Harmless (11 page)

The slick son of a
bitch was
gone
.

Twenty seconds tops? 
At the most?  He’d been quick, that was for certain.

I paused long enough to
make sure he wasn’t hiding somewhere, then darted over to the far side of the
house, threw my back up against the bricks, and peeked around the corner,
expecting a fist or a foot to come flying at me. 

Nothing.  An empty
strip of grass between Kerry’s place and the Evanses’.  I heard a car door
slam.  I moved, fast but cautious, toward the street and as I rounded the
corner, an older, green Jeep Cherokee cranked up and then sped off.

I’ve already told you
how far I run each day, but know this: endurance does not equal speed.  I
couldn’t catch him. 

Archibald Pendragon,
the Olympic sprinter from the 1912 Games in Stockholm and a distant cousin,
would’ve been ashamed at my lack of swiftness.  I normally don’t speak ill of
the Pendragon clan, but what room would he have to criticize?  He didn’t even
medal.  So, Archibald, here I am, with my thumb to my nose and a childish but
warranted
nyah-nyah-nyah
.

I stopped at the
intersection to catch my breath.

Who was he?  How did he
know my name?  What sort of connection did he have with Kerry that he needed to
come by to “pay his respects” and then scamper away like a coward when
confronted?

Then something terrible
occurred to me.  I’d blown another opportunity.

If you watch enough
crime shows on television, or read enough mystery novels, or fall victim to the
all-too-convenient
deus ex machina
of a plot line, then you’ll be
familiar with the old adage, “the murderer always returns to the scene of the
crime.”

What if I’d just had a
rushed conversation with her murderer?  And I had let him get away?  I felt
sick to my stomach, like the oatmeal was getting prepped for exit.  Normally,
I’m highly observant, but in my haste to catch up as I ran down the street
after him, I’d neglected to get a license plate number.  All I had to go on was
a physical description, from a distance, with a bad angle, and the fact that he
drove a green Jeep Cherokee.

I kicked a signpost and
slogged back to the house, cursing the whole way for allowing him to escape,
trying a few feeble attempts at making myself feel better by admitting that if
he had been smart enough to kill Kerry and get away without leaving any
evidence, then he would’ve been smart enough to drive a car that didn’t belong
to him.  It was possible.  And, in truth, it made me feel slightly better.  A
little, but not enough.  What a wasted opportunity, huh?

As it turns out, it was
indeed a wasted opportunity, because I could’ve saved myself a lot of time if
I’d been able to catch him…but he didn’t kill her. 

I’ll get to that part
later.

By the time I got back
to my house, Sparkle was waiting for me on the porch steps.  I flopped down
into my cheap, plastic chair and coaxed him into my lap.  Purr motor going full
force, he curled up and kneaded my thigh.  You know, it never ceases to amaze
me how much the subtle sounds of a contented cat can ease the day’s worries. 
I’m sure the same can be said for those filthy, slobbering mongrels you call
man’s best friend, but I’ve never been one for dogs.  Sure, they’re there for
unconditional love, and that’s a good thing.  I mean no offense to dog lovers. 
Really, I don’t.  You do what you will and I won’t judge.  Not too much,
anyway. 

Cats, though, you gotta
earn their affection.  To me, it creates a stronger bond once you’ve reached
that stage with your feline companion.

Where am I going with
this?  I have a point here—I do—but this is how I see it.  Kerry was like a
cat, in all the good ways.  Observing me from a distance, trying to decide if I
was worth her time, considering whether or not she should approach.

Simply put, she never
had the chance to decide that I had earned her affection.

She never had the
chance to curl up in my lap and purr.

Of course that sounds…I
don’t know…
demeaning
because of the way we’ve domesticated these
glorious animals over the past ten thousand years and turned them into common
house pets.  I can see how you would think I’m belittling her, and that’s not
my objective.  I see it in a totally different light.

Here’s why: the ancient
Egyptians worshipped cats, even deified them, and by comparing Kerry to a cat,
what I’m really trying to say is that I worshipped
her
, and by wishing
that she would’ve had the chance to curl up in my lap and purr, what I really
mean is that a
goddess
would’ve accepted me for who, and what, I am.

Do you get that?  Do
you see how powerful that is?

I think you do.

Okay, sorry, so where
was I?  Oh yeah, I let the Sparkle God accept me for a little while until I’d
forgiven myself for allowing the mystery man to escape, and once he’d had
enough love from a mortal such as myself, he hopped down and strolled over to
the shade for another nap.

I called Thomas.  He
answered on the first ring.

“It’s about time, Pendragon. 
You had me worried.”

“You were worried about
me?”  I almost thanked him.

He ignored the prompt. 
“You ready to get started?  I’ve got some ideas.”

“After what I’ve
learned, I’m sure I’ve got some better ones.  I’ve been up just about all
night.  Lot of stuff to tell you, but first, I need you to do me a favor.”

“I’m already doing you
a favor.”

“You want me gone,
Thomas, it starts with this one.”

“Since you put it that
way—what do you need?”

“You know that guy
Clarence I’ve been bugging you about for a month?”

“Yeah, but really, man,
you should leave him out of this.  He probably already knows.”

“I’m sure he does. 
He’s Kerry’s father, and I need you to find him for me.”

CHAPTER 12

Thomas and I sat in his
police cruiser, and if anyone asked, I was doing research for a novel—I was on
what’s called a ride-along, apparently—outside a plain white house with dark
blue shutters and two Western Dogwood trees in the front yard. 

Western Dogwoods? 
Don’t I seem just full of useless information?  I could tell you I’m familiar
with all the tress native to California and remind you that I’m waiting on my
genius-level IQ membership with MENSA to come through, but that would be a
lie.  I recognized them because I’d presented a dogwood sapling to Shayna as a
peace offering not too long before.  Did it work?  Do you need to ask?  One
more time—if you
need
to ask, you haven’t been paying attention.

The same rectangular
box of a beige Volvo sat in the driveway, and regardless of the fact that his
daughter, my goddess, was dead, the hideous thing still reminded me of
Sparkle’s litter pan. 

Some things can change
your reality in an instant. 

I won’t say “blink of
an eye,” because that’s too clichéd and generic, but in actuality, it literally
can change that fast.  A finger pulls a trigger, the bullet hits Kerry before
she can blink.  See?  Blink of an eye.  Reality modified.

Some things can also
fail to change your perception over time.  No matter whether or not Kerry had
died, or if we had inevitably fallen blissfully in love and run through fields
of daisies hand-in-hand, the fact that the Volvo reminded me of a cat toilet
would never go away.

Thomas tapped a finger
on the steering wheel and said, “So weird.  I still can’t believe his name’s
actually Clarence.  It’s like you
knew
somehow.”

“I told you.  He
looked
like a Clarence.”  I refrained from telling him about my occasional psychic
experiences or the fact that I’m possibly operating on a higher plane of
existence than most and have a deeper understanding of the world.  Making him
feel inferior would’ve done little good. 

Sadly, these psychic
experiences are uncontrollable.  If I could’ve harnessed the ability, I
would’ve simply
thought
my way through solving her murder.  Alas, my
precognitive moments are essentially useless, like being able to guess the next
song on the radio or the color of Thrifty’s tie before he walks through the
door.

“Still.  It’s weird. 
Are you going in or are you gonna sit here looking at it all day?”

“No, I’m going in. 
Just need to figure out what I’ll say.”

“My advice?  Be
courteous, whatever it is.  They told me the poor guy had to go down to the
morgue this morning and ID her body, said he completely lost his shit.”

“Don’t say ‘lost his
shit.’  It’s disrespectful.”  I can’t begin to explain how out of place it felt
to protect the validity of Clarence’s emotional outburst after so many months
of disdain for the man.

“Look at you, being all
human for once.”

“Not completely.  Maybe
a demigod.”

Thomas chuckled.  “A
demigod?  You’re a piece of work, Pendragon.  No doubt about it.  I hate to
rush, man, but we can’t sit here all day.  I got quotas to meet.  Go do your
thing then we’ll grab a quick burger down at O’Malley’s and you can give me the
rundown on what you found last night, okay?  No more of this cryptic ‘I found
some clues’ bullshit.  Real life, bro.  You can’t keep stringing me along for
two hours like they do in the movies and then hand me some big reveal, got it? 
It don’t work that way.  As much as I hate to give you any sort of, uh, I don’t
know…
power
, we’re working together on this.  It’s a fifty-fifty thing.”

He was right.  From the
moment he picked me up (I didn’t feel mentally stable enough to drive—one of
the few times in my life that I’ll readily own up to a weakness) he’d been
asking me about what I’d learned, what I’d found.  I dodged and parried for a
number of reasons.  Mostly because I didn’t want him forcing us in a direction
I wasn’t ready to take.  Harry DeShazo would be there when the time came to
confront him.  And I had no idea how we’d be able to pursue the interloper in
Kerry’s backyard.  Too many forks in the road, all leading to a place other
than Clarence Oliver’s home.

Before I avenged her
death, I had to grant her final wish.

I had to make sure he
was okay.

***

I stepped up to the
front door and knocked three times, then glanced back at Thomas.  He gave a
subtle nod and a thumbs-up.  The gentle reassurance didn’t assuage the pile of
snakes slithering around in my stomach.  The truth was, I had no idea what to
say.  Kerry hadn’t told me how to go about comforting her father—just that she
wanted me to check on him, to make sure he was doing well.

The man that answered
the door did not appear okay.

“Deflated” is probably
the right word.

Poor Clarence, the guy
that I had seethed over for months, stood in front of me, unshaven, with red,
puffy eyes and frazzled, uncombed hair, or what remained of it. 

He had a brown blotch
on his white button-down shirt that was so wrinkled the stain resembled a
mosaic, crackled image of Jesus. 

The notion occurred to
me that he could put it on eBay and sell it for a few hundred thousand
dollars.  It may have been inappropriate timing, but I’m always thinking of
ways to help people.  And you can
say
that you don’t have random,
obscure thoughts like this at inopportune moments, but I wouldn’t believe you.

He said, “Steve?”

Kerry must have told
him my name, and I hate to admit it, but I stuttered.  (The Pendragons are an
eloquent bunch.)  “H-h-hi, Mr., uh, Mr., I mean—Mr. Clarence, um…Mr. Oliver.  I
just came by to say how sor—”

What came next
surprised even me.  I don’t like surprises, not even on birthdays, but somehow,
this was a welcome one.

Clarence practically
lunged forward…and hugged me.  It was this hearty, emotional,
you-feel-my-pain-too hug as he drew me in, grabbing my shirt in his hands,
squeezing me like we’d both experienced the same level of loss.  I’d like to
think that we had—but was the depth of my love the same as his?  Really? 

I loved Kerry with
every
ounce
of my being, yet I understood that Clarence loved her on a
molecular level.  She had been the building block of his universe.  I had to
give him that much.  No parent should ever have to see one of his children die
before he does.  If something like that ever happened to Smoke or Shade, start
carving my name in a granite tombstone, because I don’t know how I could live
beyond it.

Know this: I don’t
enjoy it when strangers touch me.  Not even when the attractive,
twenty-something masseuse named Mandy down at Oasis Spa & Massage (who, by
the way, wears thongs that one could use as dental floss), with such soft hands
they could pass for silk, oils me up during my monthly splurge.  My monthly Me
Day.  I endure it because, well, overcoming these things are all a part of “
Be
the victor
.”

That all-encompassing,
single item on my To Do List.

But Steve, you said you
couldn’t resist when the fairer sex looks at you with even the slightest hint
of flirtatious, libidinous intent.  True.  I did.  That doesn’t mean I have to
enjoy it.  You hate the thought of eating ice cream.  You say it makes you
fat.  Yet you gorge yourself on it anyway because it’s so good.  Same thing.

A week ago, a hug from
Clarence would’ve resulted in a scalding hot shower and scrubbing away the
first two layers of skin, at the very least.

This was different. 
Allowable.

I hugged him back and
said, “I’m sorry for your loss.  She was…she was…”

“It’s okay.  Let it
out.”

Don’t laugh, please,
but…I bawled. 

You know, I keep saying
that I don’t cry, I don’t plead, that I’m a man of many talents and a proud
history, that I’m an impenetrable castle, that I’m not a wretch like everyone
thinks—but I do have a heart.  One that can be shattered like fine china.

With his shoulder
sufficiently drenched, I found myself on the opposite side of the comforting as
Clarence kept patting my back, telling me over and over again, “It’s okay,
Steve.  It’s okay.  It’s tough for all of us.”

He didn’t ask
why
I was such an emotional Vesuvius. 

Instead, he pulled
away, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and invited me in for coffee.

The inside of
Clarence’s house went completely against everything I had assumed about him. 
From a distance, when I had been firing mental blow darts from my porch
whenever he came to visit Kerry, I’d assigned a certain cheap, low-class
quality to his existence.  I was wrong.

Clarence had taste.

High quality artwork
and black and white photography hung on the walls.

The supple, deep brown
leather couch served as a perfect accompaniment to the centerpiece rug.  The
flower arrangement, sitting in the middle of the coffee table, held an
assortment of colors that made a statement—
I’m beautiful, I match everything
in the room, and I belong here to bring you joy of the simpler things in life
.

Family portraits of
Clarence, his wife, and their children, Kerry (Jan) and Billy, sat on the
mantle above the fireplace.  A row of reminders of what he’d had and what he’d
lost.  A memorial, intentional or not, to half of his clan.

A photographic eulogy.

He noticed me looking
at them.  He said, “My girls…that’s where they live now.”

I couldn’t think of a
single word to say that would do the moment justice.

He motioned for me to
follow him into the kitchen, then pulled a chair away from the table and
invited me to sit down while he brewed a fresh pot.

It pains me to say it,
but the kitchen didn’t have the same appeal.  A hideous yellow color, it
screamed for attention in all the wrong ways.  Light yellow walls, light yellow
curtains, light yellow linoleum.  I felt like I was under a banana attack.

Coincidentally,
Clarence apologized.  “I’m sorry it’s so glaring in here.  I haven’t had time
to get it just the way I want it yet.  The previous owners didn’t know the
meaning of the word ‘understated.’  You want your coffee to dissolve a spoon or
you want it drinkable?”

“Drinkable, please.”

I couldn’t get over how
nice he was, and you probably can’t even comprehend the level of guilt that I
felt.

What an ignorant
asshole I’d been. 

While the coffee
brewed, he chattered aimlessly about how horrible the ordeal had been that
morning, about how he knew, just absolutely
knew
that something had
happened to Kerry when his phone rang at such an ungodly hour.  He called it
“parental instinct.”  He told me about standing there in the morgue, hoping
beyond hope that they’d been mistaken, they had the wrong January Oliver and he
would damn them all to hell for scaring him to death. 

But when they’d pulled
the blanket back to reveal her face, his daughter’s face, they hadn’t needed
verbal confirmation.  He said his legs had buckled and he’d dropped to the
floor.  He told me about how he’d crawled on his hands and knees, then threw up
all over the tile before he’d been able to make it to the nearest trash can.

I told him I
understood, that I’d felt similar.  Then I apologized, because how could my
level of loss compare to his?

He reassured me, said
it was okay.  Said that pain is relative to the person and that we’re allowed
to feel what we feel.  Said that we’re each entitled to our own emotional
responses—it’s what ensures our individuality; otherwise, we’re all like
plastic forks, millions of us created from the same mold. 

His analogy may have
been a bit of a stretch, but I understood where he was coming from.  Me?  I
would’ve gone with…sticks of bubble gum.  Billions of identical pieces that
life chews up and spits out.

By the time the coffee
was ready, I’d come to the conclusion that Clarence was dealing with the loss
of Kerry better than I was.  He didn’t blame God.  He didn’t blame Fate.  He
didn’t blame Chance.

He was used to dealing
with loss that he had no control over.  His wife (Linda, I learned) had tried
every possible form of treatment for her breast cancer, traditional and Eastern
medicine both, but it wasn’t meant to be.  Whatever was out there, whatever
mystical deity shifted things around from its control tower, had decided that
she (and Kerry) were no longer necessary.

Knowing differently,
but delicately probing for information, I said, “But do you believe what the
police are saying?  That it was self-inflicted?”

“Not for a second.  She
wouldn’t do something like this to herself.  In a way, it’s easier to accept
the idea that I had no control over it if I
don’t
believe that.  Do you
see what I’m saying?  If she killed herself, it means I missed something,
Steve, and I know my daughter better than that.  They told me they’d look into
it further—whether or not they’ll find anything is another story.”