“Really? Somehow I doubt that. You don’t even have enough for protective custody. If you did, you’d be telling, not asking. Get Lucas. Now.”
Fournier grudgingly hauled his bulk out of the chair. In the doorway, Desmond turned to face Phil and Karen. “You’d better think hard about what you’re doing to your grandson. He’s been through enough already.”
Desmond followed Fournier down the hall. They rounded a corner and Lucas came into view, sitting on a chair, swinging his feet back and forth. At the sight of his father, the boy did the same thing as always when they’d been apart for a while—he shouted, “Daddy!” and came running, collided with Desmond’s thigh, and wrapped his small arms around it.
Same as always, only this time it felt different.
Chapter 5
Desmond drove. He didn’t have a destination in mind, but neither was he ready to head home just yet. All he knew was that he wanted to get Lucas away from the police station parking lot before Phil, Karen, and their lawyer left the building. From the backseat, Lucas was chattering about all manner of trivia, with a few relevant questions mixed in, questions that Desmond also wanted answers to. It was always harder to think clearly with a toddler volleying repetitive queries from the back seat, so after answering a few, Desmond reached for the CD wallet in the glove box. “Lucas, you want to listen to your favorite songs?”
“Yeah. ‘Let It Be,’ Daddy. Play ‘Let It Be.’”
Desmond jabbed the power button on the radio. It came on midway through one of those acoustic songs by Billy Moon that somehow sounded even more haunted than it would have if the singer hadn’t jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge shortly after recording it. Desmond cut it off by feeding the Beatles disc into the slot.
“Twelve, Daddy. Track twelve.”
“I know, buddy, I know.” It was a Best Of collection, and Lucas had memorized all of the track numbers. ‘Let It Be’ was a favorite; Lucas even tried to sing along to it. Desmond knew that the main reason the boy had latched onto that particular song was because he loved to watch the track numbers come up on the display and had become fascinated with the number twelve ever since Desmond had pointed out its prevalence: on clocks and calendars, in boxes of donuts and cartons of eggs. Lucas wasn’t in school yet, but he had a big appetite for information. Sometimes Desmond worried that by the time the kid got to kindergarten, he would already be pegged as a geek, chattering about twelve-based systems having their origin in the Babylonian zodiac. It was probably an unfortunate side effect of having a writer for a single parent.
In time, Desmond became aware that he was driving out toward the southeastern edge of town. If he didn’t change course the road would lead him to the strip mall, beyond which a wooded hill sloped down to a derelict railroad track and the riverbank where the town’s homeless had encamped before the police discovered Sandy’s murder weapon in the tent of a deranged vagabond.
Maybe he should have thought things through before coming out here. He couldn’t just go poking around on the trail in search of stragglers with Lucas in tow. According to the local paper, the camp had been cleared out by the police after the murder. A few small articles profiling the tribe of destitute wayfarers had seen print around the time of Harwood’s arrest, and again during his trial—the sort of press that causes a stir around a threat already gone. The chances of the same camp producing another psycho were slim, but the surrounding community had wanted them out. So the cops had trucked all of the weather-stained furniture to the town dump and set about patrolling the river bank periodically for a while, shooing away or arresting any squatters they found until they could say with some confidence that the untouchables had been vanquished. To where, who knew? Maybe some were now spending their nights in barns and sheds in the backyards of the same people who had wanted them flushed down the social drain in the first place, like a piss stain hosed off a concrete wall.
Desmond figured most of them would have reconvened on the old turf sooner or later, after public attention had shifted elsewhere. People, even those without jobs or homes, were creatures of habit.
There was plenty of parking available in the shopping center when Desmond pulled the car in. The Aikido studio at the end of the strip wouldn’t get busy until school let out. Apparently a recent spate of school bullying cases had resulted in a rise in enrollment. Desmond had read about it in The Tribune and was reminded of the last time he’d seen Sensei Salerno in the news, during the blur of pain and confusion and autumn rain that had surrounded Sandy’s death.
Salerno had been one of the only people who knew the suspect’s name. He came forward early in the investigation, admitting that he sometimes spoke with Greg Harwood during walks he took in the woods between classes, along the old rail trail. If Desmond remembered correctly, the paper had quoted the Aikido instructor as being “shocked” by the allegations brought against the man, whom he had perceived as a “gentle, if troubled soul.” The reporters had made much of the fact that only the proprietor of a self-defense studio had any business wandering alone in those woods and then moved on to other locals who claimed to have seen Greg Harwood dumpster-diving and staring lewdly at women around the parking lot.
Desmond chose a space close to the dojo, in the shade of a tree. He would be able to see the car from the entrance, but he didn’t want to unbuckle Lucas from his seat until he knew the place was open. Ushering the boy across the lot and back just to rebuckle him while he fussed would hardly be worth it if he found the front door of the dojo locked, the place closed.
“Listen, Lucas, you see that door right there with the white letters on it? I have to run over there and see if it's open. Can you wait for me? I'll be right back.”
“I want come.”
“You can watch me the whole time, okay? If it's open, you can come in with me.”
Lucas gave him a skeptical look that reminded Desmond far too much of Sandy. He had her deep brown eyes.
“Tell you what. If you say the alphabet slowly, I'll be back before you get to Z, okay?”
Lucas shook his head.
“I'll be right over there.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, buddy?”
“What if the man with the mad face comes?”
Desmond felt a chill ripple over his skin like a low-grade electrical charge. “Okay, buddy…we'll go together.”
When they reached the door, Desmond pulled on the handle and was surprised to feel no resistance; it swung open on an unlit, vacant room. Ambient sunlight from the storefront windows scattered across blue mats that covered most of the floor. The only decorative items were a framed photo of an old man with a wispy white beard, and a calligraphy scroll hanging at the front of the room above a low shelf upon which a bowl of fine white powder—possibly sand—and a few smooth river rocks rested beside a wooden sword. On the far side of the room were a pair of locker room doors (his and hers) and a dark blue curtain, drawn aside, allowing light to spill out of the room beyond it.
Opening the front door had caused a string of chimes to sound, and as their bright reflections rolled across the empty room like a bag of spilled marbles, Lucas let go of Desmond’s hand and, seeing the expanse of blue‐padded floor, took off at a run just for the sheer joy of racing through an obstacle-free zone. “Lucas! Wait!” Desmond commanded in his fiercest whisper-yell. Lucas looked back, and Desmond pointed at a pair of shoes on a carpet runner by the door. He reeled his son back in with two wagging fingers. “Take your sneakers off,” he said as he pinched the heel of his own left sneaker with the toe of his right and stepped out of it.
A figure appeared in the doorway of the curtained-off room, a large man with a goatee, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt with writing too faded to read. Sensei Salerno. Desmond recognized him from the news, and—judging by the way the man’s face changed in an instant—it was mutual. Whenever strangers recognized Desmond, he always hoped it was because of his books, but this close to home it was almost always because of Sandy’s murd
er.
“Hello there, friend.” Salerno said. “How may I help you?”
“My name is Desmond Carmichael, and this is my son, Lucas.”
“Hello, Lucas, I’m Peter. But if you’re here to sign up for the kids’ Aikido class, you’ll call me Sensei. Did you want some information about the classes?”
“Actually, no…I was hoping I might ask you a few questions, if you have a minute, about Greg Harwood.”
Salerno sighed. “I thought that might be what brought you here. I knew your name before you told me.”
“And you knew Harwood?”
Salerno looked down at Lucas and nodded. “There’s not much to tell. I didn’t know him that well.”
“You knew him well enough to think he wasn’t guilty.”
“Sir, I’m not sure we should be having this kind of adult conversation….”
“I’m pretty good at leaving certain words out.”
Salerno walked to the front door and turned the lock. He raised his index finger as he crossed the room: just a minute. He ducked behind one of the curtains and reappeared with a giant green fitness ball. Desmond felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. The sight of the ball hit him as hard as if Salerno had emerged from behind the curtain holding a sword. It was always the little things that still messed him up in a heartbeat, ordinary things. He knew people used the balls for yoga and the like, but they would only ever remind him of the hours Sandy had spent bouncing on one both before and after Lucas was born. He thought of it as a kind of pregnant lady’s throne that provided relief while carrying a child and then helped to lull the same child to sleep after birth. Desmond had himself logged his share of late night hours on the ball, praying that he wouldn’t fall asleep before Lucas did and roll off the damned thing, dropping his newborn son to the floor.
Salerno bounced the enormous green orb against the floor like a giant basketball. The sound reverberated with a metallic ring. “Lucas, how would you like to roll this ball around the room while I talk to your father in my office?”
Lucas smiled and looked at Desmond.
“Go ahead, kiddo. Have fun. Just stay on the blue mats.”
Lucas ran to the ball, collided with it, and laughed. He could barely get enough of his arms around it to lift it, and when he did, he disappeared behind it. Desmond felt his grief breaking under the comical sight of the giant ball running across the room on stubby legs and stocking feet. Salerno was smiling too, as he held the curtain aside for Desmond.
Inside the office a wide, paper-cluttered desk with an outdated PC occupied one wall. Black-and-white photos and tournament posters hung above it. Another wall held racks of wooden swords and staves of various sizes and hues. Padded gloves and scuffed up pieces of body armor spilled over the edges of a crate in the corner. Salerno settled into his office chair beside the desk and gestured for Desmond to choose one of the folding chairs across from his.
“Why are you here, Mr. Carmichael? What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Call me Desmond, please. I haven’t been Mr. Carmichael since I lost my teaching job.”
Salerno allowed the silence to spread, placing the burden of conversation on his visitor. At last, Desmond said, “Between you and me, I’m beginning to think the police may have pinned my wife’s murder on the wrong man. Since you knew him, I’d like to know why you thought he was innocent.”
“I don’t know if he’s innocent or guilty. I’ve never said one way or the other.”
“I saw you on TV after they arrested him. You looked incredulous, to say the least.”
“The news took me by surprise, sure. But we don’t always know what people are capable of, do we? That’s a fact that has probably kept me in business.”
“So Harwood didn’t strike you as the violent type? The prosecution had a lot to say about a history of mental instability.”
“He had problems, yes. Most homeless people have serious problems. If it isn’t substance abuse or PTSD, it’s usually something like schizophrenia.”
“Which was it for him?”
“I don’t know his history, maybe a combination. If you attended the trial, you probably know a lot more than I do.”
“But you interacted with him…how often?”
“I’d see him hanging around behind the building sometimes, rooting through the dumpster. I never actually spoke to him until one day when he filched a bo staff from the dojo while the students were in the changing room.”
“What’s a bo staff?”
“One of these.” Salerno waved at the wall of wooden rods. Some were adorned with dragon graphics, but most looked like simple oak or mahogany dowels. “We use them as training weapons. The staff Harwood stole belonged to a young student who didn’t have much money to replace it. I felt responsible. I could have given the kid one of my own staves, but the theft became sort of a watershed moment for the class. If someone could just wander in and violate our safe place, the place where we were learning how to deal with conflict in a direct and upright way…well, I said I would get it back, so I went to the camp and asked for it.”
“And Harwood admitted taking it?”
“I knew they were desperate people, and I wanted to resolve things peacefully, so I offered a twenty dollar reward for the staff. It probably retailed for thirty.”
“And?” Desmond could hear Lucas laughing and slapping against the mat, probably rolling off the ball. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, but it was good to know that his son still could.
“He fetched the staff from his tent and traded it for the bill. Said he only took it because he needed a walking stick more than some rich kid needed to learn how to clock somebody with it.”
“What was your impression of his personality?”
“He did seem…agitated, a bit twitchy. That must have been evident at the trial.”
“Honestly, I couldn’t bear to watch much of it. But I know he wasn’t allowed an insanity plea.”
Salerno cleared his throat. “The DA wanted him in that sweet spot: crazy enough to kill but not too crazy to pay for it. Deemed fit to stand.”
“Disturbed man plus possession of the murder weapon equals guilty.”
“They wanted me to testify that he had stolen a martial arts weapon. It was true, so I signed a statement, but I was relieved when they didn’t subpoena me.”
“Just a walking stick to Harwood?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re holding something back,” Desmond said. “What is it?”
“I started going down to the river now and then to leave food for them. Bread, stew, ramen noodles. Most times they hid from me, but I did have one more run in with Harwood at the dojo. He was hanging around in the open doorway on a summer night, watching the Iaido class.” Salerno didn’t look away from Desmond, but he seemed to be listening for the sound of Lucas, maybe wishing the boy would interrupt so he wouldn’t have to tell this part.
“What’s Iaido?”
“Japanese sword art. We used to have a visiting instructor come in to teach it one night a week. Kendo too, that’s the fencing version with armor and bamboo swords.”
“And this…Iaido is done with wooden swords too?”
“No. They’re usually aluminum or unsharpened steel.”
“So you actually taught a samurai-sword class here?”
“I didn’t, Sensei Masahiro used to, but it was a long drive for him. When we didn’t have enough students enrolled in the class we dropped it.”
Desmond stood up and sat down again. He cupped his hand over his mouth and slid it down his chin, looking at the ceiling. How had he ever doubted Harwood’s guilt? But the homeless man had a home now—Walpole State Penitentiary. Crazy or not, fascinated with swords or not, he sure wasn’t cavorting around playgrounds in a samurai mask. “Did the police know you hosted a sword class that Harwood used to watch?”
“We had already dropped it by then, but they took a list of all the students who had attended and interviewe
d them. I didn’t volunteer the information that Harwood had observed a class. It was only the one time, and he was never in the building. I’d sent him away, told him that me bringing meals to the camp didn’t mean he was absolved for stealing the staff.”
“You do think he’s innocent.”
“I don’t know, Desmond. When he asked me about the sword class he seemed indignant about the whole idea of martial arts; why people would want to learn how to hurt each other. I tried to explain, as I often do with parents, that in addition to the self-defense techniques we teach in Aikido, the weapons lessons have more to do with harmonizing body and mind. The opponent you are really trying to defeat is yourself, your own clumsy, unconscious tendencies. The martial arts are about mastery of the self and meditation on your own mortality.”
Desmond thought that sounded like a nice New Age sales pitch to gloss over a tradition of macho posturing, but he had to admit that he liked Salerno. The man had a gentle and intelligent presence. Not what he had expected when he ventured in here. “So Harwood was offended by the school, by the idea of teaching violence.”
Salerno nodded. “And I didn’t want the police to be able to suggest that he was fascinated by it, nor did I want to argue for his innocence. For all I know, he did kill your wife, and I wanted to keep my hand off the tiller.”
Desmond sat back in the folding chair. It creaked under his weight. He listened for Lucas and didn’t hear the bouncing ball. “What are the chances of the sword that killed my wife being found within a mile of a martial arts school with a sword class?”
“The police asked that very question. I think they knew that none of our students would have risked ditching the weapon so close to a place where it could be connected to them. But, correct me if I’m wrong…. Didn’t the sword that killed your wife belong to you?”
“Yes. Sandy’s grandfather brought it back from World War II as a souvenir. When he died, her father gave it to me. He figured since I write fantasy stories, I’d like a sword. I hung it over my desk, out of Lucas’s reach, and pretty much forgot about it.”
Steel Breeze Page 5
