Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (24 page)
Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.
“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.
“We get started on this list. You want to take
A
through
L
?”
“I guess.”
I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.
I hit the computer.
Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub—she’d been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.
Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.
I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.
It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.
I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.
“Says he’s your husband.”
I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?
“Can someone escort him up?”
My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.
I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.
“Hi, Jack.”
I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.
“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”
“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The words hurt. I stayed silent.
“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess . . . I don’t know . . . I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”
“Were you wrong?”
His eyes softened. “Yes.”
What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?
“Have a safe trip back, Alan.”
His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.
“Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?”
Don’t play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.”
“I know.”
“I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.” He tried to smile. “Have a nice life, Jack.”
“You too, Alan.”
He walked out.
The first time he left me, I didn’t try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?
Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?
“Alan . . . wait.”
He turned, eyes hopeful.
“Yeah?”
Looking at him, I knew.
“You’re wearing my jacket.”
Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.
I went to him.
Our hands met.
“Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.”
“So do I.”
“Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we discuss it over dinner?”
“That might be best.”
I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.
“Can I call you? After work?”
“No. The work can wait.”
“Excuse me?”
“The work can wait, Alan. Let’s go.”
We didn’t go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.
Twice.
I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven’t worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other’s buttons.
I’d called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn’t be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
“I’ll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.”
“His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won’t. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.”
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn’t have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I’d had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn’t a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
“Jack? That you?”
“I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast.”
“You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“No. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. It’s probably just a panic attack. I don’t have my damn sleeping pills and I’m bouncing off the walls.”
“Why don’t you have your pills?”
Moment of truth time.
“I’m in Alan’s hotel room.”
I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.
“You still love him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?
“You need some time apart, to figure things out?”
“Yes.” I was crying now.
“A week? A month?”
“I don’t know, Latham.”
“I understand.”
Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?
“I might never come back, Latham.”
“You have to choose what’s right for you, Jack.”
“Aren’t you mad at me?”
“I love you. I want you to be happy.”
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.
“There’s no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!”
“Call me when you’ve made a decision, Jack.”
He hung up.
I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.
I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.
Alan knocked on the door.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
He let himself in, sat down next to me.
“Dammit,” I cursed, rubbing my eyes. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not this weak.”
Alan laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
He put his arms around me.
“You’re not weak, Jack. You’re human.”
“And that’s funny to you?”
“I always suspected it. I just never thought I’d see it.”
He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.
If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.
Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn’t be allowed out.
After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.
One thing at a time.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.
I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.
Nothing happened.
I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.
Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.
The gun was gone.
Something in the darkness moved.
“Mom? Alan?”
No answer.
I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.
A faint chuckle came from nearby.
My digital clock went out.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.
The closet.
“I’ve got a gun!” I yelled to the darkness.
Another chuckle. Low and soft.
Fuller.
Another movement. Closer this time.
My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?
How do I make it out of here alive?
My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don’t look back.
I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.
I screamed, and woke myself up.
Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I’d just completed the last leg of a triathlon.
“Jack?”
Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.
“What’s happening?”
“Just a bad dream.”
“You’re going to shoot a bad dream?”
I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn’t let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.
I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.
I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.
“Morning, Mom.”
Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.
“Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty.”
“Court.” I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. “You okay?”
“This cold weather is affecting my hip.”
“It’s got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on ‘broil.’”
“My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it’s freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets.”
I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.
“Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?”
“Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I’d hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know.”
“Why not invite him here?”
“He’s retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn’t ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates.”
“He can stay with us.”
Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.
“Really?”
“Sure. If he doesn’t mind sharing the sofa bed.” I winked at her.
