Ray looked over his shoulder. "What is that?"
Broome moved in closer. Something was jutting out behind the chimney. It was green and metallic with a black rubber end. Broome could only make out maybe six inches of it. But that was enough. He'd spent the summer after high school graduation working for a moving company, so, even though he could only see the handle, he had a pretty good idea what it was.
"It's a hand truck," Broome said. "Someone hid a hand truck near where these guys disappeared."
30
MEGAN STARTED THE JOURNEY TO her mother-in-law.
Her thoughts were with poor Harry Sutton. There was, of course, the possibility that the timing of his murder was a coincidence. She had returned to Atlantic City over a seventeen-year-old incident. The young couple being sought by the police would have been, what, five, maybe ten years old back in those days. So perhaps, if those two were the ones who did it, Megan and her past had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Harry.
Her mind continued to nimbly do this denial dance step, but in the end, the truth seemed pretty obvious: She had dragged danger and death to Harry Sutton's door. She couldn't figure out how yet. But in her heart, Megan knew that once again, she had messed up.
Two weeks ago, she had returned to Atlantic City for the first time for that mundane trade show. Part of her had convinced herself that it was no big deal, that the visit was strictly for career opportunities. She had truly believed the gritty city she still missed hadn't been calling to her. But that was more self-delusion. She could have stayed at the seminar, for example. Some other real-estate wannabes had even planned a group dinner at the Rainforest Cafe, but Megan had passed. Instead, she had gone to La Creme.
Who could blame her? Who doesn't visit old haunts when they return to a city that meant so much to them?
She decided to try Dave again. When her call went to voice mail, she started to feel the first wave of anger. After the beep, she said, "Enough of this. We have to talk. Your mother is having serious issues. Grow up and call me."
Megan hung up, nearly hurling the phone across the front seat. On the one hand, of course she understood his behavior. She was the one in the wrong. But maybe that was the problem. In a sense, she had always been the one in the wrong. Over the years, she had let the guilt of her deception color everything in their relationship. Her fault? Sure. But maybe Dave had taken advantage of it. Her guilt had made her acquiesce too many times. She didn't resent the kids for any of it. She wouldn't trade it but...
But why wasn't Dave calling her back?
All those years he had been working, yes, providing, putting food on the table and all the rest of the crap men use to justify what they do--but Dave liked his work. He thrived on late hours and travel and golf on Sunday mornings and then coming home to his hot, willing wife. She had been all that for him, even when she didn't want to be. Don't get her wrong. Dave had never bullied her. He had never been mean or deceptive, but then again, why would he be? He had the perfect wife. She had given up on finding a career of her own. She paid all the bills, took care of all the shopping, drove all the carpools, made sure the household was in order. She took care of his mother, cared about her more than he ever could, and after all that, all the sacrifices she'd made, how did he treat her?
He was ignoring her calls--and he'd somehow been spying on her.
Not that she didn't deserve that. But still. Here she wanted to talk to him, tell him about her past and inner demons and let him know that the wife he had sworn to protect was in danger, and he wouldn't even return her desperate calls, choosing instead to act like a petulant child.
She reached for her phone again. She had already put Ray's number in so she'd remember it. She hit the dial button, but before it could even start ringing, she saw the sign for the Sunset Assisted Living Home.
Don't be an idiot, Megan, she told herself.
Megan hung up the phone, parked, and with the anger still seething, she headed inside.
BARBIE STAYED TWO CARS BACK.
She wasn't overly concerned about being spotted--Megan Pierce hardly seemed like an expert in noticing tails--but you never knew. The fact that this seemingly simple housewife was somehow caught up in all this indicated that she was not merely what she appeared to be. The same, of course, could be said about Barbie herself.
As Barbie drove, her mind kept slipping back to Ken's sudden proposal. It was sweet and cute, sure, but it was mostly disturbing. She had always assumed that Ken saw past the illusions cast upon us, that their relationship had opened his eyes to a new and different reality. But it hadn't. Even he could not see past the bill of goods we are sold from our first days on this planet.
We are told, for example, by our unhappy, miserable parents, that the way to find joy in life is to live and do exactly as they have. Barbie never understood that logic. What do they say about the definition of insanity? It is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Generationally the world seemed to do just that. Barbie's father, for example, had hated trudging off to work in that tired suit and tie every morning, coming home at six P.M. feeling angry and defeated and finding classic solace in a bottle. Her mother had detested being a housewife--forced into a role her mother had played and her mother before her--and yet, in the ultimate life blind spot, what did Mom want for her own daughter?
To find a man and settle down and have children of her own--as though resentment and unhappiness were a legacy she hoped to pass down.
What kind of subversive logic was that?
Now Ken wanted to marry her. He wanted to have the house and the picket fence and of course, the children, even though Barbie had long ago accepted that she did not have a maternal bone in her body. She looked out the windshield and shook her head. Didn't he get it? She loved this life--the rush, the excitement, the danger--and she firmly believed that it was God's plan for her. He had made Barbie this way. Why would He do that if she was meant to be yet another brain-dead housewife, wiping kid snot and cleaning up poop?
She would help Ken see that they had been brought together for a reason. She loved him. He was her destiny. Her role, she knew, was to pull the blindfold off his eyes. He would understand. He would even feel relief that he would not have to simply do the expected.
Megan signaled right and took the exit ramp. Barbie followed. She dismissed thoughts about the proposal and focused on her feelings about what she had to do to Megan. On the one hand, she didn't relish killing this woman. If she had believed Goldberg--and she hadn't--but if she believed that the woman held no threat to her and Ken, so much the better. She would let her get back to that pathetic house and that husband and those kids without a second thought. But that couldn't be now. It had to be done. In this line of work, you don't last long if you allow loose ends.
Up ahead Barbie saw Megan park her car and enter a place called Sunset Assisted Living. Hmm. Barbie parked farther down the lot. Then she reached under the car seat and pulled the blade into view.
STILL IN A DAZE, RAY STARTED FOR HOME.
Broome had called his crime-scene people, and without another word, rushed back to the ruins in the park. Ray stayed where he was for another five minutes, seemingly unable to move. None of this made any sense. He tried to sort through it, but that only led to more confusion.
As Ray stumbled down Danny Thomas Boulevard past the tacky-to-the-point-of-classy Trump Taj Mahal, he felt his phone vibrate. He reached for it, his hands feeling too big for his pocket, and clumsily withdrew it. The vibrations had stopped, and the missed call icon appeared. He checked the caller ID. When he saw the call had come from a "Megan Pierce," his heart sped up.
Cassie.
Should he call her back? He wasn't sure. She had called him, which was certainly a sign of some sort, but then again she had also hung up. Or been disconnected. But if she'd been disconnected, wouldn't she call back when she was back in range? Right, okay, wait for the return call. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong w
ith him? All of a sudden he was a clammy-handed adolescent trying to interpret the signals of his first crush.
Ray wondered how she had gotten his phone number. Didn't matter. What mattered was that she had called. Why? He had no idea. He kept the phone in his hand, willing it to vibrate, checking the battery to make sure it had enough juice, checking the bars to make sure he had enough coverage. Pathetic. Stop it. Cassie would call back or she wouldn't.
And what if she didn't?
Was he willing to go back to... to what? More booze and blackouts?
When he made the final turn toward his basement home--a grown man renting out a basement, for crying out loud--Ray pulled up short. There, in front of the dwelling, were four police cars.
Uh-oh.
He ducked behind a telephone pole. More pathetic. He debated making a run for it, but what good would that do? Plus, if they wanted to arrest him, Broome could have done it ten minutes ago. He took another look. His Pakistani landlord, Amir Baloch, stood in front of the house, his arms crossed. Ray approached tentatively, waiting for the cops to grab him. They didn't. They entered and left the house with boxes.
Amir shook his head. "Like I'm back in the old country."
"What happened?" Ray asked.
One of the cops spotted Ray and approached. His name tag said Howard Dodds. "Raymond Levine?"
"Yes."
"I'm Officer Dodds." He handed him a sheet of paper. "We have a subpoena to search these premises."
"He only lives in the basement," Amir said with a whine.
"The search is for the entire property," Dodds said.
Ray didn't bother reading the order. "Can I help you find something?"
"No."
"I can give you passwords to my computer, if that makes it easier."
Dodds smiled. "Nice try."
"Excuse me?"
"Certain passwords are designed to destroy or delete files."
"I didn't know."
"Just looking to be helpful, hmm?"
"Well," Ray said, "yes."
"Just let us do our job." He turned and started back into the house.
Ray looked at his ashen landlord. "I'm sorry, Amir."
"Do you have any idea what they want?"
"It's a long story."
Amir turned to him. "Will I get in any trouble?"
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Positive."
"I got in trouble in Karachi. They held me in prison for six months. It is why we moved here."
"I'm sorry, Amir."
"What will he find?"
"Nothing," Ray said. And he meant it. They would pore through his photographs, but they wouldn't find anything. He flashed again to that night, to all that blood. That was the one image he'd never been able to kill with the alcohol--the one image that wouldn't let up or even fade.
That was not entirely true. Cassie would never fade either.
Ray thought now about that strange photograph Broome had shown him, the one of the man with the shaved head and goatee. He didn't get it, but it felt as though the walls were closing in on him. His chest began to hitch. He walked away, leaving Amir alone in front of his own home. For a moment Ray thought that he might cry. He tried to remember the last time he did that, really cried the way he wanted to right now. There were only two times in his adult life. The first was when his father died. The second was seventeen years ago, in that park.
He headed down the block. His favorite pub was there, but he didn't enter, didn't have a craving even. Rare. What he craved--what he'd always craved, he now realized--was to unburden himself. That sounded so hokey, so new age and therapist-like, but maybe, in the end, telling someone the truth about that night would, if not set him free, at least get him off this destructive path.
Maybe that was why he had sent Broome that photograph in the first place.
The question now was, who should he tell? The answer, as he stared down at the phone in his hand, was obvious.
The phone still hadn't vibrated again, but so what? She had made a move. Now he should.
Ray hit the dial button, saw the name Megan Pierce pop up, and put the phone to his ear.
31
MEGAN WAS DOWN THE HALL from Agnes's room when her cell phone sounded.
The Sunset Assisted Living facility tried like hell to be something other than what it was. The exterior aimed for Second-Empire Victorian B and B but landed more like prefab motel with the aluminum siding and fake ferns and wheelchair ramps on the lemonade porches. The interior too had lush green carpeting and too-bright reproductions of Renoir and Monet, but even the artwork came across as something you'd pick up at a bad yard sale or one of those clearance showrooms.
She passed by Missy Malek, who gave her the practiced, concerned face and said, "Perhaps we should talk soon?"
"After I see Agnes."
"Of course," Malek replied with something close to a bow.
So Megan had just made the turn down Agnes's corridor when the phone number she recognized as Ray's popped up on her mobile's screen. She froze, unsure what to do, but in the end, she knew there was only one choice here. She hit the answer button and put the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"I hear they call you Megan now," Ray said.
"It's my real name."
"I'd make the obvious comment that maybe nothing about us was real--"
"But we both know that would be a lie," she said.
"Yeah."
Silence.
"Did Broome find you?" she asked.
"He did."
"Sorry about that."
"No, you made the right move telling him."
"What did you say to him?"
"Pretty much the same thing I told you."
"Did he believe you?"
"I doubt it. The police are searching my apartment."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"If it helps," Megan said, "I believe you."
There was no reply.
"Ray?"
When he spoke again, his voice was different, softer and with a strange timber. "Are you still in Atlantic City?"
"No."
"Can you come back down?"
"Why?"
More silence.
"Ray?"
"I didn't tell you the truth," he said.
Megan felt the chill. "I don't understand."
"Come back down."
"I can't. I mean, not now anyway."
"I'll wait inside Lucy. I don't care how long it takes. Please come."
"I don't know."
But he had already hung up. She stood there, staring down at the phone, until a sound snagged her attention. She looked up and saw Agnes wander out of her room, confused and blank eyed. Her gray hair was a complete mess. The skin of her face was pale past the point of translucent, the blue of the veins too visible.
When a nurse intercepted her, Agnes cried out, "Don't hurt me!" and pulled away.
"I would never hurt you, Agnes. I'm just trying--"
"Stop!" Agnes cringed now as though she expected the nurse to strike her. Megan hurried down the hall and nudged the nurse out of the way. She looked her mother-in-law in the eyes, her hands on her shoulders, and said, "It's okay, Agnes. It's me. It's Megan."
Her eyes narrowed. "Megan?"
"Yes. It's okay."
Agnes cocked her head to the left. "Why are you here? Why aren't you at home with the babies?"
"They're not babies anymore. They're teenagers. I'm here because you called me."
"I did?" Fear crossed Agnes's face. "When?"
"It's not important. It's okay now. I'm here. You're safe."
The nurse looked on sympathetically. Megan took Agnes in her arms and led her back into the room. Behind them, Missy Malek appeared, but Megan shook her off and closed the door. It took some time, but Megan got Agnes to calm down, to stop shaking and whimpering, and then, as had happened before, clarity came back to her mother-in-law's eyes.
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"Are you okay?" Megan asked her.
Agnes nodded. "Megan?"
"Yes."
"Who were you on the phone with?" Agnes asked.
"When?"
"Just now. When I came out of my room. You were down the hall talking on the phone."
Megan wasn't sure how to respond. "Just an old friend."
"I didn't mean to pry."
"No, that's okay, it's just..." She stopped, fought back the tears. Agnes looked at her with such concern that Megan could actually feel something inside of her give way. "My whole life has been a lie."
Agnes managed a smile and patted her hand. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."
"You don't understand."
"Do you love my Davey?"
"Yes."
"Megan?"