Steel Breeze (4 page)

Chapter 4

 “What do you
mean it’s not that simple, Chuck? I came here of my own volition. Now bring me
my son. We’re leaving.”

“There’s
some doubt about your fitness to take care of him.”

“
What?
”

“I
called your father-in-law. He’s on his way with a lawyer. You should call yours
too before we all sit down and discuss what’s best for Lucas in light of recent
events.”

Desmond
felt his face flushing hot with anger as his mind reeled. The entertainment
lawyer he’d used a few times to look over contracts was unqualified for the
job. And what
was
the job, exactly; a custody battle with the Parsons? His
hands clenched, and he realized that in a situation like this, a man could lose
control very quickly. He knew he had every right to be angry. It was normal to
be angry, accused of unfitness when there was a real threat out there. But if
he showed his rage, he would only look more suspect, more like a man capable of
violence.

“Where’s
Lucas?” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“He’s
with an officer, playing with puzzles. He’s fine. I gave him juice and a snack
from the vending machine.”

“What
kind of snack?” Now this fucking guy was feeding his kid? He didn’t know the
first thing about Lucas. What if he had a peanut allergy?

“A
bag of Cheez-its. That okay, Pop?”

“What
did you tell him?”

“I
told him I wanted to talk to you alone about the drawing, and that his
grandparents are coming to see him too.”

Desmond
closed the space between them and reminded Fournier that, although he didn’t
have the same weight to throw around, he was taller. “What game are you playing,
Chuck?”

Fournier
angled his eyes up and locked them on Desmond’s. “You’ve been under a lot of
pressure as a single parent.”

“What’s
that supposed to mean?”

“Just
what I said.”

Desmond
took a step back. “You think I did it.”

“Do
you still have that sword hanging on the wall of your writing room?”

“You
saw my writing room. It’s my den. And I don’t keep weapons around in a two‐bedroom
apartment with a toddler.”

“Where
do you keep ‘em?”

“If
I can’t see Lucas, this conversation is over.”

Desmond
sat down at the table, folded his arms and stared at the sketch of the samurai
mask until he heard Fournier leave the room. He tried to remember everything
he’d seen on TV about interrogations and police procedure. He didn’t write
crime fiction, so he hadn’t done the research, but he knew they couldn’t hold
you if they weren’t bringing charges against you. He could get up and leave. But
he wasn’t going anywhere without Lucas, and Fournier knew it.

A
paper cup of water from the cooler sat on the table between Desmond’s laptop
and the Xerox copy of the sketch. Desmond figured Fournier and his partner were
probably sitting on the other side of the mirrored glass watching him. He
opened the laptop and read the haiku again. It reminded him of that old saying
about the early bird getting the worm. Was it supposed to evoke that? He often
found that phrase kicking around the back of his head in the morning when he
was dragging his ass around the apartment, making coffee, and trying to
retrieve some scrap of story from the receding tide of REM sleep. And the
message had been put on his manuscript, right where he would see it first thing
in the morning while trying to get the worm
du jour
. So what did that
mean?

Solitary.
The solitary drake, the solitary dragon…dives. An animal with no mate, that
part was obvious, but no duckling either. Was that a threat? He looked again at
the pencil sketch. It really was the epitome of an angry face, a
demonic
face, with steeply arched eyebrows that morphed into fiery clouds above round
eyes glaring over high cheek bones pushed higher by a wide-open mouth,
downturned at the corners in a grimace that seemed to scream for vengeance.

He
didn’t know what words Lucas would have used to articulate these details or how
he might have helped the artist revise what would have at first been a
rendering of a human face, but however they had arrived at it…this was a
picture of a mask. No man could sustain an expression as extreme as the one on
the page. And he knew he had seen its like before—it was a classic samurai
battle mask.

The
door clicked open and Fournier came in, followed by Phil and Karen Parsons and
a tall lanky guy who resembled an undertaker in a suit that looked expensive
but too short for his frame, as if he had outgrown it.

“Hello,
Desmond,” Phil said, looking down at him, eyes lingering on the sketch. Karen
wore a tight smile that clashed with her beauty like a tacky plastic watch worn
with an evening gown. Desmond had always liked her, and he still thought she
was too smart for this shit, but Phil had probably cozened her into it. Then
again, maybe not. She had changed since Sandy’s death, in some ways that were
obvious (like her true age catching up with her face all at once) and in others
that Desmond could only speculate about. All he knew for sure was that his easy
rapport with her had been winnowed away with her daughter’s ashes.

No
one introduced the thin man, but Fournier did ask Desmond, “Did you lawyer up?”
It came out in a jovial tone, as if the detective were asking a houseguest if
he needed a beer.

“If
you’re not charging me with something, I don’t believe I need one.”

Fournier
opened the door on the far side of the room and ushered them across the hall
into a larger room with a long conference table. There was no mirrored glass in
this room, just a window that looked out onto downtown Port Mavis. The city was
waking up now, cars idling in illegal parking spots right across the street
from the police station, while commuters clamored to grab a newspaper, a pastry
and a cup of coffee at Tradewinds—the newsstand and café that had been called a
“soda fountain” back when Phil and Karen were dating and Sandy existed in some
quantum state, a mere potential, waiting for a spinning vector to collapse,
like a coin revolving on a countertop.

When
they had taken their seats and turned their attention to Fournier, the
detective tipped his hands in the general direction of Phil Parsons. Desmond’s
father-in-law was no stranger to the station; he was an ex-cop who had retired
early when a chunk of flying rubble jettisoned by a jackhammer had taken out
his left knee at a night construction site. Fifteen years later, now past his normal
retirement age, he still walked with a limp. He was balding, in a handsome way,
probably because his square jaw and bright eyes were accentuated by the absence
of hair. Phil was the type of man who would always show the remnants of the
physique he had built in his youth, even as the skin overlaying that frame
wrinkled, the sinews sagged, and the inevitable paunch expanded. But his
personality was leaner than his body. If Phil Parsons were a canned food, his
label would have listed bullshit in the less than 2% category.

“Desmond,
just to be clear, I don’t think you killed my daughter,” he said with no change
in posture. “That piece of trash is doing life, and there isn’t a day that goes
by I don’t wish we lived in a state with the needle. But it does sound to me
like you’re losing your marbles. Typing spooky poems to yourself and trying to
convince people that you and Lucas are being stalked…that what I’m hearing?”

“Yesterday
I found Lucas with a stranger at the edge of the playground. The man had his
back turned to me, but it seems he was wearing a mask. You were a cop, Phil. Does
this…I don’t know, raise your hairs at all?” Desmond shot a quick look at
Karen, then added, “There were also decapitated toys, at the playground and the
apartment. Did Chuck tell you that?”

Phil
nodded. There was a brief silence. Karen folded her hands on the table and
leaned in, but she gazed at a blank space on the Formica as she spoke. “Desmond,
please understand that we are only here out of concern for Lucas. This may not
be easy for you to hear, but…you’re a creative type of person, that’s just who
you are, and….” She met his eyes now. “You must understand that in getting to
know you, I’ve seen you at times when you just seem to be elsewhere.”

Desmond
drew a deep breath to make up for how shallow his intake had become while
listening to this setup. He knew where this was going.

She
raised a hand slightly to keep him from launching in, and continued. “I’ve
heard you say in interviews that you listen to your characters like voices in
your head. You make them sound like they have a…I don’t know, a
will
of
their own, or an agenda that isn’t necessarily yours.”

“Karen
that’s different. Don’t use my work against me.”

“You
have a vivid imagination.”

Desmond
scoffed at the idea with a short laugh. “That’s like saying that cops are
paranoid all the time, even when they’re off duty. And ironically, you guys
aren’t paranoid enough right now.”

Phil
said, “You’ve been coming unraveled since we lost her, Des. You were barely
there before, and now your daydreams are taking over.”

“So
what exactly do you think? You think I wrote myself a cryptic message, pulled
the head off of Lucas’s toy, and had my computer dusted for prints…why? Why
would I do those things?”

“You
feel guilty,” Phil said, like he was pointing out to Desmond that he had some
mustard on his shirt.

“But
you don’t think I
am
guilty.”

No.”

“Well,
he
does.” Desmond nodded at Fournier. “Right, Chuck? Deep down, you
still think I killed her?”

“Doesn’t
matter what I think.”

Karen
looked at Chuck Fournier with something new in her eyes.

Phil
said, “It’s not uncommon. It’s a form of survivor guilt. You think you should
have been able to save her, so you convince yourself the killer is still out
there. This time he’s threatening Lucas, and you get a second chance to be a
hero.”

“You’re
a shrink now, Phil?”

“No,
but I can refer you to one.”

“Desmond
looked at Karen. “Is that what
you
think? I’m so delusional I’m
mistaking my own shadow for a monster?”

She
returned his gaze but said nothing.

“What
about this drawing?” Desmond said. “Why would some innocent stranger be wearing
a mask at a playground, and why did he run when I found him with my kid? How
does
that
fit into your theory that I’m delusional?”

There
was another moment of silence and when no one else spoke up to fill it, the
lawyer shot a glance at Phil for permission, then cleared his throat and said,
“One reason why a man might wear a mask would be so that his own son doesn’t
recognize him.”

Desmond
didn’t even know how to begin responding to the accusation. They had made up
their minds about him and anything he said now would only dig him in deeper. He
wondered if the microphones in the room were on, if the conversation was being
recorded. But aside from the break-in at his apartment—which no one took
seriously anyway—there had been no crime committed. He had started the whole
chain of events himself by calling Chuck Fournier. And he could end it right
now by walking out. He stood up. “Bring me Lucas,” he said to Fournier, “We’re
leaving.”

The
lawyer looked alarmed. “Mr. and Mrs. Parsons are initiating a guardianship case
against you on the grounds of instability and unfitness. You could spare your
son a great deal of discomfort and stress by reaching an agreement outside of a
courthouse.”

Desmond
waved his finger. “I’m not having any such discussion. You have
no
authority. None of you do.”

The
lawyer continued, “If you call on counsel, we can hammer out a temporary
solution whereby you would retain visitation rights contingent on submitting to
a psych evaluation—"

“Fuck
you, Lurch.” Then turning to Fournier, “
Where is my son?
”

“Desmond,
if you leave this meeting…,” Fournier said with no sign of rising from his
chair, “You’re gonna have to start asking yourself things like are there any
retail records for the purchase of a hoodie sweatshirt that Lucas wouldn’t
recognize? Is there a web search history for samurai masks from your IP
address? Think about it, Desmond. A warrant wouldn’t be hard to get.”

“Really?
Somehow I doubt that. You don’t even have enough for protective custody. If you
did, you’d be telling, not asking. Get Lucas.
Now.
”

Fournier
grudgingly hauled his bulk out of the chair. In the doorway, Desmond turned to
face Phil and Karen. “You’d better think hard about what you’re doing to your
grandson. He’s been through enough already.”

Desmond
followed Fournier down the hall. They rounded a corner and Lucas came into
view, sitting on a chair, swinging his feet back and forth. At the sight of his
father, the boy did the same thing as always when they’d been apart for a
while—he shouted, “
Daddy!
” and came running, collided with Desmond’s
thigh, and wrapped his small arms around it.