“It’s not a matter of being unwilling, it’s a matter of understanding the situation. I’d like to know how you got my name.”
Brewer was silent.
“Look,” Eric said, “I’d like to talk to you. It’s my preference, in fact. But I’m also not going to treat this as a one-way exchange. I’m worried, and I feel like there are some things I deserve to know. If you want to have a conversation, great. If this is an interrogation, though, I’ll ask you to hold on until I get a lawyer in the room.”
Brewer sighed at the mention of the word.
“Hey,” Eric said, “it’s your call.”
“We have a homicide to solve,” Brewer said eventually, “and unless you were directly involved, I’d hate to think you’d voluntarily slow us down.”
“Detective, yesterday that man surprised me in a parking lot, discussed details of my personal life, and then made a clear threat. You want to know about it, I’ll be happy to share, but like I said, I have some other things to consider. Like protecting my family.”
He’d hoped a little tease of information would improve Brewer’s cooperation, and it seemed to. The cop’s eyes lit at the disclosure, and he pulled his chair closer.
“I’ll do what’s within reason for you, if you do the same for me, Mr. Shaw. And that’s going to require a full explanation, quickly.”
“I’ll give it. Just tell me, please, how you got my name. I need to know that.”
“Gavin Murray’s company.”
“They told you he’d come down here after me?”
Brewer nodded. “They said that you were the target of his investigation.”
“Well, who hired him?”
“We don’t know.”
Now it was Eric’s turn to sigh, but Brewer lifted a hand.
“No, really, Mr. Shaw, we do not know. That’s all his company would tell us. They’re balking at more disclosures right now, claiming attorney-client privilege.”
“Private investigators have attorney-client privilege?”
“They do when they’ve been hired by an attorney. At that point, they’re part of the attorney’s legal team. It’s legit, if a pain in the ass. They seem eager to cooperate, but refuse to provide the client’s name. We’ll work on it, but for now that’s where we stand.”
Brewer leaned back and spread his hands. “So as you can imagine, it is pretty damn important for us to hear what you have to say, Mr. Shaw. All we know now is that the man came down from Chicago to follow you. Or, apparently, to speak with you. The same night he arrived, he was killed. We’d like to know why.”
“So would I,” Eric said, and then he hesitated briefly, wondering again if a lawyer was in his best interests, because in the scenario Brewer had just recounted, Eric seemed not only like a suspect, but like a good one.
“The faster we move on this,” Brewer said, “the faster we can put your mind at ease for your family and yourself.”
“Okay,” Eric said. “Okay.”
He had Murray’s business card in his wallet, and he gave it to Brewer and then gave him Kellen’s name and number, and explained he was a witness to the initial encounter.
“But not to the conversation,” Brewer said. His tone was soft and unchallenging but it still stopped Eric short, gave him a tingle of warning.
“No,” he said. “There were no witnesses to the conversation. But I came back from it and told Kellen what had been said, immediately. That’s the best I can do.”
Brewer nodded, placating, and asked him to go on. Eric explained everything he could as Brewer sat quietly with his eyes locked on Eric’s, the tape recorder’s wheels turning steadily. Brewer’s face didn’t change throughout, didn’t react even when Eric spoke of the payment offer or the suggestion that he could be convinced to go home through other means if he passed on the money.
“He was talking on the phone when we left. You want to know who his client is, you should probably check the phone records.”
“We’ll be checking those, don’t worry.” Brewer looked down at the recorder, thoughtful, and said, “And this was both the first and last time you saw Gavin Murray?”
“Yes. You want to talk to someone, I’d look for Josiah Bradford. He was the last person Murray asked me about, and in my opinion, he’s probably the core of the reason Murray came down here.”
“Can you elaborate on that theory?”
“Have you talked to Josiah?”
Brewer looked pained, but he said, “We’re going to, don’t worry. It’s a matter of locating him, same as with you.”
“So he’s missing?”
“He’s not home, that’s all, Mr. Shaw. I’d hardly term him missing yet.” There was something in Brewer’s eyes that hinted at a deeper level of dissatisfaction, though, something that told Eric they were indeed interested in Josiah Bradford. “Now, could you please elaborate on the suggestion you just made?”
“Well, it’s a pretty simple idea. I came down here to do a movie about this rich guy in Chicago, about his childhood here. As soon as I get here, somebody offers me a decent amount of money to go home. Felt like a protective move to me, somebody maneuvering to head a problem off at the pass.”
A plausible explanation, but the details it omitted, like Eric’s growing confidence that the old man in the hospital was not the same Campbell Bradford of local infamy, were not minor. How in the hell could he be expected to explain it all, though? It was too damn strange. He’d sound like a lunatic.
“You said you’re making a movie,” Brewer said. “A documentary.”
“Yes.”
“Fascinating. So you tape interviews, things like that.”
“Yes.”
“Great. If we could have a look at the film you have from yesterday…”
“I don’t have any. Well, I’ve got audio. I can give you audio.”
But the audiotapes were going to introduce a new element to all this. Eric didn’t like the idea of Brewer and a roomful of additional cops sitting around listening to him tell Anne McKinney about his visions. No, that didn’t seem like a good choice at all.
“You don’t use a camera? Seems tough to make a movie without a camera.”
“I use them.”
“So you have one with you?”
“No. I mean, I brought one down, yeah. But it… it broke.”
Shit, that couldn’t sound more like a lie. Maybe he could find some wreckage from the camera to back him up, but that would require an accompanying explanation of how he’d come to beat an expensive camera into pieces on the hotel desk. Not the sort of story you wanted to tell a cop who was investigating a rage homicide.
“It broke,” Brewer said in a bland voice. “I see. Now, could you describe what your night looked like after your talk with Gavin Murray?”
“What it looked like?” Eric echoed, trying to focus. His head was pounding steadily now, and his stomach clenched and unclenched. He tried to will it all away, or at least down. Now was not the time for another collapse.
“Yes, what you did, who saw you, things of that nature.”
He should tell the truth, of course. But telling the truth would take them to Anne McKinney, and that would take them to his talk of visions and headaches. Of course, he’d already given them Kellen, who would have to say the same thing…
“Mr. Shaw?” Brewer prompted, and Eric lifted his head and looked at him and then the vertical hold went out in his eyes. It was like watching old reel-to-reel tape that had been damaged; the scene in front of him began to shake up and down, as if Brewer were sitting on a pogo stick instead of a chair. He had to reach out and grip the underside of his chair to steady himself.
Oh, shit, he thought, it’s coming back. It’s coming back already, I didn’t even get a day out of it this time.
The shaking stopped then, but double vision came in its place, two of Brewer across the table from him now, two sets of skeptical eyes regarding him, and there was a buzzing in his ears.
“I think,” Er
ic said, “I’m going to need to take a break.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not feeling well. It’s got to be nerves. I’m worried about my wife.”
“Mr. Shaw, I assure you there’s no reason to think your wife is in any danger. Unless you have a reason beyond what you’ve said…”
“I just need a break,” Eric said.
Yes, a break. That’s what he needed. A long-enough break to let him get back to his hotel room, let him get back to that plastic cup he’d filled with water from Anne McKinney’s bottle. It was the only thing that could save him now.
“I can get you some water,” Brewer said, and that produced an almost hysterical urge to laugh. Yes, water, that’s exactly what I need!
“I’d actually… I need to step out for a while,” Eric said, and the suspicion was building in Brewer’s face like a flush.
“Well, go on outside,” Brewer said. “But we do need to finish this talk.”
“No, I’m going to need to go. I can come back later. I need to lie down, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“Unless you’re arresting me, I’m going to need to lie down. Just for a while.”
He’d expected resistance, but instead Brewer gave him a very cool, skeptical nod and said, “Well, you do what you have to do, Mr. Shaw. But we’re going to need to talk again.”
“Of course.” Eric lurched to his feet as the buzzing intensified. He felt as if he were moving through water as he went to the door. “I’m sorry, I really am, but all of a sudden I’m feeling very bad.”
Brewer stood, and the sound of his chair sliding back on the floor went off in Eric’s brain like a power grinder applied to the edge of a blade, sparks coming off in showers.
“I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” the detective said, moving around the table, and Eric raised a hand and waved him off.
“No, no. I’ve got it. Could use the exercise. Thanks.”
“You really don’t look so good, Mr. Shaw. Maybe you should let me drive you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I hope you are,” Brewer said. “And I hope the recovery is quick. Because we’re not done talking.”
“Right,” Eric said, but he had his back to Brewer now. His double vision had persisted upon rising, and there were two doors floating in front of him, with two door handles. Better grab the right one. He reached out and fumbled, his hand sliding across the door, and then he had the handle and twisted it down and stepped out into the hallway, crossed through the front of the station and made it through the next set of doors, and then he was outside.
The fresh air was bracing and comforting, but it was accompanied by glaring sunlight that almost brought him to his knees. He staggered like a drunk and lifted a hand to shield his eyes and kept on going, plowing ahead the way he had in the dining room the night before, hoping this trip would have a better ending.
He got to the sidewalk and turned toward the hotel. There were white squares at the edges of his vision now, and he was certain he couldn’t continue, but then the sun fell behind a bank of clouds. They came in quickly, pushed by a strong, warm wind, and the white squares went gray and then faded and the headache seemed to lose steam.
On he walked, sucking in the deep, grateful breaths of a man just saved from drowning. When he crossed the street he looked back at the police station, saw Brewer standing in front of the building with his hands in his pockets, watching.
This could not have been timed worse. The last place he needed to have a breakdown was inside a police station while answering questions about his whereabouts during a murder. He probably couldn’t have looked guiltier if he’d been setting off three lie detectors at once. What could be done, though? It was remarkable he’d made it out as calmly as he had. The only choice was to go back to the hotel and drink what was left of the water and then call Brewer and apologize, tell him he was feeling better and ready to finish the interview. Maybe he’d even try to explain the whole crazy story. All that could be sorted out in time—right now, he needed the Pluto Water.
When he was halfway back to the hotel, the clouds lifted from the sun and the harsh white light was back, bouncing off the pavement and into his eyes, a searing, penetrating brightness that lifted the headache to a gleeful roar. He held his hands cupped over his eyes and stumbled along, walking quickly but unevenly, aware of the occasional slowing of cars beside him as passersby stared.
He’d forgotten to go through the casino parking lot and take the back way to the West Baden hotel and had walked instead all the way through town. For a long time he concentrated on his breathing, trying to keep a steady rhythm, but then his stomach got into the act, that swirling nausea, and he couldn’t keep count anymore. He was soaked with sweat, but it sat cold on the surface of his skin. At one point he felt his knees wobble and he almost went down, had to pull up short and bend over and brace his hands on his thighs. A white Oldsmobile pulled up slowly when he did that, and he was afraid the driver was going to offer help, but then the car pulled away again. Nobody wanted to get out for a stranger who was bent over on the sidewalk like some sort of derelict.
The sun disappeared while he was standing there, and a minute later his legs steadied and he straightened and began to walk again. About twenty steps after that, the wind picked up swiftly and then a few drops of rain began to fall.
The rain saved him. As it opened up and began to fall harder, the wind whistling in behind him, his head cleared and the nausea subsided. Not much, just the slightest change, but it was enough to keep him upright, keep him going. As the clouds went from pale gray to a dark, deep mass that covered the street in shadows, he lifted his head and let the rain fall on his face, water running into his eyes and his mouth.
It’ll keep raining, and you’ll keep walking. You’ll keep walking, and you’ll get there and get the water. It’s not that far.
It was raining hard by the time he reached the hotel, and there were short, soft rolls of thunder. The brick drive seemed impossibly long, miles upon miles, but he kept his head down and his stride as long as he could manage and he made it to the end.
Made it. I actually made it.
It was too early for a victory celebration, though—as soon as he stepped inside and the cooling rain vanished, hotel lights in its place, the sickness came galloping back out of the gates, digging the spurs in. He stumbled on his way to the elevator, turning heads and bringing silence to a group of women talking in the hall. Once he was in the elevator, the damn thing wouldn’t go up, and it took him a minute before he finally remembered it required a keycard. The rapid motion when it rose was enough to make him lean over and clutch the wall, but then the doors were open again and he was out in the hallway, just paces from the room, from salvation.
He opened the door and stepped in, awash with bone-deep relief, made it halfway to the table before his brain finally caught up to what his eyes were showing him.
The room had been cleaned—carefully and completely. And there beside the freshly made bed was an empty table, the half-filled water glass discarded.
36
THIS WAS TERROR, as true and as deep as he’d ever felt it.
He dropped to his knees, driven not by physical pain but by anguish.
“You bitches,” he said, speaking to the long-departed cleaning team that had removed the water. “Do you know what you did? Do you know?”
He knew. The withdrawal was going to return now in full glory, and this time there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he could take.
Call Kellen. Make him bring it back.
Yes, Kellen. That was the best chance he had. He got the phone out of his pocket, still on the floor, and dialed the number, held his breath while it rang.
And rang. And rang.
Then voice mail, and for several seconds he couldn’t even think of words to say, too awash in the sick sense of defeat. Eventually he mumbled out his name and asked for a call back. He had no way of knowing where Kell
en was, though, or if he even still had the bottle. He could have passed it off to someone by now.
All he needed was a sip, damn it. Just a few swallows, enough to hold the monster at bay, but there was nowhere to find even that much because he’d given up both the Bradford bottle and Anne McKinney’s…
Anne McKinney. She was right up the road, with bottles and bottles of the water—old, unopened bottles.
All he had to do was make it there.
He stood again, shaky, dropping a palm to the bed to hold himself upright. He got in a few breaths, squinting against the pain and the nausea, and then went to the door and opened it and went out into the hall. He was alone in the elevator again, and that was good, because this time, holding the wall wasn’t enough—he had to kneel, one knee on the floor of the elevator, his shoulder and the side of his head leaned against the wall. It was a glass elevator, open on the back, looking down at the hotel atrium below, and he saw a young girl with braids spot him and tug her father’s sleeve and point. Then he was on the ground floor and the doors were open. He shoved upward, got out, and turned the corner and broke into a wavering jog. Speed was going to be key now. He could feel that.
He’d parked the Acura in the lower lot, closest to the hotel, and he ran for it now through the rain, which was coming down in gusting torrents, no trace of the sun remaining in the sky. Behind the hotel the trees shook and trembled.
He had his keys out by the time he got to the car, opened the door, and fell into the seat. The warmth inside the car made the nausea worse, so he put down the windows and let the rain pour in and soak the leather upholstery. He drove in a fog of pain, didn’t even realize the windshield wipers were off until he was out of the parking lot. He flicked them on then, but the slapping motion made him dizzy and clouded his vision even worse than the rain itself, so he turned them back off and drove with his right hand only, leaning out the window and squinting into the rain.
As he looped through the casino lots and into French Lick, each passing car seemed to have three windshields and six headlights. At some point he must have edged across the center line, because he heard a horn and jerked the wheel to the right and hit the curb, felt the front right tire pop up onto it and then drop back to the road with a jarring bang. The thunder was on top of the town now, harsh crackles of it, and occasionally lightning flashed in front of him, leaving behind a fleeting white film over his eyes.
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