“Westbrook won’t do anything, trust me. He won’t say a word to anyone.”
“How did you frighten him like that? What did you do?”
“Nothing, he’s garbage, don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it?” She laughs involuntarily. “What’s gotten into you?”
Something…evil…
“I’m not sure,” I tell her.
“It’s like you’re an entirely different person. The Cam Horne I know, the Cam Horne who trained me—the right way, by the book—the Cam Horne I worked with for years, would never dream of behaving the way you just did in there. And since when do you smoke?” Through gritted teeth she continues. “I know you realize what Westbrook could do. If he files a complaint—and he has a witness—we’re both fucked. I can’t even count the number of laws you just broke. It’s going to be both our asses, Cam, not just yours. Do you just not give a shit, or what?”
“He won’t do anything.”
“How do you know? You can’t be sure of that.”
“Yes I can, and I am.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose, up near her eyes, and sighs. “I guess I thought we were more than coworkers,” she says softly. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are friends.”
“No,” she says, snapping her head up straight. “No, because a friend would not do what you just did to me. A friend wouldn’t risk another friend’s job.”
I want to touch her just then. I want to take her hands in mine and tell her to look me in the eye so I can assure her everything will be all right and that I care about her very deeply. But I don’t know what she’ll see if she does look closer, and the last thing I want to do is hurt or upset her more than I already have. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Sorry isn’t gonna cut it this time,” she says.
“Nothing will happen. Just stay quiet about this and—”
“Really, ya think? Actually, I was planning to run right back to Roz and fill her in.”
We’re quiet for awhile. Rain batters the car. The world outside seems a million miles away. I’m cold and wet and it feels like thousands of insects are scurrying about beneath my skin, trying to burrow out through the pores.
“I need to see Copeland’s file,” I tell her.
“Why? Are you planning to go threaten him too? Not a chance.”
“I need that file.”
“Go home, Cam. Get to a doctor.”
“Marianne, I—”
“Get out of my car.”
“Just let me use your laptop for two seconds and I’ll go.”
“I swear to God I will call 911,” she snaps. “Get out of my car.”
Something moves deep inside me…slithering…
“Please,” I say, just above a whisper. “Let me see the file and I’ll go. Please.”
Don’t make me hurt you.
“I can’t trust your judgment. You’re too much of a wild card at this point.”
“I already know his address, if this was about going there and doing something to him, I would’ve already done it. I don’t need the file for that.”
“Then why do you need it?”
“I want to go over his background again so I have a better idea of who I’m dealing with, all right? There’s something about this guy, Marianne, something that doesn’t add up and I…look, there’s no way my looking at it again can be tied back to you. I was never here, this never happened.”
Please don’t make me take the laptop from you.
Marianne’s beautiful eyes, so sad and angry all at once, lock onto mine and hold. But this time, rather than terror, all I see is pity. And it breaks my heart.
Several seconds live and die before she reaches into her satchel, turns on the laptop, enters her password and hands me the computer.
“Hurry up,” she says. “And this never happened either.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The light through the trees…the most beautiful light I’ve ever seen, it filters through the leaves and branches, washing down and falling across me like a blanket gently dropped from above. Lying on my back on the forest floor, limbs spread out like a snow angel, I look up at those trees—silent giants gathered above me—and feel so insignificant. Yet I am part of them somehow. We are connected. We are brethren. The forest, the earth, the bed of pine needles, the insects and animals, the wink of vast sky peeking through the canopy of treetop branches and leaves, all of it flows through me like lifeblood. And I flow through it. We are one, a circle, a snake eating its own tail. I breathe deeply and smell the forest as the golden sunlight warms my face.
And in that wonderful moment, I see it all there before me, so close I could reach out and grab it if only I had the courage. Unfolding like a magnificent dream, such overwhelming beauty makes me want to cry tears not of rage, terror or even sorrow, but extraordinary joy.
I remember it all.
But most of all, I remember that beautiful light bleeding through the trees.
* * *
The trendy coffee shop four blocks over is bustling, so Marianne and I choose a table near the back we hope might provide at least a modicum of privacy, and settle in, she with some sort of triple-latte-whipped-cream-something-or-other, and me with a blasphemous cup of standard black coffee.
Everything and everyone moves around me like ants. It all makes me even more uncomfortable, the people inside and the cars outside, the walkers drifting by windows distorted with rain, the whispers at the very outskirts of my mind. I sip coffee and run a hand over my face, across the stubble on my cheeks and chin. Marianne sits across from me, and I can tell she’s trying desperately to make sense of me and to think of something—anything—to say that might make this situation more tenable.
Copeland’s file revealed nothing prior to 2005, and subsequent searches on our database as well as general searches came up empty.
“Do you understand now why I wanted to see the rest of Copeland’s file?” I ask, voice gravelly and my throat feeling as if I’ve spent the last hour screaming at the top of my lungs.
“Honestly, no.”
“Because there isn’t anything else, the rest of his file is empty.”
“We don’t have full histories on all registrants, Cam,” Marianne reminds me. “In fact, we have them on very few.”
“But there’s some indication and proof of their existence. You saw the file same as me, you saw the other searches I did. There’s literally nothing on Copeland prior.”
Marianne holds her coffee in both hands, gazing down into it as if enthralled. “It’s not like there’s no trace of him at all.”
“Yes it is like that. There isn’t a trace of him before that. He appears in 2005. Prior to that there’s nothing, Marianne, nothing.”
I can tell from the look on her face she doesn’t want to acknowledge this. She feels the need to chalk it up to errors or coincidence, because doing anything but will require further critical thought and—God forbid—perhaps even action, and she wants no part of that. I can’t blame her necessarily, but I can’t go along with it either.
“Okay, so let’s cut right to it. What are you suggesting, Cam?”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? It’s as if he didn’t exist prior to 2005.”
She looks up from her coffee, an eyebrow arched. “Well that’s totally possible so that must be it. He was hatched on a rock in Rhode Island in the summer of 2005 and crawled out of his shell a thirty-five-year-old man. Then he committed his crimes, went to prison, got out and moved to Mass. Definitely, makes perfect sense.” She sips her coffee. “Christ Almighty.”
“Then explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“There is literally no information on him prior to 2005.”
“No, you just haven’t come across any you want to consider. We have his date of birth, his place of birth, the schools he attended, his previous addresses and the jobs he held. Those are all things that prove his existence, and they can—and
in some cases I’m sure they have been—verified. As if such a thing needs to be proven. I’ll tell you, I’ve had some ridiculous-ass conversations in my life, but this one takes the cake.”
“His previous addresses and the jobs he held do not go back further than 2005, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. We have a date of birth and a place of birth, and some high school he allegedly attended. But those are just forms, Marianne, documents. They can be forged. There’s nothing to back any of that up, no corroborating proof that any of it is true.”
“There’s nothing to indicate those things have been forged either.”
“Where’s the rest of his information? If he’d worked or lived somewhere during those years, there’d be evidence of it, records. There isn’t.”
Marianne waves at the air between us the way one shoos away a flying bug. “Are you honestly sitting here suggesting Alfred Copeland didn’t exist until 2005? Because if that’s what you’re suggesting, then I’m driving you to the nearest hospital right now, and I mean right-fucking-now.”
“There’s something going on,” I tell her.
She looks away. After a moment she seems to collect herself and says, “Cam, I’ve always looked up to you, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. I hope you know that. You trained me, you gave me my shot. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have this gig or any of the successes I’ve had in the position since, and I appreciate that, I really do. I’ll always be grateful to you for taking me under your wing and helping me.”
Here it comes.
“But you need help. You have to get help, do you understand?”
I nod, embarrassed and angry all at once. “Sure.”
Marianne reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “It’ll be okay.”
And then something occurs to me. “Who has his file now?”
“Roz divided your caseload between all of us.”
“Who got Copeland’s?”
“I did.” Her hand slowly slides away. “Roz gave it to me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What difference does it make?”
I watch this woman I’ve known for so long, worked with so closely, and wonder if I really know her at all. “Look into his past beyond 2005.”
“Why would I do that?” she asks. “I have all the relevant information on Copeland I need in his file.”
“Because I’m asking you to,” I say evenly. “Half the members of your family are cops. Call in a favor, ask them to run him and look as deep as they can. Tell them you want everything and anything they can find on him.”
Marianne puts her coffee aside and pulls her raincoat back on over her shoulders like a shawl. “If I do that—and that’s a big if—what exactly would I be looking for?”
“Anything that proves he was alive before 2005.”
“Of course he was alive before 2005. He’s forty-three years old. He’s been alive since 1970, do the math.”
“Find me the evidence,” I tell her. “But stay away from him.”
“There’s no need to see him at this point. I’ll probably do a follow-up to your visit in a couple weeks just to make sure he’s complying with everything, but—”
“No,” I say, lunging and grabbing hold of her wrist before I even realize what I’ve done. “Stay away from him. He’s—”
“Let go,” she says, pulling at my fingers with her free hand. “Cam, let go.”
I do.
“What the hell?” she says, rubbing her wrist. “That hurt, asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wouldn’t—”
“Really?” She stands and moves back, as if to be sure she’s beyond my reach. “Little late for that.”
“Marianne, I—”
“I’ll see what I can find out about Copeland’s past, all right? If I find anything worth reporting, I’ll be in touch. Either way, don’t call me, I’ll call you. Got it?”
I want to tell her I can see blood pouring from her eyes. I can hear her screams and pleas for mercy. I want to tell her I can feel her agony and fear and see what awaits her if she isn’t careful around Copeland and the evil moving all around her. But instead I simply say, “Yes.”
Then she turns and is gone, another lost soul in the wind and rain, one more sheep with her head bowed and eyes closed, moving quietly to slaughter.
* * *
Time is broken.
My parents are dead, and I miss them dearly. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them at least once or twice, and even in all this madness—perhaps because of it—they come to me while I drive home, their faces watching from the shadows of other worlds. Sad and beautiful and so very far away, they remain a part of me.
The windshield wipers squeal against glass, reminding me the rain has stopped. As I switch them off, I remember my mother. A quiet and dignified woman, she worked for the post office, enjoyed classical music, and was a voracious reader. Nearly all my memories of my mother involve reading material, as she always seemed to be carrying a book or a magazine of some sort. I remember being very young and playing on the floor in our den while she sat in the rocking chair by the window, reading one of her books. I can almost see her slowly rocking in that chair, the sun coming through the windows and framing her in an orange glow. I’d often gaze up at her and marvel at how beautiful she was, but we’d sometimes go hours without speaking. Neither of us minded. I knew she was there, near me, with me, and she knew the same about me. And that was enough.
As I exit the highway and head for home, my father comes to me.
With a mischievous grin and a bellowing laugh that was nothing short of contagious, he was a jovial and gentle man; a salesman who worked hard his entire life but never complained or made excuses. If there was a bright side, my father found it, and if there wasn’t, he created one. He was a good provider, a loving husband and an attentive father. Much like my mother, he excelled at nearly everything he touched, and while his musical tastes ran more toward Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland and Dean Martin than my mother’s classical, and he rarely read anything other than the sports page in the local newspaper, he and my mother were perfectly suited to each other.
When I got older, I realized how deeply my parents were in love with each other, even after decades of marriage. Their love never went stale, never got old. But they did, and soon the vibrant people they’d once been were gone.
I’m an only child, and while I sometimes wish I’d had siblings, looking back I see how fortunate I was to have such loving and kind parents all to myself. So many kids I knew had issues with their parents, or had a mother or father with serious issues, but not me. I was blessed. We weren’t rich and didn’t have the best of everything, as some of the wealthier families on the other side of town did, but we had love. Real love, the way it’s supposed to be. We were a family.
How I miss that. How I miss them. How I miss us.
Although it is still early afternoon, the previous rains have left the day much darker than usual. The sky is smeared with gray and a light wind has arrived. Finally home, I pull onto our road and drive slowly toward the house. Once in the driveway, I step from the car. Still dazed and clinging to my memories, I watch a sudden gust of wind knock leaves from a nearby tree. They spiral gracefully to the ground, joining others in a small pile near the base of the tree.
Our house is dark and quiet, and there is no sign of anyone in the backyard, but behind the curtained windows of my neighbor Bruce Deacon’s house, lights burn dimly. Bruce is home. But then, Bruce is always home.
Before I can make it to the door, I see him coming around the side of the house pulling a large trash barrel behind him. “Cam-o,” he says, offering an apathetic wave with his free hand. Only Bruce calls me Cam-o, and while I’ve never cared for it, there’s certainly no harm intended, so I always let it go.
“Hey, Bruce,” I reply, “how’s life?”
He gets the barrel to the end of the driveway, then rests his
hands on his waist. “Taking a lot longer than I thought,” he sighs. “What are you doing home this time of day?”
“Taking a few days off,” I tell him.
In wrinkled khakis, a faded golf shirt and a fishing hat that looks as if someone has quickly slapped it on his head without his knowledge, Bruce initially exudes a crotchety old grandfather vibe, but a closer look reveals desperation and heartbreak, a man who has given up and no longer makes an effort to conceal that fact. “Vacation, huh?” he says. “Got time for a beer then?”
I hesitate, look to his house, then my own. Something is standing at our bedroom window looking down at me, but just as this registers in my mind, it steps from view, a black humanoid smudge darting across already dark glass. A tremor grabs hold of me and I shuffle my feet in an attempt to disguise it. “Okay, yeah,” I tell Bruce. “Sure, I’ll have a beer, why not?”
He leads me up the narrow stone walk to his front door. A wreath his late wife Margaret hung on it three years ago, the last Christmas she was alive, is still suspended from a nail on the door, long since turned brown, the once bright red satin ribbon at its center tattered, stained and faded to more of a light pink color.
“That was a hell of a rain, wasn’t it?” Bruce says, pushing through the door and moving up the stairs that greet us.
“Yeah,” I say absently, closing the door behind me and following him up the stairs. “It was really coming down.”
“Like a pony pissing on a flat rock,” he adds.
A musty smell mixed with the aroma of fried foods, cigars and body odor hangs in the air, and the place is a mess. Straight ahead, a kitchen awaits us, to the left his living room and to the right a hallway leading to the bedrooms. Margaret has been gone a little over two years now, but the house looks exactly as it did when she was alive, only horribly unkempt and neglected.
It’s been so long since he cared, Bruce seems not to notice.
I try to remember the last time I was in his home, but can’t. It’s been awhile, several months—maybe even a year—and though the place looked similar, it’s gotten worse. I can’t imagine how he lives like this, in such self-imposed squalor.
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