CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CARD HOUSE
When I woke I found myself sprawled on the concrete steps. I rolled off to the grainy asphalt, slowly got to my feet, and shuffled off like a drunk. I took deep breaths of the cool air, trying to purge the smell and sights and any remnants of Teresa’s mind. It would take time to be completely free of those images, and the walk and distance it would bring from it all would help in my journey back to reality. It was getting dark again, as it always seemed to be doing, another day passing without my family. In a place where time was relative, it sure seemed to slip away fast enough.
I had one more stop to make before I went home for good, one last detour that would hopefully provide peace of mind and assurance that now all was how it should be. It wasn’t long before I arrived and stood, full circle, in the exact spot where I had died, right across from the home of Brent and Brenda Hewitt.
It was more than anticlimactic as I surveyed the surroundings. There was no blood in the street, no fading chalk outline, no plaque. No memory. Nothing that would tell anyone a life had ended on this spot not so very long ago. A verse came to mind from somewhere. As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. For the wind passes over, and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more. Which didn’t help.
I walked away from the place that knew me no more toward the entrance of the Hewitt’s home, where at least two people held such memory and where some reminder of my life would hopefully be uncovered.
They sat at the dinner table, did the Hewitts, and I sat down with them. How nice of them to invite me. I'd never actually had dinner there, only dessert. Perhaps this meal would satisfy.
Brenda looked as beautiful as she ever had in the light, though she was more attractive not chewing. Perhaps the noise accentuated the negatives. Perhaps her face did. Maybe it was her existence. No, that wasn't fair. It wasn't her existence that bothered me; it was my lack of same and knowing she was the cause.
I searched her face for the answer to the question I’d asked a hundred times before.
Had she been worth a lifetime?
How about a year? A month? A week? A night? Let's get it down to hours, we'd always seemed to manage before. Had she been worth an hour of my life? Two? Somewhere, I guessed, between two and eternity. So I stared and she chewed and looked at her husband who chewed and looked at his plate. Nothing to say. Too much to say. Too painful to say.
I could see her thoughts plainly in her eyes. She was reviewing her life and it was passing by in a sad procession, the history of her and the person sitting across the table. The seven stages of marriage.
The beginnings, the two of them together; youth, with ignorance of poverty shielded by the blind bliss of love. Happy times and hungry years, without care of possessions or the bonds of financial stress. But those were coming, just around the corner, and once rounded they hit head on. Each rung of the ladder brought more pressure to keep up a lifestyle which padded their comfort while robbing their joy. Then, inevitably, the boredom of a wife at home and a husband working hard, neither getting their just due, neither appreciated. Looking for appreciation elsewhere, finding it: in the arms of a secretary or two, in the arms of the man you hired to find your husband in the arms of a secretary or two. And when your worst fears were confirmed, along with them came a landslide of anger and resentment and despair as you realized the time and energy and love and commitment you'd poured into that relationship had been poured down the drain. Hell, it had been pissed down the toilet, leaving a stained memory of years and experiences culminating with this silent dinner. And the man sitting across the table keeping as quiet as the dead was doing so because there was nothing left, for he had confirmed his own fears about you and found them true, as well.
And in his face the blankness of endings. Not knowing what to do or say, he sat and said nothing while trying to keep any memory from emerging as thought or speech lest he slip and let lie truth. At this table you had to pretend all was well. Which, of course, it was.
Except for that terrible night and that awful event which had invaded both your lives. A man had been shot and killed outside your home. My God, think of it! So close, a few dozen feet from the peacefulness of the dinner table and the sanctity of the marriage bed. Coincidentally, that same man had been having an affair with your same wife. Not that anyone knew that, not the police, certainly. Not even you, by the way, in case you forgot.
But that was not spoken of, either.
Nothing was.
Only I saw beyond the surface pretense to the depths of hurt and pain and fear and anger. Years of distance bubbling beneath, waiting to erupt.
And I saw something else. Something which, if confronted, would be denied to the very death but which existed without such interrogatives. I saw it first in her, then in him, still there, still flickering, in the deep recesses.
Hope.
If only there existed in the history of communication a word or phrase or apology which could bridge the gap and redeem the soul and begin the process of leading two lost people back to the beginnings.
But none did in the confines of the human mind, so every word, glance or intonation became a wedge which took them further from that goal. Their only hope lay with the invisible guest sitting between them, for he could impart with a touch more than a lifetime of words. But he'd been used by one and killed by the other and the only thing on his mind was revenge which he would enact by his silence. So they opened their mouths and tried to accomplish that which only God can do: change hearts.
"Are you working late?"
A nod.
"How late?"
A shrug. "Until I'm done."
A bite of the lip. "When will that be?"
"When it is."
"What are you working on?"
"Paperwork."
"What kind?"
"Nothing. Reports, summaries, briefs. Nothing."
"Alone?"
"What?"
"Will you be alone?"
"I don't know if there will be anyone else in the building, if that's what you mean. I won't be working with anyone."
"Can I call later?"
"Call? For what?"
"To talk. To see...to see how you are."
"How I am?" He pushed his chair away from the table. "Well, I'm fine. And I don't think we have a lot to talk about. Besides, I'm sure you'll be in bed by then."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Just that. I'm sure you'll be in bed."
"It's hard to sleep when you're not here."
"Then I guess you won't be sleeping."
"I worry."
"I'm sure you'll be occupied."
"Why do you always--?" She stopped, eyes glistening.
He watched her. "What?"
"Nothing."
He nodded.
"That man...the one who was shot in front of the house..." She stopped. Emotion?
"That was weeks ago, why bring that up?"
"It was horrible."
"I suppose."
"To be shot like that."
"Yes."
"Robbed."
"Is that what it was?"
"What else could it have been?"
"Right. What else?"
She shuddered.
"I thought you had been sleeping when that happened."
She nodded. "But the lights, the noise...woke me."
He nodded. "A terrible thing."
"I was wondering...maybe it's not safe here. In this neighborhood. In this city. Maybe we should think about moving."
He shook his head. "It wouldn't change anything. Every city is the same."
"Maybe a smaller town, away from all these people."
Another shake of the head. "Nothing would change. Besides, what would I do for work? I'm too old to start over. I'm not throwing away all the years at the company because I’m afraid of the outdoors. I've got my retirement, sick days, vacation. And you have your friends." He drew out the l
ast word. "I doubt either one of us wants to change badly enough."
He stood, scraping the chair on the floor, and walked off.
She stared after him with reddening eyes.
My lips curled. I felt cheated. Sure, their lives were ruined, but I couldn’t take credit. They did it to themselves. I'd been killed on a whim. He didn't want her, he never had. Not when I had her and not now, when no one did. He just didn't want anyone else to have her.
So he had me killed.
I'd thrown my life away for a woman nobody wanted.
Brenda Hewitt went upstairs as the front door closed below, and by the time she had reached the top hallway a car had started in the driveway and driven off. She walked into the bathroom and began washing her face, scrubbing off all the smeared make-up with a vengeance. Once clean, she reapplied it meticulously, layer upon layer, brush stroke upon brush stroke, like an artist fidgeting with a portrait that never satisfies. Frowning, she left the mirror and walked over to her dresser, pulled out a white teddy and held it up, then crumpled it back into the drawer and pulled out a red one. She dropped it on the bed, stood, and undressed. Still firm, still tight, and as she pulled on the teddy I had to admire her body. Worth a lifetime? No. Tina was worth a lifetime. Brenda, one night. Yeah, I'd give her that. And I had, often. She got a robe from the closet and was putting it on when the doorbell rang.
She went to the window, looked down and smiled. Then she walked out of the room, down the staircase, and opened the front door. A dark figure stood in the doorway, then came into the light. He wore a long dark jacket over dark pants and black shirt. He had longish hair and stubble on his chin. His face set his age about twenty-five. A kid.
"I was hoping it was you," Brenda said.
"I saw your husband leave. I thought this might be the best time, before it got too late."
"Yes, we wouldn't want it to get too late."
"How long will he be gone?"
"You should know that as well as I. And you probably know where he's going."
"I have an idea."
"Then you know he'll be gone all night."
"I have something you might find interesting."
"I know you do."
"Besides that. It could even tie him into some criminal activity."
"Really?" she said, taking a step closer.
"You don't seem very interested."
"Oh, I am. Very. I just have other things on my mind. But go on."
"It's all in my report," he said, handing her a manila envelope. "There's also a digital file that verifies the information. It’s on the memory stick.”
“I love memory sticks. I remember your memory stick.”
“I hope it's what you were hoping to find."
She held it loosely, glanced once, and tossed it onto a small table near the door. "I suppose you'll be wanting payment now?"
He started to speak but before he could she took a step back and untied her robe, letting it fall to the floor.
He made a guttural noise as he looked her over, then grabbed her and felt her body roughly as they kissed hard on the mouth.
I spit through them.
She took a few steps backward, trying to lead him up to the bedroom.
They didn't make it past the stairs.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 17