Severed

by Corey Brown

  Slater twists the cap off and it makes a wet, sloppy sound. That carbonated release is seductive and satisfying. Slater closes his eyes, tipping the bottle, letting the cold brew fill his mouth and run down his throat. It is exactly what he needs. In seconds, the alcohol rubs away the sharp edges left by the speed.

  Cody watches as Slater swallows the first mouthful, he sees the look on Slater’s face. It is an expression Cody has seen a hundred times over on the faces of alcoholics and substance abusers. It is the same look that Cody is sure appeared on his own face during those nights on the gallery, when he commiserated with Old Number Seven well past the witching hour.

  How bad does it get for Slater, does it drag him down? Does he roll out of bed each day, his body abused, his head in a fog, hanging on by fingertips? Cody glances at Hansen, who is watching Slater, too. Hansen knows about Slater, Cody is certain of that. But Cody also knows Hansen believes in the blue brotherhood, where the bill of rights do not include a First Amendment.

  Slater smiles, flashing a mouthful of cigarette-yellowed teeth. The grin is shallow, disingenuous.

  “I still think you’re an asshole,” Slater says.

  “You’re in the club,” Cody says. “So does everyone else.”

  “You’re both assholes,” Hansen says, shaking his head, happier now that some of the tension is gone. “How about it, did you get a look at the shooter?”

  “Yeah but he was pretty well covered up,” Cody says. “Hat, sunglasses, and from behind the wheel he could be any size, he could be anyone. Do I think he killed Julia Turano? I don’t know. My gut says yes, but since Jamie didn’t get a look at the guy, I can’t compare the two.”

  “Too bad, “Slater says. “It would have been a plus.”

  “Speaking of Jamie,” Hansen says. “How’s she doing? Better?”

  “Shaken up, scared, pissed, all of it, but she’s okay.”

  “Did she know Turano very well?” Slater says. “We’re they friends?”

  Cody shakes his head, swallowing more beer. “No, not really. They knew each other because of Nick and I, they didn’t socialize together.”

  “Then why did she take Ms. Turano to her apartment?”

  “Moral support,” Cody replies. “My wife is like that, she cares about people. I was going to tell Julia what happened to Nick but Jamie insisted, there was no way she was going to let Julia deal with this thing alone.”

  Hansen nods in approval. “You’re a lucky man, Cody.”

  Cody eyes his beer, considers Hansen’s observation. He is a lucky man and Cody wants to tell them just how charmed his life really is, but no way is he taking these two into his confidence. As Cody thinks about how much he loves Jamie, he puzzles over his reticence to tell Hansen and Slater how he feels about his wife. Exactly what is it that feels wrong about the two of them?

  Even more disconcerting, Cody realizes, is how he just now became conscious of his mistrust. Yesterday, his feelings of animosity were based in the desire to handle the case. Now, it is different. The case has taken on a new look, owning it doesn’t really matter, but something about one or both of these detectives seems out of place, covered up, masked.

  Hansen

  But that doesn’t make sense, either. These guys came along when Jamie was in trouble. They seem genuinely concerned about—

  Tell Eric. Tell him now.

  “What?” Cody says, blurting out the words. “Tell him?”

  “I said,” Hansen says, interrupting. “You’re lucky to have someone like…” His words trail off. Hansen stares at Cody, a puzzled look on his face. Hansen opens his mouth to speak, hesitates.

  “Who,” Hansen says, trying to deflect the moment. “Tell who what?”

  Cody looks at Hansen, suddenly feeling off balance. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I’m lucky to have someone like my wife.”

  Hansen narrows his eyes then checks himself, trying to neutralize his expression. “Yes you are, but you started to say something. You said, ‘tell him.’ Tell who, tell them what?”

  “I did?”

  A look of confusion spreads across Cody’s face. Did he say ‘tell him’? It feels like he said that, but Cody cannot remember actually saying those words.

  “You look upset, Briggs,” Slater says. “You okay?”

  “John,” Hansen says, trying to get his partner to shut up. But it is too late. Cody no longer cares about his own cryptic utterance. Instead, Cody is now focused on Slater’s question.

  “Um, yeah,” Cody says. “I’m fine. I was just thinking….”

  Slater raises an eyebrow. “Thinking what?” Slater drains his beer bottle, raises the longneck in salute before tossing it into the garbage. “Got another one?”

  The house phone rings and Hansen knows an opportunity has been lost. Cody starts toward the living room, where the cordless is chirping, he points to the refrigerator and says, “Sure, help yourself, they’re in the door.”

  Just a few steps into the living room and Cody hears the wet, popping sound of another beer bottle being opened. Cody pictures Slater’s face as he takes the first swallow; in his mind it is the look of addiction.

  Cody wonders about how Hansen’s name had been pushed into his head just moments ago. And now he remembers hearing the voice saying, ‘Tell Eric. Tell him now.’ Jesus, Cody thinks, what the hell is happening to me?

  Cody stops walking, considers the two policemen standing in his kitchen. Slater’s addiction and the person of Hansen, are the two linked? At first, the idea seems silly. Cody knows nothing about either one of the detectives. He does not know Hansen, maybe he’s third generation law enforcement, maybe not. And what about Slater? Cody suspects things, believes in Slater is dirty, thinks Hansen is hiding something. But then Hansen may be just what he seems; a cop doing his job. And Slater might be okay, he might be a guy hooked on something, like many other Americans. So, what is really connected?

  Cody turns back to look at the two men. Turning, Cody catches sight of the grandmother clock on the wall, its pendulum swinging slowly back and forth. The phone rings a third time. Two more rings and the caller will go to voicemail. The clock pendulum reminds Cody of someone shaking a head in disapproval. Disapproving of what? Hansen, Slater, what?

  A fifth ring. Cody snatches the phone just before the answering machine would kick in, and presses the talk button, keeping his back to the kitchen. “Briggs,” he says.

  “Cody,” Derek says, “I set it up for ten o’clock in the morning. At the Walmart up in Opelousas, we’ll meet in the food court.”

  “Oh hi, Jamie,” Cody says, wondering why Derek has called the house phone. Cody remembers telling him to use Cody’s cell phone. “Everything all right?” Cody says.

  “Can’t talk?”

  “Not really. But I had the car tuned up a few weeks ago. The garage said not to worry, it’s in great shape. Listen, remember those detectives, Hansen and Slater? Well, they stopped over. We’re talking about Nick’s case. They have it now. Can you call back later, maybe when you find a motel?”

  “Better yet, you call me,” Derek says.

  “Good, that’ll work. What’s that? You’re going to have breakfast at your Uncle Walt’s house around ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Yup. Ten o’clock.”

  “Okay, honey,” Cody says, “I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

  “Cute.”

  Cody hangs up. He wonders if Hansen and Slater heard his side of the conversation. Turning back, purposely avoiding a glance at the clock, he sees Hansen and Slater engaged in conversation, ignoring Cody. But he knows better, Cody knows they had strained to hear every word.

  Chapter 20

  He is crawling through the tunnel on all fours, he is freezing. His bare hands are numb and raw from the rough, icy floor of the cave or the tunnel or wherever the hell he is.

  It is dark, there is no obvious light source, but he can still see well enough. Slowly, he
makes his way forward, upward now, the passageway inclining. Up ahead, a brilliant flash hurts his eyes. He is moving quickly now, no longer crawling. He breaks into a run but before he can reach full stride, he is traveling straight up as if in a high-powered elevator. Another flash of light and he sits bolt upright, water splashing everywhere.

  Stunned, David Carlson finds himself, fully clothed, sitting up to his chest in a tub of ice-cold water. He had been asleep, and apparently dreaming.

  “What…what the hell?” David stammers, looking around. He struggles to lift himself out of the tub and like a washrag, water drains from his clothes, flooding the bathroom floor. In disbelief, he stands staring at the bathtub.

  “How the hell did I get in there?” He says.

  David shivers, wraps his arms around himself for warmth. His skin is pallid and wrinkled. It is clear he had been in the tub for quite some time.

  Resisting the obvious emotions, the ones that tell him he is losing his mind, questions fill David’s head. Why had he been in the tub? What time is it? Why the hell was he in a tub full of water wearing his clothes? David looks at his watch. It is stopped on the day’s date, a little after one-thirty. The watch had been a gift from his parents and now it is ruined. But one-thirty gives him a starting point. It must have been when he decided to take a bath.

  “A bath in my goddamned clothes?” David says, almost shouting. He glances out at the clock next to the bed. Five-twenty. Evening or morning?

  Trailing water, David walks over to the window near the Jacuzzi. The position of sun, hanging low in the west, tells him it is early evening. But what day? Taking in the room, he notices that everything is as he last remembered. The luggage is still placed neatly in front of the closet, his laptop travel bag still on the nightstand. The bed still trim, it has not been used. Even his drink, three shots of Johnny Walker Blue, remains where he dropped it, the carpet still wet and stained.

  Nothing is out of place. David guesses he must have been asleep, or something, for about four hours. It is still today, the same day he had arrived in New Orleans. At least he thinks so. Had he spent the night in the tub, he reasons, the housekeeping staff surely would have discovered him in the morning, presumably waking him, probably calling nut police.

  The message light on the bedside phone is flashing. David stares at it, frowns then walks over and lifts the handset, presses zero.

  “Good evening, Mr. Carlson. How may I help you?”

  He feels a draft, he shivers violently. “Um, is there a message for me?” David tries not to let his teeth chatter.

  “Yes Sir,” the operator says. “You have two messages. Ms. Suzanne Carlson called and asked that you return her call as soon as possible. She said you knew her number.”

  “Yes, okay, and the other message?”

  “Mrs. Clark called to say thank you and asked that you call her, as well.”

  “I see,” David says. “Can you connect me with Mrs. Clark’s room?”

  “Certainly. One moment, please.”

  David steels himself, his lower lip quivering. He regrets not waiting until he is warm and dry before calling Sawyer Clark. But he didn’t want to keep her waiting. After a few moments, he hears the operator’s voice again.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carlson, Mrs. Clark is not answering. Do you wish to leave a message?”

  “No,” David says. Then he thinks better of it. “Wait. Yes, I would. Please tell her dinner is at eight, and that I’ll meet her in the lobby at seven-thirty.”

  “Very good, Mr. Carlson. Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, can you make the dinner reservation for me?”

  “Of course. Where will you be dining?

  “Arnaud’s.”

  “Will you need transportation?”

  “No, we’ll…” David reconsiders. The restaurant is not far, but the temperature outside is still a record high and their attire will be formal. Making Sawyer walk in heels would not be cool, not the kind of thing a man who just won an Oscar would do. “Yes,” David says. “Yes, I will.”

  “Dinner for two at Arnaud’s, Eight o’clock. A cab will be waiting.”

  “Make it a limo.”

  “Very good, a limousine will be ready.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  Still shivering, David goes back to the bathroom. He peels off his shirt and wrings the water into the tub. As he spreads the shirt open to hang it on a towel rod, he notices the seams are stretched, nearly torn apart. He frowns, but tosses the shirt over the bar and strips off the rest of his clothing.

  Reaching into the icy water, David pulls the plug to drain the tub. Despite the fact that he had spent some untold amount of time sitting in water, he decides a hot shower is the best way to warm up. But David glances at himself in the mirror and stops cold: his body is crisscrossed with fresh welts, raw and raised stripes as if he had been whipped.

  «»

  They began with a bottle of Dom Perignon in the limousine. At Arnaud’s the appetizer was Duck Rillettes followed by Roast Louisiana Quail Elzey and Fillet Mignon. Dinner was fabulous and the wine had flowed as inhibitions ebbed. The wait staff treated them like royalty and the pleasant evening that began with a bottle of champagne evolved into the perfect night.

  At first, David had worried Sawyer might have seen or heard the news reports from the night of the Academy Awards. Or, more accurately, that she might have heard what happened the day after the ceremonies. Worried so much so, that he had been tempted to cancel their dinner date all together. But as the evening progressed it was clear that she had not heard the stories. In fact, Sawyer had no idea who he was or even that he had won an Oscar until the maître d' recognized David and quietly asked for his autograph.

  Sawyer Clark could hardly believe it, her date was David Carlson. The David Carlson, the man who had collected an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay just a few nights before. He was famous, attractive, witty, worldly and at the same time David was an everyman; the kind of guy who was easy to be with. Most importantly, he was his own man.

  Despite attempts to do otherwise, most of the evening had focused on David’s career. But he had expected this. After all, he was famous. And wealthy.

  “What’s it like in Hollywood?” Sawyer had asked during dinner. “What’s it like making movies?”

  David explained that he did not make movies. He wrote the screenplays, the stories the movies told. Nor did he live in Hollywood. In fact, he avoided the star scene as much as he could.

  “I really don’t consider myself an insider, but I guess I am now,” David had concluded.

  Later, as news of his presence spread throughout the restaurant, the manger asked to take David’s picture so it could be hung in the lounge. David was tempted to wave him off but he knew this was Arnaud’s trademark: the cigar bar was a photo gallery of famous people who had visited the restaurant. As the manager snapped the picture, David had smiled inwardly. His mug would be up there with the Hollywood greats, Loretta Young, Eastwood, Kirk Douglas.

  Now, standing outside, the heat of the day lingers, the pungent street smells of the French Quarter hang heavy in the warm night air. David hands the limo driver five, one hundred dollar bills and thanks him for waiting.

  “We’re gonna walk for a while,” David says.

  “Thank you Mr. Carlson,” the driver gushes, looking at the cash. “You’re too generous, but are you sure about walking?”

  “Completely. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  The limo driver hesitates, looks hard into David’s eyes. “The ‘Quarter isn’t what it used to be. I’ll park and follow along just in case. Off the clock.”

  Grateful, David smiles and puts a hand on the driver’s shoulder, gives him a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Very good. Have a pleasant night.”

  The vehicle pulls away and David faces Sawyer, taking her in again. Wearing a b
urgundy dress that stops seductively just above the knee, Sawyer looks magnificent. Softly curling auburn hair frames her friendly face. Around her neck, a single diamond hangs from a delicate gold chain. Her blue-green eyes seem to dance with the sound of her gentle voice.

  Sawyer is older than David, but they have so much in common the age gap feels meaningless. She is elegant and sophisticated, energetic. Thinking back, David wonders if he hadn’t sensed this about her from the very beginning, when they first met on the airplane.

  David offers Sawyer his arm. Smiling, she takes it and they walk down Bienville Street toward the Mississippi River.

  “So where do you get your ideas?” Sawyer says. “As I said at dinner, I’m not really a fan of scary stuff and I’ve never seen one of your movies----”

  “Screenplays,” David says, interrupting. “My screenplays, Wendy Ekerson’s movies.”

  Sawyer squeezes his arm playfully. “Okay, okay I’ve never seen the cinematic result of your work, but I’m fascinated by how you do it. How do you come up with the stories?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you.”

  Sawyer wrinkles her nose. “Why not? Is it some trade secret?”

  “No, it’s not that.” David shrugs. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. Things come to me. Early in my career, I would have just a sliver of an idea. It might come to me while I was reading the newspaper or buying groceries, then I’d have to build it into a complete story. It was a lot of work, months of typing and retyping, editing, rewriting. It was tough, but now...” his voice trails off.

  “Now?” Sawyer says.

  David shrugs again. “Well, now it seems I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and have the whole thing in my head. I mean, it’s practically written itself, and all I have to do is type.”