by Ellis, T. W.
Then, anarchy.
Rusty blows another smoke ring and wonders which of her thoughts are her own and which are the manifestations of the grass in her mind. She explores her mind with a detective’s tenacity, interviewing it, interrogating it for answers until her mind exists as two separate entities: co-existing, communicating, debating and arguing. Each thought is countered by an alternative thought until two sides of a rapid-fire discourse are battling to be heard above the other and she doesn’t know which is which.
Does that mean there is now a third mind listening to the other two in conversation?
Is Rusty a spectator to herself?
And if she is, can the two other minds inhabiting the same space hear her?
Yes, one says.
No, says the other.
Rusty slaps her cheeks, bringing those minds back together in one. She exhales and slows her racing heart. She places the joint on the lip of a nearby ashtray.
Maybe that’s enough serenity for one night.
Her flip phone vibrates, startling her.
It’s Sabrowski calling.
What the devil does he think he’s doing calling her in the middle of the night? Rusty lets it ring. She’s too stoned to talk to her trooper, even to chastise him for this unprecedented discourtesy.
The vibrating stops in time and Rusty wonders if perhaps it was Sabrowski’s skinny butt making the call by mistake. That’s something that doesn’t happen with a flip phone, she thinks with a delightful smugness.
Then the phone vibrates a second time. Sabrowski again.
Not an ass-dial after all.
Rusty is intrigued and scared in equal measure.
She opens up her phone, and says, ‘This is the chief.’
Sabrowski’s voice is thinner than he is. ‘Sorry to call so late, Rust, but there’s … We got a bad one here. You’d better … There’s a corpse. We need you … I—’
‘Where, Officer?’
‘The Talhoffer residence.’
10:41 p.m.
The folded piece of paper I take from Carlson’s glovebox is a computer printout of a picture, a face. Colour. Decent quality but nowhere near photograph resolution.
The face is Leo’s.
Why does Carlson have a computer printout of my husband’s face?
I don’t know, but I know one thing: if he has an association with Leo, if he knows Leo, then there’s no legitimate reason to have such a picture. Is there?
I imagine Carlson sitting in his car. Maybe in town. Maybe along the highway. Maybe at the intersection. He has the piece of paper unfolded on the dash or passenger seat or in his lap. He glances at it every now and again when he sees a man pass by, checking if that man matches the face in the picture.
Leo doesn’t work for Carlson.
Carlson doesn’t know Leo at all.
Oh God, not Carlson too.
I’m breathing so hard the windows are beginning to steam up. I re-fold the paper and go to put it back inside the glovebox. I stop midway, open it up again to take a closer look.
The photograph is of Leo’s face but it’s no passport-style headshot. It’s a zoomed-in section of a larger picture. Behind Leo in the background are red bricks, which makes me think that it was taken somewhere in town. That can’t be the case. Leo’s hair is different, longer than it’s been in years, since before we moved here. He’s younger. Tanned. I stare at Leo’s face, at the red bricks behind him. I know this picture. I know I do. Come on, Jem, think. Remember.
Rome.
That’s where it was taken. Ten years ago, in Rome. Where I met Leo. I took this picture. He’s sat on a bench in a square. I’d known him all of three days at this point, when he was still little more than a handsome stranger who asked what I was reading.
As far as I know the photograph is at my house, in an album. It’s a proper old-school one. I took it with Leo’s Nikon. That camera is at the house too, in its case and gathering dust as it has been for years now.
How did Carlson get the photo?
I put the sheet back where I found it. I close the glove compartment. I climb out of the car and into the moonlight. It seems colder now. The woods seem darker. There’s no beauty in this night, only danger.
I need to get out of here.
But I’m going nowhere on foot. I’ve learned that mistake the hard way. Even wearing sneakers I’m not running through the woods. Not even if I was wearing Carlson’s good shoes.
Carlson’s good shoes.
Of course. How could I not have noticed before?
High quality. Excellent craftsmanship. Expensive. Too expensive for a government salary.
If only I knew how to hotwire a car I could drive off right away. I’ve seen them crossing wires in movies and the engine magically whirring into life but it’s not going to be that easy. I wouldn’t even know how to get the steering column off in the first place, let alone what wires I need to cross.
I need Carlson’s car keys.
They’re back in Trevor’s cabin. They’re with Carlson.
I make my way back along the track. I’m slower crossing the driveway this time because I’m trying to be even quieter and I’m apprehensive about this course of action. I’m doubting myself with every slow, short step.
Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation for the picture in Carlson’s glovebox. Maybe he’s sweet on Leo.
Keep it together, Jem. Don’t talk yourself out of this.
As I open the front door and it’s soundless, I’m even more grateful for Trevor’s fastidious maintenance. I slip inside, gaze on Carlson’s sleeping form, upright on the sofa. He looks harmless. He looks trustworthy.
Should I confront him? Demand to know what he’s doing with a photograph of my husband?
No, I don’t want to back him into a corner. I can’t know how he’ll react.
If he’s cornered, he might be dangerous.
I think of Trevor.
I don’t want to leave him here with Carlson, but I don’t see any other option. I’m not going to creep upstairs and somehow wake him up and warn him without waking up Merlin in the process. Hard to sneak back out with an angry dog barking.
Trevor has a gun, I remember. A rifle. He can defend himself should he need to do so. I don’t think he will need to, because Carlson will no doubt come straight after me once he realises what’s happened.
I don’t close the door again. I leave it ajar so I can make a hasty exit should I need to do so.
Carlson’s head is lolled to one side and his mouth is open as it was a few minutes ago. I’m nervous regardless. I creep across the floorboards, wincing at any noise they make, my soft footsteps seeming like angry stomps.
I approach the coffee table. Carlson’s things are resting on the cut-down door next to where he’s sleeping. His phone is there. His wallet too.
And his car keys.
I control my breathing as I near, one slow footstep at a time. It takes an eternity to pass the sofa and reach the coffee table. I stand still for a moment, looking down at Carlson.
Is he fast asleep?
Is he faking?
I swallow. I edge closer. I reach out a hand towards his things. They’re in a neat little pile. Phone on the bottom, then wallet. Car keys resting on the top. I swallow again. My fingertips inch towards them.
Carlson stirs.
The breath catches in my throat.
I yank my hand back, but his eyes remain closed. His breathing remains regular. It takes me a few seconds to calm down, to control my anxiety. I try again. I reach out, my gaze on Carlson’s face the entire time my fingers are approaching the keys.
I touch them. My fingers close on them like a pincer.
I know they’re going to make a noise when I lift them up. They’re going to clink. It’s going to be a quiet sound, but will it be enough to wake up Carlson? He could be a light sleeper. He might not even be asleep.
He’s set a trap for you, Jem.
He’s left the keys here to tes
t you.
He wants to see if you believe his story. He wants to know if he can rely on you. He wants to know if you’re the kind of problem he can do without.
I try to silence the voice inside my head. That endless, lingering doubt that sabotages all of my decisions, my actions, is no good to me at the best of times, least of all now.
I focus.
I try to focus.
You can do it, Jem.
I lift the keys.
The metallic clink is soft, I know it is, but in the silence of Trevor’s cabin it’s a chorus of steel drums. I wince. I grimace. I try and keep my grip consistent and move them towards me at a steady pace.
I don’t blink the entire time. My eyes remain open and my focus is on Carlson’s face, looking for trembling eyelids, looking for any kind of reaction at all.
There is none.
I swallow and close my hand around the keys as I back away. I still can’t blink until I reach the door because I’m still expecting Carlson to spring up from the sofa in some terrifying surprise attack. But he doesn’t.
He’s not faking. There’s no test. He really is asleep.
Outside, I don’t notice the cold. I pull the door shut and back away across the drive. I don’t dare turn round until I reach the turn in the track, when the trees are shielding me. I hurry the last stretch to Carlson’s car, pulling open the driver’s door and sliding behind the wheel.
I glance into the rear-view: no one.
I’m shaking so much I can’t get the key into the ignition on the first try, or even the third.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and try and find a way to calm down. The more I think, however, the more I shake.
Leo.
I think of Leo. I picture his smiling face. I remember the warmth of his embrace and the happiness and peace I only have when I’m with him. It works.
My fingers regain their dexterity and the key slides in and I turn it.
The starter motor whines but the engine fails to start.
‘Oh no, don’t do this to me.’
Is it the cold? Is it something else? I’ve no idea. I’m no mechanic.
I try again, the starter motor whining so much I’m sure I’m waking up the entire forest. The engine remains silent.
I glance into the rear-view: again, no one.
I look at the dashboard. No engine warning light is glowing. There’s fuel in the tank. The oil gauge shows plenty. Everything looks fine. I can see no obvious reason for the unresponsive engine.
Maybe Carlson sabotaged the vehicle to ensure I couldn’t escape.
Oh God, this is the test.
In my head I can see him stirring on the sofa, hearing the whine of the starter motor and leaping up, rushing to the door, sprinting across the driveway with his gun, about to round the bend in the track at any moment.
I try the ignition again. The engine starts up.
I glance into the rear-view: someone.
10:50 p.m.
A dark silhouette against the backdrop of trees. A hint of detail in silver moonlight. A man, nearing. I’m paralysed with fear, but only for a moment.
Not Carlson. Trevor.
He approaches the car, me.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
Trevor grumbles. ‘What am I doing? What are you doing?’
‘No time for that,’ I tell him. ‘We need to get out of here. Jump in.’
He’s confused. Of course he’s confused. ‘And why exactly do we need to do that?’
‘You were right about Carlson,’ I say. ‘Something’s wrong with him. He doesn’t know Leo like he claimed he did. I don’t have time to explain. Just get in. Please.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Trevor, there’s no time. Get in the car. We need to go before he wakes up.’
Trevor shakes his head. ‘I’m not leaving my home. If something’s wrong then we’d best go back and find out what it is.’
I gesture for Trevor to get in. ‘Please, Trevor. Get in the car or I’m going to have to leave you here.’
He says, ‘You mean, like you were all set to do before I showed up and spoiled your plan?’
‘I didn’t want to leave you, I swear. But I’m scared, Trevor. I couldn’t tell you what I was doing without alerting Carlson. It’s me he’s interested in, not you.’
Trevor thinks for a moment, then says, ‘You show up at my cabin with this man, you assure me he can be trusted, and now you’re scared of him? Jem, you don’t make a whole lot of sense.’
‘Believe me, I understand that. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Trevor, I’ve had a hell of a day so far. People have tried to kill me. I still don’t understand why and I don’t know who I can trust. I don’t know anything except that I need to get out of here right now. I don’t want to leave you here with Carlson. I swear I wouldn’t have just driven off if I thought there was a way of waking you without alerting him, but I had no other option. I don’t want to leave you now, so don’t make me. Get in the car. Come with me. I’ll do my best to explain and if after that point you don’t want to stay with me, I’ll pull right over and let you out. Or take you to town or wherever else. But that’s then. That’s ten minutes from now. Now, I’m going. So, for once in your life, just trust someone else. Just get in the damn car.’
Trevor does.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and put the transmission in drive.
Trevor is looking back through the rear windshield the entire time it takes me to negotiate the winding dirt track.
‘Merlin will be fine,’ I tell him. ‘Carlson isn’t interested in a dog. As soon as he realises we’re gone he’s going to take your truck and come after us. He’s not going to give Merlin a second thought. We need to be long gone by the time Carlson knows it.’
‘I understand,’ Trevor says, trying to pretend he’s not worried. ‘I’m more concerned with Carlson running himself off the road. My truck pulls to the left like an SOB.’
Once we’re on the highway I lean across Trevor and open the glovebox. I shove the folded piece of paper into Trevor’s hands.
‘Who’s this pretty boy?’ he asks.
‘That’s Leo,’ I tell him. ‘That’s my husband.’
‘Bit young for you, don’t you think?’
‘Firstly, that’s an old photograph. Secondly, even if it weren’t, any age difference is none of your business. Where’s your manners?’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘I’m in no mood to be judged, Trevor.’
‘You said it was an old photograph.’
‘That’s not the point,’ I snap. ‘Anyway, what’s Carlson doing with a photograph of Leo if he knows Leo?’
Trevor doesn’t answer.
‘He wouldn’t need it, would he?’
‘To show people?’ Trevor offers.
I shake my head. ‘Then it wouldn’t be an old photograph. It’s not like Leo has changed a great deal over the past decade but if you needed to show someone a picture of anyone you’d used a recent one, wouldn’t you? I know I would.’
‘I would too,’ Trevor agrees with a nod. ‘Not that I have pictures of anyone to show anyone.’
‘Not even an ex-girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Not even Merlin?’
‘Why would I need a picture of my dog? I see him every moment of every day.’
I want to tell Trevor that Merlin won’t be around for ever, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that perhaps having photographs of Merlin will help when he’s gone. I’m not sure if Trevor is wilfully ignorant or just doesn’t want to admit it. Either way, I don’t press on that matter.
‘Trevor,’ I say, ‘why are you up anyway, and why are you dressed?’
He shrugs. ‘Was taking a leak if you must know.’
‘You get dressed to take a leak?’
‘No, I sleep in my clothes so when I have to get up in the night to take a leak I don’t need to get dressed to use the latrine. G
ets kind of cold at night up here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
He pauses, then says, ‘You know, you could have just told me Carlson had a picture of your husband. Would have been quicker than that fancy speech you gave me about trust.’
‘Yeah.’ I’m loath to admit he’s right. ‘I just worked that out myself.’
‘Good speech, though.’
I smile at Trevor. He smiles back.
‘Where we going now?’ he says.
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
We’re heading back towards town because Trevor’s cabin lies to its north and I happened to turn that way from the track that leads to his cabin. Doing so makes me nervous, but as I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know where I’m going, any direction has to be as good as another.
‘There,’ I say, leaning forward.
Trevor says, ‘What am I looking at?’
I gesture over the steering wheel. ‘Near the stop sign.’
A payphone.
I hadn’t noticed how rare they had become, or maybe always were. I don’t remember the last time I needed to use one. I don’t remember the last time I used one at all. But they still exist as relics of an earlier, simpler time.
A better time.
‘Wait here,’ I tell Trevor as I encourage him to hand over coins.
‘Where else am I going to go?’ he remarks.
I feed in quarters. I don’t know how many to use. I don’t know how this thing works but it does. I punch in Leo’s cell phone number.
It rings and rings and rings and rings.
‘This is Leo, leave a message after the tone.’
I wait for the tone, then say, ‘Leo, baby, I don’t know what’s going on but you’re in real trouble. People have tried to kill me today. God, I … I’m so confused. I’m so lost. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust anyone named Wilks or Carlson. Don’t go to the house. Stay away from town. I don’t have my cell. I’m calling you from a payphone. I’ve been looking for one all day. Why are they so hard to find? Baby, I’m trying to get to the bottom of this. I don’t want to say any more on the phone. They could be listening. I’ll call again when I can. God, I hope you’re okay. In fact, you probably should—’
