Goodnight Beautiful(66)
Why would I do that? you ask. Because I’m a nice guy. Because I care about people, Sam, and I appreciated the work you did, helping others understand the trauma of their childhoods. So much so that I went home and made a flyer. It took me no more than thirty minutes to find your car parked behind the bank, where I stuck the flyer under your windshield. Lo and behold you called just minutes later.
And I did everything you wanted, Sam. Professional lighting. A self-flushing toilet. Organic paint. I even did the one thing you couldn’t do: I visited your mother. (Anyone with two eyes and a pair of binoculars could see that you stopped going inside soon after you moved to town.) There’s a volunteer application available at their website, and bingo! It sounded fun. I know they don’t like me there. I see the way people look at me, ignoring the suggestions I leave in the suggestion box, but I don’t care, Sam. Because I wasn’t taking your mother to bingo twice a week to please them. I was doing it to help you.
But I can’t tell Sam any of this, because the last time I saw him was yesterday, when I dragged his lifeless body into the closet as the first journalist appeared, afraid he’d wake up and start yelling and someone would hear him. I’m so ridden with guilt over what I did that I still can’t bring myself to go down there.
I know, a warm bath will relax me. I search for Agatha Lawrence’s bath salts, which I remember seeing in the closet, when I hear a humming noise coming from somewhere in the house. It’s not in the bedroom, or the hallway; as I ease down the stairs, the sound grows louder the closer I get to the kitchen. Finally I make my way to the hallway, to Sam’s room.
“Good, you’re home.” Sam’s voice from inside is surprisingly firm. “Come in. I need something from you.” Hesitant, I return to the kitchen for the key, and return to his door. He’s in his chair when I peek my head inside, writing in his notebook. “Come in,” he says, waving me forward and then reaching to silence the clock on the table beside him.
“What is it you need?” I ask nervously.
“Your help.” I’m filled with shame when he glances up at me and I see the laceration in his lip, the swollen malar bone in his left cheek. “With a patient.”
“A patient?” I say, confused. “I don’t understand—”
“I’ll explain later.” He returns to his writing. “This feels somewhat urgent. Here—” He rips the page from his notebook and holds it out to me. “Take a look.”
I walk slowly toward him and take the paper from his hand.
“I’ve given you what I know of the patient’s history, a list of presenting problems, and my best guess at a diagnosis. I’d like you to review my work.”
“Review your work,” I repeat, guarded, sure this is some kind of mean prank. “Why?”
He hesitates a moment and then drops his pen and folds his hands on his lap. “All that listening you did at the vent paid off, Albert. I read through the notes you made on my clients, in that purple binder of yours. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. You have a mind for this work.”
“I do?”
“Yes. I’m impressed. And while I’ll eventually want to discuss some of the other things I found in those binders, I’d first like your help with this.” He nods at the paper in my hands. “It’s an old case—it’s been plaguing me for a while. I could use your help, if you don’t mind.”
I scan his notes. “I don’t mind at all,” I mutter. “In fact, I’m honored.”
“Good. And I’d like dinner soon, as well. That Salisbury steak, if you wouldn’t mind. And please, Albert, proper silverware this time.”
“Yes, Sam. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks, and I’d prefer you address me properly.” He picks up his pen. “It’s Dr. Statler.”
I nod and turn toward the door, chastened. “Of course. I’ll prepare your meal and then get right to work.”
Chapter 47
“Why would a guy text his wife that he’s coming home and then stash his car in a storage unit?” Annie says into the phone. She’s sitting on the floor of Margaret’s room, her back against the wall, drinking from a bottle of Miller High Life. This is what she’s been reduced to. Not yet ten a.m., drinking a warm beer she stole from a nursing home dining hall, asking Siri to explain why her husband texted her and then stashed his car at the Sav-Mor Storage facility on route 9, ten minutes from his office.
“I found this on the web for why would a guy text his wife that he’s coming home and then stash his car in a storage unit.”
Annie scrolls through the results.
How to prepare your car for long-term storage at Edmunds.
What is your ex from hell story (and how not to take the bait when he calls!)?
This last one posted two years ago, on the blog of a woman named Misty.
Annie sips her beer, wondering what Misty might have to say. Maybe it’s unanimous. Maybe, like Franklin Sheehy, Misty thinks Sam texted her and then stashed his car because Sam’s the type of guy who disappears when the going gets tough, confirming that the apple does not, in fact, fall far from the tree. And maybe Misty will also echo the other opinion Franklin Sheehy shared in the newspaper this morning: there’s not much more the police can do.