by Paul Cleave
She has asked herself this question a thousand times, and she’s no closer to answering it now than she was a year ago when she first met Joe.
There are a few cars parked out front of the hardware store, but for the most part the store feels deserted. She hasn’t been into a hardware store since she was a kid and her dad came here a few times the way dads do when they’re planning on fixing something around the house or building a deck. It’s been a while, and while hammers and screwdrivers all look the same, the power tools all seem to be made of brighter colors than the last time she was here, some of them going as far as looking like they were made in the future. She’s wearing the red wig, but not the pregnancy suit. She isn’t real sure where to look, but a bald guy with moles littering his arms and neck helps her out, and a few hundred dollars later she has what she wants.
The next stop is town. She parks outside the office building, getting the same parking space as yesterday evening. She goes inside and takes the lift up to the third floor, feeling too lazy to use the stairs. The environment may not thank her, but her calves do. The office is just how she left it. Why wouldn’t it be? The drop cloth is still playing curtain, but there’s enough ambient light to see. The gun is exactly where it was left. She gets it down and rests it on the bench they made then goes to the window. She gets her hardware-store purchase out and quickly browses the instructions. The device uses a laser to measure distances. She points it over the road where Joe is going to be standing, but can’t see the red dot of the laser pointer and can’t tell where she’s pointing. She gives it a minute and is about to give up in frustration when she suddenly spots it in the shade of the back door to the courthouse. She follows it to the spot where Joe will be standing tomorrow and locks in the distance. With the elevation, it’s almost forty yards.
She takes the tool and the gun and heads back down in the elevator. She puts the gun into the trunk. Traffic doesn’t increase over the next hour. It never does, no matter what the hour on a Sunday morning. The temperature doesn’t increase much either. Maybe one degree, if that. She drives with the heater on and the radio on. She’s listening to Bruce Springsteen. He’s singing about a guy who went on a killing spree with his girlfriend in the fifties. Things were simpler back then.
Driving the car is easier when you’re not eight or nine months pregnant, but she puts the suit on now. She pulls into the parking lot of the gun store and goes inside. The guy who helps her is in his forties, has thick glasses and eyebrows reaching across to shake hands with each other. His name is Arthur. Arthur seems a little in shock. He seems to think she’s going to give birth to a redheaded baby right there in the store. He looks like a friendly guy that the world hasn’t beaten up. She tells him what she needs. A box of ammunition. Plus a bullet puller for taking apart bullets and a bullet-seating die for reassembling them. She tells him they are for her husband. He nods thoughtfully, probably thinking the husband was planning on shooting himself rather than face what was balancing a fine line between staying in her womb and spilling out of it onto the floor. He gets the items for her and she pays in cash.
“Tell him,” Arthur says, “if he has any questions to come in and see me. People messing around with this stuff, using pliers and vise grips instead of the right tools, can blow off their fingers.”
She thanks him and gets back on the road.
When she gets to the forest she takes the same route as before and parks in the same place and takes a blanket and the gun, but forgoes any tins as those from last time are still here—not that she needs them. The ground is a little drier today. The air is still. It’s going to be the same weather conditions tomorrow morning, but it’s supposed to rain later on in the day. At least that’s what the weather report is telling them. She uses the tool to measure out the same distance from a tree and lays down the blanket when she gets there. She gets out the gun. She loads the magazine. Puts the gun together. And points it at the tree.
She picks a spot. A big knot. She aims in on it, calms her breathing, and fires. The gunshot is muted through her earmuffs. The knot in the tree is splintered as the bullet crashes into it. She lines the knot back up. Takes another shot. Fires the second bullet within an inch of the first. Accurate enough. Way more accurate than she showed Raphael. A few hundred shots she could probably shoot the tree down.
As she shoots, she thinks about how the plan has changed for both of them. In some pretty big ways too. Instead of Melissa being the collector, she will be victim number two. And Joe, instead of being collected, will be victim number one. She’s sure of it. The plan was never to shoot Joe in the head, but to wound him. Melissa, dressed in her paramedic’s uniform, will pick him up. Then, thanks to the C-four, she’ll evade the police. Raphael originally thought they were picking Joe up to torture and kill him. That was never the real plan. The first part, yes, but not the second part.
She looks through the sight at the bullet impact. It’s four, maybe five inches below the knothole. She adjusts the sights again. Takes aim. Fires. This time the bullet hits the tree even lower. She sets the gun down and walks to the tree and gets out a tape measure. Puts it from the knothole to the last bullet hole. Eleven inches. Just about perfect. She walks back to the gun. Adjusts the sights again, this time slightly to the side. Takes aim at the knothole. Steadies the gun. Fires.
This time the bullet hits the tree eleven inches down from the knothole and a few inches to the left. She uses up most of the bullets.
It’s perfect. A calculated risk, certainly, but perfect nonetheless.
And the truth of it is it’s not her life on the line here, but Joe’s. And that’s an acceptable risk.
Chapter Forty-Three
Schroder hates working on Sundays. It seems he’s busier now than he was when he was a cop. His wife sure thinks so. She was grumpy with him this morning over breakfast. The excuse that This is his job was no better today than it has been over the last twenty years. And the kids were being annoying. The baby last night was hard work. He’d sleep for half an hour and then whimper and be grizzly and then wake up. So Schroder would wake up too. So would his wife. They’d take turns at feeding him. At one point the baby shit himself so bad Schroder thought they were going to have to call in an exorcist to clean up the mess. It’s been a night of broken sleep, following a week of broken sleep, following what has now felt like forever. He loves his kids more than anything, but every night as four a.m. rolls into five, he figures the difference between being a good dad and a bad dad is that a good dad doesn’t put a pillow over the baby to make it go quiet. He knows from the job that there have been plenty of bad dads over the years. Bad mums too.
There are things to be pleased about this morning. Reasons to be calm. Joe led the police to a body yesterday evening. It hadn’t been a trap. Melissa didn’t reveal herself. There were no explosions, no splashes of blood. Schroder had been expecting bad news. When the call came he was almost too afraid to answer it. It wasn’t Joe calling on the dead detective’s cell phone, it was Kent herself reporting in.
The deal was going ahead. The body, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, was still missing. So Jonas Jones was going to become a hero. Or he is facing a huge embarrassment if the body belongs to somebody else. Though, knowing Jones, there’ll be a way to spin that into a positive. He’ll probably say Calhoun, even from the spirit world, is still first and foremost a cop.
Also, Kent had said, have you heard about the university students?
Yeah, I’ve heard.
I just don’t understand young people, she said.
Nobody does, he said. Not even young people.
People have been killed, people are hurting, but it’s just an excuse for a party for these kids. I just hope none of them dress as any of the victims. You think they’d do that?
Schroder didn’t know, but hoped not, and told her so.
He stopped for coffee on the way to the TV station. He popped a couple of caffeine pills into his mouth and they disappeare
d with the first swallow of coffee, the extra hit helping him wake up, but the problem with those extra hits is they just don’t last as long as they used to.
There aren’t many people in the studio. Sunday isn’t a popular day for making stuff happen. Even God thought that way. There’s a small crew. Two camera operators, a man and a woman who Schroder is sure are involved with each other in some way. A sound guy with a German accent whose job is to hold up a boom microphone and stay out of the way. An intern holding the lights. And the director, a very butch-looking woman who looks like she could field strip a rabbit and turn it into stew. They’re all on the set where they normally film. Schroder hates this part. He is the police presence to give the show more authenticity.
Schroder’s used to talking into the camera. He’s done it with cases in the past. It’s not difficult. Not when you’re speaking about a case. But it is when you’re talking from a script. He is sitting opposite Jonas Jones, Psychic. They are at a table with a black cloth over it. There are flowers in the center, more flowers in the backdrop, some candles too. There are two product-placed bottles of McClintoch spring water on the table. The labels are facing the camera and the advertising department of McClintoch spring water are contributing funds to the making of the show.
Everyone’s a winner.
Schroder feels sick.
He looks into the camera.
“Today we’re investigating the disappearance of Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun,” he says. Then he freezes. Suddenly he’s thirsty. His voice is catching in his mouth.
“Take a drink,” the director says, “and try again.”
“Okay,” he says, and he grabs himself a bottle of water and takes a few sips, then places it back, careful to keep the label pointing outward. “Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just waiting for you,” the director says.
He coughs into his hand even though he doesn’t feel the need, then carries on. “Tonight we’re investigating the disappearance of Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun,” Schroder says, “who was killed twelve months ago by a woman by the name of Natalie Flowers, who has become better known as Melissa X. Attempts to find Detective Calhoun’s body have all been in vain. Today Jonas Jones is going to change that. Today Jonas Jones will be offering his much-needed assistance to the police and to Detective Calhoun’s wife and will lead us to his body.”
“Cut,” the director says.
“What was wrong with that?” Schroder asks.
“It was good. Just don’t say Today Jonas Jones is going to change that. Say Jonas Jones is going to try and change that.”
“Okay,” Schroder says, and he starts at the beginning.
There is a camera pointing at Schroder and a camera pointed at Jonas, and it will get cut and edited together later on today. Jonas is slowly nodding. Schroder can feel an itch growing at the base of his nose, but doesn’t want to scratch it. No doubt during his speech the camera will cut to Jonas during the much-needed assistance part of his dialogue, as the words made his face scrunch up a little like he’d just bitten his tongue.
“Yes, yes,” Jonas says. “It was a very horrific killing,” he adds, leaning back and crossing his left leg over his right. He sits with his top two fingers pressing against each other, and his bottom two interlocked. He rests his hands on his lap. “Detective Robert Calhoun is not resting peacefully. He is a man who demands justice, and a man begging to be returned home. He has come to me for help, and he has a lot to say,” Jonas says, then he pauses and slowly nods and lowers his voice as if letting the world in on a big secret, and at the same time his hands come up to his face so his top two fingers, which are shaped like a gun, touch his lips. “I’ve been loaned one of his uniforms,” he says, and there’s a uniform on the table that Jonas puts his hands on top of. He closes his eyes and bunches some of the material up into his hand as if having a stroke, then lets it go and smoothes it out. “I can get an extremely strong sense of Detective Calhoun,” he says. “He was—or still is—a very strong-willed being.”
Schroder feels his stomach turn. Last time he felt this sick was when his brother invited them over for a barbecue and undercooked the chicken. He should quit. None of this is worth it. In forty years when he’s facing cancer and lung disease and whatever other sickness cocktail life throws at him, this is one of those weeks he’s going to look back at and hate himself for. Unless the Alzheimer’s has set in by then—and Alzheimer’s would be just like his Wake-E pills, a godsend.
Jonas carries on. Schroder takes another drink of water, knowing it won’t make the TV cut. Jonas tells the audience the pain that Calhoun is in. He pads it out. The candles are flickering. Jonas is deep in concentration as he makes a connection to the dead policeman. His legs are no longer crossed. Ever the professional, Jonas gets it right the first time. There is no need for a reshoot.
“He’s buried,” Jonas says, which is a nice generic beginning, but Schroder knows it’s only going to get a whole lot more accurate. “Out of the city, but not far. Half an hour away perhaps. I sense . . . I sense water,” he says, then slowly shakes his head, “no, not water. Darkness. Damp darkness. The ground is exposed. It’s wet from the rain. I see . . . I see a shallow grave.” He tilts his head, like Lassie listening for children stuck down wells, only Lassie had ethics. “North,” he says. “North and . . . west a little.”
Jonas Jones opens his eyes. He looks directly into the camera, just the right amount of happiness in his features because he’s been able to help, just the right amount of sadness the occasion demands, all mixed in with a pinch of looking drained—being in touch with the spirit world is bound to take its toll. He doesn’t blink. “I have a very real sense of what happened to Detective Robert Calhoun,” he says. “I believe I can . . . yes, yes, I believe I can lead us to him. I . . .” he squeezes his eyes closed and tilts his head the other way, grimacing slightly as if in pain, proving once again the burden of being a gifted psychic, Schroder guesses. That and always knowing the lotto numbers. “I think I know where he is.”
“Where?” Schroder asks, frowning slightly, looking serious, playing the part.
“It’s hard to explain,” Jonas says, but then goes about explaining it anyway. “He’s calling to me. He wants to be found. He wants me to find him,” he says, stressing the word me because after all it’s Jonas that’s having the vision, not any one of these four-dollar-a-minute psychics you find on the other end of a phone line at two o’clock in the morning helping you with your love life.
“That’s good,” the director says, and Schroder thinks they might cut that last line, otherwise it suggests that if Jonas can’t find other murder victims they don’t want to be found.
“I didn’t go over the top?” Jonas asks.
“It was perfect,” the director says. “Let’s pack up and get this show on the road.”
The show gets on the road a few minutes later, starting with the parking lot. In the hour and a half they’ve been inside the morning hasn’t gotten any warmer. It’s sunny, thank God, but it’s still the kind of cold that makes you wonder just what temperature frostbite kicks in. He brings up the rear, the others ahead chatting contentedly among themselves, the way tight-knit groups do who have worked plenty of times together before. Jonas climbs into the driver’s seat of a dark blue sedan, which is two years old at the most. One camera operator sits in the passenger seat, and the sound guy sits in the back. The director and the lighting intern take a separate car, the second camera operator sitting in the passenger seat so they can shoot footage of Jonas’s car driving through the city. Schroder takes his own car, driving alone. It’s creeping up toward noon and he’s already tired. He needs to do something—he can’t carry on like this. Can’t be the whipping boy for a guy shooting what Schroder knows ought to be as appealing as late-night shopping shows. He just doesn’t get it, never will, and hates that he’s helping to make it more credible.
They head north. The view of the city changes as they pass through dif
ferent suburbs, old houses next to new, new houses next to shops—the style of Christchurch evident at every turn. It’s his city, a city many of the people here have a love/hate relationship with. He remembers reading that most people die within a few miles of where they were born. They either never leave the city, or they go out into the world and come back many years later. He wonders if it’s true. It’s something he’s been thinking about a lot since last December when he almost died. Well, for a few minutes back in hot, sunny December he actually did die if you want to get all technical about it. He can’t shake the memory of it. It’s wedged down deep like a splinter buried beneath a fingernail that he can’t tweezer out. His hands were cuffed behind him and his head was held down in a bathtub full of water. When he died, he saw no light at the end of a tunnel, felt no peace, and then he was brought back. Since then he’s been seeing the world in a slightly different way. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like raising his kids in it. Doesn’t like the memory he has of his lungs flooding with bathwater.
He turns on the radio and flicks through various stations looking for one where people aren’t talking about Joe or the death penalty, then tries to find one where there is music and not ads, then gives up. The damn CD player doesn’t work since his daughter dripped water into it a year ago hoping to, as she said, make the music clearer. He guesses he’s lucky any of it works. Could be that’s the balance the city has struck with him—it drowns him and fires him and takes his CD player away, but he can have all the AM and FM he could want.
