Sandusky Burning, page 17
Sullivan noticed her and did a double take. I didn’t blame him; it was difficult not to. He was a married man. Well, sort of. Legally, but there was no physical relationship happening between him and his wife at that point.
She ordered a drink from Sam and sat down, crossing her legs and adjusting her dress, pulling it down mid-thigh. Sam put down a margarita on the rocks in front of her.
I didn’t like to have the Romanians come into the bowling alley. This was not the place for people in their twenties generally. Why would a hot young woman come hang out at a bowling alley dive bar by herself? She wouldn’t. Unless she was a prostitute.
She leaned over and said something to Sullivan. The music was too loud for me to pick it up. He smiled politely and said something back.
I tapped Sullivan on the shoulder. When he turned around, I could tell his drink additive was starting to hit him hard. It had been five minutes since Sam mixed it.
You could never tell how fast or hard a spiked drink would hit a person; a lot of different factors were at play. Some passed out immediately. Others functioned for a time and then became zombies before passing out. It was going to be about T-minus one minute before Sullivan pulled a Weekend at Bernie’s act.
I hoped to get a few more minutes of Sullivan chatting with the hooker on film, but she arrived too late. Sullivan passing out at my bar was not part of the plan. I leaned closer to him. “Are you ready to go? I’ll have Sam take you home. You drank your share, buddy,” I said, patting him on the back. Sullivan just sat there, staring straight ahead. He robotically took another drink, finishing it.
“Hey, Sam, why don’t you pull the vehicle up? I will handle the bar,” I said, walking around behind the bar.
Sam nodded, grabbed a towel, wiped his hands, and walked around to the other side of the bar. “You ready?” he asked. Sullivan’s eyes were starting to close. Sam hustled over and stood beside him, leaning over and pulling Sullivan’s right arm up on his shoulder. The Romanian girl sat quietly, sipping her drink through a pink straw.
“Let’s take a walk out to my vehicle. Are you okay to walk?” Sam asked. Sullivan didn’t respond. His eyes closed. “Stay with me.”
Sam lifted him out of the chair and onto his feet, keeping a hold of his arm. The two started for the side door. I surveyed the bar area, and luckily no one else was nearby.
The Romanian girl finished her drink with a slurp and stood up, following them. She scurried around in front of them to open the back door, and the three of them walked out. I picked up the empty glasses and put them in the sink, wiping down the bar top.
Chapter 4
Friday, June 19
Brady 10
12:55 p.m.
The train horn pulled me out of my deep sleep. I lay still with my eyes closed. A wave of dizziness swept over me.
I dared not open my eyes. The sun was definitely out because it was attempting to pierce my eyelids. I put my hands up to my face and covered it, sliding them down below my chin.
My head throbbed. My throat was parched; I was dehydrated. I was fairly sure I hadn’t drunk water in a long time.
I felt the bed vibrate slightly from the passing train. I finally opened my eyes slightly. A layer of crust had accumulated around the tear ducts. I squinted and wiped it away, which took a few attempts.
I was staring up at a dusty brown faux wood ceiling fan. The master bedroom in my camper did not have a ceiling fan. This jolted my eyes wide open. I looked around and realized I did not know where I was.
It took me a moment to recognize I was in one of the campground cabins. Marcy’s parents had stayed in one for the weekend last summer, and we spent some time in theirs on a rainy day. The same plain white curtains that blocked very little sunlight. Fake wood floors and paneled walls. A beat-up wooden nightstand with a black digital alarm clock and a small lamp with a yellowing white lampshade on it. The alarm clock was blinking 4:47 a.m., which was obviously incorrect, due to the bright sunlight.
I glanced down at my watch, but it was dead. The battery power was running low yesterday evening, but I figured I would charge it when I got home. Except I didn’t make it home.
The air was dusty and stale. I ran my right hand through my hair and found that I was sweating. The room wasn’t particularly hot; it was the alcohol seeping out of my pores.
Where was my phone? I reached down to check my pockets and realized I was in bed naked. That was not how I generally slept; I always wore gym shorts to bed.
I leaned over and looked at the floor. My jeans were wadded up with my black belt still wound through the loops. Stretching over, I grabbed them, revealing my shirt underneath them. I could tell by the weight of my pants that there were items in the pockets.
My phone was in the front left pocket. Pressing the button on the right side, I discovered it was dead. I cursed to myself.
My wallet was in the back-right pocket. Everything seemed to be intact. Driver’s license. Credit cards. Money. Wait, I was missing my Discover card. I left it at the bar with Sam.
Slipping on my clothes, I went out into the kitchen area. There was no sign of any cohabitants. My keys were on the kitchen table.
Opening the cupboard, I found a drinking glass. I ran the kitchen faucet for a moment until the water was cold, then filled it up. I slowly drank half the glass. Pausing for a moment to see how my stomach handled it, I belched and waited. A wave of nausea hit me.
Recalling that the bathroom was at the opposite end of the cabin, I walked swiftly over. I got to the toilet and threw up. It was all pale-brown liquid. Ladies and gentlemen, Jack has left the building. I dry-heaved a few times and then flushed the toilet.
Returning to the kitchen, I took the glass and filled my mouth with water. After swishing it around, I spit it out into the sink. I did it again, and then dared a tiny sip of it. It didn’t come back up.
Leaning against the counter for a moment, I risked another small sip. It stayed down. I opened the fridge to see if there were any bottled waters, but it was empty. I stood in front of it for a moment, savoring the cold air that escaped.
I walked over and peeked out the front window. My truck was not parked in front. I prayed that it was still at the bowling alley or at my campsite.
Walking back to my RV seemed like a nightmare, but I couldn’t stay in the cabin. How did I end up in the cabin? Renting it made no sense, with my own camper a short walk away.
I found my running shoes by the door, with my black cotton socks wadded up and stuffed inside them. I put them on and opened the door. The sun assaulted my vision. I didn’t know where my sunglasses were; hopefully, they were in my vehicle. Wherever my vehicle was.
I stepped out and looked around. The cabin was along the east side of the campground, separated by a fence from the auto dealership, about two hundred yards from my RV.
Nausea struck me again, and I nearly threw up. I thought of Chris the other morning and how he threw up on himself while sprawled out on the jumping pillow. Now I was barely a notch above that level of dysfunction.
I began the journey to my camper. I reached the playground area and headed west. Kids were bouncing on the jumping pillow and playing on the swing sets. What time was it? The sun seemed too high in the sky for it to be morning, which made my stomach churn with anxiety.
I cut through between the pool and the clubhouse and angled across to Starling. The tree cover over the street was a godsend. Nausea hit me again as I approached the gazebo. A few people were out and waved at me. There were a few smirks as they watched me walk past.
I remembered the term “walk of shame” from my military and college years. A woman (or man) would engage in a one-night stand and then have to return to her car or dorm wearing the same clothes they had worn the night before, all disheveled and hungover. That was me, minus the one-night stand. But then again, I woke up naked in a random cabin. And there was a fuzzy memory of a girl at the bar.
My truck was parked in front of the camper and not at the bowling alley or some back alley chop shop. Thank God. I peered into the passenger window and saw it was locked. I walked over to the front door of the camper and pulled out my keys. I fumbled through them, trying to find the correct one, the one with the purple plastic cover at the top. It was missing.
Luckily, I had a backup key. I stooped down beside the camper on the right side of the main doorstep, sliding my hand over until I found the little metal box that magnetically attached to a metal reinforcement underneath. I entered the combination and removed the key, letting myself into the camper.
I had left the air conditioning on, and it was cool inside. I opened the fridge, took out a bottled water, and took a drink. My stomach continued to hold the water down. I took my phone out and connected it to the charging cord in the bedroom.
Stripping out of my clothes, I went into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror startled me. My hair was greasy. There were dark bags under my eyes. My skin was pale and sweaty. I looked terrible. Death warmed over. And I’d just paraded in front of the neighbors in that condition. Why didn’t I go up Sparrow and cut through Chris’s lot? There would have been far fewer eyes on me if I approached from that direction.
I ran the shower and got in, washing thoroughly. I almost threw up again but managed not to. As soon as I got out of the shower, I would need to take a few aspirins and log in to my work laptop.
I finished the shower and grabbed my phone, pushing the button on the side to illuminate the screen. My jaw dropped. It read 1309 hours. That couldn’t fucking be true.
I pulled my work laptop out and opened it. The government common access card was still in the slot, so I pulled it out and reinserted it. I entered my PIN, and it booted up. I glanced down at the clock at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. It read 1311 hours.
My stomach lurched. I barely made it to the bathroom to throw up again. I heard the phone make a series of dinging noises as the texts and voicemails that queued up while it was dead began to arrive.
Brady’s Cell Phone 1
1:12 p.m.
∗ Text message – Jeff-Boss (0711) - U there Brady? Need u to cover call @ 0730
∗ Text message – Jeff-Boss (0723) – Don’t see you on
∗ Text message – Jeff-Boss (0759) – R U going to make the 8 conference call
∗ Text message – Marcy (0854) – what time r u going to be at my parents?
∗ Text message – Rob Mac (0902) – Are you calling in? Need your update
∗ Text message – Jamal Dogg (0937) – U alive? People are worried
∗ Text message – Marcy (0947) – r u there? Need 2 know when u r picking them up
∗ Text message – Jeff-Boss (1003) – Call me asap
∗ Text message – Marty FIL (1015) – What time picking kids up?
∗ Text message – Marcy (1019) - ?????
∗ Text message – Marcy (1101) - ?????
∗ Text message – Jeff-Boss (1114) – Call me asap
∗ Text message – Marcy (1139) – Are you ok?
∗ Text message – Jamal Dogg (1201) – Dude call someone
∗ Text message – Marcy (1219) – Parents taking them to lunch n to park. Call me
∗ Text message – Marcy (1231) – We are worried, plz call
∗ Text message – Marcy (1259) – Kids worried, where are you?
∗ Voice messages (7)
Mike 6
1:30 p.m.
I was more concerned about Brady than I reasonably should have been. After all, I barely knew the guy. Maybe it was just instinctive concern for a fellow veteran.
I expected to see his camper door open early, but it wasn’t. His truck was there but no signs of life. He mentioned he was going back to the Cleveland area to get his kids in the late morning. But there his vehicle was.
I hung out by my campfire most of the morning and early afternoon. I drank an average amount the night before and wasn’t hungover, but I still consumed a few Bloody Marys.
I drank my way through lunch, took a walk by Brady’s, and then walked back to my campsite. Nothing happening over there. I thought about Chris having Brady’s private info and the fact that he handed it off to Chuck. What was the point? My strategic thinking wasn’t fine-tuned enough to understand why they would want to fuck with a guy like Brady. He seemed so vanilla, just a family guy, upper middle class. He was unlikely to be mistaken for a high roller.
I decided to go for a walk again. There seemed to be more campers arriving than normal, probably since it was a Friday. A lot of kids riding bikes and employees buzzing past in work carts. There was some sort of superhero theme that weekend, and several kids wore capes and masks. Chuck passed me and nodded, and I nodded back.
I passed the shower house and came upon Brady’s site. His truck was still there. I slowed as I walked by. His door was cracked slightly. I considered whether I should knock or not. He may be working inside the RV because he didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe he got hit with an unexpected work assignment and couldn’t go to Cleveland.
I stepped up and knocked softly a few times. After a minute, the door opened and he appeared, wearing just a pair of gray gym shorts. His face was deathly pale. He wore a very grim, intense expression.
“Hey Brady, just dropping by ...” I began, but he interrupted me.
“Come inside,” he said urgently. He held open the screen door, and I climbed the stairs.
Data 4
1:45 p.m.
My burner phone vibrated in my left-front pocket. I pulled it out; there was a text message from Randy.
Crunch BS info and pull shots
I was relieved. I was riding along in the work cart with Patrick, collecting the garbage left at the campsites. It was a gross job, and with the weather warming up, getting grosser. Some of the smells made me gag.
People left disgusting things out. Bags broke, spilling out dirty diapers, rotting food, coffee grounds, moldy plastic cups, dog crap, and other unidentifiable debris. When a bag broke, I had to get a replacement bag and pick up whatever spilled.
We pulled up alongside a transient lot. I grabbed the white garbage bag that was placed by the road, brought it to the back of the work cart, and placed it in gently.
Of course, I was always the one to collect the garbage because Patrick always had to drive. The one time I complained, Patrick just smiled and continued driving, so I let it go. I made a mental note to chat with Randy about it. If I was the invaluable tech guy, I needed to be afforded a minimal level of deference.
I was disappointed that I wasn’t spending more time in Trailer Alpha working data angles rather than doing manual labor. But I realized I had to keep up appearances. I was a campground employee, and if my probation officer were to drop in, I should be doing campground tasks.
I kept kicking myself over the data loss. Randy mentioned that we needed to talk privately, and I had a feeling it was about the breach. It made my stomach turn just thinking about it.
“After this row, I need to go back to the office,” I said to Patrick, who was stoically smoking a cigarette. He had been subdued all day, which led me to conclude that he was hungover. I liked this version of him, rather than the obnoxious, shit-talking one.
“We still have half the campground to collect from, man,” he said, irritated.
“Boss’s orders,” I said.
Patrick shook his head. “Tired of getting stuck with all the shit work,” he complained.
Cry me a river.
He dropped me off at the office. I went to the men’s room and washed the garbage residue off my hands.
I came out and unlocked my bike chain. Despite the risks, I opted not to wear my helmet, to avoid being teased. I rode toward the campground entrance. Nobody was in the security booth.
Ten minutes later, I was in the control room of Trailer Alpha. I took a moment to view what was happening at all the locations on the bank of monitors.
A large RV was being hauled alongside the security booth. A woman pushed a stroller and walked a dog in front of Cabin F, trailing a little girl dressed like a Disney princess riding a small bike with training wheels. A lonely elderly day drinker was sitting at the bar at Glory Bowl, with a tall draught beer and a shot in front of him.
I started by clicking on the bowling alley image of the bar area. Clicking and sliding the scroll bar along the bottom of the screen to the left, the video began to reverse. The timestamp rolled back, with the display going darker during the hours it was closed, briefly lighting up when the cleaning crew arrived and worked, and then it was back to the “last call for alcohol” warning to the few remaining barflies by Randy. I kept scrolling until I saw the person I wanted. There was Brady Sullivan.
I let it play. He was practically being carried out of the bar by Sam and one of the Romanian girls, Anka. I had viewed a lot of video footage of her over the past few weeks.
Chuck mentioned I could talk to Randy about getting a date with one of the Romanian girls. The thought of it embarrassed me. Especially since the meeting spots were wired for video. No, thanks.
I reversed the footage to the point where Sam cleared Sullivan’s dinner dishes. Once they were gone, Sam brought him a drink. I rolled back fifteen seconds and started recording it to a different file. I rolled it forward until they walked him out.
I did the same thing with the parking lot footage, rolling it back to when they exited the building. I recorded until they left the parking lot in Sam’s Suburban.
Switching over to Cabin D footage, I scrolled back in time until the arrival of Sam’s SUV displayed. I recorded until Sam helped Sullivan into the cabin.
I switched to the bedroom footage, scrolling forward until the lights were turned on. Sam walked Brady over to the bed, propping him up on the edge. Brady’s eyes were open, but he was nonresponsive.
Sam walked out of the bedroom. The girl walked into the bedroom. She began taking her clothes off. Sullivan just sat there. The girl walked over and started taking his shirt off. He was basically a child, lifting his arms reflexively to assist.
