Scar Tissue

by William G. Tapply

“He said we weren’t getting along? Weren’t talking?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s …” She looked at me, smiled quickly, and shook her head. “I know I’ve been a total wreck. I was angry and bewildered and I wasn’t much good to Jake. He was hurting as much as I was, I knew that, but I just didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, really, but especially not Jake. Brian was so much like him, you know? Always had that same sad, frightened look in his eyes. But Jake and I, we were okay, I thought. Considering the circumstances, I mean. He tried to be sweet. I know he was feeling guilty. So was I. What parent wouldn’t? But once in a while he’d hold me and try to talk to me. He kept insisting how we had to accept what had happened, that we had to get on with our lives. He was trying to help me get better. Maybe I wasn’t always as receptive or appreciative as I should’ve been, and I don’t think my mother being there made it any easier, but when he left I didn’t understand it. It made no sense. It sure wasn’t my idea.”

  “That’s not exactly the way Jake explained it,” I said gently.

  “What?” she said. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Different perceptions, probably. Why else would he leave like that?”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Because he was planning to rent a motel room on Route Nine and assassinate our chief of police. Makes good sense to me.”

  I smiled. “Have you heard from him since he left?”

  She shook her head. “Not a word.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything, Brady.” She took a deep breath. “Whatever day it was. Sunday or Monday? Sunday, it was … . It’s all such a blur lately … . Sunday morning we were sitting in the living room after breakfast. Mother had gone to church. Tried to get me to go with her, but I wasn’t up to it. Somehow, religion …” She waved her hand. “Anyway, Jake started talking about Brian. He’s good that way. He forces me to think about him even when I don’t want to, keeps trying to make me talk about him, remember him. I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted me to accept it. That Brian was … is gone.” She stared down at the tablecloth.

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  She sipped her wine. “I think that’s good,” she said after a minute. “The way Jake forces me to think about Brian. It makes me sad—angry, sometimes, I guess, too. But it helps. Anyway, maybe I wasn’t so receptive, and after a while he wandered upstairs. He did that a lot. Jake would go up to Brian’s room and just sit there on his bed. Me, I can’t stand to go in there. Too much of Brian in that room. It hurts too much. I keep his door shut. Don’t want to be tempted to peek inside. But Jake spent a lot of time in Brian’s room. The difference between us, I guess. Jake’s a confronter. I’m more of an avoider. I know he was feeling that he hadn’t been a very good father. They didn’t do much of that father-son stuff, but he really wasn’t a bad father. He loved Brian, and Brian knew it. Anyway, that morning he was up there for a long time. I got a little concerned, so I went up. Jake had left the door open, so I peeked in. He was lying back on Brian’s bed with his hands under his head, just staring up at the ceiling. So I went back downstairs, and after a while, he came down. He had an overnight bag in his hand, and he told me he had to go somewhere, he’d be gone for a few days, he might not be able to call me, but he didn’t want me to worry. He loved me, he said, and he’d be back. That was Sunday. I haven’t heard from him since then. I didn’t know what he was up to, but he told me not to worry, so I tried not to.” She gave her head a little shake. “Then this morning when those two detectives showed up and—”

  “Horowitz?” I said.

  “Yes. And the female officer. I didn’t get her name, but she was very sweet. They rang my bell, and when they showed me their badges, my first thought was Brian. Then they asked if I knew where Jake was, and I thought: Oh, no. Oh, God, no. Not Jake, too. I asked them what was wrong, and that man with the evil smile, he said nothing was wrong, they just wanted to ask me a few questions. As if they went around randomly asking questions when nothing was wrong. But they wouldn’t tell me anything, Brady. They just wanted to find Jake. That’s all they asked me about. And I told them the truth. That I had no idea where he was, that he’d left around noontime on Sunday, didn’t tell me where he was going, and I hadn’t seen or talked to him since then. That Horowitz man kept smiling like he didn’t believe me, repeating the same questions over and over again, where’s Jake, did he own a gun—a gun, for God’s sake—and I kept asking him if Jake was all right, and all he’d do is smile. After a while he asked if I had a photo of Jake I could give them, which I did, and then they thanked me and left, and I know goddamn well something’s wrong … .” And then the tears brimmed over and spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she mumbled.

  “Does Jake own a gun?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Of course not. He hates guns. Jesus. Do you think he shot Ed, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Sharon patted her face with her napkin, and a minute later our waitress arrived. She glanced at Sharon, then at me, frowned quickly, and put our plates in front of us. She gave Sharon a fresh glass of wine and replaced my empty coffee cup with a full one. “Can I get you something else?” she said.

  Sharon shook her head.

  “No,” I said. “We’re fine, thank you.”

  I doused my burger with catsup. Sharon picked up her fork, poked around in her salad, then put the fork down, picked up her wineglass, and took a sip.

  “Sharon,” I said, “I know Lieutenant Horowitz. If something had happened to Jake, he’d tell you.”

  “He would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you?”

  I nodded. “Of course I would.”

  “Okay,” she said. “So has anything happened to Jake?”

  “I … don’t know. Not that I know of.”

  “But? I’m hearing a but in your voice.”

  “Sharon, look. Maybe it’s better—”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “What did you hear about your police chief?”

  She took another sip of wine, put it down, then dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “One of my neighbors called me this morning. Said she’d heard it on the news. Ed got murdered somewhere in Framingham. That’s all I know. I guess that should be a huge shock. But after what’s happened, I don’t feel like I can even react to it.” She bit her lip. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You don’t really think—?”

  “Chief Sprague’s body was found in a motel room on Route Nine,” I said. “It’s the room Jake was renting. He was using a false name. John Silver.”

  “A false name?”

  I nodded.

  She stared at me. “What about Jake?”

  I shrugged. “He wasn’t there. Neither was his car.”

  “So that policeman this morning with all his questions about guns, he actually thinks that Jake—?”

  “Jake’s the obvious suspect, Sharon. Horowitz wants to find him and talk with him. I guess he was hoping you could tell him where he is.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She held my eyes and nodded. “I would not lie to you, Brady.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Do you have any idea why Jake would leave suddenly like that and go rent a room in a motel on Route Nine?”

  “No. I’ve been trying not to let my imagination get the best of me. I don’t think I want to know. I can’t think of a good reason. A lot of bad reasons, but no good ones. I guess he just needed to be alone for a while. Away from me.”

  “He called me on Tuesday,” I said. “He sounded excited, as if he’d learned something. He wanted to meet with me. We made an appointment for the next day, but he didn’t show up.”

  “What could he have learned?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you might have an idea.”

  “Well,”
she said, “I don’t. Not a clue.”

  “It might be important.”

  “I know. But as far as I know, the only person Jake might’ve wanted to kill was himself.”

  “How did Jake and Sprague get along?”

  “Get along? Like would Jake want to shoot him?” She laughed quickly. “They got along great. Jake liked Ed. Respected what he did. He coached Brian’s soccer team. He was a good coach. The kids had fun playing for him. Ed really cared about kids. Jake appreciated that.”

  “That morning,” I said. “Sunday. The day he left. Was anything different?”

  “Different?”

  “Did he mention Sprague?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did Jake say or do anything unusual? Anything that might explain why—?”

  “Why he left?” She shrugged. “Not really. He went upstairs, and when he came back down he had a suitcase. Said he was leaving, and he left.”

  “Did he seem angry?”

  “No. Sad, distracted, maybe. Depressed, I guess. We both were. But no, not angry.”

  “He stayed in Brian’s room longer than he usually did, you said.”

  She shrugged. “It seemed like it.”

  “And you saw him lying on the bed.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Before he went upstairs, did you have any sense that something was different?”

  “No.”

  “Something bothering him? Other than …” I waved my hand.

  She shook her head.

  “So something happened upstairs.”

  “What could happen?”

  “I don’t know. Something to make him decide to leave.”

  “I assume he just got the idea he wanted to leave, that’s all. He thought of it, and he lay down on the bed to think about it some more, and then he decided to do it.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Maybe he’d been thinking about it for a while.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But if he had been, I didn’t have a clue. I still don’t. Not a clue.”

  While we were talking I finished my burger and Sharon emptied her wineglass. She hadn’t touched her salad. The waitress appeared and asked us if we were finished. Sharon waved the back of her hand for the waitress to take away her salad and asked for another glass of wine. I asked for more coffee.

  “I’m drinking too much,” Sharon said after the waitress left.

  “Is it helping?”

  “Yes.”

  The waitress brought Sharon’s wine and my coffee, and we lapsed into a silence that was not uncomfortable. I drank my coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes, and Sharon sipped her wine. She kept touching the condensation on the outside of the glass, staring down into it, and I watched her, thinking how young and pretty she looked, too damn young to have to endure the sudden death of her only child and the strange disappearance of her husband, who was now a murder suspect.

  When we slid out of the booth to leave, she grabbed my arm. “Geez,” she said. “I maybe shouldn’t’ve had that last glass of wine.”

  I helped her into her jacket, and she held on to my arm as we walked out.

  “I’ll drive you home,” I said.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Humor me, okay?”

  She looked up at me and nodded. “What am I thinking? I’m not okay. Actually, I’m a little drunk. You’re right.”

  “You must have a neighbor who’ll bring you back for your car later.”

  “Sure. I’ve got lots of friends.”

  I unlocked the door to my car for her and held her elbow while she got in. Then I went around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel.

  Sharon huddled against the door with her chin down on her chest. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” she mumbled.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said.

  She turned her face away and looked out the side window. “You think so?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “I’m sure of it.”

  It took about ten minutes to drive from the restaurant to Sharon’s house. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and went around to open the door for her. She reached out her arm, and I took it to help her out. She leaned against me. “Don’t let go,” she said. “I’m feeling kinda woozy.”

  I helped her up the sidewalk and into the house. She went into the living room, dropped her jacket on the floor, and flopped onto the sofa. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

  “I better make some coffee,” I said.

  “Good idea.”

  I went into the kitchen and got a pot brewing. Then I went back into the living room. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” I said.

  Sharon nodded. She was lying on her back with her arm across her forehead. Her eyes were closed.

  “Would you mind if I went up to Brian’s room?” I said.

  She waved her hand, then let it fall. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  Brian’s bedroom was at the end of a short hallway. I opened the door and stood there in the doorway, overwhelmed for a moment by the realization that the boy who had slept virtually every night of his life in this room would never come back.

  It had a sloping ceiling with two large windows looking out onto the backyard. A desk with a laptop computer and a printer, a chest of drawers, a wall-size bookcase, a twin bed, a bedside table, and a stereo system on a table against one wall. A collection of CDs was stacked under it. A big steamer trunk sat at the foot of the bed.

  I knew what teenage boys’ bedrooms looked like, and Brian’s would’ve fooled me. No Jockey shorts or athletic socks lying on the floor, no torn posters of Twisted Sister or Michael Jordan or the Patriots cheerleaders on the walls, no baseball gloves or basketballs or skis or hockey sticks strewn around. Brian’s room was neat and uncluttered, almost sterile.

  In fact, the only indication that the room had been lived in was the pillow on the bed, which had a head-shaped dent in the middle of it. The head had been Jake’s.

  I opened the closet. Pairs of shoes, boots, and sneakers were lined up on the floor. Shirts and jackets and pants hung precisely on hangers—jackets on the right, shirts in the middle, pants on the left. Sweaters and sweatshirts, neatly folded, were stacked on the shelf.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for.

  The chest of drawers held boxer shorts and socks and handkerchiefs and T-shirts. There were pencils and paper clips and rubber bands in the single desk drawer.

  Brian’s CD collection featured artists like Smashing Pumpkins, Rage Against the Machine, Jewel, and Janet Jackson, although there were a few by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Fleetwood Mac, too.

  I studied the books in the bookcase. A completely eclectic collection—paperback mysteries and Westerns and sci-fi, some Hemingway and J. D. Salinger and Stephen King, a set of World Book encyclopedias, an atlas, a dictionary.

  What had Jake seen that sent him off?

  The steamer trunk at the foot of the bed was secured with a combination lock. When I knelt down to look at it, I saw that the rivets holding the latch were missing. I flipped the latch with my finger and the whole thing—lock and latch—lifted away.

  Jake, I thought. Jake had jimmied it open.

  If a boy had any secrets—and every boy has secrets—a locked trunk would be a logical place in which to keep them.

  I imagined how it had been for Jake. Every time he came into Brian’s room he saw this trunk, wondered what private stuff his son had kept locked in it, what the contents of this trunk might tell him about his dead boy, and he had to force himself to resist the temptation to pry it open.

  He’d think about that trunk and the secrets it might reveal. It would haunt him. His son was dead. They hadn’t known each other very well. At least that’s how Jake saw it. And it was driving him crazy.

  Finally he couldn’t resist. He’d popped the rivets, forced it open, and lifted the lid. And when he did, he fou
nd something that caused him to pack a bag and move to a motel on Route Nine in Framingham, and that, in turn, had resulted in the execution of the local chief of police. Maybe at Jake’s hand.

  Far-fetched, Coyne.

  Maybe not.

  I lifted the lid of the trunk.

  Blankets.

  On top was a patchwork quilt. I took it out and put it on the floor. Under it was a brown Army blanket. I took it out, too. Another blanket, this one blue, and under it a crocheted afghan.

  That was all.

  I stared into the empty trunk, sat back on my heels, then looked in again. The bottom was a solid sheet of plywood. I tapped it with my knuckle. It made a hollow sound. I estimated the depth of the trunk from the inside, then looked at it from the outside. It looked like there was a space of three or four inches between that sheet of plywood and the bottom of the trunk.

  I fished out my Buck pocket knife, slid the blade along the edge of the false bottom, and pried it up. It was quarter-inch plywood, and it wasn’t nailed down. I got a finger under it and took it out.

  Then I saw what Jake had seen.

  At first I thought it was just a couple of handfuls of torn green-and-white paper. I scooped some up in my palm and looked closer.

  It was money. Bills. United States currency. They’d been torn into scraps the size of postage stamps. Mostly tens and twenties.

  It was impossible to tell how much ripped-up money was in the secret compartment at the bottom of Brian Gold’s trunk. A few hundred, anyway.

  What did it mean?

  Jake had found this currency confetti and had asked the same question.

  His answer had sent him to King’s Motel in Framingham.

  I shook my head. I was overreacting.

  I put the money scraps back, then the plywood, then the blankets. Then I closed the lid the way I had found it and went back downstairs.

  Sharon had rolled onto her side with her face pressed against the back of the sofa. She had kicked off her shoes and drawn her knees up to her chest. Her skirt had ridden up high on her slender legs. Her cheek rested on her hands and she was snoring quietly. She looked peaceful and vulnerable and young.

  An afghan similar to the one in Brian’s trunk was folded over the back of the sofa. I spread it over Sharon and tucked it around her.