The 56th Man by J. Clayton Rogers - HTML preview

NINETEEN

 

Over the next two weeks, Ari noted an efflorescence of orange in the stores. When he inquired about it, he was told by a bemused clerk that Halloween was fast approaching. He looked Halloween up on the net and learned it was an American conflation of Celtic and Christian holidays. At first it seemed like a memorial for past Christian saints, which seemed rather dull. Then it looked to be a kind of memorial for the dead, which seemed appropriate. Third glance suggested a worship of evil, which Ari found intriguing, although he fretted over the tidbit that cats were sometimes abused during the event. He occasionally saw Sphinx, but the cat had snubbed him ever since Ari had evicted him from his hiding place under the stove.

"Be careful, little beast," Ari would murmur, thankful that Sphinx was not black--black cats being the main targets of sadistic mayhem.

He finally concluded that Halloween was just a fun time for kids, and he was delighted at the prospect of little tots showing up at his door and yelling, "Trick or Treat!"

He bought some decorations and a pumpkin. He carved a suitably scary face into the pumpkin, then studied the gooey mess of pulp and seeds that he had excavated from the shell. He reviewed several recipes for pumpkin pie, then threw the mess into the garbage.

On the last day of October, Ari dragged a kitchen chair out to his front porch, lit a candle in his pumpkin head, and brought out a large basket of candy. He poured a small portion of whisky and hid it inside the door. The sun scaled away from the river and a clear night approached. Ari lit a cigarette, took a sip of Jack Daniels, and relaxed, filled with mellow anticipation.

Five o'clock. Five-thirty. He heard groups of children up the hill, on Riverside Drive. They would arrive within minutes. He re-hid his drink and stubbed out his Winston.

The voices faded.

More voices approached, more voices faded. He went down the sidewalk to the road. A group was just leaving Howie Nottoway's driveway. A tiny angel turned and began to trot towards the river before her mother caught her and drove her back up the lane.

Of course. This was the Riggins house. Children had been brutally murdered here. It was only normal that parents and older children would want to avoid it.

He slumped to the porch and dropped in his chair. As he lifted his glass, he caught sight of a yellow smudge at the edge of the yard.

"Beast," said Ari. "Spy. Traitor. Turncoat. Don't you look plump? Who's been feeding you? The same people who have been feeding me?"

Sphinx's tail shifted slightly. Ari knew there was no point in going after it. The cat would come in its own good time, if at all.

 

Ari stood nodding and smiling and nodding and frowning and shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders and in general following Howie Nottoway's rambling conversation with every physical gesture in his armory, save the non-neighborly ones. Ari had joined the Neighborhood Watch, and was already responsible for nabbing a young boy who enjoyed defacing lawn ornaments and an infamous dog that took some kind of canine pleasure over leaving its stools on innocent doorsteps. Howie was ecstatic over the new member's aggressive tactics, though they were counterbalanced by a grievous laxity when it came to the loud parties on the other side of the woods.

"Howie, why don't you join us one evening? I'm sure the Mackenzies would be glad to have you."

"You mean...you've been going..."

"I enjoy the good fellowship, the bonhomie. And I find Tracy Mackenzie irresistible. Stupid, but irresistible."

Howie laughed in spite of himself.

"Bring the wife," Ari continued. "And if you can't make it...be patient. I know they get loud, and they smoke, and they can be quite obnoxious at times. But it's only once a week, and they usually pass out before midnight."

"Well...you really think they'd like having us?"

Matt and Tracy Mackenzie would probably suffer seizures if they saw Howie walking up to their door with a bottle of champagne in one arm and a bushel of good will in the other, but Ari was convinced a bit of diplomatic tact would settle the issue.

They had only once discussed Carrington's suicide. Ari had watched carefully as Howie progressed from startled amazement to confusion. There was no trace of sorrow. If anything, there had been a hint of relief.

No more being bullied by the Detective Sergeant into spying on his neighbor and breaking into his house. No more sickening exposures of his inadequacy, or of the frailties of law and order. His sphincter might be on a short leash--it always would be--but he could ease the rest of his persona into public life without fear or sarcasm. And without recriminations. Ari would not be asking him for the key to his back door.

Yes, he would be on patrol tomorrow night. Yes, he would be sure his cell phone was fully charged. No, he was not yet ready to attend Howie's church. But who knew what the future held?

 

Lynn the Librarian became Lynn the friend, but nothing more. Lynn tried to interest Ari in The Tale of the Genji. Ari wanted her to accompany him to a bowling alley, which he was reluctant to visit alone. They compromised by going to see Gigli at the Westhampton. They enjoyed the popcorn.

She tried to learn more about him. He found her sweet and attractive, in a flat-footed way.

"Whatever happened with your friend? What is his name, by the way? He didn't give it to me on the phone. Did your joke work?"

"He was a little nonplussed at first, but in the end he died laughing," Ari answered.

"That's amazing."

"What, that he died laughing?"

"That I've met someone who uses 'nonplussed' as part of his everyday speech."

 

Fred, of Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape Design Service, seemed to know whenever he was out of the house. The LoJack, of course. After the first visit, Ari did not see him again for a long time. He would arrive home to find his yard immaculate and a thumb drive on his kitchen table or already plugged into his computer. He wondered at this furtive technique. Why not just hand it to him in person? Was it pride in tradecraft? To show Ari this was serious business, and to impress upon him the need for caution? Or was it possible Fred could not trust himself to stay cool in front of his client after what Ari had done to Sandra?

The pictures became a steady drain on Ari's soul. After an hour of looking at them he would pour a drink and continue working until he passed out. Eventually, he began pouring that first drink before he even opened the image viewer. The faces of terror became a single face, two eyes peering out of a kuffiah scarf with malevolent righteousness while standing over his victim or victims.

In the occasional digital video (usually ripped off from Al Jazeera) the executors-murderers could be heard chanting the usual Koranic-Marxist inanities (certainly a weird combination) to justify their actions. There was usually a trace of hysteria in their voices as they struggled to make clear that they were not common killers, but warriors of a mighty cause. It was ever thus with young men struggling to make a name for themselves, whether before society or before God.

Often on the street Ari saw young black men with their hoods turned up, even in warm weather. They were flaunting their dangerous anonymity. They were learning. The Crusaders had brought back etiquette and refined taste from their wars. The Americans returned home with something far more sinister, and they feared it.

The men he fingered sometimes showed up on the news as part of the daily body count. Ari had no way of telling if this was due to his efforts or to the diligence of the Coalition and Iraqi authorities. But one day he received an email that merely said: 'Thanks'. The sender's address ended with 'dot gov'.

The Great Satan appreciated his efforts.

 

He bought a portable television with a combination VCR/DVD player. He checked out movies and documentaries from the library and watched lectures from the Great Teachers series. Greek Mythology, Mediterranean Civilizations, the Great Philosophers, Economics, the American Civil War. He also liked old Hollywood films, and enjoyed Great Expectations so much that he checked out the book and read it through in two sittings. He took out the Day the Earth Stood Still. The robot's first appearance sent a deathly chill through Ari. There it was...the hidden face, the fierce, destructive eye: al Qaeda in metal.

 

On December 23, Ari pulled one of the kitchen chairs into the living room and sat where Jerry Riggins had sat one year earlier. He sipped at his Jack Daniels, staring out the picture window long after midnight.

Christmas came and went. He exchanged small gifts with Lynn at the library reference desk. Lynn gave him a wary smile. She told him he did not look well.

 

The knock came on December 30. Ari was on his mattress, having fallen asleep in the mid-afternoon after a particularly hard session on the computer in which he had not only identified a killer, but the decapitated head of a victim. The insurgency was feeding on itself. The Americans would probably find this a hopeful sign.

Before logging off, he had checked out a news site. He spent an hour reading, watching streaming videos, and drinking before falling onto his mattress.

He opened his eyes, then closed them, trying to ignore the visitor. But the knocking became louder, more insistent. Whoever it was would not give up.

Rolling to his side, he knocked over the glass sitting on the floor next to the mattress. There wasn't much whiskey left in the glass, but spilling even a drop was a sin. He swore in Greek and Farsi.

Struggling to his feet, Ari pounded downstairs and threw open the door.

"What!" he demanded.

The man and woman on his stoup were taken aback as much by his appearance as by the violence of his greeting.

It was an unseasonably warm day. The man and woman wore light jackets. She had dark hair and round, thick glasses. He wore dark sunglasses against a sun that was going down.

"Good evening, sir," said the girl. "We were wondering if you had heard the Good News."

She held up a Bible.

"Good evening Fred," said Ari. "Good evening, Deputy Karen Sylvester."

The girl lowered the Bible. "Shit," she said. "Okay, invite us in, and try to look normal about it. Look like you're a lost soul or something."

"Howie Nottoway can't see my front door from his property."

"There could be someone in the woods. There could be someone watching from the river, from one of those islands. There could be a fucking satellite focused on us. Will you invite us in before I bang you with this?" Sandra/Karen held up the Bible again.

Ari stood aside and they entered.

"You look like shit," said Karen after he closed the door. Then she peered at him closely. "Have you been crying? You?"

"Forgive my appearance. I wasn't expecting company."

"You mean you always look like this when nobody's around? I don't believe it."

“You are wise not to.” He nodded at Fred. “It's not the season for yard work, is it?”

“I'm not allowed to see you without backup, anymore,” said Karen.

“Ah, Fred is your bodyguard.”

Fred grinned sheepishly and cracked his knuckles. “I prefer it to trimming hedges.”

Karen removed her wig and glasses. “I hate going in disguise. And we had to make it look legit. Went to a half dozen houses like this. They all slammed their doors in our face. That was great.”

“Until we reached your neighbor,” Fred glowered.

“That idiot Nottoway invited us in for punch,” Karen fumed. “He wouldn't shut up. Jesus this and Jesus that. I had to promise to go to his church before he'd let us go.”

“I didn't realize the Methodists were so…evangelical.” Ari gave her a drunken, angelic smile.

“What's your problem?” Karen glanced about the bare living and dining rooms. “You haven't gotten any furniture yet? Where can I put this?” She waved her wig and glasses. He led her into the kitchen and pointed at the table. "This is still all you've got?"

"As you see."

She glanced at the dirty sink, then went down the hall and poked her head in the bathroom.

"Well at least you keep your kitty litter box clean," said Karen, coming back into the kitchen.

"I only have two chairs," said Ari.

"That's all right," said Fred, leaning against the counter.

"You've been crying," said Karen. "It's obvious."

Ari did not answer.

"Didn't you see the news this morning, Karen?" said Fred, practicing a sneer. "They executed his fearless leader in Baghdad. There's a big stink. Someone secretly filmed the hanging. Caught Saddam yelling, the executioners cursing at him...really fun stuff. Our government wants to know how the Iraqis could put something like that on the air."

Karen looked at Ari with near horror. "You were crying over that son of a bitch?"

"You wouldn't understand," said Ari in a tight voice.

"I would hope not."

"I was thirteen when he became president, but he was the leader long before that, and everyone knew it. When I was a child, one day…” Ari looked down.

“You look like shit, but I didn't realize you were thinking shit, too.” Pulling a gun out from under her jacket, Karen sat at the table, across from Ari. "You want to wait outside, Fred? I have some personal things I want to discuss with Ari here. I can take care of myself."

Fred looked doubtful.

"Go on," Karen persisted.

"All right, but I'm keeping the front door open."

"If you think you need to."

Karen heard the front door open, waited a moment, then leaned forward. "How the hell do you know my name?"

"An old high school classmate of yours told me."

"Who?"

"Moria Riggins."

Karen briefly thought he was making a sick joke, then a sickness of awareness caused her face to sag. "You've seen a yearbook."

"In one of your local libraries."

"I didn't even know they carried them," said Karen.

"And Tina Press was also part of the cheerleading squad."

"Yes."

"She said nothing about knowing you, and she told me she had met Moria in a shopping mall. There was no reason why she would do this, unless she knew you. She understood that if I became curious enough I might track down one of those yearbooks and see all three of you together."

"You really believe she can think that far ahead?"

"So you have kept in touch over the years and know her current situation."

Karen bit her lip at being so easily snared. She had not been prepared for this, but for something completely different. The gun said it all. She was here about Carrington.

Ari took out a cigarette.

"Would you mind not smoking?" said Karen.

"It would be considered extremely impolite in my country for you to ask me not to smoke in my own home."

"This isn't your country."

"This isn't your home." Ari lit up.

"Okay, listen, there's been some question--" Karen sneezed. Ari watched as she fussed with a Kleenex.

"Some question...?"

"About Carrington."

"You mean the detective who killed the Riggins family?" Ari blew a cloud. "That's what the newspapers say. The ballistics tests--"

"Yeah, I know. But we've heard rumors coming out of the RPD. Unofficial things."

"I don't see how there can be any questions. He felt deep remorse over what he had done and he killed himself."

"There weren't any traces of gunpowder on his hand," said Karen.

"Ah..." Ari shook his head. "Are the tests for these traces always accurate?"

"Usually. And not only that. The ground around the car was messed up when the rescue crew arrived. But it looks like there was a van of some sort parked nearby that same night."

"How near?"

"On the other side of a footbridge, about forty yards away."

"And someone saw this van?"

"It left tire marks."

"Interesting. So you think it wasn't suicide?"

"Where were you that night?"

"Here, I believe."

"Do you have anybody who can corroborate that?"

"Certainly. Jack."

"Jack who?"

"Daniels."

"I'm not talking about your current company."

Ari nodded his head in confession.

"So?"

"Karen...Miss Sandra...I know Detective Sergeant Carrington committed suicide because I'm the one who drove him to it."

The deputy’s eyes narrowed. "How did you do that?"

"I presented him with the evidence. He was a murderer. True, he only murdered one person, but about that there is no doubt."

"You sound even more pompous when you're drunk." Karen sneezed again. "Do you really have to smoke that shit around me?"

"You're free to leave."

"No..." Karen wiped her nose. "Go ahead and prove to me what an asshole you are. You already tried to strangle me. What's a little suffocation after that?"

Ari stubbed out his cigarette. "I deeply apologize for what happened--"

"When was the last time you saw Carrington?"

"Two days before he killed himself. In this house. He sat in that chair."

"And you showed him your 'evidence'."

"I convinced him that members in his own department probably knew the truth, that they were suspicious from the beginning because his investigation was so deeply flawed, and that one day he would be confronted about it by his peers."

"That's not what we're hearing."

"What you're hearing is idle speculation. The people who know the truth have no need to spread rumors. 'Justice has been served' is the curious phrase you have here. I'm satisfied that the van treads that the police found are unimportant. They could have been left there at any time."

Ari felt dizzy. He got up and went over the sink.

"Are you going to puke?"

"One moment..." He leaned over the basin until the nausea passed. "I think I'll make some tea. Would you like some?"

"What did you say to him?" Karen demanded.

Ari filled his new kettle with tapwater and placed it on the burner.

"Did Tina mention to you that Tom Massington had become convinced that he wasn't Moria's father?"

"I don't know what you're--" Karen stopped herself. She took a deep breath. "Did you put enough water in there for two cups? I think I'll have one, too. And yes, Tina mentioned it to me."

"Who do you think the real father is?" Ari added some water to the kettle.

"What? You're saying it was Carrington?"

"Tina met Tom and Heather Massington many years ago. Did you..."

"I was with Tina that day. Moria had invited us over."

"And did you ever meet Carrington?"

"No," Karen said.

"Look in the newspaper archives for a picture of Jerry and Moria accepting an award from the detective. You'll be impressed by the resemblance between father and daughter."

"Are you implying he murdered his daughter?"

Ari took a deep breath. He was going to lay out a tale that squeezed probability at both ends. But it had to be elaborate enough to keep Karen guessing.

"I believe Heather told him the baby was his. For years, he followed Moria’s childhood progress from a distance. Perhaps Heather gave him annual updates, like the investment reports sent out to shareholders. He was the one who came to the Massington house to tell the family about the death of the son in a car accident.

"When Moria grew up and left home, he could finally play the part of doting father. He may not have thought much of Jerry. No man likes to see his daughter marry an artist. But he learned to accept him. He included Jerry in his little plaque ceremonies and was his booster for other considerations. I'm sure Detective Carrington could be very persuasive in front of an award committee. Even more persuasive when he got committee members alone in a stairwell."

“He was persuasive enough to take over the case from a lieutenant,” Karen said grimly.

“Ah.”

The kettle began to whistle. One of two cups Ari had prepared was new, bought with the possibility of a visit from Lynn in mind. But he had not yet invited her to Beach Court. While the tea steeped, he brought out a box of sugar cubes and set it on the table.

"Unfortunately, Detective Carrington had no sense of proportion. Although he had three legitimate children of his own, his affection centered on Moria. This did not present a problem while Jerry and Moria lived in the countryside. It was only when they moved back to the city that Carrington's visits became excessive."

"You don't think Moria and him..." Karen looked down at the tea Ari placed before her.

"In my country, cousins frequently marry. This results in some intense feuding within the family and between families. I'm convinced that's part of the reason for Saddam's downfall. But that's another, and much longer, story."

"With a tragic ending, according to you." Karen's mockery wilted under Ari's harsh glance. "All right, so you don't think Moria's father was bopping her."

"Not her biological father."

Karen's head shot up. "Tom Massington?"

"Mr. Massington's reaction when he found out about Moria's true parentage was extreme. It had happened over two decades ago. If he felt inclined to punish anyone, it should have been his wife, not the innocent daughter. He behaved more like a jilted lover."

"But there was Jerry."

"Whom Moria herself referred to as a 'dickless wonder'. I realize this can be interpreted as a metaphor for a general inadequacy. But it can also be seen--"

"Haven't you heard?" Karen interrupted. "Impotence doesn't exist in this country anymore. We're the Viagra nation."

"I wasn't speaking of impotence." Ari took a sip of tea. He scowled. "I want something stronger."

Karen holstered her Glock, grabbed the box of sugar, and dropped several cubes in Ari's cup. "Try a little more of this, instead. I don't want you passing out on me."

Ari nodded reluctantly and stirred his tea until the cubes dissolved.

"You think Jerry was gay?" she said after Ari had taken a sip.

"When I visited the gallery, there were two men there who were very...affectionate. I overheard one of them speak of Jerry as his 'darling'."

"A figure of speech?" Karen suggested.

"I don't think so. Look at those smudges Jerry was always painting. I believe they represented something."

"Well, I've seen my brothers' dirty underpants..."

"Exactly."

"Wait, I just meant that a lot of modern art looks like someone took a dump on canvas."

"I think those paintings symbolize the filthy male anus."

Karen smiled, burped, sneezed. She looked away for a moment, shaking her head and trying to fight down her grin. Then she looked up.

"Why don't we just agree that neither of us is an art critic and leave it at that?"

"If you wish."

Karen's grin slowly disappeared. "You're saying Joshua and William weren't Jerry's? Then who...?"

"Tom Massington's. He knew Jerry was an artistic hack. He also knew he was gay--the perfect match for his daughter and mistress. Or rather, the woman he thought was his daughter."

"Do you realize how twisted this sounds?"

"Do you think so?" Ari reached for his pack of cigarettes, then stopped. "Mr. Massington, the Tin Man. It is possible that Moria broke from him temporarily. She lived with Jerry in the countryside for awhile. But thirty miles isn't all that far. And when Tom Massington bought a house on the river and invited them to move back to the city, Jerry leapt at it."

"I thought it was..."

"You thought it was Moria's decision to come back. That was what she told you and Tina. But Jerry thought Carrington was the father of Joshua and William." Ari stopped. Karen was staring at him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm suddenly not buying into any of this," she said, trying to meet his eyes. “This is shaping up to be the kind of story that hides a thousand sins. Your sins.”

"Hear me out before you make any final conclusions." Ari took out a cigarette and lit up. "Or you may leave."

"I'm listening," Karen sneezed.

"Carrington was delighted with the move. He was now closer to his beloved daughter, Iraq."

"What?"

Ari glanced up.

"You said he was now closer to his beloved daughter, Iraq."

"I did? I mean Moria, of course." He directed a bemused smile at himself, then continued: "By your standards, Detective Carrington was corrupt. He had known about the drug trade in this neighborhood, and had probably made an occasional token arrest. But when he found out his daughter was involved, he stifled all investigation. And the irony is that she probably became involved because of him.

"Imagine. She was already under immense stress because of Tom Massington and the reality of her children by him. Her close friend Tina was a steady user, presenting a constant temptation. And she was familiar with cocaine from her high school days. 'Recreational use' I believe the term is, to remove the taint of sin."