Floating Staircase

  Still leaning back in his chair, Strohman looked infernally bored. “He came in all fire and brimstone, saying you went to his house in West Cumberland and taunted his sister with her dead son’s things. Said you wrote her some horrible story in a notebook making them out to be a couple of loons.”

  He didn’t ask me if it was true or not, but I felt the need to refute it nonetheless. “This has all been a series of misunderstandings. I wasn’t tormenting that woman. My wife and I moved into their house, and they’d left some stuff behind. I was just taking it back to them.”

  Strohman sighed and fingered the dark cleft in his chin. “I really don’t care.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because I like your brother,” Strohman said. “He’s a good man. I’m trying not to embarrass his family.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You’re causing quite a stir around town. Allegations of murder and police cover-ups—”

  “I never said anything about police cover-ups.”

  “Whatever.” He prodded the air absently with an index finger to signal just how banal he found this whole conversation. “Westlake’s a small family community. It’s my job to make sure everyone stays happy. You’ve been asking a lot of questions about stuff that doesn’t concern you, bothering people in the process. I figured I’d give you the opportunity to ask them directly to me.”

  “I want to know why the investigation into Elijah Dentman’s supposed drowning was quashed.”

  Strohman grinned. He was roguishly handsome. “You sound like Columbo.”

  “Humor me. How come David Dentman was let off the hook so easily?”

  “Why shouldn’t he be?”

  “He’s got a criminal record, a history of violence. His statement on the record says he’d been watching Elijah from the house that afternoon, but your officers missed something. I missed it too at first.” I explained about the trees from the crime scene photographs, although I neglected to tell him from whom I’d gotten them. Probably in a town Westlake’s size, there was only one crime scene photographer, and Strohman didn’t need to ask.

  “Where are these photos?”

  I groaned inwardly. “Probably somewhere over Pennsylvania by now.” Strohman frowned.

  “I had them with me at the cemetery. They blew away after Dentman punched me in the face, then handcuffed me to the fence.” Now it was my turn to frown. “How come you haven’t asked me what I was doing out there, anyway?”

  “I already know.”

  “How?”

  “Dentman phoned it in this morning.”

  “Son of a bitch. He admitted to it?”

  “Phoned it in anonymously,” Strohman said. “From a pay phone in West Cumberland. But I know it was him.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “I’m going to share something with you.” Strohman got up from behind his desk and went to the door, opened it.

  A round little woman with silver hair stood on the other side, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. I hadn’t even heard her knock. Strohman took the cups and thanked the woman, then closed the door with his shoe. After he handed me one of the cups, he sat in front of me on the edge of his desk. I heard the wood creak in protest.

  “This is what you wanted to share with me?” I said, savoring the warmth radiating through the cup. “Coffee?”

  Again, Strohman grinned. My mind summoned an image of a young Kirk Douglas. “In situations like the one that happened to the Dentmans, the families are always the prime suspects. We always address the parents first. In this case, I spoke personally with both the boy’s mother as well as his uncle. The mother”—he waved a hand to indicate her mental instability—“she was of limited capacity, let’s say. Of course,” he added, leering at me from over the rim of his cup, “you’ve met her, so you know.”

  He slurped his coffee. “I questioned David Dentman extensively. His story never changed.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

  “We had no body and no evidence that a homicide had taken place. What I’m saying is there was no probable cause to even make an arrest.”

  A glimmer of hope ignited within me. I leaned forward in the chair. “So you believe he killed the boy?”

  Strohman set his coffee on his desk, then folded his hands in his lap. “I did seven years in Los Angeles as a uniformed officer and another two in homicide. I love this little town—it’s pretty and peaceful, and I got a wife and a litter of youngsters who’re much better off here than back in L.A.—but I’m aware of its shortcomings. I’ve been here four years, and we’ve only worked two wrongful death cases in all that time. And only one of those was an honest to God homicide. A squabble down at the ‘Bird, fists flying, some guy pulls a knife. That’s hot news around here. Most of my officers have never seen blood let alone worked a homicide investigation.”

  That tabloid celebrity smile returned. He had perfect teeth. “But I’ve worked some pretty gruesome cases. I could tell you stuff that would make you spend the rest of your nights sitting up in bed, listening for every little creak in your house. When it comes to doing those sorts of things, well, that’s my bread and butter. And just because I moved my family out here for a better life doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered all my training and instincts. You don’t leave those things at the airport security checkpoint, so to speak. You catch me?”

  “What about the fact that the kid’s body was never found?”

  “My guess is it’ll show up sometime in the spring when the lake thaws. Point I’m trying to make is I’m not sitting around here with my thumb up my ass. I know how to run an investigation. I don’t need you sniffing around in my shit. Comprende?”

  Rising off the desk, Strohman returned to his seat. The chair’s casters squealed. “So tell me what I have to do to put your mind at ease.”

  “Aside from reopening the investigation, I assume?”

  “This is a good town. The people are better served forgetting about an accidental drowning than to be the center of a homicide investigation that would never go anywhere.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I’m patient with you because your brother’s a good cop and a good man. Anyone else and I would have let Dentman file those charges. Think about that.” He checked his wristwatch. “Officer Cordova will drive you home now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When we turned into the cul-de-sac and Cordova spun the cruiser around in a tight semicircle, Freers made some offhand comment about the Dentman house. Apparently he hadn’t known I lived here now.

  Cordova got out of the cruiser and opened the rear door for me.

  I got out, stretching my legs. My head still pounded. “You interviewed Nancy Stein the day the Dentman boy drowned in the lake, didn’t you?” I asked him.

  “Huh?” It was probably the last thing he expected me to say.

  I shook my head. “Never mind.” Glancing at my house, I spotted Adam standing in the front doorway. “Christ.”

  “Yeah, well, you just take it easy,” Cordova said, climbing inside the car. “And you should probably go get your head checked out.”

  For one insane moment, I forgot about the bump on my head and assumed Cordova was recommending I consult with a psychotherapist.

  As I walked up the gravel path to the house, my brother’s formidable presence in the doorway like impending doom, I could hear the police car heading toward Main Street. Despite the cold, I was sweating. My shirt stuck to my chest, and I felt rivulets of perspiration running down the sides of my ribs from my armpits. I clutched my notebook, my fingernails cutting crescents into the cardboard cover. Reality wavered. There is clarity here. I felt like I was about to blink out of existence.

  Adam stood in the doorway like a sentry. He was in jeans and a white sweatshirt with a star-shaped emblem at the breast, his muscular arms folded over his chest. On his face was the indignant countenance of a frustrated parent.

  Hopeless, I paused a
t the bottom of the porch steps and laughed. There was nothing funny about any of this, not by a long stretch, but I had lost all control of myself. This sick, humorless chortle was all I had in me.

  “Get in the house,” Adam said, turning away and preceding me through the threshold.

  Beth and Jodie sat on the couch in the living room. As I entered, Beth stood. She looked more than just distraught—she looked ill, cancerous, bulimic. Jodie watched me with gaunt, dark eyes. Once again, I felt the urge to break into laughter. This time I was able to arrest the outburst before it made the situation even worse.

  “Travis,” Beth said, “what the hell happened to you?”

  “Long story. I’m okay. I just need to talk to Adam.”

  “Goddamn right,” my brother said from behind me. There was a cancerous quality to his voice as well. He gave me a shove, which set me in motion toward my wife.

  “You all right, babe?” I said.

  “Your head,” Jodie said simply. On the coffee table in front of her, the wooden blocks were stacked into a pyramid, a staircase.

  “It’s fine. Just a bump.” I could sense Adam and Beth communicating to each other without words.

  Beth rubbed one of my shoulders, then took Jodie’s hands. “We’re going to put on some coffee and make sandwiches,” she said, leading my wife off the couch and out of the room.

  I remained where I was, not too eager to face Adam.

  In the belly of the house, the furnace kicked on.

  “So far,” Adam said from behind me, “all I know is that you never came home last night and that Doug found you beat to shit in a cemetery outside of town this morning. You want to elaborate?”

  “Good to see you’re so concerned about my well-being. I’m okay, in case you wanted to know.”

  “Yes. I see that. Turn the hell around, will you?”

  I faced him.

  “I thought I got through to you last night,” he said.

  “No. You didn’t listen. I tried to explain.” I was exhausted; there was no fight left in me. The tone of my voice was like the droning over a high school intercom.

  “You came to me with nonsense, with fairy-tale bullshit. I told you what to do, but you just wouldn’t listen.”

  “I did,” I said. “I listened. David Dentman was waiting for me in his truck when I left your place.”

  “And I guess that’s who turned your face into pulp, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “No wonder. I told you to leave those people alone.”

  “But who can really predict the actions of a homicidal lunatic?”

  Adam’s nostrils flared. He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his hips. His cheeks were flushed red, and I could see cords standing out in his neck. I could tell he wanted to hit me. “This,” he said, “is your fault. No one else’s. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. I warned you.”

  “You just don’t see it. How can it be that I’m the only one who sees it? It’s like the fucking Twilight Zone.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “There’s everything to see.”

  “No. You’re making this up. It’s all in your head. You’ve convinced yourself of this goddamn make-believe story. The boy drowned. It was an accident. Get it through your head.”

  A white rage quaked through me. I saw Detective Wren’s face looming like a full moon in front of my own, one hand on my shoulder, asking me to go over once again what happened to my brother.

  “You’re wrong and you’re blind,” I growled at Adam.

  “Goddamn it. You’ve lost your mind. You can’t tell the difference between fiction and reality.”

  “The reality,” I said levelly, “is that David Dentman murdered that boy and no one is willing to hear it.”

  “Then prove it.” Adam slapped his hands against his thighs. “You’re so goddamn certain. I want you to give me some actual goddamn proof.”

  “The proof is in the character. The proof is in the lousy goddamn notebook.” I threw it into the air. “The proof is in this house. It’s in the sum of all the stories. It’s—” My gaze settled on the coffee table and the little wooden blocks from my childhood, though they were now Elijah’s blocks, still constructed to suggest a tiny, colorful staircase. A strangled laugh erupted from my throat. “The proof is in these blocks. See? The proof is in the staircase!”

  Around me, the world seemed to freeze. Something akin to a doorway unlatched in the center of my brain, flooding my skull with brilliant white light. I hardly noticed when Beth and Jodie appeared in the hallway.

  “The perfect place,” I muttered, turning to them.

  “Travis,” Adam said.

  “So simple. It’s the perfect place because it’s been staring at me since the first day.”

  “He’s lost his mind,” said Adam.

  “Oh,” Jodie moaned, starting to cry. “Oh, God . . .”

  “You want your body?” I cried at him. “You want your proof?”

  Like a locomotive, I stormed past Adam and flung open the front door. I heard Jodie shriek my name but I didn’t stop. I never even paused. I wasn’t here—I was floating somewhere above, watching myself in a dream. I was a boulder gathering speed as it rolls down a hillside. I was a 747, engines burned to dust, hurling toward the Earth at a million miles an hour. Frantic, I hustled around the side of the house, breaking into a sprint by the time I reached the rear. Before me stood tree trunks like fence posts, a barrier separating me from the lake.

  “Travis!” Adam shouted from behind me.

  Charging through the snow, I continued down the gradual slope toward the trees and the lake. I made a beeline for the axe whose head was wedged into a tree stump chopping block, grasped the wooden handle with both hands, and gave the axe an almighty yank upward. The bladed head wrenched free of the chopping block, the release nearly toppling me backward.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Adam barreling toward me and Beth trailing behind him. Only Jodie—my Jodie, my girl—remained at the side of the house, watching as the events unfolded.

  Axe in hand, I pushed through the trees, swatting branches out of my way, chopping at them when I could. Somewhere very close a flock of blackbirds took flight, startled by my presence. I was no longer running, and I could hear Adam crunching through fallen branches, closing the distance. He was still calling my name.

  Consumed, driven, I broke through the last of the winter-brittle trees, my chest heaving with each breath. Before me: the lake. Directly before me: the floating staircase. Unlike the first time, there was no ice on which to walk. I hardly paused to consider this. Instead, I look another step right into the water. The ground was muddy and congested with reeds. My foot sank quickly in the mud. The water was an ice bath; I felt the chill race up through my body and explode like a rocket at the base of my skull. Possessed, I would not be thwarted.

  “Travis,” Adam yelled. The crunch of dead twigs grew louder, nearer . . .

  I waded out to my knees, my hips. My whole body shook, rattling apart the way I thought David Dentman’s truck might when he gunned it past sixty. From nowhere, the weight of the axe increased by about fifty pounds, and I needed two hands to hold it. The water level rose to my chest, and I slung the axe over one shoulder. My teeth chattered a mile a minute. I was no longer taking steps but rather sliding along the silt at the bottom of the lake. How deep did it go? I had no idea. And I didn’t care—I could walk across the bottom of the ocean floor right now.

  Back on land, Adam finally cleared the trees and staggered to the lake. He shouted my name over and over again. I could hear Beth now, too.

  I did not turn to see if either of them was pursuing me into the water, but I didn’t think they were. Anyway, it didn’t matter. The floating staircase, that prehistoric beast, crested out of the placid surface of the lake only a few yards ahead of me.

  Splashing behind me: I turned and saw Adam stomping through the water.

  There were stairs under th
e water. I climbed, the axe still slung over one shoulder. The wooden planks were weathered and beaten and ugly, brittle like diseased bone. I rose with them out of the freezing murk. The wind was unrelenting. The water had kept me preserved; now, the flesh exposed to the air was rendered immediately numb. Still, I mounted the steps, bullying straight to the top.

  Something thumped against the framework of the staircase from beneath it. Under the water. Submerged. Trapped, I thought. Trapped. All feeling gone from my body, I approached the uppermost step, standing on the one just below it. The plank covering the top step was splintered and not completely nailed down. It had been pried up in the past.

  I lifted the axe over my head. Somewhere—any-where, everywhere—Adam shouted my name. I was distantly aware of my bladder giving out . . . and of warmth that spread from my crotch down my inner thighs.

  I brought the axe down. The plank suffered a fatal gash. The dulled blade crashed through the sun-bleached plank, splintering it down the middle. The two halves remained nailed to their respective sides of the frame, a ragged eyelet chasm hollowed in the center. I dropped to my knees and, with my one free hand, pried both halves of the plank from the foundation. I couldn’t feel my fingers, and it was difficult to instruct them what to do. My palm was bleeding again, too. There was blood on everything, everything.

  “Travis!”

  Rending both sections of plank free from the platform, I tossed them over the side of the staircase and into the water—plink, plink!—and peered into the abyss I’d created. Below, my reflection stared back at me, framed within a rectangle of black water.

  Find an anchor.

  Gripping the axe handle in both hands, I leaned over the opening and rammed the head of the axe below the surface of the water. I would break this whole goddamn staircase apart if I had to, shred it with my bare hands, my frozen fingers, my bloody palm, anything to save him, anything to save my—

  The axe blade struck something and knocked it loose of something else.

  Whatever it was, I could feel it thumping along the handle of the axe as it floated and bobbed to the surface of the water. Squinting at the brackish murk of the water, I waited for it to surface. Waited.