by B. E. Scully
Martinez gave his nose a savage swipe with the sleeve of his sweat shirt, and Shirdon knew he was trying not to lose it entirely. They’d seen each other break down before, so they were long past the point of having to prove anything to each other. But Shirdon also knew that her partner was always afraid of that one breakdown too many, that one you won’t come back from quite the same—if you come back at all. She knew because she was afraid of the same thing.
They sat in silence for a long time until Martinez finally said, “You know the worst part, Cass? You know the first thing I thought, when I heard the description Jen gave of the guy who attacked her? I thought, ‘It’s those damn Eastern bloc people.’ A couple of months ago a few of them moved into a house down the street from us. Came here from Serbia or someplace like that—some former Soviet Union country. Then before you know it, there’s a dozen more of them packed into the place, coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I don’t even know who all lives there anymore. Then all of a sudden my wife is attacked right in front of her own house, and we’ll probably never catch the guy because he’s some illegal living completely off the grid. And so here I am sitting in my comfortable middle-class house ranting about the damn illegals ruining the neighborhood when my own goddamn family started out as damn illegals. Pretty funny, huh?”
“I think it’s pretty typical,” Shirdon said. “My mom’s grandparents were straight off the boat from Ireland, but ‘damn immigrants destroying the country’ is still one of the staple conversation-starters at family reunions and weddings.”
She had at least coaxed a smile out of her partner, but it didn’t last long.
“You know,” he said, “I can remember getting so pissed off at my parents for never learning to speak English better. One time when I was about twelve or thirteen—you know, when all of a sudden being cool is the most important thing in the world—I was out with them in this really nice, expensive store. My mom was at the counter and the clerk asked her some question. My dad came over to help out, but it was so obvious they were both struggling to answer. And do you know what I did—me, their loyal son who spoke perfect English? Instead of jumping in to help out, I left the store and went halfway down the block to wait for them, like I didn’t even know them. They never said anything about it afterward, but I’m sure they knew what I was up to. To this day, I still feel like complete shit whenever I even think about it.”
“And now it’s your turn to be a public source of embarrassment to your kids for some totally different reason. Then it’ll be their turn. The eternal wheel of parental shame turns ever onward, Monte.”
“Yeah, but you know what else? Once my parents finally got through all of the paperwork and became legal citizens, it didn’t take long for them to start complaining about all of the other Mexicans flooding across the border undercutting wages and overcrowding the schools—and from where they were now sitting, they weren’t wrong. Just like those damn Lithuanians ruining the neighborhood.”
“Is Jen going to be okay?”
“Physically, she’s only got a few bumps and bruises. But it’s in here I’m worried about,” Martinez said, tapping the side of his head. “We’ve seen it enough times, Cass. Something like this happens and people get afraid. And then the fear starts feeding on itself like a snake eating its own tail.”
“Well, maybe we can starve it to death before it gets started.”
But Shirdon knew that fear could be one very ravenous, very demanding customer.
The first week after the attack, Martinez called his wife so many times a day that Jen eventually told him she’d block him if he didn’t stop. They installed new security lights at the end of their driveway, and life eventually drifted back to the normal routine of work, school, weekends, repeat. But Shirdon knew the incident had cut deeper than Martinez was letting on. He started spending more and more time at the Slammer, the cop bar where he and Shirdon went to take their minds off a tough case or celebrate closing one. Now, though, Martinez seemed to go there mostly as a way of avoiding going home. Sometimes Martinez would call Shirdon to come “have a few” with him, and at first she’d used the opportunity to drop hints about how late it was, or how Jen must be up waiting for him. But more and more she just sat and listened as Martinez tried to either figure it out or at least get it out.
One night during “just one more round,” the conversation turned to marriage.
“You know,” Martinez said, “this thing with Jen—it’s like it somehow ripped the lid off a big, ugly-looking box that was sitting right there in the middle of the house all along, but neither of us wanted to see it. And that box was full of slithering snakes—poisonous, some of them! And now the snakes are all over the house and no one can get them back in the box again.”
Shirdon noticed that he still didn’t refer to the attack directly, preferring instead “this thing,” or “what happened.” As always, she tried to think of something to say that might actually help instead of the same old clichés, but as always, she ended up with one anyway. “It just takes time, Monte. Just give Jen some time to deal with it. And yourself, too.”
But Martinez was quickly edging past the point of hearing what she said one way or the other. “You know, I think sometimes you have the right idea, partner—no kids, no spouse. No significant other to worry about all the time. Speaking of which, how’s things going with ol’ Dave?”
After months of Martinez’s pestering about his recently divorced cousin, Shirdon had finally agreed to go out on a date with the guy. They’d been seeing each other on and off for the past four months, but when Shirdon was being honest with herself, she had to admit that she’d been going through the motions from the very start. Dave was a great guy, but that wasn’t enough to make her want to dismantle the comfort zone she’d spent most of her life constructing.
“Did you know,” Martinez said, draining his glass, “that Jen and I haven’t had sex since it happened?”
“Didn’t have a clue. And I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.”
“It’s like she blames me,” Martinez went on. “Like because there are terrible people in the world, and terrible things happen sometimes, that I’m somehow to blame. Like I’m a failure as a husband. But I can’t fix everything, you know! I can’t make life perfect and safe all the time! I’m not some goddamned superhero in some Hollywood movie who can roll into any situation and save the day, all with a sexy sheen of sweat on my brow and a manly chin to go with it.”
“It’s true, Monte—you’re not very sexy when you sweat. You do have a manly chin, though, beneath the bulldog jowls. And you have an undeniably goddamned superhero mustache.”
Martinez laughed. “Jeez, Cass, you really know how to make a guy feel better. Now I know why you’re single—poor ol’ Dave, the sorry bastard had no idea what I was getting him into.”
The booze and late hour were working Shirdon into the kind of melancholy mood she preferred to indulge alone. If only she could get up off the bar stool. “It’s a kind of survival, not belonging to anyone or anything.”
Martinez looked over at his partner. She was swirling the last of her beer around the bottom of her glass, staring into outer space, and he knew she’d slipped behind that door she kept locked up and bolted tight. “But why just survive, Cass?”
Shirdon shrugged, draining the last of her beer. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s as good as some people can hope for, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that some people just aren’t good people, Monte. I know that sounds simplistic, maybe even childish. But it’s true. You don’t get it, see, because you’re a fundamentally good person. So is Jen. You’re both good people, so you don’t get it that some people just aren’t. Oh, us not-so-good people may stay in line and do the right things because we don’t want to be craven, despised sociopaths. We don’t want to end up in prison or under a bridge, eating little children for dinner. But inside—inside we know the truth.
And sometimes we don’t even manage to do the right thing, despite the prisons and bridges.”
“Oh, come on, Cass, give me a break! You’re as good a person as the next. You’re just too goddamn hard on yourself, is all. Even working cases, you never want to make a mistake. You want to always do and say everything right. But nothing’s perfect! And sure as hell nobody is.”
“I know that. And I’m actually not trying to be perfect. But I do want to be right. Or at least not be wrong.”
Martinez wondered if Shirdon was thinking of her younger sister, who’d committed suicide her senior year of high school while Shirdon was away at college. But considering that it had taken seven years for his partner to even tell him she had a sister let alone that she’d killed herself, Martinez didn’t think he’d get much more out of her on that subject.
“We’ve all made bad mistakes, Cass. Sometimes I think it’s just the luck of the draw that one guy gets to wipe his brow and say, ‘Whoa, close call,’ while some other poor bastard ends up with his life in ruins.”
“And sometimes some poor bastard ends up dead. And on that cheerful note, I’m calling it a night. And so should you. Things are never going to get any better with Jen if you’re never home for things to get better.”
Since then, Martinez’s nights at the Slammer had grown steadily less frequent, but he had been right about one thing—Jen’s attacker had never been caught.
“We’re here,” Martinez said, making an abrupt right turn into a long gravel driveway. They pulled up in front of a dilapidated old house painted an unsavory shade of dark red. It wasn’t that the house was so much ugly as off, somehow—stovepipes and chimneys sticking out from the roof at odd, impossible angles, walls that seemed to slant inward as if the house were trying to pull itself down from the inside out, and not a proper right angle to be found. The entire place seemed off-kilter, off-balance, off-center—just plain all-around off.
A man and woman stood on the front porch as if they’d been awaiting their arrival.
“Must be the Goodmans,” Martinez said. “Now that’s the last couple in the world I’d expect to find living in a house like this.”
“They definitely look more all-American than American Gothic,” Shirdon agreed. “Which one of them called in about witnessing a murder?”
“The wife. But she’s not actually sure what she saw. She wouldn’t give any more information over the phone, and she didn’t want to come in to make a statement. Said the police would have to come out here to see things firsthand. So that’s what we’re here for. Slow news day at the station, I guess.”
They got out of the car and walked over to the porch. The husband, tall with an athletic build and the kind of smile usually seen in toothpaste commercials, stuck out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Cal Goodman, and this is my wife Rachel.”
The woman next to him nodded her head and hugged her arms around her shoulders. Behind the front door, a dog was alternating between whining, barking, and scratching frantically to get out.
“That’s Jackson,” the woman said. “He gets nervous around strangers.”
Shirdon shook hands with Cal Goodman and then turned to his wife. “I’m Detective Shirdon and this is Detective Martinez. You called about witnessing a possible accident or assault?”
“It’s more what I didn’t see,” Rachel Goodman said. “The two sisters—Mary and Mabel Dell, they run the lavender farm next door—they walk behind our house every day to get to the canal pathway. Our other neighbor, Roy Crampton, he used to scare everyone away from walking behind there, but then—”
“Hon, just stick to what you saw, okay?” Cal Goodman gave his wife a thin-lipped smile, and she hugged her shoulders even tighter.
“Okay, well, Mary and Mabel went for their daily walk just like usual, right at dusk. I saw them pass by the first time. I was—I was cleaning the upstairs room, the one in the back. In the turret.”
Martinez noticed that the husband was clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Okay, and then what?”
“It was getting really dark by then, and I saw the sisters coming back across the bridge and down the pathway behind the houses. But when they got behind Roy Crampton’s house, they stopped. It looked like they were having some kind of argument. I mean, from what I could tell.” She gave a short, nervous laugh. “I mean, it wasn’t like I was spying on them or anything.”
“No, of course not,” Shirdon said, exchanging a quick glance with Martinez. “And then what happened?”
“And then I thought I saw something—a flash or blur or…something. And when I looked closer, it was just Mabel coming past our house. Mary was nowhere in sight. Then when I went down to the pathway where they were standing, I found this.” She picked up a plastic shopping bag that had been sitting at her feet and pulled out a pink plastic garden clog. “Mary wore these all the time. I’m not saying I saw anything specific happen, because I didn’t, but…I think I might have heard a splash. Like Mary might have fallen into the canal, or…or been pushed. Or something.”
“And this was, what? Four days ago?” Martinez asked, checking his notes.
“Yes. I waited that long because, well…I guess I wanted to be sure Mary was really missing. The sisters haven’t been for a walk even one time since then, and both times I’ve been over at the farm, neither of them have been anywhere in sight. And Mabel is always there, in the shop. The sisters haven’t been getting along since their father died. See, Mary wants to expand the place and—”
“I’m sure it’s all some kind of misunderstanding,” Cal said, his tight-lipped smile as stiff as if carved in plastic.
“Mind if we take a look at the spot you saw Mabel go missing?” Martinez asked.
“That’s why I wanted you guys to come out here in the first place,” Rachel said. “To see how things are for yourself. Out here along canal way, I mean.”
The four of them went around the house and down a short embankment to a narrow gravel pathway. Rachel led them to a spot directly behind a flat, gray house.
Shirdon saw Rachel glance at one of the neighbor’s back windows and then quickly look away. “You think your neighbor saw something, too?”
“Well, he does watch out the window sometimes, and ever since we—”
“No, no,” Cal broke in. “Roy Crampton doesn’t have anything to do with anything or anyone around here. He’s a little bit on the strange side. A little hostile to strangers. He keeps his place sealed up like a tomb. But I guess you can’t blame a guy for wanting to keep his property safe, right?”
“I can agree with you on that one,” Martinez said. Rachel Goodman looked back and forth between her husband and the detective as if she just might take a cue from Mabel Dell and push both of them into the canal.
“Even so, we’d like to talk to him,” Shirdon said.
“You can try,” Cal said. “I wouldn’t bother with the front door, though. A better bet is to try standing underneath the big apple tree over there until he pops up like the classic creepy old guy from a horror film—”
“Cal—”
“—and tells everyone ‘turn back now or you’re all going to DIE!”
“Cal, please.”
“Okay, Rachel, okay. I’m just kidding around.”
“Can we get to the lavender farm along this pathway?” Martinez asked. “Maybe we can clear this whole thing up right now.”
Rachel’s head shot up in alarm. “Oh, no, you can’t tell Mabel what I said! I mean, we just moved in and we’ve already had so many problems with him,” she said, jerking her head toward Roy Crampton’s house. “I couldn’t stand to have problems with both our neighbors.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Shirdon said, “we’ll just go over and talk to her to start out. But Ms. Goodman, I can’t promise you we’ll be able to keep you out of it if things go any further. You’re the only witness, and you did call us.”
Cal shook his head and gave a laugh as brittle and unconvincing as his smile. “Wait a minut
e here—she’s not a witness to anything. Let’s not start blowing this whole thing any more out of proportion—”
“I know what I saw, Cal.”
“Actually, hon, you didn’t see anything.”
“Let’s start with the sisters at the lavender farm,” Shirdon tried again. “It’s down this pathway?” Rachel had put the garden clog back in the plastic bag, and Shirdon nodded toward it. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to take that with me.”
They found Mabel behind the store counter, stacking bars of lavender soap.
“I’m Detective Martinez and this is my partner, Detective Shirdon. We got a call from one of your customers about your sister Mary—apparently she hasn’t been around the farm lately, and there’s some concern that something might have happened to her way out here. We’re just checking up on things, making sure everything’s okay.”
Mabel laughed and shook her head. “A customer, huh? We haven’t had any customers since the end of the harvest season, and yet two detectives come all the way out here because of some supposed thing some supposed customer says?”
“Is your sister here?” Shirdon asked. “If so, we’d like to talk to her.”
“Actually, she’s not here. If my new neighbors knew anything about my sister—which they don’t, because they’re not from around here, obviously—then they’d know that at the end of every harvest season, Mary takes off into the mountains to ‘reconnect with nature’—her words, not mine. Takes off every year with nothing but a tent and a backpack full of provisions. Been doing it for over twenty years now, and I suspect she’ll do it for another twenty unless she falls down dead first. In fact, she’ll probably croak up there in the mountains and get eaten by a wildcat for her trouble. That’ll reconnect her with nature all right.”