The Dead Don't Speak (20 page)

Zach could hear them through the adjoining wall. Margaret and Dylan Tovak were getting a little noisy in the bedroom. Zach left his room and knocked on Cayte's door. She answered it in a tank top and shorts.

"What's up?" Cayte said.

It took Zach a moment to answer. "I can hear your mom and Mr. Tovak..."

"Gross! Come on in."

"Can we go for a walk or something?" Zach said. He didn't want to associate Cayte with the noises he heard coming from Margaret's room and the images they put in his mind. He had his own set of mental images for Cayte.

"Sure, let me find some pants."

Cayte threw on a pair of blue sweatpants and a pink hoodie. The two left the house to wander around and talk for a while.

They were on the opposite end of the large cul-de-sac that was Versailles Village when they heard the gunshot. It echoed off all the houses making it impossible to tell the sound's point of origin. Zach and Cayte looked at each other and continued their lap around the sidewalk.

*****

Walter watched Margaret and Tovak through the slats in the closet door. They fell on the bed together and things progressed rapidly. Walter stood in the closet while his soon to be ex-wife did things to the man who'd ruined his life. Things that she wouldn't do for him.

It wasn't how Walter imagined it would be. He didn't feel a crazy anger. There was no rage. There was nothing at all. Walter Hepson was empty, he wasn't a person anymore; a person has something inside them.

I'm a shell. A hollow man. A machine. A mechanical system of blood and bone and tissue.

Walter stood watching until it was over, his expression blank. Dylan Tovak got out of bed and dressed. Margaret lay there, unmoving, just as she had for Walter.

"Dylan, honey, I'm numb," she said. It was the same thing she used to say to Walter.

"I'll see you later," Tovak said.

"Okay, love."

Dylan left the room. Walter listened to his footsteps travel down the hall and fade into nothing. The front door opened and closed.

That's the moment Walter chose to emerge from the closet. The closet door ran smooth in its groove. It didn't make a sound. Walter came out with the gun raised in front of him, his arm at a ninety degree angle to the rest of his body.

"Have fun?" Walter asked. It felt like the question had come from another source, as if someone else in the room had spoken the words.

"Walter! Is that you?"

"Yeah."

"Were you in there the whole time?"

As an answer Walter pulled the trigger.

The bullet entered Margaret's abdomen just below her breastbone. When she tried to take a breath it made an odd sucking sound. She spat blood on the white sheets of her bed.

Walter watched the show with complete impassivity. One machine had pulled the trigger; now the other machine was leaking. That was all.

Zach and Cayte were near the guard booth when they heard the second shot. This time, with their minds already alert to something strange going on, Zach and Cayte knew somehow that the shot had come from their house. The security guard knew it, too. He pushed the kids out of the way in his mad dash to their door.

Walter watched the machine squirm in the bed, alternating between crying, vomiting blood, and choking for air. It was leaking all over the bed. It was slowing down now, losing power, shutting down. The machine with the gun pulled the trigger again.

*****

It was a little after 5:00AM when Julian was released from the emergency room. It'd been a busy night. Julian heard doctors scrambling around trying to deal with a gunshot victim. He used his cell phone to call Molly.

"What?" Molly answered sounding groggy.

"Sorry to wake you up. May I come over? We need to talk."

"Can it wait for morning?"

"It is morning."

"You know what I mean," Molly said. Did Julian detect the sound of a smile?

"The conversation can wait. May I come over anyway?"

"Sure, but get here fast. I want to go back to sleep."

When Julian arrived at Molly's apartment her eyes went wide when she saw the massive cast on his hand and wrist.

"What happened to you?" Molly asked.

"Broke a couple bones in my hand."

"How?"

"I took a swing at our boss."

"You punched Dylan?"

"I tried to. He baited me with a nasty joke about you and I just lost it. I didn't think. One second I was standing on his stoop telling him to ease off the Hepsons; next thing I know I've broken my hand and he’s still talking."

"What'd he say?"

"He said his barging into those people's lives was just business."

"No, what'd he say about me to make you swing at him?"

"It's not important."

"I want to know."

"Seriously, it was just a dumb comment. It made me mad and, in the heat of the moment, I lost control."

"All right, keep your secret. Let’s go to bed," Molly said taking Julian by the good hand.

Later that morning Julian broke the whole situation down for Molly. They were eating cereal out of mismatched bowls when Molly's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" she answered. "He did? When? Oh, my god, that's awful! Is she okay?" Molly's usually pale skin went even lighter, "No..." Her eyes twitched back and forth, her brain processing information. "Okay, I'll be in as soon as I can. What? Why?" Blood rushed to her cheeks and she continued, "Oh, my god, I can't believe you!" She listened a little more. "I have personal stuff there. I am going to come get it. You are such an asshole!"

Molly hung up.

"What happened?" Julian asked.

"Dylan fired me," Molly said. She knew that wasn't what Julian had meant but it came out anyway. "Sorry. Walter Hepson escaped from the hospital, broke into the company house, and shot Margaret. She's dead."

"Holy shit!" Julian said.

Molly nodded, her mouth tightening.

"So now what?" Julian asked himself.

"Now we protect those kids from Dylan," Molly replied.

*****

Detective Pushkin let Chris wait for five hours. In that time officers checked in on him, brought him water and food, let him go to the bathroom; but Chris was always brought back to the room. When Pushkin finally returned, Chris was ready to have a serious conversation. He knew his rights and was willing to waive them.

"I can give you Simon Simmons," Chris said.

"Why would I want Simon Simmons?"

"He murdered someone."

"Who did he murder?"

"A Mexican girl, not sure what her name was. Cassandra something."

Why is he playing stupid?
Pushkin wondered.

"Hernandez?" Pushkin said.

"That's it. Cassandra Hernandez. The two hooked up one night after his show; he didn't know the girl was seventeen. She comes back at him asking for money. It was the night he got humiliated by that kid during his show, so it didn’t take much for him to lose his temper. He calls me up and asks if he can borrow my car, and he'll give me cab money. I was awake and it wasn't the first time we'd done this, so I said 'fine' and brought it over to him. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary in his room when I was up there. I stayed for an hour or so, we had a couple drinks, and I left.

"I can't believe he used my car to move that poor girl's body," Chris shuddered. "He said he parked it at a bar and when he came out early in the morning it was gone. So I called the police and reported it stolen. I said it was taken from my residence because I didn't want my friend to get into trouble for drinking and driving. I wish now that I'd told the truth. It would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble. Simon would have been picked up and thrown in the drunk tank. He's not a very smart man, just good with an audience."

Pushkin stared at Chris, keeping his expression deadpan. It was a half-assed story. Pushkin had heard plenty that were better; this one wasn't even in the top five. Chris Wright thought he was so goddamned smooth, but his overconfidence was his weakness. Pushkin decided to run with it.

"Why did you deny being Chris Wright?" Pushkin asked.

"I thought I might get in trouble for not saying something sooner."

"You may have waited too long," Pushkin said, rising from his seat. "I've got Simon in the other room. That's where I was. He seems to think you were the one who ran that girl over in the parking garage."

"I didn't run her over! Simon must have when he was leaving," Chris said.

Pushkin smiled. The weariness was getting to Chris. He hadn't remembered to act surprised at hearing that his car was involved in a hit-and-run.

"I know that, Chris. I should apologize. It's an old police trick. Float a piece of worthless information out there and see if a suspect bites. It's second nature to me, I'm afraid."

"I understand," Chris smiled too.

"We have to hold you overnight. There are a few facts I need to chase down. You look like you could use some sleep. You haven't been formally charged with a crime but you are a person of interest and we're going to hold you overnight. Do you understand?"

Chris nodded, "I understand that, too. You need to understand that I don't believe you and I want a lawyer."

*****

The Las Vegas Metro police station had a holding cell for children. Around the station it was called the Soft Room. It was an awful moniker for a space constructed of cinder blocks and poured concrete. To meet state standards, someone threw two old Army cots, a couple of heavily used quilts, a small table with coloring books and crayons, and a handful of drugstore toys into the room. That being done, the LVMPD could officially call it "soft".

Zach flipped through the coloring books. They were predominately decorated with X'ed out faces and curse words. Here was a bunny with a bullet hole in its head, torrents of blood gushing out in bright red Crayola. On the next page was an inspiring inscription, "bitch". He put the book down and lay on the cot next to Cayte's. She was lying on her stomach but he could tell from the jerky way her shoulders moved that she was sobbing.

"Are you all right?" Zach asked.

Cayte sniffled loudly, she needed a tissue. "I think so. It's just... I didn't like her but she was my mom."

"Yeah..."

"How are you doing?"

"I've hated my dad for a long time, so nothing has changed there. I'm more mad than anything."

"I hate him, too," Cayte said.

"I know."

The lights clicked off. It was lights-out in all the holding cells.

"What's going to happen to us?" Zach asked.

"When I was at the Center one lady talked to me about emancipating myself. That's when you, like, get the court to agree that you are better off on your own than with your parents. It's for kids with abusive parents but this might qualify, a girl with no parents."

"A boy, too," Zach added.

"A boy, too."

The cots were close together, the room wasn't large, and Cayte reached a hand toward Zach. The window in the door let through plenty of light. Zach saw Cayte extend her hand to him, and he took it. They lay like that the rest of the night, holding hands.

Daphne woke with a hairy arm draped across her chest. She was confused for a moment until she saw the arm was connected to Tim. Her memory replayed back the events of... how long ago? Daphne checked the wall clock; it said 12:49PM.

Her bladder was full and becoming insistent. Daphne slid from under Tim's arm and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She was pleasantly surprised to find they were still a little numb. Daphne carefully walked to the bathroom. After relieving herself, she went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. She dug through the refrigerator locating some bacon and a carton of eggs that were probably still okay; neither she nor Tim had eaten at the house since Sarah's accident.

With the pan hot and properly lubricated with bacon fat, Daphne cracked four eggs into a bowl, whisked them well, and poured the eggs into the pan. Scrambled eggs and bacon with a couple pieces of toast and jam was Tim's favorite breakfast. Daphne used to make it for him almost every weekend when they were first married. The gesture seemed appropriate and she just wanted to do something nice for her husband to remind him of the good old days. Maybe they could salvage the train wreck their lives had become.

The appetizing combined smells of brewing coffee, cooking bacon, and toasting bread wafted to the bedroom and caused Tim to stir. His eyes fluttered open. The smell of his favorite breakfast, the cozy warm bed, and his body's memory of good sex had Tim feeling like he was home for the first time in decades. Coming so soon after Sarah's death, the thought seemed perverse. Then Tim remembered, though her body may have died only recently,
Sarah
had been gone for a month. Sometimes, to deal with the bad things you had to appreciate the good.

The arrangements for Sarah's funeral were made. He'd taken care of that while Daphne was out on her little adventure of revenge. Now, with nothing to do but wait for the funeral, Tim thought he deserved some kindness. He needed a reminder that life could be nice sometimes and that his wife still loved him.

Tim walked into the kitchen just in time to find Daphne plating the food.

"You haven't made me this in years," he said.

"I know." Daphne nodded with the hint of a smile in her eyes.

"It smells fantastic."

Tim took a seat at the breakfast bar that formed the dividing wall between their dining room and kitchen. Daphne brought the plates of food and set one in front of him. She set hers down in front of an empty stool but instead of coming around the bar to sit she stood directly across from her husband.

"Something on your mind?" Tim asked. He scratched at his leg, where the prosthetic had been rubbing wrong the last couple of days. He still wore them, despite the discomfort. One of Sarah's doctors had told him it was an affirmation of life.

"Yeah. I..." Daphne wasn't good at this sort of thing. "I want to tell you something."

"What is it?" Tim said around a mouthful of eggs. Their earlier exercise had given him quite an appetite.

"I know I've been working too much. And I know we haven't really been getting along. I spend more time at that fucking casino than I do here... and, uh... that needs to stop. I should have stopped it a long time ago. I should have realized my family comes before work. I should have realized that no job, even as an executive, trumps the two most important people in my life."

Daphne paused a beat to fortify herself for the next part of the speech. She'd rehearsed it in her mind the past couple days but the delivery proved difficult.

"Now one of them is gone. I let our little girl get run down by that drunk and his friend." Daphne stopped again, her hand wiping at her eyes. "I let that place, the casino, become the most important thing in my life and it cost us our daughter."

"It's not your fault, Daph," Tim interrupted.

"Let me finish this, please. I need you to hear all of it. Then you can say whatever you want."

Tim nodded.

"Sarah's gone because I wasn't around to protect her. I'm her mom. It's my job to advise her about life decisions. I know I couldn't have stopped her from going to Camelot that night, I wouldn't have wanted to; a kid needs freedom. But I damn sure could have taught her what to do when your friend doesn't show up. She shouldn't have had to deal with that alone."

Daphne shook her head. She knew she was dwelling on Sarah and this was about more than just their daughter.

"The point I'm trying to make is I'm not going to put the casino first ever again. I've already lost half my life, our daughter. I can't afford to lose the other half. You're that other half, Tim. Without you I'd have no life anymore. I need you. I'm not me without you. I didn't know when I met you that I wasn't a whole person. I didn't even know it when we got married; but now, looking at my life, I've realized I wouldn't be who I am without you. And I never, fucking never, want to jeopardize that for a job, or anything else."

Daphne didn't say anything for ten seconds or so.

"Daph?"

"Yeah?"

"Your eggs are getting cold. Sit down and have breakfast with me."

*****

Dylan Tovak waited in the lobby at the Las Vegas Metro Police station. It was strange to think that somewhere within these walls was Chris Wright, a man he had almost hired at the behest of that dinosaur, Daphne Carter. Now
there
was a woman whose professional flame was flickering. It'd been almost a month since her daughter's accident and she hadn't shown up to Versailles once.

Zach and Cayte were brought to Tovak. It had already been explained to them that he had temporary custody. Neither child balked at this, as both felt like they were being sprung from prison. And the word "temporary" made the situation feel manageable. It wasn't until the ride to the Village that the definition of "temporary" was made clear.

"Now that I have custody of you, a couple of things will need to change. First off, I'm a busy man, I can't be expected to cater to your every need like your parents did."

Clearly Mr. Tovak has no concept of what life with Walter and Margaret was like, Zach thought.

Tovak continued, "So you are going to need to be self-reliant. Take care of each other, you know? Second, since I am your legal guardian now, you are going to have to do what I say. Zach, I've spoken with the folks in Legal and we're probably going to up your shows to three nights a week. Everyone feels this is what is best for Versailles and as their contracted employee you'll need to go along with it for now."

"Cayte, we had another performer become interested in the bar gig so your contract has been voided. You'll still get the guaranteed money promised in the contract. For the time being, I am holding the funds in trust until you turn eighteen. That's all right though because you both are going to be staying at the hotel on a more permanent basis. I figured you wouldn't want to live in the house where your mom was murdered."

Zach watched Tovak's eyes as he spoke to Cayte. There was something different in them. The way they moved over her body made Zach uncomfortable. It was obvious what Tovak wanted.

The children looked at each other; they knew arguing would be pointless. Better to go along for now and find a way out when no one was looking. And they weren't out on the street. Both had lived on the street in the past, and both knew this situation was better. There would be shelter and food. At least that was something. It was a sort of corporate prison.

*****

After Wright lawyered up, Pushkin ran the interrogation by the book. It consisted mostly of the lawyer advising his client to keep his goddamn mouth shut. Pushkin wasn't worried. A confession wouldn't be necessary to put this douche bag away forever, or possibly shoot him full of sodium pentothal.

What did worry Pushkin was Simmons. He'd disappeared the same time that Wright attempted to flee, only no one knew what had happened to him. His face was now being shown on every twenty-four hour news network with coverage so repetitive it would make Jodi Arias jealous. That was what the investigation really had going for it; in this case the victims were both attractive teenage girls. People ate that shit up. It was only a matter of time before the tip line generated a solid lead. And then the FBI would scoop Simmons up and deliver him, gift-wrapped, to the Las Vegas Metro PD.

Everyone would get their picture in the paper. Pushkin would parley this and his Fremont Slasher conviction into a cushy political office. He'd had enough of the street. Chasing monsters was a young man's game. It was time for Leon Pushkin to let some young hotshot fill his shoes. He'd paid his dues; now he wanted to kick back and be the one to give the orders.

Once Simmons was brought to justice, everything would be set in motion.

*****

Humberto Hernandez returned home, showered, and slept. When he woke he went to Cassandra's room. Everything was just as it had been the day she left to meet her friend Sarah for dinner. Even the half empty can of Diet Coke was still resting on the dresser.

It didn't feel right, not like Humberto had expected. He'd avenged his daughter's death, put a bullet in the head of the man who'd taken advantage of and eventually murdered his only child. So why did he still feel hollow inside? This should be the beginning of a new chapter, not the continuation of the nightmare he'd been trapped in for weeks.

There was still a bottle of tequila squirreled away under the sink in the kitchen. Humberto walked to the kitchen, pulled the bottle out, unscrewed the cap, and drained a quarter of it without stopping for breath. It was the white lady, Daphne Carter. It was she who'd convinced Humberto, against Humberto's better judgment and sense of what was right, to murder a man. It was this white woman who'd brought him out to the desert to do the deed. It was this white woman who'd dragged poor old Humberto Hernandez into her world of white problems and made him sell his soul to the devil.

Humberto had listened to Daphne Carter questioning Simmons in the desert; but now that the tequila was flooding into his bloodstream he had to admit he didn't understand the entire conversation. Parts were muffled and Humberto's grasp on the English language wasn't complete. He'd taken Daphne at her word that Simmons was the man they were after. But what did Daphne really do? She talked to this Simmons character. That was all. Humberto was the murderer, not Daphne Carter. Humberto was sure the devil already had a special place reserved for him.

After decades of following the word of God, Humberto knew he'd allowed himself to be corrupted by this nicely dressed, beautiful, fast-talking gringo. What had happened to Cassandra at the hands of Sarah Carter had now happened to Humberto at the hands of Sarah's mother. The ultimate result in both cases would be the same, the Hernandezes were doomed: Cassandra to an awful death and Humberto to lifetime of regret and anguish.

He tipped the bottle of tequila to his lips again and took a nice long pull. Humberto still had the gun. At the time it was given to him it seemed like a nice memento. It was a gift from one friend from another. Not just a friend, but someone with whom you will share a lifelong secret. Now it was obvious to Humberto what the Glock really was; it was a reminder of what he'd purchased with his soul.

Humberto walked back to Cassandra's room. The tequila was glowing in his belly and the heat spun its way up to his cheeks. In her room he found a pen and paper. He scribbled down a note, a short confession about what he and Daphne had done.

He left Cassandra’s room, note in hand, walking to his own. He picked up the Glock from atop his dresser. The police would need the murder weapon. It may be too late to fix his mistake on Earth, but he could still make things right with God. At the thought of coming clean about everything, Humberto felt the knot that had been forming within him release.

He needed to call the police. That was the next step. Call the sheriff’s office again, tell them everything. Humberto turned toward the bedroom door. The tequila had done its work on him. He took a step, his knee catching the corner of his bed. Humberto lurched forward, his feet trying to catch up with the rest of his body.

Losing his balance, he tumbled to the floor. A shot rang out in the empty home. The noise startled Humberto. He looked down at the weapon in his hand. That was a close one. Hadn’t he put the safety on? He must have forgotten to with all that had happened last night.

His chest felt wet. He looked down and saw a large red stain growing on his white t-shirt, reaching its slick crimson fingers toward the floor.

This is a dream.

Humberto’s head began to swim and he rolled onto his back. He coughed, a thick bubble rapidly forming and then popping into a pink mist.

Oh, no.