The Cyclops Conspiracy (7 page)

Jason smiled again, remembering. “Your father was really impressed by the Latin.
Considera aegrum totum.
”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” said Christine, taking another sip of her iced tea. “He only gave you the spot because of that answer.”

“You never told me that before.”

“A woman likes to have some secrets. I also never told Daddy I gave you the answer.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I didn’t want it to lessen his image of you. He thought the world of you once he got to know you.”

“How
did
you know the answer?”

“I’m a pharmacist’s daughter. I heard him say it thousands of times over the years. I liked it. It was catchy. So I translated it to Latin. How did you defend it to him when he came back for the answer?” she asked.

“Well,” Jason began. “Your father made me so nervous, I forgot all the tenets I’d learned in school. Your little phrase reminded me what I’d been taught and all the right words came rushing back.
Considera aegrum totum
means ‘consider the whole patient.’”

“I know that, silly. I told you, remember? So what did you tell Daddy?”

“I said pharmacists are uniquely qualified to understand every aspect of a patient’s condition. Home, work, social. You have to look at the whole person. Look at their overall health, their life. Every organ system. Look at their family and home life, their work situation, and find the therapy that makes the most sense. We see them much more than doctors, and they tell us more than physicians have time for. Sometimes they tell us things they would never tell a doctor. We’re more accessible and approachable.”

“You got all that from one little statement?”

“It’s not a statement, it’s a philosophy.”

Christine nodded, and another silence descended between them.

“So what have you been doing with yourself?” he asked.

“Working, mostly,” she replied. “I’m glad I didn’t get into retail like you did. I don’t think I could stand the hours and weekends. I prefer dull, drab accounting procedures.”

“Are you still with that accounting firm?”

“Collins, White and Casper. Yeah, I am. I’ve been their lead auditor for almost twelve months now. I finally got the promotion. I work a lot, but I make sure I get weekends off. We’re auditing a big auto dealer right now in Williamsburg.” Christine took another long sip of her third drink.

“No time for a husband, huh?” Jason asked casually.

Chrissie assumed Jason had kept loose tabs on her through the grapevine. She wondered if he knew about the few boyfriends and her broken engagement. She also wondered why he was so suddenly, pleasingly, curious about her social life. The drinks had peeled back her inhibition and revealed some of her repressed playfulness. “Why, Jason,” Christine lilted in her best southern drawl, imitating Scarlett O’Hara, “I do believe that you are fishing for information.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re right, Ah didn’t,” she said, batting her eyelashes and pretending to fan her face. She could feel the good ole Chrissie coming out to play. It had been so long since she’d let her out of her cage.

“He must not be very special if you don’t want to talk about him,” he teased.

“Why the sudden interest?”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“No, you’re not. Your girlfriend, Ms. Beauty Queen, what’s-her-name, probably wouldn’t appreciate you asking another woman these kinds of questions.”

“Her name’s Sheila Boquist, and she’s not my girlfriend anymore. Now you’re fishing.”

“Maybe,” Christine replied, smirking.

They held each other’s gaze for a long time.

“How’s your son, Michael?”

“He’s great. He’s eleven.” Jason pulled out his cell phone and showed her several photographs. “Loves baseball, drums, and asking questions.”

“Good lookin’ kid. He must get his looks from his mother.”

Jason smiled and looked away.

“So why did you ask me to dinner?”

“Can’t a friend just take another friend out for a meal?”

“So we’re friends now?” The effects of the liquor and his statement ignited her anger.

Jason gave a shrug.

“What happened to you saying what you had to say and then leaving me alone?”

He moved fries around with his fork. “I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Chrissie—you’re drunk. We should wait.”

She knew he was right. And that pissed her off. “You started all this. You asked me to come out so you could say what you had to say—” Christine spread her hands, palms up. “Here I am.”

He sighed. “I’m not ready to deal with the—”

“Feelings?”

Jason averted his eyes and studied his food.

Their volcanically painful past was now fully erupting. The words spewed from her like white-hot ash. “You think it was easy dealing with you leaving and not knowing why? All those years, and no answers!” Christine’s voice grew louder, her speech slower, more deliberate.

Several diners looked in their direction.

The waitress appeared, looking between them quickly, hoping to broker a truce. Jason asked for the check and handed over his credit card. She rushed away to process it.

“Keep it down,” he said.

“You keep it down,” she blasted.

“Let’s not do this here.”

The waitress returned with the credit slip.

“I think we better go,” he said. He signed for the meal as Christine glared at him with red, glassy eyes.

“Come on, let’s take a walk. We can talk outside.”

Christine grabbed her purse and tried to stand. She stumbled. Jason caught her by the elbow, but she wrenched free and marched unsteadily to the door. Other diners cast glances their way.

Jason followed her to the parking lot. “Nice car,” he said, admiring the Chrysler 300.

Christine rummaged impatiently through her purse. “I bought it the night Daddy died. It was the last time I spoke to him. You know,
he hung up on me.” She wiped tears away and in the process dropped her keys. Jason scooped them off the asphalt.

“I need my keys,” she demanded.

“I’m not letting you drive, Chrissie.”

“I’m fine,” she slurred.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and directed her to the passenger side. She resisted, pushing him away. Jason clutched her tighter, pressing her to him. Christine tried three times to free herself, each attempt weaker. She was no match for his strength. She relented, leaning on him as he opened the door. In two minutes, they were in traffic, headed to her house.

“Why did he hang up on you? Were you two arguing?” he asked as they drove.

“No, Daddy was preoccupied with something. Then all of a sudden he stopped talking and hung up. I finally got worried and went over there. Daddy was gone, and the place was a mess. I thought someone had broken in, but nothing was taken. I assumed Daddy was just being sloppy.”

“Chrissie, there are too many strange things going on. Your father dies in an accident because he was drunk. His house is a mess and he ends up dead in Smithfield. It doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s dead. What are we supposed to do about it now?”

“Would you mind if I took a look around your father’s house? Just to ease my mind.”

“I don’t see how that’ll help,” she said, her anger subsiding.

“Humor me.”

“Well, okay. I’m meeting the real estate agent at nine. I can show you Daddy’s obsession before that.”

“The box of files?”

“Yes. A box he’s been compiling for nearly thirteen years.” Her speech was slowing.

“What’s in it?”

“Files that supposedly support his conspiracy theories. There’s something else…”

“What?”

“The police questioned me about Daddy’s death. They did an autopsy. The coroner said he had a gunshot wound in the shoulder. It was sutured, but didn’t contribute to his death. They asked me if I knew anything about it.”

“Did you?”

Christine shook her head and laid it back against the passenger-side window. “No.”

“I need to see your father’s files. The sooner, the better,” said Jason. “How about tomorrow morning at seven? I think I’ll be pretty busy after that.”

“Why?” Christine asked.

Jason negotiated several turns but didn’t answer. Christine’s head slumped back against the headrest, angled toward the door. Soft snoring soon filled the car.

At her place, he roused Christine, helping her into the house and up the stairs. On the bed, he placed a pillow under her head and removed her shoes. He found a blanket in the closet and covered her with it. Before he went downstairs, he wrote a note about meeting her at her father’s house at seven and set the alarm clock for six.

Christine woke and asked him the question again, as if it would keep her from sleep. “Why are you going to be so busy?”

“I’m going to accept Lily’s job offer.”

“Ever thought of living here?” asked Jason.

Christine shook her head. Her hair was in a ponytail pulled through the back loop of a Virginia Tech baseball cap, and she was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. “No way. I have my own place now. I’m going to sell this old house. The last ten years were nothing but painful memories.” Christine studied the coffee in her cup.

She looked tired, he thought, remembering her state last night. “Found any booze?”

“I’ve been through every room at least twice. I never found a drop. Of course, I wasn’t looking for it or anything. But you’re welcome to take a look.”

“We better get started.”

“What do you want to see?”

“Let’s start with your father’s collection of conspiracy information. We’ll check for liquor as we go. Where’s the box?”

Christine walked toward the study, motioning for him to follow. “He kept it locked in the office closet, and he wouldn’t show it to anyone. It was a poorly kept family secret.”

“Have you looked at it?”

“I can’t find the key to the closet.”

They passed through the living room and into the office. The door to the study had been closed when Jason had attended the funeral reception.

“There,” she said, pointing.

The room was fifteen foot square with darkly stained wood and retro-seventies paneling. A wooden desk and a swivel chair sat near a window. A credenza struggled under the weight of books and papers. The closet was to the right. Jason tried the knob. It turned easily, and the door swung open.

“You said it was locked,” he said, turning to her.

“It was. I checked the day of the funeral. I didn’t want anyone opening that door and seeing it.” Christine stepped closer, inspecting the closet. “Oh, my God,” she said.

Five wooden shelves held office supplies, pharmacy periodicals, and old newspapers. A two-drawer metal filing cabinet was crammed to one side. But an empty space yawned next to the filing cabinet. Jason placed a knee on the carpet and ran a hand over the fibers. A rectangular depression was clearly visible. Except for a few scraps of paper, a filing cabinet, and dust bunnies huddled in the corner, the floor of the closet was empty. The files were gone.

* * *

“Where could he have put it?” Jason asked.

Christine frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he moved it to somewhere else in the house.”

“I’ve been through every closet and space in the past week. There’s no box.”

“And you say this door was locked the last time you were here?”

“Yes. After the funeral. I can’t find the key.”

“When were you here last?”

“Today’s Thursday. The funeral was Tuesday. That’s when
you
were here. I checked it then. So, yeah, Tuesday.”

“And you locked up when you left?”

Christine nodded. “Someone’s been here, Jason!”

“Let’s go take a look.”

They began in the kitchen, checking doors and windows. The back door and the garage were both locked. Moving to the dining room, every window was intact. The office contained three windows, one behind the credenza and two on a side wall. Sitting on the credenza, he spotted a black console wired to the satellite dish on the side of the house. He’d noticed it at the gathering after the funeral. He read the name of the manufacturer: Digitronics.

“What’s the satellite dish for?” he asked.

“I have no clue,” Christine replied. “Daddy never watched much television.”

Jason tried the window over the credenza. Locked. A window on the side wall was also locked. The third, however, slid up easily. Wet granules of dirt lay on the carpet beneath it. They had been hidden behind the desk.

She grabbed his arm, fingernails digging his flesh. “Look!”

The sole of a boot was outlined in dirt on the carpet. “Someone’s been here.” Jason knelt beside the print and ran a finger over the granules of dirt and mud. “It looks fresh.”

He moved to the window, avoiding the footprint, and yanked it open. The ground beneath the window was damp with morning condensation. Footprints began where the edge of the driveway stopped. He pulled his head back in. “Is anything missing? Has anything else been disturbed?”

“Looks like nothing was moved since I was here last.”

“Someone was in the house.”

“I don’t feel safe,” she murmured.

“Have you been in every room of the house today?”

“No, I’ve been downstairs the whole time.”

“I’ll check the rest of the house. You stay here.”

“I’m not staying here alone.”

“Okay, come with me then. You can tell me if anything’s been taken.”

Squeezing Jason’s hand, Christine followed Jason up the staircase slowly. At the top, he pushed open the first door, revealing a bathroom. She stuck her head in and gave him a tentative thumbs-up. Empty.

The next door, on the left, was also closed. Christine whispered, “Bedroom.” He cracked the door. It squealed as he slowly pushed it open. The bed was made, covered with a comforter. A dresser, a nightstand, and a lamp were the only other furniture. Christine pulled him into the room with her and opened the closet.

Nothing.

Two more bedrooms and a small sewing room in which Pettigrew had stored an assortment of odds and ends revealed nothing unusual. The last room on the right was the master bedroom. Confident they would find nothing, they entered casually. The room looked as if Thomas Pettigrew would emerge from the bathroom any moment. Nothing had been touched. His effects were still there, on the nightstand, including pictures of his wife, Eleanor, and a conspiracy magazine he’d bought at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. An envelope marked a page. Beneath that was a hardcover book about fake NASA moon landings. Jason felt like he was stepping back in time. He and Christine had made love in this very bed while Thomas was at work many years ago. A chill ran through him.