White Lies

by Jeremy Bates

  “Poor soul. Christ. He was a character, all right.”

  Jack’s cell phone began ringing. He frowned to himself. Not many people had his number. Those few who did rarely, if ever, called him.

  Katrina?

  He did the math, making connections. The cop must have spoken with her first. That was the only way he could have found out about Jack’s involvement last night. And if that was the case, he needed to find out what she’d told the cop.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Be right back.”

  At the desk he picked up his phone. His invisible frown deepened when he saw seven missed calls on the display.

  What the hell had gone wrong?

  “Hello?” he said, turning his back to the cop and walking to the far corner of the room.

  “Jack!” Katrina exclaimed. “God, Jack. Where have you been?”

  “Exercising.”

  “A policeman just came by my place about thirty minutes ago,” she said, speaking fast. “I think he wants to talk to you. I said you weren’t from around here, so he’ll probably be checking all the motels and hotels. We have to get our stories straight.”

  “Yes, that would be good.”

  “Jack? Is something wrong?”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “What? He’s there, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told him Charlie came by,” she said, lowering her voice. “He knew anyway. I said Charlie came because he wanted us to turn down the music. I didn’t say anything about him wanting to shut down the party. I said we showed him the place and he was satisfied. But the cop talked to the neighbors and learned two cars left. He thinks someone followed Charlie. I told him I didn’t know who it was, but then he asked how many cars were there, and I told him only the bus and yours, so he thinks you followed him. God! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe you can tell him you were just going to the store to get some more liquor or—”

  “That’s fine. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s all, I think.”

  “Thanks for calling. I’ll get back to you later.” He hung up.

  Officer Murray was waiting patiently where Jack had left him, turning away from the window when Jack approached, as if he’d been doing nothing more than watching the rain, which was bullshit. He’d been listening to every word.

  “Sorry about that,” Jack said, not offering to explain who it was on the phone. He’d performed numerous interrogations over the years and knew only guilty people thought they needed to give excuses. “Where were we?”

  “I have a few questions for you, Mr. Reeves.”

  “Just Jack,” he said, sticking out a hand.

  “Er—Michael,” the cop said, shaking awkwardly.

  “Fire away then, Mike.”

  He took a notebook and pen from his belt. “You were with Ms. Katrina Burton when she spoke with Mr. Stanley?”

  “I was.”

  “What did Mr. Stanley say?”

  “Said he wanted us to turn down the music. Can you believe that? Crazy bastard drives all the way from Skykomish just to tell us to turn down the music.”

  “Actually, he didn’t come from his home in Skykomish.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  The cop studied Jack for a moment, seeming to size him up, the way you do when considering whether to tell someone something important or not. “Here it is,” he said finally, apparently swayed by Jack’s easygoing nature. “I get a call from Lucky late last night—he’s the sheriff in Skykomish. Says there was a suspicious accident on the road.”

  “Suspicious?”

  “Well, yes and no. Automobile fires are pretty common. About thirty every hour on the highways across the country. But those that happen when there’s no one around to see them, well, they’re more likely to be under suspicion for arson.”

  “I don’t think Charlie’s looking to collect on the insurance, Mike.”

  Officer Murray laughed and stuffed his notebook and pen away. He hadn’t written a thing. “No one thought twice about foul play until Lucky got ahold of Mr. Stanley’s wife. She’s in Wenatchee Hospital. Bad hip or something. Mr. Stanley was there with her when his neighbor called and complained about the noise. He told his wife—Luella, her name is—he tells her he needs to go to the cabin to shut down some wild party and he’d be back soon. Only he never comes back. Instead he’s found way over by Skykomish, his truck on fire. Didn’t really add up, you know what I mean?”

  Jack’s blood boiled. He could never have known.

  “So they investigated the fire further,” Murray added.

  “And?”

  “It looks like the crash caused an oil leak that combusted.”

  “Is that unusual?” Jack asked ingenuously.

  “No, it happens.”

  “Case closed then.”

  “Should be,” Murray said, nodding, though the nod didn’t mean he agreed. “But Lucky was an old friend of Charlie’s. Grew up here in these parts with him. He wants to know exactly what happened. Wants to know why Mr. Stanley was going back to Skykomish when his wife was waiting for him at the hospital. Says it’s not like Mr. Stanley to do something like that. He wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment fella.”

  “Maybe he had to pick up something? It could be any number of reasons.”

  Officer Murray hitched up his belt and shrugged.

  Jack said, “Let’s cut to the chase then, shall we? What can I do to help you that Katrina couldn’t?”

  Murray eyed him. “I don’t believe I mentioned I had spoken with Ms. Burton.”

  “So you didn’t speak with her?”

  “No, I did. But how did you know that? Was that her on the phone—”

  “Last I spoke to Katrina was early this morning.”

  “Then how—”

  “How else would you have known I was staying here? Katrina is the only person who knows. I’m just connecting the dots here, Mike.”

  Murray took that notebook out again, flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “No,” he said, tapping the page with a bony finger, “Ms. Burton told me she didn’t know where you were staying.”

  “How did you find me then?”

  “There are only a few hotels in Leavenworth. I called up each one.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken then. Maybe I didn’t mention to her where I was staying.” Jack shrugged dismissively, but he was more wary now. The funny-looking cop was sharper than he appeared. “Anyway, we’re getting sidetracked here. What do you want from me?”

  “Did Charlie mention to you where he was going?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

  “But you left right after him, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  “Now that you’ve mentioned it, you’re right. He did turn west. Toward Skykomish.”

  “Did you go west also?”

  “No, I headed east, back to Leavenworth.”

  “Do you mind me asking why?”

  “Sure.” Jack could not, as Katrina had suggested, tell Officer Murray he’d gone to a convenience store to pick up booze. That could be easily checked out. Nor, for the same reason, could he tell Murray what he’d told everyone else at the party, that a friend had stopped by. It unnerved Jack to know there would be two stories going around, but hopefully, if he played it right, the investigation would end here and now. “You keep this between you and me, okay, Mike?”

  “That depends.”

  “I needed protection.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m banging that broad, Katrina,” he said, slanting the cop a buddy-buddy smile. “I forgot the condoms, and she’s a bit of a prude. Won’t go bareback.”

  “So you went to where?” he asked, pen poised once more.

  “Right back
here. I have a stash in the suitcase. Just in case, right?”

  “I see.” The pen and notebook disappeared in the belt, for good this time. “Thank you for your help in clearing that up, Mr. Reeves.”

  “Jack.”

  “Right.”

  Jack walked Officer Murray to the door. Murray paused in the hallway, looked back, and said, “You take care of yourself. Those are some nasty bruises on your face.”

  Jack raised a hand to his face self-consciously. His right cheekbone was sore to the touch, his nose swollen. Some of Katrina’s coworkers had commented on the bruises this morning. That was the last time he paid them any attention. “Yeah,” he said. “Goddamn booze. Walked right into a tree while out taking a piss.”

  “Good thing you didn’t poke an eye out. You’d be explaining that story to everyone from now until your grave.”

  “Take it easy, Mike,” Jack said, waving him off.

  Katrina was having a horrible nightmare. She was trapped in a small dark room, surrounded by wraithlike people who had formed a ring to prevent her from escaping. They tightened the circle, shuffling zombie-like toward her. All of a sudden she could make out their faces. They were people she knew: school friends, relatives, old teachers she’d had, colleagues she’d worked with, even Diane Schnell, the VP, right in among them, sharp and bony. She was the one who began the chant of “Liar!” her tight features contorted in hatred. Soon everyone had taken up the chant, saying it louder and louder. Katrina searched the blur of faces for some sign of sympathy. There was none. Each person looked as though they wanted to gut her right there and then, and maybe eat those guts as well. She clamped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and sank to her knees. Someone grabbed her. She screamed, but nothing came out of her mouth. Her throat had shrunken to the size of a straw. The hand gripping her hair shook her violently. She tried to smack it away, the way you smack at a buzzing fly, wild, without coordination. It wouldn’t let go. She began clawing at it, desperate. To her horror, the hand was soft and mushy. She pulled away big clumps of wet, rotten flesh.

  Shawn. God, it’s Shawn, come back from the grave.

  When she finally broke free and spun around, she didn’t find Shawn behind her but Charlie, his hair and eyebrows burned away, his skin red and blistered, missing in places, white maggots crawling over the exposed sinew and coagulated veins. Behind him the throng of people came ever closer until they were right on top of her, cold hands pulling at her clothes, clawing and scraping her. Soon all Katrina could see were squirming limbs and putrid, grinning faces. She pulled herself into a fetal position and screamed her silent scream until she thought she must be dead.

  Something changed. She’d jumped scenes, she realized, the way you do in dreams. She knew that without looking around. She opened her eyes and discovered she was in another room. This time she was bound by heavy, rusted chains to a dirty stone-and-mortar wall. Directly across the room from her was a man, manacles spreading his arms six feet high off the ground. He hung there, his head slumped forward, like a forgotten scarecrow.

  No! she thought, instantly recognizing where she was.

  As if on cue, the faceless butcher appeared. He was dressed in long black robes and a cowl, like the Devil of Death. Instead of a scythe he had an alien-looking blade in his hand. He began going to work on Shawn. Carving, slicing, skinning, snipping. Katrina yelled and yelled at him to stop, her voice finally found, but he didn’t stop. He kept on doing what he was doing. When there was little of Shawn left, he turned around, something he’d never done before, and pulled back the hood that had always hid his identity.

  It was Jack.

  Katrina woke with a start. Her heart was thumping, and she was completely disorientated. She had laid down when it was still light out, but now her bedroom was completely dark. Rain was falling outside, tapping against the window like the bony fingers of an evil presence who wanted to get in. Something was beside her. She almost jerked away from it before she determined it was only Bandit, snoring softly. She heard what sounded like a game show coming from the other room. Had she turned on the TV earlier? No, she had not.

  Had Jack? Was he here?

  That possibility frightened her. Badly. She told herself it was the aftereffects of the dream. But the part of her that separated truth from bullshit was having none of it. The longer she sat on the futon, listening to the monotonous, disembodied voice of the host—Pat Sajak—the more nervous she became.

  Her fear of Jack, she realized abruptly, was very real.

  It seemed incomprehensible, but at the same time indisputable.

  Had she always known this—at least, since the revelation he’d killed Charlie? Had she somehow sensed it at the time but had shelved it because she didn’t want to consider it?

  Maybe. She didn’t know. What she did know was this: now that the possibility had been raised, she had no problem dredging up a series of disturbing incidents which, taken separately over the last twenty-four hours, had been overlookable, but taken together and examined with an adrenaline shot of fear and fresh eyes drew a much more sinister picture. How Jack had manhandled Zach and Charlie, for instance. His refusal to involve the police. His unintentional admission he’d kicked in Charlie’s head. The bloodlust she’d seen in his eyes when he’d gone after the Good Samaritan.

  Yes—that was the game changer, wasn’t it? Up until then she’d been on his side. She’d still cared for him. Still was doing everything she was doing for him. But after he’d chased the red-haired man into the woods—that’s when she’d begun to see him in a different light. That’s when some of his shining armor began to fall off, and she began to glimpse what lay beneath the gloss and polish. His emotionless efficiency in disguising a murder. His apparent lack of remorse over what they’d done. The ease at which he could lie.

  Katrina shook her head, dumbfounded. It was a terrifying, baffling revelation, made more so by the fact she had truly cared for him.

  Jesus! How had she not seen the truth?

  The answer, of course, was obvious. His charm and charisma had so completely won her over she’d been unable, or unwilling, to recognize his true nature.

  She’d been blinded by love, to use the old cliché.

  Okay, Kat, now that we’re thinking straight, being honest with ourselves, let’s turn to the Good Samaritan again, shall we? So, what do you think? Is he sitting at home with his family, watching a Disney movie? Playing Monopoly? Or is he lying in the woods somewhere, stiff and dead and rotting? Because Jack didn’t threaten him, did he? Didn’t tell him to walk home so he could think about that threat. Why would Jack do something like that? Leave a loose end untied like that? Why would he do that when it would be so much easier to simply kill him? Because Jack doesn’t mind killing people. Doesn’t feel it. Some people are like that. They don’t feel. And it’s always those people who don’t feel on the inside that shine on the outside, isn’t that right? The attractive, amiable Ted Bundy next door.

  Katrina pushed herself off the futon and stood. Her chest was tight, her mouth sand-dry. She worked it to get some saliva moving. She crossed the bedroom quietly, and inched open the door. She peered through the crack, down the hallway. She didn’t see Jack, but she saw his legs, which were crossed at the ankles. He would be sitting in the armchair. She had a wild urge to bolt out the back door. But she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t run. Not yet. She might not be looking out for Jack anymore, but she was still looking out for herself, still unsure about what her next course of action would be. Until she figured that out, she had to keep on the path she was on. Had to find out what happened with the policeman. And the fact Jack was here, and not in custody, was a good sign.

  She took a deep breath, pulled herself together, and went to the living room. On the TV a female contestant on Wheel of Fortune was shouting “Come on! Big money!”

  Jack turned to face her when she appeared. “You’re alive!” he said, standing.

  “What happened with the policeman?”
she asked immediately.

  Jack explained everything to her.

  “He bought it?”

  “Hook, line, and sinker. He was just following up for the sheriff in Skykomish. He has nothing.”

  “Will he be by to see me again?”

  “Can’t see why. I had him eating out of my hand.”

  Katrina had thought she would feel ecstatic. Liberated. Because they had done it. They had beaten the system. Gotten away with murder. But the truth was she didn’t feel much of anything.

  Except fear—fear of the man standing before her.

  Jack ran a hand through her hair, pulled her close, and kissed her on the lips. She flinched. He pulled back. His eyes probed hers. She had no idea what conclusions he was drawing, whether he could see past her act. All she knew was she felt extremely vulnerable under his stare.

  “Something wrong?” he said, and there was a hardness in his voice that wasn’t there before.

  “I’m still—you know—all this.”

  “It’s finished.”

  “I know,” she said, holding his eyes. “I know.”

  Chapter 30

  Zach climbed out of bed as quietly as he could and gathered his discarded clothes from the floor. It was dark outside. The only light in the room came from an Asian rice-paper lantern he’d picked up at a gift shop when he’d been in Wenatchee for the day. Before closing the bedroom door, he glanced back at Crystal. She was curled up in a half moon, a small lump under the forest-green sheets, her hair fanned out around her head. Seeing her there, in his bed, gave him a virile feeling. Especially since he no longer had any reservations about pursuing things with her. His realization that Jack had likely threatened Katrina to help him get rid of the body of the old man, just as he’d threatened Zach to keep quiet about what he’d witnessed, had changed that. It had lessened, if not nullified, her culpability, and put her firmly on his side. If he went to the police now, he would not be destroying her. He would be helping her. Crystal would understand that. And far from being outraged with him, as he’d originally feared, she would be grateful.

  But first, of course, he had to confirm all this. Which meant paying Katrina a visit.