by Chris Carter
This time the hostess gave Hunter a whole-heartedly approving nod. ‘An American who not only knows how to choose his Scotch, but how to drink it too. You don’t see many of those around.’
Hunter frowned. ‘Really? In a big whisky lounge like this one?’
She chuckled. ‘You’d be surprised. To start with, you lot spell whiskey with an “e”. It can only go downhill from there.’ Her head tilted in the direction of the ‘city boys’ table. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
Hunter smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘I’ll be right back with your drink.’
While the hostess disappeared in the direction of the main bar, Hunter flipped through the food menu.
‘Here you go,’ she said, placing a whisky tumbler on Hunter’s table just a minute later, together with a miniature jar of water. ‘Kilchoman 2010, single quarter cask.’
‘Thank you,’ Hunter said, closing the menu.
‘Have you made a decision already?’
Hunter nodded.
‘Well, in that case, since I’m already here, I might as well take your order.’
Hunter ordered a cheeseburger and fries.
‘I’ll get that for you straight away,’ the hostess said, paused, then extended her hand. ‘My name is Linsey, by the way.’
‘Robert,’ Hunter replied, returning the gesture. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you.’ Those words were followed by a very subtle but charming wink.
As the hostess zigzagged back through the tables, being careful to avoid the “city boys” one, Hunter reached for his glass and brought it to his nose. The smoky and complex aroma of the golden liquid made him smile again. He picked up the water jar and poured just a little more than a few drops into the tumbler, before finally sipping his whisky. Smooth sweet vanilla, with sooty smoke coming to the fore and a long honeyed ember finish – perfection in a glass. Hunter closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, maybe for longer than he should have, because he didn’t notice the person now standing right in front of his table.
‘You owe me an explanation.’
Thirty-Eight
As the object slid out of the envelope and on to the tabletop, Detective Webb pulled his chair a little closer to have a better look at it. His eyes ping-ponged between the object and Dr. Barnes for several seconds and he wondered if that was all he was going to get. Nothing else came out of the envelope.
‘It’s . . . a silver bracelet,’ he said at last, unimpressed, staring at a serpentine chain bracelet, with a delicate heart charm.
‘It’s a white-gold bracelet,’ Dr. Barnes corrected him. ‘Not a silver one.’
‘OK. I apologize,’ Webb said back, not really knowing what difference it made.
Dr. Barnes saw the look in Webb’s face and explained. ‘This bracelet was given to me by my mother on my thirteenth birthday. We were a very poor family, living in a rough and neglected neighborhood. My father left us when I was five, and we never saw him again after that. My mother had to work two jobs to keep us going, and she saved every penny she could for God knows how long, just so she’d be able to afford something like this.’ All of a sudden, the doctor’s voice saddened. ‘She passed away just months after that.’
Only then Webb noticed the tiny inscription on the heart charm. Three words – one above the other – Always. Be. Strong.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Webb offered in a sincere tone.
The doctor acknowledged his words with a head gesture before continuing. ‘Since my thirteenth birthday, I’ve worn it every day without fail. I never forget to. I’ve never lost it. It’s always with me. The only time I take it off, is when I go to sleep.’
Webb looked intrigued.
‘I can’t sleep with any sort of jewelry on me,’ she clarified. ‘No bracelets, no necklaces, no rings, nothing. For some reason it freaks the hell out of me if I do. It gives me nightmares.’
Webb found that interesting because he had a friend who also couldn’t sleep with any jewelry on her. She had to take it all off before going to bed, including her wedding ring.
‘Last night,’ Dr. Barnes carried on with her story, ‘I got home, took off my bracelet, my rings, and my necklace, and left them on my bedside table, just like I do every night. When I woke up this morning, everything was still there, except the bracelet. The bracelet was gone.’
Webb was about to say something, but Dr. Barnes got there before him.
‘Yes,’ she said.
He frowned at her.
‘Yes. Yes. No. And yes.’
‘I’m sorry?
‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Detective. You’re first going to ask me if I’m absolutely sure that I had the bracelet with me when I got home. The answer to that question is – yes. Then you’re going to ask me if I’m absolutely sure that I took it off in my bedroom and left it on my bedside table, like I said I did. The answer to that question is also – yes. Then you’re going to ask me if there isn’t a chance that maybe the bracelet had come undone somewhere and fallen off my wrist, like maybe in the parking lot where I work, or just outside my house, or even by the newsstand, where I pick up my paper every morning.’
Webb’s impressed face was certainly more pleasant than his unimpressed one, but not by much. And he was impressed. So far, Dr. Barnes had hit every nail on the head.
He nodded at her as he added, ‘That was exactly what I was thinking, Doctor.’ He admitted it. ‘If the bracelet dropped from your wrist at the newsstand, someone could’ve seen it and, instead of doing the right thing, which would be handing it back to you, decided to turn the whole thing into a practical joke.’ He tapped the note twice with his gloved index finger. ‘That would certainly explain this.’
‘It would,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But the answer to that question is “no”. There’s no chance that my bracelet fell from my wrist at the newsstand the morning before last, or anywhere else for that matter.’
Once again, Webb was about to ask Dr. Barnes a new question, when she lifted her hand, interrupting him.
‘How can I be so sure?’ she said.
Back came the impressed look. Webb decided that it was pointless trying to butt in, so he sat back on his chair and allowed her to continue in her own pace.
‘Because there’s no way I can go a whole day without this bracelet and not notice it, Detective. Every time I get nervous, or every time I’m thinking, pondering something, I twiddle with it.’ Her right hand automatically moved to her left wrist. ‘It’s an unconscious movement. I’ve been doing it for years, and on any given day I repeat the movement tens of times. I wouldn’t have gone half an hour without noticing that my bracelet was gone.’
Webb had noticed the movement at least a couple of times in the past few minutes and it hadn’t surprised him. Everybody he knew had a nervous tic. His was running his tongue against his top lip.
‘And last night,’ Dr. Barnes carried on, ‘as I was driving home, I specifically remember twiddling with it in the car, which brings us to my last “yes”. Yes, Detective Webb, I’m certain that the bracelet didn’t fall off my wrist inside my car. I had it on me when I got home last night. I had it on me when I went to bed, and I had it on my bedside table when I turned off the lights. I am one hundred percent sure of it. This morning, when I woke up, it wasn’t there.’
After over twenty years as a policeman, Webb had acquired a knack for summing people up at a glance, even better after spending a few minutes with them. Dr. Gwen Barnes appeared to be a very stable, intelligent, and grounded woman. She never raised her voice, regardless of mood. She was eloquent and, so far, all her arguments seemed to be based on very plausible and possible facts.
‘Not finding the bracelet this morning drove me insane,’ she added. ‘I looked for it everywhere, and I mean everywhere, Detective – under the bed, behind the bedside table, in the drawers, under rugs, in the living room, in the kitchen . . . you name it. Even in my car. It wasn’t there. It wasn’
t anywhere. I wracked my brain retracing my steps from last night, from the time I got home, to the time I went to bed, because I knew I had it on me when I opened my front door last night.’
Dr. Barnes paused for breath. Right about then, she could really do with a very large glass of wine.
‘And this morning was the first ever time that I was late for my first session of the day. I’m a psychiatrist, Detective Webb, I understand how the human brain works better than most. I’m fully aware that because night after night I go through the exact same motions just before turning off my bedroom light, i.e. placing all my jewelry on my bedside table, it’s very easy for my brain to be tricked into thinking that I did something, when in fact I didn’t. Repetitive actions can have that sort of effect on your brain, but I’m telling you, that’s not the case here.’
Webb ran his tongue against his top lip. ‘So you really do think that someone broke into your house last night, walked into your room while you were asleep, took away your bracelet, already with the intention of doing this.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the note and the bracelet on the table. ‘And maybe even smelled your hair.’
‘I do, Detective, because I can’t see any other explanation.’
‘Did you notice any signs of a break-in?’ Webb asked.
Dr. Barnes let go of a breath so heavy with frustration, the air inside the interrogation room seemed to thicken.
‘I can’t be sure because I didn’t really check for any. I woke up this morning, I couldn’t find my bracelet, obviously my first thought wasn’t that someone had broken into my house.’
‘Your first thought was that maybe you had lost it,’ Webb pushed.
‘Yes,’ Dr. Barnes admitted in defeat.
Even Detective Webb had to take a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he tried again. He really did want to help her. ‘Before leaving the house this morning, can you remember if you found your door locked or unlocked?’
‘The front door was locked.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure. I remember unlocking it this morning. I didn’t check the back door, but it’s always locked.’
Webb was unsure of what else to say. Instead, it was Dr. Barnes who spoke again. Her next few words came out slowly and flooded with emotion.
‘Detective, I don’t really know what else I can tell you, but I know that I did not lose my bracelet.’
She folded her arms in front of her, as if all of a sudden the temperature inside the room had dropped a few degrees. That was the first time that Detective Webb saw Dr. Barnes display fear. Real fear.
‘Someone was in my room, Detective. I’m telling you. Someone was in there, by my bed, watching me while I slept.’
Thirty-Nine
As the screen on his cellphone faded to black, Mr. J felt his whole world collapse around him. His legs buckled under his weight and he had to hold on to the wall so as not to fall down. His fingers lost their grip and his phone slipped from his hand, bouncing off the bed and on to the floor. Nothing made sense. He felt as if his entire existence had just been devoured by a black hole, leaving behind nothing but an empty human shell.
‘What just happened?’ he whispered under his breath, his crazed eyes searching for refuge in every corner of his hotel room. They found none. Instead, the walls seemed to be closing in on him. ‘I must be losing my mind. This can’t be real. It just can’t be.’
Mr. J brought two shaking hands to his face and rubbed it as vigorously as he could.
The walls were still closing in on him.
He turned around and quickly made his way back into the bathroom, where he splashed more cold water on to his face.
‘Cassandra,’ he said, as he found his own eyes in the mirror, ‘this isn’t real.’ He tried to convince his reflection. ‘It isn’t. And I will prove it to you. None of it was real.’
Mr. J rushed back into the bedroom, fetched his cellphone from the floor, returned to the bathroom, and paused before the mirror again.
‘You’ll see. I’ll prove it to you right now,’ he said, shaking a finger at his reflection, before speed-dialing his wife’s number. ‘I don’t know what the hell this was, but it wasn’t real. None of it was. You’ll see.’
At the other end, instead of ringing, the call went straight into voicemail.
‘Hello, you’ve reached the phone of Cassandra Jenkinson. Unfortunately, I can’t—’
Mr. J disconnected and quickly redialed.
The reflection in the mirror waited.
‘Hello, you’ve reached the phone of Cass—’
Disconnected. Redialed.
‘Hello, you’ve reached—’
Disconnected.
Mr. J’s eyes reverted back to the mirror. His reflection was still waiting.
The house, a voice inside his head whispered. Call the house.
Mr. J speed-dialed his home number.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. The call finally connected.
‘Hello . . .’
Mr. J immediately recognized the voice at the other end of the line and it was as if his life had just been sucked out of him. It was his own. The answering machine had picked it up.
‘. . . you’ve reached the house of . . .’ He waited for the beep at the end of the message.
‘Cassandra, honey, it’s me. If you’re there, please pick it up. Please.’ His voice wavered. ‘I need to talk to you, hon. I need to hear your voice. Please answer the phone. Please.’
There was no answer.
‘FUUUUUUUUUUCK!’ His agony-filled scream echoed throughout the entire room.
Five minutes later, Mr. J was still sitting at the edge of the bathtub, his face buried in his palms, his cellphone on the tiled floor by his feet. His reflection in the mirror had grown tired of waiting.
Another five minutes went by before Mr. J finally moved his hands away from his face. His arms dropped by the side of his body aimlessly. He felt totally drained of energy. His eyelids flapped a couple of times, his pupils contracted, filtering away the excessive lighting as it reflected off the white tiles. It took him another minute to crash through the blur of confusion and regain focus, and as he did, everything seemed and felt different – the room, the air, his entire world. His blood had gone cold in his veins, his lungs breathed hate instead of oxygen, and he couldn’t feel his heart beating in his chest anymore. Everything inside of him had died with his wife. Everything except his brain. He needed to keep it alive. He needed to think. And think he did. A few minutes later, he reached for his phone and made the first of three calls.
Forty
As Hunter’s attention moved to the person standing before him he frowned, but the uncertainty in his stare lasted just a fraction of a second before it was substituted by a look of total surprise – a look that the woman standing there failed to recognize.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ There was a touch of disappointment in her tone.
‘Of course I do,’ Hunter said, returning his drink to his table. ‘The twenty-four-hour reading room at UCLA.’ He searched his memory for her name. ‘Tracy, right? Tracy Adams.’
Her disappointment gave way to a coy smile.
‘Your hair looks a little different,’ Hunter added. ‘That’s why it took me a second.’
Tracy’s wavy red hair was pegged back over her ears by two small hairclips, revealing a pair of dainty skull earrings, with tiny black rocks for eyes. The rest of her hair fell loose past her shoulders, framing a very attractive heart-shaped face, where expressive green eyes sat behind old-fashioned, cat-eye glasses, but the real difference was in her fringe. This time, instead of looping above her forehead to form a pin-up-style victory roll, it simply fell naturally over her face, partially covering her left eye.
‘Sorry about the intrusion,’ Tracy said, her demeanor still showing a little embarrassment. ‘I was sitting at the bar when I saw the hostess showing you to your table.’ Her shoul
ders moved up in a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I would come and say, “Hi.” ’
‘No intrusion at all.’ Hunter’s gaze gravitated towards the bar for a quick second. ‘I’m glad you did.’
Not wanting to sound too forward, he quickly accessed the scene. At the bar sitting area, no one was expectantly looking their way. Tracy also had her drink in her hand, which suggested that she hadn’t left anyone waiting for her back at the bar or at a table. Hunter indicated the empty seat across the table from him.
‘Would you like to have a seat?’
She hesitated for a moment before reinforcing her point. ‘Are you sure? I really wouldn’t like to intrude.’
‘You’re not,’ Hunter reassured her. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
The coy smile returned to Tracy’s lips and she finally nodded in acceptance. ‘In that case, sure. Thank you.’
She took the seat, placed her drink down on the table and nodded at Hunter’s glass, making a reference to when they first met by the coffee vending machine.
‘I must say, that looks a lot more appealing than a Caramel Frappuccino Deluxe.’
Hunter smiled. ‘I agree. Probably healthier too.’
‘So, what are you having?’ she asked. ‘The choice in here is overwhelming.’
‘Yes, that’s for sure,’ Hunter replied as his eyes settled on his glass. ‘Scotch. Kilchoman . . . Caramel Barley Deluxe.’
Tracy laughed. ‘Year?’
The question surprised Hunter.
‘Twenty-ten.’
She made a face, impressed. ‘Great choice. They’re a very traditional distillery. If I’m not mistaken, I think that they are the only ones that complete all parts of their whisky-making process on site. Nothing gets outsourced.’
Hunter tried not to frown at her again, but he was sincerely intrigued. Women in general weren’t very fond of Scotch whisky, which wasn’t at all surprising. Whisky was undoubtedly an acquired taste, one that at first would certainly overpower anyone’s palate and knock the air out of their lungs in the process. Hunter knew that only too well. The trick was to persist, to keep trying, to keep sipping it until one day it finally made sense. Women usually weren’t that patient with drinks. They either liked it at first sip or they didn’t.
