by Gregory Ashe
“That guy’s straight,” Hannah said.
“Straight’s a twentieth-century term. Everybody’s on a sexual spectrum now.”
“Not on the Wasatch Front they aren’t.”
“Hence my point,” Tean said. “People suck.”
“Ok, sweetie, just get it all out of your system.”
“If you insist—”
“I was talking to Divorcee.”
The Yorkie was pausing every eighteen inches to mark another clump of grass.
“Oh. Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.”
Sighing, Hannah nodded.
“In the ocean—” Tean began.
“So help me, if you bring up the whale thing again, I will kill you, and then I will kill myself.”
Divorcee trotted back toward them, steering straight for Tean. She had some sort of obsession with using his shoes as her personal potty pad, and he darted behind Hannah. “I wasn’t going to bring up the whale thing.”
“Uh huh.”
“I wasn’t.”
“The ocean was just a logical place to start,” Hannah said.
“Exactly. Where all life began,” Tean said. “As a biologist who specializes in native aquatics, you should know that.”
“Oh my gosh,” Hannah said. “I might honestly have to kill you.”
“Do you know how many people get murdered on first dates? Especially blind dates?”
“How many?”
“A lot,” Tean said.
“Just because you saw one Lifetime movie about it doesn’t mean it happens a lot.”
“He could harvest my kidneys.
“Rand doesn’t need your kidneys; his kidneys are perfectly healthy. That’s the first thing I ask every guy before I set you up with him.”
“He could traffic me. I could wind up in sexual slavery.”
“Heaven help whoever buys you.”
A breeze picked up; crabapples lined one side of the park, and the too-sweet stench of rotting fruit floated on the air. Tean decided to try a different tack. “Do you know how many bear-related fatalities occur every year? In the United States, anyway.”
“On average, three,” Hannah said.
“You only know that because you work at DWR too,” Tean said. “Other people would be suitably shocked.”
Hannah paused long enough to tuck her chestnut hair behind her ears and arrange her features in an expression of surprise.
“That’s better,” Tean said. “And do you know how many homicides occur every year?”
“Five.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Hannah asked.
“Four hundred thousand, globally. Every year. In some countries, it’s the leading cause of death. People killing each other is the leading cause of death.”
“Please tell me this is not what you’re going to talk about with Rand.”
“And do you know how many bears kill other bears?”
“It’s rare,” Hannah said.
“Again, insider knowledge; unfair advantage because you’re a biologist. Most people wouldn’t have any idea. It’s so rare that the Smithsonian wrote a whole article about it.”
“Divorcee, sweetie, come on.”
The Yorkie was investigating the shoes of an old woman perched on a bench.
“Leave her alone,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry!”
The old woman waved and laughed.
Divorcee saw her moment of opportunity and struck, drenching the woman’s foot.
“Oh my gosh,” Hannah shouted, “I’m so sorry!” Then, to Tean, “I’ve got to handle this. Good luck tonight.”
“People suck, that’s what I’m trying to explain.”
“See you at Sook’s service?”
“And if you compare the number of bears—”
“Don’t screw it up,” Hannah called back as she ran toward the old woman, who was now trying to hop on her unsullied foot while using the back of the bench for balance.
“Animals are better than people,” Tean shouted after Hannah.
“You’re a wildlife vet,” Hannah shouted back. “You know that’s not true!”
“At least animals don’t—”
“Talk about movies,” Hannah shouted over him. “Rand loves movies.” She turned to the old woman, apologizing. When she reached for Divorcee, the Yorkie sprinted away from her.
“The whale story is better,” Tean informed Divorcee as she pranced up to him. He glanced over to check on Scipio, who was playing tag with Bear now, both dogs sprinting the length of the park. The late afternoon sunlight drew long shadows: the fence, the dogs, the guy with the tank top and tattoo.
Out of the corner of his eye, too late, Tean registered what was happening. Sniffing his shoe, Divorcee got into position and gave him the rest of the tank.
“Damn it,” Tean shouted. “Your dog, Hannah!”
“What were you saying about animals?” she called.
3
“People suck,” Jem said, carrying the TV tray with a Stouffer’s single-serve lasagna into the living room. He had to kick aside some of the bagged newspapers, and his foot came down on something that was soft and still possibly alive. On his next step, he connected with a loose can of store-brand cola, and it shot out, ricocheted off the entertainment center, and hit a pyramid of root beer bottles. The bottles came tumbling down, brown glass tinkling, but at least none of them broke. “God damn it, Benny, you’ve got to clean this place up. You’re supposed to be an adult, for Christ’s sake. This place is a sty.”
Benny swiped at the stringy hair hanging in front of his face, glanced up from the mess of papers in front of him as Jem set down the lasagna, and mumbled, “They’re gonna kill me.”
“Nobody’s going to kill you. People suck, sure. But nobody’s going to kill you.”
“Yes, they are. They are.”
“Who’s they?”
Benny just mumbled to himself and bent closer to examine pages filled with his scrawl.
“Hey, dummy,” Jem said, rapping Benny on the head. “I’m talking to you.”
“Cut it out,” Benny said, swiping at Jem.
Jem was faster, though, and he rapped on Benny’s head again. “Meds?” he asked.
“Doctor took me off them.”
“No joke? That’s great.”
Benny scratched out a line on the topmost page and scribbled something in the margin.
“Don’t lie to me, Benny. Where’s your medicine?”
“I don’t like how it makes me feel. I’m not taking it anymore.”
“Not your choice.”
“I flushed all the pills.”
Jem had to walk into the kitchen. The apartment was a shithole in West Valley, built in the 1970s by guys who had never cared about the place looking nice or lasting long. Now, almost fifty years later, the whole complex was a shrine to greedy landlords. Ancient paint bubbled and peeled, evidence of water damage and, probably, mold. The carpet was brownish gray and matted—Jem had been shocked, when he had moved Benny’s bed, to discover a patch of robin’s egg blue that must have been the original coloring. The linoleum in the kitchen was peeling, and half of the time when Jem came over, he ended up using crazy glue to stick it back to the floor. In the bathroom, the ceiling bulged and sagged ominously, and once, Jem could have sworn he’d seen a drop of water.
He stood in the kitchen, staring at the pile of dishes in scummy gray water, at the refrigerator with the door that wouldn’t close all the way, at the range with the foil-wrapped drip pans, crusted now with a layer of burnt black food. At least the place smelled like lasagna, even if it was only temporary. For another minute, Jem stood there, flexing his hands. Then he did what he always did.
First, he went through the cabinets, checking cans.
“Why haven’t you eaten any of the vegetables?” he shouted into the living room.
“I don’t like French-cut gr
een beans.”
“These aren’t French cut.”
Silence for thirty seconds. Then, “They have too much sodium.”
“Why didn’t you eat the fruit cocktail?”
“I’m on a diet.”
“You’ve got to eat something that didn’t come in plastic wrap,” Jem said. “I’ll make carrots; I saw some in the freezer.” He opened another cabinet. “Benny, where’s that spice rack? I’ll put some garlic powder in the carrots.”
The only answer was papers shuffling.
“Benny?”
Next door, Mrs. Johnson was shrieking about her lying, piece-of-shit husband, and then there was a deep, gonging noise that made Jem picture a cartoon cat getting struck by a cartoon frying pan.
From the opening to the living room, Jem asked, “Benny, spices?”
Benny wouldn’t look up.
“Jesus Christ, Benny,” Jem said. “Again?”
“I needed cash to buy my girlfriend dinner. Elisa said she’d give me twenty bucks for the spice rack.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Benny. That shit costs me money, ok? All this costs money. I don’t buy you fucking groceries so they can sit in your fucking cabinets, and I don’t buy you fucking spice racks so you can sell them to fucking Elisa so you can have twenty fucking bucks to buy your fucking imaginary girlfriend a fucking hamburger.”
“She’s not imaginary,” Benny said.
“What’s her name?” Jem said, louder than he meant to. “Where’d you meet her? What’s she do for work? What’s her favorite fucking color, Benny?”
Flinching, Benny tried to maneuver his bulk closer to the pages, tried to make himself smaller, which was hard to do when he was over two hundred pounds.
Opening and closing his hands, Jem said, “Sorry.”
Benny crossed something out; his hand was shaking.
Moving to the couch, Jem dropped down, met by the sour stink of body odor. “Benny, I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a lot of stuff.”
“I don’t need you to buy me anything.”
“I know.”
“I never made up an imaginary girlfriend in my whole life.”
“I know.”
“I’m fine,” Benny said. “I don’t need you.”
Jem studied the bagged newspapers, the magazine pages cut out and pasted over the windows, the greasy smears in the carpet, the handwritten manifesto spread out in front of Benny. He closed his eyes and said, “I know.”
Next door, Mrs. Johnson was sobbing.
“Why did I tell you to be careful around girls?” Jem asked.
“The same reason you’re careful around boys.”
“Which is what?”
“You don’t want your dick to do your thinking for you.”
“Right. And what else?”
“It’s easy to believe someone likes you because everybody wants to be liked.”
“That’s right,” Jem said. “And people will believe anything if they want it to be true. Even you. Even me.”
Benny just shrugged.
“What’s her name?” Jem asked again.
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Anyway, I won’t be your problem for much longer,” Benny said. “They’re going to kill me.”
“You’re not a problem. And nobody’s going to kill you, Benny.”
“They are. I know too much; it’s all right here. They have to get rid of me.”
“Benny, I know you don’t like how you feel on the meds, but you can’t just go off them. We’ll go see the doctor again. We’ll find something that helps you and doesn’t make you feel bad.”
Benny shrugged.
“How’s your pump?”
“Fine.”
“Insulin?”
“Fine.”
“Did you test your blood sugar?”
“It’s fine, Jem.”
“When’s the last time you tested it?”
“Dunno.”
“Ok, I’ll get a strip.”
“This morning.”
“Benjamin Lindsey Guthall, if you are lying to me, I will beat your ass.”
He flashed Jem a wounded look. “I checked it this morning.”
After that, there wasn’t much Jem could do. He conducted his final walkthrough and spotted the backpack with a pup tent strapped to the top. When he got back to the living room, he said, “Are you going to the Jenkins’ place?”
“Maybe.”
“No, we don’t play that way.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“When, Benny?”
“Tonight.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jem said.
“I don’t! I know too much, Jem. I’ve got to lie low for a while. I’ll be up there until it’s safe to come back.”
“Did you tell the Jenkins you were coming?”
“Not yet.”
“Fine. I’ll call them. Next week, Benny, we’re going to see your doctor, and we’re going to try different meds.”
Benny was reordering the pages in his lap.
“Tell me you heard me.”
“Ok, all right, I heard you.”
“What’s our rule?”
“You’ve got a million rules.”
“What’s our rule, Benny?”
“Cell phone on and charged, and I answer when you call.”
“Even if you’re in a movie.”
“Even if I’m in a movie,” Benny repeated.
“Even if you’re taking a dump.”
“You’re so gross.”
“Get up and give me a hug.”
“Jem,” Benny whined.
“Get your fat ass up.”
After some more groaning, Benny stood, and they hugged.
“Eat that before it’s cold,” Jem said, pointing at the lasagna, where the red sauce was already congealing.
Benny just nodded and mumbled.
Outside, at the bottom of the stairs, Tommy Johnson, twelve years old, was smoking a fatty blunt. His eyes were glazed when he looked up at Jem.
“That bad?” Jem asked.
Tommy blew a ring of smoke, his head sagging back as he stared at the October sky.
“Let me get a hit,” Jem said. Tommy passed it over, and Jem took a few long drags, holding the smoke, his eyes closed, letting the world soften. When he passed it back, he said, “You eat dinner?”
Tommy shook his head like he was in slow motion.
Digging out his last ten, Jem said, “Go get something to eat.”
Then Jem headed back into the city, trying to figure out the best place he could get an asshole to buy him a drink.
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Justene Adamec, for helping me tie up the ending with the rental truck, for suggesting family and friends at the wedding reception, for being willing to chat about Chief Riggle, and for catching so many of my errors.
Kate Collopy, for pointing out areas that needed clarification, catching typos, and most importantly, introducing me to Edward Tufte’s The Visual Display of Quantitative Information and his criticism of pie charts (and giving me another great Hazard joke).
Austin Gwin, for his support and encouragement, for helping me think back and reconsider the extent of Mitchell’s injury in The Rational Faculty, and for helping me think about the ‘torture dungeon’ in terms of the Saw movies.
Steve Leonard, for checking on The Price is Right showgirls, suggesting the chapter break in the climax, helping me understand why he found characters suspicious—and why he didn’t—and for keeping track of Hazard’s missed phone calls.
Cheryl Oakley, for her extensive edits, for checking and double-checking the wedding ‘surprise,’ for
feedback on which jokes to keep, and for doing all this while also re-proofing the first six Hazard and Somerset mysteries—and going through some big life changes of her own!
Carole Rubin, for being the first to point out that Princeton doesn’t have a law school and for suggesting how my mistake might be put to good use. This book, especially Darnell’s role in it, would have been very different without her input!
Tray Stephenson, for pointing out so many of my errors, for always being ready to offer a kind word, and for his emails of encouragement and support.
Dianne Thies, for her keen editorial eye, for giving me the wonderful idea of Dulac being proud of being a suspect (I still love it so much!), for helping me keep track of continuity errors (where is Hazard’s wallet?), and for helping me think about issues that needed resolved in this book—and issues that I’m going to carry over to Hazard and Somers’s next adventures!
Jo Wegstein, for her incredible attention to detail, for helping me realize that Hazard would never throw a wet towel in a hamper (twice!) and, in doing so, setting up the next domestic dust-up; for helping me think through the denouement and the elements I needed to include; for bringing the sheriff back into the story; and for keeping me from running my pudding cup joke into the ground!
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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