“Clyde, you are a mush aren’t you? I’m going to leave you for a few minutes to go to the mini-mart down the street. I need to get a few things. They’re probably going to be closed tomorrow. Be good.” Megan climbed up into Arnold, fired up the ignition, and started down Howard Boulevard, gassing it toward the small-town store. It wasn’t until she hit the brakes that she knew something was wrong. She wasn’t going fast, but the brakes failed to slow her down one bit. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an elderly man walking across the lot. Megan started honking the horn repeatedly. He jumped out of the way just in time. Vehicular manslaughter was not a part of her evening agenda. She swerved into a parking lot, tugging at the parking brake handle. Nothing was working.
“Son of a bitch!” She needed to stop the truck, no matter what. Still moving almost thirty miles an hour, Megan turned the steering wheel toward a Dumpster at the far end of the lot. She slammed into it with so much force that Arnold truly became a terminator. Death toll: one Dumpster.
Megan jumped out of the truck and first ran back to the elderly gentleman. He had no injuries, which was a complete relief to Megan. A store owner called the police and within minutes the flashing red and blue lights filled the streets.
How many cops work in a town that is three miles long? Megan caught herself thinking.
At first they accused her of being under the influence, until Megan explained her brakes had failed and she couldn’t stop the truck. A beefy, chesty officer went under the Range Rover with a flashlight. “No need for a breathalyzer. The brake line has been cut.”
“What?” Megan was dumbfounded. “I just drove this a day or so ago. Let me see.” She scooted underneath Arnold and the officer put the light on the brake line. “How does this happen?”
“Lady, this didn’t just happen. Look at the evenness of the slice. This was done on purpose.”
Son of a bitch.
Megan called Callie, who then called Megan’s favorite new friend, Duane Baker, to tow Arnold the short distance to his shop. It was by far not the most social three-minute drive she’d ever taken.
“The Dumpster is history, but they really make those Range Rovers tough. Your truck seems to be fine—except for the fluid lines. They even clipped your parking brake cable. You’re really liked, huh?”
Megan stared out the window. “Looks that way.”
“Heard someone threw you in the lake. Bag over your head and all. A pretty woman like you needs to be more careful, wouldn’t you say? I know about you. City cop. Tough. I watched you on the news. Do you want to know what I see when I look in your eyes?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I see a little girl, a little girl who needs to watch her back if she’s as smart as she thinks she is.”
Megan knew the tone of a thug and did not retreat. “The forty-five I carry around in my shoulder holster is pretty careful, always loaded, and I have eyes in the back of my head.”
Douche bag.
Duane had an arrogant smirk as they pulled into his garage. “C’mon in. Callie said he’s on his way to take you home and I need to give you some paperwork.”
Megan went inside, more to take a look around than to get paperwork or make glorious small talk. Duane lit a cigarette while he fumbled through a file cabinet for forms. “You’ll need a copy of the police report for your insurance company.” Duane crouched down, the back of his jeans slipping a bit too far, exposing his tattooed back.
Megan stared at the round burn mark on Duane’s lower back. No tattoo could hide it, though it looked as though he tried hard enough given how much ink was over his body. For a brief moment Megan felt like she was going to vomit.
I wonder if one of those young boys I saw in the videos was him.
Duane turned to hand Megan the papers “Here. Fill these out.” She stared blankly at him. “Um, are you okay?”
She took the papers without answering.
Callie pulled up moments later. Duane said, “Your ride is here. I can get the truck back to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is a holiday. No rush.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
Megan whispered, “Why?”
“Not much to be merry about, I guess. You should know how that feels.”
They stared at one another. It was not a romantic stare, not even close. Megan felt frozen. She looked into his eyes, trying to think if there was anything from the videos that would ID him, but the burn mark was enough, and the bastards were smart enough not to film the victims’ faces directly. But she knew, and there was a place in Duane that knew as well.
Megan walked out to Callie’s car. He had a very concerned look on his face. “Are you okay? How is your arm?”
Megan had such an adrenaline rush that she’d forgotten she still had stitches in her arm. At this point she was impervious to physical pain; it was the emotional heartache that overpowered her when she allowed it to. “I’m fine. Very happy no one was hurt.”
“What did Duane say?” Callie began the drive back to McGregor Avenue to drop Megan off. It was a busy night at the restaurant and he said he couldn’t stay, though he very much would have liked to.
“He said the truck would be fixed by tomorrow. The brake line was cut, zero brake fluid in the reservoir. Parking brake cable snipped too. Do you know anything about brake lines?”
Callie raised his eyebrows. “Only that they shouldn’t be cut, Trouble.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” She paused before getting out of Callie’s car. “Something is about to go down. There is a lot I’m
unsure of at the moment, but I do know this: something is going down and soon.”
Callie stared at her, holding her face in his hands as he kissed her. “Make sure it’s not you.”
Megan woke the next morning on the tip of a dream. She was walking down a path through a park. The trees were green, the sky clear. There was a large picnic table in the grassy field at the end of the path. The table was filled with people eating, laughing, and toasting one another. They welcomed Megan with smiles, motioning for her to sit at the head of the table. Many of the faces were familiar to her, but some of them seemed different: younger, happier than the last time she’d seen them. A woman put a hand on her shoulder. When Megan turned, it was a face she’d recognized immediately. It was her grandmother on her father’s side. Megan looked up curiously at her, wondering what the purpose was for all of this. She pointed for Megan to turn around. Pat McGinn stood a few feet behind Megan, doing what he always did at family picnics, manning the grill and smoking his cherry-scented pipe. He looked peaceful and younger than the man she’d buried earlier that year. He smiled at her. Megan walked over, wrapping her arms around him, holding him so very tight. She heard his voice as clear as if he were standing right in the room. “It’s time to buck up, baby girl.” He turned Megan around and the only person now seated at the picnic table was Rose. Her voice couldn’t be heard, but she held up the deaf sign for I love you. Megan had learned the sign only one day earlier. In that moment, she felt buoyant. She was being pulled away, as if a bungee cord was tugging her back into her reality and into her loss.
The smell of her father’s cherry-scented tobacco filled the bedroom.
Thirty-Nine
It was another cold morning, and Megan woke with her head facing toward her parents photograph. The dream lingered. She felt so alone and abandoned. Hell, most women her age were on their second or third child, with a stable marriage. Megan made fun of “stable” marriages—she could just picture two horses side by side, eating the same oats and the same hay day in, day out. It was her jaded, cynical side, or perhaps it was her nature. She kept telling herself she didn’t much care. Her father brought up Megan and her brother with certain traditions: every birthday, make a list of what you want to achieve in the next year; Thanksgiving was the day to make the list of everything and everyone wond
erful in your life, the people who have not just touched you but changed you to make you better; Christmas was the day to spend time with those people and tell them you loved them.
Megan sat up in bed, the sheets and blankets never enough to warm what she was missing. She still tried, then Clyde moaned.
He gave her a nod as if to say, Not my fault.
She wondered if there would ever be a time when she said that to herself: not my fault. It was a phrase that was hard for her to even utter. She didn’t believe it.
Megan went down into the lower level to feed Clyde. As usual she checked that the double doors were locked and she performed a casual glance outside. Empty. Or so she hoped. She opened one of the cabinets for any more doggie goodies and found a red dog vest typically worn by service animals. She said to herself, “It’s Christmas Eve, what the fuck.”
She looked out the window and saw Arnold parked out front with a note on the window. Megan put on her winter coat over her pajamas and approached the Range Rover, hoping it wouldn’t explode when she opened the door. The keys were perched on the visor. The note read: No charge. Insurance will get this one. Drive safely. D.B.
Megan huffed out an uncertain laugh. Comforting.
Megan drove over to Krogh’s to pick up three turkey dinners. Much to her surprise, Vivian was working, but she was also pleased to see her busy and not alone on the holiday. They signed hello, and Megan was actually surprised to see exactly how busy the restaurant was.
I guess I don’t get out much unless it’s to funerals or crime scenes.
Megan was sure to place the dinners closer to her than to Clyde in the truck as she drove to the hospital to visit Billie. She dressed Clyde in the service dog vest from the Macks’ previous dog, who was, according to the papers Megan stuffed in her coat pocket, an active canine companion.
“Clyde, you be good. No pulling on patients’ tubes or peeing in the hallways or whatever your imagination could come up with. We’re here to see Billie.”
Megan walked through the front door with an overly friendly smile and issued the conditional happy holiday gestures, hoping nobody would question Clyde’s presence. Not one staff member prevented Megan from walking into the elevator. Clyde was on his best behavior until they entered Billie’s room. The television was on mute. Billie stared out the window and was stunned at Megan’s arrival.
“Hey, kiddo. Merry almost Christmas.” Megan placed the food on her hospital tray.
Billie lit up when she saw Clyde. “Oh my God! You brought Clyde!”
He jumped on the bed and snuggled right next to Billie.
“He’s a service dog?”
Megan had a sheepish grin, not wanting many of the staff to overhear their conversation. “He’s on a day-pass,” she whispered. “And look what I have here—three full dinners, compliments of Callie.”
“Your friend,” Billie smiled.
“Whatever! One for you, one for your aunt, and one for the staff. You always need to take care of the people who are taking care of you.”
Billie dug into the tray of stuffing first. “But who takes care of you?”
Megan dropped her usual banter. “See that furry guy who’s trying to eat your stuffing? He does a pretty good job.”
“Why does he have so many bandages?”
“Porcupine. Dumb luck.”
Billie rubbed Clyde’s head. “Isn’t all bad luck pretty much dumb?”
“Eat your Christmas lunch. Or dinner, whatever it is, wiseass.”
Billie looked better than she had the last time Megan visited her. Her color was back to normal and the bruises were fading. They sat petting Clyde while holiday-themed shows ran on the small hospital television.
Megan placed a small piece of turkey on the plates Callie provided. “How are you feeling? Give me an update.”
“Well, the leg is sore, but my chest actually only hurts at night or when I try to move. So I guess you could say that kinda sucks.”
“You’ll be home soon. I mean, with your aunt.”
She had a small pout. “Yeah, not with my mom. Ya know, the whole twenty-eight-days thing.” Billie was speaking of her mother in rehab.
“Have you heard from her?”
Billie proceeded to feed Clyde from her tray, and he was quite grateful for the indulgence. “No. My aunt said she wouldn’t get phone privileges until she’s out of detox.”
Megan stared at Billie without the acknowledgement that she knew exactly what she was going through. She didn’t much want to share the open wound of her youth. “You’re prettier without all that crap makeup you wear.”
“You really rock at giving out compliments,” Billie said, laughing. “So where’s your guy?”
“He’s not my guy.” Megan waited for another smart-ass comment and sure enough she got it.
“He’s hot. You better make him your guy before someone else does.” She raised her eyebrows. “Get what I mean?”
Megan shook her head. “Just eat and turn the channel, I can’t stand cozy, dippy movies.”
Billie started channel surfing, but all the local channels seemed to be showing the same newscast.
“Stop,” Megan ordered.
Billie turned up the volume. It was a break in regular programming showing Duane Baker being hauled out of his garage in handcuffs. The reporter stood outside in a parka saying Duane Baker was being arrested for the murder of Mount Arlington’s mayor, which was determined not to be a suicide. There was undisclosed evidence that showed Duane was responsible for the killing.
Megan and Billie said in unison, “Shit.”
Billie added, “I’ve known Duane practically my whole life. Why would he want to kill the mayor? I don’t get it.”
I do, thought Megan. “Billie, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.”
“Are you going to check this out?”
Smart fucking kid. “No, I’m going to go see a man about a dog.” Pat McGinn would always say that to Megan while she was growing up to sidetrack her when he was called to a case. Except this wasn’t Megan’s case and she wasn’t about to share the sordid details with a teenage girl who recently survived a pummeling from her alcoholic mother’s boyfriend.
“Come on, Clyde.” Megan yanked his leash. He was still too interested in the turkey dinners on the hospital tray. “Text me when you get out, okay?”
Billie had a tense look of concern on her face. “I will as long as you’ll be okay.”
“I’m always okay.”
They both knew Megan was lying.
Megan pointed at Billie’s leg in the soft cast. “Take care of that, and rest. That’s an order.”
After Megan walked out with Clyde, Billie whispered, “You take care. That’s an order.”
Forty
Megan took Clyde home so she could watch the full news story. Callie had left three messages on her cell, but her phone’s battery had died and she needed to charge it before returning the call. She thought about the newscast and began to doubt its truth, though she wasn’t sure why. Duane Baker certainly had a long enough list of priors, certainly had hate inside him, and most likely enough tragedy. Worse, he was victim of the most horrible crime of all: sexual assault.
Megan settled Clyde, then hopped in Arnold and drove over to Norden’s Marina. The brakes worked perfectly. Well, Duane, you may be a scumbag, but you are a good mechanic. There were no cars in the driveway. No lights on. Megan walked around the outside of the house. It was eerily silent, only a light wind and fog hovering over the frozen water. She walked to the end of the marina dock to find the broken edge where she’d crashed the snowmobile. Megan knelt down to look when she sensed a presence behind her, and she knew. There was no crystal ball needed. She turned and there he stood, his blackened helmet blocking the only exit off the dock. For as hot-headed as Megan could be, her calm resolve wa
s immense when needed, especially when her life was possibly in danger. She stared at the man, knowing she could not positively identify him until he removed his helmet.
“Ms. McGinn. Is there something I can help you with?” Jake Norden asked.
Megan presumably scratched her back while taking the safety off the gun situated in the back of her jeans. “I wanted to see the damage that my ill-skilled snowmobile technique caused so I could reimburse you.” Both Jake and Megan were exceptionally unflappable. They stared at each other. “I thought it would be neighborly to make up for it.”
He stared at the dock. “It’s nothing. Callie said he’d take care of it. Come spring it will be fixed properly. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Something tells me you came for another reason.”
Megan shook her head. “Not really. I did see your friend on the news. Duane Baker. Sorry about that.”
Jake looked down, as if he felt a sense of repentance. That didn’t last long, and arrogance quickly showed in his face. “Well, he has a few demons. I’m sure they’ll find him innocent eventually.”
Megan found that to be an odd statement. Her years of interviewing perps made her keen on body language, and Jake Norden was ice cold, to the point where he could freeze the lake ten times over. “Why do you think that?”
He took another step toward Megan, at which point she teetered on the edge of the dock. “I’m just saying. Innocent until proven guilty, right?”
Megan sidestepped him to move from his path and she was halfway down the dock when he shouted out. “Megan? Or Ms.
McGinn?”
Megan turned to see him kneeling by the dock using a knife—a knife she knew all too well—to cut rope from one of the pilings. “Happy Holidays.”
She stared at him. More fog rolled in now, masking his countenance. She wasn’t sure if it was a grin or a glare emanating from his face, but she knew she didn’t like it.
“Sure.”
Someone should carve that motherfucker like a turkey, she thought.
Hidden Vices Page 20