Daddy's Gone a Hunting

  Clyde woke up early Wednesday morning, blinking against the glare of the sun that was blinding his eyes. He felt awful, hot and cold at the same time, but mostly hot.

  Where am I? Sometimes when he hadn’t had too much wine, he would ask himself another question: Where am I going?

  Clyde shook his head and began to piece together everything that had been happening to him. The shelter. The hospital. His picture on the television in the room there.

  Suppose Peggy and Skippy saw it? By now Peggy had probably married someone else, and Skippy had grown up thinking that guy was his father. And all those Vietnam medals were probably buried in a box in the attic. That’s if they hadn’t already been thrown out.

  He forced himself to think even though his head was splitting. If they could trace that picture to him and find out who he was, then even if Peggy and Skippy decided to run for the hills, the cops would still be looking for him. What if they decided that he had set off that explosion?

  That Shirley woman. Nice lady. She really was worried about him. But she thought I’d stay in that dump. Clyde pulled himself up on one elbow. He began to laugh, a raspy laugh that turned into a racking cough. Where were those pills she gave me? One hand, then the other, fumbled into the pockets of the poncho he had been given in the hospital. It had deep pockets and he guessed that was good. He could put stuff in them. But the jacket they hadn’t given back to him was the one he really wanted.

  When the tourists saw that crummy old jacket, they felt sorry for him. The dollars they would drop in his cap added up. He had to get rid of the poncho and cut holes in those new warm, heavy pants. He felt like a baby seal in them, a nice, warm, contented baby seal. People liked baby seals but they didn’t feel sorry for them.

  I need a drink, Clyde thought. And where did I sleep?

  He looked around and grunted in surprise. Somehow he had made his way to Chelsea Piers, right off the Hudson River, close to the Village. He began to have a little more memory about yesterday. Shirley-do-good had said good-bye at the hotel.

  He had waited fifteen or twenty minutes or something like that.

  The woman at the desk in that excuse for a lobby had asked if he’d be coming back. And he said that he would come back for sure.

  When he had coughed so hard on the street, someone had dropped ten bucks in his cap and someone else had dropped a couple of bucks and he had gotten a couple of bottles of wine. So it had been a good night. The trouble was that he couldn’t keep up the coughing so that more people would feel sorry for him. He needed to look cold and hungry and not like a baby seal.

  Clyde dropped his head back onto the newspapers. Last night had worked out. He had slept with no one around him, with the good sounds of New York filling his ears. The traffic on the West Side Highway, and now and then a plane flying overhead, and the early-morning ferries beginning to cross the Hudson. He had settled down here with his newspapers around him, and the warm clothes he didn’t want had made him feel like a baby in his mama’s arms when he was falling asleep.

  But now he was scared. The picture. The girl. He knew he had hurt her. He had punched her real hard. But he didn’t know what happened after that.

  I started to go after her. I was mad. I was afraid she’d tell on me and I wouldn’t be able to come back to my van. And then . . .

  He began to cough again. He pulled himself up as his body shook and trembled with the force of the deep, rattling protest from his lungs. It was harder and harder to breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t stop coughing.

  “Are you all right? Do you need help?”

  Clyde tried to say, “Go away. Leave me alone.” He swung his fist up but it didn’t hit anything. He fell back on the newspapers and couldn’t pull himself up again even though he was clawing for breath.

  Three minutes later, he did not hear the screech of the siren as a patrol car pulled off the West Side Drive to answer a 911 call from a young woman jogger pleading for help.

  She pointed to the crumpled figure on the ground. “Be careful, Officer. I think that man is dying but when I asked if I could help him he tried to punch me.”

  “All right, ma’am. Please stand back. I’ll send for an ambulance.” The young police officer walked over to look at Clyde. Observing his deep, frantic efforts to breathe, the officer’s first thought was that this guy would be lucky to still be alive when the ambulance arrived.

  61

  Sal Damiano, the foreman of the cleanup crew, made an early decision on Wednesday morning that fixing the sinkhole in the pavement would wait until the job of hauling off the rubble of the complex was completed.

  Once again, broken slabs that had once formed walls, chunks of machines that had fashioned fine-grained mahogany and maple into furniture, battered cans of oil that had been used to keep the museum antiques from drying out, were systematically lifted by forklifts and dropped into Dumpsters.

  When Jose Fernandez had arrived home the evening before, he had opened his computer and looked up the Connelly complex on the Internet. Sitting in the kitchen of the four-room apartment in the housing development near the Brooklyn Bridge, he had told his mother about what he was researching.

  “Mom, take a look at the pictures of that museum, the way it was until the explosion. That furniture must have been worth a fortune. They called that room the Fontainebleau bedroom. The real Fontainebleau was where Marie Antoinette slept before the French Revolution.”

  Jose’s mother, Carmen, turned from the stove and looked over his shoulder. “Too fancy. Too much trouble keeping it clean. Who’s Marie Anter—”

  “Antoinette. She was a French queen.”

  “Good for her. One hundred thousand dollars in student loans and you’re clearing trash that used to be expensive furniture.”

  Jose sighed. It was a familiar refrain. He knew it would have been smarter to get a business degree, but there was something in his DNA that had made him want to know everything he could about ancient history. I’m still glad I studied it, he thought. I just wish I didn’t have all these loans. But I’ll get a teaching job someday. He was already going to City College on weekends to get a master’s degree to teach Spanish. He knew he’d make it. And his student loans were a fact of life. He’d pay them the same way he’d pay off a mortgage or a car.

  The only problem was that he didn’t have a house or a car.

  But for some reason, all day Wednesday, as he shoveled and hauled debris at the Connelly complex site, the sinkhole kept capturing his imagination. In ancient times, new cities were built on top of the ruins of the old ones that had been devastated by warfare or floods or fire.

  During the summers of his junior and senior years in college, he had walked and hitched his way through the Middle East and Greece. When he was twelve, he had read a book about Damascus and he remembered how excited he’d been when he finally arrived there. At that moment, he had whispered to himself the first words of that book: “Damas, Damascus, oldest city in the world, city upon a city . . .”

  Then, the next summer when he was in Athens, he had learned that, even with all the archeological excavations that had already been done, as they had started to widen the streets to prepare for the Olympics, they had uncovered another layer of settlements from ancient times.

  I must be losing it, Jose thought, as he hauled and carried and pushed and pulled in his area of the cleanup. I’m comparing a sinkhole in a parking lot in Long Island City with places like Damascus and Athens.

  But at five o’clock, as the tired crew gratefully wrapped up for the day, he could no longer resist the impulse to take a closer look at the sinkhole. It was almost dark but there was a flashlight in the truck. He got it and started to walk to the rear of the parking lot.

  From behind him, Sal called, “Are you planning to walk home, Jose?”

  Jose smiled. Sal was a nice guy. “Just want to take a quick look over there.” He pointed to the sinkhole.

  “Well, be sure to make it quick if you’re ridi
ng back with me.”

  “I will.” Breaking into an easy jog, Jose covered the distance in seconds. As Jack Worth had done hours earlier, he stepped over the orange tape and, careful not to get his weight too close to the edge, switched on the flashlight and pointed it down.

  It was not the medallion on the necklace that he noticed first. Even through the grime he could still make out the engraving on it.

  Tracey.

  It was the sight of strands of long hair still attached to the skull of the skeleton that made him too numb to move or even call out. The incongruous memory of a high school biology class flashed through Jose’s brain. He remembered the teacher saying, “Even after death, hair and nails continue to grow.”

  62

  As usual, Peggy Hotchkiss attended the daily 8 A.M. mass at St. Rita’s, her parish church on Staten Island. Even though she had not closed her eyes all night, it had not occurred to her to break this habit of forty years. Daily Mass was an integral part of her life and St. Rita, the Advocate of the Hopeless and even the Impossible, was her favorite saint. But this morning her usual prayer to her was even more intense. “Let them find him, please. I implore you. Let them find him. I know he needs me.”

  The fire marshals were so kind, she thought. When they came to the house, they had been so careful to say that it was entirely possible that the homeless person in the van had found, or maybe even stolen, that picture from someone else.

  “He didn’t,” Peggy had told them. “I will stake my life that Clyde kept that picture. I saw what happened to the Connelly complex on television. I can only imagine if Clyde was sleeping in that van right by the explosion. Of course he would have rushed to get away and wouldn’t have had time to even grab that picture.”

  She had observed the skepticism on the faces of the marshals but they had been very polite. She could tell that they did not want to upset her by indicating that the homeless man might have been Clyde, but she had made it easy for them.

  “I want to find him,” she had told them. “His son wants to find him. We’re not ashamed of him. He went to Vietnam and he was proud to serve his country. He didn’t give his life there, but because of what happened to him there, he lost the rest of the life he would have enjoyed.”

  St. Rita’s was only five blocks from home. Unless the weather was terrible, Peggy always walked. At quarter of nine, she was turning onto her own street when her cell phone rang. It was Fire Marshal Frank Ramsey.

  “Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said, “a homeless man was just brought into Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan. They recognized him in the emergency room there. They had only discharged him yesterday. He gave his name as Clyde Hastings. We think he may be your husband.”

  Peggy tried to keep her voice steady. “I’ll be right there and I’ll call my son. I know Bellevue is around Twenty-third Street. Isn’t that right?”

  “Where are you right now, Mrs. Hotchkiss?” Ramsey asked.

  “A block away from my house.”

  “Mrs. Hotchkiss, go home and wait. I’ll have a police car pick you up in five minutes. I am very sorry to tell you that the man in the hospital is dying of pneumonia. If he is your husband, even after all these years, you might be able to persuade him to tell us what he may know about a girl who is missing.”

  An hour later, Peggy was in the emergency room of Bellevue Hospital. Skip had arrived minutes before her. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, quietly.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Frank Ramsey was waiting for her. “They have him in a private room down the hall. The doctor told us that he doesn’t have long. We are hoping that we can get him to talk to us about a young college student who may have tried to interview him about living on the street.”

  Her throat dry, unconsciously moistening her lips, her hand clutching the steady arm of her son, Peggy followed the tall figure of the fire marshal until he stepped aside to let her precede him into the small room.

  Even before she took a second look, Peggy knew that it was Clyde. The high forehead, the slight widow’s peak, the almost invisible scar on the side of his nose. His eyes were closed, his harsh, belabored breathing the only sound in the room. Peggy took his hand. “Clyde, Clyde, dear, I’m here.”

  From far away, Clyde heard a remembered voice, soft and gentle, and opened his eyes. Sometimes he had seen Peggy in his dreams but now he knew he wasn’t dreaming. The woman looking down at him with tears slipping down her cheeks was Peggy. He pulled in a breath. He had to talk to her. He managed a smile. “Do I have the honor of addressing the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley?” he asked, his voice weak and tired, then added, “Oh, Peggy, I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. So very, very much. And Skip is here. We love you. We love you.”

  Clyde weakly turned his head to see the man standing next to Peggy. Both of their faces were so clear but behind them it was starting to get dark. My son, he thought, and then he heard him say, “Hello, Dad.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clyde murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

  Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein stepped forward. Before Peggy arrived at the hospital, they had tried to question Clyde about Jamie Gordon, but Clyde had closed his eyes and refused to answer them. They both could see that his death was imminent. Bending over Clyde, his voice urgent, Ramsey said, “Clyde, tell Peggy about the notebook. Tell her if you saw the girl.”

  “Clyde, it’s all right, dear. You would never mean to hurt anyone,” Peggy whispered. “I want you to tell them what happened.”

  It was so peaceful now. Peggy holding his hand. It felt so good. “The girl followed me. I told her to go away. She wouldn’t.”

  He began to cough. This time his breath wouldn’t come back.

  “Clyde, did you kill her? Did you throw her in the river?” Ramsey demanded.

  “No . . . no. She wouldn’t go away. I punched her. Then she left. And I heard her scream . . .”

  Clyde closed his eyes. Everything was beginning to go dark.

  “Clyde, she started to scream,” Frank said. “What happened then? Answer me,” he demanded. “Answer me!”

  “She screamed, ‘Help me, help me!’ ”

  “You were still in the van?”

  “Ye . . .”

  He could not finish the word. With a long sigh, he exhaled his last breath. The tormented life of Clyde Hotchkiss, husband and father, Vietnam veteran, hero and homeless drifter, was over.

  63

  On Wednesday afternoon, Hannah and Jessie met for a quick lunch at a small restaurant in the Garment District, a block from Hannah’s office. Hannah had stopped by the hospital briefly that morning. Now that Kate was no longer in a crisis situation, Jessie knew that she and Hannah needed to talk. They both ordered a sandwich and coffee. This was not going to be like their dinners at Mindoro’s, where they would sip wine and eat pasta and catch up with each other.

  Jessie looked approvingly across the table at her friend. Hannah’s eyes were bright. The shadows under them were gone. She was wearing a high-neck white sweater with a designer scarf in shades of blue around her shoulders. “You look great,” Jessie said. “I would guess that you slept well last night.”

  Hannah smiled and said, “You look great, too. That’s another suit I’m glad I talked you into buying. Green tweed is perfect with your red hair. I passed out at eight o’clock last night and woke up at eight o’clock this morning. I didn’t even get to the hospital yet but when I phoned they said that Kate was sleeping quietly and her temperature is normal. I know I can’t ask for more than that at this point.”

  Jessie did not waste time engaging in meaningless optimism. “No, I don’t think you can, but the fact that the fever is gone is the best possible news.”

  “Yes, it is. Jess, how does the fact that someone might have been in the van the night of the explosion affect the suspicion that Kate and Gus set it off?”

  “It certainly adds a whole new dimension. I gather you didn’t see the news last night?”

  “No, I didn
’t.”

  “They found a family picture in the wrecked van. It’s all over the media. They’re hoping to use it to identify whoever was there.”

  The waiter had arrived. “Two ham-and-cheese on rye, lettuce, with mustard. Two black coffees,” he verified as he roughly put down the plates on the table, followed by the coffee cups.

  Jessie looked at the splatters of coffee in her saucer. “Four-star dining,” she murmured. “Oh well. The sandwiches here are always good.”

  “If they do find out who was in the van, what do you think that means for Kate and Gus?” Hannah demanded.

  “I don’t know. That van was in the far back end of the lot, a good distance away from the buildings. If some homeless person was in it, he may have been sleeping off a hangover and know absolutely nothing. But it does mean, as far as I can tell, that they have to nail down who was there and what it means. And that is potentially good for Kate.”

  “It’s good unless whoever was there saw something that would be bad for Kate.” Hannah took a sip of coffee and picked up her sandwich.

  “Knowing you, you’ll eat that half and leave the other on the plate,” Jessie said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re right. What can I tell you? It’s awfully big. You probably were working out at five A.M. You need to finish yours.”

  “I was working out at six A.M.,” Jessie confirmed. “Hannah, I get the feeling that you are worried that Kate was involved in the explosion. Am I wrong to feel that way?”

  She watched as Hannah framed her response. She does think, or know, that Kate was involved, Jessie thought, dismayed.

  “All right. Let me tell you exactly what happened. On Thursday afternoon when Dad was alone with Kate, she said something to him. I was just coming into the intensive care unit but I could see his face. He looked scared. That’s the only word for it: scared. When I insisted that he tell me what Kate had told him, he said that she was sorry about the fire.”