Damage

by Mark Feggeler

  "Excuse me. Can I help you?"

  "Yes," Ray said, stepping toward the reception desk. "I'm here to visit Mr. Avery Lowson."

  "Mr. Lowson isn't taking visitors," she said, in a declarative manner that invited no further discussion. She spoke in a crisp, curt tone that carried a mid-western accent.

  "Mr. Lowson contacted me this morning and asked me to come out here," Ray explained. "I'm sure..."

  "As I said, sir. Mr. Lowson is not taking visitors today." The woman smiled robotically at him, but the look in her eyes showed she was losing patience with him.

  Ray's natural good humor had long ago fled to its happy place. His typical response in this type of situation would have been to politely acquiesce, withdraw, and consider options for approaching it from a different angle. He presently had no such inclination.

  "And that's it, is it?" he asked. "You don't even want to call his room and ask him?"

  This rattled the receptionist. Apparently, she was well accustomed to people following her orders. The thought of a mini revolution of senior citizens wheeling walkers up to the desk like tanks to a barricade and demanding extended hours for mahjong flashed through Ray's mind and made him smile. The receptionist opened and closed her mouth, trying to figure out what to say next. A familiarly unpleasant sing-song voice called from the office behind her.

  "Send him in here," it said.

  A small sign on the door had only the word "Director" engraved into it. The thick odor of perfume was overpowering. Expensive furnishings and custom shelving along the left wall took up much of the windowless office. The desk, far too large for the space, held only a phone and an unblemished calendar blotter. The mahogany shelves displayed personal bric-a-brac, such as framed photographs and a variety of coffee mugs sporting spiritual sayings. "The Lord is My Shepherd" was the dominant theme. At least two dozen candles of different sizes, undoubtedly the source of the heavy aroma, were scattered throughout the office. The woman seated at the desk was stuffed into a high-collared, fall-themed sweater with sleeves that pinched at her chubby wrists. Excessive blush and eye shadow gave her a comical appearance. Not quite the televangelist's wife, but clearly on her way there. Her teased red hair didn't help.

  An introduction was not necessary. Ray clearly recalled meeting Mimi McGinnis, daughter of Sheriff Redmond and director of the St. Thomas Retirement Cottages, at the groundbreaking. Without making eye contact, she motioned for Ray to take the only guest chair in the room. He sat, waiting for her to begin the conversation, while she casually opened and closed drawers, shuffling through them in search of something. She turned her back to him, plucked a cell phone out of the purse on the floor behind her, and beeped away at a text message. When finished, she placed the phone on the desk next to the blotter and began searching through the drawers again.

  "Is there a point to this, or are you deliberately wasting my time?" Ray asked.

  She pretended not to hear him. The phone buzzed. She typed another text in response, slid the phone closed, and placed it back in her purse. It seemed to Ray she had to brace herself with a deep breath before turning to face him.

  "Why do you want to see Mr. Lowson?" she asked. Her saccharin voice was higher, more feminine, than he expected it to be.

  "I'm sorry," Ray said. "I don't see where that's any of your concern."

  "Mr. Lowson is a member of my community and a dear family friend. His daughter and I are practically sisters. Mr. Lowson's health and his mind have been failing him, and now his family has suffered this horrible personal tragedy."

  She reached into an open drawer and removed a copy of the day's Citizen Gazette, placing it on the desk close to Ray so he could see the photograph he had taken of the Wallace's house. He wondered if anyone would ever spot Correen Wallace's arm sticking out from under the bushes at the bottom of it. Ray nudged the newspaper in her direction.

  "Mr. Lowson sounded clear of mind in the message he left asking me to come here to meet him," Ray said.

  "And he may have been, at the time," she said, as if talking to a child. "He is known to experience brief moments of clarity."

  "Then maybe he's clear right now," Ray said, mirroring her manner of speech. "How will we know if we don't at least call on him to see?"

  Mimi McGinnis fleetingly shot the cell phone on her desk a glance. Her small eyes, rodent-like behind swollen cheeks, narrowed. Her voice became shrill and direct.

  "I will not allow you to take advantage of a dying man," she said. "If you do not leave this very minute, I will call the police."

  Ray shook his head, lifted himself out of the chair, and walked to the open door. The receptionist, he realized, must have been listening the entire time. She stood in the doorway, arms crosse, chest puffed out like a bouncer at a bar, moving only enough to allow him to squeeze past her. From behind him came the beeping sounds of Mimi McGinnis typing another text message. He poked his head back into the office.

  "Tell your daddy I want my camera back," he said.

  Outside the main entrance, Ray stopped to let the misty rain wash across his face. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. How had the day turned so surreal, he wondered.

  "Hey!"

  Ray looked around to see who had spoken and where that person might be. The brick walls had bounced the word around him.

  "Hey!"

  This time he saw one of the apartment doors leading out to its grassy backyard hanging open, a wiry old man with thin wisps of long white hair leaning out. The man held the door with one hand and an oxygen tank the size of a summer sausage in the other. Tubes trailed over his shoulders to his nostrils. Now that he finally had Ray's attention, the elderly man motioned for Ray to come to him. Ray shot a wary glance back at the lobby doors, then cautiously walked across several lawns, careful not to knock down bird feeders and cheap decorations, until he was ushered inside and the door locked behind him.

  "Have a seat."

  Ray spotted yet another copy of the day's Citizen-Gazette in the man's spotted hand.

  The apartment contrasted starkly to the muted colors of the St. Thomas common areas, though it was only marginally brighter for all of its contrasting boldness. The high ceiling helped the space feel bigger than it was. The drawn sheers in the bay window looking out onto the back lawn, combined with the effects of the gray clouds and canopy of pine trees made it seem more like dusk than midday. Ray found his way to a narrow leather seat with no arms, more like a repurposed dining room chair than something one might find in a living room. Two photographs sat on a table next to an electric recliner that was angled forward as though it had recently ejected its last occupant. The old man backed into the seat cushion, pressed a button on a wired remote, and the chair lowered him gently down with a soft mechanical hum. One of the photographs on the table next to him was a head shot of an attractive woman with short gray hair and a familiar glint in her eye. The other was an eight-by-ten reprint of the family portrait hanging in the Wallace's foyer. Ray marveled at how much Correen Wallace favored her mother. The old man, studying Ray closely, caught him staring at the photos.

  "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

  "Yes, Mr. Lowson, I do," Ray said. "You were still serving as chairman of the county commissioners when I started covering their meetings a few years ago."

  "Do you remember Evan Wallace from that time?"

  Ray shifted uneasily. "Somewhat. He left the county manager position earlier that year, so I never had the chance to..."

  "But you know who he is?"

  "I've written a few articles about projects he's been involved with over the years," Ray said. "He was always very accommodating when I needed a quote or two. I had the pleasure of speaking to him, and your daughter, yesterday at the Lonesome Pines groundbreaking just down the road."

  Lowson studied him. Ray shifted again under the scrutiny. He began wondering why he had thought this might be easier than staying put at the Citizen-Gazette and talking to Becky about the correction she would have
to run.

  "Mr. Lowson, I'm very sorry for what happened to your daughter and son-in-law. If anything about my write up in today's paper upset you..."

  "Shut up," Lowson chirped. "Tell me what happened to my daughter."

  The article in the newspaper on the old man's lap provided a reasonably accurate account of everything Ray had seen at the estate. And, surely, someone from the sheriff's department had been in touch with Lowson to inform him what had happened. What more could Ray offer apart from graphic details the old man would be better off not knowing? He certainly wasn't going to say anything about Jake's possible involvement.

  "I don't think I'm the one you should be talking to about this," Ray said. "The sheriff was out there this morning and saw everything I saw. He'd be the better person to speak with."

  "I've already spoken with Edgar," Lowson growled. "According to him, my daughter shot her husband and tried to commit suicide."

  "Yes," Ray agreed. "That's how I understand them to be presenting it."

  "Then why doesn't your article agree with his account?" The paper flew across the room and landed at Ray's feet. "Is one of you lying?"

  Ray wished Lowson were as confused and ailing as Mimi McGinnis had suggested he was. A little humoring, a few comforting words, and he could make his escape. The old man presently staring him down was no doddering fool. The body supporting it might have weakened from age and sickness, but the mind behind those piercing eyes remained sharp.

  "Sometimes we go to press before all of the details are known," Ray tried to explain. "In this case, I..."

  "Do you think she tried to kill herself?"

  Ray rubbed a hand over his face and paused to consider the question carefully. He sincerely did not believe Correen Wallace threw herself to the ground in an attempt to take her own life. If he answered affirmatively then he was lying, but it might be the easiest way out of this conversation. Contradicting the sheriff's version of events would be asking for trouble. All Lowson would have to do is call Redmond and say "this reporter told me he disagrees with you" and Ray's name would be shit for months with every law enforcement agency in the county. He tried, instead, to hold to the middle ground.

  "Mr. Lowson, all I can print is what I'm told," he said. "When I left the scene this morning, the prevailing logic seemed to indicate your daughter was thrown through that window. Some evidence discovered later must have clearly indicated otherwise to the sheriff."

  "You had a source for what you wrote," Lowson said.

  "Yes."

  "Who was it?"

  "I can't tell you that, sir," Ray said. "I doubt I would even if I could."

  The old man's back straightened. He sat high as possible in the sunken, plush cushions of the recliner. "You have no legal right to withhold your sources from me."

  "You're not a judge, Mr. Lowson" Ray pointed out. "And this isn't a courtroom. I came here as a courtesy to you, out of respect for your daughter in light of what happened to her. I think it's time for me to leave."

  He stood and walked to the back door. Trapped in his seat, Lowson gripped the controls of the chair to raise himself up.

  "Are you going... Are you going to print a retraction?" Lowson asked through shallow breaths as he scurried after Ray.

  Ray stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He turned to face the old man. "Yes."

  "Don't. Don't do it," Lowson pleaded, gasping for oxygen provided in hissing bursts from the tank in his hand. "Whoever you spoke to first. Whoever told you she was pushed. Find him. Ask him what he thinks."

  "The sheriff has issued..." Ray started.

  "Redmond is an idiot!" Lowson growled. "I should know. I hired him."

  "I'm not a private detective," Ray said. "And I have no interest in..."

  "The truth?" Lowson glared at him. "Was my daughter conscious when you found her?"

  "Barely," Ray said.

  "Did she say anything?"

  "She asked for help," Ray said. "Mr. Lowson, I don't really feel comfortable talking to you about her condition."

  "You think I can't take it?" Lowson asked contemptuously. "Our family has survived worse than this. My daughter is strong, and she has more than just doctors helping her now. The Glen Meadows police chief agreed to post a man outside her room, in case whoever did this to her..."

  Ray caught him as he began to teeter backward and rested him gently on the nearest chair by the bay window. Away from lamps, in the muted illumination of natural light, Lowson regained his composure as he stared blankly through the sheer curtains. Ray squatted next to him and kept a hand on his shoulder just in case he lost balance again.

  "Are you okay?" Ray asked.

  The old man's eyes began to well up.

  "My daughter is not mentally disturbed. She doesn't have a violent bone in her body, and she isn't suicidal. Go back to your original source," Lowson said, his voice barely audible. "Ask him. If he agrees with Redmond, print your retraction."

  A knock at the interior door of the apartment startled them both. They looked at each other for a split second. Ray nodded in agreement to the old man's request.

  "I'll call him," Ray said.

  More knocking, followed by a woman's voice calling Avery Lowson's name, and the jangling noise of keys on a ring.

  "Go," Lowson said.

  Monday, Part XII

  It seemed he might sneak away unnoticed from Avery Lowson's apartment at St. Thomas Retirement Cottages. He had made it out the door, across the lawn, and was seated in his car before he spotted Mimi McGinnis staring in his general direction. She didn't try to hail him down as he drove past her along the circuitous lane leading back to the main road. She simply stood there, like an angry guard dog waiting for a reason to bark.

  Thirty minutes later, Ray pulled into the Citizen-Gazette parking lot fully braced to discuss the need to run a correction with Becky and carrying a box of donuts and a tray with two coffees. While waiting for the girl at the shop to pick out the donuts and pour the coffee, Ray checked his phone to find Becky had texted him.

  "Heard from sheriff dept. WTF?! Your info was wrong???"

  Early on in her reign as Managing Editor, those kinds of emails had worried Ray. He liked Becky well enough, and they seemed to get along, but he was never certain how to take her texts and emails. Their abruptness left little from which to glean her state of mind. Over the years, however, Ray developed an ability to spot the difference between urgent messages and those that could be ignored. This one fell roughly in the middle of those two extremes.

  Somewhere along the way he tried calling Billy again and got voicemail. His thoughts kept going back to the fragments of broken glass in Jake's hands, regardless of how many times he told himself it might simply be coincidence. It wouldn't be the first time Jake hurt himself while out on a bender. One night at college as they were hopping a tall chain link fence, the criss-cross barbed tops of the links cut deep gashes into the backs of Jakes hands. Another time, Jake ran face first into a street sign, cutting his cheek and giving himself a black eye. There were many more occasions Ray could detail, if necessary, to help convince himself Jake's injuries probably came from some source other than the shattered window at the Wallace's estate.

  The Citizen-Gazette parking lot was mostly empty when he arrived. Becky's yellow Beatle sat close to the door, a handful of other cars and one pickup truck were sprinkled about. Ray seldom saw the building so late in the afternoon, with the sun low in the sky behind it instead of bathing the front of the building as it did in the morning. He squinted into the light as he approached the front door, balancing the coffees on top of the donut box. Inside, the building was quiet as a funeral home. Only Tammy, full-time receptionist and part-time classified advertising salesperson, could be seen.

  "Hey, baby," she drawled at the sight of him.

  "Hey, Tammy," he responded as he passed her on his way to the line of editorial desks behind her. He was grateful for the paperwork that presently had her too occupied to carry the c
onversation further. She didn't even seem to take notice of the donuts.

  A note in Becky's handwriting taped to his computer screen read simply "See Me!" He peeled it off and through the crumpled paper in the metal trash can under his desk. Just before he could take his seat, he heard Becky curse loudly in her office and call out for her assistant editor. Charlie was nowhere in sight, and Tammy didn't look like she was going to put down her papers to help find him. Becky called out a second time. Ray resigned himself to the fact it was as good a time as any to face the music, so he picked up his peace offerings and headed for her door.

  As he entered her dark, cluttered office, Becky looked up at him with her mouth open, clearly thinking he was Charlie responding to her summons. She stopped herself before any words came out. Her face dropped and she glowered at Ray semi-comically. He smiled weakly at her and sat on the cracked leather love seat. She kept her eyes trained on him as he moved.

  "So?" He spoke in an exaggerated tone of mock politeness. "How's your day going?"

  She huffed at him, then broke into a fit of giggling she couldn't shake off. Ray joined in. It felt good to release some of the tension that had been building inside him since the start of the day. As she wound down, Ray placed one of the coffees on her desk and held open the donut box to her. She shot him a smirking glance before plucking out a powdered treat so full of jelly it oozed out at the sides at the slightest pressure. Becky cupped a hand under it.