Compound Fractures

by Stephen White

  “I wouldn’t think of it. I will count on your discretion until then.”

  I had an appointment with Elliot Bellhaven at five thirty on Thursday evening. The outcome of that meeting would determine whether or not I kept Friday’s supervision appointment.

  I kept that fact to myself as I closed the door behind me.

  Snow flurries fluttered across my vision when I stepped outside. I hadn’t realized that a storm was on the way.

  I pulled my phone from my bag at the corner of Eleventh and Spruce.

  77

  ALAN

  ELLIOT TOOK ONE STEP AWAY FROM ME. He turned to Raoul and Amanda.

  He asked if he could “have the room.”

  I didn’t know if I had won or I had lost. I was teetering on Ivy’s wire, one foot in the air. My equilibrium no sure thing.

  Amanda looked to me for direction. “Should I go?”

  I took my hands from my head, hoping I could regain some literal balance.

  I wasn’t sure I had options. I was sure I was unprepared to have options.

  A grad school professor had once taught our class that if someone is eager for a certain status, he should act like he already has it and see if anyone objects.

  Why not? I began to act as though I had regained my balance, and as though I was in control. I said, “Would you like to leave here alone, Amanda? With a head start?”

  She nodded. We embraced. I thanked her for her help. She kissed me on the cheek. She did it a second time. Amanda grabbed her things and hurried from the room. I was able to watch through the window as she climbed into a black Boxster on Pine Street.

  She drove away.

  Until Elliot objected I would continue to act as though I had the power. I was cognizant that any opportunity I had with Raoul was a fleeting thing. Once he left the incall I would probably never again see him absent a roomful of lawyers. I went back and forth in my mind about my options. The trade-offs. The repercussions.

  I decided that I needed to do something I could live with. Something prudent rather than satisfying. My overriding goal remained what it had been all along: clean hands. For my kids. For Sam’s kid.

  My anger at Raoul for all his betrayals threatened to burst from my chest. The rage screamed at me to ignore prudence. To seek retaliation. Better? Vengeance.

  I waited a full minute—Amanda’s head start—before I took a cue from her departure. I leaned forward and I kissed Raoul on one cheek and then on the other.

  I said, “I know you were fucking her, Raoul. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

  Raoul backed away. He did not understand what was happening. He looked at me and said, “Amanda?” I shook my head. His eyes grew dark as he realized that his long affair with Lauren was no longer a secret.

  He faced Elliot and mouthed, What? Out loud, Raoul said, “What did he say to you, Elliot?” Elliot merely closed his eyes. “What is happening?”

  Raoul had arrived in the incall expecting dual victories. To win Amanda. To vanquish me. Instead he was being shunned by his ally. At the door, he paused. He said, “Elliot, is there—”

  Elliot said, “No, Raoul. Go. I have this. I’m good. I’ll be in touch.”

  I waited until I saw Raoul reach the sidewalk on Pine. He looked back at the incall once before he turned west.

  Elliot has this? Let’s find out.

  I said, “Elliot, take off your clothes.”

  ELLIOT LOOKED AT ME. I looked back at him. Being with people in awkward silence was my forte. Elliot may have failed to recognize his disadvantage; testing me at that particular pastime was like challenging a snake to a staring contest.

  Only half a minute passed before Elliot relented. Thirty seconds was nothing to me; with resistant patients I occasionally sat in silence for forty-five minutes.

  Elliot said that he would disrobe—his word—if I would.

  I removed my shirt as he removed his. He was wearing an undershirt; I was pleased to see sweat stains below his pits.

  It was only when he was naked to the waist, his belt loose and his trousers undone, that I began to allow myself to feel that I may have won.

  ELLIOT INSISTED ON EXAMINING the seams and buttons of my clothing for tiny digital devices. I did the same with his. My clothing convinced him that I wasn’t wearing a wire. I wasn’t as convinced about him. I asked him to remove the battery from his BlackBerry. His phone buzzed as he pulled it from the pocket of his jacket. For a fleeting second the screen was visible to me.

  Caller ID was a number, a local 303 number, but not a name.

  I thought I recognized the number. I tried to place it. I came up blank. I repeated the final four digits in my head in an attempt to sear them into memory.

  Elliot sent the call to voicemail before he slid open the back of the device. I couldn’t discern if he knew that I’d seen the screen. Or that he cared if I had.

  Things were moving quickly. I had to keep my focus.

  Elliot removed the battery from his phone. He asked me to do the same with mine. I explained it had drowned in the sink. I went to the bathroom to retrieve it, taking the opportunity to flush the toilet again to give the SIM an extra push on its journey to Boulder’s sewers.

  I returned to show Elliot the saturated phone and the empty SIM slot.

  We placed our dead devices together on the center cushion of the leather sofa.

  “You have a burner.” Elliot said it in a way that made clear how much that explained to him.

  I nodded. We dressed. We chose opposite ends of the old leather couch. I liked the irony that this protracted match between us was concluding in an apartment on Pine Street that had recently been the home of a drug dealer before it became an incall for industrious escorts.

  Elliot and I would be only the latest criminals to conduct our business there.

  “What do you want from me, Alan?”

  “To be clear? This?” I pointed at myself and then at him. “Another one of our social visits. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do I want from you? Simple. To be left alone. What do you want from me, Elliot?”

  “The same,” he said. “And your promise of the same going forward.”

  “If that’s all you want you should have asked. A year ago. Five years ago. Hell, ten years ago. I would have said yes in a heartbeat. There would have been no casualties. No blood.”

  “Back then it wasn’t about you, Alan. It was about your wife. Lauren wouldn’t have left me alone. It was not in her character. At the end? I think she thought she had me. She was relishing that she had me.”

  “You might be right about her, Elliot. In circumscribed areas Lauren had a more crystalline view of right and wrong than I do. But before I agree to leave you be, I need some questions answered.”

  “Perhaps I will answer them,” he said. “That depends on the questions.”

  “And perhaps I will leave you be. That depends on your answers,” I said. “Let’s start with the .38 on Prado.”

  “I thought you would want to start on 9/11. Isn’t that the juicy part?”

  “Is it? We will get there.”

  “The gun was my aunt Beulah’s. She lived in Iowa. She was the only one in the family who had guessed I was gay. She gave me her .38 Special a week before she died. She had synovial cancer. I didn’t even know what it was. Anyway, Beulah thought I would need ‘protection’ because of my ‘lifestyle.’ ‘Lifestyle’ was her euphemism for homosexuality. For her, ‘protection’ didn’t mean condoms. Beulah was a pistol.

  “I didn’t realize the .38 was missing from my apartment until I got back to Boulder after 9/11, which was days after Marshall had died. When I learned later that a gun had been involved, I had a bad feeling about what might have happened.”

  “How did you learn a gun was involved? That he’d shot himself?”

  “You know, Alan, I don’t recall. It was later, from the police, I imagine.”

  I detected a smirk. I asked,
“You thought he used your gun to kill himself? Was Marshall angry at you?”

  “Angry? I don’t know. He was young. Younger than his years. Confused. He was upset that sex didn’t mean forever. He couldn’t believe that he didn’t become the center of my life after we were together a few times. He was certainly unhappy that I went back to Boston to see Haziq. Yeah, I guess he was angry. Marshall was also a depressed guy. I knew that. When he didn’t answer my calls from Boston? I admit I began to worry.”

  “The police didn’t find your gun back then. In 2001. You knew that, too?”

  “I knew. I followed the investigation.” Elliot shook his head, bemused. “Marshall was a closet writer. Marshall was a closet a lot of things. He had written a draft of a short story, a mystery, that he insisted I read, weeks before 9/11. It was about a man who shot himself and died, and also about a disappearing gun that had stumped the cops. The story wasn’t that good—he made the guy’s suicide seem like a lark, not a tragedy—and Marshall hadn’t been able to work out the part about exactly how the gun disappeared. Looking back, I should have seen the story as a cry for help. Instead I was an ass about it. I was … unkind to him about his writing. I did not need to be so cruel. But I was. I was pushing him away, probably.”

  “Because there was someone else,” I said.

  “Yes, Alan, there was. Later, when I heard the police couldn’t find the gun, I knew he had finally figured out how to end his damn story. But I couldn’t figure out how he did it, how he made the gun disappear. Ironic, huh? I had no idea where that gun was, but I was damn sure the disappearance wouldn’t be permanent. I’ve been waiting for Aunt Beulah’s .38 to show up ever since. And then last year, sure enough, it did.”

  I said, “Right when you were preparing to announce for statewide office?”

  “Your friend Sam found the gun last year. You probably know that. And Lauren learned about it late last summer, not long before she died. It was just a matter of time before one of them traced it to Beulah and then to me. I knew that wouldn’t look good politically. But I thought I could ride it out. I didn’t do what was right back in 2001, but I really didn’t do anything wrong. I actually thought the bungee part could help me. The bungee would be a distraction for the public. Do you know about the bungee, Alan?”

  I didn’t answer his question. “Why didn’t you come forward and admit that you knew Marshall Doctor back then? That he had taken your gun? What was the downside? Were you still in the closet?”

  He gave that question some thought. “I was in the closet at work. But that wasn’t it. I didn’t want an industrious detective to call my friends in Boston to ask them if I’d been in touch with Marshall. To question whether I knew what he was going to do. I couldn’t risk someone digging around in that part of my life. The Boston part.”

  “The Haziq part?” I said.

  “God yes. The Haziq part. If Haziq’s name came up? That week? After 9/11? If our relationship had become public? God knows what would have happened to him when he got back to Saudi Arabia. I don’t like to think about it.”

  I said, “And you? Your political ambitions in Colorado would have been over before they started?” He nodded. I asked, “At some point you began going through Lauren’s things at work. Was that to find out what she knew about Marshall, or about Haziq? Or was it something else?”

  “No comment. Next.”

  “Why did you search my house and my cars? It wasn’t about the shooting in my office. Were you still trying to find out what Lauren had on you?”

  “No comment. Next.”

  “Why are you threatening to prosecute me for killing my wife? What the fuck is that about?”

  Elliot recognized that my composure was deteriorating. He became officious. “Prosecutors, like me, must often contend with conflicting witness statements. Early on the investigation was marred by breakdowns in police procedure and protocol, and by compromised forensics. Both witnesses had reasons to lie. That is all I will say. Next.”

  “You also have prosecutorial discretion?”

  “Always. Always. Always. Next.”

  It was time for me to place a governor on Elliot’s prosecutorial discretion. I said, “Let’s go back to Haziq.”

  Elliot’s eyes filled with tears. “He is not some symbol, Alan. He’s not your ‘gotcha.’ He is an amazing man. You would like him. We were together for almost two years before I came to Boulder. I adore him still. I miss him terribly.”

  “Lauren said you gave up a clerkship with a feeder judge in the Ninth Circuit to stay in Boston? That was to stay near Haziq?”

  Elliot smiled. Not at his recognition that Lauren had learned of his sacrifice, but that it hadn’t been a sacrifice for him at all. “Haziq and I haven’t spoken since 9/11. While I was in Boston the weekend before, we were working on schemes that would allow him to move to Denver. Grad school at DU. That awful week changed everything. If his name becomes public, even now, if the nature of our relationship becomes public? Lives will be ruined. Innocent lives. Haziq has a family. A wife. Children. This isn’t about my career, Alan. Innocent lives are at stake. Not reputations. In Saudi Arabia? Lives.”

  Elliot wanted to shift the burden of protecting the safety of Haziq bin Laden and his family onto me. I wasn’t about to accept that responsibility. Elliot had not demonstrated any compassion for my family or for my children or for their lives.

  “Given the vulnerability of Haziq and his family,” I said, “you must feel a huge personal responsibility to protect the truth about your relationship with him. To keep anyone from making it public. For any reason.”

  He stared, his contempt for me clear in his eyes. I also thought I saw some admiration, too. He had been counting on using the fate of Haziq’s family to sway me.

  I said, “I am done with you, Elliot. If you’re not done with me? Know this: I will protect mine. You think Lauren was a bulldog? Try me.”

  I stood to leave. I told him I had to lock up.

  He didn’t stand. He said, “No. My turn. I have a question. Who knows what you know?”

  I knew the danger was in appearing evasive. “Some of it? Lucy, Sam’s partner. Most of it? Sam. All of it? I texted Haziq’s name to two people from the bathroom.”

  “From your burner?”

  “From that burner right there. You might be able to guess the identity of one of the recipients. The other? You will never guess. Thanks to my little burner? All your surveillance failed you.”

  He pondered my words for truth and lies. I hadn’t had time to share the story with anyone from the bathroom. I would certainly do so before that afternoon edged into dusk. But I hadn’t done it.

  “What if I don’t believe you, Alan? What if I think you’re bluffing?”

  Elliot might have suspected I was lying. But he didn’t know I was lying. I was tempted to ask him if he knew about Ivy Baldwin. I didn’t.

  Would Elliot call my bluff? I thought, One drop …

  Elliot said, “If I run for statewide office? For AG or for governor, do I have to worry about this … history becoming public?”

  I didn’t hesitate. I said, “I will never vote for you, Elliot. But if fate is kind to me, if I am left alone, and if those I love are left alone, I will feel no inclination to interfere with your political ambitions.”

  Elliot stood. He offered to shake my hand to seal our deal. I stuffed both hands into my pockets to help contain an urge to strangle him as he walked past me.

  Once he was outside he rushed down the stairs and around the back. I could hear his footsteps fading in the distance before I moved off the landing.

  I savored the mental image of Elliot sneaking away down the alley, his head down, his collar high against the falling snow.

  78

  I SLEPT NO BETTER THAT NIGHT.

  But when I climbed out of bed the next morning I felt different.

  I felt lighter, though not light.

  I felt safer, though not safe.

  I felt grateful, t
hough not great.

  THE KIDS WOKE TO a house that smelled of pancakes and bacon.

  Grace had become a vegetarian overnight. And she was no longer eating white flour. She wanted to know if we had any spelt.

  I offered her some coffee instead.

  She said, “Yes, please.” She had a couple of ounces au lait with her wheat toast and peanut butter. And her banana.

  Jonas had earbuds in his ears. He brought a book to the table.

  He listened and he read while he ate his share and Grace’s share of the pancakes and bacon.

  The music was Girlyman.

  The book was On the High Wire by Philippe Petit.

  Over my son’s shoulder, I read, “Limits exist only in the souls of those who do not dream.”

  I DIDN’T EAT. BUT I felt full.

  I felt good.

  EPILOGUE

  April 1

  ALAN

  EMILY BARKED HER ATTENTION BARK—an extended “Wooof” without much volume—as she raced from the bedroom to the front of the house. I heard the big dog slide to a stop on the slick wood floors. My breath caught in my throat.

  Then … nothing. I exhaled.

  SHE ROCKED HER HIPS, just a little, to refocus me.

  The motion caused her breasts to sway.

  “Do you like them?” She rocked her hips a second time. The motion induced more sway. She knew it would.

  The query wasn’t about her hips.

  “Is that a trick question?” I asked.

  She shook her head, which caused more swaying.

  That time the sway was inadvertent.

  “I do,” I said, “like them.” I tried to imbue intimate appreciation into the words because that was what I was feeling. I saw both mischief and welcome in her eyes.

  I didn’t trust my appraisal. I had been misreading women my entire life.

  I asked, “Do you like that I like them?”

  She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t blink. “Is that a trick question?” she said. “A shrink thing?”

  I said, “No. Sadly.”

  “You are a damaged man, aren’t you?” The sound had a ribbed texture that came from deep in her throat, the volume a whisker above a whisper.