pockets. "Lost," he said when he came up empty.
Ray took out his and dialed Jake's cell number. When he heard the ringing on his end, he held his phone away from his ear and listened for the sound of the other phone. He heard nothing.
"I told you, I lost it."
"Yeah, you lost it, all right," Ray said.
"Man, I had some weird dreams," Jake said through another long yawn.
"They must have been about you staying sober, cause I expect that would be a weird dream for you. I doubt you even remember what it feels like."
"It has been a while," Jake chuckled groggily.
"Five days, dickhead," Ray said. "Six now. I've been chasing you down to see if you're still breathing and you can't even bother to answer your phone, or open your front door."
"I... lost... my... phone," Jake said, stressing each word. "And when did you come to the house?"
"A bunch of times," Ray said. "Even last night. I stood there knocking, but I guess you were already out frequenting the finer establishments of Tramway County. What have you been mixing this time? Cocaine and liquor? Heroine and extacy?"
Jake rubbed his eyes and pressed hard against his temples through greasy blond hair. "Just booze, and a little pot."
"There's no such thing as a little with you."
"Wait," Jake said, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did I see you last night?"
"Are you even listening to me?" Ray asked, disgusted. "I just told you. I went to your place and you didn't come to the door. You might have seen me if you were peaking out the window trying to avoid me, but I sure as shit didn't see you."
Jake fell silent and stared blankly ahead. His hand lifted quickly to his chest and reached inside his coat, producing a flask-shaped bottle that appeared to contain a small quantity of whiskey or rum. He studied it closely.
"Trying to figure out where you were last night" Ray asked. "You've never been able to before."
But Ray had the impression he was figuring it out. A dawning awareness seemed to break over Jake's face. He nodded slowly and put the bottle down on the wicker coffee table. He turned up his palms to examine them. Ray saw the long cut on his right thumb, but there also were smaller cuts scattered across both hands. Jake picked at one, using his forefinger and thumb like pincers, and removed a minuscule fragment of what looked like glass.
"You and I could be twins," Ray joked, holding out his scratched hands for Jake to see.
A tingling unpleasantness once again spread across Ray's scalp. He looked down at his own hands, scraped and cut from the remnants of broken window panes at the base of the Wallace's house. He thought about the broken drinking glass in the kitchen. It had shattered, yes, but only into a handful of large pieces. A terrible thought crept into his head.
"Where were you last night?" he asked quietly, staring at Jake as though he had never met him before.
"I gotta go," Jake said, standing suddenly and heading for the open front door.
"Jake, wait!"
In seconds, Jake was on the sidewalk running south in the general direction of his house. The fleeting idea of chasing after him crossed Ray's mind. How hard would it be to catch him, he thought, but what would he say once he caught him? How do you politely ask one of your best friends if he's a murderer?
Monday, Part XI
Regardless of the fact he had not actually spoken with Avery Lowson to set a meeting time, Ray couldn't shake the nagging feeling he was running late.
He had lingered long after Jake bolted from the apartment, fretting over the many possible unfortunate fates of his friend and contemplating the next proper course of action. He tried, unsuccessfully, to use reason to counter-balance his fear that Jake might have had something to do with the disturbing scene at the Wallace's estate. Their horse farm was at least seven miles from Ray's apartment, easily a two-hour walk for a stumbling drunk.
Besides, Jake was an addict and an alcoholic, not a violent offender. There
Ray took out his and dialed Jake's cell number. When he heard the ringing on his end, he held his phone away from his ear and listened for the sound of the other phone. He heard nothing.
"I told you, I lost it."
"Yeah, you lost it, all right," Ray said.
"Man, I had some weird dreams," Jake said through another long yawn.
"They must have been about you staying sober, cause I expect that would be a weird dream for you. I doubt you even remember what it feels like."
"It has been a while," Jake chuckled groggily.
"Five days, dickhead," Ray said. "Six now. I've been chasing you down to see if you're still breathing and you can't even bother to answer your phone, or open your front door."
"I... lost... my... phone," Jake said, stressing each word. "And when did you come to the house?"
"A bunch of times," Ray said. "Even last night. I stood there knocking, but I guess you were already out frequenting the finer establishments of Tramway County. What have you been mixing this time? Cocaine and liquor? Heroine and extacy?"
Jake rubbed his eyes and pressed hard against his temples through greasy blond hair. "Just booze, and a little pot."
"There's no such thing as a little with you."
"Wait," Jake said, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did I see you last night?"
"Are you even listening to me?" Ray asked, disgusted. "I just told you. I went to your place and you didn't come to the door. You might have seen me if you were peaking out the window trying to avoid me, but I sure as shit didn't see you."
Jake fell silent and stared blankly ahead. His hand lifted quickly to his chest and reached inside his coat, producing a flask-shaped bottle that appeared to contain a small quantity of whiskey or rum. He studied it closely.
"Trying to figure out where you were last night" Ray asked. "You've never been able to before."
But Ray had the impression he was figuring it out. A dawning awareness seemed to break over Jake's face. He nodded slowly and put the bottle down on the wicker coffee table. He turned up his palms to examine them. Ray saw the long cut on his right thumb, but there also were smaller cuts scattered across both hands. Jake picked at one, using his forefinger and thumb like pincers, and removed a minuscule fragment of what looked like glass.
"You and I could be twins," Ray joked, holding out his scratched hands for Jake to see.
A tingling unpleasantness once again spread across Ray's scalp. He looked down at his own hands, scraped and cut from the remnants of broken window panes at the base of the Wallace's house. He thought about the broken drinking glass in the kitchen. It had shattered, yes, but only into a handful of large pieces. A terrible thought crept into his head.
"Where were you last night?" he asked quietly, staring at Jake as though he had never met him before.
"I gotta go," Jake said, standing suddenly and heading for the open front door.
"Jake, wait!"
In seconds, Jake was on the sidewalk running south in the general direction of his house. The fleeting idea of chasing after him crossed Ray's mind. How hard would it be to catch him, he thought, but what would he say once he caught him? How do you politely ask one of your best friends if he's a murderer?
Monday, Part XI
Regardless of the fact he had not actually spoken with Avery Lowson to set a meeting time, Ray couldn't shake the nagging feeling he was running late.
He had lingered long after Jake bolted from the apartment, fretting over the many possible unfortunate fates of his friend and contemplating the next proper course of action. He tried, unsuccessfully, to use reason to counter-balance his fear that Jake might have had something to do with the disturbing scene at the Wallace's estate. Their horse farm was at least seven miles from Ray's apartment, easily a two-hour walk for a stumbling drunk.
Besides, Jake was an addict and an alcoholic, not a violent offender. There
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