Aaron's Wait

by Dorien Grey

  Steve cocked his head in interest. “Really? What did he do?”

  Taking a sip from his drink, Elliott sighed. “He didn’t do anything. I was just physically aware he was there. That’s never happened before.”

  “It didn’t scare you, did it?”

  Elliott grinned. “Scare isn’t the right word. I know Aaron was a nice guy in life, and I can’t imagine he’d suddenly become something from The Exorcist now, but it sure as hell was disconcerting.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  Giving a slight shrug, he said, “I just think it means he’s getting his shit together and wants me to know it. What he’ll do with it when he gets it I have no idea.”

  “Any idea why he showed up when he did?”

  Elliott took another sip of his drink. “Yeah. I’d gotten the name of the lawyer he and Bill had made an appointment to see before Bill died. I wanted to see if I could verify that they were going make out joint wills. I was just about to call the lawyer when it happened.”

  “So, did you call?”

  “Nope. I admit I was kind of rattled. I’ll try again next week and see what happens.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, until Elliott asked, “Were you able to find out anything at work about Aaron or Bill?”

  “Nope. As I said before, nobody I talked to even knew he had a brother, and the few people he deigns to talk to know nothing at all about his personal life other than that his wife wants to sell them a house.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear that? But I really appreciate your doing this.”

  Steve grinned and laid his closest hand on Elliott’s thigh. “No problem. This is kind of fun.”

  Elliott covered the hand with his own. “Glad you think so.”

  * * *

  You’re right, Aaron is getting his shit together. The fact that you were physically aware of him means he’s getting more self-control. It’s like finding the combination to a lock, and I think he’s finally found it.

  Does he know yet that his brother and sister-in-law undoubtedly killed Bill…and indirectly, him?

  That I’m not sure of. I’d tend to doubt it, though I don’t think it will be long before he figures it out. And frankly, I don’t think he’ll be too surprised.

  Do you think he’ll try to do something about it? And what could he do if he wanted to?

  Good questions, and I’m not quite sure of the answers. I do know, though, that being on this side of the fence, as it were, gives you a totally different perspective on things. If I were to make a guess, I’d say he’d be most interested in seeing that they pay for what they’ve done in your world. What happens to them when they come into ours I don’t think I’d care to speculate about.

  Which tosses the ball neatly back into my court.

  Right. You’re Aaron’s only hope for justice while Bruce and his wife are still alive.

  I get it. But just ask him to give me a little time. Like Brad says, you can’t convict someone of murder without evidence. There has to be some, but I just don’t know what it is.

  Yes, you do.

  What do you mean, “yes, you do”?

  I don’t mean to be cryptic, but I get the strong sense that the key is somewhere in your mind. I have no idea what it is, and I can’t get at it if you can’t, but I know it’s there.

  Great.

  Steve wants you.

  Swimming back to consciousness and opening his eyes, he saw Steve, propped up on one elbow, watching him.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Isn’t that my line? I was obviously blabbering again. Why don’t you just smother me with a pillow?”

  “I’m not into necrophilia. And I wouldn’t call it blabbering.”

  “So, what was I saying?” He asked mainly to determine if Steve was somehow on to John.

  “Aaron stuff. But it sounded like you were talking to somebody.”

  “I was. Me.”

  Steve looked at him. “Okay,” he said finally.

  “How about you?” Elliott asked. “Any weird dreams?”

  “Nope.” Steve lay back on his pillow. Turning his head to the clock on the nightstand beside him, he said, “Five thirty. We should probably try to go back to sleep.”

  “Right.”

  A few minutes later, Steve’s breathing indicated he had, indeed, gone back to sleep, but Elliott lay staring at the ceiling, thinking.

  He’d become aware of Aaron just as he was about to call the lawyer to try to confirm that Aaron and Bill were going to make out joint wills. The significance of that—if there was any—eluded him. Yet again frustration swept over him for what he saw as his total lack of qualifications for being in this position.

  But unqualified or not, one thing was clear—the only way to get his life back to the way he wanted it was to prove who killed Bill Somers.

  As the room gradually lightened with the dawn, he was still awake, wondering what he knew that he didn’t know he knew.

  * * *

  The weekend, as usual, passed far too quickly, though when he left Steve Sunday night and returned home, he was relieved to realize he’d spent relatively little time pondering Aaron and his situation. He watched some TV, made lunch for tomorrow, and went to bed around eleven.

  I gather you haven’t found it yet?

  What you say I know that I don’t know I know? No. It’s like trying to look up the spelling of a word—if you don’t know how to spell it, how can you look up how to spell it?

  Life is full of mysteries.

  Thanks…let me write that down.

  Well, since I assume you’re zeroing in on Bruce and Marylinn, you can probably narrow it down by going over everything you know or have been told about them.

  Geez, thanks, Coach.

  Just trying to help.

  I know, and I do appreciate it. It’s just so damned frustrating. And if it’s a clue, how come you didn’t pick up on it?

  Probably because I’m not with you every second, and whatever it was came along when I wasn’t there to catch it. You’re great with trivia, which means you don’t forget things. It’s in there, somewhere. I know it. You just have to find it. And I also get the idea it’s one of those hiding-in-plain-sight things you’ll curse yourself for not having picked up on immediately.

  Well, we’ll see. Now let me get back to sleep. Maybe it will come to me. And if not, I’ll concentrate on it tomorrow.

  He felt himself slipping back into regular sleep and had just begun a pleasantly erotic dream about Steve that was snapped off like a twig.

  Ashtray! It has something to do with an ashtray.

  An ashtray? What the hell does that mean?

  Don’t ask me…it’s your thought, but I think it’s the key.

  Yeah? Well, I…

  He awoke with a start. And he knew.

  * * *

  The clock said 5:16, and he made no attempt to get back to sleep, figuring he probably couldn’t if he wanted to. He got up, showered and fixed coffee, waiting for six thirty, when he knew Steve would be awake. Taking his coffee into the living room, he stood by the doors to the patio, staring out over the lake and trying his best to pull the sun up over the horizon.

  At six thirty, he couldn’t wait any longer and went to the phone to call Steve, hoping he wouldn’t catch him in the shower. Luckily, he answered after the first ring.

  “Hi, Ell. To what do I owe this early-morning honor?”

  It always took him a second to remember Steve had caller ID.

  “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “Can you get something for me that might have Bruce’s fingerprints on it?”

  There was only a split second of pause before, “His fingerprints? Uh, yeah. He drinks at least two six-packs of Mountain Dew a day. I can dig an empty out of the trash easy enough. What’s up?”

  “Long story, but I think we can prove Br
uce—and probably his wife—killed Bill Somers.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “That’s fantastic. But did I come in at the end of the movie? One minute you say you don’t have a clue, and the next…”

  “I know. And if you’d like to grab a quick dinner tonight, I can tell you all about it.”

  * * *

  Driving to work, Elliott was surprised to realize that, instead of feeling elated over the probability that, if he was right, Bill’s and Aaron’s deaths would be avenged, that Aaron would be able to move on to wherever it was he was supposed to go, and that he would be able to put his property on the market without otherworldly disruptions, he had a mild case of depression. He equated it with a roller-coaster ride where, after a series of ups and downs, the cars climb slowly up and up and up to the highest peak and then, instead of roaring down the other side, everything simply stops and the riders are told to get out and go home.

  But if he were right, that would be it. Period. Over. The police would take over, and he could get on with his life. So, what did he expect? Maybe, he thought, he had read too many detective novels where everything built to a rousing climax ending in gunshots and lots of blood. Well, he could do without that.

  No blood here. No rousing climax. Just linking a set of fingerprints to a piece of crucial evidence. He knew life was never quite as exciting as fiction, but he had expected just a little more, somehow.

  He no sooner walked up the front steps of the building and opened the door than he was once again aware of Aaron. There wasn’t the same jolt he’d had the first time, but the sense of personhood was familiar, nonetheless.

  It wasn’t until just before noon that Elliott realized he was thinking a lot about Bruce, which surprised him, since he seldom thought about anything while at work other than the task at hand. But the thoughts persisted—random, hard to define thoughts, and harder to define impressions and feelings. It wasn’t until early afternoon he experienced the slow chill of realization, as he had once what seemed like long ago with John, that the thoughts were not his. He wondered if Aaron had somehow learned what was going on.

  In any case, Aaron was coming into his own—whatever that might prove to be.

  * * *

  He went home just long enough to shower and change clothes before heading for Steve’s, calling him on the way to say he’d pick him up in front of his building. Steve was waiting when he pulled up, was carrying a paper bag which, upon getting in the car, he held up quickly then put under his seat.

  “Pop cans,” he said.

  “Thanks! I hope nobody saw you rummaging through the garbage for them.”

  Steve grinned. “Didn’t have to. Bruce never bothers throwing things away—just leaves them sitting on the counter less than two feet from the garbage cans. Everybody’s always having to pitch them for him. I picked them up with a paper towel to avoid getting my prints on them. Hope they help.”

  They decided on eating at the small diner nearby, and it wasn’t until they were seated and had given the waitress their order that Steve said, “So, what’s up?”

  “Well, I may either be about to make a total fool of myself or be able to prove Bruce killed Bill.”

  “That’s fantastic! But how?”

  Elliott told him.

  * * *

  Dropping Steve off at his apartment and promising to call the minute he heard anything, he took out his cell phone to call Brad. Cessy answered, as usual.

  “Sis, are you going to be home? I need to come over and see Brad for a second. Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  “No, Sis. I think something’s finally right.”

  She put the phone down to go tell Brad he was on the phone, and he stood impatiently waiting for Brad to pick up.

  “Elliott. What’s up?”

  “You still have the evidence you collected at the garage when you found Bill’s body?”

  “I don’t have it, but it’s there.”

  “You mentioned a cigarette lighter.”

  “Yeah. A Bic. It had Somers’ initials scratched on it. Charlie, my partner, does that with his to keep people from walking off with them.”

  “You said it was under the body?”

  “Yeah, well, it probably fell out of his pocket while we were turning over the body.”

  “And you didn’t consider that Bill Somers and Bruce Stiles have the same initials?”

  “No! Damn it! We didn’t.”

  “Did you dust the lighter for prints?”

  There was a pause. “No. We didn’t. Like I told you, we usually only do that when we have some reason to think we should. Though looking back, if we’d known Aaron’s brother’s name at the time, we surely would have.”

  “Is it too late to do it now?”

  “There wouldn’t be any harm in trying. The only problem is that unless Stiles’ prints are on file somewhere, we’d have no way to match them.”

  “Odd that you should mention that. I just happen to have two soda cans with Bruce Stiles’ fingerprints on them.”

  “You what?”

  “I’ll explain when I get there. See you in about fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  Cessy was putting Sandy to bed and Jenny and BJ were in their rooms when Elliott entered through the kitchen door. He found Brad in the living room, watching TV, and handed him the paper bag. Brad clicked off the TV and opened the bag, peering inside. Then, looking up at Elliott, he said, “So, about this lighter? What makes you think it didn’t belong to Somers? There was a cigarette butt in the ashtray.”

  “Yeah, but Bill didn’t smoke. Aaron did, until Bill made him stop, which is probably how the butt got there. I knew Bill didn’t smoke—why in the hell I didn’t think of it earlier I have no idea.”

  “Okay, so if Stiles did kill Somers, don’t you think next time he went to light a cigarette he’d know he lost his lighter and figure out where? It all seems pretty thin to me.”

  “I’d agree, but Stiles’ wife was trying to get him to quit smoking. Any time she’d find cigarettes or matches—or lighters, I’d imagine—she’d throw them away then deny she’d done it. If he did miss it, he probably figured she’d thrown it away. Even if he went back to look for it, you said it was under Bill’s body, and Bruce probably wouldn’t have moved him to look for it.”

  Brad closed the bag and set it on the floor beside his chair. “Okay, you win. I’ll have to figure out some way to explain why I’m going through all this on a four-year-old case.”

  “I really appreciate it, Brad. The important thing is that if we can prove the lighter belonged to Bruce, you might be able to reopen the case and put a murderer where he—or in this case, probably they—belong, since I find it hard to imagine Bruce would have just stumbled on that particular house by himself.”

  Cessy came down the stairs and into the living room.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. “You should have said something.”

  “That’s okay, Sis, Brad and I were just talking.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got to be getting home.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He grinned. “I’m sure, but thanks.” He got up from his chair, turning to Brad. “You’ll call me if you find out anything?”

  “I will. Might take a while, though.”

  Elliott shrugged. “It’s been four years. I think we can wait a little longer.”

  Cessy walked him back through the kitchen to the door and gave him a hug good-bye.

  * * *

  You’re good!

  Glad you think so. But I should have figured this out a long time ago.

  It’s not when you figured it out, but that you did.

  Does Aaron know? I’ve been sensing him pretty strongly lately.

  Yeah, me too. I’m sure he does know. You’re right, there’s been a real chan
ge in him. There’s a lot of sorrow still, but I get the idea that now it’s more the thought that his brother killed him than wondering what happened to Bill. Brothers killing brothers—whoever would have thought?

  I’ll let that one pass. So, you think he’ll move on, or whatever you’re supposed to do when you die?

  I’ll try to check on him. We’re still not exactly totally in synch. I hope for both your sakes the fingerprints match.

  * * *

  By Wednesday, he still had heard nothing from Brad. He’d talked to Cessy twice, but he never brought the subject up, knowing Brad would get back to him as soon as he had any information.

  Larry Fingerhood called to see if he’d made a decision on the Fullerton property, and he had to admit he hadn’t, but that he was working on it. Subsequently, he spent Wednesday night deciding whether to make an offer, then juggling figures and cost-and-time estimates to come up with an offering price he submitted to Larry shortly after arriving at work on Thursday morning.

  Each day, he was more and more aware of Aaron’s presence, and had the distinct impression he was once again waiting. He’d spent four years waiting after Bill had disappeared, but this waiting, Elliott could tell, was different. It was not overpowered by sadness, but rather filled with anticipation. He hoped Aaron was preparing himself to move on, but suspected he wanted to be sure his brother would be punished before he left.

  John verified that while Elliott slept.

  By early the following week, the property would be finished. Nothing more to do except get it on the market and get it sold. But Elliott did not want to even attempt it until he knew Aaron was gone.

  He didn’t know—nor, apparently, did John—exactly how much Aaron knew about what was going on in the world around him, let alone in Elliott’s mind, but whenever he sensed Aaron’s presence, he concentrated on Bill, and how while Aaron had been waiting for him, Bill had also been waiting for Aaron. He could only hope Aaron got the message.

  At one o’clock Friday, just as he finished his lunch, his cell phone rang.

  “The prints on the lighter match the prints on the cans,” Brad said. “We’ll be bringing Stiles in this afternoon for questioning. Just thought you’d like to know. Gotta run.” He hung up, leaving Elliott staring at his phone.