by Mark Stone
“The harm is that I didn’t know about it,” I answered, huffing and angry. “And don’t ever say you have nowhere to go. I talked to Boomer. He said we could stay with him as long as we wanted. And don’t for a minute think I’m buying that bull, old man.” I said, shaking my head. “The hospital’s not keeping you because of a storm.” I turned and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going, Dilly?” my grandfather asked from his bed.
“To find out what the hell is going on here,” I answered and tore into the hallway.
I moved right past the nurses’ station. They weren’t much help last time. So I decided to keep walking until I saw my grandfather’s doctor.
It didn’t take long. I took a sharp right past the station and nearly ran head on into her; a short woman around my age with shoulder-length black hair, bright blue eyes and a stethoscope around her neck.
“You’re my grandfather’s doctor?” I asked unceremoniously.
She blinked in response before she gathered herself. “I’m Dr. Rebecca Day, and I guess that would depend on who your grandfather is. Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I answered. “My name is Dillon St-Dillon Riggs,” I said, using my grandfather’s last name. It would just make the connection easier. “You’ve been taking care of my grandfather since he was caught in a house fire.”
“Ah. The one who told me I looked like Natalie Wood with sea foam eyes?” she asked.
“That sounds like him,” I answered. “I was under the impression he was going to be released today, and now I’m hearing differently.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Rebecca answered, her eyes steeling over. “You know, we ask patients those questions for a reason. We don’t look through those forms all day for fun, you know.” She sighed heavily. “If you or your grandfather would have just been upfront about his condition when he was admitted, this could have all gone a lot smoother.”
“His-his condition?” I asked. My heart felt like it turned to stone in my chest. “What condition?”
Rebecca’s steel eyes softened. “You don’t know,” she responded. It wasn’t a question. “I think you need to talk to your grandfather, Mr. Riggs.”
My mouth instantly went dry and a feeling of dread settled over me like an ominous cloud.
She tried to move past me, but I moved in step, blocking her.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I pleaded. “I’m his grandson,” I said, as if she didn’t already know. “I’m also a detective, if that matters.”
“You could be the President of the United States and it wouldn’t matter,” she answered sympathetically. Your grandfather is of sound mind and body. His medical information is confidential.. I’m afraid I can’t share it.”
“Is it bad?” I asked, pushing down flashbacks of the last time I was in this horrible place, of watching my mother wither away and die. “Just tell me if it’s bad.”
She looked up at me, taking a deep and steadied breath. “Just talk to your grandfather, Mr. Riggs. He needs family around him now.”
My stone heart shattered. I knew what those words meant, and it wasn’t anything good.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and turned tail back toward the room.
When I got there, jerking to a stop in the doorway. I stared at my grandfather in a new light.
“I told you not to worry about it,” he said, shaking his head at me as he picked the fruit pieces out of his green Jell-O. It was like nothing had changed, like nothing was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked, standing in that doorway and bracing myself for the worst, knowing that — regardless of how prepared I thought I was — it wouldn’t be enough.
“Dilly-”
“Tell me!” I commanded, breathing heavy and panicking like the child I used to be, the child he used to take fishing and hunting. He was all I had left, and I needed to know he was okay. “Old man, you tell me what’s wrong with you. You hear me?”
He put his Jell-O down and looked over at me. I recognized the sheen in his eyes. It was the same he wore anytime he talked about what happened to Grandma, what happened to my mother.
“Same thing it always is, Dilly,” he said, his mouth turned downward. “Same thing that happened to your mom.” He shook his head. “I’ve got goddamned cancer.”
15
“You want an apology or something?” my grandfather asked, looking at me from his hospital bed. He seemed less than thrilled with the idea.
It had been about half an hour since I heard the news, just long enough for me to wrap my head around the size and shape of it. Stage 2 lung cancer. It rang against the inside of my skull like a jackhammer, tearing apart all my grey matter.
Dr. Rebecca Day had done a good job of explaining all of it to me, including the roughly thirty percent survival rate that came with the diagnosis. Of course, my grandfather’s age was a strike against him as was the fact he seemed resistant to the idea of radiation.
The doctor asked me to talk him out of that. She also gave me a couple of kooky looking brochures and the number to a support group for friends and family of those stricken by the disease. I hadn’t wanted that crap when my mother got sick, and I didn’t want it now.
“How long have you known?” I asked, blinking at him.
“About three weeks,” he answered without much emotion in his voice.
“Three weeks?” I asked, shaking my head. “You dealt with this all by yourself for three weeks?”
“I dealt with the army all by myself for fifteen years, son. I think I can deal with this,” he answered, tapping his fingers against the wooden tray table in front of him. What food he hadn’t picked apart was sitting there, looking as unappetizing as ever.
“You should have told me,” I said, anger in my voice. This wasn’t his decision, not just his anyway. That old bastard was all I had left. If he was going to leave me, then the least he could do was let me prepare myself. Just like the least I could do was be there for him. We owed each other that much.
My grandfather didn’t seem to agree.
“For what?” he asked, shrugging. “So you could drop what you were doing and come back down here to feed me soup and talk about the good old days like there aren’t ever going to be anymore?”
“Hell yes!” I answered, perhaps louder than I should have. “Because that’s what you do when people you love get sick. That’s what you did for mom, and that’s what you deserve to have done for you.”
“What if that’s not what I want?” he asked, breathing heavy. “You think it’d do me a bit of good to know that you were gonna drop your whole life to be at my beck and call? You got stuff to do. I won’t be the one to take you away from that.”
“Well, that’s not your call,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll call my Sergeant, get an LOA for a couple weeks, and then we’ll see what’s what.” I shook my head. “You know, you’re always talking about how stubborn I am, how stubborn Mom was. I think I’m starting to see where we got it from.” I sighed. “And you’re taking that damned radiation.”
My grandfather opened his mouth to respond but, before he could, Dr. Rebecca Day walked back in, a form in her hand.
“Your name isn’t Riggs, is it?” she asked, narrowing those seafoam eyes at me. “I was looking at your grandfather’s paperwork. You’re Dillon Storm, aren’t you?”
“Technically,” I answered, sitting up straight.
“Well, where the hell were you?” she asked, a bit of confusing anger in her voice.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, furrowing my brow.
“You should be,” she answered quickly. “Your father was admitted to my care a week ago. I called you half the night and, because I couldn’t get you to answer, he was left to the horrors of that freak show you call a family.”
I stood. “You treated my father?”
“He fell down the stairs. The old man was unconscious when he came to me. He needed surg
ery to deal with the pressing issues from the fall, and it was my thought to take care of those, but when we got in there, we found he had some blockages in his heart. I didn’t think they were pressing enough to warrant putting him through the added stress of dealing with them right then. One of my colleagues disagreed and, because I couldn’t get in touch with you and had to default to his wife, my colleague won out and your father died on the table.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Why?” I asked. “Why on earth would you call me?”
Rebecca’s hands went into the air, obviously stunned by the question. “For the same reason I can tell you what happened now that he’s dead, sir,” she said. “Because you were his emergency contact. Your father had you down as his next of kin.”
My heart skipped a beat as the gravity of this settled on me. Why would my father make me his next of kin? He had a wife. He had a son he raised. He had a stepdaughter.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I admitted, looking to the floor.
“You’re the detective,” Rebecca said. “So I’ll leave what does or doesn’t make sense to you. I will say that your father needed you and, maybe if you’d have been here, things would have been different.” She looked past me, to my grandfather. “Don’t make the same mistake twice.”
As she walked out the door, my phone buzzed. I expected to find Charlotte’s name on my screen. Instead, I saw a text from Boomer.
Get your ass over her, Dil. I got a hit on the tag number you sent me.
^
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense,” Boomer said, shaking his head and giving me directions. We had been rotating topics, going from the intel he got from the tag number I sent him to the bombshell Rebecca Day had dropped on me back at the hospital. We were talking about the latter now, heading toward an address Boomer had gleaned from the former, the radio sounding low in the background.
“Take a left up here,” Boomer said, and I turned down a road I’d never been on in my life. We’d driven fifteen miles out of town, which didn’t seem like a long way. Still, it was on the country side of Naples, away from the coast and back in towards the Everglades. The swamp got thick up this way, and I’d never found a reason good enough to brave it when I was a kid. I wasn’t a kid anymore though, and this reason seemed like more than enough.
“Tell me about the guy who the car belongs to again,” I said, swallowing hard and trying to push the questions about why my father would make me his next of kin and what that might have to do with Lionel Sheet’s murder, and the fire that tore through my house and my grandfather’s shed.
“Russell Carpenter, known as Rusty Nail to his friends, which admittedly don’t sound like the most stand up group in the world,” Boomer said, and motioned to the mug shot he’d gotten back at the precinct. I looked it over. Rusty Nail looked pretty similar to the guy who was arguing with Peter back at the church, and he had the scar running through his eyebrow. That was enough proof for me.
“Low level druggie lowlife,” Boomer continued. “Arrested for possession in 2015 and then for intent to distribute in early ’16. He’s stayed pretty quiet since then. The judge had sentenced him to an outpatient rehabilitation program.” Boomer shrugged. “Wouldn’t have any idea what he’d be doing with Peter Storm.”
Boomer had a point. People like my half brother didn’t usually deal with the sort of category of people someone like Rusty Nail would fall into. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have problems.
“The stepsister,” I said firmly as I took the next turn Boomer suggested, a sharp left that seemed to run parallel with a small marina.
“The one who stole your gun?” Boomer asked.
“She didn’t steal it per se,” I answered, shaking my head. “It fell out, I guess. And yeah, her. She used to have some issues with drugs. Didn’t strike me as much of a junkie when we spoke, but that doesn’t mean her past just evaporates.”
“You think she might have known Rusty when she was using?” Boomer asked, pointing to a dock.
“I think it’s definitely a possibility,” I answered. “Peter wanted me to steer clear of the funeral. I’m sure he’d have the same reaction if someone like Rusty showed up. This guy lives on a boat?” I asked, pulling into the dirt lot in front of the marina. The place was quiet, a world away from the bustling social centers that were the marinas closer to downtown Naples. Three boats, all older, all less than stellar, bobbed in the water, tied up to the dock.
“That Sunstar,” he said, pointing to the aged boat with the name “Lillypad” etched across it. “His last known address.”
“He lives by himself?” I asked, throwing the car in park and stepping out into the early evening heat.
“As far as we know,” Boomer confirmed. “He had a wife, but she left him after the second arrest, moved up to Colorado, I think.”
“She must like the snow more than you,” I grinned.
He shuddered. “Everybody likes the snow more than me, Dil. Maybe he wanted to make it up to you, being a world class dick, I mean.”
“Oh,” I answered, shaking my head. “Maybe, though I can think of a couple better ways to make something up to me”
“A couple hundred million reasons if Forbes magazine can be believed,” Boomer chuckled. “I don’t want their money, Boom,” I said, my voice stern. I had thought about this more than once. When you grow up dirt poor and your birth father’s got freaking buildings with his name on them, you spend a lot of time thinking about what having a taste of that money might feel like. I often blamed my mother, resented her for the choice to forego the court system and forfeit the substantial child support that would undoubtedly come from the proceedings.
A lot of people thought she did that because I wasn’t really Peter’s kid. They said my mother was lying and court proceedings would bring that to light. I knew better though. She didn’t want that man to get his claws into me. She wanted me to be my own person.
Because of that choice, I was my own man now and I was indebted to her.
“Yeah, yeah,” Boomer answered. “I’ve heard it before. Doesn’t mean you can’t take it and pass it along to your old friend Boom.”
We walked aboard the boat, Boomer slamming his fist against the door of the interior.
“Police! Open up!” he said loudly in his “official” tone. “Mr. Carpenter. We have some questions for you.”
With no answer, I moved over to the port side, close to a window.
Looking in, I saw piled up dishes, opened beer cans sitting on the bar, and clothes strewn across the floor; all the signs of a single man living on his own.
Looking past them, I saw something else.
A man lay face down on carpet that was stained with blood.
“Boomer! Man down inside!” I said, turning and rushing back toward the door.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, reared back, and kicked the door hard.
It flew back, opening forcefully. Boomer rushed inside, his gun drawn. I was close behind, my weapon also in my hand and at the ready.
“Check his pulse,” Boomer said. “I’m going to make sure the place is clear.”
I had little doubt we were alone when I leaned down and found his pulse to be completely nonexistent. We hadn’t heard any signs of struggle when we walked up and, judging by the sheer amount of blood and the fact that this guy was cold to the touch, I figured whoever did this was long gone by now.
I breathed heavily, looking the man up and down. His eyes were open and his head was bashed in. It was eerily similar to the way Lionel Sheets had been found though, instead of a five-star hotel, we were in a filthy, second-rate houseboat.
Suddenly, I remembered what we’d missed when we looked around the hotel.
Lionel had a phone that had been pushed away in the scuffle. If Rusty did, maybe it would hold some clues.
I started looking around, and quickly, my eyes fell to something out of the ordinary.
It wasn’t a ph
one. Instead, a smallish swatch of cloth lay on the floor. It looked different and out of place here. As I grabbed it, I realized just how right I was.
The cloth was a glove, soft and black. Picking it up, I wondered what the hell Rusty Nail would need with a fancy glove like this. Then, turning it around, I saw my answer.
Monogrammed in gold were the letters ‘P.S.’ stitched across the thing.
I didn’t need two guesses to figure out who that might be.
16
“Sure you’re okay with this?” Boomer asked, looking over at me as we crossed through the slowly opening rod iron metal fence that led up to Storm Haven. My father’s gated homestead overlooking the most prime real estate of the Gulf Coast was something of a thing of legend when I was growing up. A two-story multicolored house with the sort of Latin architectural flair that was big down here fifteen or twenty years ago, the house on a hill stood as a sort of symbol for a life I wouldn’t have. One I wouldn’t want, to be fair, but one I wouldn’t have nonetheless.
I remembered days when my mother used to bring us into town. She’d always take the long way around as not to have to look at the hulking thing.
“Evil kings have big castles. Just look at the storybooks,” she’d say.
It hadn’t felt like a storybook to me then, and it certainly not now. Yet, here I was going for it..
“Drive,” I told Boomer and he pulled forward. “It’s just a house.”
We both knew that was a lie, but to his credit, Boomer didn’t question it. He just pushed up the driveway, a gaudy thing made of seashells and lined with raised concrete.
My hands tightened as we rounded up the hill, the house coming into view, along with a huge pool and a covered white tent. This place was magnificent, the kind of home you’d see in those magazines touting “beachfront living” as though it was something anyone other than the wealthiest of the wealthy could ever afford. It seemed ridiculous to me, like some fort a kid would build in the sand if he was trying to prove something. It wasn’t real, not like my house. It was bricks and plaster and paint over emptiness. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like from where I was sitting. The difference, of course, was that this house still stood and mine was a pile of rubble on the ground.