Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  Within the hour, she had been taken upstairs, given a clean gown and a clean bed, and something to eat. All the while Hartwell waited silently in the room. Ellie found that comforting and she took the pill offered to her and slept.

  When she woke up, the night had come, and the two detectives from the hotel stood by her bed.

  “How are you feeling, Ms. McKay?”

  Ellie let the tired detective’s face come into focus. Soft hair, more gray than blond. Brown eyes. A nice jaw, soft now with age. “Okay, I guess,” she said and struggled to sit up. The detective reached over for the remote and raised the head of the bed.

  “I’m Detective Hansen,” he said as he stepped back. “We met at the hotel.”

  Ellie nodded.

  “And this is Detective Skopowlski. And you know Officer Hartwell.”

  Ellie nodded again.

  “We need to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?”

  After years of TV cop shows, Ellie half expected to be bullied or badgered or even disbelieved, but that didn’t happen. The detectives had verified who they were: a college professor, a respected surgeon. They were kind, the questions simple and logical. What kind of mood had Joel been in on Friday? On Saturday? Saturday night? Had he ever tied her up or hurt her before or had there been sex games of any kind? Had he ever talked about doing violence to himself or others? Had he talked about suicide? Did he have a history of mental illness? Did he do drugs?

  She answered the questions the best she could. Joel had been quiet—maybe even moody—on Saturday, but he was often quiet when surgery hadn’t gone well. Besides, she said, Arlen talked enough for everybody. “Have you met Arlen yet?”

  “Yes,” said Hansen, “he and his wife are outside. They’re waiting to see you.”

  Ellie felt a huge wave of relief. She wasn’t alone in this.

  “Did you argue over the weekend?”

  “Joel and I? No. We never argued.” She told them how she’d seen his temper once or twice but always aimed at inanimate objects, like the TV remote. He’d never directed it at her. And Joel had never suggested any kind of rough sex to her, no handcuffs, no silk scarves, nothing.

  “I’m not naïve,” Ellie said finally, “but Joel wasn’t very inventive in the bedroom. Pretty much straight intercourse.”

  A look passed between the two men that she couldn’t interpret, but she suddenly felt foolish.

  “How would you describe your relationship with the deceased, Ms. McKay?” Skopowlski spoke this time.

  Ellie took an instant disliking to the man. “Dr. McKay,” she said. She seldom pulled the PhD card, but Skopowlski’s tone had changed. The gentleness seemed to have disappeared with the look between the two men, and even though his voice wasn’t sinister or demanding, there was a sharp edge to it that had not been there before.

  “Dr. McKay,” he said. “How would you describe the relationship?”

  “He was my boyfriend.” Ellie didn’t want to sound seventeen. “My lover.”

  “Were you serious about each other?”

  “We hadn’t talked about marriage if that’s what you mean. We didn’t live together. We didn’t mix our finances.”

  Hansen nodded and spoke then. “What we’re trying to get at, ma’am, is how well you knew Joel Richardson.”

  Ellie thought for a moment, took a deep breath. “I knew what he told me. I had no reason to think that what he said about himself wasn’t true. Isn’t that really what we all have to go on?”

  Hansen nodded but Skopowlski shifted his feet impatiently, stepping back and then stepping closer to the bed. “What do you know of his past?”

  “Not all that much, I guess. He was in Vietnam. He was a surgeon there and served two tours. He married a Vietnamese girl to get her out of there, but they’d divorced a long time ago. No kids. He came to Pittsburgh a few years ago to take the job at the hospital from some place in Florida. Or so he told me.” She looked at Skopowlski and then at Hansen. “Is that not true?”

  There was a moment of silence and another look passed between the two men. “It seems to be,” Hansen said at last.

  Skopowlski spoke up. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened. What happened to you, what happened to him.”

  It was Ellie’s turn to pause. Then she said, “Like I told you at the hotel, I don’t know what happened to me—or to him. I don’t remember anything of what happened last night. I got into the car—Joel’s car—at the restaurant. I was laughing about something Arlen had said. That’s the last thing I remember—laughing and getting into the car. Until I woke up this morning in … in the hotel.”

  Detective Hansen nodded. “Okay. That’s enough for now. We’ll wait until the lab reports come in. We need you to stay in Gettysburg until then. Can you manage that?”

  For the first time that day, Ellie thought about her real life—her classes the next day, letting the dean know where she was, what had happened, all the inconvenience. She felt a surge of annoyance, but then she was relieved. At least she was feeling something. “I guess so. I’ll have to sort some things out.”

  “Perhaps your friends can help with that. Do you feel up to seeing them now?” Hansen asked, touching her arm.

  When she nodded, the three of them left and Arlen and Sandy came in. Her friends looked worried—worried and weary. Sandy gave her a tentative hug, and Ellie suddenly felt fragile and damaged, something that hadn’t occurred to her before then. Arlen took her hand and patted it. There was an awkward silence.

  Ellie broke the silence. “How did you know to come back?”

  “That detective, Hansen, called my cell. He’d gotten the number from your phone. And we just turned around and drove back.”

  “So you know about Joel.”

  “Yes,” said Sandy quickly, “but we can’t believe it. I mean, we just had dinner with you guys last night and we all had such a good time. How could this happen? How could he do that to you?” Then Sandy looked at Arlen and said, “We always thought there was something …”

  “Don’t say it,” said Ellie. “Don’t say anything about him. We don’t know what happened yet. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “But you’ve been tortured.” The look of horror and fear on Sandy’s face as she said this struck some deep part of Ellie and a sense of loss washed over her. But she said nothing.

  Arlen stepped in then. “What can we do for you, honey?”

  In that moment, Ellie felt so glad to have him for a friend. “I need Sandy to call the dean,” she said. “I have to stay here in Gettysburg for a few days. I suspect I’ll miss a week of work.”

  “Honey, you’ll need more time than—”

  She raised her hand to silence Sandy. “One day at a time, okay?”

  Sandy nodded.

  “You two should go home,” Ellie said. “There’s no reason your lives should be disrupted because of this.”

  Sandy shook her head. “Don’t be crazy. We’re not leaving you to face this alone, so shut up already. We’ll sort this out together. Arlen and I will be here for you.”

  And Ellie was glad to let them.

  9

  Like always, Al was up before the sunrise. Since Annie had been gone, he’d trained himself to get up when he first woke. The nightmares, the dreams of anger and humiliation, came in that second round of sleep, and he avoided them that way.

  It didn’t hurt the ranch any for him to be up before dawn, having time to think before the crew arrived. And now that most of the crew was Mexican, he’d learned to siesta with them after lunch, mastering what Gracie told him was a “power nap.”

  He fed Beemus, made coffee and toast for himself, pulled on a jacket against the chill, and then they went out to the old rocker that had belonged to Annie’s grandmother. Most mornings he and the dog sat there on the big porch for a half hour or so until the light came on behind the hills in the distance. He liked this quiet time. He had a wide view of the property, a view he’d grown up with. It was his wo
rld. The land belonged to him and he belonged to the land.

  These days, he sat and rocked, went over the day’s work, and made peace with his God. Today, when his plans and prayers were through, he went on over to the barn to meet with the foreman. He was nervous about meeting Ellie later and work seemed a good distracter. At nine, he showered, shaved, and, nervous as a schoolboy, got dressed and drove into town.

  He wasn’t at all sure he would find her at the motel, but when he knocked on the door at ten, she was there, smiling shyly, more dressed up than the night before in slim gray slacks and a long, black sweater. Behind her, he saw that the covers on the bed had been straightened, the room tidied. Her neatness pleased him.

  Her greeting did, too. After the shy smile, she looked him in the eye and then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek softly, the way he had kissed hers the night before. Then she picked up a black leather satchel and pulled the door closed behind her.

  “Where to, cowboy?” She smiled at him and a much younger, more open woman appeared in her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “Breakfast!” he said and opened the passenger door of the SUV. He’d parked next to an aging red Honda Civic with Pennsylvania plates.

  He drove them to the other side of town, a few blocks into the barrio. There was a diner there he liked where he wouldn’t run into the usual folks in his life. There’d be talk among them soon enough.

  Ellie sat as far from him as she could in the cab, up against the door, but she turned to face him, to watch him, and so it wasn’t fear or hostility that put the distance between them. When he looked over at her, she would smile but the laughing girl in her eyes was gone, replaced by a wary creature, a fox perhaps or a deer. He wondered if she had always held both in her.

  “I’m not much for talking first thing,” she said after they’d ordered, so he held off until the huevos rancheros had come and gone, until the coffee mugs were full once more, and the bill sat waiting on its little plastic plate.

  They’d taken a booth near the window and she sat angled so she could look out at the street. Finally she took a sip of the fresh coffee, put down the cup, and smiled, the wary smile. “What you said last night …”

  “I meant it.” He realized he must sound abrupt, crazy even.

  She nodded, then looked out at the street again, seeming to find the passing of an old rusted truck of supreme interest. Then she turned again. “I don’t do complicated. I don’t do drama. I’ve had enough of that for several lifetimes. I don’t do secrets. You can ask me anything and I will tell you the truth. But my past is just that. Over and done. Nothing to do with you or what might be with you. And I won’t talk about it.”

  She took another sip of coffee and toyed with her earring. It was gold and shaped like a cat. “Do you have a past? Old complications and dramas?” She leaned into the table and looked at him intently.

  “I do.”

  “Can’t imagine otherwise for a handsome man who’s lived sixty-four years.” She smiled her open smile.

  He felt his body relax a little.

  “Does that past need to have anything to do with me?” Her voice had deepened somehow, taken on a smoky quality that wasn’t sexual exactly but definitely came out of her body.

  “No,” he said right away, and then “No” again, more forcefully this time.

  “I need a fresh start. I need a clean slate, a chance to start again. Isn’t that what the West is all about?”

  He nodded.

  She was silent then for a long moment. “How about we each get to ask three questions? My answers will be the truth and I’m counting on yours to be the truth as well. And then we’ll talk about now and tomorrow and the days after that. Is it a deal?” She reached over and touched his hand and the open-hearted girl smiled at him.

  Her touch was soft and gentle and he wanted to lie down with her and hold her. He felt charmed by her earnestness and her straightforward way of speaking and yet he felt confused by all she was saying. But he didn’t want any of it to end so he nodded his agreement.

  “You first,” she said. “What would you like to ask?”

  He was suddenly afraid of what she might tell him, but he gathered up his courage. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No,” she said. “And no creditors on my tail either.”

  “Your turn,” he said, hoping he wasn’t showing too much of the relief he felt.

  “Have you ever hit a woman or a child or beaten an animal?”

  The question took him by surprise, and he looked at her as closely as he dared. “No, no, never. I don’t believe in that. I … I just don’t …”

  “I believe you,” she said quickly, and she touched his hand again. When he remained silent, she said gently, “Your turn.”

  He thought a moment, then said, “Are you married?”

  “No,” she said right away. “I’ve never been married.”

  He sat back then, satisfied.

  After a moment, she said, “And you, Al, are you well and truly free to be with me?”

  That was an easy one. “Yes,” he said without hesitation, although a thought for Gracie fluttered by. But Gracie knew, as he knew, that no claims had been staked.

  They were both silent then for a few moments. The waitress came by. She filled Al’s cup without asking and then hesitated. Ellie smiled up at her but placed her palm over the cup and the waitress walked away.

  “One more each,” said Ellie.

  Al felt at a loss. He had dozens of questions to ask but they seemed impertinent. What side of the bed did she sleep on? Did she like to have her neck kissed? Did she like dogs? What did she do all day when she wasn’t traveling? Did she have to watch TV in the morning? How did she feel about horses? Could she ride? Yet he knew these were all things he could find out without asking. And they were small things. This was the time to ask the big questions.

  “Ask me yours,” he said.

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “I want to stop drinking. Will you support me in that, no matter what it takes?”

  Again, the question surprised him. It was such a personal thing to ask for. Why did she think she could trust him with this part of herself? He wanted to ask questions in turn, but that wasn’t how they were playing this. He could feel her waiting for the answer. “Yes, I’ll support you in whatever you need.”

  She sat back then from the table and a look he couldn’t decipher crossed her face, but she nodded and her eyes were lighter around the edges. She clasped her hands on the table, a gesture of patient waiting that was oddly reminiscent of his grandmother, a thin strong woman named Violet. And he remembered he had one question left—and he knew what he needed to ask.

  10

  Ellie had rightly predicted a week in Gettysburg. After one night in the hospital, she was released to the care of Arlen and Sandy, who took her to the B&B they’d been staying in, one not far from the battlefield but away from town and the hotels and the police station. Arlen wrangled a discounted rate for two rooms with adjoining bath for the week and convinced the owners to cook for them as well. Ellie was sure he’d told the elderly couple her story, as they treated her like royalty, but it was quiet and comfortable and she was glad not to be in a hotel.

  Sandy found a naturopath for her. The kindly young man, fresh out of school in Seattle, gave her several herbal concoctions, including drops for her wounded spirit and an arnica salve for the bruises, which Sandy helped her apply. Sandy had burst into tears when she saw Ellie’s body: the line of burns along her inner thighs, the crisscross of belt welts on her back, the finger marks on her ankles and upper arms where she’d been gripped by whatever maniac had done this. Ellie submitted docilely to the treatments, covered herself with a flannel nightgown Sandy had bought for her, and kept to her bed. Her body began to heal.

  On Monday, she called her AA sponsor. She thought she would surely break down in the telling but she managed to
get through it, Sunday’s confusion now replaced by a strange calm and the relief of survival. Octavia urged her to take the tranquilizers the ER doctor had prescribed. It would not damage her sobriety to take prescription medication as directed. To be extra safe, she could give them to Sandy or Arlen for dispensing. So Monday night and Tuesday during the day, Ellie slept the restless sleep of the drugged.

  Then, in the deep of Tuesday night, Ellie woke in a sweat. She had been teaching a class in the dream. She recognized Sarah Jane Lewis in the front row. Sarah Jane was a poor student who should not have been majoring in French, but Ellie admired her persistence and her efforts. Sarah Jane was reading from the last page of Albert Camus’s The Stranger when Joel appeared at the door of the classroom. He held a large barbecue fork in his hand and pointed it at Ellie. “Come with me,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and pleading. Ellie looked at the clock above the blackboard. Quarter to three. Class didn’t end for five more minutes. She looked at the students but now there was only Sarah Jane there before her. “Come with me,” Joel said again, this time his voice deep and familiar. She turned to the desk, reached into her bag, and withdrew a string of condoms in plastic wrapping, then headed to the door. Once over the threshold, Joel pulled her by the hand along a corridor with big frosty windows. In the rooms, Ellie could see sides of beef, pigs, lambs—all skinned, all frozen. She was surprised to feel little beyond curiosity. Then Joel stopped abruptly, pulling her up beside him. He motioned to her to tie his hands behind his back with a gold cord. Then the corridor disappeared and they were in a barn—a shaft of sunlight streaked down from a wide crack in the wall. Joel stood before her on a high stool, another gold cord around his neck. “Kick it,” he said, looking deep in her eyes. “Kick it.”

  It took a moment for Ellie’s heart to stop racing, for her to recognize the bedroom in the B&B, to smell the cloying Victorian potpourri that clung to the bedding. It took another moment to remember the hotel room, the bedposts, Joel watching her with his dead eyes. Her chest filled with anguish and her throat ached but the tears wouldn’t come.