by A. J. Aalto
On the kitchen counter. She groaned. She could picture them beside the coffee maker. It had been late last night when Paul told her to throw together a bag, and she’d forgotten to toss them in her purse. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was no time to waste. She had twenty minutes before the migraine hit; in her experience, an unchecked migraine would blossom into a raging monster if she didn’t stop it early. It was bad enough that she’d have to drive home in the bright sun.
“Why couldn’t it be a cloudy day?” she moaned at the universe, as if it were out to get her personally. Crawling out of bed quickly in a shuffle of sheets, she pulled her nightgown off her head and crammed her legs into the yoga pants and t-shirt she’d shoved in a backpack. She ignored her usual morning routine, skipping the shower and the make-up, simply rubbing on some deodorant and brushing her teeth quickly, wrapping her hair into a high, loose bun, being careful not to tighten it too much and pull on her scalp. She did take the time to put in her contact lenses, so that she could wear her dark sunglasses on the drive. Ramming the rest of her things into her backpack and purse in a rush, she grabbed her room key, phone, and sunglasses and went to the door.
And stopped. Her hand shook in midair in front of the doorknob. What if he’s out there? Could he be? She opened the door with the chain lock still on, moving her head to peer one way and then the other as best she could through the little crack in the door. When she was sure the hushed, carpeted hallway was empty, she unchained the hook and left the room, pulling her backpack on her shoulder.
She pressed the elevator button, and her mind teased, This is where he’ll be waiting. In the elevator. She told her brain to shut up, but it warned her over and over like a broken record. Or the stairwell. Neither is safe. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. By the time the bell dinged and the doors slid softly open, she was keyed up and ready to run or fight.
The elevator was empty and polished to a high shine. The mirrors reflected a worn-out, beaten-down woman with eyes too wide and dark circles underneath them. She got in, pressed the button for the lobby, and forced herself to calm down. This constant state of hyper-vigilance was not going to help her migraine. If anything, it would feed the pain. She knew she had slept funny on her injured neck; her own pillow was just right to support her head, but these had propped her at a funny angle. The nerve damage in her shoulder, neck, and spine were likely permanent, the doctors had warned; she should do whatever she could to live comfortably. That did not include sleeping on strange pillows or having tension ratchet her shoulders up to her ears for days on end.
Had it only been days? The elevator doors opened and released her into the lobby, empty except for two female desk clerks, one checking Facebook on her phone, the other smiling at her expectantly. Gillian checked out as Mrs. Jane Langerbeins, which was only slightly better than Jane Doe, but had been the most creative thing she could come up with at nearly two o’clock in the morning.
She slipped her sunglasses on and went out into the bright morning, wincing as her eyes adjusted. Praying for clouds on her drive home, she made it halfway there before the first sickening pulse of pain rolled up into her brain. Her day would be lost, she knew. She was about to be kneecapped by agony and she was too late to stave it off.
She kept her focus on checking that she wasn’t followed, making sure she didn’t pass the black truck on her way, and upon pulling onto Red Maple Drive, that she didn’t see a single unfamiliar car. By the time she parked, backing the Jeep in as close as possible to the rear door of the house, her headache was a four-alarm emergency. Barely squinting through her left eye only, she flung herself out of the Jeep, stumbled to the back porch, her keys gripped tightly in her hand. A wave of nausea doubled her there and she vomited in the dried up hydrangea bush, panting and clutching the porch rail with one hand. She breathed through her teeth until she was sure she could walk without throwing up again, then lurched up the porch steps and stopped short.
A torn page of diary was tapped to her back door. Across the tidy, flowing script that was Frankie’s cursive handwriting, “MURDERER” was written in black marker, all capitals, huge letters. Gillian grit her teeth, snarled, and grabbed the paper roughly, glaring at the words her sister had written. It was a retelling of a lovely day of apple picking with a friend from poetry class, some Aaron guy. It was a recent event that Gillian remembered. Weeks ago. And underneath, some musings on the friend’s “hotness quotient” in Frankie’s joking words. He’d rated a full six and a half out of ten. Not too shabby.
Gillian’s mind piped up, Don’t you know an Aaron who’s Frankie’s age? From the cemetery crew? The new guy that Bruce thinks is a creep? He just had a birthday.
What did any of that matter, Gillian wondered, but it sat in her belly and quaked. Now I’m being paranoid, suspecting everyone of wrong-doings. And why would taking my sister apple picking be a wrong-doing? It’s probably not the same guy, but so what if it is? she thought, with another moan of pain as her head throbbed. It was too much. It was all too much. She’d reached her breaking point. She stuffed the diary page in her purse. Unlocking the back door, she hurried into the relative darkness and imagined safety of the house.
The house was blessedly quiet and empty but for heaps of boxes. She grabbed her pill bottles, desperately reheated some of last night’s coffee in the microwave, then wove through the maze to her bedroom, bringing her purse with her.
She set the coffee and pills on her night table, pulled her phone out, and put her purse on the floor. Her phone was dinging with messages as she crawled into bed, her sore head sinking to her pillow. She cracked her left eyelid to peer down at the message display and her vision blurred warningly as the glow of the backlight hit her. Paul, wanting to know if she got home. She replied yes, but headache. He said he’d head over as soon as Frankie’s girlfriend had picked her up for a day of shopping. Gillian wondered if that was wise, but then figured they’d be in a mall, surrounded by shoppers, staff, and security guards.
She popped the lid on the Tylenol jar and shook out a single pill, expecting OxyContin. Instead, the pill was a blue, white, and red-striped capsule stamped with TR and 500. What the— real Tylenol pills. She threw them on the floor and groped for her Aspirin bottle, whipping the lid off with a whimper, looking for her Vicodin. Looking inside, she saw to her horror dozens of round, white tablets marked “Aspirin.”
She stared at them for a long minute, reaching one trembling hand up to pull her hair out of the bun and stroke her aching scalp. Someone switched them turned over to someone’s been in here and then they might still be here.
Just then, there was a rap on the front door, a jaunty shave-and-a-haircut. She didn’t think Paul would administer such a cheerful knock, but beyond that, her brain refused to function clearly enough to offer an alternative. If it's Travis, she thought through a wave of pain, I’m just going to fucking stab him in the throat and be done with it. To that end, she grabbed a pair of scissors on her way past her writing desk and held them in her fist. I’m done. Let’s do this, she thought, and whipped open the door.
Colin blinked in surprise and a wry smile burst out across his face. “Auntie Gillian, you gonna cut me?”
“My head,” she managed, and dropped the scissors.
Colin sprang into action, stepping in and closing the door behind him. He threw the backpack off his shoulder, smoothly lowering into a crouch, and fishing out one of the empty purses she’d given him.
“You left your purse at my house,” he scolded, his voice sing-song.
“Please,” she croaked. “You don’t have to do that while we’re inside alone.”
“Right, sure,” Colin said with a casual one-shouldered shrug. “Dr. Keller is in the hizzouse!”
“Please don’t play with me right now,” she pleaded.
“Okay, okay, okay, right, sorry,” he said, and shook out her pills into the palm of his hand. “You’re paid up for the meds, but you wanted to talk about security? I got a guy who’s g
ot some nice pieces. Feeling clear enough to discuss that now?”
“Just get me something,” she said, dry-swallowing a double dose. “I don’t care about the cost.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, still squatting by his backpack. “Preferences…?”
“No.” She rethought that, sitting on the edge of a wingback chair and closing her eyes, willing the pain to recede just enough so she could think in a straight line. “Is it possible to get, um, untraceable? Is that a real thing?”
Colin chuckled at her. “It’s a real thing. Just to be clear, we’re talking about a gun, yes?”
She nodded silently, waiting for the painkillers to start filling her with a pleasant, blurry brand of relief.
“May I ask… why?” he said. “Not that I need to know, I’m just a curious son of a bitch. I can’t imagine why you, of all people, would need a gun.”
“Home and personal protection,” she said.
He made an affirmative mmhmm noise, and added, “But you can get that with non-lethal options. And you wouldn’t need an untraceable option if you weren’t planning on using it. C’mon, Gillian. Level with me, here.”
“It’s best you don’t know,” she said, opening just the left eyelid, raising her hand to massage the right eyebrow. Relief was coming; she could almost sense the lightening in her head. The nausea was returning, though, riding a wave of self-loathing and regret.
Colin stood with the easily physicality of youth and scrubbed his face with both hands like he was washing without water. “Look, if there’s someone bothering you…” He let that hang.
It opened her eyes. “If there is…” She had no choice but to let that hang, too. Then she carefully finished, “I should let the police handle it.”
“Riiiiiight,” Colin drawled. “Sure. They’re real good at making someone stop harassing you. Have you ever reported that kind of shit? Do you know how hard it is to get a restraining order? And even then, it’s just a piece of paper. Dangerous guys don’t give two shits about paper.”
“I can handle my own problems,” she said, hearing the uncertainty in her own voice. Was she really considering what she thought she was considering?
“A few words of advice, then,” Colin said. “When I deliver it. Weapons accountability. Keep your weapon on you, yes?”
She nodded mutely.
He continued, “Situational awareness. Three-sixty degrees at all times, even when your head is pounding.”
“Yes, sir.” Gillian couldn’t help but smile weakly.
“Not kidding.” Colin was blank-faced. “A little recon wouldn’t hurt, either. An early heads-up to know what you’re dealing with would be helpful. Don’t go anywhere alone, either. Buddy system. If all else fails, you call me. I’m your buddy. Got it?” After she nodded obediently, Colin pulled the empty backpack onto one shoulder. “How soon do you need the piece?”
“As soon as humanly possible,” she said.
He frowned. “Maybe you want me to stay for a while. I mean, are you okay alone here?”
That made Gillian’s lips curl up wryly despite her pain. “Drug dealer to the rescue?”
“I'm a complex man with many fine layers, m’lady. A gentleman and an entrepreneur,” he told her in an uppity accent that might have been an attempt at posh British. “No, but seriously…”
“Tonight?”
He nodded once. “It’ll be about fifteen hundred.”
“That’s fine,” Gillian said, and felt the calm of a final decision purl through her veins, pushing out doubt and fear. “I’ll have it.”
Colin opened the door, said, “See ya, Auntie Gillian.” Then, “Oh! excuse me, pardon me, coming through!” to someone, after which he left the door open.
There were boot sounds, and her heart contracted. He’s here, he’s here, oh God, it’s him. Gillian opened her mouth to scream at Colin to come back, but the man that took his place in the doorway did so with a badge and a professionally measured smile, and asked,
“Okay if I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Ellis?”
Gillian felt the badge cure her fear at approximately the same rate as the Vicodin cured her headache, and she sank deeper into her chair with relief. Much to her embarrassment, she began to tiredly weep.
The policeman waited at the door without comment.
Chapter Thirty
Sunday, November 2. 12:00 P.M.
Constable Dean Jagger sat in Gillian Hearth’s small kitchen on Red Maple Drive at a dining table built for two, wedged between boxed kitchen supplies and a small half-wall. The kitchen was north facing with a broad window that faced the lake; a canvas-covered pergola blocked most of the sunlight. The kitchen was not merely dim; he could barely see, but Gillian moved with cat-like surety, and he saw she was in her element, a nocturnal creature, not hindered by the lack of light, though she did seem to be in pain. He watched her fuss about the stove without turning on that light, either. She turned on the kettle for tea, nimble in the dark, after which she excused herself to wash her face; when she returned, she looked more composed but much drowsier. She repeatedly stroked above her right eyebrow, sometimes pinching the bridge of her nose before returning to the brow. Her right eyelid drooped ever so slightly, twitched a bit under her ministrations.
Dean noted the boxes and asked, “Moving out?”
“What can I help you with, officer?” Gillian asked, and set out two cups with a sugar bowl and a little carton of milk. “Have you had complaints from the neighbors about my wild partying late into the night?”
“I sense sarcasm,” he said amicably.
“Nothing gets by you, detective,” she said, answering the kettle’s whistle. She poured boiling water in a floral teapot, tossed in two teabags, and brought the pot to steep on the table between them. When she sat, she offered up nothing else to the silence.
He said, “That boy who called you ‘Auntie’ looks a bit old to be your sister’s son.”
“He’s not really my nephew,” she said. “He used to live on this street. Friends of the family. I’m that sort of auntie.”
“Ah, that makes more sense,” he said, opening a little notebook. “Nice photographs. They yours?”
Gillian didn’t look behind her at the framed, enlarged pictures of the roses; she nodded and said, “One of my hobbies. I’m not terribly good at it but I enjoy it. You didn’t come to judge my photography skills.”
“I just have a few final questions about a missing person. Mike Deacon.”
“I spoke to Officer… Sauffs, was it? Many times,” she said wearily.
“Well, I’m wrapping it up,” he assured her, “and it sure would help me to clarify one or two things that I’ve got you on record as saying.”
“Sure, fine,” she said. “It’s been a few years. My memory might not be the freshest.”
“I realize that, of course,” he said. “This is just closure, you understand.”
Gillian poured tea for both of them; her hands were steady. She sipped hers immediately but slowly, not nervously. Dean noted these things; she was exhausted but seemed in pain. At the same time, she didn’t look like she wanted to rush him out. She seemed comfortable having him in her home. Nothing to hide? Or just accustomed to being in the company of cops? he wondered.
“When you got to Frankie Farmer’s house on June twenty-first at three o’clock, do you recall seeing flowers in her kitchen?”
Gillian shook her head. “I don’t remember going in her kitchen.”
“Well, you said you visited and sat on her couch talking before going home?”
“Correct.”
“Did you come in through the front door,” he asked, reading Gillian enters through side door on his notepad, “or the side door?”
“Side door.”
“So you would have passed through her kitchen to get to the living room.”
Gillian frowned. “Of course, you’re right. I don’t recall seeing flowers, but I don’t remember looking around the kitchen for details like
that. If I was briefly in the kitchen, it was to breeze through it. I fail to see the significance…”
“Was Bobby McIntyre there that day?”
He saw a flinch, unmistakable, ripple through her, so quickly that if he hadn’t been looking for a reaction, he may have missed it. It told him more than words could.
She said, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure about all of Frankie’s visitors that day. Maybe. Not while I was there.”
“You don’t like Bobby McIntyre much, do you, Gillian?”
Gillian sighed. “Off the record? I don’t trust Bobby McIntyre as far as I could throw her, and with my bad shoulder, that’s zero feet.”
“Oh right, you had a bad accident a while back,” Dean said, frowning. “I’m sorry, is that what’s giving you a headache today? Maybe I’ve come at a bad time. I can come back.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve taken some Tylenol.”
“I see,” Dean said. “You let me know if you need to cut the conversation short, though, will you, please?”
Gillian put her teacup down and rested her chin in her palm, staring at him with no small amount of amusement showing, before she said, “Your aw-shucks Good Cop routine is very good, constable. You must realize I’ve seen it a million times. It’s how Greg got me to say yes, after all.”
Dean had enough grace to smile down at the table and nod. “I don’t have much of a Bad Cop routine anymore,” he told her. “I’m old. I’m tired. And I just want to get through this paperwork before it swallows me whole.”
That made her chuckle, and the smile that accompanied it brightened her green eyes. It almost made his next question stick in his throat. “Your accident, it was a fall, wasn’t it?”
“Mmmhmm,” was all she said. The smile disappeared.
He made a show of checking his notes, though this wasn’t written in the book, it was back in his files at the station. “Fell down your sister’s stairs.” He grimaced. “Ouch.”