Yes, I’ve returned. Let’s play the game!
THE BUTCHER
Edwards rambled on, but I didn’t need to hear anymore. Hapless. That fucking word again. My dad nestled against the bathroom wall, the streaks of crimson. I was shaking, but my hand was steady as I gulped the booze.
“Forget the drink, John,” Cathy said. “Just come to bed.”
I nodded and followed her upstairs. But I clutched the whiskey in my hand.
9
“Should we pull her out of school?” Cathy stood near the bathroom, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She had closed our bedroom door to prevent Molly from overhearing our conversation.
Sleep had eluded me all night, replaced by ghoulish scenes from my boyhood: photos of dead bodies and frustrated cops, my mother cowering to avoid the harsh slap of my old man’s hand. Memories that smothered even a delicious parking lot kiss. I bunched the pillow under my head. “The Butcher won’t attack a school. That’s not his style.”
“But they found that girl, back then, on a playground fence …” It was barely six thirty in the morning, and her fingers already seemed glued to her earlobe.
“That happened at night, Cathy. School was out. Believe me, there’s safety in numbers. Calm down.”
“No more soccer, though, no running off to the park. She’s out too late then. I want her and that damn skateboard home.”
“Cathy, school’s just started up. She needs to meet the other kids and get to know the team.”
“Her safety’s more important.” She paused for a moment and then plunged ahead. “I think we should send her away. Remember my cousin in Chicago?”
“You’re overreacting. Is every family in Cleveland gonna send their kids away?”
“Not every kid has the last name of Coleman.”
“You’re being …”
“Cautious? I remember that letter, the creepy one in your drawer. And now that magazine story. What if—”
“Hold on, okay?” I sat up quickly, and the sheet fell to my waist. “We just need to be careful. We’ll pick her up, maybe set up a car pool with other parents.”
Her jaw tightened, but she seemed to mull over my words. “I’m not sure it’s enough.”
“Think about it. We can talk more later.”
“Will you consider what I said, though, about sending her away? We should discuss that, too.”
“Cathy, the Butcher already screwed up my life. I will not let that happen to my daughter.”
“Will you talk to her? About coming home, watching for strangers, keeping her cell on?”
We’d debated whether it made sense for a kid just entering her teens to have a cell, but Cathy had argued in favor of one, in case of emergencies. Apparently she’d been right. “Of course. And I can drop her off, pick her up, if you want.”
“I’ll take her, but your picking her up would be great.”
“No problem.” I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My head was still foggy, and a slight headache hummed away. Cathy untied her robe as she headed into the bathroom, and water soon cascaded from the shower nozzle.
I turned on the early news. The Butcher was everywhere. There was a montage of photos from the old crime scenes juxtaposed against the new ones; I recognized the dazed crowd at Wagar Beach. The alliterative effect of “The Butcher’s Back” seemed irresistible to every geek with a microphone.
The flow of water ended, and Cathy, wrapped again in her blue robe and holding a towel, soon stood in the bathroom doorway. “Can you take the day off, hon? I know you didn’t sleep, and …”
She knew that I’d be worthless at the office, a day spent fielding—or dodging—calls about my father from well-meaning acquaintances, the simply curious, or the prying press. How are you holding up? It must be tough, reliving it. He was a good man, you know, before …
I stood up, relishing the prospect of hot water lapping over my clammy skin, and headed for the bathroom. “Not a bad idea. I’ll call Marilyn.”
Cathy stepped in front of me. “I’m worried about you, John. Should you go talk to somebody again? I mean, just as a precaution.”
“Cathy, it’s been a long time.”
“But now the Butcher … that changes things.” She bit her lip. “If Molly ever saw you, the way you’d sometimes …”
I gripped her shoulders. “I won’t let that happen. That’s a promise.”
“Please, just tell me if there’s anything you want to talk about.” Her hand rested on my chest, against my beating heart.
I kissed her forehead before stepping past her, toward the bathroom. Shedding my underwear, I stepped into the shower and leaned against the wall, beneath the nozzle. The hot spray burned into the top of my head and washed over my back. Had I been colder than usual toward Cathy? Was it because of my guilt about Jennifer’s parking lot kiss?
I couldn’t fault Cathy for being worried about me or having her own personal fear. Hell, the entire city would be in an uproar by now, the Internet atwitter with rumors and innuendo. Every family would hunker down and worry about naive kids crossing a deserted playground. No one would slip a debit card into an ATM without a cautious look around. Everyone who used a parking lot at any mall in Northeast Ohio would be wary of their surroundings.
But someone, somewhere, would make a mistake.
I toweled off, threw on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, and headed down to the kitchen. Shaving could wait for a day.
Molly and Cathy were seated next to each other at the table, and Cathy nodded at the cup of steaming java she’d poured for me.
“I already told Mom,” Molly said. “You guys don’t have to worry about me.”
“It’s not that.” I sat and welcomed the aroma of hot coffee. “We know you won’t do anything stupid, honey, but you just need to be extra, extra careful. That’s all we ask.”
“Make sure you charge your cell,” Cathy said. “Stick with your friends.”
“Can I ask a question?” Molly looked at me. “Are you okay?”
“Just tired, that’s all.”
“That’s not what I meant. You told me about the Butcher and your dad. I read the magazine, and now the papers.”
“You don’t need to worry about me either, Molly.” Her concern made me melt, and I knew in my heart that it had not been prompted by anything that Cathy had said to her. “Go on, you two; I’ll see you tonight.”
Cathy kissed my cheek and Molly hugged me, clinging tight for longer than usual.
As Cathy backed out of the drive, I stood in the front door and waved good-bye, relishing the smile Molly flashed from the passenger seat, her energetic wave. She was more worried about me than she was afraid of the furtive Butcher. But she hadn’t lived it. Not like Cathy, and most assuredly, not like me.
“No problem. I can take care of things here,” Marilyn said when I phoned from the kitchen to tell her about my change of plans. “I’ll call if something comes up.”
“Thanks. Have a good weekend, but watch yourself.” An uncomfortable vision of Marilyn’s severed head, her long, colorful earrings scattering the light, flashed through my mind.
“Don’t worry. Flirting with a knife salesman is absolutely out of the question. Unless he’s really, really cute.”
“I should know better than to try and give you advice.” I opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a yogurt. “See you Monday.”
“Something to look forward to.”
“I’ll miss you, too. Seriously, though, be careful.”
“I’ll take that as an admission that you find me irreplaceable.”
Marilyn put up a brave front, but I could sense that she was fearful, like anyone should be. She lived alone in a condominium in Bay Village, with no one to hold when there was an unexpected squeak of a floorboard in the dead of night.
We ended our call, and I grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer and stirred the blueberry sauce from the bottom of the container. The large red hands of the clock
ticked away. The urge to stomp back upstairs, sprawl on the floor, and reread the message from the Butcher was nearly irresistible. Then my cell buzzed.
I sank into a chair and set my yogurt on the table. The number looked mildly familiar. Frank Frederickson’s, maybe? Sure enough, when I answered, he said, “Miss me, lawyer man?”
“Thanks for calling, Frank. We really should talk.”
“Yeah. How’s my inheritance coming along?” I heard him take a long draw and figured that whatever he was inhaling had a fifty-fifty chance of being legal.
“Still working on the estate. Takes time. I’m doing the best—”
“I don’t have time. I need my fucking money.”
I sat up straight. “It’s a court matter, Frank. I can’t rush it.”
“Did she tell you to stall?”
“Hell, no. C’mon. I know about the Andar Feo. Why won’t you meet with the cops? Maybe they can help. I’ll go with you, if you want.”
“They won’t believe a fucking word I say.”
“Have you thought about what they do to women? They cut them up, their faces. Have you thought about your sister?”
“I could only hope.” He laughed.
I nearly blurted out that he was a prick, but pulled back. I had to keep him on the line. “The cops just want to talk about what happened to your father.”
“This isn’t about the money I got from the old man, and I don’t know a damn thing about what happened to him, you got that?”
“Then tell them that.”
He inhaled, held it for at least a ten count, and then exhaled. “You trust her, don’t you? Still think that she won’t try to fuck me over?”
“No one’s trying to fuck anyone over, Frank.”
“You need to keep your eyes open. I should tell you some things about sweet little Jennifer.”
I was speechless for a moment, not sure that I wanted to know. “So talk.”
“Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.” He chuckled. “Saint Jennifer teaching you Spanish yet, talking about those poor Mexican immigrants she cares so much about?”
“What do you mean, Frank?”
“You may be a lawyer, but you sound pretty fucking clueless.”
I didn’t react but said evenly, “That makes two of us, doesn’t it? Talking to the cops can only help. If the Andar Feo find you—”
“You just don’t get it. It’s not them I’m afraid of.”
“Jesus, Frank, tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll think about it, lawyer man. Maybe I’ll talk to you, since you’re in charge of the money. I’m sure as fuck not talking to anyone else.” He paused and smoked something once again. “But I’m not sure I can trust you, not sure I can take the risk.”
He hung up.
I hit callback immediately, but he didn’t pick up. I’d have to call Jennifer and Bernie, and talk to both of them about Frank’s cryptic statements. And the return of the Butcher. I decided to phone Jennifer first.
She recognized my voice, and I couldn’t help but feel flattered. “Before you say anything, John, I need to apologize for, you know, what happened after dinner …”
“No apology needed.” The kiss, wrong though it might have been, was a memory to savor. “You’re under a lot of pressure, and we’d had a few drinks.”
“Yeah, but I know you’re married. I don’t know what came over me. Un poco loco.”
“No—and those words I understand.” I cleared my throat. “I wanted to tell you that Frank just called and, well, I thought we should talk about the Butcher, too. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Neither could I. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my dad and thought of what was done to him. Oh …” She choked back tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Maybe this isn’t the best time.” And I wasn’t sure that I could help her. I wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers to my chin. “We can talk about Frank later.”
“No, I want to hear.” She sniffled.
I gave her the recap of my conversation with her brother, and then said, “Obviously, I’ll call Bernie Salvatore. He’ll want to know that Frank apparently has the missing money. The other stuff …”
“I told you, John, he’s delusional.” Jennifer sighed. “I think he makes things up, fantasizes, sees what he wants to see, hears what he wants to hear.”
“Yeah.” She was right, no doubt, but I was nonetheless curious to hear every word that might rattle out of Frank’s mouth. “About your dad, if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
“I appreciate that, you know.” There was a sound, as though she were gently blowing her nose. “Your calling like this means a lot to me; it really does.”
“I’m glad. I—”
“Let’s talk again soon, please.” She was softly crying. “Please. I need that right now.”
She disconnected. The call to Bernie could wait a bit. I needed a moment, just for me. My eyes roved over the refrigerator, the stove, the cluttered countertop, then out the small window over the sink. Just what the hell was happening?
10
We met Alison and Carl for dinner at Pier W, a stylish seafood restaurant in Lakewood that showcased an elaborate two-story fish tank teeming with darting, multicolored species. A burnished metal bar was flanked by shelves stocked with assorted liquors and topped by an array of cognac, featuring a crystal bottle of Louis XIII. The glass-walled dining room was kissed by the sunset over Lake Erie, and clouds blazed with impossibly crisp shades of red and yellow and orange, reflected in the midnight blue water.
What stood out, though, on a Saturday night, were the empty bar stools and vacant tables covered in ghostly white tablecloths. Pier W never had vacancies on a weekend night. Even Cathy had considered canceling the corner table that she’d reserved for her birthday celebration, but I’d talked her out of it. The Butcher would not dictate any aspect of my life.
“So this newbie from the ’burbs—two days on the job and looks to be about sixteen—doesn’t know that the Croats and Serbs and them run all the consonants together.” The dim restaurant lighting cast a soft glow on Carl’s chubby face. “She thinks it’s misspelled and changes the name!”
As Carl chuckled about his enthralling adventures working as a clerk at the Lakewood Municipal Court, Alison adjusted her bright-red shawl. “Boy, honey, that story’s nearly as funny as it was when you told it last time.”
“Well, fuck, I just won’t say anything.” Carl had started on his second gin martini, with three olives. He couldn’t handle gin. If he didn’t slow down, he was going to lapse into one of his churlish moods.
“Just kidding, dear.” Alison draped an arm over his rounded shoulders. “If it weren’t for you, we’d have to listen to John all night.”
She looked at me, and I wasn’t sure if her lips curled into a smile or a sneer. She was dead on, though. Carl couldn’t tell a decent story to save his ass, but I knew what they were doing, all of them: tiptoeing around the subject of the Butcher. Cathy had probably called Alison before dinner, reminding her to rein in Carl and avoid the topic. I don’t want John dwelling on that.
Although I kept up a front, the truth was that the Butcher’s return had begun to gnaw at me like a sick, catchy jingle. Every night, sleep was fitful and sporadic. My imagination sprang from doorknobs slowly turning to window locks twisting open. Four or five times a night, I padded down the hallway to check on Molly.
“Here’s to Cathy.” I raised my glass.
“And to all of us, getting together.” Cathy clinked her glass against Alison’s. They could have been twins. Cathy was only three years older, but didn’t look it. The women tended to dress alike, typically a conservative blouse paired with a matching skirt. When they giggled, they’d even hunch their shoulders exactly the same way.
“It’s been too long,” Alison said, and she sounded sincere, although we both knew that the comment wasn’t intended for me. From the day we met, it was apparent that Alison thought her sister could have
done better. I’d come to accept that she was probably right.
“Absolutely,” I said. “We really have to do this more often.”
Alison mimicked my broad smile, and I handed Cathy her gift. The copper necklace was attractive, affordable, and even gift wrapped—by the clerk. “Happy birthday, baby.”
Cathy rested her hand on the nape of my neck and drew me to her for a perfunctory thank-you kiss. As I slipped my arm around her, saw her comely face framed against the descending sun, it was easy to understand why I’d fallen in love with her all those years ago. She withdrew her hand and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Alison, of course, tagged along.
Being stuck with Carl would be either awkward or excruciatingly dull. Maybe both. I took an ample belt of scotch as he straightened the lapels of his bargain-basement sport coat and leaned across the table.
“Just so you know, Cathy wonders if you’re runnin’ around on her.”
His comment threw me back a little, even though Cathy’s resentment of my late evening dinner with Jennifer had been clear. God knows, despite whatever had happened in the distant past, I was now toeing the line—except for one little kiss in a parking lot. I looked away from Carl and out the window. “Well, she’s wrong.”
“Just sayin’.”
If Carl thought that he had suddenly become my confidante, he was nuts. “How’s work?”
He hesitated a moment, as if he wanted to pursue the topic of my running around, then said, “They hired some office consultant—a real prick, but what’re ya gonna do? He wants to change this, change that, so we change. Why make waves?”
I only nodded, trying to imagine what it would be like to be stuck in a bureaucracy, following orders, keeping my head down, just getting by.
Carl rolled his shoulders and made a face, then stared into his gin like a shaman probing for signs. “The Butcher comin’ back … she’s worried about how you’re handling that. We all are.”
The Company of Demons Page 6