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

by Tom Saric

  She shook her head. "Nope. It's a .303."

  Ernie raised his eyebrows. "Not a lot of guns fire a .303.”

  "Exactly. We're running a check."

  I took a deep breath and tried to appear calm as they examined the casing, but my heart felt like it was in my shoes. The Lee-Enfield No.4 I own uses 0.303-diameter bullets.

  10

  My heart pounded like a fugitive on the run as I tore up the old highway to my cabin. The sun was dipping below the tree line, shining right in my eyes, so I could barely see the road. Luckily, there were no cars in either lane. No one traveled back here. Not unless they had to.

  My father left behind the Lee-Enfield No. 4 after he'd taken off. A grandfather I had never met used it in World War II. It was the oldest gun I owned. I had only shot it a half dozen times, but kept it as the only connection I had to my absentee dad and my British roots.

  In hindsight, the sheriff inviting me to the crime scene was unusual. After years as a forensic psychoanalyst, no one had ever asked me to visit a scene. Debbie seemed suspicious of my every move, making me wonder whether they brought me to Wanda's house to show me the casing and see my reaction.

  It didn't mean that Wanda was shot by my gun. Other guns fire .303-diameter bullets. It was nothing but a coincidence that she was shot dead by a rare bullet used in one of the guns I own. Maine is full of gun enthusiasts. Over half of adults in the state own them, and aren’t required to register them. I never bothered to either.

  Someone wanted her dead. They used a gun with a long range. Perhaps they didn't want to get close to her.

  I thought about possible suspects. Joe Barrington. Wanda threatened to tell Lorna about their affair. But would Joe really kill her for that, and then show up at couples therapy like nothing happened?

  Buddy pimped Wanda. He would be motivated to protect her. Did she owe him money? Leaving the business to be with Joe once and for all would mean Buddy would lose an important source of revenue.

  I thought of Randy, her little brother, the jailbird. He'd killed before and Wanda helped put him away. The parole board thought he was rehabilitated. A low risk to re-offend. He said he found Jesus. Hallelujah.

  Wanda was a hooker. She had enemies. Maybe a sadistic John passed through town and decided to satisfy all his primal urges. And he just happened to use a gun with 0.303 bullets.

  I'd been in the Comfort Inn all night. The boys hockey team. Their feet stomping up and down the hall all night, running back, giggling. The ice machine dumping ice. I remembered that. I wasn't losing time. I was just a bit absentminded. I wouldn't forget shooting someone.

  Sheila saw me in the morning. She woke me up. I was dirty and she wanted me to shower. No blood on me. I took a shallow breath and exhaled. I reminded myself that I was innocent.

  I pulled up my driveway and looked at my half-charred home. Contractors must have stopped by and boarded up the windows in the addition. Soot streaked up the siding toward the roof. The inspectors hadn't cleared the house yet, but I needed to get inside.

  The cabin's old entrance was a sliding patio door off the wraparound deck that led to the kitchen. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. The power was still cut, so I grabbed the LED lantern off the fridge, flicked it on, and made my way to the basement.

  Cold white light spread across the basement. High file cabinets lined three walls, half full of yellow notebooks, the rest containing the blue notebook shadow files from patients I had seen over the decades. My work bench and power tools sat along the fourth wall. Next to the table saw was the gun locker. I didn't touch the combination. Since my memory problems surfaced, I kept the door closed but unlocked.

  I closed my eyes and reminded myself of the five guns I still owned. A Remington 7600 pump action, a Model Seven Bolt action, the BAR lightweight wood model with the twenty-inch barrel, a savage 99, and the Lee. I also kept a Sig Sauer in my office safe.

  I opened my eyes slowly and raised the lantern. I had to force myself to look inside the gun locker. My eyes drifted from firearm to firearm, reluctant to look at the slot where I remembered placing the Lee-Enfield. Four weapons stood where I remembered them. The fifth was empty.

  That was where I'd left the Lee, I was certain, though I hadn't used it in ages. Last spring, I considered selling it at a gun fair in New Hampshire but never went through with it. Part of me still wanted to keep my father’s memory.

  I tried to avoid thinking about what it all meant, but I couldn't resist. There had to be an explanation. Someone stole the gun and used it to kill Wanda.

  Or Wanda's killer happened to have a weapon that fired the same caliber round. And the gun was missing because I had sold the Lee a few years ago and it slipped my mind.

  Or.

  I put the lantern down and steadied myself against the cabinet, feeling like I was going to dry heave. A fog descended over me, leaving me frozen in place. I couldn't let the sheriff know about the missing gun. Unless he already did.

  It wasn't registered, so it couldn't be traced back to me and was no longer in my possession. The sheriff's department didn't have it, at least as far as I knew. I thought about reporting my gun stolen, but voluntarily divulging the information wouldn't spare me any grief. Whoever killed Wanda either still had it or had ditched it somewhere.

  If the gun was recovered and was in fact mine, I could plead ignorance. I could say I hadn't realized it was missing.

  I ran my hands through my hair, telling myself I wasn't crazy. The gun couldn't be traced to me, but police could trace the cartridge's lot number. I had to get rid of the remaining rounds.

  I knelt down and put the lantern on the floor in front of the locker, then pulled boxes of rounds off the bottom shelf, looking for the .303s. I had ordered a box a year ago but never used it. I found it, and before I opened it I could feel the cartridges rolling around the box. I flipped the lid open. Four rounds were missing.

  I felt a buzz in my pocket and pulled out my phone. Unknown caller.

  Without thinking, I swiped.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Dad."

  My racing heart felt like it stopped altogether. I'd resigned myself to never hearing from my estranged daughter again.

  "Karen?" The word came out like a gasp.

  "Hi."

  "Oh my God, I…" I shut the cabinet and paced back and forth. "I'm so happy you called."

  There was static on the phone. She was exhaling. I turned to head upstairs, but in doing so I inadvertently kicked the box of rounds over, sending them rolling all over the dark basement. I crouched down, holding the phone to my ear, searching for the cartridges.

  "Sorry," Karen said.

  I stood up. My back seized and I tried to press on my hip to ease some of the pressure. "No, no. You don't be sorry, Karen. Me. I am."

  A long pause. My half-baked apology hung in the air. It was insufficient, but it was a start. She didn't acknowledge the apology, but she didn't hang up either.

  "I've only got a few minutes right now. But... I got the letter you sent and I'm going to be passing through. Work trip. Maybe we can meet? Coffee or something?"

  The envelope. I wished that Karen were calling because of something other than a pile of cash. But this was a start. "Yes. Maybe even, even-" I thought of my burnt house. If the electricity was turned back on, the kitchen would be functional. "If you came for dinner?"

  "I'd like that."

  "When will you be here?"

  "In two days."

  A dog barked outside and footsteps crunched on the gravel.

  "Can I pick you up?"

  "I'll get myself there."

  "Do you need directions? It's pretty remote."

  "Everything's on Google now. Even you. How's seven?"

  "Yes."

  The phone clicked off and I briefly forgot about Wanda and the gun. I reminded myself that the gun must have been stolen because I had left the cabinet unlocked. But if anyone asked, I never realized my gun was missing, so I couldn't re
port it. That was my story.

  But a stolen gun could help the investigation into Wanda's death. The sheriffs asked me to join their investigation, so I could reveal that my gun was stolen at my discretion.

  I climbed up the stairs from the basement and looked out the patio window. Herman stood holding an old kerosene lantern in one hand and Anna on a leash in the other.

  Anna burst inside, and when I knelt down she jumped all over me. "Thanks for watching Anna, Herman."

  "They let you back in?"

  "No electricity, not yet. But I figure I can at least sleep in my bed."

  "Still smells bad." He took a little swig from his flask. "Want to come over for dinner?"

  "Shit." I looked at my watch. I remembered I had made plans for dinner with Renee. "I'm supposed to meet someone in town."

  "That dead-eyed daisy, eh?"

  "Excuse me?"

  Herman raised his hand and walked away. "Don't mind me none. Just an out-of-date ol' drunk."

  "You said something about a daisy?"

  Herman turned. "I said she's got dead eyes. Just watch yourself. You're a doc. Women can smell money.”

  I shook my head. Herman didn't trust anyone either. He'd been living the hermit life for almost twenty years. I'd heard a rumor that he was a suspect in a missing person's case back in the eighties before he retreated out here. I looked at him and for a moment I thought I saw my future.

  Herman winked. "She's prob'ly a maniac in the sack, though."

  11

  Small towns on the Eastern seaboard usually have three types of restaurants. There's the seaside, rural-upscale establishment, which usually means old carpet and dim lights with tacky nautical accents overlooking a fisherman's wharf where deep-fried foods are served. There's the national chain that decided to roll the dice and try their luck with a franchisee in a town of ten thousand people. They also served fried food. Then there's the greasy spoon, where tables and seats are easily wipeable but not always wiped, and locals come for the daily specials. And the deep fry.

  The Oarhouse Diner fell into the third category. The special was a four-dollar club sandwich with curly fries and coleslaw in a Dixie cup. The building was a former brothel, converted some twenty years ago. The diner’s owner, Karl Svetburg, decided on the name “Oarhouse” to pay tribute to the building's roots, with all the subtlety you'd expect from a part-time trucker and full-time alcoholic. I thought the name was charming.

  Before leaving my cabin I decided that I had to upgrade from my hunting jacket and camo pants if I wanted to make an impression with Renee. I found the best clean clothes in my closet and changed into a light denim shirt, tucked into my faded Wranglers, and my old black cowboy boots. I decided against my desert suede jacket in case the fringes turned Renee off.

  I parked in front of the diner, flipped down the sun visor, and gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I ran my fingers through my beard to smooth it out and swept my hair back. It was as long as I'd ever worn it, not quite long enough to tie back but enough that I could tuck it behind my ears.

  When I opened the door, the bell hanging over it announced my presence. The vinyl stools along the bar were empty, but half of the booths were full. Dolly Parton classics played on the radio, and low chatter hummed throughout the diner. I wondered whether they were talking about Wanda's murder. News like that would spread through town like a virus during a pandemic. I could smell coffee and fried lard. Lard made everything taste better.

  I saw a few familiar faces, but they were buried in plates of fish and chips or chowders. Rosemary Grandin, one of Sheila's closest friends and a prolific cross-stitcher, looked up from her garden salad and waved. I could sense her eyes tracking me as I made my way to the back of the diner. I hoped to keep my date secret from Sheila, but I knew enough about Rosemary to realize that she would call her to gossip about Renee before I had a chance to order.

  "Gus." Renee was sitting in the corner booth, waving me over. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. She wore a navy T-shirt with a black blazer, and had a colorful scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair was pulled back and held with a wood clip.

  She stood up and put her arms around me. I pulled her close and she rested her cheek on my shoulder. I could smell citrus in her hair.

  "You poor thing." She pulled back and let her hand fall into mine. "What a day you've had. Let me order you something strong."

  I thought about going straight for the double bourbon my circumstances called for, but decided I needed to keep a level head.

  "It's okay. Maybe just coffee."

  I sat down on the side of the booth facing the entrance. An old habit, but it made me comfortable. While training as an intern on an inpatient psychiatric unit, a patient put me in a chokehold because I refused to give him a weekend pass home. It took three orderlies to pull him off me, and he ended up staying in the quiet room for three days.

  Renee slid into the seat across from me and took a sip from the glass of house white sitting in front of her.

  "I'm sorry about Wanda," she said.

  I gave the standard shrink “Hmmm.” I couldn't acknowledge or deny that I knew Wanda.

  "Losing a patient, especially like this, it must be-" She drifted off, twirling the jam holder. "I know she was your patient, Gus. I fill her prescriptions."

  My mind drifted to the rounds scattered along the basement floor. I couldn't forget to find and dispose of them.

  "How do you deal with it?"

  I felt a heaviness in my chest. Renee had these saucer-like eyes, inviting me in. The idea that someone cared about how I felt was irresistible.

  "The truth is, I don't know if I've been coping all that well lately."

  The waitress came by to pass us the laminated menus and pour me some coffee. She walked a couple of steps away before I called her back. I'd just lost a patient and may have been the owner of the murder weapon. Some situations called for sober minds. Others for forty proof.

  "Could I have a bourbon and Coke too?" I said. "Double."

  Renee smiled, unable to hold back a playful snicker.

  "I can't talk to you about patients, Renee. It's a promise I make to them. I take what they tell me to the grave."

  "Is that hard? Keeping all that in?"

  "It's the only way."

  "Only way what?"

  "That I can help people. They need to be able to speak freely. Whether it's hard for me doesn't matter."

  I left out the part that lately it seemed like I couldn't remember half of what people told me anyway.

  "Noble."

  I couldn't tell if that was a dig or sign of admiration. Not everyone agreed with me. Alistair had criticized me for applying confidentiality too rigidly. “There's a moral obligation to the patient, Gus. But there's also a moral obligation to everyone else. Sometimes, flexibility is required.” What Alistair didn't understand was that the patient was the only point of therapeutic intervention. I had the ability and skills to help the patient, to change them, and no one else. I would never stop believing that people could make meaningful changes in their lives.

  I had the power to fix the patient, but I couldn't fix society. If I betrayed my patient's confidence, therapy was effectively over and I could no longer fix their problem. Then society would be at risk. And so would the patient. It was a lose-lose.

  Renee twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

  "Sorry, I just find it fascinating. What must be held up there." She pointed at her forehead.

  "It's not as interesting as you'd think."

  "I'm sure it is." She smiled. "But I like mysterious guys. But you dealt with this all the time before. Murderers."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I looked you up, remember? You can't hide anymore. You did all those big forensic cases."

  "That was another lifetime."

  "What was it like? Staring down a psychopath."

  I thought back to those years when I was at the top of my game, seeing one court-ordered assessmen
t after another. I felt like I could take on any case. I never felt out of my depth. Part of me wanted to be that person again.

  "Well, as a psychiatrist, it's not too difficult because I can figure out their M.O. pretty quickly."

  "What is it?"

  "Well, a psychopath just wants to get one over on you. In any way possible. They thrive on owning people. Controlling them. It's power."

  "How do they do that?"

  Renee cradled her wine glass and leaned forward, lips parted. I had her captivated.

  "They have a radar for detecting people's vulnerabilities. They home in and just manipulate the shit out of it. Life's a game to them."

  "Sounds like my ex-husband." She laughed. "So how do you deal with them?"

  "You have to catch them as they are doing the con and show them you're not scared. Call them on it. And if you can, figure out their vulnerability and make sure they know you know it."

  "So interesting," Renee said. "You can do that? Figure it out?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Okay then, Doctor." She bit her lower lip. "What's my vulnerability?"

  It had been so long since a woman took such an interest in me. Warmth filled my face. I took her hand.

  "Well, you moved to a small town, you have a crazy ex-husband, you're interested in my secrets but give very little of your own. You're joyful and bubbly most of the time, but that belies something underneath. I suspect you're relieved you're here, away from where you were, and you're more comfortable talking about others than thinking about your own life. So there's something in your past, a wound, a loss, something that you avoid. It still hurts."

  Renee pulled her hand back and her eyes changed, as though I'd poked through her facade too hard.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know anything about you."

  For a moment I thought she might cry. Instead she sat back and nodded, looking impressed by my formulation.

  "You're good." She smiled. "Enough about me. What's your vulnerability?"

  I swept my hair to the side and leaned forward. "I'd have to say beautiful women. A witty sense of humor. Blondes."