A Cup Full of Midnight (29 page)

The arrangements had been made months before. Dylan had chosen a sleek copper casket for himself, and the music was a nontraditional mix apparently designed to impart his final message to the world. At the first strains of “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” the mourners looked at one another and tried not to chuckle. At “Don’t Pay the Ferryman,” the minister began to look uncomfortable. But when Arlo Guthrie came across the speakers singing “Alice’s Restaurant,” it was all I could do to keep from breaking into a belly laugh.

I glanced over at Jay and saw that he was biting his cheek. “Dyl’s last little joke,” he whispered.

At the gravesite, I looked up and saw Eric standing in the back, looking like a little lost boy in his navy suit. When I met him, he’d been Eric the cad. Then he’d become Eric the
mensch
. Now it looked like he was Eric the cad again.

“Jay.” I nudged him and nodded in Eric’s direction.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Why now?”

“You want me to get rid of him?”

“No. I’ll do it.” He looked at Eric, hurt and hunger in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s just . . .”

“I know.”

“I can’t deal with him right now.”

“Tell him that.”

He nodded and slipped out of his seat. Eric saw him coming and straightened his shoulders. Jay said something to him, and he looked away into the distance, nodded, gave a vague smile. Jay put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric pressed his palm to Jay’s cheek, then turned and walked away.

After the funeral, we gathered at Randall’s place, where Wendy had prepared a covered dish dinner. I could smell fried chicken halfway across the yard. Frank was waiting for us in the living room. After he’d paid his respects, he clapped me on the shoulder and steered me into Randall’s study.

“Didn’t expect you here,” I said.

“Nah. Don’t care much for funerals.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled around the room, running his finger over Randall’s military history books, pausing to peruse the tactical maps that covered the walls.

Randall joined the Air Force at eighteen, planning to add his own medals to the ones Dad had brought home from Vietnam. Instead, our mother died of cancer, and Randall applied for a hardship discharge so he could come back home and finish raising me. He’d planned to re-enlist later, but an accident on a construction site left him with a bad back and a trick knee, and that was the end of Randall’s dreams of military greatness.

“He ever play those war games?” asked Frank. “You know what I mean? With the little lead guys?”

“He used to, when we were kids. But you know Randall. If it isn’t real, he’s got no use for it.” It was more complicated than that. Games were fine when he had a shot at the dream, but once the dream had ended, games were no substitute. But Frank hadn’t called me in here to talk about Randall.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Your boy, Mayers. He’s hanging in there. Got him under guard.”

“Tough son of a bitch.”

“In spades. But the vest he was wearing probably helped some too.”

That explained a lot.

Frank picked up a paperweight, a gold doubloon in an acrylic pyramid, and turned it over in his hands. “You did okay out there.”

“Your guys would have gotten him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Malone is pissed about you being there. ‘Free country,’ I said.” He studied the paperweight, set it back down where he’d gotten it. “They’ve closed the Parker case.”

I nodded. I’d expected it. “Mayers?”

“Yeah. How you feel about that?”

I thought it over. “He could’ve done it. He had motive, the skill to dress out the body, the physical strength to arrange it. But . . .”

“But?”

“Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the idea of multiple killers.”

“Could be. But you still said
but
.”

“Okay . . . all three died from slashed throats, right? Razor, Medea, and Dark Knight.”

“Right.”

“With Dennis Knight, the cuts were clean. No struggle. Lots of blood, but controlled. The killer probably didn’t even get any on himself. And he didn’t try to cover up what he’d done. Took pride in it, actually.”

Frank nodded. “True.”

“Same with Medea. But Razor’s murder was different. It was messy. Then someone came along and tried to make it
look
controlled.”

“That’s what I’m thinking too,” Frank said. “You should be a detective.”

“I figure Elgin did Medea and the Knights, but somebody else did Razor. Then either they came to their senses and tried to muddy the waters, or there were two of them and the second guy staged the scene.”

“You figure Mayers for the second guy?”

“Could be. But were the other two murders to draw attention away from Killer Number One or to take revenge on the coterie for Judith’s rape?”

“Maybe both. If he survives, I’ll ask him. You figure Hewitt for Razor’s murder?”

“Maybe. Hewitt sounded genuine when he said Judith hadn’t told him about the rape. But Elgin said I’d be ruining a good man if I kept on with the case. Could be he meant Hewitt.”

“Be a kicker if it
wasn’t
Hewitt, wouldn’t it?” Frank mused. “Mayers does all this to protect him and it turns out he didn’t do it.”

“Somehow I doubt he’d appreciate the irony.”

Frank’s cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and listened for a moment. Then he turned to me and said, “That kid, Byron. He’s in the hospital. Tried to off himself.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I
debated whether or not to tell Josh, decided he might hear it from someone else and think I’d kept it from him.

I found him outside pushing Caitlin on the tire swing. She clung to the tire with mittened hands, lifted one in a welcoming wave when she saw me. She laughed, and her breath burst out in a cloud of steam. Rina waited her turn on the sidelines, clutching a ragged sock doll. I kissed the top of her white-blonde head and then turned to Josh, “Got a minute?”

He gave Caitlin a final push and followed me up to his room, where I filled him in. When I’d finished, he said, “I have to show you something.”

He shoved aside a stack of pen-and-ink drawings on his desk and unearthed a leather-bound sketchbook. Flipped to the middle, where, tucked between the pages, was an ivory parchment envelope. Across the front in bold spiky letters were Josh’s name and address. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “Read this.”

I lifted the flap and pulled out a sheet of heavy linen paper emblazoned with the same fierce handwriting.

Dear Joshua,
it said.

I am sitting at my bedroom window, looking at the moon and wondering if it is the same moon you see.

I know you are disappointed and confused by all that has happened between us. I am disappointed as well. After all, don’t you have plenty of which to be ashamed? You, better than anyone, know the pervasive power of secrets. In fact, your whole life is a secret, isn’t it?

Your parents don’t know who you are. If they did, do you think they would look on you with pride? Or would you see only disappointment in their eyes? Do you think they would forgive you? I know you, Josh. And I know that hidden darkness within you as well as, or better than, you know it yourself.

You and I are two of a kind. Kindred spirits, so to speak. The flesh dies, but the soul endures, loves forever, can be joined forever, and that is the only forgiveness there is. Free your soul from its prison of guilt and flesh and come home to me. Death lasts but a moment. Undeath, like love, is for eternity.

Anxiously Awaiting Your Return,

Razor

I looked up at Josh. “When did you get this?”

“A couple of months ago.”

I took a chance. “After Judith Hewitt’s rape.” He made a strangled sound, and I said, as gently as I could, “What does he mean, you have plenty to be ashamed of?”

He looked away, eyes welling. “I should have stopped them.”

Should have stopped them.
Suddenly I could breathe again. “Tell me what happened.”

He dug at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “You remember how it was. I wasn’t supposed to be seeing Razor, you know? Not without a chaperone. Dad and Mom fought about that, like, all the time. Dad didn’t want me seeing him at all, but Mom thought I’d go behind their backs and hook up with him if they tried to cut things off completely. But whenever we’d get together—Razor and me—things felt really weird.”

“Go figure.”

“I know, I know.” He looked miserable. “I thought it was because we were never alone. So I sneaked out a couple of times and hitched downtown to see him.”

“Exactly what your folks were trying to avoid.”

“I was an idiot.”

“So the day of Judith’s rape, you went downtown to see Razor.”

“Right. Barnabus and Dark Knight and Medea were hanging around, and Razor looks out the window and sees Mrs. Hewitt run past in that little pink jogging suit. She did it every day, you know? And Razor says we should go out and talk to her. Let her know her husband’s behavior is . . .” He wrinkled his nose and grimaced. “Not acceptable. Then he pulls a knife out of his pocket, and the three of them hustle her inside.”

“The three of them.”

“Razor, Barnabus, and Dark Knight. I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I do something?”

“You’re wondering it yourself. Did you come up with an answer?”

“At first I thought he was just going to scare her. Then things got totally out of hand. Barnabus started saying things like,
let’s show this bitch what a real man is
and
let’s do this bitch
. It was like it was his idea, but I could tell it wasn’t, that Razor was leading him into it. Why would he do that?”

“It was how he got his kicks.”

“I told them to stop, and Razor—”Tears sprang to his eyes, and he wiped them away with the palms of his hands. “He laughed at me and said I should take a turn, that it would make my father proud if I did it with a woman.”

He closed his eyes, reliving it, and I saw it through his eyes—Judith pale and shivering, trying to cover herself with her hands. Medea laughing.
Give it to her. Show her she can’t mess with us!
Dark Knight sobbing as he took his turn, his pimpled face red and slick with snot and tears.

Josh opened his eyes and said, “I kept thinking, Uncle Jared would make them stop. My father would—” His voice broke. “A real man would do something. But it was like I was rooted to the ground.”

“They had knives,” I said without conviction. “They could have killed you.”

He looked down at his lap and said, “I tell myself that. But so what? Even if it was true, it wouldn’t have stopped you. It wouldn’t have stopped Dad.”

“Maybe. It’s hard to say, until you’re in that situation. But you didn’t call the police afterward either.”

“I know. I kept telling myself that if she came forward, I would too, that I’d back her up. But she never did. Too scared, I guess.”

“Or too ashamed.”

He nodded. Couldn’t meet my eyes.

I thought of a dozen things to say, tried to decide which one would make things right. Knew none of them would. After an awkward silence, I said, “You didn’t show the letter to anybody?”

“Like who? Dad? He wanted to kill Razor as it was.” He shifted in his seat, averting his eyes. “I knew it was stupid, what Razor wanted me to do. But it made sense, too, in a way. So I kept the letter, so I could think about it for awhile.”

A dull ache settled in the pit of my stomach. “And that’s why you did what you did? Because of this letter?”

“Not at first. Because I got the letter, and then he hooked up with Byron and I thought, eternity hell, he couldn’t even wait for me two months. But then he . . .”

“Then he died.”

“And I felt like maybe it was because of what we did, and that would make it partly my fault. And I couldn’t handle it, that I was part of that too, part of killing him, I mean. And now Byron’s in the hospital, and maybe that’s my fault too.”

Because of what we did.
It was a poor choice of words, that was all. He felt guilty, like he was part of it because he hadn’t stepped up. He hadn’t stopped them. That wasn’t the same as helping them.

I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “None of that was your fault.”

He reached for the letter. “If I’d shown you this earlier—”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference. Razor’s dead. I still wouldn’t have thought Byron was in any danger.”

“But—”

“You’re showing me now,” I said.

He looked at me with pleading eyes. “Are you going to tell Dad?”

“It isn’t mine to tell,” I said.

He gave me a grateful smile, and I forced myself to smile back. I knew what this knowledge would do to my brother. It would break his heart.

Josh said, “You think I should tell the police, don’t you? About Mrs. Hewitt. What they did to her. But what good would it do? Razor and Dark Knight are dead.”

“You have to decide that, son,” I said. “But yeah, I think you should tell.” I gave him a quick hug and stood up to leave.

He stopped me at the door. “Do you hate me, Uncle Jared?”

I thought back to a game we played when he was small.
I love you to England. I love you to France. I love you to the moon and back again.
“I love you to the stars and back again,” I told him. “I could never hate you.”

In the living room, I passed Frank. He perched on the edge of the leather sofa, a platter of potato salad and chicken wings teetering on his lap.

“Can you give Jay a ride home?” I asked him.

He looked up. “Going to the hospital?”

“Not just yet.”

He frowned. “Do I want to know what you’re up to?”

“No,” I told him. “Definitely not.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

B
reaking and Entering is a serious crime. I have a rule about committing serious crimes. It involves not committing them.

But Absinthe and Benjy were missing, Chase was dead, and Byron was in the hospital. Josh had almost been among them.

This was no time for protocol.

Josh had kept his letter for almost two months, weighing his options, trying to decide. Could Byron have done the same thing? Would Razor have sent a letter like that, with Byron still living with him?