by John Oakes
“Only from having a good time partying before passing out. I’ve never woken up from a fugue state having a shootout with the police I couldn’t explain.”
“You anticipate where I’m going.” Dr. Jansen lowered his chin.
“I’m not trying to diagnose myself, but know I’m not split personality.” That didn’t sound entirely true to Winton. He wasn’t an expert in the field. “Well, I don’t think I am. I think of the anger like a super power, or having a nitrous booster in your car. I’m just afraid of it turning on at the wrong time or with the wrong people, or ruining my regular engine.”
“Has it lashed out since this bad situation you were in?”
“No. But I can feel it waiting for the right moment, the right conditions.”
“What might that be?”
Winton considered that, hands folded in his lap. “Doc, there’s something in people that seeks out those who appear weaker than them. But in a certain set of humans, there’s a far greater likelihood they’ll try and take advantage of that weakness, to become the bullies and abusers.”
“I see. You say this anger originated with the world not meeting your expectations, not being the way it ought to be.” Dr. Jansen paused. “But, Peter, was it also a sort of defense against a world you found dangerous because of your stature?”
Winton felt his forehead get heavy, pulling him down. Something hot and roiling in him acknowledged the truth of Dr. Jansen’s words.
Maybe his issues hadn’t all stemmed from disappointment and existential anger. Had his anger, or part of it, actually been there to protect him?
“Honestly, that’s a great question.” Winton looked up. “I don’t know if I can answer it.”
“If your anger formed as a way to defend you from the world.” Dr. Jansen moved his pen as if connecting the dots. “And if that latent anger is still fueling bad decisions, you may want to ask yourself if there really is that much to fear anymore.” Dr. Jansen closed his folder. “Sounds like you have homework. That is if you’ll be coming back for another session.”
Winton got out of the chair and Dr. Jansen’s hand. “I’ll talk to the front desk.”
“Until we meet again, Peter. Just think it over.”
Winton walked out of the clinic in a daze and leaned against the driver’s door, staring at the gravel. He contemplated anger, fear, the childhood of a deformed boy.
Squawking caught his attention, pulling his gaze up into the blue sky. A group of seagulls nipped and tore at one another, fighting over the remnants of a Big Mac in mid-air.
TWELVE
Winton parked in the ample space under the beach house on its high stilts. When he went to climb the stairs, he found a pelican perched atop the railing at the entrance to the deck, eyeing its surroundings from its vantage. It jawed at Winton the second he came into view, opening its beak big enough to get around Winton’s entire body, then snapping it shut and nodding menacingly.
“Goddamn pelicans.” Winton picked up a pebble and threw it. It bounced off the railing, and the pelican squawked but didn’t move.
Fortunately, Julius had seen Winton pull up and noticed the reason he wasn’t through the door already. “Get out of here, you giant trash bird!” Julius’ flailing arms finally convinced the bird to extend its wide wings and swoop away to the neighbor’s outdoor shower stall.
Winton trudged up the steps. “Thanks for the save.”
“Hate pelicans. Like giant mosquitos. A pestilence. Always stealing my snacks or my bait when I go fishing.”
Julius stalked inside with a scowl hanging on his face for some time after. He returned to the kitchen and stood over a skillet before dumping its contents onto a plate.
“Want any eggs?”
“It’s middle of the afternoon,” Winton said.
“So?” Julius snapped. “I fucking love eggs. Protein, baby.”
“You know, when you’re right, you’re right. Eggs do always sound good.”
“Hot sauce?”
“In the cabinet.”
“We oughta go to the grocery store,” Julius said, sauntering to the table in joyful anticipation for his meal. “We’re eating all Heather’s food.”
“We could do that,” Winton said. “Maybe we could do something else for her, too. Wish there was an easy salve for grief.”
“That don’t exist,” Julius said, poking a fork at him, “but chocolate is a close second.”
Heather appeared from the back, looking bleary-eyed from napping and crying. She rubbed her face with a long sweatshirt sleeve. “Appreciated, fellas, but the fridge is all yours. I think I’m gonna get out of here after the funeral.” She scoffed. “God, how many funerals can you fit in one week?”
“Where you going?” Julius asked.
“Alaska. It’s where I work in the summers.”
“Good while ’til summer,” Julius said.
“I can pick up some bar shifts until rafting season.”
“No one could blame you,” Julius said. “Nobody should be alone after something like this.”
“Yeah,” Winton said. “No doubt. Hope this doesn’t ruin Galveston for you.”
“Maybe a few months of nature therapy will help,” Heather said. “And if it doesn’t, well, the oncoming Alaskan winter will probably convince me to fly south again, at least.”
Heather went to make coffee, grinding beans, boiling water.
Winton leaned forward and spoke low under her noises. “Hey man, check this out. This Doctor Jansen has a scar on his neck. Something nasty happened. Says it was a patient. He escaped and they never caught him.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. I wonder what we could find out about that.” Winton already had his phone out. Jansen had a professional web profile showing a seven year stretch working at the Maryvale Institute outside Houston. Winton searched for any news stories related to the attack. “It’s really weird. I can’t find a single news story about an escaped mental patient attacking a doctor.”
“Maybe he was lying.”
“Maybe. But look at this. Maryvale Institute closed down right about when it happened.” Winton looked up.
Julius leaned forward. “Interesting.” He set his fork down and scooted closer. “So why would an incident big enough to close the place down not get to the news?” Julius asked.
Winton tongued his cheek. “Because they kept it a secret.”
They locked eyes, and Julius whispered, “Because the patient that escaped had proof of something shady.”
“Jansen said he was sure the guy would be dead by now from substance abuse. So why bother alerting the cops, when that might get you in trouble? Why not just let your patient go and flame out in a gutter somewhere?”
“If only we could talk to that patient. If he’s even alive.”
“Health records are notoriously hard to pry into.” Winton balled his fist in front of his mouth. “Hmm.”
“But professional records…” Julius wagged a finger at Winton’s phone. “Took you forty-five seconds to find that.”
Winton sat up so fast he almost came out of his chair. “We find someone who used to work there.”
“But not a doctor,” Julius suggested. “Not a higher up.”
“Nurses always hate the doctors they work for,” Winton said with a wicked grin. “It’s perfect.”
Nurse Juanita Collins now worked at the Shady Acres Retirement Center in Pearland, part of the south metro area of Houston. Winton and Julius strolled into the massive lobby that smelled woody and floral with all the plant life growing inside it. It was surprising to be greeted with the scents of life when entering an old folks’ home, rather than the cloying stench of decay and human frailty. It felt more like the entrance to an arboretum.
“The resort I run was originally meant to be one of these fancy retirement facilities,” Winton said. “Then the financial crisis hit. It’d been sitting half-finished for years when we came along.”
“This place feels more like a resort than
a retirement home.” Julius craned his head and whistled.
“I bet you pay a pretty penny to get that sort of living.”
“Damn straight. It’s a racket.”
“Taking that Baby Boomer money hand over fist,” Winton said.
“Hard to believe any of the Boomers have money to retire. Saved less money than any generation in American history. Spend spend spend.”
“It’s too depressing to think about.” Winton blew a breath out through the corner of his mouth. “Let’s instead cheer ourselves up by asking a nurse about evil deeds done to defenseless mental patients.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Julius said.
The facility had a front desk and concierge, just like the resort, positioned in eerily similar fashion. They asked for Nurse Collins and were told to wait. Ten minutes later, a curvy black woman in white scrubs and sneakers stepped through a doorway. The receptionist pointed to Winton and Julius, and she walked toward them, offering a bright smile. “Hi. Did you ask for me?”
“In my prayers, baby girl.” Julius offered out a hand to shake.
“I will turn a hose on you,” Winton grumbled. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry. We were hoping to chat.”
“What about?”
“We’re looking for a missing person,” Winton said.
Her smile faded a little. “You cops?”
Winton smiled at the question. “Uhh. No, ma’am.”
“So, like, private detectives?” She waved a finger at them.
“Oh, nah—” Julius held a hand up, then looked at Winton who cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, yeah,” Julius said. “That’s what we are, all right. Private Detectives.”
“And what about a missing person?”
“We don’t actually know his name,” Julius said.
Juanita’s remaining smile turned down into a frown.
Winton pressed on. “We think you might have cared for him. At Maryvale.”
Her body language shifted at the mention of Maryvale. “Maryvale?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Winton said, keeping his tone even and non-threatening. “We’re hoping you could tell us a bit about your time there.”
Juanita looked furtively in either direction. “Who sent you? Who’s paying you?”
“No one’s paying us.” Winton said. “This one is pro bono, you could say. We’re trying to figure out who murdered a friend. A separate case, but it has led us here.”
“How’s that connected to Maryvale?”
Before Winton could answer, she said, “Come with me.” She hurried them down a hallway to a brightly sunlit communal area and into a reading room.
Juanita sat, and they took her cue to do the same. “Lemme see some ID.”
Winton offered her his driver’s license, as did Julius.
“Chevalier and Vincent,” she said. “Sounds like a suit boutique, not a detective agency.”
Winton laughed, trying to break a little tension. “I suppose we can workshop the name, then.” They took their IDs back.
“So,” Juanita said.
“You worked at Maryvale until it closed down,” Winton said. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Why did it close down?” Julius asked.
Juanita splayed her hands. “Budget issues, I guess.”
“Not long before this, there was an incident with a patient.” Winton watched Juanita carefully as he said each word. “He tried to kill a psychologist. He escaped?”
Juanita jutted out her jaw. Everything about her body language suggested this particular patient had her attention. “Maybe. That who you’re looking for?”
“We’d like to find out more about him. Can you give us a name?”
“Depends,” she said. “You said a friend of yours was murdered. You think he did it?” There was genuine fear in her eyes, as if afraid it could be true.
“No, no.” Winton held up both hands. “You misunderstood my wording. My bad. I’m sorry.”
Julius jumped in. “We think this man might help us find the killer.”
“What are you gonna do with him?” she asked.
Winton figured she wouldn’t have asked the question unless she was sympathetic to him. “We’re going to talk to him. But we have no interest in harming him or getting him in trouble.” He saw further hesitation in her eyes. “Or getting you in trouble.”
“Cletus.” Juanita sniffed. “Cletus and I had a… special relationship,” she said. “It sounds awful, me being a nurse, but he wasn’t like the others. And I was younger and dumber. But he was different, I swear.”
“Is that why things went the way they did?” Julius asked. “Because he was different from the other patients?”
Juanita dabbed a tear away with a finger. “Probably. Least that’s the best I can figure when I lose myself and think about it.”
“Where is he now?” Winton asked.
Juanita shook her head. “I ain’t heard nothing about him since he ran off.”
“Do you have any clue to where he could be? A last name?”
“Cletus came to us a John Doe. Didn’t have ID. Just said his name was Cletus.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s taller than average, a bit like you,” Juanita said to Julius. “Mixed race, wiry but strong, was starting to go gray in his facial hair. I thought he was quite handsome.”
“Any clue where he went?”
Juanita shook her head. “I mean, he once told me he had people in San Antonio. But…”
“Just between you and us, did you help him escape? Did you help him try to kill Dr. Jansen?”
She suppressed a startled expression, and her breathing picked up. “No. I didn’t. In fact, it hurt a little when I saw the planning Cletus must have put into it. He could’ve told me goodbye.”
“There was some shady shit going down there,” Julius said as he leaned forward. “That Dr. Jansen had it coming, didn’t he?”
She held up both palms. “I’ve said too much. I’d rather leave it all in the past. I’ve said my prayers, and ain’t nothing gonna change nothing now.” She stood and so did they. She walked them to the nearest exit and held the door open for them.
“We’re trying to do a good thing here,” Winton said.
“I’ve told you all I can,” Juanita said. “Cletus figured out something. To do what he did, he must’ve figured out something bad. Mr. Chevalier? Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Winton nodded. “I think I hear what you’re telling me.”
“He did what he did to set everyone free. Not just him.” She began to tear up. “It just didn’t work as planned. After everything, he’s still an optimist. Or at least he was.”
Winton nodded. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Julius placed a hand on her shoulder in thanks.
“If you find him,” Juanita said. “If he’s lucid, or hell, if he ain’t, just send him to me, please. I wanna know he’s taken care of.”
“We won’t forget.”
They walked somberly back to the sedan and got in.
Julius sat staring in silence at the steering wheel for thirty seconds. “Some shit went down at Maryvale.”
“Some shit’s going down in Galveston,” Winton added.
“And some crazy guy named Cletus is the key to the mystery.”
Winton scoffed. “Sounds like he’s a mystery himself.”
“San Antonio,” Julius said. “You said you used to live there. Think you and Cletus have many friends in common?” The question was sardonic, but Winton gave him an earnest answer.
“That’s one thing I can say about the questionable way I’ve lived my life, Julius.” Winton tugged on the lapel of his shirt. “I can almost guarantee it.”
THIRTEEN
A dense fog rolled along the beach, threatening to swallow the beach house and perhaps the Gulf side of the island. Julius noticed it first, and Winton had to step outside to get a good look.
“This is a good one,” Winton said. “
I was usually here in summer time, so I’d miss these.”
“This is normal?”
“Yeah, advection fog. Normally, I love it. It’s totally spooky.” He turned toward the door. “But hey man, let’s hit the road before the visibility gets stupid. I can call around about Cletus when we’re off the island.”
Julius hopped to it, packing up his travel bag and slinging it over one shoulder. Winton did the same, and quickly, figuring it was better to beat the fog than worry about leaving something behind. They were out the door and at the top of the stairs when Julius stopped short.
“What’s that?”
The ozone smell of foggy air spun around Winton’s nostrils as he peered down at the street, thirty yards away.
A black car crept to a stop. Its passenger door opened, and out stepped a tall, thickly-built man wearing an ill-fitting jacket and pleated trousers.
“Who’s that?” Julius asked.
“No idea.”
The black car drove off, leaving the big man staring up at the house in. His dark hair was cut short, and he had a short beard. His eyes were fleshy circles, making it hard to read anything in his gaze from far away. He swayed with his weight over his lead foot, then trundled forward, seeming to improve his gait the more he walked.
“That car, Winton. Was that—? Couldn’t be.”
“That car,” Winton said.
“Who are you?” Julius called out.
The man didn’t answer. Without a word, he closed the distance across patchy grass and sandy earth and set a hand upon the stair railing.
“Hey man, who the hell are you?” Julius barked.
With a groan, he mounted the first step, then another, each time growing smoother in the motion as if relearning an old skill.
Julius put a hand on Winton’s shoulder, pulling him back.
“I know what this is,” Winton said under his breath.
They backed up to the door and locked it behind them, then barricaded it closed by sliding a sofa in front of it. Safe inside, Julius looked around. “Your family keep a gun?”
“Don’t think so,” Winton said. “Shit, man. I think I know what this is!”