Port of Sorrow (17 page)

CHAPTER
36

Finn looked in the bathroom mirror and groaned. The packs of ice he had draped over his face had helped the swelling, but not the bruising. Docs said his right cheekbone was fractured. There was no way he could turn that ugly mug into a thing of beauty for the afternoon show.

Finn popped a couple of painkillers and dabbed antiseptic onto the open cuts, the sting making him wish he could throw the son of a bitch out the window again. After dressing in T-shirt and jeans, he walked across the hall to knock on Opal’s door.

“Who is it?” her husky voice called from inside.

“It’s Finn.”

Opal peered out a crack in the door, gasped at his battered face, and swung it open all the way. She was wearing baggy purple sweat pants and an oversized blue shirt. Without makeup she looked twice as old as she was. With sad eyes, Opal gently wrapped Finn in her arms and hugged him close.

“How you doing this morning, precious?” she cooed, pulling him inside and closing the door. “I just can’t believe your luck. First Selene and now that creep last night. Why just look at your poor face.”

“That’s what I came to see you about. I can’t go on stage today, or tonight either probably. There’s only so much makeup can hide.”

Opal nodded. “I hope that bastard dies or his cock falls off or something.”

“I’ll ask the doctors what they can do.”

“Maybe they can accidentally write him down for a sex change. Let him play with his own set of titties.”

They laughed together and hugged once again before Finn made his excuses to leave. Opal blew him a kiss as he closed the door.

WILLY CONNICK, THE
Seattle Times reporter, was waiting in the hallway. His fourth cigarette of the morning dangled from a permanent indent in his bottom lip.

With his shirt loose, its tail dangling over the belt of his pants, his coat even more rumpled than usual, and the stubble of two-day-old beard prickling his face, he looked like hell.

“I’ve been waiting for you. What happened to your face?” Willy stubbed his cigarette on the doorjamb of Finn’s room.

“I had an accident.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that cop who was taken to hospital last night would it?”

Finn’s eyes scanned Willy’s rumpled clothes and uncombed hair. “What happened to you?”

“Life. Deadlines, murder, rapists on the loose. I live on this stuff.”

“Rapists?” Finn asked.

“You haven’t heard? Some Canadian kid has come forward, claiming Selene witnessed a rape — his rape.”

Finn’s eyes widened. “Selene told me about an incident behind the hotel, but she said it was a fight. Have you talked to him?”

Willy looked around the empty hallway and nodded at the closed door to Finn’s room. Finn took the hint. Inside, Finn saw Willy glance at the half sheet of plywood nailed over the broken window. He looked to Finn for an explanation, but when one didn’t come, he continued talking.

“The kid’s not available. His dad is some political bigwig who managed to get Washington’s ear. That’s why there’s a fed here. But from what I can gather, the kid swore your pal to secrecy because he was embarrassed his drinking buddies might think he turned gay or something.”

“Is that why Selene was murdered?”

Willy shrugged. “It’s a theory. If she saw the prick’s face, and we’re hearing this isn’t his first offense. Catch the rapist and you catch her killer.”

“Selene didn’t tell me,” Finn said quietly, almost to himself.

“The kid made her promise,” Willy said. “And how was she to know it would turn so damn ugly?”

“Did the boy see the rapist’s face? Do the police have a description?”

Willy shook his head. “The kid claims he didn’t see a thing. He was too busy throwing up and getting the crap beaten out of him. Selene was the only witness.”

“Are you doing a story?”

“That’s what I do.”

“Maybe other victims will come forward. It’s possible someone else saw what this bastard looks like.”

“We can only hope.”

Willy tossed a copy of the morning Times on the couch. Its headline blared: Murder No. 3. A large picture of the coroner, Barbara MacDougall, joined smaller mugshots of Selene and Paul.

“It sounds like a perfume, don’t it,” Willy said. “Headline writers are all the same. Hell, they could boil the bible down to three words.”

Finn looked away from the newspaper, his eyes suddenly losing their ability to focus.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Willy fished inside his coat pocket. “A fax came for you. I spotted it sitting on the front desk.”

Finn took the folded slip of paper from Willy’s outstretched hand. The message was short.

SORRY ABOUT YOUR FRIEND.

HOPE YOU’RE OK.

— JENNIE.

PS.
CHILD-SUPPORT IS OVERDUE AGAIN

“Ex-wife?” Willy asked.

“You read my telegram?”

“Can’t help myself, I’m cursed.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Jennie gets worried if her checkbook balance doesn’t rise on the fifteenth of each month,” he explained. “She doesn’t trust that everything is done automatically through the bank. The transfer will probably go through today.”

“Nice to know she’s worried about you.”

Finn shrugged. “She wanted stability; I wanted to chase a dream.”

Willy surveyed the disheveled room. “Is this it?” he asked. “Your dream.”

“It’s as far as I got.”

After Willy left, Finn headed downstairs to tell Percy he couldn’t perform for at least a day. The office was empty.

He scribbled a note, left it on Percy’s desk, and satisfied he had upheld the rules of his soon-to-expire contract, decided to go for a ride.

THERE WAS NO
sign of Abery in the front garden. Joseph was alone, sleeping peacefully in the hospital shed.

Finn stood by the shed door, wondering where she could have gone, when he heard a faint lullaby drifting through the thick foliage of the willow tree. He walked towards it, pushing apart the weeping branches. On the other side, hanging from a crooked limb, was Abery’s blue dress. Water dripped from it to form a tiny puddle on the ground.

Curious, Finn peered through the branches to the yard beyond. Abery was sitting in an old metal tub filled with soapy water, scrubbing her bare back with a long-handled brush. The lullaby was coming from her lips.

Finn didn’t recognize the song, but the sweetness with which it was sung moved him. When the song stopped, Abery grabbed a jug of water, stood up in the tub and rinsed off the soap. She looked so fragile.

Finn averted his eyes and returned to the shed.

JOSEPH OPENED HIS
eyes to see a strange man, his face disfigured by purple and green welts, entering through the doorway. He shut his eyes tight and began to shake with fright.

“Joseph, it’s me,” said the man as he came closer. “It’s Finn.”

The name sounded familiar to him and a picture began to form in his mind. Finn was the name of the man who had shared his jail cell; the one who had stood beside him when the men with bats swooped out of the night.

Joseph cautiously opened one eye to peer at the face. It did look familiar once you got underneath the bruises and cuts.

“D-d-did the evil get ya?” Joseph asked.

Finn nodded. “I got one back though,” he said. “He’s in hospital now.”

Joseph tried to grin but it hurt too much. “Th-that’s good.”

“How are you feeling?” Finn asked.

“Sore.”

“I’m sorry this happened. Those men were after me, not you.”

Joseph concentrated on his words, pulling them all together before he spoke.

“Th-they would have come for me some time. They always do.”

“Would do you mean?” Finn asked.

“P-p-people don’t like us. Too different. Not like you.”

“I think we’re more alike than you realize,” Finn said, taking the man’s hand and squeezing it lightly.

ABERY WALKED INTO
the shed, veil back in place, her dress clinging to her. Droplets of water formed at its hem, plopping to the ground in shallow rain.

“That’s enough talk for now, Joseph,” she said. “You still need to build your strength.”

Joseph nodded and closed his eyes. He was snoring within seconds.

Finn stood up. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“He was glad to see you.”

Abery walked closer upon noticing his face. Her fingers poked at his puffy skin, gently, without causing too much pain.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Veronique made an enemy and I paid the price.”

Abery studied his eyes for a moment before releasing her hands from his face. “The eye socket isn’t broken, but the cheekbone is fractured. The bruising will start to fade in a couple of days. Do you have something for the pain?”

Finn nodded and shook the bottle of painkillers in his pocket. He had come to tell her the news about her husband, but suddenly it seemed so inconsequential. What could he say: Harold’s not in Florida; he may be dead. He would come back when he had more to share.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

Abery smiled, her dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes returning a lost beauty to her veiled face.

“Yes, thank you. My friends brought me some wonderful fruit this morning and a large fish for supper, though they wouldn’t say where they got it.”

Finn laughed. “Your friends are resourceful.”

“They’re survivors,” Abery said. “They have to be.”

Finn smiled again and they shared small talk in the garden. He told her about waking up to find Gilles pounding on him through a pillow. She told him sweet stories of Harold. It felt strange and wonderful to be talking to her, Finn thought. She seemed so normal, so together, yet the veil that hid her face also revealed the touch of madness that haunted her soul.

After awhile, Finn made his excuses and started for the gate.

“Be careful,” Abery called after him softly. “You’re not unbreakable.”

Finn waved as he straddled his Sportster, wondering if she knew what he had planned.

CHAPTER
37

Despite the pain etched on Gilles’ bruised face, Julia still had to fight the urge to tickle his feet with a feather.

Lying on his back in the hospital bed, eyes fixed on an angled mirror attached to the ceiling, Gilles was trussed up like a lab experiment. His head and neck were trapped inside a cumbersome metal brace, while long steel bars were strapped tight against his sides to immobilize all movement.

Julia pulled a chair closer to the bed and opened a small notepad on her lap. The crooked smile on Gilles’ face made her quickly glance up at her own reflected image. With a grimace, she fastened the top two buttons on her blouse.

Tickling his feet would have been sadistic torture, but rewarding just the same.

“Do you want to confess?” Julia asked. “It would save us a lot of trouble.”

“Confess to what?” Gilles’ words were barely intelligible as they forced their way through lips clasped tight by nylon straps under his chin.

“To murder,” Julia added. “We found a fake mustache in your locker. Wearing it, you match my description of the man who killed the stripper.”

“It’s not mine,” Gilles answered.

“Whose then?”

“Don’t know. It must have been planted.”

“Can you prove it’s not yours?”

“Can you prove it is?”

Julia sighed. The interview was going exactly as she had expected. She tried another tactic.

“Why did you attack Finn in the hotel?”

“A mistake.”

“Who did you think you were attacking?”

“Nobody,” Gilles answered dumbly. “I was drunk. I rented a room for the night, but went into the wrong one. I thought there was a girl in the bed, you know, a present from Percy.”

Julia frowned. “You thought Percy had supplied you with a prostitute?”

“No, just a friendly girl.” His grin flickered for a second before vanishing.

“But instead you found a man.”

“Yeah. I thought Percy was playing a joke on me. I told the guy to leave. He wouldn’t. Things got physical and he tried to go for my gun. I was only defending myself.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe, girl. It’s what the jury believes that counts.” The smile broke free, twisting his lips. “Now how about you do something nice to relax me? I got a few suggestions.”

“You’re a pig.”

“Oink, oink, sweetheart.”

As Julia stormed out of the room she wondered if the cleaning staff would mind if she borrowed a feather duster.

IN THE HOSPITAL’S
reception area, Julia phoned the sheriff and relayed Gilles’ story.

“That’s not bad,” Marshall said. “I didn’t think he had the imagination.”

“He’s got nothing else to do in there — except leer at the nurses.”

“I get the feeling they won’t put up with him for too long, and once they start forgetting to give him his painkillers on schedule, he’ll smarten up real quick. Maybe even slip him some anti-Viagra, if there is such a thing.”

Julia laughed.

“I’ve got another dirty job for you if you think you can handle it,” Marshall said.

“It can’t be any worse than spending time with Gilles.”

“I think it can,” Marshall disagreed. “We’ve got a search warrant for Gilles’ residence. I want you to pick it up at the court house and execute.”

Julia contained a shudder. “What am I looking for?”

“A shotgun would be nice or a truck with two broken headlights, don’t you think?”

“OK, I’m on my way.”

“Oh, one more thing, J.L.”

“Yeah?”

“Better buy some rubber gloves. The man is a pig.”

GILLES’ HOUSE REMINDED
Julia of its owner: decrepit, dirty and worse on the inside than it looked from the outside. She had to fight revulsion as she entered the front door and began her search. The obvious thing to look for was the murder weapon, but a diary containing a confession, or a souvenir that belonged to either Selene or Barbara, would do just as nicely.

The living room was littered with beer cans, empty potato chip bags and stacks of magazines with names like Groan and Whips, plus some less original titles like Giant Jugs Monthly and Bottoms Up.

Mold grew on the underside of couch pillows and the carpeted floor was specked with cigarette burns. The dining room was empty except for a circular table that was set for four-man poker. The kitchen was a horror and the smell was enough to make Julia want to rush outside to breathe. But she stayed inside, determined in her search. She found a large vial of hash oil in the freezer along with a brick of weed wrapped in tinfoil.

The upstairs was bearable. The bathroom was a mess, the only window scratched and broken around the frame as if someone had tried to escape through it. The master bedroom was surprisingly sparse and clean, and the second bedroom was empty. Julia brought a chair up from the dining room and stood on it to pop open the lid to the attic. She swept the area with her flashlight, but spotted nothing — not even insulation.

Her last stop was the basement.

Creaky wooden stairs led down to a suspiciously brightly lit dirt hole. Julia withdrew her gun when she saw the lights. At the bottom of the stairs was a hydroponics jungle. Marijuana plants grew everywhere, green and lush. The humidity was clawing, which explained the mold upstairs. Despite the discovery, Julia was impressed. Who would have thought Gilles possessed such a green thumb.

Julia pushed her way through rows of plants, being careful to avoid the low plastic pipes full of nutrient-bearing water and strings of warm ultraviolet lights. She stopped when she found a large metal cabinet in the far corner by a series of drying racks.

The lock on the cabinet looked difficult to crack, but lying beside a set of brass scales on a large butcher’s block was a ring of keys. Julia lifted the ring, searched for an appropriate sized key and tried it in the lock.

The cabinet opened easily, revealing three rifles and a single-barreled shotgun resting in velvet comfort. A half-dozen handguns were also neatly displayed in a custom-made rack.

Julia frowned as she removed the shotgun from its cradle and sniffed the barrel. She was sure the murder weapon had been double-barreled. The only smell was fresh oil.

Tucking the shotgun under her arm, Julia closed the cabinet and made her way back upstairs.

Outside in her car, Julia wondered if what Gilles had said in the hospital was true. Could someone have planted the mustache in his locker? Little else explained why he would have dumped the gun and the truck, but not the disguise. Of course, what the sheriff said could also be true: he just wasn’t done with it yet.

Doubt seeped into her mind, causing her to wonder if she would ever make the grade as a real detective.

As she started up the truck, it began to rain.