The Dead Room

by Robert Ellis

  “They’re trying to save his legs,” she said. “But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Is he still in the operating room?”

  “No,” she said, pointing to the critical care unit. “It lasted three hours. He’s in there now.”

  Teddy glanced at the doors and turned back. “Is he conscious? Can we see him?”

  She nodded slowly, the agony in her face clear. “He’s lost a lot of blood though. He’s very weak.”

  Teddy pressed the button on the wall and the doors swung open. As they entered the unit, Sally led the way down the hall to the nurse’s station. Although the lighting was subdued, he spotted Barnett in the first alcove and moved toward him hesitantly. He was lying on the bed, his entire body trembling. His eyes were pointed at the ceiling and fluttering. Teddy looked at his legs wrapped in bandages and held in place by a series of metal pins and hardware. IVs couldn’t handle the drug load. Four bags of medication hung from two racks over the bed, feeding his system through the ports of a central line injected into his neck.

  Teddy had picked up the call less than hour ago. He’d been in Carolyn Powell’s bed—in her arms—when his cell phone rang. All Sally could manage to say was that Barnett had run himself over with his own car. He threw on his clothes, the drive to the hospital manic. Even though the snow had stopped, the roads were a mess.

  “How could this happen?” he said.

  “He was working on something at the office and got home late. When he opened the garage, he slipped on the ice. I saw it happening from the window. I couldn’t get there in time.”

  Barnett grabbed Teddy’s arm. He looked at Barnett and saw the man’s face turned toward him, his eyes still blinking uncontrollably. He could feel Barnett pulling him closer. In spite of the tube in his mouth, the man was trying to speak. Teddy leaned closer, concentrating on the sounds but the words were unintelligible. The sight of Barnett twisting on the mattress and straining to be heard was harrowing. Whatever he was trying to say appeared more than important.

  A nurse hurried over from the counter, pulling Barnett’s hand away and checking his vital signs on the monitor.

  “This patient is in critical condition,” she said in a harsh voice. “His heart rate’s up. You can’t do this. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait outside.”

  Teddy looked back at Barnett. The man’s eyes were tacked to the ceiling again. As he walked Sally into the waiting room, he noticed she didn’t have a coat or even her purse.

  “Where are your things?” he asked.

  She looked back at him helplessly, shaking her head and unable to speak.

  “Tell me what you need,” he said. “I’ll drive over and bring them back.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Teddy skidded to a stop at the curb, thinking he’d better do something about his tires and still trying to decipher what Barnett had been struggling to say with a half-inch hose stuffed down his throat and a central line piercing the artery in his neck.

  He climbed out of the car, looking at Barnett’s house and the lighted windows through the trees. Given the hour, every other house on the street was dark. As he walked down the driveway, he spotted the Grand Cherokee smashed into the side of the garage at an odd angle. Moving closer, he saw Barnett’s blood splashed all over the white snow. The deep red stain covered a fifteen-foot square of ground, and Teddy wondered how the man had survived long enough to make it to the hospital.

  Sally had ridden in the ambulance with Barnett, and not wasted time running back into the house for her things. She’d asked Teddy to bring her a coat and sweater. In the den he’d find her purse and knitting bag. Keeping her hands busy would calm her down, she’d said.

  The snow was almost a foot deep. Ignoring it, he stepped around the blood and kept to the shoulder of the drive. As he reached the Grand Cherokee, he moved to the front and examined the hood. The car had rolled over Barnett’s legs and turned slightly until it crashed into the wall beside the open garage door. The entire front end on the left side was crinkled like an accordion. He looked back at the driveway, noting the rise in elevation. He could see Barnett’s footprints in the snow and followed them with his eyes until he found the spot where Barnett parked to get out of the car.

  Teddy opened the driver’s-side door, checking the automatic shift and finding it set in DRIVE. Piecing it together, he realized Barnett got out to open the garage with the car still in gear. Grand Cherokees were built like tanks. The heavy car must have picked up speed as it rolled down the hill.

  He shook his head, picturing Barnett on the ground trying to get out of the way and knowing he wasn’t going to make it. For some reason, he thought about the tires that needed to be replaced on his Corolla again.

  Teddy spotted Barnett’s keys still in the ignition. Pocketing them, he swung the door closed and moved back down the drive along the shoulder. People make mistakes, he thought. Accidents happen every day. But Barnett had just driven home in a storm. Teddy couldn’t believe that the man wouldn’t have been more cautious, particularly with the car that had just brought him home.

  He turned and took another look at the blood in the snow. When he noticed the footprints leading across the yard into the trees, he became very still.

  They shouldn’t have been there. There was no reason for them to be there.

  He lit a cigarette, staring at the tracks in the snow and considering the possibility that he was imagining things. He wasn’t, he decided. The tracks came and went from the exact spot Teddy calculated Barnett had parked when he first got out of his car.

  He looked back at the driveway, trying to account for all the different sets of prints in the snow. There weren’t that many, the snow fresh, and his mind was clear. He saw the Grand Cherokee’s tracks intermingled with a double set of tire tracks that could have only been made when the ambulance arrived. That covered the vehicles, and he stepped back to take in the different sets of footprints. He saw Sally’s moving from the house to the bloodstained area where the car ran over Barnett’s legs. Turning back to the spot where the ambulance had stopped, he noted two sets of different prints left behind by the medics. The space between the footprints were spread out, and Teddy could tell the medics had been running.

  But the set of footprints leading into the trees were spread out as well. As he moved closer, he realized that whoever left them behind had also been running. What happened to Barnett hadn’t been an accident. Someone had shifted the car into DRIVE, goosed the accelerator and fled.

  He felt a sudden burst of fear rise between his shoulders and touch the back of his neck. There was a light breeze moving through the yard, the leafless branches knocking into one another and rattling all around him. As he turned and checked his back, he gazed at the dark houses lining the street and couldn’t help being struck by the eeriness. A neighborhood dog started barking from somewhere in the distance.

  He took a last drag and flicked his cigarette into the snow. As he picked up the tracks and started following them out of the yard, he examined each footprint with great care before moving on to the next. Although the impressions had been made on the run and weren’t perfect, he knew he was looking at a man’s hiking shoe. Measuring them against his own size-twelve dress shoe, he estimated they were a size or two smaller.

  The tracks moved off the yard, and he found himself standing behind a tree. The snow was well packed, and it looked as if the man had spent some time here. He noticed a row of pine trees blocking his view of the street, and realized the man could’ve waited for Barnett without being caught in the stray headlights from a passing car. When he turned back to the house, the view of the driveway was striking and only twenty-five yards away.

  Teddy stepped out from beneath the tree, following the tracks further away from the house. They seemed to move from tree to tree in the shape of an arc. As he looked ahead, the footprints cut back to the street before an empty lot.

  He could feel the blood coursing through his body. It hadn’t been an accide
nt. He knew it now.

  Something in the snow caught his eye and he stopped. Something shiny.

  He knelt down, brushing the snow away from the spot until he found what looked like a small shot glass. Pulling the scarf away from his neck, he picked it up careful not to touch it with his own fingers. It was a small shot glass made of Sterling silver. He held it to his nose, thinking the man had brought a flask to keep warm as he waited for Barnett to come home. Maybe he even needed a drink for courage. But as he took a whiff, he found the shot glass odorless and picked up the scent of Carolyn Powell’s sex still on his fingers. He drew in a deep breath, her image flashing through him and dissipating. For one night, they’d broken the rules and it had been wonderful. When he’d taken Sally’s call and had to leave, they’d scheduled a breakfast meeting before work tomorrow. The thought of being with Powell in any setting stirred the night up all over again. It had been worth it. Even if it would have to remain secret.

  Teddy got to his feet, gazing at the silver shot glass as it glistened in the reflected light of the snow. He noticed three rivets in the side, holding the seam together. It looked old and valuable, the design, ornate. There were pictures etched into the precious metal, and he turned it in the scarf noting the depictions of tall ships and whales. The man who ran over Barnett had left something behind that told a story. A piece of evidence that looked as if it led somewhere.

  Teddy heard a sudden whooshing sound from behind his back and turned. Something cracked over his head. He was stunned at first, the blow crushing him. He took a half step forward, but knew his rubbery legs were giving way. As he tumbled forward and hit the snow, he thought he saw the shape of a man standing in the darkness with his arms raised. The figure held something in his hands, ready to swing it down again. But it was only a glimpse made in a split second. A glimpse at something before the world started spinning and the lights went out.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Through the haze he could see his father picking him up out of the snow and carrying him away in his arms. His teeth were chattering from the cold, his bones shaking like sticks rubbing together in search of heat, fire. As Teddy considered the image, he thought maybe he’d punched his ticket out, and this was the view from the slow train ridden by the dead.

  His father lowered him onto his bed, touched the wound on his forehead and left the room. Time was rushing back and forth, and Teddy found himself caught in the wind. He was twenty-seven, then twenty. When he jumped off the bed and ran to the window, he could see the cops taking his father away and knew that he was fourteen again.

  They never found the money.

  The accountant had murdered his father’s business partner when he was caught embezzling huge sums of money from the company. After Teddy’s father was arrested for the murder and later died in prison, the accountant finally came forward overcome with guilt. Still, he never told anyone what he did with the money. Facing a guilty verdict for murder and a life behind bars, he knew he didn’t have to.

  Money had been a major issue in Teddy’s life ever since his father’s arrest. Every time he picked up the phone, it was another rude stranger with a harsh voice asking to speak to his mom. He could hear her answering questions with a worried expression on her face. Her answers were usually the same, even when she started working. “Next week,” she would say. “Next month.” Or even, “I don’t have it right now. Feeding my family comes first. You’ll just have to wait.”

  She was a remarkable woman. It would take a few minutes after each call, but she always had a warm smile lying around. Always a good hug for Teddy and his little sister after one of those phone calls. Sometimes her hugs were too good, like maybe she was hanging on. He didn’t really mind though. Her cheeks were soft and he loved her long brown hair and the light, clean smell of her perfume.

  They seemed to be eating spaghetti more often, Teddy noticed. And when he or his sister’s clothes wore out, his mom sewed them back together or ironed on patches instead of buying something new. At night, Teddy would often sneak out to the barn and watch her paint through the window. She could only paint at night and on weekends because of her new job. He knew painting was her favorite thing in the world, the thing she called her mission. But she looked tired, and often times when he peeked through the window he found her crying. He knew she was lonely, the whole thing getting to her.

  Still, everything at home was a lot better than school. Teddy was no longer the son of a man who built worlds. According to his classmates, Teddy was the son of a murderer and would probably grow up to be one, too. The wrath started out as teasing and occasional wisecracks. After a few weeks, he was no longer allowed to play with certain friends. Their parents wouldn’t have it. When he caught his best friend taunting his little sister at recess, calling her a stupid cunt and a convict in waiting, Teddy knocked four teeth out of the kid’s mouth before a teacher could pull him off.

  His suspension lasted three days—without a lecture or admonishment from his mother, he remembered. After that, everyone pretty much left him and his sister alone. His friend’s face was the reminder. The false teeth and the hook in his lip had come from Teddy’s fist, and both remained even as they had their pictures taken for the yearbook as seniors.

  Curiously, the accountant had two kids in the same school who never seemed to suffer anything at all. Even when their father was convicted of the murder and carted off to jail, everyone still seemed to think Teddy’s father was the one. Teddy couldn’t figure it out. After a few months, he thought maybe it was because they were girls. He shared three classes with one of them. Janice Sawyer acted like nothing had happened or ever would. Teddy knew it was an act because she never once looked at him after her father went to jail. Still, with everything that had gone down, he was fascinated by her performance and found it hard to keep his eyes off her.

  She had natural blond hair and a certain sophistication beyond her years. She’d also matured more quickly than most of the other girls. He could remember seeing her on the first day of class in ninth grade. It looked like she’d spent the summer growing huge breasts and turning herself into a woman. Teddy found his attraction for her confusing because deep inside he hated her. Even more troubling, he noticed she wore something new every day and her clothes looked expensive. When he asked around and found out the girl’s mother didn’t have to work, it got underneath his skin.

  Teddy thought about the money her father had stolen a lot. The money that had ruined all their lives. Sometimes it worked him over so hard he couldn’t even get to sleep at night. He had his theories—the most likely being that the Sawyers had buried the cash in their backyard. He often fantasized about digging it up and stealing it while they were asleep. Giving it to his mom and watching the Sawyers suffer the way his family had. One Saturday he walked over to their house and saw Janice’s mother gardening in the backyard. Teddy hid in the bushes behind a tree for two hours keeping an eye on her, but it turned out all she was doing was planting flowers.

  When he came home, he found his mother in the kitchen rooting through some of his father’s old papers. She’d spent the afternoon cleaning out closets, not spying on people, and found a life insurance policy his dad had never talked about. Things changed after that and became easier. Not at first because the insurance company tried to deny that the policy was valid. Teddy was sixteen at the time and guessed the insurance company was hoping that after two years no one would bother to call and they could keep the money for themselves. But his mom called and kept calling. And when that didn’t work, she asked a friend she often painted with, Quint Adler, to see what he could do. Quint had been a family friend and owned a farm just up Sanctuary Road. His brother worked for their congressman, and Teddy guessed the call from Washington had been the real breakthrough. Still, Teddy always looked at Quint as the one person in their lives who tried to right at least part of the big wrong. Teddy was forever grateful to the man. Years later, when Quint started seeing his mother more often, Teddy was delighted.
He hadn’t replaced his dad. He’d just become another member of the family.

  The money hadn’t been enough to make them rich, Teddy remembered. There wasn’t enough to pay for either him or his sister’s college tuition. It wasn’t even enough so that his mother could paint during the day—she couldn’t give up her job. But it ended the rude phone calls from all those bill collectors. No one with a harsh voice ever called asking for his mother again. And if they did, Teddy had permission to hang up.

  Of course, Teddy had thought the money would do more than that at the time. He’d hoped it would. But at night, sneaking out to the barn and watching his mom paint through the window, there were times when he still found her crying. The money didn’t change that. It couldn’t raise the dead or rebuild a dream that had been chopped down by the greedy. It couldn’t bring back a husband or even a father. It was just money.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  He could hear her crying. The sound of his mother moved from the barn, across the snow and into the house until it reached the other side of her bedroom door. The hour seemed so late. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sally Barnett’s face moving away from his and realized she’d just kissed him on the cheek.

  He was lying beneath a heavy blanket on the couch in the Barnett’s den. His shoes were off, his collar and tie loosened. Sally held a washcloth in her hand, rinsing it in a bowl of warm water and returning it to his forehead. He looked at the fire burning in the hearth, then back at her face. It had been Sally’s tears he’d heard, not his mother’s, and she looked more than just upset.