at First Sight (2008) (11 page)

Why I did this is anybody's guess . . . some three-hundreddollar-an-hour Beverly Hills shrink would probably say I was trying to confirm my sense of self, or that sex, even self-administered, is a subconcious confirmation of life . . . a validation of my existence. Or maybe I just needed to get my mind off of what I'd done for a few minutes. At any rate, there I was, parked behind the liquor store, looking at shaved pussies, working on a dishonorable discharge.

The problem here is, I couldn't really get hard, which is generally not a problem for me at all. I'm a charter member of the diamond-cutters club. But all I had going here was a modified flounder. I finally did a soft ejaculation and closed the magazine, zipped up, and began looking around to see if I'd been spotted. Then lethargy and despair descended. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the old Chick started heckling me. What's the problem, CB? Can't get a good chubby anymore? The question began to haunt me. Doubts about my own sexuality hovered and I began to wonder if killing Chandler had somehow altered me, taken the pump out of my python.

A friend of mine once boiled man's existence down to one short sentence. "You know what life is all about, Chick?" he asked. "The cars, the houses, the great clothes, the rings and watches . . . Know why guys need all that stuff?"

"Status?" I answered. We'd been drinking in the men's bar at the Jonathan Club, where he was a member.

"No, not status."

"What, then? What's it all about?" I grinned drunkenly, thinking he was about to give me some funny punch line.

"It's about getting laid:' He saluted me with his drink and continued. "Boil it all down and that's all it is. You go out and buy a sexy car or a big pinky diamond. Why? So your brother-in-law will think you're hot shit? No way. All that stuff, everything we do, everything we buy--it's all just about getting laid. Take that outta the equation and life becomes a zero-sum experience?'

It's strange that such monumental truth, such soul-defining wisdom, would be learned in a bar. But I swear, I've held everything I've ever experienced up to that simple equation, and it's bulletproof.

.

No exceptions.

Follow the bouncing ball.

Why did I buy the house in the six hundred block of Elm? Answer: So people would know I had money.

Yeah, but what people, Chick? Ugly people? Old people? Male-type people?

Well, no, not exactly.

So why would I spend three million I don't have, on a house I can't afford . . . put myself into a hole, and cause myself endless sleepless nights? Why do that if I'm not trying to impress the guys I play golf with? Who was I trying to impress?

Yeah, Chick, who?

Well, the house was a great investment. Property values in that neighborhood are . . .

You're lying. Who did you buy it for? Not for Evelyn. She was already married to you. So who? Let's hear it Chick. Stop hedging.

Well . . . I guess I wanted other girls to know I had it.

Yeah, but what girls, Chick? We talkin' porkers here?

No, not porkers. Pretty girls. California beauties. Great-looking west side squid. I bought it so pretty girls would look at me and smile and wish I wasn't married so they could sleep with me. They'd covet what I had and find me desirable, because if you want the absolute truth, I don't find myself all that desirable. I think I'm a loser with nothing I really care about, so I need those things to help prop up my self-esteem--my self-image. My unspoken message is, Take a ride on the Chick Best Express. Maybe once you see everything I have, you'll spread 'em and let me deliver a load.

So that was the whole enchilada. Boil it down and, just like my friend said, everything we do or buy is just about getting laid. So it followed then that I'd killed Chandler Ellis because I wanted to sleep with Paige. Because of that fantasy, I'd committed a murder.

But what if God gets so angry he takes the starch outta my monkey?

What if, from now on, because of psychological stress or guilt, or some other Freudian malady, I'm cursed to limp-dick my way through the rest of my life?

WHAT IF I CAN'T GET IT UP ANYMORE?

I took another deep swig of scotch.

"You've gotta stop drinking so much:" some ghost from my past whispered in my subconscious. Grandma, my father . . . the long gone dot-corn wizard . . . somebody.

I pulled out of the liquor-store parking lot into a brown smoggy day.

You see what I was doing here, don't you?

I was determined to punish myself. Determined to make myself pay a price for what I had done. Losing my hard-on was just about the worst thing that could happen--the worst thing that I could imagine. But back then, twelve hours after I killed Chandler, I thought it was just temporary, a stress-related anomaly. Back then, I still thought I had something to live for. Back then, I was just getting started. It was only the first day of my slow drive through hell.

Chapter
13

PAIGE WOKE UP EACH MORNING AND FOR A SECOND would think everything was fine, but then her memory would return, crashing into her like a rogue wave, knocking her spirit flat, leaving her unable to rise. It left her dead inside, consumed by a feeling of complete loss. She felt used up and hollow. She would often lie in bed for an hour, unable to get up and face the day, looking at the black horizon that was now her future. How could she get up and slog through that darkness day after day?

The intense anger came later.

She would finally make it out of bed and wander into the bathroom, look at her tangled, sleep-tousled hair and tearstained, bloated face. For a moment, she would contemplate what to do with the mess. She generally just ignored it, grabbed for a scrunchie, and pulled her hair back and knotted it. No lipstick, no eye shadow, n
o p
owder. She would then wander downstairs, pale and wan, clutching the banister with a vacant expression, looking like the tragic ghost in a black-and-white movie. Her heart was sinking. She was totally unable to cope.

Each morning her friends showed up to console her--mostly people from the school where she and Chandler taught. Teachers and administrators filled her house wearing anxious expressions. Nobody knew what to say to her, so they mumbled nonsense cliches: "Only the good die young . . . God only takes those who have finished their work." She would nod and whisper her thanks.

They would hold both her hands in theirs and look deeply into her eyes, searching for some spark of life, some evidence that their well-meaning sentiments had raised her spirits. But Paige's eyes remained vacant, her whispered responses hollow.

These interactions were predictable and ultimately useless to her. But she felt an obligation to be there for her friends, to help them with their mission of mercy on her behalf. Without her pretending to be encouraged by their efforts, the whole scene would have been even more hopeless. So Paige made the best of it. As she struggled to entertain them, at least they forced her to point her thoughts outward, away from the suicidal depression that burned inside.

And there were things that needed to be done.

There was a funeral to plan, people to call, out-of-state friends to contact who might not have heard, although everyone must know by now. The network news shows had been running clips for days.

The first forty-eight hours passed in a blur of faces and decisions.

They picked a cemetery and then a gravesite. She bought two--one for herself right next to his. She couldn't wait to fill it.

They picked the clothes that Chandler would wear. Someone stupidly suggested his quarterback jersey. But she would never do that. He had moved way beyond football. She spent an hour in his closet before she finally selected the suit he'd been married in. It hadn't necessarily been his favorite outfit, but it was hers. She loved the way he looked in that suit.

By Wednesday, she had taken care of most of the essentials. She booked a minister, the pastor at their Episcopal church. She picked the pallbearers, mostly people from the school, along with two cousins Chandler had been close to. His best friend in college, a wide receiver named Clarence Rutledge, helped her organize it. She picked the time-2 P
. M
. Saturday. She made hotel reservations for Chandler's mother and father.

She had been reading the Bible, looking for a verse that Chandler liked so she could put it on the cover of the memorial program. She had narrowed it down to a few but hadn't decided on which one yet.

On Wednesday afternoon she went down to the Charlotte Police Department for a meeting with Detective Butler. He was waiting in the lobby with a tight smile. He didn't smile so much with his mouth as he did with his eyes. She liked that. He understood the weight of her grief because he carried it himself.

He didn't hold her hands in both of his and mutter platitudes like her nervous friends at home. He told her she looked very tired.

Honesty. He took her upstairs to a noisy detective squad room and they sat in his cluttered cubicle. There were pictures of a woman with a plain but friendly face displayed in ornately engraved silver frames. In several of the snapshots, older children in their twenties stood next to her. Bob Butler was pawing through a box at his feet, searching for something. He looked up and caught her staring at the photos.

"Is that your late wife?" she asked.

"Yep," he said, and the tight smile returned. "I'm sure you want to get through this as quickly as possible. You told me that Chandler went to the drugstore to get medicine for your back. We found the bottle:' He continued searching the box and finally held up an evidence bag. "This the stuff?" He showed her the plastic bottle full of pills sealed in the baggie.

"Yes, that's it--Darvocet. I have a back problem from running. Normally I get Percocet when it flares up, but Dr. Baker couldn't prescribe it without seeing me again so he prescribed this to hold me over:' She thought she'd already told him that, but repeated it anyway to fill the silence.

"Okay?' He put it back in the box. "Just give it to me quick--by the numbers. He left your house driving the Suburban. Go from there."

"Yes, it was twenty minutes after eleven . . . "

"That doesn't track. The woman who found him in the parking lot called the paramedics. The call was logged in at exactly eleven-twenty. It takes fifteen minutes to get to Walgreens from your house. I know 'cause I drove it. Another five to pick up the meds . . . "

"Right. Then working back, it must have been around eleven when he left."

"Then, what? No calls from him or anything? Like maybe from the car on the way, asking if you needed anything else?"

"No sir."

"Call me Bob."

"Okay."

"Did he ever mention having any enemies?"

"You think somebody did this on purpose?" she asked. The idea had never occurred to her.

"Well, it's never a good idea to take anything at face value. Coulda just been an accident where the driver panicked and took off. Coulda been something more complicated. I like to look at everything."

"Well, no . . . Everybody loved . . . They loved . . . Everybody . . . " She couldn't finish. She felt herself sliding over the edge. Bob saved her.

"You know what I think you need?"

"What?"

"Coffee. Lemme get you a cup." He got up and left her alone to pull herself together. She fought the tears down, battling them like a warrior, finally managing to slam the door hard on her emotions. She wasn't going to come unglued. Not in the office of the man who would try and catch Chandler's killer. That wouldn't help. She wanted this murderer brought to justice. She needed to stay calm and precise because suddenly she had stopped feeling empty. Suddenly, she was filled with a need for vengeance.

And then, the first flash of white-hot anger. Her face burned with rage, and it startled her. For the first time in her life she was angry enough to kill the one who had done this to Chan. The feeling passed, but in its wake Paige was left shaken by the memory of its fury.

Detective Butler was back a few minutes later with two Styrofoam cups full of coffee, packets of sweetener, and nondairy creamer. He lay everything, along with a plastic spoon, down in front of her.

"Is that good?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"Bob"

"Bob."

He smiled at her, with his eyes this time as well as his mouth. "Okay. No enemies?"

"No"

"He taught at North High. Any problems there?"

"No"

"L
. D
. kids. That's like troubled children, right?"

"They're kids with learning problems; they're not troubled. You can talk to them. They loved him, at least most of them did. He .. . he . . . " She started to tear up again. First tears, then rage, now tears again. Get ahold of yourself she thought angrily.

"Okay. Not troubled kids--learning disabled. Got it," Butler said, writing in his notebook. Then he looked up. "And nothing noteworthy or out of the ordinary happened in the day or two leading up to the event?"

She shook her head and he made more notes.

"Okay, that's it for now. Good job."