She tears open the envelope and pulls out the tea bag, then drops it in her cup. “I’m curious about you.”
“What makes you think I’m going to give you a straight answer?”
I don’t, she thinks, but she says, “Why wouldn’t you?” She looks in his eyes, at the blackness of his pupils.
He takes a long sip of coffee. “Everybody holds something back.”
“You could refuse to answer. You don’t have to lie.” She pauses, then presses forward. “Then again, I guess refusing to answer is basically a tacit admission.”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes things are complicated. Not everything can be explained with a yes or no.”
“I’m not talking about yes or no. I’m talking about articulating the complications.”
He purses his lips. “All right,” he says, shifting tack. “How about you? Aren’t there things you’d rather not talk about?”
Lifting the tea bag out of her cup, she shakes it slightly and puts it on her saucer. “Not really.” She raises the cup to her mouth, looking at him over the rim. “Ask me anything.”
He smiles at the challenge. “Why did Paul leave you?”
She sloshes the cup against her lip, burning her tongue. “He didn’t leave me. I left him.”
“Why did he make you leave him?”
She smiles slightly. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Because I wasn’t—I couldn’t … engage.” She puts down the cup. “He wanted more. I can’t blame him.”
“But you do blame him.”
“I wasn’t the only one at fault. He could be selfish.”
“But you drove him away.”
He’s goading her. She furrows her brow, annoyed, trying not to show it. The small clock above the pastry case says 7:17 P.M. “NOW it’s your turn,” she says. “Why did you put that envelope in my car?”
“What?”
“The tape, the photograph …”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“The message on my machine …”
Shaking his head, he says, “You may have a secret admirer, but it isn’t me.”
“These weren’t love notes.”
“Ahh,” he says as if he understands.
“Why would somebody try to scare me?”
“Why do you think?”
“I assume it’s to stop me from asking questions.”
He shrugs. “You shouldn’t assume.”
“Why not?”
“Because once you start making assumptions, you’ll ignore what’s in front of you, and then you’ll never find what you’re looking for.”
“You think I can find what I’m looking for?”
He drains his coffee cup and puts it down. Then he swivels on his stool so he’s facing her. “How badly do you want to know?”
“I want to know,” she says.
Sitting back on his stool, he crosses his arms and rubs his chin. “Ever been orienteering?” he says abruptly. “Not really,” she says.
“It teaches you a lot about yourself,” he says. “How aware you are of the world around you. How in touch you are with your natural instincts.”
She looks at him steadily.
“You have to stay sharp or you’ll lose your bearings,” he says.
“I think I lost my bearings a long time ago.”
He smiles—a faint, ironic smile—and says, “You can follow the signs, if you know how to look.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“I’m not sure you do either.”
“What are we talking about here?” Kathryn asks in a level voice.
He reaches up and touches her face, running two fingers down her jawbone, and she flinches, lifting her chin. “What’s the story with Jack Ledbetter?”
She swallows. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be coy, Kathryn.”
She laughs, trying to keep her voice steady. “What do you want to hear, that I’m sleeping with him?”
He squints at her, waiting for her to continue.
“In his dreams, maybe,” she says.
“Uh-huh.” He says it slowly, and she can tell he’s trying to decide whether to believe her. The waitress saunters over with a pot of coffee and fills his cup. “More water, honey?” she asks Kathryn, and Kathryn shakes her head.
When the waitress leaves, Kathryn turns to face him. “What’s the story with Rachel?” she says.
“She’s a nice girl,” he says.
“But the two of you—”
“I told you,” he says coolly. “There was something. Some time ago.”
“For how long?”
“A few years. Off and on.”
“How many years?”
He looks at her for a long moment, as if he’s inspecting her. “A few.”
“She’s in love with you, isn’t she?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“No. She’s been … convenient.”
“What would she do if she heard you say that?”
He gives Kathryn a funny smile. “She won’t.”
Patsy Cline is singing “Crazy.” The flannel shirts are standing to go, pulling change out of their pockets and counting it on the table. Over in the corner the old woman is hunched over a bowl of soup, patting her mouth with a napkin between slurps.
“What are you doing here, Kathryn?” Hunter asks.
“What?” Though she knows to expect it, his bluntness shocks her.
“Why are you here?” His voice is dry and cold.
She feels a panic rise in her chest. What does he want to hear? What might he be willing to believe? She doesn’t answer at first; she looks into her cup and toys with the soggy tea bag. Then she says, “You know why I’m here—I told you before. Jennifer was always in the spotlight. It took a long time for you to notice me.” Though she hates to acknowledge it, even to herself, there’s a part of her that means it. She knows it’s this part that will persuade him, if he’s willing to be persuaded. “What about you?” she asks. “Why are you here?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he says. “I’m trying to figure that out.” He slides off his stool and stands close to her—a little too close. She resists the impulse to pull away. He takes out his wallet, riffles through it, and lays a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Don’t play games, Kathryn,” he says quietly.
She feels a spider of fear crawling up the back of her neck. “I’m not playing games.” She looks up at him, her wide eyes full of deceit, and he returns her gaze.
“I’ll need a better answer than that,” he says. He turns to leave, then looks back at her. “I’ll call you,” he says, and he’s gone.
IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT when Kathryn gets to Jack’s. She rings his buzzer and then, finding the door open again, slips inside and makes her way upstairs. His door is open at the end of the long hall. When she gets there, the apartment is dark, lit only by a streetlight and a slice of moon outside the window. Beethoven is playing softly; Kathryn can see the small lights on the receiver at the end of the room jump and flash.
She shuts the door behind her and pulls her silk sleeveless turtleneck over her head. Then she unzips the long skirt she’s wearing and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of her sandals and the skirt and walking blindly to the middle of the room. Closing her eyes, she tilts her face upward. She’s filled with some strange unfocused desire. Running her hands down her body, she catches her underwear in her fingers and bends to pull it off.
All at once Jack is behind her, his warm hands on her waist, his breath on her neck, the hair on his bare thighs rubbing the backs of her legs. She leans into him, and he pushes his hands under her bra, finding the clasp and unsnapping it and then pushing the straps off her shoulders. He slides his hands down between her legs and she moves them apart, sensing the wetness already, feeling him hard against her back, wanting him inside her, wanting him now. Reaching back, she pushes h
is boxer shorts down and takes him in her hand, trying to guide him, but he pulls away, grasps her hands in his and kisses the back of her neck, her ear, rubs his scratchy cheek against the side of her face. He begins to caress her again, willing her to follow his lead. She’s never done this before, not with anyone watching, and she’s self-conscious at first, timid in her movements. But after a few moments his hand rises to her breast and she continues, stroking herself the way he was doing, then letting herself enjoy the nuance of her own touch. When she starts to come, he braces against her and she lets herself fall back, writhing in his embrace, his body moving with hers as the motion subsides. Then he turns her around and kisses her hard on the mouth, maneuvering her back toward the kitchen table, where he sets her on the edge. “Just a moment,” he murmurs. He disappears and then comes back; hearing him rip open the little foil packet, she smiles in the darkness. Then he pulls her toward him, hooking her knees around his hips, and pushes inside her. She’s so wet now that there’s no hitch; they slide together like two parts of a machine.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispers, “You know, Jack Nicholson …” His voice trails off into ragged breaths. “Oh—Kathryn,” he murmurs after a while, and she pulls him closer, lifting his chin to kiss him, touching his warm tongue with her own. When he shudders against her, she holds him tight with her legs, his head in her neck, smelling his fresh sweat, running her fingers through his coarse, thick hair.
After a moment he lifts his head. “Hello.”
“Hello,” she says.
“I hope you are who I think you are.”
“I hope so, too,” she murmurs, shutting her eyes against the dark.
LATER, LYING IN bed, she says, “Jack, I have to tell you something.”
He props himself up on an elbow to look at her.
She sighs and fiddles with the sheet. “I wasn’t bonding with my mother tonight. I went to meet Hunter.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I had a nice chat with your mom earlier. Of course, she had no idea where you were. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
She sighs. “Sorry.”
“Oh, I knew something was up.” He grins. “No good reporter gives up that fast.” Then, slowly, his expression grows serious. “But if you’re going to follow through on this, you’ve got to understand what you’re doing.”
She nods.
“This guy could be capable of anything.”
“I know. I’m being careful,” she says. “I met him at a public place.” Down a long, wooded stretch of road in the middle of nowhere, she thinks, but keeps it to herself.
“Are you meeting him again?”
“I have to. I’m so close, Jack,” she says intently. “It’s like we’re locked in this game together—like chess—and every move is loaded. And if I can just figure out where he’s vulnerable …”
“Don’t kid yourself, Kathryn,” Jack says. “It’s his game. You’re just a pawn.”
She doesn’t answer. She remembers, after the divorce, when her parents would vie for her and Josh’s attention by pointing out how the other was manipulating them: “Your dad’s just bribing you,” her mother would say; “She’s using you to get to me,” her father countered. The thing is, it was usually true—but it didn’t help to know it. If she wanted their attention, then she had to play their game. So she learned to be cynical, and to take what she could get.
“Will you promise to tell me next time you see him? I want to know where you’ll be.”
“Okay,” she says. It’s not a promise and it isn’t a lie, but something in between.
Chapter 30
When Kathryn reaches Gaffney the next morning on the phone, he instructs her not to come to the police station. “Dunkin’ Donuts, outer Main Street,” he says. “I won’t be in uniform.”
She brings a newspaper and sunglasses—as if, in that bright yellow car with her platinum hair, she might possibly avoid notice—and takes a circuitous route from the east side to the west side, checking in her rearview mirror to see if she’s being followed. She feels a little silly; it’s a benign, sunny day in this sleepy little city, and people seem to be going about their business with ease and leisure. But Gaffney’s caution alarms her—more than Jack’s, which she can dismiss as over-protectiveness. And she can’t shake the uneasy feeling that Jack is right: She doesn’t understand the rules of this game.
Three semis are parked together in the lot, and inside three truckers sit on stools next to each other, wolfing doughnuts from a big open box. Kathryn sits at the other end of the counter and stares at the bewildering variety of pastries in the brightly lit display. The doughnuts are grouped by type: Kremes, Frosteds, Glazed, Jellies—and there are also muffins and sweet rolls and bagels. Bagels? When did that happen? Kathryn wonders. Then again, it’s been years since she was in one of these places. She’s found other ways to indulge her sweet tooth besides eating an entire box of Munchkins, as she and Jennifer used to do.
“What can I get ya?” demands the pimply-faced teenager behind the counter. His pink-and-orange-striped uniform looks like goofy prison duds.
“Umm …” She scans the selection. Boston Kreme, Bavarian Kreme, Chocolate Kreme, Kreme … “I guess I’ll have a Honey Bran muffin,” she says, and immediately regrets it. “No, no—change that. Wait.” Her eyes move down the rows. “I’ll have a Chocolate Frosted. And a Bavarian Kreme.”
“Is that all?”
She shakes her head. “A coffee. Regular. No, hazelnut. With milk. And—a jelly donut.” One more, what harm can it do?
“Strawberry, grape, blueberry,” he says in a bored voice.
“Um—blueberry.”
When Gaffhey walks in her mouth is full of Kreme. She washes it down with coffee, burning her tongue in the process, and stands to greet him, brushing powdered sugar off her fingers and shirt onto her shorts.
Gaffney eyes the two remaining doughnuts on her napkin and smirks. “One of those for me?”
“Ah—sure,” she says.
“Nah,” he says, “I only eat the coffee rolls. Hard to stop at one, though, isn’t it?” He sits on the stool beside her. Even out of uniform, Gaffney looks like a police officer, stiff and uncomfortable in his ironed jeans and button-down. “So,” he says after he’s ordered his roll and decaf, “tell me what’s going on.”
She tells him what she knows about Hunter—how she found out he was involved with Jennifer, how he’s been spilling pieces of information each time she’s seen him.
“Hunter,” Gaffney muses. He shrugs. “Didn’t spend much time on him. We could never find any link between them except that he was her coach. I do remember that he was smug—like he knew something we didn’t. But we never had anything on him.”
“You still don’t,” she says. “He hasn’t confessed to anything.”
“What about the tape and that picture?”
She shakes her head. “He hasn’t told me anything concrete. But I have the feeling that he might. Little things he’s said … I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. I think he’s testing me to see what I’ll do.”
Gaffney tears open two Sweet’n Low packets and pours them in his coffee. “I don’t like the sound of this. I think maybe we should bring him in for questioning.”
Her heart sinks. Damn, she thinks, not yet, not when she’s so close. “On what grounds?” she asks, trying to sound even and unbiased.
“New information about his relationship with Miss Pelletier.”
“Information from me.”
“We don’t have to reveal the source.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll have no idea.”
“Look,” Gaffney says, putting down his roll. “If he’s the one who made your friend disappear, you’re probably in a lot more trouble now than you would be if we brought him in.”
She knows he’s right. But she also knows, or thinks she does, that Hunter is too smar
t to let himself be trapped by the police. “He won’t tell you anything,” she says. “This guy has flown under your radar before.”
“What makes you think he’ll open up to you?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s personal.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulls at her jelly doughnut, tearing it into small pieces. Blue goo oozes over her fingers. “I’m Jennifer’s friend, we were both in his class…. It’s between the two of us, somehow.”
With a skeptical look, Gaffney says, “Excuse me for being blunt, Miss Campbell, but it sounds like he’s got you just where he wants you. You think you’re special—that’s the first mistake.”
“I don’t think I’m special,” she says. “But I do have special access. And I think I can get him to tell me what he knows, or what he’s done.”
Gaffney puffs his cheeks full of air and slowly exhales.
“Listen,” she says, touching his arm. “He’s been living with some kind of secret for ten years. I think he wants to share it, but not with just anybody. It has to be somebody he thinks would understand.”
“And why is that you?”
She ponders this, absently biting her lip. Then she says, “Because he thinks I was jealous of her. He thinks I’m glad she’s gone.”
Gaffney shakes his head slowly. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “You’re in dangerous territory,” he says.
“I know.”
He looks at her for a long moment. “What do you want from me?” he asks.
“I need some advice,” she says. “I want to know what I have to do to trap him.”
“By which you mean …?”
“If he tells me what he did, would it hold up in court?”
“Maybe. It depends.”
“What if I got it on tape?”
“That would be better.”
“Could you hook me up with a body mike?”
“If it comes from the police, you’ll have to read him his Miranda rights first,” he says. “I’m guessing that might change the mood.”
“Yeah,” she says, considering this, rolling a piece of doughnut into a doughy ball. “What if I bring my own microcassette player, keep it in my bag?”
“You could. You’d be taking a risk. There’s an audible click; you have to turn over the tape. And if he finds it…. The last thing you want to do is enrage him.”