by Nina Post
A narcotics detective had one of the shelves fall on him and someone was looking at his leg as he winced in pain. A few people rushed into the large room from the lower or upper floors. Shawn recognized people from the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Team, a couple from the Airport Drug Interdiction Team, and someone from the Audio and Video Forensic Unit.
There was help, and no one else seemed injured. Shawn, feeling lightheaded and shaky, took the stairs a few floors down to the ground floor and looked up at the building. It didn’t look good. Bits were coming off. But it was still holding together. At that moment, a chunk of the stone work crumbled to the street, narrowly missing a woman with a stroller.
Flooded with worry about Comet, and Sarah, he rushed to his latest motor pool requisition, his third so far that week, calling Sarah on the way.
Shawn parked in his narrow side driveway and went in the back door, which led right into the kitchen. He was immediately accosted by cats, and was at a point where he could admit he was exhausted. He would have to get some sleep. This case was really getting to him, or he was even more tired than he thought, because how could he possibly have this many identical cats in his house?
He wanted to cry, it was so perplexing, and he was so tired, couldn’t he just sleep for a few hours? His eyes felt so sandy it was like he was an extra in Star Wars or Ishtar, and he felt like he had the flu — his body ached and he was too warm.
He checked the cats’ food and water supply and refilled some of the bowls, getting about half the food on the floor and not caring at all. He changed two of the litter boxes, which seemed like a task not that dissimilar from cleaning out the Augean stables.
By the time he did that, with the cats trying their damnedest to get in his way the whole time, it was all he could physically manage to thoroughly wash his hands and kick off his shoes. Using a special, as-yet-untapped or known reserve of energy, he surprised himself by thinking to put a sheet on the bed, then taking off his pants and shirt before climbing onto his damaged mattress with a sheet bunched up as a pillow.
His sublime bed. Even with a gash in the middle. Even with no pillows or sheets.
“Oh yeaaah, s’nice,” he murmured, pulling another extra sheet over him, just before falling into a deep sleep.
The phone woke him several hours later. He blinked at the clock. It was late, but not that late. He operated entirely on muscle memory and habit to pick up the receiver.
“I found homes for more of the cats!” Sarah, excited.
“Good, that just leaves dozens more,” he mumbled, hung up, then went back to sleep.
After four hours of sleep, Shawn woke in a panic then wondered why Comet wasn’t jumping on the bed when he woke up. He got dressed in less-wrinkled clothes then drove back to the squad offices, worried about the aftereffects of the quake. The moon looked oddly mottled and gray, and flickered in and out of visibility. And as he drove past Mundo Mart, the pavement erupted up in a grumbling fissure, like a badly-stitched wound, cracking all the way down to the light and beyond.
Another quake? What are the chances of that?
The asphalt rose right up under his car and he felt and heard the damage. It lifted his car so high that the wheels were raised off the street and the car came to an immediate halt. There were only a few other vehicles on the road at the time, and except for one that had just turned off, the others were in the same predicament.
He made the call to the motor pool and requested another car. They assumed he was joking and hung up. He called back and said no, really, and got another vehicle requisitioned. He had them transfer him to the department so he could request that the closest patrol officer drive him to work.
The towing company was making a mint off him lately.
They had cleaned up most of the major damage inside the squad room, and Shawn felt a flash of guilt that he hadn’t helped more. Back at his desk, he took out Haviland Sylvain’s notebook and opened it to the first page.
He hated that he didn’t know where Comet was, didn’t know if he was safe.
Haviland had a lot of notes about someone she didn’t name, and how she feared becoming “contaminated” by them. She hadn’t talked to anyone about it, just Robert, but “remained vague, since I still have a problem trusting anybody, even Robert or Kendall.”
That must have been the Emotional Contamination Robert had mentioned. Whom did she fear, though? It didn’t seem like it was either Robert or Kendall.
The heiress had become increasingly concerned that contact with one of her employees would put her in danger. Part of Haviland’s fear was that she would become like this particular employee, that she wasn’t strong enough to avoid taking on their qualities – which he knew from her journal. Was it Carolyn’s prescription drug habit and lack of self-control? Was it Vincent’s overbearing attitude? Robert’s certitude and principled rigidity? Skitch’s crudity, sexual forwardness and…Skitch-ness?
Haviland had made some other notes in a script that retained its elegance while getting more excitable, less controlled. She was scared of becoming stuck in time, and “utterly petrified” that she would somehow get stuck with her husband’s family. She was convinced that she had “caught” their bad qualities and was wrongly included in their bad karma, despite being a victim of it, just for being so physically proximate to them. She felt fear and remorse at being “trapped” in the Sylvain house, at getting “more than I had bargained for in my pursuit of revenge.”
Her pursuit of revenge? Maybe Haviland believed the Sylvains were responsible for her father’s death and the pillaging of the lumber, like they were the barbarians at the gate, the Mongol hordes.
“Her husband’s family really did a number on her,” Shawn said to himself.
Haviland went on, in her less panicked moments, to observe how this employee resented being bossed around by Robert. Shawn remembered how Carolyn resented Robert’s insistence on order. The employee had been eating much more than usual from the kitchen, so she wrote. When Robert confronted them about it, they exploded, argued, then stormed into her bedroom from the stairwell door through her closet to confront her about their problem with Robert. The intrusion terrified her and the conversation caused her to stay awake the entire night, anxious, her mind spinning.
But Carolyn Lewis was as thin as a whippet. If she had been eating more than usual, she must have a metabolism like a steam engine. There was also Kendall’s middle-of-the-night sandwich and slice of apple pie, though that was to be expected after transporting anvils. Shawn knew that if he had dragged anvil after anvil down a flight of stairs and into a basement, he would have more than just a sandwich, some chips, and a slice of pie. He would be shoveling all proximate food into his wide-open maw.
Though Haviland did everything she could to avoid them — while still being too self-conscious to tell anyone about it — the employee’s sense of entitlement grew. According to her notes, they gave obvious hints that they should get a raise or a bonus for how helpful they were around the house. They had asked for their own room at the mansion, telling her that they weren’t comfortable where they lived and wanted to be closer so they could be more helpful to her. They wanted more space and to be around “nicer things, like they deserved.”
Haviland noted how the employee seemed to be “pressing down” their anger (she wrote the word Unterdruckung), based on their occasional but worsening outbursts and how much more they were eating. She saw this person taking some of Robert’s medication, though she didn’t think they even knew what it was.
She also noted every time they complained of a physical problem, like a rash, which they seemed to get all the time. But when she suggested they go to the doctor, the employee became overbearing and rude.
“I feel destined to be a prisoner in this home,” Haviland had written on the bottom of one page in small letters. “Lyle is my only bridge to the outside, to anything else.”
Shawn pictured Sarah and Comet. They felt like his bridges, too.
&nbs
p; There were more sketches of the cats, some small, some that took up a half page. Shawn’s new cats.
In every sketch, the cat had mismatched eyes: one blue and one green.
It couldn’t just be coincidence.
Shawn took out his phone and logged in to the webcam address.
When the screen settled, as it always had to do for a moment, it hit him like a blow to the chest. He could see the bars that were likely from a pet carrier not unlike Comet’s. The other Shawn sat at his father’s bed, one hand on his father’s forehead, the other hand covering his father’s hand. Why was this version of himself so much stronger? Why was this version of his father so different? Did this one somehow avoid the draft to Vietnam?
And why could he, this other Shawn, do that? He was angry at himself — and at himself, the other one. He sat back, keeping his eyes on the screen.
He resented the hell out of this asshole. How did this other Shawn get so much more evolved? Why was the other Shawn able to do things he couldn’t bring himself to do?
He was a homicide detective, with years of experience in other divisions under his belt. He had a higher-than-average solve rate, at least until now. He brought down killers. But he couldn’t do this, what he was seeing on the screen.
And his only friend was a cat.
But now there was Sarah.
Sarah, who had probably written him off already as one of those guys who was way too focused on his work, a guy way too sure that if he wasn’t working all the time, the world would collapse.
And she’d be right.
Shawn stayed working at his desk, then fell asleep on it around four-thirty a.m.
He woke up in a hot panic, thinking it had been forty-eight hours now.
That meant forty-nine new cats. Dear God.
He went into the bathroom to wash up. Good thing he had showered and changed the previous night, or he’d be in a wretched state by now. He stopped by the coffeemaker and poured a mug, then returned to his desk.
The captain stalked over. Shawn switched to his default desktop and sat a little straighter.
“Detective. Here all night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have a strong lead on the Sylvain case yet?”
Did he have something? And then it flooded into him. It was kind of like falling in love.
“I need a little more time, but I’m confident I can bring in the suspect, sir.”
“I hope your documentation has been air-tight.”
The captain meant Shawn’s documentation, but also the crime scene unit’s, the patrol officer’s, the first responder’s, and the ME’s documentation.
“Space shuttle-worthy, sir.”
“You’re not the only one who gets pressure on a case like this.” The captain’s look said that he knew Shawn knew this, but could do with a reminder.
The captain gave him one last pointed look and went back to his lair.
Shawn plucked his keys from the top drawer and headed out, taking in the extensive damage to the building. Some repairs had been done the previous day, and there would be workers fixing things for weeks. He resented the imminent noise and dust. He’d have to be outside as much as possible, which is what he liked to do, anyway.
When you stayed in the squad room, there was always someone on your ass about something or trying to talk to you about the game, or asking you to do them a favor. He’d rather be outside, by himself, calling them for favors.
Shawn parked just down the street and returned to Vincent’s mother-in-law apartment above Mrs. Ross’s garage. He walked over to the opposite, south end of the house first, around skeletal rhododendron bushes.
The landlady’s kitchen windows on the back corner of the house looked out over a bird feeder, placed high enough so bears and animals couldn’t get at it — his mother did the same thing. At his left, farther back on the lot, was a well-tended garden, not at its peak considering the season, with unadorned thorny rosebushes and some blooming flowers.
Shawn would be the first to admit he knew very little about horticulture, but he knew someone who did: the ME, who knew everything about everything.
He leaned in closer to look at the red and yellow flowers. As little as he knew about flowers, he would guess that these were poppies. He glanced at the house and speed-dialed the ME’s office number.
“I need your help.”
“Aren’t men adorable?” she said in return. “So helpless. What’s the matter, do you need me to tell you what kind of detergent to buy?”
He laughed. “I’m not that bad. It’s more your horticulture expertise. I need to identify a flower.”
“Bring it by the exam room,” she said, in a cheerful tone.
Shawn scrunched up his face in a grimace. “I kind of need you to look at the garden as a whole. I don’t know what to bring you, and if I tried to email you pictures, I’d be worried that I might miss one. Can you swing by here, take a quick look?”
“What are you looking for?”
“Anything in the ranunculus family.”
“Ah, buttercups – the ones from Lyle’s stomach. Should’ve realized that a minute ago.”
“I wouldn’t exactly recognize it from the contents of Lyle’s stomach. How Dr. Oliver could identify that in Lyle’s stomach so fast is beyond me, and there are a bunch of different kinds of yellow flowers here.”
“Where are you?”
He glanced again at the kitchen. “Mrs. Ross’s house, where Vincent Shuttle lives.”
“And you’re sure the flowers are there?”
“Nope,” he said just as cheerfully.
“What’s the address?”
He gave it to her.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a bit.”
He moved to the back edge of the property and crouched down by the grass, looking for the small yellow weeds he knew as buttercups from what was now too damn long ago. Nothing. He went back to his car to wait for the ME, who pulled up about ten minutes later in her Saab convertible. The top was down and her white-blonde hair was tied up in a silk scarf. She took off her big sunglasses and her scarf and he met her at her car. She was in blue pants, a polka-dot blouse, and a blue cardigan.
“You look like Doris Day. I hope you weren’t in the middle of performing an autopsy.”
“I was in the middle of a song-and-dance number. Actually, I had just gotten in. Besides, I got a corpse-sitter.”
“That has multiple connotations, none of them pleasant.”
They walked toward the backyard of the house.
“Isaac’s making sure the gentleman on the table doesn’t rise from the dead.”
“You know, I think Isaac could handle that kind of situation.”
The ME started at the beginning of the garden and looked closely at it, scanning her eyes up and down as she walked slowly toward the back edge.
“This a nice garden. You’ve got Mums — yellow, orange and copper — flowering cabbage, blue and purple asters. I also see some sages — Mexican sage and pineapple sage,” she pointed to the red flowers, “and a cluster of sunflowers. She has some lovely ornamental grasses,” she gestured to the colorful plumage on the end, “and, of course, this miniature Japanese maple tree. But no buttercups. Now that I think of it, I doubt they would be blooming in a garden. I don’t know where my head’s been at lately. Does she perhaps have a greenhouse?”
Shawn looked around. “No. I’ve been all over this property.” Mums. He sucked at horticulture.
“Well, doesn’t the Sylvain mansion have one?” she tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look.
He looked back to her, startled. “Does it?”
“I’m pretty sure it does.”
“But I’ve been all over that property.”
“It’s bigger than you think.”
“How do you know that?”
“One of those historical mansion walking tours the Jamesville Heritage Council and Chamber of Commerce puts on in the summer.”
Sh
awn winced for missing a structure, however small, on the property. He should have taken the time to look at the blueprints. He didn’t need four whole hours of sleep — he could have done with two. He hadn’t managed his time well enough.
“If I take you there, will you show me?”
She put her hands on her hips.
“We could work something out, if you agreed to feed Henri and Joan next weekend.” Her corgis. “Lauren’s staying with her dad and I have a conference.”
“You drive a tough bargain, Doctor.”
And that would be just a fraction of what he owed her for the late-hour autopsy and necropsy.
They pulled up at the quiet mansion and the ME gestured to the far right, past the carriage house. The sky was getting progressively darker in the day — had been for a day or two. Shawn looked up and saw flashing crinkles of lightning like varicose veins. A strong breeze rifled through the old trees, causing the leaves to whisper.
Dr. Evans pulled her coat closer and led Shawn towards the far south end of the property. They stopped at a wall of ivy that seemed to denote the end of the property line. The ME reached in front of Shawn and traced the edges of a door with her hand. He pulled down on the overgrowth, and it revealed a greenhouse made out of the same brownstone as the main house and the carriage house.
“I certainly can’t blame for you for not noticing this,” Dr. Evans said, trying to get the door open. It wasn’t locked, but it seemed to be stuck. She worked on it for a minute, then stepped away so he could try it. “Tricky thing.”
He jiggled the handle and kicked the bottom of the door lightly, then it opened.
“You loosened it for me.” She winked.
The interior of the greenhouse was much warmer and more humid than the outside temperature, which didn’t surprise him. It was lush with orchids, their branches curling wildly around their fuzzy brown pots. The ME ducked under and around the flowers as she walked down the middle. She stopped suddenly at a row of puffy red, yellow, and orange flowers — what he would have guessed were poppies — and leaned in to look closer. Then she straightened and turned her bright smile at him.