Rubbed Out (10 page)

I went through the park and saw the blaze of trees around Tavern on the Green dressed up in their hundreds of white lights. Murphy and I had eaten there our last night in New York City. I went down Fifth Avenue past the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with its grand façade and kept on going. Around 59th Street I turned onto Madison Avenue and cruised up it, looking at the fancy shop windows. It was hard to believe, but there'd been a time when I'd worn stuff like that. And looked good in it too.

 

 

My instructions had been to find Janet Wilcox. I'd done that. I had no idea what Wilcox wanted me to do next. Stay in the City overnight? Talk to his wife? Start back upstate? Which was when I realized that somehow or other in my meanderings I'd contrived to drive by my mother's building on 74th Street off Park Avenue.

I stopped on impulse and got out of the car and walked under the canopy. The doorman came out of the building to greet me. He was younger, instead of one of the usual gray-haired brigade. Someone I didn't know. I don't know why I was expecting someone I did.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

There was a slight brogue in his voice. My mother's co-op always had Irish help. They were considered classier. I had to admit this one looked good enough to eat in his uniform with the gold braid on his shoulders and his hat, not to mention the white gloves.

“Yes. I was wondering if the Browns are in.”

“I'm sorry. They've stepped out. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you positive?”

“Absolutely.”

He watched me get back in my car and drive away.

I felt relieved and sad all at the same time. I turned onto Park Avenue and drove uptown. The traffic had thinned. Park was one of those streets where the traffic always moves. Maybe because it's mostly apartment buildings. I remembered how much I'd enjoyed looking at the flowers in the dividers in the summer and the Christmas trees in the winter when I was a little girl. I thought I owned the City then, that I'd always be here.

I was going to live in a brownstone by Central Park and have dinner parties for interesting people and be a great writer. Of course the brownstone would have a working fireplace. The place would smell of lilacs in the summer and spruce in the winter.

Then, when I met Murphy, the fantasy changed. We were going to buy a farm and raise goats—never mind that neither of us had ever lived in the country, much less farmed.

I was thinking about that when I realized that I'd been driving up the FDR Drive and was turning onto the Third Avenue Bridge and going out of the City.

I reached for the phone and called Walter.

“Last chance,” I told his machine. “Talk to me or I'm out of here.”

There was no answer.

I told myself fine. For all I knew, he could be on his way down here. Or he could be out cold.

I could have turned around and checked into a hotel. It would have been the smart thing to do. I was really too exhausted to drive. But I didn't want to.

I wanted to get out of the City and away from the people and the noise and the memories. I wanted to go someplace quiet. I wanted to go home.

I called the house and got Bethany and told her I'd be back up in Syracuse in about five hours.

I'd fulfilled my part of the deal. The rest was up to Wilcox.

I
took the Thruway back. There weren't many cars on the road and I spent the time rocketing through the night, trying not to think about my mother and what had gone wrong between us.

It seemed to me as if she'd wanted someone else as her daughter, someone I could never become. Somewhere along the way, I'd quit trying. Sad for her and sad for me. Then I thought of Murphy and George, which wasn't much better, so I reached over and turned the radio all the way up and put my foot on the gas and didn't think of anything at all.

It had been drizzling when I left the City, but now it had stopped raining. The sky was black with patches of gray. A sliver of moon looked as if it was suspended by a string. Once in a while, I spotted the twinkling lights of a plane flying overhead. After Albany, the mounds of snow on the sides of the road grew bigger as I headed farther upstate.

The roadway was cleared and salted. I did a solid eighty-five to ninety all the way back to Syracuse. Around Utica I got a call on my cell from George.

“I don't know what to do,” he said.

I took a deep breath. I could feel the heaviness in my chest expanding.

“I can't help you.”

“Please, Robin.” He sounded as if he was crying.

I started to cry too. I couldn't talk because words wouldn't come. I clicked off the cell and threw it on the seat. By the time I reached home, I'd gotten myself back under control. Bethany, Manuel, and Zsa Zsa were waiting for me when I pulled in. I almost felt as if I had a family.

Bethany took my jacket when I walked in the door and handed me a bowl of soup.

“Minestrone. You look as if you could use this,” she said.

I sat in the living room and devoured it.

“It's good, isn't it?” Manuel asked me.

“Very.”

Manuel put his arm around Bethany. They were sitting on the sofa next to me.

“She made it. From scratch.” He sounded so proud. Bethany beamed.

“You find the person you were looking for?” she asked.

“Right where she was supposed to be. Did Wilcox call?”

Bethany shook her head. “No one did.” She took the bowl from my hand. “You should go to bed. You look exhausted.”

“I am.” And I went upstairs.

I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on my bed. It felt wonderful. I closed my eyes. I knew I should get up and take my clothes off, but I was too tired to do it. The next thing I knew I was asleep.

 

 

Zsa Zsa woke me up at eight in the morning by cleaning my ear. I told her to cut it out and buried my face under the pillow, but she sat there growling and tugging on my sleeve with her teeth until I finally sat up.

“There. Are you satisfied?”

She wagged her tail, stretched out on the bed, put her head between her paws, and watched me crawl out of bed. I stripped off my clothes and stood under the shower until the hot water gave out. I dried my hair and braided it; then I found some clean clothes, jeans and my old black cashmere turtleneck sweater buried in the back of the drawer. I'd forgotten how much I loved wearing it, it was so soft, until I slipped it on.

As I went downstairs I could hear Manuel's alarm clock going off. I let Zsa Zsa out, made myself a pot of coffee, and toasted two slightly stale bagels and ate them with some honey and cream cheese. By this time it was a little after nine and I was feeling marginally better.

“You want me to open Noah's Ark?” Manuel asked as he came into the kitchen. His eyes were full of sleep.

“If you wouldn't mind. I want to wrap up the Wilcox thing.” I looked around. “Where's Bethany?”

“She went back to my mom's house. It's easier for her to go to school from there.”

“I'll be in the store around twelve.”

“Good.” Manuel took a cereal bowl out of the cabinet, opened the refrigerator door, grabbed the milk, and put both of them on the kitchen table. “Because Bethany and I have an appointment with the lawyer at two.”

“Manuel . . .”

He raised his hand. “Her parents don't give a shit about her, but they won't let her go either. At least this way she can do what she needs to.”

“This is an awfully big step.”

“I know. But she's got me to help her.”

I looked at Manuel. All of a sudden he seemed like an adult. I don't know. They needed each other. Maybe it would work.

“It'll be all right, Robin. I know it will.”

I gave Manuel a brief hug. “I hope so.”

“I do too,” he said softly.

I dropped my arms and he grabbed the box of Frosted Flakes off the kitchen table and began pouring it into his cereal bowl.

“See you soon.” I put on my boots and my parka and went out to start up my car. First I turned on the heater and the rear-window defroster and then I got the scraper out and cleaned off the windows. Ah, winter in Syracuse. You gotta love it.

I was pulling out of the driveway when Calli called. “I just wanted to let you know. Lily had six puppies.”

“So how does it feel to be Grandma?”

“Great. It was so exciting watching them being born. They're so ugly, like little rats, but I love them anyway. I've already used up two rolls of film. Will you be their godmother?”

“Godmother?” I laughed. “Are you having them baptized too?”

“I'm having their christening robes made now.”

“Good. I'll get a new outfit”

“What? Another pair of jeans?”

“For you I'll wear black leather.”

“So you will?”

“I'd be honored. When can I see them?”

“How about this evening? And Robin, Lily's being so good. I'm so proud of her. When I think that if it wasn't for you . . . I just get the chills.”

“Don't, Calli.”

“You're right. You're right. Stay in the present moment. The past doesn't matter. We create our own truth.”

If I could, I would take all of Calli's self-help books and consign them to the garbage can.

“I wouldn't go that far.” It has been my experience that if you don't pay attention to the past, it'll come around and bite you in the ass.

“You know what I mean. And Robin.” Calli lowered her voice, “You were wrong about Dirk. He's being wonderful. He didn't even care that I spent the night sleeping with Lily. He said he understood.”

“I'm glad.” I tried to sound sincere. I wanted to be wrong. God, did I ever. I just knew I wasn't.

Calli and I talked for another couple of minutes about the pups. After she hung up, I tried Wilcox's house again. Still no answer. I phoned his office. According to the message on the answering machine, no one came into the office until nine-thirty. Of course, I could leave a message if I wanted, and Mr. Wilcox would get back to me as soon as possible. Great.

By now I was beginning to feel a little uneasy. How drunk could Wilcox have gotten? First, I couldn't get him off the phone and now I couldn't reach him? I lit a cigarette and headed over to his house. It was closer than his office. I figured I'd check there—who knew? Maybe he'd gone on a bender and was passed out on the bathroom floor—and then I'd run by Paul's office and slip my report under his door.

The streets I traveled through were all shoveled. Fresh snow piled on top of the old, hiding the trash and the slush. Everything looked clean and white. Little drifts of snow blew off the fir trees and the wires. Flakes danced in the clear blue sky. Very charming. A regular Currier and Ives print. As long as you were on the inside looking out.

It took me ten minutes to reach Wilcox's house. I parked on the road and waded through a foot of snow to get to his door. If he'd gone out, he'd done it in someone else's car, because his was still in the driveway. No one had plowed it out.

I could have felt the hood of the car to make sure it was cold—Paul probably would have—but it seemed unnecessary. I could hear the television playing from where I was standing. I rang the bell. No one answered. I rang it again, even though I didn't expect anyone to come to the door. I was right. No one did.

I touched the door handle. It moved slightly, which was when I realized that the door wasn't completely closed. Later, the cops asked me why I hadn't waited and called them before going in, like any normal person would have done. I didn't have a really good answer. I felt as if I was caught in a drama and I had to play out the scene. I pushed the door open and went inside.

Even from my position in the hallway, I could see something bad had happened. One of the chairs in the living room was on its side. So was the coffee table. Magazines and papers had been scattered all over the floor. There was a splatter mark on the wall where someone had thrown something. Shards from one of the mirrors on the wall lay on the floor.

Two of the dining room chairs were lodged on top of the sideboard, looking as if they'd been thrown there, while a third, with one of its legs missing, was lying on its side. Pieces of shattered china and crystal were spread over the floor and the table. A landscape was impaled on one of the chair finials. So much for Janet Wilcox's decorating scheme.

The kitchen hadn't fared much better. The cupboard doors were hanging open. The floor and the counter were littered with cans and boxes. Smashed plates and glasses covered the floor and the kitchen table. Given their spread, it looked as if someone had heaved them at someone else. I spotted what looked like a smear of blood on the edge of the counter. Then I noticed another one on the floor. I was squatting down to look at it when the refrigerator turned on. The noise made me jump. I straightened up.

“Wilcox!” I yelled.

I didn't get an answer. But I hadn't expected one. When I wiped my hands on the side of my jeans, I was surprised to see that I was sweating. I straightened up and tried to recreate what had happened. Wilcox coming to the door, opening it, letting people in. And then the fight. Somehow I didn't think that Wilcox had won.

It turned out I was right.

He hadn't.

S
ometimes I still see Wilcox's body in my dreams. I think I always will.

I found him upstairs.

The acrid odor of burning flesh engulfed me when I stepped inside his bedroom. And there was the heat. Then I saw Wilcox.

Someone had stripped him naked, slapped duct tape over his mouth, and staked him out on his bed over a portable electric heater, the kind people use to heat their garages and bedrooms. The heater was turned up full blast. I couldn't imagine the agony he must have felt as he was slowly roasted alive.

I noticed cigarette burn marks on his legs and feet, and someone had cut large strips of skin off his chest and arms and stomach.

From the look on Wilcox's face, it had taken him a long time to die.

I began to gag. I averted my eyes from the body on the bed, yanked the plug from the heater out of the wall socket, then stumbled out of the room and threw up in the middle of the hall.

The kind of violence where you get mad and shoot someone I can understand, but not something like this. As I walked down the stairs, I noticed tiny splatters of blood on the wall. Wilcox's, no doubt. I thought I was okay, but I had trouble extracting my phone from my pocket. When I finally got it out, my fingers felt thick and clumsy as I punched in the numbers to Paul's cell phone.

This time he answered.

“Wilcox is dead,” I told him. “I'm going to call the police. I just wanted to let you know first.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.”

“Wait. Let me call them.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where are you?”

“At his house.”

“Stay there. I'll be right over.”

“Make it fast.”

I clicked the phone off and tried to concentrate on other things. Like Tiger Lily and her puppies and how nice it would be to go to Maui, but my mind kept going back to what I'd seen upstairs. I couldn't help myself.

Ten minutes later, I heard Paul's car pulling up outside.

“He's upstairs,” I said as he came through the door. “Second room on the right. And be careful where you step.”

Paul took the steps two at a time.

He came back down a couple of minutes later.

“Jesus,” he said.

I noticed there were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and the veins in his nose were redder.

“That poor sonofabitch.” He reached for his phone and called the police.

“I thought you said you were calling it in when I spoke to you,” I said as I lit two cigarettes and handed him one.

“I wanted to take a look first. Now I'm sorry I did.” He took a puff. “We shouldn't smoke in here,” he said. “We'll contaminate the crime scene.”

I got up and we headed outside.

“Jesus,” Paul repeated. “All my years on the force, I don't think I've ever seen anything like that.”

“I wish I hadn't seen it.”

“What made you come over?”

“I couldn't get you. I couldn't get Wilcox. I guess I just wanted to tell him I found his wife.”

Paul took another puff of his cigarette, snubbed it out with his fingers, and put the butt in his pocket. “No sense in confusing forensics,” he explained. He squared his shoulders. “Listen, about not being able to get me . . . I'm sorry. I've been in the hospital till this morning. Kidney stones.” He shook his head. “God, they hurt like a sonofabitch. They say it's the worst pain you can ever have.”

“Not the worst,” I said thinking of Wilcox.

“No. Not the worst,” Paul said softly. “You're right about that.”

Both of us stood there for a minute not saying anything.

“It's cold out here.” Paul rubbed his hands together. “Let's wait in my car.”

I nodded and we walked toward his Explorer, taking care to retrace our footsteps.

When we got inside, Paul reached under the seat and came out with a flask. He unscrewed the top, took a swig, and handed it to me.

“For the cold,” he said.

I took a gulp and handed it back.

“Feel better?” Paul asked.

“Marginally.”

He took another swig and passed it back to me. I took another drink. It was the same stuff that we'd had in his office. I could feel my insides begin to loosen up.

Paul hadn't shaved and the shirt and pants he was wearing looked as if he'd picked them off the top of the laundry pile.

“It's amazing what a person can live through before he dies,” he said.

“We should all be equipped with circuit breakers. Too much and we switch off.”

“We are, but if you're good, you know how to circumvent them. That's the art.”

I shivered and reached for the flask. It was something I didn't want to think about. “Who would do something like that?”

“I don't know. Wilcox must have really pissed someone off.”

“Still . . .”

“Maybe the cops will get lucky,” Paul said. “Maybe one of the neighbors noticed a strange car parked in the driveway. Or on the road. From the looks of it, whoever did this was here for a while.”

“I hope I don't run into them.”

Paul reached over, took the flask out of my hand, and took a big swallow. “Me either,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Me either.”

A snowplow lumbered by down the street. I lowered the window and tossed what was left of my cigarette out in the snow.

“Some guys, they just have no luck. No luck at all.”

“I've always thought you make your own,” Paul said.

“Maybe” I lit another cigarette and thought about how much I wanted to call George all of a sudden.