Disintegration: A Mystery Thriller

by Scott Nicholson

  Arson again, this time at the construction site of a building under development by Warren Wells. Charges were later dropped when the fire was attributed to “accidental causes.”

  The last arrest report was the most incredible, the most difficult to imagine. Cruelty to animals, suspect allegedly suffocated a cat by sealing it inside a plastic bag.

  “Is that the one you were looking for?” the woman said, watching her.

  Renee shook her head. This must be another Jacob Warren Wells. But the address listed on the reports was 121 White River Road, the same one Jacob had used the few times he’d mailed postcards home during college.

  “That was the other Wells twin, wasn’t it?” the records officer said. “The one who lost the child in the fire?”

  “It must be a mistake.” She didn’t push the microphone button, but the woman was close enough to hear her through the slot.

  The woman drew back from the glass as if offended. “We’re not perfect around here, but we can’t be wrong that many times.”

  “Jacob and Joshua,” Renee said, the papers like toxic freight in her hands.

  “You know what they say about twins,” the woman said, speaking off the record for the first time, eyes like wet beetles behind her glasses. “One of them always turns out bad.”

  Renee took her change and went outside, into a world whose sun was too brilliant to allow dark things to hide.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I sympathize with you, Jacob. Really, I do. If I could bend on this, you know I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.”

  The words were spoken with a practiced precision. Rayburn Jones tented his fingers and leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes like oil drops, bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lamps. The computer monitor to Jones’s left had an aquarium screen saver across which sedate and colorful fish drifted without fear of predators. The maple top of the desk was like the surface of a still, dark lake. The office could have served as a museum set for the subspecies known as “insurance adjuster.”

  “I don’t understand.” Jacob wiped at the stubble on his chin. He could smell the stink of his own sweat.

  “I’m afraid we can’t pay out any more money until the case is settled. You know how it is. These things go back to the underwriters, they smell something funny, and they clamp down on the money flow.”

  “That damned fire chief—”

  “I’m sure you’re aware anytime there’s even the smallest doubt, we have to be a little more careful.” Jones leaned forward. “Please don’t take it personally, Jacob. Nobody’s saying the fire was deliberately set. But the paperwork has to go through clean.”

  Jacob’s breath was rapid, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Blood rushed to his face. His side ached. He spoke through clenched teeth. “My daughter died in that fire.”

  Jones glanced at a framed family portrait that showed his own three daughters wearing curls, ribbons, and smiles. “I appreciate the depth of your tragedy, Jacob. My Anne was on Mattie’s soccer team, remember? I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

  Jones’s steady tone was infuriating. Jacob slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, touched the cool metal flask. If only he could take a drink, he’d be able to handle this. “I’ve talked with the fire chief. She said there were some loose ends but nothing that would lead her to call in the State Bureau of Investigation.”

  “She still hasn’t filed a final report and it’s been nearly three months. I’m afraid I can’t make any more disbursements until the official determination is made. Your wife received the short-term settlement to cover temporary living expenses, but that’s all we can do right now. Believe me, as soon as I get the nod from corporate, I’ll deliver the check to you personally.”

  Jacob didn’t tell Jones he’d only seen Renee once since his release from the hospital. That encounter had been an accident. He was at the bank withdrawing a hundred dollars from their joint savings account when the teller signaled the manager. Renee was in an upstairs office that overlooked the bank’s lobby, talking to someone whose suit looked as crisp as new bills. She saw Jacob through the glass walls and mouthed his name, then ran for the office door and downstairs.

  He ducked outside before she could catch him. The hedges and shrubs had become his ally, his natural environment, and he’d moved among them until he was several businesses away from the bank. She finally gave up the search. He waited until she finished her dealings and watched her drive away. Jacob had put that day’s expenses, for liquor and a motel room, on his credit card instead of paying cash. Prior success had given him one clear benefit in his new life: he had a $50,000 limit on his platinum VISA.

  “The house was valued at three quarters of a million,” Jacob said. “A lot of custom woodwork. And contents were insured for another quarter million.”

  “Please, Jacob. We go way back. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

  “It’s not difficult at all. You bury your kids and that’s that. No more crying over spilled milk. Fold the tent and move on.”

  “Jacob.”

  Jacob pressed the bottoms of his fists against the top of Jones’s polished desk. “You shook my hand at those Chamber dinners, pushed through the paperwork so my developments were covered, cashed my premiums like clockwork. Now when I need you, you’ve turned into a goddamned machine.”

  “Check your policy. No one’s accusing you of negligence, but the fire could have had any number of causes, some that might not be covered. And, if you don’t mind a little advice from a friend, clean up the drinking. That’s not helping. If corporate sends in some investigators, that’s the first thing they’ll jump on.”

  Jacob stood and reached for the ornately carved business card dispenser that had two brass pens protruding from it. He yanked one of the pens from its sheath and pointed it at Jones. “See if I ever write you another goddamned check.”

  Jones stood, too, six feet three and outweighing Jacob by fifty pounds. “I knew your daddy, Jacob. A fine man. I see some of him in you. I watched you come along and get your foot in the door, and you were ready to really make something of yourself. You don’t know how proud he was when he learned you wanted to take up the business. But it’s getting lost in this mess you’re making.”

  Daddy. That was the last person Jacob wanted to think about. Daddy had been cut from solid Republican cloth, as sentimental as a brick. Jacob always wanted to be better than him in some way, whether it was spiritual or psychological, but instead had ended up competing with the old man’s memory on the playing field of commerce, where the game always favored the unimaginative and the sociopathic. Whenever Jacob looked in the mirror, he saw some of the old bastard looking back at him.

  And Joshua. Except Joshua was always smirking.

  But he could muster no more rage, not at Daddy, not at Joshua, and not at Rayburn Jones. His heart, the last little bit that wasn’t completely dead, was still full of Mattie. He cherished the pain and let it nourish him in the dark hollow of his soul. The pain was a furnace that consumed the alcohol and ambition and even the anger. The pain was his comfort, the suffering a twisted blessing that dragged him through the days, his closest companion.

  He felt a hundred years old. He’d lost everything and only money could make it better. Only money could make the problem go away. “Sorry, Ray. I just can’t think straight anymore.”

  Jones moved around the desk and put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. It was a condescending gesture, but was also Jacob’s first human contact since leaving the hospital, not counting the bartender’s touching his palm while returning change.

  “Do yourself a favor, Jacob. Get some help. See somebody.” Jones looked through the office door to make sure none of the other agents were eavesdropping. “It’s hard as hell when you’re a man. Nobody will let you cry, and you can’t let yourself do it even when you’re alone.”

  “She was all I had left, Ray.” Jacob choked down a sob, knew he would s
ound like a blubbering drunk if he let himself slip and break.

  Rayburn Jones patted him on the back, cool and manly. “No. You’ve got Renee, and you’ve got the rest of your life. What would Mattie think if she saw you like this?”

  Jacob rolled his eyes heavenward. In the blur of tears, the ceiling tiles could have been the thick, white cotton of holy clouds. But he couldn’t see Mattie’s face. If she were up there, she was just as far from him as ever.

  She couldn’t forgive him because she wasn’t here anymore.

  Anger drove the moistness from his eyes. “Sorry I lost my temper, Ray. I know it’s not your fault. You’ve got procedures to follow.”

  Jones gave a grim smile. “Hang in there. You’ve got some savings, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Ray. I’ll check back soon.” Jacob wasn’t going to tell him about the million-dollar policy on Mattie, eight hundred thousand of that for accidental death. The policy was made under Renee’s name through another insurance agent. He didn’t know if she’d filed the claim yet. The Wells financial philosophy had been to have all developments and properties appraised for as large an amount as possible, borrow as much against them as the banks allowed, and over-insure everything.

  As Rayburn Jones had once told Jacob, you didn’t buy insurance because you expected to collect. You certainly didn’t bet the life of your loved ones. But in the final amortization of things, tragedy was just another wise investment. The safe play.

  Insurance agents and undertakers took their pounds of flesh. The cops and firefighters and ambulance drivers cashed their paychecks whether you lived or died. Hospitals stayed open by overcharging those with major medical coverage, even the patients on deathbeds, so the poor could die alongside the rich. Churches collected the wages of sin, at least from those whose guilt compelled them to tithe. The system worked.

  Jacob turned to leave, bracing himself for the exposed walk back through the main office. Before the fire, he had moved between those desks with his head high and shoulders square, a smile for the ladies and a handshake for the men. He had been a Wells, a Somebody, a pillar of the community. Now he was just another object of pity. They avoided each other’s eyes.

  And they didn’t even know the worst of it. They hadn’t seen him huddled in the Ivy Terrace laurel thicket, a sheet of construction plastic tied overhead for a roof, a bundle of blankets for a bed. He took his liquor a bottle at a time, so the litter hadn’t piled up, but the Beanie Weenies, sardines, and Pop-Tarts had left their silver bones around him and wrecked his digestion. His view of the world was not from a panoramic ivory-tower turret, but rather a narrow gap in the waxy leaves that allowed him to watch his wife’s apartment door.

  It was not just a matter of perspective. It was point of view. He was at the wrong point.

  Back under the sunshine of the parking lot, Jacob looked out at the vast green ridges that surrounded Kingsboro. The tops of houses were scattered among the slopes, and a few oversize displays of success rose above the tree line. He’d never blamed anyone for building up high, and the views allowed Realtors to demand outrageous lot prices. Jacob himself had put together a few cabin subdivisions, some of which had led to the slaughter of hundreds of old-growth hardwoods. Money didn’t grow on trees, but paper came from trees and money was printed on paper. The progression had once seemed logical.

  Instead of running through the forest and screaming at the top of his lungs, he had to walk with feigned dignity a couple of blocks to the counselor’s office. He knew he should change his jacket, at least. He’d slept in the shirt for three nights running and the white collar had turned a dingy shade of ivory. His shoes were scuffed and muddy. The uniform was all wrong for the business at hand. But he couldn’t muster the energy for a shower and shave, and most of his clothes had burned up in the fire. The real estate mogul’s stage costume he once wore was now smoke, mingled with the melted electrical wiring and the ash of rayon carpet, entwined with the soul of his dead daughter.

  If only he hadn’t stopped by the M & W office in the middle of the night, drunk and looking for money. He’d cleaned out the petty cash drawer, flipped through his mail, and found her note:

  “Meet me at Total Wellness at 3 p.m. Wednesday. Please. I love you. Renee.”

  It was a waste of time, and he didn’t want to expose their pain to a stranger. He’d had enough of counselors when he was a teenager. But he owed her something. He wasn’t sure what, but if he gave her an hour, maybe she would shut up and leave him alone. She’d brought out the heavy artillery, the bravest lie or the most pathetic truth: “I love you.”

  Total Wellness was a two-story building set off the highway in a business park. It combined a daycare, substance abuse center, and counseling services and was subsidized by various government funds. The behavioral health care industry was booming in these days of escalating stress, all bright brick and painted columns, the sun and clouds reflecting off the windows. Jacob cut through the lawn, no longer a man for sidewalks and other ordinary routes.

  Shouts arose from the daycare’s playground. Jacob couldn’t imagine a worse sound. The high-pitched laughter was broken glass in his ears. How dare those children be happy and healthy when all those tomorrows ahead were denied to Mattie and Christine? Through the whitewashed fence, he could see the swing sets, tangled hair, and pale, dirty faces.

  He stopped, his lungs like stone.

  Mattie stood behind the fence, her arm thrust between the tall pickets. Her upturned hand was curled into a small fist.

  Her fingers slowly uncurled, and gray ash poured from her palm.

  Jacob reeled, the sky spun, and he found himself on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the grass. Vomit sluiced up from his gut, razing a raw path through his throat and stinging his nasal cavity. Tears filled his eyes as he coughed and spat the dregs of undigested liquor and bile. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at the fence.

  Mattie was gone. A dark red ball floated over the playground fence, hung a moment at the apex of its arc then fell as if gravity held a grudge. The giggles continued, an adult supervisor shouted, and one of the kids began bawling. Someone was watching Jacob from a window, and he forced himself to stand and head for the counseling center.

  They would think he was just another drunk putting in a court-ordered visit. The disguise fit too readily. He swallowed and the acid burned its way back to his stomach. A drink would help, but he was dehydrated and knew the liquor wouldn’t stay down. Jacob staggered through the double doors.

  A woman with a pinched face slid open a glass window at the counter and sniffed like a rodent. “May I help you, sir?”

  Help. That was a good one. “I have an appointment.”

  “With whom?” She flipped through a notebook. “Or are you looking for the AA meeting? That’s in Room 117, down the hall to your left.”

  “I’m in no shape for quitting,” he said. “I’m with Rheinsfeldt.”

  “Oh.” The clerk checked the book. “Excuse me, Mr. Wells. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Jacob was sure he’d never met the woman. But his photo was on file at the local newspaper, and between the Chamber of Commerce and the Kiwanis Club, he appeared in its pages at least twice a year. His development projects often came before various planning boards, sometimes bringing opposition from the neighborhoods where M & W’s bulldozers disturbed morning sleep and residential character. And, of, course, the fire had been front-page news.

  He licked his chapped lips. “Has Mrs. Wells arrived?”

  “No, sir, but if you’ll have a seat, I’ll let Dr. Rheinsfeldt know you’re here.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll do it myself.” Jacob pushed open the door that led to the private offices, feeling the clerk’s stare on his back. He wanted to show up for the appointment early and chat with the doctor for a couple of minutes, so that Renee would walk through the door already on the defensive. Jacob had learned from past experience that psychologists naturally gravitated to
whichever side seemed most in need of “curing.”

  Jacob read the names on the doors as he went down the hall. A cadre of wise and caring souls sat behind those doors, with leather chairs and computers and rows of books on the shelves. Their heads were filled with questions and they deluded themselves into thinking they served a noble purpose. Their meat was anger and pain, their drink was pity disguised as sympathy. They had all the crude hunger of vampires and slightly less moral conscience.

  The patients were perhaps even more complicit in the cycle of mutual dependency. They sat, wept, shared personal troubles that would be worthy of canned laughter if displayed in a television sitcom. The best part was they only had to open their souls for a single hour, and then they could stumble into the sunshine believing they had shed themselves of a bothersome skin. They could pretend they were a step closer to wholeness, but Jacob knew the whole was always less than the sum of its parts.

  Because, where he went, so did Joshua.

  He took a drink from a water fountain in the hall, then slipped into the rest room and swallowed as much of the whiskey as he could stomach. He rinsed his mouth and splashed water onto his face. A pale, pinched face stared back at him from the mirror. With his bloodshot eyes and swollen eyelids, he could easily pass for a crier. If you wanted to win a joint counseling session, imagined tears scored more points than honest and soul-deep revelations. He should know. He’d won all of his counseling sessions as a child.

  Dr. Rheinsfeldt’s office was the last on the left wing. The door was open. Rheinsfeldt was a shriveled, shrunken troll doll of a woman, her hair as wild and wispy as Einstein’s. She pretended not to see him, as if giving him an opportunity to case the room. Let the rat sniff the cheese before you send it on a run through the maze, Jacob thought.

  Magazines were spread haphazardly across the coffee table in the center of the room, smart stuff: Science News, Consumer Reports, Smithsonian. A spotless glass ashtray lay on top of them, one virgin cigarette resting in a notch on the rim. A single shelf on the wall bowed under the weight of thick hardcovers. The dusty books looked as if they had been undisturbed since the days of Jung.