“Yes, let us,” Mary said, raising her own water.
Chelsea and Shawn follow suit and then the four at the dinner table all bang glasses, cheering along as they do so.
A future appears so bright when you can’t see the looming darkness. Futures are paved in roads that lead to a promiseland, one shining with a golden ray of light from the sun and heaven. No one views their future as an overcast life where nothing is less than perfect.
Your future is often the very best of what you want it to be. No need to consider otherwise.
Mary understood all of that. Mary knew the truth.
He’s thinking about her in past tense. She’s still alive. Don’t forget.
That raises a suspicion in his mind.
She’s dead. Or if not dead, hanging on the edge of life. Her future, once painted in golden hues that signified a positive life yet to come, has become shrouded in clouds and darkness, covered by a layer of the thickest blank paint possible.
But how? How did she end up like a bloody mess? How could she be in the hospital if she had started the fight? Did Shawn retaliate and go a little too far? Had the final straw snapped and pushed over the edge?
Could she really be the abuser that the report made her out to be? The report didn’t lie. She did physically abuse a man years ago, and did it with such force that the police had to get involved. Something changed after that moment, clearly. Somehow she became the sweet and innocent girl that he met all those Christmases ago. The girl in the report is not the girl now.
Something changed.
About an hour later, once he sips down three cups of coffee and washed his face, Hughes logs into the search system. It’s time to find Bucky.
An Old Friend
The purple-gray clouds cry sheets and sheets of rains. Cats and dogs. Hughes rushes out into the heavy downpour, water splashing off of his jacket and layering his face like oil. One unknowledgeable about the weather’s state could mistake him for overly sweaty from a run. Running would do his stomach some good. Maybe when this case is over he’ll go jogging.
His first day on the case is over, and he knows he’s nowhere near the finish line. Bucky’s the only lead he has so far, and that’s only thanks to Samson’s tip. Who knows if the greenhorn rookie has any clue about what was going on. It is a lead, sure, but a thoughtless one that might no end up anywhere.
Rain makes everything worse. Night’s shadows become even heavier, the darkness darker, the slickness of criminals all the more slicker. The roads, up until that point slapped by only the sun, reflect the street lights above. One entire stretch beams with Go green. Another is Stop red. The streets become a video game.
Hughes rolls into the docks, just off the road near the Charles. He waits in his car, the stark lights cutting through the air, his window wipers flapping back and forth, as he waits. From the darkness emerges the gray-haired, plump man he’s been waiting for. Dobbs, in the flesh. Only yesterday had the two been partners in law, looking to take down the most dastardly criminals out there. Yet here Dobbs stood, no longer in the game. He leans on a wooden cane.
Hughes flashes his lights. Dobbs spins around and hobbles over to the car, a limp plagues his journey to the car. Hughes clicks open his car door and Dobbs enters. He shakes off his leather jacket. Damage to Hobbs’ car is inevitable, but it is a small price to pay.
“It’s raining like crazy out there.”
“Yeah, you bet it is.”
“This is a nice car,” Dobbs says, leaning back so he can inspect the back seat. “New?”
“It’s what happens when they made me lead detective.”
“So they did follow my advice. Suckers. Bet the whole department sucks now.”
“You could say that. How’s the leg?”
“Still walking, ain’t I?”
“You might say that.”
“Hey, you hear about that stuff down in South Hills? Out near Mountain College?”
“No, been tied up with a couple of things.”
“Ah, shucks. Totally our kind of thing, at least I would have made it our thing,” he says, nudging Hughes on the shoulder and screeching with laughter. “Serial killer stuff going on over there. Lots of dead teens. Horror film come to life. Really messed up stuff.”
Hughes only nods because he didn’t have any other reaction. But one thing is certainly clear: Dobbs still keeps up with the times. He may have left the game, but the game hasn’t left him.
“So what can I do you for?”
“I’m here about Shawn.”
“Shawn,” Dobbs begins, and instantly Hughes noticed the world tilt on its axis. “Why do I have a feeling I’m going to regret this conversation?”
“It’s nothing major. Just, he found himself in some trouble with the police again, with us. And this time it’s bad. Mary’s dying in the hospital and they think Shawn did it so they’re chasing him. They just don’t know where he is.”
Dobbs clicks his right cheek. “That Shawn, always a smart one.”
“I just figured I’d check in and see if any of your buddies said anything, or if you heard anything.”
“About?”
“Shawn, Mary, anything about this,” Hughes says, and it was the truth. He didn’t have the faintest idea about what to ask Dobbs. The case is unraveling, but the ball of yarn from which it comes proves to be too large to handle alone
“It’s been pretty dry,” Dobbs says, his eyes on the window.
“Okay, well, there’s another guy I’m looking into. A Bucky something or other. Red-headed kid from the area. Nothing major, but he may have a connection.”
“Don’t know him,” Dobbs says, shaking his head. “I really don’t know a lot of the new players. No one’s talking anymore. Even the dudes I used to help get off for dirt bail left me behind. Judges, lawyers, it all goes away when you give up the blue and the badge.”
“You don’t know anything?”
“Not right now, Hughes, sorry, but I’ll keep my ear peeled,” he says, literally flicking his ear. “Anything about Shawn, Mary, this Bucky guy, whatever. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it,” Hughes says, slapping his friend on the shoulder.
“So how’s your new partner?”
“They never gave me a new partner,” Hughes explains, leaning back into basic hair and taking the deepest breath he can muster. “There’s a few guys running for the spot. I don’t really think I need one. There’s this kid Samson who’s trying to help.”
“And you still wanna work alone?”
“Can’t see myself staying in the game too much longer either,” he says, smirking, stroking his mustache with a free hand. “Just been a little to stressful recently.”
“That’s because of your son.”
“Even if it is,” Hughes shuffles in his seat, “I think it might be time to give it up. I just feel like I’m repeating the same stuff over and over. Gaining weight all the time and chasing the same demons.”
Dobbs doesn’t respond right away. His eyes steady on the window, tracing the drops of water that snake down to the bottom and evaporate. His ears focus on the tat-tat-tat of the rain drops, almost as though he’s waiting for something. Or maybe he’s looking for something.
He clears his throat. It takes an extra second. There’s a lot of phlegm in there these days.
“I thought giving it up would be the best thing to happen to me,” he says. “But you just fall into this pit where you want to keep going and keep finding everything out and listening and still working. It’s this feeling. It’s the feeling that makes you want to meet your buddy by the Charles in the middle of the night. The hunt to still be in the game. I hope you don’t feel like that ever, Mike. I hope you don’t stay in the game long enough that you want to leave. Because you’ll always want to come back. Like anything in life, we always want to go back to the things that make us feel safe and what we know we’re good at. Retiring and leaving the police world behind excited me for a min
ute. It made me see light at the end of the tunnel. But now, I want nothing more than to get my badge back and make a run at this case with you. So just promise me, dear friend, when the time comes when you absolutely doubt yourself, and you choose to leave the game, make sure you give me a call. I’ll kick your ass one way towards the weekend."
The Ex-Factor
The only way to make it through the next day is to sleep. He chooses to nap. Just a little siesta to rest the eyes. He plans for it to go twenty minutes, but it last one-hundred and eighty. He rolls around in bed for another half an hour, searching for a comfortable spot, caught in the in-between of wanting to sleep and waking up. His wife is already away at work, spending the day signing paychecks. He glances at his phone as her texts float in. The thick gray blocks say that she misses him and wants to see him when she gets home. He pacifies her with blue messages of his own. But he won’t be home later. This is going to take all day.
The bed makes his back ache, but he saunters off and gets ready for the day. He throws on a heavy orange polo and a pair of slate blue jeans. He tosses on a thin hooded sweatshirt so that the cool temperatures won’t bite his bones. He’s out the door within minutes. He’ll grab a cup of coffee from Dunkin once he’s out there. Coffee will save him today.
It’s overcast, a dreary New England day that tells him to go sailing upon the ocean sea. The day, like him, is caught in the in-between. The clouds hang low like they should shed tears, but a circular disc of sunlight glows behind the gray. An appearance from the sun would make it a rather nice spring day. It’s not one of those days, though.
Today will be a hard day.
The computer system fed him the address before he left work yesterday. Perks of being a cop. You can find anyone you want within a heartbeat, assuming that they’re actually in the system. Bucky popped up under Robert Karp. Orange hair and freckles. The picture saved in the system showed a younger version of the man. Peach fuzz for facial hair and freckles that glistened in the sun. Crows hadn’t stepped on his face yet.
A different story awaits him at the house. He’s done this countless times. Search for someone through the system and find them looking a hell of a lot different than when they first took a photo for the system. Cracks and wrinkles dress their face, age wears them down, life has fought against them and broken their spirit. Life ages people. It takes them down a road where they leave behind their innocence and strength.
Life makes you fall apart.
Hughes’ knee stings with pain with each footfall as he walks down the street toward Bucky’s house. His weight chaotically blossomed over the last few months, and it’s unlikely that the knee feels anything but hatred for the rest of his body. His legs bark at him to shed the pounds. He’s not sure why he started eating more. All he knows is that a slice of pizza turned into two. A bowl of ice cream became a banana split. It’s how these things go. What is once considered normal and healthy becomes ridiculously devilish, a problem disguised as a saint.
Bucky’s door is brown and plain. His home is a townhouse buried in a community just near the New Hampshire border. He’s not far from Shawn and Mary’s place. Hughes makes a note on his steno pad that Mary’s old apartment is closer to her first one. Though unlikely, it could serve as something of a hint or evidence that Mary wasn’t exactly on her rocker. But a trial was months if not years away. He needed to find his son and soon.
Bucky may have the answers.
He knocks three times to no avail. He pushes his finger firmly against the bell. The ring echoes from inside the home. Footfalls drum inside and soon the door opens. Bucky stands there, a towel hanging around his neck, wearing track pants and a plain white t-shirt. A toothbrush hangs from his mouth. Hughes imagines he was just getting ready for the day when Hughes knocked upon the door.
“Bucky Karp? Robert, sorry,” Hughes says.
Bucky spits out a glop of toothpaste. “Present.”
“Detective Hughes. Lowell police. You mind if we chat?”
“For what?”
“I think you dated my son’s girlfriend once upon a time, and I have some questions for you.”
“And who is she? Dated a lot of women.”
He doesn’t want to let it show, but Hughes’ skin itches. His body tightens and rage flows through him. All he wants is one solid punch to this punk at the door. He treats Mary like a piece of meat, an object, nothing more.
“Mary,” he answers.
Bucky searches the ground like its a rolodex of past conquests. “Mary, Mary, ah yeah, I remember her. Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Heard about her. Figured the cops would come knocking. Nice to finally meet you.”
“And you,” he replies, “but we really should talk about all of this. Something’s come up and I’d like to hear a little bit more from you about everything you know.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, shrugging, still holding the door open, not fully committing to the conversation. It surprises Hughes that Bucky acts so forthcoming. But the guilty often act like there’s nothing to hide. “Does this have to do with what happened to her the other night? What that savage did to her?”
Savage? Nice. Clearly he’s got something against Shawn. And now Hughes has his in, he has the tunnel to travel down to get the answer he wants. Bucky doesn’t like Shawn. But he clearly has something for Mary. And that just may be enough.
Bucky invites him inside. It’s a quaint apartment, one fit for a bachelor. Hughes can’t be sure if the man is still single and alone. All signs point to it, though. Solid black furniture and a pure white coffee table. A larger than life flat screen TV with video game systems aplenty scattered below it. Framed photos of New York, Chicago and Los Angeles hang on the walls. A hallway leads down to the kitchen in the back, where stark lights shine. It’s clean. Empty. Hughes feels the lack of another person. He knows that no one else lives here. It’s a feeling. Just one person living among the ghosts.
“Thanks,” Hughes says when Bucky hands him a cup of coffee. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“Short notice?” Bucky asks, taking a sip of his own mug. “I’ll agree to that.”
“I need to know about you and Mary. She didn’t really ever mention you, and why would she, you know? I guess she and my son were in a strong enough relationship to never really mention you.”
“Isn’t that great?” he asks sardonically. “To be forgotten before you’re even a blink of the eye.”
“How long ago did you guys date?”
“You know, it was for a few years behind the scenes, like low key and,” he pauses and eyes Hughes with a raised eyebrow. “Is this on the record? Like, should I get a lawyer?”
Hughes shakes his head. His job is to find his son. Sometimes such a great search requires conversations to go off the books. The less people involved the better.
“No, no, not at all,” Hughes reassures hm with a smile. “Just us talking. A police report came my way this week that talked about your history with Mary. Something about a domestic disturbance call the police got. Some sort of major fight.”
“You did your homework. Yeah, it was one of those last strings kind of things again, you know? Like, we tried to make it work for so long but then she just went nuts on me one night. Just attacked me and hit me like I was an action figure, like a G.I. Joe or something,” he says.
Sordid behavior like this makes Hughes wonder whether or not this guy is a knucklehead or he’s playing coy.
“After that I was just, you know, messed up. Like, emotionally. So, I just said goodbye, see you later, enjoy your life, nothing more.”
“And you stand by what you said that night? That she hit you.”
Bucky eyes Hughes like he’s the craziest man in the world.
“Yeah, I mean, didn’t you read her statements too?”
Hughes recalls the conversation earlier when Samson gave him the files. The initial incident report mentioned that the woman involved had agreed with the story and she didn’t really have anyt
hing different to add to the equation. But Hughes hadn’t read her report. It waited for him in his car. Maybe he should go get it before Bucky gets bored of all of this.
“Skimmed it,” Hughes answers.
“Alright,” Bucky says, shrugging his shoulders. “Well if your read everything she said you’ll see that our stories are really close to the same thing. All the crap about love falling into the toilet. All the stories about her attacking me, me fighting back, all of that. Just the same old stuff. We’d become used to it.”
“Had it happened before?”
Bucky chortles. “Yeah, you bet it did. We fought almost every weekend. Nothing physical really, just a lot of back and forth arguments. Spats and shouts, that kind of thing, you know?”
Hughes knows. Of course he knows. There are really varying degrees of domestic violence scenarios. Simple arguments and verbal abuse lay low on the totem pole. Below physical violence, but ahead of manipulation and gaslighting.
“And when did you guys break up?”
“Had to be a year ago now. Before she met your boy,” he says.
“Right. And have you seen her recently? I mean, before everything that happened?”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, raising both of his hands. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”
The tide turns. The waves ripple back and the mood lighting dims. Hughes already recognizes it. This always happens. Boyfriend gets defensive because the cop starts to press a little harder, to dig a little deeper, to find the hole beneath the surface. Yes, he is getting somewhere.
“It has very little to do with you, but we’re looking at all angles. Right now, reports suggest her attacker is still on the loose and at large. We want to capture him as soon as possible.”
Bucky shakes his head.
“I haven’t seen her for awhile.”
“And you’re not lying?”
“No, I’m not lying.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yeah,” he says.
Hughes isn’t convinced. It takes more than these simple fibs to convince a man like Hughes, who’s faced the best liars while working as a beat cop. Impossible to fool a man who’s fooled criminals and everyday citizens. Hughes studies the art of lying and eats falsehoods for breakfasts. They can always sense it when you’re not telling the truth.
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