"Hello, Mary."
"What are you doing here?"
"I don’t suppose you’d believe I was just in the neighborhood?
My banal attempt at levity falls flat. With a thud.
"Why did you come here?"
Her voice sounds so tragic. I should just leave. I’ve screwed up enough lives as it is. Did I really need to drive all the way over here, looking for someone else to terrorize?
"I wanted to make sure your father was okay?"
A lame excuse. A flimsy reason. Typical Charlie. Play on her sympathies and make her feel sorry for you. It’s all about you.
"How did know where we lived?" she asks; her voice a little shaky. "We’re not in the phone book."
"It’s my day job," I say, matter-of-factly. "I can find just about anybody."
"Are you a cop or something? I thought you said you were a writer."
The fear is edging out of her voice now. She’s getting angry.
"I’m not a cop. I need to talk to you."
"We went through this before. I can’t talk to you, whoever you are."
Enough. Chatting politely through the screen is getting me nowhere and I have a deadline to meet. Dead line. The point at which your chances run out. I raise my chin and stare through the screen at Mary.
"I’m working with Lily Rudolph to try to find out what really happened to her husband. I don’t think his death was an accident and I think you might be able to help us."
She looks stunned again and stutters a bit through her next words.
"Michael Rudolph? Why on earth would I know anything about Michael Rudolph’s death? I don’t really travel in those circles."
"Your father was one of the original Nesler test participants. The majority of the other originals are dead. I think Michael Rudolph found out what was happening to them and wanted to put a stop to it. But someone put a stop to him first."
Mary’s eyes slowly close behind her glasses. They remain closed so long it makes it awkward to continue to look at her. Finally, she exhales a single, long breath and opens her eyes again. She’s not looking at me, she’s looking over my shoulder into the street. Without saying a word, she steps back and holds open the screen for me to come in.
Inside, there’s no hall or entryway. We’ve stepped right in the living room. It’s a little sparse on furniture, but tidy. A large blue couch dominates the floor, flanked by twin end tables with matching lamps. A vintage La-Z-Boy sits at an angle to the couch. There’s a chunky wooden coffee table holding the week’s TV Guide section, a water bottle and some pill containers. A television balances on a rickety pedestal at the far end of the room.
"Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?" Mary asks.
"Thanks, I’d like that. I’m looking at a long night. A little coffee would probably do me good."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Cream. Or milk. Whatever you have."
"Have a seat," Mary instructs, gesturing toward the La-Z-Boy.
She disappears down a little hallway into what must be her kitchen, leaving me alone with the discount furniture. I select the blue couch over the recliner.
As a child, at my very first foster home, I had a rather unfortunate recliner incident. The family’s bio-son, that’s what they have you call the real children, was about my age and he and I were playing astronaut on his dad’s recliner. I was the astronaut and he was Mission Control. I’d lean all the way back and then count down from ten to one. On one, he’d push with all his might on the footrest and the chair would snap back into its original position. That was blast off. We’d done it about a gazillion times without any problems. But at gazillion and one, something in the footrest gave way. It cinched closed with a metallic twang, pinning my left arm between the back and the seat. The son yelped and ran out of the room. I yelped and tried to run, but was firmly clamped in the jaws of the chair. It was a good ten minutes before the kid came back with his dad to release me. By then I was starting to lose feeling in my fingers. I think we both got in trouble, and the chair never really worked right after that.
I slip off my coat, toss it over the arm of the blue couch and pick up the TV Guide. It’s open to a half-done crossword puzzle. Five down is an 11-letter word for lacking feeling or tact. Starts with an "I". Oh, oh, I know this one. Mary comes into the room with two cups of coffee.
"Insensitive," I say, holding up the crossword.
"Huh?"
"Five down. The answer is . . . insensitive."
She smiles and sets the cups on the table then sits down in the La-Z-Boy.
"Do you like crosswords?" I ask, realizing she must think I’m an insensitive idiot.
"They’re supposed to keep your brain healthy," Mary says. "It’s Albert, right?"
"No, it’s Charlie. I probably told you it was Albert when we met at the lake, but my real name is Charlie. Charlie Sandors."
Mary tilts her head to one side. Her hair is down tonight, falling below her shoulders. Without rain slicking it to her head, I see it’s thick and actually quite a pretty auburn color.
"Why would you give me a fake name? You are a cop aren’t you, or maybe one of those private detectives?"
I push up the sleeves of my sweater and lean forward, my elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped in front of me, praying Mary will take me seriously.
"Nothing quite that glamorous. I’m an insurance investigator, but that’s got nothing to do with why I’m here. Through a string of bizarre circumstances, the majority of which you’d never believe even if I took the time to tell you, I’m in the position of trying to solve what I think is a murder and a cover-up."
Mary reaches out for her cup of coffee with both hands. I expect incredulity or at least basic skepticism, but Mary shows no astonishment at all. She appears to accept my explanation at face value. She settles back into the recliner—must have never been trapped in one.
"If I was smart, Mr. Sandors, I’d ask you to leave now," she says, so quietly I have to lean forward even more to hear her. "But I’m not too smart and I’m very tired . . . and for some insane reason, I think I might believe you. I’ve wondered for a long time if anyone would ever ask any questions. If anyone would ever care what happened to these people."
She sets down her coffee cup without having taken a drink.
"But our society doesn’t like to be bothered by people who’ve outlived their usefulness. If they die, so much the better, right? Fewer old fogies queuing up at the buffet line. Fewer cars with their turn signals stuck on for miles. Fewer people who remember what it was like before televisions and cell phones and computers and all the other gizmos that occupy our world. Fewer people who understand what life’s really about."
I’m quiet for a minute, not sure if there’s more to Mary’s sermon. But she appears to be done.
"You’re right," I say. She gets it. She understands something is wrong. "Most people wouldn’t notice, but Michael Rudolph wasn’t most people. You and he actually have more in common than you think, at least philosophically."
Mary smiles and removes her glasses, wiping the lenses on a corner of her blouse.
"I don’t really know a lot of details about the Nesler project. Dad never told me anything about it, and now he can’t remember."
"Who was your contact at Nesler?"
"Gavin VanMorten."
"What about Howard Stanich?"
"I know the name. Isn’t he Gavin’s boss?"
"Yes, and he’s really the one in charge of the project. Are you sure you never talked with him?"
Mary looks up at the ceiling, searching along the plaster cracks for the answer.
"Maybe once," she says, looking at me again. "He’s the one who called to ask about my father’s funeral arrangements."
"Did he think your father was dead?"
She laughs. One short burst.
"No, he knew Dad wasn’t dead, but he also knew he was quite ill. He wanted me to know Nesler would handle all the arrangements for a cremation. I th
ought it was odd at the time, but I guess I figured it was some kind of corporate policy or something."
"How long ago was it?"
"When he called? I don’t remember for sure. A couple of months maybe."
Two months would put the call right before Michael’s accident. Exactly the same time Don Stachlowski said Howard had called him.
"Do you remember anything else about the conversation?" I ask.
"He asked me about Michael Rudolph."
"What about him?"
"If he had called me."
"Had he?"
"Yes."
My voice escalates in speed and volume.
"Why didn’t you tell me that before? You made it sound like you barely knew who he was."
I know I’m speaking louder than necessary in the tiny room, but I can’t help it.
"What did Michael call you about?"
Mary presses her back into the recliner, trying to move away from me. Before she can answer, a crash from the kitchen interrupts us. Mary jumps up and runs out of the room. I follow.
Jake Tucker stands at the counter. He’s wearing striped pajamas and the same slippers he had on when I first came across him at the horseshoe courts. Remnants of a coffee cup lay at his feet. Spilled coffee forms a lake on the counter and dribbles over the edge onto Jake’s slippers. He looks confused and worried. Mary approaches him quietly. She takes his hand and guides him backwards away from the mess and into a chair at their kitchen table. He doesn’t resist.
"It’s okay, Dad," Mary says. "Let’s get this cleaned up, shall we?"
Mary grabs several towels from a drawer and soaks up the coffee lake. I bend down to gather the cup shards. Neither of us says a word while we pick up the mess. Jake drums his fingers on the table. Mary tosses the dirty towels into the sink and turns to her father.
"Dad, do you want me to make you another cup of coffee?"
He doesn’t answer.
"Or some milk? How about a glass a milk and a Little Debbie? Does that sound good?"
The drumming stops for a second. Jake must be trying to process the question. He starts drumming again without responding.
"Yep, that sounds good to me too," says Mary. "Charlie, do you want a cake?"
I glance around the tiny kitchen. There’s avocado green wallpaper with white daisies, an ancient dishwasher, the kind you have to hook up onto the faucet, and real linoleum on the floor. It reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen in Evanston. I take a seat at the table next to Jake.
"That’d be good," I say. "Let’s eat cake."
Jake looks at me as if he’s just noticed I’m with them in the room. He smiles, undaunted by the fact a strange man is suddenly sitting next to him. He extends his hand to me. I shake it. Then he turns away from me and continues drumming on the table. Mary stands behind us pulling glasses from a cupboard.
"He likes to shake hands," she says. "He won’t remember you were here after you go, but while you’re here, he’ll probably shake your hand three or four times. Just play along, if you don’t mind."
"Of course," I say.
She crosses to the refrigerator and gathers a carton of milk and a cardboard box of Little Debbie Devil Square cakes. She brings everything to the table and sits down with us. Shaking the last two cellophane-wrapped packages from the box, she slides one over to her father and opens the other one herself. There are two chocolate squares in each package.
"Do you mind sharing?" she asks. "Dad likes to open them himself and I usually let him eat both."
She hands me a cake. Jake wrestles with the cellophane seal, frowning in concentration. He finally opens the package and grins as he pulls out a chocolate square and takes a big bite.
"I’m sorry I shouted at you like that," I say, picking up my cake and inspecting its waxy finish. "It’s been an amazing twenty-four hours. I’m trying to tie up too many things at once, but I really don’t have a choice. There’s not much time."
"Not much time for what?"
"I just have a lot to do tonight," I answer, minimizing my real concern: not much time for me to remain alive and breathing.
"I should have told you about Michael Rudolph right from the start," Mary says, sounding a little guilty. "But I didn’t know if I could trust you. You have to admit you’re a strange person to have popped out of nowhere."
I nod in agreement. She doesn’t know the half of it, but I’d say her description is dead on. I’m a very strange person and I have materialized in her life like some kind of wacky street magician’s trick.
"Michael Rudolph called me sometime around the middle of February," Mary continues. "He wanted to know about Dad’s condition. He asked me a lot of questions about his health, when he started to decline, what type of symptoms he had."
"Did he tell you why he wanted to know all this?"
"He said he thought there might be a side effect of the drug that was causing serious problems. He wanted to meet my father and examine him."
"He called just the one time?"
"Just once. That Howard guy from Nesler called right after that, and then there was the plane crash."
"So, you told Howard about Michael’s call?" I ask, my tone heading back up again in volume.
"Sure I did. Why wouldn’t I?" Mary says, a bit defensively. She’s picking the chocolate coating off her cake with her fingernail. "I figured he knew about it already anyway. That’s when he told me about the confidentiality agreement. He sounded like he was okay that I’d talked with Michael, but there was no doubt I shouldn’t say anything to anyone else."
"Did he threaten you?" I force my voice to soften. I need Mary to trust me, to confide in me.
"Not in so many words, but he made it clear I should stop talking if I wanted my father’s medical bills to continue to be paid."
Jake polishes off the last bite of his first cake and takes a swig of milk. He turns to me with a look of surprise. I have apparently dropped from the sky and landed at his table. He offers to shake my hand. We shake and he starts in on cake number two. Mary sighs. But it’s not impatience, just quiet and familiar.
"I told you. He’s actually a little quiet tonight. That whole mess with the coffee probably scared him."
"Nobody from Nesler ever called you back?"
"Nope. Fine with me too. I don’t want to talk with them."
"Would you call them tonight if I asked you?"
Mary gasps, which makes Jake drop his cake into his milk. He puts his whole hand into his glass to fish out the remains.
"What? Why?" Mary asks, frightened, looking at me now with the same concern that was on her face when she first opened the front door.
"I think it’s time to draw Howard out into the light," I explain. "I want him to know how close I am to exposing him."
"I don’t understand."
"I want you to call Howard tonight and tell him about my visit."
She shakes her head in protest, which causes her glasses to slip down her nose. She pushes them back up and stares right at me.
"That would be dangerous for both of us."
"Not if you time it right," I say. "Wait about an hour after I leave. I’ll give you Howard’s cell phone number. He always has his cell phone."
"He’ll wonder how I got it," Mary says, refusing the idea before I can even explain it.
"He’ll be too surprised to hear from you to even ask. But if he does, tell him Gavin gave it to you. It’ll take him awhile to figure out that’s not true. Tell him Albert Mackey stopped by your house this evening and was asking you a bunch of questions about side effects and Michael and Martin Stachlowski."
I’m speaking very quickly, as if the faster I can deliver the request, the more likely it is she’ll accept it. But, I know it’s a long shot. If I were Mary, I wouldn’t do it. If I were Mary, I would have shoved me off the front porch into the neatly trimmed hedge.
"What’s Martin got to do with it?" she asks, confused at the new page in my already complex story.
; "Michael called Martin’s son, Don about the same time he called you. Howard knows it because Don called and told him."
I stop, realizing that trying to explain everything is a waste of what little time I have.
"Look," I say, letting all the frustration bleed into my voice. Not caring anymore if Mary sees and hears the urgency—the fear. "You don’t have to understand everything. You know I’m right. You’ve known for a long time there’s something wrong with the testing. All you have to do is call. I’ll do the rest. Just call and tell Howard I seem to know an awful lot about a lot of stuff."
"He’s going to be so mad."
"Exactly. That’s what we want."
"I don’t want that."
Mary crosses her arms and glares at me. Her Devil Square sits on the table in front of her surrounded by frosting crumbs. Jake is looking at it.
"Please, Mary. He won’t be mad at you. I promise. You’re just the messenger. Tell him you wouldn’t answer any of my questions, you were scared, you told me to go away and never bother you again." I pause. "I’m sure those are all the things you wish you’d said when I showed up at your door."
I try to smile at her. I need her to help me. If I can coax Howard out into the open, I know I can get him to talk about Michael. Especially if he thinks he still has one up on me.
Mary is not smiling back. Jake’s hand darts out and snatches her Devil Square. I pass him mine.
"Thank you," he says, grinning at me. At least someone is happy I’m here.
Jake’s sudden participation in the conversation seems to bring Mary out of her funk. She looks at her father, happily consuming his cakes, and then turns back at me. She drops her hands into her lap and sighs. It’s the same long, resigned sigh I heard before and in it there is sorrow and heartache and regret.
"Tell me exactly what you want me to say," she says.
I give her a detailed script to repeat to Howard. I remind her again to say it was Albert who was here, not Charlie. If Howard hasn’t yet figured out we’re one and the same, I’d like to keep up the charade just a little bit longer. I explain she should tell Howard I said I was going out to Nesler headquarters, that I was going to try to get into the building. I need Howard and Gavin as far away from the lab as possible. It won't take them long to figure out the diversion, but I don't need long.
The Eulogist Page 23