White Lies

by Jeremy Bates

  Her throat was tight. She swallowed. “Crazy night last night, huh?” she said, wondering if he thought she was a fool for showing up unannounced.

  “More than you know. Want a drink?”

  She never drank so early in the afternoon, but she said yes anyway. The kitchen was spotless, not a single dirty dish in the sink or on the counter. Everything seemed to gleam.

  “I thought guys who live alone are supposed to be messy,” she said.

  “I only keep one plate and one bowl. Forces you to clean up by necessity.” He took two bottles of Bud Light from the fridge, twisted off the caps, and handed her one. “Cheers.”

  They clinked. Sipped.

  “So,” Zach said, “you mentioned lunch. You wanna make something to eat?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  He said he was. While he sliced up tomatoes and onions and bell peppers for a spaghetti sauce, she defrosted ground beef in the microwave and formed meatballs. She was beaming the entire time. She couldn’t have asked for a better outcome to her impromptu visit. In fact, she couldn’t believe she’d been sitting at the Kwik Stop thirty minutes ago, thinking she was never going to see him again. She finished the first beer quickly and asked for another. He opened two more. They ate the spaghetti at the small kitchen table, then went to the living room, sitting down on the soft sofa.

  When Zach switched from beer to the whiskey on the coffee table, Crystal realized for the first time something was off. She’d likely missed it earlier because she was riding the high to be in his house. But now that her nerves had settled down—and she watched him drinking whiskey at a little past noon—she was seeing things differently. Was his edginess because of her? Was he not happy to see her, as she’d initially believed, but disconsolate? Getting drunk to numb the pain of her visit? She blurted, “Do you have a good time? You know, with me?”

  “Of course,” he replied, looking momentarily surprised. “A great time.”

  “So how come you don’t want to date?”

  He hesitated. “You’re in Seattle. I’m here.”

  “Is that the only reason?” she asked hopefully. “Because I was thinking about it, and that’s not really a problem. I can take the bus up here on weekends. Or you could come to Seattle. There’s a ton of things to do there.”

  “It’s more complicated than that right now.”

  “What’s complicated?” she asked, getting angry. “If I like you, and you like me, what’s the big deal? We can work it out.”

  “Listen, Crystal. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought as well. And to tell you the truth, I like you. Seriously. I do. But there are some things—”

  “It’s my sister, isn’t it?” She saw him tense. She pounced. “It is her. It’s Katrina. Well, who cares if you work with her? Or who cares whether you guys get along or not? I don’t. I don’t care what she says.”

  “How about this? Let me get some stuff sorted here first. If it works out how I hope it will, then you and me, we can take it from there.”

  A lightbulb went on. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. Honest.”

  She believed him. The way he was talking and acting, he seemed troubled, maybe even a little afraid. She couldn’t imagine about what, but that’s how she read it. Still, she was confident he was being sincere. She wanted to press him to explain what this big burden of his was, but she didn’t. She was already more than happy with the progress they’d made so far, and she didn’t want to jeopardize that. “I guess I can handle waiting a little while,” she said, scooting closer to him, trying to make her voice husky. “But as long as I’m here now—”

  She kissed him somewhat awkwardly on the cheek and slid a hand up his shirt.

  A short time later he led her to the bedroom.

  Chapter 28

  “Yes?” Katrina said, opening the front door a crack and blocking the space with her leg so Bandit could not bolt outside. Her heartbeat had spiked as soon as she’d looked through the beveled glass and saw the cop on the other side. She tried to appear as normal as she could.

  “Apologize for disturbing you, Ms. Burton. I need to ask you a few questions.” It was the same police officer who’d come by when she’d reported someone spying on her through her bathroom window. Short and comical-looking, constantly hitching up his belt. He had his peaked cap tucked under his arm once more, playing at being the chivalrous gentleman. That reassured her somewhat: he was just a goofy man in a uniform in a small town. She could handle him.

  She managed a smile. “Have you found out something about the peeper?” she asked, hoping that was the reason for his visit.

  “Afraid not, ma’am. Different matter entirely. Did you rent a cabin from a Mr. Charles Stanley last night?”

  The question cut through her hope like a knife. Conflicting thoughts and emotions ricocheted in her mind, but she couldn’t make sense of any of them and had no time to try. “Yes, I did,” she said, wondering how much he knew. “Is there a problem?”

  “You could say that. Mr. Stanley’s dead.”

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. Enough surprise? “How?”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Katrina stepped back to allow him entrance. Bandit, who loved strangers, especially the postman and children on Halloween night, eagerly sniffed the cop’s boots—Officer Murray, she remembered. She led the reluctant boxer to the bedroom, closed the door, then returned to the living room. She thought about offering Murray coffee but decided not to. She didn’t want him hanging around any longer than was absolutely necessary. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance he’d have of reading what she was trying desperately to keep from her eyes.

  He pulled out his little black notebook, poised his pen above an open page, and asked, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Stanley?”

  Katrina’s first impulse was to lie and say yesterday morning. But she told herself that was panic taking over. Someone—Charlie’s wife, a neighbor—might have known what he’d intended to do. Her second impulse was to look away from Murray as she contemplated the answer. She didn’t, recalling that avoiding eye contact was a sure sign of deception. She held the cop’s inquisitive gray eyes and said, “He actually stopped by the cabin last night.”

  “At approximately what time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Nine? Nine thirty?”

  Murray’s shoulders twitched. He hiked up his belt. “And why was that?”

  “According to Charlie,” she said, pretending to be amused, “we had the music up too loud.”

  “A long way for someone to travel to tell you to turn down the music.”

  She shrugged, knowing if she put her foot in her mouth now, Jack wasn’t around to help pry it out. “My cell was off all night. Maybe he tried to call me.”

  “Any idea why he cared so much about the music being too loud?”

  “He said the neighbors called him. I guess they complained.”

  “Couldn’t he have asked them to ask you to turn it down?”

  “I’m sure he could have.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Murray was watching her closely. She added, “When we met him yesterday morning to get the key, he told us some story about renting the cabin out to some college kids last year. They apparently threw a big party and trashed the place. He might have thought we were having a similar sort of party.”

  A twitch. Hitch. More note taking. “Seems to me if I had one bad experience with a party, I wouldn’t be too eager to allow another party to go on there.”

  “Well, he didn’t know we intended to have one.”

  Officer Murray raised an eyebrow, and Katrina wondered if she’d gone and done it, stuck her foot in her mouth. “What was the reason you gave him for renting the cabin?” he asked.

  “Nothing. He never asked,” she lied. In fact, she remembered Jack’s exact words: All we have in mind is a little romantic weekend. “Regardless, it’s not as if we were a bun
ch of college kids. We were all responsible teachers from Cascade High.”

  “Did the party get out of hand?”

  “No.”

  Those inquisitive eyes on her again. “But the music was loud enough to annoy the neighbors?”

  “The place is just like we found it. We brought a stereo down to the dock, yes, so we could hear the music there. That was probably the reason for the noise complaint.” She straightened, trying to appear both confused and slightly indignant. “May I ask where all these questions are leading? What does any of this have to do with Charlie’s death?”

  “Mr. Stanley was in a car accident last night. Apparently he swerved off the road. His pickup truck went up in flames.”

  “Jesus! How awful.” She frowned. “I still fail to see what this has to do with me.”

  “Just routine questioning, Ms. Burton. You were the last person to see him alive.”

  Katrina wanted to believe him, but she didn’t. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Officer. If he was in an accident, why is there an investigation at all?”

  “There’s been no determination yet it was an accident,” he said meaningfully.

  “What?” She prayed he was reading her shock as puzzlement. “What else could it have been?”

  “I can’t say much right now, ma’am. I can only tell you the circumstances of his death remain somewhat suspicious.” He licked a finger and flipped a page in his notebook. “Now, if you could just answer a few more questions, I think I’ll be done here.”

  Katrina felt a rush of cautious optimism. A couple of questions. That’s all. She could do that. And thank God. She didn’t know how much longer she could go before breaking down completely. Nevertheless, despite seeing the finish line approaching, and greasing her way out of this one, she knew this wouldn’t be the end, not really. There would always be the guilt. The constant paranoia of discovery. Could she deal with that?

  Then tell the truth now and get it over with.

  “Am I under suspicion?” she asked, mixing the confusion and indignation again.

  “Why would you be?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said sharply, perhaps more sharply than she’d intended. “But you’re making me feel like I am.”

  “Just routine questioning, ma’am.”

  Katrina kept her cool, though the shot of anger had made her feel better, more in control. “Go ahead then.”

  “What exactly did Mr. Stanley tell you when he arrived?”

  “I already told you. He said the music was too loud.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “He was irritated, I suppose. He was a very vocal man.”

  “Vocal?”

  “He was foul. Swore a lot.”

  Murray jotted more notes in his notebook. She wished she knew what he was writing. Suspect acting very suspicious. Sweating. Fidgeting. All the classic signs of guilt. Her eyes flicked to the words on the page. She couldn’t read upside down. Sensing he was about to look back up, she tugged her eyes away. “So he told you to turn down the music? What happened next?”

  “We showed him the place.”

  “Who is we?”

  Dammit, she thought. “Just another person at the party.”

  “Another teacher?”

  “Well, no. He’s not a teacher. I’m involved with him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Would they run it? Find out about Jack’s past? God, she was ruining everything! Right at the end, she was going to blow it all. “Jack Reeves,” she told him.

  “So you and Mr. Reeves showed Mr. Stanley around. And then what?”

  “He was satisfied the place was still in good order. We told him we’d turn down the music. That’s it, I believe.”

  Murray gave his belt a hefty tug. Tighten that stupid thing! she wanted to shout.

  “Did anyone at the party other than you and Mr. Reeves say anything to Mr. Stanley? Perhaps something that might have provoked him?”

  “No. Only Jack and I spoke to him.”

  “No one else even saw him?”

  “No.”

  “And he left after that. You saw him leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “I imagine he was going home.”

  “But he didn’t tell you?”

  “No, I don’t believe he did.”

  “No one followed him?”

  She hesitated, frozen inside with sudden fear. Had the neighbors seen Jack’s Porsche follow the pickup? Had someone else? “Not that I’m aware of.”

  A thoughtful pause, pen poised. “Earlier today I spoke to his neighbors. They told me they saw two vehicles pass by their place last night. Mr. Stanley’s cabin is the last one on the point.”

  “I don’t know who it could have been.”

  “How many vehicles were at the cabin?”

  “Only two. Everyone came in the school bus. Jack and I drove.”

  “In Mr. Reeves’s car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell me the make and model?”

  “You know, Officer, I think I’ve been rather patient with these questions. But I’m not sure I like the direction you’re taking this conversation. Why would you need to know a description of Jack’s car?”

  “Process of elimination, ma’am. I assure you, it is nothing more than that.”

  “It’s a Porsche. Black. I wouldn’t know the model. I’m not familiar with cars.”

  Murray wrote that down. “Is it possible, Ms. Burton, that Mr. Reeves may have left without your knowledge?”

  Process of elimination, my ass. “To follow Charlie? Why in heaven’s name would he do that?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Officer Murray, but this is absurd. I think I’m done here.”

  “Did Mr. Stanley and Mr. Reeves have an argument?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He nodded. The notebook went back in his belt. Katrina thought she might faint with relief. “That’s all I need for now then. Again, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ms. Burton. I’m just tying up some unanswered questions. Probably turn out Mr. Stanley fell asleep at the wheel.”

  “I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

  “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.” He turned to leave. “By the way,” he said, as if in afterthought, “Mr. Reeves isn’t from Leavenworth, is he?”

  “No. How did you know that?”

  “I don’t recognize the name. I know most people around these parts. Is he staying in town, do you know?”

  “I … I don’t know. I’ve only known him a few days.”

  “I see. Thank you again, Ms. Burton. Have a good day.”

  He left. Katrina watched as he jogged through the rain to the cruiser. She closed the door and went immediately to the bathroom, where she thought she might be sick. She wasn’t. Still, the strength seemed to have left her body, and she had to hold onto the sink for support. She glanced in the mirror and was relieved to find she appeared calmer than she felt. Then she realized she had to call Jack. Because if Officer Murray discovered where he was staying, which wouldn’t be too difficult, she needed to explain everything to Jack first, so they would be on the same page with their stories.

  She went to the bedroom, grabbed her phone that was next to the futon, and punched in Jack’s number. It rang and rang.

  Jack didn’t pick up.

  Chapter 29

  Jack was in his room at the Blackbird Lodge, dressed in black track pants and a black T-shirt, absorbed in his daily martial-arts training. His heart was beating steadily, his breathing deep and even. He had entered a familiar state in which his mind had become a blank slate, detached from the clutter of everyday life. “Don’t think about the kick or the punch, Jack-san,” his karate teacher had instructed him years ago. “Thought leads only to contemplation, hesitation, and ultimately error. Instead feel what is right, act and react, tap into instinct.” After one particular class, while an eight-year-old Jack had bee
n waiting outside the dojo for his old man, who’d been late to pick him up as usual, his sensei had gone into much more detail on this philosophy, telling him when early man developed the faculty of reason, this rendered all but the most basic of instincts obsolete. It lent man the ability to self-consciously change beliefs and attitudes, leading to the capacity for freedom and self-determination, to form complex social structures and civilizations, and to dominate the world. But this same faculty also made men and women individually weak, transforming them into the most inefficient, accident-prone species on the planet. To demonstrate this point, he asked Jack if he’d ever seen a monkey fall from a tree, or a tiger sprain an ankle while in pursuit of a gazelle, a crocodile drown, or a spider slip off the wall. It was a lesson that had stuck with Jack over the years, defining him, and from that day forth he knew if he ever wanted to be the best and strongest at what he did, he would have to become that tiger, that crocodile—ruthless, an unthinking machine.

  Someone, Jack realized abruptly, was knocking at the room’s door. He took the buds from his ears halfway through a Johannes Brahms piano concerto and stuck them in the waistband of his pants, next to where the tiny MP3 player was clipped. He went to the door and peered through the peephole. A cop, small and odd-looking. He frowned but nevertheless opened up.

  “Mr. Reeves?” the cop said, looking up, apparently startled to see such a large man towering over him.

  Jack smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Officer Murray. May I have a minute of your time?”

  “Come on in.” He stepped back to let the cop enter. “So what brings you here?” he asked, closing the door again.

  “There’s been an accident. I’m doing the legwork.”

  “Accident? Hope no one was hurt?”

  “Afraid so. A Mr. Charles Stanley. He was killed last night.”

  “Charles—” Jack pondered for an appropriate amount of time. He widened his eyes. “You mean old Charlie?”

  “I believe you were at his cabin last night?”

  “Nice little place. What the hell happened?”

  “He was in a car accident. He went off the road. Hit a tree. Whole truck went up in flames.”