Heartsick

CHAPTER 29

Archie knew that Debbie would call him when she’d seen Susan’s second story. It didn’t matter that it was before 7:00 on Sunday morning. She knew that he’d be up. There was a killer loose and the clock was ticking, and even though there was little he could actually do but wait for something to happen, sleep seemed an admission of defeat. As it was, he was sitting on his couch reading printouts of Lee Robinson’s mash-note E-mails. Nothing like going through the private thoughts of a dead teenager to make you feel like a voyeuristic asshole. He had been up long enough to have already had coffee and two runny eggs, but only to have food in his stomach so he could take some Vicodin. He always allowed himself extra Vicodin on Sundays.

“Have you seen it?” Debbie asked.

Archie leaned back and closed his eyes. “No. Tell me about it.”

“She talks about Gretchen. What she did to you.”

They don’t know half of what she did to me, thought Archie. “Good. Are there pictures?”

“One of you and one of Gretchen.”

He opened his eyes. There were Vicodin on the table. He lined them up in a little row, like teeth. “Which one of Gretchen?”

“The mug shot.”

Archie knew the one. It was the first time Gretchen had been in the system. She had been picked up for writing a bad check in Salt Lake City in 1992. She was nineteen and her hair was shoulder length and teased, her expression startled, her face gaunt. Archie allowed himself a smirk. “Good. She hates that picture. She’ll be pissed. Anything else?” He picked up a pill and rolled it between his fingers.

“Susan Ward hints at sordid details to come of your much-speculated-upon captivity.”

“Good.” He put the Vicodin in his mouth, letting the bitter chalky taste sit on his tongue for a moment before washing it down with a sip of tepid black coffee.

“You’re using her.” Debbie’s voice was low and Archie could almost feel the heat of it against his neck. “It’s not fair of you.”

“I’m using me. She’s just a vehicle.”

“What about the kids?”

The effects of the opiates made his skull feel soft, like a baby’s. He reached up and touched the back of his head, feeling his hair beneath his fingers. Ben had fallen from the changing table when he was ten months old and cracked his skull. They had spent the whole night in the emergency room. No, Archie remembered, correcting himself, Debbie had spent the whole night. He had left the hospital early in the morning. There had been a call. They had found another Beauty Killer body. Just one of dozens of times he’d left Debbie for Gretchen. He could remember every one of the crime scenes. Every detail. But he couldn’t remember how long Ben had been in the hospital. Or where exactly the fracture was.

“Are you there?” he heard Debbie’s disembodied voice ask from the receiver. “Say something, Archie.”

“Read it to them. It will help them understand.”

“It will scare the crap out of them.” She paused. “You sound really high.”

His head felt like warm water and cotton and blood. “I’m fine.” He picked up another Vicodin, rubbed it between his fingers.

“It’s Sunday. You don’t want to be high when you see her.”

He smiled at the pill. “She likes it when I’m high.”

The truth. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

The line was heavy with silence, and Archie could feel Debbie let him go just a little more. “I’m going to hang up now,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. But she was already gone.

When the phone rang a few minutes later, Archie thought it was Debbie calling back, and he picked the phone up on the first ring. But it wasn’t Debbie.

“This is Ken, down in Salem. I’ve got a message for you. From Gretchen Lowell.”

Bombs away, thought Archie.