A Stranger Lies There

by Stephen Santogrossi

  I was about to excuse myself and ask for her help, but never got it out.

  “How’s it going, Glenn?” she said, eyes still on the water. Then she turned around, her hand shading her eyes. “Oh. Sorry. I was expecting somebody else.”

  “You know Glenn Turret?” A nervous quaver in my voice like the rippled surface of the lake.

  The girl had turned back to her task. She nodded without looking at me. Her fishing pole extended over the water, its line disappearing into the cloudy depths. She hadn’t caught anything yet, I could see from her empty pail.

  “You a buddy of his?” Her voice was soft, without inflection. When she faced me again her features were blank as a sand dune. Probably coasting on some chemical high, reminding me of the half-baked girls I knew in college.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “We were going to cast a few today.”

  She regarded me a moment longer, as if my words were traveling from a great distance. I wondered, in her apparent haze, whether she’d be any help to me. “That’s cool.” She wiggled her line a little bit, hoping for a bite. Nothing happened.

  “You seen him around lately?”

  “Not today. We fished together once or twice before though.”

  I wanted to shake her like a rag doll, shout into her face, where the hell is he? but somehow restrained myself. The girl was in her mid-twenties. Skin stained dark by the sun. Barefoot and wearing shabby cutoff jeans and a loose tank top that fluttered in the breeze. Her long brown hair hung limply to her shoulders, oily and dull in the sunlight.

  I moved a little closer. “You don’t know where he’s staying, do you?”

  “Don’t know him very well,” she admitted after a long pause. “I only met him last week. How do you know him?”

  I ignored the question, responded with one of my own. “Where did you two do your fishing? Maybe I could find him there now.”

  “Right where we’re standing, mister. One time from that jetty over there.” She pointed to a rock-lined extension jutting into the water, beyond the little beach I’d been standing on earlier. There was no one on the narrow pier except a lone gull, still as a statue, perched on its very tip.

  “Hope you find him,” the girl offered. “Tell him I said hi if you do.”

  She didn’t think to tell me her name and I didn’t bother asking. Just made my way back around the ruined building, over the rocks and onto the gritty sand. I scanned the area for any sign of a lone fisherman or a boat, but saw not one living soul. Even the girl I’d just talked to had disappeared behind the yacht club buildings.

  Surrounded by stagnation and decay, I felt myself losing hope. At my feet, the sluggish, oily tide licked the beach in a manner that was somehow obscene. Dead fish in various stages of decomposition littered the shoreline, desiccated and eyeless, scales flaked off, bones disintegrating. There were piles of them still submerged too, fins swaying lifelessly with the torpid movement of the tide. The water itself looked like root beer, a caramel color with a touch of fizziness caused by God knew what. I wondered how the sand could be so white until I realized it was composed primarily of fish bones ground together and crushed up into tiny pebbles. I crunched my way through it to the rock jetty, hoping to get a more complete view of the shoreline from its tip. When I got there the seagull launched itself into the air and drifted off lethargically, leaving me alone out on the water.

  The sun beat down and I squinted against it. The girl had found a new fishing spot on the other side of the marina and was casting her line from shore. I doubted she’d have any better luck there. To my left, I could make out another small beach shining white in the distance with what appeared to be two solitary sunbathers stretched out side by side on the sand. Other than that, there was no sign of anyone anywhere. I resigned myself to knocking on doors in order to find Turret.

  I turned back toward shore. A man was standing there watching me, unmoving, holding a rod in one hand and a tackle box in the other. My eyes went tunnel vision from the end of the jetty. My feet somehow found their way smoothly on the rocky pier. It was as if I were walking on water, gliding over the surface as I approached him. A few moments later, I was on shore.

  “Been a long time,” Turret said quietly, eyes riveted on mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Before I knew it he was on the ground, a thin ribbon of blood trickling from his lip. Turret struggled against the fishing line I’d wrapped around his throat. He’d gotten his hands up in time to prevent the nylon thread from slicing his Adam’s apple, though I could see a razor strip of blood cutting across his palms where it bit into them.

  “I didn’t … kill … your wife,” he gasped, his pale blue eyes fixed on mine, as direct and unflinching as I remembered but without the murderous intensity I’d recognized too late thirty years ago. He probably saw it in my eyes now as I tightened the makeshift garrote.

  “You can’t … do this,” Turret croaked weakly with the last of his strength. His face was beet-red, eyes wide with fear, and when I understood the real meaning of his words, the rage drained out of me and evaporated in the super-heated air.

  I got off him, panting hard, head reeling under the hot sun. Put my hands to my temples and let out a primal roar that had no echo from the mirror-flat sea. Behind me I could hear Turret writhing on the ground, taking deep, ragged breaths. When I turned around he was unwrapping himself from the fishing line with trembling hands. The tackle box was upended a few feet away, spilling hooks, line and lures. A shiny fillet knife glinted menacingly in the dirt.

  I offered him a tentative hand up and he eyed me appraisingly before grabbing it. With part of the fishing line still draped over his shoulder, the rod came up with him, like some sort of skeletal twin. He disentangled it from his collar and let it drop. Leaned over with his hands on his knees and breathed deeply, catching his breath as the sweat dripped off his face into the dust at our feet. For a second I was tempted to walk away, afraid of what I’d just done, but I knew in the end there was too much between us to let it go at that.

  When Turret was done dusting himself off, he squatted next to the tackle box to clean up the mess, methodically ordering the items in their separate trays, muttering agitatedly. The knife he didn’t give a second glance to, just tossed it in the main box under the trays. Maybe I’d left it in the dirt for him as a test.

  I watched Turret quietly, all words having left me. I wondered what he would say, if anything. Finished with the toolbox, he snapped it shut smartly, picked up a rock and hurled it as far as he could into the water.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” Turret asked himself, voice raised to a hoarse shout. “Look at this place!” He spun around, sweeping his arms to take in the area. Behind him a dust devil swirled up, then petered out.

  When he turned back to me I spoke, voice tight with emotion. “You ruined my life. And took Deirdre’s too, even if you didn’t kill her yourself.”

  Turret didn’t respond that nobody had held a gun to my head thirty years ago, or that I’d made my own decision back then. He just nodded quietly, rubbing his injured neck, and followed a bird flying over the water. It glided our way, its shadow darting over us before it disappeared into the glare. “I’ve come to peace with my past,” he finally said, the words coming out as a challenge to me.

  “Really?” I spat out, stepping toward him. “Water under the bridge, huh?”

  His eyes held mine calmly.

  “My wife is dead. And the gladness in your fucking heart won’t bring her back. I hope you choke on the peace you found. You don’t deserve it.” The tears squeezed out of my eyes as I turned to walk away, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “I can help you,” he said after me, bruised voice cracking.

  I whirled around angrily. “You? You can help me?”

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  We ended up at the Clarkson’s Landing Café, a flimsy, whitewashed shoebox of a structure off Marina Drive next door to a small RV park.
It was hot inside, and we were the only customers in the place. The tables were small and the booths had seats of ancient, cracked vinyl patched with duct tape. We took one next to a window looking out on the empty parking lot. Dead flies were scattered over the windowsill, baking in the sun.

  Turret ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. I was in no mood to eat and just got a glass of water.

  I got right to it after the waitress left. “You said you could help.” He gave me a cool gaze and I continued. “You know something the cops don’t?”

  He seemed smaller than I remembered, less arrogant and intimidating. Calmer. His hair had grayed. Cut short and combed forward carelessly. He wore a long-sleeved cotton workshirt, cutoff blue-jean shorts and sandals, with no watch or jewelry. I hated him.

  “I only know what I read in the newspaper,” he said.

  “And?”

  “If there’s some sort of illegal activity behind what’s happened I can probably talk to a few people.”

  “Who?”

  “The early speculation in the news was about a possible drug connection. Is that what you think?”

  I shrugged. I’d been over it so many times in my own mind and I still wasn’t sure. But it was the only thing I had if I trusted my gut about Turret. “I suppose I thought that. Until I got beat up by some people that were just as interested in the murder as I was.” I watched his eyes. “I really got their attention when I mentioned you.” Nothing, not even a flicker.

  “Who were they?”

  “No idea. It was in New York City. The boy who got himself shot on our front lawn was wearing a concert T-shirt. I tracked the band down to a club in New York, hoping they’d know him. They did, but not well enough. Then I ran into those other guys. Actually, they ran into me. I got rousted from the club and taken to an abandoned warehouse on the docks, where they asked me a few questions. Not too politely.” I took a long sip of water. “They seemed real eager to find the killer, and their interest in you pointed me straight back here.”

  No response.

  “What I’d like to know,” I continued slowly, “is why they were so intrigued by you?”

  At that moment his sandwich came. Our eye contact was broken, so I couldn’t gauge his reaction to my question. It didn’t seem to faze him though. “Sounds like they were as anxious for answers as you were. You gave them something they hadn’t heard yet so they wanted to know more.”

  That was plausible, but I didn’t want to let him off the hook yet. “One thing more. I got into it with somebody else too. In Indio.”

  “The motel?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “That was in the paper too.” He took a bite of his sandwich, and I couldn’t believe I’d sat down for a meal with him. “It didn’t say why you’d gone out there though.”

  I told him about the matchbook I’d found in the street outside my house, then tried to surprise him. “The guy I fought with gave me your regards.”

  Turret put his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I told you, I had nothing to do with this. You either believe me or you don’t.”

  For some reason, I did believe him, though my stomach turned at the thought of trusting him. I sat back and puffed air out of my mouth. Stared at the creaky ceiling fan rotating drunkenly up above, wondering how everything could have gone so wrong.

  “I’d say those people in New York are your best shot,” Turret said. “That guy at the motel. Did he have a New York accent?”

  “Not that I heard. But he only said the one thing.”

  “Your wife didn’t know the first victim, did she?”

  “No. And if you ask whether she was mixed up in anything illegal like drugs, I’ll shove the rest of that sandwich down your throat.”

  “What if one of her clients told her something he shouldn’t have?” Turret persisted. “Get somebody talking, opening up, it’s easy to maybe say too much.”

  I’d had the same thought. And the other day in the car Deirdre had seemed like she wanted to get something off her chest. I remembered the haunted look in her eyes. Why hadn’t I asked what was on her mind?

  “So what can you do about it?” I asked sullenly.

  “Talk to a few people.”

  “People you know from prison?”

  “Yeah. One guy in particular. Irish guy. Used to be in the construction rackets in New York City. I’ll ask him to make some inquiries with the people he knows on the east coast. See if anybody’s dealing with a problem right now in this area.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t fall all over myself to thank you,” I said, getting up to leave, about to suggest we meet again tomorrow.

  “I’m not doing this for you.”

  That stopped me. I sat back down. “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m doing it for me.”

  “Trying to polish up your karma?”

  “For me in the sense that I know it’s the right thing to do.” He patted his chest. “Right here.”

  “And you think doing this will square it with me?”

  “No,” he disagreed, shaking his head patiently. “And that’s the point. I can never repay the people I hurt. There’s more than I can count, many I’ve never even met or heard of. The stuff I’ve done…” He shook his head. “It’s like a rock dropped into the water. The ripples spread outward forever, even if we can’t see them. The best I can do is take each opportunity that comes my way to do the right thing. Regardless of what came before.”

  “You’re still a damn smooth talker. Just like when I first met you. I gotta wonder if you’re going to screw me all over again.”

  “You know I’m not. Or else you would have choked the life out of me right outside. Next to that sewer of a lake. And you definitely wouldn’t be sitting here with me now.”

  “What did you mean out there?”

  “What?”

  “What you said before. About this place.”

  “Just that it’s nowhere to come back to.” Turret put his sandwich down and finished chewing. “You know the history of this area?”

  “It’s a failed resort,” I said, shrugging.

  He shook his head. “No. Before that.”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “They call that thing an accidental lake,” Turret began, gesturing outside with his chin. “It’s not even supposed to be there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I read up on it when I came down here. Not much else to do when you’re locked up.” He called the waitress over and ordered an iced tea. When she came back with it, she refilled my water.

  “The Indians knew it as Lake Cahuilla, way back when. I’m talking ancient history here. They irrigated their crops from it, trapped fish. You can still see the waterline in some places, like a bathtub ring. Anyway, it had been dry for centuries when the pioneers started coming through in the 1800s. But they saw the crops the Indians grew along the Colorado, and got an idea in their head. All this land, why not turn it into farmland? So they built a bunch of canals and reservoirs for irrigation. Tapped them right off the river. The reclamation of the desert, they said, as if it was the natural order of things. Religious types referred to it as redemption, even. Got the government and the taxpayers to pick up the tab.”

  “So?” I asked, impatiently.

  “In 1905, one of the dams broke. The river flooded everything in its path. They couldn’t stop it for two years. Two whole years. The result is what you see around you.” Turret finished his sandwich, picked some melted cheese off the plate with his fingernail. “I never dreamed how bad it had gotten until I saw it. I mean, who’d want to live here? That lake is dying. Untreated sewage from Mexico, industrial chemicals. Supposedly, there was an accident recently where a truck ended up in the New River, and when they pulled it out, all the paint was stripped off.”

  I nodded. Heard some other stories myself.

  “Not to mention all the pesticides from the agricultural fields,” Turret
continued. “Birds dying at that wildlife refuge, fish floating belly up—”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point. My point is that there’s always a price to pay. Sure, they got what they wanted. The Imperial Valley is one of the most productive agricultural regions in the world. But look what happened further upstream. Nothing’s for free.”

  Of course, he was right. I knew that better than anyone. What I’d been seeking, Deirdre had paid for. But I didn’t want to think about that. I retreated to the past again, like I always did.

  “Why did you choose us? Me and my friends.”

  “You don’t really want to talk about that, do you?”

  I wouldn’t let him look away.

  “I took opportunities where I saw them. And I could use that war, big time. Find the right people, tell them what they wanted to hear. I always knew which buttons to push to get what I wanted.” He paused, looking inward. “Maybe I got it from my father, I don’t know. He was a salesman. The best. Could talk anybody into buying most anything, by making them talk themselves into it. It was like he’d wind them up and watch them go. Could have headed sales and marketing departments for every company he worked for. But he didn’t, because he wanted that touch with the customer, the thrill of each individual sale. Of defeating that person’s better instincts or common sense or frugality. And I guess I was the same in some way. Except I had a different agenda.” He paused again, and I took a sip of my water, accidentally swallowing one of the ice cubes. I could feel its burning coldness all the way down and shivered in the hot restaurant.

  “Ellen had such a passion about her; it was contagious. Thought I’d get the rest of you pretty easy.”

  “Greg.”

  “Surprised me,” Turret answered, nodding. “The fact that I misjudged him used to bug me almost as much as getting caught.”

  “What about me?”

  Turret hesitated. Picked up his napkin and wiped his hands with it.

  “What about me?”

  “You were the easiest in some ways. You’d go whichever way the wind blew. As the old song said.”