One Last Lie (26 page)

Icy fear overcame him, and for a few seconds Jonathan couldn’t move. His hands felt glued to the steering wheel, his legs heavy as tree limbs. Angela’s house was on a cul-de-sac with no outlet, which meant something was happening on her block.

Jonathan forced himself to move, guiding the SUV back into the street. He stepped harder on the gas, almost missing the left turn onto Angela’s street, twisting the car so sharply it went up the curb and onto the grass apron lining the sidewalk. He came close to losing control of the vehicle before he stopped, took a moment to get hold of himself, and then backed off the curb. Along the street people stood in front of their homes, gaping at the flashing lights and yellow tape at the end of the cul-de-sac — directly in front of Angela’s house.

Jonathan rammed on the brakes, stalling only inches from a police officer who stood in the street with his arm raised. His eyes filling with water, Jonathan turned off the engine, tore open the door and ran up to the cop.

“I have to get in there!” He tried to keep his voice from quivering. “I have to get in there!” He moved toward the house.

The officer held up both his arms, his giant hands holding back Jonathan without touching him. “Not possible. This is a crime scene, Sir. I must ask you to stand back and stay on the other side of the tape.”

The rain had turned to an annoying drizzle that coated Jonathan’s face with tiny beads of water. Ahead of him in the driveway, police swarmed the porch like bees to a hive.
What the hell happened? Oh my God, Philip, what the hell happened?
Once again, he tried to walk around the policeman, but enormous hands grasped his arm and pulled him backward.

“Sir! This is a crime scene! Get back into your car, turn around and…”

“My partner is in there!” The officer crunched his eyes and cocked his head. “My
partner
,” he repeated. “My lover… my boyfriend. Philip Stone. Is he in there? What the hell happened? I need to see him!”

The officer reached for the mobile transceiver strapped to his shoulder. “Please stay where you are for a moment, Sir.” Turning away from Jonathan, he pressed a button and spoke into the radio as he walked to his patrol car. Every few seconds he twisted his head around and look back over his shoulder, giving Jonathan a poker-faced glare.

Jonathan paced the sidewalk. He couldn’t imagine what would create this kind of scene. Philip had too much common sense and experience to let the conversation get out of hand. More confounding was the fact that Philip hadn’t called him. Did the police take his phone? Did Angela smash it on the floor when he tried to leave?

He peered at the open front door, trying to see through the dirty screen. People moved around inside, but he couldn’t tell what was going on. The screen door opened and three men stepped out of the house — two police officers escorting a man whose hands were cuffed behind his back. Jonathan’s heart leapt as he took a few steps forward to get a better view.

He turned to the officer who was still talking on his radio. “For Christ’s sake! What the hell is
he
doing here?”

The officer turned to Jonathan and released the button on the radio. “You know him?”

“I met him once,” Jonathan answered with a voice that sounded as though it came from another galaxy. He was lost in thought, trying to fit the pieces together. “In front of Angela’s apartment in the city. He’s her friend. I think his name’s Tommy.”

“This guy might know something,” the officer muttered into his radio. “Should I bring him up?”

A garbled response sent a chill through Jonathan. He used all his strength to hold back his tears and not allow the twisted knot in his stomach to strangle his insides. He reached for his phone to call Philip.
Enough is enough.

“You can go up there now,” the officer said, lifting the yellow tape. “Detective Lancer will meet you at the front door.”

Jonathan slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked up the driveway toward the house. He glanced at Tommy, now leaning against a police car parked in the driveway. Tommy stared back, his face pallid and drawn, his eyes empty.

A tremor ran through Jonathan’s body.
What did you do? What the fuck did you do? If you hurt him, I swear I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch.
About to scream his thoughts aloud, he stopped short as a gentle hand fell on his shoulder.

“I’m Detective Lancer,” a distant voice said.

Jonathan turned to face the detective, who immediately reminded him of their friend Max: salt and pepper hair cut close to his head, fine lines on a perpetually tanned face, and stubble way past five o’clock. Jonathan moved closer to the detective, his eyes not leaving screen door.

“My partner’s in there and I need to know why he hasn’t come out here to see me. What happened, and where’s Angela? What the hell is going on in there?” His own voice sounded strange, aloof, as though coming from someone beside him.

“What’s your name?” asked the detective.

“Jonathan Beckett.”

Detective Lancer pointed in Tommy’s direction. “Jonathan, do you know that man?”

Jonathan clenched his teeth and pressed his anger down deep in his gut. “Detective, I don’t give a shit about that asshole. I want to go inside and see Philip. If you let me in there, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just let me in there, please, I have to see him.”

The detective turned toward the front door. He flipped open and closed the memo pad in his hands. A smear of blood marked one of the pages. Jonathan took a deep breath and looked up to the clearing sky, blinking back tears.

“Jonathan, this is a crime scene and we need to make sure it remains uncontaminated until all evidence is gathered. It should only be another few minutes, I promise.”

Jonathan looked to the ground. The grass, dormant from the long winter was now beginning to gain color and strength; the first sign of spring, the time of year he and Philip treasured the most.

“Philip,” he said. “Where is Philip?” He started to dig up the soggy grass with the toe of his sneaker, penetrating the top layer and working his way into the mud. The dirt stuck to his sneaker and when he hit the wettest part of the soil, it splattered up the bottom half of his pant leg.

“Jonathan,” Detective Lancer said softly, “I think you know what happened in there.”

Jonathan shook his head on the verge of losing control.

“Tell me what’s going on. Where’s Philip? I need to get in there!” He attempted to convey force in his voice, but his words sounded shaky. Other than having the ability to shake his head, he felt paralyzed.

Lancer swung an arm around Jonathan’s shoulder and led him to the porch steps. He paused and called to the officers guarding Tommy. “Get him out of here. Lock him up at the station.”

After helping Jonathan sit down on the middle porch step, Lancer squatted in front of him. He picked off the thin pieces of mud stuck to the top of his black, lace-up shoes, allowing the silence between them to sink in.

“Is there someone I can call for you… someone you want to call?”

Jonathan cleared his throat. “You’re not getting it,” he said, holding his head in his hands. He stared at the peeling paint chips on the step below him. “I don’t know what happened, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know where Philip is. If I called someone, what would I tell them? Huh? What the fuck would I tell them?”

The voices from inside the house were background noise, the wings of a thousand bees vibrating inside Jonathan’s head.

“Do you know the woman who lives in this house?”

“Yes, Angela. I know her.”

“Well, according to Angela, it appears she and Philip were having a disagreement. Her boyfriend, Thomas Flynn, was in a back bedroom where Angela asked him to stay. When the conversation between Angela and Philip got loud, Thomas entered the kitchen, under the influence of alcohol and apparently drugs of some kind. He confronted Philip and then became enraged. There was a struggle between the two men.” Lancer paused and stopped picking the mud from his shoes. He looked at Jonathan and waited until their eyes met. “He stabbed Philip in the abdomen and evidently hit an artery. Your friend lost too much blood too quickly. He was dead within minutes.”

Jonathan squeezed his head and took a deep breath.
Minutes. Minutes. What was Philip thinking during those minutes?
Jonathan winced, pain tearing through his gut, opening his insides like he’d been stabbed himself. The worst part, he suddenly realized, was that he’d live through it.

“How long have you and Philip been together?” Lancer asked, getting to his feet.

“Twelve years.” Jonathan choked on his words.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Jonathan. I really am. Who can I call for you?”

Jonathan reached for the phone in his pocket, his movements robotic, his energy coming from some unknown source.

“I’m calling our lawyer. She’s also our friend.” Jonathan fumbled the phone and it fell to the ground. Detective Lancer grabbed it from the mud and wiped it on his pants before handing it back to Jonathan.

“I’ll wait by the door. By the time you’re done, it should be okay for you to come in.”

Struggling to see through his tears, Jonathan pressed G’s cell phone number and waited through what felt like an endless repetition of rings. Finally they stopped.

“Mr. Beckett! So nice to see your name pop up on my Caller ID. How are you? I just happened to get out of court early and was about to call the two of you. Can you swing by the office today?”

Jonathan tried to speak but his throat was too constricted. He pushed again. Only air escaped.

“Jonathan? Are you there?”

“G…” was all he could get out.

“Jonathan. What is it? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Philip…” His voice sounded strangled. “Philip…”

“Jesus, Jonathan. What happened? Tell me where you are.”

He took a deep breath and leaned back on the steps trying to get air into his lungs.

“Angela’s. I’m at Angela’s. We need you.”

“Jonathan, where’s Philip? Is he with you?”

He pressed the phone to his ear unable to say the words. It was all too unreal. He closed his eyes and began to silently pray that this was one of his lucid dreams from which he’d awake sweating and panting. He’d then lean over and rub Philip’s back, thanking God or whoever was running the Universe, that life was still as it should be.

But when he opened his eyes, his sneakers were still muddy and the buzzing from inside his head persisted. Through the buzz, he heard G’s voice and a click on the other end of the phone. He wasn’t sure what she said, but he knew she was on her way.

*

As Jonathan passed through the living room, Angela huddled on the couch sobbing, a tissue in one hand, a female officer holding her other hand. For a few seconds they stared at one another, neither saying a word until he moved toward the kitchen.

“Oh, Jonathan!” She cried out, her blubbering creating more sympathy from the woman beside her. “Philip!” Her billowing filled the room and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at her. “Our baby! Oh, Jonathan.”

Jonathan seethed, the tightening of his gut pushing his anger to the surface. The obvious falsity and overacting of her cries made him despise her in ways he never thought possible. It was as though a storm swept through him, leaving shards of glass and debris in every corner of his being.

“This is your fault!” He looked askance at Detective Lancer, then turned back to Angela. “You killed him.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Philip’s hiking boots. They were still on his feet, lying on their side, the rest of his body hidden by the kitchen’s entrance wall. He walked toward the kitchen, ignoring Angela’s sobs and pathetic moaning. When he turned the corner, Philip lay on the floor, the left side of his face flat against the tile, his hands curled beneath his chin as though he was merely sleeping. He almost would’ve thought Philip was sleeping, except for the pool of maroon colored blood on the kitchen floor.

The buzzing in his head ceased, leaving him with a quiet that circulated throughout his body. He sank onto his hands and knees and touched Philip’s boots, his jeans, gently squeezed his calves. Trying to stay clear of the blood, he crawled further up Philip’s body, rubbing his face along Philip’s arm, up to his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair. He pressed his lips against Philip’s face. It was cold, like when they’d come in from shoveling snow and he’d warm Philip’s cheeks with kisses. He waited for Philip to move, to turn his head, to whisper something, anything.
Please.

“Jonathan,” the voice was soft, almost maternal. “Jonathan,” she said.

He looked up to see G standing only a few feet away from Philip’s head. Still on his hands and knees, he crawled toward G, but before he reached her, he sat on the floor and began combing Philip’s hair with his fingers.

G crouched next to him and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. Still twirling Philip’s hair between his fingers, he leaned into her as a strange sense of calmness took hold of him. It was as though the anxiety he’d felt his entire life had vanished; the invisible fear that followed him day in and day out had vaporized into thin air. The reason, he knew, was simple: the one thing he’d feared the most had happened. He’d lost what he lived for and without it, he had no reason to be scared of anything ever again.

20

He slouched in the center of the sofa, his thoughts as blurred as his watery-eyed vision. The buzzing in his head had returned, the result of people milling about his house, keeping their voices low as they tried to make sense of the tragic loss that led them to where they were today.

Jonathan refused to have a funeral or wake of any kind. Many years ago, both he and Philip decided that if one of them died before the other, the person left behind would do three things.

“Do you want me to have G put it in our wills?” Jonathan had asked, puffing up his pillow and turning on his side to get a better view of Philip.