A Dead Issue

by John Evans

  Dusty sat up and hitched his chair closer to me. “Listen—before she comes back—Stomp. He’s”

  “I know,” I cut in. “He’s on the loose.”

  “I can’t go back to my place,” he announced. “He’s nuts, he’s . . . he’s like a fuckin’ wild animal or something.”

  I wanted to tell him about our night at Jonah’s and the blue casts but he rambled on.

  “You should have seen him! He was like a bear when the freaking tranquilizer dart wears off. He pulled himself up with his good arm and looked down at himself all tied up in pulleys and stuff. And then he went nuts—like his leg was in a trap. He grabbed the cables and shook and jerked at them. The whole bed bounced. Then he sort of pulled himself down to where he could grab his own foot and wrestled with it—his broken leg! He tore the hook right out of his cast. Christ, that must have hurt! Using his broken arm, too!” He paused long enough to shake his head. “And all the time, I’m shitting my pants because I know he’s coming after me. There I am with the call button, aiming it at him and clicking my ass off like he’s a fuckin’ TV I could turn off. Then he cooled down once he was free. He sat on the edge of the bed flexing his hand—the one in the cast—testing it, studying how his fingers worked. Then he looked up at me and I knew I was dead. He just stared at me and his hand stopped working. Then, very slowly, he stood up and grabbed the curtain and dragged it around my bed—his freakin’ wild eye on me the whole time. I couldn’t move.”

  Dusty swallowed and shook his head, still in shock. Then he continued.

  “He makes sure the curtain is closed, and then he leans against the window sill and stares at me like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill me—the way he’d enjoy the most. Then a nurse comes in. At least I thought it was a nurse. Then I heard, ‘He’s gone,’ and it wasn’t a nurse. It was a guy with a voice like something from the fuckin’ World Wrestling Federation. Another voice said, ‘Fuck!’

  “Stomp gave me a look and dropped down beside the bed. They pulled back the curtain and holy fuckin’ shitbird! You should have seen these guys. You think Stomp is scary—Christ! When they saw me, they put the gun away—real quick. And then they left.”

  “They had a gun?”

  “With a silencer.”

  Dusty paused and shook his head again with a far off look in his eyes. When he came back to our world, he stared at me for a moment.

  “Mark—what the fuck is going on?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said softly, sharing the terror that surrounded us. “It has to do with Stemcell. Stomp’s after us. They’re after Stomp.”

  “And Stomp hid under the bed.” Dusty cracked a worried smile. “Can you imagine that—him crawling under a bed?”

  Dusty dropped the smile. “And, you know what? He was scared.” He blew out a breath and then looked at me. “Think about that. That big bastard was scared.”

  “I am, too.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I found Liza in the master bedroom of the Farmhouse. She was on the bed, naked, propped against a hill of pillows, knees drawn up, reading a book. Her eyes followed me from just above the pages, her crucifix covering her navel and pointing straight down at her neatly trimmed bush. As I approached the foot of the bed, she placed the book gently at her side, eyes still locked on mine. Her knees spread a little wider and she looked down at herself. It was an open invitation and I took advantage of it.

  When I rolled away, the gold chain of the crucifix stuck to my chest and peeled away link by link.

  “Does that ever come off?” I asked. I tried to seem casually curious. There was something contradictory about her wearing a crucifix during an adulterous moment, and I didn’t want it to come between us in the most literal of senses.

  “Never—well, sometimes,” she corrected herself. “Airport metal detectors and showers.”

  “Bridal or hot, steamy ones?”

  Confusion marked her face for an instant and then she broke into a devilish grin. “Hot, steamy ones,” and we slid out of bed and padded our way to the master bath. The shower was a tiled room with two showerheads and a bench seat, a design apparently borrowed from the local gym. When the water reached the right temperature, clouds of steam billowed and rolled through the doorway. Liza and I stepped into the spray and emptied the soap dispenser, lathering, massaging, exploring—working our way to the bench seat where we exhausted ourselves. The crucifix hung from a clothing hook and Liza grabbed it on our way to find some towels before tumbling back into bed.

  I hooked a finger under the chain, intentionally brushing a nipple in the progress. “So why do you wear this so religiously?”

  Liza started to answer and then paused to look at me blankly. Finally, she broke into a smile. “That’s good—wearing a crucifix religiously. Christ!”

  We both broke into a laugh.

  “Seriously,” I continued. “It’s not about religion, is it?”

  “It’s about who I am,” she said emphatically, and then added, “and about who I am not.”

  “Well, that clears that up.” I let the chain go, advertising my dissatisfaction.

  “It’s a screwed up story,” she said. “I’ll tell you, but first you have to promise me one thing . . .”

  “I can’t do it again,” I interrupted. “I’m spent.”

  Liza chuckled. “Me, too. What I need is for you not to ask me to take it off—not until I’m ready.”

  “Agreed.”

  Liza pulled the sheet up over us and snuggled against me. “It started with a freakin’ bagel.”

  I shifted around until I could look into her eyes.

  “Gypsies have this thing about purity. You don’t mix pure with impure. Above the waist is pure—below the waist, impure—Mahrime. Romani women never wash underwear with bras. They must be separated like Gadje do darks and lights.” She tilted her head to look at me. “You’re Gadje—a non-Romani and that makes you impure. I’m a half-breed, a mix. That makes me impure. We were made for each other.” She smiled and looked at me. “Following this?”

  “Every step.”

  “Good—back to the bagel. We were in a little greasy spoon for breakfast—me and Tony, somewhere in Delaware. The waitress placed the plate in front of me, and her shadow fell on my bagel. For some freaking reason, shadows are filthy. That defiled it. I should have thrown it away. Tony saw it. He sat up, horrified, as if the waitress had sneezed on my plate. I was so fucking hungry I didn’t care. I ate it. You should have seen the look on that sleaze ball motherfucker’s face. It was like he discovered that I had some God-awful communicable disease. I knew in that moment we were finished—and I liked it. The bagel was good, but the look on Tony’s face was delicious. I couldn’t get enough. That night I tossed my skirt at him.”

  Liza looked deeply into my eyes. “It’s an old custom. If a woman gets pissed at her husband, she flashes him—tosses her skirt in the air so he can see her undies—even better if he sees bush. It’s a powerful curse. The man is disgraced for putting his head under a woman’s skirt—he’s impure. It’s like giving him cooties. Everyone shuns him if the word gets out.”

  “And the cross?” I asked, drawing her back to the main topic.

  “Legend has it that the Romans hired a Gypsy blacksmith to make the nails for the crucifixion. The blacksmith’s son tried to steal the nails to save Jesus, but he wasn’t quick enough. Later, the little boy saw Jesus dying on the cross and their eyes met. Jesus smiled down at the little thief, and from that day forth, stealing has been the Gypsy’s birthright. We can steal from anyone—but not from each other.”

  She picked up the cross and stared at it. “I stole this from a Gypsy.” She smiled. “It’s my rebellion against this stupid fucking culture I am part of, yet not part of. It goes back to that bagel. Breaking the rules is like some kind of drug. I get high breaking their stupid rules. I wash my undies with my tops, run around naked—anything Mahrime pleases me—oral sex, petting dogs, drinking from a crack
ed cup, eating a bagel with shadow marks on it, and—did I mention oral sex?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. If it pisses Tony off and makes me an outcast—I don’t care. I’m free.”

  There was a soft, shave-and-a-haircut rap on the door. “You guys awake?” It was Dusty.

  I kicked off the sheet and reached for my pants as Liza shouted, “Come on in.”

  Dusty entered and I held my pants in front of me. Liza made no move to cover herself, perfectly relaxed with a hand behind her head. Dusty froze when his eyes landed on us—on her, more accurately.

  “Sorry,” he stammered, but made no attempt to look away. “I thought you might be catching a few Zs.”

  Liza slid out of bed and I used the distraction to slip into my pants. Dusty’s eyes followed Liza to the chair where she casually slipped into her dress and pulled the crucifix out through the neck, double looping the chain and letting it drop neatly between her breasts. Dusty looked over at me and flicked his eyebrows once in appreciation. The impish grin that Stomp had pounded to near-extinction was back.

  “I’m going to need my car,” he said.

  “Cash said he’s coming back to pick you up.”

  “That’s why I need my car—I’m not going to work. The last thing I need is that big bastard crawling through the drive-up window to get me.”

  “Stomp?” Liza asked. Dusty and I shared a look.

  “Yeah. I have this vision. Stomp comes bulldozing into Mickey D’s, grabs me by the neck, and pushes my face into the deep fryer.”

  “Devereaux thinks Stomp’s gone.” I paused. “They found the Beamer at the bus station.”

  Dusty fell silent, pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head. I needed to talk to him privately. I needed to convince him to go to work. I needed him to get his hands on those tapes.

  “Got an idea,” I said. “We’ll go to Granger’s to see if our cars are ready. Then we’ll swing by and drop you off at your place. You can pick up some things.”

  Dusty brightened.

  If Liza drove her own car on the short hop to Dusty’s, I could convince him to get those tapes. Dusty slid into the back seat of the Lexus and we headed down the lane. We were silent until we hit Belhaven Road. Then Liza swung around to Dusty.

  “You always run from your troubles?”

  I looked in the rear view mirror and caught Dusty craning his neck to make eye contact with me. There was a long silence.

  “Most of the time,” he finally admitted.

  Liza turned back and looked absently out her window. “You got to be careful it doesn’t follow you.”

  “I don’t care if it follows,” Dusty said. “Just so it don’t catch up.”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I felt a need to say, “Sometimes you have to make a stand—face your troubles.”

  “I already faced Stomp,” Dusty said. “Never again. He can look for me in Brazil.”

  I stared at him in the mirror so long that I drove off the road, my right tires bouncing in the gravel before I got control again.

  “You’re serious,” I said. “You’re really going to Brazil?”

  Dusty said nothing.

  “Brazil’s nice,” Liza added. “Some people run off to Brazil. Others run off to Fannett Meadow.” She crossed her arms over the crucifix and stared straight ahead. Then she added, “‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’”

  Suddenly, I understood. This wasn’t about Dusty. This was about me. I looked over at her and nodded. “Janis Joplin.”

  “I don’t see a ball and chain around your ankle, Mr. Bobby McGee,” she said and let the matter drop.

  Not yet. She had no idea how much I had to lose. Freedom isn’t freedom if you’re sitting in a cell, and sometimes troubles do follow you. Running away would tell Devereaux that I was guilty and I would never be free to return home—ever. There was no way to explain that to her without telling her about the night Jonah died, so I said nothing for the rest of the trip.

  Mike Granger closed the hood of a car as we pulled into his shop. He wiped grease off his hands with a blue rag as he approached and smiled a greeting. We had a nodding acquaintance through my car, which he knew better than he did me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked in a casual reference to the world in general and more specifically to my Saturn.

  “Solenoid was shot and your battery is weak.” He tucked the rag into his back pocket. “I picked up a starter at the junkyard—saved you a few bucks, but I got to tell you—it’s time you should dump your Saturn for something from this century.”

  I knew he was right. Driving a Beamer and a Lexus was spoiling me. “I’ll think about it,” I said as I pulled out my checkbook.

  “Three hundred even will cover it.”

  Liza and Dusty joined me and we followed Mike into his little office to do the paperwork.

  “The keys are in it,” Mike said, writing out the bill.

  “How about the Mustang?” Liza asked. “What’s that going to set me back?”

  “The one we picked up on Old Belhaven Road?” He smiled like he was about to give good news. “Nothing,” he continued. “Mr. Lovell picked it up—paid cash.”

  Nails like talons gripped my arm.

  “Shit,” she whispered in the same tone airline pilots use right before they crash into a mountain. Dusty must have sensed something was wrong as he searched our faces for a clue.

  “When?” I asked. My tone brought a look of concern to Mike’s face.

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. You just missed him.”

  I tore the check out and handed it to Mike. “Dusty, take my car, but please—don’t run off to Brazil—not yet.” My tone was light, but Dusty caught the seriousness in my eyes. “At least . . . not until you get me the wedding tape.”

  Dusty frowned. “Wedding tape?”

  “The one with Phil and Dexter getting drunk and ruining everything.”

  It took Dusty an eternity to sort his way through to my real request. “No problem,” he said. “I think I know right where I left it.”

  He gave us a nod and darted out of the office.

  We waited for the receipt to print out, and as soon as Mike gave it to me, I grabbed Liza’s wrist and pulled her toward the door, leaving Mike Granger with a perplexed frown on his face. We stepped out in time to see Dusty drive off in the Lexus.

  I slid behind the wheel of the Saturn, and we sat in stunned silence for a full minute.

  “Holy God,” Liza said, shaking her head in total defeat as I slipped the key into the ignition. “Christ!”

  I started the engine and she continued shaking her head. “I didn’t see this coming,” she said almost to herself. “I thought I’d have more time. Sheesh.”

  I dropped it into gear and stepped on the gas. A car appeared out of nowhere turning into Granger’s. I jammed on the breaks, screeching to a halt bumper to bumper with Detective Devereaux’s unmarked Ford. At the same time, something hard slid forward from under the seat and struck the heel of my foot. Devereaux stared at me from behind his windshield, and I couldn’t tell whether his little pig eyes expressed anger or relief at seeing me. I backed up to allow Devereaux to pull into the lot and reached down between my legs to retrieve whatever was now under my foot interfering with my driving.

  It was Jonah Heard’s missing pistol.

  CHAPTER 42

  I let the gun drop from my fingers and tried to nudge it back under the seat with my heel, but a fold in the floor mat blocked the way. I could not risk bending down, looking like I was stashing something under the seat. Devereaux and I got out of our cars at the same time and approached each other. He strained to see beyond me until I heard a car door shut. Liza joined me, and Devereaux’s eyes locked onto me.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, directing his question to both of us, but his eyes shifted to Liza as he waited for a reply. I couldn’t conceive of any reason why Devereaux would look in my Saturn to see the gun
on the floor, but its very presence screamed for attention.

  “You OK?” he asked Liza.

  Liza shook her head.

  “Then you know he’s here.”

  Liza nodded.

  There was a long pause before he continued. “He showed up at the station earlier. Wanted to know where Fog Hollow Road was and to report a stolen car.” Devereaux looked off into the distance. He seemed pained by his thoughts. “I had to tell him his car was here at Granger’s. He must have just picked it up.”

  “Twenty minutes ago.”

  “I also told him wives can’t steal from husbands—community property. He’ll have to take that up with you.” He paused and studied Liza for a moment. “The trouble is I think he’s going to do just that.”

  Liza’s hand slid into mine and squeezed. Devereaux caught the move with a flick of his eyes.

  “I never got around to telling him where Fog Hollow Road is. That’s the good thing. The bad thing is . . . I had to give him his .357—it’s his. He had all the paperwork.”

  Devereaux shifted uncomfortably. “It’s none of my business what your personal life is like,” and his little eyes jumped to me and then back to Liza. “But I got to be honest with you, Miss . . . Mrs. Lovell—your husband seems very upset.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” she agreed with a little more composure.

  “He might even be dangerous.”

  “He is dangerous.”

  “I’d be afraid of him,” Devereaux pressed.

  “I am.” And she managed a weak smile.

  Devereaux’s face struggled with a compassionate twitch that might have been a smile. “This isn’t the place to be discussing this.” His head tilted to Sally’s Diner. “How about a cup of coffee? I need to ask you a few questions anyway.”

  He lumbered away without waiting for a reply and his polite invitation had now become a direct order. Liza quick-stepped after him, but I held back. I wasn’t sure if his ‘invitation’ included me. I had thoughts of slipping back to the car to tuck the gun back under the seat. When Liza caught up to Devereaux, he looked back over his left shoulder. “You coming?”