Degradation(61)

     



 

After she had left.

The pounding still wasn't going away, and now that he knew why Sanders  wasn't answering the it  –  because he wasn't there  –  Jameson made his way  to the front door. Someone was knocking on it, over and over. He  stomped up and yanked it open.

"What?" he barked.

A police officer blinked at him. Jameson was a little surprised, but he  didn't show it. He kept his glare in place. The officer was young, and  tall. Taller than Jameson. He looked gangly and nervous, like it was his  first day at basketball camp. Jameson raised his eyebrows, glancing  between the cop and the police cruiser that was parked in the driveway.

"Um, is this the residence of ...," the cop checked a notepad. "Jameson Kane? Or Sanders Dash ..., Dashke ...,"

"Yes," Jameson cut him off.

"Are you -,"

"I'm Jameson. This is my home. What do you want?" he demanded. The cop swallowed nervously.

"Uh, we wanted to let you know, we found your car," he answered. Jameson's eyebrows went back up.

"My car?" he asked, not having a clue what was going on. The cop looked down at the notepad he was holding.

"Uh, a Bentley, registered to a Jameson Kane and a Sanders Dashke ...,  uh, yeah. License plate WXC1-," the cop started to prattle off. Jameson  held up a hand.

"Yes, I know my own license plate. What about the car?" he pressed. Now the cop looked surprised.

"Um, it was reported stolen," the cop explained.

"Stolen?"

"Yes. Mr. ..., Mr. Sanders reported it stolen, last night. It's being  towed here, right now. I just had some questions," the cop told him.

"Sanders reported our car stolen?" Jameson clarified.

Someone had stolen the Bentley? He hadn't even known it was gone, and if  he had, he would've just assumed Sanders had taken it. He was  practically the only one who ever drove it; it was more his than  Jameson's.

Who would've stolen the Bentley? After Sanders had put in his "notice",  Jameson had kicked everyone out. Just walked into the main lounge and  yelled at everyone to get the hell out of his house. Petrushka Ivanovic,  his ex girlfriend, had argued to stay, but he had practically thrown  her out onto the porch and then slammed the door in her face.

Then Jameson had locked himself in the library and drank himself stupid,  cursing both Tate and Sanders while he destroyed all his crystal. Was  it possible that one of his disgruntled party guests had stolen his car?  Most of them were wealthy in their own right; they could buy their own  Bentleys.

"Yes, last evening. We found it soon afterwards. There is some minor  damage to the vehicle, but it was like that when we found it. We took  pictures, but you'll want to contact your insurance company," the cop  continued, jotting something down in his notepad.

At that moment, a tow truck started rumbling up the drive. Jameson  stared in shock as it pulled his car around right in front of the porch.  The entire passenger side of the Bentley was scratched up, as if it had  side swiped something, and then dragged along it. The sideview had been  ripped clean off.

"What the fuck happened? Did you find the person who stole it?" Jameson  demanded, stepping out onto the porch. The cop flipped through some  paperwork.

"Yes. Actually, that's how we found the car. An officer who had  responded to a 9-1-1 call noticed the car idling in the middle of the  road, and called in the plates," the cop read off the notes.

"Did you arrest the guy?" Jameson asked.

"Not yet. From what I understand, it was a woman. She was found  unconscious in a pool in the Beacon Hill Athletic Club," the officer  said.

Tatum.

"Unconscious?" Jameson repeated, his voice soft. More pages flipped in the notepad.

"That's how she was found, the officer at the scene reported. Uhhh,  let's see ..., okay, the report says that when paramedics arrived, she  was having generalized seizures. A man on the scene said she had vomited  prior to -,"

Jameson didn't hear any more. He turned around and walked back into the  house without saying a word. Walked straight back into his kitchen and  opened a cupboard next to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of Jack  Daniel's. Twisted off the wrapper and cap before chugging as much as he  could before he had to breathe again. There was a creaking noise behind  him and he became aware that the cop had followed him. Jameson took one  more drink before leaning against the counter.

"Is she okay?"

"Do you know the -,"

"Is she okay?"

"Uh, um," the cop stuttered, and Jameson heard notepaper rustling. "I-I  don't know. The last report I received was that she was checked into an  emergency room, still having seizures, and with an irregular, slow heart  beat and low oxygen levels. I haven't heard anything else, Mr. Kane."         

     



 

Mr. Kane. Someone should've told him my real name is Satan.

"Leave," Jameson whispered, staring at his granite counter tops.

"Excuse me?"

"I said leave. Get out of my house," Jameson snapped, finally turning around. The cop looked stunned.

"We have some paperwork, I need you to -," he started to stammer. Jameson strode forward and pushed past the officer.

"The car belongs to Sanders, track him down," he grumbled.

"But you -, sir! Sir, did you know you're bleeding!?" the cop exclaimed,  hurrying after Jameson and pointing out the bloody footprints he was  leaving behind him.

"Yes," Jameson snapped back. A large man in coveralls was hovering in the open doorway, holding a piece of paper.

"Hey! Who gunnah pay for dis tow job? I need fiddy bucks," the guy  drawled in a thick Boston accent. Jameson growled again and stomped up  to an end table that flanked the front door. He yanked open a drawer and  pulled out a stack of money. Both the cop and the tow truck driver  gaped at him.

"All of this is yours, just be off my property within the next five  minutes," Jameson said as he lead them out onto the porch, all the while  flinging hundred dollar bills to the ground.

"Ay, ay, no problem, buddy," the guy said, quickly dipping down and  picking up what had to be $800. He was a large guy, but he ran back to  the car and had the Bentley unloaded and was driving off in the tow  truck well under the five minute time limit.

"We still have to -," the cop started. Jameson glared at him and stepped back into his doorway.

"Call Sanders. He reported it stolen, not me. He can deal with this mess," he snapped, and then slammed the door shut.

The cop banged on the door for a while, but Jameson was very good at  ignoring things. He took his stairs two at a time, his heart thumping  louder than his footsteps pounding down the hall. He felt like he was  going to explode. Like his heart was going to pound right out of his  chest. Or rather, whatever organ it was he had in place of a heart.

Tatum.

He didn't know why he thought he'd find answers there, but Jameson went  straight into Sanders' bedroom. A large walk-in closet stood open, all  the clothing gone from it. Sanders didn't mess around. Something had  been left behind, though, and Jameson sighed as he walked up to the foot  of the bed. Sitting there, stacked neatly and packed in even bundles,  was $32,000, in cash. Jameson knew it was exactly $32,000 because the  night before, he had taken the cash out of a safe in his own room, and  brought it into Sanders' room. Brought it to her.

A note sat on top of the money. Only one word was written on it, in Sanders' neat script: "Satan."

At least he spelled my name right.

A light was on in the bathroom and Jameson walked towards it. Very  little actually disturbed him, but the sight he took in kind of made him  want to vomit. Not because it was too ugly, but because it showed him  what a terrible person he really was, deep down. Through and through.

Sometimes, he forgot.

All the drawers on the vanity had been pulled open, stuff hanging out of  them. The mirror had a large spider-web crack on the right hand side,  closest to the door. One crack shot off all the way down to the sink,  and some blood and stands of hair were in the very center of the  spider-web. Long, black, hair. Shards of mirror were scattered around  the sink and on the floor, and bloodstains smattered the vanity top.  What looked like bloody fingerprints were smeared down the whole length.  He closed his eyes. Took deep breaths through his nose. Went back in  time.

Petrushka had cornered him in the kitchen. Said unkind things about  Tate. Jameson had been angry at Tate at the beginning of the night  –   angry at her for over two weeks before that; but after confronting her,  after seeing her reaction, his anger had started to fade away. Started  to turn into something else. Something unfamiliar. Something he hadn't  felt in a long time.

Guilt.

Pet was a massive bitch who didn't even know Tate. She had come along  with Jameson just to watch the fireworks. Petrushka was almost a bigger  sociopath than he was; Tate didn't deserve it. Not from Pet. Jameson had  treated Tatum poorly enough.