Cold Dead Past (5 page)

             
                                          CHAPTER 8

Nostalgia washed over Jay as they drove in silence through the streets.  Off of Main Street, nothing seemed to have changed.  New coats of paint, of course, but all the houses were there as he remembered them from those days.

Another sort of memory was brought back by the scent of Meg’s perfume.  It was a mix of roses and cinnamon and something else he had never quite figured out.  It was familiar and comfortable.  Just like the way he felt when he had seen that black hair cut to the shoulder and those piercing blue eyes.

He had started to mentally whip himself over what he had done, giving her up, regretting that he had let another man marry her. Jay couldn’t believe it when she finally broke the silence with three little words.

"Fred’s left me."

It was almost a whisper.  Jay had to lean closer.

"What?"

"He left me, Jay. For a truckstop waitress."

Jay was incredulous, but why hadn’t he seen it at the cemetery?  Gary at her arm.  His heart rate jumped.

 
"I had the real estate business to run. It was taking off so well, what with the new people buying in.  I couldn’t give him what he wanted."

"Oh, and what was that?"

Meg opened her handbag and took out a pack of cigarettes and a small gold lighter.

"Do you mind?"

He shook his head.  She lit up and took a deep drag as she cracked the window. She exhaled a white plume into the cold night air.

"He wanted me home every night.  Wanted dinner on the table when he got home from work.  I’m not that kind of person, you know?"

Jay nodded in agreement.

"Anyway, I came home early one day.  Caught them in our bed.  My bed!"

Through the scent of her, through the whirl of all the new possibilities rushing through his mind, a sudden realization hit Jay. "Hold on a minute.  I’m driving here and don’t even know where we’re going."

Meg laughed. "You know.  My mom and dad’s old place.  I moved in there after the divorce.  They needed someone to watch it while they’re down in Florida.  I moved in when that man left and just stayed."

"Oh. So are they in town now?"

"No. Don’t worry.  You won’t have to run into my dad.  I know how embarrassing that might be for you after what happened between us."

Meg’s father seemed to have taken the breakup even harder than she had.  When Jay had called her to apologize, he’d gotten an earful of blue prose.  Mr. Foster seemed to be able to swear fluently in several languages, but it all came down to Jay being a turd; that he wasn’t fit to walk in Meg’s shadow.  At the time, he might have agreed with that assessment.

After hearing about how things turned out with the man her father ended up choosing for her, Jay didn’t feel like such a shit after all.  He couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty, though, when he continued with his line of questioning.

"So, that’s too bad about you and Fred."

Meg took one last drag and crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray. "Well, for him it was worse.  He moved in with her and after about three months of putting up with his shit, she kicked him out, too.  But not until she’d cleaned him out.  Then he had the nerve to come back crying to me and wanting me to take him back."

"And?"

"And I told him to tell his story walking and slammed the door in his face."

Jay smiled and said, "Good for you."

She turned toward the window and gave a little tug on her lower lip before turning back to him.

"Yeah. Good for me."  She paused for a moment to clear her throat and sniffled. "Sorry.  A bit of a cold, I guess.  But, anyway, a week later he caught up to me downtown at the office.  I ended up with a black eye and a fat lip."

She stared blankly through the front windshield.

Jay half-whispered, "I’m sorry."

Meg sniffled again and wiped an eye with the back of her hand. "Don’t be sorry.  It was my fault for making a bad choice."

Jay pulled to a stop in front of her house.

"Don’t you ever say that.  You might not have made that choice if I hadn’t…"

She turned to him and patted his knee and smiled. "But it’s true, you know?  You can’t blame yourself for what I did.  I had a free will.  Now, before I go.  Where are you staying?"

"The Inn."

"Oh my god," she said with a laugh. "The food’s terrible there.  I want you to come over for dinner tomorrow night, okay?"

"I don’t want to impose," he said.

"Jay, it’s no imposition.  It’ll be nice to have someone over.  I haven’t cooked for someone else in a long time.  I’d like to find out if I still can."

She gave him a pouty look.  Meg had used that look when they’d been dating to get him to do what she wanted.  He was never able to say no once she’d thrown him one of those looks.

He chuckled. "All right, all right.  You win."

Meg leaned in close and gave him a soft, wet kiss on the lips and stroked his cheek.  It was totally unexpected and left Jay in a daze.  She was out of the car and halfway up the walk to the door before he shook it off.  He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

"Hey!  What time?"

She whirled around and beamed a smile as she backed up the walk.

"Sevenish!"

Meg skipped up the steps to the front door and disappeared into the house.

                                                        CHAPTER 9

Jay tossed his carry-on bag onto the bed in his room at The Inn and turned to hand the bellman his tip.  Alone, he looked around the room and began to unpack.  The Inn, or to be more exact, The Huntsmen’s Inn, had started out as a small motel with a group of tourist cabins set in an old grove of trees at the end of Main Street, across the creek from downtown.

One of the fruits born of a vigorous program promoting Haddonfield as a year-round sporting and tourist destination, beside the Snowbird ski resort, had been this new incarnation of The Inn.

The new lobby was a wide expanse of broad oak flooring with a man-sized stone fireplace at one end. The tourist cabins had been demolished to make way for two timber and stone wings surrounded by a broad lawn and parking lot.

It was a far cry from what Jay remembered.  When he was a kid, old Mr. Jessup could be found, more often than not, snoozing lazily on a hot summer day behind the worn, linoleum-topped counter of the old motel.  Now, there was climate control and the rigorous efficiency you would find at a hotel in any large city.  A minor redneck hideaway had become two hundred rooms with a concierge.

Jay wondered whether this was the type of thing that his father had meant to happen when he had pushed the Chamber of Commerce to spend the money to advertise and redevelop the downtown. He hoped to attract some of the hordes of tourists and sportsmen who always passed their sleepy valley by on the way to other, more notable destinations.

Jay’s parents had moved here looking for a slower pace when Jay was two years old. Haddonfield was quiet and had some luck promoting itself as a place to visit to catch the fiery beauty of the forest as it took on its fall colors.

There were always those who found the town by accident, too.  They had been on their way to other, more crowded, summer vacation spots.  Some of them stuck around to build cabins up on the mountainsides overlooking the town.

His parents had opened a small craft shop on Main. Jay’s father sat there day in and day out, growing discontented.  He wanted a more relaxed lifestyle, but that didn’t have to include red ink.

His dad saw it coming when the construction of a new Wal-Mart was announced for a spot just ten miles up the road, near Livingston.  That was when he rallied a group of businessmen around the idea of going to the city council with a plan to turn the town into a year-round tourism destination.

The idea had gone over like a lead balloon with what passed for the old line establishment.  Most of the people on his side were newer residents; owners of a sprinkle of businesses set up to service the small, but growing, tourist trade.

It was a real battle. In the end, the forces for change had won.  His father was elected mayor and turned the town into a personal, all-consuming project.  It was to this point that Jay traced the beginnings of so much that had gone wrong in his life.

Instead of the slower pace they’d been looking for when they moved into town, Jay’s dad found himself laboring like Sisyphus.  It was in the middle of a planning meeting for the ski resort that he suffered a massive coronary.  He was like Moses in the Sinai, whisked away just as he had led his people to the Promised Land.

That, coupled with Frank’s death a few months later, was what colored his memories of life in Haddonfield for years after.  Jay still might not have come if it weren’t for his selfish desire to run away from his own troubles.  And then Meg had kissed him.  The thought of it gave Jay a rush of good feeling.  He went to sleep that night thinking of her and what his dinner invitation might portend.  Maybe tonight, he’d finally get that peaceful sleep for which he’d been longing.

The Longbow Tavern was one of the old, steadfast anchors of Haddonfield.  It had stood at the corner of Birch and Main for fifty years.  Les Bowman had been one of the people who’d railed against Jay’s dad and his plans for the town.  Bowman’s father had started the business and he was perfectly happy with the way things were.  His position had a certain amount of logic.  With tourists would come more competition and that was something he just didn’t need.

When all the other business owners on Main had gone along with the scrubbing and steam-cleaning of their buildings, he had refused.  It continued to stand, in all its glory, with its grimy red brick facade and the big, sooty neon sign over the door with the blinking arrow pointing to the entrance.

It was around one in the morning.  There were only about four or five of the regulars spread amongst the tables covered in red-checked oilcloth.  Up at the bar, Les absent-mindedly clicked through the channels on the television set high up in a corner near the front door.  No one was under forty.  He liked to pontificate about how he had been proven right when the new club catering to the winter skiers and summer tourists had opened up down the street.  It had sucked away all of his younger customers with its dance floor and deejay.

The Longbow’s decor consisted mainly of neon beer signs and mirrors he’d accumulated over the years as free promotional giveaways.  There was also a collection of hunting trophies where pride of place was taken by a mangy, small, stuffed black bear that stood in one corner near the restrooms.  Its pose might have been menacing if it weren’t barely five-and-a-half feet tall.  A dusty elk’s head that hung on the wall directly opposite the bar rounded out the sporty look.  It was the kind of place where someone went who was serious about their drinking and didn’t give two hoots in hell about what the latest new techno dance single was.

That description suited Charlie Harper perfectly.  He showed up every night about eight o’clock and usually had to be shooed out at closing time.  He would run through almost two packs of Pall Malls in that time, a habit that had given his fingernails a permanent yellow stain to match his teeth.  Tonight was a classic night for him.  He’d run through twelve beers and had just slammed down his glass in his own impolite way of asking for another.

Les walked over to where Charlie sat and said, "That’s enough for you tonight.  Time for you to go home."

"Aw, c’mon," Charlie pleaded. "And just give me another one to take the chill off of that long walk home."

He cocked his head, causing one of the fur flaps on his bright orange hunting hat to slip down over his left ear.  Charlie raised his eyebrows.  Les had dealt with this before and knew how to handle it.  He gave a stone cold look, right into Charlie’s bloodshot eyes.

"No!  You’ll have a hard enough time finding your way home as it is.  I don’t want to hear that you passed out on the way home and froze to death."

Charlie wiped his stubbly cheek with the arm of his quilted coat and banged his glass on the bar one more time.

"I’m a customer, goddamit!  I deserve to be treated better!"

Les grabbed Charlie’s glass.  When Charlie made a quick grab for it, Les gave a nod to Fred Carswell and Harry Donne, two men at the table behind Charlie.  They were built like past-it lumberjacks.  There was a raspy squeak as they pushed their chairs back and stood up.  Charlie gave them a dirty look.  He knew what was coming.

Fred took him by the arm.

"Come on, Charlie," he said. "Time to go home."

He pulled his arm loose and Harry wrapped him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and pulling him off the bar stool and to his feet.  Fred bent down to pick up his hat where it had fallen to the floor and slapped it back onto his head.

"Let’s go, old man."

They half-dragged him to the front door. As they reached it, he shook them loose with that reserve of energy some drunks have, and turned toward Les.

He flipped up his middle finger and sneered defiantly.

"Up yours, you stupid bastard!"

The other patrons burst out laughing. Fred gave him a light shove out the door as Harry held it open.

"If there’s one thing I can’t stand," announced Les, "it’s a noisy drunk."

Charlie stumbled a bit on the sidewalk under the glow of the arrow before regaining his footing.  He could hear the laughter coming from the bar, but that didn’t concern him.  He pulled his hat down on his head and flipped up the collar on his coat.  The chill wind made him shiver as he squinted, trying to get accustomed to the dim night. Little wisps of powder skittered along the deserted sidewalk down the Birch Street side of the building.

"Snot-nosed sons of bitches."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started on down the street, leaning against the wind.  There was an occasional Joe Louis bob and weave as Charlie struggled to keep his footing.  This was a game he and Les played every night.  He knew that it was time to collect his prize.

No one else in that bar knew about this private little game of theirs.  There was a polite understanding when Les wanted to clear him out of the bar.  Charlie got to keep his dignity by putting up a brave fight. Les would put one last bottle of beer out in the alley behind the bar for him to have as a nightcap on his way home.  Once, at Christmas, he’d even found a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels propped up on top of the trash can next to the bar’s back door.

Les had learned that it was easier to give Charlie a free drink than to have to deal with him once he’d passed out with his cheek pressed against the surface of the bar.  He more than made back the value of the free booze with what Charlie had spent over the years.  He was, indeed, a very good customer.

In his hotel room, Jay was in the midst of another one of his nightmares.  His fingers clawed at the comforter and beads of sweat coalesced on his forehead.  Just as he reached the point where he was staring down into Frank’s cold, dead eyes, the scene shifted. Now Jay was sitting in an alley, crouched behind some empty cardboard boxes and an old wooden pallet.  It was like one of those reality shows on television, except he couldn’t turn it off.  At the mouth of the alley, an old man stumbled into view.

Charlie moved gingerly down the alley, trying to keep his balance, swaying as he concentrated on the pool of light that marked the location of his treasure.  He didn’t know that he was being watched.  The bottle of beer was right where he had expected to find it, set on the lid of one of the garbage cans.  As he turned to head home, he heard a whimper from the darkness deeper down the alley.  The whimper turned into a child’s sob. Charlie turned around and peered into the inky darkness.

"Who’s there?"

He waited for a reply. When none came, he shrugged and turned around to head back the way he had come.  It was probably just one of those things he heard when he had an especially heavy night of drinking.  It happened a lot.  He supposed he was lucky he never saw some of the things he’d read about in those tracts that his neighbor, Mrs. Simpson, liked to leave stuck in his door about the dangers of drink and how God could turn his life around if only he’d take Jesus into his heart.

Then, there was another sob.  It didn’t sound like one of his friends in his head, he thought, so he turned back.

"Who’s there and what do you want?  I ain’t got time to play no parlor games."

It sounded like a young boy, crying.

"Are you hurt?  What’s the matter?"

He listened and once again, there was no reply, just the hiss of the snow as the wind brushed it against the walls on either side of the alley.  Then, more crying.  Charlie stumbled forward into the darkness, to a pile of trash stacked up next to the rear door of the antique shop next to the bar.  Bracing himself with a hand on the broken pallet, he bent down to take a closer look.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim flicker that just barely reached the spot from the bar’s lamp, he could make out a figure hunched up against the wall.

As Charlie leaned in to get a closer look, Jay, back in his bed, could smell the man’s sour breath.

"What are you doing here, kid?" he asked. "Christ.  Do your momma know where you’re at?"

He chuckled and rubbed his fingers along the zipper on his coat.

"You had me going there for a minute.  Your parents must be having a shit fit, you being out so late."

Jay’s chest heaved as he gasped for air.  He could sense what was coming, but he couldn’t escape.  He was looking directly into Charlie’s yellow, bloodshot eyes. He wanted to yell out to him to run, wanted to shove him back and away before what he knew was coming.  But he couldn’t.  He was watching this show through the eyes of another who controlled the script.

He could feel the scream stop short in his throat as Charlie leaned in closer.  Without warning, Jay felt himself spring forward.  Charlie’s throat was ripped out before he could make a sound.  Jay’s breathing came in short, heavy bursts as he tasted the old man’s coppery, warm blood on his lips.  And then he woke up, his body drenched in perspiration, shaking.

The garbage truck came to a stop behind the Longbow with a grinding hiss from its brakes just after the break of dawn.  Vinnie Pescado and his partner, Brian Flaherty had been running this route for ten years since they’d bought the scavenger service. They could work it in their sleep.  Vinnie hopped down from the back of the truck and began dragging cans to the loader.

"Hey," he said to Brian, who was sitting in the cab drinking a cup of coffee.

Brian made as not to hear him as he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Vinnie let loose of his load and jumped up to give the window a hard slap with his hand.