A Twist of the Knife

by Becky Masterman

  “That’s pretty sick.”

  “He wants to believe her, that the kids are alive. The only good thing about her is that she keeps him from giving up. Otherwise it’s like—”

  “Like trying to push a freight train with your shoulder? Or like trying to fill up his lungs for him?”

  Laura took a deep breath. I think it reassured her that someone else had felt the same. “Exactly like. You know.”

  The mention of lungs and the slowing of the rain made me call the hospital again. Mom answered this time, and I tried not to beat myself up for not being there when she was always there, as if we were in competition. Sure, I cared, I worried, but I could not sit there. You can’t just sit there breathing for the other person. You have to come and go from the hospital room.

  Right? Am I right?

  Yet you think about them while you’re away, and when you find yourself not thinking about them, you feel guilty. Or you wonder if you’ve somehow sealed their death sentence with your momentary lack of caring. Superstitious crap.

  Where was I? Oh, right. Mom said Dad was resting, weak but not in too much discomfort. Just weak. I said I would be there by the late afternoon.

  I hung up and noticed we were approaching I-95. The rain had stopped.

  “How far to the Creighton house?” I asked.

  “Not far. But there’s nothing to see.”

  I knew we both had our reasons for heading back to Fort Lauderdale, but a different route wouldn’t take that much more time, I told myself. I talked Laura into stopping by the Creighton house. Something compelled me to go there, like a pilgrimage.

  Eleven

  We made a turn at the second Vero Beach exit. We were driving east now, past open land that turned into outlet malls that turned into fields again, past the haggard Wabasso Bait and Tackle shop, its rough wood and rusted metal roof holding stubbornly against the tropical storms that routinely blew in off the coast.

  Laura pointed out that if we turned left on Highway 1 we’d come to Shayna Murry’s old place. “She still in the area?” I asked.

  “Yep. I tried repeatedly to get her to talk to me, but nothing doing. She’s sort of broken. She works at a place called Cracker’s Café that’s not too far from her studio.”

  “Art career didn’t go so well, I take it?”

  “No. She’s different now from what she was at the trial. If what she said was true, it’s a hell of a burden to carry with you the rest of your life. Thinking you might have been responsible for a family dying. Even if it’s not true. People look at you and that’s the story they see.”

  And with that mental mountain-goating that sends you skipping from one idea to the next, I asked, mostly myself, “Why did the kids not go to that slumber party?”

  We didn’t have time to talk that part out because the rusticity of the west gave way to the opulent east as we crossed the tall bridge over Indian River, the body of water that takes over the job of the Intracoastal Waterway in this part of the state. At Laura’s direction I made a hard right into an area called Pelican Shores.

  Three houses down the street she pointed out her window. “There it is.” I was rewarded with the sight of nothing. “What?” I said.

  “I told you there was nothing to see.”

  “I didn’t know you meant that literally.”

  “The bank couldn’t sell it, even on prime waterfront property. People too squeamish. So about ten years ago the neighbors all pitched in to buy it from the bank, bulldoze the house, and make a little park. I’ve seen pictures, though. It was gorgeous. Another stupid thing Marcus did, having that house custom-built.”

  “Lemme take a look since we’re here.”

  We headed to the backyard, walking over a grassy rise that might have been the living room. I have to admit that little nerve in my neck, the one that warns me of danger, jumped a bit. I don’t know if it meant I could feel the violence that had once occurred between the walls that would have enclosed me, or whether it was that little thrill at something I didn’t know. I don’t think it was ghosts. Whatever still haunted this place couldn’t hurt anyone unless innocence is terrifying. No, the feeling coming through the soles of my shoes was just sorrow, plain and simple.

  I realized I had been holding my breath as we walked over the ground that had been the house, and the rush of air that filled my lungs now was almost a gasp of relief.

  There was a wide expanse of deep water, deep enough for the thirty-foot sailboat going by as we watched. Across the water, a dense stand of pines blocked the view of anything beyond. In the crook of a dead white tree there was a nest big enough to be seen even from this distance.

  The inlet was at dead low tide and gave off the summer stench of rotting vegetation. Compared to the urine smell of the prison, and the antiseptic smell of the hospital, it was decent.

  Call me selfish, but right at this moment, in this lovely spot, our backs to an invisible house where there’d been wholesale slaughter, I needed to not think about hospitals or prisons. About sickness or death. It’s important to wrest these moments out of time, when you detach from the bad things.

  “Look.” As we stood, an otter swam up to the end of the dock, trusted us, somersaulted, and disappeared. Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite Disney, but still, the otter saved me. Believe it or not, for all the rank odor, and the history, it was a place that eased my heart, and I gotta say, this heart is not easily eased.

  “Did you see the otter?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.” But she had pulled out her phone while I was looking around, and now connected to Wally back at Jefferson. “Thanks for taking care of him, Wally. You’re a good man. How’s he feeling? Okay, I’d sure appreciate it if you keep an eye on him. Tell him again this isn’t over. Would you tell him that? Good man.”

  Apparently the place wasn’t having the same calming effect on Laura. She said, “Maybe Alison Samuels is right. Somebody tried to fake an accident and one of the kids walked in. Very obvious. So they took the kids with them. Maybe they didn’t have the guts to kill children and risked giving them to a trafficker. Maybe they ended up in Thailand. Maybe their organs ended up—”

  “Did you make any friends at your brother’s place in North Carolina?”

  “Make friends?” Laura seemed to climb out of her own brain and notice me for the first time. “Brigid. The time right after Tucson was rough. You noticed that gouge in the top of my desk. Did you wonder why I didn’t have any of my other furniture from the Tucson house? It was because one night I went nuts and trashed the whole place. Took a knife to the sofa cushions and smashed the glass coffee table.” The side of her mouth twitched like she was trying to be flip but failed. Then she got a grip again. “But just as I’m telling you honestly about that, you have to believe I’m okay now.”

  I wanted to tell her I hoped to never see her photo with a small wedding bouquet on the cover of a tabloid, but I didn’t think she’d be amused. So I just said, “And you’ll be okay no matter what happens to Marcus Creighton?”

  As mild a question as that made her reflare momentarily, but she said, “No matter what.”

  I didn’t believe her. “Did you ever skip rocks when you were young? Probably not, growing up in the desert. Dad showed us. Watch.”

  I found a good stone that was flat enough on the bottom, drew back, and flicked it like a Frisbee. It sank like a stone. I tried again, failed. “I guess it’s not like riding a bike.” I tried again and got one skip. Skipping stones makes you think, and I thought about when I’d first met Laura back in Tucson, that affair with a married man, someone unobtainable like Marcus Creighton. What you saw with Laura Coleman wasn’t all there was.

  Still facing away from her I said, “When your life is devoted to saving people, pity can get confused with affection. I know, because it’s happened to me. Laura, you’re going to have to put a lid on the emotional involvement with your client. It’s showing.”

  There was silence, and when I turned to her she was standing,
again, like somebody getting ready to be punched in the gut with a log. Instead of denying it, she said, “You’re damn right I’m emotionally involved. You don’t have to be in love to care desperately for someone in trouble. That’s what emotions are. Jesus, Brigid, haven’t you ever had any feelings at all?”

  I started to comment that I hadn’t actually said anything about being in love, but the flashbulb memories went off again as I thought about all the times I’d gotten involved, then tamped down those feelings, and wondered again if I had any left. Laura took my silence for contrition.

  She said, “I’ll let you have this time, Brigid, but don’t you ever fucking bring it up again.”

  There was nothing more I could say except, “I’ll stop hovering now. Reboot?”

  She nodded, turned, and walked across the grass without looking back. I started to follow her, then stopped another second and stared at where the house would have been. I felt the story, the woman drowsing in the bathtub, the hair dryer on the edge, the person coming in and taking the opportunity.

  Which child saw it happen? Even if I wasn’t in this for Creighton, whom I, too, was pitying despite my best intentions, I was in it for the child who shouldn’t have to watch her mother being electrocuted.

  * * *

  I’d familiarized myself with the case, met the accused, and paid homage to the victims at what was left of the crime scene. Now I wanted to keep the peace.

  “Okay, I’m in the game. What do you need me to do first?” I asked.

  Apparently she’d been honest when she said she’d let it go one time. “You said you had connections. What about with the Indian River physical evidence room? Get them to release the hair dryer?” She asked me if I knew Derek Evers, the caretaker there.

  I was hoping she’d say that’s who it was. “Evers. Evers. Nope, can’t say as I do. But I know people who know him, maybe some pressure in that way.”

  “Let’s go by there now. Double-team him.”

  “Better I go by myself, drop a few names without you hovering around to make him lose face.”

  “You’re talking about a twenty-four-hour delay. We don’t have that much time, and I can’t see you driving up here again tomorrow.”

  “Look, I know Will said he wanted something for the interview, and if I can get the hair dryer tomorrow we’ll have time for Puccio to check it. I know we’re under the gun, but I’d prefer to see Evers when I’ve done my homework, maybe make a few calls. We just have the one chance to do it right. Tell you what. Let’s drop in on Manny Gutierrez. Surprise him. I’ll get you home in time to hustle the cell phone records. That’s more promising.”

  “How do you know him?” Laura asked.

  “Manny Gutierrez was investigated by the FBI for racketeering and Medicare fraud. But they could never build a credible case against him. Smart man, too polished for a hoodlum. You had to admire his talent.”

  “How do you know he lives on A1A?”

  “Just assumed.”

  I headed south on A1A, keeping my eyes on the road, but I could feel Laura’s eyes on me, knowing me better all the time, and because of that not bothering to comment.

  Twelve

  Manny Gutierrez had one of those properties that straddle the road, house on the ocean side, tennis court and boat dock on the Intracoastal side. With a white marble box of a house, and a sad angel presiding over a fountain in the middle of the circular drive, it looked something like a mausoleum.

  We parked the car in the drive between the angel fountain and the front door. As we approached the house, I spotted surveillance cameras hidden under the second-story balconies, and motion-activated spotlights trained on optimum points around the yard.

  One of those chimey doorbells echoed through the interior when Laura pressed it.

  No one came to the door. I waved at the surveillance camera as the intercom attached at the side of the door fuzzed on.

  “Gutierrez residence,” a deep goon voice said.

  “Would you please tell him Brigid Quinn is here?”

  “I am so sorry,” said the goon. “But Mr. Gutierrez is incapacitated and is not entertaining visitors.”

  “That’s a fine long sentence you memorized there,” I said. “But would you please give it a try? We just want to take a look at him.”

  “Mr. Gutierrez is not available for viewing.”

  The fuzz sound went dead.

  Laura was trembling with fury over our dismissal as we walked back to the car.

  “Relax,” I said. “Not everything is a battle, Coleman. I figured he wouldn’t let us in. Mostly I just wanted to let him know I was in town. Throw out a little bait and see if the fish takes it. Now it’s his move.”

  Laura ignored me. “I investigated so many bastards like him when I was doing financial crime. Insurance fraud, collecting Social Security and Medicare off dead people. And they get away with it because we’re only able to track down a small percentage. Manuel Gutierrez. Am I right, or am I right?”

  Even though I’d been prepared to be disrespected, I wasn’t liking it much either, so my response may have been harsher than intended. “Oh, grow a set, would you?” I said, forgetting my intention to keep my trap shut. “Not everyone gets punished for what they’ve done.”

  Laura said, “Can’t help wishing they did.”

  “I hear you. But this is the real deal out here. If you want justice, go watch old episodes of Law & Order.”

  Okay, okay, I know sometimes I lose patience and open my mouth and crap like that comes out. I dropped Coleman back at her place, parting with her on slightly less than the best of terms.

  * * *

  It’s about six. I brought two turkey sandwiches and ate mine an hour ago. Now I’m considering eating Mom’s, only because she doesn’t want it and I don’t have anything else to do. Dad’s sleeping, his ragged breath the only sound in the room, countered by unnecessarily loud voices out in the hall, punctuated by that squeechy sound of rubber-soled shoes that reminds me of the guard’s step on death row.

  Mom is staring impassively at Dad from a chair at the foot of the bed. I wonder if she’s thinking anything or if she goes blank. I’m in another chair by the side of the bed with my feet up on the lower part of the metal sidebar, staring out the window, having given up on conversation. I’ve been running the day through my head and wondering why Marcus Creighton was so sure his children were alive. If they weren’t killed that night, what happened? Could they be saved even now? You think he’s innocent, don’t you, Quinn? They put away an innocent man. No. Wait for the corroborating evidence before you go Full-On Coleman. But we’ve only got five days to get that stay of execution.

  I will not look at my watch. That would be indelicate.

  I called the hospitalist, Dr. Jason McGee, twice. He hasn’t returned my calls. I left a written message at the nurses’ station, too. This is pissing me off.

  What has been easier than this? That time I happened to be near ground zero of a bomb blast. I wasn’t hurt myself, but I was able to assist the paramedics. I look at Dad. If he had a sucking chest wound I might actually be of use here. Otherwise, I just sit and wait.

  I’m not good at sitting and waiting. It’s not my thing, my forte, my strong suit. I don’t hate my parents; they never hurt me. But how do people do this, year after year of dealing with illness? Listen to yourself, it’s only been two days. Three?

  Suck it up, Brigid Quinn, you ungrateful little shit. This is not about you.

  No wonder Todd doesn’t want to be here. He did this with his sick wife, with Marylin. I don’t give a fuck if he had enough. He needs to visit Dad. I’ll tell him that to his face when I see him in the morning.

  I feel bad, wanting to look at my watch.

  I really don’t want my father to die, but would you say that’s because I love these people? If I do, why am I feeling so hateful?

  * * *

  Thinking about my father dying makes me think of Creighton. Creighton. I need to keep Creigh
ton alive, at least until we know the truth.

  The truth makes me think about Derek Evers. Contrary to what I told Laura, we had a history, Derek and me. Here’s what you need to know, and forgive me if I don’t use names.

  There was this guy I worked with some, a detective in the Tequesta County Sheriff’s Office. He was such a good man. Good family man, with two daughters.

  One day the detective called me. Said he had no one else to call and would I meet him. We met at that Denny’s on Commercial Boulevard that I mentioned. We both ordered pie. Cherry. He didn’t eat his, just let it sit in front of him. I didn’t eat mine either, once I started listening to him.

  He’d been working a case of child sexual abuse. The father. Mother in denial. The child had told her teacher, and the kid was taken out of the home and put in custody. The kid was in the second grade, so they called in a specialist to interview her. What my friend didn’t know was that the specialist had a bad track record. During the grand jury it was brought out that in two cases the specialist had bent the rules a little, fudged the interviews. It called into question the eight-year-old’s testimony, which was all they had. For once the grand jury, which will usually indict a dead dog, failed to do so. The child was given back to the parents.

  “You were certain?” I asked.

  “I swear to God I was certain,” he said.

  “That’s good enough for me,” I said.

  “It’s not good enough for that kid,” he said. He tried to eat a forkful of his pie but dropped the fork and stared at it. This was the case that would break him. “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle,” he said to the pie.

  Given what I had seen God dishing out to people, I had grown disenchanted with that line long before then, and blurted, “Then why do people commit suicide?”