Blood Pools: A Max Sawyer Omnibus (Novels 1-3) Page 2
"Don't worry."
I gave Cynthia a quick kiss on the cheek and told them that I would see them soon. Patrick gave me a quick embrace and warned me to be careful. I assured him that I was always careful. He knew me well enough to know that I was never careful.
2
After I left Patrick and Cynthia’s room, I returned to my room. I picked up my bag and left a few dollars for the maid. I checked the room to make certain I had not left anything before I shut the door. The elevator opened to the bright lobby. The Royal Sonesta had a beautiful lobby that was decorated in sunny colors and filled with fresh, colorful flowers. I walked from the elevator to the front desk. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling
I checked out of my room with a tall man who offered to have the valet bring my car around while I reviewed the itemized bill. I gave him my credit card, and I paid for the rest of Patrick and Cynthia’s stay. I had the clerk, whose name was Simon, take care of dinner for Patrick and Cynthia in the restaurant.
It was still early, and valet traffic was slow. The valet arrived just a moment after I had walked out the entrance. He pulled up with my 1998 BMW Z3, and I expressed my gratefulness to him with a picture of Andrew Jackson to remember me.
I drove out of New Orleans along Interstate 10 toward Baton Rouge. Once I had gotten out of the city, I called Tom to let him know what I was doing. He was not in his office, but I left a message with his secretary, Mrs. McEwan. Mrs. McEwan is a wonderfully, crotchety old hag. Everyone has known one of those people who has made a life out of being miserable, and that person is only happy when they are nearing
death. Well, Mrs. McEwan is the mother of that person and the cause of his tribulation. She is the widow of an elder of the Church of Christ, and she feels it is her duty to rain on everybody’s parade. She began working for Tom and my father when I was a tiny thing. She has always been very good at her job, but she has always been an overbearing, rigid woman. I always dreaded her company. As anyone could tell, I love her as dearly as one loves a festering boil, and I think she reciprocates those feelings for me (and probably everybody else.) She loves to point out my lack of regular employment, and she regards me as blight.
“Mrs. McEwan, this is Max Sawyer. Is Tom in the office?”
“Mr. Campbell is meeting with Judge Hurt.” Her other pet peeve is the fact that I use Tom’s first name, despite the fact that he could be my father. She has the ideology that all young people are whipper-snappers and should know their place. Of course, her idea of a young person is someone not over 45.
“Please inform him that I will be in Hellenston late this evening.”
“Must be nice. I certainly wish I could take any little jaunt that I wanted to, but I am certainly tied down by my work.”
“Now, Mrs. McEwan, you know I keep banker’s hours. I was up early this morning before I realized I had nothing to do.”
“Yes, Mr. Sawyer.”
That was the extent of most of our conversations. It always seems that she practices the three Bees of communication; she berates, belittles, and begrudges. I suppose that if it weren’t for the fact that she hates everyone but herself and Jesus, I might be offended. I only hope for her sake that Jesus remains on her good side.
I hung up with her. I set the cruise control at 67 miles per hour. Even though I could make excellent time in this car, I try not to speed. This car looks like its doing sixty when the keys are in my pocket.
I fiddled in the ashtray for the remote to the CD changer. I clicked it a few times until I found B.B. King belting out one of my favorites, "Ain't That Just Like a Woman." With his deep voice extolling the virtues of womankind, I drove north toward home and a handful of unexpected surprises.
3
There are times when one starts to do something, or when one anticipates something that a sick feeling climbs into their skin. This feeling stretches beyond the physical and mental and envelops the whole essence of a person. Psychics have noted that prior to certain catastrophic events that they have similar feelings that leave them nauseated, exhausted, and in some cases comatose.
I don’t necessarily give much credence to what psychics say that they experience; however, I felt a foreboding that knotted my stomach and made me quite foggy as I drove north toward my hometown. Of course, it may have been the countless bourbon and Cokes that I had imbibed the night before. I had not been back in over two years, so right at the moment, I was beginning to consider turning back around and returning to New Orleans to try to rid myself of the horrendous hangover that had returned to haunt me. Upon later reflection, that would have been the better of the two choices.
The few times that I have returned to Hellenston, Arkansas have been quick trips. I hadn't spent a night in the town in over a decade. The last night I spent in the town was the night before my high school graduation, almost two weeks after I found my parents murdered in their bed. Within one month, I found their murderer, Sheriff Frank Hanson. Hanson had been a corrupt cop, and my father had discovered a slew of illegal activities that his department had perpetrated. Hanson entered our home late one night and shot both of my parents in their sleep. I had been out late with Beth Ann Warren. I had sneaked into the house to avoid the wrath of my father. I found them the next morning.
Hanson had been careless. He thought he could control the murder investigation. I found some of the evidence that my father had on Hanson. Hanson had been so cocky that he never suspected a high school kid could connect him. I walked away from this town the day after he and three of his deputies had been sentenced to prison terms. Hanson was given the death penalty, but ten years later he is still rotting away on death row.
Suddenly I found myself an 18-year-old, orphaned multimillionaire. That didn't leave me without any family, unfortunately. My dad's family lived for the most part in Atlanta. My grandfather was a retired Baptist pastor. He used to work hard to save me from eternal damnation after my parents' death. He was never keen on the fact that my father had switched teams to the church of Christ when he married my mother. He always tried to mention it in the least subtle way possible, usually in some way to irritate my mother. I rarely visit them, and they have never come to me.
Things got hairy after my parents' death. I think there were some sore feelings from my aunt and uncle that my father didn't leave any of his wealth to them. Or perhaps because Tom had been named his executor instead of one of them. My grandparents attempted to guilt me into moving to Atlanta to be close to family.
Not that I don't appreciate them, but they march to a different drummer than I do. Granddad always feels the need to subject everyone to his moral standard, and if they don't walk his line then they must be wrong. There is very little elbow room to maneuver in his world.
My grandmother was never that demanding. She was a good grandmother who believed she was only placed upon this earth by God for the sole purpose of spoiling her grandkids. I don’t know exactly what she did before she had grandkids, but I am sure she was nowhere near as much fun. I, unfortunately, was not the first grandchild nor was I a favorite. That lucky duty fell on Michelle, my oldest cousin. Her mother was my father's older sister.
Luckily, they couldn't get to me, and I moved to Memphis, Tennessee where I attained a degree in journalism. I worked for a year at The Memphis Daily, the local newspaper. I retired early after a disagreement with my editor, who would probably say that I had gotten myself fired. I decided to go back to school, and for a few years, I became a professional student eventually getting degrees in English, film, and business. To quote the Dire Straits' song, now, with the help of Tom Campbell and several investment specialists, “I get money for nothing and my chicks for free.” This has lead to a life of travel and an interesting career in debauchery.
Now I was about to return to my roots and not without a fair share of in trepidation. I had this almost unspeakable dread as I drove through Louisiana and Arkansas. Despite my ill fe
elings about returning, the route north took me through some of the most beautiful scenery. As I watched the numerous fields of green, it became easy to forget I was en route to a murder. So I enjoyed the breeze through my hair and the sound of Eric Clapton tributing Robert Johnson.
Twelve hours, 637 miles, and five bathroom breaks later, I found myself approaching the all too familiar outskirts of Hellenston.
Even though I have been back a few times in the past ten years, it still amazed me how the town had made some changes. Little shopping centers are built every couple of years, most of them only house one or two stores, but the new buildings still throw me for a loop.
Hellenston had a quaint town square. Several years before I left for college, the town was in shambles. Nothing was being cared for. The courthouse looked old and run down, and the shops were dingy. Fortunately, the previous mayor was voted out of office.
Since then, the town cleaned itself up with a Help Heal Hellenston Campaign. The mayor and city council formed a committee to beg, borrow, and accept grant money for the advancement of the city. The committee formed sub-committees to tackle different areas of the town.
The sub-committees, no doubt, formed sub-sub-committees, which may or may not have formed sub-sub-sub-committees. Whatever they did, it worked wonders. Now the square was beautiful, like a scene from Norman Rockwell. The courthouse gleams white again, and the stores look less like vacant spaces and more like shops. Hellenston has become a tourist stopover with its charming antique shops, an old-fashioned soda fountain, and a legion of local events, like the Riverfest that was happening this weekend.
Riverfest was an annual event that has happened every September since before I could remember. It involved a plethora of activities from a crafts fair, a homemade sailboat race, a crawfish eating contest (called the Mud Lobster Jamboree with a live bluegrass band,) and a small fair. When I say it is a small fair, I mean it has one Ferris wheel and at least one other contraption that would fling one around until the funnel cakes spewed forth. Don’t get me wrong, I loved this weekend when I was a kid. I would spend all Saturday at the fair with my friends. We ate so much junk food that we would be too sick to make it to church on Sunday. Not that my mother ever thought that such an excuse would fly.
I drove along Main Street. It was a nine o'clock on a Thursday night. The streets had a few kids cruising along. I chuckled when I passed a “No Cruising” sign. Cruising was all a high school kid could do on a Saturday night in a town like Hellenston. There had only been one movie theater in town, and the movie was almost always two or three weeks late getting to us. There was only so much that small town kids can do. Hang out at the Dairy Queen and then drive across town to see who was hanging out at Sonic. Poor kids now had to get by with just drugs and sex. That is probably the downfall of our society right there. Old people who don't want to see kids. Out of sight, out of mind. It is a shame, I thought. Probably one of the solutions found by the sub-committee in charge of hiding the children.
As I drove past the town, I saw the empty building that had once been the Dairy Queen. I guess without the kids, the Queen had no one to support her. What kind of town doesn't have a Dairy Queen?
I thought back to the days of my youth. When I was still carefree, I could still see the group of cars parked in the parking lot of the Price Chopper grocery store. I had spent many hours on the weekend here. I imagined life when the only thing that mattered was what time I had to be home. I was suddenly sinking into a pit. I sat thinking about my childhood. Those are the things often taken for granted.
I pushed the thoughts out. It was time to focus on the present. I had called Nikki when I passed through Little Rock. She had rented a large houseboat on the river. Since it was so late, the marina owner had agreed to leave the keys in an envelope taped to the door. I drove north on Highway 16 to Pryor's Bay Marina. The marina was off the highway down a small paved road astutely named Pryor's Bay Marina Drive. The little road wound through some wooded hills for a mile and a half before it ended at the parking lot of the marina.
I was looking forward to being on the water again. I am pretty sure I was born underwater. I have always shared an affinity to boats and water with my father. We often took his boat up and down the river, or we vacationed near the ocean where we would sail out to sea for a few days before ever returning to shore.
I have continued my love for the water ever since. I am always excited when I get to spend some time on a boat. The boat was fabulous. It was christened the Elizabeth Ann II, and it slept, 14 people. Actually, it could only sleep 14 if one were into the orgy style of 7 people per bed. The Elizabeth Ann also sported a hot tub, a full kitchen, digital satellite, GPS system, and, probably most importantly, a full bar with three different brands of bourbon: Makers Mark, Old Charter, and Knob Creek.
I poured a short shot of the Knob Creek and gingerly put it to my lips where I instantly devoured it. I settled in quickly and found my berth. I have always loved sleeping on the water, and within minutes, I was sleeping like a baby. A baby that had been nursing a giant hangover for over 600 miles.
4
I hate alarm clocks. There is something downright evil about disrupting anything as peaceful as a good night's sleep. Besides, I have always known two things: one, there is nothing that happens before 9 a.m. that is so important that it won't wait until 10, and two, I let my body rest until it doesn't need any more, because tomorrow night I may not get any sleep.
So at the crack of eleven I awoke. I sat up on the bed, and I adjusted to my surroundings. The sunlight was squeezing through the blinds. I stretched and turned in the bed. I felt rejuvenated. On the table beside the bed were three books that I had picked up in New Orleans. One of my favorite things to do is read. I am always in the middle of a book of some sort. Being a bibliophile of epic proportions, I have quite a collection that ranges from rare and vintage books to new, modern fiction. I picked up one of the books, the first edition of Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man. I thumbed to the first chapter and quickly read for a few minutes before I climbed out of bed.
After a quick shower, I dressed. My pocket supplies were on the bedside table. They consisted of anything I might need in an emergency: a cell phone, a pocket knife, a small black Mag-Lite, a gold Zippo, I had given up smoking except for the occasional cigar, but the lighter was my bad habit, and a wine tool, in case I run into an exceptionally dangerous bottle of Pinot Grigio. I loaded my pockets with my cache of gadgets.
I found that the refrigerator was freshly loaded with milk, juice, and Bud Light. I wondered if the marina always stocked these boats before renting them, or if Nikki had made the arrangements. Either way, I was grateful as I found a box of Rice Krispies.
After my breakfast, I walked off the boat. I wanted to see Tom and let him know I had arrived.
Tom’s office is located down from the courthouse on Main Street. I parked in a metered space and proceeded down to his office. Tom is probably one of the most prosperous attorneys in the whole area. A lot has to do with the commission he makes off of my estate as well as the money that he and my father made together, but he is also one of the best litigators I have ever known. And with the exception of my father, he is the most honest lawyer I have ever known. Hellenston now had a fine prosecutor. While the murder was on the docket at the moment, Tom would most likely get his share of less heinous criminals to lock up. I'm sure he would see his fair share of drunks and penny ante drug dealers.
When I entered the office, the little bell tinkled, and Mrs. McEwan looked up from her crossword puzzle. She has been an avid crossword puzzle fan since they were first invented.
“He isn’t here, Mr. Sawyer. He is in court.” She nodded toward the courthouse and then turned back to her puzzle as if I had already left.
“Thanks,” I replied. She didn’t move except to continue filling in her little boxes. I quickly turned and left.
I strolled down the sidewalk. Being home always made me feel weird. It was hard to pinp
oint exactly. There were so many memories I had here, and then there were so many that I tried to forget. Yet, I felt so peaceful when I walked down these familiar streets. The faces of the people around were nice. No one seemed capable of frowning today. There is something comforting about living in a small town that often people take for granted. Big cities, like Memphis, tend to have sterilized citizens. Everyone is afraid to look at each other for fear that they may become involved in some sort of interaction. I can only imagine what even larger cities were like. That comfort level in a small town gives everyone a sense of security.
I reached the courthouse and climbed these very familiar steps. Inside it wasn’t hard to find the courtroom, considering there is only one. I had been inside the courtroom many times as a child. I would either watch my father making motions or defending someone who had gotten drunk and pissed on the manger scene in front of the Hellenston Methodist Church. I remember my father making jokes with Tom about the guy after he was fined $500 for vandalism and an indecent exposure. Dad had said that he could have gotten him off if he hadn't decided to do it during the church's reenactment of the first Christmas. Dad had joked that it might have changed the whole meaning of Christmas.
I spoke with one of the bailiffs who told me that court would be recessed in about twenty minutes for lunch. I decided I could wait twenty minutes, and I found a bench. I reached into my pocket and removed my Zippo. It was truly a bad habit of mine. I always find myself playing with it. Usually snapping it open and shut. Occasionally I enjoy flipping it with one hand and catching it with the other. If I get really bored I have been known to try to flip it while it is lit.
I remained seated until the doors opened and the lawyers were filing out of the courtroom. Tom was carrying his papers together as he came through the door.