Meeting of Minds, Part Three

Weaver and his wife lived in a small one-family home just a few blocks south of Wilton’s childhood neighborhood, not exactly gentrified but not rundown and forgotten either. We parked my Honda a few houses down, looked for Ashley in the shadows, and rang the doorbell.

            The door opened, revealing a haggard looking man with stubble on his face and a loose sweatshirt, in jeans with bare feet. “Yeah?”

            “Mr. Weaver?” I held out a card. “Tom Jurgen. We spoke on the phone.”

            “Yeah.” He opened the door wide.

            Inside a small living room filled with pictures of children, bookcases filled with paperbacks and DVDs, and a widescreen TV.

A large revolver with a long barrel set next to a bottle of whiskey. A crucifix hung on the wall over the TV.

            Weaver sat in a big easy chair and motioned toward a couch. A bottle of whiskey sat next to the revolver. He picked it up as Rachel and I sat on the couch.

            “Honey?” A voice rang from the kitchen. “Is that—”

            “It’s all right, Sue!” Weaver poured himself a drink. “We’re just talking!”

            A woman marched into the living room. She had short blond hair and dark eyebrows above glistening blue eyes. She wore jeans and a gray tank top, a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder.

            “Is this the guy?” She jabbed a finger at me. “I don’t like phone calls scaring my husband! Our daughter is upstairs! Who the hell are you?”

            I was almost as nervous looking at her as I was about the handgun on the table. “This is—complicated. I really think—”

            “Go upstairs, Sue.” Weaver’s voice was low and steady. “Wait with Trish. Everything’s fine.”

            She wanted to argue, but with me, not with her husband. With a stabbing glance at Rachel, she whirled around and headed for the staircase next to the door.

            “Okay.” Weaver poured himself another drink. “Tell me what’s going on.”

            I’m not religious, but a short prayer ran through my head as I opened my mouth. “A friend of yours, David Wilton, was murdered in 2003—”

            “I was at the bar.” He stated it as a calm fact. “Pablo’s. Six people saw me there.”

            “Right.” I tried to swallow. “This is where it get—strange. A woman, Ashley, has been part of a sort of experiment. She thinks David Wilton is inside her. And she’s—”

            Weaver laughed. “That’s great!” He rocked in his chair. “Who are you really? Who’s doing this? You had me scared half to death.”

            I took a deep breath. “Nick Rasco was there.”

            Weaver stopped laughing. “Nick’s dead.”

            “Yeah.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off the handgun. And the bottle of whiskey beside it. I really wanted a drink.

            “So, okay.” I lifted my hands. “It was a long time ago. You’ve got an alibi. I don’t care. But if Ashley shows up here, whatever happens is going to be bad. For everyone.”

            “She’s got a gun of her own.” Rachel pointed at the revolver. “Smaller than that, but I guess it works the same.”

            I stiffened. Why did she have to say that? Rachel drives me crazy sometimes.

            Weaver picked up his gun and looked at it. “This is my home. I’m going to do whatever I have to do for my family.”

            “If she comes here and you shoot her, you’re not just killing David.” Rachel leaned forward. “You’re killing a young woman who doesn’t have any idea what she’s doing.”

            Weaver laughed again. “Do you know what you sound like? He’s Mulder and you’re Scully. You’ve even got the red hair.” He set the handgun down. Thank god. “Get out.”

            “I work for Ashley’s mother.” I could still hear her crying on the phone. “I’m just trying to get her home safely.”

            “I’m fine.” Weaver picked up the bottle again. “I can handle anyone who comes in here—”

            The doorbell rang. And rang. Insistently.

            I might have jumped. Rachel looked at the door. Weaver stared at us.

            Then he stood up and grabbed his weapon. “If this is some kind of setup—”

            “No setup!” I stood up, lifting my hands. “Just put the gun down, okay? You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

            “I want to take care of my family.” He lurched forward.

            But Sue was already down the stairs. At the door. “Why are people ringing the bell all the time? I’m tired of all this.” She pulled the door open. “Do you know what time it is?”

            Ashley stood behind the screen, one hand pressing the doorbell, the other jammed in her bag. Probably clutching the pistol. I could picture it in my mind.

I wondered how she’d found the house. Maybe she’d figured out the internet? It didn’t matter. She was here. Now.

            Ashley let go of the doorbell when she saw the woman inside.  “Sue.” Her wide eyes blinked. “Sue?”

            Sue backed away. “Who are you?”

            Ashley pulled on the screen door. “Sue—it’s me.”

            She put a foot on the bottom step. “I don’t know you.”

            Ashley rubbed a hand across her face, as if remembering that she—Wilton—had a different face now. “I guess—I guess not. But Sue—”

            “Get out.” Weaver lifted the revolver. “Whoever you are, just go away!”

            Ashley stalked forward. She saw Weaver, and her wide eyes suddenly narrowed. “Luke. What the hell are you doing here?”

            “He’s my husband.” Sue clutched the staircase rail. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

            “Husband?” Ashley staggered. But she kept her hand inside her bag. “You . . . married this asshole?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

            I took a step toward them. “Ashley—David? Both of you. You don’t want to do this. Really.”

            Weaver shot a glance at me. “Shut up.”

            “Luke.” She turned. A dark smile twisted her face. “It’s been a long time.”

            “Listen, girl, I don’t know who you are, but . . .” He waved the revolver. “You need to get out. Now.”

            “Come on, Luke, don’t you remember me?” Ashley’s voice was a strange mixture of youth and vinegar—an old man’s words from a young woman’s lips. “We did that first job. The owner who wouldn’t pay? We went at him with baseball bats. Otto said we could keep all the money he had from the register, and it was $200, and then he paid us $50 bucks more each. And then—”

            “Who told you that?” Weaver’s handgun wavered. “Did Dave tell you something? Who are you?”

            “You remember that car we took down? From Carlo’s crew?” Ashley cackled. “We made a thousand from that. You remember how that guy begged and wet his pants before you shot him?”

“Luke, what’s she talking about?” Sue took a step down. “Who is this chick?”

Ashley kept her eyes on Weaver. “You remember those guys who tried to rip off the poker game? We got them, we got them good.” She pointed her left hand like a child, thumb poised, two fingers straight. Gangster style. “Two shots.” Her thumb went up and down. Twice. “One in the head from you, and I took the other guy out in the stomach, and he was bleeding all over the place, crying for his mommy. He wet his pants. You believe me now? Do you remember me now?”

            “Shut up!” Weaver’s hand trembled.

“I only took the money because Davey was sick!” Ashley was screaming now, her voice raw. “But Vint didn’t care, did he? He had kids too, didn’t he? But he didn’t care. So you and Nick, you and Nick—”

            “Nick’s dead.” Weaver’s voice was a whisper. “It was a long time ago.”

            “Luke, what is she . . .” Sue stared at Ashley, as if she could almost see her late husband in her face. “Who are you really?”

Ashley’s eyes flickered as she looked at Sue. “Our first date, I took you to Pasquale’s and we split a plate of spaghetti and then we went for ice cream and you couldn’t tell your mom because you weren’t old enough to be dating. And now you’re with him?” She jabbed a finger at Sue’s face. “You bitch!”

            Sue almost tripped on the step. “I never—told anyone that. Not even . . . what are you doing here?”

            I felt Rachel breathing behind me as I lifted a hand. “Hang on a second. Everyone. Please.”

            “Stay out of this.” Now Ashley had her pistol out. Her eyes darted between Weaver and his wife. As if she couldn’t decide who she wanted to shoot more.          Weaver took a deep breath and hoisted his revolver. “Put that down.”

            “Wait.” My throat was so dry with fear I could barely talk. “Let me do something.”

            “What?” Ashley’s screech sounded like an echo from the ancient past. “I’m not here anymore! This is my last chance!”

            “Quiet!” Sue stomped a foot on the step. “You’ll wake—”

            “Mom?” The little girl’s voice echoed from the top of the stairs. “Why is everybody yelling?”

            For a moment everyone was silent. Sue twisted around. “It’s all right, Trish. We’ll be quiet. I’ll be up in a minute. Go back to bed.”

            After a moment, the girl sighed. “Okay.”

            Ashley glared at Sue with bloodshot eyes. “You had a daughter—with him? Wait . . . where’s Davey?”

            “Davey . . .” Sue choked a sob. “Davey died. There was nothing we could do. We tried everything. Luke—he did everything he could. He really did. But . . .”

            She collapsed on the steps, her face between her knees, rubbing her eyes as tears ran down her cheeks.

            The pistol slipped from Ashley’s fingers. She turned to Weaver. “You?”

            He lowered the revolver. “I found the money you—Dave—stole. Didn’t have to tell Vint.”

            “And you . . .” She peered at Sue. “And her?”

            Weaver shrugged. “What can I say? I always liked her. Even in high school.”

            Ashley sank to the floor. “Goddamn it. Goddamn it . . .”

            I moved forward. “Give me a minute.”

            Weaver set his revolver on the table and grabbed for the whiskey.

            I knelt next to Ashley. Rachel kicked the pistol away.

Ashley struggled, but her arms were weak as I pulled at the necklace. My fingers found a catch at the back. I pressed on it, and with a click half the moon-shaped charm came off in my shaking hand.

            “That should do it.” I hoped.

            I pulled the necklace over Ashley’s head and handed it to Rachel. She stuffed both parts in her pockets—separately—and picked up Ashley’s pistol as if it might explode in her hands. “Hey, can you unload this thing?”

            Weaver grunted and took it from her. “Sure.”

            Ashley’s eyelids flickered. “Uhh . . . okay. Am I late?”

            “Tell me your name.”

            She rubbed her chin. “Ashley, Ashley Moore. Who are you?”

            “Tom Jurgen. Let’s get you home.”

            Rachel and I helped her to her feet. “I’m sorry for the disturbance. We won’t bother you again—”

            “Wait a minute.” Weaver handed the unloaded pistol back to Rachel. “None of this is real, is it?”

            I only wanted to get us all out of there. As fast as possible. But they deserved some kind of an answer.

I shrugged. “I told you the truth. What you do with it is . . . up to you.”

            He gazed at his wife, still sobbing uncontrollably on the steps. “I’m out of it now. Got a real job. Construction, painting. It’s not much, but . . .”

            He’d killed Wilton. But I couldn’t do anything about that, and reminding him right now didn’t feel like the smart thing to do. Besides, he had an alibi. Six guys in a bar.

            “It’s done.” I held onto Ashley’s shoulder. “The rest is . . . I’m sorry, but it’s between you two.”

            Sue was still sobbing as we helped Ashley out the door to my car.

Ashley was asleep in her bed when I called her mother again. I didn’t tell her everything—she almost bit my head off over the phone when I told her that we’d lost her daughter again for a few hours—but I emphasized that Ashley was fine now, sleeping, and wasn’t going anywhere. I hoped she’d still pay my bill.

            I gave the unloaded pistol to Eva. “Put this somewhere safe.”

            She looked it over, then glanced at the half-open door to Ashley’s room. “What do I tell her?”

            I sighed. “Stay away from that seminar.” I’d have to call Garn and Shutter tomorrow and warn them both about the dangers of bringing dead people into a classroom.

            Out on the street Rachel and I walked to my Honda.

“Well, we stopped a murder.” Rachel looked up at the cloudy sky. “I call it a good night.”

“On the minus side, we probably ended that marriage.” I unlocked the doors.

“You never know.” She punched my arm. “Relationships are funny.”

Ours was. But I wasn’t complaining. “You want to stop for something to eat? I spotted a Greek place nearby.” We’d missed dinner.

“Sounds like a plan.” She buckled up.

I started the car, wondering what Weaver and Sue were talking about right now. It would probably be a long night for them. And an endless one for David Wilton.

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