Empty Ever After

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Pete Vandervoort had taken up the post outside Katy’s door. When he saw me approaching, a series of expressions washed over his face in rapid succession. He smiled, squinted, frowned, and snarled before settling on the world-weary cop smirk. Instead of shaking his extended hand, I placed the Polaroid in it.

  “What’s this?”

  “A ghost with a freshly inked tattoo,” I said.

  “Nice trick, a ghost with a new tattoo. Where’d you get this?”

  “My people tracked the tattoo artist down and she gave that to us. I’ll give you all her info after I talk with Katy. I think she needs to see that Polaroid.”

  “Good timing. She’s up. Her shrink was in there checking on her about fifteen minutes ago. He said she seemed more stable. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. More stable than what?”

  “It’s cover-your-ass-speak. Have you seen Sarah? I tried to get her on my way up, but kept getting her voice mail.”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen her today. Why, is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I promised her that I would back off for a few days, so Katy could catch her breath.”

  “I see, but they’ll understand when they get a look at this. I mean, Christ, you can’t sit on this. It proves that this has all been a setup.” He handed the Polaroid back. “Go on in and show her.”

  I knocked before stepping in. My ex’s expression was less ambiguous than the sheriff’s had been. Disappointment was writ large in every fold of her face and her first words didn’t leave much room for interpretation.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I—”

  “Sarah told me you promised to—”

  “I did promise and I meant to keep my word, but something came up that I couldn’t keep a lid on.”

  “You’re full of shit, Moe! Do you even believe half the things you say? You kept a lid on things for twenty years.”

  Her anger, it was like a separate entity. There were times I fooled myself that it was at an end, that Katy had gotten past it. No, it was metastatic, laying dormant for months at a time and then … Bang! Like today, something I would say or do would set her off. That’s why our early attempts at reconciliation were short-lived. Our mutual despair or old hungers could keep it at bay or out of the bedroom for a few hours at a time. Then it would flare up. The odd thing was that I knew at least a part of the anger wasn’t even meant for me, but rather for my father-in-law. When Francis died, I was left the only available target.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to fight, but to show you this,” I said, holding out the Polaroid. She took it. “Brian Doyle tracked down the tattoo artist who did that back in April and Devo found more than twenty casting calls for young men who would meet Patrick’s physical description.”

  I felt myself wince, waiting for that second wave of anger. It didn’t come.

  “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. Some kid desperate for an acting job, I guess.”

  “You don’t know his name or anything?”

  “Give us a little time.”

  “I want to see him again.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see my brother again.”

  “He’s not your brother.”

  “I don’t … care. I…I…” Katy tried choking back the tears, but it was no good. She was sobbing now so that her whole body shook. “I want…I want to see … him. I want to know … why he—”

  “He’s not your brother, for chrissakes.”

  She crumpled up the Polaroid and threw it at me. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! You’ve taken everything away from me.”

  “But Katy, I—”

  “Get out of here! Get the fuck out of here.” She was squeezing the life out of the call button. Even before the staff could respond, Vandervoort and Sarah came rushing into the room. “Get him out of here. I want him to leave. Get him out of here. Get him out—”

  With little effort, Pete Vandervoort ferried me out of the room, but I could still hear Katy screaming and Sarah trying to calm her down. A roly-poly Filipino nurse and a psychiatric aide flew past us and almost immediately some coded message went out over the loudspeaker.

  “What happened in there?” the sheriff asked.

  “I’m not really sure. I showed Katy the Polaroid and she went batshit on me. When did Sarah get here?”

  “Just after you walked in there. She was none too pleased.”

  “Figures. I seem to be having that effect on the Prager women today.”

  Just then, Dr. Rauch, the shrink who had seen Katy on her initial visit, came charging down the hail. He looked less pleased to see me than Katy and Sarah, but didn’t stop to elaborate.

  “Shit,” Vandervoort said, “you’re just making everybody’s day.”

  “Yeah, you noticed that look too, huh?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  A few seconds after Dr. Rauch went into the room, Sarah came out glaring.

  “Dad, I thought you said you were going to give Mom some time. Now look at her.”

  “But we found proof that there is no ghost and that it’s just some actor parading around out there like—”

  “And you thought, what, that Mommy was going to be thrilled about that? You know, for the world’s smartest dad, I think you’re just totally lost sometimes.”

  “Look, kiddo, I know I broke my word to you about coming up, but I had to show Mommy what I found. What was I supposed to do, sit on it? What if she found out that I was keeping it from her? Can you imagine how she would’ve reacted to that? Either way, I was screwed.”

  “I guess you have a point, but still, you should’ve warned me, us. Her doctor’s pissed.”

  “Your mother is my concern, not her doctor. Besides, I tried, to call ahead, but I kept getting your voice mail. Where were you anyway?”

  “The movies. I needed a break.”

  The door to Katy’s room opened again. Dr. Rauch held it open for the nurse and the aide. He told them he’d be up at the desk in just a moment. When they were out of earshot, he pointed his finger at me.

  “Listen very carefully, Mr. Prager, I—”

  “Doc, you want me to listen, I suggest you get that finger out of my face.”

  He looked at his finger like it didn’t belong to him, shrugged his shoulders, and put his hand in his pants pocket.

  “Very well, Mr. Prager. Why don’t you and your daughter meet me in my office in …”—he checked his watch—“… ten minutes?”

  “That’ll be fine, Dr. Rauch,” Sarah answered. “I know where it is.”

  He didn’t wait for my response before heading to the nurses’ station.

  RAUCH’S OFFICE WAS like a movie set of a doctor’s office. The carpeting was high end industrial in a sort of speckled sage green, a few shades darker than the matte finished walls. The shrink’s desk was large but non-descript and cluttered with patient files, pharmaceutical company doo-dads and note pads, a phone, an engraved pen and pencil set and a plastic model of a human brain. His chair was the standard issue high back, black leather swivel. One wall was dedicated to enlargements of family vacation photos and a goofy My Brother the Psychiatrist needlepoint, one to overstuffed bookcases, and one to degrees and decrees of board certifications. It seemed that Rauch was certified to perform neurosurgery and sell real estate.

  It took Dr. Rauch quite a bit longer than ten minutes to make his way to his office. Good thing he got there when he did. Sarah and I had already exhausted sports talk and small talk and were about to move on to thumb wrestling.

  “I’m sorry for taking so long,” he said. “But I stopped to have a conversation with Sheriff Vandervoort. He briefly explained to me what the two of you have been up to.”

  “Look, doc, I didn’t mean to upset Katy, but I had proof positive that what’s been going on has been a total setup. And given our history, I didn’t feel like I could keep it from her.”

  He made a show of rubbing his chin and sighing. “
I’m certain you had only the best intentions, Mr. Prager, and that you were acting in what you considered to be a reasonable manner. It may well be that under most circumstances, your actions today would have been completely within the realm of acceptable behavior. However, I feel duty bound to remind you that Katy just made a serious attempt to take her own life and that she is in a fragile state of mind. Your presence here today may have caused a serious setback.”

  “I’m sorry, doc, but like I said, I had proof that I needed to show my wife.”

  “Nonetheless, Mr. Prager, I am alarmed at how you simply disregarded my prohibition against your visiting Katy without my prior consent.”

  “Prohibition?”

  “Yes, your daughter assured me that she discussed it with—”

  What the fuck are you talking about? “Oh, that! Yeah, we discussed it. Like I said, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Dr. Rauch looked from me to Sarah and back again. “Yes, I see. Make sure that it doesn’t. Sarah, could you please give me a minute alone with your father? He’ll be right out.”

  When Sarah closed the door behind her, I nodded across the desk. “You first, doc.”

  “So I assume your daughter didn’t discuss it with you.”

  “Not in so many words. She asked me to give her and her mom a few days. I guess she didn’t think I’d react well to being ordered not to visit.”

  “Was she correct?”

  “Probably.”

  “Look, Mr. Prager, Katy is my patient and therefore necessarily the focus of my efforts. That doesn’t mean, however, that I am unconcerned about you. So I am going to give you some free advice that I have come by honestly. We can’t escape our pasts. We can neither undo them nor make up for them, but ultimately they must be dealt with. Not everyone pays the same prices for their perceived transgressions. In a very real sense, the prices we each pay are dependent upon how we choose to pay them. Take a long hard look at the price Katy is paying. Know this, that regardless of how you may have contributed to her difficulties, the bill is hers to deal with, Mr. Prager, not yours. And no grand or sweeping gesture on your part can change that.”

  “Thanks, doc. I know Katy’s your patient and you can’t really discuss too much with me, but why did she freak out like that before? I would’ve thought she’d be relieved to know she wasn’t seeing things.”

  “Part of her was relieved, but part of her was also disappointed. Can you understand that?”

  “Yeah, I guess I can.”

  “You must also understand that logic and reason will not just make Katy’s issues vanish. You can’t argue her out of her depression. You can’t just say, ‘Snap out of it.’ So no matter what proof or evidence or whatever you and the sheriff come across, you mustn’t ever repeat today’s episode. Please, if you want to see Katy, you must clear it with me beforehand.”

  “I give you my word.” I stood. We shook hands on it. “One more thing, Dr. Rauch, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything else my daughter conveniently neglected to mention to me in her attempt to manage the situation?”

  “It would be difficult for me to know what she didn’t tell you as I don’t know what she did tell you.”

  “Well, on the phone earlier, she kept saying Katy was embarrassed. I’m a pretty smart guy and I can understand why a person who survives a suicide attempt might be ashamed, but Sarah didn’t say ashamed. She said embarrassed and my kid chooses her words pretty carefully.”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose it could be a reference to what she says drove her to overdose.”

  “The videotape?”

  “That, and seeing her brother looking through the front window.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you knew. While she was watching the videotape, she saw who she thought was her brother staring at her through the window. Given Katy’s fragile state of mind and her serendipitous viewing of the security tape, it’s easily understandable how his appearance, imagined or otherwise, might have been the precipitating event …”

  But I had stopped listening. “Fuck me! Now I gotcha.”

  I ran out of the office without saying goodbye. Sarah was pacing circles in the hail outside the office. She called after me, but I didn’t hear a word.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DRAMATIC AS THE image might be, it wasn’t like Day-Glo puzzle pieces assembling themselves on a black felt backdrop in the void. Things are apart. Things come together. It’s not there, then it is. You can only see pieces come together in retrospect. As Dr. Rauch spoke, it wasn’t his words I heard. I was transported back to the ER the night of Katy’s attempted suicide.

  “Had to lay my hog down when some asshole in a SUV ran the light at Blyden and Van Camp.”

  That was Crank’s exact quote to Sheriff Vandervoort in the ER waiting area. What he said registered with me, but not in any way my brain was prepared to handle at the time. I was too agitated about Katy to grasp the implications of what a bloody-faced biker said about some minor motorcycle accident. When I saw Crank the following day, something about the time and place of the accident made more of an impact. Still, I couldn’t quite pull it all together. But now that I knew the kid in the videotape had been snooping around the Hanover Street house, I had the questions to ask and, more importantly, some of the answers. To access Hanover Street, you needed to turn off Van Camp. To get out of Janus and head toward New York City, you had to go through the intersection of Blyden and Van Camp.

  “That biker, the one we saw in the ER.”

  “What about him?” Vandervoort asked, his eyes skeptical.

  “Did he come in the next day to talk about the accident like you asked?”

  “Hell, with all the excitement, I forgot about him.”

  “Shit!”

  “Why, is he important?”

  “Could be. I gotta go find him. In the meantime, do us both a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Go back to the PrimeOil station and look over all their security tapes, inside and out, for the day that Katy tried—for the day Katy saw her brother in town. Look for any SUVs and try and get their tag numbers. Also, go back over the station’s credit card receipts for that day and try to match it to the SUVs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think our ghost drives a SUV.”

  DUSK HAD JUST passed the baton noir to the night when I pulled up outside Henry’s Hog. I’ll tell you what, the joint wasn’t a damned thing like red wine. It didn’t grow on you with repeated exposure and it sure as shit didn’t improve with age. Jesus, maybe I had been in the fucking wine business too long.

  Unlike my two previous visits, when horse flies outnumbered patrons, the place was buzzing with more than beating wings. There were a good fifty motorcycles parked out in front of the roadhouse, but the machines were all of a type. Ducatis, Moto Guzzis, BMWs, and Suzuki dirt bikes need not apply. These were Harleys, Indians, and custom choppers. There was the occasional Japanese faux hog mixed in with the odd classic Norton and Triumph as well.

  I could almost smell the sweat, black leather, and cigarette smoke as I got out of my car. That “Born to be Wild” wasn’t blaring on the juke was the only missing part of the cliché. I felt for the familiar bulge at the small of my back. My snub-nosed .38 was now as old and as much a classic as a Norton or Triumph: a museum piece, just like me. Currently, Glocks, and Sigs were the rage. It was all about rates of fire and walls of lead, but sometimes it came down to a single bullet. My hopes were to never find out and for my revolver to stay holstered until the next time I cleaned it.

  I had worn it nearly every day for the last thirty-three years. First it was my off-duty piece. Then it was my insurance when I worked my cases as a PI. Eventually, although I was loath to admit it to myself, the little .38 had morphed into a shopkeeper’s gun, something to keep me safe when I made bank drops or closed one of our stores late at night. A shopkeeper! I mean, who says I wanna be a shopkee
per when I grow up? But that’s what I was, a goddamned shopkeeper.

  Some old Lynyrd Skynyrd was blasting when I walked into the noisy bar, my entrance seeming to cramp everybody’s style. Except for the dead man singing on the juke, most all the patrons stopped what they were doing. If my cop vibe revealed itself a bit on my first two visits here, it was fairly screaming this time. I blended in like Neil Diamond at a hip hop show. I might just as well have yelled Fore! and asked to play through. Actually, if not for all the hostile facial expressions, I would have gotten a kick out of it. But I walked through the crowd as my namesake through the Red Sea and straight up to Tina at the corner of the bar. As I passed, the sea filled in behind me and the noise started back up.

  “You again,” she said, pressing her hand to the flap on her throat.

  “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “Sure. Come … on. Butchie, keep an eye … on things.”

  I followed Tina into the back room and down the stairs into her office. It might have been a biker bar on the upper level, but down here it looked like any other basement office. It was a business. There were bills to pay, a payroll to meet, and taxes to evade.

  “So,” she said.

  “Crank.”

  “What about … him?”

  “I need to find him.”

  I didn’t wait for her to ask why or to do the Bribe-me-first Cha-cha. I took out a roll of money and explained to her why I needed to find him.

  “He’s that important … to you … to find, huh?”