The Shadows We Hide
Page 27
“No,” Jeb says. He turns to face Charlie, as if to give his next words extra heft. “Toke wasn’t her father. I’m her father. Angel’s my daughter.” Jeb’s words carry a deep sadness in them.
“You’re lying.”
“No,” Jeb says. “I’m not.”
“So trying to burn me alive was all for nothing,” I say.
“I didn’t do any such thing,” Charlie says as he climbs onto one knee.
“Just stay put,” Jeb says. “Don’t move.”
“To hell with you. I don’t have to listen to this bull.” He starts to stand up, and Jeb is on him, twisting Charlie’s arm behind his back and escorting him back to the ground.
“What the hell you doing?” Charlie yells.
“You smell like gasoline,” Jeb says. “Why is that?”
“Because he used it to set my room on fire,” I say.
Jeb pulls a cell phone from his pocket and dials 911. “Yeah, it’s Jeb Lewis. Did Nathan get called for the fire?” He pauses as the dispatcher says something, and then replies, “I’m in the alley behind Billing’s Hardware. Could you send him over here?” Another pause. “I know, but I have a situation—call it a citizen’s arrest. I need someone with a badge to take over.”
Chapter 48
You got no reason to arrest me,” Charlie says. He’s grunting his words because Jeb has the man’s arm twisted in the air and a knee in Charlie’s back.
“Arson,” I say. “Attempted murder. Take your pick. Before the fire erupted, I could smell gas. Somehow he poured gas into my room, maybe under the door or maybe he punched a hole through my window when I was gone.”
“That’s bullshit,” Charlie mutters.
“When I tried to get out, my door was barred shut. He chained some kind of rod across the jamb. I saw it. I know it was him.”
“You don’t know diddly-squat,” Charlie says.
“And the glue.” I mime the way my finger groped at the sprinkler in the bathroom. “The sprinkler head had dried glue on it.”
“You’d better let me up,” Charlie says. “This is police brutality.”
“I’m not a cop,” Jeb says, giving Charlie’s wrist a tweak. “This is just plain-old citizen’s brutality.” Jeb begins to inspect Charlie’s fingers in the light of the streetlamp. “Well, looky here,” Jeb says. “I do believe you have some kind of residue on your fingers. Is that glue?”
I bend down to see—and there it is: a smudge of dried epoxy on the tips of his index finger and his thumb.
A squad car slides into the alley and stops with its headlights trained on the three of us. Deputy Calder gets out, and Jeb tells Nathan to bring some evidence bags. When Nathan gets to where Jeb is holding Charlie to the ground, Jeb says, “Nathan, I need you to place this guy under arrest.”
“What for?” Nathan asks.
“I’m pretty sure he started the fire at the motel. Give me your knife.”
Calder pulls a folding knife from its sheath and hands it to Jeb, whereupon Jeb uses the blade to peel a tiny chip of the glue off the tip of Charlie’s finger. “Put this in an evidence bag. You’ll also want to bag his hands and preserve his clothing. I can smell gasoline on them.”
“Why would he set the motel on fire?” Nathan asks.
“He was trying to kill me,” I say.
Calder looks at Jeb, and Jeb nods. “We…I mean you, have enough to hold him on suspicion of arson at the very least. Joe thinks that the sprinklers in his room had glue on them to stop them from working. That fits the m.o. of another case in Charlie’s past.”
Nathan leans down and gives a sniff. “Yeah, that’s gas all right.”
“This is bullshit!” Charlie is twisting and cursing as Nathan locks the man’s wrists into the cuffs. “This ain’t right. I was attacked!”
Nathan and Jeb lift Charlie to his feet, and Calder takes him to the squad car.
“I was assaulted! I’m the victim here!” Charlie is yelling those words as Calder tucks him into the backseat of the squad. When the door slams shut, Charlie’s voice dies away.
There’s an awkward silence in the alley after Nathan leaves. In the glow of the streetlight, I see that I’m bleeding from a dozen or so small cuts to my torso, some with tiny glass shards still embedded in them, but nothing too serious. The hair on my left forearm is gone, and I smell like burned protein. I run a hand over my scalp, and it feels like all my hair is still there.
“Want to borrow a shirt?” Jeb asks. “I’m pretty sure my room got spared.” He starts back toward the burning motel.
“Your room?”
“I’m staying at the Caspen. My wife…well, let’s just say that things are a little complicated at home.”
As Jeb and I walk beside each other, he doesn’t act like he’s angry with me, and I wonder if he knows that I was the one who brought his affair to light.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m the one who set the hounds on you.”
He stops walking. “You…did what?”
“It’s my fault you got in trouble. I learned that Toke had gotten a vasectomy after my mom got pregnant. That started me thinking, and…well, then one thing led to another. I’m the one who figured out that you had an affair with Jeannie.”
We stop at the edge of the motel parking lot. Jeb keeps his gaze on the fire and says, “This isn’t your doing, Joe. I brought this on myself. I’m the one who screwed things up.”
“Did you know Angel was your daughter?”
“No. I mean, I suspected that I might be her father. I even asked Jeannie about it once. She denied it, but still, deep down, maybe I knew.”
“Is that why you took Angel into the house that night?”
Jeb doesn’t answer right away. We watch as two firefighters climb onto the motel roof and move to within twenty feet of the blaze, the brilliant yellow flames leaping skyward into a halo of smoke. Three others on the ground shoot a stream of water through what used to be the door to my room, and it sends up a burst of steam to mix with the smoke.
“I wasn’t thinking,” Jeb says, finally. “I saw her lying on the ground; I really thought she hit Toke with that gear. I could hear Nathan’s siren, and I just reacted. I figured I’d come up with a story to explain it all before the dust settled. I screwed up, and for that, I’ll pay the price.”
“How bad is the price?”
“I’ve been suspended. And who knows about my marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “You were a good cop.”
Jeb shakes his head. “I altered a crime scene. That’s the opposite of being a good cop. That’s about the biggest sin a cop can commit. Now I have to take my lumps.”
We watch as the firefighters on the roof get their hose going, this second front having an immediate taming effect on the fire.
Then Jeb says, “I’ve carried the secret of that affair around for fifteen years. It’s been killing me. Now it’s out there. I had an affair. I’m Angel’s father. There’s a new normal, and we’ll just have to deal with it.”
“Is that how your wife will see it?”
Jeb shrugs. “I suspect she’ll come around someday. She’s a good woman. She’s hurting right now, but I think she’ll come around. She’ll have to—for Angel’s sake.”
“How is Angel doing?”
“I got a call from the doctor last night. She’s showing new signs of lucidity. I’m heading up to Mankato in a little bit—after I get cleaned up and things calm down here. Want to come?”
“She’s not my sister,” I say, as if that is a perfectly good answer. Then, “I probably shouldn’t.”
“I understand.”
“She’s going to need you,” I say. “Probably more than any girl has ever needed a father.”
To that, Jeb just nods.
The night is fading into the pink glow of dawn, and the volunteer firefighters are gaining the upper hand on the blaze, more smoke now than flame. They’re calling out
their progress as they choke off the spread of the fire. My room is gone. The rooms next to mine are partially damaged, but most of the motel has been spared. When it seems appropriate, Jeb walks to his room, far away from the damage, and comes back with shoes on his feet and a spare shirt in his hand. He tosses the shirt to me.
As I’m putting it on, one of the fire trucks moves, and I see my car, parked nose-in next to the remains of my room. The front of my car is a charred mess. Both tires are burned off, and I have to assume that everything under the hood followed suit: belts, hoses, wires, anything plastic or rubber. I no longer have a car.
Chapter 49
After they reduce the fire to smoldering coals, and after they tow my car down to Dub’s Repair, I remain sitting on one of those concrete parking stops, watching the firefighters mill around. I have no car. I have no place to stay. My wallet and my phone were both in my jeans pockets, so I should count myself lucky—but I don’t. What I want, more than anything, is to go back to my apartment in St. Paul, and back to Lila. But I can’t do that.
The sun is already warm, and it’s not even eight o’clock. I haven’t moved from the parking lot because I have nowhere to go. I feel hungry and gross and untethered. There’s not much I can do about those last two, but I can grab a bite to eat—and that’s what gets me off my butt.
I’m not going to go to the Snipe’s Nest—not that it would be open this early—but I’m pretty sure that Marv would spit in my food, given my role in setting the law after Vicky. I wonder if he even knows yet that she’s on the run.
As I walk through town, I spot a small café that I had noticed my first day in town and go in, taking the last available booth. The place is filled with old men wearing worn caps with logos like Pioneer, John Deere, and Peterbilt emblazoned on them. They’re talking about crops and weather, but mostly they’re talking about the fire, and a great many eyes follow me as I take my seat.
The waitress, a plump gal with strawberry cheeks, brings me my eggs and bacon with a smile, and keeps my coffee filled. Lila should be starting the first day of the bar exam about now. I wonder if she’s thinking about me. I hope that she isn’t. I’ve been too much of a distraction already.
While I eat my breakfast, I put together a list of what I need to do that day. It includes things like find a new car, file an insurance claim on the old car, and figure out lodgings for the night. I still have one more night away from home before I can go back to St. Paul, and I don’t think the Caspen Inn will be open for business anymore. I’m sure that my mother would let me stay at her place, if I could figure out a way to get there.
I ask the waitress if there is a car dealership in Buckley, and she tells me that the closest thing they have is Dub’s Repair, down the street. “He has a handful of used cars that he fixes up.”
As I sit in the café, doing the math on how I might pay for a car, it occurs to me that I’m half-owner of a large farm just outside of town—or at least I will be. That gets me to wondering if there might be some old truck tied to the estate that I could borrow until things get settled. With that hazy thought in mind, I pay my check and strike out for Bob Mullen’s office.
I arrive to find the door unlocked, so I let myself in. Bob is at his desk reading some papers. When he sees me, he walks out to the reception room to greet me.
“I hear you’ve had quite the morning,” he says.
“You heard about the fire?”
“Things get around pretty fast here in Buckley. I also know about what happened out at Ray Pyke’s place yesterday.”
“Yeah, I guess I made a mess of things.”
“How do you figure?”
“Vicky got away,” I say.
“Not for long. They picked her up early this morning.”
“They did? Where?”
“Ray called his brother Don from the jail. Those calls are all recorded, and they heard Ray tell his brother to take camping supplies and food down to Vicky, who was hiding out on some sandbar in South Dakota. Wasn’t hard to figure it out.”
“Did they bring her back?”
“She’s in jail in Yankton. She has to go through extradition.”
I don’t know why it made me sad to think of Vicky in jail, but it did. “Are you going to represent her?”
“No,” he says. “Ray’s sister called me up this morning. I’ll be representing him on that standoff yesterday. I’ve been calling around to find an attorney for Vicky. I suspect Ray’s going to sell everything he has to help Vicky out.”
The phone rings, and Bob excuses himself to go answer it, closing his office door behind him.
I sit in the chair behind Jeannie’s desk to wait. The papers from the Moody Lynch case lay strewn where I had left them, so I decide to be helpful and put the file back together. As I’m sliding papers into the accordion folder, I see a page that stands out as being different from the others. On the top of the page are the words, I’m sorry. I pull the paper out and read it. It is a single page of writing, and at the bottom is the name Jeannie Hix Talbert—typed, not signed. It’s Jeannie’s suicide note.
I read it.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t fight the sadness. I have lived my life believing that my Bapoo hated me and that I hated him too. Now I know I was wrong. My life has become a never ending nightmare and I can’t stand the person I have become. I have been sad for so long now and it is more than I can handle. My world is black. I am a terrible person for what I did and I don’t deserve to live. Angel I know that this will hurt and I know that I am being selfish but this is the only out come left for me. I see no other way out. Please forgive me. Toke I ask for your forgiveness too although I know you will find a way to make due without me. I’m sorry to leave you both this way. I love you Angel. Good bye.
Jeannie Hix Talbert
The letter sinks to my lap as the words and phrases on the page move around in my head, aligning like the internal workings of a combination lock. I can’t believe what is happening. New facts begin to fall into order, making sense of one final loose end. From the next room over, I hear Bob’s voice rise the way voices do when ending a call. He’ll be coming out soon. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the secret I’ve discovered. I need time to think. I take the suicide note and run out the door.
There’s more to Toke’s death, and no one knows it but me. I walk against the breeze, blind to where I’m going. When I look up, I find that I am near a park bench. I wobble over to it and sit down. In my hand I hold the proof—a suicide note from a woman I’ve never met. If I throw the piece of paper away, I’ll leave Buckley heir to the vast farmlands of Arvin Hix. All I have to do is drop this note into the nearest trash can, and I’m golden.
I think about Jeremy. If I had money like that, I could do so much for him. I could set up a trust fund. He would never have to work. He would never want for anything. I could help other autistic kids too. I could start a foundation. I would do that if I were a millionaire. I would be a good man that way—I swear.
A good man. Those three words ricochet back at me and strike me dumb. Weren’t those the words that Lila used as she held out her broken heart for me to see? I’m lying to myself again, trying to rationalize what I know to be wrong. Lila would be ashamed of me if she were here and knew what I was thinking. I hear her voice, soft and sad and all alone in my head: All you had to do was be a decent guy…and you couldn’t do that.
Every muscle in my body seems to slump forward, and I rest my elbows on my knees. I know what I must do. “It’s not my money,” I say to no one. “Nothing I do will ever change that. I’m the only one who can make this right.”
I stand, ready to walk to the Sheriff’s Office, when it occurs to me that if I’m right about the note—which I know I am—the final turn of that combination lock clicking in my head will be found at Dub’s Repair. It’s the key to what Toke did the night he died. I fold the note, put it in my pocket, and make my way to Dub’s.
Chapter 50
“I’m a bit curious myself,” Bob says.
“And why here?” Kimball waves a hand at the walls of the body shop.
“Bob,” I say, ignoring the sheriff. “Did you ever read Jeannie’s suicide note?”
He looks surprised at the question. “I never had a copy…so, no.”
I say, “I found a copy in Moody’s file.”
Kimball, as if needing to explain it, says, “We found it under Angel’s pillow. Thought it might be relevant to the investigation.”
To Kimball, I say, “You also kept a copy of the note in Jeannie’s suicide file, because you thought there might be more to her death than a simple suicide.”
“We had some concerns, yeah.”
“In fact, you suspected that Toke might have had a hand in Jeannie’s death.”
“Toke had an alibi.” Kimball pauses to look around the body shop. “He was working down here that night.”
I pull the suicide note out of my pocket and hand it to Bob. “This is her note. Give it a read and tell me what you think.”
“You stole her note from the file?” Kimball barks, though Bob is already reading the note, his eyes narrow.
“This isn’t right,” Bob says.
“What’s not right?” Kimball asks.
“This letter. Jeannie was my legal assistant. She was proficient with grammar.”
“So?” Kimball says.
“There are errors in this note. She writes make due, spelling it d-u-e instead of d-o. And goodbye is one word, not two, and so is outcome.”
“You may not know this,” Kimball says, “but Jeannie was under the influence of her anxiety medication when she committed suicide. She took enough pills that night that the drugs would have done the job if the noose hadn’t. We didn’t release that to the public.”