Disturbance Hardcover - 2011

Summary

Excerpt

ONE

Some people claim to be able to feel trouble coming, the way they might feel a storm approaching from a long way off. They sense a disturbance in the atmosphere, something stirs the hairs along the backs of their necks or makes them wary when old, slumbering injuries awaken and ache. My own sense of such things is not entirely reliable. Just as I am more likely to be caught in a downpour than I am to be the only one with an umbrella, trouble has blindsided me more often than it has announced its approach.

Hindsight being so sharp-sighted, when I look back on that June afternoon, I can say that my sixth sense, if it was working at all, was fully occupied by the distinct possibility that I would be out of a job within a few months. That didnâÈçt make me different from ninety-nine out of a hundred of the countryâÈçs newspaper reporters.

So as I sat at my desk in the newsroom of the Las Piernas News Express, rewriting a city council story that wasnâÈçt likely to excite anyone, my thoughts were taken up with trying to find a better angle on it. What I felt, when the phone on my desk rang, was not fear but irritation at the distraction.

âÈêKelly,âÈë I answered, using my headset.

âÈêIrene? Aaron Mikelson.âÈë

Mikelson used to work for the Express, but he had moved up north to Sacramento several years ago. He covers California state government for a news service there, reporting on everything from the legislature to the prison system, and putting up with all the jokes about the inhabitants of both being similar.

âÈêYou hear about Nick Parrish?âÈë he asked.

âÈêNo,âÈë I said, and my next, exhilarating thought was HeâÈçs dead.

âÈêYou know he regained the ability to speak, right?âÈë

âÈêYes.âÈë During the first months after Nick Parrish had sustained head and spinal injuries, he had gradually recovered speech and movement in his hands and feet, though he wasnâÈçt walking. The speech impairment had cleared up as the swelling from the head injury was reduced. That he had fully recovered his speech wasnâÈçt news to me, and Mikelson knew thatâÈ'he was the one who had let me know Parrish was asking about me at the time.

âÈêYou havenâÈçt talked to him?âÈë

âÈêNothing has changed in the last few years,âÈë I said. âÈêI have no interest whatsoever in talking to him or in hearing what he has to say.âÈë

âÈêHe tried to sue you, right?âÈë

For a stunned moment, I wondered if Mikelson could possibly believe that my only complaint about Nick Parrish was a frivolous lawsuit. Aloud I said, âÈêTried. The courts rejected the suits he filed against me and the paper, so after that âÈö well, that was more than enough of hearing from him.âÈë

âÈêUnderstood. HeâÈçs one sick bastard.âÈë

âÈêYes,âÈë I said, thinking that âÈêsick bastardâÈë didnâÈçt come close to describing Parrish. Mere words couldnâÈçt draw a line around him and hold the monster he was within.

âÈêYou know about the Moths?âÈë

I sighed. âÈêHis online fan club? Yes. Almost too predictable that some group like that would form, right? If the Internet has given us anything, itâÈçs some idea of how much psychosis goes undiagnosed.âÈë

âÈêAmen.âÈë

âÈêLook, Aaron, you cover a prison beat, so you know how this goes. Parrish has doubtless had a dozen marriage proposals, too.âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs true. I donâÈçt claim to understand it. I donâÈçt know if IâÈçll ever figure out why anyone would want to marry a serial killer. How could anyone ignore what he did to those women before he killed them? And not just women, right?âÈë

Images IâÈçd rather not recall started flashing through my mind.

Body parts scattered over a rain-drenched field.

Parrish shoving my face into the mud, nearly suffocating me.

Photos of one of his victims found in the grave he had forced her to dig.

I could hardly concentrate on what was going on around me. As if from a great distance, I heard MikelsonâÈçs voice in the headset. I was vaguely aware that he was saying something more about the women who wanted to marry Parrish. Asking me if I had read anything on the MothsâÈç blog or social networking pages lately.

I swiveled my chair, stood up, and looked out across the newsroom.

A normal Monday afternoon. Everyone else bent over their keyboards or on the phone, working toward deadline. Far fewer reporters than I would have seen even a year ago, but a normal day for these times. I took a deep breath.

As the rush of memories faded, my brain kicked into gear. Mikelson had news about Parrish, and Parrish wasnâÈçt dead, or he would have told me that right off the bat. He wasnâÈçt speaking of him in the past tense.

I thought about hanging up, letting voicemail catch the call if he called back, leaving my colleagues to wonder why I ran out of the building looking as if I had the devil on my tail.

I let the breath out, told myself to get a grip. I sat down again, turned to face the computer.

âÈêAnyway,âÈë Mikelson was saying, âÈêyou may not know this, but when he was first injured, the doctors didnâÈçt realize he had something called central cord syndromeâÈ'they thought heâÈçd be tetraplegic. But then some spine specialists were called in, and they started treating it differently. They stabilized his neck. He was on anti-inflammation drugs, and they did several surgeries. Then there was a long process of rehab.âÈë

âÈêLook, Aaron, I really donâÈçtâÈ'âÈë

âÈêHeâÈçs walking.âÈë

âÈêWalking?âÈë

âÈêYes. On his own. And not just walkingâÈ'heâÈçs got full use of his limbs, with very few limitations. Apparently the type of injury he had is one of the few that have such a good prognosis. His doctor says that, for his age, he was unusually fit. And he was incredibly determined, really worked hard. I guess the trickiest thing was this last surgery on his neck. TheyâÈçve kept his progress under wraps, waiting to see how he did after the surgeries, and with the rehab.âÈë

âÈêOh?âÈë I managed to say.

I looked down at my hands. My fingers were shaking. I pressed them against my cheeks. It was like sticking my face in a bowl of ice.

âÈêYes. His docs say heâÈçs doing much better than most patients his age.âÈë

I stayed silent. This time, Mikelson noticed it.

âÈêYou okay?âÈë

âÈêNo,âÈë I said. I tried again to marshal my thoughts. âÈêUmâÈ'this isnâÈçt an interview, is it, Aaron?âÈë

âÈêJesus, Kelly. No. Just a friend calling a friend.âÈë

I apologized.

He said not to worry about it, then added, âÈêListen, later, if youâÈçd be willingâÈ'âÈë

I bit back a few choice phrases. âÈêIâÈçll have to talk to my editor about it.âÈë But the anger was good. It drove off some of the panic.

âÈêSure. Sure.âÈë He paused. âÈêLook, Parrish isnâÈçt going anywhere, even if he can walkâÈ'now that heâÈçs finished rehab, heâÈçll be transferred out of the prison hospital and into maximum security.âÈë

âÈêOf course,âÈë I said.

âÈêI keep thinking about that guy who lost his leg because of him. The forensic anthropologistâÈ'what was his name?âÈë

âÈêBen. Ben Sheridan.âÈë God. IâÈçd have to tell Ben.

âÈêYeah, thatâÈçs right. I mean, how ironic is it that heâÈçs not walking and Parrish is?âÈë

âÈêBen walks just fine,âÈë I said, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. âÈêHe lost part of one leg below the knee, but heâÈçs got a prosthesis. He leads an active life. In fact, heâÈçs still helping to put away assholes like Nick Parrish.âÈë

Mikelson paused just long enough to let me know my reaction had surprised him, then said a little too brightly, âÈêThatâÈçs great. Glad to hear itâÈ'I mean that. So heâÈçs doing okay. Maybe IâÈçll try to give him a call.âÈë

I shut up again, thinking of how unhappy Ben was going to be with me if Mikelson called him. Aaron could have looked up the information he needed anyway, but I had made his work a little easier, and I wasnâÈçt happy with myself for that.

âÈêThere was a partner, right?âÈë Aaron asked. âÈêThe original Moth. ParrishâÈçs partner is still in the slammer, right?âÈë

âÈêYes.âÈë I left it at that, my resentment rising a notch. He knew damned well that ParrishâÈçs accomplice, who had helped him escape and lured victims into his grasp, was serving an LWOP sentenceâÈ'life without possibility of parole.

Aaron isnâÈçt stupid. He knew he needed to stop pushing if he wanted my cooperation down the road. So he changed the subject and asked me about mutual friends and former Express employees, and caught me up on news of a couple of people I knew at the Sacramento Bee. Eventually, he said, âÈêSorry if I upset you about Parrish. Just thought you should know. And youâÈçll let me know first if John cuts you loose to talk to other media?âÈë

âÈêSure. Thanks for the heads-up.âÈë

I called Ben SheridanâÈçs cell but got his voice mail. The outgoing message said he was away and out of cell phone range but would be returning late Tuesday. Leave a message.

I decided I couldnâÈçt leave this news of Parrish as voice mail, so I simply asked Ben to give me a call when he got back to town. I hung up, wondering if Mikelson was already in the process of tracking him down.

Calling Ben had forced me to collect my thoughts. My blood might be running cold, but I still had enough ink in my veins to realize that this was a breaking story, and one the Express needed to cover. Mark Baker, our crime beat reporter, was at his desk, so I got his attention and filled him in. HeâÈçs known me a long time and quickly figured out that overt sympathy was probably going to make me lose it, so we mutually pretended this news wasnâÈçt personal.

He called the prison hospital and confirmed the details. At that point, we got together with our editor, John Walters, and the city editor, Lydia Ames. A few more meetings were held, and plans for the front page changed.

I didnâÈçt really want to be writing about Parrish or reminding the publicâÈ'or myselfâÈ'of his crimes. But under current conditions, every day with a job at a newspaper felt like a stay of execution, so I didnâÈçt shy away from the work, however much it amplified my fears.

Rumors were at a fever pitch at the Express. No one had any doubt that the paper was in financial trouble. If a buyer wasnâÈçt found soon, weâÈçd close. Bets were being laid on whether our publisher, Winston Wrigley III, was going to resign or be canned before the place shut down entirely. Some said he stayed on because he had nothing else to do with his life, others that he seemed to believe the captain ought to go down with the ship. Most of us felt that this particular captain should have been thrown overboard a long time ago.

But the general state of the industry wasnâÈçt his fault, and as much as I disliked him, I couldnâÈçt help but find him a pitiful creature now. His shame surrounded him like a force field, repelling his critics even as it protected him from our anger. His grandfather had founded the newspaper, his father had built it into one of the most powerful businesses in the city. Yet the newspaper business was one the next son had never understood, and now it punished him for his ignorance. Although his father had seen Winston IIIâÈçs weaknesses and had been smart enough to set things up so that he answered to a board, too many family members were on that board, and they often protected sonny boy. Luckily for us, these days he avoided his employeesâÈ'Winston III spent most workdays wandering aimlessly through the many parts of the building that were now all but empty.

For the staff, morale was at an all-time low. We stomached the group âÈêgood-bye parties,âÈë fought against the pressure put on senior staff to retire early, and went to too many funeralsâÈ'the heart attack rate among our oldest male reporters and retirees should have triggered a study by the CDC. Admittedly, these were the guys who, in their salad days, had never touched a salad, and IâÈçm sure the high-pressure work, the years of hard drinking, and the once smoke-filled workplace took their toll. But it was hard not to believe that loss of dignity was the final nail in their coffins.

Old newspapermen were dying. The rest of us had to listen to people who believed all in-depth professional reporting could be replaced by text messages. The saying might have to change to âÈêDonâÈçt believe everything you read âÈö on your cell phone.âÈë

It wasnâÈçt just the Express that was being measured for a coffin, of course. The whole profession had been hearing eulogies while it was still on life support.

That afternoon, though, the newsroom was stirring to life in a way it hadnâÈçt in some weeks. Stories about Parrish, our local monster, sold papers. We could provide the kind of detail that wasnâÈçt going to be available on television. I had doubts that anyone living in the city needed a recap, but I dutifully told them of that time when ParrishâÈ'manacled and heavily guardedâÈ'pledged to help us find the body of one of his victims. It was part of a plea bargain, in exchange for which he would receive a life sentence rather than the death penalty. At the request of the victimâÈçs family, I accompanied the group that journeyed into the Sierra Nevada to recover her remains. We walked into a trap. I was one of the few lucky onesâÈ'I lived.

Parrish escaped and continued to terrorize Las Piernas and other cities while he was on the loose. When he was finally captured, he was injured and almost completely paralyzed. Between that and his conviction and imprisonment on additional murder charges, the good citizens of Las Piernas breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe.

Those of us who had been in the mountains with him never felt completely safe again.

By the end of the day, I was a wreck. When I came home, I told myself I was glad that my husband, Frank, was away on a camping trip with our next-door neighbor, Jack. Glad that they had taken our two dogs with them. Frank needed the break, and the dogs loved going to the mountains. Maybe by the time they got back, IâÈçd have calmed down.

Except for the company of my elderly cat, Cody, I was alone.

Not for the first time, I reminded myself. After all, when youâÈçre married to a homicide detective, there are plenty of nights when heâÈçs not home. Although the dogs were usually with me, this wasnâÈçt the first time JackâÈ'who is in many ways as much their owner as we areâÈ'had taken them camping.

Nick Parrish was in prison. He might be able to walk, but he wasnâÈçt going anywhere. I made dinner for one and watched television. Avoided all crime programming, which turned out to be about half of what was on. Other channels I flipped because I didnâÈçt want to shop from my TV or watch someone cook. I still found enough to stay amused. The distraction worked for a time.

I was safe, wasnâÈçt I?

By the time I went to bed, though, I could believe that for only a few minutes at a time. I tried to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, I switched on the light and grabbed a book of crossword puzzles. I was still awake when the alarm went off.

I kept telling myself I had nothing to fear.

I was wrong.

Âû 2011 Jan Burke

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