Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Schroder is on his way to the casino when he decides to drop in to see Raphael. The writers and producer of The Cleaner were annoyed at yesterday’s absence. He has the bad feeling that later on today or early next week somebody at the studio will be sitting down with him and telling him that was strike one, and in a disposable world he’s only going to be given one more strike and then he’s gone.

Coming here might be his second and only other strike.

“Detective,” Raphael says, and Raphael has a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else on except a pair of socks, and Schroder hopes he can look as good as Raphael does when he’s that age.

Schroder smiles. “It’s just Carl these days,” he reminds him. “Bad timing, huh?”

“Unless you’re planning on jumping in the shower with me,” Raphael says, laughing, and Schroder laughs at the joke too even if it was predictable.

“I just need a few minutes of your time,” Schroder says. “Should we go inside or do you want to stand on your doorstep in the cold and put on a show for your neighbors?”

“Umm . . . well, the thing is, Carl, I’m kind of in a hurry. Can we maybe do this later?”

“It won’t take long,” Schroder says, and it reminds him of last night, of Raphael standing on the doorstep to the community hall and not inviting them in. It makes him suspicious. Of course all the years he was a cop means everything seems suspicious to him. He feels like adding the good ol’ classic unless you have something to hide. He’s used that line plenty of times over the years to people who do have something to hide. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

“Umm, sure, I guess.”

Raphael turns and heads down the hallway. Schroder follows him. He’s been in this house before. This is where they came to tell Raphael and his wife that their daughter had been murdered. It was over a year ago, but being back here now makes it feel like it was only last week. Back then Raphael and his wife knew within seconds of opening the door that the news wasn’t going to be good, not when Schroder and his partner back then, Detective Landry, held out their badges and asked if they could come inside. Police didn’t show up to tell you good news—they didn’t show up and say you’ve just won the lottery or a vacation. The wife broke down before they even made it into the lounge, and Raphael and Schroder had to help her onto a couch. Raphael sat next to her and held her hand and kept shaking his head as if he could dismiss the news, and he kept saying But we saw her this morning as if those words could ward off the evil that was entering their lives. Schroder and Landry spent an hour with them. It was a life-changing hour for Raphael and his wife, and it was just one of many hours for Schroder and Landry, who had knocked on other doors and given similar news. He’s thought about Landry a lot lately, about Landry’s own life-changing hour, about Landry’s funeral almost a month ago. This house was tidier back then. Now the woman’s touch has gone, along with the woman.

They get into the lounge. Raphael is looking around as if he’s lost something.

“You’ve got guests?” Schroder asks.

“What? No, no guests.”

“You normally have two glasses of water?”

Raphael shakes his head. “One’s from last night,” he says, glancing around the room. “I poured it and didn’t finish it and, well, you know, just ended up being too lazy to clean up. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but if you look around the house you’ll find plenty more. If you’re offering to tidy up for me, I would appreciate the help.”

Schroder sits down on the couch. He believes him. The place doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in a while. There’s a stack of unopened bills on the coffee table. The TV Guide next to them is from last year. It’s been used as a coaster.

He reaches into his jacket pocket for the photograph that should have been in his car last night. He never did find where he lost it, but he did have another copy at home. There were a few things he’d copied twice. “Have you ever seen this woman before?” he asks, and he hands it over to Raphael, who is still standing, which Schroder is thankful for because if he sits it will be a view Schroder won’t want to see.

Raphael takes it and stares at it for a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. There’s no indication of recognition. No tilting of the head like last night when he was trying to remember if the names they gave him meant anything. There’s no changing the angle of the picture to get a better look. Then slowly he’s shaking his head. He hands it back.

“Should I?”

“Yes,” Schroder says. “At the very least you should recognize her from the news.”

“Why? Who is she?”

“Her real name is Natalie Flowers,” Schroder says.

“Oh, of course,” Raphael says. “Melissa. I didn’t recognize her. I don’t really watch a lot of news these days. It’s too depressing.”

“So you haven’t ever seen her at one of your meetings?” Schroder asks, and he hands back the picture.

“At a meeting?” Raphael laughs, then shakes his head. “Why the hell would she come to a meeting? He takes the photo and holds it closer to his face. Then he starts angling the photograph. He starts tilting the head. “This is Melissa?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t look . . .”

When he doesn’t finish, Schroder looks for the word. “Evil?”

Raphael doesn’t respond. He keeps staring at the photograph.

“You recognize her, don’t you,” Schroder says.

Raphael shakes his head. “I guess I do, you know, like you were saying, from the news. But other than that I’ve never seen her. Certainly not at one of my meetings.”

“Are you sure about this, Raphael?”

“Well, no, I can’t be positive. She must be using disguises, right? That’s why you’ve never found her. But as far as I know, no, she’s never been. I can’t imagine any reason why she would.”

“She might come along to enjoy the pain she’s caused,” Schroder says.

Raphael nods. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Schroder takes the photo back and tucks it into his jacket. It was worth a shot. He stands back up. He has a job to get to, and this isn’t it.

“Call me if you think of anything,” he says, knowing he’ll never hear from Raphael, that if Raphael does think of anything it will be the police he calls, not Schroder. Well, he’s done what he came here to do. He shakes Raphael’s hand.

“Any time, Detective,” Raphael says, and follows Schroder to the door.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“You weren’t supposed to see any of that,” Raphael says.

Melissa turns from the wall toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, wearing the towel and the underwear beneath and nothing else. “What is this room?” she asks.

He takes a step toward her. “This used to be our daughter’s bedroom when she used to live at home with us. When she moved out, we turned it into a study and all her childhood stuff was put into storage. When she died we set the room up how she used to have it as a kid.”

“Not exactly how she had it,” Melissa says, looking at the wall with newspaper articles pinned to it. This is quite fascinating. She can imagine Raphael sitting in here on the edge of the bed staring at this wall, plotting his revenge, the day turning to evening to dark to the middle of the night. Obsession mixed in with a little bit of alcohol.

“Like I said, you weren’t supposed to be in here,” he says, taking another step toward her. He reminds her of her own father when she was being naughty. He would grab her by the arm and lead her away. Raphael looks like he wants to do just that.

“I had to go somewhere,” Melissa says, “otherwise that policeman would have seen me.”

“Would it have been a big deal if he had?”

“No, no I suppose not,” Melissa says, but yes, it would have been a very big deal. What she has found in his dead daughter’s bedroom is good. Really good.

“I suppose you want an explanation,” he says.

“I think with what we’re planning on doing together, yes.”

“Are you going to go to the police?”

“That depends on your explanation,” she says, but no, of course not.

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” he says. “And I don’t want you waiting in here. This was Angela’s room.”

Melissa heads into the lounge and takes a seat. She had waited in here earlier, listening to Raphael and Schroder until it became obvious they were coming inside. From Angela’s room she had been able to hear them clearly, and at the same time she had studied all the interesting stuff pinned to the walls that no teenage girl would ever find interesting.

Raphael comes in a minute later. He’s wearing the clothes he was wearing when they were out shooting, minus the boots. He definitely looked better topless, and definitely looked a whole lot better when he was in uniform. The casual handsomeness he usually displays has disappeared, his face lined with strain. He sits down on the couch opposite her and picks his water up from the coffee table and drinks half of it and then gets back up and goes into the kitchen and comes back out with a bottle of bourbon. He finishes his water and fills the glass back up with the good stuff. He offers some to Melissa and she shakes her head. It could hurt her fake baby.

“At least now you know I’m going to pull the trigger,” he says, then grunts a small laugh.

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No. Not really.”

“You killed them? Both of them?” she asks.

He nods. “They were going to defend him,” he says.

She already understands why he did it. Had done from the moment she saw the articles on the wall of the first two lawyers that were going to defend Joe. On those articles Raphael had drawn red Xs across their faces.

“I don’t get lawyers even at the best of times,” he says.

“And at the worst of times?” she asks.

“At the worst of times they’re putting their hand up to defend people like Joe Middleton. These two bastards were using the tragedy of my daughter to make a name for themselves, to become famous, famous in lawyering circles so they could then represent other Joes out there and become more famous and earn more money. People who are capable of that are capable of anything.”

Melissa says nothing. She knows what people are capable of. She also knows Raphael will carry on without prompting. She senses it will be good for him. Cathartic. This is something he’s kept inside. She picks up the glass she hadn’t touched earlier and takes a sip. The water has made it to room temperature.

“I went there,” he says. “I made an appointment with the first lawyer and he saw me, and I begged him not to defend Joe. Really begged him. And you know what? He said he understood where I was coming from. He said he could imagine how I felt. Can you believe that? This son of a bitch tells me he knows how I must be feeling. Then he went on to say that everybody is due a defense, that’s what the law says, and Joe was entitled to what the law says just as anybody was entitled, and that didn’t make sense to me. I mean, you have a guy disregarding the law, disregarding humanity, then suddenly he has civil rights? Fuck that,” he says, and it’s the first Melissa has heard him swear.

“So you started sending him death threats,” she says.

He shakes his head. “No. I read about that, how both lawyers got death threats in the mail, but none of that was me.”

“You just killed them,” she says.

“Yes. But not right away. That first guy, after talking to him, I gave it a month. I was sure if he thought about it more, he’d come around to my way of thinking. He’d have to, right? So a month later I thought it’d be better if I met up with him in a less formal location because I hoped that would make him less formal and more human. So I went back to his work in the evening and waited for him to finish, and I followed him to his car.”

He holds up his hand to her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, but he’s wrong. He has no idea what she’s thinking. “I didn’t follow him to hurt him, I just wanted to plead my case with him. I wanted to remind him of the pain he was going to cause.”

“And he didn’t listen to you?”

“No, he listened. That’s the thing,” Raphael says, becoming more animated now as he lifts his hands in the air. “He listened to everything I had to say, and even then he refused to stop defending Joe.”

“And that made you mad.”

“It would make anybody mad.”

“So you killed him.”

“It wasn’t like that. It was an accident.”

“How?”

He runs his fingers up over his forehead and through his hair, then slowly shakes his head a little. “I hit him,” he says, then exhales deeply. “With a hammer.”

“You normally carry a hammer in the car?”

“No.”

“So you took one with you.”

“I guess.”

“And you spoke to him without him seeing the hammer, right? So you had it in your pocket, or tucked in the waistband of your pants. You took it with you because you knew if things went badly and he didn’t take your side, you were going to kill him. You went there a month later because you knew the police would go through his appointment schedule, but would only be interested in people he’d seen recently.”

“I know that’s how it looks,” he says, “but it really wasn’t the way I thought it would play out.”

“How did you think it would play out if he didn’t agree with you?”

Raphael shrugs. “I don’t know. Not that way, anyway.”

Melissa is nodding. It’s a great conversation. She wishes she was having it with Joe. They could talk about it and get naked. “Then what did you do?”

“I stuffed him into the trunk of his car, then I went and got my own car. I pulled up next to him and transferred him, then drove him out to . . . well, I buried the body.”

“Out where we went shooting today,” Melissa says. “That’s where, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it make you feel any better?”

“It didn’t bring Angela back, but I knew it wouldn’t. But yeah, it did. It made me feel a little better. Within days another lawyer was putting his hand up to take on the case. I didn’t bother going and seeing him because I knew the conversation would be the same. So I took care of him too. This time I left him for people to find. I thought it might make more of a message, you know, to other lawyers. And it did. Joe’s third lawyer was court appointed. The third lawyer seems like a man who really doesn’t want the job. So, you know, no reason to hurt him. At least not yet.

“And somebody else would have killed them anyway,” he adds. “Somebody was sending those guys death threats.”

“You killed two innocent people,” she says, not that she could care less, but she thinks that Raphael should see her caring more.

“They weren’t innocent,” he says.

“I’m sure they’d disagree.”

“So . . .” he says, “does this change things?”

She holds off on answering for a few seconds. Like she really has to think about it. Like weighing it up is a really tough decision. Only it’s not. It’s an easy decision. And it makes last night’s decision to approach Raphael look even better.

“I just . . . I don’t know, I’ve never known a killer before,” she says. “I should be happy because it just confirms you’ll take the shot on Monday, but, well, to be honest . . . it’s a little weird. You killed two people.”

“Two bad people,” he says.

“Two bad people,” she repeats. “Lawyers who were doing bad things.”

“Exactly,” he says. “So the question is the same—does this change things?”

“No,” she says.

“Good,” he says, and leans back into the chair.

“But we’re only after Joe,” she says. “Not any of the cops escorting him. No more lawyers. There’s been too much blood spilled already. Just Joe.”

“Of course,” he says. “The cops are the ones trying to lock him away. They’re on our side.”

“And the cop who came to your door?” she asks. “What did he want?”

“Schroder? Well, he’s not a policeman anymore,” he says, sounding a little cautious. “He just wanted to ask if anybody else had come to mind.”

“Come to mind about what?”

“About suspicious people at the group. I’m not sure who he’s after.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him nobody came to mind.”

She heard their conversation from Angela’s room. She knows Schroder showed him a photograph of her. She knows they spoke about her, they even used her real name. It was probably a copy of the same photograph she found in the back of Schroder’s car, the photograph taken the day Cindy got bookended by two guys at the beach she’d never met before. In that photo Melissa has dark brown hair. That was her natural hair color—well, still is, technically—though these days she dies it black and keeps it short. And of course she wears the wigs. Even long wigs. And for Raphael, her hair is long and black.

“That was it?” she asks.

“Yeah. It was pretty routine,” he says, and she thinks back to last night when Raphael climbed into her car. In their time spent chatting before that, he’d been excellent at concealing the truth. He’d known then she wasn’t who she said she was, and she’s sure he knows it now. “So, how about we go over this plan a few more times? It’s why we’re here.”

She takes another sip of her water and puts it down. “Okay,” she says.

“It shouldn’t change anything,” he says. “At least you know I’ll do it. I’ll pull that trigger.”

Raphael is wrong. It does change everything. Not the fact he killed two lawyers, but the fact he’s lying about his conversation with Schroder. He knows who she is, and now it’s her job to hide that she knows that. It also means she’s going to have to adjust the plan because Raphael is going to adjust it too. It’s a matter of staying ahead—and that’s something she’s always been good at. Only person who’s beaten her since she stopped being Natalie and became Melissa is Joe.

Raphael is a killer, and that side of him is going to be on display on Monday morning, and not just with Joe, but with her too.

Bullet one will be going into Joe.

And bullet two, she is sure of it, will have her name on it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I end up missing lunch because of my busy schedule with my psychiatrist, with Schroder and my lawyer, and then my psychiatrist again. So by early afternoon my stomach is twisting in knots. Which is when prison guard Adam comes and sees me. He has a sandwich. I’ve missed meals before because of other appointments, and I faced the same problem back then that I’m facing now—you just don’t know what’s in the food that prison guards bring to you, and it’s their job to make sure you get something.

“Bon appétit,” Adam says, which I figure is Latin for Fuck you.

I unwrap the sandwich and peel back the bread. There’s a bunch of pubic hairs between a slice of cheese and a slice of meat, enough of them to knit a jersey for a mouse—which is ironic because the last time Adam brought me a sandwich there actually was a dead mouse in it. I wrap it back up and hand it to Adam, who doesn’t take it.

“It’s either that, Middleton, or go hungry.”

“I’ll go hungry,” I say, just like I went hungry with the Mickey sandwich.

“We’ll see,” he says, and he wanders off, leaving me alone in my cell.

I go back to staring at the walls. I think about Melissa and I think about my auntie and I think about the psychiatrist and I think about the death penalty, and all that thinking makes me hungrier, and I realize I have more doubts than I thought about my future. The public has built up a profile of me without even getting to know me. A jury pool will be drawn from people who have been reading and watching a whole lot of negative shit about me over the last twelve months. How is it I can be judged by a panel of my peers? Are there twelve men and women out there who have taken lives, banged a few lonely housewives, had part of their genitalia removed, and tried shooting themselves? No. I’m going to be judged by dentists and shoe salesmen and musicians.

The communal area between the cells is open. The same people are there doing the same things—playing cards, talking, wishing they were all outside doing the kinds of things that got them locked inside. Other than an hour a day exercising in a small pen outside, most of us haven’t seen outside in a long time. Outside could be destroyed by aliens and it wouldn’t make a difference to any of us.

Another hour goes by. My stomach is rumbling even louder. Adam comes back to see me. “You have a phone call,” he says.

He leads me back through the cellblock. We head down a corridor and past a locked door to a phone that’s been bolted to the wall, the same size and shape of a payphone. It’s bolted pretty securely not because prison is full of thieves, but full of people who could beat somebody to death with a nice heavy object like that. The receiver is hanging from it, still swinging slightly from where it was dropped. Adam leans against the wall a few feet away and watches me.

I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Joe, it’s Kevin Wellington,” he says.

“Who?”

A sigh, and then, “Your lawyer,” he says.

“You’ve got a deal?”

“It’s your lucky day, Joe,” he says, which is good because I need to string a lot more lucky days together and this could just be the one that gets the ball falling. “Between me and the prosecution, yes, we’ve struck a deal. You’re getting immunity on Detective Calhoun if you show them where the body is. It can’t be used against you in the trial. You just have to keep your mouth shut about everything else and just show them where the body is and nothing more. Do you get that?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Repeat it to me.”

I look up at Adam, who’s still staring at me. I lower the phone. “It’s my lawyer,” I tell him, “doesn’t that entail me to some privacy?”

“It’s entitle, you idiot,” he says, but I’m not so sure he’s right. “I’m sure it does entitle you,” he says, but doesn’t make any effort to move.

I turn so my back is to him and talk into the phone.

“I get it,” I tell my lawyer.

“No, Joe, tell me what it is you get.”

“I’m to keep my mouth shut,” I tell my lawyer.

“That’s right. You don’t answer their questions, you don’t make conversation. And most importantly, you don’t act like a cocky smart-ass because that’s the exact attitude that’s been making life difficult.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your attitude, Joe. You think you’re superior to everybody else, and you’re not. Your belief that—”

“Uh huh, okay, cool,” I say, interrupting him because he’s making it sound like a bad thing to be superior to other people. It’s that kind of attitude that turns small-minded people into losers. “Moving on,” I say. “What happens with the money? How do we know they’ll pay?”

“The money goes into escrow.”

“Where the hell is that? Europe?”

“Are you for real, Joe?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“It’s not a where, Joe. It’s a what. It’s like a middleman for the money. It’s like a referee looking after it. Once the body has been identified as Calhoun, you get paid.”

“So I’ll get it when, tomorrow?”

“That depends, Joe, on how easy he is to identify. What condition did you leave him in?”

“Shit,” I tell him. “So this escrow guy, no matter what happens now, the money comes to me if the identity is confirmed, right?”

“That’s right.”

“No matter what.”

A pause, and then, “No matter what,” he confirms.

“Let’s say a nuclear bomb goes off and half the country is killed, there are dead cops everywhere, nobody to run the prisons so we’re all set free. I still get paid, right?”

“What are you getting at, Joe?”

“I just need to make sure. No matter what, I get paid. If I were to walk out of here a wanted man after I’ve shown them the body, then—”

“You get paid,” my lawyer says. “The only condition it’s subject to is Calhoun being identified. However, if you were to walk away somehow a wanted man, you’d find it very difficult to access your bank account.”

“Oh,” I tell him. “Can we get it in cash?”

“No, Joe, you can’t. And what does it matter? Are you planning on walking away a wanted man?”

“No, no, of course not. But having a bank account is no use to me in here,” I tell him. “It’s not like there’s an ATM in here. It’s not like I can offer to write a check to somebody who wants to kill me.”

“And it’s not like you can store fifty thousand dollars under your mattress, Joe.”

“Can you set up a separate account? Something under your name that I can access?” I ask.

“No. Listen, Joe—”

“Okay, then put it into my mother’s account,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because she needs the money,” I tell him. “Because I want to look after her. And because she visits me every week and she can bring some of it with her each time.”

“Do you have her account details?”

“She’ll have them. You can contact her.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll contact her tomorrow.”

“What time am I showing them?”

“Ten a.m.”

I shake my head. “Err . . . no. That doesn’t work for me.”

Another pause. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. Ten o’clock is too early.”

“Come on, Joe, are you deliberately trying to make this difficult? This is a good deal for you. A great deal that a lot of us had to work hard to—”

“I’m telling you, it’s too early,” I say.

“Why?”

“I’ve got interviews with the psychiatrist all day tomorrow. That stuff is important. I’m not going to risk ruining it. You warned me about that.”

“Well I’m sure she can work around it.”

I start shaking my head as if he can see me. “Listen to me. David—”

“It’s Kevin.”

“Kevin. Morning isn’t good for me.”

“Because you have other appointments.”

“Yes. This is my defense we’re talking about here. My future. It’s my life. I’m not going to mess around with that.”

I can imagine him sitting at his desk. He’s got one hand on his forehead and he’s holding the phone away from himself and staring into it. Perhaps he’s even thinking about hanging up. Or tying it around his neck and hanging himself.

“Joe, we’ve got the ball rolling here, and you’re in danger of messing everything up. What’s really going on here?”

“Nothing is going on, other than what I just told you. You’re my lawyer. You convince them that if they want this deal to go ahead, it can’t be in the morning.”

“When then?”

“When I’m done with the interviews,” I say. “Make it four o’clock,” I say.

“Four o’clock,” Kevin says. “Why four o’clock?”

“Why not four o’clock?”

“Jesus, Joe, you’re really making this difficult,” he tells me.

“Just make it happen,” I tell him. “And by the way, it’s falling, not rolling.”

“What?”

“We’ve got the ball falling here. Not rolling.”

He doesn’t answer. I listen to his silence for a few seconds, then I hang up like they do in movies all the time without saying good-bye, when both parties seem to know the conversation has come to an end.

I turn toward Adam. “I need to make a phone call.”

“You just made a phone call.”

“No. I received a phone call. Now I need to make one.”

He smiles at me. There is no warmth in that smile. “I don’t give a fuck about what you need, Joe.”

“Please. It’s important.”

“Seriously, Joe, which part of what I just said didn’t compute? Take a look at me. Do I look like I care about what you need?”

I look at him. He actually looks like the kind of guy who cares about what I need and is willing to make sure I don’t get it. If I tugged hard on the phone receiver and broke it free, I could use it as a club. I could entail the fuck out of him with it. Then the phone would be useless. Which makes it a paradox, since I need it. Or an irony. Or both.

“Please,” I tell him. “Please.”

“Tell you what, Joe,” he says, pressing himself away from the wall while scratching at one of his bulging biceps. “Have you eaten the sandwich yet?”

“What sandwich?”

“The one I brought you earlier.”

“No.”

“Tell you what, Joe. Here’s how it’s going to play out. I’ll let you make your call, and in return for me letting you do that, you eat that sandwich.”

I say nothing.

He says nothing.

I think about the sandwich and what it would take to eat it. I think about tomorrow and getting out of here and never coming back.

“Well?” he says.

“Okay,” I say, the word barely coming out.

“What was that, Joe?”

“I said okay.”

“Good. And since I’m feeling in a good mood, I’m going to trust you. You go ahead and make that phone call first. I’ll let you do that. But when we get back to your cell if you don’t eat that sandwich then there will be no more phone calls for you in the future. In fact, your future will become all about misplacement. Your misplacement. We’re not going to be keeping as good an eye on you as we should. Next thing you know, you’re in general population by accident. You’re showering with the big guys. And the thing about accidents is they happen all the time. We on the same page here, Joe?”

“I’ll eat the sandwich,” I tell him. Then after Melissa sets me free I’m going to find Adam and stuff him so full of pubic-hair sandwiches he’s going to look like a mohair jersey.

I pick the receiver back up and dial my mom’s number. It rings a few times and she doesn’t answer.

“Deal still counts even if nobody is home,” Adam says. “You’re still making your call.”

“It’s not a call if nobody answers,” I tell him.

“You’re calling and nobody is home,” he says. “Technically that’s still a call.”

Technically the pubic-hair sandwiches won’t kill him. I’ll make him eat as many as he can, though. But what will kill him will be a blade twisting slowly into his stomach.

Just then my mother answers the phone and, for the first time ever, speaking to my mom gives me a sense of relief.

“Hello?”

I can hear Walt in the background asking who it is.

“I don’t know yet,” she says to him. “Hello?” she repeats.

“Hi, Mom.”

“There’s nobody there,” she says to Walt, because she’s already pulled the phone away from her ear.

“Mom, it’s me,” I tell her.

“Hello?” Mom says.

“Perhaps let me try,” Walt says.

“Damn it, Mom, I’m here. Can’t you hear me?”

“Joe? Is that you?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Joe?”

“I’m here,” I say, and I think about what the shrink was hinting at earlier, about surrogate victims, because this conversation has sent me back to the earlier thoughts of ripping the phone from its cable and beating Adam to death with it.

“Well why are you staying so quiet?” Mom asks.

“Is that Joe?” Walt asks.

“It’s Joe,” Mom says to Walt, her voice a little muffled as she pulls the phone away from her ear.

“Ask him how he is,” Walt says, almost yelling at her.

“Good idea, honey,” Mom says, and brings the phone back to her mouth. “How are you Joe?” she asks, almost yelling at me now because Walt is still talking to her in the background.