Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

Maybe that was why I went to the window, to see how nightfall was coming together. There weren’t many cars parked along the street this time of day, now that the shops were closed, with the possible exception of Naman downstairs. He often kept his used bookstore open late because he had nothing better to do.

I guess that’s why the black van on the other side of the street stood out. It was the only vehicle at the curb for half a block. I thought it might have been the same van that was riding along behind us on the way over. The windows were tinted, and I couldn’t tell whether anyone was inside.

“Finish up those sandwiches,” I said to Jeremy. “I gotta go down to my car for a second to get something.”

“Okay,” he said emptily.

I went quickly down the stairs and opened the door to the sidewalk. The van, its tail end facing me, was about five car lengths away. As I started across the street, I noticed exhaust coming out of the tailpipe. The taillights flashed on briefly, the van was shifted into drive, and it took off up the street.

Even if I’d been close enough to get a good look at the license plate, it wouldn’t have done me much good. It was smeared with dirt and illegible.

When I got back up to my apartment, I said to Jeremy, “I say we go tonight.”

Someone was rapping softly on Craig Pierce’s bedroom door.

“Yeah?” he said.

The door opened. Standing there was a woman in her forties carrying a binder, a purse slung over her shoulder. Short hair, glasses, plain black skirt and off-white blouse.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late today. I got held up with another client.”

“Come on in, Ms. Sinclair,” Craig said.

“Oh, how many times have I told you to call me Beverly?” she said, smiling, looking directly at his mauled, disfigured face.

Craig, standing by his dresser, broke off eye contact to examine the contents of a small shipping package.

“What do you have there?” Beverly Sinclair asked cheerfully.

“Oh, just some things I ordered,” he said. He picked up one of them, something shiny and metallic and small enough to put into the palm of his hand, closed his fingers over it, and sat down in the chair by the foot of his bed.

Beverly sat in the other chair, set her purse on the floor, rested the binder atop her knees and folded her hands together. “So,” she said, still smiling like someone doing a toothpaste commercial, “how are we doing today?”

“ We are doing terrific,” Craig said. His mangled lips formed a twisted smile. “I suppose a lot of that has to do with what a good counselor you are.”

“Well, thank you for that,” she said, opening the binder. “But you’re the one who deserves the credit. You’re the one doing the work.”

Craig shrugged modestly.

She consulted a page of handwritten notes on a yellow pad inside the binder. “Last time I was here we talked about you getting over your fear about going out of the house.”

“Well, yes,” Craig said. “But it’s not so much my fear as it is other people’s fear. I mean, I do look kind of scary.”

“That’s their problem, though, isn’t it?” Beverly said. “People need to examine their own attitudes when it comes to dealing with others with disabilities or differences.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to get into a discussion about that when they’re running off screaming their heads off,” Craig countered.

She nodded understandingly. “Point taken. But you’ve been out and about more in the last week?”

“I have,” he said.

“Where have you gone?”

“I’ve done some driving. And walking. Mostly at night.”

“I think, as you regain your confidence, you’ll be going out more during daylight hours,” Beverly said encouragingly.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said.

“And how would you describe your state of mind, say, the last week or so? Are you coming to terms with your situation?”

“My situation?” Craig asked. “That’s such an interesting way to put it.”

“Well, you know, I like to put things in as respectful and gentle a way as possible,” she said.

“Oh, I’ve noticed that.” Craig offered up another grisly smile. “As for my state of mind, I would say... it has improved.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said.

“I’ve decided to try to move forward. To take control of my life rather than sit back and let it control me.”

“That is very good to hear.”

“I need to channel my energies, my... urges in a productive way,” Craig said.

Beverly’s smile faded. “Just what do you mean by that?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “the urges part.”

“Oh, well — I hope you don’t mind my being totally honest with you. I mean, you are my counselor and all.”

“No, please, honesty is the best way to go.”

“Well,” and he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and whispered, “even though I no longer have the appliances, I’ve still got the owners’ manuals, if you get what I’m saying.”

Beverly swallowed. “I believe I do.”

“So when I feel... aroused, in my mind, and I don’t get a corresponding physical response, there’s a kind of ache. Do you know what I mean? Like, you know when they talk about a phantom limb? How if your arm gets blown off in battle, you still feel the pain.” He leaned in even closer. “I think what I have is a phantom hard-on.”

Beverly leaned back in her chair.

“I don’t really know about that,” she said. “That’s something you’d have to discuss with your physical therapist.”

Craig looked crestfallen. “Oh, I thought you were here to help me with that kind of thing, because, you know, it very much affects my self-esteem and all.”

“There are... limits, Craig, to what I can help you with. What I am here to do is help you adjust to this new life you have, to help you understand that despite what has happened to you, this can be a new beginning.”

He nodded as though he understood completely. “It’s like a smile is just a frown turned upside down, right?”

Beverly Sinclair’s jaw tightened. “You know, Craig, all I’ve ever sincerely wanted to do is help you. I know you’re mocking me, but my intentions have always been genuine. You may not believe it, but I do care. I care about all my clients as if they were part of my family.”

“That’s nice,” Craig said. “So, if you think of me as part of your extended family, maybe I could come by some time. I could meet your daughter.”

Beverly’s face froze.

“I think you mentioned her in passing once,” Craig said. “She’s fourteen, I think you said. And her name is Leanne? Do I have that right?”

Beverly said nothing.

“Maybe I should drop by,” he said. “When I’m out driving at night.”

Beverly found her voice. “You don’t know where I live.”

Craig opened his hand and studied the small metallic device he’d been holding.

“What is that?” Beverly asked.

“This,” he said, picking it out of his palm with two fingers and holding it up between them, “is the niftiest little gadget. I’ve ordered them before, but this is a new model.”

Hesitantly, as though afraid to ask, Beverly said, “What does it do?”

“It’s a little tracking device. You plant it on... whatever... and see where it goes.”

Beverly closed her binder and reached down for her purse. She clutched it close to her chest. “Well, you can just hang onto it.”

He gave her another hideous grin. “Who knows. Maybe I dropped one in your purse last week.”

She put the binder on the chair so she could use both hands to open and inspect her handbag.