TWO
Brettinger, Tennessee
An unseasonably cold October breeze chased orange and yellow leaves down the walkway. I pulled my jacket close, a whistle of wind and the echo of my footfalls on brick the only sounds.
I could see a portion of the house ahead. Faded brick. Double sash windows. But the entirety of the home was obscured.
Leaves danced their last in the swaying arms of their mothers. Soon, those scarlet, orange, and yellow bits would surrender to the wind. All would give way to skeletal trees and a view of the home beyond.
A gust of wind found the cuff of my pants. In answer, a clench of pain flashed up my spine, erupting in a tingle of nerves and hair follicles. The feeling vanished, soon as it had come, but the effect remained. It caused my pace to slow. It gave pause to consider this folly.
Why was I here, in Brettinger, Tennessee? It is a city with a history of violence and death.
I’d once blamed Vanessa.
She moved out on a Thursday, ten days after I’d asked her to marry me.
I came home that night to an empty apartment. No fifty-two-inch television, no game system, no sofa and loveseat, no microwave. No bedroom furniture, no lamps, no twelve-hundred-dollar hand woven Persian rug, and no bath towels.
There was a note.
Darling, she’d called me. It seemed she wasn’t ready for commitment. She said I should care for myself and care for Max.
Max had been her cat.
The note went in the trash. The cat went out the door. I packed my clothes, deciding it was long past time for a new direction in my life. I would move south, where it was always warm.
The idea had been to drive to Florida. To find a cottage near the ocean. I would find work in a local hospital. There were always openings for qualified male nurses. I would work and spend time at the beach. I would drink margaritas and meet an assortment of compliant females to share my bed.
My car had other ideas. It chose to break down in Tennessee, five minutes after I passed the Rayburn County line.
And here I am.
I can’t say what caused me to stay. Everything seemed to fall into place. A job, an apartment, a sense of purpose, they sought me out.
Near the end of the path, the trees opened to reveal the home of Jackson King, larger than I’d expected. I guessed it might boast six bedrooms; possibly seven, given the windows that spied down from the third-floor attic.
I wondered about the man who lived here and what I would find.
Heather’s words repeated in my thoughts.
“Jackson King isn’t your normal client, Mitchell.” She’d said. “He’s a touch eccentric.”
“Aren’t they all?” I’d joked.
Heather had dealt with a variety of patients over the years. She’d worked for hospice and the local health department, now she ran her own home health agency.
“Read his social history,” she’d said, as she slid the file across her desk.
I expected to find information about parents and siblings, religious preference and family life, hobbies he’d enjoyed over the years. The usual rhetoric.
It began as expected.
The man was ninety-three years old and from Devon, England. He’d always lived alone and rarely left his house. He had a regular flow of domestics for the usual things. One cook, two maids, a gardener, a chauffeur.
The last bit seemed odd for a recluse.
I discovered my answer in the following pages, which seemed a mixture of police narrative and mystery novel.
The driver was hired to shuttle an occasional overnight guest to share Mr. King’s hospitality. In his younger days, Jackson’s guests were women, ages eighteen to thirty-five. He seemed to prefer brunettes, but allowed a sprinkling of redheads and blondes. Only one of these overnight women visited a second time. Her name had been Candace Thorton.
Blonde, twenty-one, the product of a broken home in the Lakewood section of Brettinger, Candace had been a working girl since her second semester at the University of Memphis. Income from this profession afforded her tuition and a condominium in a gated community.
She’d declared psychology as her major, saying she wanted to help people through times of emotional crisis. But Candace withdrew enrollment her junior year, citing the rigors of research papers and final exams.
Six months later, she moved back to Rayburn County.
Her first overnight visit with Mr. King had been March twenty-third, four days after her twenty-first birthday. Her second was on the April tenth. When asked, the chauffeur recalled her address as The Viridian, an upscale apartment complex on the east side of town.
On May first, three weeks after her second visit, the Brettinger PD received a call from The Viridian. Neighbors reported hearing screams and the sound of tribal drums.
When units arrived, they found her door locked and the chain in place. There were no signs of forced entry or struggle. Her bed was made. Her day planner was open, on a bedside table, and noted an appointment for later that evening.
The body of Candace Thorton was found in a bedroom closet. She was fully dressed. There were no indications of abuse or sexual assault. It seemed she’d entered the closet, closed the door behind her, sat on the floor and died.
Telephone records were examined. The last number she dialed belonged to Jackson King.
Mr. King had been interviewed. Asked if he knew why she’d tried to phone him, he shrugged. Asked if he was aware of anyone who might have wished Candace harm, he said, “No one who knew the girl could wish her harm.” When asked about the nature of their relationship, he said, “She wanted to look beyond this world.”
“What do you mean, beyond this world?” one investigator asked.
“She desired to look past the void,” Jackson said. “She looked, and it consumed her.”
No charges had been filed in the death of Miss Griffin. Cause of death was ruled myocardial infarction.
No explanation was offered for why a healthy young woman should die from a heart attack. No explanation was given for why she’d retreated to her closet, although it was conjectured she’d been hiding. From what, no one could say.
Thirty years had passed. And with each year the list of Jackson King’s overnight guests grew smaller. There had been no overnight visitors for the last twelve years.
The history continued, stating Jackson had family still living in Devon. A brother, now deceased, and a sister, both with families of their own. Neither blood kin or in-laws claimed a close relationship with their older brother.
Darrin, younger by two years, had died at age forty-six from a sudden and aggressive form of brain cancer. Though they’d been out of touch for twenty years, Jackson had phoned Coombes in Bovey Tracey two weeks before his brother’s death to arrange for a funeral and placement in a memorial park. He’d asked that his identity not be revealed. A note was to be given to the widow, reading only, “May his soul be freed from the mist and his spirit be one with his God."
Jackson’s sister was now seventy-four. She sent a yearly card on his birthday with wishes for continued good health. Her husband, neither of their four children nor their seven grandchildren had met Jackson King or even seen his picture. Delia didn’t keep reminders of her brother in her home.
The birthday wish each year was taxing enough. She would have stopped the ritual if she thought she could. But she feared there might be consequences. Chiefly, that her older brother might seek her out and inquire after her health.
There was no mention of religious affiliation in Jackson’s social history. No mention of a wife or partner. No record of having worked outside his home or of trips away from Brettinger.
Jackson owned the house and estate in Tennessee, an inheritance from his father. Darrin and Delia had each received two hundred thousand pounds as their part in their father’s estate. But Jackson had been the one who stayed after their mother died from influenza. He’d suffered at the hands of his father, beaten because his mother had died, beaten because his father hadn’t joined her in death, beaten because his existence was a reminder of a life lost.
Israel King died in his bed at the age of sixty-four. He had no illnesses. No one could recount the man ever having as much as a cold. It was said that he’d done everything he put his mind to in life and decided it was time to do so in death. It was said that when Israel King decided something must be done, hell’s fury could not keep it from happening.
Per Israel’s will, Jackson assumed possession of the balance of his father’s overseas estate, which included the four thousand square foot home and bonds totaling one point seven million dollars, U.S.
“Did they think he had something to do with his father’s death?” I asked Heather.
“Perhaps,” she said. “A look at his medical history might reveal more.”
I turned a page.
Jackson King’s primary diagnosis, Parkinson’s, hadn’t been discovered until last year. He had no other current health issues, despite the collection of maladies he’d suffered early in life.
At age eleven he’d fallen from a tree, injuring his back and causing him to walk slightly stooped. At fifteen, he’d fallen into the lake, not drowning, but contracting pneumonia that had kept him bedridden for six months and caused a wheeze, attributed at the time to chronic bronchitis. At twenty, he’d been shot while on a hunting trip with his father, losing the use of his left arm.
Since that time, Jackson had been a recluse inside his family home. A physician would visit twice each year to check on his health, but Jackson King had not made a public appearance until his father’s funeral. It surprised onlookers to note that Jackson was no longer stooped. He had no difficulties when breathing and he served as a pall bearer for Israel’s casket, using his left arm to carry the man to his grave.
I looked for the usual information, x-rays, lab work, something to tell me more about the man. There was nothing.
“This is it?” I asked. “There isn’t even a list of medications.”
“He doesn’t take any,” Heather said.
“None?” I said. “And he hasn’t left his home in thirty years? Not on holidays to visit family or even for a yearly checkup with his doctor?”
“Not once,” she said. “He has no relationship with his family, outside of the yearly card he receives from his sister. He doesn’t need a family doctor. He’s had several visit him over the years. The physician who made the diagnosis of Parkinson’s took his case after his partner died. He’s seen Jackson four times this year. That’s the most of any physician since the early sixties. But the doctor says he isn’t going back. Mr. King won’t follow his advice. The man feels he’s wasting his time.
“Jackson King doesn’t like doctors. For that matter, he doesn’t like nurses. It was only after Doctor Wright told him he was recommending long-term care in a post-acute setting that Jackson agreed to biweekly nursing visits.
“None of the ladies who work for me have lasted more than a month. That’s why I hired you. Mr. King is a valuable client.”
“What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Whatever he’ll allow,” Heather said.
“And what’s that?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” she said. “But do what you can.”