Half Life

by Helen Cothran

  He ran a hand over his white tresses. I swear, I could hear the electrically charged strands pop as his fingers moved through them. He glared at me, fear making his face glisten with sweat, anger narrowing his eyes. “How dare you call me a liar.”

  I glanced around the parking lot. We were alone, and only a few cars were parked in the cracked and weedy lot. But across the street at the Desert Sudz and Dry, people bustled about. He wasn’t going to kill me out here in the middle of the day with countless witnesses around. I plunged ahead. “You are a liar, and I want to know why. When I mentioned Pete last time, your face registered strong emotion. But you swore you didn’t know him. That’s odd, because I saw you looking right at Pete in a photograph of him and Matthew. From the expression on your face, you knew Pete, and you didn’t want him talking to Matthew. Surely you knew that Matthew was seeing Pete.”

  His eyes flitted around the parking lot. Edging farther away from the parked car, he groused, “They were on opposite sides of the protest. That’s all. That’s all I know about it.”

  “That photograph said otherwise. They weren’t arguing. They were talking—intimately. And you saw it. Your face looked worried. Scared.”

  “I can’t account for what fanciful interpretation you came up with. I told you. I didn’t know this Pete person.” He started to move past me again, his desire to flee warring with his effort to appear unruffled by my questions.

  “This is getting boring. You don’t have to admit it to me. But you’re going to have a lot of questions to answer when I tell Deputy Wise that you’re trying to hide the fact that you knew Pete. Deputy Wise is quite interested in those photos of you, Pete, and Matthew.”

  Cornwell’s face glistened. “How do you know that? You told me you were a writer.”

  I smirked. “Let’s just say that I’m moonlighting as a consultant in the case. Deputy Wise keeps me informed.” This was BS, but what the heck. Maybe I could scare the man into talking.

  He didn’t talk, though, he was so busy trembling. I could see his hands vibrate at the ends of his shivering arms. He looked so crazed I thought he might start laughing hysterically. Then I noticed his hands curl, and I began to wonder if I had been too sanguine about my safety. He looked so out of it, so maniacal, he probably wasn’t even noticing the bustle of people across the street. I could feel my own upper lip break out into a sweat, and my bladder explosion felt imminent. I backed away from Cornwell, gave him some space. The man was thin as a praying mantis, but I didn’t doubt his six-foot frame could wreak havoc on my five-foot-two body.

  He saw me back away and pressed his advantage. “You better not be telling the police lies about me, implicating me in Pete’s murder.”

  “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” I flung at him as if this were a schoolyard tiff. My mouth had a habit of working independently of my brain, which was never a good thing. I thought it was interesting how Cornwell was now calling it murder and not a disappearance.

  He took a step toward me, his face a cold hard mask. “I’m warning you. You will regret sticking your nose into this. You just leave it be.”

  I stood up as tall as I could and smirked again. I wouldn’t let him know I felt scared. “Thank you for your concern. But I can take care of myself. I’ll let you go to lunch, but I’m warning you, I’m not going to back off.”

  With that I turned my back to him, steeled myself for his hands around my neck, and sauntered toward my car. Time oozed by as I watched my feet inch across the rumpled tarmac. The back of my neck tingled. I glanced at the laundromat as I moved, slowly narrowing the space between me and the Corolla. The brisk wind turned my sweat to ice. Finally, I had my key in the lock.

  When I glanced back Cornwell was still standing there, body rigid, eyes boring into mine.

  Way to go, Sam. You’ve done it again.

  .

  I drove straight to the sheriff’s department after leaving Cornwell, my body thrumming with tension. I knew Trent would want to know that one of my suspects was looking damn guilty of something.

  I found Trent in his office, pushing paper as usual. Two paper cups stained with coffee and creamer sat on his desk as well as an empty bag from Mike’s Deli. Two sandwich wrappers were balled up on the desk, and one of Mike’s killer chocolate chip cookies made a grease spot on a piece of paper by Trent’s elbow. This scene went a long way toward explaining my friend’s belly.

  With a dramatic sigh I fell into his guest chair. My legs still felt wobbly from my run-in with Cornwell. I breathed in the office smell of the place, listened to sounds of work being done, the rhythmic clunking of a copy machine, the clatter of fingers on a keyboard, some deputy’s brusque voice down the hall.

  When I felt calmer I began describing my encounter with Cornwell, concluding with, “You should have seen him, Trent. I’m telling you, the guy is losing it. He seems equal parts angry and scared.”

  Trent shook his head. “I’m having a hard time seeing Doctor Cornwell unhinged. From what I know of him, he is calm personified.”

  I nodded. “Well, that’s it. He certainly was that when I first met him. But this time, it’s clear he’s under some deep emotional strain. And he’s not a doctor, by the way.”

  “He’s not? I thought he was a shrink.”

  “Another lie he wants people to believe. He doesn’t even have a degree in psychology. He does the reparative therapy crap on referral from his church’s pastor.”

  “Oh,” Trent said and sat back in his chair. I noticed his gut seemed to have gotten bigger since the last time I was in. I could see that his flashing days were over. Running naked during half-time might just trigger cardiac arrest. The man was still good-looking, though, in a blond, bloated kind of way. He said, “I can see I misjudged Cornwell. He just seemed so upright.”

  “Yeah, if you find someone who tells gay people they’re sick upright.”

  Trent looked sharply at me. “That’s not what I meant. That isn’t something I think is good, Sam. Really. It’s just that he has a certain reputation in town. The mayor chose him to work on his behalf, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, and I don’t understand it. But from everything I hear, Mayor Tyler is just using Cornwell as his lackey while he sits at city hall making plans for next year’s election. I’m not sure this protest thing has anything to do with Pete’s case.”

  “If it’s not the protest, then what?”

  “You know that Cornwell uses Matthew Thornton as his success story. You know, the man he saved from the terrible scourge of homosexuality. Well, I’m pretty sure that Thornton and Pete were having a sexual relationship. And I think Cornwell found out about it. There’s your motive. If it were to get out that the poster boy was having sex with Pete, Cornwell’s reputation, his business, and probably his political ambitions go down the drain.”

  “You think Cornwell is capable of killing someone just to protect his reputation?”

  I shrugged. “You’re in law enforcement. I’m sure you’ve seen people kill for less.”

  Trent nodded and reached out for the cookie. He broke it in half and offered me a piece. I shook my head—my stomach had felt queasy since leaving Cornwell. Trent bit into a half and chewed thoughtfully. “I’d like to talk with the guy, Sam, but I don’t have any cause. What you’ve given me isn’t much to go on. This is going to take some thinking.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, getting to my feet, “I’m going to have another chat with the Thorntons. I can’t see those two being innocent in all this.”

  “Just be careful,” Trent said as he popped the last of the cookie into his mouth. “And keep me apprised.”

  I said I would, gave my friend a wave, and walked out.

  .

  I sat in my car in the sheriff’s department parking lot, cell phone in hand. The inside of the Corolla was warm from the sun, and I sat with the windows up, soaking up the comfort of it. The heat supercharged the air freshener tree hanging from the rearview mirror, enve
loping me in lemon scent. I stared through the windshield at the tiny mesquite trees planted between the parking lot and street. Gusts pushed them over at right angles, and just when I thought their skinny trunks would snap, the wind subsided and the trees popped back upright. I felt sorry for the saplings. They were destined to list permanently like all the trees in Desert Rock.

  I shook myself. The phone, Sam. Call him or put the damn key in the ignition and drive home. A friend can call a friend. You’re not hanging on to him, you’re not embarrassing yourself, you’re not pathetic. You just want to call and say howdy. I sat, smelled lemons, watched the wind blow the trees sideways. Then I punched Eddie’s number.

  “Hey, Sam,” he said. I could hear the hustle and bustle of Coffee Buzz in the background. The sound of it made me smell coffee.

  “I won’t keep you,” I said hurriedly, “I know you’re at work. I just wanted to say ‘hi’ and find out how Miguel is doing.” That sounded reasonable enough, a friend following up with a friend.

  Eddie laughed, but it sounded brittle. “Well, Raul didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t even fire him. I think Miguel’s too good a lackey.”

  “And your folks are none the wiser?”

  “They know something’s up between Miguel and me, but there usually is.”

  It was probably too personal and nosy, but I asked anyway. “Is Coffee Buzz 2 still a go?”

  Eddie didn’t answer right away. I knew how angry and ashamed he was that part of the money he was using to open the new shop came from the illegal dumping operation. After an audible sigh, Eddie said, “It’s still on. I’d already committed the money. It would cause all kinds of problems now to pull out. So I’m going to donate the same amount to the Desert Rock Preserve. Once the shop is up and running, I’ll take part of the income every month and send it off.”

  He said all this in a tone of resignation, but I felt proud of him. He had come up with a plan to right a wrong, to put the ethical universe back in balance. To regain his honor. I knew he was too mad at himself to accept my praise, so I just said, “That sounds like a sensible solution. And I’m glad Miguel is in one piece. How’s life other than that?” I was thinking about Gabby, but I hoped he wouldn’t guess that.

  “Status quo,” he said.

  So Gabby was still in the picture. I didn’t feel like talking anymore.

  When Eddie asked how everything was with me, I forgot my intention of telling him about Cornwell and just mumbled something about needing to get back to my book. He said he was busy, too, and we hung up.

  I sat like a stone in the closed-up car. The heat and lemon stench gagged me. I opened all the car windows, let the cold air push in. I breathed deeply, in and out, in and out.

  I didn’t want to live without Eddie. Why did I feel like that was going to happen? Breathing seemed suddenly impossible, and for a moment I panicked, I felt suffocation wrap me like a shroud. You need to breathe, Sam. Just breathe.

  If only it were that simple.

  .

  Two days after the ugly scene with Cornwell, I sat at the kitchen table drinking my first cup of coffee of the day. Lacy, as usual, lay on my feet. I watched Connor through the patio window as he put the finishing touches on the garden. Glistening green leaves and bright yellow flowers filled the beds, and there was even a new aloe vera tree to replace the one that died. Or rather, the one I had killed. The tree had prospered under Mom’s TLC. It had taken one look at me, turned all blighty, and then croaked. Oh well. I didn’t have the energy this morning to feel bad about it. I yawned. Sleepily, I opened the Desert Tribune.

  My body jolted as if electrocuted when I saw it. It couldn’t be true. I just couldn’t believe it. But there it was, in large bold print, right in front of my face:

  Therapist’s Body Found in Car

  Bernard Cornwell.

  Dead.

  26

  I sat in Trent’s office, both of us sipping wicked brew to stay awake. It was eleven o’clock on Thursday night. This was the first chance I’d had to speak to Trent after reading about Cornwell’s death in the paper this morning. My deputy friend had spent the entire day and much of the night processing the crime scene and had only now returned to the office, where he found my message. Without hesitation he phoned and asked me to come on by if I wanted to—he was interested in my take on Cornwell’s death. Trent explained that he’d be working all night.

  Trent gave me details that the paper had not reported, including the fact that Cornwell had been shot once in the temple with a shotgun. His body had been found in his car by a hiker. The woman had been walking with her golden retriever on the old jeep trail leading to Sidel Ghost Town when she saw a car parked by an ancient abandoned house. She told the deputies that when she neared the vehicle her dog began to whine, and the hair along the animal’s spine stood on end. The woman knew then it wouldn’t be good, but she looked anyway. Whether she lost her lunch, fainted, or just shrugged and turned away, Trent didn’t say. But he did tell me that the poor woman had to walk three miles toward town before she could pick up cell phone reception and call the deputies.

  Then Trent reported another unexpected discovery: He had found a bag of crystal meth in the passenger seat of Cornwell’s car.

  “Meth?” I repeated in astonishment. “Cornwell was not the type to use drugs.”

  “One thing I’ve learned in law enforcement,” my friend said, “there is no ‘type’ for using drugs. Amazing how many straight-laced, law-abiding citizens snort and smoke like nobody’s business.” Trent’s face was drawn and pale, but his eyes were bright. He had a murder to solve. This is why he got into law enforcement.

  “I know, but Cornwell and meth? It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “I agree he doesn’t seem a prime candidate. But nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “You think the drugs had something to do with his murder?”

  Trent shrugged, tossed back more vile coffee. “We have to assume that as a possibility. The drugs were right there in the seat beside him. We’ll have to wait for the toxicology report to find out if he had drugs in his system.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just having a hard time seeing him using drugs. Hell, I bet he didn’t even drink. He was such a controlled man.”

  “Not the last time you saw him,” Trent reminded me of my encounter with Cornwell on Tuesday, just two days ago.

  “That’s true. He was freaking out that day, for sure.”

  “I’m wondering if your visit and his murder are connected.”

  My head snapped up. “What?”

  Trent put his hand up. “That doesn’t mean I think you are responsible in any way for what happened to Cornwell. But the two events happened very close together.”

  “Association is not causation,” I said. I didn’t like the idea that my ambush had led to Cornwell’s murder.

  “Not always. But sometimes it is. On Tuesday you tell Cornwell you know he’s lying about not knowing Pete and suggest that the sheriff’s department is looking at him as a suspect. He looks totally unhinged. Then two days later he turns up dead.”

  Trent could be right, but my mind kept rebelling against the idea. “Wouldn’t it make more sense that my visit was just a side note? That whatever gears put this in motion were already moving? He was rattled when I talked to him Tuesday. Obviously, something was going on.”

  “Which may or may not have had anything to do with the case. He might have had a fight with his wife, for all we know.”

  I sat back in my chair, put my feet up on Trent’s desk. “I thought of that. But, honestly? He looked scared. Not angry or irritated. Scared. Like something bad was going to happen.”

  “Well, he got that right.” Trent leaned back and put his feet up on the desk as well. I saw that his boots were dusty and the treads filled with pebbles from clomping around the crime scene. He smelled like outside, that sharp scent of wind and dust. We sat quietly for a moment, drinking coffee, puzzling it over.
>
  Finally I said, “Let’s go back to the drugs. I still can’t see Cornwell using. Or dealing.”

  “And yet, there they were. We have to pursue the theory that he was killed because a drug deal went sour. Say he drove out to that old abandoned house to buy the drugs. Something goes wrong with the deal. Maybe he shows without money. Maybe he owes the dealer money. Then, bam! Bye bye Cornwell. Or let’s say he’s the dealer. He drives out there to sell to someone, and that someone kills him.”

  “What for? The drugs were still on the car seat.”

  “Some drugs were still on the car seat. Who knows? Maybe Cornwell had sacks of the stuff loaded in the car and the killer took it all but a little, just to throw us off.”

  “Or,” I said, swooping my feet off the desk and leaning forward, “the killer planted the drugs to throw us off. Meaning Cornwell’s murder has nothing to do with drugs.”

  Trent studied the ceiling, considering my theory. “I don’t know. This isn’t L.A. This is podunk Desert Rock. That just sounds too sophisticated for here.”

  “People are the same all over, Trent.”

  He reluctantly nodded. “I suppose. But then you have to ask yourself, if not drugs, what?”

  “I think we go back to Pete’s disappearance. We have to consider that Cornwell was killed by whoever killed Pete.”

  “Assuming Pete is dead. We still don’t have a body.”

  “True. But, look. You thought my ambush of Cornwell and his death two days apart was too much of coincidence not to be related. Well, we could argue the same about Pete and Cornwell. Pete disappears three weeks ago and is presumed dead. Now Cornwell is shot. As you pointed out, this is Desert Rock, not L.A. Two murders in three weeks. I say they have to be connected.”

  Trent looked at me. “You make sense. But what about the damn drugs?”

  “A red herring?”

  “Okay. So what connects Pete and Cornwell?”

  “The protest. And the Thorntons.”

  “The Thorntons. You’re going back to that reparative therapy stuff, right?”