Hidden Vices

by C. J. Carpenter

  Megan squinted. “The missing man?”

  He nodded. “Missing or murdered …”

  “She didn’t seem worried,” Megan commented.

  “I wouldn’t be if I were her. He’s a son of a bitch.” Callie’s tone turned callous as he continued. “There’s a story, I don’t know if it’s true or not,” he shrugged. “When Vivian was born and her parents found out she was deaf, her father drove and dropped her off at a convent to be raised. He didn’t tell her mother. After a few days Vivian’s mother threatened legal action. The judge”—Callie pointed to the picture—“that’s him, caved in and let her come back home as long as they both lived in a separate wing of the house. He wouldn’t have anything to do with her.” Callie stared down at the table.

  Megan shook her head. “My God, that’s awful. Why did the mother stay?”

  He lifted his glass, before taking a sip. “People thought for his money. She was a local girl, not highly educated, but very pretty in her day. Some other people thought she had information on him and the judge didn’t want those things to come out.”

  Megan stared back at Vivian, in awe of the story Callie just told her. Though it wasn’t as if she were unaccustomed to tragedies. “So where is the mother?”

  “She died a little while back. The day of the funeral, the judge had all of Vivian’s things removed from the wing and placed in the gatehouse.”

  Megan stared, confused of the circumstances. “Why not just kick her out?”

  “He’s the kind of guy that wouldn’t want a stain on his reputation. Told people it was her choice to move out there.”

  Megan read briefly through the newspaper about the missing judge. “Where do they think he is?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think they have any idea.”

  “Well, it’s nice of you to help her out.” Megan smiled now, returning the knowing look Callie had been shooting her throughout the conversation.

  “It’s only part-time. She works as a massage therapist the other half. Ya know, she’s pretty good. You should have her give you one. She comes to you, brings the massage table and everything.”

  Megan was thinking she’d rather be getting a massage from the man seated opposite her. And with that fleeting thought she knew it was time to stop the libations and get back to her monastic lifestyle. “I should get going.”

  Callie looked a little deflated. “Well, I should get back to work. A big dinner crowd is the norm this time of year.”

  He walked Megan out to the Range Rover. “Don’t be a stranger, Trouble.”

  Megan rubbed her eyebrow, hoping Callie hadn’t picked up on the same college-girl nervousness she once displayed and frankly thought was lost forever. “Maybe I won’t. Maybe I won’t.”

  Megan returned to the lake house feeling a bit nostalgic after running into Chris Callie. She started a fire and sat on the couch, watching the flames jump and listening to the calming noises of the wood crackling. She poured herself a glass of wine and ate half a frozen pizza, remembering that the college years of her life were probably the most serene she’d known: no depressed mothers to tiptoe around, no murders to be solved, no romantic relationships doomed, no unexpected deaths in the family. A part of her didn’t want to be reminded of the easier days. It made the current ones nearly impossible to live with. She curled up with a comforter and within minutes was inside a power nap, more from the beer and wine than the relaxing fire.

  Nine

  The man staring down on her didn’t blink an eye, as if he’d caused Megan to wake on cue and was hardly surprised when she did.

  “What the fuck!” Megan yelled before pulling her gun out from the ankle holster. She pointed and slowly moved toward the window. At first she thought a man was standing over her, but she now realized he stood on the deck leering through the window. She jumped over the coffee table with Olympic gold hurdler fashion. She knew the alarm was on, latches secure at each entrance.

  The man stood outside holding up one palm as if to say, it’s okay. There was nothing Megan could think of in that moment that felt okay, especially a stranger on the deck watching her sleep.

  “I work for the Macks.” His words were mouthed through the window, but the tone in his voice implied that this tedious situation of scaring the shit out of a sleeping woman was an everyday occurrence.

  “Yeah, right!” Megan maintained a tight grip on her gun.

  “I’m checking on the boathouse and the bubbler.”

  “At eight o’clock at night? It’s pitch black out.” Megan grabbed her cell phone, about to call 911 when the thought crossed her mind: she was the police. She couldn’t bring herself to make the call. Sheer dignity mixed with a whole lot of stubbornness.

  “There are light switches in the boathouse, Psycho Sally.”

  He’s offending someone holding a gun on him? What an asshole.

  “Check the binder they left you, my name is in it. Jake Norden. They told me they’d leave the renter my number if anything went wrong with the boathouse or dock. I work at the marina in the next cove over. ”

  Megan didn’t take her eyes or her gun off of him. She pulled out the binder and went to the maintenance portion. At the top of the page was, in fact, his name. She closed the folder and asked, “Do you make it a point to watch women sleep?”

  He was medium height and broadly built, or perhaps he only appeared that way with all the winter gear he was wearing.

  “Show me your identification.”

  He slapped his wallet against the window. “Satisfied?” His voice was gruff, as if he survived only on cigarettes alone.

  Megan inspected the unfamiliar Jersey license and reluctantly nodded. “Do what you have to do.”

  “Try not to shoot me. I’ll only be a few minutes.” He cupped a hand around a cigarette while lighting it, the wind blowing up against his back. He drew a deep inhale and slowly exhaled the smoke, all the while staring at Megan, moving his eyes up and down her.

  She stood and gave him an equally heavy glare.

  Once he left the deck, Megan moved closer to the window. “I do not like you, Mr. Norden,” she whispered. She watched the entire fifteen minutes as he inspected the inside of the boathouse, testing the bubbler system and the wires leading from it up into the electric sockets they plugged into.

  As he was leaving, Jake knocked twice on the side door. In a loud but not shouting voice, he said, “I’m leaving, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’ll be back in a week.”

  He moved around to the street and climbed into a truck. Megan watched as he turned the engine over and was on his way.

  Good riddance.

  Megan placed another log on the fire, but she was much more alert this time as she lay on the couch. She picked up the coffee table books describing the history of New Jersey. She read for the next few hours before going to bed with her gun beside her.

  Megan woke and curled herself tighter under the covers, listening to the wind as it mounted the house. There was a curious rhythm to the noise, easily sending her back into a light trance. But she couldn’t regain sleep. The bedroom was borderline freezing and her foggy focus now turned to the lack of noise from the furnace kicking on.

  She wrapped herself in the down comforter, leaving only her face visible, and waddled to the hallway to check the thermostat. It read fifty.

  “Fuck.”

  Resigning herself to necessity, she went into the kitchen to check the Mighty Mack binder. She found the section on heating and read aloud: “If the heat goes out, push the red button on the back of the furnace three times, then pray.”

  “Oh very funny, Mr. Mack.”

  Megan had been shown where the furnace was, so she scurried down to the lower level muttering, “Why does heat always go out in the middle of the night? Why not at noon?” She pushed the button three times but didn’t pray to Go
d—that was something she’d stopped doing over the course of the last few years. Instead she prayed to the furnace. It turned on in less than a minute. She closed up the back room, walking by the lower level’s sliding glass doors. The whistling noise outside prompted Megan to look out. She saw the line of arborvitae trees swaying so strongly they looked as though snapping would be inevitable.

  “Damn.” She turned, letting the drapes fall back into form, missing the shadow as it moved to the upper deck.

  A slight smell of oil filled the house, which was reassuring; the heat was definitely back on. Her only goal was to get back to sleep and not wake until noon. She rechecked the thermostat. The number had already risen a degree. She was relieved until a slam against the side door made her jump. She dropped the comforter as if the air had just shot from fifty to ninety degrees. Her shock quickly turned to anger. “You son of a bitch! Jake Norden, if that’s you, this time I’m going to use my gun.”

  Megan threw on boots and a jacket, then double-checked that her gun was fully loaded. She approached the side entrance door as slowly as walking through a minefield. She lifted the blind. Nothing. Slowly she opened the door, trying not to make a sound as she stepped outside, which was nearly impossible in a house fifty years old. Adrenaline insulated her from the harsh wind hitting her face. She pressed her back up against the house, side stepping toward the back yard. Taking a deep breath, she turned the corner with her gun drawn. The only menacing object within range was the barren magnolia tree. No one. Just Megan, standing in flannel pajamas in the middle of the yard at three in the morning, pointing her gun at a tree. Not exactly a declaration of mental health on her part.

  The force slammed into her from behind. She pitched forward face first, hitting the cold frozen ground. He jumped on top of her, pinning her down with the sheer force of his weight. Megan had the wind knocked out of her. She couldn’t yell out, not as if anyone would hear her anyway. She searched the ground for her gun. It wasn’t in sight. He tore at the back of her head, and she managed to elbow him and turn on her back. He lunged at her again before she had the chance to draw her knee up in hopes of kicking him in the groin.

  It was useless. She’d lost the battle.

  “Get off of me, you damn dog!” Megan yelled, pushing at his fur-covered chest, trying to gain leverage. “Off!” She pushed again, having little effect on the overexcited pooch. Time for another tactic: “Good crazy dog, good crazy dog,” she crooned. The mutt calmed enough to let her sit up.

  As a Homicide detective, Megan had dealt with many predators in her work, but none sat after a fight with pointed ears wagging their tail. This dog looked wide awake and ready to play. She opened the gate pointing toward the top of the street. “Go home. Go on. Go.” Her attacker whimpered and walked in circles. Megan noticed he had no collar and, after further inspection, no tags. She looked at dog-with-no-name, and then back at the lake house. He again cocked his head. Megan had seen men in the past make the same motion, but they didn’t want shelter—they wanted much more. She sighed. “You can’t stay out here, you dope; you’ll freeze. Come on.”

  He ran to the door in seconds.

  Megan picked up her gun and put the safety lock on. Heading back toward the house, she couldn’t help but stop and stare into the dark back yard wondering if an overzealous dog was all that had awoken her.

  Ten

  Wayne Clarke drilled a hole through the four-inch-thick ice. The small cove had been frozen over for nearly two weeks, early for the season, but this was the first morning he’d had a chance to do what he loved most: ice fishing. Wayne was fifty-one, but he knew he looked like he was going on seventy. He figured his three ex-wives were responsible—not the two heart attacks, the pack-a-day smoking habit he’d started when he was fifteen, or his love of whiskey.

  Wayne led a predictable life, and that’s how he liked it. He still lived in the house he grew up in. He worked contracting for the towns surrounding the lake, mainly paving and construction. Every Thursday was pub night, every Saturday was the Elks Lodge. Every Sunday he attended Our Lady of the Lake Catholic Church. The latest service available; it’s not as if he were drinking lemonade at the Elks on those Saturday nights. He had a theory that if he attended church at a location on the lake, maybe God would grant him a few good catches. He was a simple man, with simple needs.

  He set up his equipment, poured his coffee, added a shot of Jameson into his cup, and lit a cigarette. He wore the necessary gear for a particularly cold early-December day: insulated pants, gloves, boots, bright black and orange checkered winter coat, and the raccoon fur bomber hat an ex-wife gave him for Christmas one year. He couldn’t remember which ex, but it was the best gift he’d gotten from any of them and certainly warmed him more than they ever had. All of this would keep his outside protected, but the whiskey, he told himself, is what kept his blood warm, Another one of his self-indulgent theories. He may have been on to something, given the expected high for the day was going to be eighteen.

  The lake was filled with an assortment of fish. Trout, bass, largemouth bass, walleye, pickerel. Wayne held the state record a few years ago for a rainbow trout nearing thirteen pounds, but the following year some New Yorker beat his record by a pound or so. Not that Wayne cared, because it wasn’t someone from the great Garden State of New Jersey, so to him, it didn’t count. It wasn’t about the catch today; just being outside, alone, listening to the sound of the wind and the birds pleased him. The patch of ice he fished on was as clear as if he were seated on a sheet of glass covering the lake. The water was nearly still beneath him. Wayne lit another cigarette and checked his watch: a little after nine thirty in the morning. He’d arrived at five, and still no catches. The coffee was long gone, but the whiskey was holding out well. He scratched at the gray stubble on his face, contemplating packing it in and heading to the pub down the street since it opened at ten, when he felt a tug on his fishing pole. Shifting his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he began to reel his catch of the day in. “About fucking time.”

  Wayne struggled with the line. The catch was heavy and it fought against the drag of the water. Floating between his legs, four inches under the clear ice, was a man’s face, bloated, nibbled on, and staring up at him.

  The cigarette fell from the corner of his mouth. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  If they only had fishing contests classed by weight and weren’t too picky about the catch having gills or fins, Wayne Clarke would have won that morning. He dropped his fishing pole and ran for shore.

  So much for Our Lady of the Lake Sunday prayers.

  Eleven

  Megan woke to the smell of the automatic coffee maker, as well as a quick reminder of her late-night discovery when dog-with-no-name donkey kicked her in the back. He released an exasperating yawn and proceeded to climb over her to jump off the bed.

  I wonder if the villa in Mexico is still available.

  Two beeps from the kitchen signaled the brewing of the first of many morning coffee jolts was complete. She put on some warm clothes and poured her cup while calling the Macks to let them know about her newfound discovery in their yard. Much to her chagrin, they told her they were huge animal lovers and it wasn’t a problem at all to shelter the dog for a while. They added that old dog food, leashes, and pet beds from their own pets still remained in the basement.

  Of course they did.

  Megan sat down on the couch with her cup of coffee. Dog, as she decided to generically call him, sat beside her on the floor. Megan loved dogs and usually had one growing up, but pet care wasn’t high on her priority list right now. She was not going to get attached. Dog was definitely black Labrador mixed with something perhaps equine in nature, she thought to herself. He had a white chest with white-tipped paws and breath that reminded her of crime scenes featuring week-old bodies.

  “You hit the lottery, Dog, until I find your proper owners.”

  His ea
rs popped up and he bolted to the bay window. A slow deep growl emerged, and he began to paw at the glass. His snarl quickly turned into barking. “Right. Bathroom break.” Megan put on her coat and opened the sliding glass door. Dog bolted out now in full steam down the stairs into the fenced yard.

  When Megan walked on to the deck, she saw a far too familiar scene. A few dozen yards away in the cove were policeman, New Jersey troopers, sirens, an ambulance, and a yellow tarp with police tape blowing in the wind.

  She closed her eyes, but the images jabbed her memory like an ice pick, tearing her mind apart one more time. Her first scene she was green as a shamrock. Tough as nails on the outside, but terrified to see her first homicide case. It was a stabbing, and never in a million years did she think a human being could hold so much blood. It was obvious the man was dead, but she was told to check his pulse, and that was the first time she’d touched a dead body. The memory haunted her. She’d walked through years of police tape since, not knowing what she’d find on the other side, but she did it because it was not just her job but her calling. She’d thought nothing could be worse than her first case, but her last homicide topped it in every way.

  It’s not a good thing to have your worst fear topped by a bigger nightmare. It makes you want to escape, and Megan thought she’d done that. Of course her detective brain knew what they were pulling out of the icy water, and it wasn’t a bass.

  Her coffee had grown as cold as her stomach. “Dog! Come!” Much to her surprise, he did. Animals can sense when someone is serious, and there was zero lilt in Megan’s tone. They headed back indoors.

  She gave Dog the canine equivalent of a breakfast protein bar: a slice of cold pizza. She went into the basement, found the supplies needed to walk him, and redressed as if she were planning to sign up for the Iditarod.