Trace the Dead Eye

by Steven D. Bennett

CHAPTER TWELVE

  MEETING

  After a few minutes of slapping Teresa awake I managed to get her to her feet, and if that’s not friendship

  Even after the two hours sleep she’d gotten she was still lethargic. It was a lazy afternoon quickly becoming a dusky evening, another day without my family which brought rising resentment. But I needed her involvement to implement my plan. I jumped into her legs and kept her walking until the drowsiness wore off and she was moving under her own strength. By then it had occurred to her that she had no reason to be going home and was ready to turn back to her beat, but a little pressure applied to the bladder gave her ample reason to finish the journey, as home was now in view.

  All the while I was talking to her:

  "You need to pack your things, you need to get out of the bungalow, get away, get gone, be free."

  I searched her mind for the memory from before, the one of her and her father in the back yard. I didn't find it, but another image came, somewhat similar. A back yard, blue sky, a little girl playing with a kitten in tall grass, the wind blowing her long brown hair coolly from behind. The faceless girl smiling at the simple antics of the cat as it jumped and pounced on the moving weeds.

  "You need to go back there," I told her. "Back to that freedom, back to that peace. Paradise."

  But there was no connection. As the cat frolicked, the sound of a can opener could be heard. The cat perked its ears and ran toward a house and disappeared into a rubber pet door leading inside. It ran through the kitchen to a dish being filled by a woman emptying a can’s contents as another voice spoke.

  “Healthy Cat, the only cat food with all natural ingredients, sure to keep your pet one happy cat.”

  It was an old television commercial, stuck in the midst of other memories, and my nudging had been in vain. After we got back to the bungalow all Teresa did was pee, make a sandwich, and sit at the table to eat.

  A car's lights lit the parking lot, scraping bottom as it bounced to a park. I looked out to see Jim get out of an old grey car, one that should have been put out to pasture in the 50's. Grey was not the original color; someone had primed the body and decided it looked good enough. It dieseled until dying as he entered the bungalow.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, walking into the bedroom, back to the living room, not looking at Teresa, looking everywhere else. Finally he made eye contact. "Have you seen any bugs in here?”

  “What?”

  He stared at her, then growled. “What are you doing?"

  She watched him distantly. "Eating."

  He tapped his left heel against the floor. "Why aren't you out?"

  "I was," she said, leaning back. "But I met somebody. We started talking–“

  ”Who?”

  “Just some old woman.”

  Jim took a quick step and stopped, his fingers clenching and straightening. "Talking to old women ain't why you're out there. How much money you got?"

  "Thirty-five."

  "Thirty-five, thirty-five." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Thirty-five is nothing. Am I the only one working around here?"

  "Where’d you get the car?”

  Jim glanced out the window. “Stole it.” He paused. "It’s a friend’s. Gimmie the money."

  She hesitated. I could see her mind working. Maybe some of the thoughts I'd given her had made an impression.

  Jim took the gun from his pocket and waved it through the air. It made him look foolish rather than threatening. "I won't ask again."

  She straightened in her chair as she felt herself for the money. "Where did you get that?"

  "Same friend. He comes in handy sometimes. Whenever I need a favor.”

  Teresa turned away. "You're scaring me."

  He seemed suddenly embarrassed and awkward. He loosened his grip and the pistol dropped to point at the floor. His voice sounded empty now. "Just give me the money."

  She did. He stuffed it into his pants pocket and went out. I watched him drive out, flipping on his lights as he headed toward the street. The two large taillights glowed like the back of an amusement park rocket, burning in a night's flight. My chest was tight as I ran out after him.

  Even death has its limitations. I couldn't move as fast as Jim could drive and I lost him more than a few times in the darkening streets. But luck, instinct or divine direction kept me choosing the right turns in time to see the car's back lights a few blocks ahead. It pulled into a city park's parking lot and I walked the last hundreds of feet toward it, catching my breath.

  Jim got out and walked off. He had parked as far as possible from the two other cars there, both nearer the well-lit basketball court. Six young boys and a dozen middle-aged men were playing games on the two courts, and squeaks and grunts filled the fenced-in area. A woman was pushing a little girl on a swing just outside the court in the sandy playground while another young girl sat sifting that same sand through her fingers. There were two baseball fields, one close, the other on the far side, both meeting at conjoined outfield grass. A few acres made up the rest of the park with large umbrella elms spaced equally apart. Bordering it all was a four foot hedge with a six foot fence giving privacy to the homes behind. Near the closer diamond was a small brick bathroom with red tile roof, which was Jim's destination.

  I found him in the second stall; I recognized the shoes. He was having a hard time of it so I waited outside. After a few minutes he staggered out, spitting and coughing, and walked stiffly to a tree to lean against it in relief. He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips, fished around his pants and came out with a lighter. He lit it with shaky hands and inhaled, keeping his eyes on the lot.

  A dark sedan pulled in and parked beside Jim's car. The lights went out and a door opened. Jim took the cigarette from his lips and flicked it onto the grass. He slipped his right hand into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He made sure it was loaded, safety off, put it back and walked toward the car.

  I gave him a few strides so I could take in the whole scene. The man from the sedan was trying to be casual as he scanned the park. When he saw Jim he tried being even more casual, though his pace quickened. Jim motioned with his head, nodding toward a table furthest from people. They approached it from different directions and stood with backs to all as if to conduct private business. The man’s mannerisms and movements seemed familiar, especially from behind, and as I came up to them and I heard them speak I stopped in mid-stride.

  If I had eaten that week I would have thrown up.

  It was Brent Hewitt.

  "Glad you could make it."

  "Let's finish this."

  The man put his hand into his pocket. Jim did the same. Hewitt took out an envelope. Jim relaxed. My head was numb as if someone were hitting it with a bat.

  Brent Hewitt, married seventeen years to Brenda, my last client. She had hired me to gather evidence of said husband's infidelity, which I supplied while supplying her ample evidence of her own, right up to the night I was murdered in front of their house. If the person hitting my head ever stopped, everything would fall into place. At the moment they were swinging away.

  Jim was counting money.

  "It’s a thousand," Hewitt said bitterly.

  "Just making sure. I wouldn't want anyone to be cheated."

  Hewitt glared. "How long do you think I'll keep paying you?"

  Jim smiled. "How long do you want to stay out of jail?"

  "Nobody would believe you."

  "Maybe not." He put the money back into the envelope. "But you think somebody would, or else you wouldn't be here. And I wouldn't have this." He waved the envelope in Hewitt's face and stuffed it into his pants.

  "You're the one who killed him."

  Jim laughed. "Prove it. I was home that night, all night, right where I was supposed to be. I have witnesses. Where were you that night?"

  Hewitt was steaming. "This won't go on forever."

  "With all the money you have," Jim said, "it might."
>
  "Believe me, it won't. If I have to I'll--"

  Jim pulled the gun out of his pocket and held it level with the to of the table. "Don't threaten me, don't ever threaten me. I’ve got nothing to live for. It would be easy to pull the trigger."

  Hewitt swallowed hard, looking straight. "And lose a thousand a month?"

  Jim lowered the gun and smiled. "You see, it's a stalemate. We need each other."

  Jim stood, put the gun in his pants, and made a half turn.

  Three sharp pops filled the air and everyone in the park froze, then dropped to the ground together as if they’d had practice. Jim and Hewitt did the same, Brent a little slower and getting a mouthful of grass as he bounced hard on the ground. There was a half-second of immobility as a car sped away, then people scrambled to their feet and ran for their lives.

  Hewitt was doing the same as Jim stood and searched for a wound. Finding none, he began limping away. He stopped and looked at his leg in shock. There was a tiny red rip in his pants and he shrieked as he touched it. Blood came back with his finger and he ran howling to his car. The park had emptied like a lake with a busted dam, and soon it was empty and silent.

  Except for an increasingly loud and rhythmic thumping I eventually traced back to my heart.

  I sat down at the picnic table, trembling. It had all come together, like Rollins had said. A tying of the loose ends, a method to the madness, all neat and tidylike the end of a liquid puzzle when you’ve found the final drop. All the pieces globbed into a neat picture, manifesting in the most roundabout way possible until they were placed, soggy and soaking, right into my lap.

  I had wanted to find out who killed me, but being with Teresa slowed me down. Yet it was all part of another plan as the two paths crossed. Now I had my answers.

  Hewitt had hired Jim to kill me, either because I’d been sleeping with his wife or simply because I’d been gathering evidence against him. Or both. Once that was done, Hewitt assumed it was over, especially since no evidence would ever point to him. But Jim figured he could keep tapping the source, and he was right, though it seemed Hewitt wasn't fond of the idea.

  Nevertheless, Jim putting the squeeze on Hewitt was the last drop of that liquid puzzle of my murder. Now I just had to figure out what to do next. I sat and waited for more clarity and a sense of direction.

  He took his time coming.