Skewed

by Anne McAneny

  “The old trip wire going nuts in there?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Grandpa said there’d been problems lately. Bunch of new houses have sprung up since a neighbor subdivided his land last year; the kids smoke and drink in our woods now.”

  “Okay, well, it still felt wrong for you to be here alone.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks, Wexler. Really.”

  The next moment became awkward as I let my fingers linger too long and neither of us had a thing to say.

  Finally, he pointed to my brother’s book on the couch. “I haven’t had a chance to look at that thing yet. You mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  I grabbed two beers and caught him up on the first haiku. Together we tackled the second one. It was found with Dr. Columbus Cardiff, a cardiac surgeon who’d had a run of bad luck. His stellar reputation had been called into question by the family of a wealthy seventy-six-year-old man who’d died on the table. Evidence showed Dr. Cardiff had performed high-risk surgery against his better judgment, succumbing to pressure from the hospital and the family to try a controversial new procedure. Things went from bad to worse when a nurse claimed the doctor had wine on his breath and showed signs of fatigue while scrubbing up. The lawyers pounced, and the whole thing played out like a cheap soap opera. It was in the midst of this drama that the cardiologist met his unfortunate end at a remote hunting cabin. He’d been strangled with fishing wire. The haiku had read:

  Suggest such counsel

  Be ashamed as I would be

  Above all, you should

  The experts agreed that it referred to a version of the Hippocratic oath taken by most doctors. The only catch had been that the references were pulled from two versions of the oath, an older one and a modernized one.

  The first line, Suggest such counsel, directly contradicted a line in the oath that read: I will give no deadly medicine to any one if asked, nor suggest any such counsel. The haiku was saying, Yes, do suggest such counsel—give that deadly medicine.

  The second line, Be ashamed as I would be, referred to a line in the oath that read: I will not be ashamed to say, “I know not,” nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient’s recovery. The haiku suggested that the doctor should be ashamed to admit he didn’t know something, ashamed to call in colleagues.

  “It’s godlike again,” Wexler said. “The killer views himself as omniscient and, therefore, as someone who would be ashamed to admit ignorance.”

  “He’s a god with no faults. Why would he ever call in a colleague?”

  Wexler raised his beer bottle. “To being human,” he said.

  “And riddled with deficiencies,” I added.

  “And feelings and desires and all that goes with it.”

  A smile worked its way up to my eyes. I clinked his bottle with mine and we drank.

  The third line, Above all, you should, set the killer’s psyche on center stage in Broadway lights. It referred to the modern Hippocratic oath: Above all, I must not play at God. The haiku directly contradicted that statement with Above all, you should.

  “This guy’s got a real hard-on for himself,” I said, before remembering I was in the company of someone with couth. “Sorry.”

  “No need,” Wexler said. “I’d go so far as to call it raging.”

  I grinned, not quite able to meet his eyes, and he continued. “So Leroy Fitzsimmons rocked a serious God complex, or at least used it to justify his slaughter of two somewhat innocent human beings.”

  “Good observation,” I said, slugging down the remaining third of my beer and opening another for each of us. “Both victims were flawed—Professor Biedermann by his sexual liaisons and Doctor Cardiff by his recent lawsuit and possible drinking on the job.”

  “Who was up to bat for number three?” Wexler asked.

  The final haiku was found floating in a plastic toy ship in a bin of holy water near a dead priest, Father Jonathan Santiello. He’d been found with his white collar crushed into his neck, strangled by his own stole—the long silk scarf priests wear to symbolize their rank in the church. It also symbolized being attached to the Lord, to show that the Lord shared the priest’s burden, which said almost as much about the killer as the haiku:

  Collar of harsh white

  man of the people of God

  Almighty be damned

  This haiku had offered the biggest challenge to the experts, with its lines tying together in various formations. It could be read: Collar of harsh white man, White man of the people, People of God Almighty, God Almighty be damned, or People of God Almighty be damned.

  The experts had vehemently disagreed.

  “What do you think, Wexler?”

  He leaned back and gazed upward, the beer exacting a price from his carefully calibrated personality. “No matter how you slice it, I think Leroy was symbolically going after his own father.”

  “But his father wasn’t Catholic,” I said. “He was a preacher at Ridge Chapel.”

  “Could represent all men of the cloth. Some would argue that priests are the closest connection we’ve got to God.” He tapped my brother’s book. “The first line, Collar of harsh white—he didn’t say starched white or bright white. He said harsh white—and even Sheriff Tucker remembered Preacher Fitzsimmons’s fiery sermons from childhood. Sounds like Leroy didn’t hold a favorable view of the white collar, the item that often symbolizes a man of religion.”

  “And if you read it as harsh white man of the people, it could still be a dig at his father.”

  “Even if you read it as man of the people-of-God-Almighty be damned, he’s damning the man.”

  “With death.”

  “The awkward little farm boy taking revenge against the father with the very thing that attaches the father to God. More than Mr. Fitzsimmons was ever attached to his son.”

  “This haiku seems more sophisticated than the previous two.”

  “Serial killers evolve, Janie.” He turned sideways to face me fully, the book balanced half on his knee, half on mine. If either of us moved, it would fall to the floor. He moved closer. The book fell. Neither of us cared.

  “You know what else evolves, Janie?”

  “What . . . Alex?”

  His eyes smiled when I used his name, then he stroked my cheek. “Relationships.”

  Our eyes remained locked while a long, silent conversation took place. My final offering was a resounding yes.

  His lips grazed mine as our knees overlapped. Then he wrapped a strong arm around me, pulling me in close. I felt safe for the first time in years and let the feeling wash over me. I stroked his smooth face, smelled his skin, listened to his lips finding mine again. I felt his softness, his strength, and his wanting. The taste of his hoppy beer on my tongue gave the world a sweet, stimulating flavor, and I gave in, body and mind and body again.

  We made love late into the night, tremulously transporting ourselves to the bedroom sometime after midnight. Perhaps not surprisingly, Wexler approached sex with precision and passion, treating me much like his piece—the .357 SIG sitting on the bedside table: with care and respect, but fully in control, maintaining power with no safety, instead relying on timing, good action, and precise finger control. No subpar excuses for Wexler. Because it was his first time handling this particular piece of equipment, he focused all his attention on getting it right, the intensity of his gaze reaching deep, the caress of his sure hands as gentle as it was meaningful. Eventually, we lay back and he pulled me in tighter than I already was, sending me off into the deepest, most gratifying slumber I’d experienced in years.

  Hours later, showing his softer side, between bouts of laughter and warm intimacy, he got up and fed Percival, who tapped on the window just after dawn. Covering himself with a towel, probably more out of locker-room hab
it than modesty, he strutted with confidence across the room as he kowtowed to the demands of a feline. The gesture struck me as sweet and humble, considering the formidable, unrestrained talents that lay beneath the cotton threads.

  “You know what sucks about this?” I said when he returned to the bed, filling the void that had always existed but had only become evident in his absence.

  “Nothing?” he said.

  “Close,” I said, pressing my mouth to his warm lips. “What sucks is that Nicholls was right.”

  “You’re bringing Nicholls into bed with us?”

  “Sorry. That is gross.” He stroked my cheek, and despite our bodies already touching in dozens of places, the additional contact made me flutter.

  “What was he right about?”

  I rose up on an elbow so I could tease him directly and monitor his reaction. “About you having the hots for me. Now he’s never going to let us hear the end of it.”

  “No. Sorry, but Nicholls was way off base.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him playfully, embracing the feeling of pure security. “How so?” I said, lying back.

  “I don’t have the hots for you.” He rose up to gaze down at me, his defined shoulder muscles in full flexion. “That would be cheap and coarse. It would degrade the sweetness that is you.” From his elbow perch, he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. It made me feel vulnerable, and I relished it. “What I have for you is something much classier, more dashing, and far deeper than the hots.”

  “Oh, Wexler, my gut is telling me something very definite.”

  “Oh, Perkins, never listen to your gut—”

  “But you said—”

  “Never listen to your gut when your heart is drowning it out.”

  We disappeared under the covers together.

  CHAPTER 38

  Grady McLemore knocked on my door just the way I’d have predicted. Three perfect raps, rhythmically spaced and confident. I’d been dreading the visit since Jack’s seven a.m. call, five minutes after Wexler’s departure. Grady had been released before dawn, complete with decoy cars to evade reporters. He’d surprised Jack at his condo by announcing through the intercom, “I’m sprung! You got anything to eat?” The release had been all hush-hush, and I suppose I should have felt honored that Grady’s second order of business was to visit me, but instead I found myself jittery and unsure. And one minute ago, I’d watched Jack drop Grady off while he went to park.

  With a sharp, deep breath that startled my lungs, I wrenched the door open to see the ex-con standing there, grinning from ear to ear, a grocery bag at his feet. He looked more like my brother than ever, wearing a black sweater and pleated khakis that Jack must have lent him. They wore the same size and had similar physiques, although Grady’s chest filled the sweater more broadly—because who wouldn’t expect a sixty-plus man living on white bread and meat mash for thirty years to be in better shape than a twenty-nine-year-old guy who hit the gym almost daily?

  “Grady,” I said too loudly, “this is . . . weird, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help it. I was punchy, nervous, and on a contact high from ample contact with Wexler.

  His grin disappeared and he blinked like doe-eyed prey that had been spared a bullet. “Janie, this is a moment I never envisioned.” As he extended his right hand, the accompanying extension of his left arm made it obvious that he was hoping it would evolve into a hug, but it didn’t. My deeply embedded, highly nurtured emotions couldn’t just turn on a dime . . . but parts of me were definitely coming around.

  We got through the greeting and I waved him in. I went to lock the door but decided to leave it open for Jack. When I turned around, Grady was in the exact spot that Leroy Fitzsimmons’s unnecessary wheelchair had occupied a few nights before. It felt like someone had pumped a load of helium into my head as the parallel images clashed. The last two men who had seen my mother alive and kicking had now occupied the same space within a few days’ time.

  Grady saw me noticing. “Everything okay, Janie? You look spooked.”

  “I am, a bit. Can I get you something to drink?”

  His eyes sparkled. “I brought something.” He pulled champagne, orange juice, and strawberries from the grocery bag he’d brought, and just like that, the tension between us reduced tenfold.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I took the bag and headed to the kitchen, unexpectedly relieved to put a little distance between us. I’d gotten so accustomed to barbed wire, steel bars, and fifty miles of road as our barriers that even the length of the living room felt too intimate.

  Jack barreled in, slamming the door behind him and extending both arms outward. “Isn’t this awesome?” he announced. “Janie, can you believe this?”

  His blatant, unguarded enthusiasm made my greeting seem downright funereal, but from courtroom to podium, Jack rarely found an occasion to choose muted tones over bright, loud proclamations. I gave him a grin rather than my usual sneer and it felt like a step forward.

  “Nothing for me,” he said without having been offered anything. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotta dash. Down to the final month of campaigning and Randall is not letting me off the hook.” He whipped out his cell phone, slapped an arm around Grady’s shoulder, and held the phone out in front of the two of them. “Get in here, Sis. This is one for the memory books!”

  I froze, unsure whether to be more upset that Jack’s first impulse was to commemorate this moment of family togetherness with a cliché and vulgar selfie, or that he thought my joining in was even a possibility. The frown between my eyes fought it out with the bursts of confusion in my heart as I mentally framed the photo that could have been, one that included my mother and perhaps a smiling daughter. For the first time, I felt the loss of the last thirty years in a new way; although the possibility of Grady working his way back into the equation seemed to remotely exist now, my mother would never find her way back into the picture, no matter how hard I tried to stage it.

  Jack took a few shots, the matching grins obvious. The two of them stood, shoulder to shoulder, similar chins and noses reaching toward the lens, eyes equally perceptive and sharp. Jack even dwarfed Grady by an inch or so, as if showing off the flourishing health of the next generation, the way it should be in any normal family.

  “I don’t have any makeup on,” I said lamely by way of excuse, though my mascara and blush were obvious. “Maybe later.”

  Jack heard something in my voice that made him lower his smartphone and return it to his pocket. A pleasant surprise, but I was more taken with Grady’s reaction, as he seemed to perceive my discomfort, also. His shoulders lifted just enough, and his head cocked ever so slightly, as if to say, I’m with you, Janie, but what can we do? Just Jack being Jack!

  Jack then made a show of patting his pockets to find his car keys. “Listen, I’ve got to get going, make a quick stop at the hospital, then it’s off to the races. Give you two a chance to catch up.”

  I swallowed hard and my neck tensed—Grady and I would really be alone now—but Jack had met his quota of subtle perceptions for the day.

  “Can you make sure they keep Grandpa’s pillow flat?” I said. “He prefers it like a pancake and some nurse keeps fluffing it.”

  Jack snorted a bit and gave me a look: You know he’s in a coma, right? I smirked back: You’ll do it anyway.

  With some jolly words of departure, he gave Grady an embrace, full and manly. The image floored me. It had been a long time since Jack and I had hugged, and I couldn’t recall a single image of him wrapping Grandpa up in his strong arms, though I was certain he’d done it regularly. As my eyes welled, I turned to the kitchen, ingredients still in hand.

  “See ya later, Janie. Love ya!” I knew Jack was waving his hand over his head as he made his way to the door, but I didn’t turn around.

  “Love you, too,” I said, opting for more hushed tones. By the time the door slamme
d, I was at the kitchen counter, but by turning my head right, I could see into the living room. “Make yourself at home,” I said to Grady, the words sounding strangely disjointed.

  “Thanks. You need some help?”

  “No,” I said too urgently. “I’m good.”

  He sat down and picked up my brother’s book while the muted TV screen flickered in front of him. I’d forgotten it was on, and unfortunately, the local news channel was showing the retrospective on Leroy Fitzsimmons again, flashing recent images, which meant they’d loop back to kindergarten-Leroy soon, followed by those weird adolescent shots with his father. Then would come the awkward senior class photo where Leroy’s eyes were lowered, as if sorry that anyone had to look at his pale mug.

  As I turned to slice the strawberries, I heard Grady utter a couple wows and oh, my goshes, but I wasn’t prepared for his final exclamation: “Holy shit!”

  I came in carrying the drinks, expecting him to be looking at the centerfold of my mother, his bullet not doing wonders for her hair. But no . . . he was standing up and staring at the television, at Leroy Fitzsimmons’s downcast eyes and shy smile. Age twenty-five, fresh out of the Army.

  Grady glanced at me, then back to the TV, concern pushing his features into a tightly knit ball of anxiety. “I know who that is.”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy who injected you. Leroy Fitzsimmons. He’s been all over the news.”

  “If that’s Leroy Fitzsimmons, he was at the diner the night your mother was shot.”

  “Leroy Fitzsimmons was at the diner? Impossible. Someone would have mentioned it.”

  My landline phone began to ring. I ignored it, as hardly anyone I knew called that number.

  “I can’t believe it,” Grady said. “I mean, I knew the guy, but I never knew his real name. We called him Rusty. Rusty the Repairman.”

  My answering machine clicked on and Lucinda’s voice came through, sounding frantic. “Janie, are you there, honey? It’s Lucinda and I’ve just about had myself a heart attack. I’m watching TV and they just flashed a picture of that Leroy Fitzsimmons on the screen when he was a younger man. Honey, that is Rusty, the customer I told you about from the diner. Oh, my word, I sat a murderer in your mama’s section. I’ll never forgive myself.” Lucinda’s voice cracked and she made a few more muffled sounds before muttering, “Call me,” and hanging up.