The Grey Door

by Danna Wilberg

“Same. The doctors won’t know until some of the swelling goes down. The moment grew more awkward.

  “You going to stay here for a bit? Or do you want a ride back to your room?”

  “I should stay. You go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Paul didn’t believe anyone would be safe until Jess was behind bars, and from past experience, there was no guarantee that would happen. “I’ll be back later.”

  He nudged the officer outside the door. “Keep an eye on her for me. She’s not expecting visitors. Get my drift?” The officer nodded his reassurance. Paul patted the officer’s arm amicably, but his eyes bore the intensity of a man who would take a life in a heartbeat. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

  Paul slid into the driver’s seat of his pick-up and opened a small compartment hidden underneath the console. A rectangular box wrapped in a dingy towel held the solution to any problem he incurred. He hoped he didn’t have to resort to violence. I will serve and protect.

  A wave of sadness washed over him. He bowed his head. He missed his mom’s gentle voice and his dad’s strong grip welcoming him home in the middle of the night, holding a fresh pot of coffee.

  When his parents disappeared, the police searched for weeks to find them. As the leads grew cold, so did his welcome at the police station. Soon, the case dried up, and Paul was left without closure. He sometimes ached when he thought about the love they gave so effortlessly.

  His folks were always looking for new experiences to enrich their lives. Born to the streets of St. Louis, Peter Fortier was fostered on grease paint, music, and mayhem. Acting was his passion. He met Susan, Paul’s mom, while working as a carnie. He claimed it was love at first sight and settled into a nine-to-five job, convincing her he was responsible enough to start a family. When Paul, his only son and his joy, enlisted in the service, Peter yearned to return to the unpredictable. At the age of forty-two, Peter talked Susan into going back to college and pursuing an acting career. Susan quit her job as a dental hygienist, and together they tripped the lights fantastic, living on their modest savings.

  Paul recalled the letters he received while serving in Iraq. The long letters depicting their latest follies literally kept him sane. He loved Peter and Susan Fortier. He missed them every day.

  Trained for military intelligence, Paul followed his instincts. He slammed the compartment lid and started his engine. Where would Jess go? Adrenalin pumped through his veins. Where do vermin hide? The search was on.

  ***

  Jess pulled into a run-down motel just before sunset. He needed to eat, sleep, and plan for the big day. Backing into a space near the rear of the motel, the engine stalled.

  “Fuck!” Jess pumped the gas pedal and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, sputtered, and fell silent. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he screamed, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. “Juan, you mother-fucker. I’ll kill you!” Sweat trickled down his bald pate. His salt-and-peppered mustache loosed from his upper lip. He ripped it off and swore again. Uh-oh, here comes Mr. Fiesty! The voice inside his head taunted. “Go away!” He clutched his face in his hands. Too much tequila, not enough sleep, he reasoned. Or maybe you’re a little panty-waist who cries every time he can’t have his way. Jess was afraid to open his eyes. Afraid one of his “uncles” would be standing in front of him, bare-boned, ready to play “horsey,” he shivered.

  “Fuckin’ truck,” he sighed, flipping open his phone and keying a series of numbers. “Juan, you better answer,” he seethed.

  “Hola,” Juan declared on the other end of the line.

  “Hola, your ass! What kind of truck did you give me, Juan? I said old and specified in excellent running condition! You gave me a piece of shit! Is that what I paid you for, man? A piece of shit?” He didn’t give Juan a chance to speak. “I want a truck that runs, Juan. A truck that doesn’t die, or skip, or clunk, or miss! Brakes, clutch, motor: pristine! I don’t give a fuck about dents, rust, or any of that shit! I want a fucking truck I can depend on! Are we clear?”

  “Sí. Where are you?” Jess got out the truck and slammed the door.

  “The Wood Drift Motel, off the Fifteen. And Juan, don’t fuck me again, or I may get mighty cranky. Comprendè?”

  “Sí.”

  “Excellent.”

  Jess snapped his phone shut, locked the truck, and walked to a diner one hundred yards from the motel.

  The place was nearly empty. Jess took a seat at the small counter and opened a menu.

  “What’ll ya have?” asked a T-shirt-clad temptress with the name tag reading “Sandy.”

  Jess spied her with interest and decided quickly, “Cheeseburger, fries, salad with ranch, no onions.” He smiled wickedly and tipped his hat. “The ladies, you know.” The girl rolled her eyes and mumbled an insult under her breath. He detested rude people, especially rude women. Bitch.

  The siren jammed his ticket on a metal wheel, yelling out a code number to the cook. She plunked a bottle of catsup, Tabasco, and mustard in front of Jess while chomping her gum.

  “Want something to drink with your burger?”

  “How about we start over? You pretend I’m a paying customer and show me some respect. In turn, I won’t tell all my buddies that you give the best blow jobs in town.”

  “You wouldn’t!” The girl’s face turned beet red. She stepped back with arms akimbo, stretching her T-shirt tight across her ample bosom. “Mister, do you know how many creeps I wait on each day?”

  “Now I’m a creep?”

  “You looked at me weird.”

  “Boo-hoo. I thought I smiled and tipped my hat like a gentleman!”

  Her eyes met the floor, contemplating his words. When she looked up, tears formed in her eyes. “Sorry, mister. I didn’t mean any offense. I’m having a bad day, okay?”

  Jess felt vindicated, happy he made her cry. She deserved more. She deserved a cock up her ass and a belt around her throat. Maybe then she would know what it was like to have a bad day.

  Maybe then she would know the true meaning of creep.

  “I’ll have a Coke. Easy on the ice, please.” The vixen slithered away. When she returned, she placed the soda in front of him carefully and smiled. “You’re right. I behaved badly. The soda is on me.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “How did you know?”

  “We’re all sons-of-bitches. What else makes a lady as pretty as you lose her sparkle?”

  This time her smile was sincere. “I’ll check on your burger, sir.” Jess grinned. He imagined dessert in his room.

  ***

  Paul entered the office supply store and headed for customer service. “Excuse me,” he said to the clerk. “I need to send a fax, and I have a package to pick up.” He gave the young man his name, a photograph of Grace and waited for his packet. Once he paid the clerk, he went outside to examine the contents. He compared the photos of Burgess Benjamin Bartell and Justin Michael Barnes. Justin’s image was fairer than Jess’s. Jess looked savvier: better haircut and expensive suit. Justin appeared to be younger. He wore a plaid shirt and a sour expression. Nevertheless, they were the same man.

  “I knew it!” Paul slapped his thigh. Reality heightened his senses. Where can he be? He thought deeply. He went to the trouble to hurt Grace’s mom, steal her car, and show up before Grace’s surgery. Why? What did he plan on doing? Why would he follow Grace to St. Joseph’s and risk his identity? Did Fran tell him where she was? She must have. That’s why he tried to kill her. She knew what he was planning to do.

  Paul slipped the photos back into the envelope. He had another stop to make.

  When he entered the pawn shop, a burly man with long hair greeted him with exuberance. “Hey, man! How the hell ya been?” The two men hugged.

  “Denny, my man! Been a while. How you doing?”

  “Doing great, man. Just got back from a hunting trip with

  Skip.”

  “How’s he doin’? We talk, but I haven’t seen him. />
  “His new prosthetic leg is amazing! Still can’t dance though.” He roared, slapping Paul on the back. “As long as his other leg works, he’s in business!” They both laughed this time. Paul knew which leg he referred to. Skip was a newlywed when he got deployed. Marianne was the love of his life. All he talked about was making love to his bride. The loss of his manhood would’ve been incomprehensible. Paul removed Skip’s leg at the knee; all other parts were spared, hence. Both Denny and Skip treated him like God.

  “Skip said to give you these.” Paul peeked inside the envelope. Passports. Driver’s licenses. The woman looked identical to Grace. The man appeared identical to Paul. However, the names did not match. Gretchen and Arthur Zimmerman were born in the Netherlands. Brother and sister acquired dual citizenship in 1986.

  “The Netherlands?” Paul chuckled. “Good ol’ Skip.”

  “Here. Take this. Paul reviewed the list of names and addresses of “relatives” waiting to help. “You’ll like Wisconsin, especially when the leaves turn colors. Great beer. And be sure to check out the cheese.”

  “Thanks, Denny. I love the snow.”

  “The word’s out. We’ll find the freak. I got first dib’s.”

  “How many pairs of eyeballs you got fermenting in that jar of yours?”

  Denny’s lips stretched into a sardonic pose. “Always room for a couple more.”

  ***

  Sandra Jean Reyes never met anyone like Justin Barnes. He didn’t let her get away with any sass. Suddenly it didn’t matter that her boyfriend Stevie was with Merissa Wright at the drive-in last night. This man treated her like a lady, and she liked that. So when “Justin” left her a twenty-dollar tip simply for ending their encounter with please and thank you, Sandra took the bait.

  “These rooms haven’t changed a bit,” she said, bouncing on the bed.

  “I came here to sleep. I wasn’t interested in the decor.” Jess hung his hat on the pole lamp in the corner of the room and sat down in an orange-corduroy-covered chair to remove his boots. Sandra flipped her shoes over her head and rolled onto her tummy. “You talk like a tough guy, but I think you have a gentle side.”

  Jess burst out laughing. “Think so, do you?”

  Sandra crawled across the bed on all fours, purring like a kitten. Jess watched her whip her hair away from her face. She was pretty, like a Sunday morning after a gentle rain. He could only imagine what kind of schmuck she was pining for this afternoon when they met. Oh well, his loss. Jess planned on cashing in on his good fortune. Twenty bucks was a pittance to pay for a tight ass like hers. He removed his socks and then his pants. Sandra followed suit. When he got down to his briefs and she stripped down to her bra and itty-bitty thong, he decided to be nice. He decided to let her live.

  ***

  Grace returned to her room an hour after Paul left. It hurt to sit in the chair. She was due for her pain pill. Sitting vigil didn’t help. Her mom hadn’t budged. Grace felt let down. Why she prayed, she didn’t know. God didn’t listen, at least not to her. She remembered the hummingbird she held in her hand when she was a little girl. The bird was nearly dead from exhaustion. She nursed it back to health with God’s help. Now she thought it must’ve been a fluke. She had prayed for Wilde to survive an avalanche and for Garret to wake from his coma. God, please, please make everything all right. Two down. Three strikes you’re out. She peeked out the curtain. It looked like rain.

  Her blue mood was interrupted by a knock. A greeting hitched in her throat. All that came out was “Spider!”

  “Hi, Grace. How you doin’?” His thick Italian accent reminded her of better days, Kathy’s red sauce, and teasing Garret while they worked. Frank Spiderelli was a quiet soul, except when it came to the topic of marriage. He wanted the world to know the happiness he shared with his wife, Kathy.

  “What are you doing here, Frank?”

  “Lookin’ for trouble. Know where I can find him?”

  “If you mean Jess, I haven’t seen him. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. I thought I saw him yesterday morning before my surgery. I was drugged. I can’t be sure it was him.”

  “I heard about your mother. Any news?”

  “She moved her fingers about an hour ago. Nothing since.”

  “I’m sorry. Any more about how it happened?”

  “The police found her car in the parking lot. No prints. Do you think it was Jess?”

  “I think it was.”

  “Why? What reason would he have to hurt my mom?”

  “He’s a psychopath. Did you know he had a wife?”

  “Yes, Jenna. He told me they were separated.”

  “Wrong. He kept her tied up in his basement for months…

  like a dog. She’s lucky to be alive. Jess Bartell is a deviate that needs to be locked up.” Spiderelli wiped the anger from his brow and took a deep breath. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “We met in college. I thought he was a nice guy.”

  “College? Where?”

  “Chicago.”

  “He from there?”

  “No. He said he was from Riverside. At the time, it felt comforting. We were practically neighbors.”

  “Family?”

  “I met his parents once. In Chicago. They didn’t share much about his past, and at the time it wasn’t a big deal. I was more concerned with spilling soup on my skirt.”

  “Did he ever talk about siblings? Friends?”

  “Only Jenna, her folks, the Golds…and his boss, Everett Stein.”

  “How did the two of you get together again if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “We lost contact after college. He called last spring and told me he moved to Sacramento. Said he wanted to get together.” For old times sake. Grace felt a chill.

  “Intimate?”

  “Is that important?”

  “I need to know the extent of his obsession with you.”

  “Obsession?”

  “He acted out on his wife the things he wanted to do to you.”

  “Dear God! I had no—”

  “I need to know how close you two were.”

  “I slept with him once. It was a mistake. I was feeling vulnerable. Candy was scaring me. Jess was there.” Grace hugged herself tightly. Afraid if she let go she would unravel. “He was always there.”

  Suddenly it all made sense: feelings of being watched, his knack for always showing up when she was afraid. She thought once Candy was dead, the fear would end. It didn’t. Thinking back, she recalled how she’d met Jess: ducking into the No Exit Café because she sensed she was being followed. How long has this been going on? Tear-filled eyes met the detective’s piercing brown with remorse. “We go back ten years. His obsession may have started shortly before we met.”

  Spiderelli rubbed the stubble on his chin. His stomach felt sick inside, like biting into an apple only to find the inside mushy and crawling with worms. Now that he knew Jess Bartell had a history, he needed to retrace the last ten years to learn where the bastard had been.

  “I hope your mom recovers, Grace. Listen to the officers up here. They’re going to keep you safe. I’ll be in touch.”

  “My best to Kathy.”

  “Will do. She’s my rock.”

  “You’re lucky you have each other.”

  Spiderelli bowed his head, his voice barely a whisper, “I miss Garret, too.” He turned, waved, and moved silently out the door.

  Grace pressed the call button for the nurse’s station. When the woman appeared, Grace broke down in tears. “Give me something for the pain, please? Something strong. I hurt all over.” Her body began to shake, the sobs came next. Her world tumbled around her. She was scared.

  CHAPTER 24

  TERRIBLE THINGS

  P aul entered the room to find Grace sleeping soundly. Not wanting to wake her, he sat quietly, resting his eyes. At five p.m., the dinner trays arrived. Grace did not budge. Paul watched her sleep. He wanted to lay next to her, hold her, and reassure her things
would be okay, but he couldn’t until Jess was behind bars or dead; there were no guarantees.

  Paul mulled over the information Skip provided. An ugly past most likely spawned violent behavior. Skip dug up “Justin Barnes” hospital records from age two: broken bones (fell off monkey bars, the notation reported). Tears in the rectum (fell on a broken bottle, said the report). At age five, the records noted bruising from malnutrition and explained the mother was unemployed. Later, Justin suffered six lacerations from being bound to a chair. The records indicated the child was known to hurt himself during violent outbursts. A psych evaluation was ordered. The mom moved from town to town. Child abuse charges never stuck. Paul mentally flipped the page.

  Good ol’ dad, Russ Samuel Singer, left when the evil seed was still in the womb. When Justin turned fourteen, a paternity suit was filed on Justin’s behalf in the hope of reuniting father with son. Singer was uncooperative. Unfortunately, his brakes failed on his new Mazda, pitching him over a cliff along Highway 101. Months later, Jess’s mom was found murdered by one of her many lovers, her body nude and pumped full of drugs and alcohol. Her eyelids were burned off with a butane lighter. Rubber sex toys were jammed into each of her orifices. Nine men were hauled in for questioning. Nine men were released. Six of those men later died in mysterious ways. Justin Barnes was one busy boy. So was Jerome Singer and Andrew Farr. How many identities Jess was able to assimilate was yet to be determined. Paul knew no one was safe.

  He let Grace sleep and slipped into the hallway.

  “Sal, it’s Paul. How’s Sneaky doing?”

  “Well, it’s about damn time you called! The dog is fine! How’s Grace?”

  “She’s resting. She should be released the day after tomorrow, providing she behaves herself.”

  “Don’t count on that. One thing you need to know about Grace Simms is she has a mind of her own. Best not to challenge her.” Sal’s voice sounded good to Paul, like warm tea and honey.

  “Thanks for the heads up.” He paused, envisioning a bag of cement dropping on an unsuspecting field mouse. “Hey, has Jess contacted you lately?”