by Corey Brown
Suddenly, David misses his sister, feels lost without her. He feels both weak and flushed with anger. He is the hottest screenwriter alive, why should he need his older sister like this, like a little lost boy?
Why do I need anyone? David thinks. I have money, respect in the industry and, now with that Oscar, I have fame.
This is another strange thing that has been happening, and it always seems to arrive on the heels of those intense feelings of lust; he finds himself resenting people, resenting everyone. Sometimes he resents his sister most of all.
David shakes off the feeling, decides he’s going crazy. What is he thinking? He loves Suzanne more than anything. Now the emotional pendulum swings back the other way and he finds himself missing her again. He knows Suzanne’s office would have handled the power spike just fine without her. How hard would it be to get a few new refrigerators? They were smart people, they’d have figured things out, she should have left with him. And why the hell is she working there anyway? He makes more than enough for the both of them.
He sighs, fidgets with an ashtray lid. He knows it’s not the money. Suzanne is generous by nature and working at the shelter is simply an extension of that trait. A strong sense of commitment laces her personality, so she would have stayed behind to handle the crisis even if she was a volunteer. Of course, the crisis he had created had not made her life any easier. Winning the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay had been a thrill, but the day after had been something less than pleasurable. David sighs again. Suzanne will be along in two days, he wishes she were here now.
Despite the privilege First Class enjoys when exiting, David waits for the plane to empty. As the stragglers collect their carry-on luggage, David stands, pulling his bag from the overhead compartment. She watches him walk toward her and smiles.
“Have a pleasant day,” the flight attendant says, her southern accent even more alluring in person.
“Thanks you, too.”
Furtively, David glances down at her left hand; elegant fingers crowned by perfectly manicured, red nails. He catches sight of the wedding ring and disappointment replaces anticipation. There will be no dinner date tonight. There will be no after dinner date, either.
In spite of the gold band, desire and the now familiar surge of energy presses its way into David’s head and groin simultaneously.
“Is this your first visit to the Crescent City?” she says.
David smiles, shakes his head. “Oh no, I grew up here. I’m just back for a quick visit.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Good question,” David says. He shrugs. “An anniversary of sorts.”
The flight attendant gives him a playful look and says, “That’s cryptic.” The look changes abstrusely, playful becomes almost coy, conspiratorial. “Are you staying with family?”
“No, I’m at the Intercontinental.”
“Well, enjoy your visit, Mister Carlson.”
“It’s just David. David Carlson. And you are?”
Their eyes lock. And there is a connection, an exchange.
“Sawyer Clark,” she says.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sawyer.”
“The Intercontinental is very nice,” she says. “You’ll like it there.”
“Is it? I’ve never been.”
“Yes it is. In fact, I’m staying there myself.”
«»
Cody pulls into his driveway and kills the engine. He shifts his cell phone to the other ear. “Everything?” He says. “Everything’s gone? Fabulous. All right, is Fletcher around? Um, okay, can I leave a message for him? Have him call me on my cell. Yeah, he’s got the number. Thanks.”
Cody disconnects and stares at the phone.
“Who the hell would start a fire in the Criminal District Court building?” Cody says out loud. “Now I’ll probably never know what happened to Nick.
Cody glances over his shoulder. He knows they are there but doesn’t want to be obvious. This is intriguing. He is used to being the watcher not the other way around. But for some reason it does not bother him. Cody grabs the manila envelope Derek Simmons had given him and exits out of the car.
Down the block, Hansen rolls the car to a quiet stop.
“Briggs went home?” Slater says. “Why home?”
“He knows we’re watching him.” Hansen says. “Did you see him look this way?”
“Yeah, I saw. Why would he go home?”
“He’s got that package. The son of a bitch is up to something.”
Cody climbs the front porch and stops, looks around. Has it been only twenty-four hours since he had learned of Nick’s murder? And what about Todd? Cody hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning. It does not feel right, he misses his son.
Reaching for the knob, Cody hesitates. The door is unlatched. He swallows, tries not to look around. He doesn’t want Slater and Hansen to see that something is wrong. On the other hand, if someone is inside having a couple of extra cops around might be helpful. Cody thinks about the situation. Did he forget to close it last night? Should he get their attention, wave them over?
With his toe he gently pushes on the door, it swings open a few inches. He checks the doorjamb, looks for signs of an intruder. Nothing, no forced entry. Maybe Jamie had stopped by the house. Carefully, Cody grips his pistol but does not pull it free. He steps inside, pushes the door shut then draws his weapon. He stands motionless for several minutes, gun at arm’s length, listening for someone, anything.
From the foyer, Cody can see the living room on his left. The overstuffed couch and matching chairs, cherry end tables, everything is in place. Ahead and to his right, the dining room is partially obscured. He can see one chair and part of the dining table, but nothing else. On his immediate right, only a few feet away, is a coat closet. In his mind, he can see Julia Turano as she stood a foot from her own closet door. He can picture the gun just inches from her head.
Cody spins, half expecting an explosion of gunfire and splintering of wood, and presses his back against the wall next to the closet door. But nothing happens. Cautiously, he opens the closet door. Empty.
He takes two silent steps toward the dining room then glances through the kitchen doorway. A visual sweep of the kitchen tells him no one is there, either. Room by room, closet by closet, Cody checks the rest of the house. Returning to the living room he relaxes, the house is empty, he is alone.
Now that he is sure no one else is in the house, Cody takes his time rechecking, looking for signs of disturbance, searching for reasons for an intrusion. But nothing is out of place. If someone did break in, robbery was not the motive. With the exception of the unlatched front door, the house appears to be exactly as they had left it yesterday morning.
“What the hell’s he doing in there?” Slater says, feeling a fog in his head. The speed is wearing off and he is considering a second hit. “It’s been almost an hour.”
“Well, don’t forget he lives there,” Hansen says. “He might stay here all day.”
“He’d better not. We got other things to do. We should wire the place. He could be on the phone, for all we know he’s meeting someone in there.”
“Let’s sit tight for another couple of hours,” Hansen says. “If nothing shakes out, we’ll track down Fletcher and see if he can tell us anything about Wheaton.”
“Why not call him?” Slater says.
Hansen gives him a look. “Where are you going to call him?” he says. “His office? Or didn’t that burn with the rest of the building?”
“He’s gotta have a cell.”
“You know the number?”
“Well, no.”
Nothing. Cody cannot find a single clue about the intruder or his activities. That is, if a break-in had ever taken place. Relieved and frustrated, Cody sits down on the couch, takes a calming breath, stares at the manila envelope. He unwinds the string that ties the flap shut and spreads the contents onto the coffee table.
There are three sets of document
s comprised of several folders rubber-banded together. Each set has a note listing the attending physician: Finlay, Sheldon and Harris. Cody strips the rubber band off the stack labeled Finlay and begins reading.
Immediately, Cody realizes he is looking at confidential information, the actual patient records. He opens the Sheldon file, wonders how Harris had obtained these records so quickly. Quickly? How had he gotten them in the middle of the night?
After another few moments of skimming the Sheldon records, Cody replaces them on the coffee table. He decides to follow the events chronologically, starting with Doctor Finlay’s patients. Cody notices his palms are clammy and drags them across his thighs, drying them on his blue jeans. Then he settles in for some serious reading.
Filtering through the technical language is, at times, cumbersome but even Cody can see that what Harris had outlined about these people’s deaths is recorded in these documents. Two of the six Finlay patients died within a week and all showed signs of rape and physical abuse. All six had become pregnant but none of the babies of the surviving women had lived.
Sheldon’s patient was quite different. None of the violence was present, which was to be expected since Mrs. Mueller had been with Pastor Mueller and not a stranger. Moreover, her pregnancy is still active. Cody frowns, wrinkles his forehead in surprise, the due date is only six weeks away. Cody notices Sheldon’s records did not make note of Pastor Mueller’s death. He considers an interview with Mrs. Mueller.
Harris’ folder is thicker than the other two files. Cody already knows what the records will tell him but he reads them anyway. He knows two men died in the arms of their wives but not before climax, not before getting their wives pregnant. Cody knows that two wealthy women, now widows, are connected to each other through their obstetrician. And their pregnancies.
Setting the paperwork aside, Cody picks up the videocassette and scans the label. The Destroyer. He isn’t familiar with the title but he recognizes some of the stars. Kim Withersby and Doug Reed are big names. He’s heard of Gil Hollinger, too. Cody squints to read the fine print. It is an MGM film, directed by Wendy Ekerson, another Hollywood power hitter. He crosses the room to the VCR and starts to load the tape but there is another tape already in the player. Cody presses the eject button, the machine spits out a cassette and he sets it aside. Cody glances at the title, his mouth forms a wry smile.
Dead Man Walking.
How ironic.
Inserting the movie into the VCR, pushing play, Cody heads into the kitchen letting the previews roll past. Emerging with a bowl of Captn’ Crunch and a carton of orange juice, he elbows the medical paperwork aside and puts the food on the coffee table. Before sitting down, Cody tugs on the front window curtain.
Slater and Hansen are still there, waiting in the heat of the day, their police-issue Ford still idling away. Cody lets the curtain fall back into place. Pressing fast forward on the remote to skip the FBI warning, Cody settles in to watch The Destroyer.
Chapter 18
“Yes a dozen. No, just red. Does the hotel have a masseuse? Good. When Mrs. Clark checks in, please arrange for a private session at her convenience. Oh, and make sure a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet 1992 Ramonet arrives with the masseuse. Also, my sister, Ms. Suzanne Carlson, will be staying in the room adjacent to mine, please make all the same arrangements for her. Be sure the roses are fresh and don’t deliver the bouquet for my sister until tomorrow. Yes. That’s correct, everything is to be billed to my room. And your name is? Mr. Ballard? Oh, you’re the assistant manager here at the Intercontinental? Excellent. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Ballard. I won’t forget it.”
David replaces the handset and drops into a gray, leather chair. It was one of a pair that matches the small sofa. Centered between the three pieces of furniture is an impressive stone coffee table.
He surveys the room, it is large and palatial. An enormous television occupies the wall to his right. Expensive-looking works of art hang on the walls. David wonders if any of it is original. A sheepish smile works onto his face, like he would know the difference?
Across the room is a mirror-finish walnut bar with two matching barstools. Behind the bar is a pewter and glass liquor cabinet, laden with premium stock. David stands and crosses over to the cabinet, inspecting the cache more closely. A bottle of Johnny Walker Blue catches his eye. Nodding in approval, he pours three fingers into a tumbler.
Drink in hand, David moves to a large window offering a view of the city skyline. Instantly, he feels the heat radiating through the glass. Sawyer Clark, the flight attendant, had been right; the day was blistering. He takes a sip of the scotch, takes pleasure in the subtle burn as the drink goes down.
Walking to the bedroom, David stops in the doorway, the luxury taking him by surprise again. Near another large window, this one overlooking the river, is a raised marble floor surrounding an intimate Jacuzzi tub. Ten feet away is another, smaller walnut bar top, two more barstools and more alcohol. A subtle design in the sculptured carpeting blends the stone and wood together beneath low lighting. In the center of the room, a Mission style, king-sized bed.
Without warning, images of Sawyer Clark crash into David’s mind. In his imagination she is naked and writhing beneath him on the bed. These thoughts come on like that blast of heat at the window and he finds himself struggling to remain standing. Before he knows it is happening, he becomes aroused. David feels nauseous. His fingers loosen on the tumbler, the glass drops to the floor.
As if blind drunk, David staggers backward, tripping over his own feet. He stumbles to the bathroom, bumping against the doorjamb and drops to his knees. On all fours, David crawls to the toilet, hanging his head over the commode in anticipation of expelling his breakfast. But nothing comes, his last meal remains intact. He fights the sick feeling that seems to be permeating every inch of his body. After a few moments, the nausea dulls, and the sharp edge of illness is sanded away.
Unsteady, sweating, David gets to his feet, a hard and painful erection burns between his legs. His skin feels tight, like it is stretched over a drum, like he is trying to escape his own body. David looks at himself in the mirror. Large ovals of sweat stain the armpits of his shirt and his face drips with perspiration.
“What the hell is happening to me?” David says, his voice sounding like the morning after a hard night in Tijuana.
Just getting out those few words is a struggle. His throat feels thick and rough and hoarse. Turning away from the mirror, his eyes search the bathroom, searching for what he does not know. The little clarity he still possesses is fast being overtaken by mind-numbing lust. It is powerful, raw and he has to satisfy it---- some way, any way. Somehow, David knows he must have Sawyer Clark.
Once more, his mind fills with images of….who? The figures that now appear in his imagination are not Sawyer, but they feel like her, sound like her, they seem like her. In the distance David hears a noise. What is that, the phone?
Momentarily, the anomalous sound draws his attention, but the power of desire quickly chokes out all other thoughts. The sound stops. David feels sick again, his body sways. Now the strangely familiar sound is back, it is electronic, artificial. It has to be the phone.
David’s skin seems to stretch even tighter, becoming almost painful. Somewhere, mingling with the erotic mental images of the enchanting Sawyer Clark is the apperception of death. That thought drifts through his mind like a cold October mist. Then the idea that he is about to die is replaced by a curtain of blackness, descending slowly at first then falling in a rush. Just before he is consumed by narcosis, David feels a hand on his shoulder.
Chapter 19
Cody sits with his fingers laced together, his chin resting on his thumbs. He stares at the medical records spread out on the coffee table. A bowl of milk and cereal, a half empty carton of Minute Maid orange juice, the remains of his breakfast are on the floor. The VCR spins, rewinding the movie The Destroyer. The player clicks several times and Cody hears the tape grind to
a halt. He registers this sound as the device changes modes, switching from rewind to stop.
After a time, he stands and walks to the spare bedroom. Opening the closet, Cody pulls down a shoebox. Lifting the box lid, he removes an old telephone and a small electronic device with a liquid crystal display. He connects the phone to the device, the device to a telephone wall jack inside the closet. Then he dials Derek Simmons.
“Simmons.” The FBI agent’s voice is deep, self-assured.
“Derek, it’s me.”
“Cody?” Derek says. “Who the hell is Paul Morgan? That’s who shows on my caller ID.”
“It’s a private line, with a signal monitor in case of a tap. The account bills a bogus name to a P.O. box. Jamie doesn’t even know about it.”
“Pretty cool. So, what’s up, everything okay?”
Cody blows out his breath. “Hell, I have no idea what is up. That info Harris gave me….there’s some weird shit happening. Listen, can you arrange a meet with Harris?”
“I guess so,” Derek says. Cody detects hesitation in Derek’s voice. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“No, I gotta talk to him myself,” Cody says.
“But I thought you wanted me to be the go between.”
“I did. It’s all different, now.”
“Goddamnit, Cody. What’s going on?”
“Look, just arrange the meet. When we----”
“No way, man,” Derek says, interrupting. “Not until you bring me in.”
