Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  MEMORIAL DAY

  A Mick Callahan Mystery

  By

  Harry Shannon

  This is for my wife Wendy, and my daughter Paige Emerson

  © 2010 Harry Shannon

  "All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for a good man to do nothing."

  —Sir Edmund Burke

  Prologue

  Beverly Hills, California

  "He doesn't mean to hurt me," Bonnie said. She fingered the blue swelling near her eye. "He's always sorry afterwards. He starts crying like a baby and tells me how much he loves me." Downcast eyes and flushed cheeks indicated the presence of healthy shame. Bonnie clearly knew she was rationalizing.

  The young therapist didn't respond. He seemed exhausted and preoccupied. He needed a shave, and his gray Armani suit was wrinkled. Bonnie thought him better looking in person; on television his face seemed thicker, the broken nose less attractive. She blushed again, but he didn't seem to notice.

  "Walt is a good man, really. He had a terrible childhood. His mother had a bunch of affairs. Could that have really messed him up?"

  "It's possible," the therapist said. He spoke with a slight twang.

  It was a beautiful office; thick carpeting, rows of books stacked high on polished wooden shelves, an amazing view of the city. You'd have to work long hours to afford a place like this, Bonnie thought. She'd noticed alcohol on his breath when they met at the door, but this was an emergency session and he wasn't her regular therapist. Hell, he'd probably come straight from a cocktail party. "I feel better just having talked about it," she said, brightly. "I'm okay, now. I can wait for Dr. Dorio to get back."

  The therapist frowned. "I'd rather you didn't."

  "Huh?"

  "I said I'd rather you didn't. In fact, I think you should check into a domestic violence shelter."

  "Well, if it happens again . . ."

  "I mean tonight."

  Bonnie sat up straight. She laughed, but the tone was a bit too shrill. "That's ridiculous," she said. "Walt has a temper, but . . ."

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I'm going by the book, Bonnie. The violence has been escalating recently, and you've given me no reason to think that won't continue."

  "But . . ."

  "But nothing. Now, let me give you some phone numbers." He scribbled on an embossed business card, slid it across the antique coffee table.

  It came to rest at her fingertips. Bonnie wanted to argue. There had to be some other answer. "Hey, I probably just made it sound worse than it is. Walt says I get melodramatic."

  "Put that card in your purse, Bonnie." Something feral flashed behind those dark eyes; his tone had an edge like cold, blue steel.

  Bonnie obeyed instantly.

  The therapist sat back in his chair as if nothing had happened. "The first number is for a shelter, and the second is an attorney. She will take you on for next to nothing. You need to get a restraining order against your boyfriend."

  "That will just piss him off even more, won't it?"

  "It's the only other weapon we have at our disposal. That bottom number is my private line. I'll be taping my show tonight. If you need me, the service will track me down."

  "I don't know . . ."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Our time is up. I have to get to the studio."

  "Oh. I love your show, by the way. You're funny."

  "Thank you." His mind was already elsewhere. He stared down at the multi-colored lights of the city, then rose, took Bonnie by the elbow, and walked her to the door. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't go home," he said, softly. "Call the shelter."

  She smelled his breath. He had definitely been drinking. "But I have to feed my dog!"

  "Send a friend."

  "Look, you're scaring me."

  "I mean to. Remember, call if you need me. I'll get right back to you."

  "You promise?"

  "You have my word." He glanced at the clock on the bookshelf as if growing impatient, but now she didn't want to leave.

  "So I should just never speak to him again?"

  "You don't have any obligation to take my advice." He led her to the hallway. "But I hope you do. Nice meeting you."

  "You too," she said, but the solid oak door was already closing. Bonnie walked down the hall and entered the elevator thinking: He doesn't know Walt! Screw him and his fancy fucking office building. An old Disney song was playing on the Muzak. Bonnie punched P1.

  And who was he to tell her she couldn't go home? He was half smashed, for Chrissakes. He wasn't her regular therapist. He didn't know her whole life story. Jesus, he's really just some kind of a glorified television celebrity . . .

  The lobby, then the stairs. As Bonnie left the building, a light rain began to tap dance on the awning. It was dark. Icy cobwebs of fear tightened along her skin as she crossed the nearly empty parking lot, heading for her car. But what if he's right? she thought. The last time Walt went crazy he broke your jaw and sent you to the hospital.

  Maybe you do need to run, Bonnie.

  But what if Walt agreed to try and work things out, finally go to therapy? She pulled over, opened her little red cell phone and called the shrink. He wasn't there. She assumed he was in make-up or already rehearsing. She left a message.

  Bonnie drove aimlessly for a couple of hours, then stopped at a filthy gas station, dialed the shelter and arranged to meet someone who would take her to a safe house. She called the shrink again. She didn't feel comfortable leaving personal stuff with an answering service; just her name and cell number. She said it was important.

  There was one last thing to do and she'd be free.

  The tiny Maltese terrier started yipping the second he heard her pull into the driveway. Macho knew the sound of her engine. Bonnie looked carefully in every direction; got out of her car. She moved briskly up to the side door, peered inside. The living room was empty; everything exactly as she had left it. She stepped in, closed and latched the screen door. She gave Macho some food.

  Bonnie turned the television on and began packing. The therapist's show started. He stood on a small black stage, in front of a live studio audience. He was wearing a dark jacket that complimented his hair, a silk shirt with an open collar, and cowboy boots. He opened with a brief monologue about the evening's subject: "Make no attempt to adjust your television set," he said with that slight drawl. "We now control what you will see and hear." The audience laughed. He grinned. "Seriously, ladies and gentlemen. That is the message the members of this cult received."

  They cut to some footage made with a hidden camera. It showed the therapist, disguised as cult member, sitting in a state of meditation. Now Bonnie had a major crush on him. He was cute, in a rough sort of way. She watched the set out of the corner of her eye until she had a small bag and a bathroom kit packed.

  Was that the back gate?

  Something was outsid
e in the night, moving.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. She grabbed the regular phone but the line was dead. Bonnie fumbled through her purse for the therapist's card; dialed him again on her cell phone. She started pacing. Macho sensed something, whined.

  "Did he get my messages? It's been hours, now. I really need to speak with him."

  Bonnie dropped the phone in her purse. She grabbed the bags and put the dog under her arm and started for the front door. But something made another rustling noise, out in the yard. Jesus, I'm scared, she thought. Bonnie decided to call 911. She ran into the kitchen, put her purse down and reached inside for the cell phone.

  WHAAAM!

  The screen door folded into a V and fell off its hinges. Walt blew through it like it wasn't there. He slapped the cell phone out of her hand and punched her in the stomach. Bonnie fell to her knees, gagging, while Macho barked and nipped at Walt's ankle. Walt kicked him across the room. He shuddered and lay still.

  "Please don't hurt the dog," she mumbled.

  Walt was shrieking he was fed up with her fooling around. He'd been smoking crack. He was punching the wall, throwing things, really out of his mind. When he brought his clenched fist down on the top of her skull, Bonnie saw clear, crystal fireworks. She collapsed and curled up on the kitchen floor, waiting him out. After a minute or two, she dissociated, watched from a distance; saw her flesh cringing and coloring as if this were happening somewhere else, to someone else. The pain wasn't bad; she was past all that. She was just numb, exhausted, and so in shock she found the yellow checkered pattern in the filthy linoleum fascinating.

  "Bitch!"

  The toe of his boot broke something deep in her chest, near her spine. Her breathing became ragged and it HURT. What if he went through with it this time? She focused on the little red cell phone lying a few inches away. She wished she had followed directions, or tried a little sooner to reach out for help. She prayed for one last chance, grabbed for the phone. She had the correct number all dialed in. She just didn't have enough strength to push "send."

  Forensics said the blow that fractured her skull was the one that killed her. From all accounts, it was a mercy.

  One

  Three Years Later

  Friday Night, 11:42 PM

  From high on the bony ridge above it, the tiny town of Dry Wells looked like a scattered set of building blocks draped in faded khaki. During the day, harsh Nevada sunshine splintered on the corrugated tin roofs and vanished into black tar shingles. Several of the cracked, dusty windows had been taped over with tinfoil to deflect the smothering heat. It was closing in on midnight. I had been on the air live for hours and was fast approaching burnout.

  Here I was, broadcasting my hard-earned wisdom to the fringes of society for chump change, loitering around booted Neanderthals with maybe twenty teeth between them and trying not to relapse on watery beer.

  It was good to be home.

  At the far end of town, where the high metal tower sprouted, I sat hunched over the aging console of the little radio station. I'd spent most of the night staring at a small fish tank and praying for another caller. The multi-line telephone remained silent: six hollow dice, discolored and lifeless. I leaned over the microphone, voice oozing sarcasm, playing it FM to the max.

  "People of the high desert, how many chances do you get to talk to a real, live media shrink?" I repeated the telephone number for the station, stifled a yawn. "Call me, just call me. We are live this Memorial Day weekend on KNVD, the Loner McDowell show, from right here in Dry Wells, Nevada, second only to Roswell, New Mexico in purported UFO sightings. Old Loner will be back tomorrow, promising to take you seriously, whereas I know we're all nuts. I'm your guest host tonight. My name is Mick Callahan, I'm a professional therapist, and I will be right back after this brief message."

  My fingers pushed the cassette in, killed the mike, and hit play before the chair squeaked backwards. So far, two redneck morons who thought lust was a sin, one housewife with a weight problem, and some couple thinking about divorce for the fourteenth time. Yuck. The commercial, a badly recorded song praising a used car dealer down Elko way, ran for over sixty seconds. Line four lit up.

  "Mick Callahan."

  "Hello. Is Judy there?"

  "What? This is Mick Callahan, and you're on the air live."

  Pause. "Who? Hey, I'm sorry. Wrong number."

  Dial tone. I lowered my head to my hands and sighed. "Oh come on, folks. Stick your neck out."

  Another call came. I grabbed it in a millisecond.

  "You're on the air live with Mick Callahan. Please remember to keep your radio turned down."

  "I think I know who you are," the man said in a reedy, western tenor.

  "That's good."

  "Didn't you used to be somebody?"

  I rubbed my eyes. "You could say that."

  "You're that black Irish kid, face like a boxer. Maybe six two, going about two-twenty and change. Navy Seals, right?"

  "I washed out."

  "That there fist fight you had on television in Denver," the caller cackled. "That was really something to see."

  "I got my nose broke."

  "It was great entertainment."

  "It got my butt fired."

  "Goddamn it," the man said, ignoring me, "you got some quick. You can move when you're pissed off."

  "I appreciate your interest in my storied career, but would you mind getting to the point? Did you have a question?"

  "Not really. I just enjoyed that one show, is all. Called in to say so. Most of the crap you get on the tube these days ain't up to snuff, but that was worthy of Jerry Springer."

  "Thanks for sharing."

  I hung up, fought back a groan. "We have a few minutes left, people," I said. "Last chance to get some sage advice from a real professional."

  Seconds ticking by. "I'm patient. I can wait."

  I made snoring sounds. Eventually two lines lit up; I played piano in the air above the phone, chose one, and pressed down. The other caller bailed out.

  "Mick Callahan," I said. "How can I help you?" My words repeated themselves: how can I help you? "Please turn your radio down or there will be a time delay. Thanks"

  "Hi! Hi! Am I on the air? Really? How cool!" She sounded slightly stoned. The "h" came out all round with air and wonderment. She was young and had a flat, slightly nasal accent.

  "Hi back," I said. "And yes, you are on the air with Mick Callahan. What's up in your life this balmy desert evening?"

  "Wow. I'm on the radio."

  The sounds of a party going on behind her: heavy metal rock and drunken rebel yells. I heard cowboy boots on a wooden floor, a door slamming nearby as someone else entered the room. "Can I talk about some friends of mine?" Something electronic went wrong; she kept drifting in and out as if she was using a portable phone.

  "Of course."

  "Me? Nothing," the girl said. She wasn't addressing me. She sounded uncomfortable.

  A male voice, indecipherable.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Sure, honey. I'll be right there."

  The stoned-sounding girl abruptly hung up the phone and left me listening to a series of clicks. Damn! I had to fill sixteen more minutes. "You know what, people? I feel about as popular as a Baptist preacher at a rave!"

  The air conditioning whooshed on behind me. I played a long Chicago blues rendition of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" to kill time. The world ground to a halt. I went live, did the station ID again.

  "We have time for a few more callers," I said, and then lied: "They tell me some of you have had trouble getting through. Please excuse us, we've been having some problems with the phone system again."

  Silence. I eyed the five striped fish in Loner's decorative tank, wondering idly why the one downstairs was so much larger. Wondering why the station's owner had tropical fish at all, especially in the middle of the goddamned desert.

  "I have patience, I can wait. But unless you want me to break into a tap dance or so
me Old Irish ballad, you'd better call this station soon." I gave the number again. "Hop to it."

  I typed a brief command into the old computer keyboard and a recorded news summary kicked in. The digital timer announced that it was five minutes, four seconds long. I still needed nine more minutes. I began searching through CD jackets, looking for something else to play. I was starting to feel pretty desperate when I spotted a classic George Jones. All of a sudden, line one blinked. The news was still running, so I grabbed it.

  "Hello, this is Mick Callahan. Can you hold on? We'll be back on the air in a minute or so."

  "Not if you know what's good for you. How's it going, my man?"

  "Jerry? What the hell are you doing?"

  "Busting your balls," Jerry Jover said. Laughter: Was that a woman with him? Jerry sounded five beers into a six pack. "Man, you are not exactly kicking ass tonight, are you?"

  "I start out slowly, but then I tend to taper off."

  "An original approach," Jerry said. "I think I'd best hold off on building that website for your fan club."

  "Appears like it."

  Jerry, the local computer geek, was generally alone, but another giggle definitively announced the presence of a woman. Good for you, I thought, miserably. Somebody should be getting it on. "Have a drink on my behalf."

  "I'll do that."

  "Maybe I'll stop by later on."

  "Only if the light's on," Jerry said. "Hang in there, man. It's almost over." He cut the connection.

  I watched the digital display. I'd need seven more minutes. But as the news short ran out, line one started to blink again. The caller had flawless timing. But as I turned in the chair the room seemed to grow colder and smaller and when I reached for the phone I was startled to see my hand trembling.

  "You're on the air live with Mick Callahan."

  Light static and then some ragged, feathery breathing. "Thank you," she said. It was another voice, not the hippie girl. She had the vague twang of a local; her cadence and tone were familiar. She was disguising herself, pitching her voice too high and thin. The effect was artificial.