The Mystery Texter

This is the first of an eight part series to be published weekly. It blends the Mystery, Psychological Thriller and Romance genres. Please enjoy!

The Mystery Texter - Chapter 1 (of 8)

Present Day - 2021

As we cross the street to Starbucks, I tell Leya, "I didn't think this through. He's probably already in there waiting. What if it's crowded?" I scowl at the door like it's to blame for the shitshow that is about to become of my afternoon. "You have to sit right behind us for this to work."

She puts a hand on my arm. "Take a breath, Brock. We'll figure it out. Remember, it's Superbowl Sunday. People are at parties eating bean dip. Starbucks won't be the town hotspot right now." She takes her hand back and steps ahead of me, "I'll go in first, place my order and get situated."

I hang back so it doesn't look like we're together. I almost forgot about the Superbowl; I've had other things on my mind - William Jones. We were friends for the first eighteen years of our lives. And then we weren't. I've seen him exactly four times since that day over three decades ago. Four times: a sentencing hearing - Warren Lewis's sentencing for the murder of my mother - and three funerals. If it wasn't for that damn letter, I wouldn't be on this sidewalk right now, peering through the Starbucks window, seconds away from meeting number five.

Two days ago, I received a letter from Warren Lewis's new lawyers requesting my presence at their office. Apparently, this law firm does not believe in the criminal justice system because they are endeavoring to free a man convicted of murder by a jury of his peers. William and I were the two eyewitnesses at the original trial back in 1990. William received the same letter I did and it was he who texted me, demanding today's unholy reunion. I wanted to ignore his text, like usual, but he claimed to know details that I don't. He used the right words and pushed the right buttons, so I had no choice. Here I am.

Looking through the glass I see that William is in fact already seated, nursing a venti-sized something or other. The Starbucks Gods are on my side because the table behind him is miraculously free. I let out a sigh of relief as Leya settles in with a beverage in one hand and her cell phone in the other. I pull the door open and a woosh practically sucks me inside where I'm assaulted by the intense aromas of too many coffees.

I hate coffee.

I buy a bottle of water before tentatively dropping into the seat across from him. I meet William's eye. This is the first time I've been one-on-one with William Jones since November 10

th

, 1989.

Friday, November 10

th

, 1989

William and I find ourselves at Fox Bowl. It's Friday night so the place is teeming with beer-drinking assholes who are taking this whole thing way too seriously. Like they're actual athletes playing a real sport.

Dumb-asses.

Whatever. To us it's just a real-life video game.

The guy behind the counter, I've decided his name is Shoe Dude, asks us what sizes we each need. We both tell him ten-and-a-half. Friends since birth, William and I have always been about the same height. I guess we wear the same size shoes too. Shoe Dude doesn't move. He waits expectantly for us to hand him one sneaker each. This is when I remember that I wore my favorite high-tops today. Shit. I should have changed into my Adidas before we left. It's totally bogus having to leave one of my expensive Air Jardans with Random Shoe Dude.

William points to my cherished sneaker on the counter. "Um... You've only worn those a few times ever. Why'd you wear them here?"

I shrug, "Because I'm a moron."

"Obviously."

I give him a shove.

"This whole process is ridiculous. Like there's any danger of anyone wanting to steal

these

." He holds up his shabby tan, red and green faux-leather rentals with an underlined "10" on the heel.

I laugh. He's right, but there's no point in arguing a system I can't change. It'll be fine. Shoe Dude is here to make sure it's fine. It's his job to trade worn and tattered street shoes for worn and tattered rented shoes all day long. My sneaker, though special and immaculate, is just another face in the crowd to him. I could have handed Shoe Dude a solid gold brick instead of a sneaker and his glassy, dead-eyed stare wouldn't have registered the difference. He just wants to make it through to the end of his shift without killing himself. Or someone else.

We bowl two games. I win the first 152 to 143. The second game is just two eighteen-year-old boys screwing around and having fun. With exaggerated hooks and stupid approaches, it ends up more like a game of HORSE than anything else; each turn more ridiculous than the last. We don't even keep score, we just laugh and high-five like idiots, drawing disapproving looks from the adults in the surrounding lanes. We ignore them. Like they weren't kids once upon a time, even if it was a hundred years ago.

Back at the rental counter, we return our bowling shoes and Shoe Dude crinkles his nose. He attacks them with deodorizing spray like he's killing an onslaught of roaches with a can of Raid. As if they're radioactive, he barely touches them with his fingertips, holding them at full arm's length as he swaps back our street kicks. This guy loves his work. He probably has a secret foot fetish. I bet his day job is at a full-service shoe store. Or maybe he's in school studying to become a podiatrist.

After safely reclaiming my prized and precious high-top, we decide on a game of air hockey. William beats me easily. I tell him that it wasn't fair; that I had to play uphill and against the wind. He gives me a shove and we both laugh. We're still laughing in the parking lot all the way to my car until I turn my key in the ignition and the laughter stops.

We're assaulted by the most awful song ever written and recorded in the history of sound -

Wind Beneath My Wings

. It's ear rape. I punch at my radio, jabbing and prodding any and all buttons as fast as I can because even five seconds of that heinous, putrid song causes me actual physical pain and I want to ralph. I land on

She Drives Me Crazy

and leave it. Literally anything else will do.

William watches in amusement, "You're ridiculous."

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow. "You want me to switch it back? I can take it if you can take it."

He grins, "No one wins in that game of chicken from hell."

"Good answer." I turn to William. "How about a detour?"

Present Day

I haven't seen him since Laura's memorial service. In the two years since, I've transformed myself. Over the post-high school years, I had gained about thirty-five pounds. Now I've lost all of them. I accomplished this by taking up running and cutting out sugar and carbs. William, after high school, lost twenty pounds that didn't need losing. He accomplished that by struggling with depression and addiction. Supposedly he's been clean for over ten years now, but despite his baggy, oversized coat, I can tell that he's still too skinny. An unhealthy skinny. With gaunt, skeletal features and sunken eyes, he looks unwell and probably doesn't top 120 on the scale. For a 5' 11" adult male, that's almost dangerously underweight.

He doesn't appear to be high, but I'm no expert. His brown eyes do not sparkle with life. His mousey hair is messy but clean. He looks exactly the same as he did two years ago, so I choose to take this as a good sign.

I indicate the phone in my hand. "If I get a call or text from my son, I'll have to take it."

William shrugs, "Whatever."

What's with the cold indifference? That's

my

role in our almost nonexistent relationship. Maybe we just need to start talking. I consider asking him who he likes in the Superbowl. No. The William I used to know didn't give a shit about sports. He probably doesn't even know who's in it. And I've always been more a baseball/basketball kind of a guy. He probably remembers that about me.

He probably remembers everything about me.

Maybe I shouldn't bother trying to figure out how to break the ice. To hell with the ice. He's the one who pushed for this tete-a-tete. I decide to just wait him out. There's no way I'm going first.

He meets my eye for just a moment but he can't hold it. He drops his gaze down to the cup in front of him. Eventually he says, "My life's been shit."

That was not the opener I was expecting. I actually don't know what I expected, but this hits me like a fist.

Is he accusing me? Blaming me?

I take a pull on my water and I don't reply.

"Just in case you didn't know, I lost a lot that night too." His lip quivers and his voice quakes. "Actually, I lost

everything

that night."

Friday, November 10

th

, 1989

One of the things I like most about William is that he's usually up for anything. He's a pleaser. My other friends...not so much. With Laura, Charlie and Abbi, it's hard for the four of us to all agree on anything. I've been dying to go see

Laser Floyd

at Triton College, but no one would go with me.

The Dark Side of the Moon

is totally rad. Add in the light show and you've got anything MTV has to offer beat by a mile. Tonight with William is an opportunity. It's only twenty minutes away and tickets are cheap. There's a 9:00 show and William says he's up for it.

Triton College is in River Grove and they have this cool planetarium-like building on their almost intimidatingly modern campus. I can't believe that by this time next year I'll be on a campus just like this every day. It seems so grown-up. So not high school.

We arrive just before 9:00 and manage to get two of the last tickets. The audience is mostly college kids, but we just kind of blend in. The seats are super close together and awkwardly reclined because the vaulted ceiling is actually a projection screen. William's left knee is touching my right.

I angle away.

The sold-out room darkens and the opening notes of

Speak to Me

fill the domed theater. We sit/lay there and watch the show as the classic songs I know so well are brought to visual life. It's about 9:45 when

Eclipse

ends and the house lights come back on.

As we walk across the parking lot, William says, "That was totally awesome."

The poet in me replies, "No duh."

We make it back to my car and I start driving home. Halfway back to my house, William turns to face me and says, "Pull over somewhere. I want to show you something."

Present Day

This isn't good. His text said we need to talk about the investigation and the trial. I feel like he's dangerously close to revisiting territory that I refuse to revisit. I should get up and walk out. Half of me desperately wants to do just that. The other half needs to know what he has to say.

I prompt him with a reluctant sigh, "Your text said you know things about Warren Lewis."

"We haven't been alone together in over three decades, Brock. There's no rush, is there?" His lilting voice is teasing and his phony smile is ugly.

What is happening? Did he lure me here with a lie? Maybe he's just using these letters as an excuse to unload his shit on me. I can hardly handle my own shit. I can't take his too. Rationally, I know that I'm not the only casualty of that night, but I'm also sick of all the "innocent victim" crap. I'm thinking that the time for self-reliance is long overdue. He's a grown man. How about some personal accountability for the tragedy that is his life?

I stand up. Remembering we're in a public place, I keep my voice low and bite back the words I really want to say. I tell him, "I'm out," and I turn to leave.

"Brock, wait. Please." He gestures to my empty chair.

I stop and look at him. He holds my eye this time and I think maybe he's ready to do this. I sit back down.

He says, "Remember when we were driving back to your house after the Laser Floyd show? Remember how I asked you to pull over somewhere. Somewhere private? Alone?"

Friday, November 10

th

, 1989

William says, "Pull over somewhere. I want to show you something. Somewhere quiet."

We're driving west on Roosevelt Road. I pull into an empty parking lot next to an abandoned building. The seafoam-green swirly roof looks like the top of a soft serve ice cream cone, but I think it was most recently a carpet store. Even though the lot is deserted, I center us perfectly in a parking space. I yank up the parking brake and turn to him.

"What's the point of stick shift?" he asks.

"That's totally random."

My car is a 1986, Nissan Sentra 5 speed manual transmission. I count off on my fingers, "Better gas mileage, more control over the car, active engagement with the driving so you're less likely to be distracted--"

"Okay, okay. I just thought that you thought you looked cool shifting."

"Duh."

He laughs, "Not even."

He seems oddly nervous. He leans back in his seat and lifts at his shirt to give himself access to the front pocket of his jeans. When he does this, I see a flash of bare stomach. I force my eyes to look away. He pulls out a small plastic packet of white powder, holds it with two fingers and waggles it between us. "Do you wanna try something new?"

Present Day

I look at him and pause for a long moment. "How could I forget?"

"You never asked me where I got it from. I was a shy, quiet eighteen-year-old kid. Where would I get it? I had no job and no money. I had no 'connections'. I wasn't a user or an addict - yet. I didn't have a dealer. Where did I get the cocaine?"

It's true. I never asked where the drugs came from. Honestly, I never even wondered. With how that night would later end, such details were left long forgotten and irrelevant. But I do remember that moment. Like it was captured on a video that I watched over and over again.

Lovesong

by The Cure was quietly playing on my car's radio. Even quieter was the ticking sound of my keys as they swayed, hanging from the ignition, in almost perfect rhythm to the music. We sat there in that dark, deserted parking lot by that stupid seafoam-green swirly-roofed building.

William continues, "I was still a drug virgin. That was the truth. I'd never done drugs of any kind before and I thought it would be safer to have my first time be with a friend. My only friend. But you freaked out."

Friday, November 10

th

, 1989

William asks, "Wanna try something new?"

My mouth drops open. I'm in shock. I've never even smoked pot before - hell, I'd never even tried a cigarette - not to mention done coke, crack, blow...whatever you wanna call it. I have no desire to either. That's not my thing and it never will be. Looking at that little packet, dangling from his fingers, I can't even believe that I'm this close to something so scary, so alien, so wrong, so illegal.

I don't want it in my sight. I don't want it in my car.

I'm freaking out on the inside, but acting with as much fake-calm as I can muster, I unbuckle my seatbelt and I take it. I look at the white powder for a few seconds, then whip my door open and bolt. I run in a random direction and stumble upon a storm drain. I bend down and drop the evil thing to its permanent death.

William hasn't moved. He's still sitting there; his face buried in his hands. I get back in my once-again drugfree car and slam the door closed. "What the fuck William!"

He looks up at me, his beet-red face crumbles and suddenly he's crying. "I'm sorry. I've never done drugs before. I swear." He sobs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "But I've thought about it. You know, tonight? Everything we've done? The pizza, the bowling, the laser show...it's the most fun I've had since... I don't even know. Most of the time, I'm just alone."

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing. The best I can do is listen. Keep him talking. I put a hand on his knee and the contact seems to encourage him.

"How often do we get together? A couple times a month? If I'm lucky? If I weren't here tonight, you'd be doing all these things with your real friends. To me, you're my

only

friend. To you, I'm

hardly even

a friend."

I squeeze his knee gently, "That's totally bogus. You know we're friends."

He scoffs and sniffs back a wad of snot. "Yeah, right. I'm not dumb and I'm not blind." He looks up at me. "It's okay. I get it. Our moms are friends and you're like forced to spend this time with me. It's been that way our whole lives. I'm not your friend, I'm your obligation. It's not your fault. I don't blame you."

This boy sitting next to me is so fragile and vulnerable right now. I've known him forever, but I've never seen him like this before. I wish I had a box of Kleenex in my car. He really could use a tissue.

I move my hand from his knee to his shoulder. "I'm not gonna pretend that you're my best friend. Some of what you said is true, but not all of it. You

are

a real friend. You're my oldest friend. I've known you longer than anyone else - my whole life. And I totally had an awesome time tonight. I'll tell you the truth, none of my 'best friends' would go with me to the laser show. They all thought it would bite." I squeeze his shoulder, "I like hanging out with you."

Present Day

I calmly say, "I didn't 'freak out'. I got rid of the cocaine. I didn't want anything to do with it. I didn't want it near either of us. I didn't want it in my car." I clear my throat. "So, where did the drugs come from?"

"Remember how close I was to my sister?"

I hate it when people answer a question with a question and this one in particular throws me. "What does the coke have to do with what happened that night? Or with Warren Lewis? And what does any of this have to do with your sister, Maureen?"

My phone buzzes. I look at my screen and discretely read Leya's text: "Answer his questions. Keep it a conversation. Keep him talking."

William had been studying the veins on his bony hands and didn't even notice my distraction. He continues, "She was the only other person I had. She loved me. She cared about me. We were a team. Back in May of 1989, she graduated from high school and was getting ready to leave for college in a few months." He pauses and takes a sip of his drink.

I still don't know where any of this is going. Why is his story moving us back in time to May instead of forward? I guess I'm just going to have to let him tell his narrative at his own pace. Plus, I don't want another reprimand from Leya.

"Something changed with her, Brock, and she disappeared from our lives long before she physically left for school. She had started seeing some guy; I even met him once. He was older. But then, one day, she locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn't come out all summer. That August, she left for college and never came back. Not for breaks, not for anything. The day she left for Portland - she went to the University of Southern Maine - she didn't even say goodbye. One day, she was just gone. My uncle, my mom's brother, lives there. That's where Maureen spent her breaks. I hardly ever saw her for the whole rest of her life. It was around this same time that my mom began to flake out. She quit her job and took up a second residence in Maine with my uncle and Maureen. I never knew why. Even when Mom was home, it was like she was there, but not really. I was the youngest in my family and nobody told me shit about what was going on."

I remember that Maureen did pretty much vanish, almost like she no longer existed. And his mother too, which was really weird. Why would a mother go off to college with her daughter and leave her husband and younger kid behind? I never knew why and I never asked. I wasn't family. It wasn't my business or my place.