Terminal Secret Read online

  He woke up on Monday morning in a hotel room with cocaine on the dresser and a hooker in the bed next to him. Sixty hours had disappeared. A faint memory of the Washington Monument outside a car window fluttered through his mind. Then darkness.

  He checked to see if the woman in the bed with him was breathing and then looked around the room for his belongings. He wiped the coke off the dresser with a wet towel, placed a trio of hundred dollar bills on the small desk, and slinked out the door and down the hall to the elevator.

  The morning sun greeted Marcus through the revolving doors of the small hotel lobby and he didn’t blink. There was no hangover. He was still drunk. High. God knows what else. Probably had a new venereal disease to go with the new vomit stains on the cuff of his pants.

  The cab at the front of the taxi stand pulled forward as Marcus exited the lobby of the hotel. He pulled the door open and flopped in the back seat with a cloud of stench the cabbie knew all too well.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “Columbia Pike, near Four Mile Run,” Marcus answered.

  “Never heard of it,” the driver responded, now turning at the waist to look straight at his fare in the back seat.

  “It’s in South Arlington. A couple miles from the Pentagon.”

  “Virginia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Going to need to see the cash first,” the cabbie replied. “That’ll run a couple hundred dollars.”

  “A couple hundred dollars?”

  The cabbie realized the problem before Marcus did. “Do you know where you are?” he asked, trying to focus in on his passenger’s bloodshot eyes.

  “DC.”

  “No. Philadelphia.”

  The first bender was the hardest. Then they all blurred together.

  *

  Marcus’s eyes tried to focus on the newspaper, continuing a long-standing family tradition of reading what his mother referred to as the “Irish funnies.” He never considered it odd to read the obituaries and death notices. They were in virtually every paper across the country, after all. And what was the point of the newspaper if not to read it? It wasn’t until his first assignment in the military, when a commanding officer informed him—through an expletive laden rant—that young men don’t read the obits. Especially young men who signed up to serve as soldiers.

  Marcus kept reading. He didn’t care if the obits were the primary means for the elderly to keep track of who was winning the “I’m still alive award” everyone secretly coveted.

  Marcus saw it differently. The faces on the black-and-white pages of the paper were life, death, and the celebrated highlights of everything in between. The best of a person captured in words and presented to the world in one final effort to prove they had mattered. Someone’s son. Someone’s brother. A husband. A wife. A paragraph to say one final time—for those in the cheap seats—that they had been here. That they were loved. That they were more than the suits that dragged themselves through rush-hour traffic five thousand times over the last twenty-five years to little fanfare. The only sad obituaries were the short ones. A life so mundane, or cared for so little, that embellishment was evasive even in death, the only time and place when no one would call bullshit on statements of grandeur. Only a real dick would spit on the grave of the dead.

  As he did every day, Marcus read the paper from beginning to end. He had the time. It was usually a two-drink affair. On Sundays, when the ads where thick and the opinions were plentiful, he would stretch it to three. The obituaries and death notices were always the icing on the cake.

  And what had started as a family tradition had gradually turned into an obsession. It had been over three years since he had seen the first face. He remembered it vividly, a moment of clarity in a sea of gray. The photo in the obituary had stared up at him as if daring him to remember. Daring him to recall something he had long ago tried to forget.

  Several months later there had been another familiar face. Another face he had tried to wipe from his memory. When the third face surfaced, smiling up from the paper, he got a second revolver to go with the one he already kept stored in the glove box of his ten-year-old Toyota 4 Runner.

  Marcus looked at the photograph of the dead EPA lawyer and squinted at the face. He read through the write-up, the usual list of compliments for a wonderful friend, colleague, and daughter. A young environmental lawyer who was on the cusp of greatness. A sharp legal mind who had already plied her skills to the tune of three billion dollars in fines levied against corporations who had done the environment wrong. Fuck, Marcus whispered. Another one. He tipped the glass up and the remains of the bloody mary disappeared. Then he stared for a moment at the bottle of oxycodone sitting on the small kitchen table, wedged between the salt and pepper shakers, and used more often than either.

  The day he saw the first face, he had tried to reach out to her. Unsuccessfully. He called, left messages, and waited. When he called again, the number had been disconnected. When the second face had appeared, he had gone to the house where she had rented a room only to find a young couple living there, the husband pushing a lawnmower across the small front yard while a young boy splashed in an ankle-high plastic pool in the driveway.

  He then hired a lawyer to locate the mother of his son under the auspice of discussing visitation rights. The attorney took one look at the strung out, inebriated man in front of him and advised him to get clean before he engaged the legal process again. He was told his current condition was not conducive to a favorable ruling by any sitting judge. Marcus agreed, promised the attorney and himself he would clean up, and then fell on his face in a month of back-to-back benders that stretched from South Carolina to New Orleans. The story never changed. His son was only sobriety away… and it could have been measured in light-years.

  Then luck had reared its magnificent head and he rediscovered her in a photo in the newspaper, her stunning black gown in the arms of an up-and-coming congressman from New Mexico. Fortunately for Marcus, while the mother of his child had perfected her ability to melt into the background, to disappear into the social scenery, her new husband couldn’t share in her enthusiasm for anonymity. Unknown politicians didn’t win elections.

  Marcus shut the newspaper and looked up at the clock on the wall. He stood, grabbed his crutches, and ambled towards the door.

  Chapter 8

  On a rough cobblestone sidewalk outside a townhouse in Georgetown, Marcus appeared from the alley, his crutches clacking as they sought level ground. Stumbling, he nearly crashed into the mother of his child as she briskly hustled down the street.

  “We need to talk,” Marcus said, trying to keep up.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Your husband is in the papers. He’s a public figure. It wasn’t hard.”

  “You’re not allowed to be near me. I have a restraining order.”

  “I know. It’s important.”

  Sherry Wellington stopped moving, turned and leaned towards Marcus, peering into his soul. She inhaled his presence and easily ascertained his current physical state. “You’re on something.”

  “Only booze.”

  “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

  “It’s legal.”

  “I assume you drove here. Drinking and driving is not legal.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “All you have are choices. You only need to make a few good ones.”

  “Not all of us can marry success.”

  “I wasn’t looking for success. I was looking for someone who could be there and be sober. Success wasn’t part of the equation. Until you’re sober and have completed some form of approved rehabilitation monitored by the courts, you will not see your son. I’m sorry, Marcus.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I’m making decisions for my son that real adults need to make. It’s easy, Marcus. Do the rehab, see your son.”

  “I’m not here about my son.”

  “That’s the only thing you and
I have to discuss.”

  “No, it’s not,” Marcus said.

  “What else is there?”

  “Something important. Life or death.”

  “Everything is life or death with you.”

  “It’s serious. Just give me ten minutes.”

  Sherry looked up and down the street. “Not here.”

  “Pick a location.”

  “Starbucks. Wisconsin and S Street.”

  “I’ll be in a back corner with a view of the room. Come find me.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  *

  Sherry strolled past the half-dozen patrons standing in line and found Marcus sitting at the back table as prescribed. She sat down without looking around, hoping no one would notice her.

  “You look great,” Marcus said.

  “I’m doing great. I opened a little boutique on the other side of Wisconsin last year. I sell high-end, previously owned furniture and clothes.”

  “Experienced digs and dressers.”

  “That would be a good name. I went with Born Again.”

  “How is my son?”

  “Our son.”

  “Our son.”

  “He’s good. He’s in the first grade. Doing real well. Reads. Can do math.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less. I mean, between the two of us, we have as much intelligence as anyone.”

  Sherry nodded. “What do you want to tell me, Marcus?”

  “Do you read the paper?”

  “Most days.”

  “The obituaries?” Marcus asked, placing a folded newspaper on the table.

  “I try not to.”

  “Well, take a look at page eight. Far right column.”

  Sherry read the page and then looked at the picture.

  “Do you recognize her?” he asked.

  “I do. I saw it on the news. Shot in Spring Valley. I didn’t pay much attention to it after that.”

  “Neither did I. I’m much better with faces than names. The name didn’t mean anything to me. And the photo they showed on the news was more recent. The obituary used a different photo. A little older. A little bit more like I remember her looking.”

  “So, she was killed? Hardly unusual for this town.”

  Marcus pulled out a printed page from the Internet. “This is from The Post last spring. Recognize the guy at the bottom?”

  Sherry nodded as she read. “Says it was an accident. Hit and run. Early morning. Out for a jog.”

  “But two pieces of each death are the same. No witnesses. No suspects.”

  “Two random deaths does not—”

  Marcus pulled out another obituary from The Baltimore Sun. “I got bored. Recognize the woman on the left?”

  Sherry’s defense of the natural laws of coincidence was eroding.

  “Shot in the back. Early morning. No witness. No robbery. Nothing stolen. Not even the Lexus sports car that was on the street with the door open and the keys in the ignition.”

  “That is three. How many more do you have?”

  “Two more.”

  “Jesus.” Sherry wiped a sudden tear from the corner of her eye. “How? Why?”

  “I don’t know. But I think it’s time to be careful.”

  “Simple advice.”

  “Or go to the authorities.”

  “That’s not an option. My husband is running for the Senate. I won’t jeopardize that.” Sherry fell silent and stared out the small window onto S street. “I can take care of myself,” Sherry added. “And we have good security.”

  Marcus nodded. “You’d better. My son only has one parent worth a damn.”

  “I have to go,” Sherry said, standing. “I appreciate you coming. Thank you.”

  Marcus stood and struggled to remove his crutches from beneath the table. As he grappled with his walking aids in the great production of standing, Sherry reached into her purse, opened her pocket book, and pulled out a photograph. She wrote her cell phone number on the back of the picture and handed it to Marcus.

  “That’s his school picture from the beginning of the year. My cell phone is on the back. Only call if there is an emergency. If you call and there is no emergency, I will get another number. Nothing has changed. Get sober, Marcus. See your son. Live with the rest of us.”

  Marcus looked at the picture of his son, staring at the miracle of creation who looked back at him smiling. The water that blurred his vision came in heavy drops. When they stopped, Sherry was gone.

  *

  Marcus was mesmerized by the picture of his son on the kitchen table. He smiled. He could feel the unused muscles in his face as they produced and held another grin. It was the tenth smile in as many minutes; the first repeated, non-drug-induced enjoyment since he started his fall from grace, a multi-year slip and slide down a rocky cliff named addiction. He had finally hit the bottom, having taken abuse from every protruding stone on his way down. Enough was enough.

  Armed with a wallet-sized photo of his son, Marcus felt a hint of strength. He had made two stops on his way home from meeting Sherry in Georgetown, the picture of his son on the dash of his car. The first stop had been a CVS in Alexandria. He had still been buzzing from breakfast. His second stop, with a hangover breaking through, had been at Home Depot an hour later. For the rest of the afternoon—for four hours and seventeen consecutive minutes—Marcus drank water and stared at the picture on the table. No booze. No drugs. Get clean and get a life. See your son.

  The oxycodone bottle was empty. He looked at his watch and knew his weekly delivery would arrive at 3:00. Twenty pills a week. Brought to his doorstep, procured from sources he didn’t want to know about. When his own doctor had refused to prescribe more of the powerful pain reliever, he had turned to the pharmaceutical underworld. It took a week to meet his new “doctor,” a white guy in his fifties who drove a Honda and who Marcus never saw again after the initial meeting. Future contact would be at a minimum. A time would be arranged for delivery of the product and the time would not change without paying a fee. It was a precise operation. And an expensive one. The lone interview between the patient and his new doctor of procurement had taken less time than it took to fill out the dozen pages of insurance forms required by his real physician. The whole shebang had been executed in the parking lot of Dick’s Sporting Goods in Bailey’s Crossroads, just down the street from Marcus’s apartment. The war on drugs was a myth, Marcus had concluded an hour after the meeting, an unmarked bottle of narcotics in one hand and single pill under his tongue for good measure.

  But today was the day he would start over. The dark door of hopelessness had been left open and the light of possibility had slipped in through the crack. He looked at the photograph of his son and swelled with confidence that today would be Day One.

  He had a pretty good idea how the story would end. Either a neighbor would call the police, or a distant friend or long-lost relative would take an untimely interest in his well-being. Or the mailman would become suspicious at the growing pile of envelopes in his box. Eventually someone would notice.

  But he didn’t care. He was looking forward to the pain. Nothing worth doing is easy.

  But yes, today was the day. His first hurdle would be to turn away the oxycodone man. Pay him for his trouble, send him on his way, and tell him to cancel his standing order.

  The moment of truth arrived fifteen minutes early and Marcus walked to the door, his crutches leading the way as if racing to get the rehabilitation started.

  “Who’s there?” Marcus asked, unlocking the dead bolt on the door.

  The deliveryman in the hallway shook the bottle with Marcus’s weekly doses and held the bottle up to the security eyehole in the door. Marcus looked through the eyehole and involuntarily licked his lips at the light brown prescription bottle rattling on the other side of the threshold. Just say no, he reminded himself. He turned the doorknob and three holes suddenly appeared in his door at chest level. He looked down at his door and frowned at the splintered wood.
A small cloud of dust wafted around his waist.

  Then the pain hit. He tried to grasp his chest, his crutches still attached to his wrists. His walking aids flailed with his arms, banging into the wall and the bookcase on their respective sides of the doorframe. Moments later, Marcus took his last breath. He’d finally gotten it right. He spent his last five hours sober. Smiling. Only a well-written obituary could improve on his death. It was as good as it was going to get.

  Chapter 9

  “Do you attend a lot of funerals?” Emily asked.

  “For work, no.”

  “For pleasure?”

  “I try not to,” Wallace answered. “But as you get older, you start getting more invites for funerals and fewer for weddings. Haven’t enjoyed a funeral yet. They aren’t my thing. Probably scarred early. My great aunt died when I was a kid. I was six or so, and I remember my mother dragging me across town so I could get a good look at a dead body. She wanted to show me what happens to us all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that. She quoted scripture the entire bus ride. She thought it would be a good experience for me.”

  “Was it?”

  “Hell no. Kids don’t need to go to funerals.”

  “The first funeral I attended was my dad’s.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad I went.” There was a long uncomfortable pause and Wallace fished through his mind for an appropriate comment.

  Emily broke the awkward silence. “But I’ve never been to a funeral for someone I didn’t know.”

  “You’re young.”

  “And I certainly haven’t crashed a funeral as a detective.”

  “Keep your badge in your pocket. We are just observing. If you need to show your credentials, do it discreetly.”