by Tony Healey
“It really kills me not being able to talk to the other families. We have this stack of files, but we’re handicapped.”
“I know. And I feel guilty, knowing the truth, knowing the pain they feel, and that they’ve been lied to all this time.”
“But what can we do?”
“Nothing,” Harper says. “Same way we can’t go asking any of the other investigators. Claymore is our only lead, in that regard. The case will implode if those other guys catch wind of the truth being revealed. We can’t have that yet.”
“I know. It’s shit.”
“I’ll dig around. We should check in with the captain soon. Say an hour or so?”
“Yeah.”
She starts to leave and hears the chair scrape back from the table.
“Jane?”
Harper pauses at the door, turns back.
“Thanks for keeping my head cool,” Stu tells her. “I would have done something I regretted otherwise.”
“Anytime.”
Albie moves aside as Harper pulls up a seat next to him. The IT room has a few officers working, a few of them chatting among themselves.
“So you got into it?”
He nods. “Yeah, it was impossible at first. The phone was waterlogged, but a bowl of rice did the trick.”
“That got it working?”
Albie shakes his head. “No. But it was enough to allow me to access its files, its data, and grab everything I could.”
“Right. I’m with you.”
Albie moves the cursor on the desktop to maximize a window that contains all of Gertie Wilson’s incoming and outgoing calls. There are no names, just numbers, times, and dates. Next to that information is a time stamp indicating the duration of each call.
“Okay. So this is the call log,” Harper says. “What about text messages?”
Albie shrinks the first window and maximizes another. “Ah, well, this is where it gets interesting. There are quite a few connected to different numbers. Friends, maybe her parents. But the interesting one is here . . .”
He shows Harper a seemingly unending series of exchanges, all from the same number. There’s a name mentioned several times, too.
“Hugo,” Harper says. “These messages read like boyfriend-girlfriend texts.”
“They are,” Albie says. “They’re saying they love each other. Look.”
Harper watches him highlight one text message in particular: “Love you” followed by a series of kisses and a smiley face.
Everyone loves an emoticon, Harper thinks.
“I take it you’ve already connected this Hugo to the number,” she says.
Albie checks his notepad. “Hugo Escovado. I’ve got his address here.”
“Good. First thing tomorrow, we’re going out there,” Harper tells him, getting up. “Get a patrol car to wait outside the house, monitor for movement, make sure he doesn’t try to run. I’ll pick you up from your apartment tomorrow morning at six.”
“Okay, boss,” Albie replies as she walks out of the room.
Mack slams his car door, cracking open a can of Bud and pouring it down his gullet as he crosses the street. If he were able to drink while driving, he would. As it is, he drives all the way home with a six-pack on the passenger seat. He’s so thirsty for it he can almost taste it.
Some of the Bud runs down his chin and onto his already-stained work vest. Mack wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He’s a middle-aged white man with short Irish-red hair. His skin is red from the heat, his freckles and moles more pronounced the longer he spends under North Carolina’s baking sun.
Julie walks across her front lawn. “Mack!” she calls, but not too loud, as if she’s trying to avoid any undue attention from the rest of the street.
“Julie? How you doin’?”
“Oh, fine, fine. I gotta talk to you,” she says, taking him by the arm and steering him toward her house. “Gotta talk to you in private.”
She looks jittery, sounds like she’s at the point of some kind of breakdown. Mack wrestles his arm free from her grip. “Damn, woman. What’s got into you?”
Julie looks at him. “Mack, I saw something . . .” Tears fill her eyes.
“Julie, what’s wrong? Someone done somethin’ to you? Have you told Ceeli?”
Julie shakes her head. “No. This is about Ceeli, Mack. I saw her.”
“Yeah?” he asks, smiling goofily. “Got new glasses, huh?”
She shakes her head, intent on what she wants to tell him. “Mack, that man Lester was at your house. I saw ’em through the window. They was doin’ stuff in there.” Julie buries her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, Mack. I saw ’em . . . together. I think Ceeli is havin’ an affair.”
Mack takes Julie by the shoulders, gives her a good shake. “Speak up and talk straight. Don’t fucking flake out on me. What did you see ’em doin’?”
Julie trembles in his grip. “Having intercourse, Mack. I saw it. They was makin’ love.”
“That son of a bitch,” he growls, pushing her away.
As Mack storms off her lawn and heads for his own house, Julie stumbles forward. “Please, Mack! Don’t do anything stupid!”
He thunders through the front door, draining the beer and crushing the empty can in his fist before tossing it to one side on the floor. “Ceeli! Get your fuckin’ ass out here!”
His wife appears at the top of the stairs, face tight. “Mack? What you shoutin’ for?”
He points up at her. “I gotta talk with you, woman.”
“Honey,” she says, making her way down the stairs like a gazelle stepping out of the tall grass to take a drink of water, expecting a cheetah to leap at any moment. “I’m comin’.”
“Quicker! God damn it, woman you’ll be late to your own fuckin’ funeral!” Mack screams, dragging her down the last few steps by her arm. Ceeli cries out as he whirls her around, then shoves her toward the kitchen. He scuffs his boot against her ass to provide added momentum. “Go on! Get!”
He hurries up behind her, gives her another push, sending her flying against the cupboard. “Mack, stop! What’s this about? What’s got into you?”
“No, Ceeli, it’s who’s got into you while my back’s been turned, that’s what.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Baby I don’t know what you been told, but I ain’t been up to nothin’, I swear. Nothin’!”
Mack flicks his hand out, catches her in the mouth, splits her lip open. Ceeli’s hand rushes to where she’s been hit, the blood dribbling out from behind her fingers.
“Please, Mack . . . don’t hurt me . . . ,” she begs him, backing up against the stove. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, honey.”
Mack jumps on her, punches her in the gut so hard she loses all the breath in her lungs and can’t draw another. Ceeli gasps, drops to the cold kitchen tiles. Mack lifts her head by the hair, slaps her face.
She mumbles at his feet, sobbing, drawing ragged breaths. “Mack . . . please . . .”
He proceeds to punch her, left, right, left, right, her head swinging back and forth with each hit.
“It was that fuckin’ moron, weren’t it? I already know it,” Mack growls, getting in her swollen face. “What did you do, eh, Ceeli? Did you suck his goddamn cock? Did you fuck him in our bed?”
Tears run from Ceeli’s eyes, mixing with the blood on the side of her face. “I love you, Mack.”
He stands upright, as if he’s about to beat her again. That, or worse. But he doesn’t strike her. Mack looks down at her as if she were no more than a bug crawling along the sidewalk. “I don’t know you no more, woman. And let me make a promise to you. I’m goin’ up to that freak’s place and I’m gonna end that motherfucker!”
Julie comes running from her house at the sight of Mack walking back to his car, fists bloodied, his face red.
“Mack, what happened?” she asks him, getting near.
He rounds on her, shoves her back. She falls on her ass in the street. �
��Fuck off!” he shouts.
Julie scrambles away from him and Mack jumps in his car, the engine roaring to life. He sets off, tires screeching up the street. Julie waits for him to go, then looks at Ceeli’s place.
What if she’s dead in there?
She swallows, considers going in to check on her, but hesitates.
Why did I get involved? Why didn’t I mind where I stuck my nose?
Her conscience wins and Julie goes to Ceeli’s front door. She knocks on it and the door swings inward.
“Ceeli? You in?”
You know she is. He’s probably smashed her head in and left her bleeding out . . .
“Ceeli?”
Julie finds her in the kitchen, lying on the tiles, trying to get herself to a sitting position. Her head is lumpy and swollen, the skin around both eyes rapidly turning black. There’s a giant handprint across her face from where she’s been hit.
“What you doin’ here, Julie? Did you cause this?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean for any of—”
Ceeli suddenly bolts upright, snarling. “Get outta my house! Get out! GET OUT!”
Any thoughts Julie had of calling an ambulance, or the police, are forgotten as she runs from Ceeli’s house, crying.
Why did I open my big fat mouth?
Stu raps his fingertips on the edge of her desk. “You ready?”
Harper gets up. “Yeah—” She catches a blonde-haired woman walking into the office, scanning the room at first, then spotting them. “Oh fuck.”
Stu frowns. “What?”
Harper nods in the direction of his ex-wife, headed their way. “Trouble.”
He turns around, with Karen in his face within seconds. She shoves him in the chest, knocking his butt against the desk.
“What the fuck, Karen?”
Harper starts to move in on her, grab her in a headlock, and slam her down on the desk, but Stu gets in the way. “Stu—”
“I’ll handle this.”
Harper glances about—it’s no surprise everyone has stopped what they’re doing to watch the drama unfold. In her peripheral vision she can see Dudley hovering nervously, unsure what to do.
“You cheating bastard. What, you thought I wouldn’t find out, you son of a bitch?” Karen looks around him, eyes lighting on Harper. “This your new girlfriend?”
Harper comes around the desk, hands open in front of her in the most disarming gesture she can muster. “Karen, please calm down. There’s a time and place—”
Karen lunges for her. Stu is able to hold Karen back, but not before she reaches Harper’s hair. She pulls hard. Harper stumbles forward, regains her footing, holds her hair to prevent Karen from ripping it clean out. “Get her off!”
“I’m trying!” Stu yells. He’s grappling her around the waist, pulling her back, but Karen isn’t letting go. What’s more, she’s started to kick. Harper leans back, snarling at the pain, barely avoiding Karen’s shoe.
“Fuckin’ whore!”
Harper reaches up for Karen’s face, the side of her head, and then her hair. She grabs a big handful of it and tries to pull it from her head. Karen cries out in pain, which only makes her harden her grip. Stu inserts himself between them, and officers pile in, pulling the two women back from one another.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told,” Harper gasps, “but it’s bullshit.”
“You slept with my man, then he left me. It’s pretty simple!” Karen starts forward again, straining against the arms and hands holding her in place.
Captain Morelli’s voice booms across the office.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!?”
Lester is eating cold spaghetti rings from the can with a fork.
He sits in his shorts, flicking his hand at the flies buzzing around his dinner. The TV booms out—an old black-and-white western he’s seen a dozen times before. He digs into the can, watching the screen, and almost shovels the spaghetti rings in without looking. But he stops, noticing that a big black fly has settled on the fork. It sits staring back at him, as if trying to determine what he is.
You gotta eat it all lester or no puddin’ . . .
Lester opens his mouth, rams the fork in, then clamps his tortured lips around it as he pulls it out. He has a mouthful of cold, slimy spaghetti rings and a juicy black fly trying desperately to get out. It buzzes against his cheek, rolls around his teeth, filling his mouth with its panic. Lester bites down hard, mushing the spaghetti rings together, missing the fly. He chews, misses it again.
He waits, clamps his jaws down. His teeth crunch on the fly, and he can taste it with the chemical-tainted tomato sauce the spaghetti is canned in. A few chews and he swallows the whole concoction, amused with himself, secretly hoping it’ll happen again someday.
See i knew you could do it what a big boy you are . . .
He grins stupidly to himself. “Thankf, Mama,” he says to the empty house.
The phone rings. Lester growls, throws the can down on the table, and storms over to the phone.
“Yeah?” he spits into the receiver.
“Lester . . . it’s Ceeli.”
“Feeli?” he asks, frowning.
She’s crying. “He’s coming for you, Lester. Mack knows. He’s coming up there. He knows everythin’. You’ve gotta—”
Lester slams the phone back in its cradle and heads for his bedroom.
Mack stops the car, looks up at the house on the hill. It reminds him of the summer night back when he was a teen, taking Christine Fogelhorn to the Hope’s Peak Cinema to see a midnight screening of Psycho. She worked at the diner and he’d been chatting her up for weeks, working his way toward asking her out. To his surprise she agreed.
They made out during the film, and he only caught glimpses of the movie in between getting his hand up her shirt, but he remembers the house. The weird, twisted way it seemed to jut from the landscape. As if the earth had spewed it out as something unwholesome.
Lester Simmons’s place is like that.
Mack goes to the trunk and retrieves the metal baseball bat he keeps there in case he finds himself in an unfavorable situation. He locks the car, wipes his nose on the back of his hand, and catches a glimpse of his knuckles as he does—the skin broken, fresh blood in the cracks. He wonders how Ceeli’s face looks. He wonders how he’ll explain it away if she calls the cops, and realizes he doesn’t give a shit.
There’s only one thing on his mind. Getting to Lester and giving him a good beating. Maybe smashing his balls so hard with the bat they swell and the doctors have to take them off.
Lester’s old truck is parked out front. He has all sorts of junk covering the backseat, but the front is clear. Mack goes to the house and is about to ring the doorbell when a thought occurs to him: Why announce yourself? Go in the back. Surprise the bastard.
Mack unlatches a gate and edges around the side of the house, holding the bat away from himself so that he can swing it at a moment’s notice. The backyard is a wild, overgrown tangle. There are rusted trash cans to his right, a similarly rusted set of swings to his left.
Must be from when the ugly little freak was a kid.
Ahead of him, the long, dry grass grows haphazardly. Crickets chirp all around him. The back of the yard is uneven; there is an old shed there, half rotten, its door open. Mack approaches it, wondering if Lester is in there. He holds the bat at the ready and peers around the open doorway. The dusty sunlight falls on one side of the shed. The wall in front of him is covered in newspaper clippings pasted to the wood. It has peeled, faded, and rotted away in places. Polaroids tacked to the wood among the clippings show black girls asleep. Mack cocks his head to one side, walking into the shed to get a better look. He pulls one of the Polaroids free. It’s pretty sun faded, but he can make out the girl’s face.
She isn’t asleep. She’s dead.
“What the—”
A creak behind him. Mack spins around. A tall, gangly man stands in the doorway wearing only his s
horts. His head is covered in a white sheet. There is a brown leather belt around his neck, holding the sheet tight. The man looks out through two warped eyeholes, every breath sucking the material in and out, in and out.
Mack hesitates.
That’s all it takes.
Why do I feel like a little kid who’s been sent to the principal’s office?
“Okay. Let’s go over this again,” Morelli says, rubbing his temple. The man looks tired, drained. Harper feels guilty piling more pressure on him. “From the top.”
Stu leans forward. At some point, Karen must have smashed him in the face—he has a healthy shiner coming up, making his right eye swell. “Captain, I broke up with Karen, filed for divorce. It was all aboveboard. There was no affair.”
“And you, Jane? You’ve been seeing Raley since then?”
“A while after, yeah,” Harper says. “And we’re not really seeing each other, sir.”
Stu gives her a look that says: Are you kidding me?
Morelli frowns. “Then just what are you two?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Harper says.
“Well, you’d better decide. I can’t have whatever is going on between the pair of you getting brought into this office. Especially now, with—”
Kapersky doesn’t knock on the captain’s door; she just throws it open. “Captain, you need to see this,” she says, bounding over to the television.
“What the hell, Kapersky? We’re in the middle of something here!”
The TV comes on, showing the front of the police station. The reporters are talking to a woman with blonde hair. She is sobbing into the camera, pouring her heart out. It’s Karen.
Harper looks at Stu. He has his head in his hands, as if he’s about to break.
“I don’t believe this!” Morelli yells. Kapersky hurries from the office, closing the door behind her. The captain glares at Stu. “Hold your fucking head up! I knew I should’ve booked that crazy bitch. But out of deference to you, I cut her loose.”
“Sir—”
Morelli groans, pacing back and forth in the narrow space behind his desk. “Shit! This is just what I need. Something else for these bloodsuckers to latch on to.”