Dead Cold

by Claire Stibbe

  He tried to calm himself and get a grip on what was real, tried to get used to the transience. There was no house he could return to, no job, and he was sick of thrashing around as if he needed a new identity. Walking faster, he gritted his teeth with each step and settled into a rhythm that mimicked his heart. Drawing level with an alleyway, he noticed it was segregated by a chain link fence and a dead end, where a man could easily be snared by a passing cop. No escape.

  A few yards further was a clothes store with an underground parking lot. Flynn took a final look over his shoulder and rushed down the ramp where the air carried the nauseous, rotting smell of dumpsters. The parking gate was unmanned and he slipped between the arm and a concrete pillar. It was the darkness and isolation he liked, gave him time to breathe.

  His mind kept spooling back over last night’s events He had arrived back at the empty house and slept for ten remarkable hours, dreamed of Tingly Beach, a misnomer since it was a simple swathe of water cut out of the desert and home to geese and ducks. His mom had taken him there when he was a kid, when everything had seemed so grand and vast, and where they had rowed out to an island to feed the birds. He was glad it was Tingly Beach and not some white rubbery face staring back at him with hollow eye sockets. Those wild dreams would always be waiting for him.

  Here in the underground parking lot there was no plan in his head and he reckoned he was still ahead of the chase. It was some hours since he had seen a newspaper and he was getting antsy when he walked to the elevator at the southeast corner. A man in a denim shirt stood by the door and treated him to a nod. Flynn was grateful that’s all he did because he didn’t feel like talking and he probably stank like crate of sour milk.

  He could feel the man’s eyes all over him as they rode the elevator to the first floor, reading every crease, every stain, and wondering if he’d just been released from the drunk tank of the local police department.

  The door opened to a waft of perfume and Flynn pushed his way to the men’s section at the back of the store. A man in his late forties, chiseled and athletic showed Flynn several racks of khaki pants and polo shirts, unconsciously steering him toward a style frequently reserved for law enforcement. There was not a flicker of recognition on his face, only the fatuous comment that Flynn reminded him of a well-known news anchor. Flynn exited the store wearing fresh clothes and a few extra sets which he stuffed into his backpack. Not bad for twelve minutes and forty-six seconds and under two hundred bucks.

  The news stand in the street showed no sign of his face, at least not on the front cover of any publication he could name. Since he had been interviewed by the detectives before any physical evidence had been processed, it was likely the case was being treated as arson.

  He wanted to find a safe place, away from the intrusion of family and police, and cocoon himself in grief. But time was slipping away and duty nudged at every turn. Taking a left, he noticed signs to Octavia Fellin library on East Hill Avenue. They had computers there and he could send an email to Detective Santiago and catch the local news.

  A few minutes after one, he found a neat study carrel on the first level and sat hunched in front of a monitor, pecking away at the keyboard until he found what he was looking for. A week old article about his wife on the third page of the Duke City Journal.

  Person of interest named in the death of a local Albuquerque woman.

  By Jennifer Danes

  Journal Staff Writer

  Authorities in Albuquerque said they have a ‘person of interest’ in the death of a 35-year-old, Tarian McCann of 10508 Vista Bella Place in Albuquerque. Mrs. McCann died tragically in a recent house fire said to be the cause of arson. Investigators said the woman’s husband, Flynn McCann, was last seen heading westbound on I-40 in a rental vehicle. Sightings have been reported as far as Holbrook, Arizona. The police and the FBI are assisting in the search for McCann.

  FBI? Flynn snagged a quick look behind him and felt satisfied there was no one watching him. In contrast, the local Gallup front page news was focused on a case of child pornography and a list of names thought to be associated with a methamphetamine ring. There was an article on the zoning of Indian land which bordered a golf course and the only picture on that page was of local star Thomas Andrews playing the Navajo flute.

  He found a criminal defense lawyer website and listed in the Laws & Punishment section were a series of penalties for crimes. If police continued to believe he was guilty he could face from one to twenty years in prison and a criminal record that would follow him for the rest of his life. Not to mention being soaked for up to fifty grand.

  “Dishonesty’s a bitch,” he murmured, wiping a smear of sweat from his forehead.

  The room was quiet and he assumed it was empty until he heard a cough about eight feet to his right. A man walked over to a table with his back to Flynn. It was the denim shirt he recognized.

  Although the man was engrossed in a book, it was not pleasant stewing over the likelihood that he was a private detective, FBI or undercover cop. Was it a coincidence? Flynn wasn’t particularly comfortable with the fact that the guy was sitting close to the staircase; the only egress to the street.

  To his right was a floor to ceiling window that gave an uninspiring view of the road and two police interceptors heading toward South 1st Street. They weren’t looking for him, Flynn kept telling himself, because he looked nothing like the scruffy drifter in the newspaper.

  No sirens, no problem.

  It took him a few seconds to refocus his eyes from the brightness outside to a young woman with purple hair who took a seat in one of the chairs by the window. She looked down after she caught his eye.

  He continued to study the computer screen scanning the article again, eyes refusing to go beyond the word arson. The first theory the police wanted to believe was easy—the motive was an affair between him and Rosie that had led to a breakup of his marriage. The second theory was not so easy—the fire had been started as a result of a cover-up and corroborated by a restraining order. The only problem with the restraining order theory was that it had been latterly overturned and Flynn had moved back in. The police would have to ask themselves what wife would consent to such a snappy reconciliation if her husband had abused her? Or had an affair?

  Flynn recalled the interview he’d had with both detectives and looked for their names on the command center website. He filled out a form provided on the contact us page, typed it for Detective Santiago’s attention and told her exactly where to pick up the bike.

  The man in the denim shirt flicked through a couple of pages of the book he was reading and wrote something down. Flynn tensed, feeling a trickle of sweat down his back. It was the shock of it all, the exhaustion, the running.

  He turned off the computer, picked up his backpack and inched toward the nearest bookshelf. Opposite the staircase and obscured by a tall row of hardback books, he pretended to scour the titles. If there was any type of concealed carry beneath the denim shirt he couldn’t see it—inside waist band, small of back, shoulder or ankle holster. No visible bulge meant only one thing. Appendix carry at the two o’clock position.

  Flynn knew he had to keep moving. He had to keep thinking. He had to stop being suspicious of everyone he saw because there was a crowd of people out there to get lost in. He thought of calling Rosie, but there wasn’t a single thing she could do to help him. Not unless he went home. And home was dangerous.

  The man looked at his watch and slowly turned his head sideways to survey a row of books on a nearby cart. Had he turned his head any further he would have seen the empty seat that Flynn had vacated and the girl with purple hair who drifted across the floor toward the front desk, hugging two books.

  The man stopped hunching and stood abruptly. He took a cell phone out of his trouser pocket, stared at it for about six seconds and then proceeded toward the staircase. A fluid stride brought him to the top stair before he stopped, examined purple hair who was checking out one of her two books and the
n slapped the phone to his ear.

  Flynn watched every move.

  The man spoke in a gravelly voice that was hard to suppress with a whisper and there was a roughness to it that told Flynn he was no patsy.

  “Yeah... yeah, that’s my guess.”

  He walked down the stairs toward the front door. Flynn listened hard. The man continued talking.

  “I hope she doesn’t balls it up. Because if she does, I won’t be able to keep a bead on it.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Flynn raced out into the street and squinted at a blur of black fumes belching from an idling bus. He couldn’t see the man in the denim shirt among the swarm of tourists surging for the open door and there was no sign of him on the other side of the street.

  Flynn walked a few blocks to clear his head from the oily stench and all he could think about was his meeting with Jesky. He hoped he’d be there. For now, he was tired. Sleep had eluded him during the first few days with dreams of smoke and burning limbs and the smell... that terrible smell.

  At the corner of the street he saw a payphone outside a convenience store. There was a yellow pages dangling by a thread and flipping through them he found a map of the city and, more importantly, Puerco Drive. The handset was oily from a thousand sticky fingers and he picked it up and dialed the board room. Rosie picked up after the fifth ring.

  “It’s me. I can’t talk for long,” he said.

  “You OK?”

  “I think someone’s following me.”

  “Keep moving and don’t use plastic.”

  “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  “Have you called the detective?” she asked.

  “I thought you were more concerned about me?”

  “Have you called him?”

  “I don’t want to call him. He’s got a range of vocabulary I might have to look up.”

  The voice was pained as if there was a sob in there somewhere. Flynn felt sorry for Rosie, but not sorry enough to ask her what the fuss was about.

  “Can you find a paper?” she said. “The Independent.”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “There’s a story about you and me. It says we were having a liaison. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How should I know?” He heard the deep intake of breath and a ragged exhalation. “Rosie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you with all of this.”

  “The press... they’ve been outside my house every morning since you left. I-I don’t know what to tell them.”

  “I have two questions. One, are you recording this call and two, are the police tracing it?”

  “No and no.”

  Flynn was glad to hear it. “Have you been questioned by anyone?”

  Rosie was quiet for a few seconds. “About Cliff or you?”

  “Both.”

  “No.”

  Flynn smiled instantly. He could always tell when Rosie was lying. “I’ll take that as a yes. Am I a suspect?”

  “Isn’t it usual in the murder of a spouse?” Rosie said matter-of-factly. “They asked me how long I’d known you. How I felt when you married Tarian. I told them the truth. I told them I was gutted.”

  Time suddenly seemed to slow and Flynn’s head settled into a numb buzz. He didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to dwell on the level of hurt he’d cashed out to Rosie.

  “One day it was you and me. The next... What the hell happened, Flynn?”

  It was no good trying to tell her any scheme that might be trying to latch itself onto his mind right now. He was a stain on the earth and he didn’t need reminding. “Let’s just say I fell into the wrong hands, Rosie. I’m sorry.”

  A long exhale. “What are you sorry for? Her seducing you or you leaving me?”

  “I’m sorry for all of it.”

  “Should I have fought for you, Flynn?”

  “No. It wasn’t your fight. It was mine. I screwed up, OK.”

  “I know why she did it. A woman always knows why.”

  “Why don’t you run your idea by me and let’s see if it’s worth a few stars.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Flynn. You can be so cruel sometimes.”

  “No, seriously. You’re full of good ideas, let’s hear it.”

  “Well, here it is. Tarian Walley-Bennett was loaded. She didn’t have to work, she didn’t even have to go to school. She could have spent all day volunteering, shopping at the garden center, having coffee mornings. And along comes Flynn McCann. Attached Flynn McCann and all of a sudden she’s Mrs. McCann. Ever wondered why it happened so fast?”

  Flynn felt a wave of heat roll up his neck and the sweat was stinging his eyes. But the truth was, he’d been jealous. Tarian was fond of recounting stories of men who’d had the hots for her, ex-boyfriends who still had the hots for her and bosses who couldn’t keep their eyes of her. Enough for him to stew over. He tried to keep a distance for both their sakes, but she wasn’t having any of it.

  “You can’t accept that she was crazy about me,” he said. “It eats you away. You never dated anyone after me. Why was that, Rosie?”

  “That’s what worries me, Flynn. You’re so insecure.”

  Insecure? What the heck did that have to do with anything? But even as she said it, Flynn felt the bile creeping up his throat. There was so much Rosie didn’t know. So much he wanted to keep from her. Even his presence was a reminder of what she had lost. “I had no idea what was happening.”

  “You knew exactly what was happening.” Rosie’s voice hitched into a sob. “Why would anyone want to come between two people in love? Have you ever asked yourself that?”

  He had on several occasions and he could only come up with one thing. Tarian knew exactly what she wanted and he was it.

  “Flynn. She slept with you to get one over me. She was cheating with Cliff to get back at you. How do you think Violet must have felt? Don’t you see? It’s all a game and everyone played it because they wanted her approval.”

  Flynn would have knocked back three belts of gin if he had any, but his stomach was making its way up to his throat and he tried to swallow it down. “You’re making me sound like a doormat, Rosie.”

  “Explain the bruises, the red marks on your wrists, the ones you tried to hide?”

  “It was—”

  “You’re a man! You could have stopped it. I feel sick to the stomach. She’s dead, Flynn. This is serious.”

  “I know.”

  “Then act like it, OK?”

  Flynn couldn’t understand why the conversation felt like he was walking through a cactus patch. Next she’d tell him to grow some. “You’d think the cops would have found something by now. They should be questioning themselves. They’re the ones who need help.”

  “That’s ripe coming from you.”

  “There’s nothing on me,” Flynn blurted. “No meat on my file. A few parking tickets and I ran a red light two years ago. The police only care what I saw or didn’t see through the smoke. And now, according to a confidential source, a reliable source, I am a suspect in the accidental death of my wife. Something tells me I need to get off the phone.”

  “Wait...When will you call again?”

  “Do I need to make an appointment?”

  Flynn let his voice hang for a while before he hung up. Poor little Rosie. What had they done to her?

  Continuing up South 1st Street toward I-40, he watched his rear, covered his tracks and pulled out a paper from a nearby newsstand. There it was. A picture of his gutted house, bordered with yellow tape and still littered with burned-out debris. The police were treating it as a homicide. They had no suspects. They made no comments.

  He rushed toward signs to Gallup Amtrak and the Navajo Code Talker Museum. Page three showed two photos: one of him taken three years ago and another fairly recent. You wouldn’t have thought they were the same person.

  He paused on the sidewalk for a moment, eyes fixed on the article. The story dwelt on an extra-marital indiscretion and notched up the restraining or
der to the level of a cheap soap opera. A detective allowed himself to be quoted, but not identified, speculating that Mr. McCann had killed for money, not to mention a suspicious phone call made to the insurance company in respect to arson.

  Part of him knew another story might roll off the press at ten thirty that night, then another tomorrow morning. And part of him knew he had to get out of Gallup before the billboards erupted with new sightings.

  He cussed loudly. Doormat? Yeah, well maybe he was a doormat. He should have done something.

  Tucking the paper under one arm, he scuttled between a group of school children and two adults. No one gave him a second glance as long as he kept his head down.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Services for Tarian were on Saturday at Clemency Baptist Church in Rio Rancho. Pastor Razz was giving the address, a man Flynn knew he could find comfort in if he met him. His throat began to swell with grief and he couldn’t help thinking about her remains, a pile of ash placed in a remembrance urn. It was all that was left of her.

  He’d thought about the funeral, thought about wearing sunglasses and a hat so he could take one last look at the life he left behind. But it was a set up. The place would be crawling with cops and his poor mom would be hounded by the press. It was then he realized he hadn’t spoken to her for over a week. She would be wondering. She would be so ashamed.

  He jerked his head around at a man wearing a denim shirt leaning against a store front on the other side of the street and head angled to accommodate a cell phone. The same man he had seen in the underground parking lot. Coincidence? There was a burgundy Cutlass parked a few blocks down. Whether it was the dark sunglasses or the Cutlass, something didn’t sit right.

  The man’s eyes were drawn to a crowd of animal rights activists on Flynn’s side of the street. They weaved out of the Rock n’ Sports Pub, clawing their ways toward him and singing ‘You bet I’m goin’ to be a soldier.’