Never Speak: A Mystery Thriller (The Murderous Arts Series)

by John Manchester

  “You too.” He suppressed a laugh. Whatever he was having tonight, it did not qualify as a good one. She didn’t seem all that thrilled to be here either.

  Ray drove south on I-87. He ate the Ring Ding and the sugar went right to his brain and stirred up a flurry of questions. Did Seth even officially exist? Did he have a birth certificate? When had the last of the group members left, including his surrogate mothers? How long had it been just him and Karl, and how much of that time had Karl been using? There were no answers and wouldn’t be any.

  He was twenty minutes from home, almost to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge when he found himself looking for the overpass. The place where Susan died. He’d assumed it was south of the exit for Hudson, but that was back when he thought she was visiting him that night. What had the report said? “North of Saugerties.” So this could be it coming up.

  As he got close, he slowed and looked at the concrete for signs of a fire. There was nothing, just a flash of gray as he passed under the road above. But even if it had shown evidence of the accident, it wouldn’t give a clue to how it had happened.

  How did a car just crash into an overpass abutment? It was November. She could have hit a patch of ice. But what were the odds she’d slip right at that moment, jump the curb and hit the concrete?

  Susan had loved life, yes, by she’d also never been big on accepting human frailty, and least of all her own. It was the downside to her burning spiritual aspiration. If you’re looking way up to some god, it’s a long way down.

  Seeing Seth, she knew she’d fucked up. Abandoning Ray for Karl, perhaps she’d forgive herself. But abandoning her son, and then finding out she’d left him in the hands of a junkie? A son who turned into a malignant parody of the spiritual teacher she was always seeking?

  But Seth wasn’t her only child. How could she abandon the other two?

  It was terrible, likely to obsess him for the rest of his life, but he was never going to know if it had been bad luck on a slippery road or if she’d killed herself.

  If she had, Ray could see her steering into the concrete, even welcoming the flames—a hell she believed she richly deserved.

  But what did he deserve? Susan would never have died if Ray hadn’t introduced her to Karl. And he hadn’t done it with her welfare in mind, but only in the hope of getting points with both of them.

  Without Ray introducing them, there would have been no Seth. And if Ray hadn’t gone into The House, hadn’t started writing, Seth would still be alive.

  What about the police? Ray must have left fingerprints all over, in The Bedroom, The Backroom, in the caves, on Karl’s shirtsleeve. And what about DNA? But the only evidence of connection between him and Seth was on the computers in this car and in the emails Seth sent.

  He supposed they were on some server, too, but without the laptops, how could anyone know they existed? Even if the police came looking for Seth and found evidence, they still wouldn’t know to link it to Ray. Plus, without Seth’s body, they wouldn’t even know there was a murder.

  It was almost inconceivable the law would ever punish him. But he was going to punish himself. His writing at the rest stop hadn’t purged him of anything. The residue of those terrible hours was still in him, and it was welling up like a poison tide.

  He was coming up to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. He hit the toll. The guy was half-asleep. As Ray started across the bridge he opened the passenger window. The river roared below, in spring flood. Blackness welled in his chest. He slowed the car.

  Bassman had died right here. And he got it—his friend had died just like Seth, falling a long way into cold water. Bassman had lived for hours, his bones shattered. They’d theorized that he’d survived as long as he did because the water had partially broken his fall. But not enough so it didn’t break half his bones.

  Which meant Seth might still be alive.

  Should he call the police? By the time they got up there he’d be dead. Eventually the spring waters would carry what was left of him down to the Mohawk River, then into the Hudson, and under this very bridge.

  Ray had given Karl his blessing back when Bassman was at that crucial juncture, trying to decide whether to join the group. Ray’s thoughts had been spiraling down into the shadows. Now they entered the darkest place.

  With Ray’s last shred of belief in Karl as some higher being gone, there was no one to hide behind anymore. He knew who Karl was, but who was Ray? He imagined Karl in his final minutes, as the final dose clutched him and dragged him under. Karl might have been smacked to the gills, but he’d never go out without the drama of last words, even if his crazed son was the only one to hear them: It’s time.

  It was time. Time to pay.

  Ray stopped the car halfway across the bridge, where Bassman had parked. He left the motor running, just like Bassman had. He turned to the backseat and pulled Seth’s computer from under the pack. He glanced at his own on the passenger seat, glinting silver in the yellow bridge lights. He carried both out of the car and awkwardly hustled them and himself over the first rail. That toll guy had been half asleep, but Ray was really pushing his luck. And he could sense dawn coming. He set the computers down and leaned against the second rail.

  Just a few feet away, fastened to a strut, was a callbox with the sign:

  when it seems like there is no hope

  – there is help –

  open the door, pick up the receiver.

  life is worth living.

  - national suicide prevention hotline

  This was apparently a popular spot to kill yourself. He gripped the icy railing, leaned over, and stared down at black water. This sensation in the palms was Bassman’s last before the agony below. The roar of the river was deafening, a vibration that hummed in the rail under his hands, shaking his bones. It was like the mighty sound of rock and roll, of the Nightcrawlers in their prime, with Bassman laying down that bottom as no one else could. The roiling waters shattered the reflections of lights on the bridge into senseless patterns.

  Ray looked over at the suicide prevention sign. Had it been there back then? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t convincing if you were determined to do it.

  What Bassman hadn’t had was Jo’s voice in his head. It appeared, clear as though she was standing beside him, speaking as she had sometime last year. “I read about this fucking idiot who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge—and lived to tell about it. He said that in the moment after he leapt, before he hit the water, he realized that it was all fixable. All of it. Except for what he’d just done. Fucking idiot.” As she’d told him this, her eyes had teared, and so had his. He’d wanted to hug her. Now he wished he had.

  And he still could. Susan, and Karl, and Seth were ghosts. Jo wasn’t. Neither was Bodine.

  Or Ray.

  He felt the vibrations in his hands before he heard the chugging sound above the rushing water. A train was coming.

  He lifted Seth’s computer and slung it out over the river. He didn’t see or hear it land.

  The train rounded the bend and its headlight pierced the night. Ray threw his computer over. Just before it hit the water, the light caught it, and it gleamed like a big fish coming up for air.

  He had a last piece of baggage: Karl’s rules. Ray tweezed them from his pocket, tore the page into scraps and tossed them to the wind. He got back in the car, jammed it in gear, and headed home.

  As he drove, he was keenly aware of palms gripping the wheel, of air rushing past the windows, of the spring dawn stealing into winter woods at the corners of his vision. He sensed his body moving through space. Inside he was empty as a bass drum.

  He parked in the alley behind his house. His hyper physical awareness continued as he hauled himself from the car, shut the door, stepped onto the back stoop and twisted the key in the lock. But it was already open.

  Someone was sitting in his chair, staring out the window. Karl. Set
h. His doppelganger, Ray Watts.

  The chair swiveled around, and Bodine said, “Good morning.”

  “Jesus! I thought you were—”

  “Just me. I’ve been a little worried about you. Jo has been too.”

  “She called you?”

  “I called her.”

  He must have been really worried.

  Bodine said, “I told myself if you weren’t here by noon today, I was coming up there. You saved me the trip.”

  Ray walked over and stood with his butt on the edge of the desk. “How did you get in?”

  “The same way as Karl.”

  “Not Karl. Seth.”

  “Who?” Bodine took a good look at Ray. He stared at Ray’s finger, which was now purple and swollen twice its size, and his eyes widened. “What the hell did you do to that? I imagine you have a tale to tell.”

  Ray nodded. “One that requires at least a six pack, and it’s too early to drink.”

  Bodine yawned. “I suppose it is, even for you. But I’ll confess, though you’re the cat with the curiosity, I’d like to hear it. How about a couple of Liz’s famous lattes?”

  Ray laughed. “Christ, I didn’t bring any coffee up there. Can you believe? I forgot all about it.”

  “You have been busy. And now I’m insisting you tell me with what.”

  Up in the kitchen, Bodine sat while Ray worked the espresso machine. He told Bodine the short version of Karl, Seth, and The House.

  Bodine said, “I told you Karl was a freaking junkie. And his kid—Susan’s kid—sounds totally bonkers.”

  Ray sighed. “Man, his dying is on my head. Coming back here, I got into this whole dark riff, how if I had acted differently Susan and Bassman never would have been with Karl, Seth wouldn’t be born, and they’d all still be alive.” He didn’t tell Bodine about almost jumping.

  “Anyone can play that game. It’s bullshit. Tell me exactly what happened in that cave.”

  Ray told. It already seemed like it had happened to someone else, years ago.

  Bodine said, “You had the chance to let him fall twice. You could have told him the wrong foot to put down. You could have left him on that ledge in the dark. And you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but the third time—”

  “Look at me. I would have done the same thing. He lunged for you, and you instinctively pushed him away. If you hadn’t, he would have pulled you right down in the hole with him.”

  “Thanks.” Ray felt immense gratitude. Bodine was a confirmed pacifist, and for him to admit that he would have done the same thing was right now the ultimate in kindness. Even if he was lying. Ray wanted to hug him. But that wasn’t what they did. And Bodine wouldn’t like it.

  He handed Bodine his coffee. He sat and sipped his own.

  Ray said, “I couldn’t drink that stuff I had out on the interstate if my life depended on it. Which it practically did.”

  Bodine shook his head at the espresso machine. “You’ve gotten hooked on that damned thing. You can’t stomach real coffee anymore.”

  Ray laughed, then looked away. “I, uh, don’t have your computer.”

  “You lose it in that cave?”

  “No. I threw it in the Hudson River.”

  Bodine burst out laughing. “What about the book?”

  “It’s over. That’s what I was throwing in.”

  “That seems a tad dramatic. But haven’t you been emailing it to Lou as you write?”

  “Damn. What was I thinking? He has the whole book.” Except for what he wrote on the cliff. And that last bit.

  Bodine got still, which meant serious. “Are you done with Karl?”

  Ray didn’t hesitate. “I am. Finally. And there’s one upside to that whole sorry trip with the group. I’m incapable of doing something like that again. I’m never following any man down any old path again. If Jesus Christ waltzed in here and asked me to join up with him I’d say, ‘Very pleased to meet you, sir, and thanks, but no thanks. I’m done. I believe I’m going to sit right here in my house.’”

  “Which you can stay in now. With Karl and Seth out of the picture, you have nothing to worry about in publishing your book. And who knows. Maybe somebody will read it and think twice about going down that road.”

  “I can’t publish the last part without incriminating myself, and Lou. But that’s a decision for another day.”

  Bodine nodded his head sagely. “You are done.”

  Ray raised his coffee cup. “After three days without, this is practically a psychedelic experience. The good kind. But I’m starved. Come over to Jo’s with me, we can have breakfast.”

  Bodine actually seemed to think about it. “Naw. I must skedaddle. The dog needs fed.”

  Right.

  Ray stepped into Jo’s. The smells of fresh pastries, more coffee had his mouth watering, his tongue practically hanging down. She saw him and rushed out from behind the counter. He gave her an enormous hug. She reciprocated. She said, “Am I ever glad to see you.”

  She was smiling, of course, but it was the astonished, incredulous version. She beamed it at him for a long uncomfortable moment, then said, “Have you found religion?”

  He exploded in laughter.

  She said, “Hey, I’m not kidding. You’ve got the glow.” She frowned. “Are you on drugs?”

  “No.”

  She noticed his hand. “What the living fuck did you do to that finger?”

  “Just had a little adventure.”

  Her smile turned to plain skeptical.

  He said, “Camping.”

  “Oh. You’re crazy. It’s practically winter! Camping. I hate that shit, even in the summer. Bears, mosquitos, poison ivy. Got my fill of mother nature out in Minnesota, thank you very much.”

  “That makes two of us. I’m never going camping again.”

  Breakfast was fine, and so was Jo’s coffee. He’d like to stay here all morning, but bed was calling.

  Back home, he was on his way upstairs when he thought to check his email. He fired up the old clunker computer. It still worked.

  Liz: “Just wanted to let you know. That relationship I was in is over. Now don’t get your hopes up…”

  Then why the hell did she tell him? She had a sixth sense, but then so did he. He was done with Karl.

  But he wasn’t done with Liz.

  About the Author

  John Manchester has written about the arts, life, and growing up with his late father, the historian William Manchester, for Salon, Cognoscenti and Talkingwriting.com.

  Before writing, John made a living creating music. He played guitar, opening for Linda Ronstadt and Fleetwood Mac. His compositions are heard worldwide on TV, radio, and the internet. They remain popular among producers for the positive, hopeful feelings they evoke.

  But light needs darkness like the sun needs the night. And so he turned to writing dark psychological suspense. His thrillers feature best friends Ray Watts and Bodine Hutchinson, refugees from the rock and roll scene.

  When writing his novels, John draws on his extensive knowledge of art and music, his travels, including to the depths of the earth, and hard time in a cult.

  John recently moved to California with his family after a lifetime in New England. He misses the seasons, but not digging his car out of the snow. Visit him at www.johnkmanchester.com.

  Get Book Discounts and Deals

  Get discounts and special deals on our bestselling books at

  www.TCKpublishing.com/bookdeals

  One Last Thing...

  Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this book, I’d be very grateful if you’d post a short review on Amazon. I read every comment personally and am always learning how to make this book even better. Your support really does make a difference.

  Search for Never Speak by John Manchester to leave your
review.

  Thanks again for your support!