Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (31 page)
I understood the feeling.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“I want to lie here with you and just be. Can we do that?”
“We can.” I kept my eyes on the ceiling’s wainscoting. Then, because I can never leave well enough alone: “When Miriam was born, did you and Rick store her cord blood?”
“No.”
Dead end.
I asked, “Do you still want us to run the DNA test to be sure?”
“What do you think?”
“I think we should,” I said.
“Then let’s do that.”
“You’ll have to give a DNA sample,” I said. “So we have something to compare it with. We don’t have Rick’s DNA, but if we confirm the child was yours, well, I assume you only gave birth that one time?”
Silence.
“Terese?”
“I only gave birth that one time,” she said.
More silence.
“Myron?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t have any more children.”
I said nothing.
“It was a miracle that Miriam was born. But right after I gave birth, they had to do an emergency hysterectomy because I had fibroids. I can’t have more children.”
I closed my eyes. I wanted to say something comforting, but it all sounded so patronizing or superfluous. So I pulled her in a little closer. I didn’t want to look ahead. I wanted to just lay here and hold her.
The Yiddish expression came back to me yet again: Man plans, God laughs.
I could feel her start to move away from me. I pulled her back to me.
“Too early for this talk?” she said.
I thought about it. “Probably too late.”
“Meaning?”
“Right now,” I said, “I want to lie here with you and just be.”
TERESE was asleep when I heard the key in the front door. I glanced at the bedroom clock. One AM.
I threw on a robe as Win and Mee entered. Mee gave me a little wave and said, “Hi, Myron.”
“Hi, Mee.”
She headed into the next room. When she was gone, Win said, “When it comes to sex, I like to take a ‘Mee first’ approach.”
I just looked at him.
“And the great thing is, it really doesn’t take much to keep Mee satisfied.”
“Please stop,” I said.
Win stepped forward and hugged me hard. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want to know something weird?”
“What?” I said.
“This is the longest we’ve been apart since our days at Duke.”
I nodded, waited for the hug to subside, pulled back. “You lied about Bangkok,” I said.
“No, I didn’t. I do think the name is rather ironic. Bang. Cock. All the sex clubs.”
I shook my head. We headed into a Louis-the-Something-type room with heavy woods and ornate sculptures and busts of guys with long hair. We sat in leather club chairs in front of the marble fireplace. Win tossed me a Yoo-hoo and poured himself an expensive scotch out of a decanter.
“I was going to have coffee,” Win said, “but that keeps Mee up all night.”
I nodded. “Almost out of Mee jokes?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Why did you lie about Bangkok?”
“Why do you think?” he asked.
But the answer was obvious. I felt the wave of shame crash over me again. “I gave you up, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
I felt the tears, the fear, the now-familiar shortness of breath. My right leg started doing the restless shake.
“You were afraid they might grab me again,” I said. “And if they did, if they broke me again, I would give them wrong information.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“I thought . . . I guess I figured I’d be stronger.”
Win took a sip of his drink. “You are the strongest man I have ever known.”
I waited a beat and then, because I couldn’t help myself, I said, “Stronger than Mee?”
“Stronger. But not nearly as flexible.”
We sat in the comfortable silence.
“Are you remembering at all?” he asked.
“It’s vague.”
“You’ll need help with it.”
“I know.”
“You have the bone sample for the purposes of DNA?”
I nodded.
“And if it confirms what this Jones fellow told you, will this be over?”
“Jones answered most of my questions.”
“I hear a but.”
“There are several buts, actually.”
“I’m listening.”
“I called that number Berleand gave me,” I said. “No answer.”
“That’s hardly a but.”
“You know about his theory on Mohammad Matar’s plot?”
“That it lives on after him? Yes.”
“If that’s true, that plot is a danger to everyone. We have a responsibility to help.”
Win tilted his head back and forth and said, “Eh.”
“Jones thinks if Matar’s followers find out what I did, they’ll come after me. I don’t feel like waiting around or living in fear.”
Win liked that reasoning better. “You’d rather take a proactive stance?”
“I think I would.”
Win nodded. “What else?”
I took another deep swig. “I saw that blond girl. I saw her walk. I saw her face.”
“Ah,” Win said. “And as you stated before, you noticed similarities, perhaps genetic, between her and the delectable Ms. Collins?”
I drank the Yoo-hoo.
Win said, “Do you remember the optical illusion games we used to play when we were children? You’d look at a picture and you could see either an old witch or a pretty young girl? Or there was one that could be either a rabbit or a duck.”
“That’s not what happened here.”
“Ask yourself this: Suppose Terese hadn’t called you in Paris. Suppose you were walking on the street to your office and that blond girl walked past you. Would you have stopped and thought, ‘Gee, that girl has to be Terese’s daughter’? ”
“No.”
“So it’s situational. Do you see that?”
“I do.”
We sat in silence a little while longer.
“Of course,” Win said, “just because something is situational, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“There’s that.”
“And it might be fun to bag a major terrorist.”
“Are you with me?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But after I finish this drink and go into my bedroom, I will be.”
32
THE mind can be pretty goofy and ornery.
Logic is never linear. It dashes to and fro and bounces off walls and makes hairpin turns and gets lost during detours. Anything can be a catalyst, usually something unrelated to the task at hand, ricocheting your thoughts into an unexpected direction—a direction that inevitably leads to a solution linear thinking could never have approached.
That was what happened to me. That was how I started to put this all together.
Terese stirred when I returned to the bedroom. I didn’t tell her my thoughts on the blond girl, situational or otherwise. I didn’t want to keep anything from her, but there was no reason to tell her yet. She was trying to heal. Why rip out those sutures until I knew more?
She drifted back to sleep. I held her and closed my eyes. I realized how little I had slept since returning from my sixteen-day hiatus. I slipped into nightmare world and woke up with a start at about three in the morning. My heart pounded. There were tears in my eyes. I only remembered the sensation of something pressing down hard on me, pinning me down, something so heavy I couldn’t breathe. I got out of bed. Terese was still asleep. I bent down and kissed her gently.
There was a laptop in the room off the bedroom. I signed on to the Internet and searched for Save the Angels. The Web site came up. On the top was a banner that read SAVE THE ANGELS and in smaller print, CHRISTIAN SOLUTIONS. The language spoke of life and love and God. It talked about replacing the word “choice” with the word “solutions.” There were testimonials from women who had gone with the “adoption solution” rather than “murder.” There were couples who’d had infertility issues talking about how the government wanted to “cruelly experiment” on their “preborns” while Save the Angels could help a frozen embryo “realize its ultimate purpose—life” through the Christian solution of helping another infertile couple.
I had heard such arguments before, remembered Mario Contuzzi briefly addressing them. He said that the group seemed somewhat right-wing but not extreme. I tended to agree. I kept surfing. There was a mission statement about sharing God’s love and saving “pre-born children.” There was a statement of faith that began with a belief in the Bible, that it is “the complete, inspired word of God without error,” and moved into the sanctity of life. There were buttons to click on adoption care, on rights, on upcoming events, on resources for birth mothers.
I clicked the FAQ section, seeing how they answered the hows and whys, supporting unwed mothers, matching infertile couples to frozen embryos, forms to fill out, costs, how you can donate, how you can join the Save the Angels team. It was all pretty impressive. The Picture Gallery was next. I clicked on page one. There were pictures of two rather glorious mansions that were used for unwed mothers. One looked like something you’d see on a Georgian plantation, all white with marble columns and enormous weeping willow trees surrounding it. The other home looked like the perfect bed-and-breakfast—a picturesque, almost overly done Victorian home with turrets, towers, stained-glass windows, a lemonade porch, and a blue-gray mansard roof. The captions stressed the confidentiality of both the location and the inhabitants—no names, no address—while the postcardlike photographs almost made you long to be knocked up.
I clicked on Gallery page two—and that was when I had my goofy-ornery-nonlinear-catalyst moment.
There were photographs of babies. The images were beautiful and adorable and heartbreaking, the sort of pictures designed to elicit wonder and awe in anyone with a pulse.
My ornery mind likes to play the contrast game. You watch a terrible stand-up comic, you think of how great Chris Rock is. You watch a movie that tries to scare you with excessive Technicolor gore, you think of how Hitchcock kept you riveted, even in black and white. Right now, as I stared at the “saved angels,” I thought about how perfect these images were compared with those creepy Victorian photographs I had seen in that cheesy storefront earlier in the day. That reminded me of what else I had learned there, the HHK, the possibility of that meaning Ho-Ho-Kus, and how Esperanza had come up with that.
Again the human brain—billions of random synapses cracking, popping, mixing, twisting, and sparking. You can’t really get a grip on it, but here was how it must have gone inside my head: Official Photography, HHK, Esperanza, how we first met, her wrestling days, FLOW, the acronym for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling.
Suddenly it all came together. Well, maybe not all of it. But some. Enough so that I knew where I would be headed the next morning:
To that cheesy storefront in Ho-Ho-Kus. To the Official Photography of Albin Laramie, or, as it might be known if you were jotting down an acronym, OPAL.
THE man behind the counter at the Official Photography of Albin Laramie had to be Albin. He wore a cape. A shiny cape. Like he was Batman or Zorro. The facial hair looked Etch-A-Sketched, his hair was a tangled yet calculated mess, and his whole persona screamed that he was not merely an artist, but an “artiste!” He was talking on the phone and scowling when I entered.
I started toward him. He signaled me to wait with a finger. “He doesn’t get it, Leopold. What can I tell you? The man doesn’t get angles or texture or coloring. He has no eye.”
He held up his finger again for me to wait another minute. I did. When he hung up the phone, he sighed theatrically. “May I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Bernie Worley.”
“And I,” he said, hand to heart, “am Albin Laramie.”
He made this pronouncement with great pride and flair. It reminded me of Mandy Patinkin in
The Princess Bride
; I half expected him to tell me that I had killed his father, prepare to die.
The Princess Bride
; I half expected him to tell me that I had killed his father, prepare to die.
I gave him the world-weary smile. “My wife asked me to pick up some photographs.”
“Do you have your claim stub?”
“I lost it.”
Albin frowned.
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