A Cup Full of Midnight

by Jaden Terrell

  He fumbled with his napkin. Unrolled it too quickly, and the silverware inside clattered to the table. “I don’t see how this kind of sarcasm is necessary.”

  “It makes me feel better.” I leaned across the table and stared into his eyes until he looked away. “I mean, you lie to your wife, maybe give her some god-awful disease, and in the process, you exploit some underage kid who’s living on the streets.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” His cheeks reddened, two crimson spots against the pastiness of his face. “The Birch kid . . . he came on to me.”

  “Yeah, those street punks are like that. Living hand to mouth. Anything for a couple of bucks.”

  “Exactly,” he said, missing the sarcasm this time. “It wasn’t like I picked him up off a playground.”

  “So he wasn’t exactly an innocent.”

  “Not at all.”The waitress brought us menus and filled our water glasses. When she had gone, Moreland licked his lips and took a sip. “He’s been around the block a few times, take it from me. That innocent little baby face? Nothing but pure evil underneath.”

  “So how’d it happen?”

  He took another sip of water and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. A droplet hung, glistening, in his mustache. “I was on my lunch hour, and I happened to take a walk down around Centennial Park. He stopped me. Asked if I wanted a blowjob. Naturally, I refused.”

  “Naturally.”

  He glanced up to see if I was mocking him, and this time I managed to keep my expression neutral. “He came on stronger. Told me he hadn’t eaten in two days, really needed the money. So finally, I agreed.”

  “So it was a humanitarian gesture.”

  “Exactly. I was just trying to help the boy out.”

  I refrained from asking why he didn’t just hand the kid a twenty.

  “So we go to the back of the park, to the little island in the middle of the duck pond. It was spring, and there was a lot of vegetation, so we were pretty well hidden. He . . .” Moreland coughed, glanced away. “He unzipped my pants and started to . . . you know.”

  I nodded.

  “I had my eyes closed. Enjoying it.” He had the decency to look embarrassed. “And all of a sudden, I felt this horrible pain. I thought he’d bitten it off.” He shuddered at the memory, and I felt my own testicles draw up in sympathy.

  “So much blood,” he said.

  “What did he do then?”

  He gave an angry laugh. “Took my wallet and ran away. I managed to staunch the bleeding and stagger to the parking lot, where someone was kind enough to call 911.”

  “You told the police this?”

  He shook his head. “I told them the same thing I told my wife. That it was just a mugging. I went so far as to identify him in a photo lineup. But they knew I hadn’t told the whole truth. I could tell. I realized if I testified, it would all come out, how it had happened. I’d be ruined, you understand? My marriage, my career . . . I might even be charged with statutory rape.” His voice faltered, and his fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “I told them I didn’t want to press charges, that I wasn’t certain enough of the identification.”

  “But you were.”

  “How could I not be certain? It was broad daylight, for God’s sake. And . . . he’s not exactly forgettable.”

  “Right. I’m curious about something else, Mr. Moreland. When you made your complaint, you identified Byron by name. How’d you know it?”

  He gave me a baffled look. “He told it to me.”

  “Kid carries a knife to a public place, intending to slice off a man’s penis, and then tells the victim his name?” It seemed a bit unusual, and I told Moreland so.

  He dismissed it with a shrug. “Kid’s a psycho, like I said. Probably high on something too.”

  “All the same, it doesn’t seem well thought out. Did you say or do anything that might have set him off?”

  “Of course it wasn’t well thought out.” He lifted the napkin in his lap by two corners and snapped it straight. “I keep telling you, the boy is a head case. Why else would he do a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know.” I toyed with my butter knife. “I think I’ll ask him.”

  A flush crept up Moreland’s neck. “The little bastard stabbed me, for Christ’s sake. What makes you think he’ll tell you the truth?”

  “I don’t expect him to. I expect him to lie. And when everybody’s lies are on the table, I’ll be able to figure out what happened.”

  “I don’t like your implication.” He crushed the napkin into a wad and flung it onto the table. The muscles in his jaw twitched like stranded tadpoles. “Are we finished here?”

  “Whenever you say so.”

  “And I won’t hear from you again?”

  I took a moment to consider the possibility. “I think you’ve told me everything I need to know.”

  “Good.” He was already halfway to the door when he said over his shoulder, “See you in Hell, McKean.”

  I lifted my water glass and quietly toasted his retreating back. “Not if I see you first.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  That night, after I’d taken care of Dylan’s puppy and the horses, I tossed my wallet onto the table beside my bed and thought about the scrap of paper with Elisha’s number on it.

  No time like the present, right? What exactly was I waiting for?

  I made the call. She sounded glad to hear from me.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked, after the small talk.

  “You mean, ever?”

  English teachers. Sheesh. “I mean tonight.”

  “I was thinking of heating up some chicken noodle soup.”

  “I think I can do better than that.”

  We met at La Hacienda, a little Mexican restaurant not far from Percy Priest Lake. I’d changed into khakis and then back to jeans, exchanged my flannel shirt for a tan blazer over a white dress shirt, decided that looked too yuppie and exchanged that for a navy crewneck sweater over a denim work shirt.

  I got there in fifteen minutes, had hardly closed the Silverado door before she pulled in, scanning the lot for a space. She saw me and waved, flashed a broad grin when I went to open her car door.

  A mustached waiter led us to a table near the big screen television and seated us beneath a super-sized mural of Carlos Santana. Flames billowed from the neck of his guitar and mingled with loops and swirls that represented sound waves. Elisha peeled off her coat, draped it and her purse over the back of her chair, and then slid into the seat. Beneath the coat, she was wearing a royal blue sweater and black pants. A chunky lapis and gold bohemian necklace dangled between her breasts; gold gypsy earrings peeked out from a torrent of molasses-colored hair.

  Maybe I should have stuck with the tan jacket.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d call,” she said.

  “I had it on good authority that I’d be crazy not to.”

  She laughed. “That’s gratifying, I suppose.” She brushed a hand lightly on the wall beneath the mural. “Nice.”

  The waiter brought chips and salsa, took our drink orders. When she left, Elisha said, “What happened to you?”

  “You know how it is. Bad guys.”

  “Maybe it’s your approach.”

  “Maybe it’s just that they’re bad guys.”

  She reached for a chip and scooped up a generous dollop of salsa. “I don’t know how you stand it. All that ugliness.”

  “Sometimes you get to make a difference.”

  Elisha nodded and reached for another chip. “Mmm. Still warm.”

  The waiter took our orders—a chicken chimichanga with extra cheese sauce for her, a Number Four combo for me.

  Elisha brushed a strand of hair away from her face and smiled. “Ten years ago, I’d have ordered a salad, then stopped for a burger on the way home.”

  “More confident these days,” I said. “I like that.”

  “Not that confident.” She reached over, straightened the condiments, fiddled with
the salt shaker. “I changed clothes six times.”

  I smiled. Thought of the tan blazer. Said, “I like that, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Early the next morning, I drove downtown to The Body Shop, Byron Birch’s gym. Squeezed between a bicycle store and a shop devoted to computer software, it was close enough to Vanderbilt University to attract a clientele of body-conscious young men and women armed with their parents’ credit cards. Razor had paid for Byron’s membership, supposedly a gift to Byron but more likely a gift to himself.

  The front door opened into a reception area, where a bored-looking woman in an electric pink leotard sat behind a kidney-shaped pinewood desk. She perched on a high stool chomping on gum, reading an outdated copy of Vogue magazine, and filing a set of Manchurian fingernails.

  A clipboard with a sign-in sheet lay on the desk, three-quarters filled with signatures. I couldn’t tell if they were behind the times or if the low-tech method was supposed to represent a more human touch.

  Hell, maybe they just had lousy computer system.

  I signed Byron’s name to the clipboard, along with the time, and walked into the back as if I belonged there. Nobody seemed to know—or care—otherwise.

  The carpeted hall ran past the dressing rooms, men’s to the left, women’s to the right. Then a water fountain and two battered vending machines, one offering water and fruit juices, the other advertising Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew. Sugar and caffeine, twenty-first-century health foods.

  Just beyond the vending machines, the strip of carpet cut between two plate glass windows separating the handball courts from the free weights and exercise machines. There was a line waiting for the machines, where hard-bodied women in exercise garb chatted up muscle-bound men between sets. Both handball courts were in use.

  I watched through the window for a few moments, then pushed open the door and went inside. A cute brunette in a black thong leotard was doing hamstring stretches while she waited for the Stair-master. Over twenty-one, I thought, barely.

  I went over and said, “You know a kid named Byron Birch? He’s a regular here.”

  She looked up with suspicious eyes. Obviously a girl who was used to being hit on. The cuts and bruises on my face probably weren’t very reassuring, but she didn’t mention them. “Nope,” she said. “Don’t recognize the name.”

  “He’s about fifteen. Blond. About so tall.” I indicated with my hand palm-down at the tip of my nose.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. But not many kids that young come here.” She brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “This kid. He’s, like, Greek god handsome?”

  “That seems to be the general consensus.”

  “I’ve seen him around. In a couple of years, he’s gonna be so hot.”

  “Do you know if he comes around on Fridays?”

  “I think so, but I couldn’t say for sure. Lotta people come and go.”

  It was the same story all around the room.

  Yeah, I’ve seen him around.

  Naw, I wouldn’t know if he was here on any particular day.

  I made a quick canvas of the pool area, looked longingly at the hot tub, and went back to the front desk. The clock over the desk said one-fifty. I signed myself out at four P.M. and left. Nobody seemed to notice, which pretty much blew Byron’s alibi out of the water. It didn’t mean he’d killed Razor, but it didn’t prove he hadn’t.

  It was easy to imagine Byron killing Razor in a sudden fit of rage—or fear. But disinfecting the tub, smearing the footprints, vacuuming the room, wiping the prints, and then remembering to carry the evidence and his cleaning materials away for disposal just didn’t fit his style. Those were the acts of a precise, analytical mind. Byron was a bright enough kid, but precision and analysis didn’t seem to be his strong points.

  Keating, on the other hand . . . I thought of the neat rows of toys in his office, the books evenly aligned, the way he’d unconsciously straightened the edges of his sheaf of papers. Precise was Keating’s middle name. Then there was the psychology experiment Keating had shared with Razor. Manipulation. People as puppets. Razor had been forced to leave the university. Keating had managed to avoid expulsion. So who was the master manipulator?

  Had he somehow manipulated Byron into killing Razor?

  The scene showed two completely opposite methodologies—the vicious initial attack and the painstaking attempt to obscure the evidence.

  Opposite patterns. Chaos and Reason.

  Byron and Keating?

  Or Elgin and Hewitt? Either scenario was plausible, but I couldn’t make them mesh.

  I was worrying at the problem when my mobile phone rang.

  It was Frank.

  “Bad news, Cowboy,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your suspect. Elgin Mayers. He made the tail. I guess he figured we were onto him.” Frank sounded disappointed. “No sign of him since lunch.”

  “Shit,” I said. “Have you told the others? The ones on his list?”

  “That’s next on my list. But you’ll never guess what we found in his house.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Rattlesnakes.”

  Silence. Then, “Rattlesnakes, copperheads, corals. Scrote-bag had about a dozen tanks full of ’em. What they call ‘hot’ snakes. How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” I said, and broke the connection.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  So Elgin was running. It didn’t make him guilty, but it sure as hell didn’t make him look innocent. He could be halfway to Mexico, but somehow I didn’t think so. He’d made that crack about burning out a nest of vipers, and he didn’t seem the type to leave a job half done.

  When Frank signed off, I called Miss Aleta and filled her in. Then I called my brother and made sure he and the family were staying put.

  “Look,” he said, “there are worse things than taking the wife and kids to a nice B&B, but this is getting old. Wendy’s worried out of her wits, and I can’t stay home from work forever. Are you sure this guy is coming after Josh?”

  “Not a hundred percent. Maybe ninety-five.”

  “Ninety-five is high. It pisses me off, to tell the truth.”

  “It pisses me off too.”

  “You’re working on it?”

  “Frank had a tail on him, but they lost him. I don’t know what we can do until he resurfaces. Just stay low until we get him.”

  “I want to help.”

  “This guy is good. If he finds out where you are, you need to be there to stop him.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end. Then he said, “You stop this guy, Jared. And keep me posted.”

  “Love to Josh and the girls,” I said.

  “I’ll tell them,” he said, and hung up.

  I hadn’t heard from the Hewitts. Since they were the only connections I had to Elgin, I stopped by their house. Judith answered the door, her face pale.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Heard from Elgin lately?”

  “No. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t you leave us alone?”

  I caught the door before she closed it. “Just tell me this. Is Elgin in the wind because he killed Razor or because he plans to do something to those kids?”

  Her jaw tightened. “They weren’t such kids when they raped me, were they?”

  “They didn’t all have a hand in that.”

  Josh didn’t have a hand in that.

  She didn’t answer, but her eyes were hard.

  I felt my own jaw twitch. “Look. If you care about Elgin at all, you’ll rein him in. Because if anything happens to those kids . . .” I took a deep breath. If anything happens to Josh. “If anything happens to those kids, I will cut out his heart and eat it. You got that?”

  “I’ll give him the message,” she said. “But I wouldn’t want to be you when he gets it.”

  Since I had no idea where to look for Elgin, I drove back to The Body Shop, parked in f
ront of the bicycle store, and waited until seven-fifteen, when Alan Keating’s silver Skylark pulled up in front and Byron got out of the passenger side.

  I gave Keating time to pull away before I went inside. The receptionist, the same bored-looking woman I’d seen before, looked up from her magazine and said, “You have to sign in.”

  I scrawled something illegible on the register and ducked into a men’s dressing room crowded with milling bodies in various stages of undress. Edging between a row of lockers and the sweaty paunch of a middle-aged man with a towel knotted around his hips, I spotted Byron’s blond hair and changed my trajectory to head in that direction.

  He had one foot propped on a wooden bench and was bent over it, tying the laces on a thick-soled athletic shoe.

  I clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up, startled.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said. “Let’s go for a run.”

  He looked like he was about to object, then shrugged and tossed a towel over the back of his neck. “What the hell? Think you can keep up?”

  Neither of us bothered to sign out as we passed the reception desk. I trailed Byron into the parking lot and followed his lead in a series of light stretches.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “How about the park?”

  He trotted off in that direction. I jogged along beside him. For the first few minutes, I thought he was going to take it easy on me. Then we turned into Centennial Park, and he picked up speed.

  He was fifteen and in good condition. I was twenty-one years older, with my ego at stake. A sharp pain sliced through my calf; I gritted my teeth and pushed through it, knowing I’d pay for my hubris later. I kept up with him, barely.

  We made five laps around the park, our breath streaming out behind us like exhaust fumes. Then I veered off and headed for the duck pond. He followed me across an arched wooden bridge that led to an island about the size of a two-car garage. Ducks nested here in spring, but now it was a drab tangle of brown vines and fallen logs amid a copse of bare trees.

  I leaned against one to catch my breath.