by Laurel Dewey
“I need to use the bathroom!” Kit yelled back at Jane.
“I thought you went at Barbara’s house,” Jane replied.
“Her toilet was backed up! I won’t be a second!”
Jane filled her tank and considered Kit’s answer. The bathroom light had never gone on in Barbara’s house. However, Kit had roamed freely in Barbara’s living room. Gazing at family photos? Checking out the house? Stealing a small memento to remember Barbara? Whatever reason Kit needed to get into that house, it sure wasn’t to use the bathroom. Jane’s thought process was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing. Ducking into the car, she retrieved the phone from her satchel and flicked it open to check the number.
It was Sergeant Weyler. Again.
Jane waited until voice mail rolled over before checking her messages. There were two, both from Weyler. The first was a simple “Call me.” The second was longer.
“So, you’re skipping town, are you? That’s not like you, Jane. You don’t run away from anything. What in the hell are you doing in Oakhurst, California? Do you need my help?” Weyler’s voice softened on the last question. He sounded genuinely concerned for Jane. “Don’t do anything stupid, Jane. You hear me? You know my number.” With that, Weyler hung up. Jane dug her hand into her pocket and nervously rubbed the three sobriety chips and the snakestone. A queasy feeling of approaching angst enfolded her. The wind pressed hard against her face, stinging her checks. For a moment, she was hopelessly held in an unsettled limbo, unable to ascertain whether her feet were touching the pavement. No matter how much she tried to block out the sensation and bring herself back into her body, it persisted, smothering her senses in a disquieting pall. Jane’s logical mind intruded, telling her that the feeling was due to being awake for than thirty hours with only coffee, a sugar cookie from Ingrid Bartosh, a tasteless spirulina ball, and a hurried lunch to fuel her spirit. But her gut told her this disturbing cloud of apprehension heralded something far more ominous.
“They have nuts!” Kit’s voice rang out from the darkness, lifting Jane from her stupor. “Pumpkin seeds! I got you a bag and a bottle of wine for Cousin Carl. I hope he likes merlot.” Kit started to get into the car but was taken by Jane’s distant visage. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Jane replied un convincingly.
They drove through the wintry darkness and finally came upon the significant rusty weather vane Carl had mentioned on the phone. Exactly one mile later on the left, they found Carl’s single-story adobe abode. It was actually quite easy to spot, given the plethora of green and red chile lights that were strung around the house and atop the bevy of juniper bushes encircling the property. To Jane, it looked like White Trash Central, and she was almost certain that the lights were a permanent fixture rather than a once-a-year holiday display.
“How colorful!” Kit exclaimed. “It’s like a landing pad for an aircraft. I like Cousin Carl already!”
An angular figure emerged from the front door, reflected in the glow of the red and green lights. “You found the place!” Carl yelled out as he walked toward the car. As he moved closer, Jane studied the man she had not seen in over fifteen years. Carl, who was pushing his late thirties, still had a shock of coal black hair that fell disheveled across his forehead and touched below his ears. While it seemed impossible, it looked as if Carl had actually grown taller than Jane remembered him. His slender six-foot five-inch frame appeared to be all legs as he ambled to Jane. Carl suddenly grabbed Jane, giving her a potent hug.
“How you doin’, cousin!” Carl said with a happy clip to his voice. “Damn, girl! You looked whipped!” Jane was not prepared for such a gregarious show of affection. She automatically took a sniff of Carl’s weather-beaten black canvas jacket. Nothing appeared to be there, but Jane speculated the cold winter air prevented the pot aroma from being detected. Carl turned to Kit. “Well, hello there! I’m Carl Perry!”
“So happy to meet you, Carl. My name’s Kit.” She extended her hand toward Carl, but he disregarded it and gave her a forceful hug.
“Shaking hands is for fucking dignitaries!” Carl said, patting Kit on the back.
They dragged the luggage into the house and Carl led them into the main room. The crisp sound of flamenco guitar issued from the four ceiling speakers. It was a spacious, Native American-themed room, with colorful native rugs on the walls, covering the two plush couches, and splayed erratically across the terracotta floor. On one wall, Carl displayed an impressive collection of Native artifacts, including peace pipes, arrows, tomahawks, and beaded leather bags that were securely framed behind clear glass. An oversized, open hearth with a roaring fire was the natural focal point for the inviting room as the intoxicating scent of piñon wafted through the air. Carl settled into a red rocking chair next to hearth. Kit melted into the couch closest to the fireside while Jane took a restrained seat in the center of the couch.
“Can I get you gals somethin’ to wet your whistle?” Carl asked as he removed his black canvas jacket.
Kit brought out the bottle of merlot from her bag. “I hope you like red wine.”
Carl took the bottle and admired the label. “Oh, I have a lot of memories of the burgundy and me.”
“Excellent,” Kit said, clasping her hands together.
“My cousin here will tell you there’s not a whole lot of liquor in my life that I’ve turned down,” Carl said with a soft smile and twinkle in his eye. “Thank you, Kit.”
Jane was quickly reminded of Carl’s penchant for knocking back five shots of tequila in one sitting and figured she’d better get on with the reason for her visit before he was too tanked. “So, about Clinton Fredericks—”
“Oh, that little fucker can wait!” Carl said as he got up and moved to the open kitchen area twenty feet away. “Can I pour you two a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, Carl,” Kit said as she motioned to Jane to take it down a notch in her eager intensity.
“How ’bout you, cousin?” Carl asked, removing the cork from the bottle.
Jane wasn’t in the mood to disclose her six months of sobriety. “No, thanks. I’m not a wine drinker.”
“I got tequila. And I got a helluva expensive whiskey I snuck back from England last year,” Carl offered, pouring a glass of wine.
An unexpected tension gripped Jane’s body. Her tongue tingled with the fleeting suggestion. Her answer came too slowly to be convincing. “No, thanks.”
Carl sauntered back to Kit, handing her the glass of wine. “How’s Mike doin’?” he asked, shoving a loose piece of piñon back into the open hearth with his boot.
Family talk. Not something Jane was comfortable discussing. “He’s fine. He’s got a girlfriend. I think it’s serious. He’ll probably get married.”
“Good for Mike!” Carl said earnestly, taking a seat. “I haven’t seen him since he was...what? He’s four years younger than Jane. He must’ve been sixteen. Damn! Where does the time go? Glad to know he’s in love. How ’bout you, Jane? You seein’ anybody?”
For Jane, these kind of personal chats were more painful than a root canal. “No. I’ve got a pretty full plate right now, what with going out on my own and—”
“Shit, life ain’t worth livin’ if you ain’t got someone to share it with.” Carl leaned back in his rocker and snatched a framed photo from a side table. He handed the photo to Jane. “Her name’s Kyoto. I met her in Japan when I was working on a story a few years ago. We’ve been together ever since.” Jane handed the photo to Kit. “Ain’t she a beauty? She’s in Japan right now, seeing her family. Jesus, I miss her!” Carl’s face softened as he thought about his lover. Kit handed the photo back to Carl. He traced Kyoto’s face with his finger, lost in thought momentarily.
Jane wondered when and how she could turn the conversation back to Clinton Fredericks. She was just about to speak when Kit beat her to the punch.
“I guess you’re not a merlot drinker, Carl?” Kit asked.
Carl gradually came out of
his lovesick gaze and replaced Kyoto’s photo on the table. “Well, the truth is, I stopped drinkin’ about eight years ago. Stopped dope, too. I found somethin’ else to fill in the blank spaces.”
Jane was stunned. Her tequila drinking, doobie-tooting cousin was clean and sober. She felt an unexplained rush of resentment toward him. “Don’t tell me you found God,” Jane said, allowing her bite and bile to override her self-control. Kit flashed Jane a look of censure.
Carl broke into a toothy grin. “Good one, cousin!” he said completely unaffected by Jane’s remark. He stretched his long, thin legs outward, clasping his narrow fingers behind his head. “I found my heart. So, yeah, I guess I found God.” Kit smiled. “It wasn’t about having this profound, enlightened moment of sobriety,” Carl continued, “It was more like I was so tired of trying to control the outcome of everything. I found out that being vulnerable wasn’t goin’ to kill me after all. In fact, being vulnerable was the only way I was goin’ to embrace the truth and move forward. I could sit around and blame everyone around me for my fucked-up life or I could forgive it all and find freedom for the first time ever.” Kit snuck a meaningful glance at Jane, who shifted uncomfortably in the couch.
“If you’re sober, why do you keep tequila and whiskey in the house?” Jane questioned him in her best detective voice.
“Just because I’m dry doesn’t mean my friends have to be!” Carl stated with a mischievous tone. “I own the bottle but it doesn’t own me.” He rocked forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. “When I started trusting in what I couldn’t see...but felt in here,” he tapped on his heart, “instead of here,” Carl motioned to his head, “everything became so clear to me.” Carl glanced at the freestanding bookshelf next to his chair. Amid the crush of books, he located the one he wanted and handed a crimsoncovered paperback to Jane. It was titled The Occult Significance of Forgiveness by Sergei Prokofieff, an obscure book Carl had found in a Russian bookstore. The book was a thought-provoking series of stories about people who had gone through hellish experiences and forgiven those who hurt them. “He doesn’t preach the morality of forgiveness,” Carl said, settling back in his rocking chair. “He presents spiritual awakenings that speak for themselves. What struck me was that the importance of forgiving was not just for one’s personal redemption, but for the advancement of all humans. Just to repeat the same hatred again and again serves no country, no culture, no religion, no person.” Carl recalled a story in the book about an attorney who lived in a concentration camp with his wife and five children. The Germans killed his wife and children in front of him. He begged them to kill him, but when they found out he could speak German, they decided to keep him as a translator. That night, he had a spiritual awakening; he realized that if he chose to hate the men who killed his family, it would destroy him. So he resolved that whether he lived another day or another fifty years, he would love every person he met. Years later, when the Germans were defeated and the camp was freed, this man emerged looking the picture of radiant health, while everyone else looked near death. “The author says that forgiving can’t be a passive process,” Carl stated. “It has to be done over and over in a very conscious manner. The negative memory goes through a spiritual death and leaves an empty space into which our God self can work.” Carl chuckled to himself. “I guess when the Biblethumpers talk about Jesus filling that empty space in their heart, they’re saying the same thing.”
Jane’s mind reeled with a million acerbic remarks. There had to be a quantum of muscle left in holding on to resentment. “That lawyer sounds like a modern day saint,” Jane offered, handing the book back to Carl.
“We’re all saints, Jane, with varying degrees of tarnished halos,” Carl replied. “You keep the book. I know it by rote.”
Jane reluctantly accepted the gift and set it on the couch. But her impatience was growing. She expressed her urgency to learn about Clinton and Carl finally acquiesced. He donned a black canvas jacket and snagged another coat from the pegs by the front door for Jane. Even with the garish glow of the red and green chile lights outside the house, the clear sky shone with a brilliant palate of sparkling stars. Jane lit a cigarette and took an eager drag of painkilling nicotine into her lungs.
“So, what do you know about the asshole?” Jane asked with pointed precision.
“Did you read my article about him in Rolling Stone?”
“Yeah. I want to know what you left out of the story.”
“Why?”
“You following the news the last few days?”
Carl shook his head. Jane told him about Charlotte and how Clinton was assuming the pseudo lead in the case. “Shit,” Carl said, nervously scuffing the hard dirt with the heel of his boot. A bone-chilling, high desert wind whipped up, carrying the sweet scent of sagebrush. “You involved in this kid’s case?”
Jane eyed Carl with a reluctant gaze. “Maybe.”
Carl considered the situation, motioning toward the house. “Is Kit involved?”
“I can’t go into any details. Let’s just say that this could turn out to be bigger than the Lawrence murder case.” Carl arched his eyebrows at Jane’s disclosure. “If it all plays out and my involvement turns out to be important, I will give you the exclusive interview.” Jane waited for that proposal to sink in.
“It’s taken me a long time to get the stories and the money and respect that go with them. If certain individuals found out I blabbed about stuff that didn’t get put in the story, I’m seriously fucked.”
“This conversation never happened, Carl. You have my word. And you’ll have the biggest exclusive of your career if it goes down our way.”
Carl dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “First off, you know as well as I do that there’s really no such thing as a profiler. That’s a manufactured Hollywood brand. The real term is ‘Behavioral Analyst’ and the only group that has a respectable B.A. program is the FBI. They have twelve psychologists, all FBI agents who got their Masters and PhDs in psychology. They’re stuffed into a building in Quantico and analyze photos and case files from the comfort of their desk. They study victimology, they study crime scenes and the vic’s background, and try to put together a best guess as to what happened and who did it. But you tell me, cousin, isn’t that what any good detective does? The only thing you get from the Behavioral Analyst guy is the expert witness in court that comes on the stand and says ‘I’ve got a PhD and here’s what I feel.’
“Now, Clinton Fredericks, he calls himself a profiler, but he’s just a guy with Nick Nolte hair and an ego the size of a Mack truck who uses the information from older cases to make assumptions about current ones.”
“So why is Clinton Fredericks’s name synonymous with crime solving?”
“Because he’s got a good agent. He’s also got a public relations firm that shores up his image and deflects the more compromising elements of his behavior.”
“You’re talking about Rudy Weiss and the killing of that bank teller?”
“That incident cost Fredericks pretty good bank with his PR gurus, but it paid off. He got a book deal and maybe a reality TV show down the road. I had to jump through fucking hoops when I wrote the article for Rolling Stone. One of the conditions was that I had to release the article to his PR man before the magazine got it. Anything they didn’t like got censored. It was my first article for Rolling Stone and I was promised more work if they liked the piece on Fredericks. So I did what the PR guys asked and I never told the magazine about it.”
“What’d you leave out of the story?” Jane asked, taking a drag on her cigarette.
Carl let out a long sigh. “Clinton sees himself as the resurrection of ‘Gonzo’ journalist Hunter S. Thompson. After Thompson committed suicide, I think Clinton felt he could match his idol’s wildness and proclivity to become the story instead of report it. But Clinton’s theater isn’t journalism. It’s hard-core life-and-death drama where average people can be used, bought, and manipulated to serve his higher
purpose.”
“What’s his MO?”
“Clinton’s not satisfied with the crumbs the cops throw him. He wants the whole loaf of bread he can get from a closer source: the family. He got cozy with that bank teller’s family. That’s how he knew so much about her when he was out there with the megaphone ‘negotiating’ for the TV cameras. Being close to the family also gives him the advantage of finding out some choice information that the cops may only divulge to the relatives. But he’s also got a stalker mentality.”
“How do you mean?”
“Basically, he leeches on to anyone and then steals that information for his own advancement. I spent three months with the prick. We drove from one fucking TV show to the next so he could promote his stupid book. But in between getting his makeup on for the next TV interview or doing book signings, he started opening up to me. All egomaniacs need a stage and another body to bounce their brilliance off of. I’m a good listener when I have to be, and so he talked and talked and talked. He wants to be super profiler, super negotiator, and super crime solver—”
“Clinton got that bank teller killed. How does that raise his image?”
“Didn’t you see his stirring epilogue on live TV when he wept in front of America as he told of the brave sacrifice that poor woman made and how he was going to do whatever it took to have a park near the bank named after her. And he did it! And you better believe the fucker was there front and center on the day they cut the ribbon at that little park. Never mind that he was also quietly enjoying half of the $250,000 reward fund that the family of the dead woman insisted he receive.”
