Lost Echoes

41

“Before we go any further,” the sergeant said, “my name is Sergeant Tom Pale. This scar on my face, I know it can be distracting, so I’m gonna tell you how I got it, so maybe you’ll quit wondering, ’cause I know you are. Everyone does. I want your mind on the business at hand, not this thing. A naked guy on PCP was using a Sheetrock knife on cars in a parking lot, scratching them up. I was on call. We got into it. I arrested him. By myself. Which was some real work. So that’s where the scar came from. I got the cut, he got his nuts squashed and lost hearing in his right ear. So that’s the scar story, all right?”

Harry said, “All right,” because the sergeant was correct; he had, in fact, been focusing on the scar. It was quite a doozy, ran from the sergeant’s left eyebrow under his eye, across his cheek, and cut deep into his lips. It had a kind of leathery look, and a shine like a sugary doughnut. It made the sergeant’s left eye look a little squinted.

The sergeant said, “So let’s go at the important business again. He lit a candle that wasn’t there, this big guy in the hat and coat, and he strangled the redheaded guy who was all trussed up? That right? After he lit this candle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Strangled him dead?”

“I believe so. Yes, sir.”

“He lit a candle? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Yeah.”

“But there weren’t any candles in the shelter. What did he do, put it in his pocket, take it with him?”

“The candles were there when it happened.”

“But not now?”

Harry shook his head.

The sergeant pursed his lips, brought his fingers together, steeple-style. “And he had on a long coat, collar turned up, and was wearing a hat? It ain’t that warm, son. That don’t sound right, him dressed like that.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“And the guy, what’d he do, crawl through a crack in the wall, hide under the bed? He didn’t come out with you, did he? Didn’t say anything to you?”

“He didn’t know I was there.”

“Ah. Because…?”

“It happened in the past.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Just wanted to be sure. So this guy from another time—”

“The past. And it was the memory of him, not actually him, that was there.”

“That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the guy from the past, he wasn’t really there, except in the sounds, which only you can hear?”

“Afraid so.”

“You see the killer’s face?”

“Not really.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t dream it?”

“I didn’t dream it.”

“This kind of thing, you said it has happened before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You on any kind of medication?”

“No, sir.”

“Spent any time in, you know, hospitals?”

“I suppose you could say I’ve seen a few doctors. But, no, outside of tonsils, no real hospital time.”

The sergeant considered this silently, as if trying to mentally phrase his next question before asking it.

Kayla came into the room. When she came in her perfume came with her. It was strong and unique, just the way it had been when they were kids. The room had a long table and a couple of drink and snack machines, a short table with a coffeepot and a microwave on it. There was also an empty box of doughnuts—ambrosia of the law—on the counter.

Kayla poured coffee into a paper cup, sat at the table.

The sergeant looked at her. Harry wasn’t sure what the look meant, but it meant something.

Kayla sat prim and straight. There were no wrinkles in her cop clothes. There was no expression on her face, but from time to time she looked at him. Her eyes were so green they appeared to be gems.

“All right,” the sergeant said, “Here’s the recap. This guy, one you saw, he killed someone in the past, exactly when, you don’t know, but he did, and you saw him, because you see stuff that’s in sound? That right?”

“That’s about it.”

“Sound?”

“Yep.”

“And I’m supposed to believe it?”

“Doubt you will, but that’s it.”

“And you’re saying the guy did it was Mr. McGuire.”

“I thought so. Now I’m not so sure. But someone was murdered there, and the memory of it was trapped in sound.”

“How long ago you think this murder happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you didn’t really see him, but you saw his ghost—”

“Impression, actually. He could be dead or alive. If it’s Mr. McGuire, he’s definitely alive. I probably shouldn’t have said it was him. It’s just who came to mind, because the killer knew the place, knew where the candles were. Guess that’s why he came to mind. Shouldn’t have said it was him, though.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have said it.”

Kayla said, “I got a question, it’s okay with you, Sergeant.”

The sergeant lifted his eyebrows, said, “Okay.”

Kayla leaned across the table toward Harry. She really did smell good. “The redheaded guy, can you describe him?”

“Him I saw very well. Redheaded, freckle-faced—”

“In match light?” the sergeant said. “In candlelight?”

“The light was on his face,” Harry said. “He wasn’t a big man. He wasn’t a kid, exactly, but he was young. Maybe my age, maybe some younger. He was as small as a child. The killer was strong though, guy that carried him. Way he carried him, coming down those stairs and all.”

“So the guys you dreamed,” the sergeant said, “the big guy had a coat and hat and the little guy was redheaded and freckle-faced.”

Harry was getting tired of this. He needed a drink. A tall drink.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Sure you didn’t try and encourage Miss McGuire to give you sex; sure you didn’t try and rape her?”

“I didn’t.”

“Got to wonder, a story like that. Sounds like something you would make up off the top of your head—”

“It’s not,” Kayla said.

The sergeant shifted in his chair to look at Kayla.

“I know Mr. Wilkes,” she said. “He’s always believed this sound business. He might have some kind of condition, but he’s telling the truth as he sees it.”

“Really?” the sergeant said.

“Yeah, really,” Kayla said.

The sergeant ran a hand through his hair. “Let me explain some things to you, son. What happened tonight, it could get your ass thrown in jail. And I don’t take kindly to men who mistreat women. I don’t take kindly to that at all.”

The door opened. An officer came in, beckoned the sergeant out. “One minute,” the sergeant said. He got up and went out.

Harry nodded at Kayla. She nodded back. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, then Kayla said, “When this big man came into the shelter, he just let the door slam?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t seem surprised by the sound?”

“No. The house isn’t that close, though. You could slam it a lot and it not be heard.”

Kayla nodded as if she already knew that. She had been there, the house and the shelter.

“You smell good,” Harry said.

“Yeah.” She broke her professional demeanor, smiled. “I’m not supposed to wear perfume on the job. But I can’t help myself. I’m addicted to it. Made it myself. From other perfumes. I wear too much, don’t I?”

“Not for me, you don’t.”

The sergeant was back; his attitude had changed. “I’ll make this quick. That was a call from the chief. He wants me to wrap this up. Chief got a call from Mr. McGuire, and he’s not going to press charges. His daughter isn’t either. They just want you to stay away from them and their daughter. Way they see it, some head problems got the better of you. I’m not saying that, but that’s what they say, and the girl, Talia, she says you scared her, but she thinks now you didn’t mean to hurt her. But she doesn’t want to see you again. Said you have a suit she bought.”

“The coat is still in the shelter. I’m wearing the rest of it. I’ll have it cleaned and returned. I’ll give you the tie, cuff links, stuff like that right now.”

“She bought all that for you?”

“Yes, sir. She didn’t like my Bealls suit. And, just for the record, she doesn’t like JC Penney either, and I’d guess she’s not crazy about Sears.”

Sergeant Pale studied Harry for a long moment, nodded slowly.

“Remember this. McGuire and the chief, they’re friends. Very tight. Hang together. Getting my drift? You’re getting a favor done here.”

Kayla walked Harry outside.

“Hey, great to see you,” Harry said. “Now if I could just throw up and shit my pants out here in the parking lot, it would be a perfect day…. Sorry—I talk stupid when I’m embarrassed.”

“That story you were telling, all of that sounds a little stupid.”

“I know. But that’s how it is. You’ve heard a similar story before.”

“I said as much.”

“And I thank you for that. Frankly, I’m kind of used to being thought an idiot.”

“You said you didn’t do that anymore.”

“I lied. I hadn’t seen you in a while, and I didn’t want to touch on the fact that I might be a fucking nut.”

“We could always be honest with one another, Harry.”

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Not so long. Not really. You know what I think?”

“What?”

“You need a better class of friends. Girlfriends, for that matter.”

“She wasn’t very nice when you met, was she?” Harry said.

“You didn’t exactly rush in to support me.”

“No. No, I didn’t. I should have. I feel like the biggest dumb cluck in the world. Joey was right. She didn’t give a damn about me. I think she was using me to make another guy jealous. I’m slow on the uptake.”

“You’re trusting.”

“And how kindly that trait has treated me.”

“Wait a minute. Joey? You mean Joey Barnhouse?”

“Yep.”

“He was always such an asshole. I thought he’d be dead by now. Maybe shot while stealing beer from a convenience store.”

“You’ll be happy to know he hasn’t changed…. You know what, Officer? I don’t know how I’m going to get home.”

“I’m going to drive you.”

On the way to his apartment, driving slowly down dark streets, Harry said, “Questions you asked, I get the feeling you might believe me. Not just believe I believe, but that you might think there’s something to it.”

“I’ve thought a lot about what you told me long ago. About the sounds.”

“And?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

They drove a distance in silence. Harry was thinking about what he had read in the newspaper those long years ago, about Kayla’s dad hanging himself. He didn’t want to bring that up, but he certainly thought about it. Instead, he said, “How was Tyler?”

“Too many churches. Not enough Christians.”

“The school all right?”

“Pretty good.”

“You probably don’t know about it, but my dad died.”

“No. I didn’t. I’m sorry. He was a nice man. Recently?”

“A while back. Heart attack. Died at home.”

“You probably know about my dad.”

“Saw something in the paper.”

“Pink.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

When they arrived at Harry’s apartment, Kayla pulled to the curb. “It’s the one on top,” he said.

Kayla nodded.

“Maybe we could talk,” Harry said. “Have some coffee sometime. It’s been a while.”

“Sure.”

Kayla wrote down her phone number, gave it to Harry. “Old times,” she said.