Rehab Run

by Barbra Leslie

  I put my hand on my thigh, thinking about when I had got the tattoo done there in Maine, back when I still had the cast on my leg. After I’d gotten the letter from Dave, which I’d memorized and then burned in Marie’s sink. And then immediately smoked a little rock with the bathroom fan on.

  It had been in the back of my mind for the past twenty-four hours to call Dave. I was supposed to call him if I encountered our mutual nemesis, Michael Vernon Smith, but also if I just needed help. And really, what with getting a severed head thrown at me in the woods last night, having a dead cop’s brains decorating my clothing this afternoon – not to mention getting shot at – and finding poor Sarah earlier, I was fairly sure that this met the criteria for “needing help,” by anyone’s standards.

  And at this point, I really couldn’t be sure that this had nothing to do with what had happened to us all in California, in Toronto, in Maine. It seemed unlikely – I hadn’t had enough time to process all this, but whether or not Dickie Doyle was behind what was happening, this was a madman on a particularly grisly spree, and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was a bit more worried about Laurence, after the yellow pickup from the airport, and the fact that he was Dickie’s only confidante.

  Laurence was at the counter now. I didn’t really want pizza, I wanted a couple of glasses of Prosecco. Not even crack – I could get by without it tonight. Just a glass of wine, to take the edge off.

  Two weeks. I had had two weeks in rehab, before people started dying. I resolved that if I did hire a sober companion back in Toronto, that I would provide him or her with their own bodyguard. Then I started laughing, alone in the car, thinking about me, my security, my sober companion and her security, all heading out to walk the dog I was thinking of getting. A rescue dog, one other people had given up on. Jack had been allergic and after him, I was in no shape to take care of anything.

  When Laurence walked out of the take-out place, I was almost cheerful. We were going to get through this. Laurence would go home to his very own Tony Soprano, Senior, and I would go back to Toronto and surround myself with dogs and security people and nephews and would do Good Deeds with my new money.

  But first things first.

  “There’s a liquor store, next street over,” I said. “I’ve passed it before.” Laurence looked at me, but under the current circumstances even he couldn’t muster any real disapproval. He was probably gagging for a drink as much as I was. “Rehab is over, for the time being,” I said. I put my hand up. “I’m not asking to be let loose to wander the Acadia campus inquiring after crack. A civilized, adult beverage. You know booze isn’t my issue.” And he did know it. I didn’t think about it, didn’t think about not being able to abstain in rehab, as it had never been part of my daily life. But if a woman isn’t allowed to get a bit tiddly on white wine after she’s had the kind of twenty-four hours I’d had, then I didn’t know what.

  “Lead on,” Laurence said. Before we pulled into traffic, he looked at me. “I got you a donair, just in case.”

  “What about my veggie slice?”

  He rolled his eyes. “That too.”

  I patted his arm. “Good man.”

  First thing tomorrow morning, I was going to call Dave, and I was going to end this.

  EIGHTEEN

  After we loaded more booze than was necessary into the Beast, I told Laurence to head back to Ferryman Lake. I told him about Constable MacLean and the freak flag cottage, just leaving out the part where she encouraged me to assassinate his oldest friend.

  “Really? She just gave you the keys to her family’s cottage?”

  “Small town,” I said. “Besides, she’s a cop, and she knows about our family, and who knows, maybe her family and the Doyles were friends.” I regretted saying it as soon as it came out of my mouth. “Anyway. Don’t forget, I practically got naked in front of this woman. That shit breeds intimacy.”

  “And she probably feels sorry for you,” Laurence said, seriously, and then after a second we both laughed.

  “Indeed, after almost seeing me naked and all,” I said. “Aside from my obvious physical malformations.”

  “All you people are malformed, you ask me,” he said.

  “You people?”

  “Women.”

  “Badum tish,” I said. “Jackass.”

  “I’m here all week.”

  Laurence didn’t have to be reminded where to turn off the main drag, as I knew he wouldn’t. He had a crazy accurate sense of direction. We drove the same route we had the night before, when we dropped Mary off at her house. Neither of us said anything, but I knew we were both wondering if we should stop in and pay our respects, give our condolences about Colin. I knew I didn’t really want to, selfishly, not tonight. That kind of grief is private, for family only, and the fact that I, especially, had been so up close and personal with her nephew in the second he died would make things worse.

  “We don’t have anything to bring anyway,” Laurence said, reading my thoughts. “You can’t show up to a house in mourning without some food.” He was right, and I doubted two donairs and a slice of pizza were quite the thing. But, conveniently, neither of us had remembered to pick anything up when we were driving through town.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “We need rest. I’m sure Mary does too.”

  We did. And I also wanted to check out the cabin we were going to, make sure I managed to claim the bed with the gun safe underneath, eat and get to sleep early. I was going to wake up at dawn and if I couldn’t get a signal on my phone and the cabin didn’t have a landline, I was going to take the Mustang and drive far enough into civilization that I could call Dave.

  No. First, I would call the cops and make sure nothing else extreme had happened, and maybe they’d even have made an arrest overnight. Failing that, I’d call Dave, park the Mustang by the main road, leave a note for Laurence and go for a little walk in the woods. This time, with a gun in my hand instead of a rock.

  As we approached Mary’s house, Laurence slowed a little bit.

  All the lights were on. A squad car was parked in the driveway. I wondered if Des was still there, or if he had gone back. I hadn’t seen him since he’d left to tell Mary about Colin earlier in the day.

  From the road, we could hear yelling. Men screaming at each other. I didn’t hear Mary’s voice, or any female voice. It made my heart beat faster.

  Laurence picked up speed.

  “Was that Des?” he said.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “It could be anybody.” My fucking hearing. I didn’t know if I was ever going to get used to it. “I heard men, and that was it. My bet is no, however.” We drove on for a couple of minutes until the house was out of sight.

  “Do you think we should go back?” he said. “Make sure Mary’s okay?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s her house. There’s a cop car there. Her husband and somebody else are arguing. She’s probably in bed, about to yell at them to shut up.” I thought for a second. “It’s family business, Laurence.”

  I didn’t believe what I was saying, not a bit. Whatever weird intuition thing I had was telling me that something wrong was happening there, but also that Laurence and I should be away from it, and fast.

  Suddenly I wanted to smoke crack so badly I wanted to weep. I wouldn’t have to listen to the voices in my brain that made me do or not do things. On crack, I was just bliss incarnate. No conscience, no rage, no sadness.

  I wanted to talk to Dr. Singh right now.

  I knew she’d been told about all this, but was anybody making sure she was alright? Hadn’t somebody told me she lived in the city and commuted in a few days a week? She was as tied to Rose’s Place as anybody else, certainly more than somebody like Sarah, who’d only been there a couple of weeks. And look at what had happened to her.

  But this was not my job here. My only job was taking care of my brother and my brother’s friend – or at least finding my brother’s friend, even if he was involved. Keeping Laurence
safe and putting his mind at rest, one way or another. They had a whole police force full of people who could take care of the rest of it.

  “Keep driving. Please. Mary’s fine, I know it.”

  Laurence kept driving. He knew me well enough to know that if I really thought Mary was in trouble I would have made him stop. But right now, I wasn’t sure that was true. The past days had been horrific, and as much as I liked Mary and felt awful for her and her family, keeping Laurence safe was my priority. It had to be. “We’ll visit tomorrow,” I said. “And maybe call first.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence. I knew Laurence was worried about Dickie or Mary or both. So was I, but I had to figure out a plan for the next day that would keep my brother safely occupied.

  “So this is really it?” Laurence pulled into the MacLeans’ driveway slowly. It was pitch black up here, and while we could see through the trees that a few places around the lake had patio lanterns and lights on, things on this part of the lake seemed deserted. “I’ve got to take pictures of this tomorrow. Antonio will flip.”

  He was right. And I was going to take pictures too, for our nephews. I hoped I could pass off this time as a fun little holiday, Aunt Danny and Uncle Laurence doing silly things together and taking pictures. Note to self: buy them souvenirs.

  The cottage was much bigger than it looked through the trees from the road. Definitely bigger than Dickie Doyle’s cabin by some order of magnitude. The part that was visible, the crazy lavender stripes, was actually the second story. The ground floor was like a different place altogether, a tasteful cedar with what looked like wrought-iron trim painted white. It was hard to tell just by the headlights, but the place looked as though someone had put one cottage on top of a very different one.

  “I guess they’re pretty lax with the old planning permissions out here,” I said. “Wow.” But I dug it. I’ve always been drawn to things that don’t look like they belong together – which, my brothers always said, explained my dress sense.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” Laurence said. We were still sitting in the car. I had the keys clenched in my hand, and I handed him the hammer.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” I said. “Swear to God. She gave me the keys and told us to stay here. No hotels, remember?” I was not strictly lying, and Laurence would forgive me later. I hoped.

  “So why am I holding a hammer?” he said.

  “Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve been surrounded by dead bodies since you stepped off the plane, and a hammer beats a rock.” I laced the keys through my fingers and cracked my neck. I checked that my running shoes were laced properly and wished I had my Docs. “Just hang on a second.” I took the fanny pack out of my bag and grabbed the screwdriver. I’d come back for the bag once we’d checked the place out. I debated telling Laurence to stay in the car while I walked around the property, but I knew it would be useless.

  No motion-sensor lights had come on when we pulled into the drive, like I’d been hoping, so I was counting on there being one by the door. But if the family hadn’t officially opened the place for the season, it could all be shut down. “Turn the lights off,” I said. The headlights might help us stop from tripping over something, but they would also screw with our night vision. I’d memorized exactly where the door was as we’d been sitting there. There was a bit of moonlight. We’d be fine. “Just follow right behind me,” I said. “Remember, my hearing is wonky. If you can stick right to my back and walk backward with your phone flashlight on, do that.”

  “I can barely walk forward,” he reminded me.

  “Bullshit, Mr. Track and Field,” I said. “You move like a cat.” This made him laugh, which I was hoping for. I wanted him relaxed enough to be able to move and not be paralyzed by whatever paranoia I was instilling in him.

  We got out of the car and moved quickly to the door. Nothing seemed amiss. No body parts – that I could see in the dark, anyway – and no gunshots. I could hear Laurence breathing close behind me.

  I nearly tripped on the stairs up to the door, because I’m graceful that way. An owl hooted not too far away, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, which made Laurence make a sound that was close to a giggle.

  There were two keys on the ring Constable MacLean had given me. One was bigger than the other and obviously for the door. I found the lock, and it turned easily. I wished Laurence was safely in the car, but just now it didn’t feel like anywhere was safe, so I’d rather he was close to me.

  I swung the door open and stepped back, nearly knocking Laurence over. I’d almost expected to be met with a gun or an axe, but nothing. It was quiet, and it was dark. I leaned inside and felt around for a light switch, found it, and flipped it on.

  There was light. There was a homey-looking kitchen. There was nothing on the stove and no cold, newly poured glasses of beer, like at Dickie’s. The place smelled a little musty, like the windows hadn’t been opened for a good while, but I didn’t smell the coppery scent of blood that I’d come to know so well. No stench of decomposition. It was just a cottage. And so far, it seemed empty of anything but us, and possibly whatever mice had made it their home over the winter.

  “Okay,” I said. “Come in, and lock the door behind you.”

  While Laurence rummaged around in the kitchen for plates for the donairs and pulled the fridge out to plug it in, I made the excuse of having to find the bathroom and did a swift check of the place, screwdriver in hand. I turned on every light and opened every closet, quickly. There were no sheets on any of the beds in the three bedrooms so I was spared having to whip them down to check for stray body parts.

  Laurence yelled something from downstairs.

  I took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding. I paused while running through the living room to grab a heavy-looking copper lamp, ripping the cord from the wall.

  In the kitchen, Laurence was whistling. He took one look at me with the lamp in one hand and the screwdriver in another, standing in the doorway, and nearly dropped the plates he was holding.

  “What the fuck,” he said. “Is somebody here?” He slid the plates onto the counter and grabbed his hammer with both hands, like a tennis racket.

  “No! You were yelling,” I said. My heart was slowing down.

  “Oh!” he said. “Don’t scare me like that.” He put the hammer down. “I said, there’s no water.” He nodded at the sink. “Nada.”

  “Jesus,” I said. I looked at the lamp I was holding. I’d managed to break part of the cord out of the base. Leave me alone for five minutes and I break the house. No wonder I rarely got invited anywhere.

  Well, that, and being a degenerate crack addict.

  “The place hasn’t been opened for the season yet,” I said. “Constable MacLean gave me her card. I guess I can call her and ask if it’s okay to turn it on. In the basement I guess.” There was a door off the kitchen.

  “Funny the power was on, though,” he said. He was right, and it bothered me. And if the power was on in the cottage, shouldn’t the lights at the top of the lane and outside be turned on? Then again, I was no electrician, and most things had a very simple explanation. Occam’s razor. But after the last couple of days, all horses were going to look like zebras to us.

  I looked again at the basement door, and looked at Laurence. He was looking at it too.

  “Shit,” I said. “You stay here. I’ll be two minutes.” I really wanted a glass of wine, a few bites of food, and to find where they kept the sheets. I hesitated a minute, debating running upstairs and getting the gun under MacLean’s bed. But despite everything, I felt almost safe, and I wanted this done quickly.

  “Danny,” Laurence said. “Look.”

  Behind the kitchen door, hanging neatly on hooks in the wall was an axe. The handle looked old and sturdy, but the blade was clean, with no rust that I could see.

  “Woodstove in the living room,” I said. “They chop wood.” My mouth was dry.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “We choppe
d wood at our cottage,” I said. “Dad kept it right beside the back door like this, too.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Fuck this,” I said. I grabbed the axe off the wall, tested its weight. “Open the wine,” I said.

  “I’m coming with you,” Laurence said, and grabbed his hammer.

  “Don’t be stupid. There is nothing down there.” I put my hand on the doorknob, and turned back. “But if you hear me screaming or anything, you know…”

  “Run for the hills,” he said.

  “I was going to say come and rescue me.”

  “Oh,” he said. He nodded. “Okay.”

  The second I started to open the door, a phone rang. An old-fashioned telephone ring. I believe I may have screamed a little, startled, but Laurence had more presence of mind. There was a telephone hanging on the wall.

  “MacLean residence,” he said. He sounded like a butler. Definitely not like he was watching his little sister about to descend into a strange basement holding an axe. “Oh, hello, Constable,” he said, friendly. “Thank you, we did, we found it fine.” He was listening. “I know she’s sorry about that, but he probably shouldn’t have come up behind her and restrained her when she had just seen a dead body, under the…” He listened some more. “Well, she is that. She’s right here.”

  It seemed so normal. “Hello?” I said, taking the phone from him.

  “Hi, Ms. Cleary,” Constable MacLean said. She sounded friendly enough, if tired. “I just wanted to make sure you were both okay and all that.”

  “Please call me Danny,” I said. “After all, I’m going to be sleeping in your bed tonight.” And then I blushed. I did get a vaguely lesbian vibe from her, but I wasn’t meaning to flirt. However, as I seem to have no ability to speak normally when I’m stressed or nervous, half the population probably thinks I’m either a sex addict or that I have Tourette’s.