Working Stiff (26 page)

Oh, yeah, like that will stop him.
If nothing else convinces me how deeply disturbed David is by all this, the inanity of that comment does.

“Can't you just wait until tomorrow?” David pleads. “Sid won't go anywhere. I'm sure of it. And in the meantime, maybe I can figure out a way to talk him into turning himself in.”

My mind churns, trying to think it all through. I nod absently, knowing it's what David wants. But the more I think about it, the more I want to talk to Sid for myself. Some part of my mind realizes that confronting a possible killer alone might not be the wisest thing to do. But another part of me, the part that worked side by side with Sid for nearly seven years sharing tension, laughter, and surgical instruments, refuses to believe the man will harm me.

“Okay, I won't talk to Hurley until tomorrow,” I tell David, wincing a bit on the inside. After all, it isn't a lie exactly, it just isn't the whole truth.

W
hen I return to the cottage I'm relieved to see that Dom isn't back yet. He pulls in ten minutes later and I go out to help him unload the groceries. I need to waylay our planned visit to David but I don't want Dom to know I've already been there, so I tell him I want to wait to give myself more time to think things through. He seems relieved by my apparent capitulation and I feel a tiny twinge of guilt for deceiving him. I know he has my best interests at heart, but I also know that no matter how well-intentioned his motives are, his idea never would have worked.

Once the groceries are unpacked, he invites me to stay and watch a video he's rented, bribing me with promises of a lunch that includes Sara Lee cheesecake for dessert. The offer is tempting but the issue with Sid is far more pressing, so I thank him and decline, telling him I am going to spend the afternoon at my sister's—lie number two. I'm going to hell for sure.

Since the hospital is closer, I drive there first, cruising through the parking lot in search of Sid's car. I don't see it, but as I turn the corner from one row of cars to the next, I glimpse the top of a van several rows over—burgundy-and-gray. I hit the gas and go after it, but by the time I get to where it was, it has disappeared. Annoyed, I leave and head out to Sid's house, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror the entire time.

The Carrigan home is a stately but tasteful place that sits on a hill about five miles outside of town. It isn't overly large, but clearly shows the wealth of its owners. It has been in Sid's family for four generations, and as the sole heir to the family fortunes, Sid took it over when he married Gina. Sid's parents, tired of winter weather that made their arthritic bones throb and ache, moved to Arizona.

The house is over a hundred years old, and while improvements have been made on it over the years, it still retains much of its original charm and character. The front of it is done in stone, as is the circular drive and the retaining walls that grace the hills behind it. I know from prior visits that the lawn is plush, green, and amazingly soft but, at the moment, most of it is buried beneath a blanket of red and yellow leaves that have dropped from the many stately trees peppering the grounds.

Overall, the house has a mellow but dignified country look—peaceful and comfy—the exact opposite of how I feel. There is no peace, no comfort for me here today.

The garage door is closed so I have no way of knowing if Sid is home or not. I consider using my cell phone to call him first but quickly rule out that idea since I don't want to give him a chance to decline a visit or let him know I'm coming. I want to catch him unprepared, hoping that will make it easier for me to get the truth out of him.

The truth. It's what I want, but it scares me to death.

I park in front of the house, slip my cell phone into my jacket pocket, and walk up to ring the doorbell. I half expect one of the house staff to answer; whenever I've been here for parties and such, that is what usually happens. But to my surprise, Sid himself answers the door.

“Mattie! What a pleasant surprise.” His smile is warm and genuine, but he looks tired and sad despite it. “Come on in.”

He seems relaxed. If my unexpected arrival has disconcerted him in any way, it doesn't show. At first I think this is a good sign. I mean if Sid is guilty of murder, he would look more nervous and edgy, wouldn't he? But then it occurs to me that he might be a sociopath, a serial killer like Ted Bundy—an emotionless creature with no sense of remorse or guilt, a social charlatan who hides his true nature beneath a veneer of well-practiced charm. After all, Wisconsin has served as home to more than its fair share of serial killers, with Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Gein, and John Wayne Gacy all conducting business within or just outside its borders. Maybe there's something in our water.

All this flashes through my mind in the time it takes me to smile back at Sid and accept his invitation to come inside.

“What brings you out here?” he asks as he closes the door behind me.

Too late to turn back now.
I'm trapped. It makes me glad I have the cell phone tucked inside my pocket. Sid gestures toward the living room, indicating I should go in and have a seat, but I stand where I am in the foyer.

“I want to talk with you, Sid. It's about Mike Halverson.”

His expression falters, but only briefly. A split second later, that complacent smile is back in place. Then I hear a female voice that makes my heart race with panic.

“Mattie? Is that you?”

Gina.
I completely forgot about her. How could I be so stupid? On the drive out here, I tried to imagine how this visit might go, playing out several different scenarios in my mind. None of them included Gina.

I turn and see her standing down the hall in the doorway to the kitchen. As usual, she looks perfectly put together, right down to the apron she is wearing over her tailored, camel-colored slacks and yellow angora sweater.

“Hello, Gina.”

“Hi there. I didn't know you were dropping by. Forgive me,” she says, gesturing with a wooden spoon she has in her hand. “I have something simmering on the stove and can't leave it for long. But I'll be done in a few minutes.”

“That's quite all right. Take your time. I'm sorry to drop by unannounced like this but something came up and I need to talk to Sid for a few minutes. I won't be staying long.”

“Okay then,” she says, flashing me her TV smile. “I'll just finish up out here while you two talk. Holler at me if you need anything.” She disappears back into the kitchen and I look at Sid.

“Why don't we step into my den,” he suggests. I notice his smile is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern.

Sid's den is my favorite room in the house. It fits him perfectly, possessing many of the same characteristics that drew me to Sid himself. It has a relaxed and unpretentious air, a sense of warm welcome that makes one want to settle in and never leave.

Whenever I came out to the house for parties or dinners, I would always find an excuse to slip into the den and spend a few peaceful moments on the old leather couch or its matching leather chair, their surfaces so perfectly aged and worn, they are as smooth and soft as a baby's bottom. A beautiful Persian rug in shades of cranberry, teal, and ochre covers much of the hardwood floor and it, like the furniture, looks lovingly worn. The walls are paneled and Sid's desk, which sits catty-corner beside a window, is an old, sturdy oak piece that probably weighs a ton.

Today, however, the room fails to comfort me, even as I sink down into the cushiony softness of the couch. I watch Sid close the door, and the minute he turns toward me and I see the sad, resigned expression on his face, I know everything David told me is true.

“I take it you've spoken to David,” he says, wasting no time.

“Yes.”

“And do you hate me as a result?”

“Hate you?” I ponder the question. “No, Sid. I don't hate you,” I say honestly. “But I think it's time you were straight with me.” It is a notably poor choice of words, but since Sid doesn't seem to catch the pun, I quickly push ahead. “Right now I have good reason to think that you are involved somehow in the murders of two people—Karen Owenby and Mike Halverson.”

Sid opens his mouth to say something but then he freezes without uttering a sound. He stares at me for several moments, looking first confused, then stricken. “Murder?” he says finally, swallowing hard. “Mike was murdered?”

I nod.

“But I heard it was deemed a suicide.” He looks frighteningly pale and I start to entertain a new scenario, one in which he drops dead of a heart attack.

“Someone tried to make it look that way,” I tell him. “But they didn't do a good enough job. There's no doubt he was murdered.”

He staggers and grabs at a bookshelf to steady himself. This is no act—that he is surprised by my revelation is obvious. But what I'm not sure of is the reason for his surprise. Did he truly not know that Mike was murdered? Or is he simply shocked to learn that someone figured out the truth?

Slowly he makes his way to the chair and collapses into it. He leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He stays that way for several moments, and when he finally straightens up and looks at me, his expression is horribly sad.

“I never thought I could be as happy as I was with Mike,” he says. “I wasn't even looking for a relationship. I was trying to put that whole lifestyle behind me. But then Karen Owenby approached me a year or so ago about this medical equipment company she said she'd invested in. I got curious and went by the place to check it out and that's when I met Mike.”

“Sid, I—”

“We kept it very hush-hush at first, of course,” Sid goes on, ignoring me as he loses himself in his memories. He has this beatific little smile on his face that is both touching and pathetic. “We never met here in town at all. We only went to the Grizzly or to other towns where no one knew either of us. When I found out that Karen was actually Mike's sister, I knew then that our secret wouldn't last forever. But by the time she found out about us, I'd already decided I didn't care anymore. I was tired of living a lie.”

“Did Mike tell you he was HIV positive?”

Sid nods. “He was very honest with me, and I with him. In my younger years I wasn't always as careful as I should have been. And then a little over a year ago I started noticing some changes in my health: weight loss, muscle wasting, weakness, frequent colds…all the signs were there. I told Mike when I met him that I suspected I was not only HIV positive but might have AIDS.” He pauses a moment and tears well in his eyes.

“Have you been tested?”

He shakes his head. “I know I should have been but I didn't want to give up operating yet. I've always been very, very careful. I double glove and I've never had any nicks or punctures during a procedure so I'm certain I haven't exposed any patients.”

“But you didn't tell them, either, did you? The patients you worked on have a right to know, Sid.”

“I didn't tell them because I wasn't sure there was anything to tell. That's why I didn't want to get tested, plausible deniability in case everything came out somewhere down the road. Maybe it was wrong but I thought I could….” His voice breaks and it takes him a moment to collect himself.

“Anyway,” he continues after clearing his throat, “once David confronted us at the Grizzly, I told Mike we might have to move, to start over somewhere else. But Mike knew how much I loved my work and didn't believe me when I told him I could walk away from it. He broke it off, said he never wanted to see me again.”

He buries his face in his hands. “Oh, God,” he mumbles. “I didn't mean for it to turn out this way, Mattie. I loved Mike. I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt anyone.”

Oh my God. He
did
do it.
I want to cry. “Sid—”

He turns his back to me. “Please, Mattie. I need some time alone. I need to think.”

I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. A surge of compassion makes me get up and walk over to him. “I'm sorry, Sid,” I whisper, settling my hand on his shoulder. My apology is an all-encompassing one that covers the way I feel about what he has done as well as what I will now have to do.

“So am I,” he says. “God, so am I.” He looks up at me, his expression pleading, his eyes bright with the sheen of tears. “Tell me you believe me, Mattie. Tell me you believe that I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“I believe you, Sid,” I say through a sheen of my own tears. My heart feels as if it is being minced into tiny pieces.

“I never thought it would come to this,” Sid whispers. Then he holds his hand up as if he is warding off an evil spirit and turns away from me. “Please leave, Mattie. Go. I need to be alone. Please just go.”

I don't see as how I have any choice, but I can't just leave. I realize, too late, that coming here alone was a mistake. I should have called Hurley and let him handle it. Feeling helpless, I look around the room, unsure of what to do next. Will Sid try to run? Have I blown the whole case because of my own stupid naïveté and some misguided notion about my friendship with Sid—a man I thought I'd known but who has proven to be as unpredictable and secretive as David? Maybe more so?

Then I remember my cell phone. I can step out of the house and call Hurley from my car, then drive out to the end of Sid's drive and wait there until Hurley arrives. That way, if Sid tries to run, he won't get far. Concern for my own safety never enters my mind. Despite what Sid has done, I can't make myself believe he would ever hurt me.

I step out into the hallway, quietly closing the door to the den. The aromas of garlic and basil waft toward me and I remember that Gina is in the kitchen. I briefly debate going to her to talk about all that has happened but I'm not sure how much she knows, and if she is unaware of Sid's alternate lifestyle, I sure as hell don't want to be the one to tell her. Watching Sid start to self-destruct has been torture enough for one day. I can only imagine how Gina is going to react. And given her popularity, I know that if the media gets wind of the story, they'll have a heyday. Gina and Sid will both be publicly crucified.

I hear Gina moving about in the kitchen and duck toward the front door, suddenly afraid of having to face her. I ease the door open, step through, and am about to ease it closed again when I hear a loud
bang
from within the house. I pause and look back down the hallway, my hand on the doorknob, my mind already screaming in denial.

Gina appears at the other end of the hall, sees me, and cocks her head to one side, her face wearing a puzzled expression. I watch as her eyes flit toward the door to Sid's den, then back to me. It seems like an eternity that we stand there just staring at one another, yet I know it is mere seconds, a meager breath of time wherein we both cling desperately to our doubts and denial, feeble as they are. For I know what that sound was. I don't want to know, but I do.