Seven Wakings Page 19

  “Is there anyway to verify that?”

  “What do you mean… verify what Archer said?”

  I tell her about the note. “Why would he even have Gilchrist’s e-mail address? It sounds like they know each other.”

  An extended silence precedes an awful truth: Archer has all the evidence.

  Lynette seems to get it at the same time. “If he’s working with… oh my God. We’ll have nothing on Gilchrist. They’ll be no ‘due cause’ to search his house.”

  Muffled voices braid in the background. The phone shuffles. “Joe thinks we should go to the hospital.”

  “Good idea.” My heart is racing. The deck is shuffled again. And if Mike isn’t really awake, hasn’t contacted I.A., it’ll be me, a lawyer, a therapist, and a teenager trying to save a room full of kids from a house packed with pedophiles. “Hey… did you ever go to Archer’s house?”

  “No, why?”

  I hear her moan. She knows why.

  “You’re going to sneak into a police officers house to steal evidence?”

  “It’s not as if I can get into any more trouble.” I move the phone to the other ear.

  “Well, I can’t help you with his address; I was never there.”

  I think for a minute. “Gotta go. Call me after you talk to Mike. And let me know where Archer is; I can’t break in if he’s home.”

  “Wait, what?...”

  I hang up and tap on the divider glass. “Pull over.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said pull over. We’re changing direction.”

  “But I was told the party starts…”

  “I don’t care about that right now. Just stop somewhere.”

  The driver nods and pulls the car to the shoulder.

  Using the phone, I go to “Publicrecords.com,” type in Archer’s name, pay $2.95, and find his address. He owns a house in Parkville. Sticking my arm through the divider, I show the driver the address. “How long will it take to get here?”

  He types the address into the navigation system. “About twenty minutes.”

  “Make it fifteen and I’ll double your pay.”

  He shifts into drive, makes a U-turn, and accelerates so fast I’m forced back in my seat.

  Soon, we’re stopped in front of a modern house with sculpted hedges. No police officer could afford a home like this, especially at his age.

  I text Lynette: Anything on Mike or Archer yet?

  It’s the worst time of the day to try and spy: early evening, and no lights are on. I take off my seatbelt and lean forward. “Do you have any binoculars?”

  The driver looks in the rearview mirror at me and hesitates. “I do. But I’m not exactly sure how I feel about…”

  “Oh come on. You don’t keep them in the car to bird watch.” I put the phone down on leather upholstery.

  “No. But my surveillance jobs are strictly legal. I have a feeling your reason is somewhat ... questionable.”

  Nice to see a guy with a conscience. “With God as my witness, it’s with pure intent.”

  He turns around, makes direct eye contact. “Are you a religious man?”

  I’ve never been asked such a thing so directly; makes me uncomfortable. “Why do you ask?” I scoot back in the seat, feel like a little kid.

  “If you’re not a man of God, than swearing to Him means nothing.”

  I have the sudden compulsion to chew my nails. “Then the answer is yes. Yes… I believe there’s a higher power. But, I don’t think that God is some old man in the sky, with white hair, draped in robes.” I can feel a babbling jag coming on. “I mean really… we’re supposed to pray to an Arian male? That’s ridiculous. And why would God choose to be old? Frankly my God wouldn’t have genitalia…or an intestinal tract. I mean that’s just gross.”

  My phone lights up. Thank God; I was beginning to sound insane. It’s a text from Lynette: Just got to hospital, heading to Mike’s room.

  I look up from the phone. “Screw the binoculars. How about you go and knock on the door?” I flash him my best smile, forget that flirting may not be so effective in this body.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “For the same reason everyone does it… to see if anyone’s home.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  “…and I’ll give you a thousand bucks.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money to knock on a door. I’m not going to get shot, am I?”

  “Absolutely not. Girl Scouts honor.” I hold up three fingers.

  He shakes his head. “Your speech about God made more sense than that.” He opens his door, straightens his suit, and walks to Archer’s front door. Once there, he rings the bell. Nothing. After a minute or so he rings again. Nothing. He tries a third time, waits, then heads back to the limo and gets inside.

  He looks back at me. “Is it a good thing or a bad thing that no one’s home?”

  “Good.”

  He tightens his mouth. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  I open the door and step onto the sidewalk. “Could you honk the horn if some one pulls into the driveway?”

  He nods. “Just don’t tell me what you’re going to do. Because if it’s illegal, I’ll have to stop you.”

  “Why? Are you a Neighborhood Watch kind of guy?” I loosen my tie.

  He points to his nametag. “With a name like mine, I’m obligated to do the right thing.”

  I step closer to read it. “Your name’s Jesus?”

  He smiles. “It’s pronounced Hey-Zues. But, it means Messiah in Spanish too.”

  I pat the top of the car. “That’s a big name to live up to.”

  To avoid being watched by Jesus— and anyone else in the neighborhood— I pass through the side yard to the back. I’m taken off guard by a team of people trimming the hedges. Trying to appear casual, I throw them a little wave. One of them approaches.

  The man bows his head. “What a pleasant surprise, Master Gilchrist. We’ve watered the plants inside and are almost finished out here. Is there anything else you’d like us to do?”

  Why in the world would he know me, and not be surprised that I’m here? Clearly they’re on my payroll. “Uh... no?” He’s been inside? I pat my pockets. “You know… I seem to have left my keys at home. Would you be so kind as to let me in?” I note his name tag.

  “Of course, Sir.” He opens a palm and gestures for me to lead.

  Going to the back door: “Remind me, Shinji… how long have you been doing work here?”

  “Let’s see… I believe you gifted the house to Mr. Carter in June of this year. That would make it… just over three months, Sir.”

  I want to punch Archer in the throat. “Yes, of course.” I step aside as he unlocks the back door. “Thank you so much.”

  “My honor, Sir.” He bows his head and backs away.

  As I step inside, I find myself in a contemporary kitchen with white porcelain floors, black cabinetry, and aluminum counter tops. I’m stopped by the sterility of the place. It’s as if no one lives here. When I walk into the living room, there is a slate fireplace on the left, in front of which is an L-shaped, white leather sofa, atop a handsome caramel-colored rug. On the right, a wall of water cascades down aqua tinted glass into a tidy box-well built into the floor. Again, no mess. No sign of life, except the foliage in torso-sized planters that guard the front bank of windows.

  I head to the staircase that’s open on the side and leads up from the front door. Something’s calling me. All of this perfection will soon be betrayed.

  At the top of the landing I turn left toward the master bedroom. The centerpiece is a raised platform bed atop glass block stairs. The bedding looks custom. I check the closet. Nothing: no clothes or shoes. The bathroom is equally bare.

  The next bedroom is also sparse, but in the bathroom off the hall I find a men’s travel kit. In it: a razor, toothbrush and paste, Axe deodorant, and an electric shaver. A frayed beach towel is draped over the double-headed shower
stall. Feeling it, I find it damp.

  Going toward the final room, my stomach turns. Bile catches in the back of my throat; I swallow hard. What could be worse than what I’ve already seen? And it will be worse.

  I press down the handle and slowly open the door. The room is littered with the contents of Vanessa’s black box: pictures of his victims, passports, trinkets. I’ve already seen most of this. Why is my spirit terrified?

  A plain manila folder sits on the side table. My blood goes cold. Whatever’s in there is exactly what I don’t want to see. Avoiding the contents, I gather everything else and place each piece back in the box. The victim’s faces haunt me; seem to begging me to solve this thing. Soon the room is clear. I can’t prolong it any more; I have to know why I’ve been trembling for the last ten minutes.

  As I reach for the folder, I hear something. Jesus is honking. Looking out the window, I see Archer’s squad car pulling into the driveway, which runs along the hedges to the back. Tossing the folder in the box, I fumble with the latch, and heave it off the bed. It feels far heavier than when I lifted it as Joe. Rushing down the stairs, I hear the back door open, and freeze.

  Voices travel easily through hard-surface walls and floors.

  I hear Shinji as if he were standing next to me: “You have a welcome visitor.”

  “What? Who?” The tension in Archer’s voice is evident.

  “Master Gilchrist. I showed him in about ten minutes ago.”

  Scrambling for the front door handle, I throw it open and run toward the limo. Jesus starts to get out.

  “No, No.” I scream to Jesus. I can hardly keep the box off the ground. “Keep it running!” Flinging open the car door, I throw in the box and crawl in after it. Slamming the door, I look back. Archer sticks his head out. “Go! Go!” I yell. Archer runs toward us as we speed off. “He’s going to try and follow us,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” Jesus says. “Losing people is my specialty.”

  As the driver zigs and zags his way through back streets and onto a freeway, I look at the box.

  “Should we head to the party now, Sir?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. But don’t pull into the driveway until I know the time is right.” My phone vibrates; Lynette’s calling.

  “Nobody’s here.” Her voice sounds hopeless.

  “What?”

  “Mike’s room is empty. The nurse thinks he took out his own IV. And we don’t know where Archer is.”

  “They’re probably both headed to the party. Archer knows I took the evidence, and I’m sure he’s pissed.” I unhook the latch on the box. “And it would take a whole lot more than a gunshot wound to stop Mike.”

  Lynette’s boots thud rhythmically in the background. “Did you find out how Archer and Richard know each other?”

  “No. But, Gilchrist gave him the house Archer’s currently living in.” I think back. “Well, kind of living in.”

  “What do you mean?” Something dings.

  I search my memory of his house. “There was only a towel, some toiletries, and Vanessa’s box there. There’s nothing in the closets and the rest of the house looked staged.”

  “It sounds like he’s using it as an office.” There’s a whooshing sound.

  “Why wouldn’t he want to live there?” I watch as the driver changes freeways. The moisture in the air changes; we’re getting closer to the river.

  “Psychologically, I’d say he’s rejecting the gift. And if he can’t bring the evidence to his ‘real’ home, that tells me he lives with someone who shouldn’t see it.” Car doors slam.

  “So… the jury’s still out about which side he’s on?” I lift the lid of the box.

  “I’d say so.” An engine starts. “We’re headed to Gilchrist’s beach house— be there in a few minutes. Where should we meet you?”

  I feel the smooth texture of the file I’ve been avoiding. “Behind the storage place, just before you cross over the bridge.”

  After we hang up, I take a deep breath and open the file. Nothing could have prepared me for its contents. The first photo shows a fit man from the back fondling a crying girl, in the next he’s performing cunnilingus, then he’s on top of her.

  I shut the file to avoid looking further, and direct the driver to the storage facility. Once there, I close the divider window between us. Every part of me knows the worse is yet to come. Breathing like I did in Lamaze class, I get light headed, then re-open the file.

  Paging through what I’ve already seen, I close my eyes before turning to new photos. Fingers linger on the edge of images that will surely stab my spirit. When I re-engage, I’m overcome. If I were standing, my knees would have buckled. Instead, I start gasping as if I’d witnessed my own child’s murder. I can’t catch my breath.

  It’s Joe.

  He’s having sex with girls that are no more than twelve. The pictures aren’t staged. He’s not passed out. He’s enjoying himself.

  The sounds I’m making don’t seem human. Suddenly, I need to puke. Forcing open the door, I projectile vomit— partly on the door, then on gravel.

  I trusted him as much as Lynette.

  Clamoring out of the car, I crumble to my knees. Sitting back on heels, I bury may face in my hands and rock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Jesus gets out of the car. “Are you okay?”

  “Do I look fucking okay?!”

  He puts his hand on my back. “No Sir, you don’t. Is there anything I can…”

  I wave him off. “I’m sorry. Please… just leave me alone.” I put my hands on the ground to steady myself. Tell myself to breathe.

  Car tires grind gravel. Looking up, I see Joe’s Mercedes. I want to kill him.

  When they get close, I charge the car. I can’t even see Lynette and Kate; my eyes are trained on Joe. As they stop, I grab the door handle, yank it open, and pull him out.

  “You son of a bitch!” Closing my fist, I attempt to punch him in the face, but the assault is more like a closed fist bitch-slap. So embarrassing that I don’t know how to throw a decent punch.

  Joes grabs my wrist. “Richard?”

  Kate gets out of the car. “Mom?!”

  Lynette races over. “What’s going on?”

  I ram my knee into Joe’s crotch. He drops his keys and doubles over. “What did I…?”

  “You know what you fucking did. You’ve been in on this the whole time.”

  Joe puts his hands on his knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re a goddamn pervert, just like the rest of them.”

  Kate looks heartbroken. “Is that true?”

  Lynette touches my shoulder. “What did you find?”

  I don’t want to be graphic in front of Kate. “Pictures…of him… with girls.”

  Kate recoils. “You mean…”

  “Yes, Honey, young girls.”

  Joe tries to straighten up. “It’s not what you think.”

  I get in his face. “No. It’s not what I think…it’s what I saw.”

  Lynette’s mouth tightens. “Where are they?”

  I point to the limo. “In the back seat.”

  Jesus opens the back door. He watches as Lynette pages through the pictures, puts them back in the folder, and returns to us— box in hand. Looking at me she says, “Get Kate out of here. I’ll handle Joe.”

  I’ve never seen her so resolute. Joe should fear for his life.

  Lynette picks up his keys. “Here’s what’s going happen.” She pops the trunk. “You’re going to get in, and I’m going to figure out why I shouldn’t leave you there until cadaver dogs discover your rotting, bloated corpse at the bottom of the river.”

  Jesus unbuttons his jacket and reveals a gun.

  Joe raises his hands. “Listen… this really is a misunderstanding.”

  Jesus takes out the gun, cocks it. “You heard the lady.” He gestures toward the trunk. “Get in.” I notice the gun is the same model as Mike’s and wonder if Jesus is I.A.

 
; Joe keeps his hands up, walks to the back of his Mercedes, and climbs in. Jesus slams the trunk and returns to Lynette. “You know how to use a gun?”

  She says, “I have five brothers. Of course I know how to use a gun.”

  Jesus makes sure the safety is on and hands the gun to her by the barrel. “This is just for your protection. I’m not encouraging you to take his life… especially with a gun that’s registered in my name.”

  Lynette nods.

  Kate says, “What are you going to do?”

  Lynette hugs her. “Nothing I’ll be ashamed to tell you about.” She heads to Joes car and turns around just before getting in. “Don’t worry about this. Just concentrate on Mac and the other kids.”

  I see her dialing her phone; can’t imagine who she’s calling.

  We watch as she drives off, hitting every pothole along the way.

  Jesus looks over at Kate and me. “I’ll just wait in the car, Sir.”

  I put my arm around Kate. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She buries her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. “It’s like I’m feeling everything and nothing at the same time.”

  “I think that’s what they call sensory overload.” I rub her hair. “This has been hard on all of us. It’s like we’re in a mine field and don’t know where to step next.”

  “Or who to trust.”

  She must have been invested in Joe too. “I know… it’s hard to find out that someone isn’t who you thought they were… especially when we’re supposed to be ‘intuitive’.”

  “Plus, Mac’s not safe and you’re…”

  “And I’m…”

  We look at each other and start laugh/crying. Soon, I hold her face in my hands. “Clearly there’s no good explanation for what I am— or what I will be— but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in each others’ hearts forever.”

  She rubs her nose on her sleeve. “Please don’t say, ‘You gotta have faith’; it just makes me think of that stupid George Michael song.”

  “What? That song was brilliant; even made your dad get up and dance like Elvis.” It feels good to talk about Cal; to remind myself that I used to know how to pick a good man.