by A J Rivers
"Who's hiding? Lakyn?"
He shakes his head. "No. But I tried to tell her about them." He looks up. "They're always watching."
"The cameras?" I ask. "You're bothered by the cameras?"
"No. Cameras blink, too. Have you ever thought about blinking? That tiny sliver of a second with your eyes closed. You don't even notice it, but how much are you missing? What are you losing because of it? What could you do if there were so many watching, there was always someone who wasn't blinking? Nothing was ever missing; you never lost anything. What could you become? They're always watching. They wait for everybody else to blink. But I saw them. Just one time. One blink. That's all it took."
"Lakyn believed you. She wanted everybody else to see you were innocent," I say.
"Ah," he says, holding up a finger as if he's making a point. "Not innocent. She wanted everybody else to see I am not guilty. I will never pretend to be an innocent man. No such thing. I've seen what happens in this world. I watched the game be played. I tried to explain the rules to her. She said she wanted to save my life. But that's not it. That was never it. It wasn't the reason for this. I'm at peace with what's next. But it's not my turn. When you play Monopoly, what are you?"
"The dog," I say.
"I'm the top hat. You know going to jail is part of the game. It's going to happen. But what if I drew the card, then picked up your dog and put it in jail? You don't accept it as part of the game anymore. I'm fine with dying. I just want it to be with my own game piece. I want the chance to roll those doubles."
“Time’s up,” the officer says.
“Here,” Xavier says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and holds it up to the officer so he can see there's no threat, then folds it again. “Take this. When you find her, look for the other pieces.”
He holds it out to me, and I take it. The officer comes up, and Xavier willingly offers his wrists to be handcuffed. He starts to pull him toward the door.
"Xavier?"
The officer stops, so Xavier can look at me. "You say you're at peace with what comes next. Do you really believe there is something next? Even here, you see it?"
He smiles now.
"Yes. Especially here. And shouldn't it be? Here it's probably needed the most. Andrew deserved it, too, you know. To take his turn."
"But someone put his piece in the jail," I say.
He shakes his head. "No. Someone pulled his card."
"Come on. Time's up," the officer says.
Xavier indicates the officer with a quick pop of his head to the side. "Buttered popcorn. Both snack and jellybean." The officer starts to pull him to the door again, but he's still looking at me. "You know another reason the peanuts would choose me?"
"Why, Xavier?"
The smile curves a little wider.
"People think I'm nuts, but I'm not."
Chapter Thirty-Six
"I don't know if I'm allowed to laugh at that."
Dean sits on the second bed in my hotel room and rips a roast beef sandwich into little pieces before eating each as its own bite.
“I think so,” I say. “I mean, he seemed to realize it was funny. But I think it was more than that. Obviously, peanuts are legumes, not nuts, so it's a literal statement. But he's also not crazy. Haha. It's funny. But that's not it. Just about everything that came out of his mouth meant something else.”
“So, he was speaking in riddles?” Dean asks.
“Yes, but I don't think he meant to. It's not as if he was doing it for effect. I honestly think that’s the way his mind works. He was just saying to me what was going on in his head. He just doesn't know how to unravel it to make other people understand it,” I say.
“Do you believe him? Do you think he was wrongfully convicted?” he asks.
“I think so,” I nod. “Not that I know enough about the case or about him to actually make that assumption, but just by being in the same room with him, I want to say I believe him. I don't know how to explain it, but there was something about him. It's not like other people. He comes into the room, and he's there. Does that make sense?”
“No,” Dean scrunches up his face in confusion.
“I knew it wouldn't. It's just that—he’s got some sort of different presence. Being next to him is so different from being next to other people, as if there's more to him,” I say.
“Should I tell Sam to be concerned you're falling under the spell of a convicted murderer?” he raises an eyebrow.
"It's not like that."
"Alright, well, what else did he say? Let's see if we can figure it out. Maybe we'll create a Xavier-to-people dictionary."
I glare at him. "That's not funny."
"I'm serious. As you said, he doesn't know how to make people understand what he's thinking. He frames it the best way he can, and it comes out of his mouth that way. If we can figure out what he's saying and how he's saying it, you might be able to communicate with him more easily. Or at least help people understand him."
"I don't know if he really cares about people understanding him. At least, not as a general rule. I'm sure he'd like it if people would listen when he explains to them that he didn't murder Andrew Eagan."
"What happened to Andrew, anyway?" Dean asks.
"He was found dead in Xavier's garage. Carbon monoxide poisoning."
"He couldn't just break the car window and turn it off so the exhaust would stop?"
"There was no car," I say. "He doesn't drive. The fumes came from a faulty heater that couldn't be turned off. Apparently, Xavier was really into gadgets and home modifications and things. Imagine that. One of the things he did was create a hyper-secure garage."
“A man who doesn't drive created a hyper-secure garage?” Dean asks.
“Remember, he's a noted conspiracy theorist. I've looked into him some more and found papers he's written and talks he's done about all of his really bizarre theories. It might not make any sense to us at all, but he really believed it was important for his garage to be incredibly secure. But that was the problem. At least for Andrew. It was like a lockdown. There was no way to get out of it once the security measures were activated. And then when the heater started leaking the carbon monoxide into it, it was over,” I explain.
“How could they say that was murder, though? Wouldn't that be an accident?”
“Apparently, the heater showed evidence of being tampered with. It was specifically rigged to release the carbon monoxide into the garage. It was actually designed to increase the flow of the poisonous gas the more certain areas of the garage were touched. So, the more Andrew tried to escape, the more gas was released, which made it more difficult for him to focus and find a way to get out,” I say.
“But that doesn't make any sense. If there was no way to get out of it, there was no way to get out of it,” Dean says.
“Exactly. And Andrew would know that.”
I look down at the notebook in my lap.
“What’s that?” Dean asks.
“After I left the jail, everything Xavier said to me was tumbling around in my brain. It was just a jumbled mass of words and phrases. It was so confusing, but I wanted to remember as many of them as I possibly could. So, I stopped at the nearest drugstore and got a notebook and pen so I could write as many of them down as I could remember.”
“Imagine your brain being like that all the time,” he says. “That's what it's like for Xavier.”
“Yeah, but it makes sense to him. Look. This is where he was talking about the garage. He said it over and over. ‘Andrew knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.’ He said it over and over.”
“What did he know? That there was gas coming into the garage? Is he saying that Andrew killed himself?”
“No, I don't think so. The garage itself. He was looking up at the ceiling and talking about how people think of a floor and ceiling as being the same thing when you're on different levels. But they're not. They're not the same thing, because there's spa
ce in between them. And Andrew knew that." I pause, staring at the paper. "Oh, my god."
"What?" Dean asks.
"’He knew there was something in between’. ‘There was separation’. ‘Space… and air’."
"There were safety features in the garage. An emergency air supply," Dean connects with my line of thinking.
"And Andrew knew about them. Of course, he knew about them because they made Xavier feel safe. And Andrew made Xavier feel safe. He talked about Andrew being stable and predictable. Dependable was the word he used. He depended on Andrew. Xavier knows he doesn't see the world the same way everybody else does. He can understand that. People seem to think that he isn't aware that he's doing things differently, but I think he is. I think he's very aware of it, and Andrew was his connection to the world. Andrew was his best friend and the one person he fully trusted. So, he told him everything.”
“Including all the secrets he put in his house,” Dean says. “Which means Andrew couldn't have died accidentally in that garage. He knew about the emergency air supply.”
“Exactly. And Xavier never would have tried to kill him in that garage because he would know that Andrew knew about that supply.”
“Unless he did it on purpose,” Dean says. “He could have killed Andrew somewhere else and put him in that garage, or incapacitated him in some way and put him in the garage, knowing that people would question whether he would do something so patently obvious as killing his best friend in his own garage. Maybe it was intended to be his alibi.”
“No,” I frown, shaking my head. “With a friendship like that, anyone who knew them would know Xavier used Andrew as his filter to understand the world. They would know he would have told Andrew everything about the garage. Which means they would know he wouldn't think to falsely implicate himself like that because everyone who knew him would know it didn't make sense.”
"That didn't make sense," Dean says.
"Yes, it did. Just unravel it a little at a time. The thing is, friends and family, don't convict. Courts do. And the evidence was enough to influence the court into convicting him. But whoever actually did kill Andrew didn't know him or Xavier very well. Not well enough to know that the garage was modified, or that Andrew would know about the modifications.”
“So you think the murder was random? That seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a random killing," Dean says.
"It wasn't random. This was planned."
"By someone who didn't know them?" Dean asks.
I explain to him what Xavier said about the game pieces. "It seems kind of right on the nose since he’s in jail for something someone else did, but I don't think he meant it as literally as it sounds. He's talking about death, not jail. He said somebody pulled Andrew's card."
We spend the rest of the evening going over all the notes I made, trying to decipher them. Just when I feel as if I'm figuring one thing out, another one takes its place and makes even less sense than before. Beside the notes is the piece of paper Xavier gave me. It's a drawing of a large circle, covered in dots evenly spaced across the shape. Beside the main circle are eight smaller circles. Seven are white, and the eighth is gray. Beneath the whole drawing is a large question mark.
“Do you think he's actually wondering what it means, or is it another riddle?” Dean asks. “Is he trying to get us to figure out what that is?”
“Again, I don't think he means to be communicating in riddles. This is telling me something, not trying to get me to figure it out for myself. Whatever this is, he doesn't know what it is, either.”
“So, how are you going to figure it out?” he asks.
“I don't know,” I sigh. “But I feel as if there are a lot of people I need to talk to.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I feel as if I've driven more in the week I've been in Harlan than I usually do in a month in Sherwood. Back home, I'm used to walking most of the time. I'll drive if I have to go to the grocery store and buy more than I can comfortably carry, or when the weather is bad, or if I'm leaving the main town. But most days, I get along fine walking or jogging.
I lately also haven't had as much need to go anywhere. On the one hand, it's brought me to the teetering edge of losing my mind. But on the other, it's comforting and sometimes luxurious to just be able to enjoy one place and not be forced to go anywhere else. But here, I'm driving around nonstop.
Harlan isn't a big place, but it's spread out. Far more so than Sherwood. There's a more rural aspect to a considerable part of it, and many of the places I've needed to go and people I've needed to talk to have been beyond farms or in the main village area, like the police station.
I'm stopped at a light when my phone rings. It's propped in a little stand that fits into the air vent, letting me hit the speakerphone button and answer without having to hold it up.
“Hey, babe,” I answer after seeing Sam's name on the screen.
“How’s it going?” he asks. “Getting anywhere?”
“I’d like to feel as if I am because of how much I'm doing, but I'm still trying to piece it all together. I went to the last couple of places around town where Lakyn was seen. It's a lot like at the bank. Pretty inconvenient for anybody to be actually watching but perfectly normal places for someone living around here.”
"I didn't think she lived in Harlan, though," Sam says.
"And that's another thing. She doesn't. She lives in Salt Valley, which is about an hour's drive. Yet in the days leading up to her disappearance, she was seen in the Harlan area multiple times. Part of that makes sense because of her interactions with Xavier Renton at the jail, but even the jail isn't right there. The very last place she was seen was outside that news studio. But since then, her car hasn't been seen, and she hasn't been accounted for.”
“What about Renton?” he asked.
“I did find out something interesting about his case. It turns out he didn't have a jury trial,” I say. “He waived his right to it. He only had a judge.”
“Why would he do that?” Sam asks.
“Because he's a conspiracy theorist,” I say. “He does not believe a group of civilians could be truly impartial and would go into the case with open minds and without influence. A judge is a single person and bound by both law and honor.”
“Did you talk to the judge? Get to figure out why he was convinced Xavier did it?”
“I tried to. But because his case is being reopened and there might be a new trial, he's not allowed to talk about it. So that was kind of a dead-end. I was, however, able to find some of the original court transcripts and commentary he did during the trial. Obviously, a lot of it is redacted because I don't have a warrant or anything, but it definitely gets the point across.”
“And what's the point?” Sam asks.
“The judge believed Renton was influenced by his theories on society and had begun to believe his best friend was somehow involved and needed to die because of it. According to the ruling, the evidence showed only the two of them had realistic access to the garage, and no one else had any motive," I say.
“Circumstantial,” he notes.
“But compelling. I have to admit that. I still don't think Xavier did it. He's a brilliant man. Eccentric and maybe wired a little different, but brilliant. He wouldn't do something that painfully obvious and then try to say he didn't. It would seem like an insult.”
“What are you doing now?" he asks.
“Going to get a quick bite to eat, then Dean and I are supposed to go to the police station and talk to the detective. They still haven't heard from the blonde woman, but Eric is doing some hunting, too. He's been tracing pictures and finding paths through social media and news accounts to create a timeline of that conference. He's hoping he'll be able to identify exactly when and where that photo of Lakyn was taken, then trace any surveillance cameras in the area that might have caught her, or any social media posts from the surrounding areas that might have also caught that woman in them.”
“Well, ha
ppy hunting to Eric. If there's anybody who could possibly find her, it would be him,” Sam says.
“I know he's already been looking for her for so long, but now he has more to go on. Before, it was just that one bit of surveillance video. I'm hoping he's able to track her down, or someone recognizes her and has the integrity to come forward,” I say.
"I hope so, too," Sam says. "Alright, I have to go."
"No," I sigh, disappointed at such a short call. "I miss you so much."
"I know. I'm sorry. I only had a minute, but I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you so much, too. Call me later," he says.
"I will. I love you."
"I love you, too."
My craving for Italian food brings me to a restaurant I've driven by a few times and have been meaning to try. I don't have time for a long meal, but enough to not have to grab another burger. A hostess seats me and takes my drink order. A few moments later, someone appears by my table, and I look up, expecting to see a waiter. Instead, it's a tall, golden-skinned man with silver in his beard and many years of laughter around his eyes.
"Agent Emma Griffin?" he asks.
"Yes," I nod, trying to process if I've seen this man before.
"When I heard we had such an illustrious visitor to our town, I was hoping you would come to my restaurant. My name is Lorenzo Tarasco, and I am at your service."
He rests a hand over his heart and gives a slight bow.
"Thank you," I say, feeling slightly flustered by the attention. "I didn't even know people realized I was here."
He laughs a boisterous laugh and raises one hand to beckon a waitress over to my table.
"Agent Griffin is my guest this afternoon. The kitchen will prepare a tasting menu for her."
