Almost Gone
by Stan Richards
Published by New Pulp Press at Smashwords
Check us out on the web at www.newpulppress.com
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Chapter 1
The rain was falling and the world was blurry. Hank Williams was singing, a ghostly voice through the static. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to stay focused on the broken yellow line. My thumb tapped the steering wheel in rhythm. I was thinking about everything and nothing at all.
A semi-truck rose above the hill. The lights blinded my eyes. Somehow I lost control. I heard the impact, felt my head jerk to the side and crack against the side window. Then everything was spinning and all I could see was blood and glass and darkness. I couldn’t move.
Time no longer existed. I had a vague understanding that I was alive and felt a strange disappointment in that notion. I was content with my eyes closed, with jagged images and unconnected thoughts circling behind my forehead. Sirens circled overhead like ghosts . . .
I heard faraway voices. For awhile they mixed with my own nightmares. Then I awoke but the voices remained. I opened my eyes slowly and tried to focus them. A man wearing a white coat was standing in front of me with his arms folded. A woman was leaning over me with her hand pressed against my forehead. It smelled like sickness. I tried to turn my head. I couldn’t. I had a neck brace on. My head hurt. I opened my mouth to say something but nothing came out. The voices returned. They still sounded dreamlike. You’ve been in an accident I heard him say. Lucky to be alive. Could have been much worse. I tried to touch my head but it was covered with bandages. I closed my eyes again and slept.
I woke up several more times and it was always dark and nobody else was there. I could hear sounds coming from the hallway. A television. A laugh track. The haze began to lift. I was feeling restless. My eyes stayed open for the rest of the night until the lights were turned on in my room. A doctor that was different from the first one came into my room. He was studying the contents of a folder. He was short and bald and had a full beard on his face. He smiled at me awkwardly.
“Feeling rested?” he said.
I nodded. “How long have I been here?”
“About a week,” he said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“That’s what they keep saying.”
I tried sitting up in my bed, but the doctor shook his head and told me to remain still. He sat down on a stool next to me and patted me on the leg. His eyes darted back and forth.
“How badly was I hurt?” I asked.
He sighed and his cheek twitched. “You suffered a traumatic head injury,” he said. “You sustained massive bilateral subdural hematomas, which were surgically evacuated and drained. You also suffered a severe contusion of both frontal lobes. You were in a coma. You only started showing signs of recovery during the last 24 hours.”
“What does that all that mean?” I asked. “All that stuff you just said.”
“It means that you may have suffered some brain damage. It is difficult to tell how you’ll be affected. We will know more over the next few days. We still don’t know much about the brain and it is nearly impossible to make predictions in cases like this. It’s possible that you could develop certain neurological problems. Numbness and seizures for example. But I am more concerned about possible cognitive deficits. Right now I’m not seeing any difficulties in your speech or thought process but, like I said, it is too early to tell. Sometimes it takes a while before we discover the deficits.”
I nodded and swallowed. “Does anybody know I’m here?” I asked.
“We contacted your brother. He was the only family member of yours we could find. He’s been here a couple of times to check up on you while you were in a coma. We called your place of employment. Told them the situation. You’re a police officer?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Listen, I don’t want any visitors. If my brother comes again tell him I can’t see anybody. I just want to be left alone.”
The doctor nodded. Dr. Simon was his name. It said so on his jacket.
Chapter 2
At the time of my release I felt fine. Occasionally I experienced some numbness in my left leg, but Dr. Simon told me it would dissipate in time. He said that I was showing no signs of cognitive damage and that it was looking more and more like I would make a complete recovery. “However, if you notice anything abnormal, anything at all, I want you to give me a call,” he said. “The brain is a powerful yet fragile instrument. We need to keep a close eye on it, make sure it’s running like it’s supposed to.”
They arranged transportation for me, but I declined. My house wasn’t far away. Outside a cool breeze was dragging around the dead leaves of autumn. It was early morning and the sun was shining and it felt good to breathe fresh air. I pulled up the collar of my blood-stained jacket and started walking.
My house was a nice three-bedroom bungalow on a nice block with nice neighbors and nice trees. I had lived there my whole life, had stayed there after my parents died, after Sam had moved away. Sam had wanted to get away from the ghosts. Not me. The ghosts comforted me.
I spent the weekend locked in my house watching bad television and drinking worse whiskey. The phone rang a few times but I didn’t pick it up. I slept fifteen or sixteen hours a day but still felt tired. Dr. Simon called me at home on Saturday night and asked how I was doing. I told him that I was doing fine and was getting anxious to go back to work. “If you feel ready, I won’t stop you,” he said.
When I ducked into Police Chief Thompson’s office the next morning he greeted me with a big bear hug. He was in his early sixties and looked more like a barber than the Chief of Police. He had gray hair that was cropped short, a big silly grin, and friendly blue eyes. But he could be tough as a motherfucker too. Just don’t get on his bad side. He told me that he had meant to pay me a visit in the hospital but had been so swamped that he never had a chance. “How’d they treat you in there?” he asked.
“Not bad,” I said. “They tried to kill me with the food but I managed to stick it under my mattress.”
“Good for you,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready to be back? I know that the wreck was pretty bad and—”
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I said.
Ed Thompson eyed me carefully and then nodded his head. “Listen, I don’t want you rushing into everything all at once. I’m going to have you on desk duty for a few days. Answering phones and such. Ease back into things, you know? That way I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “You don’t have to ease me into anything.”
“Now listen, Chuck. Your father would come back from the grave and kill me if I ever got you hurt. I made a pledge to watch out for you. You’re on desk duty until I’m sure that you’re 100 percent ready. I think the citizens of Boulder Colorado will survive a few days with you off the streets. Our community is not exactly crime infested.”
I grunted. “Just a couple days.”
“Sure, Chuck. Just a couple days.”
So I spent my time sitting at a wooden desk filling out paperwork, filing police reports, and answering the phone. I felt more like a secretary than a cop. A couple of times Ed walked by to check up on me and I grumbled about the crap work but he just laughed and told me I needed to learn how to drive better.
When my shift was over I cleared the desk, changed out of uniform and thought about what bar I wanted to go to. The sun was beginning to set over the purple foothills off to the west. The insurance company had provided me with a lime-green Geo Metro and I rolled it down to Ninth Street and parked at a meter. West End Tavern sat at the corner of Pearl Street and Ninth and had an outdoor seating area that overlooked the foothills. Me, I always sat inside where it was dark, drab, and depressing. Tonight it was nearly empty. I sat at the bar and ordered a double whiskey with a Bud bottle for a chaser. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it but the female bartender scolded me. No smoking in Boulder bars. I apologized and quickly crushed it out. She turned around and started drying glasses. She had a pretty face and a nice round behind. She looked to be in her mid 20’s. She had a tattoo of a rose above her left breast. Her blonde hair was long and disheveled. Somehow she looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“I haven’t seen you working here before,” I said, leaning to get a better look.
“You haven’t been looking very hard.”
“I don’t know about that. You’re kinda hard to miss.”
She looked at me and shook her head and wagged her index finger. I could tell that she liked me. An older guy sat down and she poured him a beer and stashed his money in the cash register. Music started playing from a jukebox in the corner. Springsteen singing about Glory Days.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked.
“A while,” she said without making eye contact.
I finished off my whiskey and studied her. She was trapped behind the counter and couldn’t escape my gaze.
“You’re too pretty to be spilling whiskey for slobs like me,” I said.
She turned toward me and put her hands on her hips and pouted her lips. “Listen, if you want to ask me out go ahead and stop wasting my time. You don’t have to prove you’re a moron before I find out for myself.”
The older guy looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and chuckled. I cleared my throat and took a quick nip at my beer chaser. “I know a little Mexican Restaurant up north,” I said. “If you’ve got the time . . .”
“I don’t get off until nine.”
I glanced at my wristwatch. “I’ll stay here to make sure you don’t sneak away.”
By the time nine o’clock rolled around I was feeling nice and buzzed. I had stopped drinking whiskey at eight but had started drinking gin at eight fifteen. My head was spinning and I was slurring when I spoke. The bartender grabbed her jacket and tossed it over her shoulder. She nodded at me and I stumbled out of my stool and followed her toward the exit.
I showed her where I was parked and she put out her hand for my keys. I handed them to her. She unlocked the driver’s side, let herself in, and checked out her looks in the rear view mirror before opening my door. I flopped in and she smiled at me.
“Sporty wheels,” she said.
“It’s a rental. I was just in a car accident. Hurt my head pretty good.”
“Well that explains some things.
She drove fast up Ninth Street then took a right on Cedar and a left on Broadway. We weren’t talking so she turned on the radio, found a hard rock station and turned it up real loud. I turned it down. “I’m still getting headaches,” I said.
When we arrived at the Mexican Restaurant, a little dive called Jaunita’s, the blonde bartender handed me my keys and flashed a crooked smile. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m not all that tough. I just act that way with men I don’t know.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
We went inside and were seated immediately. There was one other couple in the joint. The waitress brought some chips and salsa and I ordered a beer. The blonde ordered a coke.
“Going with the hard stuff tonight, huh?” I said.
“I don’t drink,” she said.
“Makes perfect sense. You working in a bar and all.”
“I like to be in control. Especially with men.”
Our drinks came and I raised my glass. “To control,” I said and winked.
We ordered a couple of quesadillas and barely touched them. A jukebox was playing Spanish music and a waitress and waiter were dancing with each other by the front counter. He was twirling her around and the busboy was clapping in rhythm.
“So what do you do,” she said, “when you’re not picking up girls in bars?”
“I chase after bad guys,” I said. “I’m a cop. Bad guys and underage drinkers.”
She cocked her eyebrow and took a drink from her soda. “A cop, huh? Well that sounds very exciting.”
“Not so exciting. I’ve never fired my gun on duty. Never had to.”
“At least you get to carry one,” she said.
“Well yeah. And if I’m in a bad mood I can go hand out parking tickets. It’s a great stress relief.”
“I bet.” She smiled and it looked like the first genuine smile all night. “So the accident you were in wasn’t during a high speed chase of some mass murderer?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. I just went out for an evening drive. Trying to clear my head, you know? Damn near got it taken completely off instead.”
We talked for awhile more. I found out that she was a student at the University of Colorado and was majoring in religion even though she hated all religions. She worked two jobs to pay her tuition, one at the West End, and the other dancing topless at the Bustop. “I get picked up on a lot more over there,” she said without a trace of irony.
“You mean I could have just gone to the Bustop to see you naked instead of going through all this nonsense? Well I’ll be damned.”
She hit me playfully on the arm.
I also found out her name. Nicky. I liked her name. She said it wasn’t exotic enough for her.
Nicky lived on the Hill, near campus in a house with two lesbian roommates. I tried to be a gentleman and offered to drive her home but she said she didn’t feel like dealing with them tonight. Too much bumping and grinding.
“I’ve got a quiet house,” I said. “I used to have a dog who yapped all the time but he had some sort of rare skin disease and passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was a few years ago.”
We drove to my house and I put some John Coltrane on the stereo and fixed myself a whiskey and ice. “Can I get you a Coke or something?” I asked.
She smiled and twisted her blonde hair with her fingers. “I’ll have some wine if you have some,” she said.
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I think I trust you now,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s your eyes. They’re kind eyes. And kind eyes hardly ever lie.”
I found an old bottle of Merlot and opened it, breaking the cork inside. I poured her a glass and tasted it to make sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar. She licked her lips, closed her eyes, and took a sip, leaving a trace of lipstick on the glass. She sat down on the couch and stretched out her long body, giving me a good view of her curves. I sat down next to her and drank my whiskey.
The Coltrane CD had just ended and her glass was dry when I leaned over and kissed her. It was the first good kiss all year. She opened her mouth slightly and I could feel her tongue against mine. I yanked off her shirt and she helped me with my pants. I could have slowed things down, been a gentleman. I didn’t.
There’s not much to tell. I got a little rough with her but she didn’t mind. Some girls are just like that. When we were done she told me that she thought we might fall in love.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not the falling in love type.”
She just laughed. “Well, I don’t really need your love, honey. I was just saying.”
After that we lay in bed for awhile without talking. Outside, the wind was complaining about something. I felt like I was dead. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t move. I just stared at the ceiling. The living room light was still on. I looked at Nicky, her skin white and ghostly. She almost looked innocent as she slept. Some blood had dried on her breast . . .
I untangled my body from her arms and found my way to the bathroom. I took a piss and stared at my face in the mirror. Kind eyes she had said. I splashed some water on my face and hair.
I found some Advil, popped about a half dozen, and washed them down with some water. Then I went back to the living room and sat on the couch and stared out the window at the darkness. I could hear rain dripping on the sidewalk. A flash of lighting lit up the sky, and then it was dark again.
I was still staring at the void through my window when the distressing vision entered my consciousness without warning. My fists tightened and my heart jumped . . .
She is lying on the wooden floor, nude, her legs spread in a pornographic pose. A look of terror, of dreaded anticipation is on her face. Her eyes are open, but they are empty and lifeless. Her hand twitches, then she is still. Outside the snow is falling and everything is quiet. The sound of a baby crying breaks the silence.
I jerked my head trying to shake away the thought. I shivered. The hairs on my arms were standing straight up. Getting to my feet I walked to the kitchen and searched desperately for a bottle of anything. I found my whiskey. I opened the cap and got the bottle to my mouth as quickly as I could. Then I drank and drank. I drank until I couldn’t stand anymore. I drank until I could barely see. I drank until I was vomiting violently in the sink. I moved to the corner of the kitchen and curled up in a ball and closed my eyes. I tried to sleep. I only dreamt of her. The one with the corn blonde hair . . .
Chapter 3
When I awoke the sun was shining through the kitchen window. It looked like a great ball of piss. I looked around the kitchen. The bottle of whiskey was lying on the floor broken as if it had been shot dead by a sniper. The room smelled like sickness. I struggled to my feet, but my legs gave out, and I crumpled back down to the ground. I felt like a POW. I waited a few minutes before I tried to rise again. This time I got to my feet. My head was pounding. I don’t know if it was from the crash or the booze. I found a broom and a dustpan and cleaned up the broken bottle. Then I stumbled my way to the living room. Nicky had moved to the couch and had covered herself with a small blanket. Her long legs were stretched out beyond the armrests. She looked as beautiful as an unspoken prayer. I forgot about myself. I sat down on the corner of the couch and kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth. Her eye twitched but didn’t open. I smoothed back her blonde hair with my hand and her eyes fluttered open. Then she smiled.
“Hello,” she said in a husky voice.
“Hi,” I said.
“We were pretty crazy last night, weren’t we?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said.
She got off the couch and stretched. I watched while she dressed, the sunshine shining through her silky hair. I felt strangely sad as her ivory skin disappeared under the fabric of her clothes.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
“The next time I’m lonely.”
She frowned. “Only when you’re lonely?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m lonely every day.”
She wrote her phone number on the back of an envelope and kissed me on the cheek. I told her that wouldn’t do and I pulled her to me and kissed her on the lips, a long, good kiss. Her face reddened, and she started to say something, but instead she just turned and walked toward the door. .
“You’re car isn’t here,” I said.
“I’ll walk,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day.”
It was almost eight o’clock and my shift started at ten. I couldn’t go in today. I was barely alive. I called up the station and told the personnel department operator that my head was still bothering me from the crash and that I wouldn’t be able to report today. She said she’d make a note of it.
I went to the bathroom and showered and shaved. I wiped off the steam from the mirror and examined my head. It had started to bleed again. I grabbed a towel and pressed down on the wound. When I removed the towel it was soaked with red. I tossed it into the hamper and went to my bedroom and lay on my bed. Then the image reappeared in my head. Her eyes open, staring at death. I shut my eyes but the picture stuck. I turned on the television, trying desperately to numb my mind.
I struggled with it all day. It seemed the harder I tried to stop thinking about the gruesome image, the more vivid it became. By mid-afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t have the energy to drink anymore and I didn’t have the energy to fight the thoughts in my head. The vision kept playing itself out in my mind like a movie loop. I was forced to watch her die time after time, the worst torture I could possibly conceive of.
Finally at four o’clock I left the house, got in my car, and drove myself to the hospital. I followed signs for the neurological department and asked to see Dr. Simon. The lady behind the desk, with Shirley Temple-style hair and a generous heaping of makeup asked if I had an appointment.
“I was in an accident a week ago,” I explained. “I was in the hospital for a week and Dr. Simon was my doctor. He told me to contact him if I noticed complications. I have noticed complications.”
The woman stared back blankly at me. “I’m sorry sir, but Dr. Simon isn’t available at this moment. If you would like to make an appointment I would be happy to assist you. I believe the next available time slot is next Thursday. If that works for you we could—”
“I don’t want an appointment,” I growled. “I need to see Dr. Simon now. Can’t you see this is an emergency? Dr. Simon knows about my injury and if you’d just let me see him for a minute things will be fine.”
“I’m sorry sir,” she said in a firm voice, “but I can’t help you. If this is truly an emergency you can certainly find your way to the Emergency Room which is right downstairs. Otherwise—”
“I’ll show you a real emergency,” I muttered and was about to let myself behind the desk to let her know how I really felt about her when Dr. Simon appeared.
“Chuck,” he said. “What is going on?”
“Dr. Simon,” I said. “I need to speak to you. It’s about my injury. You told me if there were any complications that I should contact you and . . .”
Dr. Simon nodded his head and said, “Yes. Yes of course. I can talk to you back in my office. Follow me.”
Meanwhile, the sixty-year old Shirley Temple was waving her hands frantically trying to get Dr. Simon’s attention. “He was very rude to me,” she called out. “I only tried to tell him that he needed an appointment but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Yes,” Dr. Simon said. “I’m terribly sorry Eleanor. I have a few minutes before my next appointment don’t I? I’ll see Mr. Johnson presently.”
I followed Dr. Simon down a hallway, past a woman sitting in a wheelchair, and into his office. On his desk was a life-sized model of a human brain. A photograph of his family sat on his desk next to another photograph of a homely-looking dog. Dr. Simon sat down at his desk and pointed me to a plastic chair. I sat down and twiddled my thumbs. An electric waterfall was in the corner of the room and I found it more annoying than soothing.
Dr. Simon looked at me for a few moments as if he were studying my face and then began to nod his head and stroke his beard. “You’re having some problems, Chuck?” he asked.
I nodded my head. “Yes.”
“What kind of problems?”
I shifted in my seat. “I’ve been having a vision.”
“A vision?”
“A hallucination.”
“Hallucination?” He repeated me again. “What kind of hallucination?”
I didn’t know how much to tell him. I decided to be cautious. “It’s of a person. A person I once knew. A person who died a long time ago. I keep seeing her as she is dying, as she is taking her final breaths. I can’t get it out of my mind. I can’t get her out of my mind.”
Dr. Simon massaged his beard and nodded his head. “The thoughts seem real to you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” I said. “It almost seems like a memory. Like a terrible memory. I know that it’s not, that I wasn’t there when . . .”
Dr. Simon got out of his seat and started pacing back and forth, his hands buried in his pocket. He didn’t look up. “In all likelihood you are experiencing some sort of fantasy,” he said. “A terrible fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. It is possible that your accident somehow triggered off these ‘hallucinations,’ as you have described it. The fantasy is causing you to feel very anxious and guilty. Understandably so. But the more emotional you become about these thoughts, about this ‘movie’ your brain has inexplicably created, the more powerful the vision will become to you.”
“They’re my own creation?”
“In all likelihood.”
“But . . .”
Dr. Simon sat back down in his chair. “Well, there is another possibility. But I find it extremely unlikely.”
“Which is?”
“You suffered some damage to your frontal lobe,” he said. “The frontal lobe is a crucial component for repressing painful memories. Things that are too painful to recall your brain will often hide from you. There is the possibility that your ability to repress has been weakened and you are now experiencing an explosive sort of ‘de-repression.’”
“I’m not completely clear.”
“You might be now remembering something that had long since been forgotten.”
Something that had long since forgotten. The image flashed before my eyes again, more quickly this time, so quickly that I barely had time to see her eyes . . .
I looked up at Dr. Simon. He was studying me carefully. I smiled and shook my head. “The brain sure can play some mean tricks on you,” I said.
“It can be very convincing,” he said.
“And what do I do,” I said, “when this image returns?”
“Nothing,” Dr. Simon said. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s just a thought. A thought can’t hurt you. The only power that a thought has is the power that you give it. So don’t give it any power.”
Chapter 4
That evening I drove down to Pearl Street and wandered on the pedestrian mall for a couple of hours. I looked in shop windows at the forever-lonely mannequins staring blankly ahead. I stopped at a bar, drank a couple of stouts, and watched the baseball playoffs on television. The Yankees were beating the A’s. A couple of girls who looked younger than 21 walked in the bar laughing with their arms hooked to each other. One of them smiled at me, and I watched her backside as she walked past me. The bartender gave me a knowing wink and poured us both a shot of Yeagermeister. It was about the worst tasting booze I had ever shoved down my throat. I ordered another one.
When I left the bar it was dark outside and the wind was blowing. The dead leaves crackled beneath my feet and the dead stars lit up the night sky. I was just buzzed enough to feel sick but not buzzed enough to forget myself. The image of her lying there with death in her eyes continued to dominate my mind. More details began filtering through my brain. Sounds and smells of death. My brother’s voice calling out, and the baby crying louder and louder until I had to shut my ears with my hands. But the crying continued and my mind fell deeper and deeper away from my soul.
I walked over to the West End Tavern hoping that Nicky might be working there tonight. She wasn’t. She didn’t work on Tuesday nights. Since I didn’t want to offend anybody, I sat down at the bar and ordered another drink. I decided I’d keep on trying until I either felt better or couldn’t remember why I felt bad in the first place. But there were too many reasons. As soon as I eliminated one crisis in my life, another one rolled around the corner. My skin was stuffed with misery.
I left the West End and dropped a ten-dollar tip for the bartender. He thanked me and said that he’d tell Nicky that I stopped by. I told him that wasn’t necessary and he nodded his head and wished me a good night. “Yeah, sure,” I said.
After searching the block for ten minutes or more I found my Geo. I had forgotten what it looked like. I got inside and closed the door. Then I turned on the radio and searched for a song that I had heard before. Nothing. I closed my eyes and shut my eyes. I awoke a short time later when I heard a billy-club knocking on my window. I opened my eyes and saw that it was a cop. Young guy named Ricardo Valdez. “Oh, hey, I didn’t know that it was you, Chuck,” he said. “I was just going to ask you to move on and . . .”
“I’m just taking a little nap, Ricky,” I said.
“Yeah sure,” he said. “No problem. I heard you weren’t doing so good today.”
I shook my head. “Not so good, Ricky. Not so good.”
“Maybe you’ll be doing better tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m going to go now, Ricky. I don’t want to block traffic.”
He stood there for a moment then nodded his head and smiled. “You take care of yourself, Chuck,” he said.
“I sure aim to,” I said.
After Ricardo Valdez walked away I turned on the engine and drove away. I stopped at a gas station on Broadway and tried calling Nicky. She wasn’t home. One of her roommates answered and asked if I was the policeman. I told her that I wasn’t and asked where I could find her. “She might be working tonight,” she said.
“At the Bustop?”
“Right.”
I hung up. I filled up my tank and bought a can of chewing tobacco. I stuck a dip in my lower lip and got back into my car. Then I drove too fast up Broadway toward the Bustop. I didn’t care if I was pulled over. Not tonight. I parked in a lonely parking lot and staggered out of the car. A bouncer checked my ID without talking to me and I handed him the five-dollar cover charge. A few lonely men were sitting at the stages, nursing their beers and watching the topless girls gyrate. The mirrors reflected all the emptiness and desperation. I went to the bar and ordered a beer and scanned the stages. Nicky was on a stage in the corner. She looked bored, moving her body lazily and smiling at the eighty-year old that had a folded dollar sitting in front of him. I just watched her from afar for awhile. So she was working her way through college. So what? I grabbed my beer and walked over to the stage. The DJ was shouting over the music. When Nicky saw me she looked embarrassed at first, but then she smiled. When the song ended she put a half-shirt back on and stepped off the stage. She kissed me on the cheek and sat on a plastic chair next to me.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she said. “Especially here.”
“I’ve been feeling pretty bad,” I said.
“Is that the only time you’re going to want to see me? When you’re feeling bad?”
“Could be,” I said.
She looked hurt for a moment but then she giggled. “That’s okay,” she said. “You’re too damn cute for me to send away.”
Nicky told me she had to dance for another hour and that I should wait around for her. I said that I would and I went back to the bar and drank some more beer. The bouncer, who was wearing a leather tank top, gave me the eye and I raised my glass to him. He didn’t smile.
I sat around drinking, moving occasionally to watch Nicky dance at a different stage. She wasn’t a half-bad dancer when she put a little energy in it, and I dropped a few dollars on the stage for her to pick up. She wasn’t ashamed to take my money. You should never be ashamed to take anybody’s money. When she was done she went to the dressing room to change clothes, and I sat next to bouncer with the leather tank top. He didn’t seem too thrilled to be receiving my company.
“Don’t worry, I’m just a cop,” I said and showed him my badge. He didn’t seem impressed and remained sitting on his little stool, his massive arms folded. “I’m friends with Nicky.”
“I see that,” he said.
“This is the first time I’ve seen her dance,” I said. “She’s pretty good.”
“Keep your hands off her,” he said. “Do you understand that?”
“Only if you ask me nicely.”
Nicky came out of the dressing room wearing a short black dress. If she was trying to hide her curves, she’d picked the wrong dress. I stood up and walked toward her and the bouncer tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t touch her,” he reminded me again.
“Right,” I said.
When we got outside I asked her about Popeye inside. “Oh he’s harmless,” she said. “He just gets a little jealous.”
“Of who?”
“Of anybody who fucks me.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He’s a pussycat. And we only fucked once.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were wondering.”
Nicky got in her car and I got in mine and she followed me to my house. There was a big yellow moon and it was sinking toward the foothills. I turned at Evergreen and rolled down 11th Street with Nicky following close behind. I got out of my car and waited for Nicky and we walked hand in hand up the steps and into my front door. I fumbled for a light and Nicky slumped down on the couch. I sat down next to her and stroked her long blonde hair. She laughed a short bitter laugh. “Life is funny isn’t it?” she said.
“Not particularly,” I said.
We just sat there for awhile, neither of us saying anything, just staring at the shadows in the living room. At some point I turned toward Nicky and kissed her. She kissed me back. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom. She told me to sit on the bed and take off my clothes. I laughed. She didn’t laugh back. Her blue eyes were filled with rage and desperation. I followed her order. She pulled her black dress over her head and tossed it to the side. Then she sat down next to me on the bed and started to kiss my neck. She pulled away and glared at me with her bullet-blue eyes. “I want you to hurt me,” she said. “Just like you did last time. Make me bleed. I want you to make me bleed.” I was frozen. “Hurt me,” she said again.
I pulled her toward me and slapped her face with the back of my hand. “Harder,” she said. So I slapped her harder. She moaned. Her cheek was red. I kissed her and then pushed her away and hit her again. Only this time my hand was clenched. She fell back onto the bed grabbing her face. I waited for a moment. She looked at me with a mixture of fear and longing. Then she smiled. I moved on top of her. We had sex. She ordered me to bite her breast. I did. She wiped the blood from her body onto her face. I held her close to me and she started crying. I wiped away the tears with my fingers. Then we both fell asleep as the rain began to splash on the asphalt.
When I awoke she was gone. I wondered if it had just been a dream. The only proof that she had been here was the blood on the pillow. I sat up in bed. My head hurt. I wasn’t drunk anymore, and I felt good and depressed. Outside it was still dark, and the stars had disappeared behind the blackness. I got up and walked to the kitchen and sat down at the table. I just sat there and stared at the emptiness in front of me. There was always just emptiness in front of me. A couple of cats started fighting, making terrible hissing and crying sounds . . .
She is not moving. Her eyes are open but now she’s not moving. I start to shake her. I want her to wake up. I want her to rise. She stays on the floor, those eyes staring into a black void. Then I’m on top of her kissing her, tears are falling onto her face, but her expression remains tortured and fixed. The baby is still crying. I wish the baby would just shut up. I’m pulled away from the body. Somebody is pulling me away from the body. “She’s dead!” he’s shouting. “She’s dead!” I’m trying to get free of him but he’s too strong. “How could you have done this? How could you have done this?”
I got up from the table and walked to the cabinet. I found a nearly empty bottle of vodka. I opened it and brought it to my mouth then dropped the bottle back down and fixated my eyes on it. I shook my head and threw the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall, some of the splinters bouncing back off my cheek. Feeling a cold desperation run through my veins, I walked slowly to the bedroom, my hands trembling at my side. I looked around the room uncertainly then opened up my closet. I removed the gun from my holster and brought it with me to the bed. I jerked out the cartridge then jammed it back into place. The cold metal rested in my hand. Then I raised it and pressed it against my temple. My body relaxed. I just kept it there, loaded and cocked. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. The phone rang, breaking the silence. I brought the gun down slowly and dropped it on the bed. Then I walked toward the phone and stood staring at it. It kept ringing. I picked it up without saying a word.
“Hello? Chuck? Are you there?” It was Nicky. I just nodded. Still not saying anything. “Chuck?” Then she was quiet and the phone clicked. I hung up the receiver gently and stood staring at the phone. Sweat was dripping down my chest. The phone rang again. I answered it.
“Hi,” I said.
“Chuck . . .”
“You were replaced by emptiness,” I said.
“I know. . . I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stay. I felt so . . . ashamed. You do something to me, Chuck. I don’t know what it is. But you do something to me. And I act differently. I do things that scare me. I don’t know why I do them. You fill me with all sorts of things. You fill me with desire. And you fill me with anger and hate. And I don’t know how to separate them. I’m sorry, Chuck. You must not know what to think. But I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you for any of it. I think I will love you, Chuck. And I’m terribly sorry. I’m sorry that I’m going to love you because love is the worst thing in the world.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m at home.”
“Why don’t you come back? I . . . can’t face myself alone tonight. I’m fucking afraid of myself tonight.”
“I can’t Chuck. God, I crave your body and your touch, but . . . I can’t. See me tomorrow Chuck. When the sun is still out. Right now . . . see me tomorrow. The night is too sad. Goodbye.”
She hung up the phone. I called her back but she didn’t answer. I cursed gently and decided that you just can’t win.
Chapter 5
The morning felt cool and nostalgic, the last breath of summer being suffocated by the hands of autumn. Clouds dotted an otherwise blue sky, and a somber breeze dragged along the dead leaves. Some birds were chirping but they sounded uncertain and lonely. The mountains off to the west already were snowcapped. I stepped out the front door and walked cautiously, careful to avoid stepping on any cracks or breaking any mothers’ backs.
My car started on the second try and a lousy pop song was blasting on the radio. I turned off the radio with disgust. Then I backed out of the driveway without looking and almost ran over a small girl who had fallen off her bicycle. I rolled down my window and asked if she was all right but she just cried, so I drove off and hoped that her Mom was around somewhere.
I thought about Nicky but it just made me feel mean, so I turned back on the radio and listened to a D.J shout about things that I didn’t care about. I stopped at a red light, and a young woman sitting next to me in a Porsche smiled and turned up the radio and put on her sunglasses. I thought about what she’d look like naked but then decided that she might be underage so I hummed a tune instead.
When I got to the station sirens were already screaming, and cop cars were pulling out into the mean streets of Boulder searching for another hippie growing pot in his backyard or some trailer trash out in the east end who assaulted her boyfriend with a frying pan. I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it. I could only think about her, lying there . . .
I came in early because I wanted to see Ed Thompson. He wasn’t in his office yet. Willow, his secretary, told me that he’d be back soon and how was my head injury and her cousin had gotten in a car accident and had been in a coma for nearly a month but by the will of God she came out of it and now she was 120 percent and was working as a cashier at Alfalfa’s Market and isn’t it amazing how God’s will works? I didn’t listen to a thing she said, I just stared at her chest and wondered if she wore a bra or not. Her body looked pretty good and her hair looked pretty blonde for a woman pushing 50. I wondered if Ed Thompson ever banged her, and I guessed that he probably had or else she wouldn’t be working as his secretary.
I wandered to the briefing room and checked the listings of recent neighborhood crimes. Mostly vandals with a couple of break-ins mixed in. There wasn’t much going on in my beat area, but there hardly ever was. I went to the vending machine and bought myself a candy bar and a soda. I was craving a real drink so badly that my hands were beginning to shake. Ever since the accident it seemed that I needed booze more than I needed food. Needed to numb that damaged frontal lobe, I suppose. Dr. Simon had told warned not to self-medicate, but I seemed to be doing a pretty effective job of it.
When I saw Ed return, I finished my soda, lit a cigarette, and sucked a long drag. Then I walked toward his office. He was making a pit stop and told me to go wait in his office. I sat down in a chair and looked at the photos that sat on his desk. Pictures of his wife and kids playing the part of the perfect all-American family. A picture of him shaking the governor’s hand. And a picture of him with my father, both in army uniform, his arm draped around my father’s shoulder. My father looked so young. Hell, he was probably younger in that picture than I was today. And he looked like me. He looked exactly like me.
Ed Thompson stepped into his office and shut the door. He sat behind his desk and picked up the photo of him and my father, as if he had known I had been looking at it. He studied it for a few moments then put it back down and stretched his arms.
“He was a hell of a soldier, your father,” Ed said.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I said.
“He saved my life at least twice over in the jungle. Did he ever tell you that? Probably not. That wasn’t something that he’d tell anybody about. Because he just figured it was part of the job. Damn good soldier. A hand grenade landed a foot away from my head. He could have jumped into the trench and saved his own butt. Instead he raced out of there like some maniac, picked up the grenade and tossed it away. Thing exploded in mid air.”
“I can believe it,” I said.
Ed Thompson smiled and shook his head. “Damn good cop, too. We graduated from the academy together, worked the same beat together. So I became Chief. He could have, if he had wanted to. He just wanted to be a cop. Wanted to be out there on the streets, you know? He’d be proud of you. Damn right he’d be proud of you. You’re turning into a fine cop yourself.” Ed stopped talking, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he looked up at me. “So what can I do for you, Chuck?”
“I want to reopen the Mary Johnson case,” I said. “I want to find out who killed my mother.”
Ed Thompson stared at me unblinking, his left cheek twitching slightly. He pulled open his desk and took out a cigar, cut off the end, stuck it in his mouth and lit it, sucking rapidly until the end turned orange. He took a few puffs, set it down on an ashtray, and shook his head. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t want him to marry your mother. There was just something about her that made me anxious. A kind of meanness that she possessed, I guess. But he loved that woman more than God’s green earth. I think that woman drove him crazy. She didn’t do it all at once. She did it little by little. She poked at his soul until it was bleeding. I guess I always blamed her for the way things turned out. Maybe I’m not being fair and . . . ah shit, I know she’s your mother, and I shouldn’t be talking about her that way but . . .”
“You always blamed her for Dad blowing his brains out,” I said.
“Shit Chuck, I know how it seemed. A man broken hearted after his wife was murdered, takes his own life. That’s how it played out and that’s how it probably was. But . . . I guess I just felt that she had taken so much away from him already, that maybe he was already half-dead by the time she was murdered. He was looking over that cliff and her death just gave him the guts to jump.”
I grabbed the photograph of my father and studied it. He never told me about that world. That world of jungles and death and fear. It could have been me, of course. Things don’t happen for a reason, of course, they just happen for no fucking reason at all. I placed the photograph back on his desk. Ed picked up the cigar and placed it back in his mouth and spoke in between puffs.
“Why now Chuck? Fifteen years. It happened fifteen years ago. Why now?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about her lately, I guess. And just thinking about how she was never vindicated. Somebody took her life and never paid the price. Somebody squeezed her neck. Squeezed until she couldn’t breath, until her face turned blue. How could somebody do that? Take a life. Take my mother away from me. I want to catch that guy. I want him to pay the price.”
Ed frowned and studied me, then leaned close to me and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “What do you remember, Chuck? What do you remember about that night?”
I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes back and returned to the story that I had created for myself long ago. I had created it fifteen years ago and I still relied on it now. I recited it like a memorized script. “The snow was falling that night. It was the first snowfall of the year. Mom didn’t come home that night and I remember wondering where she was. It wasn’t like Mom not to call. Dad and Sam told me there was nothing to worry about. But I knew in my heart. I knew something was wrong. Dad convinced me and Sam to go to bed, that Mom would be there when we woke up. Sometime in the early morning the phone rang, and I knew what the call was about. It sounds strange but I knew Mom was dead. I remember whispering to myself, ‘Mom is dead.’ I closed my eyes and went back to bed. And she was dead. Strangled.”
Ed nodded, his eyes fixated on me. Then he crushed out his cigar and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’m going to tell you something, Chuck, and I don’t want you to take it in the wrong way.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to take some time off. Paid leave of course. I’ll talk to payroll. That was a pretty traumatic injury you suffered. I think that we’ve rushed you back here a little too quickly.”
“With all due respect I disagree,” I said.
Ed laughed and then wiped away the grin with his hand. “I figured you would. Take a week off. Go fishing. Fly to someplace warm. Just take some time to get your mind clear. I don’t want a cop working the streets with all sorts of craziness going through his head. It’s not good for business. I’m going to be blunt with you, Chuck. Your mother is dead. She’s not coming back. And that case is not ever going to be solved. Whoever killed her is probably dead or in prison, anyway. You know that. Don’t get obsessed with her, Chuck. Whatever guilt you’re feeling, whatever is going on inside, you’ve got to let it go. I suspect that the crash may have affected you more profoundly than you realize. A near death experience, Chuck. Maybe that brought you closer with your mother somehow. But don’t ruminate about her. I’ve seen other men lose their souls trying to bring a dead woman back to the living. Don’t let that be you.”
I reached into my pocket for a cigarette and it dropped on the floor. I picked it up and stuck it in my mouth. “You sound like you’d make a pretty good psychologist,” I said. “Maybe when you’re done here—”
“Go home,” he said. “Give me a call if you need anything. I’ll let the rest of the men know what’s going on. Just don’t . . . worry.”
I thought for a couple moments, and then I decided that nothing I could say would change his mind. I nodded my head. “I guess you’re right,” I said. “Maybe I’ll take a plane down to Florida, find some pretty girl . . .”
“That’s the spirit, Chuck.”
I got up and shook Ed Thompson’s hand and walked out, leaving the door open behind me. Willow said, “Have a good afternoon Officer Johnson,” and I nodded without looking at her. Even a quick glance at her cleavage couldn’t make me feel any better.
I drove to the nearest bar and ordered a double shot of whiskey and played some darts with a half-blind alcoholic Indian. He beat me pretty good, so I tried my luck with the jukebox instead. I slid a dollar in and played three straight Sinatra songs and sat at the bar and felt bad. I thought about Florida and sitting on the beach with young girls tanning, but then the Image returned. I knew what I had to do. There was no other way out.
Chapter 6
I hadn’t worked in the City of Boulder Police Department long enough to forge any real connections, but I was pretty friendly with a guy named Stan Bergman who worked in records. He and I had gone out drinking a few times. He was a mean drunk but a hell of a guy when he was sober. I drove back to the station and stopped by his office before I left for my “vacation.” I asked if he could get a hold of an unsolved file for me. At first he was reluctant since I didn’t have shit for authorization, but I kept on him and he told me he’d see what he could do. He told me to give him a couple of hours and he’d try to locate it, although ancient unsolveds weren’t always where they should be. I thanked him and left the department, stopping to pick up some ammo on the way out. Just in case.
I drove around town for a while, stopping at a drugstore to pick up a newspaper and a pack of smokes. Before the accident I had quit smoking, but I decided that quitting wasn’t in my nature, so I figured I’d give the tobacco mega-companies some more business. They had been awfully good to me—providing me with a four-dollar a day addiction and a hacking cough. I also stopped at a liquor store and picked up a pint of gin, whiskey, and vodka just in case I got thirsty later on. I took a quick nip at the gin and decided that I better start buying more expensive booze. This stuff tasted like rubbing alcohol mixed with Listerine.
At two-thirty I went back to the station and went inside, careful to avoid Ed Thompson. Stan Bergman was in his office eating a pastrami sandwich and smoking a cigar, and he didn’t bother getting out of his chair when he saw me. He pointed over to his desk. “It’s over there,” he said. “It’s in kinda bad shape.”
I walked over and picked an abused brown accordion folder and stuck it under my arm. “I took a peek inside,” he said. “She’d have been pretty good-looking if she hadn’t have been dead. Who is she?”
“My mother,” I said and smiled. Bergman nearly choked on his pastrami.
I didn’t go straight home. Instead I drove over to the West End Tavern to see if Nicky was there. She wasn’t. I drove to her house and one of her roommates answered the door. She was in her underwear and bra and gave me a look that meant “Forget about ever getting a piece of this ass.” In the living room, which was littered with beer cans and dishes, I saw another young woman with curly black hair lying on the couch naked and smoking a cigarette. “I’m looking for Nicky,” I said.
“She’s out,” she said.
“Do you know where she is?”
She shook her head. “She’s with her boyfriend.”
“Her boyfriend?”