Tunnel Vision

61

Zack was shaking uncontrollably by the time Sarah dropped him off. Very little was said during the ride. She apologized several times, and he nodded acceptance. But it wasn’t her fault.

Nor was his mind on resentment or anger or disappointment. He wanted to say something conciliatory, sensing that she felt blameworthy. But it wouldn’t come out, constrained by the singular emotion that made his chest pound and his ears click and his mouth turn spitless with dread. He muttered a good night and jumped out of the car.

And he knew why.

And like a force of gravity, that knowledge yanked him out of the car and up the stairs to his apartment.

He tried stalling the pull by drinking a glass of warm milk and slipping into bed. He even fingered what was left of the Lunesta and Haldol in the dark, his body feeling as if it had turned into a giant cardiac organ, throbbing wildly.

Why are you stalling? Get up and get it over with.

He shook away the voice and popped the pills with the milk. Then he rolled over and tried to shut down his mind.

Impossible.

He tried to focus on absurd things like floating through the air, sailing across Boston. He ran pi to fifty places twice. Nothing. It was still there, pulling at his brain like a bungee cord. And he knew it wouldn’t let up until he knew for sure.

God, I don’t want this, he thought. I don’t want to know.

But it was now or tomorrow or the next day. Might as well get it over with, he told himself. Might even be wrong.

He threw off the covers and padded out of the bedroom and into the other room, where he stumbled to his desk and flopped into his chair.

Years ago, when he got his driver’s license, his mother had said that she had to go to Mount Auburn Hospital for a procedure. He’d pressed and pressed until she’d revealed that she had a lump in her breast. For days he’d prayed that it not be malignant. As he sat in the dark, all that rushed back.

“Don’t let it be,” he said to the dark. Then he turned on his laptop.

Shaking, he clicked on Google and wrote in the name. He got two dozen hits. But at the top was an item from the Hartford Courant that he read as if in a premonition:

The body of Mitchell Gretch, 34, of Cedar Road, Manchester, was buried yesterday in Cedar Hill Cemetery in Manchester. He was found bludgeoned to death four days ago on Bolton Road, lying in a pool of blood. He had apparently been attacked with a tire iron while fixing a broken muffler pipe on his automobile.…

Gooseflesh shot up his torso and across his scalp.

Thirteen years ago, Gretch was exonerated from a murder charge of Jacob Kashian, from Carleton, MA, but that case was dismissed by the judge for insufficient evidence.

Coincidentally, his alleged accomplice in that homicide, William Volker, died last week from an accident in his home in Waltham, Massachusetts. Local police have ruled out foul play.

Manchester police believe that Gretch was murdered by an unknown assailant who used the tire iron from Gretch’s 1992 Mitsubishi sports car.

Police have named no suspect or suspects and say they are continuing to investigate the circumstances of Gretch’s death.…

As if on autopilot, he Googled William Volker. Instantly a dozen hits came up, at the top of which was an article from The Boston Globe: “Freak Weightlifting Accident Claims Life of Waltham Man.”

Zack’s brain could barely register what he was reading. Jake’s other killer. He didn’t have to double-check on the dead hit-and-run woman. He knew.