Orphans of Wonderland Page 7

  “And you’re certain he was telling you the truth?”

  Katelyn’s eyes, red from tears, locked on his. “My father didn’t lie to me.”

  “No, of course not, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” This time it was Joel’s turn to sigh heavily. “Can either of you think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt Lonnie?”

  “No,” Katelyn answered.

  Adam shook his head. “No, sir, I can’t.”

  “All right. If I have more questions I’ll be in touch.” Joel finished off his water. “Now, Katelyn, you said you had more to tell me. I’m ready to hear it.”

  She tensed up again, and rather than lean against the bar counter as she had since Joel arrived, Katelyn gathered his and her empty water bottles, walked to a bin in the corner marked RECYCLABLES and dropped them inside. “My father wasn’t the type who scared easily,” she said with her back to them. “Or much at all, for that matter. When I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with a single time, not even one memory, of ever seeing my father afraid.” Slowly, she turned around. “Until the last months of his life. He was terrified. I’d never seen anyone so frightened. Maybe a child, but not an adult, and certainly not my father.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  The dark memories lingering at the back of Joel’s mind begged to differ, but he saw no sense in arguing the point. “Did he say anything specific about the people he thought were following him and had marked him, or expound at all on his fear that something bad was going to happen?”

  “On more than one occasion I asked him to elaborate, but he kept saying he didn’t want me to know what he knew, what he’d seen. I got the impression he was more concerned with protecting me from whatever he was dealing with, and telling me anything more or giving me any details would have the opposite effect.”

  “And this sort of behavior went on for months?”

  “It was a gradual thing,” Adam said, and then, realizing his wife was less than pleased that he’d interrupted, added, “wouldn’t you say so, honey?”

  Katelyn nodded. “It began with a change in his behavior, then progressively got worse, yes.” She moved closer to the counter. “There’s something I haven’t told the police.” She hesitated, as if she’d expected Joel to say something. When he didn’t, she continued. “A few days before my father was killed, he asked me to meet him at a diner not far from his apartment. When I did, he gave me something.” She looked to Adam, and this time gave him a quick nod. He immediately hurried off, disappearing into the other room. “He told me not to tell anyone about it—he was adamant about that—and that if anything happened to him, I was to destroy it.”

  Adam returned carrying a small, wrinkled paper bag. He handed it across the counter to his wife without comment, then sat back down.

  Katelyn removed a thick notebook from the bag. With shaking hands, she placed it carefully on the counter between them. “This is what he gave me.”

  Joel watched as she slid it over to him. There seemed nothing remarkable about it, just a standard four-subject spiral notebook one might find at any number of stores. He opened it.

  Written on each line were a series of numbers that repeated again and again, all the way down the first page. “What is this?” he asked.

  “Keep going,” she said softly.

  He turned the page. The second page was identical to the first. The numbers were the same, all of them written in the same intense, somewhat hurried hand. Joel drew a breath and went to the third page. It was the same. Unsettled, he flipped quickly through the notebook. Every page was filled with the exact same number sequences, repeated again and again throughout the entire notebook.

  “Jesus.” Certain all the blood had drained from his face Joel slowly ran a hand up over his forehead and through his hair. “Did Lonnie do this?”

  “It’s his handwriting, yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Katelyn swallowed so hard it was audible. “I have no idea.”

  “He didn’t say anything about it?”

  “Only that I was to destroy it if anything happened to him.”

  “But you didn’t. Why?”

  “Because I felt that if you agreed to help us, you needed to see it.”

  “Why didn’t you show it to the police?”

  “They already think my father was out of his mind. A notebook full of the same numbers scribbled thousands of times wouldn’t exactly help to convince them otherwise.”

  Joel nodded. “Yeah, I can see what you mean there. But you have to agree that it’s not normal to have something like this. It’s not normal to do something like this.”

  “For some reason, it had importance to him.”

  “Regardless of his mental state or what he may or may not have been suffering from, Lonnie was still murdered; there’s no disputing that. You need to show this to the police, Katelyn.”

  “Turn to the last page,” she said.

  He flipped through until he’d reached the final sheet. Drawn across it in pencil were a haphazard series of stick figure sketches of extremely disturbing humanoid beings with distorted limbs and several lines scribbled across and hanging from their bodies and heads.

  “He claimed that’s what they looked like,” Katelyn said. “The demons.”

  Joel pointed to the odd lines hanging from the bodies. “What is this supposed to be, clothing of some sort hanging from them?”

  “Not hanging. Dripping and running. It’s blood.”

  He slammed the notebook shut. “You have to turn this over to—”

  “I don’t trust the police.”

  “The sketches are very disturbing, but they could mean something. And the numbers are likely a code of some sort. If it is, they have people who can—”

  “I’m giving it you, not the police.”

  “Katelyn, listen to me. You need to give it to them. I know you’re upset with the cops right now, but your father’s murder is less than two weeks old. It’s still a fresh wound for you, and I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly about this. You’re frustrated, and I don’t blame you, but investigations like this can take time to—”

  “If you don’t want it, I’ll follow through with his wishes and destroy it,” she said evenly. “But I’m not giving it to the police.”

  Joel looked to Adam for help, but soon realized none was forthcoming. After a moment, he took the notebook and tucked it into his case. “I’ll see what I can come up with on it. Is there anything else?”

  “I think we’ve covered it.”

  “His apartment, have you broken it down and vacated it yet?”

  “No. The landlord gave us until the end of the month.” Katelyn wiped her eyes again but seemed to have evened out emotionally. “We’ve been meaning to get to it, but it’s difficult. I can’t spend much time there. It’s too upsetting.”

  “I’ll need to borrow a set of keys. I’m sure you and the police have been through his place thoroughly, but I’d like to take a look too.”

  “His address is listed on the disk I gave you, but I can show where it is if—”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll find it.”

  Katelyn moved to a drawer next to the sink, pulled out a set of keys on a metal ring and handed them to him. “The gold one unlocks his front door.”

  “I assume he had a car?”

  “A blue Chevy pickup truck, actually. We plan to sell it, but it’s still parked on the street across from his apartment.” She pointed to the key ring. “The black one.”

  Joel retrieved his coat from the couch and slipped it on. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks again,” Adam said, offering his hand.

  “I’ve only got a few days to dedicate to this,” Joel explained as he shook first Adam’s hand, and t
hen Katelyn’s. “But soon as I have anything—assuming I do—I’ll let you know. If either of you remember anything else you think might be useful, or hear anything more from the police or anyone else with further developments, let me know right away. This lists my cell number.” From his wallet, he removed a business card he had for his position at the newspaper, and placed it on the counter. “I know this is a very difficult time. Try to hang in there. I’ll do my best for you.”

  “I believe you,” Katelyn said, though in a tone that could only be described as noncommittal. “I have all the faith in the world that you’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Joel opened his eyes and focused on the window and night beyond. The sultry jazz continued in his earphone, relaxing him as much as could be expected. Except for the light from his iPod, the motel room was draped in darkness. The highway outside was less traveled now at this even later hour, though the occasional pair of headlights still streaked past now and then.

  Somewhere not so very far from there, Lonnie lay dead in his grave, already a memory. Suddenly. Irreversibly. Joel tried to remember the last time he’d seen him.

  Not long after Joel graduated from college and landed the job at The Boston Globe, they’d run into each other at a local eatery in Westport, the town they’d grown up in. Although Joel was already living in Boston, he’d returned to visit his father for the weekend. It was the first time in more than a year that he’d seen or spoken to Lonnie, or any of the guys for that matter, and although it had been a pleasant exchange, there was a degree of awkwardness between them that had never existed before. Their lives had already gone in different directions, and they had far less to talk about than they once had. Still, when their conversation had run its course, Joel had told him how nice it was to see him, and he’d meant it, and Lonnie had said, “You take care of yourself, man.”

  Those were the last words he ever said to him.

  Nothing, it seemed, had quite worked out the way they’d hoped.

  Joel pushed the memories away. It was very late but he still didn’t want to go bed. It had been a long time since he’d slept apart from Taylor, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. But exhaustion was winning out. Besides, he had a long day coming up; the last thing he needed was to be falling asleep at the wheel. He needed to be alert and on the clock. He had work to do.

  Not only did he have plans to check out Lonnie’s apartment in the morning, he’d likely have a sit-down with the police at some point too. Earlier, he’d called the lead detective on Lonnie’s murder case, a man named Michael Rossi, and explained he was a friend of the family, had a few questions and wanted to meet with him whenever it was convenient. Rossi explained he had a full schedule but might be able to meet with him briefly the following afternoon. He took Joel’s name and number and promised to call him back. Pleasant enough over the phone, though cautious and all business. Joel knew that odds were the detective would look into him before their get-together. He could only hope Rossi didn’t realize who he was, because if he did, there’d be nothing but hostility coming Joel’s way. Hopefully, after all these years, it didn’t matter anymore, as most of the cops he’d dealt with years ago in New Bedford, Fall River and many of the surrounding towns had been older back then. Many were likely either no longer alive or long since retired.

  He wondered if those who had died knew more now than they had then. Had they gained truths in death they’d never been able to grasp or comprehend in life? Did they know all the answers now, or was it the other way around? Maybe the truth was here with the living, but just like faith, it was elusive as a whisper, mysterious as a slow spiral of smoke. There, then gone before you could be sure.

  Katelyn’s voice lingered in his mind.

  I have all the faith in the world that you’ll get to the bottom of this.

  Funny thing, faith: it could cure or kill. All depended on who was wielding it.

  And why.

  Chapter Eight

  The new day brought sunshine, but the cold temperatures remained. Up and out early, Joel hit the road, activated his GPS and headed for Lonnie’s apartment.

  He was still a few blocks away when he noticed a car following him.

  At first Joel thought he was being paranoid, but the same car had been behind him for the last several minutes, and he’d been followed enough times years before to know what to look for, and to recognize when the authorities or others were following him. The black four-door sedan, a Crown Victoria with Rhode Island plates, screamed unmarked cop car, and while the driver was male, due to glare and distance it was very difficult to see any detail beyond that. The car had been there since Joel first noticed it in his rearview mirror more than five full minutes prior, but was never directly behind him; there were always one or more cars between them. Whoever the tail was, he knew what he was doing.

  But why would the police be following him? If the car had had Massachusetts plates, it might make some sense that Rossi ordered the tail after their phone call, assuming he’d known exactly where to find him that morning (which was, at best, unlikely). But the car clearly had Rhode Island plates, and Joel had no history or connection, professionally or personally, in that state. So why would cops from Rhode Island be following him? It made no sense. Perhaps they weren’t cops at all. But then who the hell were they?

  It took a few minutes, but eventually Joel was able to make out the entire license plate. He grabbed his cell and dialed Billy’s number. Billy had friends at the police department back home, and could easily get a plate run.

  “Billy Gill.”

  “Hey, it’s me. Can you do me a quick favor?”

  “Hi—yeah, sure—you get down there okay? Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, just pressed for time. Got a license plate I need run ASAP.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Rhode Island plate,” Joel said, reciting it to him. “Got it?”

  Billy read it back.

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Joel hung up and, ignoring the GPS, took a few unnecessary turns just to be sure. Each time, within seconds, the Crown Vic appeared in his rearview. “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” he muttered.

  Remaining calm, he went back to following the GPS instructions and turned at the next corner. He drove into a congested intersection, which he went straight through, and a few minutes later arrived at the correct street. Rolling slowly along the avenue, he searched for the right number. The neighborhood, not nearly as nice as Adam and Katelyn’s, was much deeper into the city proper, and although there were a couple nearby commercial properties—a dry cleaner, and a liquor mart that advertised check-cashing services—the street was otherwise residential, comprised of aged, gloomy, timeworn tenements and a few large, old houses that had long ago been converted into two-family homes. Small and unimaginative, Lonnie’s was a boxy, three-story apartment building about halfway up the first block. Joel pulled over into the first space he could find, then checked his rearview.

  The Crown Vic slipped along the cross street behind him and vanished.

  He stepped out of the car and looked around. There was no one else on the street, and the neighborhood, at least this time of day, was relatively quiet. It made Joel sad to think that this was where Lonnie wound up, in such a drab little apartment house in a rundown area like this. He’d never been wealthy, having been born into a lower middle-class family in the nearby town of Westport, but had grown up in a nice, modest house in a decent neighborhood, just like Joel and the rest of the guys. But at the end of Lonnie’s life, he had a worse standard of living than when he’d started. Maybe Katelyn was right after all: despite the years of hard work her father had logged, when it was all said and done, he had very little to show for it.

  Joel scanned the cars parked on either side of the street until he spotted Lonnie’s pickup truck. He decided to check that out fi
rst, as it would allow him to kill some time to see if the Crown Vic returned. If it did, he wanted to be on the street, where he could get a better look at the driver.

  Using the key Katelyn gave him, he opened the truck’s driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. The truck was immaculate, except for loose change in the cup holder and a crumpled McDonald’s bag on the passenger’s side. Joel leaned over and grabbed it. An empty Big Mac box and what was left of some fries. He closed the bag, tossed it back on the seat, then popped open the glove compartment. Nothing out of the ordinary: the owner’s manual, the truck’s registration, a folder from a local Midas shop with a warranty for a replaced muffler and exhaust system, some paper napkins, a ballpoint pen and paperwork regarding the truck’s last inspection, which it had passed several months ago. Joel slapped closed the glove box, checked under both visors, found nothing, then opened the center console, which folded down in the center of the bench seat. Empty. Either Lonnie had kept very little in the truck or the police had picked it clean.

  Joel watched the cross streets at the top and bottom of the block, alternating between them every few seconds. A steady stream of vehicles moved along both, but not his tail, so he vacated the truck, locked it and headed for Lonnie’s apartment.

  Before he reached the steps, he grabbed his cell and dialed Katelyn’s number. There were a few questions he’d wanted to ask her, but not until he was on the street and could get a feel for the area. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he told her when she answered. “Just need to ask you a couple other things. I have the address of the corner where Lonnie was killed, but I need to know where it is in relation to his apartment.”

  “If you come out of his building and go down the steps,” Katelyn explained, “then go to the right and walk straight for five blocks, you’ll eventually come to an intersection. The corner you’ll be standing on looks directly across the street at a large convenience store. That corner, where the store is, that’s where he was…” She exhaled loudly into the phone. “Shot.”