22
Nick spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone at the cop station in a dull room with pale green walls, trying to sort out the chaotic events that followed his discovery.
Somehow he’d managed to control his retching long enough to put in a 911 call. He’d rushed out to the front door and sat on the front step, oblivious to the bitter cold seeping into his bones. After a three minute wait, a squad car screeched into the driveway. Brad Brenner burst out of the passenger side like a mad bull, followed by the young cop Nick recognized from the hospital.
Nick tried to stand in Brad’s path but Brad swept him aside with one hand as if he was a cardboard cut-out figure and barrelled in through the door.
“We gotta stop him,” he yelled to the other cop who was right on Brad’s tail, but not quick enough to stop him smashing through the basement door. Nick heard the howl just before they reached him and found him hugging his father’s feet and yelping and sobbing so hard his whole body shook.
Two other cops had arrived and helped Nick and the young cop drag Brad from the basement before the forensics crew arrived. Nick called Rosie and she’d driven there in a matter of minutes, gathered Brad into her arms and taken him away to her place. He’d yelled I’m coming back three times as they pulled away, and the other guys asked Nick to follow them to the station.
Now he wished Lilah was there. He hadn’t even called her, knowing the news would probably ruin the fun of shopping for the wedding dress. He’d wait until she got back.
He’d gone over every detail of the incident with the cop named Marty who’d taken over in Brad’s absence.
“I mean – he sounded like he was looking forward to the interview,” said Nick, his mind still numb from the image of the hanging body.
“And you say he received an incoming call during your conversation?”
“Yeah. I said see you and I assume he took the other call.”
“He didn’t say who it was?”
Nick shook his head.
“We’ll trace it from his phone record,” said Marty. “In the meantime, fill me in on the reason for the interview.
It took Nick a good while to go over the details of the story he was writing and the reason he needed to interview Herb.
“Do you think the stress of doing the interview drove him to kill himself?” said Nick, giving voice to the fear that had lurked in the back of his brain since he’d seen the body.
Marty shrugged. “We can’t say until we get a full report back from forensics. Remind me of his last words to you.”
Nick swallowed. His throat was dry, his voice scratchy like nails on a chalkboard. “First he told me someone was on the other line then said, I’ll be ready for you at three.”
He drove back to Lilah’s place, barely registering the road ahead. Trees slid by in a dark, continuous blur, the sky hung starless, black and heavy with snow. But just as he hit the lakeside road, some indefinable sense of dread forced him to turn the car around and head back to his own house.
Though he’d left the place tidy, there was a cool mustiness in the air. He switched on the electric fire. Its fake logs and flames gave at least the semblance of warmth. A half bottle of rye sat on the counter next to an empty box of Cheerios. He fill half a tall glass with rye, threw in some ice and a shot of water then flopped down onto the couch unable to do anything but sip the rye until the panic stopped churning in his chest. When he closed his eyes, the purplish face appeared like an image emerging from developing solution. So he opened his eyes again and checked his phone. Three missed calls and a text from Lilah. In a panic, he sent her a quick text.
Sorry, got busy. Have a great time. Love you.
The reply shot back so quickly the tinny plink sound made him jump. Was worried. Get some rest. In a loud restaurant. Love you lots. Call you tomorrow.
Not if he could help it. He couldn’t actually tell her a lie over the phone, but texting was different. Alarmed, he realized the glass was empty. He refilled it and lay down, closing his eyes and hoping the liquor would knock him cold and erase the day’s memories from his mind. When the glass was empty he let it slip from his hand onto the floor and drifted off into a fog.
He was really, really hungry. His stomach growled so hard Evan Kidd said your mom must’ve fucked a grizzly bear. Nick pushed him backwards so hard, his skates slipped out from under him. He bashed the back of his head on the ice. Next the dull whine of an ambulance cut through all the chatter and confusion. Evan’s eyes were closed when the stretcher went by. The coach said it was probably just concussion and sent Nick to the locker room to pack up. The stinky sock smell always made him gag, but his stomach was empty. Nothing to throw up. The big man behind him asked if he’d like a pizza pop. He remembered nodding and next he was biting into the hot cheesy, tomatoey pastry. He stuffed it into his mouth letting the sauce dribble down his chin until he darted his tongue out and licked it up. Then the person asked if he had money to pay for it and he said no, so the voice said he’d have to do something very special to pay for it. And if he did it there’d be lots more where that pizza pop came from. Even burgers and hot dogs if he kept quiet.
Nick woke with tears running down his cheeks. His nails dug into the palms of his hands, his fists were clenched so hard. Greedy little shit, he cursed, you sold yourself for food. Had he really been so willing? Had it only been a way to break down his resistance at first? He sat up, his head throbbing like a bastard, and wished Lilah was there. Wished he could tell her the filthy secret. Lance the boil and let the poison drain out.
For a moment he thought the banging sound was coming from inside his own head until he looked at the kitchen window and saw Rosie Bradley’s face looking in, her eyes red and swollen. He stood up, reeling slightly from the rye which was probably still circulating through his system. When he opened the door she almost fell in. He caught her, remembering for a brief moment the musky scent of her perfume that wafted upwards when she fell into his arms.
“What’s wrong?” he said, trying to look at her face.
“You have to come talk to Brad. He’s gone crazy. He wants to head the investigation into his own father’s death. He thinks someone actually put the noose around Herb’s neck and forced him onto that chair.”
“What can I do?” said Nick, his stomach churning.
“They keep telling him to go home but he won’t. He’ll listen to you, Nick. He actually likes you.”
Brad was locked in his own office. Marty spoke quietly to Nick before he put the key in the lock. “I don’t blame the poor bastard for acting this way, but we have a very complex operation going on here and we can’t jeopardize it now. He has to go home and stay away. We’ll call him when the body can be released.”
Nick looked at Marty’s dark suit and the plain white shirt. “Are you guys Feds?” he asked.
“Let’s say this operation has connections out of state,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you right now, but Brad told me about the story you’re working on. Don’t be afraid to run more pieces in your paper. I have a feeling it’s stirring things up a bit.”
“Did you find out who made that call?” asked Nick as the key turned in the lock.
Marty nodded his head. “It didn’t help us. It was made from a public phone box at some gas station on the highway.”
A cold tickling feeling spread across the back of his neck. “Going west towards Fargo or east to Minneapolis?”
“East I believe. Why – you know something about that?”
Nick shook his head, knowing full well that Lilah had been on the highway around that time. But why would she call Herb? And what would she have said? There had to be a simple explanation.
He and Rosie managed to get Brad back to Rosie’s apartment despite his protests that he was needed at the office to help catch the sick bastard who strung his Dad up.
In the car he kept repeating the same questions. How did he sound to you? What were his exact words? Did he say who was calling
him? Do you really think he’d do something like that? Which sick bastard sonofabitch would want him dead? When they pulled up at Rosie’s house, Nick helped him out of the car, grasping his shoulder and giving him a rough hug.
“If someone hurt your Dad we’ll find him. I promise I’m gonna keep on digging until this whole mess is out in the open and you can call me any time Brad. Any time.”
Totally out of the blue, Brad fell against Nick and sobbed even harder. Nick patted his back awkwardly while Rosie looked on, mopping at her eyes with a Kleenex.
“He was a good man, Nick. A good man and a good father. He loved his life. He’d never have done anything like that.”
It took about half an hour and two sleeping pills to settle Brad down. Finally, when he was snoring loudly in Rosie’s room, Nick was able to leave after promising to look in later with a pizza and any more news he could find.
He decided to drive back to Lilah’s place. There was more chance of finding food there. Besides, he’d had a bad night’s sleep at his own house. On the way he stopped in at his office to pick up his notebook and the old police files. Maybe he’d missed something that might give a clue to Herb’s real or staged suicide.
Main Street was quiet, which was strange considering it was Saturday, but when he pulled the car up, the door of the bookstore swung open and Violet Olsen came scurrying out.
“Is it true about Herb?” she whispered in a breathy quiet way.
Nick nodded his head. Violet wrung her hands together, her brows knit and ran back inside, her mouth drooping at the corners. “What’s going on, Nick? First Ray, now Herb. What the hell is wrong with this place?”
“I wish I knew the answers, Violet,” said Nick, shrugging.
“He was a good man. A good man. Too good for this place,” she said, turning away and scurrying back inside the warmth of the bookstore.
Nick stood for a few moments wondering exactly what she meant by her final comment.
Lilah arrived back the next day just before noon. Nick was sketching out a piece on the Gorman investigation for the next edition of the paper when he heard the car pull up outside. Opening the door, he saw Lilah struggling with a large garment bag. He threw on his boots and ran out to meet her. All his doubts about the mystery phone call were swept away when he saw her dazzling smile.
“Don’t peek,” she said as he took the rustling bag from her. “It’s bad luck.”
“Coffee’s on,” he said, following her inside.
“Great - I could murder a cup,” she said lightly.
Once the dress was safely stowed in the back of her closet, she swept into the kitchen where Nick waited with coffee and seed bars from The Beanery.
“You’re gonna love the dress,” she said, pouring extra cream into her coffee. “And we had so much fun. Cari kept trying on all these tacky bridesmaid dresses. The sales clerk almost kicked us out until she realized I was paying cash for the bridal gown.”
Nick tried hard to smile but the heavy reality of the last few days made the smile turn to a grimace.
“Something’s wrong,” she said, pushing aside the coffee and moving to the chair next to him. “Your face says it all.”
Nick rested his hand on his forehead and took a deep breath. The story spilled out fast. A stream of uninterrupted words. When he was done, Lilah’s face was frozen in disbelief. She shook her head. “I can’t take it in. I mean I just talked to him before you went there.”
Nick felt a sudden rush of relief. The tension melted from the back of his neck. “You called Herb? From the highway?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t reach you on your cell or at the office. My phone died and I didn’t want you to worry. I told Herb to tell you that.”
Nick searched her face. Her clear, green eyes stared back at him, unblinking. “Did he sound okay?”
“Fine. Said he had a lot to tell you.”
It was such an innocent explanation. How could he have doubted her? “How did you know his number?”
She shrugged. “You gave it to me.”
“Did I?” he said, tracing a finger across her knee.
“Poor Brad,” she said, sipping at her coffee. “We should visit him. Take some food over.”
“We will,” said Nick, snaking his arm around her waist. “Afterwards.”
A week later Nick and Lilah made their way to Carlson’s Funeral Home and Chapel for Herb’s funeral. The report had come back with the verdict of death by suicide and Nick heard through Lilah, who seemed to have her finger on the pulse of all the local gossip, that Brad had been so incensed he ripped up the document then went straight to Rusty’s bar to get blind drunk. Rosie had to drag him out before he got too blasted and he’d been crying like a baby when she finally got him into the car.
Everyone turned out for the funeral. Luckily they got there just before the final rush of guests and slotted into a space in the back row of chairs The place was packed. People ranked three deep at the back and spilling out into the lobby. It was one of those dank places with shiny walnut furniture, tapestry chairs and arrangements of dusty silk flowers. Nick took shallow breaths wondering if he was imagining the subtle stink of formaldehyde from the embalming solutions.
“I hate these places,” he whispered, nudging Lilah’s elbow. “They remind me of my high school chem lab.”
“Gotta think of death as a natural and necessary part of life,” she whispered back, slipping her hand into his. The cool, dryness of it calmed him for a moment. He studied the smooth slopes of her profile, the soft swell of her bottom lip, the feathery shadow of eyelashes on her cheek. The collar of her stark black coat framed the pale gold of her skin, like one of those vintage Spanish portraits by Goya. He blinked to reassure himself that she was real, she was here next to him and they’d be married in just over two weeks. He refused to feel guilty about being so happy when they were there to mourn a tragedy.
He was barely aware of the service. The succession of brief, polite speeches praising Herb’s professionalism, but skirting the real question on everyone’s mind. How could a man so well liked - with a son on the brink of marriage and grandchildren most certainly on the horizon – how could that man string himself up in his own basement, knowing his own son could find him and live with that image playing itself out in dreams and nightmares for the rest of his life?
Brad sat in the front row with Rosie, his head bowed, his body shaking as he glanced now and again at the coffin, a glossy oak casket piled high with white wreaths.
After the ceremony, the crowd dissolved away quickly as if people had wanted to make their presence known but were reluctant to stick around afterwards for the really awkward conversations. All the usual stock phrases like it was all for the best and he’s in a better place now, seemed redundant in this situation. Nick and Lilah stayed to see the coffin disappear into a rectangular slot in the wall of the mausoleum. Brad threw himself on the retreating coffin and almost jammed the machinery that drew it into its final resting place.
“I’ll find out who did this to you, Dad. I’ll hunt down the sonofabitch. I’ll make him pay.” His voice cracked and he fell into Rosie’s arms. “Let’s get out of this goddamn place, Rosie. I need to get good and drunk.”
Poor Rosie held him up and together they stumbled out, Rosie forcing a tired smile and nodding at the remaining guests
23
Nick finished the first draft of his story on the disappearances a week before the wedding. He leaned his chair against the back wall of his office surveying the stack of papers that had just drained his last printer cartridge. Two hundred and thirty five pages all told. Double spaced, size twelve courier. Too late to change it to Times New Roman. But he didn’t care about trivial details like font style. He’d never written anything this long – and it wasn’t even finished. It was still a story with no ending. It was also a story that couldn’t be published because it implicated a small group of men with no concrete proof of their guilt. Ike Dewar, Jake Hardy, Aaron Castle, Ed Sc
huler - maybe his son Sam, and Danny Johnson. Only those names remained and two of them were dead. Ed Schuler for sure and Aaron Castle was a maybe. His body had never been found. What better way to escape blame for your crimes? Stage your own death and fly off to some remote tropical island to live the rest of your miserable life in peace and relaxation and hope the memories of those kids might fade away into the fog of the past. Or maybe he was kicking his feet up on some paradise beach, savouring the sick memories of the murders because that’s the only thing that made him feel truly alive.
He’d talk to Lilah about the ending tonight. She was a great listener – he could bounce ideas off her and she’d always come up with some minute detail or fresh angle that he’d somehow never considered. That’s what made him wonder why she’d never pursued a different career. Something that used her sharp powers of observation – her eye for detail and her insight into the way people worked. He’d even considered encouraging her to go back to school once they were married. He knew she had the money, though he’d never asked where it came from, partly because he was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer.
It had been a mild February so far by Silver Narrows standards, so the snow had turned into a brown, slushy mess. Nick watched through the window as the cars churned up a spray of muddy, brown water that splattered against his window. It was too early to get the window cleaners in, but soon he wouldn’t be able to see a damned thing out of them. He was about to get up and grab a cloth to wipe the latest spray off when a group of four kids – three guys and a girl - huddled over cell phones as they walked up towards The Beanery. It was only two in the afternoon so he figured they were skipping classes. They stopped at the door of the coffee shop and seemed to be arguing about something. Next one of the guys grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her away. She tried to shake him off but he held on tight until she finally gave up and followed him down the street back in the direction of the school.
Lilah Page 17
