by Jack Parker
However strangely, I always found that I did my best thinking by talking to myself, so I began going over everything verbally. I knew it would certainly help to make some coffee, but I refused to let myself get distracted again. Besides, I was hoping to get to bed at a decent hour, and the caffeine would defeat that purpose.
The first thing I did was clear the bulletin board (hanging by the window) of calendars, postcards, and other random papers and instead applied selected photographs to the board's surface with thumbtacks. That way I could keep the relevant images at hand while leaving the rest in the bag, the better to keep my thoughts organized. I did my best to arrange them in chronological order, but I was only running on memory and the dates and times I had recorded for myself. I stood in front of the board for a good amount of time, gazing at the selected photos and telling myself that I was getting nowhere.
I licked my lips as I turned and paced the floor, arms crossed over my chest. "There's nothing new here. Everything was dusted, so there's no chance of missed fingerprints. The photographs are only helping me remember, not discover, and there are no hidden clues in that note Slyder found."
I laughed aloud and posted my hands on my hips. "This, my friend, is called a dead end. There's nothing you can do about it – it's not your fault. What you need to do is back up and get out of the alley. You need to get some more suspects because you can already eliminate the ones you've got, and there weren't many to begin with."
I drained the cider, then seated myself on the bed, cradling the empty glass in my hands.
There had to be something here that would link the crooks we'd already nabbed with the unknown employer – and the supposed other group of cronies. I had the distinct sense that the missing link was right there in front of me – I just didn't know what that something was. Or where.
If only it was as easy as it is in the movies. I grimaced, shaking my head in frustration. I might actually get a happy ending.
Well, this was where the rabbit trail ended. There was no way around it, that was for damn sure.
I stood in a rush, slammed the empty glass down on the desktop, and then stalked out of the bedroom, heading for the bathroom. There was nothing more to do but splash water on my face and go to bed. I tended to do some pretty good thinking as I was falling asleep, but I wasn't really counting on it. Besides, whatever the outcome, I would feel much better in the morning, and maybe some fresh ideas would come to me over coffee and oatmeal.
I crawled naked beneath the sheets a few minutes later, feeling frustrated and discouraged.
Sleep quickly stole over me.
Chapter Seventeen
We are standing on her front steps. Everything around us is surreal, from the Van Gogh sky to the muted yellow streetlamps, to the shadowy streets twisting like tedious arguments. I think it is snowing, and certainly it is cold, but I can't be sure about anything else.
Nothing is clear.
Nothing but Jill.
Her figure and face are lucid and distinct against the uneven lines and swirls playing around us. She is the rock in the rapids, the diamond in the rough, the only tangible, solid thing to be found.
I have been saying something to her – something that has set my heart at triple–pace – but now I freeze, unsure of where to pick up. What wasI saying? Amnesia sets in, and I panic as my mind goes completely blank, erased like an Etch–a–Sketch.
Tabula rasa.
I make the mistake of looking up at her, only to see that the smile on her face has grown, the twinkle in her eyes gleaming more brightly than before. I quickly look away again, terrified, but suddenly the words are back again, tumbling from my lips. Relief pools in my guts, cooling the fever in my heart.
"I… I didn't mean to scare you that day in the office."
Ah. So it is this conversation. We have had this conversation several times, just never before on her front steps.
My heart beats faster.
"I know that was kind of a misunderstanding… but I… I… Well, to put it bluntly, I don't want to stay single forever. And you, well you… You're all I've ever wanted in a woman, Jill."
There. I've finally said it, and there is no taking it back now. I've turned down the road less traveled by, I've locked the gate behind me. I've leapt from the cliff into the blue, and now I can only hope that something or someone below will catch me.
Freefall.
Despite my frantic heart rate, the words are coming easier now. "I'll understand if you say no," I tell her, casting my gaze back to my feet. "I mean, a girl like you deserves so much better than a creep like me who dreams for a living, so – I just want you to be happy. Okay? You don't have to do me any favors."
"Chance…"
I am surprised to see the tears in her eyes. This time, my heart stops. Did I say something wrong? Wait, wait, I tell myself, full reverse. Back up and try this again.
She opens her mouth to say something, but the words stay behind her eyes. Yet there's no need for them to escape. That look, sparkling with tears and heavy with meaning, tells me all I need to know – all I have everwanted to know.
And then she is pressed up against me, kissing me long, hard.
Passionately.
I am surprised for a moment, but just a moment. I'm a detective – I'm paid to be a quick thinker. I put my arms around her and kiss her back. It has been a long, long, long time since I have kissed anyone, so my skills are probably way out of practice, but Jill doesn't seem to mind.
We stand holding each other, the snow streaming down around us, locked in love's desirable cage.
"Chance…" Jilly murmurs as she reluctantly breaks the kiss. "I've… I've wanted to tell you for so long… I can't believe that you love me… I never thought… Oh, Chance!"
I reach up with my hands and brush away her tears. "Hey, hey – none of that now. I'm so sorry I didn't make mention of this before. I just… I didn't want to pose the question, and – quite frankly – I wasn't exactly sure what I was feeling for you. I guess I just didn't remember that love feeling, huh? But don't worry – this is more than a feeling. This goes beyond feeling! I –"
I realize I am rambling and I grin lopsidedly, lost in her green–eyed gaze. She laughs, wiping away the rest of her tears with the back of a gloved hand.
"I think this is probably the best Christmas gift you've given me in all these years you've worked for me," I say. "It's early, but I'll definitely forgive you. Can't ever get enough early Christmas gifts."
Jilly laughs a cloud of mist, a giddy lover's laugh. And then she is kissing me again, and I, her. We cling to each other as though we will never see each other again, our mouths exploring one other's.
Wow, I think dazedly. Whodathunk? Me. Chance Stikup. Detective. Bachelor. Owner of the crappiest place from here to kingdom come. Dry–humored, unshaven, poor, shabby, not–the–brightest–star–in–the–universe old me, kissing Jill Fereday. In the middle of a snowstorm.
The absurdity of it makes me want to laugh aloud.
I have blocked all other thoughts and activity from my mind at this moment, save for the first woman in twenty years who has just told me she loves me. I am lost in Jilly's warm embrace, holding her close as the snow continues to fall. My mind is buzzing as our lips meet for a third time, then a fourth and fifth.
For once in my life, I can't think of anything to say.
I can't think at all.
Jilly gives me a smile, laughs as she wipes lipstick from my mouth, and then kisses me again, knocking my fedora askew. I hold her tighter, not caring who sees. I love this girl, and she loves me, and that is all that matters.
I could have completely ignored the sharp crack that echoes through the dark, snowy night surrounding us. The sound is harsh. It makes Jill flinch as it unendingly reverberates around us, like ripples in a pool, filling the liquid sky around us.
And then I have the distinct sense that – suddenly – something is not right.
Something is wrong.
But I cannot pull myself away from Jill; nothing matters more to me now. I could not break this everlasting kiss if I wanted to –
And then two things happen, two things that perfectly destroy that perfect moment of perfect bliss. The first is a stinging across my right side: sharp, instantaneous, hot. I almost ignore it, assuming it to be nothing, maybe a product of the cold. But then the second thing happens: my mouth suddenly fills with hot, salty blood.
Jilly's blood.
She slumps in my embrace, and I fight to hold her upright. My mind is in shock as I look into her green eyes, see that the twinkle is gone from them, that intelligent gaze dulling with a stupidity inspired by death –
"No!" I hear myself scream, a sound that resonates, echoing on forever and ever in the blur that is the world around us.
Jill Fereday crumples in my arms.
Blood trickles from the corners of her mouth and her eyelids flutter as she fights to remain conscious. Her lips part slightly, more blood dribbling down her chin as she struggles to speak. But only a moan escapes her lips. Her body is so, so cold.
I gently lower her to the snow–covered pavement, my mind in a perfect panic, bleakly musing whether or not I should go get a band–aid –
The bullet has passed through her heart and lung. There is a bloody, ragged hole just above her left breast. A mortal wound: she probably only has minutes left, if not seconds. Blood pools beneath her, staining both concrete and snow as I smooth the hair from her forehead.
And as I finally realize what is happening, I am terrified. Beyond terrified. I am become fear itself. Every awful and terrible imagination is coming together as one entity in me: Chance Stikup, Child of Wrath. My whole body trembles, but I have not the strength in me to do anything. I fight to scream but cannot so much as whisper. This helpless feeling only increases the panic, bleeding the feeling from my limbs, rendering me numb and incapable of doing anything –
All I can do is clutch her gloved right hand, pulling it close to my chest, trembling.
"Jilly!" I get out, barely hissing her name.
Her eyes open. She blinks away mist, seeking me with her gaze. Her placid eyes meet my frantic ones, and she smiles at me, revealing bloodstained teeth. Her trembling right hand finds my cheek.
"Chance," she says, and her voice is strong. Forever strong. That's my Jilly. "You know what to do."
And then her eyelids flutter closed once more, her chest heaves with tremendous effort, and her hand falls away from my face. Her life rushes away, and she is gone. A handprint in her blood remains on my cheek: I can feel the warm wetness of it there. The hand I hold to my chest falls away, leaving her empty glove in my grasp.
Time stops. Sound stops. My heart stops.
But only for an eternal moment – the last, painful moment of Jill Fereday's existence. This is the stuff of nightmares: hello, goodbye, and nevermore.
I stare open-mouthed, tears pouring unheeded down my face, the inner turmoil rendering me speechless. I cannot think. I cannot feel.
And suddenly time returns and I breathe again. The screams tearing my throat echo unendingly as shots in the dark, unheard by anyone. I am Edward Munch and Allen Ginsberg and T. S. Eliot, howling for what was mine for so short a time, berating what is and what is to come, and damning the catalyst that has caused the change to eternal torment and solitude in the deepest level of hell that exists.
There is no God.
I am alone.
The wind is picking up, but the city surrounding us is gone into the blackness. The gale is increasing, tearing through my coat and my very flesh. I huddle over Jilly, dazed and confused and lost and scared, trying futilely to keep her poor, broken body warm.
And the swirling night – a black, ice–filled void – swallows us together.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday, December 8th
I woke screaming.
In a drowsy panic, I threw away the covers and clawed my way out of the bed, desperate to flee the terror therein. I stumbled as I failed to get my feet beneath me and heard my knee crunch as it struck the floor first. The primal shock of agony from my knee flashed straight to my brain, jerking me instantly back into consciousness. I flailed desperately for something solid in a futile attempt to catch myself, but managed to grab nothing more than a fistful of papers from the desk surface, and collapsed to the floor as a result.
Gasping, I rolled over, grabbed a fistful of bedsheets with my free hand, and drew myself up to a sitting position. My heart raced on as I clung there, pitifully supporting myself, eyes clenched against the waves of pain radiating from my destroyed knee. My chest heaved painfully as I wheezed for breath.
Jilly.
The nightmare remained vivid, disjointed bits of it flashing before my eyes as I huddled there against the bed, shivering. At that moment, I knew fear like I had never experienced before – fear that I hope to never suffer again. It was pure terror in its finest form, and it ate away at me inside.
I dashed a hand across my face, hard enough to hurt. Come on, I snarled in my head, fighting fear with fury. You've never scared easily before. Why now?
Why this?
My throat was parched and painful: I had been screaming in my sleep and I tasted blood on my tongue. I needed a drink, something cool and refreshing – anything besides coffee. All the caffeine must have gone directly to my brain.
Or my heart, I thought as that part of me continued thrumming on in overdrive.
I staggered to my feet, releasing the scrunched papers I'd held captive in my right fist. Stumbling, wincing, I staggered over to the desk chair and grabbed up my bathrobe. Wrapping the garb tightly around my naked flesh, I made my way out of the bedroom and stumbled down the dark hall.
The tap was freezing when I turned the kitchen faucet, cold enough to numb my hand. I filled a glass to overflowing and raised it unsteadily to my lips. The first mouthful I spat back into the sink – to wash out the sour taste of sleep and blood – but the second I let slide down my throat, ending the drought therein. The freezing liquid helped clear my head, and I slowly began to calm. The only thing persisting was that gnawing sensation of dread.
Jilly
Get a fucking grip, Stikup, I thought at myself in frustration. You're no prophet and you're not a young man anymore so you'd better not be seeing visions.
For a long while, I stood there, bracing a hip against the counter. Cold sweat tightened my flesh into goose pimples and the robe did nothing to warm me. Ignoring the sensation, I forced myself to think nothing and instead concentrated on breathing more naturally, slowing my heart rate back to some semblance of normalcy. Finally, kneading my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, I pushed off of the sink and hobbled back to the bedroom, leaving the empty glass in the sink behind me.
I crawled back into the bed, berating myself – partly out of frustration, partly out of personal humiliation. What in hell could have made me so jumpy over a goddamn nightmare? Sure, it could have been the scotch, or maybe something else – maybe something resulting from a disturbance on the emotional plane, but neither seemed a likely candidate. Maybe the dream was simply a product of my failure to speak my heart to Jill earlier that evening, and regret had spawned a nightmare.
But why?
Robert Mendoza's words came back to me one final time, ringing off the inside of my skull, echoing incessantly, faintly disturbing. What he'd said was driving me mad. If I didn't speak my heart to Jill, I was quite literally going to go crazy.
I laughed at the thought and scratched at the shadow of stubble on my neck with fingers that still weren't quite steady. I'd often heard it said that love was something too complicated to keep inside – that eventually you would have to let it out. Self–pity had always kept me believing that I would take my love to the grave with me and never share it with anyone, but now that seemed impossible.
If you haven't already lost the chance forever.
"What the hell?" I asked aloud, furious with myself. "Where's th
is bullshit coming from?"
The blackness surrounding me had no comforting answers to offer.
I forced a laugh for the sake of reassurance, but it came out high and uneven, shaky and unnatural. That ominous feeling of impending doom tightened my guts almost painfully, and I rolled over onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow and praying that I would just fall back to sleep. In the morning, I'd have forgotten the nightmare completely and find myself wondering over cereal just how in hell my knee had gotten so black and blue.