Kid, no more than eight, maybe nine. Bright red slicker, kind of pull-down woollen hat to keep his ears warm, knee-high rubber boots, heavy treads leaving unmistakable footprints in the snow. Running alongside him is a dog, kind of rat-mongrel thing with eyes too big, yapping excitedly. Dad a good ten yards up the street, all three of them on the way home from nowhere important.
Kid went by the name of Tyler Russell, rat-mongrel dog was called Bucket, which meant nothing of any great significance, but kind of cute, kind of name an eight-year-old gave a rat-mongrel and it made folks smile.
Bucket heads down the alleyway off of West Fifteenth and Seventh. Tyler goes after him, shouting his name. Dad turns at the junction, realizes he’s lost his kid and the dog, sighs exasperatedly and heads back the way he’s come. Cold. Too damned cold to be out with a kid and a dog. Turns right down the alleyway. Can see the footprints of both of them. Shouts his son’s name.
‘Tyler?’
No answer.
Pinprick twinge of awkward nerves somewhere in the lower gut.
‘Tyler!’ he shouts, and it comes out sounding strange, perhaps the acoustics of the alleyway, the thick snow, the frozen air. Perhaps nothing more than the irregularity with which he raises his voice.
‘Tyler!’ he shouts again, and this time he gets kind of anxious. Starts to walk more rapidly. Wondering what the fuck has happened.
And then he sees them. Tyler standing stock-still, Bucket sitting up on his haunches right beside him. Kind of Christmas-card picturesque. Little boy, little dog, thick virgin snow with no footprints but their own. Relief. Like a wave of something that comes up from the vagus nerve. Like something tight had a hold of him and then suddenly let him go.
‘Tyler . . . What are you doing?’ Dad asks. ‘We have to get home, sweetheart.’
Comes up back of them – taller, can see over his son’s head – and figures there’s something not right when Tyler doesn’t turn or speak or respond in any way.
Bucket whines like the rat-mongrel kind of thing that he is, and his head is tilted to one side, like even he – a handful of dog no bigger than a cat – realizes that something isn’t right down here.
That’s when Dad sees the guy on the floor. Right there on the ground like he’s telling a story, waiting for someone perhaps, taking a rest and smoking a cigarette.
Except he isn’t waiting or resting or telling a story. He’s dead. Deader than Elvis. Side of his head all broken up and covered in blood, and the blood has run down his neck and throat, down across the lapel of his coat, and it’s frozen solid and looks like nothing natural.
Dad says, ‘Oh my fucking Christ almighty.’
Tyler turns, looks down at Bucket, whispers, ‘You hear that, Bucket . . . Daddy said the F word.’
All night he was cold. Heating was up, way up high, and Harper realized before too long that the cold he felt had grown from within. He’d slurred back and forth between wakefulness and unsettled rest until the early hours, and then – even as the snow got bored with Manhattan and figured it would head south-west to whitewash New Jersey – he’d drifted into something vaguely resembling sleep and stayed there until six.
First message came from the desk at ten after seven.
‘Hollander,’ the guy had said, and then spelled it unnecessarily. ‘H-O-L-L-A-N-D-E-R,’ and Harper had patiently waited for him to finish, and then told the clerk that if Miss Hollander called again he should pass on the message that he wouldn’t be around until after lunch.
Harper wanted a little time, a little breathing space. Things were coming at him from over the edge of reality, things that he was struggling to hold on to, struggling to see where they connected to whoever he thought he was before he’d returned to New York.
Remembered something from Hemingway, something about quitting things. If you quit things, whether good or bad, it left an emptiness. If it was a bad thing the emptiness filled up by itself; if it was a good thing you had to find something better or the emptiness would remain for ever. Made sense to Harper when he set the receiver in its cradle. In Miami he’d possessed something resembling a life. Here, well here he really possessed nothing. Nevertheless, in speaking with Duchaunak, with Cathy Hollander, even with Evelyn, it was becoming more and more evident that he knew little if anything regarding his own past and heritage. He was uncertain if he wanted to know – really know – but simultaneously he knew he had to know. There was an emptiness and it could not be left alone.
Hence he felt compelled to see Evelyn; compelled enough to order breakfast, to eat it, to shower and shave and dress, to stand at the window a little before eight and ask himself if it was too early to take a cab to Carmine and see what she had to say.
He walked down to the street, stepped into a coffee shop, and used up half an hour looking at a newspaper without paying any mind to what he was reading, and then he called the cab, drove over there, and felt the tension in his gut.
Whatever it was it was going to come, and there was nothing he could now do to stop it.
‘When?’
‘A little after seven.’
‘And he said what?’
‘I didn’t speak to him directly.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘The clerk at the desk . . . he called Harper’s room for me.’
‘And?’
‘Message came back that he wouldn’t be around until after lunch.’ Cathy Hollander sat on the edge of her bed. Seemed she was tense all the time now. Because of what was happening, everything inexorably rolling forward against all odds. Days now, just days away, and she would be through and out the other side. Or dead. There was always that possibility. Known that from the start. But had it stopped her? Hell it had.
‘After lunch?’
‘That’s what he said, Walt . . . that he’d be around after lunch.’
‘And what the fuck does that mean, for Christ’s sake?’
Cathy shook her head. She looked towards the window to her right. Snow had stopped altogether. Sky was pale grey, flat, nothing out there. ‘I don’t know Walt . . . I don’t know what that means.’
‘He sick or something?’
‘I don’t think so, seemed fine the last time I saw him.’
‘Which was?’
‘Wednesday . . . you remember . . . when you called me on the cellphone? I was at St Vincent’s then, had just dropped him off. That was the last time I saw him.’
‘And he seemed okay?’
‘Sure, he seemed okay.’
‘You didn’t call him yesterday?’
Cathy sighed, shook her head. ‘Walt—’
‘You were busy, right . . . sorry, yes of course. We were all a bit fucking busy yesterday, weren’t we?’
‘To say the least.’
‘Okay, it is what it is. Give it an hour or so and call the hotel again. See if he’s in. If he’s in go up and see him, make sure he’s okay. Last thing we need is the kid flaking out on us, right?’
‘And if he’s not there when I call?’ Cathy asked.
‘Come on over to the house. Just come on over to the house and we’ll figure out what to do with Harper after lunch.’
‘See ya later, Walt.’
‘Sure thing sweetheart, see ya later.’
Cathy Hollander hung up the phone.
She stood for a moment, dressed in nothing but her underwear and a robe, and then walked through to the bathroom.
She turned on the shower. She asked herself what the hell she was doing with her life. She didn’t have an answer. Truth be known, she figured she didn’t want one.
‘Four, perhaps four-thirty a.m.’
‘And Harper was still in the hotel?’
‘Christ Frank, I guess so. I waited outside until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more, and then I drove home. He didn’t come out the front, that much I do know. If he climbed out the window and scaled down the back wall and disappeared into the night, well that’s another fucking story entirely.’
/> Duchaunak was silent for a few seconds. He looked out of the window of his too-small kitchen. He wondered if he had what could actually be called a life.
‘Okay, Don, okay. You called the hotel yet?’
‘I called just five minutes ago.’
‘And?’
‘Like I said Frank, he went out.’
‘Right, right,’ Duchaunak replied distractedly. ‘He went out . . . wonder where the hell he’s gone.’
Don Faulkner didn’t reply. There was nothing he could have said that would have helped.
‘The desk guy have any idea?’
‘No,’ Faulkner said. ‘Harper didn’t say anything to them.’
‘But he did get the call, right?’
‘Right, just the one call. Cathy Hollander. That was early, a few minutes after seven. Harper got the message and told the clerk what I just told you.’
‘What the hell is he doing?’ Duchaunak asked, but he was asking himself.
Faulkner stayed silent.
‘Freiberg maybe . . . but then what would Freiberg be doing operating independently of the girl? Maybe he’s gone to see Marcus.’
‘Or the aunt?’ Faulkner suggested.
‘Could be, could be.’
‘Truth is that we don’t know Frank, and there isn’t a helluva lot of point trying to second-guess the guy. I can go over to the aunt’s, but without knocking on the door and seeing who’s inside I wouldn’t know if he was there or not. And Marcus, well he could be any number of places.’
‘Yes, I know, Don, I know,’ Duchaunak said. ‘You get someone onto Freiberg?’
‘Not yet. I spoke to a couple of guys on leave and they weren’t interested. I’m still trying to figure something out.’
‘Right, right . . .’
Faulkner knew Duchaunak’s attention wasn’t on what he was saying, nor what he was hearing. He could almost sense the wheels turning inside the man’s head.
‘Let it be what it is,’ Duchaunak said eventually. ‘We’re not going to spend all morning running around the city looking for the guy. I’m going into the office; see you there in an hour or so.’
‘Sure thing, Frank, sure thing.’ Faulkner hesitated for a moment.
‘What is it?’ Duchaunak asked.
‘I did some checking up—’
‘On what?’
‘Remember the bullet match . . . the one they dug out of Lenny and the 7–11 robbery in 1974?’
‘Sure, yes, what about it?’
‘They took someone in for the 7–11 . . . took someone in and questioned them.’
Duchaunak said nothing.
‘Frank?’
‘Yeah, I’m here. Who’d they take in, Don?’
‘Guy in the 7–11 said it was two people. They only ever questioned one person about it—’
‘The name, Don, the name . . . what the fuck is this?’
‘Garrett Sawyer.’
‘You’re bullshitting me!’
‘As God is my fucking witness, they took Garrett Sawyer in on the 7–11 job, but there was no evidence, no ID. He wasn’t charged with anything and they let him go.’
‘And the gun that was used turns up thirty years later and someone shoots Lenny Bernstein with it . . . what the fuck kind of coincidence is that?’
‘Exactly that,’ Faulkner replied. ‘A fuck of a coincidence.’
‘Okay, okay, I have to go,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I’ll call you later . . . we’ll catch up on this thing, okay?’
‘Sure, Frank . . . speak later.’
Duchaunak hung up.
Faulkner stood there with the receiver in his hand. He looked at it for a little while as if he was uncertain of what he should do with it. Fact of the matter was that he was concerned for Frank Duchaunak. Seemed to him the man needed some kind of professional help. Therapeutic kind of help.
Faulkner sighed, shook his head, set the phone in its cradle.
He walked to the front hall and put on his overcoat. He tried to ignore the sense of disorientation that came with so little sleep. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold. He figured he’d walk to a diner, get some breakfast before he drove over to the precinct house. At least if he ate enough he’d have sufficient energy to keep it all together.
THIRTY-ONE
‘Why? I told you why already.’
‘Tell me again, Ev . . . give me something I can use.’
‘Use?’ Evelyn smiled wryly. She turned and looked towards the kitchen window. Her face was half in and out of shadow. Harper had not been aware of how she had aged.
‘I got your book . . . the one you put through the letter box.’
Harper nodded.
‘I did buy it you know? Originally, back when it was published.’
‘You told me.’
‘I bought it, I read it, and I was pissed off with you for a very long time.’
‘I know. I didn’t mean—’
Evelyn raised her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, John . . . dirty water beneath burned bridges.’
Harper took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered her one.
Evelyn smiled. ‘Thought you were trying to quit.’
Harper shrugged.
She stepped forward and took a cigarette from him. ‘Didn’t try so hard, huh?’
‘Seems that way,’ he replied.
Evelyn was on-edge, goading him. All these years behind them, everything that had happened, and even now he didn’t understand why it had to be a battle of wills. He decided not to rise to it; he was no longer an awkward teenager; he no longer considered her the enemy.
Harper offered Evelyn a light, but she had a box of matches in her housecoat pocket. She moved from where she stood by the sink, came and sat facing him at the plain deal kitchen table.
‘Something you can use,’ she echoed. ‘And what would you classify as something you could use, John Harper?’
‘Tell me something about Anne.’
Evelyn’s eyes widened. ‘Your mother? What do you want me to tell you about your mother?’
‘What she was like—’
‘She was like you,’ Evelyn interjected. ‘She was a lot like you.’
‘How so?’
‘Wilful, determined, arrogant sometimes.’
‘Arrogant?’ Harper shook his head; had never considered himself arrogant.
‘No, maybe not arrogant, more like headstrong, stubborn sometimes. She could be like that. Tell her she couldn’t have her own way and she’d tear the house down until you gave in.’
‘Did she love Edward?’
Evelyn laughed, but the sound she made gave away something of her awkwardness. She was neither comfortable nor familiar with being asked such questions. ‘I don’t think she was old enough to know what love was when she met Edward Bernstein.’
‘She grew to love him?’
‘Grew to love him, no, I don’t think so. I think your mother was in love with what she thought was Edward Bernstein. Who she thought he was and who he actually was were not the same person.’
Harper frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’
Evelyn flicked ash into the ashtray. She took another drag of her cigarette and looked intently at Harper. ‘Why are you asking me these questions John?’
‘Because you’re the only family I’ve got, Ev, and you’re the only person who really knows anything about my mother and father.’
‘Anne is dead, has been for nearly thirty years. The past is the past. It belongs right where it is, and I’m not of a mind to go dragging it back where it doesn’t belong.’
‘I need to know, Ev.’
‘Need? That’s a little strong, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so . . . and besides, I figure you owe me some truth.’
‘Owe you? I don’t reckon I owe you anything.’
‘For lying, Ev. I believe that you owe me for lying about my father.’
‘Ha!’ Evelyn snapped. ‘You’re talking about people owing things. What about your moth
er and my husband? How the hell do you think I feel, eh? How in God’s name do you think I feel? Tell me that, John Harper—’
Harper leaned forward. The cigarette he held had burned down to the filter. He dropped it in the ashtray. ‘What do you mean, Ev? Their deaths were five years apart . . . they weren’t connected.’
Her expression changed. It was nothing, and yet it was something. Enough to cause Harper to lean his head to one side and look at his aunt more closely. The shift was like the shadow of a cloud across a field. Harper was beneath it as it passed, and he felt that second of transient coolness.
‘What?’ she asked, noticing the way he looked at her. She sounded defensive.
‘You tell me.’
‘There isn’t anything to tell.’
‘They were connected,’ Harper said matter-of-factly. ‘Tell me how their deaths were connected, Ev.’
‘They were not connected,’ she said. She scowled. Her features were cold, her eyes flinty. ‘Your mother died of pneumonia. Five years later Garrett took his own life.’
‘Did he do that? Did he really take his own life?’
‘What the hell is this?’ she said. ‘What the hell is going on here? You’ve been talking to that crazy cop, what was his name? Frank something-or-other . . .’
‘Duchaunak.’
‘That’s the one. He’s been speaking to you—’
‘And to you it seems. He came here, didn’t he? He asked you about my mother and Garrett, didn’t he? He asked what happened to them and you told him something that you haven’t told me. I’m right, aren’t I?’ Harper leaned forward, his tone of voice insistent. ‘Aren’t I?’
Evelyn leaned back. She shook her head slowly. ‘I think you should leave now, John. I really think I’ve had enough of this kind of talk.’
Harper leaned back; he smiled coldly. ‘I’m not leaving, Ev. I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened. Tell me the truth about them . . . tell me the truth about your sister and your husband. What happened to them, Ev? Tell me what really happened to them all those years ago—’
‘Enough!’ she snapped. Her voice was loud, sudden, harsh, abrupt. ‘Enough for God’s sake!’ She looked away. She was incensed, furious. She turned back to Harper after a moment, and the directness of her gaze unnerved him. It had been many, many years since Evelyn Sawyer had pinned him with such a stare. ‘I don’t give a damn what you think . . . you have no right, no right whatsoever, coming here and telling me what I should and shouldn’t tell you. You want to come back here and get involved with these people then that’s your own responsibility, and you cannot hold me accountable for what might happen—’