William Lashner - Marked Man

“Dead,” I said.

“It happens,” said Max with a shrug of resignation. Then he patted the side of his bed. “Monica, tell me how goes life with you?”

“Fine, Uncle Max,” she said, sitting down beside him. From that position she waved her fingers at Pete, who smiled back before heading down the hall to return to his desk.

“Where are you now, Monica?” said Uncle Max.

“San Francisco.”

“And you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes. He’s an accountant.”

“Good for you,” said Uncle Max, growing livelier by the second, leaning toward Monica in the bed. “You know, I was an accountant, too.”

“Really?” said Monica. “I find numbers so alluring.”

“You mind if I turn up the music?” I said, indicating the small clock radio on the little table beside Max’s bed.

“Go ahead,” said Max.

A somber big-band ballad was wrenching its way out of the tiny speaker. I found a station playing good old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll, pumped up the volume, started strumming a little air guitar.

“Is that Bob Seger?” I said.

“Who?” said Max.

“No, but a good guess.”

Monica laughed. Max raised his eyebrows and opened a drawer beside his bed, pulled out a pint of rum and a small stack of plastic cups.

“You won’t tell?” said Max.

“Cheers,” said Monica.

And so we had a nice visit with Uncle Max, with the music and the rum, talking about our fake mother, our fake family, about Monica’s fake life and fake boyfriend in San Francisco. It wasn’t too hard to figure out that Monica was much happier in her fake life than in the real thing. And I must say, with the way he was laughing and patting Monica’s arm, with the way his eyes rolled when he sipped the rum, Max seemed pretty happy with his fake relatives, too.

It was small, the room Uncle Max shared with his roommate, just enough space for the two beds, a door to the bathroom, a couple bureaus and chairs, a pair of televisions bolted to the wall, and a drawn curtain that divided the space in two. We weren’t hearing a peep from the other side, just the low murmur of the television on some insipid talk show flitting over the music. Even so, while Max was telling Monica one of his more interesting accounting stories, I took the opportunity to slip around the loose white fabric and visit the man behind the curtain.

He had once been fearsome, you could tell, big jaw, big hands, his feet reached from under the blanket and over the far edge of the bed, but age takes its bitter toll on us all. Now he lay slack, his jaw shaking, his watery eyes open but unfocused. He turned his head slowly toward me as I stepped close to his bed, registered my presence, and then turned away again. I took the chair, pulled it close to him, sat down, leaned my arms on the edge of his bed.

“Detective Hathaway,” I said. “My name is Victor Carl. I’m a lawyer, and I have a few questions to ask you.”

WHEN I STEPPED out from behind the curtain, I was in for a second nasty surprise. Jenna Hathaway and Pete the guard were standing in the doorway of the room, glowering. And Pete had his hand on his gun.

“Hello, Jenna,” I said as calmly as I could. “It is so nice to see you.”

“What the hell are you doing, you son of a bitch?” she said.

“Just paying a sick call.”

“I’m going to put you in jail for this.”

“For visiting my Uncle Max?”

“For trespassing, for fraudulent misrepresentation, for harassment.” She stared angrily at me for a long moment, and then, without taking her hard gaze from me, she said, “Could you turn off the music, Mr. Myerson?”

Max shut off the radio and, without much guile, slipped the bottle of rum back into the drawer and closed it.

“I’m sorry these people have been bothering you,” said Jenna.

“These aren’t people, and there is no bother,” said Max as he patted Monica’s forearm. “They were just checking in with their old Uncle Max. They’re my cousin Sandra’s children.”

“Your cousin?”

“Second cousin, twice removed,” I said.

“What does that mean, exactly?” said Jenna.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but it sounds about right.”

Jenna sighed wearily. “You don’t have a cousin Sandra, Mr. Myerson.”

“Of course I do,” said Max. “Or did. She died. Which is sad for all of us, since she made a very nice three-bean salad.”

“I need to stop you there, Max,” I said. “Mom made a fabulous three-bean salad. And who among us doesn’t love a three-bean salad?”

“I want you out of here, Victor,” said Jenna Hathaway.

“We’re still visiting.”

“Now,” she said, and there was something in her eyes, both angry and fearful, that stopped me from prevaricating further.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Max,” I said, “but I suppose we have to go.”

“It was so nice seeing you,” said Monica.

“You’ll come again?” said Max.

“When I’m in town,” said Monica.

“Good luck, then, in San Francisco and with your boyfriend. Tell him I give my regards, one numbers man to another.”

“I will,” she said, standing now.

“And next time you come,” said Max, “bring a bissel of that three-bean salad.”

When we were out in the hallway, Jenna stared at us both as she clasped and unclasped her fists. “We’ll go to the office now and call the police.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” I said.

“Oh, yes, I am. I’m going to pull your ticket for this.” She turned her head toward Monica. “And who the hell are you?”

“Now, where are my manners?” I said. “Let me introduce you to each other. Monica, this is Jenna Hathaway. Her father, the former Detective Hathaway, is Uncle Max’s roommate. And Jenna Hathaway, please say hello to Monica Adair.”

Jenna stared at Monica for a moment with an expression of awe mixed with disbelief, before surprising the hell out of us all by grasping hold of Monica like a long-lost sister and bursting into tears.

“It’s been like thisfor about a year,” said Jenna Hathaway as we stood in a sorrowful group beneath the bright sun in the parking lot outside the Sheldon Himmelfarb Convalescent Home for the Aged. She was fiddling with her keys, her head was bowed, she seemed younger somehow as she talked about her father.

“It’s been like what?” said Monica.

“My father doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Not my mother, not his old friends. I’m just the woman who comes in every other day to say hello. It’s as if all the names in his life have slipped away from him, all but one.”

“Your sister,” I said to Monica.

Monica nodded without surprise, as if obsession with her sister Chantal were only to be expected, and, seeing the company she was in, maybe she had a point.

“Each detective has an unsolved case that haunts him,” said Jenna. “For my father it was your sister’s disappearance. He couldn’t abide the idea that a girl that young, so full of life, could simply vanish. He never put the case to sleep when he was still at the department, and when he retired, he took the file to keep working on it. That was going to be his hobby. But somewhere along the line, his mind latched onto the whole affair with something beyond obsession. Every day and every night he would stare at the file, at the pictures, the clippings, the strange lighter he found in your sister’s drawer. It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to matter and all that was left was the one thing that didn’t exist anymore – Chantal.”

I could see it right off during my brief visit behind the curtain. That was the first unpleasant surprise I mentioned before. I had come to Detective Hathaway with a series of questions, but he was the only one who did the asking. Have you seen her? Do you know what happened to her? She was just here, and then she was gone. His eyes were unfocused, his jaw trembling. Chantal. Where is Chantal?