Cemetery Lake

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

There’s nothing like waking late in the day with a hangover. It’s something every cop goes through at some point. Perhaps the difference between a good cop and a bad cop is the frequency. Though even that may not be true. Good cops often drink lots just to help them get through it. And I’m not a cop anymore anyway.

My bedroom is a mess. I can’t remember the last time I made the bed, and I’m not even sure what the point of it would be. Socks, underwear, shirts, and more socks and underwear cover the floor. In the kitchen there are bourbon bottles and pizza boxes all over the counter. There are glasses everywhere and smells coming from cupboards I haven’t opened in a long time. It’s just like the Alderman house. I pour a glass of water and gulp down a pair of painkillers. I should probably eat, but never seem to have any appetite-though the number of pizza boxes suggests differently. I open the fridge on the off chance that might change, but when I see what’s in there I reckon I’ll probably never eat again. I make some coffee, then take a shower. It’s been a while since I used a washing machine or an iron, and I don’t see any point in breaking a tradition that seems to be working. I grab some clothes from the top of one of the hampers, figuring they’ll smell less than the ones at the bottom, and definitely less than the ones I just slept half the day in. I dig my hands into the hamper and pull up the clothes from the bottom, recycling them to the top where they’ll air out more.

The dining table has a stack of unopened bills. Bills for power, for the phone, for the mortgage, and for my wife. Most of Bridget’s bills are covered by insurance, but not everything. There’s even an outstanding bill from the florist. The rent on my office has expired-or, more accurately, I stopped paying it, and a message left on my machine says the lease is being terminated. I think after what happened the last night I was there they were quick to kick me out. The industrial cleaners came out to give me a quote, but I wasn’t there to see it. They tried contacting me for a bit, but then gave up. I don’t even know what in the hell happened. There’s probably a bill in here to tell me.

I don’t have the money to pay for another taxi-I’m not even sure how I paid to get home from the station. The small amount of cash left in my wallet already has a designated purpose. I don’t have a lot of options.

It takes me over an hour to walk to the cemetery, by which time the day is fading and my hands and feet are almost numb. The church looks dark and gloomy. Mine is the only car parked out front. I’m violating the boundaries of the restraining order even approaching it, but that’s just one more thing I couldn’t really give a damn about.

Just as I get the car started, a van pulls up behind me, blocking me in so that I can’t go anywhere. It’s a similar view to the one I had this morning, except it isn’t two policemen who wander over, but a reporter and a cameraman. I recognize Casey Horwell immediately. She pulls down on the front of her suit jacket to try to get her breasts looking a little better than they are, and it occurs to me that if she can’t get a miracle like that in a church parking lot she’s never going to get it.

“Just a few questions,” she says, knocking on my window. Her voice is muffled behind the glass.

“No comment,” I say back.

I don’t know what to do. I can’t drive anywhere, and I can’t talk to these people, and I can’t just sit here hiding, because that makes me look guilty or stupid or both. The only alternative is to open the door and climb out. Which I do. Then I think there was another alternative, but it involved pushing Casey Horwell over into the gravel and stealing the cameraman’s camera. Instead, I try my best to put on a blank face and use it to look into the camera.

And I say nothing.

“You’re back here at the cemetery where it all began,” she says, and I wonder how she knew I would be here-a tip-off or a lucky guess. Maybe luck didn’t have anything to do with it. Just logic.

I don’t respond.

“Which is strange, because it’s now on public record you have had a restraining order filed against you. You were picked up this morning violating it, and instead of being thrown in jail, the friends you so proudly have in the department let you out, and what’s worse is they bring you right back here so you can get your car.”

I let her carry on, not bothering to correct her mistake on how I got here. The last thing she wants me to do is to say absolutely nothing and give her dead air. She starts to scramble, trying to keep up.

“Would you care to comment on the disappearance of Sidney Alderman?”

I don’t answer her.

“Because my source tells me that you’re involved with his disappearance.”

Still nothing.

“What do you think Father Julian’s involvement is in all of this? How long will you keep stalking him? And how far do you think you will take it?”

Her questions are suggestive, but I don’t answer them. I’m sure that on camera I look tired and hungover and every bit the murderer she wants me to be. But there’s no way I’m going to say anything to her.

Finally she gives up. “That’s a wrap,” she says, and drags her finger across her throat. The cameraman lowers his camera. The light switches off.

“Who’s your source?” I ask.

“Didn’t think you were talking,” she says.

“Who?”

“You don’t seriously think I’m going to tell you that?”

“You can’t, can you, because there is no source,” I say. “You keep pissing people off, Horwell, and it’s going to catch up to you.”

“And you’ll take care of that? It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

I climb back into my car. She walks with the cameraman back to the van and I think I hear her saying there’s enough time to do something with the piece tonight. Great. That means I’ll be making the ten o’clock news. Just when my parents are likely to be watching.

The van pulls away and I wait until the lights disappear before driving off in the same direction, heading for the nursing home. I don’t want to spend any more time with the dead. I’m aware of the irony, of course-sitting with Bridget is hardly like spending time with the living. But Bridget doesn’t seem to mind the way I look or that my clothes are covered with stains that were once food related. She doesn’t care that I no longer show up with flowers. She lets me hold her hand while I stare out the window at the same useless view she’s been staring at for twenty-six months now. I don’t talk to her. What would I say? That I spent the first third of the day drunk, the second third asleep, and I’m planning on repeating one of those thirds for the rest of it?

The darker it grows outside, the more our reflections start to solidify in the window. If the accident hadn’t taken her away from me, would she still love me? Would the last four weeks of my life have turned her away? Or would she have saved me?

When I get outside I look up to see her sitting by the window, staring out. I give her a wave, and allow a flutter of hope that she might wave back. She doesn’t even move.

I stop at a bottle store on the way back to the cemetery. The pull of both these places is so strong I’m unable to drive anywhere else. The store is small and cold and full of bright colors and shiny bottles that suggest drinking ought to be a lot more fun than it is. The guy behind the counter doesn’t recognize me-I’ve been using different stores over the two months, which I guess means that part of me doesn’t want to be found out as a drunk by strangers. I use the last of my cash, emptying out my wallet and dropping the loose change into my pocket.

I park by the tree line near the caretaker’s grave. I open the fresh bottle of bourbon. I intend to let the remainder of the day slide by without me breaking any laws other than being too close to Father Julian. I wonder too, though without much hope, whether the cold might just come and take me in the night.