The Many (9 page)

5

Dawn couldn't wait for her eighteenth birthday, and not just because she was officially becoming an adult. Her favorite relatives were driving down from Seattle: Aunt Rosaline, Uncle Pete and Grandpa Flint. She was especially looking to seeing Aunt Rosaline, her mother's straight-talking elder sister. Isobel had been acting weird for a week now and Dawn was desperate for a second opinion. The rest of the family wouldn't notice – it wasn't like Isobel was barking and frothing at the mouth – but Rosaline would sense something was wrong. Even though the sisters lived in different cities and no longer talked like they used to, they’d been pretty close growing up. They knew each other's personalities inside out.

Dawn had already e-mailed her aunt to make sure she was on the lookout for Isobel's strange new traits. The staring into space. The forgetfulness. And the extreme lewdness whenever she was confronted about her behavior. Even when Isobel wasn't doing anything obviously weird, she was still
off.
Like her hugs – Dawn couldn't feel any warmth coming from her mother's body. It was like hugging a corpse.

The night before her birthday, Dawn was getting a bowl of ice cream from the freezer when she noticed a four-pound chicken inside. She asked Isobel if she should take the bird out to thaw overnight.

“Actually, I’ve decided against cooking chicken,” Isobel replied.

Dawn looked at her. “You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not kidding. I'm sick of bending over backwards for my carnivorous family. They're in my house, they can eat under my rules.”

“But you’ve cooked chicken before. And you know how Pete and Grandpa love their meat. You can't serve them tofu balls for lunch.”

Isobel’s top lip curled into a sneer. “It won't be tofu balls. I was going to make a mushroom potpie with mashed potatoes and a nut-based gravy. It’ll be delicious.”

“Yeah, that does sound great, but maybe not for tomorrow. C’mon, Isobel. You remember last Christmas and what a fussy eater Grandpa is. Rosaline couldn’t even get him to try yams.”

“I
remember
having to eat side dishes instead of a proper meal. If my sister can’t fix me a vegetarian main course, why should I go out of my way for her?”

“You’re not cooking for her, you’re cooking for me. It’s
my
eighteenth birthday. I’m the one who asked for lemon chicken.”

“Only because you thought it would please the others. I know you love my vegetarian food.”

“I
like
your vegetarian food, but I
love
lemon chicken. Two weeks ago you didn’t have a problem cooking meat. Why are you being so horrible?”

Isobel set her hands on her hips. “I think I know why you’re so uptight, Dawn. It’s all that sexual energy you’re storing up.”

“Please, can we not talk about sex?”

“You’re about to turn eighteen, Dawn. Sex is all you should be talking about.” Isobel paused, her dark eyes thinning. “I can arrange something, if you’d like. A suitable man to break you in…”

“Stop!”
Isobel cried. “Jesus, can you even hear yourself? I’m your daughter…”

Isobel took a sudden step towards her, and Dawn caught her breath, thinking she was about to get a smack in the mouth. But then Isobel’s expression relaxed, and she let out a long, spine-chilling laugh. “Okay,
darling
. If you want chicken so bad, you cook it. Just be sure to open all the windows because I don’t want that slaughtered bird stinking up my house.”

She laughed again, walking straight out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She’d been spending most of her time in her bedroom lately, like a sullen teenager. Ignoring the computer, her favorite TV shows,
her daughter.

The only hobby Isobel was still interested in was sketching. She’d always been fond of the visual arts, drawing on her natural creativity and two years of community college art classes. She sketched plants and trees, mostly, since she’d never quite mastered the human form. Normally the sketchbook only came out on sunny weekends and vacations, but recently, Isobel had taken to drawing in her bedroom. Dawn often heard the scribble of pen on paper behind the closed door.

That’s what she was doing now, Dawn guessed. Sketching her fucking trees while her daughter was left to plan her own birthday lunch.

There was no doubt about it, she thought grimly. Her mother was getting worse.

Dawn thought she’d feel different on her first morning as an adult. A month earlier, she’d made a promise to turn over a new leaf on her eighteenth birthday. She was going to leave her awkward childhood years behind and transform into a confident, daring young woman overnight. She knew she had it in her – she just needed to show some discipline. But when the morning sun pushed through her eyelids and stirred her from a troubled sleep, Dawn didn’t feel transformed. She was too anxious. Consumed with worry for Isobel.

Dawn had spent countless hours speculating about what had happened between Isobel and Maxine, the slut nurse with the cruel eyes. Presumably they'd slept together, but what then? Had Maxine dumped her as soon as they were through, turning Isobel's delicate heart to stone? Dawn couldn't believe it. No one fell in love that quickly, not even a hopeless romantic like her mother. She’d been hurt too many times before to let that happen.

It was also possible the date had ended with a kiss on the cheek and something happened to Isobel on the way home. Maybe an unexpected encounter with an ex, or a mugging,
or worse
. Possible, but somehow Dawn didn't think so. Maxine was at the heart of her mother’s abnormal behavior, she was certain of it. She’d had a bad feeling about that bitch from the start.             

Dawn rubbed her eyes and swung her legs out of bed, refocusing on the present. Her relatives were due at eleven and she had a heap of work to do before then. She'd found a recipe for lemon chicken online and although the cooking time was only fifty minutes, she first had to dismember the bird, make the sauce and then marinate the chicken pieces for two hours. It was likely to be a stressful morning and she wanted to get everything done before Isobel got up to make her vegetarian specials. The kitchen wasn’t big enough for two.

Being a Saturday morning, Dawn presumed Isobel was sleeping in but when she came out of the bathroom, she noticed her mother’s bedroom door was wide open.

“Isobel?” she called, moving tentatively along the hallway.

Her voice went unanswered. She glanced down the stairs, frowning. Isobel had been up before her. Her scent was still fresh in the air. She moved quickly to Isobel's bedroom and poked her head around the door. The bed was neatly made. The carpet was clear of clothes and shoes. All the perfumes and lotions on the dresser were neatly grouped.

Dawn stared at the uncluttered bedroom. Her mother was never that tidy.

With a nervous gulp, Dawn slowly descended the stairs. Isobel appeared to have left the house but she wanted to make sure – she didn't want to be startled while she was getting changed or looking in the mirror. The way her mother was behaving, Dawn could imagine her creeping up from behind, tapping her on the shoulder with an icy finger.

Dawn padded through the living room and checked the kitchen and downstairs bathroom. Empty. Then she returned to the living room and parted the front curtains. She breathed a sigh of relief. The Corolla wasn’t in the driveway. Isobel had probably driven out to Whole Foods to buy organic mushrooms and gluten-free pastry for her stupid potpie.

Satisfied she was alone, Dawn was about to climb the stairs when she noticed an envelope on the coffee table. Her name was written on the front in her mother's large, looping hand. She slit open the envelope with her nail, smiling when she read the card's multi-colored message:
"18 Today!"

Her pulse raced with anticipation, hoping she was about to find a surprisingly awesome present inside. Like tickets to Coachella. Or a gift certificate to Icon Tattoo, the coolest tattoo shop in Portland. A gift fitting of a landmark birthday. 

Instead, there was nothing exciting inside, just a brief, hand-written message.

Dear Dawn.

I've been miserable lately and I've probably been making you miserable, too. That’s why I've decided to give you the best birthday present an eighteen year old could wish for. Independence!

Take care, Isobel.

Dawn read the message again, confused.
Take care?
What kind of bullshit sign-off was that? And what did Isobel mean by independence? Was she going to remove the parental controls on the cable and give her a spare set of keys for the car? Or….

No.

Panic gripped Dawn's chest as she tore up the stairs, almost tripping over her towel as it slipped from her body. She ran into Isobel's bedroom and flung open the closet doors, gasping when she saw the bare railing. Only a handful of garments were on the shelves, a solitary pair of heels on the shoe rack. Dawn frantically pulled open drawers in Isobel’s dresser and nightstand. They were untidy; half-empty. Her mother had clearly packed in a hurry. But where had she gone? To Aunt Rosaline’s? Acapulco?

Dawn’s eyes were drawn back to the nightstand. In the open shelf below the drawer lay Isobel’s Moleskin sketchbook. Dawn sat down on the bed and set the sketchbook on her lap. Shaking off a moment’s trepidation, she started flipping through the pages.

The first half of the book was filled with Isobel’s signature sketches: flowering plants, trees, gardens. But there was a change about halfway through. Pencil lines became heavier; darker. Trees and plants grew dense and knotted, until there was barely a patch of white on the page. The most recent sketches didn’t resemble anything at all. They were just seething swirls of pencil.

Dawn lifted the final page closer to her face. She let her eyes relax, like she was looking at a Magic Eye drawing. After a few seconds, a shape began to emerge from the wall of pencil. Dawn’s pulse quickened. It was the outline of a face. A face with no eyes, yet she could feel the throb of a powerful gaze.

A memory stirred from deep inside her. Her muscles seized in terror, and a small scream started in the base of her throat. Dawn blinked, anxious to break the spell. She lowered the sketchbook, adjusting her focus. The face slowly shrunk back into the mass of dark pencil. She blinked again, challenging her eyes, but the face had disappeared completely.
It was just her mind playing tricks on her.

Dawn jumped off the bed, breathing heavily. She threw the sketchbook over the side of bed – out of sight. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed. But as she stood in the middle of the bedroom, a different kind of fear took hold. Tears welled in her eyes as the cold reality hit home.

Her mother hadn’t gone on holiday.

Isobel had packed up her life, leaving only the scraps behind.

6

Central Investigations had moved. No longer in the heart of the business district, it had relocated to a worn-out street in Chinatown, a part of the city foreign to Karl. Apart from the lion-guarded entrance gate and a smattering of noodle shops on the main avenue, Karl didn’t think the neighborhood deserved its name. As far as he could see, there weren’t many Chinese people around. In fact, there weren’t many people around, period.

It probably didn’t help that the last light had disappeared at 4 p.m. and a cold wind was blowing through downtown. Walking along the empty sidewalks with his hands buried deep inside his shell jacket, Karl cursed Portland and its shitty weather. Cave Creek’s climate wasn’t much better but cold in the city was worse than in a small town. Especially when you were dirt poor. 

Karl's mood wasn’t improved when he arrived at the detective's building – a depressing slab of brown brick that looked like an old Victorian factory. Across the road was an adult bookshop with bars on the windows; next-door was a pawnshop. Karl tilted his head, searching for signs of life in the gloomy windows above him. If Virgil Grant hadn't come recommended by Detective McElroy, he would've kept on walking.

Inside the stark gray lobby, there was no tenant directory; no elevator. Judging by the mist still coming from Karl’s mouth, there was no heating, either. At the base of the staircase, a handwritten note taped to the wall advised that Central Investigations was on the 3rd floor.

Jesus
, thought Karl. Was Virgil’s agency the only tenant? How the mighty had fallen. Virgil Grant used to be one of his dad's favorite players in the late nineties, when he was a starting defensive end for the Oregon Ducks. A few people even predicted he’d turn pro. Talk about glory days passing you by.

With rock-bottom expectations, Karl trudged up two flights of stairs and walked down a bare corridor lined with open doors and empty offices. They were all of uniform size and shape, giving it the appearance of a cheap hotel rather than an office building. It reeked of chemicals, too – like the place had recently been painted even though the walls were faded and peeling. Another note from Central Investigations was taped to the fire hose, pointing towards the end of the corridor. Karl wondered grimly why the only tenant in the building had the furthest suite from the entrance.

After rapping on the door to Suite 322, Karl was greeted by a shaven-haired man in a crumpled business shirt, sleeves rolled up. Carrying more bulk than in his playing days, Virgil looked like a lot of ex-footballers who’d ended up in less physical careers. He still had the meaty jaw and dense muscle of an athlete, but he was starting to get a bit puffy round the edges.

“Sorry about the premises,” Virgil said, returning to a seat behind his desk and encouraging Karl to take the guest chair opposite. There was no other furniture in the room apart from a wastepaper basket and a small electric heater, turned up to full blast.

“Has this building been condemned?” Karl asked, shrugging off his jacket.

“Ha – good one! I’m the first to move in, actually. This used to be a one of those rent-by-the-hour hotels but they closed it down because of the termites. The building was sold as a write-off, but the new owners thought it could be saved and called in the fumigators. Now they’re leasing the rooms as cheap office suites.”

“Right. And these fumes don’t bother you?”

“You can still smell them? Shit, these last two weeks must’ve destroyed my nasal passages.” He laughed. “I guess that’s why I’m the only one here. They did warn us not to move in until next week but I needed an office like yesterday. And I haven’t dropped dead yet.”

“So where should I begin?” Karl said, keen to get down to business.

Virgil took the hint, his smile flattening. He consulted an open desk diary. “Okay, on the phone, you said your sister killed herself last month. And you believe this doctor guy, Adam Reynolds, is somehow responsible.”

“That's right.”

“A guy she met online.”

“Yes.”

“But you don't think he raped her?”

“I did at first, but now I'm not sure. Actually, I think it’s worse than that.”

Virgil nodded, studying Karl closely. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about the night your sister went out with Dr. Reynolds.”

For the next twenty minutes, Karl recapped the events leading up to Stacey’s suicide. He tried to keep his descriptions factual and dispassionate, like he was giving evidence in a courtroom. Virgil scribbled away in his notebook, rarely interrupting.

But Virgil’s note taking started to lose steam when Karl described his family Christmas – Stacey’s sleepwalking, her vague references to a recent trauma, and the unprovoked assault on her mother. And when Karl got around to Stacey’s bizarre recollections under hypnotherapy, Virgil put down his pen altogether.

“So Dr. Reynolds tied her up in a basement?” he asked when Karl was through.

“I don’t know if it was a basement. It sounded like a basement.”

“And there was someone else down there?”

“Another man, yes.”

“Someone she recognized?”

“No. He was older. She said his name was Ivan.”

“And he raped her?”

“Maybe,” Karl said. Seeing the dubious look on Virgil’s face, he decided not to mention the faceless men in the basement. “Fuck, I know how it sounds,” he groaned, throwing his hands up in frustration. “But at this point, I don't really care if you believe me or not. I'm just paying you to do a job.”

“Steady on, champ,” Virgil said in a calm, I'm-bigger-than-you voice. “I believe
your
story. I just have some doubts about your sister's memory. You have to admit, her date night sounds pretty screwy. But don't worry, I always keep an open mind. And you're right, it doesn't even matter what I believe. You want me to look into this doctor guy, I'll look into him.”

“Good. Sorry, I'm just sick of people treating me like I'm a whackjob.”

“I don't think you're a whackjob. Paranoid and a bit obsessed – maybe. But not an out-and-out whackjob.”

Karl smiled, relaxing a touch. “So what's the next step? How do we do this?”              

“You tell me what you want and I tell you how much it's gonna cost.”

“Well, I was thinking about having him tailed in the evenings. Y’know, to try to catch him in the act of whatever he’s doing. He knows my face so it's hard for me to follow him without being noticed.”

Virgil was shaking his head. “That’s not your best option. First off, it's expensive. I charge eighty bucks an hour and you'll end up paying for a lot of dead time. Like when he's watching TV at home, or catching up with friends….”

“…I only want him followed when he's on a date,” Karl clarified.

“And how will I know that in advance? I can't tap his cell phone, if that's what you're thinking.”

“You can’t?”

“No. I'd need physical access to his phone, and I'm definitely not going down that road. I can bend the rules but I can't break 'em.”

“Okay. So what do you suggest?”

“Let me run a proper background check. The police might’ve run a check already but they only look for the obvious stuff. I'll concentrate on where he spends his money, gaps in his employment record, travel patterns, that sort of thing. If the doctor is up to no good, something's bound to show up. It always does.”

“You can track all those things? Where he's traveled, what he's buying?”

“Absolutely. I have a computer specialist who helps me but it's all included in the service.”

“How much?” Karl asked.

“Two-sixty, all up front.”

It was less than Karl expected, but still he remembered to wince. “Man, that’s steep. Can’t you do any better?”

“For cash, sure. You got cash?”

“I've got a deposit. I’m getting the rest soon.”

“Then it's two-sixty,” Virgil smiled.

Karl held out for a second longer before reaching into his back pocket. He didn't want to push it too far with Virgil, especially since he only had sixty bucks for the deposit.

The detective wasn't impressed with the down payment. “I can't give you the information until you settle in full,” he warned.

“I understand,” Karl said. “I'll have the money in a week. How long will the job take?”

“About a week. So we're both on the same deadline.”

Virgil wrote out a receipt for the deposit and showed Karl to the door. When they shook hands, Virgil squeezed a little tighter than when they'd greeted. “Just so you know,” he said, making sure he had Karl’s eyes. “I'd sooner you went out and robbed a 7-11 than stiff me on this bill.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Karl said, thinking he should’ve given himself an extra week to come up with the rest of the cash.