Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (32 page)

“Elm Street is home now?”

I cleared my throat. “This is the interesting part. I followed him to a house where he gathered with a group of thugs.”

“Interesting,” she said with a touch of skepticism.

“Uncle John was one of them.”

She stopped chewing her sandwich. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Uncle John’s obviously in this.”

“Will that help with…finding Nevada?”

“Time for me to apply some pressure and find out.”

“You might want to be careful with that, Shell. The man’s dangerous.”

“You’ve forgotten who I am?”

She colored slightly, and offered up a tight smile. “I guess I have. I never think of you in that way.”

I made a conscious decision not to comment on that. “Also, Professor Devlin’s wife called me,” I said. “She remembered a detail from her conversation with Nevada.”

“What detail?”

“Nevada made mention of some trouble with a brother.”

Siobhan frowned. “Nevada’s an only child. She told me that herself. She had a pretty lonely childhood and was probably a little too dependent on her mother. Her words, not mine.”

“Cynthia Devlin decided the talk of a brother must have been bullshit, to distract from dwelling on Nevada’s affair with Professor Devlin.”

“Makes sense. That couldn’t have been an easy conversation.”

We fell into a lull of silence.

“Then again, Nevada could’ve been referring to Darren,” Siobhan said.

“What?”

“When she mentioned a brother,” she said.

Now I frowned. “Sweet wasn’t Nevada’s brother.”

“True enough, but in retrospect their relationship reminded me of one between siblings. And obviously Darren was very troubled. So it all fits. She might’ve meant a brother in spirit.”

I nodded. “That brings us right back to Uncle John. Sweet was troubled by him. You should’ve heard the strain in his voice when he called me, thinking I was with Uncle John.”

“And then he ends up dead.”

We probably would have sat in this second stretch of silence for a while were it not for the chime of the front door bell. I glanced at Siobhan, frowned, then moved to see who’d come calling. Siobhan was at my shoulder as I peeked through the blinds. “Not Trina,” she said.

“You were thinking it might be?”

“Who is he, Shell?”

“Avoiding the question?”

“Who is he?” she repeated.

I replied with the only word that came to mind: “Trouble.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“HOW DID YOU FIND me?”

“You’re not the only one with detective skills, Monk.”

Despite the words, his usual spirit and spunk were absent. Judging by his tattered clothes and the scrapes and bruises on his face and hands it was possible they’d been beaten out of him.

“Anyone follow you? I don’t need any problems on my doorstep.”

“They kicked the shit out of me and went their merry way.”

“They?”

“Seriously. Do we have to do this on the steps? I could use a seat. I’m not feeling all that steady on my feet.”

I widened the door so he could step inside. He was wearing Nike cross-trainers, skinny jeans, and a T-shirt with the image of England’s Queen Elizabeth on the front. Below the image were the words
Queen Bitch
. His right eye was swollen shut, the lid the color of plum skin. Left marred by broken blood vessels. His lip was split and it looked as though a tooth had been chipped. He shuddered as I closed the door and locked his eyes on Siobhan.

“I know you,” he said.

She nodded. “I’ve ordered food from your place.”

“Small world.”

I cleared my throat. “They…”

“No foreplay? Right to it?”

“My patience is thin, Nicky.”

“Can I have a drink, at least?”

“I’ll get it,” Siobhan offered. “What do you want?”

“Cold water would hit the spot.”

She eased from the room without another word, and Nicky made his way to the sofa. He dropped down on it awkwardly.

“
They
worked you over real good,” I said. “You’re moving like a pregnant woman.”

“Thanks.”

“What?”

He rubbed his flat stomach. “I’m not showing, darling. My skin must have a glow.”

“This seems like a time for seriousness.”

He paused as Siobhan entered the room, took a pickle jar of cold water from her with two hands and took a long swallow. “That is good,” he said.

“They…”

“Geez. You don’t want me to swallow?”

“Nicky…”

“Thugs. Three of ‘em. They called in an order. Something about the address alarmed me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what until I arrived on the block. The house number they gave me doesn’t exist.”

“Where?”

He told me, then said, “I was pulling away and a car came out of nowhere and blocked me. Another pulled up behind me and stopped me from reversing.”

“What make were the cars?”

He sniffed a laugh. “You’re asking me about cars? I know about as much about them as I do sports. I’m a walking stereotype, I admit it.”

“They blocked you in…”

“I went for my cell phone but my hands were shaking so much I dropped it. I didn’t think to lock my doors, either. One of them eased in beside me. He was so calm, I calmed down as well.”

“Did he have dead eyes?”

“What does that mean?”

“Emotionless.”

“Something like that.”

“What happened then?”

“He told me to get out and take a ride with them. So I did.”

I sighed.

“All of us aren’t badasses like you,” he said. “I figured it was a hate thing. They’d poke around in my ass while telling me how much they despised my kind. Confused boys, you know?”

“That didn’t happen?”

He shook his head. “The guy with the eyes started asking me questions about Sweet Darren. Then he asked a few questions about some person named Shell. I told him I didn’t know any Shell and he popped me in the mouth.” Nicky smiled. “A little more talk and I realized I did know a Shell after all.”

“And?”

“He wanted to know why you were sticking your nose in other people’s business. What were you asking. Etcetera.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nada. Then he went back to talking about Sweet Darren. He kept saying how Sweet Darren had gotten himself dead. He used those words: got himself dead. He mocked him. Said it’d be a shame if I died the same way Sweet Darren went out—with semen in my stomach and ass.”

“Wait, wait,” I cut in. “You’re telling me Darren Sweet was gay?”

Nicky laughed and studied me with a look of pity. “You really are slow.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“PARANOIA IS THE BAILIWICK of the aged.”

 “What’s that word?” I remember asking my father. As I recall it now, I was only around ten or eleven at the time, yet I had already reached the point where I had very little use for anyone other than him.

“Look it up,” he told me, a response of which I had grown accustomed. I made a move straightaway.

“Son?”

I turned back, wide-eyed. “Yes?”

 “I didn’t actually mean right this very moment, Dashiell,” he said, shaking his head. Then he cracked a rare smile. “But go ahead.”

I went.

An area of activity in which somebody has specific responsibility, knowledge, or ability.

“Paranoia becomes another thing you have to contend with as you get older,” he explained, once I’d returned with my newfound knowledge. “As you age, your abilities stretch toward being prepared for that which no one can prepare.”

Only now do I realize he meant death.

At the time all that I knew was there was not a category five hurricane in the local forecast but there we were, unloading yet more gallon bottles of purified water to place on the shelving units my father had bolted to the walls in the basement of our old house. Yellowed newspaper was jammed in any cracks he could find around the doors. Canned goods that could be eaten cold were stocked so abundantly in an upstairs cabinet the doors would not completely close. We had two manual can openers to pry free the can lids.

There was more, of course, because paranoia challenged the notion of limits. Our bathroom’s designation as “safe room” because it was the only windowless room in the house. The fuel needle that never dipped below the halfway mark in his rusted Buick. The code words I was forced to memorize.

Done unloading the gallon water bottles, I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand and looked at my father. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, his version of an approving smile. “You didn’t say ‘Which word?’” I noted.

“Beg pardon?”

“Paranoia is the bailiwick of the aged,” I repeated from earlier. “Both paranoia
and
bailiwick are big words. You didn’t ask me which one I was asking about.”

He shrugged. “I knew paranoia wouldn’t be all that unfamiliar to you.”

Neither my machination with my future Network—five women, five different cities—nor my unwillingness to sit in any seat that didn’t offer full vantage of a room’s entrance and exit were part of my constitution at that point, but my father was spot-on in his estimation. Paranoia was a term I could grasp even at that early age.

All that said, it has always amazed me the lack of regard most people place in the protection of their homes. Solid core doors, heavy-duty locks, and window security devices should be the rule rather than the exception. No one should rely on a chain-latch as a barrier when partially opening a door to answer a knock or chime. All doors, windows, and garages should be kept locked at all times.

Why have a nice home and leave the garage unlocked?

The residence before me was a spacious Colonial with historical detailing throughout its forty-five hundred square feet. The main selling points were its seven bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms, the modern stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, and the steam shower in the master bedroom. The architects had designed the place with abnormally high ceilings and copious French doors. A lawn and garden with pavers and iron gates highlighted the driveway.

Yet the owner had left the garage unlocked.

With darkness as my cover, I moved inside and quickly oriented myself with the surroundings. Most of the lights were out, and the house was particularly quiet, but I heard the owner scraping around in the kitchen, his slippers making noises as he moved across the tile floors.

He was virtually naked, a pair of burgundy boxers his only clothing, a thin bed sheet hanging off his bare shoulders. He didn’t notice me as I stepped into the kitchen, nor did he catch a glimpse of me in the reflective microwave door as he waited for a bag of popcorn to finish popping.

“Movie Theatre butter is the best,” I called out.

He jumped and pivoted, completely startled, pulled the sheet closed around him, his back pressed against the counter now. I moved into the light, and despite a growing recognition, a line creased his forehead as his chest heaved. “What are you doing in my house?” he managed.

“You really should lock your garage,” I said.

He looked toward the door that led to the garage then turned his attention back on me. “I don’t know how to take this, Shell. I’m feeling violated at the moment.”

“I tried the proper channels but you haven’t been going to the office or making any appearances. So I decided for a more proactive approach.”

“This is terrible. A man’s home is sacred.”

“Uncle John said a man shouldn’t have his meal interrupted. You don’t like people creeping your home. You two are quite a team.”

“We’re hardly a team.”

“Aren’t you though?”

“You’re talking gibberish.”

“You had him sic his thugs on an innocent young boy so I wouldn’t find out about your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Sweet Darren.”

“This conversation is over,” he said, looking away from me.

“I’m thinking Sweet was about to expose your dirty little secret and you handed off the smut work to Uncle John and his crew.”

He looked up. His eyes shone like fine crystal and a serious quiver was in his jaw. “I loved Darren, if you must know. I would have never hurt him. And he would’ve never hurt me. Try a different theory, Sherlock.”

“Is Uncle John expensive?”

“You’re a fool.”

He sighed and moved to the long glass-topped table arranged in the dead center of the room and fell down into a low chair. I allowed him a moment to collect himself, just enough time for fresh tears to well in his eyes. The sheet dropped from his shoulders but he did not bother to reappoint it.

“Bet the media would have a field day if they knew it was your sperm in Sweet’s stomach,” I said.

He looked up at me, fire in his red-rimmed eyes. “Say something like that again and I’ll drop you where you stand.”

I stepped closer. “You think so?”

“Does your cruelty know any bounds?” he asked.

“You lied to me.”

“I’ve lied to myself,” he said. “Reconciling that is a bit more important to me at the moment.”

“Your personal reflection will have to come later,” I said. “I have some questions that need answering.”

“I don’t have the strength for this right now,” he said. His voice had lost all of its heft.

“
Darren
, as you referred to him, is gone,” I said. “But
Ms. Barnes
is still missing and possibly in trouble. I’d suggest you gather some strength.”

“I don’t know anything that would be of help to you.”

“Tell me about Uncle John,” I said. “How involved are you with him? And how does Nevada play into all of this?”

He winced. “I’ve told you I’m not involved with that…thug. You’re giving me a headache.”

“I’ve doled out worse, and will again if I have to.”

“Hit me or do whatever it is you came to do,” he said defiantly. “It won’t hurt me nearly as much as you think. I’m numb to it all.”

“Homosexuality still doesn’t play very well in politics, Mr. Enger. I’d hate to see your promising career cut short over rumors. Can you imagine The Huffington Post once they get their teeth in this?”