Orphans of Wonderland (5 page)

“Katelyn also told me he had issues. Besides, we're talking ancient history when it comes to the other case.”

“Are we?” Taylor's beautiful eyes blinked at him slowly. “You were just replaying the home movie you watched with Cindy Mello's parents in your head.”

“So what?”

“So
that's
what you were thinking about, Joel, not Lonnie or what may have happened to him, but that woman and her murder.”

The wind blew snow from the trees, spraying it against the windows.

“Even if it had any similarities to what happened back then,” he eventually answered, “which it doesn't, all those old trails will be long cold anyway. This has nothing to do with cults or any of the satanic crap that was taking place back then. There's a strong possibility Lonnie got himself into something he should've stayed clear of, got in over his head or crossed the wrong kind of people or something along those lines. But we're not talking about the types involved in Cindy Mello's murder. Lonnie had nothing to do with that kind of thing. It's not him. He wouldn't have been anywhere around that sort of stuff.”

She searched his eyes. He could feel her fear.

“It's coming back to you though, isn't it? It's already seeping back into your mind, those things from all those years ago. Frightening things. Things the doctors warned you needed to—”

“Taylor…”

She sighed. “I know if you've already made up your mind, you'll go no matter what I say.”

Joel stretched his legs out a bit, pushed his feet under the blankets they'd kicked off earlier. “Katelyn was right about one thing,” he said. “Deep down I am still an investigative journalist. It's still a part of me.”

“You were a gifted journalist—”

“Exactly, past tense.”

“No, you still are, and you could be doing any number of more fulfilling things than you're doing now, but that doesn't mean you have to go back to something that nearly destroyed you.”

“I was a flash in the pan, a one-trick pony. That story was all I ever had. It made me and broke me all at the same time.” He lay there a moment, thinking. “Part of me wants—
needs
—to prove I can do this and not stumble like last time. Maybe I'll get lucky and actually find something out and be able to give Katelyn some closure and peace. Something I was never able to do with Cindy's family. Maybe then I'll be able to leave this darkness and all those demons behind once and for all.”

Taylor looked away, as if something in the shadows had caught her attention. “I thought you already had.”

“So did I, baby. Believe me, so did I.”

“All that evil and horror and darkness and violence is dead and buried. Why do you want to dig it up again? What do you possibly hope to accomplish after all this time?”

“That's the problem, isn't it? It's not dead, and it's not buried as deep as I thought it was.” He took her chin in his hand and raised it up until she was looking at him again. “Those old ghosts are still rattling their chains, Taylor, and they're never going to let me go unless and until I cut them loose myself. I know that now. And I'm afraid, okay? I am, I admit it. I can't go through what I did before, not again. I won't survive it. But I can't let fear stop me either. Not this time. Not ever again.”

She licked her lips. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you believe me. That you believe
in
me.”

Taylor's eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “Always.”

“I love you. More than you'll ever know, I love you.”

“Go do what you have to do.” She took his hand in hers, held it against the side of her face and kissed it. “Then come back to me.”

Joel closed his eyes, snuggled closer to his wife and listened to the wind just outside the windows, distracting him, if only for a while, from the horrible whispers creeping through in his head.

Chapter Seven

Joel stood in his room before the partially pulled curtain, watching occasional cars rush along the nearby highway. Though only five foot ten, at first glance, his wiry build made him appear taller than he actually was. Trim and in reasonably good shape, his body resembled that of a swimmer, though he rarely swam, his build understated in clothes but a bit less subtle in his present state: a pair of boxers. His was the kind of unremarkable look and manner that often made it easy to blend into a crowd or go unnoticed, something that had served him well back when such things could be relevant in his line of work.

The room was dark, the parking lot and areas surrounding the roadside motel dimly lit. Every now and then headlights from passing cars reminded him he was not alone in the night, but it was late, too late to be up. Undeterred, the thoughts storming through his head had prevented him from sleeping, and there seemed little point in going back to bed, at least not yet. They'd begun so nicely, with visions of him and Taylor making love or walking hand in hand along some of their favorite wooded paths not far from the house. But they soon morphed into memories of Taylor waving goodbye, standing in the doorway of their home as Joel backed out of the driveway. She looked beautiful as ever, but even that did little to mask her sadness, which left him riddled with nearly unbearable guilt.

Joel glanced at his watch. Nearly two o'clock. He'd called home earlier and they'd said good night, but by now Taylor was long asleep, snuggled up in bed, the TV next to the bed probably still on, flashing ghost lights across the otherwise dark walls while some self-proclaimed entrepreneur extraordinaire prattled on about the virtues of his real estate seminar and how it was guaranteed to make attendees wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.

Wishing he were there with her, Joel moved from the window to a nearby table. Taylor faded from his mind, lost in misty shadows and darkness. On the table he found his iPod and a pair of in-ear headphones. He pushed one bud into his right ear but left the other dangling, as was his habit when alone, and, using the lighted face of the iPod to guide him, located
Kind of Blue
on his playlist
,
his favorite Miles Davis album. He selected the cut
All Blues
, then sank down into one of the chairs.

Joel sat back in the dark, put his feet up and let the sultry sounds entangle him like creeping vines of smoke. And as his head slowly bobbed with the beat, he closed his eyes and drifted back to his memories of earlier in the day, and the events that had landed him in this lonely little motel so far from home…

It was a dreary, overcast day, the kind that threatened rainstorms but rarely delivered much besides the occasional mist or insipid, icy trickle. The drive from Maine to Massachusetts had been tedious and uneventful, and by the time he'd reached the city of Fall River, his initial thought was that it hadn't changed much in the last twenty years. Joel hadn't been back in all that time, but the city looked much the same as it had when he'd last seen it.

Originally an outpost of the Plymouth Colony, Fall River had rather modest beginnings, but by the nineteenth century it had become the largest textile-producing city in the nation. The death of that industry had ravaged the city, but Fall River had always survived and found alternate ways to thrive and survive. A city of nearly 90,000 people located along the shore of Mount Hope Bay, at the mouth of the Taunton River, it was not only famous for its textile history, but also for Lizzie Borden, for Portuguese culture (due to the large Portuguese population), and for being the home of the USS
Massachusetts
and a large assembly of World War II naval vessels, an area known as Battleship Cove.

Although the city had its share of ups and downs over the years, in the 1980s there was a considerable amount of new development and revitalization, including the infusion of a vibrant mix of cultures from around the world. But in 2010, Fall River had also been ranked one of the most dangerous cities in the United States, largely because of a heroin epidemic with ties to the shipping ports in nearby New Bedford. Still, as Joel negotiated the streets and made his way to the address Katelyn Burrows had given him, the city appeared to be on the rise and to have rebounded in most neighborhoods, as the higher crime still seemed to be mostly limited to certain specific areas.

It was still early in the day, late morning, when Joel's directions led him to an enclave of single-family town houses. Complete with identical, small front yards, the neighborhood had less of a city feel and more closely resembled the kind of development one might find in a smaller town.

Following the circular layout of streets, he soon located the correct unit and pulled over, parking on the street so as not to block the driveway. He turned the car off, then studied the property a moment.

The units looked reasonably new and had a suburban, middle-class look. A small SUV and a compact car he recognized as the same one Katelyn had driven to Maine were parked in the driveway. Both were well cared for, as were the front lawn, manicured shrubs and chipped stone path leading to the front door.

Joel gathered the case containing his laptop and notebooks from the passenger seat, then stepped out of the car. He hadn't quite reached the front door when it opened and a lanky man in his twenties emerged. Joel assumed this was Katelyn's husband, as he sported a buzz cut and was dressed in an inexpensive suit, tie and black wingtips. He looked exactly like the accountant she said he was. Waiting for Joel to get closer, the man lingered on the front steps awkwardly before he extended his hand and asked, “Mr. Walker?”

“Yes—call me Joel—it's Joel.”

“Adam Burrows. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure,” Joel said, taking his hand. There hadn't been any snowfall beyond southern Maine, but it was just as bitterly cold here, and Joel couldn't help but wonder why, once their handshake had concluded, they were still on the steps and not already inside. “Everything all right?” Joel finally asked.

“Yes, my apologies,” Burrows said, apparently as formal and stiff as his wife but far less comfortable with verbal interaction. “I just wanted to thank you for doing this. It means the world to Katelyn, and to me too. When you called and told her you'd agreed to check things out, she was so happy, I—well—I want you to know how much it's appreciated.”

“Like I told Katelyn, I can't promise any results, but I'll do what I can.”

“That's all we can ask. Of course we expect to pay you for—”

“Don't worry about it. If things become complicated, which I'm not anticipating at this point, I might need some expenses covered, but that's it. I'm not doing this for money, Adam.”

“That's very kind. Please, come in,” he said, finally escorting him inside.

Joel stepped directly into a modest living room that opened up into a kitchen. Katelyn was standing at a bar in the kitchen area, drinking a bottle of water. When their eyes met, she offered a reserved smile.

“Hello again,” Joel said.

“Please, come in.” Katelyn motioned to a stool opposite her. “I hope the directions were effective?”

“Yes, perfect.”

“And how was your drive?”

“Long. Boring. The usual.” He forced a smile, but it felt as awkward as the ones Katelyn and Adam threw back. After removing his coat and giving it to Adam, who placed it on the back of a nearby couch, Joel slid onto the nearest stool and put his case on the bar between them.

Their townhouse looked as formal as they were, almost sterile: all-white walls, counters and appliances, understated furniture and a few random pieces of inexpensive minimalist artwork scattered throughout.
Cold
, Joel thought.

Katelyn, dressed in moccasin slippers and a pink sweat suit, her dirty-blonde hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, motioned toward her refrigerator with the flair of a spokesmodel. “Something to drink?” she asked. “Some hot cocoa maybe? Or water, soda, maybe a beer? Something stronger?”

“Thank you, I'm fine.” Joel opened his case, removed a notebook and a pen.

Adam sat on a stool to Joel's right. “Old school,” he said, attempting humor.

“Old guy.” Joel chuckled and then turned back to Katelyn. “When you were at my house, you said you had some other things to tell me, but if you don't mind, I have a few questions I need to ask first. Some may be a bit uncomfortable for you, but they're necessary.”

“I understand,” Katelyn said. “I'll answer anything I can.”

“Great. Ready to start?” When she responded with a nod, Joel referred to his pad and some earlier notes he'd made. “Was your dad on any medications?”

“He took a pill for high cholesterol. He'd been on that one for about four or five years, I think. He had some pain issues too—his legs and back mostly, from all those years on his feet—but didn't take prescription drugs for that, mostly Tylenol, that kind of thing. He also self-medicated with liquor now and then.”

“But no other prescription drugs?”

“Not that I know of. There was something else, though. He had a strange bottle of pills in his medicine cabinet. It was the typical kind of pill bottle you get from a pharmacy, but there was no label on it, which I found odd.”

“Do you remember what the pills looked like?”

“Small,” she said. “White.”

“Did they have any markings or numbers on them?”

“No. They looked a little like aspirin, but I don't think that's what they were.”

“You don't still have them by any chance, do you?”

“No. The police took them when they went through his apartment as part of their investigation. I was told they planned to get them tested, but apparently the bottle was lost.”

Joel arched an eyebrow. “Lost?”

“
Misplaced
was the word the detective used. He said these things sometimes happen, things are filed or catalogued incorrectly, but that they'd likely turn up at some point. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about it, frankly. As far as I know they still haven't found them, and never identified what they were.”

“Okay,” Joel said, making a note. “Should you get further information on that, let me know soon as you can, all right?”

“Of course.”

“What about other drugs?”

“Like?”

“Like illegal drugs, was Lonnie doing anything along those lines?”

“Not that I'm aware of. As I mentioned, my father was a bit of a drinker. I'm sure back when you knew him, in his younger days, he experimented or partied like most everyone else, but I never knew him to do drugs.”

Adam held a hand up like a child in a classroom.

Joel turned to him. “Yes?”

“I think, maybe, he smoked marijuana.”

Joel did his best not to laugh. This guy was the squarest and stiffest twentysomething he'd ever encountered. He and Katelyn were about as hip as bingo night at the local nursing home. “And why do you say that?”

Adam glanced quickly at his wife, who was frowning her disapproval at his interruption. “Well, we found a package of rolling papers in his dresser drawer. Remember, honey? Remember when we found a package of rolling papers in his dresser drawer?”

Katelyn's hazel eyes shifted from her husband to Joel. “He may have smoked pot now and then, but I don't believe it was something he did regularly.”

“Okay,” Joel said. “So there wouldn't have been any issues with that then. Was he ever treated for mental illness or emotional disorders—problems with depression, suicidal tendencies or attempts—that kind of thing?”

“No,” Katelyn answered evenly, “there was never any of that.”

“Well, he was depressed a lot,” Adam interjected. “And then not long before he died, he—”

“He could be brooding at times,” Katelyn said, glaring in her husband's general direction. “But I wouldn't say he suffered from depression to the point that it was a problem or something that needed to be medicated or monitored by a professional.” Katelyn became very still and quiet for a moment, but it was obvious she had more to say. Eventually, she continued. “My father didn't have the easiest life. Of course he was depressed or down at times. He worked hard his entire life and never really had anything to show for it.”

“He had you,” Joel reminded her.

Katelyn smiled, and it was the most genuine expression she'd shown since he'd arrived. “Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes glistening with tears.

Adam dropped from his stool, hurried over to a nearby coffee table and came back with a small box of tissues. He handed them to his wife, then returned to his seat at the bar.

“Katelyn, I don't want to belabor this point, but it's important. You told me that in the months prior to his murder, Lonnie changed quite a bit, that he was claiming something bad was going to happen and that there were people after him.”

“Yes,” she said with some reluctance. “That's true.”

“Well, then is it safe to say he may have developed some mental or emotional issues but never sought formal treatment for them?”

“You asked me if my father had ever been treated for mental illness or attempted suicide. The answer is no. I also do not believe my father was mentally ill, even in the months before his death. Troubled, yes. Insane, no.”

“Fair enough,” Joel said. “But you also told me he was terrified, said that strange things were happening. People—or what he hoped were people—were following him. Later, he spoke of demons. Surely you can see where…”

Katelyn nodded.

“Could he have developed some sort of paranoid, delusional—”

“I'm not a psychiatrist, but I knew my father very well, and I'm telling you the fear he had was genuine. It was neither imagined nor the result of the onset of some sudden mental illness or paranoid delusion. He was afraid because something was happening to him. Something real.”