Читать книгу Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls - J. Kerley A. - Страница 21

A week after moving into my house I was seized by a fit of domesticity and bought a vacuum cleaner. Or, judging by the looks of things when I’d unboxed it earlier this evening, several vacuum cleaners: tubes, brushes, cords, bags, and all manner of vaguely obscene, mouthlike devices. Finally assembling a working instrument, I’d given everything a good suctioning. I squeaked gray film from my windows with rubbing alcohol. The toilet bowl received magic blue dust that fizzed and bubbled. Stacks of clothes were tucked into drawers. After an hour the place dazzled, in a relative sense.

By 7:30 I was sitting on the deck contemplating the slender odds that Dr. Davanelle might appear. The sun slid through its last degrees of arc. A squall to the east pushed toward Pensacola, but the remaining sky was warm blue. The phone rang and I popped up like anxious toast. Be Ava, I wished, reaching for the phone.

“Carson? This is Vangie Prowse.”

My heart dropped to my knees. “Hello, Dr. Prowse. What a surprise. I haven’t seen you in—”

“Jeremy called you a few nights ago, or early morning, rather?”

Her voice always split the difference between question and statement, a good voice for a psychiatrist.

I said, “I didn’t know he was allowed to call out.”

“He isn’t. He slipped a cell phone from an attendant’s pocket. I left a message for you the other night, to call me? I wanted to apologize for the lapse.”

My mind-photos of Dr. Evangeline Prowse, taken a year ago, gave her brown eyes as penetrating as those of a snow owl, fortune-teller eyes. In her mid-sixties, she had more pepper than salt in her hair, the salt more silver than gray. Her loose-jointed knees and elbows conferred the gait of a retired marathoner. She would be calling from her office, high ceiling, shelves dense with books, an intricate carpet from some country where rugs have meaning.

I said, “He was manic, spinning. Is he any better?”

“Overall? We try to keep him stable, Carson. Never think he’ll be better, not in the usual sense.” She paused. “He wants to talk to you.”

“You mean now? I have a friend due any minute, Dr. Prowse.”

“It’s Vangie, Carson. You mentioned you’d stay in contact? I’d hoped to hear from you more often.”

“I’ll call back. Now’s just not a good time.”

“Jeremy wanted me to say it’s been a long time since you two connected? He also says he thinks you both have current events to discuss.”

“I’m very busy right now, Vangie. Seriously.”

Her voice dropped away. Never try to match silences with a shrink, they’ll wear you down every time. I finally said, “I have a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Carson. If he can’t speak to you he’ll start obsessing, and that creates problems. I’ll have him brought to a room with a phone? Hang on.”

She put me on hold. Three minutes passed. Five.

The line clicked open. I said, “Jeremy? Is that you?”

“Jeremy is that you?”

Like an echo my voice returned to me; he was a brilliant mimic of men or women, a mynah. Then his true voice, midrange, musical, a wet finger making a wineglass sing, one octave lower.

“Yes, it’s me, Carson. How nice of you to remember someone with whom you once shared a womb. A few years apart, but shared nonetheless. Cold in there, wasn’t it?”

“How’ve you been?” The words sounded ridiculous as I spoke them.

Jeremy cupped his hand over the phone as if talking to someone in another room. “He asks how I’ve been.” A different voice called back, but still his. “Tell him the cookies were delicious.”

He took his hand from the phone. “The cookies were delicious, Carson. But I can’t quite get it clear in my head, brother—did you send them on the first or third year I was here?”

“I’ve never sent cookies, Jeremy.”

“No cookies?” pouted a little-girl’s voice. “Don’t you wuv me?”

“I’m busy here, Jeremy. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“NO! YOU CAN NOT CAN NOT CAN NOT! Holding this fear-crusted, sweat-dripping phone is the first freedom I’ve had in A YEAR! Speaking of that, we have to talk. How does one get ahead in the world, Carson?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Jeremy. How?”

“A knife is always helpful.” He laughed. “Get it? A knife’s helpful to get…a…HEAD! It zeems to me like you haff a leetle problem in Moe-byle, Carson. A free spirit. Need some help? If one is traveling to Iceland, one should take along someone who speaks ice, n’est-ce pas?”

“Jeremy, I don’t think—”

“Our first dead lad was—or perhaps still is, depending on various philosophies—one Jerrold Elton Nelson, age twenty-two, beheaded in Bowderie Park, sharp instrument, body dressed in et cetera, et cetera…the Mobile Register offered such a sterile recitation. COLORLESS! Then this morning I find another poor boy’s gone to bed without his head. A French name—Duchamp? I hope he didn’t lose his beret as well. It was on the news for all of ten seconds. Are they your cases?”

“I can’t discuss—”

He banged the phone on a hard surface. “HELLO? HELLO? This is your REALITY CHECK service.” He put a hand over his mouth and made hissing radio-interference noises, abruptly stopping.

“There, Mr. Ryder, your lines are CLEAR. How about your conscience? You can’t discuss, can’t discuss?…dear sir, did we not spend hours and hours hotly discussing a previous incident? Does the name JOEL ADRIAN come to mind, dear sir, esteemed sir? Was I not of some simple, humble help to you in that instance, good sir, dear sir, most honored sir? DID I NOT SOLVE THE BLOODY FUCKING CASE FOR YOU, CARSON?”

I listened to my heart. What seemed like a thousand beats later, I said, “Yes.”

“We’re going to have so much fun on this one. I can hardly wait. I’m thinking of having a decorator in, redo the place, get it all nice and cozy for your arrival.”

“Jeremy, I’m not—”

“You can bring all the photos and files and we’ll pore over them like happy old ladies looking at scrapbooks of friends who’ve passed away.”

“I’m not planning on—”

“DON’T INTERRUPT, CARSON, I’M WORKING A TOUGH ROOM HERE…You’ll have to call Dr. Prowse, Prowsie, Prussy, Pussy, and let that dried-up old pussy know you’ll soon come a-calling.”

“I won’t be up, Jeremy,” I said. “Not for a while.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” he stage-whispered. “You’ve got a boy down there on the old reverse diet, one I know so well.”

“You’re talking past me, Jeremy.”

“Reverse diet? It’s real simple, Carson. The more you eat, the hungrier you get. See you soon, brother.”

He hung up. I looked out the deck door. The day, bright and beaconing minutes ago, seemed overwhelming, the sunlight a too-loud voice, raucous and grating. I walked window to window, shutting the blinds.

‘“We’re going to have so much fun on this one…”

I cranked up the AC just to hear it spill into the quiet. Boxing myself in again. Retreating into my Mesmer box. Jeremy’s phone call hung in my head like wet smoke.

“…come up and visit…”

I started the horrible tumble back in time, walking down the dark hall, six years old…my mother at the sewing machine…

I was pulled from my dark time travel by the sound of tires on sand and shells. I looked out the window. A white Camry pulled across the drive to the twin parking spots beneath my stilt-standing home. The car stopped. The door opened and closed.

Ava Davanelle.

“Hello? Detective Ryder?” she called out from below, feet kicking through crushed shells. “Hello?”

I ran to open the shades in the kitchen, pulled the curtains open to the deck. Yes! I ran to the bathroom for gargling and spitting as tentative footsteps began the wooden ascent to the small porch on the land side of my house. Yes! One last swipe of rag across the counter as I moved toward the door, past the mirror, seeing me—square grinning face brown from the sun, shadow of beard that never disappears, khaki shorted, aloha shirted, pulling off the faded Orvis cap to slap sprigs of untamable black hair.

Feet on the porch planks, outline through the curtains on the door. I turned from the mirror, smiling. Frightened?

Knocking on the door.

A woman I barely know swam fifteen years into the past, grabbed my collar, and pulled me back to thankyouthankyou now.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

I opened the door to find a smile as wide and bright as a mid-summer sunrise. I gestured Ava inside, sniffing in her wake a whisper of perfume and mint. Her motions were music, her hair shone. A blue, short-sleeved shirt tucked into a white skirt touching modestly at her knees. She walked on the long and shapely legs of a figure skater. There was bounce in her steps, the air wanting to carry her. Was that a hint of shyness in her eyes?

I was breathless at the transformation: Was this the dour-faced woman in the floppy lab coat?

Ava nodded at my interior decor of posters and driftwood and shells and walked to the doors opening to the deck. The Gulf was slate blue with waves burnished amber by the low western sun. A dark tanker dotted the horizon.

“What a view. This place is yours? How do you ever affor—” She caught herself and turned, touching pink lacquerless fingertips to her lips. “Whoops,” she said. “That’s not polite.”

“An inheritance. Don’t worry, everyone asks that question, if not always out loud. Can I fix you a drink and if so, what’s your preference?”

“I’ll just go with a vodka and tonic. Light, please. I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Twenty watts, coming up. Get your stereo repaired?”

She waved her hands above her head and shuffled in a circle, an impersonation of local cable-access preacher Beulah Chilers. “I have mew-sic again and heard its glow-ree and I have been sank-tea-fide by it, pra-a-a-a-ise Jay-sus!”

I nearly dropped to my knees and hallelujahed. Was this the same gray-humored woman who minced bodies for a living?

“Damn, it’s colder’n a morgue in here,” Ava said, and with great difficulty I avoided noting her nipples thought so too. We took our drinks to the deck. Ava seemed to have brought a breeze and for the first time in a week the air didn’t feel like hot syrup.

“So you boated over,” I said as we angled chairs toward one another and tapped glasses in a toast to the boundless spirit of summer nights everywhere.

“Getting to Gulf Shores was a nightmare. But returning across the Bay made up for it. Someone told me we passed over the site where the guy said, ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’”

I nodded. “Admiral Farragut during Battle of Mobile Bay, August fifth, 1864, the curtain coming down on the War Between the States.”

Our eyes held one another’s longer than usual for a one-line history lesson and startled us into looking away. Ava jumped up and wobbled slightly. “Sea legs from the ferry,” she said, walking to the railing and looking out over the Gulf. A sailboat ran east with the wind toward the mouth of the Bay. The wind nestled Ava’s clothes against her slender body and I knew Reubens was wrong and subtle curves curved best. Ice chimed against her lips as she sipped.

For a half hour or so, we conversed like friends too long apart. The weather. The dearth of Indian restaurants. Mobile’s once-famed Azalea Trail. The serene and stately glory of Bellingrath Gardens. I told her how Mobile had danced to its own version of Mardi Gras years before New Orleans put its shoes on.

I discovered Ava Davanelle was thirty years old with an orthopedic-surgeon father and a mother who taught French. She’d grown up in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Reading her father’s copy of Gray’s Anatomy when she was thirteen inspired her career. She’d lived in Mobile for six months, and today was the first time she’d been on the beach. I discovered she understood quiet, and our silences were comfortable and contemplative.

Then, over a period of fifteen minutes, her silences became forced, almost troubled. Her eyes wavered from mine and their incandescence waned. Ava sat forward and rubbed her forehead. “Doggone,” she said, “I brought you the copy of the preliminary report. It’s in my car. I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t need it now. I’ll wait for finals.”

“After I’ve brought them here by land and sea? You’re getting them.” Her smile was strained, like trying to smile while lifting weights.

“Just summarize. Similarities and differences in twenty-five words or less.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I was struck by how similar the bodies were, like twin brothers, except, had they been brothers, Deschamps worked out two hours for every one of Nelson’s: more pronounced musculature, primarily in the upper body.”

“Great,” I said. “All I needed.”

She stood. “I’ll get the report.”

“I’ll come with you,” I offered. “Show you the exotic sights under my house. You’ll love my kayak.”

She handed me her glass. “Fix me another, please. Light. I’ll be right back.”

Shapes of the past: Ben “The Bear” Ashley, my first partner, finding reasons to get me out of the car. “Gimme a pack of gum, Carson,” “Run in and grab me some smokes, bud.” Bear sent me inside fast-food joints for the food instead of using the drive-through. I also recalled Bear’s low moods before he’d command some odd errand. Until learning the truth I thought it a rookie initiation or show of pecking order.

After mixing two more drinks I returned to the porch and waited, a weight pressing my heart. Ava stepped outside with a manila folder. A new scent of mint suffused the air. She rolled her head as if loosening her neck. Two minutes later she was laughing like a tickled bell.

The indications were there, but I needed to know for sure. I smacked my forehead. “Damn,” I said. “I’ve got to take out the trash. If I forget I’ll find ants everywhere in the a.m.”

“Ants! Of coursh,” Ava slurred. “Pesky things.”

I grabbed a half bag of trash from the container and wrapped it for show, heading downstairs. She’d locked her car and I got the slim-jim from mine, a two-foot strip of thin steel slipped between door and window to pop the lock. Ava’s door opened in seconds. The glovebox had the usual automotive records, plus several packs of gum, breath mints, and other scented candies. I patted beneath the passenger seat. Nothing. My hand crawled beneath the driver’s seat and found a long brown bag that sloshed as I retrieved it. Inside was a liter of bottom-rung vodka, a third empty. A sales receipt fell out. Beneath the imprint of the package store was the name and price of the vodka, plus date and time of the purchase.

7:01 p.m. Tonight.

Jesus. Ava had sucked down eight or so ounces of liquor before she’d arrived. No wonder she’d looked incandescent at the door; she was lit up with first-flush alco-energy, blazing. But it’s a fire ravenous for fuel and her featherweight drinks lacked the voltage, so she’d hustled to her car for an eighty-fourproof jump-start.

Bear was an alky who pulled chugs from a bottle under the seat when I picked up smokes and burgers. Ten months with him taught me if Ava could drink that much and still present a sober facade, she’d had practice handling it. She was experienced enough that leaving the report in the car let her socially birdie-sip her drink, having an excuse to head to the well if the itch started. Alcoholics are master planners at sneaking drinks.

The slurring had started. With a fresh surge of ethanol in her system she’d start showing its effects, but perhaps be too affected to realize it. Letting her drive back to Mobile was unthinkable. I felt like an amateur juggler handed two lit blowtorches and a Roman candle: how to proceed without getting burned?

“How’s your trash prollem?” Ava said loudly as I stepped back outside. Her glass was fuller than when I’d left, and I realized she’d slipped inside and poured one. It didn’t seem the best way to begin a relationship, she sneaking my booze while I broke into her car.

I said, “It’s solved. No ants in my pants tonight.”

“What about your pantch?” Her esses had moved from slippery to slushy.

“Nothing. Just a comment on entomology.”

“Etta-molgy? Where words come from, right?”

She squinted slightly, a reaction to blurring vision. After several seconds spent studying her watch Ava jumped up as if bee stung.

“Pas’ my bedtime. Gotta run.” She started to walk but wavered. “Whoopsie,” she said, covering. “Leg fell asleep.” She bent and pretended to massage sparkles away.

“And a very nice leg at that,” I said.

She grinned crookedly. “Thanks. Got another’n just like it over here.”

She wobbled again. If she got in her car I’d have to call the Dauphin Island cops and have her stopped. I couldn’t sober her up quickly, but I could push her the other direction.

“Just one more small one?” I suggested. “A light light for the road?”

“Nope. All done.” But her eyes weighed the notion and her feet weren’t moving.

“Please, just one more with me,” I said. “Sit, darling.”

“Darling?” she echoed as I went to the kitchen. A minute later I handed her three shots of vodka with tonic to take it to the rim. I’d added a hefty squeeze of lime, hoping its citrus bite masked the potency. Ava was past sipping for show and drained a third of the glass in a single swig. She cocked her head my way and her eyes took a two-count to focus.

“Carshon, did you call me darling before?”

“Yes, I did, Ava.”

“Why?” she said, turning the word into two syllables.

“It seemed appropriate.”

Ava rose with a waver and walked toward me. She leaned my way and I thought her equilibrium was failing until her lips found mine. She tasted like lime perfume and her lips were cold. But her tongue was warm and we held tight as her hands stroked my back and kneaded my buttocks. Between the lime and vodka I smelled the heat of her need. We half walked, half staggered to the dimly lit bedroom. I sat her on the bed and she nibbled between my neck and ear. Despite the circumstances I heard the amoral beast of my body howling.

“Wait here, darling,” I said. “I want to take a quick shower. But first let me get your drink.”

“Oh, God, pleash hurry,” she said, and I wondered if she was referring to the shower or the booze. I brought her another thermonuclear blast of vodka.

I sat on the toilet seat and ran a cold shower for several minutes before climbing in myself. Fifteen minutes later she was sprawled and snoring. When I tugged the cover up to her neck, my knuckles touched the warmth of her lips, and I let them rest there. I had so far seen two Ava Davanelles, the first a joyless, brooding ghost, alert to slights and quick to anger, the second a sun-bright dazzle of the delicious, all smile and wit and sweet, laid-back laughter. Were both no more than fables from a bottle? If so, where between the extremes resided the true Ava Davanelle?

Was it the woman I saw in the hall outside Willet Lindy’s office, her fists knotted tight and her face a white horror of conflict and struggle?

I should have felt anger and betrayal, not by the woman whose breath warmed my hand, but by myself. My self-serving need to understand and battle discord had drawn me to a place where I lacked knowledge or solution. I could not understand the situation, but since it had crossed into my life, I could not in good conscience turn and retreat.

Or could I? None of this was of my making.

I oversaw Ava’s sleep for twenty minutes, then went to the deck and watched the stars assemble until their noise overwhelmed me and I went to bed.