The Request

by David Bell

  “No, wait.” I held my hands out in a placating manner. “Just wait.”

  The man stopped tapping his phone. His finger hovered in midair. He turned his head toward Dawn, awaiting her approval. If she told him to keep dialing, he would. And I’d have the police called down on me.

  But Dawn shook her head. And she looked imperious doing it.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to call. He just lost control of himself for a moment. He’ll apologize. Won’t he?”

  Both sets of eyes turned toward me. A semitruck rumbled by the station, the noise and rush of wind it generated so great I wouldn’t have been heard even if I had spoken. But the distraction gave me a moment to gather my thoughts. If I continued on the path I was on, if I gave the overly concerned gas station attendant reason to call the police, then I’d be getting nowhere.

  Nowhere at all.

  I’d have to explain why I was standing there, talking to Dawn.

  And truth be told, she’d have to explain what she wanted from me.

  I hadn’t given her anything yet. How could I prove she’d been blackmailing me? And if I wanted to find Blake, I needed to get going.

  “Okay,” I said when the truck was past. “I’m sorry. I lost my cool. And I’m sorry. Okay? Is that okay with you?” I asked the attendant.

  He took his time answering. He looked at Dawn and then he looked at me.

  Finally he said, “Well, I guess so. If it’s okay with her.”

  And then Dawn took her time answering as well. But she finally nodded. “It’s okay,” she said.

  The attendant nodded his head a few times and started a slow walk back to the cashier area of the station. When he was out of earshot, I said, “I’m leaving. I have things to do.”

  “The money,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  “You’ll get it. Or you won’t. I may not be able to give it to you soon. But I have to go.”

  I opened the door and climbed into my car. Dawn had parked her car nose to nose with mine, so in order to get away, I’d have to back up. Before I could, she came to the window. I felt I had no choice but to power it down.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I showed you mercy today,” she said. “Twenty-four hours. Have that money for me tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t—”

  “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I headed for Blake’s house, still shaken by my encounter with Dawn, hoping I’d find either him or Sam at home. I hoped by the time I arrived the police would be there, talking to them. Straightening everything out. Moving everything along to a safe and logical conclusion in which Blake was not a murderer.

  Even as I thought that, I knew it was foolish. Nothing involving Blake was resolved that easily. Our mistakes were lingering for years, like nuclear fallout, never completely forgotten and always willing to rise up and bite when least expected. Faces in dreams. Relatives seeking justice. A friend trying blackmail.

  But I’d been right about something. When I turned down his street, I saw a police car sitting in front of his duplex. It partially blocked the entrance to the driveway, as though maybe it had just pulled up. Or maybe it was sitting on the house in case Blake or Samantha came by.

  I didn’t need to know anything else. I drove past, trying not to slow or stare. But my eyes trailed to the cop car ever so slightly as I rolled by. I saw a lone officer in the driver’s seat speaking on a cell phone. He didn’t seem to notice me, and I kept going, all the way up to the end of the block and the stop sign.

  When I arrived and flipped my turn signal on, I took a look in my rearview mirror. The cruiser sprang to life like someone had plugged it in. The lights and siren came on. And then it launched out of its parking spot like a rocket. It came right for me.

  I emitted a low noise, something between a gasp and a whine.

  It had been years since I’d been pulled over, but I remembered well the feeling of seeing those lights behind me. My stomach felt like a rock, weighing me down in the depths of the driver’s seat. My mouth went dry.

  Should I just turn and keep going?

  Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have moved. Maybe the police were looking for me. Maybe Rountree had sent my name and description around because they’d found fingerprints, a witness. One of the things I feared.

  The cruiser came up, speeding so fast I thought it was going to slam into me. Then the driver swerved and went around, barely tapping his brakes before he made a left turn onto the cross street and accelerated away.

  I remained frozen in place, my hands locked on the wheel. It took a full minute for my body to begin to relax, for my stomach to stop sinking and my heart to slow. I breathed again.

  No other cars came up behind me. The street Blake lived on remained empty.

  I resolved to get out of there. The cops were watching the place. Obviously. The one in the cruiser had been called away, maybe even for a break in Jennifer’s case. But if not, he’d be back. Someone would be watching the place, waiting for Blake.

  I turned right and then turned right again, retracing my route out of the neighborhood and making sure to go in the opposite direction of the cop who’d just scared the living daylights out of me.

  After my second right, I was on the street parallel to Blake’s, where the backyards of the houses ran up to the rear of his duplex. His sat in the middle of the block, and I could guess about where it was without being able to see it. When I reached that spot, I saw someone, a man, walking between the two houses that faced the street where I was driving. I slowed, curious. Was he a cable guy? A repairman?

  He walked quickly with his head down, the collar of his jacket turned up high. He reminded me of myself slinking through Jennifer’s neighborhood less than twelve hours earlier. The man’s hair was dark. He had a beard.

  Was it Blake? Had he been waiting for the cop to leave so he could go home? This man’s hair was shorter than Blake’s, but maybe Blake had changed his look?

  I wouldn’t have put it past him to call 911 to create a diversion to draw the cops away from his house.

  So I turned right and then right again until I pulled up in front of Blake’s house, stopping where the cop car had been parked. I looked and didn’t see the man anymore, but if it was Blake, I couldn’t let him go.

  I turned the car off, climbed out, and started up the driveway toward the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I expected Blake—or whoever it was—to emerge from behind the duplex, but he didn’t. I went to the front door and pushed the bell several times in a row. Then knocked and knocked, so hard my knuckles hurt.

  But no one came. I tried the knob, and it was locked, refusing to budge.

  The curtains were closed, eliminating any chance to see inside. I looked behind me, both up and down the street, expecting to see the cop coming back and catching me on the porch, but the street remained empty and quiet.

  Had something happened in the back of the duplex? Or was Blake back there smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky?

  I left the porch and went around the side of the house, heading for the back. It wasn’t lost on me that I suddenly seemed to be a guy who spent his time slinking around other people’s houses like a burglar.

  My shoes skimmed over the bright green grass. The sun was bright, the sky clear. A beautiful day I couldn’t enjoy. When I came into the backyard, I saw nothing. No sign of Blake or anyone else. Had I imagined the presence of that figure slipping between the houses?

  But I knew Blake and Samantha had a back door, one that opened into their kitchen. Had Blake just gone in through there and decided to ignore me at the front door? Had he thought I was the cops?

  As I approached the back door, I noticed that the window next to it—which also led into the kitchen—stood wide open. Had Blake go
ne in through the window instead of the door?

  Unlikely.

  My scalp started to tingle with anxiety, and the feeling spread down my back. I took two steps forward, moving closer to the open window. I stopped and listened but heard nothing.

  “Blake?”

  I kept my voice low, although that neighborhood, early in the morning, with everyone off to work or school, might as well have been the set of a postapocalyptic movie. The cop at the front of the house might have grown bored and sped off with his siren going just to try to break the monotony.

  “Blake?”

  I went closer to the window and bent down, trying to see inside. It was dark. I saw the outline of the kitchen table, a microwave, and a dirty dish on a counter next to a coffeemaker. I listened, thought I heard movement.

  I was about to back away, to cut my losses and move on, when a face appeared in the opening. I jumped back so fast I almost fell over in the grass. And my heart skipped a couple of beats, like a scratched record.

  The man, who looked to be my age, remained in place, staring out at me, his face set hard and his eyes burning.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Why are you sneaking around here?”

  His close-cropped hair was thinning on the top, and he wore a suit coat over a black polo shirt. His hands rested on the windowsill, the nail of his right index finger blackened by some injury. He stared out at me, his face framed by the window, and he looked like someone about to present the angriest children’s puppet show ever performed.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The man studied me without answering. He looked me up and down, and some kind of recognition spread across his face. When his scrutiny had reached some point I didn’t understand, the man nodded to himself and retracted his head. Then I heard the door’s lock undone, and he pulled it open. He stood there, staring at me again, only this time he nodded, confirming whatever he’d been working through when his face was in the window.

  “The Juniper Pig,” he said, his anger cooling by a few degrees.

  “What about it?”

  “You own it. I’ve seen you doing those spots on Facebook.”

  “Right. That’s me. And who are you? And why are you in this house? Why did you break in to this house?”

  The man stood there, blinking. I thought the sun was in his eyes. Or else he had allergies.

  But then I saw the tears forming just before he raised his hand and brushed them away.

  He said something I didn’t understand, the words muffled by his hand.

  “You what?” I asked.

  He shook his head and removed his hand from his mouth so I could hear him clearly.

  “I loved her,” he said. “I loved her and now she’s gone.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I followed the man inside and watched as he started opening and closing kitchen cabinets. The house was neat and quiet, most of the blinds drawn.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “I need something to drink.”

  “The one in the corner. On the left. That’s where they used to keep it. Blake stopped drinking. . . .”

  The guy opened the cabinet and started moving things around. Glasses and bottles clinked against one another, a tinny, irritating noise.

  “Come on, come on,” he said. He kept rummaging. “Who quits drinking?”

  “Some people try.”

  “Ah.” He took out a bottle of bourbon. He opened another cabinet and brought down two glasses, sticking his fingers inside to move them. “You’re right. They never really quit. You want one?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  He unscrewed the cap and filled both glasses anyway, sloshing some of the amber liquid onto the counter.

  “Who are you exactly?” I asked.

  He lifted one of the glasses and swallowed all the contents, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Kyle Dornan. As if it matters to you. Or anyone else.”

  His mood had slipped from anger to sadness to teenage melancholy right before my eyes. The black polo shirt bore the insignia of a medical supply company in town, one that sold scooters and ramps for the elderly and the handicapped.

  “Why are you here, Kyle?” I asked.

  He picked up the other glass but didn’t drink from it. He held it in his hand and stared at the liquid as if he expected something to materialize in it. “I loved her. That’s who I am.” Then he drank, swallowing everything in the second glass.

  “You loved Jennifer,” I said.

  He put the glass down and leaned against the granite counter. It looked as though he would collapse to the floor without the support. “Yes,” he said. “Jennifer. Jennifer Bates. My girl.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish—”

  “What do you know about her?” he asked, looking over at me. His eyes were tired, the skin around them dark from lack of sleep. “Did you know her at all?” Something crossed his mind, and whatever it was stiffened his spine. He straightened up, his chin jutting out as he considered me. “Did you . . . ? You weren’t . . . ?”

  I understood. He loved her. So he said. He wanted to know if I did too. I was more than happy to tell the truth.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing like that. We worked together, in a way. She was a potential client of my PR firm.”

  I opted to conceal the Facebook messages, the flirtation. And certainly all information about seeing her dead body on the floor. Lifeless and unseeing. No way he could handle that kind of detail. It wasn’t my job to test him.

  “And the cops informed you about her death because you worked together?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Basically. They were working through anyone who had contact with her, I guess. I’m sure they’re talking to everybody.”

  Relieved that I wasn’t another suitor, Kyle turned his attention back to the bottle. He lifted it up, almost in a religious fashion, and then poured more into one of the glasses. “You sure?” he asked, nodding at the bottle.

  “I’m good. It’s kind of early.”

  He cut his eyes toward me.

  “I mean, I understand why you want to,” I said. “No judgment here.”

  “Sure. I’m supposed to be at work. Making sales calls.” He pointed to the logo on his shirt. “You found out about her death in a better way than I did,” he said, and drank again. “I went by her house last night. Late. Around eleven. I just wanted to see her. You know? We’ve been seeing each other. We had plans, you know? Late-night plans.”

  Then it came back to me—the messages on Jennifer’s phone. She’d exchanged a series of texts with a guy named Kyle, ones in which he desperately tried to fan the embers of whatever their relationship was. And Jennifer simply offered no response.

  So did they really have “late-night plans”? Had Jennifer responded with a phone call instead of a text?

  Or had Kyle shown up uninvited and unwelcome?

  Then I shuddered and was happy Kyle was focused on his drink and hadn’t seen what must have passed across my face. He’d gone by Jennifer’s house at eleven o’clock. Not long after I’d been there. What if he’d come earlier and walked in on me? Standing over her dead body?

  “Do you know what I found when I went there?” he asked. “I pull up, and there are a bunch of cop cars. And an ambulance.” The glass sat on the counter in front of him. “Then I saw it. I was broken when I saw it, I tell you.”

  Frozen in place, I waited for him to go on. I thought about what I was doing in Blake’s house, speaking to a man I didn’t know about a dead woman.

  A dead woman he said he loved.

  “I saw the coroner’s van. It pulled up.” He shook his head and slumped against the counter again. “When you see that—when you see that word, ‘coroner,’ as big as anything—and you know they’re going right into the house where someone you
love lives . . . and she lives alone . . . So it has to be her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I said it again, and the words still felt inadequate. Bland and unable to rise to the occasion.

  “Thanks,” Kyle said anyway.

  I didn’t want to press him any further, but I felt I had no choice. So I asked, “Why exactly are you here? In Blake’s house?”

  His head whipped toward me so fast I thought he’d hurt himself. “What are you? Friends with him? Obviously that’s why you’re here, nosing around.”

  “We’re friends, yes.”

  Kyle looked disappointed, as though his assessment of me as a decent guy plummeted once I mentioned being friends with Blake. I didn’t say it out loud, but that wouldn’t have been the first time in my life someone’s opinion of me dropped because of my association with Blake.

  “Where is he?” Kyle asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Same as you, I’m guessing.”

  “No,” he said. “Not the same as you at all. You’re his friend, you say?”

  My parents weren’t very religious, but they did send me to Sunday school a few times. I remembered Peter in the garden with the chance to admit he was friends with Jesus or face the wrath of the Romans. While Blake was no Jesus, there was something inside me that refused to deny my friend. No matter how much he deserved it.

  “We’ve been friends a long time,” I said. “I’m worried about him.”

  “You should be worried,” Kyle said. “He was such a jerk to Jennifer. He kept her around for his own reasons. He yanked her chain, breaking things off at a whim and leaving her high and dry. You have to wonder what kind of guy would do that to a woman. What else might he be capable of?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  His certainty knocked me off my stride.

  Here was a guy much closer to the situation than I was, a person who knew Jennifer and her relationship with Blake in ways I didn’t. He sounded like someone who had seen behind the curtain of these events and had formed harder, more durable opinions.