by E. R. FALLON
Mack waved me back down. “Nah, you’re my guest. Please, sit.”
I sat. “What are you making? Smells fantastic.”
“I should’ve asked—do you have any dietary preferences?”
He’d already started making the food, and I didn’t want him to have to go out of his way and change his plans because of my vegetarianism. “None,” I said.
“Good, because I’m making steak. Do you have plans to see your mother’s family now that you’re in town?”
Blood warmed and throbbed in my ears. Mack must have not known about my—and my mother’s—estrangement from them. “Not this time,” I said.
He didn’t push me for answers. “Do you like your steak rare, medium, or well-done?”
I sat up, relieved to talk about something other than Alice’s family. “Well-done.” I couldn’t imagine staring at anything remotely gory on my plate, so the less blood the better. I could just cut up the steak and push it around and not actually eat it.
Mack nodded. “You got it.” He checked the time on the slim gold watch he still wore. “Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes. I have to say that while you do look completely different, I do recognize you, in your eyes especially. I’ll come get you when it’s done. Hang tight. What did you say you wanted to drink, again?”
“I didn’t, but I’ll take a beer, if you have that.”
“Sure do. Is a can okay? I don’t have the bottled kind.”
“That’d be great.”
An arched doorway, the cracked plaster embellished with old carvings at the top, separated the living room from the area where the pleasant smells came from, what I assumed was the kitchen, and Mack walked through.
I answered Sammie’s ‘how are you doing?’ text while I waited.
Good. Visiting an old friend. You? The dog?
We’re fine. No reporters. Stay out of trouble.
I smiled to myself. Okay. Has Paige started eating?
Nope. I’m taking her to the vet’s tomorrow morning.
I hope she’s all right. Thanks for taking care of her.
Who’s the friend?
Someone in the town. Don’t worry. They’re harmless.
Cryptic much? Be careful. I mean it, Evan. I love you.
I looked up from my phone when Mack re-entered the living room, carrying a can of beer in each hand. I put my phone in my pocket and accepted the beer from him.
Mack nodded at the pocket where I’d tucked away my phone. “Work related?”
“Girlfriend related.” I smiled.
Mack chuckled. “Isn’t it always?” After a second he asked, “What is it exactly that you do for a living? I don’t believe you mentioned anything.”
“I didn’t. I work for the city—Seven Sisters—where I live. I used to work for the ME’s office, now I’m part of the city’s crime scene clean-up task force.”
“It’s unusual for the public to pay for that service. Do they?”
“Yes, they do. It is out of the ordinary. Sammie, my girlfriend, is a retired detective. She worked in narcotics. She retired younger, after being injured on the job. Now she heads an organization for crime victim’s families. She’s largely responsible for making the task force happen in our city. That’s how I met her. We’ve been together for a long time. Her sister was murdered. I don’t know why I told you that but, there, I said it.”
“And she doesn’t mind that your mother . . . ”
I shook my head.
Mack smiled. “I always thought you’d become a cop.”
“I considered that but in the end it wasn’t for me.”
“So your girl’s a detective? Good for you, kid. Do you love her?” He spoke to me as I imagined a father would.
I nodded. “Yeah, I do, a lot.”
“Then don’t let her get away. I gave so much to my career, early on too, and after Celeste was killed, I wished I’d done things the other way around, I wished I’d given more of myself to her instead. I threw myself into work even more after her death because that’s the only way I could get out of bed every day. My own wife killed in a robbery while visiting her sister out of town, and here I am, a cop, and I couldn’t save her. Remember when I used to dish out advice to you when you came over here to talk? Anyhow, you aren’t so young anymore, and you probably don’t want me to go on like this, an old man like me, how boring this must sound to you—”
“No, I hear you, I get it. Thanks for the advice. I’m not bullshitting you. You were always helpful, Mack, even back then. And I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome, kid. You’re still a kid to me.” He winked. “Sometimes guys these days don’t want to listen.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he accepted I was a guy. I smiled to myself and pulled open the tab on my beer. The drink relaxed me but I needed to have a clear mind when I set out my proposition to him, so I drank slowly.
“I have to say,” he continued. “I happen to be retiring next year and won’t have anyone to spend my time with. My point is, don’t let something like that happen to you. Remember your career is your livelihood but your girl is your life.” His voice filled with nostalgia, and his eyes turned red with fast-approaching tears.
Mack rubbed the tears out of his eyes and shook the can when he finished his beer. I didn’t want to make him feel awkward but some sort of responsive gesture, an embrace or a pat on the shoulder, seemed required on my part. Yet the years had opened a distance between us, and though I began to lift my legs, I couldn’t get myself to stand up and proceed, or simply, move my arm. The television cast a dull glow on the white walls. Something burning in the kitchen wafted into the living room.
“I better check on dinner,” Mack said, and trotted into the other room.
Fuck, I thought. I wished I’d said something to comfort him. I swallowed back the rest of my beer and set the can at my feet on the floor. I’d overlooked the coffee table. I considered getting off my ass to turn up the volume on the TV, then something occurred to me: the television was tuned into a national news station, and I wanted Mack to hear about the Seven Sisters murders directly from me. I stood up from the couch and shut off the TV set. Well aware that I wasn’t an adept cook, I took the empty beer can with me and strode to the kitchen to see if Mack needed my help regardless of what he’d insisted.
The sight of him standing by the stove in a red chef’s apron made me smile. The kitchen was warm from the cooking heat and smelled like home. And a bit like burned meat. Mack’s house had been like a home to me during my mother’s trial.
Mack looked at me over his shoulder. “Getting hungry?” he asked.
“Yes. Smells terrific.”
“Is that your wife’s apron?” I’d contemplated for a moment about whether to ask.
Mack blushed.
“You’re sure you couldn’t use a hand?” I asked.
“No, I’m all set. It’s almost done. I don’t have a dining room so we’ll be eating at the table over there.” He pointed with the spatula at a small, breakfasting-type of table pushed against the wall. There was only one chair. He noticed me looking. “I’ll pull another chair up from the basement,” he said. “Bet you can’t tell I don’t have many guests.”
I smiled at Mack’s humor but the sole chair at the table had exemplified his solitude. I helped Mack carry up a chair for me from the basement. He hadn’t asked for my assistance but I hadn’t given him a chance to decline my offer, and from the way he’d put his hand to his lower back on the walk down to the basement, he’d needed my help.
Mack dusted off the chair we’d retrieved and put a fresh cloth on the table. He slid our steaks—both well-done, his unintentionally—onto plates and grabbed some fresh greens and salad dressing from the fridge to put on the side. We sat down to eat our dinner with a few more beers. My idea of having a clear head had gone out the window by then.
By the time I cut into my steak cautiously, Mack was already halfway through with his.
He glanced at me fro
m his side of the table between bites. “Is the food okay?”
“Yeah, it’s good.” He waited for me to eat the steak. I forked a piece and put it into my mouth, relishing the warm, juicy, and tender surprises. I hadn’t eaten meat in years. I talked while I chewed. “It’s great,” I said, trying not to give away my secret. In actuality, the steak tasted wickedly delicious. And although I felt a little guilty, that didn’t stop me from eating it. I’d thought about not being a staunch vegetarian for a while now. Sammie, who wasn’t a vegetarian, would be delighted about my change in appetite once I returned home.
“Are you staying here in town?” Detective Mack asked.
“At the lodge. I must say, after the renovations they did, the place looks pretty good.”
“It does look good. Did you make a reservation before you left home? Everything around here’s all booked up because of the wine convention.”
“I heard about that. I managed to get a room after I arrived in town. The woman who works at the hotel’s front desk mentioned the convention was happening. I was surprised to hear vineyards took off so well around here.”
“The economy was terrible for everyone for a long time but it hit these parts especially hard. Even a portion of the prison closed, and jobs were lost. When people moved here from the city with money to start the vineyards, it helped things some. A lot of people around here didn’t like the new people coming in. But the smart folks rode the rich folks’ coattails and started—or enhanced their old—businesses around the vineyards. That’s why the lodge got renovated. Must’ve been tricky getting a room on such short notice. I believe your family . . . your mother’s family recently acquired a vineyard for themselves to run. Did they tell you about that?” Mack took a drink of beer. I hadn’t touched my second can.
I murmured down to my plate, “I’m not much on speaking terms with them anymore.”
“I assumed you were here visiting them and that you dropped by to say hello to me.”
I shook my head. “I don’t plan on seeing them during my time here.”
“Do you write to your mother?”
“I stopped writing to her.”
Mack touched his chin and paused for a few seconds. “What are you doing back here, exactly? This is your hometown, you’re free to visit of course. But after all this time, why? I’m a cop so I tend to ask these questions.” He grinned. “You’re not here for the convention, are you? Surely you’d want to have brought your girl with you for that.” He dug into his salad, which shone with oil and vinegar, and crunched.
“I’m not attending the convention,” I said.
Mack put his fork down. “You aren’t only here to see me, are you?”
“That’s not the only reason.”
He looked across at me and waited for my explanation.
“I’m here to visit my mother,” I said, after a pause. “And I need your help.”
Mack coughed and I thought he had choked on his food. I reached out to him to check that he was okay. He cleared his throat. “Are you going to visit her so she can see who you are today, or for closure?” he asked. “You’re a relative and are entitled to a visitor’s pass at the prison. You can apply for one—I can help you with that—it’ll take a couple of days for you to get clearance.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not planning on visiting her as a relative.”
“How are you going to visit her, then? You won’t get clearance unless you’re a relative, law enforcement, a member of her legal team, or maybe the media, but that’s harder and reporters might not be able to arrange anything over the phone. I believe they might have to visit the prison office in person to apply.”
“The last thing, that’s what I plan to try, to go as a member of the press.”
“But you don’t work for the media. How—” Then he answered his own question. “You’re going to lie. I’m assuming your mother doesn’t know about any of these changes.” He gestured to my clothing.
I slowly nodded and then resumed eating. I wasn’t going to demand his backing until I had to.
Just when I thought Mack would cut the conversation short, he said, “They won’t arrange a visit for you unless you have a press badge, or credentials at least, which I assume you don’t.”
“They’ll let me in with your help. I thought that you of all people would—would understand. That’s why I’m here, asking you.”
“Understand what? You know, when you used to come over here when you were young, I used to worry about you sometimes because you felt so much, almost too much. You haven’t lost some of your heart, have you, or your morals?”
I looked up from my plate at him and tried to steady my voice. “No.”
“Then why can’t you visit your mother as you are? If you don’t want her to know who you are, what could you possibly want from her?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard but the police in Seven Sisters believe there’s a serial killer targeting the city.”
“I hadn’t heard. You know this because of your job?”
“Yes, it was a secret until . . . Have you ever heard of this website, it’s called Crime Man?”
“If it’s not a newspaper, I won’t read it unless it has something to do with my work.”
I explained to Detective Mack about how the chief told me about the messages left for ‘Evelyn.’ “Someone I know leaked the information to this website. And this person also disclosed my name used to be Evelyn.”
“That’s a petty thing to do. I’m sure you’d like to punch the bastard. I would, and I don’t know them.”
“The bastard is a woman who works on my team. At the time, I felt I could trust her, not knowing how dead wrong I’d be.”
“What a fucked-up betrayal. And now you’re in trouble for telling her and she’s in trouble for telling the website?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Your chief should’ve kept his mouth shut. You’re not on the run from the law, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. The site, Crime Man, ‘dug up’ that I’m Alice Lane’s child. Apparently, it’s been on the internet some—you know how fast those things spread.”
“I wouldn’t know. As I’ve said, I don’t pay much attention to that online chaos, outside of what I have to notice for work.” Mack shifted in his chair.
“Someone’s killing young men and letting me know I’m the reason for what they’re doing.”
“But you’re not a cop so how’d they know you’d see the messages?”
I shrugged. “I guess they thought that fact would be in the media at some point and I’d make the connection then, if not sooner because of my job.”
“You’re sure they’re trying to get to you? The messages could be for another Evelyn, couldn’t they?”
“No,” I said firmly. “They’re murdering young men and leaving messages—carving them into the victims’ skin, I might add—using my former name. They’re taunting me. I was told the police even think the killer’s a woman, for Christ’s sake. Like my mother.”
“Perhaps more information someone on the law side of things shouldn’t have told you. Lots of guys can’t keep their mouths shut these days, blabbering on Facebook and all that claptrap.”
I refrained from commenting.
He didn’t gaze at me as though I bordered on insanity, rather he calmly stated, “That wasn’t your mother’s MO, by the way. She didn’t mutilate her victims. There was the eating part, possibly.”
Mack paused and the tension built thickly in the room, and I was relieved when he didn’t elaborate on that detail. I’d always been more than aware how my mother might have consumed some of her victims, and didn’t need a reminder. Then Mack seemed to ruminate to himself aloud.
“But if there’s a copycat killer,” he said, “and I’m not saying I think there is, why on earth would they want to target you? Wouldn’t such a person want to please Alice? Surely targeting her child wouldn’t make her happy. I hope you’re no
t suggesting I put the wrong woman away all those years ago.”
“No.” I had long ago accepted what my mother had done.
“I can assure you our investigation was thorough.”
“I know that. I don’t know what’s going on exactly but someone’s killing these boys and letting me know they’re doing it, to get to me.”
“It could be the serial’s twisted way of sending their support to you. But how would they have known you’d find out about the messages if you’re not in law enforcement? The police often keep those kinds of details hidden from the public while they’re investigating. Did you see the bodies? Typically, the crime scene crew arrives after the body’s gone.”
“I didn’t see them, no. Perhaps they thought I’d find out eventually given my line of profession. Either that or they assumed it would be exposed to the public, eventually.”
“Maybe the serial leaked the story?” Mack’s face brightened like he enjoyed helping me find answers.
I shook my head vehemently. “No. I’m afraid I’m positive that my colleague I confided in gave them the information.”
“It was worth a shot, right? It’ll be tough for me to investigate this myself since these crimes are occurring in a different town.”
“I’m not here to convince you to investigate these murders. I need your help getting into the prison to see my mother, as a reporter, so she doesn’t know who I am.”
“What will visiting your mother do? She’s not arranging for someone to commit her crimes for her while she’s locked up—has she been writing to you?”
I shook my head. “And I stopped writing back to her when I was in the service, and she didn’t have my address when I went to college or for any of the places I’ve lived since. She has no means of contacting me and knows nothing about who I am today, so it’ll be simple for me to pretend in front of her. She might know something. I can’t allow this to keep happening.”
“Solving it is the police’s job. Who do they have working on the case? Anyone I know?”
“A detective named Burke. I don’t know who else.”
