Trace

by Archer Mayor

  “I’m saying that there seems to be an—”

  “I know, I know,” he interrupted a little irritably, a rarity for him. “An anomaly. I get it. You can call it subtle. I call it a disaster—especially once I yank it out of the bag for everyone to see.”

  “Do you have to do that?”

  He stopped to look at her. “Yeah, I do. Not at a press conference, but this is a can of worms I need to spill out.” At last, he let show a half smile before finishing, “Which you knew when you called me. Nicely played, Dr. Sackman.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’m Rachel, by the way, Rachel Reiling.” Jayla’s driver reached out awkwardly for a quick handshake as she drove downhill toward the lake into the embrace of Burlington’s downtown.

  Jayla opened her mouth to respond, hesitated a moment, and answered, “Charlotte Collins,” stealing her last name from SUNY Albany’s Collins Circle. She felt embarrassed for lying, and even wondered why she’d done so. The fact that Jared sounded ready to kill her in his texts didn’t mean he actually would. His ego had taken a bigger hit than the side of his head. And he certainly wouldn’t be interested in this girl, who seemed only concerned with being helpful.

  “Where’re you from?” Rachel asked.

  “New York,” Jayla said vaguely. “How do you feel about your mom being a medical examiner?”

  “It’s cool. It’s what she’s done my whole life, so it’s not like it’s awkward or anything. Not for me. I kind of like it. My dad’s a lawyer, which is really boring. How’re you feeling, now that the adrenaline’s worn off?”

  “I’m fine,” Jayla reassured her. “It wasn’t anything. Barely a tap. You can let me off anywhere here, if you want.”

  Rachel took her eyes off the road long enough to cast her a severe glance. “I’ll do whatever you want, Charlotte, but let me offer you some tea at my place, just to make sure, unless you’re already feeling kidnapped. It’s the least I can do. But you call the shots.”

  When Rachel had first made that offer, Jayla almost refused and walked away. A moment’s reflection, however, had reversed her thinking. She was a stranger in a strange land, on the run and unsure of her choices. Why not seize what fate had delivered and see what developed? She sure as hell had no Plan B.

  “Maybe some tea would be nice.”

  “Great,” Rachel said happily, turning left onto St. Paul Street.

  She lived on the second floor of a ramshackle rental, clad with what looked to be old-time asbestos shingles but obviously weren’t—not in this town of seriously leftist leanings. Being PC, green, culturally sensitive, and inclined toward veganism were just some of the traits commonly associated with what was called the Queen City, in part because of its dominant size.

  The two women tramped up the narrow stairs just inside the rear entrance, Rachel chatting all the way. “I hope you like herb tea. I’m afraid I don’t have anything else. I do have lots of maple syrup to sweeten it, though. I’m not that much of a purist.”

  “Maple syrup?” Jayla asked, partly to stay conversational as she studied her surroundings. There wasn’t much startling about Rachel’s apartment—from the bricks-and-boards bookcase to the foldout couch, it was pretty standard student or post-student fare—and as far a cry from Jared’s digs as she could imagine.

  “Yeah. I put it in my coffee, too. My mom’s boyfriend taught me that. It was a total revelation. I didn’t even like coffee before then.”

  “Is he a doctor, too?”

  By this point, Rachel had stepped into the kitchenette off the living/dining room to put a kettle on, leaving Jayla to expand her studies to the pictures and books lining the walls.

  “He’s a cop.”

  Jayla stopped and looked up at the ceiling briefly. Great. Of course he is. “That must be interesting.”

  “It is,” Rachel’s voice floated over the top of the small counter between them as she scrounged around in a low cabinet. “I even helped him out a while ago, taking videos of one of his crime scenes. I was kind of hoping it would turn into a real job, but nobody had the funding for that.”

  “Exciting. So what do you do instead?”

  “I’m in grad school. Art. Video mostly, but still photography, too. I’d like to be a documentarian, like Frederick Wiseman, although his stuff drives me a little nuts.”

  Rachel emerged finally, carrying a tray of mugs, milk, some Oreo cookies, and the syrup. “It’s almost ready. Water’s nearly boiling. How ’bout you? What do you do, Charlotte?”

  Jayla smiled at the use of her actual name. She’d been calling herself Jayla for several years, and associated Charlotte with her parents only. It sounded odd to hear it being used again.

  “I’m in between jobs,” she answered.

  “Is that why you came to Burlington? Lots of people do. Maybe I can help.”

  Once more, Jayla suppressed her impulse to reject the offer. Why fight finding herself under a roof, being entertained and fed by a generous, pleasant, safe-seeming extrovert within minutes of arriving in town?

  “I probably need all the help I can get,” she answered honestly.

  Rachel stared at her as if something had sprouted from her forehead. “Holy cow. Does that mean you need a place to stay?”

  Jayla looked back in surprise, unable to squelch her reaction. “You don’t even know me.”

  Rachel laughed. “Right, and you do look like an ax murderer.” She turned on her heel at the sound of the kettle whistling and continued speaking. “I have that couch ’cause I thought I’d be having friends over and stuff. But that never happens. All my friends live in the city. It would be a total waste for you not to use it. The sheets are even on it—right now.”

  She stepped around from behind the counter with the kettle and a trivet. “How ’bout you try it for a couple of days, at least? You get sick of me, or vice versa, we can call it off. I’d love the company.”

  The two sat down at the small dining table, Rachel filling the two mugs from the kettle.

  Jayla pretended to give the offer some thought before raising her mug in a mock toast. “To roommates,” she said. “At least for a few days.”

  * * *

  By the time Joe Gunther arrived at the Francis Institute with his mother, he knew only that he was somewhere between St. Louis and Hannibal, Missouri. Where, precisely, he had no clue. For a man used to driving back roads and walking the woods, a day filled with planes, limos, taxis, airports, waiting lines, and doting or not-so-doting airport employees had made him completely self-absorbed, focused solely on the care and management of his addle-minded mother.

  That had been the resounding worst aspect of the trip, of course, drumming home repeatedly his reason for being here. Her flights of fancy, her violent mood swings between tearful and madly cheerful, her sudden dead drops into profound slumber, regardless of circumstances, had filled him with sorrow, fear, and frustration. As he navigated her wheelchair through the facility’s twin glass doors, into a cavernous, softly lit, and pleasantly appointed front lobby, he was ready to plead before any celestial entity for the return of his mother of old. Despite his past experience with abnormal human behavior, he had never seen such a complete change of character, shy of someone seized in the throes of a meth trip.

  His expression must have told of his anguish and exhaustion, given the empathy of the woman who approached them as they entered. She crouched down before Joe’s sleeping mother as he rolled her to a stop, took her withered hand into both of hers, and glanced up at Joe as she said in greeting, “Welcome. Everyone in this building will do their utmost to put you both back on track. You will get the best we’ve got. I promise you.”

  To his surprise and embarrassment, Joe was at a loss for words.

  * * *

  Sam dropped her belongings near the front door as her tiny daughter ran to greet her. She crouched down, gathered the child up in her arms, and allowed herself to fall backwards so that the two of them rolled across the rug in a laughing emb
race—a standard evening routine. Willy, standing at the kitchen door, looked on, smiling.

  “Oh, God,” Sammie let out with relief. “Just what the doctor ordered. My two favorite people.”

  “The burdens of leadership?” Willy asked, settling onto the floor next to them.

  “The burdens of bureaucratic nitpicking, more like it,” she answered, tickling Emma and making her giggle. “I thought it would be like when I’ve had to run the squad for a day or two—do a little extra paperwork, handle a few moron phone calls. But what a bunch of kids some of our esteemed colleagues are. No disrespect to you,” she addressed Emma, renewing her attack.

  “Money, time sheets, and scheduling, right?” Willy suggested.

  Sammie looked at him wide-eyed. “Yes. Summer’s coming up. The whole VBI wants the same weeks off. I worked that stupid phone all day. So-and-so got that slot last year; someone else’s been milking their sick days; and when’re the cost-of-living increases kicking in; am I gonna get overtime for that detail that was clearly marked ‘volunteer time only’? Endless. People are getting raped, killed, and robbed out there, and these bitchy clowns’re all staring at their time sheets. I thought we were better than that. I now officially hate being texted—for the record. For any reason.”

  Willy stayed silent. He knew Sam’s habits, and that she’d work through her rant in short order.

  Sam brought her face up from having buried it in Emma’s belly. “Okay,” she resumed, as if he’d interrupted her. “I’m griping about two or three of ’em, I know. But it sticks in your craw. Infects the whole day. I don’t know how the boss keeps such an even keel all the time. I was thinking of buying a punching bag for the office, just to keep you guys safe.”

  “Good day, in other words,” he said, rolling over so Emma could use his body as a jungle gym.

  Sam propped herself up on one elbow and watched them, now philosophical. “Yeah. It wasn’t bad, now that it’s over. I just had to blow off steam.” She reached out and waggled Emma’s bare foot. “And see you two. How was your day? You disappeared. Smart man.”

  “Pal up in Windsor wanted me to see something,” Willy said.

  “New case?” she asked, trying to sound casual. More than anyone except possibly Joe, she knew of Willy’s chronic problems with authority, following the chain of command, and even exchanging information. Working with him—living with him, for that matter—was like trying to walk a lone wolf through a room full of noisy people. It was complicated, difficult, and sometimes dangerous.

  Or it was nothing at all.

  His present silence was characteristic of the man. “Probably not,” he said as he got up and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, leaving mother and daughter alone.

  Sam continued playing with Emma, wondering—given his reaction just now and today’s statewide squabbling—what being Willy’s boss might lead to.

  * * *

  Lester was sitting on the couch when Sue came home, still dressed in a pair of pale blue scrubs. They lived in Springfield, forty minutes north of Brattleboro, along the Connecticut River, where Les had been born and Sue worked as a nurse at the local hospital. It was a cliché, a marriage of these two professions, but it made sense. The routinely weird hours, the influence of sometimes violent energy on the workday, and the always lingering expectation of an adrenaline explosion fueled both jobs and employees.

  She put her bag and keys on the side table and plopped down onto the couch for a kiss, snuggling in beside him as he looped an arm around her shoulders. He’d been staring at the television, drinking a beer, when she entered.

  “Kids around?” she asked, reaching for the bottle.

  “Wendy’s upstairs doing homework. Dave’s covering a high school basketball game for the sheriff’s office. You have a good day?”

  “Short version? Two overdoses—one terminal, one not—one pregnancy gone nutso and sent to surgery, and the usual aches, coughs, cuts, and bruises lined up out the front door.”

  As if dropped from the ceiling, Joe’s cat Gilbert landed on Sue’s lap. “Damn.” She burst out laughing, ruffling his ears in surprise. “Where did this come from?”

  Lester ran his hand along the purring animal’s back. “He’s Joe’s. We’re official custodians for a while. Meet Gilbert; Gilbert, this is Sue.”

  Gilbert almost instantly made himself comfortable against Sue’s stomach.

  Lester nodded approvingly, taking back his beer. “He’s clearly fond of good-looking women. Smart cat.”

  “And we have him, why?” she asked.

  Her husband looked at her closely. “He a problem? I thought it would be okay.”

  She rubbed Gilbert under the chin with her finger and put him into a trance. “No, no. It’s fine. Is Joe on a trip?”

  “Little weirder than that. His mom came down with something, so he’s taken her out West to a treatment center in Missouri, I think. I guess his brother couldn’t get away.”

  Sue poked him in the ribs, jostling Gilbert slightly. “Sounds a little worse than ‘coming down with something.’”

  “I don’t know the details,” her husband admitted. “Lyme disease was mentioned. Guess it’s pretty bad.”

  She let out a laugh. “Ya think? How long’s he gone for? He just dropping her off?”

  “Nope. He’s stickin’ it out. The place they went to has free lodging for family, so who knows when we’ll see him next.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The M. Frank … no … I forget,” he said vaguely, looking a little shamefaced. “I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “He’s your boss, Les.”

  “I know, I know, but remembering the name of the hospital isn’t gonna change anything. I was interested in getting out of the office so I didn’t have to watch Sammie strip her gears getting into substitute boss mode.”

  “You’re a terrible person.” She reached for his beer again, which he happily gave up.

  “It’s true,” he agreed. “Too bad you’re stuck with me. You may be seeing me in the papers again, by the way. I caught a case that could turn into a real wasp’s nest.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yup. Famous double homicide, complete with hero cop. Remember the Ryan Paine shooting?”

  “Sure. That was just a few years ago. Real O.K. Corral stuff.”

  “That’s it. Well, I got a call from an old forensics pal of mine who said she’s discovered something fishy about it.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. It may not mean anything, but it’s right up there with somebody asking you to retrieve an old beer can, out in a field—except that the field’s loaded with land mines.”

  She craned her neck to kiss him. “You come up with the nicest images. You watch your step, okay?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Devin Lambert straightened, pushed away the combination magnifying lens–fluorescent light clamped to his worktable, and blinked a couple of times. Caught in a dazzling white halo before him were the charred remains of what Willy had handed him from the Windsor railroad tracks.

  “It’s a battery. Specifically, a lithium-ion polymer battery. All the rage right now. You’ve got at least a smaller version in your pocket as we speak.”

  Willy frowned.

  “Your cell phone,” Lambert elaborated. “They’re the latest in what they call energy density, until they figure out cold fusion or miniaturize nuclear or a way to feed some other kind of gerbil so you can wear it on your wrist. Or brain implants, like in the movies.”

  Willy looked away from the battery to glance at him. “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

  It was early the next morning, and they were in the basement of a Vermont-based, nationally known purveyor of bed and bath products, where Lambert, once a government computer engineer with top secret clearance and a drug problem, now worked on the company’s website and fixed employee doodads, as he called the flow of computers, cell phones, tablets, and the like—several of which lay stacke
d at the far end of his workbench like discarded props from a sci-fi movie.

  “Nothing,” Devin mumbled, prodding the body in question with a pair of tweezers. Willy had picked him up as a peripheral player in a drug raid years ago, tucked him surreptitiously into his car after realizing the man’s potential, and had been using him as a private technical consultant ever since. Lambert may have been a self-acknowledged disaster as a human being, but he recognized a favor when he saw it. Both men knew that he’d eventually get himself into a jam Willy wouldn’t be able to dislodge, but until then, he was happy to oblige the cranky one-armed cop whenever he asked for help.

  “You’ll find a lot of them looking like this,” Lambert was saying.

  “Burned?”

  “Yup. Without getting into details you won’t understand or remember—no offense—these guys are built like sandwiches of material that react violently to each other if they come into direct contact. The trick is to get the layers close enough so they can do their magic, but not so close that they burst into flames. I had a marriage like that.”

  Willy didn’t find the last comment original or insightful. Even with a companion as accommodating as Sam, he still had days when he couldn’t understand why anyone sane would choose to live with someone else. The catch in his case, of course, was that he saw her as the sane one, while he was the one she’d be better off without.

  “They’re fun to watch when they go off,” Devin went on, presumably speaking of batteries again. “The internet is full of footage. People sticking them with knives and clawhammers—real Darwin Award candidates.” He swung the magnifier back into place and showed Willy a minute scrap of some shiny, flimsy fabric. “See this? It’s supposed to be flame retardant—wraps around the whole device like a sock. ’Cept it’s not designed to keep fire out, like a fireman’s coat; it’s supposed to give you enough time to get the hell out of the way when the guts of these things malfunction. If you’re lucky, that’s when you’ll see the wrapping puff up like one of those funky tropical fish just before it explodes, complete with hydrogen gas, and tries to kill you. Not a healthy environment. That’s what caused that plane crash in the headlines recently. Hoverboards got into trouble, too, ’cause wear and tear on the batteries was making them burn up.”