by A. J. Thomas
“So you’re old friends?” Agent Shaffer said carefully. He was quiet for a moment, and Christopher had a feeling he was either waiting for Christopher to confirm that he knew Doug previously or to clarify that they’d just met. Christopher stayed quiet. He had no way to know exactly what Doug had told them, and the worst thing he could do right now was to say the opposite.
“And he was waiting for you at the morgue?”
“He was waiting for Peter’s next of kin, yes. Afterwards, I looked at some of the coroner’s photos and then he took me to my brother’s house. I didn’t do so well with the smell. I'm not sure if it was the cats or just rotting food, but it smelled like something crawled in there and died. I opened up the windows on the first floor, and then I had to get out before I got sick. I touched the blinds, the window frames in the living room, the wall between the kitchen and the living room, the window frames in the kitchen, the refrigerator, and the kitchen counter—but nothing else.”
“Aren’t you a homicide detective? You can’t handle the smell of a litter box?” This was from Agent Belkamp.
“I even tried some of that menthol rub,” Christopher snapped. “It was that bad.” Christopher went on, telling both FBI agents about returning to the police station to sign paperwork, his run, checking into his hotel room, and then going out for a beer and dinner with Doug. He avoided any mention of sex, or any mention of any kind of contact at all, but he confirmed that Doug was with him the entire time.
“He spent the night in your hotel room?” Agent Belkamp asked. For the first time, Christopher thought he could detect a hint of a smile on the stoic man’s face.
“Yes” was all Christopher said.
“Have you been by your brother’s house this morning?”
“No. I figured this was more important. Plus, I’m not sure if even a fire would be able to cover up that smell.”
“Have you looked at your brother’s will?”
“No, not yet. It’s been a whole fourteen hours, though, so I’ve got no excuse. I’m just lazy.”
“Do you have a copy of it with you?” Before Christopher could answer, Agent Belkamp slipped his partner two photocopies. “Ah, here we go.” Instead of looking at the photocopies, though, he shuffled them under his legal pad.
“So.” Christopher leaned back. “Any idea how the fire started?”
“Oh yes,” Agent Shaffer said casually. “Accelerant-based burn patterns are the easy part. Mr. Hayes, we’d obviously like you to stay within Baker County until we’ve concluded our investigation. Since you’re still arranging your brother’s funeral, I presume that won’t be a problem?”
“I’ll stick around,” Christopher agreed. He recognized his cue to leave.
“Here.” Agent Shaffer handed him a business card. “Just in case, could you write down your phone number too?”
“My boss didn’t give you my number?” Christopher didn’t wait for an answer. He wrote his cell number down on the legal pad. “I turn my phone off a lot, so you might have to leave a message.”
Christopher didn’t want to look Doug in the eye as he left the conference room. He could almost feel the eyes of Agent Belkamp on them, along with the eyes of every other officer in the charge room. Doug wasn't fazed by it at all, though Christopher could tell he knew everyone was watching them. He was, as Christopher expected, utterly professional.
“That probably wasn’t how you were planning on starting the day,” said Doug. He pulled out the case file on Christopher’s brother, the same one he had handed to Agent Belkamp just fifteen minutes before. Inside was a worn-looking manila envelope. Doug didn’t open the envelope. Instead, he carefully secured the clasp and passed it to Christopher. “This is his will and the note he left. The key was originally taped to the outside, but the feds took it. I’ll get them to sign a receipt for it, if you want.”
“I don’t even know if there’s still a door,” Christopher reminded him.
“That would make the key a bit moot. It’s still sealed, anyway,” said Doug. “But at least you can start the probate process.”
Christopher rubbed his eyes and sighed. “A morning interrogation and an afternoon of dealing with lawyers. If I could schedule a root canal before dinner, this might just make my list of my best days ever.”
Doug pointed at him calmly. “That’s the smile.”
“Yeah, I get it now.” Christopher tucked the envelope under his arm and put his hands into his pockets. “Well, thanks for your help, Detective Heavy Runner. Give me a call if you need to follow up on anything.”
Christopher didn’t wait for Doug to say yes or no. He pulled out a pen and wrote his phone number on a blank legal pad on Doug’s desk, then turned and walked away. He was being stupid, and as soon as Doug looked at the legal pad, he was going to think Christopher was pathetically desperate. Beneath his phone number, he scribbled the word anytime and underlined it. Then he got the hell out of there. He didn’t even look back.
“Oh!” Doug shot up from his chair and raced to catch up to Christopher. “I forgot about Liedes!”
Christopher stared at him, both eyebrows raised. “Liedes?”
“I don’t have his number,” said Doug, taking the manila envelope back and writing out the minister’s name. “But he was your brother’s boss and probably his minister too. John Liedes. He runs the Mission Mountains Evangelical Church. You should get in touch with him about a service.” On the envelope, separate from where he wrote the minister’s name, Doug wrote Tomorrow night, and then he jotted down his own number.
“John Liedes,” Christopher read off the envelope. He grinned. “I’ll look him up.”
Christopher found a nice-looking diner, ordered a lot of coffee and the biggest lunch they served, and then looked up phone numbers for funeral homes and lawyers. He looked up the minister, got as far as typing the man’s number into his phone, and then set his phone down again. He called the first funeral home on the list instead. It took about an hour, but soon he had a funeral director who agreed to take care of everything, an appointment to go over the funeral details the next morning, and an appointment to meet with an attorney that afternoon. He had also agreed to pay out a huge chunk of his savings for the funeral and a legal retainer, but that couldn’t be helped.
By the time the diner began to fill for lunch, Christopher had run out of things to accomplish. Calling Peter’s minister was the last thing on the list. He stared at the name of the minister again, dialed the number, and hit the send button. He shut his eyes and let the phone ring, absolutely refusing to let himself feel anything. He was drumming his fingers on the table so fast his silverware clattered on his plate. The waitress, who had very patiently kept refilling his coffee, slipped the plate off the table. She had obviously overheard some of his conversations, because her smile had gradually evolved from flirtatious to sympathetic.
As the ringing continued, Christopher felt the muscles in his back and shoulder tighten and cramp again. He should have taken a muscle relaxer and painkiller that morning. It would have left him too groggy to deal with the interrogation, and far too messed up to drive, but he would pay for not taking one by the end of the day.
“Thank you for calling Mission Mountains….” Christopher collapsed back against the booth as a woman’s voice told him that the office was empty and invited him to leave a message. He managed a choppy message and hung up without leaving his number.
The waitress set a slice of chocolate pie in front of him. “Always makes me feel better,” she said quietly.
Christopher stared down at the gigantic slice of chocolate cream pie, drooling. Missing breakfast after a long run was never a good idea. Christopher usually needed all the calories he could get, and even after the lunch he’d eaten, he was still hungry. “I think this is just what I needed.” A strong narcotic and a deep-tissue massage would help too, but Christopher would have to figure that out on his own
“He’s great, you know. Reverend Liedes. If you need someone to t
alk to, he’s sure to help.”
“Is he a good guy?”
“He’s a great minister.”
Christopher knew better than to argue that he didn’t think it was possible to be a great minister and a good man. He never argued about religion with anyone. They inevitably wanted an explanation for why he hated something so basic and comforting. The few times he had told people, they’d insisted it wasn’t fair to judge every religious person in the world based on the crimes of a single man. Christopher knew they were right.
Christopher could fight back memories, he could block out the feelings and images and even smells of his past, but he could never block out the man’s voice. He remembered the man quoting long passages from the Bible while he was punishing them. At first, Christopher had only had to listen—listen to the man force himself on Peter, listen to him coach Peter in how he wanted him to move, how he wanted him to moan, and the things he wanted Peter to say. When Peter failed him, the Bible passages were about obedience. When Peter succeeded, they were about the sin of sodomy. He never touched Peter without punishing him for it afterward.
Christopher nodded his thanks, took a bite of the pie, and chewed it slowly. He let the chocolate roll around on his tongue, knowing if he couldn’t stop the flood of memories now, he wasn’t going to be able to eat the pie at all.
It was too late. He felt like the world around him was frozen and growing dark. He found himself lost in one of the many memories he had of that alley near the church. In his mind, he saw Peter sitting beside him, his chin-length blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. That was the first night their foster father had turned to Christopher instead of Peter. It was before Peter had ever tried to touch him, when Christopher still thought Peter was protecting him. Looking back, he now knew Peter hadn’t done anything to stop the man from grabbing Christopher by the back of his head and shoving his cock down Christopher’s throat. He also hadn’t done anything to stop the beating that followed. Christopher had never blamed his brother then. He thought Peter was just as scared as he was. Peter had carried him out into the alley, set him down against the wall, and sat down beside him.
He told Christopher the beating was his own fault for throwing up. When Christopher said it was gross, and that it hurt, Peter laughed at him. He laughed so long Christopher felt like hitting him. Being ten, he tried. Peter just shoved his fist aside and rubbed his hair until it was a complete mess. Peter told him not to fight the next time, and not to throw up.
Christopher remembered he hadn’t wanted there to be a next time. He asked why they didn’t just run away, why they didn’t at least try.
“They’d bring us back,” Peter told him. “They would never believe us over him. He’s a Man of God, Chris. We’re just kids.”
“They can’t send us back if they can’t find us!”
“He’d find us. Besides, where would we go?”
Christopher had known better than to suggest they look for their mom. For as long as Christopher could remember, she had always been too drunk, too high, or too busy with the dozens of men who passed through her life to take care of them. In all of Christopher’s early memories, it wasn’t their mom who helped him when he was hurt, or who fed him when he was hungry—it was always Peter. After school, when other kids ran to their mothers or grandmothers, Peter had been waiting for him.
Peter had pulled him close and kissed the top of his head. “When I’m old enough to get a job, we will. We’ll run away and we won’t look back.”
Christopher stared down at the glob of chocolate mousse on his fork. How could he ever run far enough to forget what Peter had been? What Peter had become? Christopher had never stopped running and he still hadn’t managed to get away from it all. He shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths.
“You okay, sweetie?” The waitress stopped by again.
“No.” Christopher smiled. “Bad week, I’m afraid. This is delicious, but I don’t think I have room to finish it. Could you box it up for me?”
“Sure.”
Christopher took his pie and went back to his hotel. The hotel had a small gym, so he tried to lift weights. That turned the pain in his shoulder into a full-blown spasm, so he took a shower, swallowed two pills, crawled into bed, and fell asleep.
The next day, checkbook in hand, Christopher met with the director of the funeral home, ate lunch at the same diner, and then met with an attorney. He didn’t even read the will before handing it to the lawyer. Apparently, there was not only the house, but an old truck and a bank account too. The will said Christopher was listed as the beneficiary on the bank account, so he could access that immediately. The rest would require going to court, opening an estate account, and a million other mysterious things the lawyer seemed to brush off as trivial matters.
“Do we really need to go through all this? The house is in ruins, so it’s not like there’s anything left to inherit.”
“If you choose not to probate the will, then eventually the property will revert to the state through eminent domain, and then be auctioned off. There is also the matter of the vehicle and accounts. If you are the account beneficiary, they don’t have to go through the probate process. The title to the vehicle will. Also, I’m sure the house was insured,” his lawyer pointed out. “The insurance adjuster will no doubt want the police to finish their investigation before settling any claim, but money will go to the estate if the investigation is concluded in your favor.”
“In my favor?”
“Obviously, no insurance contract allows a party to benefit from their own acts.” The lawyer smiled as though the implication that Christopher was an arsonist was somehow funny.
“Well, then, we shouldn’t have a problem. I admit I didn’t want to clean that place up, and lighter fluid and a match might have been the most efficient way to deal with it, but I didn’t have that much forethought. And there’s no truck there.”
The lawyer spun the will on his desk and pointed to a small clause after the description of the house. “A 1998 Toyota Tacoma?”
Christopher shook his head. “There’s no truck there.”
“Perhaps he left it up at Lone Pine?” the lawyer suggested.
“No. The police would have impounded the vehicle if they had found it near the body. Maybe he sold it after he signed the will. Also, he might have had a roommate. One of the local detectives said something like that.”
“I’ll run a title search and check to see if the title has been transferred to a new owner,” the lawyer agreed. “If it hasn’t, you’ll have to report the vehicle as stolen.”
Christopher bet there would be another insurance investigation to go along with it. “How much more would I have to pay you to just deal with the entire process and call me when everything is disposed of?”
“We can work something out,” the lawyer said smoothly. Christopher had a sinking feeling he had just bargained away more of his savings than he had expected. Still, it would be worth it to be able to get back to California and forget about Peter altogether.
“I won’t be needing this, of course,” the lawyer said, passing the manila envelope back to him. “Just the will.”
Christopher opened the envelope wide and peered inside. The only other thing in there was a single sheet of notebook paper. A bit late, he remembered Doug saying that Peter had left the classic suicide note. He had seen a few over the years, and they all tended to repeat the same self-pitying apologetic ranting. They always echoed feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and shame. As a teenager, his foster parents had taken him to a therapist who insisted he fill up page after page of what amounted to the same thing. He had filled up notebook after notebook with every negative thought he had for years. He’d hated it, and he had thought of it as nothing but a chore by the end. But it was a chore that had kept him sane and functional, and it had probably kept him from hurting himself or the people around him.
Every time he read something similar, though, it just made him angry. He was often the one who had
to deal with the grieving families who were in shock and denial. They were usually angry when they found a suicide note, and Christopher couldn’t help but wonder how, if these people cared enough to get angry and upset when their loved one died, they never noticed any of the warnings signs, never noticed their suffering. The worst for Christopher were the teenagers. Kids who were just as messed up as he had once been, and who had called out for help just as he had, or who had been desperate for someone to notice their misbehavior as a sign that something was wrong. Too often their families wrote off their teen’s depression as drama, they even wrote off failed suicide attempts as a cry for attention, and rather than getting their kid the help and attention they needed, withdrew from them completely. Then, when the next suicide attempt was successful, they were stunned and angry.
He shut the envelope and tucked it under his arm. He would deal with it all later, when he didn’t need to keep himself together.
Once the meeting with the lawyer was over, Christopher drove around Elkin, trying to get a feel for the town to avoid getting lost on a run. He tried to match up the streets with the grid on his GPS. He didn’t mean to drive by the house, but he did anyway. There were several official-looking vans and sedans with federal plates parked outside the charred frame that had been Peter’s house. Yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the entire property, and Christopher could see two different teams with dogs working through the debris.
He parked across the street and got out. As he approached the tape, he recognized several members of the local sheriff’s department, including Sheriff Brubaker. They were standing outside the tape watching the dog teams work. Christopher said hi and joined them, hoping to find out what the feds had found that warranted bringing in an entire forensics team. Before he even got a chance to fish for gossip, Brubaker tapped him on the shoulder and cocked his chin down the sidewalk. Christopher followed him until they were about twenty feet away, where Brubaker shoved his hands into his pockets and looked back at the closed-off property.