by Jack Parker
"Lay low, wait for the next call," Thawyer recited. He put a shoulder against the bars. "Not much else, bud. Only talked for a minute in case the line was tapped."
"He gave you no instructions of any sort to hit 4 Whitefield Avenue in Richwood?" Slyder interjected brusquely.
"Nope," Thawyer returned. Apparently he was the one dictating the dialogue now because Harris was saying nothing. "Toldja that already. Are we done here?"
With my peripheral vision, I saw Slyder close his notebook, so I turned away from the bars. "Let's get out of here."
"Thank you for your cooperation," the Chief told the two crooks, more out of habit than genuine gratitude. To me, he said, "Let's get forensics over to the cannery – see if we can't find anything there. If this guy was basing his operation there, then he's got to be local, probably within a ten–mile radius. Also, let's check the phone records at the Pitman hotel and see if we can't come up with a time and place where he might have reached them."
Behind us, I heard Harris chuckle. "Gotta hand it to you cops," he said loudly, affecting an arrogant, sing–song tone. "You really try your hardest."
The Chief and I had turned to leave, but Harris' comment spun me back around. Unsurprisingly, I've never been one to take condescension well, especially not from a murderer and rapist. Christ may have condescended on my behalf, but at least He'd done it lovingly. Slyder reached out and caught my arm as I turned back towards the cell, restraining me – as if there was anything I could do to them when unarmed and separated by bars.
"Forget it, Stikup," he growled in my ear, but the anger was already boiling in my guts, ready to explode.
"Daniels forgives you," I blurted at the pair, past the tense shoulder of the interposing security guard.
Harris stared at me in confusion. "Who?"
I probably was in violation of some victim/criminal confidentiality–bullshit–liaison law, but plowed on without caring. "Daniels – the husband of the woman you butchered. He forgives you." I glared hard at the man. "Don't know if you still have a conscience or not, but if you do, I hope you think about that while you're rotting in this cell. Your goddamn lust has ruined this guy's life, but he's decided to forgive you and not press any charges."
Silence fell, interrupted only by buzzing fluorescents and distant grumblings from the surrounding inmates. Neither criminal said anything, and neither did Slyder or the security guard. There was a strange tension hanging on all of us suddenly, an air of poignant conviction manifested in all present – regardless of guilt or innocence. I wasn't satisfied, but there was no sense in screaming at the bastards. After all, you can't change someone's mind for them, no matter how vehemently you argue.
"Dammitt, let me go," I growled at Slyder, tearing my arm from his grasp and turning once more to leave.
He followed wordlessly in my wake as I stormed down the hall, still wearing his characteristic frown of perpetual indifference. Yet I caught a glimpse of a peculiar look in his eyes as we checked out of security and headed back to the car, a visible revelation that tore away all my perceptions of the man in an instant. I'll never forget it until the day I die.
That was the one time in my entire life that I've ever seen Kevin Slyder show signs of that human weakness called emotion.
* * *
Even the combined strength of coffee and Aspirin failed to cure my head of bothersome thoughts and a fortified headache as I sat in my office chair that afternoon, feeling exhausted despite the early hour. It was about 2:00 and the sky outside was overcast, but a fire was still dancing in the hearth, warming the small room against the chill. Down the hall, Jill was singing Hotel California while she worked, and meanwhile I was getting nothing accomplished.
Needless to say, I'd been thinking about the conversation with Thawyer and Harris earlier at the penitentiary. Sure, I'd managed to embarrass myself again, but more importantly, I kept feeling like there were questions I hadn't asked – or at the very least, answers for which I hadn't dug deep enough. As Slyder had said, it seemed that the sphere of this crime was relatively small and close to home, which rendered the lack of any clarity somewhat inexplicable.
But maybe we'd find something at the cannery. Forensics was probably there even as I sat.
Get something done in the meantime, I told myself. Redeem the time, for the days are evil.
Somehow, I was sure using the Scripture in this instance was out of context, but I scooped up my pen again anyway. Motivation is motivation, after all. Unfortunately, my hand seemed to have forgotten how to write coherent words, so I tossed the utensil down again within minutes and got to my feet instead, wincing as my head pounded in protest. I hate those apathetic moods. Normally, it wouldn't have been a major problem, but now – with a hot case on my hands – it was like having writer's block.
For the last chapter of the novel you've been working on for years.
The telephone rang suddenly, a blessing in disguise. I smiled at the interruption: now I wouldn't have to feel guilty about wasting time. Hopefully it was someone with something long, boring, and unnecessarily detailed that they wanted to discuss.
I picked up after the first ring. "Stikup agency."
"So I didn't forget your number," the woman at the other end said. "I couldn't remember whether it was –8543 or –9543. Just goes to show that my memory isn't all that bad."
"Well hi there," I said, seating myself on the windowsill. "What's up?"
Her tone of voice was genial and carefree, which meant the medication had effectively taken the pain out of her knees for the day. "I forgot to ask you yesterday if you'd be able and willing to take me out shopping sometime this week. Only if you feel like it, mind you – if you don't have time, I'll take the bus."
"Oh, anything for you, Ma." I swept my gaze up and down the street outside, trying to remember what Swedesboro looked like without snow covering everything. "When do you want to go?"
My mother had always been one to drop subtle hints rather than ask directly for whatever it was she wanted. For a long moment, she acted as though she was thinking. "Well, whenever you're up to going, Chance. I just need to get there sometime this week."
I'd already begun donning my coat, which had previously been draped over the arm of my sofa. "Tell you what, I'm not even busy right now. It's the damndest thing – all the work I was just doing seems to have gone away… Weird. How's twenty minutes sound?"
She laughed outright, pleased that her tactics had worked and simultaneously amused that I'd seen through them. "Thank you, Chance. I really appreciate all you do for your ancient mother."
I grimaced and words I never meant to say escaped my lips. "Just doing what Dad neglected to."
Her voice lost some of its good humor, but she refused to let me change the subject to one of unpleasantness. "I'll be ready when you get here. If I don't come out when you beep the horn, just assume that I fell asleep on the sofa."
"Righto."
I hung up and headed down the hall, wondering why I'd chosen that particular moment to drop an emotionally laden bomb on my mother. It didn't make any sense, considering we rarely spoke about my father and I hadn't been in one of my depressed I'm–this–way–because–of–my–neglected–childhood moods recently. Sure, I had a lot of baggage left over from that relationship (or lack thereof), but I never let it flare up in my face when it was unwanted. In fact, on most days it felt like I'd never even had a father, and it was better that way.
There was no sense dwelling on the matter – not now. I'd picked apart the past and compartmentalized it over and over again, stripping the skeleton of memory like a vulture. It didn't need another rehash because there was nothing left to glean.
Before leaving, I stopped in Jill's office. She was busy sorting through various folders in her cabinet and didn't look up immediately when I entered. Probably reorganizing, I thought distractedly, smiling at her when she noticed my presence.
"Is the magical coffee cabinet empty again?" I asked.
"Probably," she replied. "Considering you drink so much."
"Careful there, Ms. Fereday," I growled warningly, falling heavily against the doorjamb. "You should be thankful I'm not an alcoholic."
"Trust me, I am." Reaching up over her head, she pulled opened the cabinet where we stored the coffee and assorted snacks. Behind a box of staling granola bars there was some Folgers and a can or two of Maxwell House. It wasn't Starbucks, but it was something.
"We should be okay for a few weeks," Jill said, closing the cabinet again.
I winked at her. "I'll be back in a few hours – dearest mother requires my free chauffeuring service."
She yawned heavily, reaching for the ceiling. "Ugh. I might take a nap while you're gone. Oh, I meant to ask you if you wanted me to file the new case info for you."
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "There is some junk that requires your superb organizational skills, but I doubt that you'll be able to find anything amidst the mess. And I don't want you cleaning anything up because then I won't be able to find anything. I'll get it all to you when I come back."
"As ordered." She waved, then yawned again. "See you then."
"Sofa's open if you wanna sleep," I called as I headed for the front door.
The Weatherby Apartment complex in downtown Mantua was nicely landscaped with sprawling gardens of flowers and trees and there was a security station at the entrance to keep out any troublemaking delinquents who weren't residents. It was a nice little environment for the elderly to relax after suffering through life for so long. I showed the tollbooth guy – as I called him – the card that proved I was a relation to a resident and parked the Anglia in front of building A a minute later.
My mother lived in apartment 12 on the second floor of building A. She stood on the balcony outside her door waiting for me, a shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders against the frigid day.
"I didn't fall asleep!" she called proudly as I got out of the car, as though she deserved an award for the feat. "I would have put this off until tomorrow if I'd known it was this cold out, though."
I held out my arms, looking up at her. "Jump down, Ma – I'll catch you!"
She laughed and instead headed for the stairwell. I'd always been proud of the way I could make her laugh with the simplest joke. Maybe she just humored me because I was her son, or possibly just had a lousy sense of humor, but it still was a nice feeling regardless. I met her halfway and helped her down the rest of the flight and over to the Anglia.
She was only 62 and didn't walk with a cane despite her arthritis, but stairs made her nervous. She was shorter than me by a good ten inches, rounder about the middle, but possessed of the firm energy my father had always displayed. Her graying curls fell just past her chin, brushing her shoulders, and blue eyes twinkled at me from behind a thin pair of spectacles: her eyesight had always been another strong point.
"Anywhere in particular you want to go?" I asked as I opened the passenger door for her.
She grunted as she dropped heavily into the Anglia. "When are you gonna get a new car, Chance? This one's too low. Oh, I don't care where we go – whatever's closest and cheapest."
"That's the real trick, isn't it?" I got in the driver's side, gunned the engine, and headed back the way I had come.
The only reason she hadn't demand an explanation for my black–and–blue countenance was because she'd already done so on Sunday, the last time I'd seen her. I'd given a simplified, censored version of what had transpired, although I suspected she knew I hadn't told her the whole story. Truth be told, my injuries were getting better, and although they remained sore and relatively unsightly, they were bearable. Passersby weren't staring nearly as much anymore, and that was something.
Our ride to the market was short but enjoyable. My mother and I had always gotten along admirably, and we chitchatted about anything that came to mind, from the awful weather to traffic to finances. It was around 3:30 when we pulled into the treacherous Acme parking lot in Woodbury. Snow was pushed up against the curbs and over the islands to make room for the cars. Slush and ice made the lot into a slippery deathtrap.
I helped my mother out of the car and kept an arm around her waist as we crossed the lot. It was a relief to get inside, both because the heat was blasting and because there was no more immediate danger of falling. We set about our shopping tasks without incident; she headed to the meat aisle while I headed in the opposite direction in search of cereal.
Dividing and conquering.
Regardless of one's background and personal eating habits, selecting cereal remains the hardest of all shopping decisions. Too many options plus too many opportunities for decoder rings always kept me juggling boxes of Cheerios and Kix for unnecessary amounts of time.
Of course, I've never really been able to make up my mind about anything.
"Struck by indecision, Stikup?"
I almost thought that the speaker was my mother for a moment, but two things clued me off. One, she and I weren't on a last name term basis, and two, she didn't have a deep and gravelly masculine voice. I turned to face the speaker and blinked in surprise as I saw Robert Mendoza standing there, dressed in his usual checkered flannel and faded blue jeans.
He grinned at my surprise.
"Oh – yeah." I held up the box of Apple Jax. "I was just trying to decide whether excessive amounts of sugar in the morning would actually help wake me up faster or just clog my arteries. But then again, if it tastes good, you can't go wrong. What are you doing here, Robbie? This is the last place I'd counted on running into you."
He shifted several packages of bacon from one arm to the other so as to shake my hand. "You don't think that I just go out back and kill squirrels for dinner, do you?"
I showed him my teeth. "Actually, that possibility did occur to me, believe it or not."
"Chance! Be a gentleman and introduce me to your friend!"
I turned to greet my mother, who had just come down the aisle pushing a cart laden with coldcuts and packaged meats. I gestured with a hand in Mendoza's direction. "Mother, this is Robert Mendoza. Robbie, this is my mother, Ellen."
Mendoza gently shook my mother's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Stikup."
"Ellen is just fine." My mother smiled up at the hunter, who towered over her. "And the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Mendoza. How do you know my son? He has so many people he knows because of his job that I lose track."
I winked at her. "I'm trying to find the guys who stole his car."
My mother chuckled as she reached out to give my forearm a squeeze. "He's such a nice boy. Always trying to help people."
"Yeah, well I get paid for it," I said.
The three of us shared a chuckle at my rather lame joke, and then my mother continued the polite conversation. "So where do you live, Mr. Mendoza? I'm assuming you're local."
He shrugged, somewhat awkwardly. "Around near the edge of Swedesboro. I own a shop in Cherry Hill. And yourself?"
My mother rolled her eyes at the reference to work. "I've been retired for about fifteen years now, though I work hard every morning just to get out of bed. I live in the Weatherby Apartment complex just down the way."
Mendoza nodded. "Okay. I know where that is. My cousin and his wife used to live there." He glanced over at me. "It's a good place."
I jerked my head in my mother's direction. "At least she likes it. Usually she's so picky about everything."
My mother slapped my arm playfully, arguing that she was an appreciative woman, but Mendoza laughed. "I think all mothers are, Stikup," he said, and then checked his watch. "I've got to be going. It was nice talking to you Stikup. Nice to meet you, Ellen."
He shook my hand again, then departed for the checkout, shoulders hunched as he walked.
My mother took the cereal boxes from my hands, relieving me of the burden, and dropped them into our cart. "Don't worry about the cereal, Chance – I have a coupon." She gave me a motherly smile. "Mr. Mendoza was a very nice young man. I'
m pleased that you hold with such good company."
I smiled as I began pushing the cart down the aisle. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call him young, but I guess that's a relative term." I waited until she had smacked my arm again, then continued. "Yeah, I do know some pretty nice people. You should meet my secretary."
My mother threaded her arms through my right and gave me a playful nudge with her shoulder. "That pretty young lady who works for you? I think that you should take her out to dinner one of these days, Chance. You can't stay single all your life."
Unfortunately, I'd already been giving the matter an inordinate amount of thought. I sighed as I dug an undamaged jar of peanut butter off the shelf to my left and dropped it into the cart. "Ma, I'm thirty-two years old. I don't think anyone is interested in starting a relationship at my age."