Revelations

by Laurel Dewey

  After knocking several times on Hank’s house door, Jane meandered around to the front of the sports bar. The chairs were on top of the tables and the place looked vacant. It seemed odd for an early evening on a Sunday night. The door was unlocked so she walked in and called Hank’s name.

  “Over here,” he replied, standing in the recesses of the far stage.

  Jane walked across the dance floor toward him. “Why are you shut down?”

  Hank had his back to Jane momentarily. He was dressed in a knock-around denim shirt, with a frayed collar and cuffs, and a pair of jeans that framed his backside perfectly. “We close down for a few days during the off season to clean.” He turned around and looked at her. “Well…you sure can’t hide your Glock under that, can you?”

  Jane felt exposed, a sensation that didn’t set well. “Yeah… well...it was the first thing I grabbed off the hanger.”

  “Really?” Hank wasn’t buying a word of it. “Lucky hanger.”

  She threw him his truck keys. “Thanks for the loan. What do I owe on the Mustang?”

  “Nothing. I had some favors coming so it’s a wash.”

  Her back went up against the clingy silk. “Now, wait a second…”

  “Jane, he didn’t charge me. Don’t worry. You don’t owe me anything.”

  This was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Can we just cut to the chase?”

  “Who’s chasing who?”

  “It’s a term,” Jane said with a humorless look.

  “I’m aware of that.” Hank moved to the rim of the stage. “Maybe I look like a dumb puck, but I’m not.”

  “I never said you were dumb.”

  “Are you hungry? You look hungry.” Hank jumped off the stage and headed toward the kitchen.

  Jane stood flabbergasted. “When did I lose control of this relationship?” she murmured to herself before following Hank into the kitchen.

  Hank donned a chef’s apron and brought down a fry pan from a hook. “You like shrimp?”

  Jane sidled up to the stainless steel center table. “Sure.”

  “Good. I’m going to make you the best shrimp, tomato, garlic, and basil stir-fry you have ever tasted. Have a seat.” He pointed to a wooden stool next to the table.

  Jane reluctantly sat down. “You know, I can find food on my own. You don’t have to feel the need to feed me all the time.”

  He heated olive oil in the pan and then plopped what looked like homemade tomato sauce into another saucepan. “I like cooking for you. I like talking to you.” He smiled at Jane before walking to the refrigerator and bringing out several cloves of garlic and a handful of fresh basil leaves.

  That feeling came back to Jane—the one she’d had when they were standing outside The Rabbit Hole the night before; that comfortable sense that she was meeting an old friend for the first time. She’d never felt anything like it before. Comfortable was not in her standard repertoire. But here she was, sitting in a commercial kitchen of a sports bar wearing a silky shirt with a plunging neckline and having a man cook shrimp for her. None of it made any damn sense. And she couldn’t blame the effects of the blue lily this time. She wanted to say something to break the sudden silence. “By any chance, did you translate that Patois sentence I gave you?”

  Hank chopped up the garlic with fine precision. “I started looking into it but there’s a couple words I can’t figure out. I’ll get it. Don’t worry. Have you read about the Patois. They’ve got a very mystical history.”

  He got her attention. “Mystical, how?”

  “They still use plants for medicine. A lot of them are natural-born healers. Many of them to this day are deeply imbedded in voodoo. But even those who’ve turned away from that practice, still keep a deep connection to the spirit world. It’s a link that’s inbred and passed from mother to child.”

  “From mother to child,” Jane said to herself.

  “I read a passage on some website that said, To deny the spirit world, is to deny their own breath. To fight it, is pointless. They’re very connected to the dead, and some of them have an almost innate understanding of the psychic realm.”

  “So, as an example, they could look at a photo in a newspaper of a person and be able to tell you all about them and what they’re feeling?”

  Hank set the garlic to the side of the cutting board and starting chopping the basil. “I don’t know. But I bet it’s not impossible.”

  “So, you believe in that stuff, huh?” She was testing Hank.

  “Yeah.” He looked up at her. “And so do you.” He brought a bowl of shrimp out from the refrigerator.

  “I have a lot of questions…”

  “Good! You should. But it doesn’t mean that you don’t accept the fundamentals that there’s more under the sun than heaven and earth.”

  Jane remembered the few esoteric-themed books in Hank’s library. “Do you have an understanding of symbology?”

  He stirred the basil and garlic into the tomato sauce and tossed the shrimp into the fry pan. “There’s lots of different symbology. Be more specific.”

  “The Ace of Spades.”

  “Isn’t that the Death Card?”

  “Yeah. But is that all it means?”

  “No. It was an emblem for lots of secret societies in the past.” Jane listened spellbound. “You know, the key to the ancient mysteries? The truth that lies behind the veil of illusion?” Jane couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A lot of people and businesses use it in their advertising or letterhead and they don’t really understand the meaning…” He tossed the shrimp in the pan. “Or maybe they do on some level.”

  “Unconsciously?”

  “Sure. You’re a cop. You know how most deception is usually revealed unconsciously.”

  Jane immediately recalled Jordan’s statement: The unconscious mind is relentless.

  Hank tasted the sauce. “Carl Jung, one of my favorites, said, ‘The unconscious mind of man sees correctly even when conscious reason is blind and impotent.’” He turned to Jane. “And I say… soup’s on!”

  They ate the meal across from each other, with the steel glare of the table reflected back into the overhead light. And once again, Jane enjoyed every bite of it. They chatted about current events, finding their opinions on everything from politics to the cultural demise on equal footing. But eventually, Jane wound the conversation back to Jake Van Gorden. She prefaced her next question with the understanding that it would go no further than the two of them. “You think Jake is gay?”

  Hank nearly coughed up a shrimp. “Gay?” Jane nodded. “If Jake’s gay, then I’m also looking for a good man.”

  Jane considered the answer. “So, are you gay?”

  Hank looked at Jane with the utmost of sincerity. “Would I be sitting here right now if I were gay?”

  Jane took another bite of shrimp. “Maybe Jake is good at hiding it?”

  “No way. Whoever told you that is nuts.”

  “The guy I heard it from got it from someone else who supposedly caught Jake checking out gay porn.”

  “That is total bullshit. Let me guess. The guy who told the other guy is Jake’s dad.”

  “I can’t say,” Jane replied.

  That crooked grin emerged across Hank’s face. “You just did, Jane.”

  “Hey…”

  “It’s okay. I won’t say a word. But I already told you about Jake’s parents. They don’t give a shit about him.”

  “I think Carol cares.”

  “Maybe. But does she care enough to leave her prick of a husband?” Hank sat back. “Bailey Van Gorden cares about Bailey Van Gorden. If that bastard has to sink so low and make up stories about catching his son with gay porn, you can bet he’s got an agenda.” Hank carried their empty plates to the sink. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered, shaking his head. He removed the apron and hung it on a hook. “Jake deserves a better family than what he got.” He reached out for Jane’s hand. “Enough of this. Follow me.”

  Jane
reluctantly followed Hank out of the kitchen and onto the empty dance floor. He told her to wait while he went on stage and fiddled with a CD. Dimming the lights, the first strains of Etta James’ “At Last” blew across the spacious room. Rejoining Jane, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

  “Is this the payment for the car?”

  “No.” He put his arms around her. “It’s just a dance.” There was a slight awkward moment. “You don’t mind if I lead, do you?”

  Jane rolled her eyes and kept up her guard for the first half of the song, but gradually relaxed as Etta’s voice melted like warm syrup against the walls of the bar.

  “Why don’t they play this in elevators more?” Hank asked. “I knew I was getting old the day I heard a Rolling Stones tune in an elevator.”

  Jane looked at him. “I knew I was old when the Playboy centerfolds were younger than I.”

  Hank smiled and held Jane closer. They were still dancing well after the song ended.

  Jane got back to the B&B shortly after 9:00 pm. She helped Hank with some of the seasonal cleanup until he called it a night. There was no invitation to stay over, although he seemed to linger with her outside before she walked across the street. As much as returning solo to the honeymoon suite wasn’t appealing, she wasn’t ready to make another mistake. Putting it mildly, the last relationship she had two years ago ended badly.

  After slipping into her cotton nightshirt, Jane propped herself up on the bed and stared at the clothesline of clues. The knife with Jake’s ponytail along with the Ace of Spades and bloody fingerprint were probably already in Denver, thanks to the expedient courier service Weyler used for transporting evidence. She retrieved the two envelopes that Weyler slipped under her door earlier and removed the clues, each protected in a sheet of plastic. She clipped the handwritten note and the lone Chesterfield 101 cigarette on the far right of the clothesline, next to the scrap of paper with the scrawled 1401 Imperial address.

  Sliding back onto the bed, Jane read the clothesline from left to right, searching as she always did, for the common thread or for an understanding of what story the kidnapper was trying to tell. The newest note with the statement, Who Ever Believes Bad Eventually Resolves, still made no sense to Jane, except that when she said it out loud, it sounded like it was written by an immature author. As Jane ruminated on that discovery, she realized that there were other clues that also sounded as if the writer was either extremely young or mentally challenged. The piss-stained page with the words, Why you piss me off BAWY? was another good example. Then there was the second audio recording and the statement, “He cried like a baby and will never be a real man…” There seemed to be a discernable flip-flop between a traumatized child and an adroit, if not educated adult. After staring at the clues for another half hour, Jane decided the most logical explanations so far were that this was either one man with a split personality or two people—one mentally challenged and the other pulling the strings. She lay back on the buffet of pillows and realized that, using that logic, Jordan Copeland could fit either assumption.

  Jane was weary, but she wasn’t tired. With no TV in the room, she had nothing to focus on that wasn’t related to Jake’s case. The only thing in that room that wasn’t attached to the case was the box of photos she’d pinched from the Greens’ locked kitchen cabinet. While she wasn’t one to pry unnecessarily into other people’s private lives, she figured that she needed something to take her mind off the complicated case. She removed the box from under the bed and removed the lid marked, OLD PHOTOS. It was immediately clear that these photos were not connected in any way to the Greens. They looked to be a collection of sepia-toned and black-and-white photos that had been taken by others who owned the B&B when it was a boardinghouse. Many of them had already found themselves into frames and adorned the walls of the B&B.

  Jane pulled a stack from the box and chuckled at the dirt Main Street in Midas captured in a 1905 photo. The monied classes obviously hadn’t found their way to the town as she viewed a collection from the 1930s. The bawdy broads posing in the 1919 framed photo in the Greens’ kitchen seemed to be replicated in the smiling lineup of women who posed in front of the B&B—still known as The Garden, A Boarding House for Ladies —in the 1932 and 1934 shots. On the back, someone identified the names of the animated women, using first names only. Names such as “Gracie,” “Tulula” and “Roxie” stood out to Jane. It seemed that this place had a history of attracting what they might have called “loose” women back then and what we’d now call “adventurous” or “wild.”

  The next photo was circa 1960 and it took Jane a second to realize it was taken outside what was now The Rabbit Hole but was formerly named The Hayloft. Again, a lineup of women—dressed in capris and sleeveless shirts, and sporting beehive hairdos and lots of attitude—waved at the camera. Two men knelt in front of them for the photo, each with a cockeyed grin. They looked like trouble. If Jane had seen the duo on the streets today, she’d make the assumption that they were up to no damn good. More photos of The Hayloft followed with various groups from the 1960s photographed in front of the popular establishment.

  She shuffled through the dizzying assortment until she found one dated Spring, 1967. There was a bright-eyed girl standing in front of The Hayloft, arms circled around a handsome, 6’ 3” guy who wore a striking suit. The girl, about nineteen, Jane figured, pursed her lips toward the man as if she were about to kiss him. Although the shot was in black-and-white, the dress looked like it was red or dark blue and hugged her svelte figure. Jane turned the photo over. When she first read the words, they didn’t register. But then she read it again:

  Anne LeRóy (one of the girls from The Gardens) and Harry Mills

  (1967)

  Jane sat up in shock. She peered closer at the photo and realized the dress Anne wore was identical to the one she appeared in when Jane saw her. An even more careful scrutiny exposed the fresh gardenia pinned to her mother’s revealing neckline. Jane flipped the photo over again, reading the handwritten words. One of the girls from The Gardens flashed at Jane like a neon light. She could easily rationalize how her mother’s spirit materialized in front of her, chalking it up to the car accident, the blue lily or fatigue. But this photo…this was real and two-dimensional. Jane turned the photo back and started at the man name Harry Mills. “Who in the fuck are you, buddy?” Jane murmured. He looked like a matinee idol with his slicked back hair and jaunty demeanor. Harry was the kind of guy you have fun with but who doesn’t settle down. Looking at her mother’s blissful countenance, Jane wondered if her mother knew that back then, or if the girl in the photo even cared.

  Jane shuffled through the remaining photos but found no more of the woman who put an accent on “LeRóy,” even though the traditional spelling never had it. She replaced the pile of photos in the box, leaving the one of Anne and Harry in front of The Hayloft out on the bed. She looked around the room and felt a bit foolish when she asked, “Are you here?” When Jane was met with stony silence, she glanced over to the bathroom and spied a trio of pillar candles tucked next to the sink. She carried one to the side table by the bed, lit the wick and turned off the lights. With the cushion of pillows behind her and the photo in her hand, she noted the time on the digital clock—10:24 pm. “Ridiculous,” Jane whispered to herself. But still she waited. She beckoned the sweet aroma of gardenias but her sensitive nose detected nothing. She wasn’t the least bit tired as she checked the clock again—10:25 pm. “Jesus,” she muttered. The candle cast an amber glow against the room, its soft light fading at the edges around the bed. Jane stared into the shadows across the room, her mind summoning her mother. Her ears pricked for any sound; her eyes volleyed for any motion. She took a hard breath and waited—but nothing.

  Jane peered down at the photo, illuminated by candlelight. Gradually, her vision blurred and she felt her head bob forward. Recovering, she lifted her head and checked the clock—3:11 am. How was that possible? The room filled with that same electric buzz as
if the world as it is and world beyond were merging in an unsteady union. A heaviness clung close to Jane as the aroma of gardenias swept across the walls. Gradually, the slow crick of the rocker could be heard. Out of the darkness, Jane saw the orange glow of a cigarette illumine and then dissipate, followed by the familiar whiff of unfiltered tobacco. “Who’s there?” Jane asked, her voice shaky.

  “Who in the hell do you think?” Anne remarked, standing up from the rocker and moving to the foot of the bed. She was dressed in the same tight-fitting red dress with the fresh gardenia pinned to her chest. Anne took another meaningful puff on her cigarette, her red lacquered fingernails grasping it in a manner that showed Jane it wasn’t the first time she lit up.

  “I never knew you smoked,” Jane said in a stunned voice.

  “Oh, honey. There’s lots of things you don’t know.” She motioned toward the photograph. “I see you found my favorite snapshot.” Anne arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you think the accent over the ‘o’ makes LeRóy sound French? I sure did!” Anne leaned forward looking at the photo. “He was a cool drink of water, doncha know?”