Time of Death - Alex Barclay

Скачать книгу

ran to the kitchen, grabbed their Bakelite phone with the eight-foot cord and dialed 911, pacing up and down the length of the hallway as she told the dispatcher about her big brother. As she put the phone down, her mother was screaming for her again. And from that day on, Ren did not want to be called Orenda ever again.

      Beau Bryce was dead. He had taken an overdose. He was nineteen years old, handsome, and smart. He was not selfish. He was not unloved. He was clinically depressed. Some people committed suicide and didn’t leave a note: Beau had written a short story, an allegory in which his family were different characters and Beau was the tortured hero on a quest for something that he had never been able to identify, therefore had never been able to find, no matter how much the other characters had tried to help him. He had crossed kingdoms, climbed mountains, searched caves, swum oceans, yet he had finished, hovering at a cliff edge, alone and confused. And he had taken one more step. He had trusted an empty sky more than he had trusted the ground beneath his feet or the beautiful land or the people who lived in it.

      Tears streamed down Ren’s face. She knew the journey Beau had taken, she knew that beautiful terrain, she knew and loved the same characters.

      And her greatest fear was that one day she too would trust an empty sky more.

      Somehow, Ren made it back to work. Gary was standing in the bullpen with a grim look on his face.

      ‘Not good news,’ he said. ‘Looks like the blood Gartman was covered in the night of the convenience store shooting was Natalie Osgood’s. Her body was found last night in a dumpster off Colfax.’

      Ren shook her head. ‘That son-of-a-bitch. Her mama’s worst nightmare has come true.’ She let out a breath.

      Robbie called her over to his desk. ‘Ren, I spoke with three real estate agents,’ he said, ‘and Gregory Sarvas did talk to them about selling the house. Like, it was more than just chit-chat.’

      ‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘Yet another wife kept in the dark.’

      ‘Who’s the other one?’

      ‘I don’t know – insert celebrity name.’ Ren let out a breath. ‘Catherine Sarvas told me that it was a casual conversation about moving – nothing concrete. And Greg goes off and makes formal enquiries? It’s so patronizing. Did he just disregard her all the time?’

      ‘It probably worked for them …’ said Colin.

      ‘Oh, please,’ said Ren. ‘He’s dead, she’s raped. That worked real well.’

      ‘You know what I mean,’ said Colin.

      ‘I do – keep the little woman in the dark.’

      Colin shrugged and turned back to his screen.

      ‘Do you say this shit on purpose?’ said Ren.

      Colin looked up. ‘Some women just want men to take care of everything for them.’

      ‘There’s a difference between a husband taking the trash out and other bullshit jobs … and not telling you he’s trying to sell your house from under you or, let’s face it, not reporting your rape,’ said Ren. ‘Rape, Colin.’

      ‘I’m not talking about the rape part.’

      ‘Oh, well then,’ said Ren. She turned to Robbie. ‘Did Sarvas talk to the real estate people about buying another house in the area?’

      ‘No,’ said Robbie.

      ‘Did he mention where he was planning to move to, or when?’

      ‘No. According to all three real estate agents, Sarvas sounded serious about selling the house. But there were no times, dates, etc.’

      ‘Could someone be that screwed up that they wouldn’t want to lower house prices in the area by reporting a rape – even if it was their own wife who was the victim?’

      Ren shook her head. ‘Ugh.’ She walked out. She didn’t want to hear any more of Colin’s warped world view. The kitchen was empty, so she took a seat at the table.

      What is it with some men? Do they get a high from lying to their wives? Do they just not care? Or is it that they’re afraid to face up to the truth?

      Again her mind wandered back to Beau and the friends and neighbors who had drifted away from the family after his suicide. They were afraid of suicide, afraid of mental illness, afraid of losing their own mind or watching someone they cared about lose theirs. People looked for someone to blame for Beau’s suicide, because if there was no one to blame, then it could happen to them. People were angry at the Bryces for being guarded about the circumstances, as if – had they had heard all the details of Beau’s suicide – they could stop it from happening to their loved ones. People were afraid to talk to the Bryces about their loss because it would mean confronting someone else’s raw emotions and maybe having to face some raw emotions of their own.

      It’s all about fear.

      What would it be like for her parents now? They were the only ones who still lived in Catskill. They were good, kind people. And now, in their late seventies, they would be thrown into having to fight to preserve their son’s memory. Even though it was all a terrible mistake, that little idea had been implanted in people’s minds and would be hard to extract; Beau Bryce took his own life because he was guilty.

      Work. Go back to something you can control.

      Ren took her cup of coffee and returned to the bullpen. She stopped dead in the middle of the room.

      ‘Hey!’ She pointed at the television. ‘Someone – pump up the volume.’

      Colin reached for the remote control.

      ‘The police are seeking the public’s help in locating missing Denver psychiatrist, Dr Helen Wheeler—’ Helen’s photo in the top right-hand corner of the screen …

      ‘Oh my God,’ said Ren.

      ‘What?’ said Cliff.

      ‘I know her.’

      ‘Yeah, you’re obviously her best client,’ said Colin.

      If you only knew. ‘She’s a friend of mine. I consulted with her on cases a few times, actually. She’s a lovely woman. Shhh.’

      ‘Dr Wheeler was last seen as she left work four days ago on March eighth. She was due to speak at an event in Florida on March ninth, but she didn’t catch her flight that morning. Dr Wheeler is sixty-two years old, five-foot three, of medium build, with shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes. She was dressed in a full-length dark-gray coat over a pale gray wool pant suit.’

      Ren felt her stomach sink. That was what she was wearing the last time I saw her.

      Ren dialed Helen’s cell phone as she stood there. It was the only thing she could think of doing. She got voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.

      Please be safe, wherever you are.

      Two hours later, Ren called Helen’s office and spoke with her secretary. There was no update. Helen had been gone four days, that was all anyone knew.

      Ren tried to work, but she was flooded with images of Beau. And worried about her parents. And wishing she could discuss it all with Helen, the one person who always managed to break the cycle. Ren felt a stab of selfishness at wanting Helen to be back to help her.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив

Скачать книгу