Chapter Sixteen - Can Doug handle his anger?

Chapter Sixteen

Two years ago, Doug hit a patch of black ice while driving down a hill on his way home from work. Fortunately, the narrow road was free of other cars and he was able to shift the Highlander back onto the road, unscathed. He’s never forgotten that incident, or the out-of-control feeling of being at the mercy of spinning wheels on ice.

The feeling is back. Only the circumstances have changed.

He and Serena have not been able to connect and there doesn’t seem to be a thing he can do about it, other than to stay in motion, brace himself for collision, and avoid looking in the mirror.

While she’s wrapped up in all-things-Roth, he rushes from one cause to the next; none of them noble, all of them a clever distraction to the guilt he feels in disappointing his family. He buries himself in work, the gym, his computer; anything that won’t illuminate the real problem.

A visit to the condo of Detective Hearns is no different.

It is his fault that his wife is this way. It is his fault that his son has been under a microscope and, unbeknownst to Serena, has been having nightmares. Twice this week, he roused Doug at midnight, terrorized. Not having the heart to wake Serena (she finally broke down and took the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed) Doug crawled into his son’s bed to comfort him.

Lying on their backs together, they had imagined turning into superheroes to conquer the bad guys in his nightmares. Josh wanted to be a three-headed squid with sharp fingernails at the ends of its tentacles. Doug, more simply, chose to be a dog that could make a bad guy evaporate, simply by barking at him.

Later, Doug had tiptoed back to his room and climbed into bed. Serena stirred slightly then glanced at the clock, perplexed by his late arrival. Fell asleep on the couch, he had lied.

Protecting his wife from Josh’s nightmares, he decides now, climbing the detective’s front steps, is not nearly enough. He will do more. He will do more without Chief McKenzie, Sara Nadeau, or anyone else on the investigative team.

Lori Hearns takes charge of things independently, without all of the red tape and political garbage. She gets the job done and doesn’t need a protocol to do it. A cold wind chafes an open wound at his knuckle while he pushes the beeper. The buzzer goes off and he turns the handle, lets himself into the first doorway. Shuddering to the air’s chill, he bangs the brass knocker of the inside door and, within seconds, she appears.

“Hey Chief,” she says, swinging open the door. She is wearing a garnet colored sweater, fitted and fuzzy, with black slacks and heels. Her hair, black as night, falls like a gash down one side of her torso.

“Hi Lori,” Doug says back, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his coat pockets.

“Come on in,” she answers, waving him forward as would a teacher her line of students. He enters and fumbles with his coat, wondering where to place it.

“I’ll take that,” she says with confidence, removing it from his hands. “You mind working in the living room today?” she asks, dropping the coat on the claw of a rack.

“No, not at all,” he says in the wake of her stroll.

“Good. My entire kitchen, as you can see, has been taken over by photographs…still working on that workman’s comp. lawsuit I was telling you about. They have to remain in this order,” she says, gazing knowingly at her cat. “You heard me, Mr. Saltine.”

Doug stifles a laugh. “I didn’t realize Sal was short for saltine,” he says. The cat, earning his spry reputation, springs atop the sofa.

“My niece thought of it…long story…” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the extra work that animal has caused me, strutting across the countertops when he knows better.” Indifferent to her pointing finger, Sal responds with a pronounced blink while Doug and Lori approach the living room.

The room is striking though, admittedly, doesn’t seem lived-in. Magazines are fanned across the coffee table’s center in perfect order and tea light candles, encased in glass, spot the room. Doug wonders how many guests actually risk touching anything. He bends over to pluck out a magazine then reconsiders, not wanting to be the first.

“That’s pretty funny about the cat,” he says, seating himself at the sofa. “Well, I’m sure it’s not funny when it happens…it’s amazing how pets seem to know how to push our buttons.” He leans back. The pillows are softer than he expects, causing him to appear more relaxed than he’d like to be. While Lori flirts with Sal, he adjusts himself.

“You’re not funny at all, Mister,” she says, then turns to Doug, “Can I get you a cocktail or…. wait a minute, you don’t drink, do you? Coffee?”

“Uh, actually…a scotch would be fine, Lori,” he says, surprising himself with the request while, at the same time, convincing himself that his situation commands it.

“Ahh…so you’re not so perfect, Mr. Davis. Never would have pegged you as a scotch man. How about a Rob Roy?”

“Oh sure, Lori…” he says, his ignorance to the name obvious, “that would be fine.”

“I used to bartend in my youth. It’s scotch and vermouth in case you’re wondering,” she says on her way into the kitchen.

Awaiting her arrival back, he folds his hands and busies his mind looking around. A large print of stalking tigers centers the wall above the flat screen television set. Interesting choice, he thinks, his gaze roaming to the mantel frames. One in particular catches his eye, of Lori, wearing stiletto boots and standing back-to-back with a woman whom appears to be a partner in crime. The background is dark and smoky, as though shot during a humid night.

“Pretty hot, aren’t we?” she says from the kitchen, amidst the clinking sound of glass and ice.

“Oh...” he says, surprised that she noticed him gawking at the photo, changing the tone of the conversation, “it reminds me a movie advertisement, like something on the cover of a dvd case.

Arriving back with the drinks; his scotch, her beer, she says, “That was shot during my youth…when I was naive enough to think that being a private eye is actually glamorous. I actually put that one in my portfolio,” she adds, rolling her eyes. “The partner you see is actually a cousin of mine, knows nothing about crime. Her father, my uncle, is a photographer.” She hands him his glass.

“Oh…cool,” he says, raising his glass to his lips, relieved to have something to do with his hands.

“I won’t waste any of your time,” she says, sitting opposite him on the sectional, placing her beer down on a coaster at the end table. “Have you been briefed on the status of our least favorite criminal?”

He swirls the liquid in his glass, says, “Well, actually, when I left the house, Sara Nadeau was preparing to interview my son and as I said to you earlier over the phone, I’m just not crazy about him being pecked at by so many people…but that’s a whole other story.” He glides his thumb over the rim, “So I left. And to answer your question—no—I have no idea what the deal is with him. But you know what, Lori,” he adds, feeling a jolt of passion for his opinion, “is it just me or has this whole thing spun out of control?”

Before she can answer, he continues to spill his viewpoint.

“Don’t get me wrong…no one wants to protect my son as much as I do…especially seeing as I caused this mess. But does this whole legal investigation need to consume us? The guy has had a stroke. His health is failing, he’s facing—”

At this juncture, Lori interrupts. “His health is actually better than you think at this point, Doug, and I can’t say that I’m surprised. Physically active individuals, especially those as athletic as Roth, tend to bounce back and recover quicker. But I’ll have you know, his mental health is proving to be more worrisome at this time.”

Deflated, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve done my homework on this man and, I have to admit, Ms. Nadeau has done a thorough job as well. We don’t always see eye to eye on things, but I will say that she does a good job with cases pertaining to children…lost her own boys to her ex, that’s probably why.”

“She seemed like a nice lady, I just wasn’t on board,” he adds with a shot of regret. “It just seems that there are too many heads working on this case. What else did you find out?”

“Too much,” she says, tossing a glance out the window. “If you think this shit is consuming, Doug, welcome to the world of crime. Too often…the innocent end up paying for the sins of the dysfunctional and some are better than others at coming to terms with this. Your wife just needs closure and I can understand that.” She takes a generous sip of beer.

“Believe me, Lori, I understand as well. I just don’t think obsessing over the incident is going to bring closure. Serena is a fantastic teacher but, lately, she’s been burning through her personal and sick days. She needs to move on with her life, you know what I mean?”

“If we lived in a perfect world, I would agree with you. But since we live in the real one, the fucked up one…” she adds, lighting up a cigarette that appears from nowhere, “it’s hardly possible.” She blows a gush of smoke to the ceiling. “Pardon my language. Criminals have that effect on me.”

“Quite alright. Go on,” he says, finding himself more attached to the conversation, and to Lori, than he’d care to be. There is something mysterious about this woman, something raw, and something he’s ashamed to admit, even to himself. Like a coyote wandering through a backyard, Lori Hearns does not belong in the dark corners of his mind.

But, still, he’s drawn to her. Her eyes, grey as stone, rest on his with chilling certainty while she speaks.

“Roth suffers from DID, formerly known as multiple personality disorder. People who possess this actually cross over to a new personality and the feeling has been described as being a passenger in one’s own body. When this happens, they are no longer in control of their actions…”

A wrench twists its way around his heart. He hears his mind say then who is before he takes another sip and the answer arrives. “So you’re telling me that Roth’s other personality committed the crime.”

“You catch on quick. And that would his alter, Mark.” She gets up and single-handedly cracks open a window. “Mark takes over when the trauma of Steven’s past becomes too great for him to bear. And that’s when he dissociates from the pain.”

To this news, Doug closes his eyes and pinches the skin between his brows. “I don’t care about his past, Lori. The man committed a felony. What does his childhood have to do with anything?”

“His traumatic childhood…” she says, coughing into her knuckles, her voice coated in a haze of smoke, “leads to the motivation for taking your kid. “If we’re not careful, he’ll take someone else’s.”

The scotch has begun to stroke his mind like a paint brush as the phrase taking your kid takes on new shape, along with he’ll take someone else’s.

A vein swells at his temple. He squeezes his chin, hoping to hide the anger brewing inside of him. “You’re right, Lori. We can’t let that happen.”

Sal atop her lap suddenly, she pokes a cigarette butt into her almost empty beer bottle and massages the fur beneath his neck. “Now you’re with me. This is what we got on the creep’s broken childhood. Steven Roth’s father was physically and emotionally abusive to him. He acted like a drill sergeant, criticizing him and demanding perfection as early as the age of five to ski competitively, among other things.”

Hooked on her words, and alarmed by them, Doug nods silently while Lori continues.

“Apparently, back in his day, he had made it to the Olympics but had to drop out after another skier nailed him from behind. It was said to be an accident, but he wasn’t convinced, felt that the competitor took him out intentionally. His injuries were serious enough to disqualify him while the other guy ended up being able to compete only months later. He never got over it, felt victimized. Ten years later, after Steven was born, guess who his new pet project became?”

“His son.”

“Yep, even gave him his name. Little Steven became a vessel for him to live his failed dreams through. If the kid made one mistake on the snow, he’d have to face his father’s wrath. And I won’t get into the details of that wrath now, but trust me when I say it was too much for one kid to handle.”

“So….he literally dissociates from the horrific memories and that’s when his personality splits,” Doug says.

“…didn’t know you were an expert on the subject.”

“I’m a teacher…” he says flatly, the alcohol dulling the impulse to control his attitude. “We read.”

“Don’t we all,” she answers. “Then you’ll probably be prepared to hear that his own mother, suffering from guilt in not protecting her son back then, actually came forward to tell ‘her’ side of his story. She has no idea how helpful,” she adds, raising her fingers to quote the word, “that information was.”

Doug stands up, the information seeming to illuminate his viewpoint. “So Roth pretended to be a ski instructor the night he grabbed Josh but he actually is a competitive skier?”

“Not exactly,” she says, calmer than him, “Roth lived through his father’s dream until he was eighteen…but he never succeeded as a competitor. Nothing works when it’s done for the wrong reasons, right?” She places Sal down. Suspiciously, he scrambles away. “You ready for another?”

“Uh, I’m actually…” he begins to say before—sensing his ambivalence—she sweeps by him and makes the decision.

“He gave up skiing after cancer took the old man,” she says from the kitchen. Restless, Doug follows her in.

“But not completely, right?”

“He quit competing,” she says, pouring the scotch, sliding it across the counter to him, “but he continued to ski for fun before switching to snowboarding. Even with his old man gone, he’s not free,” she adds, popping open the cap of her second beer. “Emotional abuse is toxic. The man who took your kid is a screaming child himself.”

Doug sips and listens as the story ends on a predictably sour note.

“His father’s legacy is a cancer eating away at his heart,” she says, nodding slightly, allowing the news to sink in his mind. “He’ll live with it until his dying day.”

“What promising news,” he says, pulling out a counter stool, seating himself across from her. “I don’t know how you deal with these cases, Lori, but I’ll tell you one thing…I’m certainly not about to send this guy a sympathy card.”

“I hear you,” she says, “No one wants to hear about a criminal’s pitiful past when it comes to the bottom line. But just remember…what we can manage to unveil about his wretched psyche is what will make the difference in protecting the next kid next time he decides to watch him as the chairlift operator. Let’s not give him that chance. Do you know who your son represented while he watched him?”

“I don’t know, Lori. You seem to have it all figured out,” he says, his gaze wandering with his mind.

“He saw himself in Joshua,” she says, more emphatically, in attempt to keep the conversation on track. “During the car ride on the highway…when he told your son that he had a kid once—he had become his father—exerting power over Josh, just at the old man used to with him. But since he couldn’t possibly handle all of that alone, his alter, Mark, did it for him and that’s where things get more complicated. He also shared with Josh that his ex wife took his son away from him.”

“Yes, that’s right. I remember Josh reporting that,” he says, staring back at Lori, awake again.

“Steven Roth has never been married,” she says, lighting up, “so he obviously doesn’t have an ex-wife. In his sick mind—possessed by his father’s control, and crossing over to Mark’s personality—Roth’s own mother represents his ex. The old man nearly killed her once for trying to save little Steven from the abuse. She managed to take him away but it was only temporary. She wasn’t strong enough to fight back against his wrath and, like most women facing domestic abuse, didn’t have the support she needed to do it.”

An image swirls through Doug’s mind, of Roth’s mother standing up in her boy’s defense and being slapped. He has never seen this woman, but his mind draws her and she is wearing a long knitted sweater, belted at the waist. She weeps and faces her teary son, Steven, whose bottom lip quivers. She wants to protect her child but she can’t because her husband will smack her in the mouth. The image wanders and settles on new characters—those of his own family. The thought of hurting the mother of his child claws at his heart. He’d never dream of hurting her, not physically, but what about leaving her tonight? What kind of husband deserts their wife during her darkest hours? Hate for himself squirms through him like a worm burrowing beneath dirt. He gulps his scotch, runs a hand through his hair.

“I know this is heavy. You alright, Chief.”

Lori is sitting across from him, talking, offering information in the serious way that detectives do and he begins to feel detached suddenly. He stiffens, stares at her quizzically, feeling confused, feeling the tension in his creased forehead as he says, “What exactly was this man going to do to my son, given the chance, Lori?”

As though in search of the right way to answer, Lori closes her eyes, pausing, before she says, “There’s no question of what he would have done following the abduction, Doug. Through the eyes of his deranged dad, he was going to put Josh through what he went through.”

A tear pushes through his eye, trickles down his cheek. He is drunk with pain, entombed in guilt. “My boy…I-I let this happen, Lori,” he says, his fingers, like the wings of a bird, floating then settling on the flesh below his eyes.

“You didn’t let this happen… life let this happen, my friend.”

“He at the same rehab center, Lori?” he asks, rage ascending from within his throat like a roller coaster climbing uphill.

“Oh, he’s there alright. But here’s the worst part. The sick pup is recovering from both injuries—stroke and accident related—exceptionally well.” She pulls open the recycling cabinet, drops an empty bottle in. “In this stage in the game, it’s pretty safe to assume that Steven Roth, with the help of Mark, will fight back from his demons.”

Doug, finding himself in motion, says, “It’s been awhile since he’s seen this one.”
* * *
The vents of his car blow cold air at first, especially when left idle in the winter. He turns the heat dial to red, rubs his palms together, and tosses a few mints into a dry mouth, someone else’s.

He adjusts his rearview mirror and sees her watching him from the window. It is Lori, playing detective again. He speeds off, leaving room for only one thought in his troubled mind.