The Bottle Ghosts (31 page)

But there are times, as I've mentioned, when Jonathan truly amazes me. As one of my friends once said, with greater accuracy than I acknowledged at the time, when we were talking about my self-image of being the big, strong one of the pair, “Yep, you've got Jonathan right where he wants you.”

After I'd finished telling him why I couldn't put him in danger again, he said simply: “If I don't go, how will we ever know for sure?”

I suspected that Andy Phillips' body was under the concrete slab between the Family Care building and the building next door, and that the other bodies were similarly encased in concrete all over the sprawling Qualicare complex. If Andy
wasn't
under that specific slab, I was positive he was under another, but finding which one—or where all the others were buried—would be next to impossible.

But I also knew that Nowell was going to try to kill Jonathan because Jonathan had led him to believe he'd been drinking and driving.

It all went back to Charles Whitaker, and that part of it wasn't quite clear yet. If any of the three people who had died in the accident had been named Cramer—Nowell's last name—that would have cinched it. But they were a family named Hogan. Relatives, perhaps? Or…?

Yeah, you're right: it was all confusing as hell.

“Will you at least call Lieutenant Richman and ask him?” Jonathan said. “I can wear a microphone again, and I'll sign that paper that releases the police from responsibility, and…”

“But Jonathan, Nowell is going to try to
kill
you!”

Jonathan shook his head. “You don't know that for sure. And if you're right, do you think that my not showing up tonight will make him just forget it? Can't we just get it over with tonight?”

Damn! He did have a point.

I dug out Mark Richman's number and called him at home. Luckily, he was there, and I told him everything. Once again, I realized as I talked that I had not one shred of solid evidence. It made an airtight case in logic, but logic isn't evidence. Nowell had a black belt in Karate; Oaks and Bleeth had their necks broken (and, if the other bodies were ever found, chances were it would show they'd died the same way); the “murder weapon” is obvious, but could never be positively identified because Nowell was walking around with it.

Richman listened carefully, then said: “I agree. Jonathan's getting involved is out of the question. We'll just have to take our chances that your hunch about Phillips being under that slab pays off. If it doesn't, we'll just have to try something else. Tell Jonathan I really appreciate his willingness to help, but that is just too dangerous.”

I had called Jonathan up to the phone and tilted the receiver so we could both hear what Richman was saying.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, vastly relieved. “I'll tell him.”

“Okay. I'll give you a call tomorrow when I see what we can do about that slab.”

We hung up. Jonathan remained largely unconvinced.

“I should go. What will he do if I don't?”

“Well, we're going to have to take this one step at a time. If you see him at work, just apologize and tell him you fell asleep in front of the TV. Whatever you do,
don't
go
any
where with him under any circumstances! Don't even go to the bathroom unless you see someone go in first. Make sure there are other people nearby and that you are in plain sight of them. I feel this is all coming to a head really fast, and it should be over soon.”

Jonathan heaved a deep sigh.

“I sure hope so.”

*

Once more, I suddenly felt very tired, as though a plug had been pulled somewhere inside me and drained all the energy out. I'd been having the sniffles for the past few days, so assumed that was part of it. The larger part was, I knew, simply the stress of this case.

We watched TV until a few minutes after 11:00, when I woke up and realized I'd fallen asleep on the couch. I looked quickly around for Jonathan, who was doing something with the hanging plants in and on either side of the window. One trailing philodendron had grown such long…whatever you call them…vines?…tendrils? Aerial roots. Anyway, he was draping them over the traverse rod for the curtains, which we never closed.

“Ready for bed, Tiger?”

He looked at me and grinned. “I'll be in in a second. I want to get Gus here comfortable.”

I got up and wandered into the bedroom, removing my clothes as I went. When I was naked, I crawled under the covers and went out like a light.

I have no idea how much time had passed, but Jonathan was shaking me.

“Dick! Dick!” he whispered loudly. “Wake up! Nowell's here!”

It was as though he'd stuck my finger into a light socket. I was instantly awake, and sitting up.

“Here?” I said, not sure I'd understood him.

“He's outside, and he's coming in. I was working on Gus, and I looked out the window down to the sidewalk, and he was coming up the walk to the front door!”

I felt a moment of mild panic. “Don't worry. He can't get in without ringing the buzzer.”

My immediate reaction was to call the police.

And tell them what?
my mind asked, a lot calmer than I was.
Someone's walking up your sidewalk?

Shit! It was right. And then I remembered the gun that Lisa, my friend Tom's wife had given me as a keepsake after Tom died. Where had I put it? The closet.

I got out of bed and went to the closet, opening the doors and trying to remember where it was. Top shelf, I think.

Jonathan went out into the living room to look out the window to see if he could see Nowell. The buzzer hadn't sounded, so…

“Nowell!” I heard Jonathan say, and I froze solid.

“You didn't show up,” Nowell said. “I thought maybe something was wrong.”

I came back to reality to run my hand over the top shelf, around the boxes and…found it! The small wooden case.

“I'm sorry. I fell asleep in front of the TV and just woke up a few minutes ago. How did you get in?”

“I work for a locksmith, remember?”

Trying to make no noise, I turned and placed the wooden gun case on the bed, opening it. I don't like guns, which is why I never carry one in my work. Regardless of what that gun group claims, guns
do
kill people.

“What…what did you want to see me about?” Jonathan asked. His voice was calm, but I could sense the tension under the surface.

“I really liked you.” The use of the past tense made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I opened the case and took the gun—a short-barreled .357 magnum—out of the case. By looking through the open bedroom door, I could see a good section of the living room, including Jonathan and Nowell, reflected in the glass of a large picture on the far wall of the hallway. Jonathan was in the middle of the room, Nowell close to the door. He took a step forward. I moved closer to the doorway, never taking my eyes off the reflection.

“I'm really sorry you're a drunk.” Nowell said. “Drunks kill people, did you know that?”

“Of course I know that,” Jonathan said, a little more boldly.

“Did you know a drunk killed my mom and stepdad and little sister?”

I could see Jonathan's face reflect his shock. “No, Nowell…I didn't know that. I'm really sorry.”

I could see a small smile on Nowell's face. “So was the drunk who killed them.”

“But I…” Jonathan started to say, but Nowell took another step forward and interrupted him.

“You shouldn't drive drunk. You might kill somebody.”

Nowell was moving slowly forward, and Jonathan was edging sideways. It was a very slow, circular dance. I realized Jonathan was trying to get Nowell's back turned toward me.

“But I wasn't
drinking
. It was a
Coke
.”

“Sure it was, baby, sure it was,” Nowell said. “I really liked you, did you know that?”

“I'm glad,” Jonathan said, who now had his back to the door. “I like you too.”

Nowell moved forward and Jonathan's face was beginning to show fear.

“What's the matter, baby?”

The damned gun's not loaded!
I realized with another jolt of emotional electricity.

“Nothing. It's just that I've got a lover and…”

“I just want to kiss you.” Nowell's hands reached toward Jonathan's face, his palms gently cupping Jonathan's cheeks. Then they began a slow rotation, the fingers moving past Jonathan's ears toward the back of his neck.

Shit!
I threw the gun as hard as I could into the living room. It smashed into a glass bowl on the end of the coffee table. As Nowell spun around, I charged across the room and tackled him in the mid-section, knocking him to the floor. Jonathan scrambled out of the way and I lost sight of him.

I was far too preoccupied with Nowell to know or care. We rolled around on the floor, both getting in some pretty solid punches whenever we could manage to swing. I managed to get on top of him for a moment and raise up far enough to give him a good punch in the face, causing blood to spurt out of his nose, but he raised his legs up and somehow flipped me over until he was on top. I felt his hands on my face, trying to reach behind my head. Then I heard a dull “thud”, and Nowell toppled off me to one side and lay still on the floor. I looked up to see Jonathan staring down at us both with a heavy saucepan in his hand.

“He was going to
kill
you,” he said, incredulous.

“Ya think?” I asked and for some reason burst out laughing.

*

Well, to wrap it up, Nowell was carted off to jail and the concrete slab between the Qualicare buildings was dug up to reveal the body of Andy Phillips. The other five bodies were never found, and probably won't be until the rebuilding cycle begins again. Then they'll show up, one by one. At least their lovers have an idea where they are.

Nowell pleaded insanity and probably has a very good case for it. From what Nowell did tell the police and the D.A., he was referred to Brian Oaks for counseling by social services after the deaths of his mom, sister, and stepfather. Whitaker had been photographed at the scene of the accident, and his picture had run in the
Journal-Sentinal
, the city's scandal-mongering tabloid. When T/T and Whitaker's sister convinced him to see a psychologist he had, by one of those totally bizarre twists of fate, made an appointment with Brian Oaks. As soon as Oaks realized who he was, he told Whitaker he could not see him as a patient because he was already seeing Nowell. Whitaker was leaving Oaks' office as Nowell came in for an appointment and…well, you know what happened then.

When Oaks started the Qualicare alcohol counseling group and needed a receptionist, he asked Nowell if he would be willing to work as partial payment for his private counseling. I think Oaks thought that, by exposing Nowell to basically normal guys who dealt with alcoholism on a daily basis, he might realize that an alcoholic wasn't necessarily a monster. Oaks had no idea that Whitaker had disappeared, and apparently he never put two and two together until I mentioned Whitaker's name at the meeting.

Each of the victims had apparently been killed somewhere on the Qualicare complex. As for exactly how Nowell had managed to lure them there without anyone else knowing, that might never be known for sure, but most probably he knew enough about the couples' schedules—as he had known about my trip to St. Louis—to know when the victim was likely to be alone. Quite possibly, he called to tell them that Brian Oaks wanted to see them at Qualicare. As I say, we'll never know for sure. The thing is, he did it, killed them, and buried them in areas where concrete would be poured or rebar laid the following day.

Again I can't say for sure, but most likely Oaks had some sort of confrontation with Nowell after the meeting. Nowell went over to Oaks' home, probably killed Oaks in his office, and then killed Chad Bleeth when he came downstairs from his studio.

As I say, a lot of this is conjecture, but it makes pretty good sense. So logic isn't evidence: it'll do.

*

Jonathan and I got our lives back. I talked him into sharing some of our horticultural bounty with our friends so now we can actually walk through the apartment without a machete. And I bought him a bigger aquarium so that Tim and Phil (the fi…ah, you know) could get some new playmates. (They all have names, but don't ask!)

About a week after everything had calmed down, we were lying in bed when Jonathan said: “You know, we haven't played a game in a long time.”

“Yeah. We've been kind of busy. Got one in mind?”

“Well, I know a game I
never
want to play!”

“What's that?”

“The Construction Worker and the Alcoholic.”