Cemetery Lake

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Schroder was right and wrong. Right that it was going to be a long night. Wrong about us getting it sorted. Landry showed up on cue, but their routine at trying to shake something loose from me was ruined by the murder weapon. It was planted, they both knew it, and that was the problem. They’d have had a better chance if they hadn’t found it. They held me long enough to go over the same questions and until they were satisfied the people going through my house had searched enough for, what I imagine, was evidence of what really happened to Sidney Alderman, evidence of what I suspected Father Julian was up to-only there was no evidence there. I could tell Landry was itching to keep me locked up, and that Schroder was tempted to go along with it, but in the end they had nothing to hold me on. Even the blood and dirt on my body I explained away as a bad fall while I was out walking trying to clear my head. Nobody bought it, but it didn’t matter.

When we’re done I’m escorted to the elevator by both Landry and Schroder.

“This isn’t over,” Landry says, and he’s right-it isn’t over. Somebody killed Father Julian, and that same somebody tried to send me to jail for it. I suspect that same somebody will be the man who killed those girls. I’m going to find that somebody.

When I get to the ground floor there are two officers there waiting for me. I follow them outside and I climb into the back of their car and none of us make any kind of conversation as they drive me home. We drive through the city. I stare out at the nightlife, people driving to or from work, to or from bars, to or from something better or something worse.

They drop me off in my driveway. They back away and this time there are no faces pressed up against neighboring windows to see what I’m up to. My house is locked up and I still don’t have my keys, so I go inside using the same busted window as before. Schroder never mentioned the window, and I guess maybe he figured out why it had been busted. My house isn’t any tidier since the police have scoured their way through it. The articles and pictures from the bedroom I’d set up as an office have all gone. All that are left are pinholes in the walls. The computer is gone, my notes are gone, even the whiteboard has been taken. Landry will trawl though everything and he’ll get me back in to answer more questions-maybe even later on today. But there is nothing in any of those notes about Sidney Alderman. Nothing about Quentin James.

I make some coffee, and the caffeine wakes me enough to realize I’m so tired I don’t even know what my next step should be. The coffee tastes good, but not good enough to consider making another. I stare at the glass on the counter, which is still full of bourbon. I think about tipping it down the sink, then I think about tipping it down my throat, and I don’t do either. I head down to the bedroom. Everything is messy. The mattress has been tipped up and thrown back on the base. All the drawers have been pulled out. The wardrobe has been opened and everything inside pulled out.

I head down to the laundry and check the washing machine. At some point the wash cycle stopped. The clothes I put in there are all done. There are bloodstains on some of them from the accident and from the trip into the woods, but those bloodstains are mine.

I take a quick shower. It feels like the best shower I’ve ever had, but I’m too tired to really appreciate it. Daxter stands in the bathroom and watches me as I dry off. When I’m done I feed him and he seems appreciative.

It’s almost six in the morning before I climb into bed. I reckon Landry and Schroder will probably be going through the same motions. I start to set the alarm, but in the end I can’t decide what time to set it for, so I switch it off. I bury my head into the pillows and try to get to sleep.