The Bleeding Season (21 page)

“Yeah, can’t wait.” I offered an insincere smile of my own.  “See you around, Brian.”

I walked back to my car without looking back.  It felt great to dismiss the bastard, and besides, I’d lucked out.  Julie was living a little over thirty minutes away in Cambridge, and my thoughts had already turned to her.

*   *   *

Once I got back to the apartment, I called Donald at work and asked him if he could search the Internet for some information.  I knew he had Internet access at work and at home, and since I had no idea how to even turn a computer on and didn’t have time to go to the public library and dig through microfiche, I figured he was the best person to assign with information gathering.  “Do you think you might be able to find anything about homicides in New York City during 1982?” I asked.

“I’m sure there must be some web sites out there with statistical info,” he said softly, keeping his voice down so no one else could hear what he was saying.

“Well that’s the year we thought Bernard was in the Marines,” I reminded him.  “If he told the truth on the tape and was really in New York City for that year then there should be some evidence of the things he claimed he did.  Articles, police logs, whatever you can come up with that might somehow tie into all of this.”

“I’ll do it when I get home.  There’s no privacy here, such is the life of a lowly corporate word processor.  I’m not sure I’ll find any specifics but I’ll see what I can do.”

“OK, I have to get going but I’ll be in touch tonight,” I told him.  “Depending on what time I get back, I’ll either give you a call or swing by the house.”

Silence answered me until he said, “Get back from where?”

“Cambridge.”

“And do I want to know what’s in Cambridge?”

“I don’t know yet.  We’ll talk tonight.”

*   *   *

I was familiar with Boston but not so much with neighboring Cambridge, so after finding a listing for Julie in an area phonebook, I jotted down the number and address then headed out.  I shot up Route 3, the coastal highway that leads to and ends just shy of the outskirts of Boston.  Thoughts detonated one after another, blurring my mind as I did my best to focus on the road.  The two tallest buildings in the city—the Hancock Tower, a reflecting spire of tinted glass built to appear one-dimensional from certain angles and three-dimensional from others, and the contrasting, more traditionally designed skyscraping Prudential Center, needle nose piercing the clouds—dominated the horizon.  A dull sun dangled low in the sky, partially obstructed by the cityscape, as if hiding and mischievously peeking out from behind it.

I had no idea, no plan as to how I might approach Julie—or even if I should—much less broach a conversation about what may or may not have taken place in the forests of Potter’s Cove more than twenty years before.  Odds were, she’d have no memory of me.  In all the times I’d been to Brian’s house or played in his yard, Julie and I had probably spoken fewer than twenty words to each other.  If I got lucky, she might have a vague memory of me as one of her little brother’s friends, but that was the best I could hope for.

I needed a starting point, and trying to find the truth about her and my memories of that day in the forest with Bernard was as good a place to start as any.  If Bernard
had
done something to her all those years before, it didn’t necessarily prove he’d later graduated to murder, but it would give me a more objective view of him and hopefully point me in the right direction in terms of solving the rest of what I’d experienced.

Traffic was light, and I made my way into the city quickly.  It was a bit warmer here, the air thicker and less typical of spring in Massachusetts.  I drove along Washington Street then hopped onto Charles Street, cut through the Boston Common public gardens and headed toward Beacon Hill.  The Longfellow Bridge took me into East Cambridge, past Kendall Square and onto Broadway.

I found Demaro Street, a narrow boulevard, a few blocks in and away from the hustle and bustle of the main drag.  The phonebook had listed Julie Henderson’s address as #12.  I slowed the car and noticed many of the addresses were not clearly marked.  The neighborhood was rundown, the streets littered and the tenements in various stages of disrepair.  The gaps between the buildings were so small the entire street had the confined feeling of an alley.  On the corner was a graffiti-decorated and burned out building that had once been a convenience store.  A group of guarded-looking young men and one woman stood nearby, watchful eyes locked on my car, lips moving subtly, as if speaking to each other in code.  I moved on, their stares still boring through me, and a bit further up I found #12, a two-story apartment building with a flat roof, severely chipped paint and cement front steps.  I pulled into the first available space across the street and checked my rearview.  The group on the corner was still there but no longer seemed interested in me.

Before I could change my mind I forced myself from the car and jogged across the street to Julie’s building.  A breeze kicked up but quickly dissipated.  Litter and debris blew about at my feet, scraped the pavement then settled quietly.

Not surprisingly, the front door was unlocked.  I stepped through into a closet-like entryway.  To my right I saw a row of mailboxes, none of which were marked with anything but an apartment number etched directly into their front panels.  The interior door before me led to a short foyer and a worn and dusty staircase with a hallway to its left.  There was a strong musty smell, like fresh air seldom found its way here, and the industrial tile floor was filthy, the dark tan walls shabby and stained.  I looked up at a ceiling beset with watermarks and thick clumps of dust and grime, and released a lengthy sigh.

The address in the phonebook had only listed the building number, not any specific apartment, so I moved past the staircase, into a narrow hallway and followed it to the first door.  I hesitated, listened a moment.  A man and woman were having a rather heated argument on the other side of the thin wall but were speaking Spanish, so I had no idea what they were saying.  I moved to the second and only other apartment on the first floor.  A small plastic sign that read:
Beware of Dog
had been tacked to the door, and beneath it was a thick piece of masking tape on which the name
Barnett
 had been printed.

I returned to the staircase and slowly climbed it, ignoring the spent paraphernalia and telltale rubbish in the corners along the floor that indicated the foyer was a regular stop for neighborhood junkies when shooting up or smoking crack.  The entire stairwell smelled of decay.  A bleary shaft of sunlight from a window facing the street cut the second floor landing in two.  Dust motes danced in the colorless light, sprinkling the shadows just beyond the reach of the sun.  I could hear a television playing somewhere nearby, the sound muffled but loud enough to echo throughout the building.  Once I’d reached the top of the stairs I looked in both directions—the hallway was empty—then stepped away from the sunlight, into the dusty shadows and toward the first door.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Startled, I looked to my right; saw the outline of a man standing at the far end of the hallway.  “Uh—Hello,” I said awkwardly.

“Yeah, howdy-do, motherfucker.  You deaf?”  He came closer, clad in a soiled t-shirt and grungy jeans.  His body was gaunt and his gait clipped, as if walking were something of an effort.  I noticed a series of dark purple track marks along his arms.  His face emerged from shadow to reveal hollow blue eyes that had probably once been piercing but were now faded and foggy from drug abuse.  His hair was mussed and badly in need of a shampoo, and black and gray stubble covered his scruffy face.  “I asked you a question—who the fuck are you?”

“I’m looking for Julie Henderson,” I said, squaring my shoulders, “
that’s
 who the fuck I am.  Which apartment is hers?”

Realizing he had failed to intimidate me, the man dropped his tough guy routine and shrugged dejectedly.  “I don’t know nobody, all right?”  His eyes darted about as he nervously crossed then uncrossed his arms and shuffled his feet like a child in need of a bathroom.  When his eyes finally settled on me again they did so with such intensity it was like being stared at by someone who had never seen another human being and was trying desperately to get his mind around the concept.  “I don’t know no—nobody.”

“Look,” I said, relaxing my stance a bit, “I’m an old friend of Julie’s.  We grew up in the same town.  I haven’t seen her in years and I—”

“She’s at work.” His statement seemed to surprise him as much as it had me.

“You live in the building?” I asked.

The man nodded rapidly then stopped the motion just as suddenly.

“Does she work around here?”

“Yeah, she—she should be back any time, OK?  Any time now.”  He pawed at the bruises on his right arm and shivered slightly.  “Any time now.”

“What apartment does Julie live in?”

“Same one as me,” he told me through a hard swallow, cocking his head quickly in the direction from which he’d come but indicating only the darkness behind him.

I was stunned but tried my best to mask it.  “You her boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m Alan,” I said, offering a casual wave since I had no intention of touching him.  “Alan Chance.”

“Cool name.  Should be a spy or a movie star or something with that name.”  The man leaned against the wall and sighed.  “You ain’t a cop or nothing like that, right?”

“Nope, just an old friend of the family.”

“Julie’s shift ends at two,” he said, wiping some spittle from the corner of his mouth.  “She should—she should be home by now, I—I don’t know what the fuck’s taking her so long.”

I looked at my watch: 2:19.  The hell with this, I thought.  I wanted out of there anyway.  “Well look, let her know I stopped by.  I’ll be back around to see her some other time.”

I turned to leave and nearly ran into a woman standing in the sunlight at the top of the stairs; a paper bag stuffed with groceries tucked under one arm and a set of keys dangling from her free hand.  Images fired through my mind’s eye, a veil of memories slowly lifting to expose the woman now standing before me.  Gone was the honey colored hair, the clear brown eyes, the perfect complexion and model body.  In their place was a rather disheveled and tired-looking middle-aged woman in a polyester waitress uniform, nylons and dingy white sneakers.  “Julie?”

She exchanged a quick glance with the man then returned her focus to me.

“Julie,” I said again, my heart racing, “you don’t remember me but—”

“Baby,” the man said from behind me, “please can we take care of that other thing first?  You got it on the way home, right?  You—you got it, right?”

I looked back at him, then at Julie.  Eyes trained on mine, she gave a slow nod, reached into her uniform pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag.  The man blew by me and rushed to her with speed I wouldn’t have guessed he had, snatched the baggy from her hand and shuffled off toward the apartment.  “Beautiful, beautiful—I knew—I can always count on you, baby.”

Julie approached me.  “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name’s Alan Chance.  I’m from Potter’s Cove.  Your brother Brian and I used to play now and then when we were kids.”

“Chance,” she said, expressionless.

“Yeah, Alan.  I was a few years behind you in school,” I said.  “Like I say, you probably don’t remember me but—”

“What do you want?” she asked, this time softly.

I extended my hand and smiled.  She left it hanging there, so I said, “I was hoping maybe you and I could talk for a few minutes.”

“About what?”

“Well—look, I—I know this is going to sound strange, but I want to talk to you about someone I think we both knew.  Do you remember a kid my age—Brian’s age—named Bernard?”

A slight crack appeared in her otherwise vacant expression, but she said nothing.

“Bernard Moore,” I pressed.  “Do you remember anyone from town with that name?”

“I knew it,” she mumbled, as if to herself.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.  “I’m sorry?”

Rather than answering or repeating herself, her eyes dropped the length of my body with the detached air of a formal inspection, finally settling then locking on my chest.  I looked down, following her stare, and realized the small gold crucifix I wore had come out of my shirt at some point and was dangling over my collar in full view.  I grasped it and carefully dropped it back inside my shirt.  When I looked back at her she was still staring quite intently, but now directly into my eyes.

“I don’t mean you any harm, Julie,” I said gently.  “I only want to talk.”

“Not here,” she said in monotone.  “Inside.”

CHAPTER 15

Despite having been invited in, I still felt awkward and out of place in Julie’s apartment.  We entered in single-file and with an unspoken but shared sense of sorrow—livestock to slaughter—Julie in the lead and myself bringing up the rear.  She stepped to the side, let me pass, then closed the door and engaged a vast collection of locks.

A tiny parlor opened into a substantial but modestly furnished living room, where an inexpensive circular rug covered most of the worn hardwood floor.  The furniture was mismatched and old, and the walls had been painted a light gray, which gave the apartment a gloomy feel even in the light of day.  Two windows dressed in faded white curtains stood at the rear of the room overlooking an empty playground and an adjacent avenue beyond.  Small silver crucifixes dangled in each window, facing the street like sentinels.  I pretended not to notice.

Julie brought me through the living room and into an equally dismal kitchen.  A card table, its vinyl top littered with burn marks and small tears, sat in the center of the room surrounded by four folding chairs.  A large glass ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, a deck of cards and various religious books, including an old Bible, lay scattered across it.  Suspended from a curtain rod in the window over the sink was another silver crucifix.