Never Say Never

by Taylor Holloway

  “I can’t believe I’m going to lose you, too,” I said miserably. The reality of it hadn’t fully sunk in, but I knew I wouldn’t last long at the Durant mansion without Thomas. I definitely wasn’t a quitter, but I wasn’t willing to be lonely all the time either.

  “Not until May though. It feels like a very long time.”

  “Seven months is going to go by like this,” I said, snapping my fingers.

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” He pointed upward with a bemused smile.

  “It’s gonna’ be just me and Paul before long.”

  “Speaking of which, Paul has got something wrong with his hands. He asked me to take a look at them, but I didn’t feel qualified. I’m not even a real nurse yet! I told him I’d ask you to swing by to look and see if you could figure it out.”

  “Sure.” I was more than happy to help Paul. He’d been nothing but nice to me since I arrived. I had begun to wonder why he always wore his driving gloves though. I’d never seen him take them off.

  Thomas poured himself a shot of tequila and offered me the tequila bottle, but I shook my head.

  “I’d better go back to my room and go try and sleep this off. Six a.m. is going to be here before you know it.”

  “Why do you have to be so reasonable? Do you want me to walk you back to your room?”

  I rolled my eyes. It was literally just around the corner.

  “I appreciate the offer but think I can make it.”

  “Alright, see you tomorrow.”

  I kissed Thomas on the cheek and walked through the moonlit mansion alone. Maybe I should have been frightened to be alone, but I wasn’t. Even now, I didn’t feel like I was in any danger.

  33

  Charlie

  “You sure you don’t want some pie? They have really good pie,” Murray said after I ordered coffee.

  “I’m not really big on pie.” I watched Murray’s eyes widen in disbelief. The man loved his carbs.

  “Your loss.”

  Like most of my lies, this one was white. I shrugged my shoulders at Murray. In truth, I didn’t trust this diner, it was a bit late in the evening for desert, and I also didn’t want to associate something as pleasant as pie with Murray.

  “Where’s Flint?” Usually these two stuck together like they were conjoined at the hip. Meeting with just Murray was like eating a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly.

  “He was down at the mansion. He’s on his way now.”

  “Why did you want to meet?” I’d briefed them both thoroughly on the Edith situation this morning and wasn’t expecting a return call the same day.

  “We’ve had ourselves a breakthrough.”

  I sat up a bit straighter in the uncomfortable booth, causing the aged vinyl to make a small groaning noise. Murray smirked. “Now I have your attention, huh?” He added.

  “What did you find?”

  “Hold on, I want to savor this moment for just one second.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Murray was still smirking at me with an expression of pure condescension. “I’m just enjoying the sensation of smug superiority. You know, that thing you’re always feeling when you look at me.”

  I hadn’t realized my disdain for Murray had been so obvious. Regardless, I was not in a patient mood.

  “Come on Murray.”

  “Oh fine. When you managed to pry the information about Edith out of Richard, we called his old buddies at Skylark Security who conducted the hostage negotiations. That was a dead end. They wouldn’t tell us shit. They just gave us the run around and said they needed to talk to Richard and hung up. Total assholes. So, then we went back to pathology report on Stephen to try and connect him somehow, someway to Edith. You remember how I said at first that the body had probably been moved?”

  “Yes. The report said that the body had been flipped over, and that the guy probably didn’t die out there in the cold.” I had ended up getting Eva to translate everything into plain language for me.

  “Right. In fact, the pathologist was so sure of that he put it in his report. Well we called him up and asked why. He said the coloration of the skin was inconsistent with someone freezing to death. Remember how we couldn’t figure out what the cause of death was?”

  I nodded.

  “Well I asked him what could cause the skin coloration like that and prevent us from figuring out cause of death from anything circumstantial or otherwise present on the body.”

  “And?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Huh?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning. It causes the body to look weirdly healthy and pink, but also kills you. And then it slowly outgasses from the body until it can’t be detected through a toxicology report. Since the guy lay under those leaves for so long, by the time we found him all the chemical proof was gone.”

  “Ok, so now we know how he died. That’s great.” I felt more encouraged than I had in weeks.

  “And there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “Skylark called us back. They shared their entire report with us, and let me tell you, those bastards are thorough. They’d been working on trying to crack who’d killed Edith for going on a month. Presumably so they could then win the contract on the killer’s life, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, they shared their report—reluctantly—and me and Flint found something. The ligature marks on Edith? They were gardening ties.”

  “So?”

  “So, who do we know that gardens at the Durant mansion?”

  “Tell me your theory. I’m not following.”

  “Ok. Richard has long suspected that Stephen was aware of Edith’s condition, and he could have realistically located her as well. Let’s say he and an accomplice decided to kidnap her for ransom.”

  “Why an accomplice?”

  “Just bear with me. So Stephen goes over to Edith’s and subdues her. He ties her up and either he or his accomplice makes the ransom calls. But then things start to go wrong. First, they fuck up the call to Richard, and have to call back. Then, Edith starts to struggle and make noise. Stephen has already left for his shift caring for the old Mr. Durant. The accomplice puts his hand over her mouth and nose, not realizing that schizophrenic people generally can’t control the muscle spasms or the outbursts, he uses too much force. She dies. The accomplice panics and splits. Ok?”

  “Yeah, I’m with you so far.”

  “Great. So then later that night, Stephen and the accomplice are supposed to meet up and split the money. But they meet, and the accomplice has panicked. He fucked up the kidnapping and killed the hostage. He knows that someone is going to pay for this, and he’s had all day to stew. So, he knocks out Stephen and leaves him in the gardening shed with the two riding lawn mowers running. The carbon monoxide kills him in about an hour. Then he buries him in some leaves, knowing he’ll later ‘discover’ the body and clear himself from suspicion.”

  “You think it was Isaac.”

  “I think that if Flint finds gardening ties that exactly match the ones that were used to bind Edith, you’ll think it was Isaac, too.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t a bad theory. In fact, it was a fairly workable theory. It was a theory that fit all of the facts, was believable, and could actually be verified. I ran through the timeline again in my head as Murray and I sat in silence. He watched me thinking it all through and coming up with nothing to protest with a smug look on his face.

  We sat that way for maybe five or ten minutes before the little bell on the door to the diner chimed. Both Murray and I turned to see Flint walking in. The ordinarily silent and blank-faced detective was smiling as he approached. He dropped a couple of rolls of gardening ties on the table. The thick, green, foam insulated wire on the spool looked ideal for securing roses to trellises. It was also not beyond belief that someone would think it would be ideal to restrain someone’s ankles and wrists.

  “Found them in the garage with the lawn mowers,” he said. Flint took a deep
breath before continuing and I think it took concerted effort to push out so many words all at once. “I also talked to the driver and learned that Isaac has just tendered his resignation. He’s leaving in two weeks for good and is spending the weekend in the city. I’ve got his address.”

  Murray and I exchanged a glance while Flint caught the attention of the waitress and pointed to the chocolate pie in the case. It all fit.

  “Now what?” Murray asked. He had finished his pie, and was watching Flint consume his with ill-concealed envy.

  “Now you two need to talk to Isaac and I need to talk to Richard.”

  34

  Eva

  My Saturday shift felt like it was never going to be over. Alexander was having yet another bad day, made even more difficult because the new, temporary housekeeper, Yvette, didn’t cook things the way he liked them. He’d spilled food and drinks on me no fewer than three times, and one of those times had been hot chocolate. I’m smart enough to never give him burning hot beverages, but now I smelled like an unappetizing mixture of prune juice, eggs, chocolate, ham sandwich, and iced tea. There were little bits of mustard in my hair.

  Given my fragrant and exhausted condition, I almost didn’t stop by the garage to check on Paul’s mysterious hand ailment after my shift. I made myself do it anyway. Paul was just finishing up an oil change on a Mercedes when I got there, and we made small talk while he worked.

  “You grew up in Belgium, right?” Paul asked me as he fiddled around on the underside of the vehicle. He was on his back, so all I could see were his feet. It was an angle I was no longer particularly fond of seeing people in. All I could think about was Stephen.

  I nodded in answer to his question, but then realized he couldn’t see me and said, “Yeah. Between the ages of three and fourteen.”

  “Was it weird coming back to the US after that?”

  “Not really. We always came back for visits. I think the strangest thing was just getting back into the American mindset.”

  “We have a mindset?”

  “Americans? Oh, for sure. Americans love to work. We live to work. It’s not like that in Belgium. They work to live.”

  “That sounds, well, healthier.”

  “It probably is healthier for most people. But at the same time, America wouldn’t be America without our insane work ethic. We’ve achieved a lot because we’re willing to do the hard things.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’ve never been to Europe before. I’d like to go some time.”

  “You should. I hope I get to go back again soon. I haven’t been since I was fourteen.”

  Charlie and I had been talking about taking a vacation together. Not Europe or anything, but just a weekend to get away from the craziness for a bit. I wanted to go to Canada. I’d never been there before. Charlie was angling for the Jersey Shore. He claimed it was actually very beautiful and nothing like the reality tv show of the same name.

  “Ok, oil change complete,” Paul said, rolling back from the underside of the car and sitting up with a grunt. “I’m getting too damn old for this. I bet if I lived in Belgium I’d already have a pension or something.”

  He was right about that, but I didn’t say anything. I was staring at his fingers.

  Paul had been wearing his black leather driving gloves every time I’d ever seen him, and it had never occurred to me to ask him why. Now that I saw his hands without them, however, it was immediately apparent why he would keep them covered. They looked more like raw meat than fingers. Paul saw my horror and sighed.

  “They look bad, don’t they,” he said with a shake of his head. “I guess I should’ve gone to the doctor.”

  I stood and moved closer to him to get a better look. Each hand looked normal until about the first knuckle. Then a reddish-pink coloration took over. The inflamed color covered approximately the first to second knuckles. Then the flesh was red cut through with black and each nail was a deeply unhealthy grey. The only digits unaffected were his thumbs.

  “Oh my god, Paul.” I could barely make myself speak the words. I’d never seen anything like this before. “How long have they been like this?”

  He looked vaguely chagrined. “A few weeks.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head of shock and revulsion. Paul had asked me for help and I would help. The standard set of triage questions appeared in my brain like magic, thanks to months of hospital ER work.

  “Do you have any sensation in your fingertips?” I asked.

  “Some.”

  “Ok, let’s start there.” I pulled out a pen from my purse and used it to test his responses. If the nerve endings were still alive, there might be a way to save the fingers.

  After about five minutes of poking him with the tip of the pen, I determined that only two fingers on his left hand and three on his right were still getting adequate blood supply.

  “Frozen, fire, or chemical burns?” I asked him. There were only a few ways his fingers could end up like this.

  “Frozen.” He looked anywhere but me when he said it.

  “Have you been treating yourself with anything?”

  “I put some Neosporin on them.” I resisted the urge to laugh. That was a nice thought, but it wouldn’t help with the black parts. He had third degree frostbite.

  “Any pain?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “That’s a very bad sign, Paul. You really need to go to the hospital. You’re probably going to lose the tips of some of your fingers. That black coloration? It’s dead tissue. You need to have surgery to get that all removed. It’s called debridement. The sooner they remove the dead tissue, the more healthy tissue they can save.”

  He took the news fairly well, considering. He slumped his shoulders and took a few deep breaths.

  “My toes are the same way,” he admitted after a moment. I decided to leave the discussion on how walking without big toes was basically impossible for another time. He would need prosthetics.

  “Paul! Why didn’t you go to the hospital?” His injuries were like something out of the nineteenth century. People didn’t generally lose digits to frostbite in the twenty-first century.

  “I don’t like hospitals,” he replied, adding, “I don’t like people telling me what to do. I don’t like doctors. I only like you and Thomas because I know you now.”

  “Promise me you’ll go to the hospital now, Paul,” I pleaded. “You could get a life-threatening infection.”

  He shook his head. Beneath his mustache, Paul’s mouth was a stubborn, straight line.

  “I don’t have insurance. It’ll eventually fall off on its own, right? That’s what Web MD said.”

  If I ever become president, the first thing I’m going to do is shut that stupid website down. People should never diagnose themselves on the internet. Never.

  “Yeah, but you could die of an infection before then. How old are these injuries?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “About a month.”

  The thought made my stomach turn. A month? If he’d just gone to the hospital, even the day after or the week after… but now it was too late. Frostbite can’t always be treated or reversed, but at least someone who specialized in these sorts of injuries could have evaluated him. Maybe they could have done something to at least make him more comfortable.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to come by with some supplies. I’m going to wrap your hands and feet properly and do what I can to prevent a secondary infection. You have to stop wearing those gloves immediately. Ok?”

  Paul shrugged. He puttered around the garage and glanced back at me with obvious embarrassment on his face.

  “I guess so. If you say it’s bad.”

  How anyone could be so incredibly chill about the loss of their fingertips was well beyond my ability to comprehend. It made me confused and saddened that he hadn’t told me sooner that he was suffering like this. It also made me sad that he had so little faith in medicine that he wouldn’t seek out help. Most of all, I w
as furious that he could live so close to such unimaginable wealth and not be able to afford decent medical care.

  I went to bed wondering what I was doing with my life. I’d gone to nursing school to help people but there was still suffering all around me.

  35

  Charlie

  Twenty-four hours later and once again I was face to face with Richard. Was he as tired of me as I was of him? Richard’s face, with its drawn down brow and thin smile, suggested that he might be. His blue-green eyes were tired in his face.

  “As soon as we find him, we’ll interview him,” I was telling him.

  “How hard can he possibly be to find?” Richard said, interrupting me yet again. “I thought you said you got an address from Paul? He’s not there?”

  “Flint did get an address from Paul. The problem is that Isaac changed his plans and decided to stay with his cousin instead of his brother. It’s not exactly a crime.” You would have thought that it was after talking with Murray, but only because he’d made a trip for nothing.

  “Can’t the police get a warrant and just hunt him down?” Richard seemed baffled as to why there was not a city-wide manhunt in progress.

  “Not until Murray has enough to convince a judge to sign one. And he won’t have that until we talk to Isaac and have more than circumstantial evidence.”

  Richard harrumphed and scowled. “That isn’t remotely acceptable. We need to find him. Now.”

  “We’re trying. Either way he’ll be back at work on Monday.”

  “This is why I hate doing things legally,” Richard grumbled.

  I bit back an unprofessional response. The more convinced Murray and Flint were that Isaac was the other kidnapper, the less sure I became. Something about it just didn’t feel right. Maybe it was because I’d seen the look on Isaac’s face that evening when the body had been found. Isaac hadn’t just looked shaken, he’d been genuinely and deeply shocked and upset.