The Last Dead Girl

by Harry Dolan

  She paused, and in the quiet I heard the clock ticking on the kitchen wall.

  “He wasn’t a surgical patient anymore,” she said, “but I followed his case anyway. Brad Gavin did too. Because both of us had been there when he came in the first time, with his broken leg. This time they admitted him to the ICU and put him on IV fluids. The cephalexin hadn’t worked, so they tried other antibiotics to knock out his infection. Brad and I checked on him every day.”

  She paused again. Maybe she expected me to bristle at the mention of Brad Gavin. I didn’t. After a moment she went on.

  “Sepsis doesn’t always kill you, but when it does, it kills you by shutting down your organs. Sometimes it takes weeks. With this kid it was a matter of days. When his lungs started to fail they put him on oxygen, and when his kidneys failed they tried dialysis. His parents were hopeful to the end. His mother was with him constantly, except when she stole an hour or two of sleep in a lounge down the hall. That’s where she was when he died. His blood pressure crashed and his heart stopped, and they couldn’t revive him. I saw it happening. I went to find his mother and bring her back, but it was over.”

  Sophie’s voice sounded calm, but I thought she was crying. If I turned around I would see. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t think she wanted me to.

  Her right hand came off my shoulder. Maybe she was wiping tears.

  I reached for her other hand. “You never told me about that,” I said.

  “I should have,” she said. “I wonder if it would have made a difference.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you still would have left me. The day that kid died was the day I slept with Brad Gavin.” She came around from behind me and gathered her forceps and scissors. Dropped them in her bag. “Not the best excuse for infidelity,” she said, “but maybe not the worst either—mourning the death of an eight-year-old whose only mistake was climbing a tree.”

  All business now. She picked up her bag, headed for the door. I rose to follow her.

  “Sophie, I’m sorry. I wish you had told me.”

  She turned back to me, her eyes dry.

  “Dave,” she said. “You never asked.”

  26

  The smell of boiled cabbage carried all the way to K’s hiding place in the woods.

  He sat on the fallen tree trunk with a pair of binoculars. They were big and clunky—army surplus. He was using them to watch David Malone and his woman. With the lights on in the kitchen, he could see them plainly through the window of the back door.

  Finding Malone had been relatively easy. The first place he looked was the second-floor apartment, the one with the balcony where he had first seen Malone with his lady doctor.

  K had gone there earlier in the evening, but Malone’s pickup truck wasn’t there. He watched and waited for half an hour, until the lady doctor came out and got into her car. He followed her, almost on a whim, and she led him right to Jana Fletcher’s duplex.

  The curtains were drawn in the front window, so K had decided to go around to the back. He had left his car on the street by Cypress Park and made his way through the woods by the light of the moon. He had no trouble, even when he had to cross the narrow footbridge over the ravine.

  Now he watched Malone and the woman. He didn’t know at first what they were doing, because the woman had her back to the window, but then he got a glimpse of the wound on Malone’s temple. He realized the woman was tending to it.

  Then they talked. About nothing very cheery, apparently. And finally Malone got up and both of them moved out of view. When Malone came back into the kitchen, he was by himself.

  Disappointing. K would have liked to see more of the woman.

  He lowered the binoculars and set them on the tree trunk beside him. He would have hung them around his neck, but they were old and worn-out. The strap was broken.

  He could see Malone without them—through the window of the back door and the window of the bedroom. Malone wandered around the apartment with his head bowed. He seemed sad, preoccupied. K had no way to guess what he might be thinking about. It would have been useful to know. But what K really needed to determine was how much of a threat Malone posed. That was the reason he had come here.

  Malone seemed bent on learning the truth about what had happened to Jana Fletcher. But how much did he know? Too much, clearly. He shouldn’t know about the farm on Humaston Road. That made him dangerous.

  On the other hand, though Malone had visited the farm this afternoon, he must not have uncovered its secret. If he had, he would have gone to the police, and the police would have gone to the farm. The discovery would have made for a big story. But there’d been no mention of it on the news. K had wanted to be sure, so he had taken a chance and driven past the farm again around dusk. No police cars, no activity at all.

  K stood now and stretched his legs. He looked up through the canopy of the trees at the night sky. Reluctantly, he came to a decision. Malone was a problem, but killing him would only draw more attention to Jana Fletcher’s death. Better to let things lie. With any luck, the secret of the farm would remain hidden and people would begin to forget about Jana. Simon Lanik would take the blame for her death. Lanik wasn’t guilty, but he looked guilty—as long as he stayed in hiding, as long as he was on the run.

  So Malone would go on living. K raised the binoculars and caught sight of the man again through the bedroom window. He was still on his feet, moving through the apartment restlessly. He went out through the bedroom door and disappeared from view, and K shifted the binoculars to the back door and picked him up again when he moved into the kitchen. Who knew how long he might go on like this?

  K started to lower the binoculars, but something made him raise them again. Maybe fate. He shifted them farther to the left and found another window—the window of the back door in the other half of the duplex. It gave him a view into the old woman’s kitchen. He saw her in there—the landlady. Hard to tell what she was doing, because there were curtains in the window and the curtains were only open about six inches. She moved back and forth across the gap, and K realized she was carrying dishes from the table to the sink.

  K yawned and decided it was time to leave—to head back through the woods. The old woman passed out of view. Then K saw something that banished all thought of leaving from his mind.

  • • •

  After Sophie left, I felt unsettled. I paced around, thinking about what she’d said.

  I thought about the Night of the Condom Wrapper, when she confessed to sleeping with Brad Gavin. I thought about what might have happened if I had asked her why.

  I might never have left our apartment that night, might never have met Jana. She would be a stranger who died in the city where I lived. I wouldn’t be here, with maps and papers pinned to the walls, candles burning on the mantel.

  I could still have that life, if I wanted it. I could ask Sophie to take me back. I thought she would. I would have to ask for her forgiveness, because my transgression was worse than hers. She had slept with Gavin, but only once. She hadn’t fallen in love with him. She hadn’t left me for him.

  I stopped pacing and stared at the wooden cube on the fireplace mantel. I reached up suddenly and swept it off onto the floor. It held together; only one of the popsicle sticks broke away.

  You can do better than that, I thought. Put your fist through a wall and then go to her. She’ll wrap it. She’ll take care of you. She’ll tell you to stop putting your fist through walls.

  But you’ll have to leave Jana behind.

  I picked up the cube and looked through the gap left by the missing stick. There was nothing inside, only empty space.

  It was supposed to be a clue. I had all kinds of clues. The pill bottle. Angela Reese’s painting. The candleholder made from a two-by-four. The mangled quarter. Maybe they were all trying to tell me something. Maybe everything in the
apartment was a clue.

  I put the cube back on the mantel and breathed deep, taking in the smell of cabbage. Maybe that was a clue too. Why not?

  • • •

  After a while I lay down and tried to read one of Jana’s books—The Count of Monte Cristo. But before Edmond Dantès’ ship dropped its anchor in the harbor of Marseilles, I drifted off to sleep.

  I came awake less than ten minutes later, sat up, and swung my feet off the bed.

  The smell of cabbage—it really was a clue.

  I rose and moved through the stillness of the house. In the kitchen I picked up a chair and carried it as quietly as I could through the back door onto the patio. I sat beside the forsythia bush and listened to the night sound of crickets. The moon provided a little light, and a little more leaked through Agnes Lanik’s curtained windows next door.

  Sometime later, I heard furtive noises on the other side of the forsythia: a bolt turning, a door creaking in the jamb, murmuring voices, a screen door yawning open and falling shut. Footsteps on patio bricks.

  He started out across the lawn toward the woods, and I got up to follow him.

  “Hello, Simon,” I said.

  Simon Lanik spun around to face me, his mouth twisted in surprise and anger. He wore his tan overcoat, his hands buried in the pockets. His left hand came up, still in the pocket, as if he had a gun concealed there.

  I faded back a step and showed him my palms. “Take it easy,” I said.

  He recognized me and broke into a grin. “Jesus, kámoš, you scared me. Have you been waiting there? We thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. Then I realized your grandmother had company. What did she cook for you?”

  The question relaxed him. His pocketed left hand moved down to his side.

  “Holubky,” he said. “You know what those are?”

  I nodded. They were cabbage rolls stuffed with beef and rice and covered with tomato sauce. Something my own grandmother used to make.

  “You’d like them,” Simon Lanik said. “But she only makes them on special occasions.”

  “What was the occasion tonight?” I asked him.

  “What do you think? She gave me a little send-off. I might not be able to come back here for a while. The police have foolish ideas about me. This city—I can’t stay here.”

  “I know about their ideas,” I said.

  He looked at me gravely. “Don’t believe them, kámoš. I never touched that girl.”

  “I heard you’re not above touching girls,” I said, “especially when they’re slow with the rent.”

  Lanik smiled the smile of a ladies’ man—an expression belied by his pockmarked face and greasy hair. “That’s different,” he said. “Some of them—you just know. If you do them a favor, cut them some slack, they’ll do a favor for you. Who am I to turn them down, if that’s how they wanna pay?” His left hand stayed in his pocket, but his right came out so he could wag a finger at me. “Jana was different,” he said. “I never tried that with her. And for sure I never killed her.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “But the police, they already made up their minds. They’re looking for me. I think they’re watching this house.”

  “They are.”

  “But they only watch the front. Fucking idiots.” He started to back away from me. “Good-bye, kámoš. You won’t see me again.”

  “Wait,” I said, trailing after him. “Maybe there’s another way.” I thought of Roger Tolliver. “I know a lawyer. I could ask him to help you. You could turn yourself in. You didn’t kill Jana. The police can’t prove you did.”

  Lanik stood in the grass unmoving, staring at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. We listened to the chirping of the crickets.

  “I’m sorry, kámoš,” he said at last. “I don’t trust lawyers. Or police.” He lifted his left hand again, in the pocket of his tan coat—like a gangster in a movie. “I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.”

  He backed away. I smiled. “Come on, Simon. Do you even have a gun? Or are you going to shoot me with your finger?”

  He stopped and grinned at me. The crickets chirped in the faraway dark.

  “I have a gun,” he said. “A Makarov pistol, made by the Russians. My grandfather brought two of them with him when he came over from Czechoslovakia. He’s dead now, but he used to tell me stories. He always said he was part of the resistance against the Soviets. But I don’t know how much resisting he did. I think he was a criminal. I think he made his living in the black market.”

  Lanik’s eyes held steady on mine. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

  “I’m not lying to you, kámoš,” he said. “You try to follow me, you’ll find out.”

  • • •

  From his hiding place in the woods, K watched Simon Lanik talking with David Malone.

  It bothered him that he had almost missed this. He had been on the verge of leaving when he spotted Simon Lanik in the old woman’s kitchen. He had watched Lanik approach the back door and look out, then close the curtains tight.

  It bothered him too that he couldn’t hear what Lanik and Malone said to each other. He made out Malone’s first words: “Hello, Simon.” But the rest was indistinct. The distance was too great. One thing came across clearly, though: Lanik had a gun in his pocket, or was pretending he had one.

  K lowered the binoculars. Lanik and Malone finished their conversation, and Lanik started walking toward the woods. K crouched down by the fallen tree trunk and kept still.

  Lanik passed him in the dark. A rustling of footsteps. The crack of a twig.

  Less than fifteen feet away.

  K got up slowly. He looked for Lanik’s tan coat among the moonlit trees. Caught a glimpse of it. Another choice to make.

  He followed Lanik.

  Funny how quickly things can change. K had made up his mind that he should do nothing. He had decided he would be fine as long as the police went on believing that Simon Lanik was responsible for Jana Fletcher’s death. That would be easier for the police to believe if Lanik remained at large, a fugitive.

  But what if Lanik got caught? After all, a fugitive who was foolish enough to visit his grandmother couldn’t really be counted on to avoid capture indefinitely, could he?

  It was something K needed to consider. If Lanik got caught, there was a fair chance he would be convicted, in spite of his innocence. But nothing was certain. He might find a good lawyer, he might establish an alibi. The whole case against him, such as it was, might fall apart. The police might go looking for another suspect.

  It would be better for K if that never happened. It would be best of all if Simon Lanik disappeared for good.

  Could he be counted on to disappear on his own—or did K need to help him along?

  K stumbled over a stone. He caught himself against a sapling. The binoculars slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He could see Lanik up ahead, the tan coat among the black trees. Lanik didn’t stop. Didn’t turn.

  K picked up the binoculars and moved on. The ravine was up ahead, and the bridge. K thought of racing to catch up with Lanik. The bridge had no railing. One solid push would send Lanik over. The fall was twenty feet, enough to kill him if he landed just right.

  But the body would end up at the bottom of the ravine. And it would stay there; K couldn’t very well haul it out. And eventually someone would find it.

  A fall would only work if it looked like an accident: Simon Lanik murders Jana Fletcher, then slips off a bridge accidentally.

  No one would believe it.

  Lanik needed to disappear. There could be no body left behind.

  Up ahead, Lanik reached the bridge. The man made no effort to move quietly. K heard Lanik’s boots clomping over the wooden planks.

  He waited for the tan coat to get lost among the trees on the other side,
then crossed the bridge one careful step at a time.

  When K reached solid ground again, he started to pick up the pace. A light rain began to fall. He felt its touch against his cheek. He rounded a bend in the path. Looked around, trying to catch sight of Lanik. He saw nothing but trees and shadows.

  Before long he would come to the end of the trail. It might be wise to break off the pursuit. He hadn’t forgotten that Lanik might have a gun.

  Still, he was reluctant to let Lanik go.

  K’s car was parked on Clinton Drive. He assumed that Lanik would have one too. Did it make sense to try to keep following the man?

  Suppose they wound up on a lonely road somewhere. A road with sharp curves. That might be something K could work with, especially if the rain kept falling. Simon Lanik murders Jana Fletcher, then dies in a car wreck. Would that be plausible?

  It might be worth trying. K jogged along the path. He felt a current of night wind. He had let Lanik get too far ahead. The path twisted among dead beech trees. K came to the trailhead by the ball field in Cypress Park. He stopped at the wood’s edge. Saw his car in the distance. He spotted another—a sports coupe with a spoiler on the back—that could have belonged to Lanik. K couldn’t tell if there was anyone inside.

  He waited for the lights of the coupe to come on, for the vehicle to pull away. Nothing happened. Could Lanik have left on foot? There was no sign of him on the street. Was it possible that K had gotten ahead of him—had passed him in the woods without realizing it?

  K listened to the rain. It was falling more steadily. He heard a subtle change in its sound. He turned very slowly, knowing what he would see—and there stood Simon Lanik in his tan coat. Lanik had his left arm extended and a gun in his fist, inches from K’s face. The rain pattered his sleeve.

  Lanik said, “You are not as quiet as you think, my friend.”

  K stared at the muzzle of the gun and felt afraid. “Oh god,” he cried. “Don’t shoot me.”