A One Night Stand, A Criminal on the Loose - Sixteen and Seventeen

Chapter Sixteen

Steven Roth is nine and drinking milk at the kitchen table. He uses a straw to blow a crowd of bubbles up his glass. His younger brother, an infant named Nate, crawls across the linoleum floor, his face and hands sticky. He reaches for things, accidently tipping over a full bag of trash that sends Dad’s empties whirling across the floor.

Caught off guard, the sudden mess fascinates him.

Orange peels smothered in cigarette ashes stick to his hands. He lifts a dirty fist to his mouth because he doesn’t know any better. Steven squeezes his nose.

“Didn’t I tell you to empty the fucking trash?” Dad pulls the bag out of its basket and yanks the cord, suffocating the rancid odor. Nate screams. Like the garbage, his father’s taste is bad. Mom scoops his brother up, saddles him on her hip, and crouches down to clean up with her free hand.

“I was just about to get to it when the phone rang.” She grabs a dustpan and brush. “Honestly.”

Steven covers his ears. The first part was fine. The last, he knows, will break his dad. He is not wearing his ski cap today. His head, bald and mottled with dark spots in the back, reminds him of raw hamburger.

“You think I’m working sixty fuckin’ hours a week to live in this shithole.” He kicks a can ruthlessly, the same way troublemakers at school do. Shot across the floor like a comet, the can captivates Nate and he stops screaming for a moment.

Don’t talk back, don’t talk back, just clean up the mess, Mom, Steven thinks.

Mom grabs a dishtowel and blots up the rest of the mess without complaining. Relief pours through him. He jumps up, removes one of Nate’s pacifiers from the junk drawer, and rushes over to plug his brother’s tired face.

“Go get your stuff on,” his dad says. “We’re heading to the slopes.”

The man’s eyes are disturbing. Later, Steven will learn a better word for them, a word like deranged. Mom nods to him. I’m okay. Go. Mom’s looks are exceptional, as are his. She has a heart-shaped face, hair the color of straw, and luminous eyes peppered with gold. People say he is a darker version of her.

One time Dad told his mom to stop acting like a spoiled princess and Steven contended that princesses smile more and wear pink dresses. It was supposed to be honest, but Dad took it the wrong way. After that, Steven stopped telling the truth.

He dashes to the cellar and finds his snow-pants hanging on the drying rack. They smell musty, like the grey of his life, a life stuck in the middle of too many highs and lows. Later, when Dad’s throwing logs into the fire, he’ll draw more pictures of the boys who eat supper with their parents and tell stories and laugh like movie stars. He’ll give each boy a name, a name like Mark or John and Joshua, a church name.

He pushes his hands into damp gloves, zips up, and listens to the rumble of his dad’s feet across the floor above him. He’s ready to go.

Steven puts his glass of milk down, takes the straw out, and shakes off the memory. The therapist on duty for the night is all of twenty-two. She is stunning, the kind of woman who belongs in a magazine, not here. Her dark hair falls in waves around her doll face and her perfume smells like trust. The Lord works miracles when we put our faith in Him.

“How are you doing, Mr. Roth?” She unzips a large pouch of medical goodies. “Just a few reps and I’ll be out of your way.”

They all want to be out of his way, it seems. “I’m doing good, thanks.”

Criminals need love, too.

“Wow. Your speech is a hundred times better since our last visit.”

That’s not the only improvement, pretty lady.

“I’ve been blessed with life. I’m not about to take a single moment of it for granted.” He extends a leg to her. She will massage it vigorously, rub cream on his sores, and run through a stack of flashcards. He’ll only fake his impediment a tad today. Cindy’s a believer. She’ll introduce the best part of therapy—shoulders and arms—with a professional smile and, most likely, a wink. All the girls wink here.

Then Cindy will detach his handcuffs.

* * *

The fact that Doug is thinking about fucking Lori Hearns—if he hasn’t already—isn’t the worst of Serena’s problems. Finding a way to co-exist with him is. A picture may tell a thousand words, but a live expression, she knows, tells more.

He had been on the phone with the detective the other night when Serena noticed the look, the smitten glimmer in his eyes as he clung to the conversation, the careful manner by which his fingers moved, gentle as a piano player’s, and the off-beat tempo of his voice.

She dumps a load of clean clothes onto her bed. One of Doug’s shirts, a cotton tee, clings insultingly to her bra. She detangles the pair and cries again. The depth of ugly consuming her family is unbearable. She feels trapped, buried alive, covered in dirt. When does he plan on coming clean?

She picks up a pair of his white briefs and resists the urge to inspect the crotch and look for a stain, a sign. Her mind races through bedroom scenes, the first of which includes her own failure to surrender to Doug’s advances. I will love and honor you, for better or worse.

The wedding vow hovers about her thoughts like a shard of newspaper over a windy fire; then it curls up, burns, and turns to ash. Lori’s face ignites in her mind.

The floor vibrates and the stairs creak. Doug is on his way up. As though it matters, she grabs a towel from the clean pile and wipes her face. One step at a time, she listens to Doug ascend. One step at a time, her sorrow turns to anger. I will love and honor you until death do us part. She pictures them making love rapaciously. Lori is on top.

She gasps and scuttles into the bathroom, flushing the toilet as she blows her nose to block the sound of her grief. Wet tissues orbit the bowl, then spin away. On the way out, she steals a glance of herself in the vanity mirror. She is blotchy and pink and shattered.

Their bodies do not collide because Doug is already collecting his wallet and keys from the end table and has already made it to the walk-in closet. He darts about the room on a mission, as though late for an appointment with the president. Meanwhile, she removes unwanted clothes from their hangers.

“When were you going to tell me?” Skirts and blouses remain on the floor. “Having sex with another woman is worthy of conversation, no?”
She will not.

Like a tired kite, he comes to a halt at the edge of their bed. He gazes through her, his eyes glazed with distance. “I-I’m no good, Serena,” he says.

She takes a deep breath. Her heartbeat skitters through her chest like a family of mice. “When were you going to tell me?” Tears fall.

“It’s not what you think. We’re…” he rubs the back of his head, “We’re not in love or anything.” He speaks to the floor. “It just happened.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She moves closer to him. The scent of his cologne violates her. It is strangely familiar.

“Of course I was going to tell you, Serena. It’s just... ” he lifts his hand, points to the doorway, “It’s hard to talk when Josh is around and I’m still trying to figure all this out myself. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt.”

“You slept with her two weeks ago… on Saturday night, correct?”

His nod is so slight, it is barely there.

“You don’t want me to hurt, yet you have allowed days to pass us this way. Dark days. Numb days. Fucking painful days, Doug.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You never know what to say. And you should know by now that what isn’t said is far more lethal than what is.” The pitch of her voice remains even. It neutralizes the terror she feels inside.

The pattering of footsteps up the staircase alerts them to their son.
She dodges into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

“Dad? What’s going on? I heard Mom yelling.”

From the other side of the door, she hears Doug say, “Nothing, honey. Your Mom will be alright, ‘kay?”

“Mom… You alright?”

“We just had a disagreement, Josh. I’m fine. We’ll talk more later, sweetie. I’m gonna jump in the shower, then how about a game of Uno?”

What isn’t said is far more lethal. Her son will not feel the bullet.

Later, she will tell him what he needs to know.


Chapter Seventeen

The roads, along with Lori’s state of affairs, are a mess this morning. Her Jeep tears through a slushy main road, the tires spitting dirt like cake batter mixed on high speed. Having sex with Doug is the least of her problems. It was stupid and lustful and weak. What was she thinking?

She makes a mental note to change the batteries of her vibrator sometime before Valentine’s Day and lights up.

He’s a great guy, she’ll give him that. She knew it from the start, sensed something special about him the day she visited him in that damn classroom of his. Sensed something special. The words dangle at the tip of her tongue like a dripping icicle. Lori doesn’t sense anything about men. She grew up with four brothers, works with men daily, and owns a male cat. She knows them. She can taste their deceit without having to fuck them.

Speaking of deceit, she’s not hugely surprised that Steven Roth has escaped from Fairmont Rehab. The past that defines a criminal is the same one that wrecks his future. For the Davis family, the man’s escape is either a win or loss: the former, if he’s found in time; the latter, if he gets what he wants first.

Fortunately, Lori likes being on top. She’ll beat him to the punch and get what she wants. Her Jeep bucks and fishtails as she takes an impulsive turn into the station, parking as though trying to hit someone.

McKenzie notified her for to participate in the ‘initial profile’ about an hour ago. Apparently, a young therapist had left Roth unattended, without his handcuffs on, after he feigned having severe chest pains. Under-qualified to administer treatment, she dashed off to get help while Steven Roth walked out the front door, presumably in disguise.

The police station awakens to the news. Coffee and half-eaten doughnuts speckle the area. Printers spit out reports. Telecommunicators answer calls and organize facts. Deeply focused, they barely notice Lori as she breezes by, though Veto, the station’s bull dog, perks up. His drooling smile spans his head, as though drawn in by a child. His desire to move is greater than his ability to do so. He manages to wiggle his sausage self to her side.

“Hey Vete.” She reaches down for a quick pet, collects her thoughts, and approaches the conference room.

Informants have been decreed to track the fugitive through wire taps, hidden cameras, and surveillance in the Central Mass area. The media has not been notified yet, nor have the Davis family, for that matter. The longer they can put them off, the better. No need to cause mass mayhem prematurely. She enters the Chief’s office.

The criminologists surround the tax-payer’s wooden table like a team of animated ants cast in a Disney film. Chief McKenzie sits at the hub—FBI Special Agent Gene Reiser to his left and Sara Nadeau, the criminal psychologist, to his right. John Wynan, a rooky officer, sits opposite Leon Friend, a bounty hunter.

As usual, Lori has arrived late.

“Miss me?” She pulls over a stool and squeezes into the nucleus. Wynan’s chair screeches offensively to create more space for her.

“Haven’t added the felt circles to the budget yet, Chief?” She reaches for a glazed doughnut, takes a chomp.

“Welcome, Lori.” McKenzie’s weary wave says he hasn’t the energy for crime today. “We were just discussing roles for the new… and unsettling developments on the Roth case.” He coughs into his sleeve. “Time is not on our side, so I want to speed things up.” He faces the bounty hunter. “Leon, we need to get you out and about first thing, so let’s start with you.”

The bounty hunter meets both requirements of his scarce job description. He is licensed in the state of Massachusetts. He is intensely fit. The bulk of his arms consume an entire corner of the table, making him appear out of place, like a wrestler in a daycare center. He wears a faded jean jacket with a wool collar that’s flapped open to expose a conflicted crucifix, the chain of which he wears as a choker around his thick neck.

“I want to know every last detail about this jerk… from where he pisses to what he’s popping,” he says.

Sara is more eloquent. “Yes. The behavior of this individual before he was wanted is crucial in order to find him… and, folks, we need to keep this on the hush. If Steven’s alter suspects that’ he’s being chased, it’s likely that he’ll become dangerous to the public.”

“Good call, Sara,” McKenzie says.

“I think we ought to start with an educated guess as to where he may be going…” John chimes in, “and also, what his motivation is.” The rest of the group—partially due to John’s place in the pecking order, partially due to the green nature of his comment—dismisses him.

FBI Agent Gene takes a sip of coffee, the melee chip of his wedding band winking at the group. “We need to figure out who he’ll contact and what cash sources he has access to.” He raises an index finger, holding the ceiling at gunpoint. “I guarantee you this guy will talk to someone. They all do.”

McKenzie listens, arranges his fingers like a church, the steeple pressed against his lips.

Lori speaks up. “Criminals are creatures of habit. They go back to what they know.” Mockingly, she raises her right hand. “I motion that the existing team continue to brainstorm while Mr. Friend and I find the fugitive.”

McKenzie rubs his forehead, looks at his watch. “John, your resume needs work. Head out with Ms. Hearns and Mr. Friend, please.”

“Chief, you’ll need to surrender jurisdiction here and I’ll need debriefing every step of the way,” Gene says.

McKenzie squeezes his chin. “We need to tie this up quickly, Gene. If that’s the best way to expedite things, so be it.”

John nearly spills his coffee as he gets up and Lori silently curses McKenzie. She hasn’t the patience for a rookie today but how can she possibly say no. The man’s been like a father to her and, when it comes down to raw truth, he’s the only one she has. “We’ll be in touch, guys.”

The Bounty Hunter gets up and pushes in his chair. “This guy seen what you drive?” He whispers the question as though it’s sacred.

“Yes,” she whispers back.

“We’ll take my Mustang, then.” He unhitches his keys from a ridiculous assortment dangling at his waist. “You guys ready for some action?” His smile is positively vulpine.

She tightens her scarf and takes a brisk walk beside the unlikely pair. “You don’t know me very well, Mr. Friend. I live for action.” Veto follows. “No drooling and you can come, Vete.” She grabs his leash off of its hitch on the wall and signals to the receptionist that she’s taking the dog. Veto is wild with excitement. He tap dances and stomps all over his leash.

The doors of the Mustang slam shut, a waft of frigid air cooling the vehicle’s interior until Leon blasts on the heat. John sits in the back like a kid on his way to a carnival beside Veto, a smiling fool. Lori pulls out a cigarette and places it to her lips. Leon leans into her shoulder, flicks on a lighter. “You really want to die young?”

She draws in a desperate drag. “I like to play the odds. You mind if I crack the window,” she yells back to John.

“Not at all. You guys want to make an educated guess as to where this fugitive is?”

“Which one?” Lori asks, angling her neck back to him.

“There’s more than one fugitive?”

“You gotta get your nose out of that training manual and into the head of this criminal pal. Mr. Roth suffers from DID.” She faces Leon. “Take a left here.”

“He has multiple personalities?” John cranes his neck between the headrests.

“Yep. We’re not tracking down Steven, we’re tracking down Mark.” She flicks her cigarette out the window.

Leon speeds up at the intersection’s yellow light, makes it through just in time. “So tell me, Detective… Where’s the first place Mark would go to after escaping, knowing he’s going to get creamed once he’s caught?”

She rummages through her briefcase, pulls out the Roth file. “Mark is the one who does the dirty work for Steven. He’s the one who abducted Joshua Davis in the first place. But the decision was rather impulsive and the accident kind of put a damper on things.”

“You think he went to the Davis home, to try and take him again?” John asks.

“He’s not that stupid,” she says. “Too obvious. Mark knows he’d get caught there. Tell me fellas: Who’s the one person a boy will go to when life’s not fair? When he’s buried in trauma and conflict and charges and he can barely think straight?”

In unison, Leon and John say, “To his Mom’s.”

“You guys are perceptive. Get on this highway and head south.” She activates the Navigation app on her phone, plugs in the address. “Bethany Roth lives just ten miles from here.”

Veto leans to the left to counteract a turn to the right. The Bounty Hunter accelerates.