Clarice gulped and embraced him again. He felt he was trembling, but he believed it was probably the tension, the nervousness of the moment. He felt when she took his face in her hands and kissed him again. Jason tried to kiss her back, but he couldn’t feel his face anymore, nor his lips. When he opened his eyes, he saw Michelle.
She was right there, kissing him.
Jason shoved her away and, in the uncontrolled urge, lost his balance and fell from the stool. The thud against the floor was enough to kick all air out of his lungs and when he realized it was Clarice and not Michelle…
Michelle was beside her. They were both staring at him, trying to help him. What was happening? Was it the alcohol? The haunting again?
He wanted to move, but his arms and legs were frozen. He felt his ear block, muffling all exterior sounds, and he also felt the pain that cross his whole body, tearing it into pieces, causing him to shrink and twist without even knowing how, since he couldn’t feel any of his limbs.
He heard a yell. Perhaps Clarice. Perhaps Michelle.
He heard the yell again, distant now, as if miles away from the house.
“Jason!”
“Jason…”
“Marco! I need help!”
And it all faded to black when the exhaustion hit him and he couldn’t see or feel anything else.
“And we meet again, Jason.”
He opened his eyes with some difficulty. The headache was a monster and his eyes were too heavy for him to move them. He couldn’t put himself up, there was a constant buzz in his ear and an unexplained burning in the back of his skull.
That smell, though, was unmistakable. Hospital. He thought about calling for Clarice, but she was probably not around.
The sheriff was.
Jason covered his face with his hands, trying to block his eyes from the intense brightness coming from the window. The day was gray outside, dark and heavy, but that morning light was unique, blinding, horrible for his hungover.
“Are you gonna tell me you didn’t drink this time?”
The sheriff’s voice seemed intentionally loud, echoing on the hospital room walls. There were machines connected to him, controlling his heart beats and life signals, besides the IV stuck to his arm, feeding him fluids.
“Are you aware of what you’ve done, Jason? Exposing Marco to such things? It’s one step away from social services taking him from you. And it’ll come a time I won’t be able to help you get away with anything else, asshole.”
“Aubry, please…”
“No. No ‘please’, Jason. I cannot continue risking my retirement because of your stupid mistakes. Stupid!”
Besides speaking in that angry way and now in a low voice to prevent others from hearing any of that, the sheriff spat every syllable he enunciated. Jason would have punched him if he weren’t such a figure of authority that had helped him in a moment he really needed.
“Aubry, I’m so sorry, I…”
“You were sober, son. Sober! What’s the reason for that now? I know it can’t be women, ‘cause you’re always locked up in that cabin.”
“I don’t… I swear I don’t…”
“I trust no words that come out of your shithole of a mouth, Jason. I requested a full toxicology exam. As soon as they give it to me, I’ll forward it to whom it may concern.”
“You cannot… Aubry, it was a slip up. Martha’s death, all those crimes happening around, my fits… I have no idea of what to do.”
“You look for a priest, Jason. A shrink, go to a meeting… the answer is not at the bottom of a fucking scotch bottle. Marco arrived here desperate, I can’t even… I can’t deal with this shit anymore, Jason.”
“I promise this will be the last time.”
“It will. All reasons aside, the blizzard is coming and I’ll be glad knowing you’ll be locked inside that cabin without causing my further problems. If you want to kill yourself, kill yourself over there and by yourself.”
“Aubry!” Jason lifted his voice, then going back and sinking onto the bed. “Do not take Marco away from me. Don’t take him. I fear he could… I fear he has a crisis in case he goes away. And you know what could happen.”
The sheriff sighed and got away from the bed, tired of it all. He scratched his eyes and grabbed his hat by the end of the bed, returning it to his head. He was exhausted, it was obvious. And he didn’t want to think about the consequences of having Marco alone, confused and opening his mouth when he shouldn’t.
“It’s fine. I need one of your consults, anyway. I needed, not sure I trust you anymore.”
Jason rolled his eyes and dropped his body on the bed, also tired. He would look for Marco as soon as possible, and not only to explain himself and apologize, but to know if Clarice was alright. She was alone. Jason didn’t want to risk witnessing the arrival of the snowstorm while stuck in a hospital bed, while Clarice remained alone, abandoned at the house.
“Aubry, say it.”
“They found a body at the lake this morning. Man, middle-aged, it looks like. They think this is the guy who disappeared, I told you about this some weeks ago.”
“The family.”
Jason felt the air escape his chest again and he didn’t know whether to jump or calm down. They had found Nathan. Clarice was safe, it was all right. That was the reason they hadn’t suffered any further attacks after all the shattered glass spread on the kitchen and Clarice. It was all right.
Wasn’t it?
And if Nathan had been found, although dead, maybe due to the cold or accidentally, that meant Martha’s death could also be explained.
It was all in peace. It would all be at peace.
“And why do you want my opinion? Do you think this is related to Allembert?”
The sheriff shook his head.
“I don’t believe so, son. This man was murdered, gunshot.”
“Maybe an oblivious hunter? This man could be the reason behind Martha’s death, the dog’s--”
Jason bit his lip, holding back his faux pas.
“What dog? Anyway. It wasn’t him, Jason. I don’t know what’s happening around here, but it stinks. My hope is that once the blizzard comes it all gets finally settled down.”
“What you… mean? How can you be so sure he…?”
“Preliminary reports, Jason. I’m no rookie. The first reports confirm the death, of course, caused by gunshot. He was only found today, Jason. He’s been dead for at least four or six weeks.”
III
The trip had turned out longer than he had expected. Although he had an amazing view from the car, there was something telling him something was wrong. Since that last trouble, the last argument with Monica, the last seizure… he couldn’t tell what. He just couldn’t point out what was really wrong, what was bothering him, but he knew there was a worm crawling across his brain, that same worm that wouldn’t let him sleep whenever he had an open investigation and he couldn’t find any answers.
Anthon hit the gas hard, ignoring the speed limits, just considering there was no one else on that long road. A road that would lead him nowhere, just like that moment in his life. That’s how he felt. Powerless, hands tied, while he observed all he had pass him by, going down the drain. His marriage, his job, even Georgia.
Georgia. Even after his suspicions about the photos had vanished after that last talk – and fuck – of theirs, Anthon still felt there was something she was not saying or letting show. Fine, he also knew their relationship was just fun, an extra-curricular activity to be done on the side, with no strong bonds or planned future. They only existed for the pleasure and good moments, not for an extended sharing of present, past and future – they would not build one together.
Which would not be such a bad idea, he though, had she been a little more open about herself. He knew she was in the middle of a divorce and trying to start a new life. He knew she was supposedly rich – she was living at an expensive hotel and, although they shared some of the stays since he also didn’t hav
e a home, she was affording most of it herself. And with his salary itself he couldn’t do the same and he was well aware of that. Thus, rich girl she was. And nothing else. He didn’t know where she came from or where she was going to, he didn’t know what she had been through in her life or her aspirations in life. He didn’t even know her intentions regarding him.
He even came to think that she could be some test of his wife, which proved stupid after their fight in the middle of an avenue. He also thought she could be someone trying to mess with his life, whatever reasons she had to do it. The wife of some mobster of his past? Something like that. He just didn’t consider that she could be simply a coincidence, someone who just happened to appear out of nowhere, in a funny fluke of life, and who was revealing to be a great company for all times.
He didn’t consider that because he knew that in his life, good coincidences didn’t exist. Coincidences didn’t exist, he was never one of those people who believe in it. He was a detective and a good one, which led him to believe that nothing ever happened by chance, but for a good predetermined reason. He hadn’t met Monica, there was a reason behind it. And for another reason, they decided to get married. For other already defined reasons, they decided not to bear any children. And it all followed that way, as a plan, a determination. Therefore, coincidences couldn’t happen to exist in Anthon’s world.
Except that, maybe, she was. Just a coincidence. He had friends who madly fell in love with someone they met on the subway, in that moment when you are leaving and or entering a car. They got married and lived happily ever after. He even had a friend who, once, had met his ex-wife during a power outage, locked with the girl in an elevator while they were both heading for the different floors they worked at. Without that occurrence, they said, they would have never had a reason to meet. After that he met some random chick at a random party and left his wife, but that didn’t matter.
The stories were many, but Anthon was not used to being optimistic with his own life. He didn’t believe things happened just for happening. Or that it all happened for a reason, and it all could be rationalized, like Georgia had once said during an alcoholic talk.
Anthon’s thoughts returned to the car as soon as the radio jumped to a modern country song filled by stupid rhymes. He was not in the mood. Committing and infraction he would have considered rude once, he connected his phone to the car system, keeping one eye on the device and the other on the road ahead, and he selected one of his playlists on the phone, one he could listen to real country music. In the glimpse, his eye captured the bottle of whiskey Georgia had given him, lying on the passenger’s seat and shaking at every bump of the road. He ignored it. He didn’t need that, not in that moment.
He was returning to Derby. What did he have to do there? See a body, already examined, to give his specialist’s opinion. He could already see that, at the end of the day, it would all come to a criminal lawsuit in which they would call him an expert witness so that they could put someone behind bars. That’s how it always went. He would wait in a hallway dully boring, full with presumptuous lawyers and curious bystanders, and finally he would be summoned to offer his testimony and answer to a series of malicious questions from an expensive defense lawyer – or even a good fella from the public defender’s office – just then to be cross-examined and answer to already trained questions from the prosecution and then he’d leave, letting that case to be solved there, without even caring that much about the outcomes. Most of the times he wouldn’t even be looking to the eyes of the real culprit, he would be just answering questions that could be interpreted in a lot of different ways about the possibility of stuff that might have happened in a scenery dripping off prejudice, bigotry and hidden intentions. He was tired of that.
While he drummed the wheel with his fingers, following the rhythm of the song, he considered that he maybe should have dropped his studies, like once he had planned, and had followed an uncertain career of music and bars. It would have been fun, at least, and less stressing. He was already bald and, although he shaved by his own choice because hair often pissed him, a big part of that was because some were already missing, baldness motivated by stress. And now he was seizing and receiving diagnostics of burnout syndrome and whatever, something that someone whose life is about singing at bars does not suffer from. That was a good idea.
Let’s just drink… He sang along with the singer. Maybe that could be a good option for his future.
He could already see Derby. He lowered the volume and straightened up as he saw the first signs of civilization pop up at the road. First that standard sign that every road had, indicating the city was near. Just then he saw the customized one, that simple item – and often enough, cliché – with the name of the city, some motto from the region and the number of its inhabitants. Derby, where you’re closer to heaven.
Only if they’re talking about the altitude, he though, grumpy, while advancing towards the small city. The last time he had some troubles, but now he knew exactly where he was supposed to go. Although the station was located downtown, the medical examiner office was a department distant from the other one. In the same area, but different places and he couldn’t tell why. Small city crap, probably.
And now there was a body. And some other evidences. He thought it was funny the way Aubry, the sheriff, told him about stuff. Oh, there’s an evidence here they forgot about, as if they were talking about a sandwich he had forgotten to put on his son’s backpack. Not that an evidence was at all important, far from that, right?
It took him a while to win the battle against the snow, that kept on falling heavily, and finally reach the building he was expected to be at. The town looked like one of those snow globes typical of that time in the year. Simple wooden houses, not one building with more than five stores, something quite rustic and provincial. Some shops and buildings, even, kept their original facades from fifty, sixty years before, maybe. The Victorian slash European style was something almost charming, if it weren’t so depressing being there.
Anthon parked the rented BMW in front of the building his GPS showed, not seeing anything that prevented him from doing it. Before leaving, already noticing the snowflakes sliding down his windshield, he grabbed another coat from the backseat and put it on, protecting as much of him as he could. Back in his own city it also snowed, but that was a higher place, further from civilization, colder and further in the middle of nowhere. The wind seemed to run untamed, just like the blows of air that seemed ready to bring whole constructions down. He put his gloves on, grabbed his suitcase and watched that bottle once more. It looked attractive and one single gulp wouldn’t cost a thing, something to just make him a little more alert. He needed to stop with the alcohol, but he also needed something to warm him up.
If Russian people gave vodka for children to warm them up during winter, why couldn’t he have a sip from whiskey before going to work? He was not even at his own place.
He opened the bottle and, taking advantage of the dark windows, took a swallow of it. And another. Alright, now he was done.
As he jumped out of the car, a slender figure in a dark and faded uniform came to him. He immediately recognized the dark and worn-out hat, it was Aubry. Behind that thick sea lion mustache there was a nice little old man about to retire. Annoying, sometimes, but smart.
“That a damn helluva car.”
“Rented, mine is out of work for a couple of days.” Anthon replied as they shook hands. “Does it ever stop snowing around here?”
“Ha!” The old man let an old chuckle out, kind of hoarse and choked. “Not ever since the last blizzard. Should’ve seen the damage.”
“They’re here, right?”
The sheriff exhaled and nodded, pointing Anthon the way. The building was a simple two-store brownstone, somehow cute, classic and not at all related to what happened inside. They crossed the entrance and a few corridors, climbed up stairs and crossed other hallways, Aubry greeting some passersby here and there, until they fou
nd the coroner, a man who looked even older than Aubry, with hairless skull with stains and a white coat a little too old, a little too dirt, a little too loose.
“Doctor, this is Anthon Gilles, the detective I told you about.”
“Always good having some fresh eyes from somewhere else.” The coroner let out, reaching for Anthon’s handshake.
The man showed them both the small room aside and finally Anthon felt to be at the right place: the autopsy room. Metallic tables, trays and scales, cabinets filled with things he didn’t even know the names, counters and sinks, all that there should exist in that place. Including the corpse.
Anthon left his suitcase on a nearby desk and took his gloves off, accepting the latex one the doctor delivered him. The body lied on one of the metallic tables, as cold as the room itself, only his private man parts covered by a towel. It was a man, probably around his late thirties, maybe early forties, with a somewhat sober appearance despite the conditions. Dark hair, dark stubble and he looked bloated, as if there were something else besides the body itself in there.
“The body was found this morning by some young kids. Already showing some signs of decomposition.”
“The bloating?” Anthon asked, approaching the table with the doctor. Aubry, in turn, kept his distance and Anthon couldn’t know whether because he was bored or bothered. Well, he was a sheriff, he should be used to dealing with dead bodies.
“Exposure. I believe we can blame most of it on the snow.”
Anthon sighed, touching some parts of the body. It was stiff, it was not a fresh kill, but he already knew that. It was not like the bodies he usually found. Anthon looked for signs of struggle, the commons pointers he would always find and use to guide himself during the investigations. The hands were bruised, but the wounds were overly affected by the weather and exposure to nature to help him define anything. The wrists presented ligature marks and bruising, which raised a question in Anthon’s mind.
The Woman Hidden Page 27
