The remains

by Vincent Zandri

  “What about Whalen?” Michael pressed. “Did you make contact with his parole officer?”

  The detective looked up.

  “I did,” he confirmed. “Whalen’s been employed at the Hollywood Carwash on Central in the west end. He lives in a half-way house on Clinton not a block away from work. Fully registered with sex offenders, as you well know. Shows up for the early and evening meals per state regs, where’s a monitoring bracelet around his right ankle. It’s house-arrest from that point on until work starts the next morning. Lights out at ten. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Whalen is a model parolee; a system success story.”

  “So what you’re trying to say detective?” Michael posed. “That there’s no reason to suggest Whalen has been acting in anyway suspicious? You don’t see him as a threat?”

  Harris shook his head.

  “Not an immediate threat,” he stressed. But then raising his right hand, pointing an extended index finger at the painting I’d brought into the office with me. “I remain however, more than a little curious about Franny the artist.”

  The Hollywood Carwash…

  “Wait a minute,” I broke in. “I had my car washed on Tuesday morning.”

  Michael and Harris immediately turned their attention to me as if an alarm had just gone off.

  “I had my car washed and an older man dried it. The Hollywood Carwash on Central. A small white-bearded man with a head full of white hair. He smiled at me, spoke to me. I gave him a five dollar tip because I felt sorry for him, for having to work in a car wash.”

  Harris looked at Michael. Michael looked at me. Both their faces looked pale.

  “I can only assume that’s him,” Harris said, standing up straight. “Did he give you any reason to suggest he knew you? Did he use your name?”

  My head was spinning.

  “No,” I said. “The man didn’t say much of anything.”

  “What made you go to the car wash in the first place?”

  “I get Molly’s car washed every Tuesday morning, whether it needs it or not. It’s what Molly always did. Every Tuesday, rain or shine or snow. It was her ritual.”

  “Dollars to donuts,” Harris said, “if that was in fact, Whalen, he knew you were coming. He would have planned it that way.”

  “I’d never seen him there before.”

  “That’s because you weren’t aware of him until recently.”

  An explosion came from outside precinct walls. Thunder. Loud enough to cause all three of us to glance at the far wall, as if there was a window to see out of.

  “Tell him about the texts,” Michael insisted.

  I looked up at my ex-husband, then shifted to Harris.

  “Someone unknown has been sending me texts over the period of a few months.”

  Harris raised his eyebrows.

  “What did the messages say?”

  I told him. “Just my name at first. Then later on, rebecca. My name in the lower case.”

  He jotted down some notes in a small notebook he stored in his shirt pocket.

  “You saw him in the carwash on Tuesday,” Harris recalled. “Did his face ring any kind of bell whatsoever?”

  I felt my stomach drop. Did the face of the nice old man match the face of the rapist in the ViCAP database?

  “Not at all,” I said. “Not with all that hair. I guess I might have seen the same white-haired man there a dozen times before over the course of a few months. But only on Tuesday did I feel the need to pay attention to him.”

  “The texts,” Harris went on. “What was the number left on your caller ID?”

  “That’s just it,” Michael spoke for me. “Unknown Caller.”

  Harris transferred himself behind the cluttered desk. He shifted his eyes back to me.

  “I’m going to check into the possibility that Whalen could be texting you, Rebecca. If he’s got the money for a cell phone, he’s allowed a cell phone. Simple as that. You save the messages?”

  I told him I had.

  He asked to see my phone.

  I handed it to him from across the desk.

  He pulled his reading glasses from inside his jacket pocket, slipped them on. Then he flipped open the phone, thumbed some buttons. Although I couldn’t see exactly what he was getting at, I knew he had to be looking at the messages. I knew he was trying to get something from their accompanying information. Or in this case, non-information.

  After a time, he looked up.

  “Verizon,” he said, handing the phone back to me.

  “You’re not going to confiscate it?”

  “I have your number. Cell phone records are easy enough to access.”

  “How is it Whalen would be able to block his caller ID?” Michael interjected. It was a question both of us wanted to ask.

  “You want to block your ID and number when making a call or a text,” he explained, “you just punch star-6-7 before dialing the desired telephone number. You want to unlock your ID, punch in star-8-2. It’s as simple as that and totally legal.”

  Then I remembered something. “There was another woman there at the Hollywood Carwash. A well dressed woman who was driving a Mercedes Benz. She was upset because she had lost her cell phone while her car was being washed.”

  Harris bit down on his bottom lip.

  “That explains it,” he said, as though a light bulb lit up over his head. “I’m guessing Whalen is stealing cell phones, using them to text you.” He opened a bottom desk drawer, pulled out a phone book and slapped it heavily onto the desktop. “I’m going to call the Hollywood Carwash, find out if they’ve had a rash of lost mobile phones over the past few months.” Looking back at me, he continued, “If that’s everything, I need to get on this right away.”

  I stood, a little out of balance.

  “Detective,” I said. “I just have one question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you truly suspect that Franny might have something to do with all this? Something other than what’s going on in his mind?”

  The detective bit his bottom lip again.

  “I’m still having trouble comprehending his apparent accuracy in depicting your memories. On one hand we have a paroled Whalen who might be sending you texts; who might have tried to break into your Brunswick home; who might have left a photograph of you and your sister on the home’s porch floor; who might in fact be stalking you. On the other hand we have an autistic savant who is able to accurately paint your memories and dreams, as though you were dictating them to him.”

  “But where do Whalen and Francis connect?” Michael demanded.

  “Rebecca has already told me that the black and white photo of she and Molly matches one of Franny’s paintings. That raises the possibility that Whalen and Francis might have had access to the same photograph.”

  “Not at the same time,” I said.

  “We don’t know that,” Harris said. “Not yet.”

  I told him that it’s not unusual for an autistic savant to be able to tap into portions of the brain that normal people can’t even hope for. Franny’s talent might very well include the ability to see inside my head. Or at the very least, to be able to see the future.

  “Okay,” Harris uttered, a note of cynicism in his voice. “I’ll take your word for it, for now. But if it turns out Whalen’s and Francis’s prints are on that black and white photograph of you and your sister, it’ll only please me to pay the Scaramuzzis a little visit.”

  “Franny has been through enough already,” I explained.

  “How so?”

  “The other day I got in his face, yelled at him. Like you, I’d started to believe there could be something more to the paintings than just an active imagination. An accurate imagination, that is.”

  I started toward the door, until something else hit me.

  “I shut down the center for the week. It’ll hurt Franny, but…”

  “Why do that?” Harris begged. “Keeping busy might be the best thing for you right now
.”

  I took hold of Michael’s hand.

  “My partner,” I said. “Robyn Painter. Are you aware of the assault on her last night, Detective Harris?”

  I felt my heart pound when I said it. Harris was helping me. But I almost felt angry with him for not having mentioned it already. But then, perhaps he didn’t know that Robyn and I were best friends, despite our working together. The look on his face was hard, angry, tight-lipped. I knew then that he knew about what had happened at that motel.

  “Wish I could say we had a better lead on the creep who did it. FBI is taking over the investigation. Your friend, Robyn… she’s not the only one.”

  “I’m aware of that.” I swallowed.

  Michael took my hand, gave it a squeeze.

  Harris picked up the phone, held it in his hand.

  “Again, I’ll ask you to call me if something else comes up.”

  “What about the paintings?” Michael asked.

  “I’m going to hang onto them along with the black and white pic of you and your sister, Rebecca. In the meantime I’m going to check into these texts, see if they really do somehow lead directly to Whalen.”

  “I have another painting,” I said, nodding toward the canvas where it was leaned up against Michael’s chair.

  Harris glanced at it. “That’s the house?” he asked under his breath.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so very sorry.”

  I turned away from him, made my way out the door, back into the foul smelling air.

  Chapter 42

  We left the city and drove in the direction of my apartment.

  Michael set his hand on my leg.

  “Let’s skip town,” he said. “Why don’t we pack a quick bag, head down to New York for the night. Just like old times. We can get a room at the Gramercy Park, head out to Les Halles for steak frit, maybe a hit a bar or two. Just like we used to do.”

  It sounded very appealing. Getting out of town for a night. God it sounded good.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to leave Robyn?”

  “She needs rest, Bec. Not visitors. Besides, she’s got her mother and we’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  Michael was making sense. But there was just one more obstacle.

  “What do we use for money?”

  He tossed me a grin.

  “Got a few bucks put away.”

  “You robbed a convenience store and got away with it. Congratulations.”

  “I’ve been selling the occasional news piece,” he offered. “Strictly online fluff stuff.”

  We pulled into the apartment complex. Michael parked the truck in my designated spot. As we walked around the building to the terrace, I couldn’t help but notice how the sky was blackening, how the clouds were gathering with some speed. There was also a significant wind. Definitely a storm coming.

  Outside the apartment door a team of blue uniformed maintenance workers were raking up the leaves. No one seemed to notice me.

  I unlocked the door. Stepping inside the apartment, I felt suddenly lighter. Even the thought of heading down to New York for a night was enough to send a flash-wave of optimism cruising through my body.

  Michael closed the door behind me.

  “So do I have a date for Les Halles tonight or what?”

  “Make the reservation,” I said, turning to him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m going to wash up, pack an overnight bag and we’re gone.”

  He smiled, hugged me tight.

  “No worries, Bec.”

  “It’s all good.” I lied. True or false, it felt good to simply say it.

  As I made my way through the hall to the bathroom, I heard the sound of distant thunder.

  Chapter 43

  Turning on the hot water, I looked at my face in the mirror.

  Looked into our faces, I should say.

  Molly and me.

  Sometimes when I saw my reflected self, I couldn’t help but wonder if Molly would have looked the same, if her ageing process would have mimicked my own. Of course it would have. I wondered about her features, if she would have acquired the same horizontal lines in the forehead, the same little bit of extra skin under the chin, the newly emerging crow’s feet framing the eyes, the subtle hint of grey in the otherwise dirty blonde hair.

  In a word, I wondered if she would be me.

  I felt the vibration against my thigh. Drying my hands, I pulled the cell phone from my jeans pocket and flipped it open.

  Another text.

  My heart raced and my mouth went dry.

  I thumbed it open.

  Cry, cry, cry you naughty kitten

  Tears built up behind my eyeballs. I never bothered with checking the Caller ID. I knew who the caller was. I simply closed the phone and slipped it back into my jeans pocket. Breathing in and out, I turned off the water.

  Then a loud bang, like someone closing a kitchen drawer. It registered through the bathroom door. It gave my heart a start. Following that, a slight commotion, muffled voices, my bedroom door slamming shut.

  Michael.

  I wanted to call out his name, but I couldn’t. My hand trembled as I opened the bathroom door and went out into the hall. It took forever to reach the bedroom. But when I did, a loud burst of thunder rattled my bones.

  When I opened the bedroom door, I knew immediately that we would not be going to New York City.

  Chapter 44

  The reality of the situation didn’t immediately register.

  It just looked like Michael was lying on the bed as if he was simply taking a quick lie-down before we hit the road for the 140 mile drive south to New York. But a fraction of a second later the fog lifted and the real scene came to light. It was only then that I could see how his shirt was ripped off, how his mouth was gagged with duct tape, how his hands had been hastily duct taped together at the wrists, his legs bound together at the ankles.

  He was unconscious, eyes wide shut, body lying fetal on the bed.

  I stood there paralyzed. Stood there staring at Michael, one side of his face was pressed into the pillow. The exposed half was lit from the light that leaked in through the open window.

  The bedroom was as still as an empty church. My copy of Mockingbird had been tossed onto the floor by the bed. I stood petrified, my feet planted in concrete. I gazed up and down at Michael’s naked chest with a kind of frightened curiosity. There was a small cut that had been made just below his right nipple. A thin line of blood trickled from it, ran down along his ribcage. The dark hair on his head was mussed up. A thin streak of blood ran down the center of his forehead. I knew then he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object.

  I knew I could not be alone; that there was someone else inside the apartment besides Michael and me. The ashtray smell. It was a familiar smell. I knew that smell as well as I knew myself.

  I had no idea how long I’d been standing inside that open door, just staring at the bound image of my ex-husband. A half-second maybe. Or a full minute. Fear warped time, bent it the same way it crippled my insides.

  For me, the present moment no longer contained any logic or proportion. I knew I had to do something. What I wanted to do was lift my feet, put one foot in front of the other. I wanted to unbind Michael, rescue him.

  But I just stood there doing nothing.

  My hesitation must have been exactly what Whalen was counting on when he opened my closet door and stepped out into the bedroom.

  Chapter 45

  My awakening was as painful as it was sudden.

  Michael was gone. Disappeared.

  Aside from the sting in my head, his absence was the first thing that caught my attention.

  There remained only my cell which had been removed from my jeans pocket, set on the wood floor directly before my eyes. There was a throbbing pain in my head and an egg-sized lump protruding from my forehead directly above my right eye. I touched the lump with the fingers on my right hand only to pull them back quick from the stin
g.

  For the moment, I didn’t quite know where I was. Rather, I knew where I was, but I couldn’t be sure if I had entered into one of my vivid dreams. Had my dreaming progressed from hearing his voice to actually hearing the man; seeing him; smelling him; feeling him? I breathed, tried my hardest to calm myself; tried to focus on ending the dream, going back to sleep.

  I wanted it to be morning.

  I wanted to wake up to sunshine, to my routine. But every time I closed my eyes, I opened them again to the reality of the moment. All objects inside my periphery were blurry, distorted, depth-of-field spinning, pulsing like an out of control video camera.

  Pushing myself up off an exposed hardwood floor, I sat up and felt a great weight inside my head. The throw rug that had covered the floor was gone. I saw the empty place that Michael had occupied in the bed. All that remained now were the crumpled bed sheets, the discarded shirt tossed to the floor.

  I pulled the bedroom door open, ran out into the hall. That’s when the cell phone exploded in loud, bursting pulses. Whalen must have adjusted the ringer setting.

  Running back into the bedroom, I picked the phone up from off the floor and put it to my ear. But there was no sound coming through the earpiece. In the place of a voice came a notice for a new text.

  I thumbed OK on the keypad.

  The text appeared on the radiant face of the phone.

  Do not run little kitten. Do not call the police. Do not speak. Break the rules and Michael dies. Cry, cry, cry.

  I pressed the phone back up against my head.

  “Where’s Michael?” I screamed.

  Heart pulsing inside my throat, I waited for an answer. A voice. But then I remembered to pull the phone away from my ear, stare down at the screen. The answer revealed itself in the form of another text.

  Little kitten broke the rules. Cry. Cry. Cry.

  Chapter 46

  I felt on the verge of fainting. My breathing became rapid and forced.

  I made my way back into the bathroom, yanked up the shade and stared out the window onto the parking lot. Blue and black clouds filled the sky. The occasional flicker of distant lightning lit them up. The usual cars were parked in the lot, including Michael’s truck. From where I stood it was impossible for me to see my Cabriolet.