Ill Will (14 page)

But the only threat was a cloud covering the sun, a hint of rain later.

I made it to Reginald’s house in twenty-five minutes.

The woman cop—Pam Ferguson—was there right at thirty minutes sans Mr. Foul Play.

“Fancy that,” she said cheerfully. “He offered to do paperwork rather than come back here.” She held out the key for me. “However, if it’s all the same with you, I’ll hang out here and let you do the inside work.”

I gingerly took the key. Then rubbed the sandalwood rose under my nose.

“Good excuse to moisturize,” she said as she watched me.

“Bad excuse,” I said as I dabbed a bit more, giving myself a lotion mustache. “Lousy excuse.”

There was nothing to do except put the key in the lock and open the door. At least here I had a cop with a big gun watching my back.

The house felt different, or maybe it was just that I knew now how empty it was. Even though there was enough daylight to see, I turned on the flashlight. Whatever had happened to Reginald Banks shouldn’t have happened, and those tragedies can haunt a place.

Using the strong beam of light, I did a quick sweep of the living room, looking for anything like a pill bottle or a container that might hint that he was taking something that wasn’t doing him any good. The obvious answer was illegal drugs. After donning latex gloves, I did a rapid search under the sofa and chair cushions, places where crack pipes or joint butts might fall. Only a few crumbs were there.

I started to bypass the kitchen, but decided that it was better to hit that while the lotion under my lip was still fresh.

It was the same chaos it had been yesterday, a few flies now buzzing around. I didn’t bother opening the refrigerator; I decided that it would be too much of a rotted mess to find anything useful. I might give it a quick check on my way out, but only if nothing else turned up.

The beam of the flashlight revealed dirty dishes with rotting food on them, probably placed in the sink with hopes that tomorrow he would feel better and be able to clean up. The place wasn’t a pig sty, as if he always lived in a mess. Cordelia and I both had the same miserable cold once and neither of us was up to doing chores, so the dishes had piled up for three days. We could manage to microwave soup and put the bowl somewhere in the kitchen, and that was about it. But we got better and cleaned everything up. It looked like something similar had happened to Reginald, only he was sicker longer and never recovered enough to wash the dishes and take the trash out.

If he was eating something weird like kelp/seaweed smoothies, there was no way to tell in this mess. From what I could see, there were several empty microwave boxes in the trash, soup cans, half a loaf of bread still open and now covered in green mold. Some of the plastic microwave containers were in the sink, half-eaten as if he only could manage to consume a little at a time.

Why hadn’t he called someone? Anyone? Even 911? If he could push pill bottles to the floor, he should have been able punch buttons on a phone. There was a cordless receiver in the kitchen. I picked it up, then realized that without power, it wouldn’t work. The plugged-in, working phone was about as far from his bed as it could be in this house. The phone close to him didn’t work and the one that did was too far away. Maybe that’s what had happened. Possibly he wasn’t that good about bills, so had forgotten to pay Entergy. I’d once rented half of a double in which the other side was rented by an ER doctor who was continually forgetting to pay her power bill. Several times she had her power cut off. I knew because they’d messed up in the back shed with the laundry and my side was wired to hers, so when she didn’t pay up, my washing machine didn’t work. The next day the power was back on—no lights is a powerful reminder to pay your bill.

Maybe that was what happened to Reginald. But when the power went out, he was too sick to drive to a local office and pay his bill. His phones were out if they were all cordless. But didn’t everyone have a cell phone these days?

This isn’t your mystery to solve
, I reminded myself. My sole duty was to do a brief search for illicit pills and vamoose back to the sunshine and fresh air.

Next stop was the bathroom. The flashlight came in handy here. There was only one, small window, blocked by curtains. The sink and counter tops revealed only what I’d expect to find. Shaving stuff, soap, toothpaste, hair gel, a few metrosexual grooming products like cologne.

A glance in the trash can showed a pile of used tissues, several cardboard toilet paper rolls.

And an empty bottle.

I couldn’t read the label; it was canted almost upside down. Switching the flashlight to my left hand, I tentatively stuck my arm—thankfully gloved—into the trash can and retrieved the plastic bottle.

The label read
Nature’s Beautiful Gift, potent immune system booster.
The bottle was empty. Hidden under it in the trash was another bottle.
Nature’s Beautiful Gift, herbal aid to circulation and blood disorders.
Also empty.

I tried to read the ingredients, but the print was tiny and it was hard to juggle the flashlight and the two bottles. Even if it was important, it probably wouldn’t mean anything to me. I took the two bottles out to the living room, placed them on the coffee table, reapplied the sandalwood rose, and went back to the bathroom.

The medicine cabinet was disappointing. It was mainly empty save for a bottle of aspirin that was almost empty and a razor and extra blades.

The smell was starting to get to me—and that this felt like ghoulish digging through someone else’s life, one I had no business being involved in. I dashed back into the kitchen to grab a plastic grocery bag. I covered my nose with my hand, hoping to create a little sandalwood bubble, and went into his bedroom. I did a quick look around the room. The bed covers were flung back; the pillow still held the indentation of his head. Scattered on the floor were bright new pieces of packaging left by the EMTs. Mixed in with them was other debris, half a slice of bread, candy bar wrappers, drink cans. On the bedside table were a number of medicine bottles, several of them prescriptions; others bore the now familiar Nature’s Beautiful Gift label. The ones on the floor—that Reginald had knocked over in a desperate attempt to let someone know he was here—were all Nature’s Beautiful Gift. I wondered if that was coincidence or if there was a message in his choices.

I didn’t dare take a deep breath, but sucked as much of the sandalwood scent into my lungs as I could before removing my hand. I gathered all the various bottles and loaded them into the plastic bag.

I stooped to retrieve the ones from the floor, then swept the ones off the nightstand into the bag. My oxygen was running out. I took a shallow breath, then regretted it as I started to gag. Quickly clamping a hand over my nose, I left the room, returning to the front room and its kinder atmosphere. After another application of the lotion—and a few deep breaths of sandalwood, I returned to the bedroom. As unpleasant as it was, I wanted to make sure I didn’t overlook anything. It would be even more unpleasant to have to come back.

I gave the room another hasty sweep with the flashlight. Maybe he was so hungry he ate the moldy bread—but I wasn’t going to take that with me. Gripping the flashlight between my thighs, I took out my cell phone and snapped several pictures of the state of the room. Perhaps they would find some medical clue in that. There was a drawer in the nightstand.

Please don’t let me find his sex toys
, I bargained as I opened it.

Fate was kind. No sex toys, not even a condom. On top was several pieces of paper, and one opened envelope with a letter inside, like he has shoved correspondence in the drawer. Hidden under the paper were more bottles. But these weren’t Nature’s Beautiful Gift; instead they were wrapped in a plain dark blue label with white lettering. Slightly larger letters said
The Cure
. Under that the label continued:
Suppressed by the government and powerful corporations, this is what they don’t want you to have—a powerful, natural cure for many of life’s most tragic curses—cancer, heart disease, AIDS, aging, lupus, multiple sclerosis, and many others.

Fate hadn’t been kind to Reginald Banks. It gave him a disease with no cure and people who promised him something he desperately wanted, to be free of that disease.

I scooped the bottles into the plastic bag. My work here was done. I quickly left the bedroom and went back to the living room and breathable air.

Then my curiosity stopped me. Why had Reginald put that letter in his nightstand? I hurried back to his bedroom and hastily snatched the letter out of the drawer, then back to the living room.

I glanced at the letter. It was a denial of service from his insurance company. A lot of the codes and jargon they used made no sense to me, so I had no clue as to what was denied, but something wasn’t right. He was almost dead because he didn’t get the medical care he needed.

You’re already here; you might as well check out his office
, I told myself. First I reapplied the lotion, did as quick a run as I could in the kitchen to snag another plastic bag, then went back to his office.

I promised the empty room that I would return whatever I took and, if Reginald wanted it, help him fight whatever fight he needed to battle with his insurance company. Rather than taking the time to sort through things, I loaded up the bag with all the piles of paper on his desk. He seemed to be a file-by-pile person, as his desk drawers were used for pens, paper, sticky notes, and other office supplies. There was no file cabinet and his bookshelves held only books, a long shelf of science fiction, another couple of shelves that seemed to be college books, then another shelf on self-help books, nutritional books, several about natural healing and herbal medicines. I took several of those as well, to see if I could get an idea of what he was doing—or let Cordelia sift through them; she’d probably understand them far better than I could.

Then it was truly time to get out. At this point even sandalwood was starting to make me gag. I’d probably never be able to use that scent again.

I hastened back to the living room, grabbed the bag of medications, and then was out to the fresh air.

Pam, the cop, was lounging on the front steps, texting on her cell phone.

I hadn’t seen one in the house and wasn’t going to go back and look for something as small as a cell phone. Most likely it had fallen under the bed, and there was no way I was going to get on the floor in that bedroom and look for anything. It was possible that Reginald didn’t have a cell phone. Or his battery had run down and with the power off, he couldn’t recharge it.

“Oh, hey,” she looked up and greeted me. “Was beginning to think you were lost in there.”

“Not likely. But I wanted to make sure I’d checked everything. The last thing I want to do is go back.”

“Makes sense to me. It’s fine out here on the steps enjoying the breeze, so no problem on my end. Plus the longer I’m here, the more paperwork gets done without me. Hope this helps the guy.”

I handed her the key back. “Yeah, me, too. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

“Slow time of day—as if there is one. They’re just waking up now from sleeping off last night’s buzz.” She waved good-bye as she got in her patrol car.

I put the two plastic bags in my trunk and got in my car, opening all the windows. My nose felt blasted by the tang of decay overlaid with the sweetness of sandalwood rose. At the moment, diesel fumes would be a welcome change.

I was headed for home. At the last minute I made a course change to take a convoluted route there. I needed a memory jog to remind me I was in mortal danger and until Dudley Dude was caught, hypervigilant needed to be my middle name.

The cats were happy to see me, especially with such interesting-smelling clothes. I went straight to the laundry room and stripped. Even the underwear went in. I tossed yesterday’s clothes in as well and started the washing machine. As agreed, Cordelia could finish it up.

Then upstairs for a brief shower and into clean clothes.

Only now did I begin to feel like I could breathe without smelling a lingering odor.

It was way past lunchtime, but I wasn’t very hungry. However, I grabbed an apple and some string cheese. It was remotely possible that I’d be hungry later, and this way I could stay safely locked in my office and not have to forage for food.

I just got back in my car when the phone rang.

“Micky? Where are you?” It was Cordelia.

“Uh…in the car.” I started the engine just in case I needed to speed off. And locked all the doors.

“You don’t need to go to Reginald’s house anymore.”

“He’s okay?”

But she didn’t immediately answer, and I knew he wasn’t okay.

“He’s… No, I’m sorry, he’s not okay. He passed away. I just found out.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’m sorry. I hope I saved you from a useless trip.”

I didn’t immediately answer, and that gave her the answer.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “You’re not there now, are you?”

“No, I left a little while ago. Came home to change clothes. Even started the washer for you.” I coughed to cover that my voice was about to crack. I only knew this man as a name and a disease. And an emaciated hand shoving pill bottles to the floor as a plea for me to enter his home and find him. Find him to save him, and I hadn’t done that.