The Zen Man (19 page)

“Are you hurt?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so? Maybe you should call 911.”

“No.”

“Darlin’, you’re—”

“
No
.”

She muttered something about hard-headed Deadheads. “I’m coming to get you. I’m nearby, highway 70. Be there in ten.”

She hung up.

I could’ve called back, told her to not come, but I was shaking so badly, doubted if I could drive twenty feet, much less twenty miles.

Ten or so minutes later, true to her word, Brianna, with some guy, showed up. In the hazy dome light of her Jeep, I saw the shock on her face as she spied the shattered windshield. That’d be the worst she’d see. I’d wiped up the blood on my hands, any spatter in the front seat, and stored the shotgun in the trunk.

As I opened my driver’s door, she ran to me.

“Your car!”

“Boulder hit the windshield.”

She scanned my body as I stood. “You—?”

“I’m fine. Little shaken up, that’s all.”

“Let’s get you to the Jeep—it’s warm inside.”

I lost my footing as we walked. She wrapped her arm around me, steered me to the passenger door. As she opened it, I got a better look at the guy, his face hazily familiar but I couldn’t place him. After hastily introducing himself as Larry, he got in the back and I took the front.

On the way home, told her I’d missed a turn, drove into the side of a rocky hill, which must have dislodged a boulder which bounced on the windshield. Thought I could still keep driving, but windshield was too wrecked, so I pulled over. Was trying to cover my story as it was obvious there were no rocks or hills where they found me.

Left out everything else.

Then I called Laura, told her the same story. Explained that Brianna had called from nearby, was giving me a lift home.

Laura was silent for a moment, but didn’t ask questions. Just quietly mentioned she’d called Sam after our last call, had told him about Justin and the darts.

I hung up, thought back to the crazy episode at Justine’s place. If he hadn’t thrown those miniature missiles at me, if we hadn’t wrestled, if I hadn’t walked out with those darts, I wouldn’t have had a weapon to use in self-defense.

If that’s not Zen, don’t know what is.

“If it sloshes, there isn’t enough.”
—Rosen Takashina

W
e arrived at the lodge around six-thirty. The kitchen was a scent-rich comfort zone of my favorite foods—pot roast, potatoes, pecan pie. Laura stood stiffly next to the table, an oversized oven mitt shaped like a dinosaur on one hand, the other holding a martini. In her tight Capri pants, form-hugging sweater, and brightly made-up face, she looked like one of those fifties’ housewives on a glossy magazine cover—perfectly coiffed, too good to be true. When she saw me, her façade crumpled. Setting down her drink, she tossed off the mitt and ran across the room to me.

Laura has never been one for public displays of affection, but she dropped all propriety in my arms. Pressed against me, her trembling hands flew over my face, my hair, my chest, as though reassuring herself I was intact, alive. Tears filled her eyes as her lips moved, but no words came out. Finally, she wrapped her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder.

I closed my eyes, inhaling her scent, lost in the softness of her hair against my face. Lately, we were packing days of living into every twenty-four hours. Nothing was taken for granted. For all the times we’d made love and bared our bodies and souls, I felt closer to her in this single moment.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed Brianna standing across the room, staring at me with a look I couldn’t decipher.

After I made introductions, Laura insisted they stay for dinner. Heading upstairs to wash and change my clothes, I noticed Larry, sipping vodka straight from one of Laura’s martini glasses, strolling around the room on some kind of self-guided tour. Making himself a little too at home for my taste.

While upstairs, I made a call to Sam.

Half an hour later, we settled around the butcher block table and began eating when the kitchen door opened and in stumbled Garrett and Ziggy.

“My brother!” Garrett wrapped his arms around me, engulfing me in a cloud of weed. “Heard the news of your crash, man.”

Over a mass of dreadlocks, I looked at Laura, whose eye was twitching. Ziggy glommed onto the group hug, his brown curly hair exploding in a ponytail of sorts out the back of his head.

“Sick, man,” he muttered.

After extricating myself from their clutches, I introduced Garrett and his sidekick to Brianna and Larry, who was helping himself to more of Laura’s vodka.

“By the way, Mrs. Fitzhugh,” Ziggy said, “there’s a draft in cabin six, but not to worry. Got any peanut butter?”

“Draft’s upstairs in the loft—Zig’s room,” explained Garret, “so we’re putting a portable heater up there.” He pointed to a cabinet. “Peanut butter’s in there, bro.”

Zig flashed a brotherly fist to Gar as he ambled to the cabinet.

I glanced at Laura, who shrugged, gave me a weak smile. I picked up her vibes, knew what she was thinking. She’d been surprised by Ziggy moving in, hadn’t liked it at first, but in the big picture—so what. I felt the same way. Better to have two granola heads than one. At least that way, there’d possibly be one combined fully coherent person…occasionally.

A knocking at the kitchen door.

Ziggy looked out the window over the kitchen sink. “Some dude and a chick are out there.”

“Get away from the window,” I barked, imagining Santa, a dart protruding from his neck, standing out there with some killer chick carting an Uzi.

Pound pound pound. “Rick, it’s Sam. Open up.”

I crossed to the door and opened it. There stood Sam in a double-breasted chocolate suede jacket and slacks. Next to him, her arm slung through his, a skinny woman somewhere between twenty and thirty in a fluffy white faux fur jacket, shiny black leggings, and monster boots that made her look like a marshmallow on a stick ready for a hike. The way her lips peeled back, I guessed she was smiling at me.

“Wanted to drop by,” said Sam solemnly, stepping inside, “check how you’re doing.” He drew the woman in with him. When he put his arm around her marshmallow jacket, his fingers disappeared in the fluff. “I was at dinner with Tracy when you called, so hope you don’t mind…”

Tracy?

Justin’s ex-girlfriend. The coke dealer. What was Sam doing out with Tracy? Wait, why ask? He was doing what he did to anything that wore a skirt—or in this case, black shellacked-on leggings.

A sudden revulsion washed over me, unexpected and icy. Deborah had only been dead a week and a day.

“Come on in, Sam,” called out Laura. “Want something to eat?”

“I’ll get some chairs from the other room,” I mumbled, making a fast retreat.

Alone in the darkened dining hall, I pulled out one of the tall-back chairs from Laura’s formal dining room set, sat down and stared glumly out the wall-length window at the winter night.

The moon was rising above a fringe of pines. Stars dotted the blue-black sky. But the quaintness, sanctity, and beauty of our homey lodge had been poisoned. More than seeing the moon and stars outside on a night like this, I now imagined Wicked’s unhappy ghost—naked, reeking of booze, blood streaming from the knife wound in her breast—trolling our property, keening into the wind, looking for her murderer. I’d spent years fighting with her, but now all I felt was remorse.

Honest to God, I wanted nothing more than for her soul to know peace—because I wouldn’t know it again until she found her own.

“Didn’t know my showing up would piss you off.”

I look over at Sam in the doorway. Stray light from the foyer backlit his silhouette. I couldn’t make out the look on his face. But in his posture there was a slight stoop I hadn’t noticed before. As though
he
were carrying burdens.

“You and
Tracy
, man? Deborah’s barely cold.”

“Chill, Zen Man. Sometimes Tracy and I get together for old times’ sake, have dinner, a few laughs. You know, she goes out with others, such as Justin, so don’t treat me as though I’m some kind of sex predator. If she hadn’t been driving tonight, I would’ve come here by myself.”

Justin? I thought he and Tracy were exes, but what did I know. People no longer broke up, they just evolved into fuck buddies.

“Anyway, who are you to pull high and mighty? You’re the one who nicknamed Debby
Wicked
.”

“Fucking do me a favor and stop calling her Debby. Deborah, even Deb, I can handle. But nobody ever called her Debby. You make her sound like some kind of donut-making cheerleader-porn-star.”

“Touchy, are we? You know, she had a nickname for me, too.”

“Horndog?”

“Funny. Actually, a type of primate, but we digress. I came here to see how you were doing, tell you I drove by the spot.”

“Turn-out about a quarter-mile up from the main entrance to Red Rocks?”

“Yes. Van nowhere to be seen, so apparently he was able to drive away. Your car’s still parked off that entrance to Red Rocks. We drove by quickly, too dark to see the damage.”

“Tracy knows what happened?”

“I told we were driving out to see you.”

“Didn’t tell her more?”

“I’m your lawyer, Rick.”

I got up, shoved back my chair. “People are trying to
kill
me, Sam. You’re my lawyer and you’re doing squat to protect me, prove my innocence. I have ex-girlfriends working my defense case harder than you. Have you picked up discovery? Have you talked to Crain about what witnesses he’s going to call?”

“Keep your voice down. Yes and yes.” He glanced toward the other room, back to me. “I don’t like Brianna being involved with your case.”

“She has inside sources. You two need to talk.”

After a beat, he nodded. “By the way, after Laura called me, I called Justin. He claims it was a misunderstanding, said yours and his wires got crossed, nothing more. Would like his darts back.”

I snorted a laugh. “He’ll have to write the North Pole for the missing one.”

“Where are the rest?”

“In the glove compartment.”

“Don’t like you carrying them around—if you got pulled over, police might view them as deadly weapons and—”

“No more!” I held up my hand, palm out. “Don’t wanna hear another they’ll-stick-you-in-jail lecture. But while we’re on the subject, they’ll
especially
view that shotgun in the trunk as a deadly weapon.”

“That…
shotgun
?” He made a disgusted sound. “Christ. Anything else you feel like sharing?”

“No, that pretty much wraps it up.”

“You told me he’d jumped you, not that he…”

“Didn’t want Laura to overhear. Anyway, I stashed it in the trunk.”

“Does she know about it?”

Shook my head no. “Just told her I’d run off the road. Told Brianna and dude the same. I’ll…tell Laura later.”

He rolled back his head, rubbed his eyes. After a hefty release of breath, he lowered his gaze to me. “I’ll take care of the darts and shotgun tomorrow, when it’s daylight. Get them out of the vehicle, store them along with the switch blade in my office. You said the windshield’s shattered. Call your insurance company, get them out there first thing in the morning.” He paused. “You okay?”

“A little sore. I’ve popped some aspirin, might soak in a hot spring later.”

“Sam?” called out a woman from the other room. “You want your usual?”

“Yes, Tracy, thank you.”

“
Usual?
” I’d say you two get together more often than for old times’ sake. Did you know she dealt coke out of your office?”

He stared at me so long, I thought he’d missed what I’d said. Then in a solemn voice better suited for a courtroom, he answered, “I know she uses recreationally, but she never told me she dealt. Out of my office? Don’t believe it. You know, she and Debby—Deborah—were acquaintances. I remember Deborah dropping by the office to meet Tracy for lunch, go shopping. During the days when you were so messed up, you didn’t have it together to drop by anywhere. So don’t go repeating hearsay bullshit to me anymore.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Still want me to co-chair the trial?”

“There’s nobody better.”

“Keep talking like that,
I’ll
start dating you.”

“You’d never cheat on Laura.”

My heart jammed my throat. The thought of cheating, of failing her, was worse than anything else I was going through. Wasn’t easy being set up, accused, shot at, knowing if the killer didn’t put me away, a jury might. But I could face all that, as long as I didn’t lose Laura.

I stood, grabbed a chair, and carried it to the other room.

• • •

An hour later, the eight of us were crowded around the kitchen table, noshing and drinking. Especially drinking. Laura was on her third martini. Brianna was pouring herself another wine. Sam and Tracy were sucking down the last of a bottle of scotch they’d found in Laura’s portable bar, and Larry was nursing another shot of vodka.

The only other non-boozers were Garrett and Ziggy, who were obviously stoned to the bone from their odd giggles, and the way they were spooning peanut butter as though that were the last jar of the stuff on the planet. I wondered what’d they do if we really needed them for security—lob granola bars?

I can usually dismiss the temptation to imbibe or snort, but I was on shaky ground tonight. Justin pelting me with darts, the silver van rear-ending me, Santa shooting at me, my stabbing him back. My life was sounding like a shoddy TV show starring a world-weary, trouble-prone private eye. I’d laugh if wasn’t real.

How easy it’d be to grab that bottle of vodka and take a long, mind-altering swig. Instead, I sipped lukewarm root beer, listened to Brianna share her theories with Sam about Deborah being dead before being stabbed, citing what she’d seen in the crime scene photos as well as some supposedly suppressed autopsy photos I hadn’t heard about until now. I tried to interrupt and ask where these photos came from, but when Brianna was drinking and talking, not even God could get a word in edgewise.