Money Creek

Prologue

On a wintry late Saturday afternoon, Clare Lehane found herself in the shabby living room of a shabby house hidden deep in the rural countryside. She sat on a wooden dining chair, chosen over the lumpy, soiled sofa that was pushed against a wall with peeling wallpaper. The hardwood floors were buckled and warped. She smelled mold.

Henry stared at her from across the coffee table, his preppy-style clothing looking particularly out of place. Ray sat on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Next to him was barrel-chested Bobby and his girlfriend, Caroline. Her midriff shirt showed off her belly ring. They’d all been making small talk for what seemed like forever.

Clare wished they’d break out the drugs. A social gathering of drug dealers should involve the consumption of drugs. So far it was cheap beer and shots of tequila, and she was getting anxious for something else.

Henry stood and put his phone in his back pocket. I have to get going. He turned to Ray. I’ve got that thing.

Ray nodded.

I’ll go with you. Clare rose quickly from her chair.

No, you’ll stay. Ray stared at her. We’re just getting started here.

I want to go home.

Henry shifted his eyes from Clare to Ray and back again.

Clare, just relax and enjoy yourself. She could tell he was anxious she not make a scene in front of his business partners. I’m sorry I have to leave, but I have something I can’t get out of. He gathered his coat and hat and left. The room fell silent and she sat down again.

Bobby took his arm from Caroline’s shoulder and leaned forward.

We want to get to know you better, Clare. That’s all.

Why do you want me here? Can’t I just buy some pills and leave?

Ray stubbed out his cigarette and pulled a joint from his shirt pocket. You know it’s not that simple. You’re our customer, yes, but you’re also our lawyer.

This is like a gangster movie. I never signed up to be consiglieri. She was rigid with frustration. Ray ignored her and concentrated on his joint. She stood in disgust.

I’m going to the bathroom. Down there, right?

She strode down the hallway, passing tiny, dark bedrooms. She locked the bathroom door behind her and fished a packet of meth out of her jeans pocket, along with a rolled-up dollar bill. Meth was not her preferred drug, but it was all she had right now. She snorted a line and the rush cascaded through her body, a familiar feeling but still exciting. This time it fueled her anger. How could she break free of these people? She couldn’t see a way out. She glanced at the mirror and wiped some powder from her nose. Desperation soon replaced her anger. She didn’t want her life to be like this. Wasn’t sure how it’d gotten so bad.

Just as she turned on the faucet to wash her hands, an explosion erupted. She fell to her knees and gripped the sides of her head. Two more explosions. Four more. Gunfire. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. The shooting continued. When it stopped she remained crumpled on the dirty tile floor.

Am I next? What the hell is this?

Heavy footsteps in the living room. She looked at the small window in the bathroom and saw it was low and wide enough for her to fit through.

Then the sound of footsteps running toward the back of the house. She looked out the window. In a moment, a man rounded the rear corner and slowed to a walk. He wore one of those Euro-style vigilante masks with ghastly white skin and a terrifying grin. A gun hung loosely from his left hand, the same gun all the cops used on TV. Tall and lanky, he wore jeans and a camouflage jacket. Beneath the open jacket she saw a green Guns N’ Roses concert tee. The same shirt a law school classmate used to wear all the time, from the 2012 concert tour.

The man walked away, kicking dead leaves. Soon she heard the sharp acceleration of a car on gravel. What the hell happened? Was there a way to leave the house without going back into the living room? She was afraid to see what was there. She had to get her phone. Leaving it behind was not an option.

She opened the bathroom door and peered down the dark hall. She smelled something slightly metallic and paused. She stopped at the entrance to the room and her gut clenched.

Bodies sprawled on the furniture, blood pooling beneath them. Ray slammed back in his chair, a bullet hole in his forehead and chest, Bobby sprawled across the coffee table, as if he’d stood to confront the gunman. Caroline draped over the end of the couch. Still alive. She made a low, strangled noise.

Clare rushed to her. Blood streamed from Caroline’s stomach, where the bullet had torn into her. Caroline stared straight at her but there was no flicker of recognition, her eyes moving only slightly. Clare saw her phone on the coffee table. No choice: call an ambulance. Caroline might reveal Clare’s presence at the party and ruin her life, but at least she’d live and Clare would be able to live with herself.

She moved Bobby’s arm to get to her phone. Caroline slumped forward suddenly, her eyes blank, no longer animated. Clare didn’t need to check her pulse: she was dead. She slipped her phone into her pocket and moved away from the body. The silence was eerie.

She put her down coat and gloves on and wiped all her fingerprints from the bathroom doorknob, the sink, the toilet seat. What else had she touched? She wiped the front doorknob as she left the house.

I’m leaving the scene of a crime.

She drove to a Texaco station outside Money Creek and pulled up her hood before walking to the phone booth. The 911 dispatcher answered, and she lowered her voice in hopes of disguising it.

Please state your emergency.

Clare almost lost her nerve. There’s been a murder. Three murders. Timson County, 15264 Lamont.

She hung up and walked back to her car. A family pulled up to the gas pumps, regular folks, two blond kids in the back, and she stared at them as if they were aliens. They occupied a world that was lost to her now. She would never unsee what she just saw, never stop worrying about being caught. All to save her job and reputation and the relationship she was just starting. She couldn’t hate herself more.

Chapter One

Six weeks earlier

On Monday morning Clare’s phone woke her from a deep sleep. It was her boss, Carlton Henning, calling her at seven to tell her to get in the office on the double. Her stomach soured at the sound of his voice. She grabbed her pillbox from its hiding place beneath her couch and took two tablets of speed with her to the bathroom, washing them down with a glass of water. The thought of facing Henning without some pharmaceutical help was unimaginable. She put on her business suit and heels and left by seven thirty. She’d been in the office all weekend, trying to keep up with Henning’s assignments, which was like swimming against Category 4 rapids. It was all she could do not to drown. She was chattel, otherwise known as a first-year associate, and her hours ran from sixty to eighty a week. She was always desperately behind, no matter how much she worked. And for this she’d gone to three years of law school.

She dropped off her briefcase and coat before walking to Henning’s corner office. The sound of him barreling down the adjacent hall was like a locomotive. He was a pudgy man, with dimpled fingers and a double chin. He was always out of breath but had the energy of an Olympic sprinter. He caught sight of her.

Well, it’s about fucking time, he said as he passed into his office without stopping. Clare followed him in, the proverbial fly to his evil spider. Lehane, I just got back from a meeting with Dave Novak where I was systematically fucked in the ass. He’s taken two associates from me on the Walker case. You’re not one of them, more’s the pity, so now I have to rely on you to do twice the work. He stood behind his massive desk, his crisp white oxford shirt straining at the belly.

She was horrified. I don’t think it’s physically possible. I already work seven days a week.

I don’t like complainers. Deal with it or I’ll have you transferred to bankruptcy.

From what she’d heard, the bankruptcy department was a killing field, headed by a partner even nastier than Henning. At least in litigation she occasionally got into the courtroom and traveled on document productions.

I’ll give it my best. She tried to sound determined and slightly enthusiastic, but her acting skills fell short of the mark. Her head ached from a mild hangover.

He sat. What are you working on now?

I’ve got five assignments on my desk, working on them as prioritized. I have to get that motion for extension of time done and also the memo on the new statute of limitations argument.

Be sure you do the memo. I need it for the hearing on Monday. But before you get to either of those, I’m giving you a top priority, must be done today upon pain of death assignment. Her heart sank. I want you to create a chart of the actual damages of the five named plaintiffs in the Walker case. Medical bills, lost time from work, you know what to do. Meet me back here by the end of the day.

She fought the desire to tell him she quit. She could almost feel the breeze in her hair as she escaped the building into liberty. But now wasn’t the time financially. Her savings were nonexistent, and her money seemed to go primarily to drugs. Her job was less than secure—she’d been written up two months earlier for failing to make a court date after sleeping through her alarm clock. Too much speed had kept her up all night. It was a costly mistake, one she was still embarrassed by.

As she walked back to her office, she saw Alice Parker coming toward her down the hallway. She was a veteran paralegal, competent as hell, and as no-nonsense as they come. How she managed her life with being a single mother and working as many hours as Clare, she’d never know. Clare had a brainstorm and stopped as Alice grew near.

Alice, how are you? She smiled as warmly as she could.

Alice stopped because she was unfailingly polite, but her face said she wanted to get to where she was going. Going crazy with the Walker case.

Glad you mentioned Walker because I have an assignment for you.

She looked alarmed. I can’t handle another assignment. You’ll have to find someone else.

Sorry. You’re the one. Henning just gave me the project and said to find the best paralegal to work on it. That’s you.

Flattery wasn’t melting the ice on Alice’s face. What is it?

Clare detailed the project and tried to make it sound as easy as possible. There’s no getting around it. We have to have it done today.

Christ. Alice was starting to look resigned. I don’t suppose I can talk to Henning about it?

I wouldn’t go near him if I were you. He’s in one of his moods, Clare said, keeping it friendly.

Alice sighed. I’ll do my best.

She returned to her office to get started on her memo, plowing her way through her research, her focus sharp, her thinking clear, her hangover forgotten. She almost didn’t mind working. Moments like this, when she felt extraordinarily smart and productive, she was reminded of why she got into law in the first place. She’d been a political science major in preparation for law school, taking her altruistic goal of helping people into her first year at Northwestern. Now she was in a firm that represented the corporate bad guys. They paid a ridiculously high salary in return for the vast majority of her waking hours. She had no social life. Golden handcuffs, she’d heard it called.

At five, she walked down the hall to check on Alice’s progress on the medical bill chart but didn’t find her in her office. She went to her large document room and found it empty. Nor did she see documents on the table that would indicate the chart was being worked on. She called reception and had Alice paged. Two minutes later, she called back.

What is it, Clare? She sounded harried, but this was the norm for Alice.

I’m wondering if you’ve finished the chart we talked about this morning. Henning will be looking for it about now. She hadn’t thought of the chart since she passed the assignment on to Alice that morning.

I couldn’t get to it, Alice said. Clare’s gut dropped, as if she’d hit a sudden pocket of turbulence.

What do you mean? Please tell me you’re teasing me.

Do I sound like I’m teasing? Alice said dryly. I got pulled away by Richards. What could I do? I’m not saying no to a name partner in favor of an associate.

Fuck! You could have told me, for one thing. Henning will kill me. She was approaching panic.

I tried calling you once, but got interrupted. I forgot to call again. Sorry. Alice didn’t sound very concerned. Her position in the firm was much stronger than Clare’s. There were partners and senior associates who couldn’t do without her. Clare was increasingly expendable.

Maybe she should run away. There was no excuse that would get her off the hook. The real reason the chart wasn’t done—that she’d passed the assignment off—would get her into even more trouble. She fished in her pocket for her pillbox and swallowed a Valium dry. Her heart was racing and she was alarmingly agitated. This pill was medicinal. As she was taking a few deep breaths, she heard her name being paged. The receptionist told her to get to Henning’s office ASAP. She knew for whom the bell tolled. It tolled for her. She wondered if she could even make the walk down the hallway. Her legs were unresponsive, as if she’d had a mild stroke. Every second she wasn’t in Henning’s office made the situation worse. It wasn’t until she heard her name paged again that she managed to leave her office and walk down the hallway.

The moment she entered, Henning looked up from his desk, his eyes focused on her empty hands.

Where’s the chart? He stood from his desk, as if getting ready to fight.

I don’t have it. She sounded calmer than she was. She looked around the room, taking in the perks of partnership, which she clearly would never enjoy. The giant mahogany desk, the private washroom, the drinks cart, the couch and chairs. Henning was silent for a moment before he steeled his voice.

You don’t have it as in it’s not done?

That is correct.

He exploded. What the fuck? Did I not say it had to be done today? I’m talking to the plaintiff’s attorney tonight.

Yes, that’s what you said. She felt physically threatened by his heavy body leaning toward her, his red face and beady eyes. She wondered at this world she worked in, where Mondays were neither the beginning nor end of a work week, where life outside the firm became a tiny part of her existence. Where a partner became judge, jury, and executioner.

Then what possible reason do you have for not doing it? I’m curious what would cause you to shoot yourself in the head.

She wouldn’t throw Alice under the bus. She should have been checking on her progress throughout the day, but she’d simply forgotten to. None that will make me look any better than I do now.

He ranted and raved for several minutes, even coming around from his desk to stand closer to her. She stood her ground and stared back at him. Finally, he returned to his desk. I’m writing you up. This’ll be your second in a year, if I recall correctly. It’ll be up to Novak to decide what to do with you.

The tranquilizer kicked in and she felt a muted euphoria. Whether it was the drug or the possibility of being done with this nightmare of a law firm, she didn’t know or care. She smiled pityingly at Henning, as if he were the one in deep trouble and not her.

You know what? Don’t bother, Mr. Novak.

What do you mean? he looked at her suspiciously.

It means I quit, you fucking bastard. She turned on her heel to leave the office, but not before she saw the shocked look on his face.

Chapter Two

Clare packed the few belongings she had in her office and left without saying good-bye to anyone. There was no sentimentality about leaving, only relief. She grinned as the elevator door closed on her, ushering her into a new life. Perhaps she should have planned her exit. Her bank accounts were low and she’d have to get another job quickly. But she believed things happened for a reason, a helpful creed for someone whose life was filled with mishaps.

Next stop was her drug dealer’s, where she had an appointment to replenish her supply. That brought another wave of relief. Happiness was a full pillbox.

She’d first met Casey when she went to Sidetrack, a venerable gay bar in the Boys Town neighborhood in Chicago. She’d been a little queer curious, but unsure what she was looking for, exactly. Did she want to pick someone up? She didn’t have the nerve for that. Someone would have to pick her up instead. Men were easy to attract. Piece of cake. Was that true for women? She hoped so but doubted it. It was clear as soon as she entered the bar she wouldn’t find the answers at Sidetrack. The clientele was entirely men. She wedged onto a barstool and asked the man next to her whether he knew of any lesbian bars. That was Casey. He wore a patterned, untucked shirt and tight jeans and looked about her age—late twenties—with posture so straight it was as if a yardstick were taped to his back. He turned to her with a smile.

Honey, lesbian bars are like a new restaurant in Lakeview. They last about a year before shutting down. You girls don’t drink enough.

She was tempted to say she drank plenty. So, there are none?

You must be from out of town, he said.

There’re still lesbian bars up and running in New York. She had no idea if this were true.

Well, it’s New York.

She looked around the bar again. No hope of meeting any women here?

Afraid not.

She hesitated. How about drugs? Could I find that here?

He put his drink down and stared at her. Interesting, I wouldn’t have pegged you.

Why? she asked.

He laughed. If there’s a type, you’re not it. It’s your eyes. They look halfway intelligent. He leaned in a little closer. But I may be able to help you out. It was never easy to find a new drug dealer. It was like striking gold.

You mean I hit it on my first try? My usual dealer is closing up shop, so I’ve been looking for a replacement.

You’ll have to let me know what you’re looking for. The bartender stopped in front of them with a bottle, but Casey put a hand over his glass and waved him away. Clare still had nothing to drink. I can fix you up with some meth.

Meth? Do I look like a loser? That stuff’s addictive. I was thinking of some speed. She had her standards. Speed helped her work. Meth was for getting as high as possible, and she wasn’t interested in that.

Wise woman. Meth is a staple product for the people in this bar, but I don’t like it myself. Come up to my apartment. I’ll get you fixed up.

A year later, they were still doing business together. She spent a lot of money buying drugs, but she made a ridiculous salary. Or did. What if she couldn’t buy what she needed because of lack of funds? Maybe the decision to quit her job had been rash. She drove from the office to Sidetrack, where Casey lived above the bar, and found him waiting outside his door. He waved her into the living room, which looked like a magazine photo in an article on minimalism.

You’re back soon. Didn’t I just see you last week? Casey said.

Clare blanched. Is that a problem? She knew she sounded defensive, but what the hell? Did he want to sell product or not?

No problem at all. It was an innocent comment.

You can keep your innocent comments to yourself. I’ve had the crappiest of crap days.

What did it say when your own drug dealer commented on how much you’re using? The thought of cutting down had come and gone over time, but mostly gone. That night was certainly not the time to grapple with it.

He pulled a briefcase from below his black leather couch and opened it, revealing small packets of crystal meth, hundreds of Adderall tablets, a bulging bag of large pills she knew to be Oxycontin, a couple ounces of pot, and another bag of small packets she hoped wasn’t heroin. She didn’t want to be associated with heroin in any way. Those people were the worst, completely ruled by their addiction.

He peered over the briefcase. Good shipment of Adderall and it’s the real thing. How many do you want?

The whole bag?

No way. I have to spread this around to keep my customers happy. He was smiling as he dangled the bag in front of her. There must have been a thousand pills in it.

How many can I have, then?

A hundred.

She hid her disappointment. Done. What else is in there?

We have some fresh Vicodin today. I can give you fifty of those.

I’ll take them. Are there any Valium? The last shipment I got from the online pharmacy was pathetic.

He poked around in the case until he found a bag of small white pills. I can give you a hundred of those.

Add them to my order. Anything else?

Christ. Speed, Vicodin, and Valium aren’t enough?

Her insides tumbled. Casey had never spoken to her that way. No one had ever said anything to her about her drug use, though no one really knew what it was besides Casey. She held her tongue rather than lash out at him. It wasn’t wise to piss off your drug dealer. Add up the bill, please.

She paid the two thousand dollars, money she now needed to live on. Casey offered her a beer and she stayed a half hour to chat. She laughed despite her terrible day and felt reluctant when Casey said it was time to go. Next stop was her neighborhood tap. She couldn’t face the silence of her dark basement apartment. There was always someone she knew at the local tavern, someone to distract her from herself and her horrible day.

* * *

The last time Clare woke up with a stranger she swore it would never happen again. But here she was, opening her eyes to a room she’d never seen before. She lay on her side, naked in a four-poster bed, as a familiar gut-clenching remorse made her stomach tumble. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. She didn’t dare turn to see what kind of man she’d gone home with.

It was still dark out, and only the glare of the streetlight poking through the window blinds lit the room. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus, very tidy except for the pile of clothes strewn near the door. Next to the bed was an antique table and Tiffany style lamp, a pile of books stacked high. She skimmed the titles. What a man read would tell her a lot. There were the most recent releases from Margaret Atwood, Zadie Smith, and Emma Donoghue. Contemporary fiction by women authors. Maybe she’d hit the jackpot and hooked up with a well-read feminist man. She turned to her right and found, instead, a woman leaning on one elbow, gazing at her. She had clear eyes, auburn hair hanging loose around her shoulders, and a crooked smile. Her face was handsome, with chiseled cheekbones and a slightly patrician air. Clare grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chest.

Good morning, Clare, she said in a timbre rich alto.

Clare stared at her with fixed eyes. Hearing her name made her feel more vulnerable. The woman had the advantage over her—Clare knew nothing and she knew everything. She prayed she hadn’t done anything mortifying. It was a good sign the woman was smiling at her. Whatever she did couldn’t have been too bad. She broke her gaze and lowered her eyes. Good morning, she said, her throat froggy from sleep and God knows what else.

You seem uncomfortable.

Clare forced herself to look at her. I’m a little nervous. I’ve never been with a woman before.

So you said last night. I hope it was a good experience for you.

She hoped so too. She wasn’t upset at having sex with a woman, something she knew would have happened sooner or later. But she was ashamed she didn’t remember meeting her or anything that came after that. Her short-term memory had been on the fritz—when she was in a blackout she forgot everything almost as soon as it happened, which was why drunks so