The House of Broken Backs: A Joanna Mason Novel

by Amy Cross

  "You need a suspect before you can get to court," Schumacher replies.

  "We're working on it," Carver continues. "In fact, Detective Mason is pursuing a theory that might just reveal something interesting."

  Schumacher turns to me.

  "It's just a thought," I tell him. "I mean, there are certain parallels between this case, and the John Benson case that Dawson's working on. I've made a few preliminary inquiries, and I think it's worth pursuing the possibility. For now, anyway." I pause as I realize that this is the first time in years that I've actually sounded professional. A shiver passes through my body as I imagine how pleased Schumacher must be; he probably thinks he's managed to tame me at last thanks to Carver's intervention. I'll let the pair of them feel smug and superior for now, but I'm already planning a way to wipe the grins off their faces. Then again, this brief moment of amity actually feels pretty unusual... and kind of good, in a sickening way.

  "I need something to throw to the press," Schumacher continues, "or they're going to start making stuff up. If there's a connection between the two cases, make it stick in the next twenty-four hours." He pauses. "Jo, we need more than your intuition on this one."

  "I'll give you more," I tell him firmly. "If there's a link, I can find it, and I don't even think it'll take too long."

  "Those girls are gonna look very photogenic once their pictures end up on the front pages," he replies. "If we haven't got anyone in cuffs by that point, people are gonna start turning on us and claiming that we're incompetent. You both know what it's like when the media starts to think it's got a whipping boy. After all the drama over the Sam Gazade execution, I think we'd all be better off if we can get some good news out there for once."

  "Then we'll just have to prove the media wrong," Carver replies, before turning to me with a smile. "Won't we, Detective Mason?"

  I smile politely.

  Five minutes later, having excused myself from the meeting, I hurry into a bathroom stall and quickly lock the door before getting to my knees and vomiting into the toilet bowl. I don't know whether it's the scan or the cancer or the groveling apology I just had to issue, but suddenly my body feels like it's consuming itself. For several minutes, I stay in place, occasionally bringing up a small amount of bile as I struggle to stop sweating; eventually, the bile gives way to a small amount of blood, and I realize that this is precisely the kind of moment when I really need my pills.

  Too bad I tossed them away.

  Once the nausea has passed, I sit back and wait to feel vaguely human again. This has been, by any standards, a fucked-up day, and I need to find a way to get back to being my usual self. After a moment, I realize that there's really only one method that's likely to work: I need to find Dawson and get him to talk to me. As a wave of fatigue passes over me, I close my eyes and let my head drop a little, and I tell myself that as soon as I've taken a little rest, I'll head out and check every goddamn bar in the city if that's what it takes to track Dawson down and make him talk to me.

  John

  "Hey," I say, jogging across the road as the man gets to his car. "Hey! I'm sorry, do you have a moment?"

  The man stops and stares at me, and I can see that he's already spotted the wound on my face.

  "I'm so sorry to bother you," I continue, "but I was just on my way to a business meeting over at Everly Park, and I rather stupidly took a short-cut through kind of a bad neighborhood and, well, as you can see, I guess, I end up getting mugged by this little thug..." I force a friendly smile, but the guy doesn't quite seem to be buying my story so far. "I got mugged," I say again. "He took my wallet, my keys, my cellphone, everything. I don't suppose I could trouble you for a moment and ask to maybe borrow your phone? Just to call my office, obviously."

  He pauses, before looking down at my briefcase.

  "Yeah," I continue with a faint laugh, "they took everything except the briefcase. Crazy, huh? I guess they didn't think it was worth much."

  "Huh," he replies cautiously.

  "Which is crazy, really," I tell him, "because it's real leather. This is not some cheap, knock-off product." I hold it out for him to see. "You wanna take a look?"

  "No," he says with a frown. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you. Good luck, though."

  "Can't I just use your phone?" I ask, putting a hand in my pocket.

  "I'm sorry -"

  "Can I use your car, then?"

  "My -"

  Before he can finish, I lunge at him and stab him straight in the chest; determined not to make the same mistake I made with Claire, I quickly pull the knife out and stab him several more times, while keeping a hand over his mouth to keep him from calling out for help. I don't like taking this kind of direct action, but sometimes it's necessary. As I feel his body go limp in my arms, I shove him into the car and then glance over my shoulder to make sure that no-one has spotted me.

  So far, so good.

  Climbing into the car, I push the guy's body over to the passenger seat before reaching across and checking his pulse. This time, I'm certain that the asshole is dead. Pulling the door shut, I fumble through the guy's pockets until I find his keys, and then I start the engine. There's not much time here, and I need to get the hell out of this town. Pulling away with screeching tires, I remind myself not to drive like a maniac; I slow right down and keep well under the speed limit, making my way along the pleasant little suburban street before taking a left at the next junction. In the distance, smoke is rising into the sky, which suggests that the house is still burning.

  I can't help but imagine Claire talking to the police, though. That little bitch is going to tell them everything, and they'll be looking for me soon. My only chance is to get the hell out of reach as quickly as possible and hope to God that I don't have any more bad luck.

  As I drive along the next street, I spot flashing lights up ahead. My chest tightens for a moment as a couple of police cars come into view, but they quickly flash past on their way to some emergency. I allow myself to relax for a moment as I try to work out how long it'll be before I reach the city limits. It'll certainly take time for Claire to give the cops even the most basic of descriptions, and then they'll need to start planning roadblocks. I've definitely got time to get away, but there's no room for error.

  The next few minutes pass with interminable slowness. I keep expecting to see a roadblock up ahead, or to spot a helicopter tracking my every move. Since I had to move fast and I wasn't able to spend much time covering my tracks, it's not impossible that the police might have been able to locate me, although I doubt they're smart enough. I have a small advantage, and I intend to press it home as fast as possible, which means getting to the city limits and then disappearing into the wilderness. Once I'm away from this place, and away from any kind of surveillance, I can reset myself, ditch this old identity, and work out what to do next. After all, I've got a shed full of assets, each of whom has an identity that's basically clean. Sure, I'm a little older than them, but I think I can manage to make things work.

  Spotting another flashing light up ahead, I double-check that I'm well below the speed limit before passing the police car, which is waiting at another junction. In my rear-view mirror, I see that the car has pulled out and started to follow me, and for a moment my chest tightens with such force that I'm worried I might be about to have a heart attack. If they pull me over, I'm finished, especially since I've got a dead body in the passenger seat; he's slumped over and not visible from outside the car, but there's no way I can explain myself if I get stopped. Fortunately, at the next intersection, the police car goes a different way, and I realize that I might actually be able to get away.

  A few minutes later, I finally hit the interstate. I can barely believe my luck, but then again I guess it's not luck at all: I've been preparing myself for this kind of disaster, and although I hoped the day would never come, at least I have a back-up plan in mind. It would have been wonderful to have had the luxury of working for a few more years and p
icking one of my three families before finally settling down, but unfortunately those options have been ripped away from me.

  By the time I hit the open road, I figure it's time to cash out of the whole operation. I can start again somewhere else, and maybe even get into something respectable. The world doesn't deserve to catch me. I'm far more than 'just' a fucking insurance salesman.

  Joanna Mason

  I've never counted all the bars in this city before, but there are thousands, and the job of searching them all for one man is extremely time-consuming, not to mention profoundly annoying. I hurry in and out of all the usual haunts, and then I widen my search and try the bars out on the east side, and finally I start poking my head into even the places that I'd previously considered to be completely off-limits. By 11pm, I'm getting tired, and I've started to consider the possibility that Dawson might in fact have gone somewhere else entirely.

  And then I find him.

  The bar in question is a sleazy place that looks like it should be a strip joint, except that there are no dancers and all the customers seem to have come in tonight for the express purpose of falling asleep. Most of them are slumped in the various booths, while a solitary old guy is shooting pool without anyone to play against. The barman looks bored, but he's not even bothering to clean the dirty glasses that have been piled up in the sink. In other words, this is the kind of place where people come to die, or - failing that - to think about dying.

  "Found you," I say with a smile as I reach Dawson's booth.

  He turns to me, and although his eyes look a little heavy and tired, I can see that he's surprised.

  "You wanna know how?" I ask, sliding onto the seat opposite him as I take a sip from my warm, flat beer. "Admit it, you came here because you didn't want to be found, right?"

  "Right," he says with a sigh.

  "So how do you think I tracked you down?"

  "Telepathy?"

  I shake my head.

  "The famous Jo Mason intuition?"

  I pause, and for a moment it's tempting to go for glory. "No," I admit eventually. "Pure hard work. Back-breaking, feet-on-the-ground slogging it out, just the way you always prefer. This is the one-hundred-and-twenty-first bar I've checked since 8pm, and I finally caught sight of you." I wait for him to say something. "Impressed?" I ask eventually. "I know I am."

  "So you managed to work out where I was," he replies, taking a swig of beer. "Well done. Of course, I'd have been happier if you'd also managed to work out that I don't want to be disturbed -" With that, he reaches for his coat.

  "Wait!" I say quickly, grabbing his arm. "You can't leave yet. I only just got here. I mean, come on, what kind of guy leaves a woman alone along in a crumby bar like this?"

  "The kind of guy who knows that you're the kind of woman who can handle herself," he replies, his speech sounding a little slurred. He's clearly had more than a few beers, and it's somewhat shocking to find Dawson drinking alone; the guy's normally far too straight for this kind of night out.

  "Does Elaine know you're here?" I ask.

  He shrugs.

  "Don't you think she might be worried?" I add.

  He shrugs again.

  "So you've been off all day," I continue. "For two days, actually. No, longer than that. And it's not just me who's noticed, either. Believe it or not, people are starting to talk about you." I wait for a reply, but once again he seems to be happy just staring at me. "You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, fuck, I had the day from hell today. I had to apologize to Jordan fucking Carver just because he mistakenly believed I said something mean to him."

  "You should be more careful," he replies, his voice sounding a little slurred. "One of these days, that kind of thing is really gonna come around and bite you on the ass."

  "I know," I reply. "I almost got a taste of that today." Pausing for a moment, I realize that maybe it's time to let Dawson see a different side of my personality. I wish this kind of thing came more naturally, instead of always having to be over-thought, but at least it's better than nothing. "The worst thing," I say eventually, "is that Jordan fucking asshole Carver was right. What I said to him was... completely out of order. I meant it as a joke, but I should have thought about what I was saying first. No excuses. I fucked up."

  He takes a deep breath. "Who are you?" he asks finally. "What have you done with the real Joanna Mason?"

  "I'm trying to open up here," I reply with a smile.

  "Good," he says firmly. "I'm glad you realized you made a mistake. This is a rare moment." He takes another swig of beer. "I owe Mezki fifty dollars," he adds.

  "Why?"

  "He said you'd eventually apologize for something before the year 2020, and I said you wouldn't." He pauses. "Damn it, Jo, why couldn't you have waited before you tried something stupid like growing as a person? I didn't think you had it in you."

  "I didn't know you were making bets about me," I reply, before looking down at my beer. "I'm not a fucking cartoon character," I mutter.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," I reply, realizing that I'm dangerously close to a moment of self-pity. "So why the hell are you in this place, anyway? It's not like Michael Dawson to drown his sorrows after work. Shouldn't you be rushing home to your good lady wife, to snuggle up with her and run your hand over her barely-protruding bump?"

  "Not tonight," he says quietly.

  "You had an argument?"

  He shakes his head.

  "You starting to realize that having a child with a demon bitch might not be a good idea?"

  "Don't call her that," he replies, with a hint of irritation in his voice.

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but at the last moment I realize that maybe this is one of those times I should apply my new-found wisdom and shut the fuck up. "It's still odd to find you out late like this," I continue. "You know, if you want to talk about anything, I can listen."

  "You?" he replies with a smile.

  "Me what?"

  "You're offering yourself for a deep conversation?"

  "I can do deep," I reply, feeling a little perturbed by his reaction. "You know I can talk about deep stuff. Just 'cause I don't, doesn't mean I can't."

  "Sure," he replies, taking another swig of beer before checking his watch. "You're right about one thing, though. I should be getting home. Elaine'll be okay with me staying out late, but not all night -"

  "And not with me," I point out.

  "She doesn't hate you," he replies as he starts to get slowly, unsteadily to his feet. "Well, I don't know," he adds. "Maybe. It's complicated, she -"

  Before he can finish, he catches his foot on the table leg and tumbles out of the booth, landing flat on the floor and sending his half-full glass spilling across the floor until it smashes against the side of the bar. It's pretty much the most ungainly, most drunkenly hilarious pratfall I've ever seen, especially from someone like Dawson, and all I can do is stare at him for a moment before starting to grin.

  "Get him out of here," the barman calls out gruffly. "The guy's wasted."

  It takes a few minutes to get Dawson back up onto his feet, and then a little while longer to escort him out the door and onto the sidewalk. It's a cold night and the city is filling up with parties and traffic, light and noise. I slip under Dawson's arm and try to keep him upright as we make our way from the bar, although it's hard to get him to walk in a straight line. I carefully prop him against a wall while I flag down a cab, and finally I'm able to bundle him into the back seat before climbing in after him.

  ***

  The drive to the suburbs takes almost half an hour, and Dawson sleeps most of the way. I'm wide awake and wired, though, and all I can do is stare out at the lights of the city and think about the fact that one day they're going to be burning and I'll be dead in my grave. For the first time in ages, a few tears reach my eyes, but I manage to sniff them back by the time the cab reaches Dawson's street. Pulling some cash from my pocket, I try to remind myself that it's better to accept death
than to cling desperately to hope. The test program at the hospital is most likely going to be a waste of time, even if I get accepted.

  I should just pull out and try to come to terms with the way things are going.

  "There you go," I say as Dawson and I reach his door. Still supporting him, I ring the bell, and moments later I hear someone hurrying to the door. I brace myself, ready for my first face-to-face confrontation with Elaine for a couple of years. I hope she's really showing her age, and I'd absolutely love it if she's angry.

  "Hi," she says, opening the door and staring at us with a shocked look on her face. Unfortunately, she looks pretty damn good, even as I transfer Dawson's weight to her and she eases him down onto a chair in the hallway.

  "I found him out and about," I say after a moment. "Sitting in some cheap bar, nursing a beer. Before you start leaping to conclusions, I didn't get him drunk. He was like this when I found him."

  "Sure," she replies wearily. "I believe you." She pauses. "Did he... say anything?"

  "Nothing interesting," I tell her. "Just the usual crap."

  "Thanks for bringing him back," she replies. "Do you have a ride back?"

  "I can walk to the intersection and catch a bus," I tell her. "I could kinda do with the night air." I look past her for a moment and see that Dawson is fast asleep on the chair. "This isn't like him," I add eventually. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I've known him a hell of a long time, and I've never seen him like this."

  "I'm sure you haven't," she replies a little awkwardly. "I should get him to bed, though."

  "Totally," I reply, taking a step back. "Just make sure to rub it in tomorrow when he asks how the hell he got home. Make him really suffer, okay?" I turn to walk away.

  "Joanna."

  Stopping, I look back at her.