Michael Lister - Soldier 02 - The Big Beyond (3 page)

Chapter 6

F
ar more a reflection of her husband and his place in the ruling class of our community, Lauren’s grave resembled not at all the woman it was meant to memorialize.

The double marble marker was huge and gaudy with two enormous sculpted hearts tilted toward one another beneath the imposing bold block LEWIS. Lauren Grace was chiseled into the left heart above the cold, cruel dates 1917-1943. Across from hers, in the right heart, Hieronymus Gerald was carved above the single date 1877, and centered beneath them both was Married May 14, 1939.

I had come to mourn, to attempt to connect to Lauren somewhere besides my dreams, but Harry had made it impossible. He had imprisoned her within his pride and possessiveness in death even more than he had in life.

I had left Clip in the car, but there was no need. There was nothing here for me, nothing that required solitude, silence, or privacy.

I wondered if he somehow realized that too when I sensed someone behind me, but as I turned saw Father Keller, a priest at St. Dominic’s, Lauren’s priest at the end, standing there, his bright blue eyes moist and sad.

Like Harry, he was old enough to be her dad, his darkish wavy hair beginning to go gray, the dark complexion of his fleshy face rough and wrinkled.

“Wasn’t I after thinking I might bump into you here sometime?” he said.

There was only a hint of Irish lilt left in his voice, but it was undeniable.

“I’m terrible sorry we lost her,” he added.

“
We
didn’t,” I said.

“I just meant we all cared for—”

“
I
did,” I said. “All of it—every bit of it—was my fault.”

“It wasn’t, but I won’t argue with you about it, lad.”

I had not liked the man from the moment I met him and thought he was Lauren’s lover—the one that came after me. Later, I liked him even less when I discovered he was her confessor, that he knew secrets of hers I was no longer privy to, truths about the transformation she was undergoing, a metamorphosis I was completely unaware of.

“I’ve been praying for you.”

“Well stop,” I said, “and fast. Don’t need anything from a god who’d do this.”

“Thought you said
you
did it?” he said, his voice gentle, non-confrontational.

I let that one go.

The cemetery was filled with American flags and commemorative ribbons that fluttered and rippled and snapped in the silence, everything of insubstantial weight being buoyed on the brisk breeze.

“Okay, soldier, have it your way. I’m not trying to sell you anything.”

“You’re
not
?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Don’t want anything. Not trying to … nothing, but …”

“Yeah? Let’s have it.”

“I’d like to help you if I can.”

“No thanks.”

“I read that you’re wanted for murder? Anything in it?”

“If there is, still want to help?”

“Of course,” he said, but his voice sounded less sure than his words indicated.

My anger and outrage spiked again, triggered by how little his help for Lauren did her.

“Why didn’t you take Lauren to a doctor? Why didn’t you get her the help she needed?”

“I’m so sorry. I tried to help her. Thought I was. I sincerely did. And I did encourage her to see a doctor, but I should’ve insisted. I feel so … guilty. I’m just … I know … I failed her.”

“We all did. Me most of all. That’s what I’m so sore about.”

“I have a letter for you from her in my office.”

“What? A what?”

“Told me to give it to you if anything happened to her. It was written a while back. You saw her again after she wrote it. She probably got the chance to tell you everything she wrote, but …”

I looked away from him, back toward Lauren’s grave and beyond. I longed for her so badly I didn’t want to live. To have something from her—written to me, for me from her, something her hand penned to me—made me weak, and I could feel my knees beginning to buckle.

Hearing of a letter from her reminded me of the records I had from her counseling sessions with Ann Everett. Were they still in my office? Did I still have an office? I wanted to gather everything I had of Lauren’s, anything with a connection to her—every scrap of paper with a scribbled note, every gift, every article of clothing, a stray stocking, an abandoned bra, she had ever left behind, every photograph, every and anything with a scent, a trace, a hint— any and every object that could serve as a conduit to deliver her, however partially, up from the underworld, bring her back, however momentarily, to me.

“This is unrelated, I guess, but Harry came to see me a week or so ago,” he said.

I looked at Harry’s side of the gravestone again, then back at Keller.

“He really cared about her. Wanted her to be happy. Was glad the two of you had what you had.”

He hesitated, but I didn’t say anything.

“Said you’re the reason he’s mayor, that he owes you. Told me if I saw you to tell you to come see him, that he’d help you.”

“Let’s go get that letter.”

“Sure, soldier, but what about the mayor’s offer? He’s a good person to have on your side.”

At what seemed like the exact moment he referred to the new mayor, a chunk of Harry’s name shot out from the grave as the round from a high-powered rifle hit the monument.

I dove toward Keller, tackling him, but the second round exploded the back half of his head off and he was dead by the time we hit the ground.

The pain from landing, even partially on the priest, was excruciating, and though I needed to roll, to find cover, it took a moment before I could move.

And then Clip was speeding up in the car, crashing into monuments, knocking over markers, slinging open the door, pulling me in by the scruff of my suit coat, and we were speeding away, rounds ricocheting around us, splintering tree branches, pocking gravestones. And then we were gone.

Chapter 7

I
was propped up on pillows on Ruth Ann’s bed, shirt off, trying to appear tough as she sewed me backup.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her wooden leg and crutches leaning on the dresser across from her.

“You opened it back up but good, fella,” she said. “You keep tearing it apart like this, it never will heal.”

“Seemed preferable to letting a rifle round open up my skull.”

“That’s okay, soldier. I’ll keep stitching you back up. I don’t mind.”

“Actually, it was fine ’til Clip scraped it on the side of the car.”

“
Shee-it
,” he said, walking in with a box full of my things, “your ass be dead as that preacher, I hadn’t saved it.
Again
.”

“Poor Father Keller,” Ruth Ann said without looking up.

“Yeah,” I said.

Clip and I had stopped by my room at the Cove Hotel where I had lived for the past couple of years and gotten my things—the few things worth getting anyway—and Clip was now bringing them into the room. We had found my old room at the Cove empty—well, empty of my stuff. The fella renting it now had all his things scattered about nice and homey like. All my worldly possessions were in a couple of boxes in the night manager’s office.

I had been the house detective there in trade for my room and had done him more than a few good turns. Not so much for him not to give my room away, apparently, but at least enough that he felt obliged to hold on to my meager belongings and not call the cops when I picked them up—as he had been instructed to do.

I had also wanted to go by my office, but was bleeding too much to make that possible.

The box Clip was struggling with now was full of books and I could tell he was not only unhappy about the weight but the contents.

“Look like readin’ all these would make you smart enough not to go and get yourself shot up and kidnapped and tortured and shot at again and have to be taked care of by a nurse and a butler.”

I laughed. “A butler?”

“Whatcha call a house nigga that unload boxes and drive a wounded one-armed cracker around?”

“A butler, a chauffeur, and, if the wounded one-armed cracker is me, lucky.”

“Well, this here one-eyed whatever is gonna chauffeur his own self home now. Try not to get yourself killed before I get back tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No need,” he said.

“That’s sweet,” Ruth Ann said.

“Just keep puttin’ money in a nigga’s pocket,” he said. “That all.”

“Oh,” she said. “Here I was thinking you were—”

She stopped speaking when she saw me withdraw a framed photograph of Lauren from the box next to me on the bed. It was my favorite picture of her—and just seeing it sent me.

Suddenly, the scent of Paris perfume filled my nostrils and I could feel the soft warmth of her skin on my lips and fingertips, taste her wine-tinged tongue.

Lost in Lauren, I was only vaguely aware of Clip silently slipping out of the room.

Ruth Ann remained quiet a long moment, working on my wound with even more concentration. Beneath her blond hair, her blue eyes were narrowed, her mouth parted slightly between her too red lips. She was opposite Lauren in nearly every way—and not just physically.

Lauren’s dark eyes were penetrative even in the picture, her intensity and mystery heightened by her thick dark hair and her burn-scarred olive skin.

When I returned the photograph to its box, Ruth Ann’s shoulders let down ever so slightly as her tension seemed to be released into the room.

After a few more moments, she said, “So, tell me, what’d you learn today?”

I told her.

“You worried about Pete?”

I nodded.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Find him.”

She looked back toward the door Clip had just exited by.

“With Clip’s help, right?”

I nodded again.

“Who you think’s trying to kill you, fella?”

“Gonna find that out too.”

“What’s the story with you and Clip? You mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind.”

“He’d do anything for you,” she said. “I can tell. He feels like he owes you, but it seems like more than that. He acts like he’s only doing it for the money, but that’s just to cover up how much he cares about you.”

“Now don’t get carried away,” I said. “I wouldn’t say he’s covering up much of anything—especially feelings.”

“Well I would.”

I nodded as I thought about it.

As I did, something she touched sent currents of pain arcing through me.

“Sorry, soldier, but it’s got to be done,” she said. “Hold still.”

We fell quiet again and I tried not to move.

“I wanna get someone to look at this,” she said. “That okay with you?”

“Depends on the someone.”

“Give a girl a little trust, would you? I wouldn’t cross you up and you know it.”

“Okay.”

“So?” she said. “What gives? Quit being so cagey. Let’s hear it.”

“Huh?”

“You and Clip. Spill.”

“Not much to it. He got in a jam. I helped him out.”

“Come on, soldier. Tell me the story. It’ll get your mind off the girl.”

Nothing could do that and she knew it—or maybe she didn’t. Maybe nobody did. Maybe I was the only one who knew the depth of my depression and obsession. And maybe that was best.

“Tell me the short version,” she said. “It won’t hurt so bad.”

“Clip’s got a mouth on him, likes to carry on. Entertains himself with it. Finds it amusing. But sometimes he’s the only one who does.”

“You two have that in common,” she said.

“And he doesn’t take anything from anyone. Especially white men in authority.”

“Yeah,” she said, “y’all got that in common too, but those white men got a name for men like Clip who do it.”

“Yes they do. Look up
uppity nigger
in the dictionary and all it has is a picture of Clip. Anyway, all this means he’s been entangled with some of the boys on the force for a few years now. Couple of them always looking for a way to bring him down. And a few years back they found it. I don’t know all the details—had something to do with some stolen merchandise—and I don’t know if Clip was covering for a friend or if he really was guilty. Didn’t matter—not to the two cops taking him down. Whitfield and Dixon. Stolen merchandise was just their invite into his life. They were going in to dismantle it piece by piece—and good too. Don’t know for certain if it was true or not, knowing Clip I always suspected it was, but word was Clip had messed around with Dixon’s wife.”

She finished bandaging me back up and I held it as I readjusted the pillows and reclined a little more.

“
And
? Come on, soldier. This ain’t no Saturday morning serial. Get on with it.”

“I could tell by the way they were working the case—not gathering evidence, not following protocol—they knew it wasn’t going to trial.”

“Whatta you mean?”

“Clip was never leaving custody alive. Hell, he’d never be in custody either. Not really. They were going to go at him hard for a while off campus and then he’d get killed trying to escape.”

When I stopped again, she sighed heavily and shook her head.

“
And
?”

“And I stopped them. Clip feels like he owes me. He does not.”

“The hell he doesn’t. You saved his life.”

“There you go again,” I said.

“It’s true.”

“He saved my life today,” I said. “And that’s not the first time. Or the fourth.”

“So you’re saying you two are squared?”

“No. I’m saying
I
owe him.”

She nodded like that explained everything.

“What?”

“That’s what I mean,” she said. “He’s not just trying to repay you. I mean, he
is
—’cause I don’t care what you say, you two are not even, not even close and he knows it—but there’s more to it than that. He cares for you.”

“Okay. Okay. Enough of that,” I said. “So we know why Clip’s doing what he’s doing. Doesn’t explain why you are. Why’d my sometime drinking buddy turn all Nancy Drew and find me, and then all Florence Nightingale and nurse me back to health?”

“Mister, you’re a long way from health,” she said. “And you sure ain’t helping yourself none.”

“Sure. Still doesn’t answer why. Why’re you doing so much for me?”

She shot me an amused look and let out a little-girl giggle. “Same reason as Clip, silly,” she said. “Very same reason.”