A Stranger Lies There

by Stephen Santogrossi

  I fell into a fitful dream eventually. I was in a small boat on a sparkling blue lake under a sky that matched the color of the water. The lake was surrounded by stark, crumbling mounds of red-tinged soil, the edges of the water lapping gently at the shoreline. It was unbearably hot and still. The surface of the lake shone brightly in my eyes, mirroring the relentless rays of the sun. I shaded my eyes, becoming aware of someone in the boat with me. He had a cap on his head, the brim pulled low on his forehead. A fishing pole in his hands extended out over the water, the line disappearing tautly into the depths. The man pulled his rod up and withdrew a shimmering silver fish that danced in the sunlight, throwing glittery drops of water into the air as it struggled on the line. After reeling it in, he tossed the fish in the bottom of the boat. It flopped and twisted frantically, drowning on oxygen. I reached down, tried to grab it to throw it back in, but it squirmed and slipped out of my fingers. The man watched the fish slowly dying, its tiny pebble eye pointing upward unblinkingly while its scales dried and dulled in the blazing heat. When it finally stopped moving, he grabbed the fish by the tail and held it over the water. It hung lifelessly for a moment before he dropped it into the lake. A tiny splash, then it disappeared. I looked over at the man, trying to see his face. The boat started rocking and I awoke to the shaking of the bed.

  The guy below me was kicking it, trying to rouse me. “Dude. She’s here for you, man.”

  Thinking he meant Deirdre, I shot up immediately, instantly awake. But it was only the guard, motioning me to follow her. She held the door open and I jumped down to the floor, anxious to get in touch with Deirdre.

  “Come with me,” Brock said as I approached the door. I followed her past the other locked cells, more of them occupied now than earlier.

  “Can I call my wife?”

  “We’ll see. You may not need to.”

  “Why, is she here?” I asked anxiously, the may part of her answer failing to register at first.

  We continued toward the main jail door, passing the shower area where a man stood unmoving under the water, eyes closed as the spray misted around him.

  Brock didn’t seem to notice him. “No, she’s not. But they want to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Just follow me sir,” she responded tiredly, pulling her keys out again. We went back into the holding area. Brock stepped behind the front desk, unlocked a cabinet and took out the bag containing my shoes. She watched as I put them on. At the far end of the room, a carpeted corridor led to the front of the building. It ended with the door I’d noticed from the other side yesterday morning on the way into the interview with Branson. That seemed so long ago.

  I tried one last time. “I’d still rather make my phone call first.”

  Brock unlocked the last door without a word. We entered the squad room. It was empty and quiet this early, except for the coffee machine hissing and bubbling in the corner. The aroma hung in the air, adding an out-of-place domesticity to the official environment. The clock on the wall said just after 6:30.

  She let me into one of the interrogation rooms, where I was greeted by the brooding presence of Detective Branson pacing agitatedly in the corner. Detective Tidwell sat at the table, more relaxed with a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

  He looked up as we entered. “Thanks, Ronda.”

  Brock nodded once, closed the door and left us alone. Tidwell told me to sit down, indicating a chair already pulled away from the table. I took it, and regarded Branson standing still a few feet away, eyeing me heatedly. He looked disheveled and bleary-eyed from the long night.

  I started before they had a chance to. “I have to get in touch with Deirdre. I think something’s happened to her.”

  Branson leaned over the table toward me, his fists gripping the opposite chair-back. “You’re not in any position to be making demands, Ryder.”

  “You can have a lawyer before we start, but that’ll just delay things,” Tidwell said. “You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Whatever. Let’s just get it over with. But if anything’s happened to Deirdre—”

  “What?” Branson interrupted. “What’re you gonna do? Sue us? Hunt one of us down? You’re the one that screwed everything up. This is all on you.”

  I didn’t reply. He drew back, taking the chair opposite me. I really rubbed him the wrong way, I thought. From the start, without even trying.

  Tidwell took a sip of coffee. “Tell us about last night. Start with that matchbook you found. And don’t leave anything out.”

  “I already told them everything last night. Nothing’s changed.”

  “And now you’re going to tell us,” Tidwell replied evenly. Branson gazed at me balefully, hands folded together in front of him.

  I outlined everything that had happened, eyeing the large mirror on the wall behind Tidwell, aware of a presence behind the glass watching and listening. I sensed I was being appraised along with the story I was telling, and tried to make it as accurate as possible, while downplaying the things I’d done to bring it to this point. Tidwell interjected periodically with questions and clarifications. Branson remained silent and fuming. When I finished, Tidwell got up and left the room. Left me alone with Branson, who didn’t wait two seconds to start in on me.

  He leaned back in his chair, one arm still on the table. “I had an interesting conversation with some farmhands out in Coachella last night.”

  I kept quiet.

  “What did you think, I wouldn’t find out about that?”

  “So what. They helped me with my car. Big deal.”

  His voice hardened. “Why didn’t you tell us about those men?”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  Branson’s eyes lasered into me.

  “I didn’t think they’d want to be involved. What difference does it make?”

  “What else are you leaving out?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was that motel room really empty when you broke into it?”

  “Why would I lie about that?”

  “Maybe you’re protecting somebody. Just like those farm workers.”

  “There was nobody there.”

  “I’ll find out if there was. Then I’ll arrest you for obstructing.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “You still got that mystery diary?”

  “You know I don’t. You probably searched my car already.”

  Branson leaned forward, completely calm. “You hold out on us again and we’ll take you down, Ryder. You clear on that?”

  “I heard you.”

  He started gathering up his notes from the table, shaking his head. “Not helping anybody here,” he muttered.

  “I disagree.”

  He stopped with the papers. “Really.”

  “If I hadn’t done what I did, all you’d have is an empty motel room, with a manager that might not have made it through the night tied up like that. Nothing about the diary. And no gun.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit have you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can do whatever you want because you’re smarter than everybody, right?”

  “I never said that. I think you have the wrong impression of me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I got no problem with authority. But you made this personal the other day, remember?”

  “Yeah, okay. My fault.”

  “Look, I screwed up, all right? You think I don’t know that? You think I wouldn’t undo it if I could? But I can’t. It’s done. And I gotta live with it.”

  “You stay outta my case, Mr. Ryder.”

  “Out of your—goddamnit, I’m not talking about last night!”

  Branson seemed as surprised as I was. He watched me for a moment, then picked up his notes and stood.

  Tidwell returned then. “You’re free to go, Mr. Ryder.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “What about Deirdre?”


  “What about her?”

  “She never showed up at the motel last night after I called her.” I looked at Branson, who remained stone-faced. Turned back to Tidwell. “Can’t you send someone out to my place to check it out?”

  “Why? You’ll be home soon enough. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “You should feel lucky we’re not throwing the book at you,” Branson told me. “So count your blessings and get out of here.”

  Tidwell didn’t say anything, just folded his arms and nodded. I decided to stop beating my head against the wall and got up. Muttered a few things under my breath.

  “You got something to say?” Branson asked.

  I faced him calmly. “Where’s my stuff? And what about my car?”

  “Oh, that’ll be here for a while,” Branson replied. “Four or five days, maybe.”

  “You’ll get it back when we’re done going through it,” Tidwell said. “You can get your other stuff though. Follow me.”

  Back in the holding area they gave me my wallet, keys, watch and change in a large manila envelope. As I emptied it on the counter, Tidwell put his hand out.

  “We’ll need the car keys.”

  I took them off the ring and handed them over. After signing for the rest of it, I checked my wallet for the cash and credit cards I’d had in there.

  “Don’t trust us?” Tidwell asked.

  I put the wallet in my back pocket without answering.

  Tidwell opened the rear door on bright sunshine. “Stay out of trouble,” he said, holding the door. “I mean it. Branson was right. We could’ve charged you with any number of things. Especially with your prints on the gun.”

  “So it was the murder weapon?”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Ryder.”

  “How do I get home without my car?”

  “Call a cab. Or take a bus.”

  The door slammed shut and I turned around, wondering what the quickest way home would be.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The morning was painted with a brilliant, clear light that was all the more blinding after my long night inside. Everything possessed a diamond-hard sharpness. The crisp contrast between sunlight and shadow projected a sense of hyper-reality, as if the world had been amplified and clarified overnight. Long early morning shadows extended from the objects and buildings around me, making them seem larger and more threatening. The shiny police vehicles in the back lot glinted menacingly, like poised mechanical beasts, as I walked around to the front of the building.

  The bank clock across the street said 7:27. Three minutes ahead of my own watch. I felt like I’d already missed something important, that I’d be forever chasing something just out of reach. I hoped I wasn’t too late for Deirdre if she needed help. Her car was nowhere to be seen, so I hurried to the pay phone in front of the bank, jingling in my pocket for change, wondering what I would do if Deirdre didn’t answer. My hand shook while I deposited the coins. A steady dial tone, the image of a flatlined heart monitor flashing through my mind.

  With enough change for only one call, I punched in the numbers carefully. Listened to the relays click into place. Then the calm, measured pulsing of the line as it rang on the other end, a rhythm that did nothing to slow my erratic heartbeat.

  Four rings, each more excruciating than the last. I squeezed my eyes closed, imploring Deirdre to answer. The machine did instead. Her voice warm and resonant but stored in memory. A digital ghost. Then the strident beep in my ear, and I heard my voice shaking on the edge of hysteria, full of fear and desperate hope and the realization that something had gone terribly wrong.

  “Deirdre, pick up, please pick up.” Sobbing now, hand on my forehead, then through my hair. I thought I would vomit if she didn’t answer. “Oh God, Deirdre, where are you, please be there.” Nothing but silence and my own hitched breath in the earpiece.

  I looked up and saw a bus pass by belching blue smoke into the clear morning, the words NORTH PALM SPRINGS VIA INDIAN AVE scrolling on the ticker. Dropping the phone, I ran for it. I made the bus stop thirty yards away just behind the lumbering vehicle. It slowed down for a man sitting on the bench, who waved it on with his newspaper. I got there just as it was pulling away, reached up and pounded loudly on a back window. The bus jerked to a stop and I got on, out of breath and once again going through my pockets for cash. I folded up a one and put it in the box as we lurched into motion.

  The bus was completely empty, and I took the first seat up front. I caught sight of the phone booth I’d just abandoned, with the receiver still dangling on its cord. Transfixed, I watched it recede into the distance as we moved away.

  We made a left on Tahquitz Canyon. Passed the courthouse and city hall, their walls scrubbed white and brilliant in the morning light. I silently willed us to make every light, hoping for a clear ride through downtown. But most of the stops seemed to have people waiting, some of them wearing uniforms for the various hotels and restaurants. I cursed under my breath at each stop and each missed signal.

  At Indian we made a right, nearing Deirdre’s clinic, and it brought back the uneasy tension between us yesterday. Now all I wanted to do was feel her heart beating against mine, breathe in the clean scent of her hair. Listen to her soft voice in my ear telling me everything would be all right. I clung to a last vestige of hope, that maybe Deirdre had been out on one of her morning jogs when I called. She’d do that sometimes, get real quiet, struggling with her demons, and I’d know to leave her alone. She’d buzz around the house, try to keep herself busy with the mundanities of housework. Eventually she’d give up and take an exhausting run into the surrounding desert on one of the many old dirt tracks that crisscross the landscape. Return with her eyes afire, as if they’d stored the light reflected from the burning sands. Her skin would glow with sweat and exertion, temporarily cleansed of the toxins inside.

  We passed over the interstate into North Palm Springs a few minutes later. The freeway was no longer the colorful river of moving light it had been yesterday evening. I looked down and saw broken, gray concrete and painted lane markers worn away by endless traffic. The travel stop bustled with commuters going about their business.

  I got up to stand anxiously on the steps in front of the door, watching as the Thomas Avenue stop got closer. The brakes squealed and the door folded open in front of me with a metallic screech. Bounding onto the pavement, I was stunned by the blast of heat and light after the air-conditioned coolness of the bus. It pulled away with a groan as I stepped away and ran toward home, picking up speed as I got closer, needing to be there now, yet dreading what I’d find.

  By the time I reached our street my lungs were burning and my vision was spotting. Rounding the corner at full speed, I almost got run down by a kid driving an old foreign car, his hair waving behind him in the open window. I stumbled and went down, ripping my pant leg and scraping my palms. Leaving skin on the pavement, I kept going, my heart doing triple-time. As I approached the house, I saw Deirdre’s car sitting in the driveway, gleaming under the blazing sun. Racing past it to the front door, I noticed that everything seemed normal—no signs of struggle anywhere on our property—until I tried the door and found it shut firmly but unlocked.

  I pushed it open and entered the static dimness of our living room. The house was quiet except for the heaving of my chest, and when I called out Deirdre’s name, I could barely hear my voice.

  I walked down the hallway to our bedroom, still panting.

  I stepped into the open doorway.

  And felt a piece inside of me break off and fall away.

  For a moment I wanted to let it pull me down with it. But then I swallowed the lump in my throat and knelt beside the bed, feeling her neck for a pulse I knew wouldn’t be there. The room suddenly got smaller, and I saw my reflection in the clouded glass of the syringe buried in Deirdre’s arm.

  I collapsed on the bed beside her, burying my face in her hair, the pain rippling through me. I stayed there until the trembling stopped and the gr
ief became a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. I reached for the phone and picked it up. Gave the information to the police, and after hanging up, tried to banish the thought that I’d driven her to it.

  I laid back down beside her, treasuring those last few moments alone with her in our hot bedroom. I heard Deirdre’s voice in my memory, hushed and reverent, as if recalling the receiving of a sacrament or sacred gift. It was in Idyllwild, where we’d gone skiing for the weekend, inside our cabin toward midnight. We were in front of a roaring fire, listening to the crackle and hiss of the logs.

  “I remember when I used to fix,” Deirdre had begun, her face glowing in the firelight, framed by the window behind her and the moonlit snow outside. “I always used those wooden matches, the thick, long ones that came in a box. Strike it and get that life-giving flame. At least it felt that way then. A bright orange flower, dancing in front of my eyes. And then that sizzle as I cooked it. Sometimes I’ll hear something in the kitchen, you know, the spatter of grease or something, and still get a chill up my spine. It brings it all back to me. Drawing it into the glass. The prick of the needle, and then that warm liquid rush. God, it felt good.” She stopped, and her eyes came back to mine. “But it doesn’t last. It’s a lie. The doorway to damnation. It takes so much more than it gives. And you never really know that until it’s too late.”

  A warm glow spread across my back. I opened my eyes, found us bathed in a golden shaft of sunlight from the window. Deirdre’s face flushed and lifelike in the healing rays of light. A robin was hopping on the fence just outside the window, deep red as a desert sunset. When it saw me it froze, regarded me calmly, then fluttered off lightly when the doorbell rang.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I stumbled to the front door, tears blinding my eyes. I let the two uniforms in without a word, pointing back to the bedroom. If they said anything to me, I didn’t hear it.