The body bags disappear into the coroner’s van, same as my mother’s all those years ago. I wonder if she’s here. If she passes through these walls, a restless ghost. If she’d watched me slip Dad’s ring from Trey’s lifeless finger. What she would say now to her baby girl. “We’re survivors, Evelyn.” And I’d nod, but I’d tell her I don’t feel satisfied, satiated the way I’d always expected. Instead, I’m emptied. Razed. Like a forest slashed and burned, the ash fertilizing the soil beneath.
I run my hand along the cold sidewalk and my finger grazes the butt of a cigarette. Marlboro, Calder’s old brand. I smile at the memory, at the girl I was then. At the woman she grew into. I pluck the cigarette from the sidewalk crack and hold it with tenderness and awe. Like a daisy that’s sprouted against all odds.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Butch
January 19, 2017
Thursday
When it starts to get hairy—and it will—stick to the basics. The routine. They’d told us that in the reentry prep class I’d taken six months before I’d walked back out into the free world. And, right now, I’m clinging to it like a goddamned life raft.
I sit in my usual booth way back in the corner. Sip my usual coffee, lukewarm and black and slightly better than dishwater. And Brenda’s here, of course. With her pushed-up cleavage and her crooked smile. But she can tell I’m not right. Even though I keep telling her I am. Fine. That word you use when you really mean anything but.
I ask Brenda to turn the TV off, because I’ve already seen it. And once was enough. Mr. Vinetti and I had watched it on the set in his office after Maroni got the call. He’d been in the middle of Shake Down Butch Calder, Part Deux, when his phone had buzzed again. “Shoot-out at the Blue Bird,” he’d told Munroe. “Multiple victims.” And then they’d left like somebody lit a fire under them, taking the lockbox and my dignity with them.
Stick to the routine. So I force a bite of the waffle before it goes cold. Chew, swallow, and repeat, eggs this time. Ignore the rubbery taste of worry that coats my tongue and makes everything bitter.
She’s alive. I know that much. And only thanks to the Channel Five news.
The victims have been identified as Oakland natives Trey Waters and Matthias Granger. Both men were wanted in connection with a recent homicide, after two bodies were discovered on their property in rural Pinole. A female at the scene was reportedly held against her will and suffered minor injuries. Police have not released her name.
After the report, I’d broken down and called Evie’s mother-in-law. No answer. And I wasn’t brave enough to leave a message.
Brenda tops off my cup and lingers. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it, Butch? You seem troubled.”
I shake my head. But then, I reconsider. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Per reentry prep, lesson two. Throw out a lifeline. “You said your dad went to prison?”
“Sure did.” She slides in the booth opposite me, her smile tinged with sadness. Just like I’d expect. “Armed robbery. He went in when I was two. By the time he got out, I was seventeen and pregnant. Can you imagine?”
Actually, I could. Whole lives stopped and started. Wars were fought and won. Trends came and went and came again. And all the while, I sat in a box, waiting for my second chance. And now that I had it, sometimes it felt wrong. Like more than I deserved. “So how long before he felt normal again?”
“Normal.” She tosses her head back and laughs. A little rusty. Like it’s the first time in a while. Like she’s forgotten what it feels like. It’s infectious, so I laugh too. “Ain’t no such thing, hon. No such thing. But you’ve got a great laugh. I’d like to hear more of that.”
Behind her, the door opens. And Brenda can see it on my face—excitement or elation or just plain relief. Whatever it is, she turns to look. Then she scoots out of the booth and pats my shoulder. Gives a soft sigh. “Guess this seat’s taken.”
Evie heads for the table. For me.
I take her inventory—a nasty cut on her lip, a bruise on her cheekbone, hands that won’t stop shaking, and the ring Trey stole on her finger. But she’s okay. She’s safe. And that’s my one good thing.
Before I can decide what to do next, my feet carry me up and out of my seat. Arms invite her in, and somehow—standing there, holding her—this ex-con in the Chicken and Waffles feels brand new.
“I knew you’d be here,” she says, a faint lift of her lip. Barely a smile. But then, it broadens. “And by the looks of Brenda, I got here just in time.”
“Evie.” I pull away and meet her eyes—green as the first patch of grass I’d walked on barefoot. I’m not sure where to start. With the license? The lockbox? The tree? Cassie? And I know there are things she wants to say too. Her face is full of them.
It’s like the last scene in a movie when the music kicks in. And I know just the right song too. KISS, of course. But every time I look at you, no matter what I’m goin’ through, it’s easy to see. And every time I hold you, the things I never told you, seem to come easily.
So, I need to go first.
Before the credits roll and I lose my nerve.
“I have a confession to make.”
Butch
May 13, 1994
After I killed her
How did you feel right afterward? A psych doctor had asked me that once.
Bad, I’d said. Really bad. And then I’d wanted a take back. To say instead, What kind of a stupid, goddamned question is that? Because, when it came to Gwen, to what I’d done, words were empty shells, hollow husks.
I could have said I felt nothing—just static in my head—but that wasn’t right either. Finally, I’d settled on it. It was like a power surge, I’d added, prompting an encouraging nod from the shrink. As if she understood. As if she could ever understand. Every emotion all at once. Full bore, full blast. A total blackout. And then, panic. Only panic.
Tell me more, she’d said.
Gwen slumped in the passenger seat, so still, head leaning against the window. Her strapless dress, gone askew in the struggle. One side of her bra exposed. Black lace. I tugged her dress back up. Righted her. Put two fingers on her neck. Don’t look, don’t look. Because my hands had left marks, raw and red. Gentle this time. Gentle, Butchy. Hoping—no—begging. The soul-on-its-knees kind.
Please, God.
Please, God.
Please.
“Gwen. Wake up.” I shook her by the shoulders. Limp as a rag doll. “Gwen.”
Tapped her face. Still warm.
Uncurled her fingers, balled in fists.
Said her name a hundred times. Wailed it, sobbed it until my throat hurt. Nothing changed. Nothing fixed.
Imagine the worst mistake you’ve ever made. Multiple by infinity. Start there.
****
I am so fucked.
Russ knows Gwen left with me. My prints, all over her. Hers, all over the ’Cuda. My skin started to buzz. Like I’d touched a live wire. All the feeling coming back.
I’ve gotta get out of here. I’ve gotta get rid of it.
And by it, I meant her. Gwen. Rid of it. That’s what I needed to be. And now.
I could put it in the water, sink it. Yes.
I drove up, as close as I could get to the water’s edge. Flung open the car door, got out, and went to the other side.
I pulled it out like a sack of cement and dropped it there.
And the water lapped, black as oil. But cold, so cold. I knew it would be. Deep, maybe. But not deep enough. Not nearly deep enough.
I am so fucked.
I squatted down to drag it to the water. To let it float away. And I wanted to float away with it. To lie on my back in the ocean and stare at the sky. To feel the water cover my face. To anchor to the bottom. Both of us, at peace.
A sound pricked my ears, paraly
zing me. A car, coming down the road. This way.
Leave it. Just leave it.
And I did. Backed up, peeled out. As fast as I could. As fast as the ’Cuda would go. So fast, I barely felt the bump.
Later, they’d ask me, Why did you run her over?
****
The idea came to me—a revelation, really—as soon as I hit Broadway, doing seventy in a thirty. It flashed bright, urgent as a stop sign. And I wondered why I hadn’t done it before. Before tonight. Before this. I’d thought of it. Of course, I had. But I’d been too chickenshit to pull the trigger.
I want to die.
Four words. And I couldn’t get them out of my head. They demanded action. Compelled it. It needed to happen. Now.
I sped up a little, revving the engine. Unbuckled my seat belt.
I want to die.
Aimed the nose of the ’Cuda at the nearest utility pole. That would do the trick.
I want to die.
Let the clutch out and floored it. At the last second, just before impact, three things happened.
I saw my Dad’s face. Mom and Jesse too.
I closed my eyes.
I changed my mind.
****
That’s where I’d always stopped the story. It seemed as good a place as any. But, you already know, it wasn’t the end. There’s no such thing.
My head had split in two, right down the middle. That’s how it’d felt. When I’d touched it, my fingers had come back wet and red. And my vision had blurred. Adrenaline had spiked my blood, and my hands had begun to tremor with the shock of it all.
I’m alive. There was no joy though.
I’d swerved, hit the brakes last second. And the whole right side of the ’Cuda had taken the blow. The door had bent inward. The utility pole had cracked. Electrical wires had drooped toward the road, sparking.
Sirens—behind me, inside me—even in the beat of my heart. So I’d had to hurry.
To what? To where? I didn’t know.
I’d pushed open the door, surprised at my body. The strength of it, still.
“Are you alright?” A man’s voice. A voice I’d ignored, because he couldn’t have helped me. No one could have. Even as every part of me, right down to the cells, screamed no.
I’d climbed out and started running, and the voice had yelled after me. It’d felt good to run. Lungs puffing, heart pounding, just like always. Same old Butch Calder. Like nothing had gone wrong. Like I hadn’t gone wrong. All the way wrong.
Down Broadway, I’d hung a right on Jackson. Without thought or reason. Just legs carrying me away. The street had been near perfect—deserted and dark. I was nobody, just like Trey had said. Just a man in silhouette. Faceless.
I could’ve kept running forever on a street like that.
But forever doesn’t last. A park up ahead. Noise and shadows. So I’d sprinted to the other side and drew my jacket up over my face, hiding. Thinking I could still get away. That there could be life after this.
The shadows had taken shape like the beginning of a dream. A man straddling, his back strained with wanting. A body struggling beneath him. A tree with a girl in it. Not a dream after all. A nightmare. Mine.
“Hey, mister! Help us, please!” By the voice, I’d known it was Evie. The girl who’d already lost so much. The girl I’d made promises to. “Please!”
A choice had been made then. I’d made a choice. To stay hidden—shrouded in my jacket, with the Tiffany box rattling like a millstone in my pocket. To keep running. Running. Running.
Hoping maybe, just maybe, someday, I’d be fast enough to outrun myself.
Sebastian
January 23, 2017
Ten days after I killed her
I arrive early for Monday’s group, skin throbbing. Practically aroused. Because Butch found the lockbox last week. Dug it up like a good little boy, just like I’d expected him to. And mum’s the word—he hasn’t said a thing about it. As if I don’t know. He thinks he’s so clever. Poor sap.
Now that I’d told them what I’d seen last Friday—who I’d seen—it will happen soon. “I’m sorry, Detective. I was too scared to come forward. I thought I’d get in trouble.” It could even happen today. It could happen here. But that almost seems too much to hope for. And I’m not greedy. I only take what I need. What I absolutely need.
The others arrive—all of them—and fill the chairs in the waiting room, but I keep my head down, afraid I might get a fit of giggles and give myself away. If I still had my book, I’d open it and stare at Sasha for a while. Let the longing feelings come and go, come and go, like the ebb of the tide. I wonder if she still feels it too. She must.
Dr. Maddox opens the door, invites us in. I take the seat next to her, across from the window, with a view of the parking lot and that tree she’s obsessed with. She nods at me, and I nod back. Her blouse is open—two buttons undone today—and sheer enough to see the line of her bra strap across her shoulder. Her makeup is different too. Heavier on her cheeks. Like she’s hiding something. I look without looking. Careful not to get caught.
I’m always careful. Except when I’m not. Some things are meant to be, urge card be damned. And some things just can’t be helped. Like with Roland, for example. Sasha’s prick boyfriend. He’d walked in on us, Sasha and me. He didn’t understand. No one did. I would never hurt her. I hadn’t expected to hit him so hard, so many times. Hadn’t expected his soft skull to crack and open like an eggshell. But it had. And what else could be done? He’d been beyond saving. Humpty Dumpty. His pieces wouldn’t go back together, even if I’d wanted them to.
“Good morning, guys.” I smile at Dr. Maddox as she greets us. It is a good morning. An especially good one. “I’m sorry I missed last Friday, but I hope you enjoyed Dr. Richards.” I stifle a scoff. Dr. Stick-up-the-Ass is more like it. A total stuff shirt. “Should we start with check-ins?”
I fucking hate check-ins. But I feel generous today. “I’ll go first,” I say, savoring each word as it leaves my tongue. “The cops came by the house on Friday night. Apparently, they found some new evidence in the murder of that girl and wanted to question a few of us.” A few, meaning me. “At first, it made me nervous. Then I realized I have nothing to hide.”
An accident. A total misunderstanding. That’s all it was. Scout’s honor. From behind, she’d looked exactly like my Sasha, lithe and auburn-haired and shimmering in the light by Dr. Maddox’s office.
“What’re you doing?” I’d called to her, knowing I’d caught her at something. Bad girl. And she’d cursed, scampered down the steps like a scared little rabbit. Though she wasn’t scared of me. Yet.
“Wait.” And she’d stopped and turned to me. I’d been disappointed. Not my Sasha after all. Just a cheap replica. Worse. I know a hooker when I see one. But I was hard up. And she would do. “Are you looking for Dr. Maddox?”
She’d nodded her head and came closer. Licked her red lips like she’d been daring me to cover them with my own, just the way Sasha used to do. “I need to talk to her.”
“I know her. Maybe I can help you.” I’d smiled at her. My Piggy smile. Sheepish, nervous. Jack, well-hidden underneath.
And she’d relaxed. I had posed no threat. “Maybe.”
“You remind me of my girlfriend.” It just came out. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Ex-girlfriend, I mean.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sasha.” A name that belonged only to me. It had sounded wrong to say it out loud, to give it to her.
And worse out of her filthy mouth. “Sasha,” she’d repeated. “It’s a pretty name. Why’d you break up?”
“Extenuating circumstances.” Like she’d know what those big words meant. She was probably a high school dropout. “Her dad didn’t approve.”
She’d made a pouty face, and I had to pinch myself. Slow myself
down. Because she looked so young and pliable. She’d do whatever I wanted. “Why are you looking for Dr. Maddox?”
Oh, my fault for asking, because she’d gotten all teary-eyed. Killed my buzz like a wet blanket. “It’s a long story. My mom knows—knew—her. And there’s this guy. Well, he’s my dad actually, and I’m kind of—”
Blah, blah, blah. “Do you think maybe I could kiss you?”
She’d blinked up at me, surprised. Disappointed. That whore was disappointed in me. Like she was a prize.
“I don’t think so,” she’d said. “I only just met you.”
And then my stepfather had started talking in my head, the way he always did. How I’d never get a girl as good as his Sasha. How I’d better toughen up, buck up. Stop being such a pussy.
“You don’t get to say no.” My voice is hard, and so am I. “You’re a fucking prostitute.”
Alright, maybe it hadn’t been a total accident. But I’d never meant to take it that far. And she’d been just as much to blame, running like she did.
Dr. Maddox moves to the whiteboard, starts writing. I settle in and watch. Thirty seconds of obstructed viewing time. I’d missed the other check-ins. A damn shame because I’d wanted to hear his last. If it happened today. Which it might.
“We’re going to pick up where we left off on Wednesday. Responsible sexual behavior.”
The way she says it you can tell she’s hot for someone. Maybe another shrink like her or a lawyer. Definitely an asshole. Because chicks like her dig assholes, even assholes that smack them around a little. That would explain Friday’s absence. And the makeup.
I feel sorry for Butch. It’s pathetic how he thinks he’s got a chance with her. A woman like that needs to be wined and dined before she puts out. Chicken and Waffles ain’t gonna cut it, buddy. But, hey, maybe she’ll give him a pity lay. Either way, I’m glad I didn’t pin it on him like I’d planned. Because I’m actually starting to like the guy.
Butch and me, we’re a lot alike. We both got a raw deal. Wasting our best years in the clink. And we don’t deserve to go back. We’ve done enough time. More than enough. Good thing there’s more than one way to skin a cat.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 67
