Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  Chapter Four

  Dark Brightness

  1

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  The ride to Lenox Hill Hospital was interminable, or so Philip thought as he grasped Tee’s hand in the back of the ambulance. They told Philip he couldn’t ride back there, but he wept so hard, the EMT’s gave in.

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  Philip clutched Tee’s hand. The emergency worker pushed him aside several times, the IV’s and oxygen tubes cluttering both sides of the gurney. Philip just went with the flow. Still, no matter how many times he adjusted to let the medics work, Philip never let Tee’s hand go — not until the ambulance halted in front of the Emergency Room, the vehicle’s doors flying open, the gurney sledging out.

  “Tee.”

  The medic grasped Philip’s shoulders. “He’s in good hands. Wait in the Emergency Room. They’ll let you in after the doctors have given him a look. Okay?”

  Philip felt like saying, not okay. I’m not leaving him for anything or anyone, but the medic’s eyes were kind, yet final. “Okay,” Philip said.

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  The world spun about Philip’s head, or was it just the cycling red beam atop the ambulance? He drifted through the automatic doors of the great white, brick hospital. He was lost. Where did they take him? He looked for a doctor, a nurse — anyone. The broad admission’s desk was busy as if there was a run on emergencies. However, Philip only cared about one. He knew that he had witnessed a crime and had watched the criminal take his own life. Somewhere in his mind, he knew there would be questions, but now he just wanted one thing.

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  He approached the desk. There were three people in queue.

  “Excuse me,” he said to a scrawny volunteer behind the desk.

  “Have a seat,” she said, gazing at him over her ruby glasses, and then noting the other people in queue with her eyes. “I’ll get to you in turn.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  The people in queue stared at Philip. An older man growled, but the others appeared sympathetic.

  “My lover has been brought here,” Philip stammered.

  The attendant shrugged, almost losing her grey, button-downed sweater. “Please have a seat.”

  Philip was about to blow.

  “What’s his name?” came a voice. A security guard suddenly sprouted up beside the volunteer.

  “Dye,” Philip said. That raised an eyebrow. “Thomas Dye. His name is Thomas . . .”

  “Dye,” said the guard. He scanned the monitor with his mahogany fingers. “Yes. Just came in, son. It’s too early to see him. He . . .”

  “But will he be okay?”

  The guard shook his head, and then came around from behind the counter. “Come, have a seat.”

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  Philip trembled. The guard gently ushered him to a bench. The room was filled with benches that held the dire and the worn, the worried and the praying. This could have been a church.

  “Listen here, Sonny Jim,” the Guard said. Philip winced. He recalled the concierge at The Papillon Arms. “Says on the screen that he was shot, but I’m sure they’ll stabilize him. Then, we’ll see. There’s nothin’ you can do.”

  “I can be with him.”

  “Now, how’s that goin’ to do anythin’ for him? That might do somethin’ for you, and I certainly appreciate that, but trust me, Sonny Jim, I’ve seen a lot worse and seen many folk just as stressed as you. You can’t do anythin’ better than rest yourself here, calm yourself down and say your prayers.”

  Philip’s lower lip trembled. His hand shook. He suddenly came apart, not that he was together to begin with, but this kind man — this stranger, who cared enough to trump the bitch at the admissions desk, was sent to him as a lighthouse on a stormy sea. Anchor yourself here. You’re in the harbor and must wait for a sign from ashore.

  The guard handed him a handkerchief. “Here,” he said. “Give it a good blow and rest a while. Is there someone you wanna call? A friend? A relative?”

  There was. Uncle Dean. “Thanks.” Philip took the soft cloth between his fingers and wiped his eyes. He retrieved his cell phone from the backpack.

  “That’s better. You’ll be okay now.”

  Philip bobbed his head. The guard retreated. Philip went to his speed dial to call Dean Cardoza. He almost lost it again upon seeing the dried blood spread over the keys. The phone worked, despite the signs saying he couldn’t make cell phone calls in a hospital. Didn’t the guard tell him to make it? It connected and rang, but no one answered, not even Dean’s voice mail. Suddenly, the automatic doors opened and through them came an old man supported by a cane.

  “Uncle Dean,” Philip said.

  Dean Cardoza appeared ten years older than when Philip left him this afternoon. He didn’t seem to hear Philip. Befuddled. Lost. Philip scurried to the man.

  “Uncle Dean.”

  “Dear boy,” the old man said. They embraced. “This is terrible. Terrible.”

  “Over here,” Philip said. “They won’t let me see him yet.”

  Dean Cardoza shuffled to the bench, and then sat beside the backpack. He stared into nothingness. The world of his own making. “I’ve outlived them all,” he muttered. “And that’s not right. They’re all gone.”

  Suddenly, Philip realized that Tee was not the only concern on Uncle Dean’s mind. Flo was dead. Oh God. He hunkered down, resting his chin on Dean’s knee.

  “I’m sorry,” Philip said. “Florian. It was awful.”

  “Florian,” Dean whimpered. “Jemmy too, and now Thomas. Dear, dear Thomas.”

  Philip looked up. “Tee isn’t dead. He’s not going to die. I won’t let him. I won’t”

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  2

  Two hours passed leaving Philip and Dean aching on the bench. Philip checked every ten minutes or so at the admissions desk, but he was told that Tee had been stabilized, but was not out of the woods yet. He would be admitted and prepped for surgery. Philip was told that the bullet was lodged in Tee’s spine. Ten minutes later, Thomas Dye went under the knife.

  “I cannot believe Florian would do such a thing,” Dean said.

  “Believe it,” Philip said. “I mean, I don’t want to be harsh, but I was there. I saw it.”

  “So you did, Mr. Flaxen,” came a deep voice. Philip careened around on the bench. “Sterling. Do you remember me, Mr. Flaxen?”

  “Detective Kuss . . . Kussman.”

  “Kusslow. And this is . . .”

  “Dean Cardoza,” Uncle Dean said. “Is this the law?”

  Kusslow grasped Dean’s hand and nodded. “A friend of Mr. Flaxen? Relative, perhaps?”

  “A friend,” Dean said.

  Detective Kusslow opened his ubiquitous note pad and scratched a note. Philip looked for the other one, Detective Karnes, and spied him chatting with the friendly security guard.

  “Looking for someone, Mr. Flaxen?”

  “No. I just remembered that you had a partner.”

  “Good memory. Now, Mr. Cardoza did you know the victim — Thomas Dye?”

  Philip winced. “He’s not a victim. He’s still alive.” Then, Philip sensed that something else might have happened. Kusslow was a homicide detective. No homicide had been committed, unless . . . “God, Almighty,” Philip said, his hand going to his mouth. “Tee hasn’t . . . he hasn’t . . .”

  “Tee? You mean Mr. Dye. No. It’s not anything like that, Mr. Flaxen. I assure you. However, it’s not routine either. It’s part of an on-going investigation. Mr. Cardoza, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Am I under suspicion?”

  “Not at all.”

>   “Well, in that case, I’m related to the other one.”

  “The other one?”

  “Florian Townsend.”

  “Oh, the suicide. Sorry about that.” He gazed at Philip appearing to assess the situation. “I know that this may be a bad time for you, Mr. Flaxen, but do you think you could answer a few questions?”

  Philip sighed. He had expected this. He was there, after all. “Now?”

  “If you would?” Kusslow looked toward Karnes, who walked to an open door — an office. The security guard stood sentry.

  Philip sighed again. “Uncle Dean, if there’s any word, come get me.”

  “At once.”

  “Uncle Dean?” Kusslow gave Dean the fish eye. “We won’t be long.”

  3

  The office was an examination room, and in more ways than one. Philip sat at the edge of a paper-lined exam table, while Kusslow took the doctor’s seat. Karnes hovered outside the door. Philip wondered about this interview. Wasn’t this an open and shut case?

  “Mr. Flaxen,” Kusslow began, his pad embraced, his pencil in readiness. “Where were you when Mr. Dye was shot?”

  “Beside him. I caught him.”

  “Caught him?”

  “I thought I saw something move in the shadows. I heard a shot and when I looked around, Tee was hit. I didn’t know it right away. He just stood like a statue, fainting on his feet, and then he keeled over.”

  “Keeled over? He fell forward?”

  “No.”

  “Backwards, then?”

  “No. He collapsed.”

  “Ah, collapsed.” Kusslow wrote. “Not keeled. Collapsed.”

  Philip was suddenly afraid. Was he under suspicion?

  “Then, you called for help?”

  “No. I tried to help him.”

  “And just how did you help him? CPR? Mouth-to-mouth?”

  Philip hopped off the table. “What are you saying here? That I would let Tee suffer?”

  “Easy now, Mr. Flaxen. These are routine questions.”

  “I don’t think so.” Philip slammed his hand on the table.

  “Easy now.”

  Karnes poked his head in. “Trouble?”

  “No. Just nerves. Mr. Flaxen has been through a lot tonight.”

  Philip leaned on the table and snorted. “Maybe I can’t answer any questions now. Maybe you should leave me alone.”

  “Maybe we should take a trip downtown.”

  Philip wiped his face. “No. It’s just . . . it’s just.”

  “Just what, Mr. Flaxen? What did you do in this situation?”

  Philip glared at Kusslow. “What’s your problem? I heard his killer approach. I saw him. He threatened me with the gun too. And then . . . then.”

  “Then, what, Mr. Flaxen?”

  “He blew his fucking brains out.” Philip clutched the examination table. He saw poor Florian, tortured and trembling, gun in mouth and then . . .

  “And what makes you think that the suicide shot your Mr. Dye?”

  Philip sucked the antiseptic air. “I saw him.”

  “You saw him swallow his gun. You didn’t see him shoot your lover. In fact, when that bullet is retrieved and sent to ballistics, I’ll bet you any money that it didn’t come from the suicide’s gun.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s simple. If Mr. Dye were shot with Mr. Townsend’s gun, he wouldn’t be in surgery now. He’d be in the morgue.” Philip’s breath hitched. “Sorry to upset you, but at that range, a .38 caliber would have taken a man’s chest out and blown it through his back. No. The bullet will most probably be a .22 caliber. And it came from the opposite direction. At the judged range, it rarely kills. Damage, yes, but not enough to kill a big man. No.”

  “So you’re saying that Flo didn’t . . .”

  “Highly unlikely.” Detective Kusslow closed his notebook.

  “But he was stalking Tee.”

  “There you go. That accounts for his presence. Unstable was he?”

  “Very.”

  “Motive for suicide, perhaps. Tell me this. If he shot Mr. Dye and had you in his sights, why didn’t he do you in too?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t . . .” Philip was even more terrified now. “So if he didn’t do it, you’re thinking that I . . .”

  “No, Mr. Flaxen. You haven’t been paying attention, have you? I said a .22 at that range couldn’t kill a man, but at your close-in range, it could. The weapon is most likely a little handgun — the kind we used to call a ladies gun, almost a starter’s pistol. Smith & Wesson still puts out an inventory.”

  Philip was suddenly aware of something — something lost in the mathom of events. What was it?

  “If you knew all this, why are you asking me these fucking questions?”

  “They may seem fucking to you, but they’re material to the scene. These killings have been going on around your small circle of acquaintances for some time now. Whether you like or realize it, you’re a part of it.” Kusslow pocketed his pad. “This killer never murders with the gun. That toy just stuns. The death-act itself is a lingering one — one that let’s the victim know that death is overtaking them. No bam bam and die die. The questions I asked you were meant to establish this event as part of this killer’s modus operandi. You, Mr. Flaxen, you were there — an eyewitness at last, and you have confirmed the fact that Mr. Dye was taken down by this same killer. Of course, there was no plastic bag this time, or Hudson River. This one’s a variation. What the killer’s next move will be is hard to know. We may never know. I was hoping that you could give us a clue. Anything more may help stop this insanity.”

  “But I don’t know any more.”

  “You might not think so, but I know about these things.” Kusslow stood. He handed Philip his card. “If you should think of anything, call me. Leave a message. Any time of day or night.”

  Philip stared at the card. “I already have one of those in my wallet.”

  “Good.” The Detective strolled over the threshold gathering his partner. “I hope that your lover survives, Mr. Flaxen. Sincerely, I do.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “Yes.” Kusslow turned. “Not far. No excursions to Paris or Buenos Aires.”

  “For now, I’m here.”

  4

  Philip sat in the examination room for ten minutes, the guard not disturbing him. In fact, Philip was sure the kind man kept the room out of circulation. Philip’s head spun. Florian was clean. Mad? Yes. However, he would have never shot Thomas. He loved him. Why would he harm him? Philip felt remorse that he had ever laid the full brunt of the crime at Flo’s feet. He was also disturbed that these killings — a serial spree, if you will, led the police to his circle of acquaintances. There was a pattern, and it wasn’t Lars Hamilton’s casting of Eben Cabot either. It was a mouse game. The killer winged his victims, and then played the cat. Hateful. Disgusting.

  Suddenly, Philip jumped off the table. In the last half-hour, he had learned more about crime and investigations than he wished to know, but now that something that stirred in his memory poked into his frontal lobe. He did remember something. Detective Kusslow was right. Something would come — something inconsequential in the general run of things, but crucial to the details. Crucial.

  “A ladies gun,” Philip murmured, his eyes swimming in the realization. He had seen something of the sort. He resisted the conclusion it drew, but he drew it anyway. He saw it in his mind, winking at him wrapped in satin in Robert Sprague’s bottom drawer.

  “Sprakie. No. Why?”

  Philip gasped, but knew what must be done. He had to catch Detective Kusslow before he left. But no. He couldn’t just turn his friend over — not on some stupid fucking memory of a cap pistol tucked away like a New Year’s party favor. No. He knew what he must do.

  Philip rushed to the bench. Uncle Dean still sat vigilant.

  “Any word?” Philip asked

  “None. Were they harsh?”

  “More than
you can guess, but listen up. I have to do something.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  God, let him live. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave him again.

  “Just for a while.” Dean Cardoza half-arose, a tell me all gesture. “Promise me that you won’t leave here,” Philip stammered. “Promise me you’ll call me if there’s a change. I have my cell with me.”

  “Is it charged?”

  “I hope to hell it is,” he said. “No time. I’ll tell you later.”

  “But . . .”

  Philip grabbed his backpack, and then fled through the automatic doors. Soon, he would be on the downtown train — downtown to Avenue A.

  Chapter Five

  Downtown

  1

  Philip rounded the corner, out of breath. He had run from the subway through the East Village without so much as a thought to anything or anyone. It was past midnight, yet the place still blazed, the traffic as heavy as it had been at noon. However, Avenue A was deserted, except for two hookers, one trawling for cruising cars; the other, a stunning transvestite named Bonnie Belle (a celebrity in these parts), standing monumental, the tricks coming to him without coaxing. In Philip’s haste, he noticed neither.

  The familiar street odors brought Philip back to the place’s reality. The rotting cabbage from Lu Chow’s Gay Chinese Restaurant was rank in the air, choking him. It had never done so before. He had always noted it, as a man would note a crooked limb or a hideous birthmark —familiar and part of the landscape. Now, Philip choked, his uptown breeding offended by this downtown slum. He kept his mouth covered as he mounted the stairs into the apartment building. He was accosted by other smells inside — urine and cat food and perhaps the remnants of Hungarian cooking. He took the stairs two at a time until he was just short of Sprakie’s landing. He stopped for rest and reflection.

  It was late. Philip knew that Sprakie was probably entertaining and, however Philip intruded, it would be awkward. But aren’t we beyond awkward? He adjusted his backpack and finished the flight to the landing. He hesitated again before ringing the bell. He remembered a time when that bell saved him from a night of rain and terror. Sprakie. Why? He pressed the buzzer.