by David Beers
Now he sat in the office, his feet on his desk, staring at computer monitors.
“You know where he works?” Alan said, ignoring Susan’s question.
“Where?”
Alan smiled, not looking away from the screens. “Var Technologies.”
A second passed before Susan spoke. “No fucking way.”
“Yup,” Alan said, smirking and meeting her gaze.
“He works at the same place as Lawrence Kolzet? And he was seen with Paul Stinson the day he died?”
“Check both boxes,” Alan said.
“Jesus Christ,” Susan said, looking away. “What did he say when you showed up?”
“Does it even matter at this point?”
“Well, yeah, it does. I went through his background. It’s immaculate. He has a pedigree either one of us would love to have; two degrees, the first from Penn State and the second from Wharton. Before all that, he went to a really prestigious prep school in London. I hadn’t heard of it before this, but it’s a pretty big deal apparently. Want to know an interesting tidbit about it?”
“Sure,” Alan said, still smiling.
“Well, it has produced more billionaires than any other prep school in the world. I stopped reading after that. Didn’t really see the point.”
Alan waved his hand, dismissing the information. “What else? He’s done more than go to college and business school.”
“There’s not a lot else, Alan, and I’m serious. No record of any kind. Mother is deceased. Father is still alive. He has a sister, a wife, two boys. His record is immaculate.”
“What about in London?” Alan said. “Did you look into that at all?”
“No arrest records. Anywhere.”
“But did you dig into what happened at his school? He was there alone, I assume. Did you see if anyone died in the school while he was there?”
“No, Alan,” Susan said. “I didn’t because the man is rich, white, and educated. There’s nothing to find over there. I’m not saying he didn’t do this, all of it, but I’m saying it’s a waste of time to look into his past.”
“Do me a favor, please. Just look. Go through some newspapers that they have across the pond and see if anything strange shows up.”
“And what are are you going to do while I waste my time?”
“I think I might turn the heat up on Mrs. Hilt a bit, to be honest. I want this guy to understand that nothing around him is safe,” Alan said.
“Mrs. Hilt?”
Diane looked at the man standing on her doorstep and suddenly felt like ice water was dripping down her spine.
“Yes, can I help you?” she said, but that was only perfunctory. She didn’t want to help this person, nor did she want anything to do with him at all.
“My name is Alan Tremock; I’m a detective with the Dallas Police Department,” he said, moving his jacket slightly to the right to show the badge on his belt. It hadn’t been needed, though, because Diane knew the moment she opened the door what kind of person stood on her doorstep. Everything seemed to lead up to this moment, cause and effect that went further back than she cared to remember. John’s recent escapades had led to this, without doubt. Perhaps he plowed into someone, multiple levels above the legal alcohol limit. Maybe he got in a bar fight somewhere, and either died or killed someone.
A lot of maybes, but Diane knew for certain why this man was here: John.
“What can I do for you, detective?” she said, her voice as calm as the rest of her body, the chill having dissipated. Diane felt like she had been waiting all her life for this, and now that it was here, what else could she do?
“Well, I would like to talk to you about your husband.”
Just another nail in the coffin, sliding in easily as the hammer slammed down on it.
“Do I need a lawyer?” she said.
“I don’t think so. I’d just like to talk to you about a few things. He’s not under arrest or anything. Neither are you.”
Better news than she had expected.
“Come on in,” she said.
Diane hadn’t dealt with police officers before, not outside of routine traffic stops, and to her, they should be trusted. Whatever John had gotten himself into, she wanted to know about it—and John clearly wasn’t going to tell her.
She led the way across the foyer and into the living room where she gestured to the love seat.
“I suppose this is where I ask if you need water or coffee?” Diane said.
“Maybe just in the movies. Truly, this is a courtesy visit more than anything else, Mrs. Hilt.”
“Okay,” she said and sat down in a chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Why are you giving me this courtesy?”
“Well, ma’am, to be completely honest I’ve never begun a conversation like this before, so forgive me if I’m not as good at it as I could be.” The detective paused and looked down at his hands for a second before looking back to Diane. “How well do you know your husband, Mrs. Hilt?”
Diane laughed despite the seriousness of both the question and the voice asking it. “What do you mean? John? I’d say I know him pretty well after ten years of marriage.”
Tremock nodded. “Again, forgive me, Mrs. Hilt. I’m trying my best not to offend you, but there are some very serious matters I want to discuss.”
“Then why don’t we discuss them rather than whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
The detective nodded, looking at his hands again. “There have been two murders that are in very close proximity to your husband. One of them—your husband, as far as we know, was the last person to see the man alive. The second victim was someone that works in his office.”
The words didn’t register in Diane’s head. She knew someone was speaking, saw the mouth moving, heard the phrases passing around her ears, but none of the words meant anything to her—as if Tremock spoke Mandarin.
“Excuse me?” she said. “Can you just say all that again?” Diane didn’t care if the man thought she was kidding. She wasn’t. She needed him to say it again so she could grasp at least some of it.
“Your husband has been very close to two murders recently. Has he said anything about them to you? Has he mentioned speaking to me or my partner at all?”
John? Murder? The two words rang in her head like large bells … clanging around as if some maniacal leprechauns swung up and down on their ropes.
“I need you to leave,” she said, staring straight into the detective’s eyes, but not seeing him at all. “Thank you for stopping by.”
“Mrs. Hilt, I’d like to speak to you more about this, if you don’t mind. It’s extremely important.”
“I’d like you to leave.” Diane stood and walked to the front door, not waiting to see if the man followed, not even thinking that he might remain, only knowing that she had to open the door so that he could leave.
The detective stopped just before he stepped through the door. “Please, Mrs. Hilt, take my card and call me when you’re ready to talk.”
“Goodbye, Detective,” Diane said, not taking the card he extended.
She shut the door once he stepped outside, then turned and leaned against it. She stood for a second, staring into her foyer, seeing the pictures and plants that watched this place for years.
Tears rushed to her eyes and Diane collapsed to the floor, not sliding down the door, but simply falling, landing on the foyer floor. She didn’t bring her hands to her face, but sat and sobbed.
Murder.
John.
Murder.
John.
The words shouldn’t connect, but the bells clanged away in some sick discordant union inside her head. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand what the hell the cop was talking about—how could any of it be possible? Yet, she cried, the emotions from the past weeks unloading because of two words that she couldn’t join together.
Alan knew what he just did.
The woman, Diane Hilt, was devastated right now, probably questi
oning everything in her life. Perhaps even existentially. One didn’t simply stand up and dust themselves off after the news Alan delivered.
He didn’t like that he had done it, necessarily.
But the action itself had been necessary.
Alan drove his car, heading back to the office, but his mind wasn’t on the road at all.
Perhaps reflexively, to place a cooling balm on the fresh wound in his conscience—or perhaps only circumstances took his mind elsewhere—but either way, he thought of Teresa.
He saw her blood. Whenever he thought back to that night, the first thing he saw was Teresa’s blood everywhere. Alan knew well that different people would have different memories of the same event, so perhaps the blood wasn’t that prominent—but, no matter, his mind would never shake it.
He held her in his arms, her life leaking away.
“Hold on,” he said. “Hold the fuck on, Teresa.” His voice was low despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the tears flooding his eyes as heavily as her blood did his arms.
Alan lifted her up from the ground, not feeling her weight in the slightest. He tried to cradle her head against his arm, not wanting it to slump backwards .
He ran, seeing nothing—not the road, the street lamps doing their best to light up the night, or even her car. He followed some intuition of where the car was, and that carried him.
“Hold on. Hold on,” he said over and over.
Teresa didn’t say anything as he ran, just wheezed out breath in a way that Alan had never heard before.
He reached the car and realized he couldn’t get Teresa’s fucking keys out of her pocket and carry her at the same time.
“One second, just hold on,” he said as he gently laid her on the asphalt, fished her keys from her pocket and opened the back door. Again, he picked her up, and leaning into the car, put his partner across the backseat.
As soon as he placed Teresa in the vehicle, he moved like a locomotive driven by a madman high on coke. He burst into the front seat, starting the car almost before his ass touched down. The microphone in the cruiser at his mouth as the tires squealed on the wet street.
“Officer down! Officer down! Heading to Piedmont Hospital!”
He dropped the mic and didn’t hear a word that came back over it, only focusing on moving the car faster and faster.
“Teresa! Do you hear me? Teresa, hang on we’re almost there!” he shouted from the front seat, unable to see her face. He couldn’t hear her breathing either. The wheeze had stopped.
Christ Fucking Jesus don’t let her die, he thought.
He scraped three cars as he pulled into the emergency lane at the hospital, not noticing a single one.
The paramedics were there, waiting, white coats and stretcher ready.
He jumped out of the car, swinging open the backdoor as the paramedics rushed over. He leaned in and put his arms around her, pulling her out, hoping that the lifelessness he held was simply unconsciousness. He took her from the car and paramedics grabbed her from him.
They moved fast and Alan followed right with them, completely covered in blood. He listened to them talk, spewing out all the information he had, where she was shot, how long ago, the words running from his mouth without any control on his part.
Teresa’s eyes were closed, her dark brown skin looking more and more like ash with each passing moment.
“Sir, you’ll have to wait here,” someone said, stopping him with a strong hand to the middle of his chest.
Alan tried to keep going, but the man held on, and he could only watch as they pushed the stretcher further into the hospital.
He sat in the waiting room, dried blood sticking to his skin and staining his clothes. An hour later the word came through that Teresa hadn’t made it.
Alan cried alone in the waiting room and when her husband showed up, they cried together.
And now, as he pulled into the police station, Alan cried again.
8
Present Day
“You’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on, and you’re going to tell me right now,” Diane said.
The tears had dried and her wet eyes were replaced with stone. She felt no vulnerability as she spoke to John over the phone, only a raw rage that could swallow suns with its intensity.
“What are you talking about?” John said.
“A cop showed up here. Detective Tremock. What is he talking about, John? Murder? You’ve been interviewed by the police?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” John said. “That fuck came by the house?”
“He left an hour ago.”
“He’s crazy, Diane. That’s why I haven’t told you about it. Look, yes, a guy named Paul died. He goes to meetings with me. I met him by chance at a Starbucks and then someone murdered him later that night. Then a guy that works on a completely different floor than me, in a completely different department, that I’ve never fucking met, is murdered. This cop thinks I did it.”
Diane’s anger didn’t dissipate. She didn’t think John murdered anyone, not after the initial shock of what the cop said. What she wanted to know was why he hadn’t told her a single bit of this.
“Awesome, John. Police interviews. Were you thinking about telling me when they arraigned you at trial, or did you want to wait until a conviction?”
“You’re overreacting,” he said.
“Overreacting? You’re lucky the locks haven’t been fucking changed. Did you talk to a lawyer yet?”
“No, Diane. There’s no reason to. I didn’t murder anyone. There’s no evidence that I murdered anyone--just this crazy cop who is now showing up to my goddamn house.” He sighed. “I guess I better get one now. He’s out of his mind. Literally.”
“We’re starting therapy this week. Next, if I can’t get in until then. I don’t want to hear anything else about it, John. That, or I’m taking the kids and we’re leaving.”
“A lawyer might not be a bad idea,” Harry said. “Not the only idea, but it might keep us safer.”
John looked at his phone for a few seconds, having heard Diane disconnect instead of saying goodbye.
“A fucking lawyer?” John said.
“Well, man, you’ve been doing a lot of talking, but not a lot of action. Tremock isn’t playing around. He thinks you killed that cunt partner of his and he’s going after everything he can think of. What do you want me to say?”
John and Harry stood inside their gym’s locker room. John had been on the treadmill while Harry flexed in the mirror next to him, gabbing on and on about how they had to act soon. John kept his headphones in, running hard, trying to block out the fat, dead guy doing double overhead bicep poses.
And then Diane called.
Now, sweat drenched, John sat down on one of the benches in front of the lockers.
“What do you know about him?” John said. He saw no sense in arguing about what Harry did when he slept, especially since he had to argue enough with Diane when she saw him fucking leave at night.
“I’ve seen a bit. It’s not as easy as you might think, trailing a cop. He works around the clock. Truth be told, I’m not sure he sleeps. Two kids, both girls. A wife.”
“Can we do it?” He looked up at Harry, a smile blooming across his face.
“Of course we can kill him. We can kill anyone we want.”
“If we kill him, we can leave the girl alone, right?”
“Ha!” Harry laughed out loud. “Always the saint, John. Always trying to save someone from something that you would do whether I was here or not. No. Hell no. We’re getting both of them. For two reasons, one, because we fucking want it, and two, because if one of those people live, you’re in trouble when this goes to trial.”
John looked down and shook his head.
How had it gotten this far?
Is this what his mom saw? Is this what she feared? Him sitting here in an empty locker room, during his lunch break, talking to a dead man?
“Stop. Just stop. Why ask
yourself such pointless questions? We’re here and there’s nothing that can be done. It’s time to start cleaning up the mess, John. It’s time to have a little fun.”
John stood up and wiped his head with the towel.
“I’m going to finish you when we finish this, Harry. I want you to understand that. Whatever it takes, we’re done.”
“John, I think when we finish this, there’s a good chance we’re both done, buddy.”
A Portrait of a Young Man
Years Earlier
Lori held fire in her hands. It burnt. It wasn’t excruciating yet, but there it sat, engulfing her hands while she watched. She knew where to find water, how to douse the whole thing and put an end to it.
Yet, she held the fire, because the fire was John, and she couldn’t snuff out his life.
“He’s an interesting boy, Lori,” Dr. Vondi said.
“I told you,” she said, sitting on Vondi’s couch, knowing that John had sat there too, only a day ago.
“Well, I’m not sure you described him as interesting, but there are certainly things we need to discuss. I’m not going to break any ethical codes by talking to you, but I think that we can deal with some of your issues based on what he’s telling me.”
“My issues?”
“Your thoughts on who he is, Lori. Your thoughts on him being your mother reborn. On basically being insane.”
Lori smiled. “You don’t believe me, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Yes, Lori, that’s what I’m saying. I don’t believe you. But I think he might.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re having a negative psychological effect on him. I’m not sure of the severity, but anything at this age, will become more apparent as he gets older. There will be damage.”
Lori didn’t say anything as the two of them looked at each other. Had she thought Vondi might see the same thing as her? Had she believed that after talking to John, Vondi would see her mother, just as she did? That he would see her holding this flame?
