City of Saviors, page 20
Ike’s pulse jumped in his neck. “Huh? I didn’t? I thought you said . . . I know I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” I turned to Colin. “You tell him?”
Colin shook his head.
I shrugged.
The man’s lips sputtered like a carp on dry land. “Guess I assumed how he died since we were talking about food at the picnic. I figured that he, you know, ate something bad.” He chuckled, and that chuckle sounded fake, like “other natural flavors” found in fruit juice. But then, again, on Friday nights around seven fifteen, I’m usually an asshole and so everything sounded fake.
I pointed my pen at him. “Speaking of Washington eating . . .”
“He got any unconventional appetites?” Colin asked. “Strange things he likes to eat?”
“Besides him eating old food?” Ike shrugged, then said, “May I ask . . . ? Why am I here? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“All these questions come standard with death investigations,” I said with a smile. “Just like my next request.”
Colin pushed forward the fingerprinting kit.
Ike’s eyes narrowed. “But I was over at Gene’s all the time. My prints are gonna be everywhere.”
Colin gave him gun fingers. “Exactly. So when we find prints that aren’t yours, we’re one step closer to solving the puzzle.”
Ike nodded. “So how did Gene die then?”
“He died from anaphylactic shock,” I said. “He ate something he shouldn’t have eaten.”
Ike’s shaky hand covered his mouth and his eyes filled with tears. “What did he eat?”
“Can’t tell you that,” I said. “So: You’ve noticed that we’re digging all around Mr. Washington’s property.”
“Uh huh.” Ike dabbed at his wet cheeks with the heels of his hands. “Hopefully, y’all find what you’re looking for.”
“About that,” Colin said.
“Oswald Little,” I said.
Ike nodded. “Oz is one of my oldest, dearest friends.”
“We hear that he had a bad car accident several years ago,” Colin said.
“Uh huh.” Ike then told us about the trip up Highway 5, the icy road on the Grapevine, and the four-car pileup. “You know, Oz came out of that with a renewed spirit. But his body . . . He had to retire earlier than he’d planned. Couldn’t do the day to day anymore, not with his injuries.”
Colin shifted in his chair. “So say we dig tomorrow at Gene’s house. Will we, like, find Oz buried in the garage?”
Ike’s eyes bugged, and he laughed. “You’re a funny guy.” He shook his head and laughed some more. “You’re gonna find dead cats, maybe a raccoon. But you ain’t gonna find Oz anywhere near Gene’s house.”
“But we found his hands there,” I pointed out.
That didn’t knock the smile off Ike’s face. “Trust me. Oz ain’t there.”
“You live where?” I asked.
“I’ve been living over at Oz’s. It’s just easier that way because of . . . you know.” He made crab-claw hands. “Lemme tell you: we had no clue that Gene stole them hands. Why the heck would he do something like that? Who’d want somebody else’s hands? That makes absolutely not one lick of sense. But then you’ve seen Gene’s house.”
“How did Oz lose his hands?” I asked.
“You ain’t gonna believe this.” Ike’s finger traced the etched letters of ROLLING 60S on the wood table. “You asked me if Gene had a strange appetite. Two years ago, Oz ate some weird type of fish. Now, Oz—there’s your man, you wanna talk strange. Anyway, he ate the strange fish, got sick, and finally went to the hospital. Doctors found all kinds of bacteria floating around his body, brought there by that fish. It’s some Japanese fish—I don’t know. Anyway, Oz is sitting there in the exam room, and his hands and feet start turning purple. Right there in the room, gangrene was setting in, and the doctors just couldn’t believe it. So they told him, ‘If you wanna live, we gotta cut off your hands and feet.’ Flesh-eating bacteria—that’s what took his limbs.”
“You’re right,” I said, eyes wide, “I don’t believe it.” On my pad, I scribbled, Check hands for bacteria??
“You’re shitting me, Ike,” Colin said.
Ike held up a hand as though he was taking an oath. “I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. He woulda died right there in that exam room. Wasn’t no other way but to cut ’em off.” Ike chuckled, then sighed. “Oz was always doin’ that, eating exotic stuff. That’s cuz he travel all the time. Sure as hell didn’t think Gene woulda taken . . .” He shrugged. “Oz don’t get out much now, even with his prosthetics. Real nice ones, too—he can afford ’em. Don’t travel abroad unless he has to. He’s embarrassed.”
Colin nodded. “Understandable.”
“First, the car accident,” I said, “and then hands and feet chopped off cuz of bad sashimi.”
“Yeah,” Ike said. “It gets him down sometimes.”
“Oz is a mason, correct?” I asked.
Ike nodded. “But he hasn’t been active since the operation.”
“And he’d just toss his ring like that?” Colin asked.
Ike blinked. “His ring?”
“His mason’s ring,” I said. “It’s still on the left hand.”
Ike shrugged. “Maybe, since he stopped going, he doesn’t care about it anymore.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “Will Oz be able to get that back? The ring? If he wanted it?”
“After we no longer need it,” I said, “I’m sure he can. I’ll be happy to deliver it to him myself.”
“Is Oz alive, Mr. Underwood?” Colin asked.
“Most definitely,” Ike said. “He’s in Belize right now—that’s where he’s originally from. His mother, Raquel, passed away last week, but he’s been down there for months now cuz she’d been sick. We can call him if you’d like.”
I slid my cell phone over to him. “Sure. Let’s call.”
“Does he know that Gene died?” Colin asked.
Ike nodded as he dialed.
I studied him, looking for shaky hands, or a sweaty brow. Nothing.
The line rang . . . and rang.
My stomach tightened, and something in me reached like hands wanting to touch Oz and confirm that he was real.
The room grew cold, and now my metal chair worked my tail bone. I dusted flecks of soundproof foam off the table, then swiped my hand on the leg of my jeans.
Ike whispered to us, “He’s not answering. Should I leave a message for him to call you?”
I nodded.
“Oz, hey,” Ike said into the phone. “Listen, I’m still working on Gene’s house, and guess what? He had your hands in all that mess. Yeah, I don’t know how he got ’em since the doctors were supposed to have thrown ’em away. Maybe he paid somebody or something . . . But you know Gene—if there’s a will, there’s a way. Anyway, a coupla detectives wanna speak to you. An Elouise Norton and a Colin Taggert. Could you give them a call as soon as possible at . . . ?” Ike read my number off the business card I’d given him, then ended the call. “It’s a little late now,” he said to us. “Belize is two hours ahead.”
“That’s not much of a time difference,” I said.
“For an old man with health issues, it is.” Ike grinned at me. “You’re just a kid, so you don’t understand.”
“We’ll probably have more questions for you after we talk with Mr. Little,” I said.
Ike’s face brightened. “Anything to help.” Then, he waggled his fingers. “So you still want my prints?”
32
AFIS WAS DOWN AGAIN.
The fingerprinting system’s crash brought tears to my eyes—this case was killing me.
Yes, my work always affected my worldview. This one, though, with the trash, the hands, the hoard? Its evil was like tentacles that puckered at and stung my skin. This evil was real and tangible, with smells and jagged dark things. And as I drove home, I grew convinced that behind every closed door, at every home address, were secret piles of junk worse than the ones we already acknowledged. That husband wasn’t just mean to his wife—he beat and kicked her ’til she lost consciousness. That mom wasn’t only a drunk, she undressed in front of her teenage son and climbed next to him in bed.
As I veered off Jefferson Boulevard and onto my crooked street, my own junk—tangible, emotional, psychological—crowded my mind. Not necessarily Eugene Washington’s level of collecting, but there were countless broken things in my life that I continued to keep but no longer needed. Spaces that would never see light, not over my dead body. Shit I didn’t even know about—or that I told myself didn’t exist.
No one knew that I was home. A moment away from forty years old and trained in martial arts and weaponry, I didn’t need a babysitter. I could take care of myself.
Can you? Really? Did Eugene Washington say the same thing after accumulating that first pile of crap?
There it was again. Self-doubt dressed as reflection.
That now-familiar lump crowded my throat—See? You’re weak. A baby. I swallowed and sent that knot to my stomach.
Why was I feeling this way? What was wrong with me?
Eyes closed, I let the hot spray from the showerhead beat my overworked muscles. The day’s filth sluiced off of me and swirled at my feet. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sit somewhere and just . . . weep.
My head pounded as my skull squeezed my aching brain. I opened the drawer and the vial of Percocet rolled to the front. With clumsy fingers, I plucked out two pills, then placed both on my tongue.
Winter had come.
I strapped the blood pressure cuff around my bicep.
The machine beeped three times: 138/90.
Back to where I’d started.
Something needed to change.
“I’ll call Dr. Popov on Monday,” I told my bedraggled reflection.
He would be disappointed. More disappointed, though, if I had a stroke on his watch.
I pulled on a fleecy sweatshirt, then took my phone out to the deck. The temperature had dropped as the sun abandoned us for Asia. Now, the steel-blue sky twinkled with stars and the blinking white light of airplanes. The shadows of couples walking hand in hand along the shore filled me with acid and envy.
I hated them. I hated the people on the planes. I wanted . . .
something.
The 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon from the central coast of California—that’s what I wanted. I wanted to laugh again. To sleep soundly through the night. To know that I was okay. Because everything was supposed to be okay. I’d followed the rules. I’d caught my share of bad guys. I’d remained faithful and loyal and hardworking. Yet . . .
The dull stupor that came with Percocet shrouded me as I left the patio. My mind still pitched from Eugene Washington’s case to leaving Los Angeles with Sam to that bottle of Joel Gott sitting on the counter beside the big bag of Doritos. I ignored the wine but grabbed the bag of tortilla chips and a Limonata from the pack Greg had brought. I dragged to the living room and turned on the television to avoid the silence, to keep from admitting that the quiet scared me.
Bewitched . . . Girl Meets World . . . The Walking Dead . . .
On HGTV, a couple hunted for a home in beautiful Costa Rica.
Fine.
Dominic had texted. Hey, baby.
I sighed, then blocked his number. “No more, don’t wanna,” I whispered, then aimed the remote control at the television. If I was going to hate-watch TV, I preferred something less topical. Like Sanford and Son. Lamont was dating a woman who hadn’t told him about her divorce and her young son.
My phone vibrated again, but now my limbs had gained weight and couldn’t move. My body sank deeper into the couch cushions.
Fred was now working at a restaurant . . . Bubba came by . . . Tide detergent . . . Yoplait . . . snoring . . . so tired . . . so . . .
Thwump!
I bolted upright from the couch. My pulse raced like a bird trying to escape a cage. My eyes darted around the living room. The television was still on—227 had replaced Sanford and Son. The floor lamp in the corner still burned, and a cobweb floated in the golden light. The empty Doritos bag had fallen from the couch to the hardwood floor.
The thwump had come from . . . I couldn’t tell where it had come from, but it sounded as though someone had hit a door with a wet mop.
Am I dreaming?
That was the other possibility.
Frozen on the couch, I tried to hear past the rush of blood in my ears. My eyes moved around the room as my mind tried to wake up, to make sense of a very real thing.
Maybe someone kicked the door.
The room was shaking.
I was shaking.
Maybe, it’s . . . I stood, then crept to the front door. Peeped out the peephole.
Lit porch. No one there.
I turned back to the living room.
My bag sitting on the armchair . . . Marla Gibbs dispensing advice to Sandra . . . the almost-empty Limonata can sitting dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table . . .
“I’m losing my mind,” I whispered. “I’m finally—”
Over at the patio door, a crimson splatter stained the glass and was dripping down the pane.
Is that . . . blood?
I slid open the glass door. The salty scent of ocean enveloped me, and a thick breeze tickled my ears. Down at my bare feet, on the bleached wood, lay a sea gull. Its neck was twisted into a U. Blood stained its gray and snowy-white feathers.
“Oh no,” I muttered. “No no no no no.”
Mariners were cursed if they killed an albatross. Were there folktales about dead gulls? Would I be punished even though this accident was not my fault? Did I now need the additional psychic burden of a dead animal placed on my back?
Sure.
The gull wavered before me—I was crying. Even though Percocet had taken away the hurt, something inside of me remained broken. My warm, fat tears beaded atop the bird’s feathers as I wept out there on the patio, as I wept until I had nothing left.
Spent, I scooped the bird into an empty shoebox, then carried it down to the beach. The ocean licked my feet, and I shivered and waited for the last couples to kiss and to piggyback ride away from me. Alone at last, I swung the box.
The bird glided through the air, then splashed somewhere out there in the foamy deep.
I lingered beneath the moonlight a few minutes more. Inhaled that soft scent of sea wood and sea life, of cigarettes and bonfires. Icy water rushed around my ankles and sand shifted beneath my toes. As the ocean pulled me closer to its darkness, a voice whispered that I should just do it, that I do the unthinkable. It won’t hurt if you just give up.
I moved back one step, then another step, and then another until my feet touched dry sand again. “No. I won’t go.”
There was nothing out there beyond the waves for me.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
33
IT WAS SATURDAY MORNING, AND MY THIRD HOUR LAYING AWAKE IN BED, THE THIRD hour I had watched shadows twist and play on my ceilings and walls. I should’ve popped Unisom, but that thought came in the middle of the second hour. At six o’clock, the sun glowed like a dying flashlight through my bedroom curtains. My eyes burned as though I’d pulled an all-nighter at a crime scene. I felt like I’d been run over by elephants and a thousand Shriners in little cars. I should’ve reached for the phone and called in sick.
I didn’t.
Stumbled to the bathroom, bedroom, and closet. Pulled on gray slacks and a black T-shirt. The material scratched my skin like hay and cornflakes. Stood in front of the fridge but didn’t wanna eat anything there or anywhere. Since this was my last day before vacation, I threw my hands up and said, “Fuck it.” Chased a Vicodin with two gulps of tap water. Grabbed my guns, holsters, and bag, no more awake or aware than I’d been brushing my teeth.
The doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch: it was ten minutes before seven. It was the right day of the week but too early in the morning for a visit from neighborhood Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons.
As I opened the door, waves of muggy heat rolled in and puffed my shirt.
My mother, Georgia, and her boyfriend, Martin Paysinger, stood on the porch as crisp and sweet smelling as an April morning. Mom held a potted yellow orchid in her hands. Together, they sang, “Good morning!”
Wide-eyed, I said, “Hi.”
Mom’s smile faltered as she considered her white pants. That grin brightened again as she shrugged, and said, “I’m in California, Elouise, and I want to wear white pants. And it’s not Labor Day yet, so hush.” She handed me the orchid. “Happy housewarming!”
Martin, wearing khaki cargo shorts and leather flip-flops, held up a bag from Noah’s Bagels. “We brought breakfast, too.”
Across the street, joggers canted around the sun-flecked lagoon. Over in the grassy area, a group of seniors slowly moved their arms and legs for morning tai chi. The white disk in the sky beat down on all of us, promising a high today of a hundred degrees in the basin.
Mom’s smile faltered again. “Are . . . are you alone?”
My cheeks warmed at her round-the-way query about my sex life. “Yeah. Yes. Come in.”
Mom’s scent of coconut and vanilla combined with Martin’s oniony bagels to permeate the foyer.
“Even a mole would say it’s too dark in here, ladybug,” Mom complained.
I sat the orchid on the coffee table, then yanked open the drapes.
Martin unpacked the Noah’s bag—bagels, cream cheese, lox, onions, tomatoes, and capers.
Mom regarded the hallway that led to the bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t have company?”
I shook my head. “Just me.”
Relieved, her shoulders slumped. She pulled a greeting card from her handbag. “This is for you.”
I took the envelope. “I’ll have to open it later cuz—”
“It ain’t War and Peace,” Mom cracked.
Glitter and “love” and bluebirds filled the front of the card. Mom’s assured cursive filled the inside.
The world is a better place because of you. Even with everything that’s happened, I am the luckiest mother in the world. I have finally found peace, love, and acceptance—and it’s all because of you. I am so proud of you, ladybug. You’re so brave, so selfless, so uniquely you. Stay strong. Love you more, Mom.
