Scar Tissue

by William G. Tapply

  Two young women were sitting on the sofa. A blonde and a brunette. They were holding beer cans and watching MTV and jiggling their knees.

  I smiled at them. They both smiled at me.

  Jason went over and sat between them. “He’s in his room,” he said. “He’s probably asleep.”

  “How is he?”

  Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. He hardly ever comes out of there.”

  “I’ve got to talk to him.”

  “That’s up to him, I guess.”

  I went down the hallway and knocked on Brian’s door.

  “What?” he called from inside.

  “It’s Uncle Brady,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  He said nothing.

  “Brian,” I said, “please. It’s important.”

  “Go away,” he said.

  I tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  “Listen to me,” I said through the door. “I know about the photographs. I know why you’re scared. I know why you don’t want to talk to your mother. Let me help you, okay?”

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  “Dammit, Brian,” I said. “Pay attention. I know Sprague tried to kill you. He killed Jenny, and he wanted to kill you, too. You two were running away, right?”

  Brian was silent.

  “Help me get the bad guys,” I said. “It’s time to talk to the police. You’ve got the answers. What do you say?”

  What he had to say was nothing.

  “We’ll talk to your mother together,” I said. “Think of how happy she’ll be to see you, to know you’re okay. Come on, kid. Let’s do it. You and me.”

  There was no response from inside the room.

  I waited a minute, then pounded on his door. “Brian, I swear if you don’t answer me I’ll break down this door and drag you out of there.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned.

  Jason was standing there glaring at me. “Leave the poor kid alone,” he said.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” I said to Jason.

  He shrugged. “He wants a place to stay, he doesn’t want anybody getting on his case. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to you. So you better just go.”

  “You haven’t got a clue,” I said.

  “Maybe not. None of my business. But if you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m a lawyer, and—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you are,” he said. “You come barging in here, start threatening my friend, and I want you out. I’m gonna give you one minute.”

  I looked at him, then nodded. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” I took out one of my business cards and slipped it under the bedroom door. “I just put my card under your door,” I called to Brian. “Think about what I said. You can call me any time. Okay, Brian?”

  He did not reply.

  I turned to Jason. “If you’re his friend,” I said, “you should encourage him to call me.”

  “He’s in some kind of trouble, huh?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  I followed Jason back out to the living room, nodded to the two girls, and left.

  As I drove back to my apartment on the waterfront, I replayed the scene in my head.

  I definitely could have handled it better.

  I paced around my apartment for a long time after I got back from my abortive visit with Brian Gold. Bobby Klemm, I figured, would surely have killed Brian if he’d been able to find him, and since he hadn’t, it meant that Brian was safe where he was, at least for a while. As far as I knew, Sandy and Jason and I were the only ones who knew that Brian was alive and hiding out in a Northeastern University student apartment.

  Sooner or later, whoever had hired Klemm to kill me and fetch those photos would hire somebody else. I didn’t know what to do about it. Horowitz was on the case. That was comforting. So was Gus Nash. They were pros.

  After a while, I almost convinced myself that I’d done everything I could do.

  When I finally went to bed, I read a whole chapter from Moby Dick. Melville’s complex prose and richly detailed narrative cleared my brain and exhausted me. After I turned off the light, I smoked a cigarette in the dark and wondered whether Melville or Hawthorne or Henry James or Jane Austen could even find a publisher in these Stephen King and John Grisham times.

  Snowflakes the size of quarters were drifting down from a slate-colored sky when I woke up around nine-thirty the next morning. I stood behind my glass sliders sipping my coffee and watched the snowflakes swirl around over the black water before they touched down and the ocean ate them. Judging by the white mounds on the docks, nearly half a foot had fallen while I slept.

  According to the folklore of Yankee farmers, big soft snowflakes mean a short-lived storm, but along the coast you can’t tell. Inland, the flakes might be small and dense.

  When I’d finally drifted off to sleep the previous night, I had dreams. In the only one that stuck with me, Bobby Klemm was lying there on the carpet in my living room. In my dream, Klemm was naked. He had the smooth, hairless body of a child, and blood was gushing like a Yellowstone geyser out of a softball-size hole in his bare chest. When I knelt beside him, he smiled and winked at me.

  It was, I guessed, some kind of wish-fulfillment dream. According to Freud, they all are, although recalling it the next morning filled me with the same terrible dread and sadness I’d felt when I’d dreamed it, and I couldn’t figure out what wish it fulfilled.

  I liked the way the snowflakes dissolved when they hit the water, and I watched them for a long time.

  When my mug was empty, I went back to the kitchen and refilled it, then took it into the bedroom, plugged in my phone, and called Julie at home.

  Edward, her husband, answered. When I asked for Julie, he said, “Brady, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”

  He hesitated. “Well, I don’t like this.” His voice was soft, as if he didn’t want Julie to hear him. “She’s—both of us, actually—we’re frightened.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I was frightened, too. But it’s over now.”

  “Actually,” he said, “she’s handling the—the shooting thing pretty well. No, I mean the lying. You know how loyal to you Julie is. But she doesn’t understand why you want her to lie, and neither do I. You can’t lie to the police.”

  “I’ve tried not to tell her anything, Edward,” I said. “The less she knows, the better. And I can’t explain it to you, either. You both have to trust me.”

  “I think she should tell the police the truth, Brady. I think you’re wrong to ask her to do this.”

  “Well, I can’t stop her,” I said. “All I can do is advise her.” I lit a cigarette. “Look, Edward. She can’t get into trouble unless she lies under oath in court, okay? Then it’s perjury. If it ever gets to that, I’ll be the first to insist that she blame me for misguiding her, and we’ll both tell the whole truth.”

  “Well, you’re a lawyer, but—”

  “You know I’d never do anything to hurt Julie,” I said.

  “I know that.”

  “Please trust me, Edward. Some very nice, very innocent people could be terribly hurt if it all gets out too soon.”

  He hesitated for a minute, then said, “My concern is my wife, who also happens to be a very nice, innocent person.”

  “Listen,” I said, “If I told you what I know, you’d agree with me. I know you would.”

  “Lying to the cops, though,” he said. I heard him blow out a breath. “I don’t know.”

  I didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds, he said, “Well, I guess you called to talk to her.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Hang on.”

  A minute later, Julie said, “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  “I unplugged my phone,” I said.

  “Reporters?”

  “Yes.”

 
“I guess I should consider myself lucky,” she said. “Anyway, I wanted to know what we should do about your appointments today. When I couldn’t reach you, I accessed our computer, downloaded our schedule and phone directory, and took the liberty of rescheduling. I hope that was all right.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said. “And a most efficient and cybernetically clever boss at that.”

  “Yes, I am.” She laughed softly. “It worked out well. Megan got a snow day from school. We’re going to make cookies.”

  “Julie—”

  “It’s okay,” she said quickly. “Edward’s upset, but I’m not. I told those police officers what you told me to say. I trust you. Lieutenant Horowitz assured me he was in our corner.”

  “I can’t explain it to you,” I said.

  “I understand. I don’t want to know.”

  “I assume we’ll get our office back tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I figured,” she said. “I’ve lined up a busy day for you.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need,” I said. “A busy day talking with rich people about their money.”

  “It would be nice if you put in a full day of billable hours for a change, separated those rich people from some of their money.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “But you won’t. I want you to take the rest of the week off.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” I said. “I will not dock your vacation or your sick leave time. Stay home or go shopping or go to the Caribbean. Just don’t come to the office. Okay?”

  She hesitated. “What’s going on, Brady?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I can.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Of course I’ll be careful. I’ll talk with you. Give Megan a hug for me.”

  I spent the rest of the day reading and tying flies and watching it snow. I tried calling Sharon Gold several times, but I kept getting her answering machine. After the third try, I decided to leave her a message. “Hope you’re doing okay,” was all I said. “Give me a call.”

  Maybe she’d decided to go stay with her mother for a while. I hoped so. It would be good for her to get away from Reddington. I assumed the police would keep Jake’s body for at least a week. Until they released it, there was no reason for Sharon to hang around in that house full of ghosts and echoes.

  And until Brian decided he was ready to confront her, I would just have to sit on my secret.

  I had only two phone calls all day—both reporters. I told them I’d been advised not to talk to the media, and they didn’t push it.

  I figured by now the lawyer-shoots-intruder story was old news anyway.

  The snow stopped in the middle of the afternoon. Then the clouds broke up and blew away, and the sun came out just in time to set. Tomorrow would be a pretty winter’s day.

  Wednesday was the last day of February. As I’d predicted, it was a cold, cloudless, sky-blue day. The sun cut through the thin air so sharply that I had to squint when I looked out my office window.

  I saw clients all morning and had Chinese food delivered for lunch. I ate it off the coffee table in my office with plastic utensils and Coke. Julie always mocked me for eating fried rice with a fork. She was a chopsticks-and-green-tea gal.

  It felt strange to be at my desk without Julie right outside my door, poised to nag me.

  Boston homicide detective Dominic Gillotte called from his car around three-thirty and showed up a few minutes later. We stood there in the reception area. He leaned against Julie’s desk and declined coffee.

  “So how you doin’?” he said.

  “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “Busy, you know? So is this a social call?”

  He smiled quickly. “Never is, is it?” He reached into the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out a plastic bag. It had my revolver in it. “Wanted to return this to you,” he said. “It’s unloaded. Here.” He gave me the gun and dumped a handful of cartridges into my palm.

  “Thanks,” I said. “So what’d you learn?”

  “What you told us. This gun fired the bullet that killed Bobby Klemm. It had your fingerprints on it.”

  “So where do I stand?” I said.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Turns out Klemm’s gun killed two other people outside my jurisdiction, so the state cops are involved in the case. Needless to say, they’re not sharing a helluva lot with me.”

  “Lieutenant Stone?”

  He nodded. “And the DA. Mr. Nash. I expect they’ll be calling on you.”

  After Gillotte left, I went back into my office. I took my gun out of the plastic bag, reloaded it, and started to open my safe. Then I paused, thought about it, and put the gun into the upper right-hand drawer of my desk.

  TWENTY-THREE

  District Attorney Gus Nash and state police detective Christopher Stone showed up just as I was rinsing out the coffeepot at the end of the day. I ushered them into my inner office.

  They made a Mutt and Jeff team. Gus was wiry and gray-haired and studious-looking behind his rimless glasses. Chris Stone had played tight end for B.U. back in the days before the university abandoned its football program, and he looked like he could still play. He’d gotten his master’s in criminology at Northeastern, and while he had the dark, scowling look of a dumb tough guy, I knew he was shrewd and clever and ambitious.

  “You guys want coffee?” I said. “I can put on a fresh pot.”

  Stone started to nod, but Nash said, “No, thanks. We’re fine.”

  Stone gave a little shrug and shook his head.

  So that’s how it was. Nash was in charge. Stone had always been an ass kisser.

  “So how’re you doing, Brady?” said Nash.

  “I’m fine, Gus. You?”

  He smiled. “Me? Oh, I’m okay. I understand you had quite an experience.”

  “Yes. It was quite an experience.”

  “You know Detective Stone, I believe.”

  “Yes. We’ve met.” I looked at Stone. “How’s it going, Chris?”

  “Pisser,” he said.

  “So what can I do for you guys?”

  Nash jerked his head at the sofa in my conference area. “We need to talk.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “About what?”

  “Come off it,” growled Stone. “You know damn well—”

  Nash touched Stone’s shoulder. “Relax, Lieutenant. Brady’s a good lawyer. He knows how it works.”

  “He’s an officer of the fucking court,” said Stone. “Good lawyers don’t lie.”

  I poked my finger at Stone’s chest. “Are you accusing me of lying?” I said.

  “You’re goddamn right. I—”

  “Cut it out,” said Nash. “Both of you.” He touched my elbow. “Come on, Brady. Let’s go sit. We need to get this straightened out.”

  I glared at Stone for a minute, feigning anger and outrage, which wasn’t that hard, since I’d always disliked and distrusted him. Then I shrugged and allowed Gus to lead me over to the sitting area. I slumped onto the sofa. He took one of the armchairs across from me. Stone came over and stood beside Nash’s chair.

  I lit a cigarette, then looked at them. “So what am I supposed to be lying about?” I said.

  “Why don’t you just tell us what happened yesterday,” said Nash.

  “I already told those Boston cops. Don’t you guys share?”

  Nash nodded. “Humor me.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Glad to help.” And I proceeded to tell them the same story I’d told Gillotte, the Boston cop—that Klemm had held Julie and me at gunpoint demanding our money, and when I’d slipped my revolver out of my desk drawer, he’d taken a wild shot at me and I’d reflexively pulled the trigger, hitting him in the chest.

  As I talked, Gus nodded and smiled and asked for an amplification here and there. Stone scowled at me and said nothing.

  When I finished, Nash said, “Bobby Klemm—that man you
shot—he wasn’t a thief or a burglar. We don’t think he came here to steal your money.”

  “No?”

  “We need to know what he was after.”

  I shrugged. “Money and jewelry. That’s what he said.”

  “Listen, Brady,” he said. “Bobby Klemm was a gun-for-hire. That twenty-two automatic he brandished at you and Julie is the same gun that killed Ed Sprague and Professor Gold.”

  I widened my eyes. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Are you saying that man came here to kill me?”

  Stone smacked his fist into his palm. “Goddamn it, Mr. Nash. He’s yanking your chain. I told you he wouldn’t cooperate. We’re wasting our time. I say we haul his ass down to the station, read him his fucking rights, and stop pussyfooting around.”

  Nash looked up at him. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that, Lieutenant. Brady wants to cooperate.” He turned to me. “Right?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m an officer of the court, as the lieutenant has reminded me. I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “So why’d you call Horowitz?” said Stone.

  I shrugged. “He’s a policeman. Friend of mine, as you know. First thing that came to my mind. I had no way of knowing you guys would be interested.”

  “Why not dial 911 like any other citizen would do?”

  “I’d just shot a man,” I said. “Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight, I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of Lieutenant Horowitz lately. We’re old friends. I trust him.”

  “Old friends,” growled Stone. He looked at Nash. “This stinks,” he said. “Fuckin’ Horowitz—”

  “You said you keep your gun in your desk drawer?” said Nash quickly.

  I nodded. “So?”

  “I understand it’s been returned to you,” he said. “Can I see it?”

  I waved in the direction of my desk. “It’s in the top right-hand drawer,” I said, “where I always keep it. Help yourself.”

  Stone went over to my desk, opened the drawer, looked in, then closed it. “It’s there,” he said to Nash. He came back to where we were sitting and stood in front of me. “Horowitz’s been coaching you, huh?”

  I looked from Stone to Nash. “What’s he talking about?”