Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I haven’t forgotten what today is, but none of the other investigators are answering their phones. I’m sure they’ll blame it on the power outage. It’s hit half of the county, but right now you’re the only one I can reach. I’m really, really sorry, Wind.”

  He sighed, knowing it was the job that had kept him as sane as he was—which wasn’t saying much. “All right, give me the address.” He jotted down the location.

  “Should I try to contact Crenshaw?” Lottie asked.

  He thought of the Pima County Medical Examiner with his round body and slightly yellowish skin. They called him Melon behind his back. Radhauser was glad he’d earned his nickname because he ran faster than any other runner on the high school track team. He got teased about it occasionally, a little bathroom humor, but at least it wasn’t because he looked like a cantaloupe.

  “Wind? Are you still there?”

  “Unfortunately,” he said.

  “What about Crenshaw?”

  “Melon is a pain in the ass and thinks every dead body is his own personal property. I’ll phone him after I check things out.”

  “You know the policy,” Lottie said. “And you know how he gets.”

  “He’ll be pissed. So what’s new? I’d rather have Officer O’Donnell out there first, if you can get a hold of him.”

  Radhauser had worked a murder case with Tim O’Donnell over a year ago, and found him to be a damn good investigator.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Lottie said. “And, Wind, I wish I could say something that would—”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Lottie.”

  He glanced at the photo again, blew out the candles and hung up the telephone. He slipped on his favorite bolo. It had a large turquoise slide attached to a black leather band, with tooled silver tips on both ends. He grabbed his western-cut jacket. Though he’d never told anyone, he dressed in western garb for his son, for the boy who’d wanted to be a rodeo cowboy. He touched the silver belt buckle that had been Lucas’s most prized possession. Just weeks before he died, Lucas took first place in the junior calf-roping event at the annual youth rodeo in Florence.

  He grabbed the steel gray Stetson Laura had given him that Christmas, four months before the car accident. He measured everything that way now. One week after the accident he’d packed away their photographs because he couldn’t do anything but look at them. Five months after the accident he’d sold their house and moved into an apartment. Seven months from the day of their funeral, Lucas would have turned fourteen. Radhauser supposed he was destined to measure time that way; first the days, then the weeks and the months. And finally, one year after another.

  He sighed, picked up the camera bag where he kept his 35mm Canon, slung the strap over his shoulder, locked his studio apartment and headed for the parking lot. The late night air was cool, the sky dotted with stars and a moon hanging white and full.

  Once he’d passed Oro Valley and the new El Conquistador Resort, Radhauser drove fast on the empty two-lane road. To be safe, he flipped on the switch that turned his headlights into strobes. Ten minutes later, he arrived at the scene. The house sat on a dirt cul-de-sac, with a scattering of others, a few miles north of Catalina State Park. It was lit up like one of those porcelain shops in the Christmas village Laura had set up each year—every window glowing with yellow light. No power outage here.

  An ambulance from Catalina Search and Rescue blocked the driveway, its dome light swirling, casting red and blue shadows on the white landscaping stones on either side of the walkway. Inside the ambulance cab, a paramedic he didn’t recognize talked into a radio.

  Radhauser parked his Ford Bronco on the street behind the patrol car, grabbed his camera and headed toward the house, just as two deputies stepped into the yard. They wore the Sheriff Department’s brown pants and brown short-sleeved shirt with its gold and blue deputy patch. Hastings and Mudrow introduced themselves.

  Hastings updated Radhauser on what they’d found upon arrival, stated they’d determined the victim was deceased, done a security sweep, and secured the scene by taping off the bathroom entrance. “We saw nothing to indicate anyone had broken into the house. No sign of any struggle. Nothing much out of place. But there’s a straight-edged razorblade beside the body. I’ve never seen anyone use one on their neck before, but I guess it’s possible,” Mudrow said.

  “Who called 911?”

  “A woman. But she didn’t leave her name. The front door was unlocked. No one around when we got here. So, we called for backup.”

  Radhauser nodded his approval. He preferred a uniform make his mistakes on the side of being too cautious, even if it did mean a middle of the night trip to Catalina. “I’ll take it from here.” He made a mental note to have the phone call traced.

  Radhauser snapped a few photos of the outside of the house in relationship to its neighbors, overviews for the big picture, then headed inside. His process was to inch through the house, open drawers and closets, learn what he could and get a feel for the victim’s life, before focusing on the actual scene of death. It looked like a rental house; white walls, dark but neutral carpet, and those cheap plastic window blinds they sell at K-mart. It had only one bathroom that opened into the hallway between its two bedrooms.

  “She’s in the bathroom. Down the hall, second door on the right,” a clean-shaven paramedic said. “I left the shower curtain open. Better prepare yourself. It’s not pretty.”

  “Was it closed when you got here?”

  The paramedic nodded.

  Radhauser put on a pair of latex gloves and shoe covers, then walked down the hallway, paying attention to the walls and carpet. He took a quick look in the bathroom without disturbing the yellow crime scene tape. He’d investigated some gruesome scenes, but this one hit him hard. The bathroom smelled like excrement and lavender bubble bath. The victim was small with blonde curly hair that looked as if it had been hacked off with hedge clippers.

  When he stepped back into the living room, the paramedic was stuffing a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff into the bag that held his gear. He closed the zipper. “We just got another call down in Oro Valley. Sounds like gallstones.”

  Radhauser told him to go ahead, O’Donnell was on his way and when they were finished, they’d call the Medical Examiner to transport the body. “You figure she lives alone?”

  “She’s got a kid,” the paramedic said, his voice tight. “From the looks of the other bedroom, a high school boy who’s smart and good at sports.” He wheeled around and headed out the front door.

  * * *

  Matt parked his Mustang in the Marana High School lot, then paced up and down the rows of cars, searching for Crystal’s 1981 Escort. When he found it, he perched on the hood. There were big pockets of unspilled tears behind his eyes. His throat ached. And he was about to see Travis, still innocent of any knowledge of his mother’s death.

  Innocent. How long had it been since Matt felt innocent? He longed to go back to that summer before his cousin, Justin, died. When the three of them had made themselves blood brothers, then spent hours developing a secret handshake—linked fingers, knuckles tapped three times against the forehead, a left elbow grip followed by two handclasps and a high five—a routine so complicated no one would ever be able to copy it. With stars trembling in the black sky above them, Matt had believed their magic worked and they would be joined, like three brothers, forever.

  But he’d destroyed that dream.

  Until tonight, losing Travis’s friendship had been Matt’s greatest fear. Now there were much bigger things to worry about. He couldn’t imagine what would happen to Travis without his mother. His father was dead. Travis was only seventeen. The state might put him in a foster home.

  Matt tried to focus only on Travis, but other fears kept rising. The police might suspect Matt had been there. They might even discover he’d had sex with Crystal. How could he face Travis? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He wondered for one s
econd if it could be a suicide, then dismissed the thought. No way Crystal would take her own life. Someone murdered her, but he couldn’t imagine who or why.

  A horn beeped. He opened his eyes and braced himself against the windshield of the Escort, holding himself tight. Travis would be coming out soon. Stay calm. Matt wanted things to appear normal for as long as possible, wanted to keep the remaining threads of brotherhood from unraveling.

  A short string of vehicles lined up around the circular entrance to the school. Strict parents, like Jennifer’s, picking up their kids.

  He spotted Travis bouncing along as if he had springs instead of joints in his knees. He wore a white dinner jacket with a wilted blue carnation in the lapel. His blond hair was long and curled up over his collar.

  Matt slipped off the hood and jogged toward him. They leaped into the air, thrust their lanky bodies forward and slapped their right hands together, then launched into their secret handshake. It was their signature move, perfectly choreographed. But it was unbearable to Matt. Every second worse than the one that had preceded it.

  “What’s up, man?” Travis slapped Matt on the back, then glanced at the tuxedo pants, not so different from the ones he wore, and the black T-shirt Matt hoped Travis wouldn’t recognize. “You look like shit, dude. Did Nate give you hell for redesigning your tuxedo?”

  The ball in the base of Matt’s throat hardened. He cleared it, tried to keep his voice from cracking. His legs trembled. He reseated himself on the Escort’s hood. “Yeah,” he said. “I went a little mental at the wedding, but it’s not like I took a piss in the punch bowl or anything.”

  Travis threw his head back and laughed.

  Matt wanted to hold onto the sound for as long as he could. He wanted to keep Travis safe and happy. Once he knew the truth, would Travis ever laugh again?

  “What happened to your shirt, dude?” Travis’s gaze lingered on the T-shirt.

  Please. Please. Don’t let him recognize it. “I spilled something on that lame-ass tuxedo shirt at the wedding. How was the dance?”

  “Kick ass.” Travis waltzed around the car as if still holding Jennifer in his arms. “I know you’ll be shocked ‘cause I’m usually such a cool dude, but I think she’s the one.” Travis’s blond curls flopped over his forehead and he shook them away, a gesture Matt had seen a thousand times.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Let me get this straight. Are you talkin’ about love?”

  Travis nodded, his curls bobbing up and down.

  Matt watched him for a moment, not wanting to take one second of this hopeful time away from Travis. He wanted to make him laugh—for them to joke around and punch each other in the shoulder like they always did. He wanted to keep postponing Travis’s horror at learning his mother was dead. Again, Matt felt his fingers slip into the wound on Crystal’s neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Travis took a deep breath and launched into one of the slapstick routines he and Matt performed whenever the opportunity presented itself. “Love,” Travis said, drawing out the word. “Let’s talk about love.” He paused for effect and smiled, his eyes twinkling with practiced sincerity.

  It was a routine Matt had borrowed from a television evangelist’s sermon in the movie, Oh God. Their performance had dissolved the audience into peals of laughter and won them second place in the Senior Class Follies. His thoughts shifted to Crystal, the way she’d slapped them both on the back after the performance, told them she planned to call Johnny Carson.

  Now, Travis was on a roll. “You can love your brother or your sister. You can love your husband or your wife. You can love your new britches. Mah new car. You can even walk by the pet shop and just love that little doggy in the windah.” He paused and flashed another wide grin—Matt’s prompt to take over.

  Despite the blood pounding in Matt’s head, despite the flashing mind photos of Crystal lying on the sofa in only her underwear, the routine was so familiar and automatic he didn’t miss a beat. “Now some folks say love is what they done seen in a porn-o-graphic movie.” He spread out his arms, palms raised, beseeching the skies, then shook his head, jiggled the flesh on his jowls like Richard Nixon. “But that is lust, my friend.” Matt waited a second, opened his eyes, wide and astonished, then whispered, “Not love.” He took a breath. “Is that what you want? Is that what you’re talking about?” He shook his fist at the sky in a parody of rage, gave a long, drawn out sigh, then slumped his shoulders. Another photo flashed. Crystal in a bathtub of blood.

  “No, my friend,” Travis said. “The kind of love worth talking about is the kind that calls for a sacrifice.” He bellowed out the last word, then carried on in earnest. “Are you willing to make the sacrifice?”

  Travis held his stomach in an attempt to stop laughing, then flashed his most ingratiating grin and held it for a good thirty seconds. “You can start, Matthew Garrison, by digging deep into your pockets.”

  Matt slid off the hood of the Escort. He planted his feet wide apart on the asphalt, jerked out the linings of his pants pockets and said, “Nothin’ there but lint.” He gave Travis a punch on the shoulder. “So, what is it you really feel for Jennifer, my man? Is it love or lust?”

  A voice in Matt’s head mocked him. And what were you feeling when you had sex with Crystal?

  Travis’s face grew serious. “You okay, man?”

  Matt swallowed, said nothing.

  Travis shrugged. “No room for lust in Narrow Way. I guess that means I’m sacrificing my boner.”

  This was Travis at his best. Matt laughed in spite of himself. “What do you say we chill at my house? We can grab some of my dad’s beer, hang out in my room or by the pool. We can philosophize about lust and love. It’ll be like old times.”

  “Smells like you started without me.”

  “Please, Travis. You can talk to me about Jennifer. And I’ll freak out about shouting ‘bullshit’ at my mom’s wedding.”

  “No way, dude,” Travis said. “You didn’t.”

  “I know. How lame can I get?”

  “I have Miss Crystal’s car, and I need to pick her up at work.”

  Matt looked at Travis’s shoes for a moment, then back up at his face. “She’ll understand. I’m sure Barcode will give her a ride.”

  “I’m sorry, man, I really am. But Crystal doesn’t want to encourage the Barcode.” He looked at his watch. “I said I’d pick her up. You know how she is. She’ll want to hear what Jennifer wore, if the flowers matched. And after the fight we had last night—” he stopped, started again, “well, I figure I owe her that much.”

  Travis’s hope he could make it right again with his mother was something Matt could feel, something he could almost touch. He couldn’t let Travis face that bathtub alone. “You could call The Spur, leave a message I’m all messed up and need your help.”

  Travis laughed and soft punched Matt on the shoulder. “You’re just bent out of shape because of the wedding, but your mom and Nate will get over it.”

  “Please,” Matt said. “I’d do it for you.”

  Travis stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.

  Matt’s stomach growled as if it had just digested gravel. If only he could back up time, he would be happy for his mom and Nate, offer a toast at the reception. He’d dance with his mom and his sister and stay until the party was over. Couldn’t he have one more chance?

  “Look,” Travis said. “I’m sorry. But I have to keep my promise to Crystal.”

  Every excuse Matt came up with sounded limp and contrived. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, held his shoulders and said nothing. He wanted to cry, but the tears remained clenched behind his eyes like fists.

  Travis gave him a questioning look. “Dude, you really are bent.”

  Matt swallowed. “I’ve had cooler days,” he said, his voice almost gone.

  Something softened in Travis’s face. “Why don’t you come home with me? We’ll pick up Crystal and then camp out on the living room floor like old time
s.”

  Matt’s thoughts were coming too fast. The blood spattered on the bathroom tiles. The shattered mirror. The oozing wound in Crystal’s neck. His hands started to shake. “You should go. Crystal is probably waiting for you.”

  Matt knew his behavior would give him away if he had to see Crystal in that bloody bathtub again. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to keep his promise to her.

  Travis touched Matt’s arm. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, then opened the car door, got in and backed out of his parking place. He’d turned on the radio and the Indigo Girls were singing Love’s Recovery. Through the windshield, Matt saw him smile as he cranked up the volume.

  Matt headed for his Mustang, ashamed of his lack of courage. He caught up with Travis at the stop sign just beyond the school parking lot. He rolled down his window.

  Travis did the same. He turned down the Indigo Girls.

  “How about I follow you to The Spur,” Matt said. “You can leave the Escort in the parking lot for Crystal.”

  Travis grinned. “Excellent.”

  Chapter Four

  The parking lot at The Silver Spur Steak House held only three other cars. Matt rolled down the window and called out to Travis. “Leave the keys in the ignition. No way she can miss the car.” If Travis found out Crystal hadn’t showed up for work, he’d rush home to make sure she was okay.

  Travis jogged over to the Mustang. “No can do, man. I dissed her last night and I need to apologize. I’ll be back in two.” Travis headed for the backdoor, throwing his keys into the air and catching them, a happy spring still in his step as he walked.

  Matt flipped on the radio. A news broadcaster droned on about Chinese students protesting for democracy in Tiananmen Square. He changed the station. Madonna sang her hit, Like a Virgin. He turned it off.