Personal Effects: Dark Art

by J. C. Hutchins

  I tapped the spacebar. There was silence, and then a very brief and cheerful, if chaotic, series of notes.

  I nodded. That had been yesterday’s dinner bell, when I’d played a few keys to get Grace’s attention. I looked at the remaining waveform. The Casio had automatically truncated the “dead space” between this and the next notes, reducing hours of silence into seconds.

  The audio program continued to load the file. I listened. Given his pro work, I expected Grace’s music to be jazz. It wasn’t.

  It was classical music. Masterfully played classical music.

  The song sounded familiar, like something used in a movie. Something Kubrick used in 2001: A Space Odyssey? Or perhaps “The Blue Danube,” or “Also Sprach Zarathustra”? No. Older.

  A whirlwind stream of notes, delicate, high things, scattered before booming, menacing low notes. Now, syncopated blasts. It was on the tip of my tongue.

  Now a second, much more familiar tune interrupted—this one coming from the satchel at my feet. Beethoven’s Fifth. I grabbed my cell phone. Bum-bum-bum-bummmmm.

  Dad was calling. I sneered and let it ring again. I didn’t want to talk to him.

  I flashed back to my time with Grace just minutes ago. What had he said? Something about me doing Dad’s bidding, burying the blind man. What did that mean? What did Grace know that I didn’t … and more important, how did he know it?

  “Just frickin’ ask him,” I said, and answered the call.

  “Zachary. You lied to me.”

  I blinked. I lied to him? “What?”

  “Please, don’t waste my time, young man,” he said. His voice was calm. If I hadn’t lived with the man for eighteen years—and hadn’t watched him become bitter about his job during the last few of those—I’d think we were about to have an intellectual conversation. I knew better.

  “Your hand is in the cookie jar,” he was saying. “I know it and you know it. You’re a liar, and not a very good one at that. Transparent, son. You threw your friends under the bus last night, deflecting, thinking I’d forget. Crass.”

  “Dad? I don’t under—”

  I heard the ubiquitous crinkle-crack of a newspaper, the rattle-pat of a finger tapping its surface.

  “‘A Brinkvale Psychiatric employee who spoke on the condition of anonymity confirmed that Grace is being evaluated at the facility,’” he said. “Was that you?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  The line roared as I heard the paper being torn and wadded.

  “Now that, son, is what the truth sounds like. But could it get worse?” Dad said. He was raising his voice now. “Of course it could! ‘Dr. Theodore Peterson, the hospital’s chief administrator, confirmed that art therapist Zachary Taylor—son of New York District Attorney William Taylor—is assigned to Grace’s case.’ Quote, ‘Zachary is a world-class art therapist, and I see nothing wrong with assigning one of my most talented staffers …’”

  “Dad,” I cut in. “What’s the problem?”

  He laughed without mirth.

  “We don’t have an hour for me to enumerate, son,” he said. “First and foremost, you lied to me. You didn’t say anything about Martin Grace when I asked you about work last night. You said you needed to piss. We both know the only thing you did was piss. Me. Off.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I snapped. My initial shock was ebbing, but I could feel a high tide of rage taking its place. Getting torn apart in Room 507—and the hours of being haunted by Henry, the truth—had finally found a target. He was pissed off? “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t answer your question. I didn’t want to watch you pull the same bum’s rush bullshit you and Papa-Jean pulled on the Invisible Man, bully me into—”

  “—oh, listen to you, you’re—”

  “—spilling my guts there—”

  “—so righteous, I didn’t raise—”

  “—during Gram’s fucking funeral!” I screamed. I blinked, men- tally reminding myself to chill, I was as work, this wasn’t the time. But I couldn’t help myself. “Besides, what I do here at The Brink is absolutely none of your business. I have the same therapist-client privilege as our psychiatrists.”

  “Not subpoenaed, not in court,” Dad said.

  “No,” I shot back, “but we’re not in court right now, and we weren’t last night.” My fingernails dug into the cell phone’s plastic. “Tell you what, Dad. I’ll confirm that Peterson gave me the Grace case. That’s all you’re getting. Anything else is protected information.”

  “I’m your father,” Dad said. His voice rose a half-octave, warmed just a little. “I’m trying to protect both of us. You have no idea what kind of danger you’re in—how over your head you are. If you’ve seen Grace’s dossier, you know what he’s capable of. He hates the weak. He hates … doctors. You’re sharing space with a multiple murderer. Don’t you understand what that means? You’re at risk, above all.”

  “I’m not weak,” I said. My mind flashed to this morning’s rounds with the Golgotha patients. “I work with murderers every day.”

  “Not like him,” Dad replied. His voice had gone cold again. “And you are. I’m sorry son, but you are. You’re no match for him. She was no match him, she couldn’t help him, and he killed her, tore her open.”

  I frowned. “Tanya Gold was a singer, Dad. Not a doctor.”

  He paused, and didn’t speak for a long time. I gritted my teeth.

  Finally: “I need to know these things, Zachary. You’re supposed to tell me everything.”

  Oh, I’d fucking had enough of this.

  “Just like you tell me everything, right, Dad?”

  More silence. His voice came back, low and threatening.

  “What is that supposed to mean, Zachary?”

  “We don’t have an hour for me to enumerate,” I said, mocking his voice. I wasn’t about to tell him about Henry. Not now, maybe not ever. “See, no one comes to The Brink unless they’re doomed. Your office is burying this man, Dad, railroading him into a hole so deep and dark—there’s no way a proper psychological evaluation can be made in the time before the trial. Your people have rigged the game, and you think I should tell you anything? What are you really after?”

  “Let it go. Please.”

  I felt myself straighten in my chair. The sound of Taylor Family Loyalty being strained to its limit.

  “No.”

  “This is a conflict of interest,” Dad said.

  That wasn’t my father’s voice anymore. I was talking to the district attorney now.

  The newspaper rattled again, forty miles away.

  “I’ll spoon-feed this to you,” he said. “This story is hinting, young man, hinting that Grace’s lawyer can leverage this into an investigation against my team’s practices. Maybe even grounds for mistrial. That’s not going to happen. Grace belongs in The Brink, but not with you. We’re both at risk here. I’m pulling you off his case.”

  I felt my jaw unhinge.

  “You don’t have the authority,” I said.

  “Anyone can make a phone call. This is all going to be over today. I’ve got de Luca heading to Brooklyn in two hours for one last pass, and I’ll be calling Dr. Peterson as soon as I get off the phone. Come five o’clock, we’ll have what we need, and you won’t be working with Martin Grace anymore.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “why are you making me, Zachary?” he countered. “I’m doing this for both of us. It’s for your own—”

  I snapped the phone shut.

  All of my bravado was gone, cut like marionette strings. Like that, just like that—snick!—my chance to change Grace’s life for the better was over.

  My eyes trailed from my cell phone to my monitor. This song was the closest I’d been to Martin Grace, and I had no idea what it meant.

  I knew the true keys to saving Grace were things like this. Personal things—things that could make a positive effect. They were stories not found in his Brinkvale files, not in The Brink.
They were in the world beyond.

  Personal things. Positive effects.

  Personal.

  Effects.

  I bolted upright, checked the Eterna on my wrist. Two-thirty. I did the math, cussed, then snatched Grace’s files from my satchel. I scanned the first page and nodded. It was an hour-and-a-half ride on the LIRR, barely enough time.

  I schemed for another minute. I’d need help. A lot. The cell phone was in my hand already. I hit the speed dial.

  “Welcome up!” Lucas cried into my ear. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I’m with the chica,” he said. His voice went off-mic for a moment, barely audible. “And my-my, is she muy delicioso.”

  I heard a woman giggle, say something in Spanish. They laughed. I grinned; I couldn’t help it.

  “I need to know if you’re interruptible,” I said. “Like right-frickin’-now interruptible. For a … for a little adventure.”

  I heard another chuckle, this one in my mind. Giddy-giddy, pardner.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head.

  “Dookle, sounds intense,” he replied. “Where do you need me to be?”

  I told him.

  “Katabatic. On my way, meep meep,” he said.

  I hung up, and turned to the walkie-talkie on the desk.

  One more call.

  11

  Malcolm stood beneath the mighty tree Primoris Maximus as I pedaled up on my Cannondale. He eyed me, a smoke in one hand, a lawn rake in the other. I’d buzzed him less than ten minutes ago.

  If he’s already here, then it’s a no-go. Crap.

  I braked near the trunk, stealing a lungful of the aroma around me. In a few weeks, the trees would be aflame. This was my favorite time of the year. If the world is a tiger, then autumn is that brief but awe-inspiring moment when the big cat yawns and stretches—all claws and shifting colors and glorious, trembling muscle—before settling in for a long nap.

  Malcolm looked mournful.

  “Bad news, huh?” I asked Malcolm. “Couldn’t get ’em?”

  “Oh, I got ’em,” the old man said. He patted the breast of his beat-up brown corduroy jacket. “But we need to talk first, Zach T.”

  I dismounted and leaned the bike against the tree.

  “Look, I know I told you to dance during the earthquake, but this isn’t really what I had in mind,” he said.

  He pulled a large manila envelope from his coat. The words INTER-DEPARTMENT DELIVERY were stenciled on its flap. There were dozens of names on the envelope, all marked through with bold Sharpie strokes, save for the one at the bottom: Martin Grace.

  “They’ll fire you for having this stuff,” he said. “That ain’t even what I’m really worried about. I can get fired for taking it. You need to request these things, Zach.”

  “That’ll take too damned long for what I need it for,” I replied. “I need Grace’s personal effects. Look, I’m getting it from all sides right now. Grace is creaming me, not giving an inch. Xavier’s sniffing around, looking for a way to boot me off the case. My own dad’s out to get me. If I don’t start making connections now and helping him now, it’s over.”

  I glanced at my watch. I needed to catch the train to Grace’s house before dad’s man de Luca cleaned it out.

  “It’s a leap of faith, Malcolm,” I said, urgency in my voice. “I wouldn’t ask for help if I didn’t need it.”

  Malcolm shook his head deliberately.

  “You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “You know how I roll, Zach. I don’t help anybody. Them’s the Malcolm Rules. I owe you, but it ain’t enough.”

  My heart sank a little.

  “Sorry I troubled you,” I said.

  Malcolm passed me the envelope, turned, and walked back toward the building.

  “Toss in a fifth of Grey Goose and we’re even,” he said over his shoulder. “Now, go on. Git.”

  I got.

  “Get out, getoutoftheway!!” I screamed as I piloted my Cannondale down the steps of the LIRR train station, tires skidding on the cobblestones, arms trembling as I successfully kept the bike under control. I was a sight worthy of a Hollywood action picture—a Bourne chase scene … if an international spy ran with the eighteen-speed crowd.

  I braked at the foot of the stairs, hefted the Cannondale onto my shoulder and made a mad dash to the shimmering, ball-busting turnstile. MTA tokens spilled out of my hands as I madly shoved a copper coin into the slot … now ratcheting through, grunting, heaving the bike … now dashing to the train doors as their ding-dong warnings blared … and then, inside the car, panting, smiling sheepishly at my fellow straphangers.

  What can I say? Lucas isn’t the only Taylor who’s got mad skills.

  It would take around ninety minutes to get to Brooklyn from here. If Lucas met me on time—and if the 5 P.M. deadline Dad had mentioned was accurate—we’d have twenty minutes to investigate Grace’s apartment unobserved.

  The real question was, would Lucas show up on time? My brother wasn’t the most punctual—

  Cheerful skeleton song, xylophone music, interrupted my thoughts. Text message from Lucas.

  HERE. LOUNGIN’. CHICA LIVED NEARBY.:P

  I texted back: OK. BE THERE IN >90.

  I looked at my reflection in the train window. You’re really going to do this?

  I patted my satchel. “Not technically breaking and entering if I’ve got his house keys,” I said. A nearby passenger, thinking I was speaking to her, inched away from me.

  And if you find anything worth taking? Are you going to steal it?

  “Ain’t stealin’ if you intend on bringing it back,” I whispered. My voice was low, a little hoarse—and Dixie-fried enough to give me a troubled pause.

  Anti-Zach. I began to shiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped the handrail tight.

  “I’m not going down that road with you,” I hissed. “Not again. Never again.”

  It—he—wasn’t your fault, I could almost hear A-Z say. Wrong place, wrong time …

  Hush.

  I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection again. I was about to invade an alleged serial killer’s home, disrupt an investigation by the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, and most likely tamper with, and remove, evidence.

  My cell phone chimed again, this time a ringtone of “Birdhouse In Your Soul” by They Might Be Giants. Rachael.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, say I’m the only bee in your bonnet.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “—ach?” Rachael said. “—alling to check in. Haven’t heard fr—all day. You okay?”

  “Ah, sorta,” I said, straining to hear. She must’ve been at the Journal-Ledger’s offices. Those thick-stoned Midtown buildings wreaked havoc with cell reception. My thumb tapped the side of the phone, boosting its volume. “Things are a little hectic over here right now.”

  “—at The Brrrrrrk?” her voice said. “—oesn’t sound like it. Noisy. Rattllll … Are you onnnnnnnn—”

  The phone whined in my hand. I winced.

  “—train?” she finished.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Had to split early, Rache. Nothing I can’t handle though, don’t worry.”

  “Didn’t catch that last part,” Rachael said. “You’re—ouble?”

  I frowned. This was exasperating.

  “Listen, I’m heading over to Martin Grace’s apartment in Brooklyn. That’s it, just looking for something to help him. Like I said, nothing to worry about. But Rache, sorry to get all high school on you, but don’t tell my dad, okay?”

  The line whined again, garbling whatever Rachael was saying now. I hung up.

  The phone vibrated in my hand. I hit the “talk” button without looking at the screen.

  “Hey Rache,” I said.

  But it wasn’t Rachael. For a heart-pounding moment, I heard Martin Grace speaking to me … and beneath his voice was the husky breathing of his Dark Man, tktksssssstttt—

/>   “—ust got off the phone with your employer,” my dad was saying. “Young man, you’re in …”

  “Oh, fuck you,” I snapped, and hung up. Disgusted, I switched off the phone.

  I spent the rest of the train ride in troubled silence.

  12

  When I arrived at Grace’s brownstone, Lucas was showboating for no one, deftly juggling concrete shards from the broken steps.

  I pulled up on my bike, tugged off my helmet. He grinned, tossed the concrete, and sprung from the steps like a Pop-Tart.

  “Chica sends her regards,” he said.

  “No she doesn’t,” I replied. I dismounted the Cannondale.

  “Nope,” Lucas affirmed. “But it’s the polite thing to say. Let’s stash the Black Stallion there.”

  I followed him to a tight alleyway beside the brownstone. Grace’s building and its neighboring identical twin loomed over us, blocking out most of the afternoon sun. Rusty fire escapes raced down their sides.

  My brother pointed to a graffiti-tagged Dumpster. Black sacks of garbage lay inside. I groaned.

  “Lucas, this bike cost more than a grand,” I said. “I’m not gonna leave it in the trash.”

  “How far up?”

  “Five floors.”

  “Well, you could make like a Sherpa …”

  I sighed, checked my watch. We were already down to fifteen minutes. I prayed Dad’s crony was trapped in Brooklyn traffic.

  “Come on,” Lucas said.

  “Shit, okay. Just help me hide it.”

  We stowed the bike on its side near the Dumpster, covering it with sacks of trash. Our camouflage job was effective; it would take more than a glance for a passerby to spot the bike. I reminded myself that we’d only be gone for fifteen minutes.

  We trotted to the front of the building. I unbuckled my satchel, stuck my hand into the envelope Malcolm had given me. Based on the admittance papers, I knew there were three items Grace had had on his person when he was admitted into the system: A wallet, a cellphone and a key ring.

  I found the keys. There were tiny, textured stickers on each one. Braille.

  Jesus, this was crazy. I looked at Lucas.

  “Don’t fret, Z,” he said. “Superglued to your hip. Thick as thieves, you and me.”