Spare Change Page 6

  With a thin strip of hair and a flannel shirt, he is a far cry from the man I saw in the park. This guy we’ve seen a hundred times before, a regular that we all know by sight, if not by name.

  “No way our guy would venture this close to the register,” Swinger says, putting to words the exact thing I am thinking, save the expression our guy. Reversing out, I move to the two remaining icons, one labeled Men, the other Women.

  Opting for the former, a second view opens before us, this one positioned in the rear corner of the bar. Bent to catch the faces of everybody entering, it affords a wide view of the place, covering most everything from the rear corner to the front edge of the bar.

  “Here we go,” Swinger whispers.

  Giving nothing more than a slight nod, I respond, “Seven?”

  Our group had come together at seven-thirty. Mira and I had arrived a couple of minutes late to find Stapleton and Ross already there. Swinger had walked in right behind us.

  Going back an extra half hour would give us plenty of time to see if anybody had been posted up earlier, waiting for us to show.

  “Yeah,” Swinger agrees, watching as I move the cursor along the bottom of the screen into position. In response, the recording skips backward, silent figures in shades of gray bouncing around the screen in double time.

  Seeing them, it’s all I can do to keep my nerves even. Every part of me wants to jump into the image and stare wild-eyed around the bar, ready to grab the bastard and drag him into the street. Sweat lines my forehead, the temperature in the room rising.

  “There you go,” Swinger says as we reach the right time. Stopping it, I pause the image, staring at each person present, running them against the image of the man from the park in my mind. “Anything?”

  Choosing not to answer for a moment, I keep scouring the people before me, picking through them, hoping for one of them – any of them – to resonate.

  “No,” I reply. “Not yet.”

  Setting the speed to double-time, we watch in silence as the bar comes alive for the night. As Ross is the first to arrive, followed in order by the rest of us. My stomach clenches tight at the sight of Mira walking alongside me, a smile on her face, light shining from her eyes. Just seeing her, so alive and vibrant just a few hours before, it all feels so surreal, like it is all some sort of last-day-on-the-job late-onset PTSD.

  Like tomorrow morning I will wake up and she will be wrapped around me, just like we’ve done so many times before.

  The timestamp in the corner progresses almost a full hour, neither of us saying a word, before I smash my finger down on the mouse. Instantly, the cursor halts the forward progress of the video, the image freezing in place.

  My ass rises a few inches out of the chair as I lean forward, my nose just inches from the screen.

  The guy looks a little different without the blanket draped over his head, but there is no mistaking the face, the hair, the clothes that he is wearing.

  Just as there is no way to ignore the smile on his face as he stares intently at our table in the corner.

  My first reaction was to laugh. Not openly throw my head back and howl, but to turn my head to the side and bury my face into my shoulder to hide the small chuckle that slid out.

  It’s not everyday one sees such a sight – a disheveled, even raggedier Raggedy Ann vomiting in the bushes – and it was humorous. And I might have had a couple of beers in me, lowering my inhibitions more than usual.

  Once the initial reaction passed, I raised my gaze to Hetty, a single sardonic eyebrow raised. “Friend of yours?”

  In truth, I hadn’t seen Mira in the almost two months since the opening Athletic Mixer. Aside from a bit of open curiosity the following day, I hadn’t even much thought about her.

  “Not really,” I replied. “Met her at the athletic gathering at the start of the year. Racquetball.”

  The last part I added as a throw-in, something that only made the arch in Hetty’s eyebrow rise a bit higher. “I’ll go see if I can find a washcloth or something.”

  Turning on the heel of the Shrek-inspired moccasin she was wearing, she disappeared back inside, the sound of the music swelling as she entered. Just as fast it faded as the door swung shut, the crowd swallowing her from view.

  Waiting until she was gone, I rocked forward again, using the edge of the brick railing around the patio for leverage. Hoisting myself up so my stomach was flat against the rough brick, I hung balanced in the air, peering down at her.

  “Mira, are you okay?”

  The vomiting had stopped, though still the girl looked to be somewhere between the fourth and fifth rings of Hell. Drawing in several deep breaths, she looked up at me, her eyes pinched to little more than slits.

  “Not so loud.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, I couldn’t help but laugh, my stomach tightening as I lay stretched across it, all my weight resting on the pillow I wore beneath my shirt. Starting to respond, I thought better of it, instead sliding back down to my feet. Jogging slightly, I made my way across the patio and down the trio of brick steps off the back end. Circling wide, I came up on her from the side, brittle leaves crinkling beneath my feet.

  “This better?” I asked, my voice somewhere between a whisper and conversational.

  For a moment, there was no response. Nothing but a small groan as she raised a hand to her head, appearing to try and use it for balance. Feeling the wig twisted out of position, she slid it away, a pair of hair clips tugging slightly before ceding control.

  Once the item was free and clear, she rolled over onto her bottom, her back leaning against the brick wall behind her.

  Start to finish, a sequence that fell somewhere between humorous and pitiful.

  “You okay?” I asked again.

  The same pained wince was on her face as she looked up at me, her eyes screwed down so tight there was no way she could have possibly focused. “Sure.”

  Feeling a smile come to my lips, I turned and lowered myself to the ground. Using my palms and heels, I hoisted myself back against the wall, taking up a position beside her, forearms draped over my knees.

  “Man,” she said, her hand still pressed to her head, dark hair looped between her fingers, “what the hell did I drink?”

  Leaning forward a few inches, feigning as if I was actually looking to answer her question, I said, “I don’t know what you drank, but it looks like you had a bean burrito sometime in the recent past.”

  A small burst of air slid over her lips, an abbreviated laugh and nothing more.

  “And maybe a...” I said, drawing the sound out as if in deep contemplation, “sardine sandwich? Does that sound right?”

  This time, the laugh was a bit louder, lasting several seconds before being cut off, a sharp intake of air stopping it cold. “Shut up. I can’t laugh right now.”

  Knowing better than to push my luck, I raised my palms in surrender, hands still dangling over either knee. “Apologies.”

  Raising both hands to her head, Mira started at her temples, sliding them back along either side. Pressing in tight, it looked like she was trying to squeeze out the pressure, keeping the pain she was feeling at bay. A series of sounds rolled from her, some sounding guttural, others downright animal, as she worked her palms to the back of her skull before looking over my way.

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m sure the last thing you want on your Halloween is to be out here dealing with this.”

  “Naw,” I said, “Halloween is overrated anyway. Chocolate and scantily clad women? Who needs it?”

  A quick flash of white teeth appeared, there and gone in a second, disappearing as she lowered her forehead into her hands. “Dammit, I told you not to make me laugh.”

  Again, my palms raised in apology. Leaving them there, I lowered my voice and said, “Sorry. Just meant, I don’t mind at all, Mira.”

  Leaving it at that, I sat in silence for several moments. I reclined my head back against the wall behind me, trying to ignore the smells of alcohol and vomit passing my way or the cool of the ground and the brick penetrating my costume.

  With November just an hour away, it would be months before things grew any warmer. Two years in Oregon had already made me intimately familiar with the climate, the winter rains set to start at any time.

  With such thoughts passing through my head, I barely noticed as Mira lifted her head from her arms. Didn’t really even register as she turned her gaze to look my direction.

  But I damned sure heard her ask, “What’s your name again?”

  “Well, I, uh, I’m Shrek,” I managed, all breath drawn from my chest as I stared back at her.

  “Yeah, I got that,” she managed, “I meant, what’s your real name? Under all that green face paint?”

  Of everything in the world she could have said, it was quite possibly the last thing I wanted to hear.

  Right up until the instant she then rolled in the opposite direction and began vomiting again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Another car has been added to the parking lot outside the coroner’s office as we pull in. Sitting up high in Swinger’s enormous rig, the lights illuminate it fully, displaying the full length of the automobile and the man standing beside it. With his arms crossed, he is wearing the same clothes as earlier, instantly recognizable as he stands stone still, waiting as we step out of the truck.

  “Did you call him?” I ask across the hood of the truck, a pair of doors slamming shut ringing out behind us.

  “Better question is, why the hell didn’t you?” Wendell Ross asks. Stepping forward, he unwraps his arms from the front of him, keeping them at shoulder height. Knowing what is coming, what the gesture means, I step forward, allowing him to embrace me, barely able to return it.

  Not because I don’t want to, and not because I’m not glad to see him.

  Because like so many others thing right now, if I give in to it, there’s no way I keep myself from going right over that ledge.

  Gripping me for a moment, Ross says nothing. He doesn’t offer how sorry he is, doesn’t even want to know what happened. Slapping me twice on the back, he steps back, looking over to Swinger before coming back to me. “Let’s go see her.”

  Thankful that he too knew not to say her name, I nod. I don’t bother looking to either of my friends as I move back to the front sidewalk, trusting they are fanned out to either side behind me, an impromptu V working our way forward.

  Reaching the door first, I jerk it open to find Gomez pacing behind his desk. An expression somewhere between relieved and surprised passes over his features before he settles, looking to Swinger and then Ross as they step in behind me.

  If he thinks anything of the extra party member, he says nothing of it.

  “They just finished a little while ago,” he says, circling around from behind the desk. Raising his right index finger, he motions for us to follow, taking us across the front foyer, our shoes clicking against the polished tile. Using the same finger, he presses the elevator call button, the car already there and waiting.

  In silence, we all four pile in, riding it down to the basement. Each moment brings with it a bit more emotion, the pressure around me rising with each foot of our descent. Clenching and unclenching my hands, I wait for the eventuality I know is on the other side of the polished doors before me, the finality that it will symbolize.

  Still, I have to do this.

  Swinger’s hand touches my back for a moment, a quick tap of assurance as the elevator stops, the doors sliding open as the bell dings. The sound of it sends a cascade of goose pimples down my arms as we step out into a hallway that is at least ten degrees cooler than the foyer above. Positioned in the center of a long corridor, more of the same tile stretches in either direction, half of the overhead lights off for the night.

  In the absence of the remainder, long shadows stretch over everything, including the pair of metal double doors directly across from us.

  Stepping out from the elevator, Gomez pulls his right hand back to his hip. A sign that in another life the man was probably a soldier or a law enforcement officer, someone used to carrying a firearm, he doesn’t seem to notice that there is nothing but a ring of keys attached to a retractable cord hanging there, his gaze extending out in both directions.

  “You boys go right on in,” he says without looking our way, still surveying the hall. Who or what he is looking for, I don’t pretend to know, just thankful that the audience for the next few minutes will be minus one.

  “Thank you,” Ross says, finding the voice I no longer have. The air in the basement seems three times heavier than anything I’ve ever experienced, my body fighting to pull it in.

  Nodding slightly, I am aware of the sweat coating my face, the ripple passing up along my spine.

  Behind me, Swinger leans forward and whispers something in my ear. I have no idea what, as a dull buzzing seems to have settled in, white noise blocking almost everything else from getting through. Sounding vaguely like something close to, “We’re right here,” I again can only nod, my feet numb as I move forward.

  Extending a hand, I push through the left-hand door of the pair before me, a puff of chilled air hitting me full in the face as I pass inside. The competing smells of blood and chemical cleaners and death all hang thick in the air.

  Bile rises along the back of my throat as my gaze sweeps the room. One item at a time I take in my surroundings, from the even rows of stainless steel sinks on the back walls to the enormous stanchion lights packed into the corner. To my left are a row of matching gurney tables, everything polished and shined, ready for a new day to start in the near future.

  Inventorying everything in short order, my mind moves past all of it, my gaze instead settling on the rows of metal doors along the back wall. Each with its own locking mechanism, I know on sight they serve as the coolers for the recently deceased.

  That behind one of the paper cards affixed to the front of them is my Mira.

  My knees refuse to bend as I walk forward, my legs like stilts as I cross the floor. In my wake, I am vaguely aware of Swinger and Ross, their feet shuffling over the smooth tile, each giving me just enough space, neither saying a word.

  With each step, the back wall grows closer, my eyes drawn to the lone drawer in the last row with a card on the front. Somehow, even from a distance, I know that is the container I’m looking for, my pace increasing just slightly as I make my way toward it.

  Without even pausing to read it, I grasp the handle, the metal cool against my palm. Lowering my head for a moment, my eyes slide shut as I push out a long breath.

  No part of me is ready for this. Five hours ago, my world made sense. For the first time in a long time, I was doing exactly what I wanted to. Nobody left to tell me what to do or when to do it. Nothing but the future stretched out before me, my wife by my side, two young people ready to start off on another whirlwind adventure.

  With that thought at the front of my mind, I jerk the handle back, the stripping lining the drawer gasping as it releases its suction. Opening my eyes, I reach forward and grasp the bottom edge of the steel drawer, sliding it out. Bit by bit, the black plastic bag atop it comes into view, traveling more than six feet before reaching the end of its tracts and stopping, suspended parallel to the ground.

  Easing along the right side, I glance up just long enough to see my friends take a post across from me, my heart hammering in a way it hasn’t since the first time I ever saw live fire. Just like then my friends are beside me, though this time I know there is no chance at victory. This fight has already been lost.

  Will continue to be lost every day for the rest of my life.

  Extending my hands forward, I grasp the zipper along the top of the black bag and slowly pull it down. Inch by inch it slides easily, going more than a foot before I stop, unable to bring myself to go any further. Releasing the metal hasp, I fold back either flap of the bag, my breath catching in my chest as I look down.

  Even knowing what was coming, having had more than an hour to steel myself to it, there is no way to stop the jolt of electricity, the pangs of anguish, the violent spark of fury that simultaneously kicks me in the chest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For maybe the third time in the entirety of knowing him, Jeff Swinger is completely silent. Leaning against the front of his truck, his arms wrapped around his torso – not folded over his chest like usual, but more hugging himself tight – he looks deflated, like the scene downstairs just took him down two sizes.

  A few feet away, Wendell Ross stands with his hands shoved down into the front pockets of his jeans, the whites of his eyes spiderwebbed with red from the tears that were glassing his vision just moments before.

  I know exactly how both of them feel, their reactions and a hundred others shifting inside me as I stand in the parking lot outside the coroner’s office. Unsure quite what to do at the moment, we all stand in silence, each as shocked as the next, wondering how this happened.

  And what happens next.

  “God, Kyle...” Ross manages, making it no further.

  I have a hard time believing God has anything to do with what’s happened tonight, it all seeming like some cruel trick of the devil, but I nod anyway. I know what he is trying to say, and again appreciate his pulling up short of voicing it.

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  “If there is anything...”

  I know that. Just like I knew when I called Swinger he would show. And that if I’d called Ross instead, he would have been there without a second thought.

  Hell, that’s exactly what he did when he was called, even if it wasn’t me doing it.

  “When we first got here,” Swinger says, drawing both our attention toward him. His gaze aimed at the pavement between us, his voice is detached, unlike I’ve ever heard it before, “they weren’t ready yet. So we took a little trip over to Cartwright’s.”

  Opposite me, Ross watches Swinger, his brow coming together just slightly as he listens.