Multiples of Six (2 page)

Chapter 3

The hotel room was cramped, but he’d lived in worse. For twenty-four years he had moved from room to room, never staying in one spot for more than two months at a time. The coat he wore was the same one he bought new in the winter of ’83. It had been tan at the time; it was now a mottled gray. It was never far from him and most nights he slept with it on, just in case. If his old pair of shoes hadn’t actually fallen off of his feet at one point, he might still be wearing those too. Instead, he’d been humiliated into diving into one of those clothing drop-offs in a desperate attempt at finding his size. His first attempt landed him a pair of Nike high tops, which looked just slightly ridiculous on a man wearing slacks, a sport coat, and a trench. It had garnered him a few wary looks from mothers with small children. But, after twenty-four years on the run, he’d gotten over his humiliations. After twenty-four years, Dr. Fred Taylor was too tired to care. He was done with the running. That was why he had sent his letters. That was why he threatened to do what he was doing. And, that was why they would probably kill him. He just didn’t really care anymore.

He watched the screen of his laptop; the one luxury he had allowed himself over the years. Even that was looking tired now. The five-year-old computer had been trucked in and out of cars and hotel rooms in all kinds of weather. It had been left on for days at a time in his futile attempt at keeping an eye on his enemy. As if they might signal him via an ad on the internet or an email letting him know they were on their way. He understood his own potential for insanity, but the glowing screen was the only thing that brought him any comfort. He hated it and loved it all at once. He wouldn’t know what to do without it. He had set up a simple program to search for certain terms every five minutes. He had developed a filter that provided him with only the most likely of hits so if James Masterson or Robert Paynter appeared anywhere, it would show him right away. It was the same for the other names on the list. That was why he flinched when the hit suddenly popped on the screen. He clicked on the link.

Police had found a woman in her fifties, Agnes Richardson, dead in her home. There were no immediate signs of forced entry, but the death had been ruled a homicide because of “her manner of death.” Investigators were able to identify footprints that possibly belonged to the killer, but even canine units lost the trail. They were looking for anyone with information to come forward. Taylor knew there would be no one. They didn’t mess around. The coroner had determined the time of death to be 2:33
pm
on Friday, December 15, 2006. Taylor looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. It was Saturday, December 16th and the time was 8:32
pm
. That meant the killer had over 29 hours on Taylor. If he was next, it might already be too late. Texas wasn’t that far off for a determined individual.

He leaned back in his chair. The sound of the wood creaking made him turn quickly. He tried to shake off the fear that had squeezed his insides tight. He pressed the wire-frame glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and eyed the window. He had unlocked it upon coming in. It would remain that way in case he had to make a quick exit. The second floor window looked out onto a patch of bushes below. At best, he would walk away bruised. At worst, he would break his hip and have a heart attack. Then he wouldn’t really care if someone killed him. He chuckled in the silence of the room at his own madness. He was mad, but in acknowledging so, he allowed himself a little relief.

How else might someone explain this diminutive man, who sat fully dressed, long coat and all, in front of a laptop computer for most of the waking day? He left for certain meals, skipped others, and made damn sure that his schedule was never the same in a two-week period. He checked the parking lot every ten to twenty-minutes and never from the same spot at the window. He never answered the phone and always paid in cash. He had a dozen IDs he had crafted over the years. He cycled through them at each hotel, motel, boarding house, or hostel. He had several bank accounts, none of which were under his actual name.

Now, he turned off his laptop, folded the screen down, and packed it into the lone bag he carried with him. He wasn’t going to run anymore. It was time to pay a visit to a boy he had not seen in twenty-four years. He had no idea what he was going to do, but his hand instinctively found the handle of the .44-caliber revolver in his pocket. He would think of something.

Chapter 4

James and Nicole sat together on the love seat in the living room looking at the man named Kevin as he lay quietly on the sofa. He was lucky to have only been knocked unconscious. Using the training that had been useless in saving his mother, James had checked his vitals and guessed that Kevin would be ok. They had an icepack propped on his head, as the cast iron pan had caused quite the bump.

“He might have a concussion, but I don’t think his skull is fractured,” James said.

“I can’t believe you have a brother,” Nicole replied.

“Me neither. It doesn’t really make sense.”

“An identical twin,” she said.

“Yeah,” said James.

“I wonder if he has the same screwy birth certificate.”

James thought about this. His birth certificate, according to the powers that be, was fraudulent. His mother only told him the story after his father’s death. The piece of paper had named a proper hospital and apparently nonexistent doctors. It had no indication of his birth parents. It was a flimsy piece of paper that represented nothing to anyone. No one at Morristown Memorial Hospital could deny the fact that the document appeared to have been produced there. But, no one there had ever heard of a doctor named Robert Paynter.

“He is my twin, isn’t he,” James wondered aloud.

“Are you kidding? He’s you with a goatee, maybe a few pounds less. You look cute with facial hair,” she said, cocking her head wistfully at Kevin.

“Facial hair makes me itch,” James said folding his arms across his chest.

“He’s even got your slouch,” she said.

“I don’t slouch…,” James said, suddenly puffing his chest out and straightening his back, “much.”

“Maybe we should try and wake him,” Nicole said.

“You’re right.”

He pulled out the bag he had kept for his mother. The smelling salts were something he had never used until the day she died. He moved quickly to get the thought from his mind. He waved them under Kevin’s nose, gingerly at first, then directly under each nostril. The reaction was delayed but intense.

“Get…get that shit…oohhh...get it away…oooahh” Kevin groaned.

“Take it easy. You’re ok.”

“Who…what the hell…ohh…why does my head…” He felt the ice pack with his fingers. “What the hell is this?”

“Ice.”

“Ah…God…damn…why does my head feel like it’s about to peel open?”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Nicole said, half hiding behind James. She waved at him weakly.

“Who said that?” Nicole stepped out from behind James to look down at Kevin.

“Aluminum bat?” Kevin asked.

“Frying pan,”

“Classic. Was the Acme wooden mallet not available? Spare anvil in the shop?”

“I am so sorry,” she said.

“Oh, hey, no problem. I’m sure I’ve done more damage to my brain than you have.”

Kevin sat up slowly on the sofa, clutching the ice pack to his head. His face contorted in pain.

“Why do you have smelling salts? You’re not a doctor are you?”

James smiled humorlessly, then cleared his throat.

“My mother was very sick at the end. We had a lot of supplies around the house. Smelling salts were something I kept handy.”

“
Was
sick?”

“She passed away a couple weeks ago.”

“That really sucks. I’m…I’m sorry for saying. Sorry to hear that.”

“She had cervical cancer for two years. None of the treatments worked and she was in a lot of pain. It’s ok. She’s not in pain anymore.”

“She wasn’t your…real mom, though, right? Was she? I mean, that would make…”

“No. I…was adopted.”

“Good. I mean…well, yeah…good.”

“Good?” Nicole asked.

Kevin readjusted his position on the sofa to get a better look at her.

“Well, yeah. See, my mom…my adopted mom left when I was a kid. Just me and my old man for the last twenty years or so. He never treated me wrong or anything, but we have our differences and it’d be a little shitty to find out that my real mom was just around the corner. Do you read that? Make sense?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said.

“No, I know you didn’t, killer. But, this opens up a whole new can of worms. Yesterday, I was just a kid who got adopted by some people who didn’t love one another. Today, I find out that maybe I just got the short end of the stick. I spent a lot of time blaming myself for the way things were. Eventually, you get beyond yourself and start looking for someone else to blame. You figure it couldn’t just be your fault. Now I really know it wasn’t my fault. Maybe just my environment. By the looks of it, this was a pretty comfy environment. Mom and Dad that loved one another and their little guy. I wonder how I didn’t land here. Bad call on the coin toss I guess.”

“You didn’t have to watch your parents die, though,” James said blank faced.

“Mmmm…yeah…I don’t know. I might have traded that for some solid family years. Tough call. Too late to play the what-if game though. I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything…just makes you think. Y’know?”

“Yeah…yeah it does,” James said.

“You grew up around here?” Nicole asked.

“South Jersey. Deptford.”

“Think I’ve heard of it,” James said.

Kevin sat forward, still clutching the icepack to his head. He groaned low and slow as he reached the full sitting position. He kept his eyes closed for a while.

“Got any aspirin…codeine?”

“No pain killers,” James said.

“What? No, you don’t have any?”

“No, you can’t have any.”

“Explain that one to me.”

“You need to be able to feel what’s going on. Gotta make sure there’s no hemorrhaging, so nothing that’ll thin your blood…at least for now. Maybe some Tylenol, but that’s it. Here, look at me for a second.”

James approached and gently leaned Kevin’s head back, lifting the lid of his right eye. It was bizarre to be holding what amounted to his own face in his hands. He pulled out a little flashlight.

“For a non-doctor, you sure know a lot of shit….or else you’re faking it well. What’s with the light?”

“Just look at my finger.”

James flashed the light into his eyes.

“Don’t blink!”

“What the…”

James watched as the pupils failed to dilate properly for the light.

“You’ve definitely got a concussion…no surprise there. You may have headaches for the next couple of days. Dizziness. Nausea. You shouldn’t drive.”

“No car, so that shouldn’t be a worry. Thanks, doc,” Kevin said.

“I took classes in first aid as soon as my mom was diagnosed. I wanted to know as much as I could in case…I don’t know…I just didn’t want to be the one…responsible…for her death.”

“Dude, no offense, but she had cancer,” Kevin said.

“I know. It sounds stupid, but I wanted to make sure that… it wasn’t me. That it wasn’t something like a staph infection from a paper cut or choking on a grape or…I don’t know…something stupid like that. I just couldn’t have dealt with having anything to do with her death. So I learned how to take care of her as best I could.”

“What about your dad?”

“He died…over six years ago now. Heart attack. Right in the back yard. I was at the beach with some friends.”

“Jesus, James. We’re a pair, huh?”

It was the first time James had seen anything resembling a smile on Kevin’s face. It was half a smile at best. He stood slowly with James close by.

“Dude, it’s ok. I’m not going to fall over,” Kevin said.

“So you say,” James said.

“As long as she doesn’t plan on whacking me with that frying pan again, I should be fine.”

Nicole backed out of the room, excusing herself to make coffee.

“How long was I out?” Kevin asked.

He walked around the small living room. There was a TV in a large wooden entertainment center that dominated the corner nearest the only window in the room. Multi-photo picture frames adorned every wall. He examined one closely. There were three pictures; each was of James as a little boy. In one, he was sitting in a canoe with an oar that dwarfed him, a life-jacket that swallowed him, and a New York Mets cap that covered his ears. A tan, well-built, shirtless man at the rear of the boat was splashing water with his oar. The next picture was of James and the same man, this time accompanied by a woman. They were at the Grand Canyon, all squinting at the sun and the unseen photographer. The third picture was of James with a hulk of a man who made smiling look like a serious event. The only thing that took away from this imposing figure was the shorts and sandals he wore. He towered over James and rested a firm hand on his shoulder. James was trying to stand as tall and proud as the man, but the crooked remains of a smile gave him away.

“My Uncle Ted,” James said.

“Alive?”

“Oh yeah. They’re too afraid to take him,” James said, smiling.

“Looks it. Veteran?”

“Naw…carpenter. Helped my dad build the porch out back after the first one collapsed in a storm when I was a kid.”

“He was your dad’s brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Close?” Kevin asked.

“Ted’s lived up in Michigan for as long as I can remember. They weren’t close in a way that was tangible, you know? It showed when he visited, and he was pretty tore up when my dad died. But, you had to know him. Anyone else might have thought he could’ve cared less,” James said.

Kevin moved from picture frame to picture frame, glancing at the various photos.

“It’s like a weird dream,” he said. “I’m looking at pictures of me doing things I never did. Sorta like a phony picture you have taken at the fair.”

Kevin stopped, and stared at one of the few photos without James in it. His Mom and Dad were sitting on a wooden bench somewhere, and whether posed or not, the camera had caught them ignoring everything else but one another. It was one of James’ favorite pictures of them.

“They seem like good people,” Kevin said, looking back at James.

“They are…were. My dad was a good friend. Mom too. They were good people.”

Kevin groaned again as he sat back down on the sofa. He pressed the ice pack against his head, as if the pressure might make it feel better.

“Did she say she was going to make coffee?”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to settle for decaf,” James said.

“You’re kidding me. Really?”

“Not the doctors decision on this one, though you should probably avoid the caffeine. I don’t drink coffee. The only thing I’ve got in the house is decaf.”

“Wow, a twenty-something that doesn’t drink coffee,” Kevin said.

“Yeah, I’m the freak of my office,” James said.

“The office,” Kevin said, a laugh behind the words. “You’re a desk jockey?”

“Pretty much.”

“A paper pusher.”

“Sure. Any other clichés you want to throw my way?”

“Pencil pusher?”

“Thanks.”

“Well, maybe your life isn’t so golden after all, brother. I think I’d rather be beaten with a frying pan than be strapped to a desk for life,” he said. A feigned cry of anguish came from the kitchen.

“I heard that! I said I was sorry. Jeez…” Nicole called from the kitchen, her voice fading to a mumble.

“I’ve thought of quitting,” James said.

“Think harder. Nothing quite like sitting around making money for other people.”

“That’s usually how it works. Seems like all the good ideas are gone. What do you do?”

“Right now?” Kevin said, and a sheepish smile crossed his face, “I do nothing. Nada. Haven’t had a steady job in the two years since college. All that bullshit and for what? I could probably work retail if I was desperate, but I’m not…yet.”

“A leech of the system. Nice,” James said.

“Not really…Dad’s got some money. It’s not like he does anything to spend it. Eats, sleeps, shits, goes to work, repeat. I’ve never collected unemployment if that’s what you mean.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” James said.

“No, it’s no biggie,” Kevin said. “What does your pencil pushing involve?”

“Editing,” James said.

“Ooo…wow…you are the exciting one aren’t you. A regular grammatistician,” Kevin said.

“It’s grammarian, actually,” James said.

“Saw that one coming,” Kevin said and smiled.

Nicole called from the kitchen again.

“Kevin? Milk or sugar in your coffee?”

“It’s decaf? Lots of both,” he said.

“So tell me more about this doctor who sent you,” James said.

“He called me up out of the blue. I’d never heard of the guy before. Said he knew of someone I might want to get in touch with. Said it was important for me to contact you…today.”

“Today? Why?” James interrupted.