Don't Look In (Gus Young Thrillers Book 1)

by Tom Saric

  "She got into drugs. When she was twelve it was weed and alcohol. Coke at fifteen. Then she started hanging with thugs."

  My heart was beating. Doug was around my age, with a daughter. A daughter who couldn't have been much younger than Karen. Things went downhill and he wasn't equipped to stop it.

  "I kicked her out. Told her to clean up. Teach her a lesson, you know?"

  I knew.

  "Three weeks later, she's dead on a street corner. Overdose. Died alone. Like a dog."

  Doug was silent, staring out into nothingness. His tears had dried up.

  "Don't know, Doc, if you have kids. But if you do, keep 'em close."

  Doug stood up and pointed at the clock. "Time's up. I'll see you next time, Doc."

  The door shut and I sat in my office, alone. For the first time in a decade, I wept.

  5

  At ten that night I drove to the brand-new Irvine gas station off the main highway. Only a few cars passed by, usually full of teenagers heading out to the woods to drink. The massive blue sign stood atop a hill, on a big patch of asphalt cut right out of pristine forest. Blinding overhead LEDs lit the pumps, and posters advertised a free sixty-four-ounce fountain drink with a fill-up. It was the newest thing in Bridgetown.

  I parked at the furthest end of the lot, in the shadows just outside the fan of light. I tried not to think about my session with Doug, and how he had let his daughter slip away. Doug's story wasn't that different from mine. For years my psychiatry practice took priority over everything, including my marriage and parenting. I told myself I was building a reputation, and I was making money. Eventually I'd make up for the lost time. I'd send her to Woodrow Wilson, her dream school. She'd hung her hat on that too, as though we both agreed that in exchange for my deadbeat parenting, she would get a first-class Masters degree in international relations. When I'd destroyed my reputation and squandered away almost everything I'd earned, we had nothing left to hold us together. Just hurt feelings and animosity.

  I had two envelopes of cash, one for Karen in the driver's door pocket and the other wedged in the space between my seat and the middle console. I wrestled with the idea of adding a return address to Karen's envelope. Or maybe including a short note. Just to get the communication going again. Maybe enough time had passed.

  But why me? Why should I be the one to end this standoff? She was getting my money. Isn't that all she really wanted?

  Headlights drifted across me and a gold Pontiac Sunfire pulled up. The car was left running as Buddy Getson got out, all five foot four of him, the top of his head barely visible over the passenger side window.

  "Open up," he said with a grin that was exaggerated because of his lamb chop sideburns.

  I unlocked the door, and he made full use of the running board and handle to heave himself into the passenger seat.

  "Let's see it." He held out his hand, waggling his fingers.

  I passed him the envelope.

  Buddy pressed the map light on and counted out the bills.

  "You're short."

  "Eight hundred a week, Buddy. That's what we agreed."

  "We also agreed you'd pay weekly. But you missed two weeks. So the price goes up. A grand."

  I shook my head. I had no recollection of agreeing to a thousand a week. "We agreed?"

  "You came begging to me, okay? 'Cause you couldn't handle yourself." He pointed a finger in my face. "So I did you a favor, Gus. Now, where's the rest?"

  My left hand dropped and my fingers touched Karen's envelope. He didn't notice.

  "You still playing? Huh?" Buddy turned away in disgust. "Jesus. You know you've gotta get some help, man. You've got problems."

  "I'm not playing." I held his stare to show that I wasn't lying. "No. I'm done."

  "I want my money. Consider this notice. Next week, your interest rate goes up. Twelve hundred a week."

  Buddy threw the door open, jumped out, and slammed it. My fingers were still on Karen's envelope.

  I didn't want to be involved with a guy like Buddy Getson, but I had little choice. After the divorce, I needed to blow off steam, and exercise and whiskey just weren’t cutting it. I'd always liked cards, and hell, I was good at it too. I could read people; noticing their tells came easy. I'd gotten carried away with it before, and Meg would later say it was why she left. Alistair said it was why I had to leave the institute. Those were just easy outs for them. They wanted to get rid of me.

  I dug myself deep and needed money, so I turned to Buddy. After Wanda's brother Randy had killed Jimmy Getson, Buddy inherited his father's criminal enterprise—running the local dealers, trafficking coke and meth, stealing and stripping cars, and loan sharking. He was also Wanda's pimp, not that Wanda needed much protection. Buddy was the kind of psychopath I hated—unsophisticated and insecure, which made him especially dangerous. But he gave me cash at a reasonable rate.

  I'd learned to control the urges, the cravings. Sometimes. I flipped down the sun blocker and felt for a cigarette. Checked the armrest console. Glove box. Nothing.

  I grabbed my wallet and went into the convenience store. I stood behind a teenager in an oversized shirt that said “Bridgetown's Finest.” He bought three bags of Doritos, two liters of Dr. Pepper, and a pouch of chew. He was one of Buddy's thugs. Bridgetown's Finest was the local street gang, one that Buddy managed. I always wondered if they understood the irony of the name.

  I stepped up to the counter.

  "Box of Marlboro Lights, please."

  The clerk turned around, looking through the cigarette drawer. I rarely smoke. Just sometimes, I need that little hit.

  "No more Marlboro."

  "Anything light, then."

  As the clerk dug through the drawer, my eye was drawn to the lotto max jackpot. Forty-eight mil. If I won, I'd be able to get Buddy off my back, but I'd have to keep my winnings secret or he'd never stop harassing me.

  It was just a dollar. This was an addict's rationalization, but it seemed harmless. I knew a snowflake could turn into a blizzard in no time. I squeezed my hands together until they turned white.

  The clerk put a pack of Camels on the counter.

  "Anything else?"

  Screw it. "A lotto max, please."

  As he printed my ticket, I felt my heart deflate. I told myself it was just one. Just one more.

  I stuffed the cigarettes and ticket into my jacket pocket and turned around.

  "Hey."

  A tall woman was staring at me. My gaze drifted up. She wore yoga pants that accentuated her long, slender legs, and a lilac running jacket. She swept her wavy blonde hair behind her ears and smiled with eyes that seemed to sparkle.

  "Gus?"

  I nodded. Barely.

  "It's me." A playful grin. "Renee. From the pharmacy."

  I let out a strange sound that was half sigh, half laugh. I couldn't stop staring.

  "Right, I re-I remember you."

  A pregnant pause. Her eyes followed my hand into my pocket.

  "It's okay," she said. "I indulge every once in a while too."

  I shrugged, wishing she hadn't seen what I had bought. I pointed at the milk jug she was carrying. "Looks like you're making healthier choices than I am."

  "Well, I have this rule. I don't smoke alone."

  "And I can't smoke all of these."

  She paid for her milk and we stepped outside. We walked around the store, sneaking past the propane exchange like we were teenagers, and lit up on the curb. We both started coughing as we took our first drag.

  "I guess that's a good sign," I said.

  We sat on the curb and talked for another hour. She explained how she had divorced and stayed in New York City until her daughter was an adult, and then decided she needed a slower pace. She'd applied at pharmacies across Maine, and Bridgetown was the first to call.

  "So, how did you end up here?" she said. "You were pretty prominent there, sir, those big cases across the country." I raised my eyebrows at that, wondering how she would
have known about my past. "Yeah, I looked you up after we talked. Google."

  "Can't hide anything anymore, eh?"

  "Why bother?"

  I took a breath, trying to figure out what to say. "The short version is, well, I wanted to slow down."

  "... And the long version?"

  "It sort of reads like a Greek tragedy. Actually, maybe like a Coen brothers' film. But it's more of a third date kind of story."

  "Dr. Young, you are kind of smooth. Are you asking me out?"

  "Is that a yes?"

  She nodded. We exchanged phone numbers and I headed to my truck, feeling light. It had been years since I’d hit it off with a woman and it felt like something sparked inside of me.

  She walked off the lot and up the shoulder of the highway. I drove up beside her.

  "You're walking?"

  "It's just two miles up that way. My car's in the shop."

  "C'mon," I said. "I'll give you a ride."

  She hesitated.

  "Just a ride." I held up my hands. "There are coyotes at night. It can be dangerous sometimes."

  She hopped in. Hank Williams was playing and we sang along together.

  "Tell me, how does a woman like you get into classic country?"

  "My daughter. She always used to listen to Johnny Cash. Even John Denver."

  "What does she listen to now?"

  Renee paused for a second, staring straight ahead and lost in thought, then looked at me. "Sorry, I was just looking for my place. Yes, she still listens to the same music. It never changed."

  "That's great."

  "So what do you like about this town?" she said.

  I shrugged. "A lot. It's quiet, the people are nice, but I have my space. Everyone minds their business in a nosey kind of way. But the pristine nature around us here, it's spectacular. There's this place..." I trailed off. I wasn't sure I wanted to let anyone know about it.

  "A special place? It sounds neat; you don't have to tell me if it's like a secret fishing hole or something."

  "No, it's nothing like that. It's just this place I like where these two rivers meet, the Persey and Redway. Everything just feels good there for me. It's hard to explain."

  Renee smiled. "I know what you mean. There's a beach down in South Carolina I used to visit. When I'm there everything just, just-"

  "Stops."

  "Yes! Like time stands still." She drummed on the dashboard. "I'll tell you what. One day when you trust me, you take me to your special spot and then we'll go down to mine."

  "That sounds great."

  The music stopped abruptly as my phone began to ring over Bluetooth.

  Herman was calling. I pressed talk.

  "Herman, hi, is everything okay?"

  "Well, I wish I could tell you it was. But..."

  "What's wrong?"

  "There's smoke comin' out of your place. Firefighters are already there."

  "Anna?"

  "Don't know. But I'm heading over."

  "Shit."

  "This 'as been one helluva day for you, neighbor."

  6

  High beams on, I made it through the serpentine dirt roads to my cabin in record time. I thought only of Anna, squeezing the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. Renee had grabbed my right hand, interlocked her fingers with mine. She said little. Whispered "It'll be okay," but through the backcountry dark I could see she was worried we'd arrive to a dead dog.

  By the time I reached the edge of my driveway, I had received three phone calls from Sheila, letting all go to voicemail. Nothing she was calling about could be more important than getting to Anna.

  My driveway was a quarter mile long, cut through a thick forest full of birch and oak trees. Red, blue, and white lights from the firetruck and sheriff's cruiser flashed through the sticks. Smoke billowed above the trees and the stinging smell of melted plastic expanded.

  Halfway up the driveway, Deputy Debbie Parks stepped in front of the truck, her hand out, motioning for me to stop. I threw the truck in park and jumped out.

  She must have noticed my panic. "Fire's under control, Doctor."

  I ran past her toward the front door. One of the firefighters stopped me.

  "We can't let you inside, Doc."

  I tried to walk around him but he put his arm out to block me.

  "Is Anna in there?"

  "We haven't cleared the cabin yet. Was anyone inside?"

  "Anna." My voice rose. The entire addition—my den, my library—was covered in black soot, and the roof was steaming. Windows were shattered. "Anna was in there."

  He looked perplexed.

  "His dog," Renee said from behind me. "Anna's his dog."

  "Oh," he said, relieved. "I thought you meant there was a person inside. Your dog's fine."

  He directed me around the fire truck where another firefighter sat on the back bumper, holding Anna on a leash.

  I ran over, and the second she saw me, she began straining on the leash, jumping up on her hind legs and barking and whining. She broke free of the fireman's grip. I knelt down and let her jump all over me. Anna had been with me through the divorce, leaving the institute, through the media harassment. When I came home one day thinking I'd finally had enough, she lay down over my feet, her chestnut-brown eyes gazing up at me. I couldn't bear to leave her.

  "I wish someone loved me like that," Renee said, putting out her hand to let Anna smell her. As she gave Anna a rub behind the ears, I smiled.

  "She's lucky," the firefighter said, taking a swig from a water bottle. "Fire was contained to the library. Didn't spread to the rest of the house. Found her curled up under the bed."

  "Same place she hides during a thunderstorm."

  "That probably saved her from the smoke too."

  "Any idea what started the fire?"

  The young man shook his head. "I just put 'em out." He turned toward an older firefighter holding a clipboard. "I leave that to the captain."

  The captain was talking to Ernie Weagle, the county sheriff, until Ernie broke off and called Debbie Parks over. They talked for a few minutes and then walked toward me. Ernie stayed a few feet behind Debbie and avoided eye contact with me. He had been a patient of mine for a few months for a matter he was deeply ashamed of. Ernie liked to wear women's underwear and stockings. His wife was the only person other than me who knew about his fetish, and she was fine with it. But Ernie wasn't.

  It took three months of digging for him to come to terms with his fetish. Though judging from his bowed head and stooped shoulders, he might need more work.

  "Shaken up, Doctor Young?" Debbie said.

  "I'm fine now. Anna's okay, that's what matters. And please, call me Gus."

  "We just need to take a statement from you." She pulled out a postcard-sized notepad. "Routine procedure."

  "Sure, yes. Shoot." Anna was running around excitedly, getting tied up in the leash.

  "When were you last in the house?"

  "Um..." I puffed out my cheeks, then looked at my watch. I couldn't quite remember the earlier part of the day. I felt Ernie, Debbie, and Renee staring at me, so I tried to act as though I was distracted by Anna. I crouched down, untangling her leg twisted in the leash.

  "Just ballpark is fine," Debbie said.

  Wanda, I remembered; I'd left to see Wanda. I pulled my phone out of my jacket, flicked through my call records, and saw the morning call from Sheila. "Around nine, nine-thirty."

  "And you slept here last night?"

  I was having episodes, but they were sporadic. Due to insomnia, really. The police would make too much of my getting lost in the woods. So I decided to lie. "Yeah, I was here. With Anna."

  Debbie went through the morning routine, and I kept my statement vague and nonchalant. I'd learned through years of court testimony that being too definitive only led to trouble. Police and lawyers were trained to look for inconsistencies to discredit people. Leaving myself wiggle room, and providing statements that couldn't be proven false, was a form of s
elf-protection.

  She asked if there were ever any minor fires in the house. If I'd come back midway through the day. I didn't know Debbie Parks, I'd only seen her with Ernie around town. I heard she had moved from Vermont a year ago. Mid-thirties, hair pulled back tight, she had a certain gravitas about her. I sensed there was a lot more turning in her mind than she let on.

  "Ever any issues with leaving the stove on. You know, getting preoccupied and forgetting? The iron maybe?"

  I could tell by the way she looked at me there was more to these questions than routine procedure.

  I pursed my lips and shook my head.

  She tapped her pen on the notepad. "Okay."

  "Is there an issue? Maybe you want to ask me something directly?"

  I decided to challenge them, in part because I wanted to demonstrate that I had nothing to hide. Debbie deferentially turned to Ernie, who still had his head down. He took a second to realize Debbie was asking him to step in.

  Ernie pulled at his nose a couple of times and wiped his mustache. "Doctor, eh, Gus. Firefighters think, well, they were questioning a kettle that was left on the wood stove. Some papers were left nearby. A notebook or something."

  I stopped petting Anna, and my mind drifted to making tea that morning before rushing out. I didn't recall leaving a notebook out.

  "It happens, Gus. More than you'd think. We get busy, you know, other things on our minds. Just wondering if it’s happened before." He cleared his throat. "So that you're safe."

  "I had an emergency call, so I was rushing out. You can ask Sheila Gustafson, she'll confirm. I must've forgot about the kettle." I looked at Ernie and then Debbie. "And no. It's never happened before."

  Ernie nodded quickly, as though he just wanted to escape.

  "You'll have to get yourself somewhere to stay," Debbie said. “They have to block off the place until inspectors come through to clear it. Get the insurance company in. You might have to take down the addition."

  I sighed. I had been meticulous in getting my den just the way I wanted. I could get that back, but the books and records were irreplaceable. Maybe some of them could be salvaged. I was glad that the rest of the house was intact, because I kept old patient records in the basement cabinets.