3 Lives of Jury - Chapter 3

Life, the afterlife and a town called Jury. A 40-year saga of love, jealousy and murder.

You can navigate the entire novel from the Table of Contents at the link below, or at the publication front page.

3 Lives in Jury

3 Lives in Jury - table of contents

This novel, 3 Lives in Jury, is delivered, a chapter or two, every Thursday.

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The Underworld Vents

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Chapter 3

They were hardly out of the door of Sketchy’s, when Whit felt hunger gnaw again. He had passed up the junk food because nothing tasted sweet enough or salty enough to satisfy the cravings he’d been coddling for the past hour. Now that he was outside, he regretted settling for Coke.

Frank had stowed a couple of granola bars and a Gatorade in his backpack and gorged on a chocolate bar. He had a reputation for constant eating, a habit he developed from necessity because of his CF. Whit thought about asking for a donation, knowing he could probably convince Frank to hand over a chocolate bar, but the whining wouldn’t be worth it. He checked out Lucy, but she’d eaten her licorice.

At Big Heart Bakery, they sheltered in the alcove in front of the doorway. The store was closed and dark.

Frank swore and stooped to dig a water bottle from his pack.

“Fucking shit this CF.” He pounded the centre of his chest.

“You OK?” Whit asked.

“Yeah, be fine,” he said. “Some days, I just feel it, you know?”

Whit and Lucy nodded and grunted like they understood, which encouraged Frank to continue.

“I used to be able to run track,” he said. “Not this year though.” He thumped his chest again.

“I was a talented skater, too. In elementary school, I used to go to hockey camps, division tryouts, the whole big show. You wouldn’t know to see me now.”

Whit understood a few things about cystic fibrosis from overhearing his mother, Frank and Dr. Kappens discussing treatments. “It’s probably a seasonal thing. New grass, dust and dirt. Spring must play havoc with something like CF.”

“Yeah, probably. But you should have seen me even a year ago. I didn’t have near this much shit to deal with. The past few summers, I’ve gone to hockey school in Gold Rush. I even got invited to some top team tryouts. I had the skills, the right moves, you know. Everybody said so. You know Coach Moody? He coaches the AAA travelling team in Gold Rush?”

Whit and Lucy didn’t, but they nodded.

“He told me he never saw anybody as smooth as me on the ice. He said he’d love to have me on his team. That’s the travelling team. The best players from all over the district, hand-selected to travel to the top tournaments all over the West.

“Yeah?” said Whit.

“Yeah,” Frank replied. “I kid you not. If it wasn’t for this damned CF, man, I could have played for a lot of big teams. They wanted me.”

“Yeah, it’s a raw deal you got,” Lucy tried to sound sympathetic.

“It’s fucking hard sometimes, you know. It doesn’t matter how good I am if I can’t keep up the pace for more than two minutes before spitting up a pail of mucus.”

“Yeah, it must be tough, all right.” Lucy felt sorry for Frank, even though she was tired of his whingeing.

Frank looked up from his eating. She’s being nice to me, he thought. Lucy used to scare him, but she wasn’t as tough as she pretended.

“So, yeah, I did a lot of hockey for a while and saw a lot of it too. Jorge and Marco they were both fantastic players, especially Marco. I went to their games all the time with my mom and dad. Marco could have played WHL if wanted. But that’s Marco, right? Things come easy for him. He’s had everything handed to him and when he has to work for something, he’s like ‘I’m out’.” Frank took a deep breath.

Jorge and Marco were Frank’s step-brothers, gained through his mother’s second marriage.

“Yeah, if you only had his lungs, right?” Lucy wasn’t sure if lungs were the proper organ to designate as being most affected by CF, but it seemed right.

“I need his lungs, his pancreas, his whole fucking digestive system,” Frank replied. “He had it too easy. Everything fell into his lap and he fucked it away. I watched hundreds of his games when we were growing up. Do you think he’s ever come to a single one of mine?”

Frank’s rant was gathering momentum and he didn’t wait for Lucy or Whit to respond.

“No, he hasn’t. Jorge neither, but Jorge at least tries to treat me like a brother once in a while. Growing up, it was just me and my mom almost all the time. My step-dad and brothers were always off somewhere at a game or something.

“When I got old enough and my mom went back to university, you know, to finish her psych degree, I went with her to her night classes. I studied with her, we went through all of it together. I know that shit. I didn’t take the exams, or nothing, but I could. I’m sure I could pass.”

He looked across the alcove to where Whit leaned against the opposite wall. “Go ahead, ask me anything about psychology, test me.”

Whit brushed his jacket. He wished he could tell Frank to shut his mouth for a few seconds. Fuck it, it’s not important, just let him ramble, he thought. Lucy might tune Frank up before much longer, though.

He glanced at Lucy, who was scrunching her shoulders up, her neck shoved down into her jacket collar, like she was trying to hide.

Frank took the silence as permission to continue and he drew another deep breath.

“You know,” he said. “We spent a few days studying psychopaths and serial killers. That stuff is weirdly cool, you know. Psychopaths don’t feel a thing. Nothing. Imagine, a life without regrets. Pop somebody off, push them off a cliff.” He made a pistol with his hand, pointed his finger to his head and dropped his thumb for a hammer. “Bang. Kill your whole fucking family and no remorse. That’s cold. That’s ice.

“I’ve read a lot of books and papers on it. Probably more than the professors at the university. I might join the police after I get out of school. Fuck that, police should have me on their payroll right now.”

Frank was pacing, gesticulating in space, his story in full flight. “I know that much about it. I could be an expert. I could do better than the experts the police have now. If they need me to testify in court about psychopathic behaviour, I could to that. I might not have the papers to show for it, but I’ve done the work.”

Whit stepped outside the alcove, then poked his head back inside.

“Probably not a huge demand for psychopath experts around here though,” he said through a grim smirk, tired of Frank’s bragging. “Let’s go.” He pointed up the street with a nod.

“You’d be fucking surprised, my friend,” Frank leaned in next to Whit’s ear. “You’d be fucking surprised. I hear lots. Other doctors consult with my mom all the time. Police too. They’ve been to our place asking about all sorts of shit. I know because I listen. My mom lets me listen. She’s asked me to stand outside the door when they’re talking so she can get my opinion after they leave.”

Lucy slowly dragged her eyes over Frank’s rail thin frame, from the top of his wispy head to the tips of his $400 sneakers.

“Just to make sure I understand,” she said. “Your mom consults you?”

Frank, sensing her skepticism, doubled down. “Yeah. I mean not officially or anything, but I know almost all her patients as well as she does. We study them together. In fact, on certain things, I’ve studied a lot more than she has.”

“Ouch,” said Whit. “There’s kick in the teeth for patient confidentiality.” He might have been concerned about the privacy of his own sessions with Dr. Kappens, but it was Frank talking and Frank was all talk.

Lucy shoved Frank hard in the chest, pushing him out of the alcove. “Jeeesus, Frank. There you go again.”

Frank stumbled back and looked at the ground, embarrassed, but committed to finishing. “You’d be surprised at what goes on in this town. That’s all I have to say.”

Lucy seized the challenge. “Come on then, surprise me.”

“What?”

“Surprise me. Come on big boy, spill your beans. Let’s hear it. What do you got that can shock me.” She pointed both thumbs at her chest. “I’m the queen of shock.”

“Well, I actually can’t tell you.”

“You can’t tell me? Come on just give me one name, one crime. It doesn’t even have to be a psychopath. Just one name of one criminally insane person in Jury, besides me, I mean. Hell, give us the name of Jury’s most notorious serial shoplifter.”

“I can’t betray my mother’s confidence like that. I can’t.” Frank paused and held up one hand, signalling them to hold on while he steadied his breathing, as he tapped his chest.

Whit checked his phone messages, assumed Frank was stalling.

“What are we going to do now? We might as well just go home if there’s nothing else happening,” he said to Lucy.

“We might as well,” Lucy said. “Unless Frank has more bullshit stories to entertain us.”

Frank filled his mouth with potato chips and waved the bag in front of them. He chewed methodically, weighing what to do next. If he said nothing, they’d walk away and he’d lose them. OK, if they wanted juicy details, here we go.

“I’ve seen one or two,” he blurted. “Psychopaths. It’s true. And guess what, smart ass,” he stared his best challenging glare at Lucy. “They’re here, in Jury.”

“Names, we want names.” Lucy slapped him on the shoulder.

Whit smiled because he knew Lucy smelled blood and wouldn’t stop till she pulled Frank apart. She’d corner him and badger him until Frank confessed to the lie.

“They’re your neighbour, or your neighbour’s cousin, your aunt’s crazy friend from out of town,” Frank said. “I’ve seen them and you’ve seen them too but you just don’t know it. If you don’t believe psychopaths are living in Jury, you’re living in fantasyland.”

“Names, we want names. Jesus, Frank, you can’t go around mouthing off about psychopaths without details. That’s just bullshit,” she said.

Frank fumbled in his pockets for a few seconds, came up with an inhaler and breathed a couple puffs off it. He held up an index finger for them to wait.

Whit and Lucy exchanged a look that said they were done with the game. It was time to put Frank out of his misery. They made to leave.

But as Frank doubled over wheezing and clutching to a street light, Whit started to feel guilty. What if Frank’s breathing issues weren’t a stalling tactic? Better to wait and be sure.

“Better?” he asked, after Frank had capped his inhaler and thumped his chest.

Frank nodded.

“Don’t sweat the names. Another time, maybe,” Whit smiled.

Lucy pushed her glasses up her nose.

“He doesn’t have names, Whit.” She bumped into him as she spoke. “But I have an idea.”

“What will it cost me?” said Whit.

“God, you’re so fucking negative all the time.”

“I wonder why,” Whit said, pushing back his hair as he waved his ball cap in her direction. “Do think it’s because you have a lot of lame ideas?”

She batted his hat away. “Nah, nah, nah. Now wait, hear me out.” She turned back to Frank.

“I suggest we head back to Kappens’ office and look for these psycho names ourselves. I mean, she’s probably got a whole file on serial killers back there, don’t you think?”

“She keeps all her files locked up in a cabinet,” Frank said. “And anyway, probably most of it is locked in her computer.”

“Ah-huh, that’s what we thought. Big talking Frank strikes again. Come on, Whit.” Lucy spun on her heels, Whit was close behind. They’d taken only a few steps before Frank called.

“Wait. Look, OK, there is one person. I can tell you about this case because you know him already.”

They stopped.

“Well?” Lucy said.

“John King. Do you recognize that name?” He checked Whit’s face for a response but saw none. “No? But I know damn well you’re interested in hearing about him. You know how I know?”

Lucy sighed. Whit rubbed his forehead.

Frank drew close to Whit. “He’s your kidnapper.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your kidnapper, your abductor, your assailant. Whatever you want to call it. You know. THE GUY.”

Whit’s mind flashed and the shards of a thousand memories rushed back at once. Then, as quickly as they flooded in, they flowed away and vanished. Whit stood dumbly; a buzzing sound filled his head and grew until it filled everything in the universe.

“Whit, Whit, Whit.” Somebody shouted. From where was it coming? What dream was this? He felt sick. Hot. His face poured sweat down onto the concrete. The world spun.

“Whiiiiiittt,” the voice screamed louder and came from next to his ear. “Whiiiiiiiit, what the fuck.”

He turned. Lucy? Recognition. She was screaming and stared into his face, searching his eyes.

“Anybody in there?” she yelled.

Whit looked over her shoulder to Frank, who was shuffling from foot to foot near the edge of the sidewalk behind her.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Whit told him.

“I’m not, honest. My mom treated him. She’s got a file on him as thick as your head.”

“The fuck you say,” Lucy said.

Her eyes shifted from Whit to Frank. “We are going to have to insist that you show us that.”

“No way. No way I’m doing that. Do you know the trouble we could get into?”

“How are we going to get into trouble?” Lucy asked. “We wait for a night when your mother is away. She won’t have to know.”

“Oh, she’ll know. She is super organized. She’ll know if somebody has been into her files.”

“We’ll just have to make sure we’re careful, then. Right, Whit?”

Whit leaned against the side of the building. The breeze felt wonderful, cool. He breathed and nodded.