Trace the Dead Eye

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SORTS

  I called and prayed and yelled and swore and got no answer.

  The paradox of eternity.

  If there was no time in eternity, why was Rollins busy when I called? Was he simply choosing not to answer? And, if busy, busy doing what? He himself had said there were no others in my circumstance, so what did a Rollins do to occupy timelessness? Fight a demon? Run an errand? Keep tabs on a hot blonde widow?

  As I muddled that theological conundrum, the police came to investigate the shooting, along with the media and scores of neighbors. They weren’t having much luck with evidence or witnesses, though I tried to be as helpful as I could. After a few hours of ignoring me they packed up and left. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would make the evening news, albeit in the background.

  Once alone, without distraction, I could chastise myself unimpeded.

  How could I have been so careless? How could I not have noticed, while following a man’s minute by minute existence, that he in turn was doing the same to me? Somehow the bastard had discovered that his wife had hired me to gather evidence against him, most likely for an impending divorce, and he didn’t appreciate the interference. Then he found out I was sleeping with his wife, giving him two reasons to be annoyed by my presence. Not willing to let one discretion pass, let alone two, and unwilling to divide his estate, he had decided to end both problems at once.

  He had hired Jim, a low-life drugged-out junkie to do the job. If all went well, it would simply be another robbery/ homicide gone unsolved. If Jim were caught, the motive—an addict looking to support his habit—would be supplied. If Jim talked and implicated Hewitt—the worst case scenario—where was the proof? All Jim had was an incoherent story. Hewitt was safe. But now there had been a new development. Jim realized the well he had tapped was unlimited. The job was done, the heat was off, and the money was plentiful. Jim knew Hewitt wouldn't risk going to the cops about extortion, even if there was no evidence implicating him in a crime. And Jim had an advantage: he had proven he was capable of killing.

  Therefore, Hewitt paid, and would pay again, but for how long? He had an advantage, as well. He had already hired a killer to rid himself of a problem. He could do so again.

  All the turmoil my death was causing the two of them was faintly satisfying, but far from the justice I sought. I was dead. They were simply inconvenienced.

  And for what? What had been the cause of it all? Who had been the source of my death?

  Brenda Hewitt.

  I only wished I could bend over far enough to kick myself in the teeth.

  It was the first time I’d thought of her--really thought of her--since our last night together. That alone showed the depth of our bond. She was a woman who had beenavailable. That about summed up our relationship. Available. Able. Willing. Inventive. Flexible. Color of her eyes? Couldn't say, but almost positive there'd been two. Height? Her lips came up to my chest while standing, other places while not. Body? Toned, tight, firm.

  Worth a lifetime?

  The question irritated, for the answer came without thought. Ten minutes, tops.

  What woman had I ever been with who had been worth more? Like a cigarette presumably taking an hour off your life for each one smoked, maybe I could measure the women in my life using the same standard. This one worth an hour, this one worth two, this one five minutes. How many, I thought, looking at it from the other side of time, had been worth taking two seconds from my life?

  Their faces, names and body's spun through my mind as if on a slot machine, and when the images stopped there were no cherries in alignment and only one woman whose name, face and being had been worth any time at all.

  Tina.

  She had been worth a lifetime, one I had given freely. If possible, I would give her another.

  But Brenda? There was a time her body made me shiver and sigh. Now she was my receptacle of death. It was surprising that her husband cared about her infidelity, especially in the midst of his own. But it’s one thing to have your own indiscretions. It’s quite another to have it thrown back in your face, especially if the man helping himself to your wife is engaged in an effort to remove you from your money, and possibly helping himself to that, as well.

  But take that man out of the equation and the threat is gone. Do so in a very violent way and perhaps said wife is frightened, not only into fidelity, but also to the point of dropping thoughts of divorce. Revenge is actualized.

  A thought crossed my mind, one I had never considered for its horrible brilliance. What if she had been the one to tell her husband about me? Not only about our affair, but that I was detailing his every movement. Women would do that; for spite, in lonely desperation, or hopelessness, or even financial ultimatum. If she had done so in the hopes of saving her marriage, had she also sealed my fate?

  It occurred to me that I really didn’t know her that well and that I’d have to make an effort. It also occurred to me--if it proved to be true--that I'd have to add her to the list of people who needed justice dropped on their head.

  I heard a basketball bouncing and I looked over to see a shadowy figure dribble a few more times before jumping from the baseline. It went in without a sound, a nice twenty-foot jumper. Rollins.

  "Where have you been?" I asked, walking onto the court.

  He grabbed the ball and dribbled out to three-point country. A turn, a jump, a flick of the wrist...nothing but net.

  "Busy," he said, positioning himself as I got the rebound and dribbled ten feet down the baseline to turn and shoot a nice pass to him under the rim. "I've got a life of my own, you know."

  "Well, I kind of lost mine," I said, meeting him at the top of the key. "It makes me a little impatient sometimes."

  "Sometimes."

  "Where do you go, when you go?"

  "You wouldn't understand and it's not important," he said. "What is important is what happened here tonight."

  "You heard?"

  "I was here."

  "You were here? I didn't see you."

  "I was here because you called."

  "I didn't call until it was all over."

  "I heard you call before you did.” He smiled at my expression. “Time is a relative thing when it doesn’t exist.”

  “Right,” I said. "Either which way, you know. I found the guy who killed me."

  "You found him," he said, "all by yourself."

  "Okay, I was led to find him. However it worked...but now I know. So why did you tell me Jim didn’t kill me?"

  He held the ball under his arm. "I didn’t say he didn’t. I didn’t say he did. So, tell me what you think you know?"

  "Jim was hired by Hewitt to kill me for sleeping with his wife. Or for gathering evidence to be used against him. Either way, he hired Jim to get me out of the picture. But now Jim wants more money and is threatening to go to the cops if he doesn't get it."

  Rollins didn’t look impressed. "Then what was all this—“ he scanned the park. “—about?”

  "The shooting? Simple. Jim’s an idiot, he’s in way over his brain. He owes people money--drug money, probably--and they're tired of waiting. Or," I said, as a thought hit, "Hewitt's already tired of the squeeze and has hired someone to get rid of Jim, just like Jim got rid of me."

  "So you think Jim was the target?"

  “No doubt about it.” I laughed. "Now that would be justice. Right as he’s reaching for the money, bam!...a bullet between the eyes."

  He silently spun the basketball on his finger.

  "Look, Meadowlark," I said, “quit making me guess. You already know. At least tell me if I'm on the right track. Did Brent Hewitt hire Jim to kill me because I was sleeping with his wife?"

  "Yes.”

  “Ha!” I pumped my fist. "I knew it." I looked at him and my excitement faded. "So why did it take so long to get to this point?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You knew all along who killed me. Why all the running around? Why all the wasted t
ime following Teresa? I know she was the catalyst to get me to this point, but why all the games? You could have just told me."

  He had a look of pained patience. "I told you from the beginning we knew how you died and who did it. How could we not know? And I told you then it would be better, for you, if we handled it without your involvement. Now I'm telling you again: drop it."

  "What!"

  "Just what I said."

  The ball had continued to spin on his index finger like a gyroscope. I grabbed it away. "It just started, how can I drop it? It all just fell into place. It's only now beginning to make sense."

  "You only know in part."

  "That's enough. Now let's take care of this guy."

  "Which one?"

  "Both. They're both responsible. Let's see some justice."

  "It'll be done," Rollins said. "In time." He reached for the ball.

  "Time my ass," I exploded, holding it away. "It's all there, right in front of us. Let's finish it."

  "We will."

  "You can't leave me out."

  "You won't be left out. You have an integral part."

  “Great,” I said, and he grabbed the ball back. "What do I do?"

  "Stay with Teresa."

  My mouth fell open and nothing intelligent came out. "Teresa? Still? I thought her part was over."

  "Trace, you see everything except what's important."

  "My murder was pretty important."

  "This isn't about you. You stay with Teresa. That's your job." He began dribbling the ball.

  "Until when?”

  "Until I tell you different."

  "What about Hewitt and Jim and—“

  "It will all be taken care of."

  "Don't give me that 'Vengeance is mine' crap. I want my own."

  He stopped dribbling. "Okay. I'll tell something else I shouldn't."

  "It’s about time."

  "If you have patience, you'll see the whole picture come together."

  I waited. "And?”

  “And what?”

  “What do I do?”

  “Wait.”

  “I’ve been waiting.”

  “You haven’t begun to wait.”

  “Yeah, but—“ I stopped. “I’m lost.”

  “Things will happen soon, and are happening. It almost happened tonight. If I hadn't readjusted the aim he wouldn't be here now."

  "Who wouldn't be here?"

  "Who did you think the bullets were for?"

  "Jim, right? Hewitt?” I asked as his face held no confirmation. “Okay, I give up, who was doing the shooting? And why?"

  "We all make enemies in life," Rollins said. "I did. You did. Sometimes we make the same enemies."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Jim has lots of enemies," he said. "No one likes being blackmailed."

  I clapped my hands, nodding my head vigorously, back on terra firma. “Exactly. Hewitt’s trying to get rid of Jim. I knew that.”

  "You'd be surprised at what you know."

  "So now what?"

  "Stay with the girl."

  "What about them?" I asked, jerking my thumb to where nobody stood.

  "Nothing yet. Not until I say. And you'll know when that is,” he said as I opened my mouth to speak, “because I'll tell you." He started to turn.

  "Wait a minute.” I forced a big smile. “Rollins, you already know what will happen. Can't you give me a hint?"

  “I don’t know what will happen. We all have free will which enables us to–“ He stopped at the expression on my face, which said plainly I wasn’t in the mood for abstract spiritual lectures. He moved his lips back and forth, considering. "I’ll make you a deal." He let the ball drop from his hands and it came to me on one bounce. "We'll play to twenty-one. Winner can ask the loser anything he wants and the loser has to answer."

  I smiled, knowing a sucker when I saw one. "Agreed." I walked to the half-way line, tossed him the ball, he tossed it back, and I was off and running...

  ...and found myself losing my balance and rolling as his hand came in and snaked the ball away and he dribbled to the basket for an easy lay-up as I got up off the ground.

  He walked to mid-court. "Played a little college ball," he said. "Might have gone pro if things had turned out different..” He bounced the ball to me, I bounced it back, and he faked right and spun left before I could move, and I watched him drive for the basket, taking all my unanswered questions with him.