Later that same night, while Donald and Bernard walked along the beach, Rick and I managed a quiet moment. We had taken up position at a small gazebo set back from the tall grass and overlooking the sand and ocean. After sitting quietly for several minutes, listening to the waves and the wind, I finally said, “It’s getting cold.”
“Yeah, I like it though.” Sensing my discomfort he said, “Alan, it is what is. We just got to keep moving. Like sharks, right? We stop, we die.”
“I just want to be sure you’re OK. I mean really OK.”
“Eventually we’ll all be OK.”
So many years later, we were still waiting.
A pounding on the front door brought me back. I hadn’t really been sleeping, but wasn’t totally awake either, so it took me a few seconds to realize I was on the floor, next to the couch, having apparently rolled off at some point during the night. Bright sunshine powered through the windows. I was stiff and sore, my muscles and joints ached and my head was throbbing. I struggled to my knees, and using the edge of the couch for leverage, hoisted myself to my feet. The knocking on the door resumed, harder this time. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I called. “Hold on, for Christ’s sake.” I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and staggered to the door.
I found Rick and Donald standing there when I pulled it open, along with a blinding shaft of sunshine that felt like it had gone directly through my skull. I vaguely remembered making plans with them, telling them to be here because I had wanted to pursue the Chris Bentley angle. But I’d had so much to drink I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been passed out, or what day it was. The inside of my mouth felt like it had been lined with cotton. “What are you guys doing here so early?”
“We called four times and never got an answer,” Donald scolded. “It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon.”
I shielded my eyes and squinted at my watch. He was right. “Shouldn’t you be at work then, Donald?”
Rick shook his head. “It’s Saturday, you daffy fuck.”
Donald launched a disapproving glance. After what had happened with Toni apparently he felt name-calling—even in fun—qualified as piling on at that point. Even in the midst of madness, Donald retained his flair for fair play and a sense of decorum, as if etiquette might tame an otherwise untenable situation. He meant well, but it reminded me of the way characters in those old British novels would stop to change into freshly pressed shirts in the middle of a war zone. “Alan,” he said patiently, “it’s the weekend.”
“You been on a couple day drunk there, paisan,” Rick said, as if he truly believed this would be news to me. “Now, we supposed to stand out here like two dicks swinging in the breeze or you gonna let us in?”
I motioned them in and they shuffled into the kitchen. Donald was dressed in a short-sleeved striped oxford, khaki pants and a pair of loafers. In typical contrast, Rick was wearing black lightweight sweatpants and a tight t-back muscle shirt with no sleeves at all, his powerful chest and sculpted arms displayed like the trophies he considered them. I, on the other hand, looked and felt like I’d been run over by a fleet of oil trucks.
I went to the refrigerator, found the orange juice and chugged some right out of the carton. “Aren’t you two looking summery,” I said. “J.C. Penny have a sale?”
“You been out cold since last night?” Rick asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Then you didn’t hear the news?”
I leaned against the counter; my legs didn’t feel sturdy. “No.”
Rick looked to Donald and gave him the signal to tell me what they already knew. “They found another one, Alan. Buried in the sand down at the public beach in the tall grass between the beach house and the water. They found another body.”
“Jesus.” A wave of nausea and darkness swept through me. “Another woman?”
Rick, with the nervous energy of a child, and equally uncertain of how to dispense it, gave a quirky nod. “What was left of her.”
“They haven’t released a lot of details yet,” Donald said, “but like the first, she’s been dead for quite a while.”
“Give me ten minutes.” I started for the bedroom. “I need a quick shower and a change of clothes before we head out.”
Rick struck one of his heroic poses. “Where we going this time?”
“One step closer to the truth, hopefully.”
“Or another step closer to Hell,” Donald mumbled.
As it turned out, we were both right.
CHAPTER 21
The heat was rising. Spring had become summer with little transition time, as it had become prone to do in recent years. The handful of aspirin I’d popped before we left was finally kicking in and had begun to ease my headache, but the humidity wasn’t helping any. The dealership where Bernard had worked was in the south end of New Bedford, just blocks from the warehouse and the job site I’d been fired from, and less than a mile from the cellar where he’d taken his life. As we drove deeper into the city I wondered if I’d ever again be able to go there without those ghosts tagging along for the ride.
Rick parked across the street from the car lot. We’d all been there before at one point or another in the past, to pick Bernard up or drop him off or meet him, but as with everything else since his death, it didn’t feel the same. What should have been familiar—even vaguely—seemed distant and alien. I slid a hand into my pocket, touched the photograph of the mystery woman but pulled out the business card instead. I told Donald and Rick I was going alone and wanted to keep it low-key with Bentley. Neither objected.
I put a pair of dark sunglasses on, hopped out of the Cherokee and crossed the street. The lot was large and filled with rows of used cars—many of them quite nice—and a small office building was set at the rear of the property. I had just hit the lot when a heavyset, moon-faced man emerged from the office and made his way toward me, waving and grinning as if we were old friends.
“Hey there!” He offered a pudgy hand. “Great gosh all-mighty—hot enough for you? Phew! Welcome to summer! But what a great day to buy a car!”
I reluctantly shook his hand. It was damp and made a squishing sound when he tightened his grip. He pumped my arm with the enthusiasm of someone hoping to draw water. I smiled, pulled free and flashed the business card. “Is Chris Bentley around?”
The jolly routine vanished. “Sure, pal. I’ll get him, he’ll be right with you.”
I nonchalantly checked out a couple cars while waiting. Within a minute or two a man younger than I’d expected—late twenties at most—strolled out of the office wearing mirrored sunglasses and made his way over to me. “Can I help you, sir?”
I held up his business card. “Chris Bentley?”
“That’s right.” We shook hands.
“I’m Alan Chance, was hoping I could talk to you for a couple minutes.”
“Absolutely.” He pointed to the card. “Have we talked before? You look vaguely familiar for some reason.”
“I got your name from a mutual friend.”
“Terrific. Have you heard about the special financing packages we—”