The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (4 page)

Outside, in the street, nothing stirred. Not the neighbors, not their dogs nor that wretched motorbike belonging to Cisco, the next-door neighbor’s kid. And, inside, Jack was asleep upstairs. Clark was sat downstairs on the sofa, Edie’s hand outstretched in his, her head tilted right back on the sofa’s edge. He stared at her. No sign of movement underneath the tightly closed lids. Was he imagining it, or was her breathing getting shallower, deeper? He had no idea what to do with her next. Slowly, tentatively, he said: ‘First I’m going to ask you to kiss me.’ Edie burst out laughing. ‘Edie!’

‘It’ll never work, I’m not under.’

‘You’re just not taking it seriously.’

‘Well, it’s not serious, is it? Just a load of hocus-pocus. I guess I’m obviously not the receptive kind. Or whatever kind you have to be to want to be “under”.’

He had to stop himself from telling her she’d been under in Vegas. And that if she’d been under there, she could be under here. It’s just he wasn’t Marvin Mesmer. Someone with years of practice behind him. He was just a beginner. But he wanted to catch up, to learn, as fast as he could. He’d always been a quick learner.

‘Well if you would just focus a minute, stop giggling, I’d be able to do it.’

‘I don’t want to be hypnotized as me, can’t you hypnotize me so I can be someone amazing, someone beautiful? Princess Grace, Farrah Fawcett.’

‘Farrah Fawcett?’ Clark’s face lit up. ‘Now there’s an idea.’

‘Clark!’

‘What? You said it.’

‘But I didn’t mean it. You should love me for who I am.’

‘I do. But I love Farrah for who she is, too.
Really
love her.’

Edie threw the cushions at him. One slid along the corridor and landed right at the entrance to his den, its door firmly shut. When he got back into the room he heard Edie’s unmistakable purr-like snores. She must have had a day of it with Jack. Well, at least he’d get to watch what he wanted on TV. He sat back down next to her, softly, so as not to wake her up. He clicked the TV on. Pop music blared out. He quickly hit the remote, watching Edie as he did so. He turned down the volume, just enough to drown out her snoring, but not high enough to wake her. It was some variety show. Looked like a rerun. Onscreen, a bunch of beardy guys in satin shirts and tight pants were singing something he kind of recognized. Next to them, in a retro ’60s nod, five girls were dancing in miniskirts and knee-high boots whilst a psychedelic background twirled around and around behind them. Clark stared past the guys, towards the girls to where the background pulled him in deeper. He stared at it, into its centre, as it turned around and around and around. In the room, he could hear Edie’s breathing, in and out, in and out, the clock in the corner of the room, tick, tock, tick, tock and, outside, the weeping birch with its long draped branches rustling in the night breeze. It was almost like a lullaby. He surrendered himself to it and soon he was drifting off someplace, someplace far away in time.

Inside the sparsely decorated room, he watched his boy-self, sat uncomfortable, hunched over, at a small table doubling as a desk. A calendar on the wall marked the year, 1968. The month, December. One of the coldest on record. On the desk were schoolbooks, none of them open. He started to walk towards young Clark, but the sound of an argument drifting from downstairs disturbed him as it crept up through the ill-fitting floorboards. As it got louder there was no escaping it, no matter how much both Clarks put their hands over their ears. Glass shattered. He hoped she wasn’t cut again. Clark flung open the door, heavy footsteps on glass crunching along the downstairs corridor. Fast, angry feet on the stairs towards him. He stood, as if frozen, unable to move as his father appeared in front of him. He stopped, glared at Clark, maybe he had gotten too big to hit. Finally. His father mumbled something, Clark thought he could smell liquor on his breath. But he didn’t drink. Or, at least, Clark had never seen him. Clark looked back to young Clark sat bent over his desk, too frightened to even look up. Clark closed the door and crept downstairs towards where he could hear his mother sobbing.

She was crouched over, housecoat on. Around her was chaos, tumbled furniture, liquid seeping into the carpet and at her feet a picture frame. Before he felt his feet move, he was crouched down beside her picking up shards of glass splintered out of the frame. She looked up at him. Her face so lined with woe, he feared if she smiled at him it would crack open like the desert floor. He reached out his hand to dry his mother’s tears. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was small, a child’s. Clark looked behind him to the door where he’d come in. His adult-self was standing there, watching. His mother took his hand, brought it to her lips, kissed it. Tears rolled down her cheeks. He saw that she had the frame’s photo in her hand, unscrunching it. She looked right into Clark’s eyes. ‘He hates me.’

‘No he doesn’t, Mommy.’

‘Hates who I am, hates that my blood’s tainted. Your blood’s tainted.’

His boy-self had heard other arguments. Knew what ‘tainted’ meant. Grandpa had three wives, not just one, and all at the same time. He had heard them shout words like ‘wrong’, ‘disapprove’, ‘embarrassment’, ‘my position’ and a load more. He knew there was a name for it, having several wives, but couldn’t remember it. Something beginning with Polly, like the girl’s name. He looked up at his mother. ‘I hate Father. He makes you sad.’ He smiled at her. Hoped she might smile back. But instead, she started yelling at him.

‘Clark! Oh no, what on earth have you done!?’ His mother’s face filled with anguish and she grabbed his hand, pulled it towards her. He could see blood running from it. He watched as she turned his hand over, prised it open. Several shards of the glass had pierced the skin deep and blood oozed from each cut. And then he heard another voice. Another woman. And she was shouting also.

‘Clark! Clark! Wake up. Clark!’

Edie was staring right into his face, her eyes wide, urging.

‘Clark, you’re bleeding. Wake up.’

He saw there was blood on his trousers, on the couch.

He looked down as she opened his bloody palm. The small glass had shattered and broken in pieces. Leftover juice ran into the cuts. He couldn’t feel anything. He’d felt more before from paper cuts. Movement on the TV caught his eye, a commercial for painkiller. Pain-free in minutes seemed to be the mantra. Pain-free. He remembered the psychedelic movement on the screen, the lulling repetition of the sounds around him. He looked back down at his hand. A nasty cut. But it was pain-free. Relaxation. Repetition. Suggestion and control. Just like Dr Mesmer. Clark jumped up from the couch.

‘Where are you going? Let me dress that for you.’ Edie was standing up now, moving behind him, the pieces of broken glass in her palm.

‘Not now, Edie.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’ll do it myself, downstairs.’

He could hear her say something, but in a moment he was at the end of the corridor, unlocking the door and down the stairs to his basement workshop. But not before he’d firmly closed the door behind him. And bolted it from the inside.

By the time their car rolled up outside the Gudsen home the double shot of Advil was relaxing Marty’s stiff neck. He’d slept the night in his desk chair and let Al crash on the makeshift bed made of vinyl-covered cushions Marty had salvaged from a ’50s sofa which had been headed for the dumpster outside his building. Marty had used it as a bed for months in his apartment, right after the divorce. That had been the sum of his forays into furniture acquisition. He spent most of his time at the station and when he wasn’t there he was over at Murphy’s Sports Bar, a block down from the station and the only place serving booze for a good three miles, except the Hilton and that was too pricey. Murphy’s had comfortable bar stools, a reasonable selection of low-alcohol beer, a TV and home-cooked food. What more could a divorced man ask for, Marty always said, except for the company of a wild woman and stronger beer.

Outside the Gudsen home there was nowhere to park. The family and friends’ cars were lined up along the street and in a cluster outside the overflowing drive. Marty hated being near the bereaved, couldn’t bear to hear their questions of why, see their tears, their shaking hands and heaving hearts. It made him remember and he didn’t want to have to remember.

‘What do you want me to ask?’ Al said, half turned towards him, left hand still on the wheel.

‘The usual. But right now, she’s a possible suspect, so let’s see how she reacts when you suggest there might be another woman in her husband’s life.’

‘You think it’s a case of find the lady?’

Marty smiled. ‘It’s a good possibility.’

‘You’re not going with Big Tex’s theory?’

‘I want to hear all the theories, you know that.’

‘We got a lot of witnesses to the Houseman bomb.’

‘Contradicting Big Tex, most of ’em. And until Houseman’s out of a coma we won’t be able to hear what he’s got to say about any of it.’

‘There’s been no more bombs.’

‘It’s ten in the morning.’

‘You waiting for another boom, Marty?’

‘Yeah, but I’m not praying for one. In the meantime, let’s see if we can beat the ticking clock.’

Marty flicked the car door open. ‘See if you can find out from the widow Gudsen about their lifestyle, particularly the luxe. Anything they might be spending their money on or where they might be hiding it, instead of putting it in the bank, out of sight of the IRS and out of the reach of the investors.’

‘You think it’s fraud? The money thing?’

‘Could be. I’d sure like to know how a property company suddenly collapses owing a million to several thousand investors, before it’s even built one house.’

‘I’ve already subpoenaed all their financial records.’

‘Good. Make sure you get a copy of any wills. Or get the name of the family lawyer. See if it’s been updated recently.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Ask if she’s ever heard of anyone called Hartman. But let’s see what the widow might say right now, a day into the rest of her life.’

‘Hopefully something that might help us find the bomber.’

‘Or help find the next victim before the bomber does.’

‘Let’s hope that clock’s not ticking too fast, man.’

‘Let’s hope. C’mon, let’s see what the temperature’s like in here.’

Inside the hallway a group of young people stood quietly drinking fruit punch. Marty could smell its familiar sticky sweetness from a few paces. A baby-faced boy, his face covered in peach-fuzz, led them through into the living room, Al following behind him, Marty bringing up the rear. Inside, a large group of adults were in various stages of productivity. In the open-plan kitchen several ladies were desperately making quiet small talk whilst cutting, chopping, baking and juicing. A group of young men, members of the Faithful, stood in a line like watchful crows, murmuring quietly next to a telephone awaiting its inevitable ring. On the couch, a pretty brunette in her thirties sat hand in hand with a Faith Father, his black suit and tie his recognizable garb, not just for mourning. On the large armchair next to them an elderly man sat staring blankly into the TV’s dark screen, a large white handkerchief crumpled in his hand.

A few paces ahead of peach-fuzz boy, a curvy redhead in Kelly-green slacks and a pale chiffon blouse was moving toward the kitchen area carrying a heavy-looking earthenware dish, its contents smothered by tin foil. Her figure-hugging slacks marked her out as an outsider and when she spoke, in a heavy Brooklyn accent, Marty smiled knowingly to himself and heard her with one ear whilst listening to Al introduce them to the widow Gudsen with the other. Green slacks woman was Marion. She was a neighbor. Opposite. She explained to the women that she’d been over yesterday to give her condolences to Betty. How shocking it all was. Here of all places. Him of all men. Overnight she’d made this pumpkin pie. It was Little Peter’s favorite.

Marty figured Little Peter must be one of the deceased’s four kids, whose professionally framed pictures took up most of the wall at the opposite end of the room. He recognized the other kids from the hallway. Suits and all. He looked around the room: no signs of ostentatious wealth. A few inexpensive ornaments and a large crystal vase, but that was about it. As his eyes scanned the room Marion walked past him. Marty noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Big house, the one opposite, for a single woman. A divorcee abandoned in the desert? Or perhaps she had done the abandoning and was looking to get as far from Brooklyn as possible. If so, she’d picked a good spot. Marty thought he’d knock on her door right after. He knew from experience that men don’t always confide in their spouses, especially if what they had to impart was detrimental to the family and to their own status within it. If the neighbor was a curvy redheaded divorcee she might well be a pleasurable shoulder to cry on. In a place where everyone knew everyone else from birth and beyond, the New York divorcee might be the best secret-keeper in town.

Al was sitting down now, next to the widow, taking out his notebook and pen. The Faith Father remained, resolute and unmoving, on her other side. As Marty backed away from the couch he heard himself saying, ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss,’ and something along the lines of, ‘We’ll find whoever did this. The detective will just ask you a few questions.’ His back to them now, he heard her say, ‘I don’t know who would want to do this terrible, terrible act, Detective. Peter was a man of God, a good man.’

If only he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that.

It was starting to sting now, bad, as he ran it under the workshop tap, cold at first, growing steadily hotter until it was scalding. Clark bit his tongue as sweat popped out of his pores and ran down his forehead.

Trying to hold his hand still under the tap, he crouched down under the sink, reaching blind into the back of the cupboard for the first-aid kit he knew was there somewhere, unused, amongst all the other things he kept there, most of them hidden from anyone that might breach the lock on the door and find themselves in his workshop. Edie knew not to come in here. Ever. But it didn’t stop her from trying. Knocking on the door, day and night, trying to entice him to open up with offers of refreshments of all kinds. And sometimes even without the pretence, just to ask simply: ‘What are you doing in there, Clark?’ It was almost a game now. The only time she’d been in the cellar was when they’d viewed the house and back then the vendor’s boxes of junk had been piled so high around the room you could barely see the walls. That was four years ago.

His searching hand hit the familiar cold steel of his electro-plating machine. Over the twelve years he’d owned it, his second, it had made him a lot of money, but so had the first until it had burnt out. He was thankful Americans still loved their coins. And even more thankful that they were still relatively easy to alter in order to take something barely worth the metal it was printed on and make it worth hundreds and sometimes thousands of dollars. Last week, as he’d slid the machine back into its hiding place after using it to alter a common 1912 penny he’d already sold to a New York collector as its far more valuable and rare cousin, he’d seen the Target-branded first-aid kit behind it. Now his fingers landed on its plastic carry handle and he yanked it up and out from behind the electro-plater.

Twenty minutes later he was back at the sink, looking for a cloth to clean up the mess he’d made. He looked down at the bandage. The bleeding had taken a while to stop and now little pinpricks of blood were appearing through the gauze and heavily spun bandage. He’d sunk four painkillers with a flat Dr Pepper chaser slugged out of a can that had sat on his work counter for a few weeks, but it was still hurting like hell. He looked down at where the bloodied tweezers sat in the sink surrounded by splashes of blood. He’d pulled two fragments of the glass out with those and it didn’t feel like there was any more in there. He’d go to County in the morning, but his amateur job would do for tonight. Tonight he didn’t want to wait hours for a few stitches and a morphine shot. He just wanted the pain to go away. Now. Upstairs, he hadn’t felt any pain, not until a few minutes after Edie had shook him out of whatever place his brain had ventured to. Perhaps if he could mesmerize himself now, not accidentally but intentionally, he could get the pain to go away again. Even just until the painkillers kicked in. It was a process, he knew that. A process that had structure and order. It wasn’t called a routine for nothing. He’d witnessed Dr Mesmer’s routine and upstairs with Edie he’d somehow managed to put himself into some kind of trance. To repeat that surely he just had to figure out what the elements were and in what precise order they worked. Clark smiled to himself as he thought that the one element he shouldn’t forget was a control word to wake himself up out of whatever altered state he might get himself into. It had been a trip, but he didn’t want to be hypnotized forever.

He pulled a sheet of paper out of the notepad on the desk he’d made from an old door and a couple of tea-chests and wrote a list:

1. Contact/connection with subject/self.
   
2. Voice. Commanding. Alluring/beguiling and V. Imp: monotone.
   
3. Suggestion.
   
4. Distancing from the everyday.
   
5. Control word. 
   

He read the list again, adding ‘But not too far’ to Number 4: ‘Distancing from the everyday.’ When he was on his calling in England for the Faith, he had snuck away from the fellow Follower who shadowed him everywhere, met a girl in a Bath pub and dropped acid with her in the back of her father’s Mini. It took him a week to recover from that most spectacular of trips. He knew where the mind needed to go. Far, but not too far. He didn’t want to be sprinting naked around Mission Square.

He could make it work, he knew he could. After all, order and control were already the fabric of his life. He made another list.

1. Tape deck.
   
2. Blank cassette or one to record over.
   
3. Microphone.
   
4. Earphones.
   
5. Batteries, in case of power out.
   
6. Mesmerizing lullaby.
   

He had numbers 1 to 5 not so far from his desk.

Number 6. The mesmerizing word-lullaby might be the stumbling block.

He was sure that it was the music and staring into that spinning vortex that had somehow worked together and mesmerized him. He considered replacing number 6 with music, but didn’t think he had anything in his hidden stash of rock music tapes that would cut it. He would have to make up the words himself. Write them and record them and leave a gap of at least five minutes blank on the tape and then put the control word at the end of that time, partly to make sure he would be able to snap himself out of it, but also to ensure that he left five minutes for a short trip to who knew where.

He’d spent ten awkward one-handed minutes assembling everything he needed, including a short, hopefully hypnotic few minutes of self-spoken ‘lullaby’ that would cover numbers 2 to 5 of his first list. It was all he could do to stop himself laughing as he recorded it, as low and beguilingly moody as he could muster with the pain in his hand racing into overdrive. He sat and waited quietly for five minutes, as the tape whirred noisily in the player, then added the control word once and then, for safety’s sake, again with emphasis.
Numismatic. Numismatic.
He figured he needed a word that wasn’t in everyday use. He didn’t know enough about hypnotism to put his faith in a common word. Didn’t want to be accidentally put under by the checkout guy in Wal-Mart, making polite small talk as he eagerly tried to win employee of the month and a set of steak knives.

He added a number 7 to his second list. ‘Vortex.’

He started in the centre of the page and drew out from the point where his marker pen dug into the page. Around and around and around until the entire page was filled with a circle that looked like a snail shell.

He listened as the tape noisily spooled back to the beginning, put the earphones in his ears and hit play.