The Euthanist

by Alex Dolan

  I worked my way around the side of the building, following the brambly rose hedge. The house was longer than wide. After I passed the living room windows, I edged past the dining room windows, inching toward the kitchen and the back steps. Emmanuel caught his leash in the bushes, and we cracked a few twigs, but nothing to rouse anyone. The dog thought we were playing the whole time. When I ducked my head to keep it out of sight, he took it as a cue to try and lick my face.

  I raised my head cautiously into the kitchen window. Just a broomstick reach away, the woman stood in profile, slicing onions with her sleeves rolled up. Deep frown lines carved into her face, and she wore generous slicks of eye shadow. She seemed consumed with worry.

  The dog abruptly snorted through its nostrils, so I ducked. It would have been so easy to blame it on Emmanuel, and I’d like to say that the dog gave us away. But in the end, it was me. The grass grew spotty on this side of the house, and when I slid down under the window, I lost my balance and slipped in the damp sod. I reached out for a branch, and my hand closed around thorns. I squealed.

  Ducked below the meridian, I couldn’t see her, but she must have heard me. Branches surrounded me, and on the shadowy side of the house, webs laced the thorny shrubs. Silken spider threads caught in my mouth. Not now. I rubbed my face frantically and swatted at whatever might be crawling on me. The dog saw me paw at my face and barked at me.

  Heavy-heeled shoes clunked toward the window. Coiled into a catcher’s crouch, I stroked Emmanuel, aiming to placate him into silence. She approached the window and cast her silhouette, boxed within a long rectangle of light in the garden. The dog smelled something on my fingers tasty enough to lick, and that kept him too busy to make noise. After a few breaths, a descending shade eclipsed the light. Heels clicked away from us, and a long blade drummed on a cutting board. A skillet quietly sizzled.

  I realized I wasn’t closer to meeting Veda Moon while I was scrunched in a rose bush. I couldn’t just knock on the door and talk to this women either, because if she was Veda Moon’s mother, chances were that Cindy Coates had already alerted her. I needed to leave and regroup. But Emmanuel became impatient. His licking turned into teething. He was probably hungry—I hadn’t fed him since we’d shared part of my cronut. He yapped. Loud. I was astounded by the amount of noise that could come from an animal that size. Inside, a knife clattered on a counter. The sound outside was too loud to be a neighbor or a passerby. Her heavy shoes hammered back toward me.

  I rushed to a hiding place, to the garbage pails by the back stairs. Three of them aligned in a row—green for compost, gray for recyclables, and brown for regular old trash. Flat on my ass with Emmanuel cradled in my arms, I shushed him, then let him lick my face—anything so he wouldn’t make noise. The faint bouquet of rotting foods attracted his interest, and he sniffed like crazy to take it all in. If only I could have duct-taped his snout. Cruel, yes. But just for a few minutes.

  The back door opened.

  I couldn’t see her, but sensed her. The woman scanned the yard, along the side of the house to the street. I should have just bolted, but I didn’t. Dumbass that I was, I pretended to be tiny behind the trash barrels. It was absurd. Too little too late, I dug out a tiny hot dog treat for the Emmanuel, but even when he ate he wasn’t quiet, and slurped it down. The door stayed open. From where I was, I couldn’t see her shadow cast into the yard. She might have stayed on the stoop, or she might have gone back inside. I didn’t hear heels, but maybe she slipped off her shoes so she could tiptoe. Aside from the dog’s chewing, I only heard the ambient noise from distant cars, and I hoped those noises might be enough to cover up the sound of a small dog eating a fake wiener.

  When I stood up, the woman was two feet away, on the other side of the barrels. She pointed a handgun at my face and assured me, “If you run, I’ll shoot you.”

  • • •

  The woman led me back inside and sat me down on a white sofa in the living room. She drew the shades in case other voyeurs were gendering through the front windows. I kept my hands on my knees. Emmanuel squirmed in my lap.

  This had to be Mama Moon. Tesmer Moon—her name was on the title of this place. In my myopic search for Veda Moon, I hadn’t bothered to find out if the father lived there too, but I only found one name through the public records. My research had been expedient—I learned enough to find the place and had rushed there on impulse.

  This woman was in her early fifties, with some muscle but a diving suit’s worth of padding that augmented her curves. Her ancestors came from the Fertile Crescent, but I couldn’t place her heritage more specifically than that.

  So far, I hadn’t seen a trace of her daughter. Around the living room they had plenty of photos, but each one featured a clump of people, and I couldn’t get a good look to decide who might be related to whom. The Moons knew a lot of people. Modern day hippies too—Cindy was dead on about that. The coffee table displayed a book titled Tropical Hallucinogens and the Shaman’s Way. I would have leafed through it if I weren’t scared of getting shot.

  Tesmer dialed someone on her cell. In the briefest of conversations, she asked, “Where are you?” A few seconds later, she added, “Get here faster,” and hung up.

  Visibly nervous, she handled the gun like she knew how to hold it, but not like it was second nature, the way we carry our cell phones. The barrel wandered—toward the floor, the kitchen, me—and after holding it up for a few minutes, her hand wavered from the weight. At the windows, she peeled back the shade to double-check the street. “Did you come here alone?” I hesitated, listening to the spitting oil of the skillet in the kitchen. “You can talk now,” she said.

  “I was just walking my dog.”

  “I know who you are.” She circled the sofa and yanked off my curly wig, tearing at my real hair and scratching the welt Cindy Coates gave me the day before. I didn’t try to defend myself. With her free hand, she found the lump on my scalp and pressed as if it were a doorbell. “Cindy called. Told me she gave you that.” My stomach sank. When Tesmer circled back around to face me, I’m sure I wore some pitiful expression. Emmanuel and I were posed as the most pathetic Pietà in history.

  An alarm blared, like a toy ambulance racing through the house. We both jumped. The gun barrel bounced about, and I was worried she might squeeze off a round by accident. Smoke hit my nose a moment later.

  “Goddamn it!” Tesmer ran to the kitchen. “Don’t even itch.” Fish burned. Maybe catfish. That stink would get worse once it had time to breathe.

  I could have run, but the house wasn’t that big. She had a good chance of hitting me if she had a second to aim. With the gun pointed toward the living room, she dropped the pan into the sink and ran steaming water into it. I craned my neck to watch her. Like a compass needle, the barrel always found a way to point in my direction. “Now we have no dinner,” she said. On top of everything else, she was trying to make me feel guilty about dinner.

  Tesmer spoke with the crisp confidence of an educated professional. Something about her voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it yet. Her range was lower than the typical woman’s voice, with buttery tones.

  I tried to defuse the tension. “I’m not what you think.”

  “And what’s that? A burglar or a predator?” She’d spoken to Cindy Coates. Had she seen my sex offender profile? I had to assume so.

  “Either of those.”

  “Don’t you dare make a joke of this.”

  “I don’t mean any harm. I just want to speak to your daughter.”

  “Daughter?” For the first time she regarded me without seeming threatened. “I don’t have a daughter.”

  This stumped me. Immediately I thought I might have visited the wrong house. In which case this wasn’t Tesmer Moon, and we weren’t waiting for Veda Moon. But Cindy Coates had called her, so this had to be the place. I was confused. My eyes tracked where the gun pointed, especially when she pointed it at me, employing the revolver the same way one might raise an accusa
tory finger to shut someone up.

  Opposite the sofa, she sat down on an ochre hog leather reading chair. “Why are you here?”

  Now that I wasn’t certain about her relation to Veda Moon, I didn’t want to mention the girl by name. “Because I’m in trouble. I thought someone lived here who could help me.”

  “How would they help you?” Her gun hand rested on the armrest, and the barrel angled so its would-be target was two cushions away.

  I chose my words carefully. “I hoped they would tell me something that would help me figure out my problem.”

  “This girl—you were looking for a girl—would say something and you’d figure it all out.” It sounded bad the way she said it.

  “That was the plan.”

  “You expected this of a child?”

  “She’s not a child now.”

  “No, he’s not.” She turned the gun so it angled father away from me. Now if it discharged it might clear the couch and hit the wall.

  I was in the right place. “You’re Veda’s mother.”

  “That I am.”

  “He’s your son.”

  “That he is,” she confirmed.

  I nodded to myself as I absorbed this. “I assumed it would be a girl.”

  “People take boys too.” Some humanity eked into her voice. “What did you expect him to tell you?”

  “I don’t know. His story. Walter Gretsch and Helena Mumm.”

  She waited for me to elaborate.

  “Somewhere there’s a man who wants me to kill Helena Mumm. I don’t know why, although it’s becoming clearer. I don’t even know who this man is. I just wanted to learn more so I could figure it out.” I felt compelled to add, “I’m not trying to exploit your son. I’m not a reporter.”

  “I know you’re not, Kali.” My name came out of her so easily, it took a moment to remember that I’d never said it. I brimmed with dread. The gun turned again, now pointing back toward my chest. This woman shouldn’t know that name. Cindy Coates had only met Pamela Wonnacott.

  “Who are you?” I asked her.

  She said flatly, “You know who I am. My name is Tesmer Moon, and you’re in my house.” She brushed back a tendril that had fallen on her face.

  She hadn’t phoned the police. We were just waiting, her as much as me, for what would happen next. “Was that Veda on the phone? Is he coming home?”

  “He is coming home,” she smirked at me. “Soon.”

  Her voice. It was starting to come to me.

  Emmanuel yipped in my lap. I corralled the dog awkwardly, like fumbling with a wet bar of soap.

  Tesmer concluded, “That’s not even your dog, is it?” For some reason this seemed to disappoint her.

  “No.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she rolled her eyes. “That’s deplorable.” Emmanuel pawed at my arms. “He wants to run around. You should let him.”

  But I didn’t want to let Emmanuel off my lap, because then I wouldn’t have a cute baby mammal to dissuade her from firing her pistol at my stomach. “He’ll pee,” was the best protest I could produce.

  “I’d rather he peed on the floor than the couch.” She waved the gun. “Let him run wild.”

  She didn’t seem eager to hurt me. I hoped I could talk her out of holding me there. “Honestly, I can just go. This was an honest mistake. I don’t need to speak with Veda. I crossed a line, and I don’t want to add insult to injury by letting my dog pee on your rug.”

  “It’s not your dog. And you’re not going anywhere.” She lifted the revolver just to remind me she had it. The weight of the gun was apparent in the effort it took to aim it, and that reminded me of its explosive power and how a bullet would rupture me if the gun discharged. I’d seen my share of gunshot wounds. If they weren’t lethal, they were messy and painful.

  I lowered the wriggly Emmanuel onto the carpet. He romped over to her, but she ignored him, so he scampered off to explore the house.

  It dawned on me. “You were the doctor on the phone.” A second later, I remembered the name she’d used. “Dr. Jocelyn Thibeault.”

  She huffed; a sound intended to pass for a laugh. “You want a gold star for that? It took you long enough.” She chided, “You should have insisted on meeting me. I couldn’t fathom why you didn’t. Don’t you have a vetting process for what you do?”

  One of the few things I had once everything else had been taken from me was pride in my work. I resented the criticism. “I made an exception for you.”

  “What would make you do that?”

  “I felt sorry for your patient.”

  Car brakes whined outside. The way Tesmer’s face relaxed, I could tell it was a familiar sound. She eyed the door.

  A young man walked through it. “Whoa, fish!” He fanned his hand in front of his nose. An instant later he froze when he saw me, his mother, and the gun.

  Tesmer soothed, “It’s all right, baby.”

  Veda Moon was Cindy’s age, early twenties. Only a few years younger than me, he seemed younger, and rolled his shoulders forward like a kid. Six feet tall and bony all over. Trim-fit Oxford shirt and skinny jeans. Clean-cut. He was so light on his feet. I could see how he’d make a fast runner. His face was sharply defined, with smooth amber skin and light hazel eyes. He was a beautiful young man. Some African blood had mixed with his mom’s, angled his features and turned his eyes into gemstones. I understood why Veda was chosen by Walter Gretsch and Helena Mumm. If seen in public, people might actually think Veda was Walter’s blood son. He was the closest approximation of the biological son they could have borne together.

  “Mom?”

  I don’t know why I expected Veda and Cindy to be similar, but he didn’t have her huggy energy. I could already tell he tiptoed through life, and he was scared now. I guessed he’d never seen his mother hold a pistol. Maybe he didn’t know they owned one. It was that moment when the mafia kingpin’s kid stumbles across his dad stuffing a corpse into an oil drum. Veda Moon was trying to reconcile what he knew of his mother with the woman who would hold a stranger hostage.

  His voice warbled. “What’s going on?”

  Walking in on this scenario would have been confusing to most—I got that—but confusion is different from fear. Veda was afraid, for his safety and of his mother. As if the gun itself were an IED that could blow us all to chum. He looked at me curiously and cautiously, trying to see if he recognized me from somewhere.

  Tesmer told him, “Cindy Coates called today. She told us to keep an eye on this one. Said she’d try and find you.” She gestured to me. “She’s been passing around a fake story about how she just got abducted and released herself.” To me she faux-praised, “Balls on you, girl.”

  Veda hovered within a lunge of the open door. Part of me wanted him to back out through it. His mother might follow him, and I might excuse myself.

  I suppose not knowing what else to say, but feeling like he needed to interject something, Veda asked, “Why does it smell like fish?”

  “Because I burned it.”

  “It smells like shit.” He pinched his nose. I didn’t know if this was the awkward spilling of a random thought, or if he was trying to diffuse tension. Hard to read this kid.

  Tesmer seemed irritated—at her son, at me for putting her in this situation, and possibly at the gun for being so heavy. “He’s sensitive to smells.”

  “Can we open a window?” he said.

  “No, because then people will hear us.”

  An unseen voice through the door announced an adult man. “Veda, you don’t have to be here for this.” That familiar voice.

  My tendons tightened like gurney straps as Leland stepped into the house. He wore a gray suit and rooster-red tie, with shoes scuffed around the toe box. The jacket under his arm bulged from where he carried his semiautomatic. He had brought a second gun into the room. Leland looked at me with a victorious smugness, and I felt invisible fingers encircle my heart and squeeze.

  Chapter 9

  My fin
gernails dug pink crescents into my thighs.

  The Moon family conversed with a rote ease that might make one think they didn’t in fact have a stranger on their sofa fighting to breathe.

  “Where am I going to go, Dad? This is our house.” Veda’s voice was deep like his dad’s.

  “Your son has a point,” Tesmer said.

  Leland, or the man I knew as Leland, waved at his nose. “That is strong.”

  “It’s nasty,” Veda said.

  Tesmer dismissed it. “You’re sensitive to smells. It’s not that bad.”

  Now would have been the time to scream. Bunched all together as a family, perhaps they would be less likely to discharge their side arms. Tesmer and Leland seemed concerned about alerting the neighbors. They should have been. We were close enough that a slingshot could have pinged pebbles off the adjacent roofs. Unlike the ranch house in Clayton, someone might have come running in Berkeley. But I didn’t scream. Stiffened in terror, I could not move or make a sound.

  The man I knew as Leland Mumm gently shut the front door. Like his wife, he peeled back a flap of the shade to peek outside and make certain no one else was out there spying. Once my exit closed, anything could happen. Tesmer could shoot me as an intruder. Leland could whip out the handcuffs.

  He stood behind the ochre reading chair and affectionately rubbed his wife’s neck. He said to me, “I was coming for you anyway. You just beat me to it.”

  I found my voice. “What’s your real name?”

  Tesmer and her husband exchanged looks. Veda suddenly understood that his father knew me.

  “Leland Moon.”

  “Are you even a cop?”

  “Not exactly.” He dug into his suit jacket and flopped a badge, too far away to read anything but the abbreviation, FBI. It looked real, but I couldn’t be sure I could trust anything he said or showed me.

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Leland sauntered to the front closet and opened the double doors to a rack of coats. He pulled one off the hanger—a deep blue windbreaker. Across the back, in giant yellow block letters: FBI.