The Stories: Part 8

Chapters 71 and beyond

This soft female voice surprises Thomas, who was expecting--well, who knows what Anders was supposed to sound like, really; those threats he shouted a few nights ago were surely delivered in nothing like his natural voice.
Yet Thomas wasn't sure if Rebekka's brother would have a precise, clipped, softspoken evil-genius voice or a gruff, slurred, and shouty trucker voice. He guessed it didn't matter, but when he took it upon himself to give the guy a call--the snores from Albert's office basically made that decision for him--at least he knew he didn't expect Anders to sound like a woman.
"Ah, yes...I--I think I may have the wrong number," Thomas begins carefully. "With whom am I speaking, please?"
"This is Lydia. How may I direct your call?"
Is this the right number? Thomas asks himself. It must be. But she sounds like an in-house operator. Or is this his girlfriend? "Ah, is there an Anders Nilsson, please?"
"One moment, please, and I'll see if he's in. Your name?"
"Ah, Doctor Warren."

"Doctor Warren?"
She glances at Anders, who shrugs. "Doctor Warren?" she repeats, trying to get more information from the caller.

"He might know me as Thomas," he clarifies.

"Doctor Thomas Warren," she repeats. Anders's eyebrows shoot up. "Thank you. One moment," Lydia tells Thomas, then starts the entire shout-charade again. This time, though, in the middle of her deep breath, Anders snatches the phone from her hands and identifies himself to Thomas. "Nilsson."

Thomas's own eyebrows rise a bit, and his hair prickles in the body's prehistoric response to danger. I'm talking to Anders, he thinks. This is the drug addict pimp who beats my Rebekka. He has to be the most evil person in my life.
And he sounds a little like James Spader. With the faintest hint of a Swedish accent.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Nilsson, this is, ah, Doctor Thomas Warren."
"Yes?"
A pause. "I, ah...we need to talk, Mr. Nilsson."
"I think that's a grand idea."
"Well, I mean--"
"Let me check my appointment book."

Anders grabs the book closest to hand--it happens to be a hardbound copy of Dante's The Inferno--and makes a loud show for Thomas's benefit of opening it and flipping through the pages.
"I have an opening tomorrow afternoon at one. How is that for you?"
Lydia taps Anders's knee and gestures wildly, mouthing: We'll be out of town tomorrow at one. Anders mouths back: Doesn't matter. I'm still free at one.

"One...o'clock tomorrow is fine," Thomas answers, thrown by the man's apparent enthusiasm. "Shall I, ah, come to your place, or--"
"Do you know the Caffe Sollozzo?" Anders asks.
Thomas thinks for a moment. "Is that the one next to the toy store? If so, then--"
"Be there at one, tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, I'll be there, but how will I recognize you?"
Anders pauses. "I look like Rebekka's brother." He covers the mouthpiece and looks up at Lydia. "What a dumbass. I swear." Uncovering the phone, he says, "Actually, it'd be easier for me to look for you."
"Okay. I'll get there a little earlier and order a kiwi-flavored Italian soda. Plus I'll wear a bright blue tie," Thomas replies.
"It's a small place. I'm sure there'll be no problem," Anders assures him, and slams his makeshift appointment book closed. "Tomorrow, then."
"Thank you, Mr.--"
click

Thomas blinks, then hangs up the phone. He shivers once more, then goes back to work.

Lydia looks at Anders with a big question mark on her face as he hands her The Inferno. "So who was he?" she asks, weighing the book absentmindedly.
"Rebekka's little boyfriend," Anders replies, then picks up the phone again.
"I see. Well, you know you can't meet him tomorrow."
"I wasn't going to. Now shut up--I have to make another call." He quickly punches in a number and sits back. "Earle," he says abruptly. "Nilsson. Would you like another agent?" He grabs a pen and a piece of junk mail off the occasional table next to him and scribbles a note, which he waves at Lydia. "Yes. Yes," he continues, and mouths: Please.
Lydia shrugs and walks into a back room as Anders continues. "Tomorrow afternoon, at the Caffe Sollozzo, one o'clock. He'll be wearing a blue tie and drinking a kiwi soda." He nods at Lydia, who emerges from the back with a small bag of cocaine. She hands it to Anders along with The Inferno.
"That's right. Yes. Have them stop at the toy store before. Lyds wants to give something nice to the baby," he says into the phone, looking up at Lydia, who isn't sure what to do; she decides to smiles benignly, pleased but confused.
Anders fingers the bag of powder as he says his goodbyes. "All right. 'Til later." He stares at the phone for a moment after hanging up, as if to confirm the conversation and set it straight in his head. "The tables appear to have turned," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"You okay?" Lydia asks.
He looks up at her. "Yeah," he says simply, and shakes his head in disbelief. "Just fine," he continues, and breaks into a grin. He opens the bag and begins tipping its contents onto the hardcover.
She points to the book. "I thought--"
"I think the coffeeshop is open. Join me in welcoming the conventioneers." He drops his voice to a wide-eyed whisper as his mouth turns up in the slightest of grins: "Look--they're lining up already."

Dion climbs back into the driver's seat of the company car alongside Laura. It's an unobtrusive car, one that no one would take much notice of, and it's parked in an equally unobtrusive way that allows them to keep an eye on David's house. No activity yet, though--and Laura is getting tired of waiting.
"Who did you call?" she asks.
"Voice mail," Dion answers, staring at David's front door. "I thought maybe someone had some news on Emily."
"You could have used the cell phone," Laura points out, and waves it in front of his face. "In fact, now that I think about it, anyone who had news for us would have called the cell phone in the first place."
Dion looks distracted. "You know, I never even thought of it. I guess I'm not used to having one." He shrugs. "Any sign of him yet?"
Laura shakes her head. "I would think you'd have called for backup, seeing as how David is such a dangerous homicidal maniac with a warehouse of weaponry. Are you sure this isn't a personal vendetta?"
"Are you saying you wouldn't be upset with someone who took your daughter? Are you upset? What kind of mother are you?" Dion splutters.
"Of course I'm upset, and worried! I just don't think David had anything to do with it," she counters. "There's some sort of big-bad-older-brother complex at work here, and--"
"It's nothing like that. Look: He had the motive--he was fired as Em's nanny and was facing the possibility of never seeing her again. He had the means--one signature on a release form and Em was his. He had the opportunity--he just had to stop by the place and pick her up. It's not like he couldn't get away from the office, after all."
Dion turns toward the window again and is silent. Laura looks out the other window and drums her fingers lightly on the steering wheel for a moment, then faces forward, lifting her hands above the wheel as though feeling for heat from an iron. She drops her hands and grips it tightly before letting her hands slide down around the sides to rest at 5 and 7 o'clock. The waiting is getting so old, and for what?
She glances at Dion. "You're jumping to conclusions. Why won't you consider any other suspects?"
"Why won't you consider this one?" he counters.
"You hate David because Emily loves him more than she loves you." The long-unspoken but oft-considered motive behind Dion's actions hangs in the air for a moment before dropping heavily to the floor, putting the car once again into an uncomfortable silence.
It is Dion who speaks first, staring into the space beyond his window. "I hate him because he's detritus. Because he broke up our family. Laura, David is nothing but a drug-addled waste of space, afraid of reality and deserving of nothing but revulsion and hatred." He pauses, then turns toward Laura, awaiting her response.
"I'd rather him be afraid of reality than you taking such liberties with it. And I'd rather a drug-addled uncle who takes care of my baby than a drug-addled husband who scares her to tears," she murmurs.
"I'm not--" Dion begins.
Laura closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Please, Dion, we'll talk about it later. I just want this to be over with."
Dion blinks. "This? What, this--this investigation, right?"
"That too."
The two lapse into silence.

Some time later, Dion shakes Laura awake, jabbing his finger toward David's house. "He's back, he's home, look!" Sure enough, David's little car is pulling into his driveway, but David is slow to get out. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment.
"Let's go," Dion says abruptly, and makes as if to bolt for David's door.
Laura grabs him by the shirt collar before he even makes it out of the car. "Not so fast. At least wait until he gets inside," she orders.
"He'll make a run for it, he'll see us and run--we have to go now!" Dion replies, straining against his wife's grip.
She shakes him roughly. "Goddammit, Dion! Listen to yourself!" she shouts. Dion looks over at David to gauge if her outburst has reached him; still sitting in his car, he apparently is still unaware of their presence. "Now if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right, damn you. I name myself the primary. You follow me, got that? And I ask the questions."
"But--"
"No buts! If you want him to be confronted at all, it's going to be on my terms. Now come on," she adds, stepping out of the car and closing the door behind her.

David had been overcome by the tide of chicken pox that had washed into his Portland neighborhood soon after he had turned five. His mother had put aside her art to tend diligently to her listless son; instead of paint on canvas, she had used her boldest brush to draw dots and swirls of calamine lotion on his itchy sores. For some years later she would recall how strong he had been, what a precocious sense of determination he had shown her when he stoically refused to scratch. Because of his self-imposed prohibition, he had emerged from the ordeal with no scars.
Nearly a year afterwards, his mother had been finding it harder to do much of anything, huge as she was with the baby who was to be Dion. David, remembering how much his mother had cared for him when he needed her, had helped out as much as he could with laundry, dishes, even shopping. She would tousle his hair affectionately and, again, remarked for years afterward what a godsend he had been.
Not that his father was never around. But Stephen was a busy man, around less often than he probably should have been as he left for work early and came home late. To be sure, it was a blow when the old man disowned him, but having him or not having him in his life seemed to make very little difference to David, both then and now, ten years later.
It is all this, then, that crawls through David's pained mind as he pulls into his driveway. As he puts the car into park and cuts the engine, he pauses to half-listen to the end of another vapid neo-carol--Jingle Bell Rock, as it happens--and thinks, I want my mom.
For a moment he entertains the idea of flying her in to be his nurse.
He clicks the key into the OFF position and pulls it out of the ignition. Only by concentrating on the door lock and latch can he open it. Despite the dead-sick withdrawal howling in the wings, David is determined to live, to act, to be as normal as possible. Maybe, he thinks, maybe if I act my strongest, maybe it won't hit me at all. Maybe. I hope.
After a silent one-two-three-oopsy-daisy count, he hoists himself up off the seat and into a wobbly but definitely upright position on the concrete driveway. He slams the door behind him--not hard enough, as it turns out, requiring him to open and reclose it--and decides he can bring in his tuxedo later. For now, it's hot soup, cold water, and sleep. It's too damn cold to sit outside and space out.

David is leaning on the jamb and unlocking the front door when he hears footsteps running up behind him.
"David," Laura calls out. He turns around to see her and his brother, she looking concerned, he looking mad, both looking tired and frazzled.
"Hey," he says amiably, with the best smile he can muster. Normal, normal he mentally mantras. "You two want to come in?" He turns back around to shove open the door.
Dion starts to say something, but Laura interrupts him. "David, we have a problem. It's Emily."
David's meager smile fades, and he stops mid-step on his way inside. "What's happened?" he asks.
"Someone's kidnapped her," Laura explains. David's face falls visibly, and he seems to fold in on himself as he leans on the door jamb, more heavily than before.
"Oh, God, please tell me you're kidding," he moans.
Laura glances over at Dion, who manages to look both furious and miserable under her gag order, then turns back to her brother-in-law and says softly, "No, David. May we come in?"

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Last edited on 4 June 2001 by N. S. Heath.
E-mail nora@heathens.co.nz.
Constantly under construction.
Portions of the CYOA copyright © 1994-2000 by their respective authors.
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