The Traveller (49 page)

You’ve heard too many lies, too many evasions, too many

phony reconstructions. You’ve heard blame shifted about

from one person to the next, never assumed by the guilty.

You’ve heard horror after horror year after year and

nothing has ever changed and it has finally skewered your

thinking about completely so that now you’re willing to

leap to the most ridiculous conclusions.

Go to bed. Get some sleep. Things will sort out.

He smiled to himself. That is hardly the kind of attitude that four years of medical school and four more years of internship and residency at the mental hospital should prompt. Where did Freud write: Things will work out? What neo-Jungian approach is that? Did you pick that up from some journal or some scholarly lecture? Perhaps from Dear Abby or Ann Landers? When have you ever known things just to work out? He heard himself laugh, briefly, and the sound echoed emptily in the apartment. Still, it was a tenet of his profession to await events rather than prompt them, and there was nothing wrong with that.

We shall see, he said to himself.

We shall see what Detective Barren has to say - if she ever shows up again.

We shall see what Doug has to say.

And then we shall figure out what to do.

This seemed to him to be like a plan of action, the

decision to wait for something to happen. It pleased him

and he felt suddenly tired. Christ, he said to himself, how

do you expect to ever reach any conclusions about this

mess without getting some rest?

He rose again and looked over at a small digital clock that blinked its numerals in red. It was 4 a.m. He stretched and yawned. He ordered himself: Go to bed. His mind answered with a military snap: Yes, sir!

He took three steps toward the bedroom.

Things will sort themselves out.

And the doorbell rang.

It was a high-pitched, irritating sound that struck his heart. It startled him deeply and he jumped involuntarily.

He took a great breath.

Who? he wondered.

My God, he thought.

He took another breath. What the hell? It’s 4 a.m.

It rang again, buzzing swiftly and insistently.

His mind twirled in confusion and he walked to the door. There was a small, circular peephole, and he peered through it.

Standing outside was the detective.

His heart plunged and he felt suddenly dizzy and nauseated and he wanted to be sick. He fought off the sensation and he reached for the doorknob.

As soon as she heard a hand start to open the door, Detective Mercedes Barren reached behind her, to where she had stuck her 9-millimeter pistol beneath her shirt, tucked into the belt of her jeans. She freed the weapon and swung it forward, just behind the paper sack she carried in her other arm.

She raised the gun to eye level as the door swung open.

She thrust the barrel forward so that it hovered an inch from Martin Jeffers’ nose.

She saw him pale quickly and take a sudden step back in surprise.

‘Don’t move,’ she said, her voice deadly cold and even. ‘Is he here? If you lie I will kill you.’

Martin Jeffers shook his head.

Using the gun to gesture, she slipped into the apartment. She glanced around quickly. She could sense they were alone, but she was not willing to put trust in her sensation.

‘Please, detective, put the gun away. He’s not here and I still don’t know where he is.’

‘I’ll believe you after I take a look around.’ She maneuvered so she could see into the other rooms. After a quick inspection, never moving the gun too much, so that it could not instantly be brought to bear on Martin Jeffers, she returned to the living room and gestured for the doctor to sit down.

I can’t believe that…’ Martin Jeffers started, but she cut him off sharply.

‘I don’t care what you can or can’t believe.’

They were both silent. After an instant he spoke.

‘You were supposed to meet me yesterday morning. Not here. Not now. What’s going on? And please put that cannon away. It scares the bejesus out of me.’

‘It should. And I’ll put it away when I want.’

They continued to stare at each other.

‘Where is he?’ she asked.

‘I told you I don’t know.’

‘Can you find him?’

‘I don’t know. No. Maybe. I don’t know. But certainly not…’

‘I haven’t got too much time. No one does.’

Martin Jeffers managed to compose himself. He ignored her mysterious statement.

‘Look, detective, what are you doing here in the middle of the night? We had an agreed-upon appointment and you never show and then suddenly you’re at my apartment at four in the morning threatening me with a gun. What the hell is going on?’

Detective Barren sat in a chair across from him. The gun still waved in the air between them. She pulled the envelope containing Douglas Jeffers’ apartment key from her pocket and tossed it to the brother.

He looked at it. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’

‘From your desk.’ ‘You broke in here? Christ, what kind of cop are you?’

‘Would you have given it to me?’

‘Not on your life.’

Jeffers started to stand, filled with violation and anger.

She raised the gun.

He stared at it and sat back down.

‘Threats are childish,’ he said.

‘I went to your brother’s apartment,’ she said.

‘So?’

She had placed the paper sack at her feet. She reached

in and pulled out the photograph of Susan. She tossed it to Martin Jeffers, who looked at it for several seconds.

‘That is my niece,’ she said bitterly.

‘Yes, but…’

‘I found it at your brother’s apartment.’

Martin Jeffers’ head spun suddenly. He breathed harshly. He blurted out: ‘Well, there must be some explanation …”

Her voice was like a frozen morning: ‘There is.’

‘I mean, he must have …’

She interrupted:

‘Don’t make some fucking stupid excuse.’

‘I mean, he could have obtained this picture in any number of ways … I mean, after all, he’s a professional.’

She did not reply. She simply reached into the paper bag and pulled out another photo. She dropped this in front of Martin Jeffers. Again, he looked deeply at the two photographs.

‘But this isn’t the same person,’ he said finally.

She threw another photo in front of him.

He spread the three out, looking carefully at the pictures.

‘But I don’t get it, neither is …’

She slammed another picture in front of him.

He glanced at this, then he sat back in his chair.

She was breathing hard, as if near the end of a long run.

She slapped yet another picture down. Then another and another and another, until finally she dumped the entire stack on the brother’s lap.

‘You don’t get it? You don’t get it? You don’t get it?’ she repeated as each flopped in front of him.

Martin Jeffers looked around wildly, as if searching for something to grasp hold of and steady himself.

‘Now,’ she said with all the pent-up rage barely leashed, ‘where is he? Where is your brother? Where? Where? Where?’

Martin Jeffers put his head into his hands.

She leaped across to his side, pulling him back sharply by the shoulder.

‘If you cry I will kill you,’ she said viciously. She did not

know whether or not she meant this; it was that she suddenly couldn’t stand the idea of the murderer’s brother shedding a tear for himself, for Douglas Jeffers, for anyone other than those people spread about him.

“I don’t know!’ he said, his voice cracking with stress. You know!’

‘No!’

She stared at him. He looked at the pictures.

Her voice was filled with controlled fury: ‘Will you find

him?’

Jeffers hesitated, two answers screaming inside his head.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe. I can try.’

She slumped into a chair. She wanted to cry, then, herself.

But instead they just sat across from each other, staring into the gap between them.

The dawn light caught the two sitting amidst the pile of photographs, silent. It was Martin Jeffers, his own mind a disaster of crushed emotions, who spoke first:

‘I suppose the first step, now, is for you to contact your superiors, tell them what you think you’re up against…’

No,’ replied Detective Barren.

‘Well, maybe we should talk to the FBI,’ Jeffers went on, oblivious to her refusal. ‘They have a branch office down in Trenton, and I know a couple of the agents. They’re equipped to help, I guess …’

‘No,’ she said again.

Jeffers looked over at her. He swiftly filled with rage. He tried to bite back his words, but his tongue was loosened by exhaustion and sorrow.

‘Look, detective, if you think I’m going to help you hunt my brother down to satisfy some personal vendetta, you’re mistaken! Worse, you’re crazy! Forget it and get the hell out of here!’

Detective Mercedes Barren looked at Martin Jeffers..

‘You don’t understand,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, detective, it seems to me that you’re awfully good at making threats with that big fucking gun …’ He

surprised himself by using an obscenity. ‘But you’re not too damn forthcoming with details. If my brother ha-committed crimes, well, then, there’s an established procedure for investigating him …’

He had the unsettling feeling that he’d said those words before and they had been equally useless then.

‘It won’t work,’ she said. Defeat mocked her.

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because of me.’

She sighed deeply and felt fatigue insinuate itself throughout her body and mind. Martin Jeffers watched her, aware suddenly that something was bent, twisted, wrong; he slid effortlessly into his professional posture, waiting, quiet, patient, knowing the explanation would eventually arrive.

The silence filled with weak morning light.

‘Because of me,’ the detective said again.

She took a deep breath.

‘I am the best, you know? I was always the best. I made one mistake, once, and I’ve got the scar to show for it. But that was all. I lived. I recovered. I made no more mistakes. It didn’t matter what kind of case it was, I was always the best. The information I got, the evidence I procured, the arrests I made, everything! It was always right It was always true. It was always accurate. When I got onto a case, there was only one conclusion: the bad guys got busted. Then they went to prison. It didn’t matter to me what kind of lawyer they got, what kind of defense they had. Alibi? Forget it. I put them away. All of them …

‘I was together, you know? I had to be. All my life people stole from me and I was powerless to do anything about it. But not when I became a cop.. I was right. Always. I was always right.’

She slung her head back and looked to the heavens. After a moment she looked at Martin Jeffers.

‘You have to understand: there is no evidence.’

Martin Jeffers shook his head.

‘What do you mean? Look at the pictures.’

‘They don’t exist.’

What the hell are you talking about?’ He picked up a

handful of photographs and shook them at her. ‘You come

in here and tell me my own brother has committed these,

these …’ He stumbled over the word and finally just raced

on ‘ … And now you say they don’t exist! What the hell?’

“They don’t exist.’

Jeffers sat back and folded his arms in front of his chest angrily. ‘I’ll listen to your explanation.’

‘I always did it right, you see. Until this time. Finally, when I handle something that means something, everything, to me, I screw it up. Ruined.’

She reached out and picked up some of the pictures.

‘I broke in here. I stole the key. I broke in there. This goes far beyond the definition of an illegal search …’ ‘A technicality!’

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It’s the rules. Worse: it’s the reality!’

‘So,’ he said, trying hard to remain calm and analytical, why don’t we go to the FBI? At least show them the pictures.’

‘You don’t see,’ she said. ‘We walk into the FBI and I say, look, Mr Agent, I want to show you pictures of homicides which I’ve obtained in the course of investigation. The first thing they’ll ask is what investigation. And I’ll say, no, actually I’m on medical leave from my department. That’ll ring their bell and then they’ll call my boss and he’ll say she was distraught and obsessed and, Jesus, I hope she’s okay. But he won’t say, Believe her, because he doesn’t believe that himself. And then they’ll call the county homicide people, who’ll say, yeah, she hasn’t been the same since her niece got killed and sure, we cleared that case and busted the guy, he’s doing a trillion years in solitary. And Mr. Agent will learn that I have access to hundreds of photographs, just like these, well, not quite, but close enough, and he’ll just conclude I’m crazy. End of story …’

‘Suppose I say …’

‘Say what? She’s convinced me about my brother? Mr Agent will just figure we’re both out of our minds. But even if he does think maybe, just maybe, I better cover my ass, then what he’ll do is some sort of computer check on your

brother and he’ll come up with zero. Well, not zero. He’ll find out that your brother has a security clearance into the White House, for starters, approved by the Secret Service, because that’s what I found when I did the same damn check. And then you know what he’ll do? I’ll tell you. He’ll write one short little memo and file it under distraught-head cases. In other words: nothing.’

‘Well, can’t you persuade your own people?’

‘They think I’m crazy and distraught.’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘They’re right of course.’

Martin Jeffers looked about himself, wondering what next.

‘So what do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘Find him.’

‘So you can kill him?’

Detective Barren hestitated.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Forget it.’

‘I could have lied and said no,’ she said.

‘Right. You could have. One point for your honesty.’

He stared bitterly at her and she returned the look with equal intensity.