The Many (7 page)

2

Dr. Adam Reynolds emerged from the pillared entrance of his big fuck off mansion at precisely 7:45 a.m., sneering at the bleak winter’s morning and drawing up the collar of his winter coat. He skipped down the steps of his tiered front lawn, rounded his mailbox, and began striding along the sidewalk.

Karl lowered his head so his eyes were below the driver’s seat window. The doctor had probably noticed the black Saturn parked across the road, but Karl was betting he wouldn’t be curious enough to peer inside. Not yet, anyway. Karl waited until the footsteps faded before poking his head above the steering wheel. Dr. Reynolds was turning right out of the cul-de-sac, heading down the hill.

Karl shivered with nerves and excitement. He’d never have a better opportunity to strike.

Two weeks had passed since his sister’s funeral but Karl had only returned to Portland four days ago. Physically, he’d fully recovered from Stacey’s attack. The pencil wound had looked and felt much worse than it really was, puncturing four inches of harmless tissue and avoiding the carotid artery and jugular vein. After a brief examination in the emergency room, the doctor had passed his injury on to a young intern. She’d cleaned up the blood and sent him home with two tiny stitches, a bandage, and an assurance that he was as good as new.

His mother predictably blamed herself for Stacey’s suicide, imagining it had something to do with the emotional demands she’d put on her children after their father’s passing. No amount of reassurance would convince her otherwise and Karl had spent three long weeks in Cave Creek, acting as his mom’s priest and counselor. But when he finally found the time to acknowledge his own grief, he discovered the emotion that had been simmering in the background wasn’t sorrow, or guilt, or despair. It was a powerful, blinding rage.

He had to confront Stacey’s killer, and when he told his mom he was needed back in Portland for work, she encouraged him to go. He assumed she didn’t want another chronically depressed child on her conscience.

Finding Dr. Reynolds had been easy. Google revealed him to be a resident ophthalmologist at the Providence St. Vincent Medical Center, and his home address was listed right there in the white pages. He wasn’t hiding from anyone.

Karl returned to his old bed at the hostel and started plotting his revenge. He pawned most of Stacey’s possessions he’d inherited – laptop, iPhone, LCD TV – and used the proceeds to hire a car for a week.

In a rush of blood, he also bought a gun.

His asshole roommate Kenny was constantly pushing meth and weed on him and Karl had eventually asked if he could get hold of a handgun. Kenny’s eyes had lit up, sensing the sucker in his midst, and Karl was sure the twelve hundred bucks he’d paid for a used Beretta was way too much. But you needed to be twenty-one to buy a concealed weapon from a gun store and Kenny was the only wannabe gangster he knew. And to his credit, he came through with the gun in less than week. He even threw in a box of ammunition.

Once he had the gun, Karl wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He’d entertained fantasies about holding the pistol to Dr. Reynolds head and marching him into a police station, demanding a full confession. Or bypassing the confession and putting a bullet through his brain. But Karl was angry, not stupid. The fantasies stayed fantasies. He hid the pistol under his mattress and thought about selling it back to Kenny at a later date – when he wouldn’t look like such a pussy.

Hoping for his first glimpse of Dr. Reynolds, Karl drove out to St Vincent’s Medical Center and bought a bottle of cheap champagne from the nearest liquor store, sweet-talking the counter girl into wrapping it for him. He attached a card and dropped it off at the hospital’s front desk, telling the receptionist it was a gift from his mother, a token of appreciation for the fantastic care Dr. Reynolds had taken of her. The receptionist promised to hand it to the doctor that afternoon.

Karl took a seat near the entrance, just out of the front desk’s view. He bought a
Sports Illustrated
to pass the time but he didn’t have to wait long – Dr. Reynolds strolled towards the hospital entrance a few minutes after 6 p.m. He cut an impressive figure amid the shambling patients and visitors: imposingly tall and broad shouldered, his head held high, the wrapped bottle swinging freely at his side.

Karl could’ve easily wiped the smug expression from his face then and there, snatching the bottle from the doctor’s hand and crashing it into his skull, but he decided a hospital wasn’t the right place to confront his sister’s killer. Dozens of security guards and random do-gooders would quickly rush to the doctor’s aid. He needed somewhere quiet, where he wouldn’t be interrupted.

The following morning, he drove out to Dr. Reynolds’s house in the secluded, leafy, waspy West Hills. When Karl saw how the doctor was living, he was sick to his stomach. The vast colonial mansion was perched on top of a sloping lot, its barred windows looking disdainfully down on the road. Three million and change, Karl reckoned. The scumbag doctor was doing very well for himself.

Karl thought about ringing the bell but he doubted a wealthy guy like Dr. Reynolds would open the door to a complete stranger. Not on a freezing Saturday morning when sensible people were still in bed. And if Karl’s face were caught on a security camera, his cover would be blown. Next time he tried for a confrontation, the doctor would see him coming. Better to wait until he left the house.

Thankfully, Dr. Reynolds was an early riser. After watching him saunter out of his mansion and disappear around the corner, Karl quietly got out of the rental car and began tracking his prey.

Glancing right at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, he saw Dr. Reynolds was about a hundred feet in front of him, heading down the hill. So far, so good. Karl’s plan was to ambush him from behind, knocking him to the ground and dishing out a few quick punches to the face before commencing his citizen’s interrogation. He didn’t care if the doctor cried out – it would take at least five minutes for one of the sleeping residents to work out what was happening and make it down to the street, if anyone bothered to help at all. Of course, the police would eventually be called but unless a patrol car was idling around the corner, they wouldn’t respond immediately. Not that Karl would mind when they did – it would give him a chance to tell the story of his sister’s abduction again. Maybe this time they’d take him more seriously.

But his plan quickly hit a snag. As Karl started down the winding street, Dr. Reynolds suddenly turned around to face him. He must’ve heard the trailing footsteps – a criminal’s senses were probably always on high alert. Karl stood still, realizing too late that it was the worst thing he could’ve done. He should’ve just kept walking, like he was a regular neighbor out for a walk.

They faced off for a long moment. Karl couldn’t read Dr. Reynold’s expression in the early morning haze but he was sure the scumbag was smiling at him. Letting him know he had his number. Then the doctor casually turned his back to him and continued down the hill, disappearing around another corner.

The rage that’d been steadily building inside him suddenly evaporated, replaced by a crippling fear. How could he hope to knock down the powerfully built doctor, a man at least four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than himself? Karl was pretty good with his fists, but he’d been in enough scraps to know the importance of the weight advantage. The bigger guy nearly always won. And from the way the doctor had stared him down, he wasn’t dealing with a gentle giant.

“Fuck,” he cursed, disgusted by his own cowardice. Getting the crap beaten out of him wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Doing nothing and feeling like a spineless chickenshit for the rest of his life would be far, far worse.

Karl stormed down the street, determined to confront the doctor while he still had a chance. Rounding the corner, the road straightened out and the sidewalks widened. It was still deathly quiet but there was a centerline on the road and parked cars on either side. Up ahead, he saw Dr. Reynolds turning into a low-rise brick building. A drug store, Karl guessed.

A young Asian man was hauling in piles of freshly delivered papers and a few people were milling around the bus stop outside, their breath steaming in the cold morning air. It was definitely not the place to start a fight, not if he wanted to avoid third party intervention. But when he approached the brightly lit store and spotted Dr. Reynolds standing next to an upright refrigerator, inspecting the label on a soft drink, he began to rethink his strategy.

What would fighting the arrogant doctor really achieve? Even if he managed to sneak in a few lucky punches, Dr. Reynolds wounds would heal and he’d quickly return to his cushy, Jag-driving lifestyle. And that was a best-case scenario. There was an even bigger chance he’d escape unscathed and Karl would be beaten to a bloody pulp.              

Then it occurred to him. He didn’t have to fight the doctor to hurt him. A scumbag like Dr. Reynolds probably valued his precious reputation, his standing in the West Hills community, above everything else. Why was Karl relying on his fists? He could inflict more lasting, meaningful damage by wounding Dr. Reynolds pride.

He didn’t waste another second. Karl stepped inside the store and walked directly over to the drinks refrigerator. The only other customers were at the counter, rustling newspapers and jingling change. Waiting to be served by the elderly Asian shopkeeper. It wasn’t a huge audience but it would have to do.

Karl poked his chin over one of Dr. Reynolds’s steep shoulders and whispered:
“Murderer.”

The doctor straightened slightly, looking up from the bottle label he’d been studying. Then he calmly opened the refrigerator door and returned the bottle to its correct shelf. When he turned to look down at Karl, he was smiling curiously. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked in his snooty English accent.

“You knew my sister, you demented fuck,” Karl said loudly, immediately silencing the store.             

“And who’s your sister?” Dr. Reynolds asked lightly, as if Karl were just a dull stranger at a cocktail party.

“Stacey. You met her on the Love Letters site in November. Surely you remember spiking her drink over dinner and dragging her back to your house. She told me all about the sick set-up you have over there. You’re the reason she’s dead.”

Dr. Reynolds’s eyebrows knitted together. “Oh,
that
Stacey. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. I take it you’re the younger brother who was with her at the end. My God, it must have been awful for you.”

Karl lost his train of thought, thrown by the doctor’s compassionate tone. “Fuck you!” he spat. “Don’t treat me like an emotional relative. You killed her. She was never the same after that night.”

“Yes, I know. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t talk down to me,” Karl warned. The doctor’s arrogance was astounding. He wasn’t even trying to deny his involvement.

“Is everything alright, Dr. Reynolds?” a friendly voice inquired, a few feet from where they stood. It was the young Asian guy, probably sent in by his father.

“Yes, I apologize for the disturbance, Danny. This fellow’s sister took her own life recently and he’s understandably upset.”

He turned to Karl, his eyes dripping with fake sympathy. “Listen, I’ve told the police everything I know. I realize you’d like someone to blame but you must understand, we only went out once.”

“I told you not to patronize me,” Karl fumed, painfully aware that his attempt at public humiliation was failing miserably. “And you can stop playing dumb, Doctor, I know all about you and your sick friends. Ivan, and the men without faces.”

Dr. Reynolds rolled his eyes at Danny, and Karl suddenly realized how crazy he sounded. The only person he was humiliating was himself.

“I’ll get out of your way,” the doctor told Danny. Then he smiled apologetically at Karl. “And again, I’m very sorry for your loss. Truly I am.”

He brushed past Karl on his way to the counter, bending down to retrieve a
Tribune
and digging in his coat pocket for change. The other customers slowly came to life, judging the show to be over.

“C’mon bud, time for you to go,” Danny advised.

Karl was staring dumbly into space, wondering if he was barking up the wrong tree. Dr. Adam Reynolds had proven to be arrogant and unbelievably self-important but was he the sick pervert from Stacey’s memory? Now that Karl had met him in the flesh, it was difficult to imagine him strapping a woman to a chair and subjecting her to strange sexual atrocities. He seemed cold and unpleasant; not insane. In fact, given Stacey’s peculiar behavior in the months before she died, wasn’t it more likely she’d imagined the entire episode?

“Yeah, alright,” Karl said, jerking his arm away from Danny who’d reached out to hurry him along. “I’m leaving.”

He didn’t look at Dr. Reynolds as he walked out, deciding he needed time to rethink the facts before accusing him again. But when Karl passed the counter, he heard the doctor sharing a joke with the old Asian shopkeeper. He caught the back end of his remark:

“…that’ll teach me not to call the next day. At least she didn’t come after my pet rabbit.”

Karl paused in the doorway, listening to their mocking laughter. And suddenly it didn’t matter whether Dr. Reynolds was a twisted freak or just a bad date--Karl wanted to rip his heart out.