Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (12 page)

CHAPTER 15

CACTUS TO CLOUDS TO SHROUDS

I wasn’t far from Lisbet’s when my cell phone began ringing. My car’s display showed Seth Mann was calling. I accepted the call hands-free and began talking.

“Good timing for your call,” I said. “I was just wondering with the amphibian die-off if there was an acceptable substitution for eye of newt and toe of frog.”

I expected my shaman friend to have fun with my politically incorrect cauldron ingredients, but instead he said, “I expect you haven’t heard the news, Michael.”

The tone of his voice bespoke his seriousness. “What news is that?”

“I called the number you gave me for Langston Walker. A woman answered, and I said that I was calling about Walker and the 187 Club. She apparently thought I was identifying myself as a member of that club, and told me the funeral would be taking place on Saturday.”

“I’m not following what you’re saying.”

“I am afraid Detective Walker died, Michael.”

I made some incoherent sounds; Seth correctly interpreted my attempt at speaking as incredulity.

“I took down the funeral information,” he said, “and afterward I went online. According to the reports I read, the detective was found dead near the top of the Skyline Trail. It’s believed he slipped and hit his head, but as I understand it, they’re also conducting an autopsy to see if he had a heart attack. He was less than a thousand feet from the top of the trail when it happened.”

I was still lacking the words to respond. I’d broken bread with the man only days before, and found it difficult to get my mind around the fact that he was gone.

Seth didn’t intrude on my silence. If he was waiting for me to come up with something profound, that didn’t happen. Finally I said, “Shit.”

“Do you and Sirius want to stop by?” he asked.

“Lisbet’s expecting us,” I said.

“Maybe tomorrow night,” he said.

“That would be good.”

I decided not to tell Lisbet about Langston Walker or Heather Moreland. My good intentions didn’t even last five seconds. When Lisbet greeted me at the door to her apartment, she took one look at my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

The divorce rate among law enforcement officers is said to be seventy to eighty percent. I’m not sure if that divorce rate is a result of cops sharing what’s going on in their workplace, or not sharing. I’m hoping it’s the latter, as Lisbet has proved to be a great sounding board.

When I said I wasn’t yet ready to eat, Lisbet fed Sirius, and then we both sat down to a glass of wine. I told her about Langston, and it was almost like I was telling the same news to myself. It’s always a shock when someone dies unexpectedly; I had trouble getting my mind around the detective being gone. I rehashed some of what we’d talked about at dinner, and I told her about the 187 Club.

“He was a godsend to so many people,” I said, shaking my head.

And then I did a lot more shaking of my head when I told her about Heather’s disappearance.

“As bad as I feel about Langston’s death,” I said, “I’m feeling worse about Heather. Langston died on the trail doing something he wanted to do; I don’t know what happened to Heather.”

“Then why are you assuming the worst?” asked Lisbet. “It would be hard to imagine someone growing up in Heather’s situation that wasn’t—
damaged
.” It took Lisbet a moment to find the right word.

“I’m sure she is damaged,” I said. “But that’s what makes me admire her. She overcame her circumstances.”

“Maybe the prospect of divorce brought up those circumstances. She must have been bottling up a lot. Is it possible she harmed herself?”

I shook my head with a vehemence that seemed to surprise her. But I had a one-word answer for my certainty, one that had me convinced Heather hadn’t gone off and committed suicide: “Angie.”

Lisbet understood my shorthand and nodded.

“Heather’s coworker told me that she saved Angie from certain death. She said Heather didn’t give up on Angie when just about anyone else would have. I can’t see Heather killing herself without first making arrangements for Angie.”

“You think she was abducted?”

“So far nothing else adds up. And not only that, I’m pretty sure Heather’s last act was to protect Angie. Her coworker said Angie always slept in the same room with Heather. When I went into the backyard, I found a popped screen, but the bedroom window was closed.”

“You’d think she would have kept Angie close to her for protection.”

“I suspect Heather was afraid of Angie’s getting hurt. Her own protection was secondary to the safety of her charge.”

“You think she was acting like a protective mother?”

“I do.”

I thought about those occasions when I’d had to send Sirius into danger. It was something I always hated doing. Luckily, Sirius had only been badly hurt one time. That had been the second worst day of my life.

“I wonder what that psychologist would say about your theory,” Lisbet said.

“In the words of Freud, he’d probably say, ‘Yo mama,’ and maybe he’d be right.”

“It sounds like he believes Heather was leading some kind of double life.”

“Shrinks love familial dynamics,” I said.

“But he believed that when it came to her relationship, she was crying wolf, right?”

“Emilio supposedly told him Heather liked to overreact after the fact, but I’m not sure I’m buying that. That’s the same argument defense attorneys and their clients use when they try and put rape victims on trial.”

“You think Emilio is a liar?”

“All of us practice revisionist history. But if you’ve admitted to domestic abuse, no matter how much perfume you spray, you still end up smelling like a skunk.”

“He probably snapped when Heather told him she was going to proceed with the divorce.”

“He did admit to going ballistic.”

“But he claims to know nothing about her disappearance?”

I nodded.

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

“I know he’s guilty of having been abusive,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s guilty of having abducted his ex. To his credit, Emilio willingly entered a certified Batterer Intervention Program, what’s known as a BIP. He agreed to pay for the fifty-two weeks of courses in an attempt to win his wife back. Maybe he snapped because he spent all that time and money for nothing.”

“What’s your gut telling you?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I think he tried to underplay the extent of his anger. And I don’t believe he’s the reformed innocent he’d have me believe. I couldn’t help but feel his shrink was damning him with faint praise. In fact, he was careful to withhold comment on several of my questions.”

I sighed, which somehow turned into a yawn. “Excuse me,” I said. “It was a long night.”

“And an even longer day,” said Lisbet. “Are you ready for dinner?”

I nodded and said, “Thanks.” Surprisingly, I was actually feeling hungry. Maybe getting things off my chest had opened up room in my stomach.

Once a week Lisbet cooks for me, and once a week I cook for her. We also usually get takeout one or two nights a week, which means on average we spend half our evenings together. For the time being that seems perfect. I’m not sure if that’s because we are both used to our own space or whether neither one of us is willing to fully commit to our relationship. If there’s a problem, I suspect it’s with me. My wife’s death, coupled with my burns and PTSD, changed me. I kept pretending to be who I was until it got to the point where I had trouble remembering who that person was. I was an actor who’d forgotten his old lines. Lisbet kept me from going down the drain.

She served both of us. What I saw on my plate looked familiar. “Isn’t that what you just gave Sirius?”

Lisbet nodded and smiled. “I was looking for a dinner that I could serve all of us. It was simple: whole-wheat penne pasta, along with broccoli and turkey sausage sautéed in a little olive oil. And then at the end I added some cut-up grape tomatoes and basil.”

“Five ingredients and delicious,” I said, finishing a big mouthful.

“Sirius had five ingredients,” she said. “You added a lot of parmesan cheese that he didn’t.”

“Try sharing a car with a lactose-intolerant partner.”

“You’re lucky Sirius is too polite to complain about you.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

After dinner I fought off another yawn. Eagle eyes noticed and said, “You need to go to bed.”

“In a few minutes I’ll get my second wind.”

She shook her head. “It’s time for you to go to sleep.”

Lisbet is a graphic artist who works for herself. As I’ve told her too many times, she has a real SOB for a boss.

“Let me do the dishes at least.”

“Do not do the dishes. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“How about collecting a kiss?”

“Later,” she said. “And I might throw in some interest. But for now, go and count sheep.”

Even though I’ve been dating Lisbet for more than a year, I still have trouble sleeping over at her place. The thought of my fire dream is always hanging over me. When it occurs, I get swept back to the night of the fire and find myself once more immersed in flames. Every time, my journey back is so realistic, and so
personal
. And in its aftermath I feel exposed. I hate being that vulnerable.

But I was too tired to worry about a fire dream. As I pulled back the bedcovers, I thought about wolves and sheep, and about crying and counting.

I didn’t have to count many sheep. I think I was even asleep before one pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.

CHAPTER 16

THE NOT-SO FUNHOUSE

Heather opened her eyes and saw the squinting, leering face winking at her. Screaming, she pushed herself up.

In front of her eyes, the horrible figure transformed itself into a grimacing dwarf who was shaking her chains at her and screaming.

Just like I’m screaming,
Heather thought. And there was something about the misshapen face that looked familiar . . .

It was a distortion of her face, she realized, with her eyes scrunched and her forehead distended. Her arms and legs were truncated. Heather took a step to her right, and then a step to her left. Her tiny legs mimicked her movements.

It’s a funhouse mirror, she realized.

The notes from a calliope started up. It sounded like circus music, but with a twist. There was a nightmarish quality to the tune, with harsh notes and discordant syncopation, and that was even before sinister laughter joined in.

A nearby wall suddenly became illuminated. Heather followed the trail of light and could make out the lens of a projector. The music changed, but there was little improvement. “Send in the Clowns” played, not as sung by Barbra Streisand or Cher, but more like Jim Morrison on acid.

Clown images showed themselves, each one creepier than the last. They were clowns with claws, fangs, dripping blood, and animal eyes; their makeup was running so that they resembled Heath Ledger’s Joker. The last featured clown looked more normal than the others; he was holding a bouquet of balloons and waving. He was identified by name, and Heather thought the name was familiar: John Wayne Gacy.

And then her memory was jarred: pictures of Gacy’s victims appeared. Heather turned away and covered her mouth, fighting off sickness.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop it!”

The music stopped, and so did the projection.

“Hello!” Heather cried. “Is anyone there?”

No one answered her cries.

“Hello!” she called again. “Hello!”

She tried to sound controlled, to keep her panic in check. Someone had to be observing her, or at least hearing her.

She took a few deep breaths.
This is real,
she told herself. I am not imagining this. I am a prisoner, and I must not submit to fear. I have to think.

Soft music came from the hidden speakers. This time it wasn’t scary. In fact, it was familiar to her. It was music she’d asked to be played at her wedding. Etta James was singing “At Last.”

She and Emilio had danced to this song.

“Emilio, are you out there?”

No one answered her question.

The light came on again, but what was being played was out of focus, and at first Heather had no idea what she was seeing. One moment she could almost make out what was there, and then everything became blurry.

The picture became more distinct as James sang of “a thrill to press my cheek to.” But it wasn’t a cheek that was being pressed. A naked female form took shape, images shown in bits and pieces. Heather saw toes and fingers, and lips and hips. The arch of a foot turned into a backside curve. At first the shots were fast and didn’t linger. The model’s face remained hidden. Her body appeared unmoving until the camera lingered for long enough to show a chest rising and falling.

Heather grew uneasy when a hand with a surgical glove appeared and began cavalierly tracing its way along the woman’s body, the sheathed fingers displaying a familiarity and contempt with the flesh upon which it was probing and prying. The hand slapped the buttocks once, twice, and then a third time. Flesh reddened, but the woman didn’t respond.

“No,” said Heather. Her throat was dry.

The gloved index finger and thumb came together, pinching down hard on a pink nipple.

That was why she’d awakened to her chest and different parts of her body hurting. It was her own body she was looking at. She was witness to her own violation.

Heather didn’t want to scream, but she couldn’t help herself.

While Etta James called out, “At last,” the gloved hand continued its assault.