An Absent God

by Vincent Wilde

  “Shine it inside,” I instructed.

  Two beady little eyes peered up at me. I squealed and dropped the bag.

  Tony jumped back and the beam flashed around the room. “What is it?”

  “A rat.” I brushed my hands on my thighs. “I think it’s dead.”

  “Oh, is that all,” Tony said and approached the bag. He kicked it and nothing moved. “Rats I can handle. Cockroaches and spiders? No. Keep the light on it.”

  He bent down and looked into the bag. His naked back extending down to the curve of his buttocks distracted me for a moment—only a moment. Tony stuck his hand into the bag and I gagged.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Ugh. That’s gross. Be sure to wash your hands.”

  “Oh, grow up. There’s a message inside. Looks like the little fellow’s throat was slit and the blood drained out. Not much in the bag.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling any sympathy. I do not like rats. Get rid of as many as you want. Rats are not an endangered species, especially in New York.”

  Tony pulled a piece of notepaper out of the bag. It looked suspiciously like the one I’d found tacked to the tree on the hillside near Rodney’s home. He shined the flashlight on the paper, then handed it and the light to me.

  Don’t be a rat. Rats who don’t obey end up dead.

  “Charming,” I said. “Keep the note and let me get rid of that thing.” I opened the door and hurled the bag near the sidewalk. “I’ll deal with that in the morning.”

  Tony was already at the sink washing his hands. I followed his lead and put the flashlight under the sink.

  He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “Can we get back to bed now? Maybe we can catch a few winks before sunrise.”

  We crawled back into our respective beds. Soon Tony was snoring. Again.

  I kept seeing the image of the rat staring up at me from inside the bag. My arms broke out in an itch. As far as I was concerned, the sun couldn’t rise fast enough.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, I ASKED TONY TO CALL ONE OF the cops he was semi-friendly with in Buena Vista to get Janice Carpenter’s phone number. I didn’t want to bother Carol. She wouldn’t have been happy anyway if she knew I was planning to call her friend to get Janice Carpenter’s phone number because it was unlisted.

  Tony’s call was returned within an hour, as we were finishing breakfast. He scribbled the number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a listing in Richmond.

  While Tony showered, I called Janice Carpenter.

  “This is Cody Harper,” I began when she picked up. “I don’t know if you remember me.”

  The silence on the other end was as solid as concrete. For a moment, I thought the line had gone dead.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she finally said, her tone seething with icy hatred.

  The receiver clicked with a bang in my ear. No one could misread her feelings about me. I pondered my next move and felt extremely inadequate. When Tony stepped out of the shower, he read the discouragement on my face.

  “No go?” he asked, and forced a smile. He wrapped his towel around his waist and sat on the couch.

  I looked at the hunk sitting across from me and wondered why the hell I was involved in this mess in the first place. It was easy to blame Rodney, the money, Ophelia, then blame Tony, Carol, and the kids—everyone except myself. Maybe it was time to get this whole bodyguard, save-the-world routine out of my system. Settling down with Tony would make life a hell of a lot easier.

  “No go,” I said. I tapped my fingers against my kitchenette table. “Janice Carpenter won’t speak to me. Maybe you could try to get something out of her.” I sighed. “This is driving me crazy. Waiting for this guy to strike is worse than knowing something’s going to happen, like when Chris Spinetti and I met in the Déjà Vu. I knew the lid was going to blow then. But now, it’s sit and wait. They’re out to get the kids and it’s making me nuts.”

  “Patience in all things. They’ll play their hand sooner or later.”

  I settled on the couch. “You know, I guess I could learn a thing or two from you. Be more Zen about this whole thing. We’re carrying on, as the English would say.”

  Tony leaned over and kissed me. The towel slipped off his leg, giving me an enticing view.

  I forced my hands behind my back to keep them off him. “You better get dressed, before I go nuts for you. I need to do a few things before I get ready for work. I should call Norm and see if the restaurant is open.”

  “He was calling window suppliers when I left. He told me he’d be open today come hell or high water. I’ll call the cop back and see what kind of background info he can get on Janice Carpenter.”

  We shook ourselves free of each other and geared up for business. I remembered I had to go to the bank to get a thousand dollars for Ophelia’s pills.

  * * *

  Han’s was back to normal the day after the shooting. I kept to my dishwashing job, out of sight, which brought everyone some peace of mind.

  Still, Tony and I looked over our shoulders for the next couple of days. I delivered the money to Ophelia, who seemed happier than ever; she was having a ball with Ruthie and John and they seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. A few of the neighbors dropped by, some of whom had small children of their own. They played games inside the apartment. Tony babysat when Ophelia returned to work a couple of nights at Club Leo and I had to work at Han’s. He stayed the night with the kids and took care of them in the morning while Ophelia slept. As much as we hoped the killer didn’t know about Ophelia and the kids, we couldn’t be sure. We were as cautious as we could be, using different modes of transportation to cover our trails and traveling late at night because it was easier to spot someone who might be on our tail. Carol and Abby were delayed a few days in Virginia taking care of the family’s business interests.

  Paranoia is never a good feeling. I figured all hell was going to break loose when we least expected it.

  One morning a package arrived by mail from the Buena Vista Police Department with photocopies of clippings about Janice Carpenter. One from 1994 held our interest. It was a small daily listing no more than two thumbs deep from the Richmond newspaper. We both stared at it as it sat on my small coffee table.

  Divorce granted: Stanley Adam Bozelle from Janice Carpenter Bozelle, May 24th, 1994, Hon Judge Asher, Henrico County, presiding. Irreconcilable differences, emotional cruelty. Maiden name, Janice Carpenter, restored.

  “He filed? Emotional cruelty from Janice Carpenter?” Tony asked, amazed.

  “You’ve never met her,” I said. “She’s one hard-baked cookie.”

  A 1990 clipping caught our eye as well. It was the original marriage announcement of Janice to Stanley Bozelle. The groom is a graduate of the Officer’s Candidate School and served in the US Marines from 1980 to 1986.

  Tony whistled. “Where’s the shooting range log?”

  “Under the bed, I think.” I hadn’t looked at it since our first night in New York.

  Tony ran to the bedroom and soon reappeared with the log in hand. We both scanned the pages, and it didn’t take us long to find what we were looking for, the name, S. Bozelle, in blue ink. He had signed in at Ralston’s the day before Rodney was murdered.

  “Our first real lead,” I said.

  “But why this guy?” Tony asked, thinking out loud.

  “That’s for us to find out. But if he’s an ex-marine, we need to be damn careful. He’s probably a crack shot.”

  “You can bet on that. I can’t imagine anything more dangerous than a crazy jarhead with an assault rifle.”

  Ideas were beginning to form in my head about our Mr. Bozelle and a lot of them circulated around a sum of half-a-million dollars. What if Rodney Jessup had paid a marine sharpshooter to knock off Stephen Cross, but a small-time right-winger had beaten him to the punch? What if Janice Carpenter was involved in this whole scheme?

  I picked up the phone and
dialed information for the Richmond area. Tony watched with interest. I wanted a cigarette bad, but since we had been in New York, Tony had forced me to sit on the sink and blow the smoke out through the kitchen window. I made like a chimney while sitting on cold, hard porcelain. I ordered him not to have more than a single glass of wine or beer a night because I didn’t want him to reek of alcohol. This was what our blissful domestic life had already come to—a series of compromises.

  The phone rang and a woman picked up. I raised the register of my voice and attempted an imitation. “Hello. This is Janice Carpenter. Could I please speak to Stanley?”

  The woman on the other end sounded as angry as Janice. “Who is this?”

  I repeated Janice’s name.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” the woman said. “You’re not Janice Carpenter and even if you were, I wouldn’t let you speak to Stanley. You’ve never called him ‘Stanley’ in your life! Get off the phone asshole.” She hung up with a loud click.

  “Strike two, of sorts.” I turned to Tony. “I’ve managed to piss off two women in a few days. My luck has never been great with the opposite sex.”

  “Thank god for that.”

  I walked to the kitchen. I had opened the blinds to let in some light. I looked out through the security bars to the sidewalk. Every few seconds a new pair of feet would walk by. “Now that we know who we’re dealing with, I don’t think we need to wait any longer.”

  Tony followed and looked at me with a stare that said, “Are you crazy?” Still, he was so cute I was more than willing to forgive his skepticism.

  “Instead of waiting for them to strike,” I said, “let’s set a trap and see who gets caught.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “Yes, but better than being sitting ducks.”

  Tony reluctantly agreed. We sat together drinking coffee and drew up our plan. It involved the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. But before the holiday arrived, I decided to make a quick trip to Richmond.

  “Are you crazy?” Tony stared at me. His fists were clenched and his arms stiff at his side. “You’ve done some pretty dumb things in your life. I thought you’d gotten smarter hanging around me.”

  “Come on,” I replied. “You’ve been a cop—you’re an investigator. Don’t you have the least bit of curiosity about Mrs. Bozelle? At least I can get a look at her. Maybe ask her a few questions.”

  Tony looked as if I had gut punched him. “Right! You’re going to show up at her door like you’re coming over for a cup of sugar? You could get yourself killed.”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t believe it,” Tony sputtered. “What’s next? Maybe drag or maybe break into the house, whatever insane tactic you can think of? And, besides, what about the kids?”

  “Carol and Abby won’t be here until after Thanksgiving. You can help Ophelia with Ruthie and John. What else have you got to do until Bozelle makes his move—except be careful?”

  Tony’s jaw slackened. He looked dumfounded.

  “I can’t do drag anyway. Don’t have the time or the room to pack a lot of luggage.”

  “You’re a hardheaded donkey, Cody.” Tony huffed and sat on the couch. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight. I’ve already made the round-trip reservation. I’ll be back late tomorrow afternoon. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

  “When did you do this?” Tony crossed his arms. “Don’t let me sway you, but I want you to know you’re fucking nuts.”

  “When you were in the shower.” I scrunched up beside him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I called Norm and told him I wouldn’t be in for a couple of days. I think he was relieved. I’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving, and, by the way, I love you too, darling.”

  Tony grunted and got up from the couch. “I’m going out for lunch. This apartment is getting awfully close.”

  He needed to blow off steam so I let him go. I had packing to do.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, there was no limo waiting for me like the last time I made the trip to Virginia. I locked the apartment, scanned the street quickly, and hailed a taxi at the corner. Tony had already left for Ophelia’s without so much as a kiss, though he did wish me a frosty “Good-bye.”

  The taxi driver was no slouch—a heavy-bearded, working-class, white guy with a hint of body odor, who wove through traffic, giving other drivers the finger or a blast from the horn. He had the heater on hurricane force with the window down. His checkered shirt opened over his chest revealing a thick mat of black fur—he was a type who had high appeal for a certain subset of gay man.

  He had me at LaGuardia in twenty minutes. I gave him a decent tip before he blasted off with another fare.

  I had booked the last flight of the day to Richmond. This trip, unlike last time, I had no trepidation about getting on the jet. In fact, I was excited about seeing New York at night from a mile high. I pushed my backpack into the overhead bin and settled into my seat. I carried only the essentials: toiletries, a change of clothes, a notebook, and pen. This was definitely a jacket, black jeans, and lumberjack shirt kind of trip—nothing fancy or attention getting.

  The jet pulled back from the walkway. Soon we were in the air, the city dropping away like some Disneyland ride with a view through pressurized glass. Tiny dots of light swarmed across roads and highways. Cars clustered in shopping mall parking lots. The Manhattan skyline filled my window until it dropped sharply away into the inky darkness of the Atlantic. After we flew over suburban Jersey, the view got less interesting. Small towns and cities lay in glittering patches below. I took a quick nap and before I knew it we were on approach to Richmond.

  After we landed, I rented a car and drove to an inexpensive motel near the intersection of I-64 and I-295. The desk clerk gave me a map of the city and wished me happy touring. I told him I’d only be there for the night.

  In my humble room, I found a phone book and the address for Stanley Bozelle. The address corresponded to a neighborhood called Davee Gardens. I showered, turned off the light, and slept soundly despite the buzz of nearby interstate traffic.

  In the morning, I grabbed some juice and cereal at the motel breakfast bar before checking out. The day was bright with some wispy overhead clouds. I’d forgotten to bring my sunglasses. I put my bag in the trunk, checked the map, plotted my route, and drove off. I had no idea what I was headed for.

  It didn’t take long for me to get to Davee Gardens. The neighborhood was southwest of the motel. The drive only took me about a half hour because rush hour was mainly over. The homes were modest, and the area was pleasant enough with lots of tall oaks still holding on to their brown fall leaves.

  I found the address and drove past a small, white clapboard house with a strange pitched-roof room that stuck out like a castle turret. A well-worn ten-year-old Ford was parked in the driveway. The white car had turned a suitable shade of dirty from years of use.

  I parked about a block away and sat for about fifteen minutes contemplating my next move. In some ways Tony had been right, I was crazy and I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I wondered if I could get inside the heads of the people who were possibly involved in murdering Rodney Jessup. Maybe looking at the house would spark a clue. Perhaps I could even spot the woman involved, my assumption being that the man was still in New York looking for the kids.

  I locked the car and walked down the street feeling strange. I had dressed to look “normal,” but what was normal here? I was the proverbial fish out of water. I stood out even in my jeans and shirt, most of all because no one was around. The boots clicked on the jumbled concrete walk; leaves crunched under my tread. If there were dogs in the neighborhood they were indoors, cuddled up for a morning nap. No kids played in the yard—it was a school day. The overwhelming quiet gave me the creeps. I felt like Jodie Foster in The Silence of the Lambs, walking up to Jame Gumb’s house.

  This house had a spooky feel to it also. It looked chopped up, somehow disfigured, and unpleasant. The blin
ds were drawn on the three windows facing the street. The pitched-roof room looked forbidding, coming out as it did from the rest of the structure. A set of ragged wooden steps led up to the entrance. The door was narrow with a tiny rectangular window set above eye level so no one on the outside would be able to look in. Anyone inside would have to stretch or stand on a step stool to look out onto the porch.

  A chain-link fence surrounded the yard, but not the driveway. Did the Bozelles have a dog?

  I was about a half block away, still taking all this in, when the front door opened. A woman, wearing jeans and a jacket, walked out, suitcase in hand. She was concerned with getting the door locked and didn’t notice me. I tried to picture her in black, with a veil, like the woman we’d spotted in the news at Rodney’s funeral. She was about the same height, the same body type, but the news clips weren’t enough to go on. The camera angle, the crowd, the brief glimpses made it hard to tell if this was the same woman.

  She was somewhat pretty, but in a hard way, as if life had been tough. Her hair was shoulder length, brown, and a bit bedraggled; her facial lines were creased and stern. I immediately sensed what her life was like: getting by, money hard to come by, always some bump on the road of life keeping her off balance.

  I crossed the street and kept walking toward the house, preferring not to duck behind a tree. She wouldn’t have any idea who I was. On the other hand, I did look out of place at ten in the morning walking alone on the street. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, hoping to appear like a casual walker, but kept my left eye peripherally engaged on her.

  She grabbed her suitcase, walked down the steps into the yard, and through the gate that led to the sidewalk. She glanced my way, but only for a second—nothing out of the ordinary. In less than a minute, her car’s trunk had been opened, the case placed inside, and the driveway vacated. The car sped down the street in the direction from which I had come, maybe on its way to the interstate.

  I was alone again on the walk. I turned and retraced my steps back to the house. Tony’s little angel with white wings stood on my shoulder warning me not to act on the thought that was spinning through my head. My little devil was prodding me on. Go ahead, break into the house. Don’t you want to see what’s inside? Maybe there’s someone there, but you won’t find out until you knock on the door.