Meter Maids Eat Their Young (12 page)

A week later, without really thinking about it, I had asked her to ride the carousel with me. My original intention had been to ask Felice, but when I called Jilly's to see if she'd be up for that, Albert had told me she wasn't around. On a silly impulse, I'd asked Jaz and she'd agreed, ribbing me the whole way. After riding the carousel several times, we had walked through the park for hours.

There had been something about her, the way she'd moved, her voice, the questions she'd asked, the way she'd listened, that had made my head spin. Instead of the attraction fading, it had grown stronger.

We'd taken a narrow trail that led down to the river. It was dark and I'd stumbled on a root or something. She'd caught me and for a long moment we had stood there, too close, our bodies touching in an easy embrace, our lips millimeters apart. They may have even touched, briefly, and then we were both an arm's length apart, breathing hard. I don't know who broke away first and neither of us had spoken of it since.  

“All the time,” I said.

“Me, too.”

She turned then and ran up the stairs. I stood there until I heard her door open and click shut.

I was walking across an open field deep with snow, following a single set of tracks receding into the dusky distance. Despite the snow and the long, narrow icicles hanging from the barren branches of the trees, I didn't feel cold. I could see a figure off in the distance, at the very edge of vision. I knew who it was. I knew if I increased my pace, she would increase hers. If I lagged, she would lag. If I stopped, she would wait until I started again.

And I knew that I had been on this trail a long time. That at the beginning of my journey other trails had crossed mine. That I had considered turning off, had even taken a few steps in other directions only to turn back and resume my fruitless trek. But that had been long ago. Now there was only me, her, and the never-changing distance that separated us.

As I walked, the trees lining the path rustled and Jaz stepped through them. She watched me for a moment and then joined me on my trek. At first she was silent, putting one foot in front of the other as I was doing. We came to a turn. The path widened. I walked several steps ahead before I realized she had stopped. I turned and saw her looking at me.

“You'll never catch her,” she said.

I looked over my shoulder. As I knew she would, Robyn had stopped as well. Waiting. I looked back at Jaz.

“I know that,” I said.

“Why do you chase her, then?” she said.

I felt confused by her question. It should be such an easy one to answer. I shivered, feeling the cold now, covering me like a cloak.

“Well,” I said, ready to give her an answer. To my surprise, nothing came. My mouth hung open, my tongue wet and ready for words, but no words came. I didn't have an answer. I started to shake. The moisture on my lips froze.

I woke up.

The transition was seamless. I simply opened my eyes, a Don Henley song echoing in my head. Summer, yeah, that was some summer. The bedroom glowed with moonlight. The wind whistled softly through the screen above my bed, the breeze sliding across my body like satin. It was warm, with a hint of rain.

Once, there had been nights like this, Robyn curled up beside me, asleep. I would wake, roll over, watch her breathe; trace with trembling fingers the contours of her body as it glowed in the moonlight, wondering how long she would stay in my world.

Now there was only me. My heart felt as if it were being filled with air. There were tears in my eyes and I didn't know to which emotion I should attach them. I longed for something, with the bitter knowledge that what I longed for was a ghost, a point in time to which I could never return and never relive.

And in that passage of time I had become the weaver of a tale I am too afraid to finish, knowing that to do so would leave me with an empty loom. The endless raveling and unraveling had become ritual, the never-ending tale a refuge. The strands have grown thin, their colors faded, the original design distorted in the constant reweaving. Yet I keep my foot upon the treadle, my hands upon the shuttle, blindly raising and lowering warp threads in shifting combinations, their purpose lost.

The breeze dried my tears. I could hear the rumble of distant thunder. The glow of the moon was fading. I reached out my hand. The space beside me was as empty as I felt inside.

When I woke again it was past noon and raining. The strains of a Billy Holiday tune were seeping from the radio. Reluctantly I opened my eyes. The curtain was billowing into the room, undulating in the wind. The thunder was closer. Flashes of lightning traced shadows on the wall. Billy became John Lee Hooker who in turn became Muddy Waters. Though still a rocker to the core, I prefer the anguish of blues upon waking. It always sets the mood for the day to come.

When Muddy handed it over to BB and BB slid it on down to Tab Benoit, I rolled out of bed and just about fell to my knees, my legs were so wobbly. I sat back down and that was when I realized I was soaked in sweat, over-heated and shivering at the same time. No wonder I had slept so late. Whatever foul chemicals I had sucked into my system at that print shop were doing a number on me.

With an effort, I managed to stand and make it to the kitchen. Despite the distraction of my mournful thoughts, and shivers that had me spilling coffee beans and cat food all over the counter, I managed to make it through the first thirty minutes without injuring myself or the cats. Chores done, coffee cup in hand, I grabbed a blanket and headed for the porch, shaking off the last remnants of the Robyn Zone.

The rain was coming down in long, wavering sheets. I hesitated at the stairs, hoping Jaz would appear, knowing she wouldn't. No doubt at work by now. I continued onto the porch, wrapped the blanket around myself and sat down in my chair.

The wind was whipping the swings across the street into a frenzy of activity, as though ghost children were at riotous play. The seconds between the flashes of brilliant lightning and the accompanying boom of thunder were growing shorter. The storm was nearly overhead.

Despite the long hot shower I had taken the night before, I could still smell traces of printer's ink seeping from my pores and the taste of it was still in my mouth. I was beginning to think this was going to be a complete down day, when my pager went off and my cell phone began bashing Beethoven.

“Teller,” I said, flipping the thing open.

“Are you all right?” said Felice.

My heart jumped. Felice would only call if something was up, not to ask about my condition. She would already know my condition.

“What's happening?”

“You need to get down to the police station right away,” she said, her voice as calm as if she were discussing the weather. “They've arrested the Meter Mangler.”

The phone fell from my hand, into my lap. I could hear her voice as I fumbled to retrieve it.

“Teller? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem, Felice. I'll head over there right now.”

I folded up the phone and slipped it into my pocket.

I stood up. Turned one way, then another, confused. The Mangler. Caught. I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. Didn't want it to be true. I had grown rather fond of Darth and his little jabs at the establishment.

On wobbly legs, I ran inside, slipped on some clothes, grabbed my keys and headed out the door to my car. I hesitated, thought about locking the front door and was on the verge of doing so when my cell phone began butchering Beethoven again.

“Are you on your way?” Felice said.

“Halfway there,” I said and flipped the phone closed. I stared at the front door a moment longer then jumped in the car and headed downtown.

The city courthouse has a ‘Torquemada slept here' look to it. Heavy, dull gray stone, heavy oak beams, window and door frames like lips pursed in anguish. You find yourself looking for the entrance to the dungeon and think you've found it when you stumble across the stairs leading to the police station. It sits on the north side of the courthouse, enjoying the worst of the winter storms and little of the summer sun. The granite there is stained and moss-covered; stepping down the stairs to the massive oak doors brings a ten-degree drop in temperature.

The place was quiet when I stepped through the door. I knew Felice had a mole in the police department; she had moles everywhere, so it wasn't likely that the TV crews had wind of this yet. I'd managed to avoid entering this part of the courthouse since my return so I was somewhat surprised at how civilized it was inside, considering the outside facade.

Ivory walls, pastel blue trim, Weston, Adams, Cunningham and Bullock photographic prints on the wall; house plants on every flat surface and everything in its place. I was sure this was Marion's doing since becoming the head honcho. He was a neat freak to the extreme. His desk was always empty and shining, his clothes clean and pressed to perfection, and his houseplants never died. Never even yellowed.

Marion didn't like being called Marion, despite the fact that Marion was the name given on his birth certificate. Really. I looked once, just to be sure. Normally, when someone can't abide their first name, they resort to their middle one. In Marion's case, it wasn't an improvement. Francis, in his mind, was as bad as Marion. And it wasn't like he could go by his initials, MF not being the best sobriquet for a cop. In the end, from the time he returned from Nam, he emulated his movie hero John Wayne, another Marion, and started calling himself Duke.

I have never called him that, much to his chagrin.

I made my way past the reception area and found Marion watering plants in his office. Built like a NFL lineman, his hair was the color of sun-bleached wheat and cut close to his scalp. He had a hard, square Dudley Do-Right jaw, with tight, thin lips that turned neither up in a smile nor down with displeasure, and sharp, blue eyes that could pin you in place like a mounted butterfly. As always, his khaki-colored uniform looked fresh off the hanger, with creases so sharp they hurt the eye to look at them. A Sam Browne belt was tight about his trim stomach. A sleek Sig Sauer 9mm rode on his hip at pocket level, an improvement over the bulky, Dirty Harry .44 he used to carry.

The only blemishes on this near perfection were the four, thin scars that ran from jawline to hairline. The hundreds of similar scars – shrapnel wounds – which peppered the right side of his body had earned him the Navy Cross. The quarter-size bullet-wound scar above his left nipple, with an exit wound scar the size of a baby's fist below his left shoulder blade, led to the Medal of Honor.

“Hey, Marion,” I said, stepping into his office. “What's up?”

His shoulders tightened imperceptibly. I could see the color rise above the tight collar of his shirt. He set down the watering can and turned, sighing as he did so. He tried for a smile but it looked more like someone had stepped hard on his toe. I had the feeling our little bout with détente was wearing him down.

“Teller,” he said, lowering himself into his chair, a straight-backed wooden thing that looked distinctly uncomfortable.

I knew he would never offer me a chair so I pulled one out and sat down. “So,” I said. “Anything new on Harrison?”

He visibly relaxed, which was exactly what I hoped would happen if I opened with something other than the Mangler.

“Nothing new,” he said. “Coroner confirmed the cause of death as blunt-force trauma. He was hit from behind, probably never saw his assailant.”

“Have you found out where he was killed?”

“His garage. He was apparently getting into his car. There was blood splatter on the seats, floor mat, dashboard and a pool of it on the floor. The coroner set the time of death at between 8:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m.”

Right after his call to HL, I thought.  “Did you know he called HL at 8.00 p.m. that night?”

“Mr. Essex has informed me of that and of the brief conversation between them.”