Cut You Down

by Sam Wiebe

  “Blatchford thought it was Petrie. Essex wrote more on the entries about Petrie. See?” She tilted the screen to show me the scanned pages. Dana’s blue cursive filled a report template that looked like a photocopy a few dozen generations removed from the original.

  “Petrie acted out, sounds like.”

  “A lot. The other two, the reports are more rote. Subjects studied, progress or lack of. Less writing.”

  “Maybe she thought more of Petrie.”

  “Maybe,” Sonia said. “But reading them, it seems she was trying to get her bosses to pay attention to Petrie’s antics. Like she wasn’t being heard.” She tapped the screen. “Here. The part about this tantrum ‘being a continuation of last week’s, resulting in a similar lack of progress, to the point where lesson delivery itself is impeded.’ That’s the voice of someone, a woman, struggling to get her bosses to see what’s really going on.”

  “You’d know,” I said.

  “You never told me how Blatchford got hold of these,” she said. “Do all PIs steal?”

  “No,” I said. “Only Blatchford, and me once in a while. Bob Aries, I guess. Pretty much everyone except Jeff.”

  “And he’s the successful one, which should tell you something.” Before I could retort she said, “Look here.”

  On the screen was a session progress report on Lee Henry Crowhurst. Essex had ended the report with a request:

  While slow and barely literate, he is NOT in this writer’s prognosis developmentally disabled, and in fact demonstrates tremendous powers of ratiocination and problem-solving. I humbly request to amend my course plan, elongating the curriculum and increasing the total number of sessions, in order to aid Mr. Crowhurst in adapting his fundamental skills to academic pursuits.

  “Only a grad student could write ‘in this writer’s prognosis’ without a hint of shame,” I said.

  “She asks to spend more time with him. She’s denied. The next bunch of reports are all rote. ‘Mr. Crowhurst made little progress. Failed to meet his monthly goals.’”

  “Sulking,” I said. “Saying I told you so to her superiors.”

  “Right. Petrie’s a nuisance and Henshaw’s plugging away, but Crowhurst is all unrealized potential. She can see there’s a thought process with him. She’s intrigued.”

  “What’s their connection like?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She resents administration, and Crowhurst comes across as a victim of his own psychology. Felons are pros at sizing people up. Maybe he manipulated her into thinking she saw the real him.”

  “What if it works the other way?” I said. “Maybe she’s using him. When Tabitha double-crossed her, maybe Dana got back in touch with Crowhurst, promised him a cut of the—what?”

  She was looking at me with the patient expression of a teacher waiting for a student to come around to the right answer on his own.

  “We know someone who knows,” she said.

  “She phones me. She changes numbers every time.”

  “Try the one she called from last.”

  I dialed. No answer.

  “Least it’s not disconnected,” I said.

  “She’ll call,” Sonia assured me. “Until then, we have to figure out what to say to her.”

  Thirty-Six

  When the phone did ring, it was the journalist from the Sun, Holinshed, telling me to type a long, backslash-heavy URL into my browser. A live stream, shaky handheld footage of police milling about outside a familiar-looking house. Petrie’s grow-op setup was being carried out.

  “Dale Petrie’s house,” Holinshed explained. “Name familiar to you? He’s connected with the Demon Wolves, an Exiles feeder gang.”

  “An ex-con’s not the cleanest front for a grow-op,” I said.

  “No kidding. Yesterday someone turned a gun on Petrie’s house. RCMP showed up to a shots-fired call from the neighbor. Petrie wouldn’t let them inside, but the cops checked the meter. Electricity use off the charts, extra wiring. The cops got a search warrant first thing this morning, and now the top brass are acting like this was all part of some narcotics strategy, take a bite out of crime.”

  I wondered about Blatchford. The journalist was thinking the same thing. “This happens on the Island soon after your friend is left bleeding out on the ferry. Those shots fired could’ve come from someone connected to Blatchford.”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said.

  “This is where you drop me a hint, Mr. Wakeland, save me some legwork.”

  “It ties back to the Sorenson case,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the person who gutted Blatchford turned out to be connected to Tabitha’s murder.”

  She let out a soft “Jesus.” Then, “Do you know who it is?”

  “Working on it.”

  “If I start looking into this, does it step on your investigation?”

  “No,” I said. “Run with it.”

  I walked around Coopers’ Park, keeping Sonia’s apartment within sight. I thought about how I wanted this to play out. Petrie or Crowhurst, whoever it was, had murdered Tabitha Sorenson, nearly killed Tim Blatchford. If Essex would flip, this could resolve itself lawfully. If not . . .

  I found myself running a catechism in my head.

  Did I want Tabitha’s killer brought to justice?

  Absolutely.

  Did I feel some responsibility?

  Overwhelmingly yes.

  Was I willing to do everything I could to stop that murderer, break the law if necessary, risk myself and the woman I loved?

  If I was honest, the answer was no. If Petrie or Crowhurst or whoever decided to fade away and trouble me no more, I would take it. I’d live with my guilt—with Sonia—and live happily.

  Back at the apartment I asked Sonia if Essex had called. No, but Sonia had phoned Lions Gate again. Blatchford was doing better. “He wants to talk to you,” she said.

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve arranged with his nurse to Skype.”

  “He’s a half hour from here by car,” I said.

  “I don’t want you near him. I talked to his doctor and one of the nurses. They both emphasized how lucky he was—an inch or so and the blade would’ve hit a major organ.”

  “He caught a break.”

  “It was an incision. The person who did it knew it probably wouldn’t kill him.”

  “Why show Blatchford mercy and not Tabitha?”

  “It’s not mercy if Blatchford is bait. Think, Dave. What is the question no one has asked yet?”

  “They all thought this was an accident.”

  “And?”

  “Blatchford’s car was pulled off the ferry on the Island, but he wasn’t found till the ferry returned to the mainland. Meaning this person must have followed Blatchford onto the ferry and stabbed him. Which means—”

  “Which means he might be here,” Sonia said. “In town. Waiting for you.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Essex’s number. It rang and rang. I hung up, dialed again. Hung up, dialed again.

  Finally I heard the breath of a live connection, only to have it cut off into silence. This time when I phoned, Essex picked up. She said, “You’re killing me.”

  “We need to talk,” I said. “Your time’s up.”

  “It will be if you keep pursuing things.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” I said. “Neither of us, when it comes down to it. You’re not a master criminal. You haven’t vanished without a trace. You’re across the border, aren’t you, probably less than a day’s drive. Your hold over your accomplice, whether it was money or sex, is dwindling, and day by day you’re seeing just how unstable he is. The real him, the side he hid from you years back at the Milton Hilton when you tried to teach him his three R’s.”

  “So you did pry into our lives.”

  “Like you knew I would, Dana. Like you counted on. Your phone calls have been your attempt to throw yourself a lifeline.”

  “You can’t protect me,�
�� she said.

  “The police can.” Sonia had been standing beside me, listening. She said, “As a witness you would receive protection round the clock.”

  “Do you know what my life would be worth if I testified against Lee?” Essex’s words were spilling out amid frantic breaths. As if uttering the idea was a danger in itself.

  “What’s it worth now?” I said. “You’ve got Lee on one side, the law on the other, me on the third, and now the press.”

  “The—”

  “In two days a story will appear linking Tabitha to the ferry stabbing.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Has nothing to do with me—but if Lee was mad about Blatchford, this will push him over the edge. He’ll cut every tie ’tween him and them.”

  “He’ll kill me,” she said. “I can tell he’s considering it.”

  “There’s one lifeline, Dana but you have to take it now. Find a cop and turn yourself in. Come clean—remember what clean feels like?”

  “There’s no way,” she said.

  “You don’t have to believe in forgiveness to take the help offered. This works in your favor. A short time in jail, a dangerous offender locked away. And safety.”

  “Your help,” she said. “You’d help me?”

  “You can help yourself by turning yourself in.”

  “To you.”

  “To the police.”

  She said, “You. I trust you. I’m your client.”

  I paused and looked at Sonia for guidance. She nodded.

  “Right,” I said. “Meet me and I’ll go with you to the cops. We’ll explain everything to them together.”

  “You’ll come get me? Take me there?”

  Sonia said, “We’ll come get you and bring you back, then you and Dave can talk to the authorities. We’ll make sure Lee doesn’t harm you. Tell us where you are.”

  “Tacoma,” Essex said. “Near Seattle. Lee told me not to leave the state until the money was cleared.”

  “How did Lee get the money, anyway?” Sonia leaned closer to the phone.

  “He stabbed her, Tabitha, and told her to transfer the money using her laptop. He said he was going to kill her but if she gave up the money he’d leave her boyfriend alive. He explained it all to me after. He said she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even beg for her life.”

  I pushed the image of a dying, bloody Tabitha Sorenson from my mind. There wasn’t time.

  “We’ll meet you in Tacoma in a few hours,” Sonia said. “Can you find a safe place until noon?”

  “There’s nowhere safe,” Essex said.

  “Find a hotel. Let the front desk know not to give your information out for any reason. Call Dave at twelve. We’ll be in town and we’ll take you home.”

  “All right,” Essex said. “I should thank you.”

  “Just phone on time. Will you promise?”

  “I will.”

  “And keep the phone handy so we can call you.”

  “This is so different from how I wanted things to go,” Essex said. “I thought it would be freeing, but it cages you in, tighter and tighter, until—” she broke off. “I don’t see how Tabitha lived with it.”

  She didn’t, I thought.

  Thirty-Seven

  Blatchford’s face against the hospital bed was wan, his features relaxed by medication. Eyes unfocused, he looked toward the laptop camera and smiled.

  “I should charge you per stitch,” he said.

  “Do you remember being attacked?”

  “Not a thing. Something about a smell, maybe. Like wet coals after a beach fire.”

  “That’s very poetic, Tim.”

  “I just remember that smell, then trying to walk and not being able to.” He yawned. “Dale Petrie is not our guy. That I’m sure of.”

  “It seems to be Lee Henry Crowhurst,” I said. “You met him. What put you off him?”

  “Wasn’t playing with a full set of chromosomes. Took him a long time to answer anything.”

  “Could it be an act? Or affectation?”

  His head slumped side to side. “I know acting.”

  “Says the pro wrestler.”

  Blatchford hit the button on the beige remote that hung from off his guardrail. “Almost time for my medicine. I gotta get dinged up more often, this morphine shit’s great.”

  “Crowhurst,” I redirected.

  “Lives on a mud farm outside Redmond. Lots of secondhand shit.”

  “Knives?”

  “He had a kitchen. Nothing stuck out. Get it?” A corner of his mouth raised, forming a lopsided smile.

  The nurse came, pushed the laptop away and adjusted his dosage. When we resumed, Blatchford was drowsy, his answers even less specific. I got ready to sign off, but something told me to ask once more about the smell.

  “Can you describe it? Do you mean he smelled?”

  Blatchford’s mouth barely moved. Spit bubbled on his lips.

  “Not sure ’zactly,” he said. “Smoky but not like cigarettes. Not dope, either. I recognized it, but I don’t know from where. Might’ve dreamed it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He needs to sleep now,” the nurse said. She’d been sitting off-camera and now began taking down the apparatus.

  “Sounds stupid,” Blatchford said, “but I had this dream once about my dad coming back. He made it out of Vietnam and had me when he was older. Shot himself when I was in my teens. In my dream he’d sit me down and say, I’ve got something really special for you. You’re a man now. This is yours. Holds out the cartridge, the one from his bullet. He used to reload his own cartridges, had the machine in our basement, sacks of powder and all that shit. Said this’ll be a special load. ’Zactly the same. I watch him re-make the bullet he did himself with. Measure out the powder, tap in a primer cap. I had that dream a few times and never made it to the end. But that smell, on the ferry, that was the smell of my dad pouring in the powder. I don’t want to smell that again. When I kill myself—I mean, y’know, if—it won’t be with a fucking gun.”

  Thirty-Eight

  We set out for the border. Over the Oak Street Bridge and down the long strip of highway that led past the airport, past Surrey, to the curved hilly lanes that fed into the Peace Arch Crossing. The dollar was still weak, and traffic was minimal.

  Sonia drove. I played disk jockey. Once we were through Bellingham, I asked her if she wanted to hear the song she’d be playing at my funeral. I scrolled to Bobbie Gentry, “He Made a Woman Out of Me.”

  “You don’t have ‘Beast of Burden’ on there?” she asked.

  What struck me driving down through the Pacific Northwest was the lack of grandeur of so many of the towns. To put up a Vancouver or Seattle seemed understandable. But to carve deep into the endless green and blue, to clear-cut forests and redirect waterways, all to erect a dirty brick train station, a plastic coffee hut and yet another outlet mall with a drive-through bank and family restaurant, seemed the choice of an insane creature that would rather stare at its own feces than a perfection it had no hand in shaping.

  And yet I loved it. When we gassed up in Everett I walked through the aisles of the convenience mart, admiring the English-only labels and the strange brands that never seemed to catch on up north: Skoal, Payday, Whatchamacallit. As we drove, the fast food billboards we passed seemed to cycle and recycle in indecipherable patterns, like the colored symbols on a slot machine wheel.

  We crossed the Puyallup River on I5 and continued into Tacoma, the highway bifurcating a sprawl of gas stations, car lots, and casinos.

  It was eleven forty. We pulled off and had brunch at a Denny’s. We split plates of bacon and eggs, pancakes, hash browns, biscuits, and toast.

  “White or brown?” the waiter asked Sonia.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your gravy.”

  Sonia looked at me. “Who has gravy for breakfast?” I shrugged. She looked back at the waiter and smiled. “Little of both on the side.”

  At noon we
both watched my phone stay perfectly silent. I took a sip of tea, which had been served as a cup of water, a tea bag, and a plastic thimble of cream.

  “Could be a late riser,” I said.

  “You would know.”

  Her attention drifted away. I asked what was wrong.

  “I don’t want to search for her,” Sonia said. “She’s not worth it.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Hand this over to the Pierce County Sheriff’s and go home.”

  “Leave Essex out there with Crowhurst.”

  “She chose him. They deserve each other.”

  She broke off pieces of biscuit to sample the gravies.

  “I have no problem helping someone who wants to be helped, especially someone who’s risking her life to do right.” She found the brown passable, the white made her pause. “But if she’s planning something, I want no part of it, and if she’s lost her nerve, well, that’s not our problem.”

  “Or he got to her already,” I said. “I’ll phone some hotels. If I get nothing, we go to the sheriff and head home.”

  “Fine.” She pointed her fork at the two gravies, together on the saucer. “The white is basically mushroom soup.”

  “We’ll probably serve it at our wedding. Maybe have the service here.”

  “Planning our wedding now?”

  “Just speaking words. Why, you have other designs?”

  “Why no,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “It’s every girl’s dream to get married at a diner in Tacoma.”

  “You’re a haughty cosmopolitan.”

  “That’s me. One gravy’s just not enough.”

  The phone jumped. I opened it and read a text message from an unknown number. ARE YOU HERE?

  I showed it to Sonia. We thought it over. I punched in, WHERE IS HERE?

  IN TOWN came the almost instant reply. Then: TACOMA and finally, THIS IS DANA.

  YES, I hit back, IN TOWN.

  YOU SHOULD LEAVE. STAY AWAY AND BE SAFE.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  Nothing for seven minutes. The check came and I laid down cash. The waiter asked Sonia what she thought of the gravies. She replied with tact if not sincerity. In the parking lot the phone buzzed again.