by Beers, David
There were more words but John couldn’t hold the paper up anymore. He let it drop to the floor.
“There’s more, but nothing too terribly interesting. Basically, Vondi thinks you’re a serial killer now, too, though I don’t think he’s as inclined to protect you as your mom.”
“I killed this man?”
“Yes. I don’t know how you don’t remember.”
John closed his eyes tight, trying to remember anything from last night. He saw the car pulling out onto the street. He came back to his room, bitched at Harry for a minute, and then went to sleep. That’s all he could remember. He didn’t do anything else.
“Harry, I didn’t go anywhere. I’ve slept here the whole time.”
“I’m just telling you what I saw. The body should be clean, the bleach idea was absolutely genius.”
“The what?” John said, his eyes still closed as if he could will this all away by refusing to look.
“Bleach. You took me to a mini-mart and bought two gallons of bleach with cash at like four in the morning. Put it all over the car and body. Even if they do find him, there’s absolutely no way to trace it back to you.”
“I just can’t remember any of it.”
“Well, it’s okay either way. You’re going to be fine. Today’s Sunday, so you’ve got all day to rest. Maybe you’ll be able to move a little better tomorrow for class.”
“I can’t believe I did that,” John said. “I can’t believe it.”
“You’re missing the larger point here, John. Someone else besides your mother suspects. Vondi. And if Vondi tells the police that you had something to do with this guy’s disappearance, that won’t be great. Might not be all bad given there’s no evidence, but it still isn’t the kind of attention you want.”
John shook his head again. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Harry walked to the end of the bed and stood at John’s feet. “Look at me.”
John opened his eyes, not wanting to see any part of the world and especially not Harry. He didn’t have a choice, though. Because Harry saw him last night, even if John couldn’t remember a goddamn second of it. Only Harry knew anything right now.
“You have to stop worrying about the dead man. You’ve got another year left here, but when you get back, Vondi is going to be there. And if he’s not already suspecting something, he will soon—once he finds out whoever he gave his money to is gone. You need to focus on that, John, because there’s trouble just around the fucking corner.”
* * *
A week passed and Vondi had received only one call from Landstat, a full four days ago.
He knew the time difference could be causing a problem, but the situation didn’t feel right. Landstat had a whole seven days and the last update Vondi heard was that he had seen nothing out of the ordinary. John had a girlfriend, but as far as Landstat could tell, he wasn’t murdering anyone.
Which was fine.
Vondi hoped he was wrong about John, as well as his mother.
Yet, Landstat wasn’t calling, which truly disturbed Vondi. He didn’t know what the man’s workload looked like, but he doubted Landstat was so busy that he couldn’t call to update.
Vondi stayed up late Tuesday night. He put his television on and watched reruns, waiting for the clock to hit three in the morning. He didn’t want to call as soon as the man opened up shop, but an hour into the day should be fine.
“Hello?”
A voice answered other than Landstat’s, at least Vondi thought it was different. He’d only talked to Landstat twice and he couldn’t be sure.
“Hi, It’s Dr. Vondi … I’m looking for Mr. Landstat, is this him?”
“Dr. Vondi?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he said.
“I’m a police officer, Dr. Vondi. Can you tell me why you’re calling this number?”
“I’m … umm,” Vondi stopped, finding no words in his mouth. The police? “Are you really a cop?” he said, feeling dumb even as he said it.
“I am. Detective Sergeant Morris. Now, will you please tell me how you know Mr. Landstat?”
“I … umm.” Still stunned. “I hired him. He’s looking at someone for me.”
“You don’t sound like you’re English, Dr. Vondi. Are you American?”
“Yes, I am. I know someone over there and I needed some help finding them.”
“Who?” the police said.
Vondi shook his head, his eyes wide. He had to get hold of himself or he wouldn’t find out anything. “Where’s Mr. Landstat?”
A pause on the phone and Vondi heard someone whispering, muffled as if a hand was over the receiver.
“Mr. Landstat is missing, Dr. Vondi. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for him.”
Slowly, with almost no knowledge that he did it, Dr. Vondi placed the phone back on the receiver. He felt the click as the phone met home and then left his hand on it, staring at the wall in front of him.
Missing?
That’s what he said.
Missing.
A silence came over Vondi’s mind then, where he existed in an in-between state—not quite active, but neither dormant. He felt like a curtain had been lifted on one side of his consciousness while another fell on the opposite side. The lifted curtain revealed the truth about John Hilt and the fallen one blocked off any idea as to what he should do.
Landstat was missing and John Hilt had done it.
And what could Vondi do—tell the police?
Are you sure you’re not just sounding like Lori? Something bad happens and of course John’s to blame?
The thought whispered through his mind like a seductive lover—a lover one knows to be cheating.
He didn’t trust that voice, not anymore. He put an investigator on John and the investigator disappeared. Was that just a coincidence?
Surely the man had other clients. Couldn’t something have happened with one of them? Or perhaps an ex-wife? Or maybe he owed money to someone? Is John the only option for this?
Vondi kept thinking, his thoughts trudging across the dark landscape of his mind like a man bent on finishing a futile quest. In the end, though, Vondi found resolution even if it wasn’t satisfactory.
He wasn’t going to the police. Not yet.
He would wait until he knew for certain, and when he did, he would bring the world down on John Hilt’s head.
8
Present Day
Scott had made his decision and no one could change his mind. No one in this room, anyway. Perhaps if Lori descended from the heavens—or more likely, rose from hell—he might converse with her and have a change of heart. John’s wife and sister, though? No, it wasn’t their job to fix this.
He knew an argument was coming, though; he couldn’t help that.
The lawyer, Stacy, sat in the living room with them all, but he was more or less here to back Scott up—Scott made sure of that before he came over. The safety, the likelihood of John being there, and on and on. Whatever it took to keep the two women from crying too loudly for too long.
“I’m going to get John,” Scott said.
“Where is he? Is he back?” Diane said, surprise on her face, and Scott’s heart broke for her as he realized happiness rested there too.
“No. He’s not. He’s still in Mexico.”
“How do you know where he is?” Alicia said.
“I lied to both of you.” Scott looked at the women as he talked, finding their eyes with his. “I’m not proud of it, but I had to. One of the things that Diane signed a few days ago was a document saying that she wanted access to all of John’s call records. The last call John made was on them, as well as his location.”
“You lied to me?” Diane said.
“I had to. If you knew what I was finding, you would have done it yourself, and then you’d be trying to go down there instead of me.”
“Of course I would!” Diane shouted. “He’s my fucking husband, Scott! I don’t care if he’s your son; he’s my husband!” Rage
filled tears welled in her eyes and Scott’s heart kept cracking. He couldn’t do anything but hold firm, though. He had to do this alone.
“It might be dangerous if either of you two go, and I can’t allow that to happen.”
“Whose fucking lawyer are you?” Diane turned her venom to Stacy. “Are you trying to help me or him or John or who, goddamnit?”
“Scott pays the bills. I’m his attorney. I have to do what he wants me to, as long as it’s legal.”
“And so lying to me is fucking legal all of a sudden?”
“He didn’t lie. You never asked what you were signing,” Stacy said
“It’s too late now, Diane,” Scott interrupted the conversation. “Even if you wanted to claim I lied and I shouldn’t have the information, I do. By the time anything happens I’ll be back here with John. I’m bringing him home. I just don’t want either of you two getting hurt.”
“Why would he hurt us?” Alicia said. Her voice was much lower than Diane’s but it contained anger too. Two cobras staring back at him, both pissed and ready to bite.
“I don’t know that he would, but Mexico isn’t a safe place to begin with. I don’t know what is happening with John, but I know if something pops up while I’m there, I don’t want either of you two involved. You might not believe me right now, but I love you both too much for that.”
“Fuck you, Scott. Fuck you.” Diane stood up and left the room, walking down the hallway to the bed that she and John once shared.
Scott sat with Stacy and Alicia, which actually meant he was really there with his daughter. The daughter he lied to.
“I want the truth.”
“What do you think I’m lying about? I am going to get John.”
“You’re not worried about Mexico. You’re worried about him hurting us. I want to know why.” She spoke with a calm far too deep for the rage he saw in her eyes.
“I’m not worried about John, per se.”
“Where were you when we called?”
“It’s none of your business, Alicia.”
“He’s not just your son,” she said. “He’s my brother too. Mom would want me to know.”
Scott dropped his eyes to the floor and smiled. A small sad thing that said more than any words ever could. “No, she wouldn’t, sweetheart.”
“If you go without first telling me the truth, Dad, I’ll never forgive you.”
* * *
He was too old to be making drives like this. Scott’s body ached from sitting in the car so damn long, and he couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. Worse, he kept wanting to doze off. He stopped at a gas station about two hours in and picked up a bottle of caffeine pills, which helped a little, but not completely.
When he finally arrived in Mexico, it took him five minutes to get out of the car. He went slow on purpose because moving too fast would, without doubt, pull something and then he’d be in even worse shape.
He drove too far to not think about what Alicia said, but he did his best to push it from his mind. He didn’t know what would happen when he finally saw John, but if she ever found out the truth—Scott doubted he would be the only one she couldn’t forgive.
The coordinates from John’s call records gave Scott a general vicinity to search—a five to ten mile radius from what he gathered—which was far too much space for him to cover without more information. Two nights before he started the drive, he turned his computer on again and began practicing Spanish phrases. He didn’t know many, perhaps three, but he would nail those three every time he said them.
Scott leaned against the top of his car, stretching his arms and putting one foot back, trying to get at his calf muscle. He held the stretch for a few seconds and then switched legs. Finally, he reached into his pocket and checked his cell, making sure that his phone carrier hadn’t lied and he still had service.
Are you going to keep ignoring this, Scott? You can't forever. Even if you want to. You pushed it all away because you loved Lori, but shouldn't you have seen some of this? The voice spoke from nowhere, interrupting his stretching.
Did he know what it meant?
You do, it said. You know exactly what this is about. Because Lori wasn’t the wife you lionized her as, was she? Not always …
The voice stopped, as if waiting for him to shut it up. But he didn’t, he waited on it.
Because if you think, actually think, Scott, you’re going to remember a lot. You’re going to remember times that weren’t always good. Some that actually got pretty bad, if you want to be honest.
Scott collapsed, turning quickly and falling with his back against the car, sitting in the dusty parking lot. He sat there in the heat and remembered what he pushed aside for so long.
* * *
It took ten minutes for Scott to get himself together. Sweat poured off his face in rivers; he reached up to wipe it off, and his hands came away slick.
He finally stood up, knowing he looked like he’d gone for a jog in this weather. He looked at the shop he sat in front of and finally went around the front of his car, walking across the parking lot and into the small gas-station that looked like it also might be a grocery store. He opened the door, hoping to feel air conditioning—anything to help the heat stroke he felt sure was coming. It didn’t take but a moment for him to understand that this place relied on fans rather than central cooling. Still, circulating air was better than outside in the stifling heat.
There would be time to deal with the memories assaulting him outside of the car. When he saw John, they could face them together. Now, though, he had to get to John.
The woman at the counter looked at him as if he was a stray dog, something to be watched and not fully trusted. She didn’t say anything even as he approached the counter, placing his hands on it.
“Hola,” Scott said. “Has visto a un hombre blanco?”
The woman’s eyebrows raised, the first movement Scott had seen from her since walking inside.
She was quiet for a few seconds and finally said, “Aparte de ti?”
Christ almighty. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small translation dictionary he brought, while trying to keep the first word in his head. Aparte. Aparte. Aparte. Because he certainly didn’t know how to ask her to repeat it.
“No. Stop. Stop.” The woman waved her right hand at him as if shooing the dictionary away. “I speak English. No bueno, but some. You want white man?”
Scott looked up from the dictionary and could have kissed the woman. He still saw that he was a dog which could bite, but also might only need petting.
“Si. Si. Gracias,” he said.
“White man come here sometime. Only one place for him to stay.” She pointed behind him and Scott turned to look, but only saw his car and the open road. Closed buildings stood on the other side of the road. Scott looked back to her, his eyebrows raised.
“No. No. Silly. Come se dice …” she paused for a second. “Motel. Si. Motel.”
“He’s at a motel?” Scott said. “A motel around here?”
“Si. Quatro kilometers. That way.” She pointed again though Scott didn’t turn to follow.
“Si, si. Do I need to turn or go straight?”
“Izquierda. You turn left. Then straight.”
“Gracias. Gracias. Mucho gracias.” Scott reached into his back pocket and pulled his wallet out. “American dollars, si?”
“Si,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Si.”
He handed the woman a ten dollar bill, looked back at his wallet, and then gave her another. She took both and quickly put them in a pocket he hadn’t noticed on her dress.
“Have a good day,” he said.
“Si. You too.” Scott walked back across the store, catching a quick glimpse of her as he left.
Her eyes didn’t even glance at him, but stared out at the empty store as if he never existed at all.
9
Present Day
Harry found himself in control more and more.
He didn’t know how it happened, but sometimes he woke up and would be looking out of John’s eyes instead of his own. John was nowhere to be found and that was the strangest thing Harry had ever felt. Whatever happened in Harry’s life (if this was life, though he didn’t know and didn’t care), John was always a part of it. Sure, sometimes Harry took over and did some of the necessities that John wouldn’t do himself, but that only lasted a few hours at most.
He had found himself without John for the past day, and he didn’t understand one fucking bit of it.
He didn’t really care, either. He liked being in charge.
In the past twenty-four hours Harry enjoyed quite a few firsts. He raped a woman, which John would have never approved—a weird chivalrous streak ran through the man. Harry also killed three people in under twenty-four hours, which was a record for both him and John.
Thoughts about the police looking for him or leaving evidence as he did these acts, those didn’t occur to Harry. He was just glad to be having a little fun without needing to push John along.
And that was different, too. Because normally the joy came from John. But now … well, maybe John could get a little joy from seeing Harry’s handiwork whenever he showed back up.
Harry sat on the floor, his back leaning against the foot of the bed. He was staring at the black television screen when he heard the knock on the door. His mind wasn’t necessarily blank before the knock, as plenty was going on inside, though little of it controlled. Harry’s mind was a mess of images, all of them containing ripped and bleeding flesh. He did understand one point: he would never go back to using guns. They were far too neat. He wanted to hear long screams of agony, see long strips of skin like shredded paper hanging from heads. He wanted to wash in blood.
The knock brought him out of what could loosely be called thinking.
He turned his head to the right, seeing the door and not remembering ever seeing it before. He waited, wondering if he had imagined the knock—hoping so, as he wanted to get back to his thoughts. Thoughts bred action and action bred—
