Dark Channel Page 5

  “Miss Parker? Who just called?”

  “An Edmond Fiske. Um, was that … the Edmond Fiske?”

  He worked his jaw, thinking a moment, then looked at her as if she’d asked a stupid question.

  “Yes. Of course it was. By the way, has a package—”

  She held it up, a thin manila envelope. “It just came. It’s from—” She looked at the envelope’s label. “—Fiske Enterprises.”

  Taking it into his office, Jordan said, “Yes. Of course it is.”

  At his desk, he cut the envelope open and an issue of People magazine slid out. It was two weeks old and there was a small quickly scribbled note paper-clipped to the cover that read, MR. CROSS—PLEASE READ COVER STORY.

  There was a picture of a woman on the cover. Pretty, blond, smiling, and probably forty or so, Jordan guessed, although she looked younger. He knew who she was, had seen her everywhere lately. But he couldn’t imagine what interest Edmond Fiske could possibly have in Hester Thorne, or why that interest would require Jordan’s services.

  In bold white letters beside her face, the cover read, WHO (OR WHAT) DOES THIS WOMAN THINK SHE IS?

  Jordan opened the magazine, skimmed the long article, then picked up the phone and placed a call.

  “Ackroyd Security, may I help you?”

  Lowering his voice: “Pete Lacey from the IRS calling Mr. Ackroyd.”

  A pause. “Just a moment, Mr. Lacey.”

  After a few moments of silence, someone picked up and hesitated before speaking.

  “This is Marvin Ackroyd.”

  “How about lunch, Marv?”

  “You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.”

  “Hey, it got me through, didn’t it? Your secretary hates me.”

  “Your secretary hates you. To what do I owe the steaming lump of shit I’m now sitting on?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Sure, I could use a bite. You paying?”

  “Bring sandwiches.”

  “Aw, c’mon. I gotta look at your office again? Can’t we meet somewhere?”

  “I want to talk to you about something and I’d rather do it here.”

  “Couldn’t you come to my off—yeah, yeah, I know, my secretary hates you. What kind of sandwich you want?”

  “Surprise me.”

  Jordan read the article again, very slowly this time, including all the captions under the photographs. When he finished, he was frowning and Marvin still hadn’t arrived, so while he waited, he opened his closet door and threw darts at his ex-wife.

  2.

  It was her day off.

  Lauren Schroeder could not afford a day off, but the Message Line Answering Service refused to work its employees the eighteen hours seven days a week Lauren needed if she and Mark were ever going to get back on their feet.

  But that was okay because on her two days off each week, Lauren was able to avoid thinking about how much money they needed and concentrate, instead, on Nathan, their five-year-old son.

  After taking the job at the answering service more than nine months ago, Lauren had been able to spend far too little time with Nathan, and she was afraid it showed in his behavior. Of course, Lauren was fully aware of the fact that she was such a consummate worrier, she sometimes searched for things to worry about just to keep in shape. She knew it might very well be her imagination.

  Nathan seemed quiet lately, that was all, and it worried her. He struck her as rather lethargic, too. At least, when he was with her. He was much livelier when Mark was around; something happened to him, he became more animated, more interested in things.

  That was what really worried her: those things that so interested Nathan.

  Then again, she kept thinking, it could be her imagination. Maybe the changes in Nathan had nothing to do with the fact that she could spend so little time with him.

  God knew he had plenty of other reasons to be disturbed. …

  “Mom?”

  Lauren blinked her thoughts away and glanced at Nathan, tucked behind his seat belt in the passenger seat. “What, sweetie?”

  “Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese?”

  “But you just ate.”

  “I don’t wanna eat. I just wanna play the games.”

  “No, honey. We can’t.”

  He clicked his tongue and sighed. “Just to watch the Chuck E. Cheese show?”

  Lauren wanted to roll her eyes and groan when she thought of the giant mechanical animals on stage at the pizza parlor, moving stiffly to loud, badly recorded music. She would be glad they couldn’t afford to go there anymore if it weren’t for the fact that Nathan always had so much fun. It always made him laugh, that loud mechanical stage show.

  Maybe that was what bothered her so much; Nathan didn’t laugh very often anymore.

  “You can’t just go in and watch the show, Nathe. They want you to buy something.”

  “Couldn’t we just get a Coke?”

  “Please don’t do this, honey. I’ve told you we can’t afford Chuck E. Cheese anymore. We can’t afford McDonald’s anymore. For a while, anyway. But when things get better—”

  He interrupted quietly, sinking into the seat a little. “But when do things get better?”

  That is the sixty-four billion dollar question, Lauren thought. “I don’t know. When they get better, I guess.”

  He looked out his window, silent.

  “But look at what we got to do today,” she tried. “We went to the park this morning, ate brunch by the pond. We fed the ducks and the fish, too, didn’t we? And that was all free! See, sometimes free things are just as much fun as anything.” You just have to have the rug jerked out from under your feet to notice, she thought.

  Nathan said nothing, just folded his arms in his lap and stared out the window.

  It was as if he just got up and walked out of his body. That’s the way it always was lately. He didn’t really look unhappy; he looked thoughtful, reflective, but as if his thoughts were unsettling.

  “Want to listen to the radio?” she asked. He shrugged.

  She turned it on and found a station playing a Weird Al Yankovic song. Nathan liked Weird Al. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  He’d been fine in the park, laughing at the ducks, running with a dog—a little terrier that belonged to an old man sitting on a nearby bench—even finding amusement in the simple act of eating tuna fish sandwiches and Doritos on the grass.

  And now he’d gone, just up and left, leaving his little four-limbed vehicle parked in the car seat.

  Well, she was taking him to see Dr. Puccinelli tomorrow. Mark thought she was being paranoid—

  —“He seems just fine to me,” he’d said—

  —but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Maybe the doctor would have a few thoughts. If nothing else, Nathan always got a good laugh out of the man’s name.

  She looked at him again. He didn’t even seem interested in the scenery. There wasn’t much to see on Highway 17, but normally Nathan would find something.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, and waited for him to look at her before going on. “If you promise, for the rest of this week, to be understanding when Mom or Dad says we can’t afford something, we’ll get a scoop of ice cream before we go home.”

  He smiled.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Promise. Cross my heart.” He crossed it sincerely.

  There was a Thrifty Drug on the way. They had the cheapest. She was ashamed to have to think that way; it would be nice to take Nathan to Swensen’s or Baskin-Robbins, or even to see those damned mechanical animals.

  But they—along with so many other things, nearly everything—had disappeared up her husband’s nose. …

  Unlike other people she’d heard about—and one person she actually knew—Lauren had not seen the symptoms
first, she’d seen the problem. It had been, you might say, right there under her nose. But more importantly, it had been under Mark’s nose—

  —at five-forty one cold winter morning almost two years ago. She was awakened by the bathroom light. The door was only open a crack, but being a light sleeper, the single bar of light that fell across the bed was enough to jar her. First she looked at the clock and wondered why Mark was up twenty minutes early, then she listened. He was rattling around in there, doing something. He cleared his throat three or four times, exhaled slowly, then—

  —the first long wet sniff.

  Lauren rubbed her eyes and sat up just before the next one. There were three quick coughs, a few staccato sniffs, then a sigh, and Lauren thought of Lynda Petersen. Just for an instant.

  “Mark?”

  He dropped something.

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’re you doing?”

  Shuffles, rattles, and clanks, all with a certain ring of guilt to them.

  “Just getting up.” “It’s not time.” “Couldn’t sleep.”

  Lauren got out of bed and went to the bathroom door, wide awake now. When she pushed it open, Mark was slipping his black leather shaving kit under the sink. He stood, sniffed, flicked a finger under his nose, and smiled.

  “I’ve got an inspection at the plant today,” he explained. “A little nervous, that’s all.”

  “You were doing coke.” She didn’t say it accusingly; it was spoken more as an absurd realization, with a little chuckle behind it. It was absurd. The only time they did any drugs was at parties, and that was almost always marijuana. She could only remember a couple times they’d done cocaine; she hadn’t liked it and Mark had seemed rather indifferent. And in the first year of their marriage, they’d agreed that, if they did indulge, it would only be when they were together, because they’d gone to a party that year, gone separately, Mark first and Lauren about two hours later because she had a baby shower to attend and, as it turned out, she’d arrived three hours later to find Mark stoned on weed and engaged in some serious flirting in the dark phone nook in the hallway, the kind of flirting you go someplace private to do, the kind of flirting that does not lead to a handshake and an invitation to do lunch sometime. She’d been furious at first, but then agreed that, when you’re high, you sometimes do things you’d never do while straight, so they’d decided. They would only do it together.

  “It’s five-forty in the morning,” she said, “and you’re doing coke.” She had a surprised smirk on her lips.

  “Oh, c’mon, hon, just one line. Like I said, an inspection, you know? I’ve been nervous about this for weeks. Tony gave me the coke, just a little. When we had dinner with them last week, remember? It was just for this, just for today. So I could go to work, you know, feeling … confident. Believe me, Lauren, I need to feel confident today.” He spoke fast, but sounded a little hurt, as if she’d falsely accused him of something.

  “Okay, honey, okay, I just—” She chuckled tiredly and rubbed her eyes, going back to bed. “—I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  “There’s a little left in there,” he said. “I mean, if you want to finish it off later. You go back to sleep. I’m gonna take a shower. You want me to fix breakfast?”

  She shook her head, crawling back between the covers where it was warm and she could get a little more sleep.

  A little more sleep, she’d thought bitterly many times since. About eight months more.

  That’s how long it had taken her to wake up.

  Oh, she noticed things, little things, like the way Mark was always sniffing.

  “You gotta cold, Dad?” Nathan asked at dinner one night.

  “No. Just allergies, is all.”

  “Maybe you should see Dr. Puccinelli,” Lauren said, thinking, once again, of Lynda Petersen.

  “Nah, they’re not that bad. Besides, he’d probably want to give me a shot, and you know how I feel about needles.”

  Maybe it’s not needles you should be worried about, Lauren thought, but she didn’t say it. Then she put her suspicion away, thinking perhaps he did have a mild allergy, even though she knew he’d never had so much as a cold since she’d known him, and if he didn’t, if he was doing a little too much nose candy now and then, he was a big boy and could handle it. He was breaking their agreement, but that was no big deal. He was too busy at the plant to have time to do any more serious flirting. He barely had time to flirt with her. She didn’t worry.

  Then the first past-due notices came.

  Lauren had always been clumsy with numbers so, when they got married, it was agreed that Mark would handle the finances. So when a past-due notice came now and then, she handed it to Mark and he slapped his forehead and muttered, “Shit, I completely forgot,” and she would forget all about it. They were small ones at first, a phone bill or cable bill, so it was no big deal. Then they got bigger.

  First, there was a threat to turn off the water if the bill was not paid promptly. Then a threat came from the electric company, which held to its word and turned off the power one week later.

  “I told you about the power bill, Mark, how could you forget about the power bill?”

  “I told you, I’m up to my ass in work this month, and I told you I would take care of it.”

  “You should’ve taken care of it a week ago! Now we’ve got flashlights and candles and no heat until they turn it back on!”

  He sniffed and ran a hand through his hair and sniffed again, then said, quietly and with a tremble, “I’m sorry, okay? I mean, what do you want me to do, huh? I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  He looked guilty, but sorry, too, so much like Nathan when he was sorry, and she apologized for shouting and wrapped her arms around him, and that was the first time she noticed that he was thinner. Much thinner. Mark was tall and had never been heavy, but he’d always been substantial, and he didn’t feel that way anymore. He didn’t look it, either. His chest was getting boney and his arms had thinned. His naturally narrow face looked even longer than usual and that tiny patch of skin that puffed a little when he pulled in his chin—gravity’s first real hold on his face—was gone, leaving a sharp jawline and a sinewy neck.

  She held him for a moment, her frown growing, then looked up at him and asked, “Honey … you okay?”

  “Sure I’m okay,” he sniffed.

  “You’re feeling all right? I mean … well, have you been doing co—”

  “Oh, listen to you. It was a mistake, okay? Just a little mistake. Now. Get off my back.” He went upstairs and didn’t talk to her the rest of the night.

  The following month, the cable was shut off.

  “Do we really need it?” Mark asked. “I mean, by the time a movie comes on Showtime, we’ve already seen it on video, right? And we don’t watch any of that other stuff, do we? Tell you the truth, I’d rather Nathan not be exposed to MTV. He’s at a very impressionable age and I don’t want him watching that crap.”

  Then a check bounced and Lauren found out they had only one hundred and twelve dollars in the bank.

  “Remember when I had to go into San Francisco a couple weeks ago and stayed the night because it was so late? Well, I had to pay for all of that, the hotel, the meals. I just haven’t been reimbursed yet, that’s all. But don’t worry—” Sniff, sniff. “—I will be. Everything’s fine, I promise.”

  Lauren knew everything wasn’t fine, she noticed he was sniffing more and eating less and getting thinner, and she knew what the problem was, but she didn’t know what to do. In her sudden panic she was watchful, but silent. Just to be safe, she started working part-time at the answering service.

  When she caught a strange man driving their BMW out of the garage one afternoon the following month, she ran out of the house screaming, first Mark’s name—“Mark! What’ve you done, Mark
, damn you, Mark, what’ve you done?”—then she shouted, “Wait!” running down the walk waving a dish towel. “Wait, what’re you—who’re you—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking the car, lady. You’re four months late.”

  “But we didn’t get a notice! They didn’t send us anything! Don’t you understand, they didn’t tell us!”

  “I don’t send the bills,” he said through the window as he drove away, “I just drive the cars.”

  Suddenly Lauren was living in a movie of the week. This was the part where the wife realized it was up to her to do something about her husband’s drug addiction/alcoholism/(fill in other appropriate popular social problem) and, if she didn’t, her family would be destroyed. They usually broke for a commercial about this time.

  But not Lauren. She just went into the house, called Mark at work, and screamed at him until her throat was raw. When he got home that night, they talked about it. They shouted, but they talked, too, and Mark, his eyes teary, just like in a movie of the week, agreed to get help.

  “Gonna have to,” he said quietly, one half of his mouth twitching, “or we’re gonna have to find someplace else to live.”

  “Whuh … what?”

  “I’m a little bit, um, behind on the house payments.”

  “There’ve been no notices, not one, I haven’t seen—”

  “I’ve been driving home during lunch … while you’re at work, and … and I’ve been going through the mail … taking all the bills.”

  He cried then and apologized again and again.

  Lauren’s parents loaned them some money and a car.

  They couldn’t afford a drug clinic, so Mark went, instead, to a counselor who charged on a sliding scale.

  Lauren was thankful for one thing: they did not end up like the Petersens. Almost, but not quite. Mark came out of it and so did she and they were trying hard now to get out of their financial hole. They still had their home—although that was the biggest burden of all—and they could still say they lived in Shady Hills Colony, even though they were flat broke. Things were going pretty well. Not as well as they might in a movie of the week, but certainly better than they’d gone for the Petersens.