Summer Sons(80)

While it rumbled through the brewing process, he dug the list of names out of his pocket and booted up his laptop. Sam had left him three to research; two had bullshit nondescript names he had no idea how to locate, but the older couple—the last ones, the ones Eddie had missed out on—seemed easier. Sure enough, some lazy social media stalking and googling led him to their contact info in the digital phonebook by the time the coffee maker beeped completion. His arms burned as he scribbled the number onto the Post-It.

No part of the investigation process seemed particularly real to him, but digging up some elderly couple’s phone number through their Facebook accounts was exceptionally weird. Sorting through a script in his head for what he’d say, he grabbed his iced coffee and stepped onto the porch. Grim and sleek, the Challenger waited behind the house, a blot on the greenery of the alley under the broad blue sky. Before he approached, he texted Sam: I’m fine. going to reach out to some people on my list.

Daylight rendered the haunt marginally more inert, or so he had to hope, despite recent encounters. After a bracing sip of bitter, watery coffee—homemade, never as good—he popped the trunk again. Trepidation slowed his crunching steps across the gravel; he set the glass off to the side, wedging a little hollow into the rocks to support it, and bumped the lid all the way open. As before, he saw the spare tire and the Armor All, streaked now with a crust of dried gore from his indiscreet supernatural bullshit.

“Well, shit,” he grunted.

If Eddie’s murderer had left real traces behind, his own attempts had covered them over with fresh, gruesome leavings. Andrew sat on his ass on the gravel, then flopped backward, letting the searing pebbles dig into the meat of his shoulders and legs. What the fuck am I doing, he thought.

One task left for the morning. He let the crest of his miserable irritation drive him to tap in the McCormicks’ number. To his surprise, after three rings, a woman picked up with a friendly, “Hello, this is Lisa.”

“Uh, hi,” he sputtered, sitting up straight. The sun beat hard on his long-sleeved shirt. “My name is Andrew, I’m—sorry, this is going to sound dumb, but did a guy named Eddie Fulton reach out to you about doing some interviews? Local folk stories?”

She hummed on the other end, responding, “Yes, actually, about a month ago. What’s this about?”

“I’m a friend of his, and he—well, he passed, and I’m trying to finish up his work?”

“Oh,” she said, obviously startled. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

A long pause hung between them.

“Would you be willing to talk to me instead?” he asked.

“Sure, sure, hon,” she said. “I’ve got nothing else going on this afternoon, would you like to speak to me and my husband then?”

Clarifying that she had a man around the house, Andrew realized wryly. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

After another awkward pause, he wrote the address she gave him on his Post-It and hung up. He wasn’t cut out for police work. He grabbed his coffee and fled inside out of the heat, sweating from armpits to knees. In the fridge he found an assortment of pre-packaged salads, deli lunchmeats, and a plastic carryout container full of chicken wings with an electric blue sticky note on top that said “eat these Andrew.” He’d never laid eyes on such bounty at Capitol Street. While microwaving the wings, because the idea of preheating the oven to wait for them to crisp again amounted to torture, he opened his university email. Troth waited at the top of the inbox.

Hello Andrew,

I would advise speaking with me directly about your continuing research as Thom is busy in his own process at the moment. I did not want him and Edward to influence each other or be in competition, and have in the past guided them both toward separate arenas. I’ve instructed him to pass along relevant questions to me and to focus on his own dissertation. I’m happy to work with you as he pursues his own projects.

Best,

Jane Troth

The front door banged open at the same time the microwave beeped. Andrew stood in the center of the room with brow furrowed, re-reading her email and ignoring both, until Sam called out, “Hey, princess, you here?”

Andrew stuck his phone in his mouth and jerked both shirtsleeves down to his wrists as footsteps approached the kitchen. He took one long leap to the microwave. Sam rounded the corner of the doorway. Andrew sat his container of wings on the table and took his phone from between his teeth. One glossy patch of spit streaked the screen.

“Hey,” he said, belated and stiff.

“It’s your house, so I’m not judging.” Sam’s eyes glittered with mirth. “Perfectly good table right there to put your phone on though, just saying.”

Andrew picked up a chicken wing, stomach sour with hunger and nerves. “I texted you.”

“I was already heading over,” Sam said. “What’s the plan? I’m off work, at your disposal all afternoon.”

Andrew said, “I set up an interview, with the last people Eddie was supposed to talk to. You coming?”

Sam took the address from his hand and said, “That’s a hell of a drive, huh. But yeah, sure, why not.”

“Now?” Andrew swallowed his relief with a mouthful of chicken.

“Bring those,” Sam said with a gesture to the box of wings.