by Neil Mcmahon
I drifted in and out of lucidity, too; it came in brief spells before the haze would creep back and put me under again. I recalled getting shot with detached vividness, as if I was watching a movie. I even did some thinking about the events leading up to it, and about where this was headed. And a part of my mind that acted on its own tried to make sense of it all, although I couldn't keep track of that very well.
Long ago, I'd started believing that everybody had a sort of cosmic bank balance where commodities like luck were stored up, and I had no doubt that I'd just made a heavy withdrawal from mine. Paulson's aim had been almost as bad as my own, and he'd used a.40-caliber pistol, popular with cops, which fired a fast powerful round. He'd clipped the lower right side of my chest, splintering ribs both on entry and exit. But the jacketed bullet had passed under my lung, barely grazing it, and had punched straight through instead of blowing out a big chunk like a.357 or my own.45 would have, or glancing off bone and turning inward as lighter ammunition sometimes did.
Then there was the real luck. A killer who'd gone free for twelve years-who had certainly committed rape in the interim, and maybe worse-was finally on his way to prison for good. Like a hidden viper, he'd been the more dangerous because nobody had known about him. That threat was ended, and so was Renee's personal nightmare.
As for me, I was going to have some time on my hands, and I wouldn't be able to fill it with the usual upkeep around my place. It would be a couple of weeks before I could take on physical work, and then only light tasks. I'd have other things to keep me busy, like dealing with the police about the assault and filling in the rest of the Paulson story.
But I was still going to be up against something I dreaded-a deep-seated reason why my life had ended up the way it had. I'd never been able to explain or quantify this, which was part of the problem. It was an inner absence, which brought a feeling along the lines of waiting endlessly at a bus stop, in a strange and bleak industrial city, on a cold night; a flaw in your being that darkened everything you saw, saddened everything you felt, slowly crushed the life out of an inmost part of you. It wasn't depression, it was the root of depression. For years, the single thing that I had crave. most was oblivion, the complete annihilation of consciousness. But I believed that was something you had to earn, and I didn't know how to-only that I hadn't.
I'd tried to resolve the issue in various ways and failed. With that frustration piled on top of the rest, I'd ended up running. That was a major reason for the job I'd settled into; it allowed me to keep moving hard through the days and wear myself out. Then when I got home at night, fatigue and, too often, alcohol reduced my worries to nothing weightier than getting my boots off and filling my belly. There was nothing commendable about that, but it worked.
Renee's fear of being an emotional cripple wasn't a one-way street. Even if she did offer her light to me, I wasn't sure I could ever be fair to her, either.
35
I woke up again and spent the usual groggy moment figuring out where I was. The outdoor light filtering through the window blinds seemed stronger than last time I'd looked, but if there was a clock in the room, I hadn't yet located it. My sense of time was too out of whack for that to matter, anyway.
My throat was dry and scratchy, as it seemed to be every time I came to. Maybe it was the hospital air, maybe medications. I'd learned by now to maneuver water from the bedside stand without disturbing either the tubage that pierced me or my own torn flesh. I drank greedily; it was cool, soothing, and it freshened me like it was the first thing I'd really felt since I'd been here. I was stronger, even hungry. I decided that when a nurse stopped by again, I'd get myself disconnected and try to make it to the bathroom without weaving like a drunk while somebody held on to my arm. Then I'd see about scoring some breakfast, or lunch, or whatever they'd let me have.
But the next person who pushed open my room door wasn't a nurse. It was Renee.
She peered in cautiously. "I came by earlier and you were asleep," she said in a half-whisper. "I don't want to disturb you."
"It's fine."
"I'm so glad you're going to be all right." She came to the bedside and kissed me, a brief but intense touching of lips. Then she stepped back, looking anxious.
"Ian flew in this morning," she said. "He's here with me. He'd like to meet you."
"Ian?"
"My fiance."
"Oh, right. Sorry, I'm sort of goofed out on the meds." I shrugged, attempting nonchalance, but it brought a stitch of pain in my side that made my mouth twist. "Sure, bring him in."
She leaned over me again and spoke close to my ear, this time in a real whisper.
"I haven't told him anything about us."
I nodded thankfully. At least his jealous anger wouldn't be in the equation.
I knew that Ian must be a decent guy, and I admired people who did the work of healing; that was a hell of a lot more demanding than anything I'd ever taken on. But from what Renee had mentioned, he was also sure of himself, maybe to the point of arrogance. I wasn't interested in dealing with that, particularly now.
But the man who stepped into the room was anything but cool. He had a rawboned build and a kindly face that was on the homely side, with jug ears and a big nose. He did give off quiet self-assurance, but it was the sort that stemmed from competence.
"This will sound dumb, but I don't know how to thank you," he said.
I started to shrug again, but caught myself. When it came to pain, I was a relatively fast learner.
"Renee's the one who took the chance-dangled herself on a hook till the sucker hit," I said. "All I did was get in the way."
She put her hands on her hips and gave me her teacher-to-bad-schoolboy look.
"There's a little more to it than that," she said.
"Yeah, I shot up your house, too." I took another sip of water. "Heard any more about where things stand?"
"I talked to Gary Varna this morning," Renee said. "Paulson still swears he didn't commit the murders."
"Big surprise. So how else does he explain waiting for you with a gun?"
Renee lowered her gaze. "He had something else in mind. It almost would have been worse." She turned away uncomfortably.
"He was going to force her to drink rohypnol," Ian said, putting his arm around her. "He had handcuffs, tape-and a camera."
At first I was stunned. Then a wave of rage swept over me, bristling my hair and heating my face. If I could have gotten hold of Travis Paulson just then, I'd have crushed his throat and savored watching his eyes dim out.
I realized that I'd risen up off my pillows. I settled back and took my best shot at smiling.
"Hey, Renee," I said. "It's over, and you cleared your father."
She smiled back, and Ian gave me a grateful look.
Before they left, they made it clear that they'd be glad to do anything they could for me. Ian had already talked to hospital personnel about my treatment; in his judgment, I was in good hands. He also insisted on paying any medical expenses that weren't otherwise covered. I had no intentions of taking him up on it, but it was damned generous.
The bottom line was, I was sorry I'd met him. The situation was complicated enough anyway, and now I was stuck with liking him.
36
When the hospital sprang me next day-technically against medical advice, but they agreed as long as I promised to come back immediately if I had trouble-Madbird drove me home in my pickup truck, with Hannah following. He'd invited me to stay with them until I was feeling spryer, but I told him I'd more likely want company after I'd spent a few days alone at my place. He knew what I meant.
They loaded me up with groceries and a couple of bottles of whiskey, and since my.45 was still being held as evidence, he loaned me his.41-Magnum Smith amp; Wesson, in case the bobcat showed up. The Smith was also a big pistol, with a six-inch barrel, and at least as loud as the Colt. I hoped I was right that the noise would scare the cat off. It sure didn't need to be worried about my aim.
> Hannah stowed the groceries while Madbird built a fire in the woodstove. Then they took off, and I was on my own. For the moment, it felt good. I'd been comfortable at St. Pete's and the staff were great, but there was still that unavoidable sense of being in a hamster cage, helpless and pressing buttons for food.
I hadn't had another chance to talk with Renee in private, and I didn't figure I would before she and Ian left for Seattle. I'd watched her face as she left the hospital room, hoping for some hint of affirmation, but it hadn't come. If anything, she'd seemed to avoid my gaze. But she had to be incredibly shaken and confused right now. All I could do was stay out of the way and let her decompress.
It was getting toward lunchtime, and my appetite was coming back. Hannah, angel that she was, had cooked me a beef pot roast and at least a gallon of mashed potatoes. I chunked some of both into an iron frying pan and set it on the stovetop to warm, moving slowly, letting my body teach me what hurt and what didn't.
While the food heated up, I thought about the conversation I'd had with Gary Varna yesterday. He'd come to visit me after Renee and Ian left, wanting to take a statement if I felt up to it.
I'd known that was going to happen, and I'd tried to prepare myself. The problem was that I didn't want to give up Renee's secrets-her mini-affair with me, and her sexual encounter with Astrid. Those issues weren't in play yet; right now, Gary's focus was on the assault. But as the case expanded to include Astrid's murder, so would the range of questioning. I had to assume that eventually, Renee and I would be asked to account for every minute of the past few days.
The last time I'd been under Gary Varna's scrutiny, I'd had to lie about a lot of things. But I didn't want to lie to him anymore. I hated doing it at all; I wasn't any good at it, even when I wasn't in a drug fog like now; it was dangerous and nerve-racking, particularly with him; and above all, it was a dogshit way to treat this man who had done a hell of a lot for me.
I'd ended up deciding to compromise-to be straight about everything except Renee's sexual encounter with Astrid. That was up to her.
"Gary, before we start-I can't see that this even figures in, but you should know it," I'd said.
One of his eyebrows rose a few millimeters. "Go ahead, the tape recorder ain't on yet."
"Remember when I told you Renee found that dead rat in her dresser? Afterwards, she was…in a mood to be consoled."
"'Consoled.'" His mouth twitched in one of his crocodilian smiles. "Not bad, Hugh. I can't exactly say you're a gentleman, but you do take a stab at it now and then."
"The situation's kind of awkward. What with her being engaged."
Gary gazed past me for a moment, drumming his long fingers on the arm of his chair.
"Well, I appreciate your telling me," he said. "Personally, I agree with you, I don't see why it should matter. But you better realize, Paulson's defense will probably jump on it like a pogo stick."
"I know. I was just hoping it wouldn't come up for a while. Give her a chance to work things out with her guy."
"All right, I hear you. You ready now?"
When the formalities were over, Gary told me more about the situation with Travis Paulson. He hadn't put up much resistance to police questioning; if anything, there'd been a sense of sneaky bragging as he described his accomplishments.
When he wanted to photograph a woman, he'd start by flattering her, then maneuver her into cozy situations and work up to his proposition with a variety of pitches-what a shame if her beauty was never recorded before it faded; everyone had a right to a private side of their life; acting out a harmless fantasy was exciting and healthy; and so on. He'd assure her that his interest was purely aesthetic, that he'd give her all the prints and negatives, that it would remain forever secret. Most of the ladies refused at first, but a significant number soon let him know they'd like to discuss the matter further.
Paulson admitted that he'd traded on his acquaintance with Professor Callister to get chummy with Astrid, and he eventually made his pitch to photograph her. In keeping with her brashness, she agreed readily. She wore the cowgirl outfit, including the garish earrings, because he encouraged all the women to indulge their fantasies with props or costumes.
He was fascinated with Astrid anyway, powerful and striking as she was. Then when he saw Renee wearing one of the earrings around her neck, he came unglued. He claimed that he had no idea how she'd gotten it, or how it figured into the murder; he only connected it with the thrilling couple of hours he'd spent photographing Astrid's nude beauty, and the many more hours he'd spent poring over the photos since then. Those factors had melded together into a driving compulsion to repeat the experience with Renee and take it to the next step.
By now, Paulson had also admitted to the police that the sex he'd had with unconscious women was not consensual. During the photo session, he would tell them they were tense, which impaired their natural loveliness, and he'd insist that they drink a glass of wine to relax. Of course, they didn't realize that it was laced with rohypnol. He wouldn't have dared to try this with Astrid or most of the others; he carefully chose victims who were naive or passive. If they suspected afterward that something amiss had happened, he could convince them they were wrong, or coax and bully them into not making a fuss.
When Renee wouldn't give him a chance even to begin his approach, anger and frustration entered the mix in his mind. That was when he crossed a line. He believed that she was alone and vulnerable, and he'd gotten away with enough rapes to convince himself that he could again. He swore that he'd never used violence before and hadn't intended to this time; he'd brought the pistol only to frighten her into submission and get her to drink the rohypnol. He'd broken into her house through a back window and watched until he'd seen her car approaching, then hurried to hide; but with his haste and in the darkness, he hadn't seen me. When I stepped inside instead of her, he'd started to run out the back door, but panicked when he saw that I was armed.
That was the story that Travis Paulson had told so far. The police were searching for evidence to link him to Astrid's murder, including fingerprints from the cache we'd found in the carriage house. No motive had yet come clear, but the loss of control that Renee had caused him was telling. Speculation was that his fascination with Astrid, rage at his failure to possess her sexually, and jealousy of her lover had boiled over.
My nose told my belly that the meal I had warming on the stove was ready. I started to wash the dishes after I ate, but the cabin was filled with a pleasant warmth from the fire that Madbird had built, I was weak enough so that just getting from the hospital to here had worn me out, and I started feeling my ribs in a way I couldn't ignore. I washed down a Percocet with a shot of whiskey, and slipped into a delicious sleep.
Three hours later, I woke up feeling like shit.
I prodded myself into taking a slow walk around my property, and I was drawn to the firing range to relive yesterday's interlude with Renee. That was bittersweet at best-electric, disturbing, and now infused with the ache of loss.
But the chilly air and exercise helped my mind and body both, and I drifted through the evening dabbling with computer, books, and thoughts. When I crashed, I was tired again, relaxed, and ready for a real sleep.
Maybe I'd rested too much already. Again and again that night, I woke up in a sweat from wrestling with my dreams, if that was what they were.
37
The news over the next couple of days wasn't so good.
No fingerprints from Travis Paulson or anyone else had been found on the items from the cache. Everything had been wiped carefully clean. More sophisticated tests were possible, but state and federal crime labs had years-long backlogs, and weren't likely to invest their time and resources without very compelling reasons.
Moreover, Paulson had successfully passed a lie detector test, and he'd been able to establish an alibi that seemed relatively solid. On the night when Astrid and her lover were murdered, he had been staying in the resort area of Big Sky, working on
a consulting job. He had located two coworkers who confirmed that they'd had dinner with him in a restaurant that evening, then drank in a bar until about eleven. They remembered clearly because they had seen Paulson the next day after the news broke; he'd told them he knew Astrid, and seemed visibly shaken.
Big Sky was just north of Yellowstone Park, about two hundred miles from the crime scene. The drive was mostly over winding two-lane roads and took close to three hours even under optimal conditions, let alone on a wintry March night. And according to the coroner's estimate, the deaths had occurred before midnight.
There was still room for doubt. Lie detector tests were inconclusive almost by definition. With some lucky driving, Paulson could have made the round trip during that night, and the estimated time of death could have been significantly wrong. The bodies hadn't been discovered until the following afternoon, and as Gary pointed out, the forensics of the case had been handled abysmally.
But those things were all but impossible to establish. For the most part, the bungled investigation was a defense attorney's wet dream. Evidence had been lost or contaminated; what survived wasn't of much use; there was nothing that might have provided a DNA match with Paulson; records from the Phosphor County Sheriff's Department were sloppy, inconsistent, and failed to cover a lot of important ground; and so on.
A smoking gun might still turn up. The police were quietly but intensely working on the case, searching Paulson's property, reconstructing his movements around the time of the murders, interviewing his rape victims-digging for anything that might give them a pressure point.
But so far, the only fact that stood beyond doubt was his vileness.
