Haze

by E. R. Torre

Where had he gone?

  What had he found?

  I hoped, for his sake, answers to these questions would come soon.

  In the meantime, I had to clean myself off and get some much needed sleep. Considering the whirlwind of a day, I owed myself that much.

  I walked up the stairs leading to my room, carefully hiding my bloody coat from the watchful eyes of Mrs. Borg.

  Unlike the night before, my sleep was deep and when I awoke at seven in the morning I felt refreshed. I headed to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Stray swatches of dry blood were visible on my neck and cheek. I hadn't done a very good job of cleaning myself the night before. For that matter, I couldn’t remember cleaning myself at all. The end of the night was like some distant blur, a dream turned nightmare instantly forgotten upon awakening.

  "Happy birthday," I said to the image in the mirror.

  I turned the bath's water on. In no time the bathroom was steamed up and the mirror over the sink fogged over. I took a very leisurely bath and cleaned off the remaining blood on my face as well as the wound on my side.

  Once done, I dried off and combed my hair. I applied another bandage to my side before shaving. Afterwards, I headed to the closet. On the floor was my suitcase, exactly where I left her. I opened it, pulled out some clothing, and dressed. I then grabbed my spare coat and looked out the window. It was another bright and beautiful day. I could make out a lone skier working the slopes at Viktor’s mountain. From this distance his body was no bigger than a flea on a dog.

  I wished it could be me up there. Before this vacation was over, I promised myself, I would finally get in several hours of skiing. I slipped on my wristwatch and turned to the door to leave, but stopped.

  A small white envelope lay on the floor, just past the door’s threshold. Someone slipped it under the door sometime after my arrival at the Inn the previous night and this morning. The envelope had no markings on the exposed side. I picked it up. There were no markings on the other side, either.

  I opened the envelope and pulled out a plain, small piece of stationary. Written in black letters was the following:

  Mr. Towne:

  Please meet me on the south edge of town, on 5th street and to your left. I'll be waiting for you there at exactly 8:30 AM.

  You'll know who I am.

  According to my watch, it was 8:15.

  You'll know who I am.

  A chill ran through my body. Could it be Nick Jones, eager to finish what we started the night before?

  I pocketed the letter and stepped out of the room. The police tape remained over the door to Karl’s room, a reminder that the events of the previous day weren’t some bad dream. I headed down the stairs and found Mrs. Borg behind the counter, reading the day’s paper.

  "Good morning," she said. "How are you doing today?"

  "Pretty good," I replied. "And you?"

  "Better," Mrs. Borg said. She turned and stared at the empty, except for my SUV, parking lot. “It’s a new day and I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Are you staying?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “It’s time to start catching some of the sights.”

  Mrs. Borg took my credit card and charged me another day. Afterwards, she returned to her paper.

  "Enjoy yourself," she said as I stepped outside.

  The air outside was frigid. My cheeks and ears tingled in pain. I jogged straight to my SUV and wiped away the snow that accumulated on the windows. I started with the passenger side, working around the truck until, finally, I was on the driver’s side window. Next to the door was the spot where Karl fell.

  Despite the cold, I looked at that spot for several long seconds.

  “Goodbye, Karl,” I whispered.

  I pushed my key into the SUV's lock and opened it. As it swung open, a small piece of paper wedged into it fell to the ground.

  I froze in place and stared at the fallen paper. I instinctively knew that it was Karl’s, something he left behind perhaps seconds before he was killed. The paper was meant for me and no one else.

  Slowly, very slowly, I looked up and around. There was no one in the parking lot or on the sidewalk. As casually as possible, I turned to look back at the Inn. The front windows were dark and reflective. It was hard to tell if Mrs. Borg was watching.

  I pretended to fumble with my keys. It wasn’t that hard given the thick gloves I was wearing. The keys dropped right next to the paper. I acted annoyed at my clumsiness and reached down, picking up both the keys and the paper. I then got into the SUV and started it up. I allowed the engine a few seconds to warm before shifting into reverse. I quickly drove out of the parking lot. As I left, I felt relief. Karl’s message to me was safe.

  I drove down Viktor's main street at exactly twenty five miles per hour, the town’s speed limit. This gave me time to unfold Karl’s note.

  Though it only took a few seconds to do so, it felt like a lifetime. One side was blank. The other had two words mashed together. They were written in bright blue marker:

  KarlsKube

  I exhaled. The words meant nothing, other than they confirmed the paper had indeed come from Karl Walker. Disappointed, I turned the paper over, as if expecting the blank side to sprout some hidden text. Still nothing.

  I flipped the paper again, and scrutinized the word.

  "KarlsKube," I read. It didn't make any sense. I shook my head and stared at the street before me. It was early morning and no one was out.

  “KarlsKube,” I repeated. A shiver passed through my body. I could imagine Karl standing between his car and mine, confronted by his killer. I pictured him wedge this paper into the door of my SUV. He must have known, even then, that that would be his very last act. The paper had to be important. I just didn't know how or why.

  Yet.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  14, 13, 12, the street numbers counted down.

  I drove west along Viktor’s main street. The theatre, post party, was dark and uninviting, a used up shell. The empty lot that held the pharmacy remained empty. 11, 10, 9, 8. A lone figure swept the snow from in front of the Clement Restaurant. Inside, a waitress cleaned a table and attended to an early riser. The Police Station passed by. A couple of officers chatted in the parking lot. Steam rose from their Styrofoam cups. The terrain became hilly, the buildings receded. I was surrounded by fields covered in a thick blanket of snow. 7, 6, 5.

  A police car was parked beside the 5th street sign. I slowed. Deputy Craig Livingstone was in the car. He flashed his lights once and drove on. I followed him into the gas station at the end of town. Livingstone parked and exited his car. Without acknowledging my presence he headed to the vending booth but walked past its entrance. He circled around the store and out of sight, toward the rest rooms.

  I parked next to one of the gas pumps. By his actions, it was clear Livingstone wanted our meeting to be secret, so I followed his lead. I started up the pump and, once the fuel was flowing, retraced Deputy Livingstone's path.

  "Over here," he called out in a low voice. He stood behind the building and just past the door to the restroom. He cradled a cigarette in his bare hands and stared at the thick forest that lay to the south.

  "What do you want?" I asked. I came to a stop several feet away from Livingstone. His gun belt and weapon loomed large and, now that we were one on one, menacing. In the silence that followed my discomfort grew until I felt a shiver of fear.

  Deputy Livingstone remained cool. He took another puff of his cigarette and frowned. He muttered something I didn’t catch before straightening up.

  "I told Karl Walker about John Robinson’s gun," Deputy Livingstone said. Though the words were little more than a whisper, they shattered the silence like an atom bomb.

  "Were you…were you working with him?"

  Deputy Livingstone smiled, embarrassed.

  "Hell no." he said. “He and I were friends from way back when. We attended Lincoln High School in Boulder. We were…” he paused and
swallowed a great sadness. “We kept in touch ever since."

  Livingstone took another drag of his cigarette.

  "Why do you think he was killed?"

  "That's easy enough to guess,” Livingstone said. “He upset someone. That's how most people get themselves killed."

  “That’s what the Sheriff said. You think it’s true?”

  Livingstone shrugged.

  "Karl was a fan of John Robinson's movies. When I applied for this job in Viktor, you should have seen how jealous he was. He knew Robinson lived here. When I took the job, Karl pumped me for any information I had about him. I didn’t see it back then, but that was the start of Karl’s obsession. Anyway, after a while I told him to just get his ass down here, that I might be able to set up a meeting between them. Nothing big, just so he could say ‘hi’ to him or something. Karl didn’t want to. He was too shy."

  Livingstone tossed the spent cigarette to the ground.

  "And then Robinson dies and all this shit started. Even on his worst days I could easily tolerate Karl’s interest in Robinson's life and work. Not so much after Robinson died. That’s when the other fanatics flooded the town. It was like…it was like seeing hundreds of Karl Walkers all over the damned place. They asked me the same questions, made the same innuendoes: That the police were covering up a crime; that Robinson was murdered. Crazy shit. Karl and I used to talk pretty frequently over the phone, but our conversations turned into arguments. After a while, we didn’t talk at all."

  "But not before telling him about the gun."

  Livingstone let out a sigh.

  "I was one of the first Deputies on the scene. I was the one that found the gun. It was in the snow, not ten feet away from the body. Must’ve flown out when he hit that tree. There were three of us there. The others were senior Deputies, people you could trust to keep their mouths shut. Unlike me. We bagged the weapon but kept our discovery from the media.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I suspected foul play.”

  “You thought he was killed?”

  “That was only my initial theory,” Livingstone said. “As it happened, Sheriff Chandler was out of town, so I was in charge. I took pictures of the scene, including where I found the gun, and headed back to the office. It was still real early in the morning and things hadn’t heated up, yet. The media was an hour away from knowing and I was about to call Sheriff Chandler when, as luck would have it, Karl calls me first. It was a friendly call. He didn’t know Robinson was dead. I told him.”

  “And you told him about the gun.”

  “It was a really stupid fucking thing to do. Sheriff Chandler takes the first plane into town. By the time he gets here, we’ve got a full-fledged media event going on. I tell him about the gun and he tells me and the other two deputies to keep that information secret. We’re still not sure if this was a murder, but Chandler figures releasing news of this weapon might taint the media as well as public perception. We’d tell them about the gun, but first we had to be sure about the circumstances of John Robinson’s death. Anyway, I called Karl right back and told him that if anyone else learned about the gun I’d know where that information came from, and I would..."

  Livingstone shook his head.

  "What the hell could I do? After only a few more hours of investigation, we were sure Robinson’s death was an accident. The gun turned out to be Robinson’s. It hadn’t been fired any time recently. Hadn’t been cleaned, either. It was like Robinson kept it in a drawer for a few years before taking it out. We returned all personal effects to the Robinson estate, but kept the information on the gun to ourselves. There was no point in stirring the pot anymore. The day we issued our formal report, Karl called me up. He was furious. He accused us of a cover up. I tried to convince him that wasn’t the case, but he didn’t believe me. It was our last real conversation."

  Livingstone paused.

  "I will say this much for Karl: for over five years he kept his word and, as far as I know, never told anyone about the gun. All that changed when he met you, Mr. Towne. Why?"

  The anger of betrayal filled Livingstone’s face, along with an intense curiosity.

  "I don't know," I answered. My voice quivered and I feared he wouldn’t believe me.

  "Tell me what happened, what exactly happened between the two of you."

  I did so, telling him in as much detail as I could remember the little I knew of Karl Walker. It didn't amount to much.

  “That’s it?” Livingstone said when I was done.

  “Yes.”

  Livingstone thought about what I said.

  "Karl hadn’t changed,” Livingstone said. “I was hoping for...I don't know."

  "A suspect? Someone Karl thought killed John Robinson?"

  "Get that out of your mind. Robinson wasn’t murdered."

  "That’s what I thought. Until Karl's body was found."

  Livingstone's lips pressed hard against each other.

  “That still doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Karl was an outsider to this town. If not for his investigation into Robinson’s death, why else would anyone want to kill him?”

  Deputy Livingstone angrily shook his head.

  “You’re just like the rest of them,” he muttered. He walked past me. Our conversation was over, as far as he was concerned.

  "Did the Sheriff trace the leak back to you?" I asked. Livingstone came to a stop. He slowly turned.

  “No,” he said. “But it doesn't matter. There were three of us who knew about that gun, and I can’t have Sheriff Chandler not trusting his own men. It may not help matters much, but I'm coming clean with him. It's the least I can do."

  Livingstone reached into his jacket pocket and fished out his cigarettes. The pack was empty and he angrily tossed it into the woods.

  “Tell me the truth, Mr. Towne,” Livingstone said. “What really brought you here, to Viktor?"

  "I already told you, I was going to Manville—”

  "But you saw the painted map on the wall at the Manville Airport and decided to come here."

  "Yes."

  Livingstone shook his head.

  "Anyone who knows the Manville Airport can tell you there are no maps painted on any of the airport’s walls."

  Deputy Livingstone rubbed his chin and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When I returned to my SUV, Livingstone was gone, as if he had never been there. I replaced the gas pump in its cradle and signed the credit card charge before driving out.

  I passed through the south end of town, moving from the main street and into hill country. A blanket of snow covered everything in sight, creating an almost blinding curtain of solid white. Here and there I spotted fences cutting through the terrain. They divided properties that disappeared into the distance and protected homes that were beyond my line of sight.

  Judith lived not too far from here, in this playground for those with enough money to afford such enormous properties. It was a world that didn’t worry about mortgages or jobs or any other normal concerns. I envied her, and I envied them. If people like Karl Walker represented their biggest worries…

  That thought triggered a strong chill. It ran up my spine and settled in my neck. Intense pain radiated from just behind my eyes. Things got blurry and my head grew light.

  I could no longer focus on the road. I released the gas pedal and my foot clumsily searched for, and finally pressed down on, the brake. The SUV slowed. It ran over uneven road before coming to an abrupt stop.

  I looked up again but saw stars churning against a blanket of gray. The gray became darker, the stars more distant, until everything was black. I rubbed my eyes. A desperate yell caught itself in my throat. The black receded. It took on a tinge of green, of yellow, of blue, of brown. The scene around me had completely changed.

  The virginal white snow was gone, replaced with a field of vibrant green grass. Flowers bloomed along the side of the highway while the once naked trees were dressed in coa
ts of leaves. A small brown rabbit ran into a clearing, stopped and turned my way before disappearing into a bush. Beside his hideout was a small stream that flowed downhill. Above it all, the sun illuminated a clear blue sky.

  The vision scared the shit out of me.

  Only a second before the field was covered in thick snow. Now it looked as if I were in the middle of summer.

  I leaned back in the seat and groaned.

  Just beyond the front windshield, on the hood of the SUV, were small traces of snow. Within the car, it still felt cold. Gingerly, I stepped out of the SUV. Despite the sun and the grass and the flowing stream, I felt the icy grip of winter against my skin. Mist rose from my mouth when I breathed. On the roof of the truck and along the sides were patches of snow and slush. Though spring was all around us, my SUV and I were still in the middle of winter.

  A sudden vertigo took hold of me and forced me to lean against the cold truck. I didn’t dare venture any farther.

  Off to the side I heard a muffled noise and turned. Coming toward me were two men, John Robinson and Lewis Sinclair. As with the Drug Store vision, they were much younger, perhaps in their very early fifties. Robinson was dressed casually; his light yellow shirt complemented a faded pair of blue jeans. Sinclair, on the other hand, was overdressed. He wore a light brown jacket and darker brown pants. The jacket was open and his black tie blew in a sudden stiff spring breeze I could not feel. The two were sweaty from their summer walk.

  As they approached, I realized they were arguing. However, I couldn't make out their words. The vision surrounding me was utterly devoid of any sounds. Still, Robinson's expressions were easy to understand. He was very anger while Sinclair remained cool and detached. The two stopped next to a tree stump. Sinclair brushed it with his hand and sat down. He pulled out and lit a cigarette while Robinson continued his tirade. After taking a few deep drags, he had enough of Robinson's harsh words. Sinclair sprung to his feet and rammed his finger into Robinson’s chest.