appeared to contain a small quantity of whiskey or rum. He studied it closely.

  "Trying to figure out where you were last night" Ray asked. "You've never been able to before."

  But Ray had the impression he was figuring it out. A dawning awareness seemed to break over Jake's face. He nodded slowly and put the bottle down on the wicker coffee table. He turned up his palms to examine them. Ray saw the long cut on his right thumb, but there also were smaller cuts scattered across both hands. Jake picked at one, using his forefinger and thumb like pincers, and removed a minuscule fragment of what looked like glass.

  "You and I could be twins," Ray joked, holding out his scratched hands for Jake to see.

  A tingling unpleasantness once again spread across Ray's scalp. He looked down at his own hands, scraped and cut from the remnants of broken window panes at the base of the Wallace's house. He thought about the broken drinking glass in the kitchen. It had shattered, yes, but only into a handful of large pieces. A terrible thought crept into his head.

  "Where were you last night?" he asked quietly, staring at Jake as though he had never met him before.

  "I gotta go," Jake said, standing suddenly and heading for the open front door.

  "Jake, wait!"

  In seconds, Jake was on the sidewalk running south in the general direction of his house. The fleeting idea of chasing after him crossed Ray's mind. How hard would it be to catch him, he thought, but what would he say once he caught him? How do you politely ask one of your best friends if he's a murderer?

  Monday, Part XI

  Regardless of the fact he had not actually spoken with Avery Lowson to set a meeting time, Ray couldn't shake the nagging feeling he was running late.

  He had lingered long after Jake bolted from the apartment, fretting over the many possible unfortunate fates of his friend and contemplating the next proper course of action. He tried, unsuccessfully, to use reason to counter-balance his fear that Jake might have had something to do with the disturbing scene at the Wallace's estate. Their horse farm was at least seven miles from Ray's apartment, easily a two-hour walk for a stumbling drunk.

  Besides, Jake was an addict and an alcoholic, not a violent offender. There was that one time in college when he set fire to his fraternity's homecoming parade float. And the time he stole a CB radio out of a town grounds and maintenance truck. And he was kicked out of a basketball game for getting into a fist fight with the guy in front of him, and then with the security staff that arrived to break up the fight.

  To the best of his knowledge, Jake and the Wallaces didn't even know each other. They certainly didn't move in the same social circles. The Wallaces were rich. Jake regularly had to choose which utility bill he didn't have enough money to cover. They owned horses, a little red sports car, and a five-thousand-square-foot mansion. Jake stole cable from his neighbors and watched it on a television he scammed from the local rental shop. They had everything. Jake had nothing.

  In the end, Ray decided to place a call to Billy before heading out for St. Thomas.

  "Hey, it's Ray," he said after being prompted to leave a message. "Jake was at my place when I got here about a half hour ago. Give me a call when you get this. I need to tell you something, and I need your advice. It's about twelve-thirty now. I'm heading up to St. Thomas to meet with Mrs. Wallace's father. I have no idea how long I'll be there, but I'll have my cell on me in case you call."

  Following the same route he had taken on the way to groundbreaking the day before, Ray passed the field he had parked in for the event. A crew of migrant workers was busy dismantling the enormous
tent that had housed the celebration. They had a lousy day for it. The temperature hung low in the upper fifties, a pencil gray covering of clouds blocked the sun, and a dreary wind carried spattering gusts of rain through the trees every few minutes. Ray drove with the radio off, his mind racing. He nibbled absentmindedly from a bag of pretzels he picked off the floor of his kitchen before leaving. The drive leading up to the main building at the St. Thomas Retirement Cottages wound gently left, then right, through a neighborhood of neatly groomed lawns bordering apartment windows. It was clear the lawns were backyards only, since no sidewalks or driveways presented themselves and the apartments were not numbered on the outside of the building. Signs guided him to a parking lot outside the administrative center.

  The aroma of cafeteria cooking clung to the wet wind as it escaped from rooftop vents on the main building ahead of him. A high brick wall lining one side of the path to the main entrance shielded him from much of the blustery weather. Through tinted windows on either side of the doors he could see no sign of life. The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He ignored it.

  The reception desk was not immediately visible upon entering the building. Ray had to walk a short distance and step around a corner to the unmanned station in the spacious, albeit low-ceilinged, lobby. An arsenal of walkers, some basic models and others with baskets and horns like children's tricycles, lined the wall under a regal sign indicating the room beyond was the resident dining hall. Under the sign was taped a piece of paper asking residents to "Kindly Leave Your Walker in the Lobby." The brick interior walls and dark blues and greens of the facility's carpeting were dimly illuminated by the meager light of a cloudy day channeled into the room through skylights. Old-fashioned lamps scattered around the room didn't help much, either. As he drifted through the room taking in his surroundings, a silver haired woman who did not appear old enough to be a resident popped through a door behind the reception desk. Her hair and makeup were impeccably finished, and she wore a tailored pantsuit accentuated by just the right amount of costume jewelry. Ray immediately recognized her from the groundbreaking. She was the older, well-dressed woman who sat silently next to Sheriff Redmond's daughter when the sheriff asked him to take their picture. The woman stopped walking when she noticed Ray.