Safer (17 page)

And so she came in.

Pete was having an affair, she eventually told me. A woman Melody worked with at the bank. A loan officer, not one of the other tellers.

He’d claimed to have broken it off two months ago, but he hadn’t been truthful. As a matter of fact, he was with the fucking bitch right now. Two glasses of wine, and her hands were still shaking.

I opened another bottle. If this is starting to sound like a horrible cliché, it’s not over yet.

I don’t spill the ups and downs of my marriage. Not to my dad, or even to Charlie Bernard. I’ve always been firm in thinking that my marriage is between Sara and me.

But Melody poured out her guts on our living room couch, and I commiserated with tales of my own. It only seemed fair. Humane, even. We finished the second bottle of wine, and I opened another.

After all of that wine, it happened just like it happens in the
movies. One minute I was being a good listener; the next, she was returning the courtesy.

And then, somehow, we were all over each other. Music swells, clothing drops to the floor.

From there, it wasn’t like the movies at all.

It was awkward. Mechanical. Even cold. No gasps or moans or breathless sighs. We grappled and struggled and stopped before either one of us had finished. After we’d dressed, we could barely look each other in the eye.

At four in the morning, Melody went home to 36 Sycamore Court like a disgraced bridesmaid sneaking back to her hotel room. Pete hadn’t yet returned.

I collected our empty wine bottles, our stained glasses, and threw them all in the trash.

Twelve hours later—around four o’clock that Saturday afternoon—our front doorbell rang.

When I answered, I found Roger standing on the stoop. He looked at me like he’d heard a story that made him sad.

“This isn’t working,” he said.

“HOLD THERE A MINUTE.” Douglas Bennett leans forward. “Mallory actually stated a date. December sixteenth.”

“A loose thread,” I tell him. “That’s what he said. He had this whole speech worked out about how a strong community was this tight- knit fabric, and if you pull on a loose thread, everything starts to unravel.”

“He verbally directed you to move out of the neighborhood by sixteen December. Yesterday. I have that right?”

“He said that once a hole gets started, it only gets bigger. He said that there’s no use patching the hole if you don’t fix the snag. On Planet Roger, apparently, I’m the snag.”

Bennett folds his hands. “Who else have you told about this?”

“Nobody.”

“Not even what’s-his-name. Michael?”

“Nobody,” I say.

That statement, of course, includes my wife. I force myself to look at Sara. I’m cringing inside. Waiting.

She’s staring at the floor. Her shoulders are rigid, hands limp in her lap.

Bennett glances at me and says, “Why don’t I leave you two alone for a few minutes.”

Before he can make a move, Sara draws herself together and stands up. Without looking at me, she walks around the table, collects her coat and purse, and leaves.

I sit like a block of wood and watch her go. What else can I do? It’s pointless to run after her. I can’t change anything. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound absurd. I can’t make myself disappear into this chair. Did I really think this moment wouldn’t happen? How could I let it happen like this?

In a minute, I hear the glass doors rattle at the front of Bennett & Partners Trial Law. A minute after that, I hear the muffled sound of a car door slamming. An engine turning over. A distant bark of tires.

The silence settles.

Bennett finally sighs. “Tough day.”

I nod.

“Listen,” he says. “I know it doesn’t mean much right now, but you’ve done the right thing. Now that I know the whole story, we can start looking at ways—”

“Oh, I’m not finished.”

Bennett raises an eyebrow.

“There’s more,” I tell him.

“How much more?”

“I’m just getting started.”

He settles back.

“I need you to meet somebody,” I say.

IT’S ALREADY DARK by the time we get on the road.

We take the Interstate forty minutes south, to a Flying J truck stop at the I-680 junction. Bennett drives us in a Mercedes instead of his personal BMW. The Mercedes is owned by the firm and parked in a secured lot behind the building.

By changing vehicles and using the rear exit, we manage to leave the Channel Five Clark Falls news van parked out front of Bennett & Partners. The Mercedes has heated leather seats and a speakerphone system, which Bennett can dial by voice. He talks on the phone half the trip, calling people at their homes, interrupting their weekends, explaining the basics of my situation one time after another.

He speaks to one of his interns back in Clark Falls. He speaks to a youth psychologist in Des Moines. He speaks to someone in Omaha who apparently knows everything about
computers. He speaks to someone who apparently knows everything about photography in general, digital photography in particular.

Thirty miles out of town, Bennett leaves a voice- mail message at the county attorney’s office, asking for a return call. Then he punches a button in the console by his hand.

“As long as we’re exploring avenues,” he says, “we should discuss Miss Seward.”

“What else is there to discuss?”

“I’m sure this is something that you’ve considered,” Bennett says, “but let’s suppose that Mallory is right. She’s developed an infatuation, or whatever you want to call it. A crush on you.”

“I really don’t think that’s the case.”

“Paul, if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned that nobody— and I mean nobody—knows the teenage mind.”

“She’s barely a teenager.”

“We live in troubling times.” He checks his mirrors and merges into the passing lane. “For the sake of argument. She’s got a crush.”

“Okay.”

“The girl finds out about you and Mom.” He raises a finger.
“Stepmom.
The woman I talked to on the phone just now, she’d tell you that can be a whole other can of worms.”

Isn’t he right? Isn’t there a part of me that’s already considered this? “I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t think—”

“I’m only telling you what our youth counselor might say.” He passes a pickup truck pulling an empty livestock trailer and fades back into the cruising lane. “And what she might say is, this pattern of Brittany’s—getting herself into trouble, getting herself grounded every five minutes—all of that could be her way of getting Daddy’s attention. Maybe even her way of punishing him.”

“Or she’s bored.”

“And maybe
this,”
Bennett says, gesturing between us, indicating
our otherwise nonexistent relationship, “is her way of punishing
you.”

My face hurts where Pete kicked me, and my head has been throbbing all afternoon. Despite my having gobbled a handful of Advils, the pain seems to be getting worse instead of better.

The oncoming headlights hurt my eyes. Even in the smooth-gliding Mercedes, the whine of tires on cold blacktop sounds like a drill in my ears. It occurs to me that maybe I should have seen a doctor after all. I could have a concussion or something.

“Maybe we’re fixated on this deadline of Mallory’s,” he says, “instead of a more plausible explanation.”

“Hell of a coincidence.”

“Agreed.”

“I know he’s behind this.”

“He’s certainly involved. We know that much.”

“He’s got to be manipulating her somehow.”

“Or maybe it’s the other way around.” Bennett glances over to gauge my reaction. “Can you be absolutely sure that Brittany Seward wasn’t aware of this disagreement between you and Mallory? Even this eviction date you say he imposed on you?”

How can I be sure of anything? I see the bright lights of the Flying J a mile or so up ahead, illuminating the winter dark.

“In any case, you need to prepare yourself. This is going to get unpleasant for everybody.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ve been accused of felony sexual misconduct,” Bennett says. “And whether this girl is lying of her own accord or lying for Roger Mallory, she’s your accuser. Which means we’re going to need to beat her up a little.”

“No it doesn’t,” I say. “I don’t want—”

“It’s not my idea of a good time either,” Bennett assures me. “My niece is Brittany’s age. But you’re over a barrel. You need to understand that.”

“I need to talk to Brit. This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, no.” He wags one gloved finger. “That’s not going to be an option.”

I say nothing. Our exit is coming up.

“Listen up, Professor. If I hear you went anywhere near that kid without me in the room, you won’t have to fire me again. I’ll drop your ass like it’s radioactive. Let me know that you’re hearing this.”

“I’m hearing this.”

“That’s good.” Bennett takes the off- ramp and falls in line behind a convoy of eighteen- wheelers, all following each other down the exit lane, around the curve of a service road, and up the hill toward shelter. “Now. When are you going to explain to me why the hell we’ve driven to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere?”

“There.” I point to a neon sign around the corner of the main building. The diner. “He said to meet him there.”

“You know, I’ve handled a number of noteworthy cases for a town this size.” Bennett tilts his chin as though casting his mind back. “Five years ago, I defended a man who accidentally hired an undercover state trooper to murder his wife. Not a nice fellow. But a clear case of entrapment.” He peels away from the caravan of trucks on their way to the bright halide glare of the fueling pavilion. “Nothing quite as cloak- and- dagger as this, however.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I was being sardonic.”

There aren’t any parking spots near the building. I see a few open spots in the middle rows. Bennett rolls slowly past each one, tires crunching over scattered road grit on the cracked surface of the parking lot. At last he pulls into an open space beneath a lamppost fifty yards away. We’re perched on a treeless knob off the Interstate, miles of wide- open farmland all around us, and I can hear the wind howling outside the car. Bennett senses me looking at him.

“Door dents,” he says of his parking job. “It’s not my car.”

With nightfall, the temperature has plummeted. The cutting
wind catches us as we step outside the car, slapping our faces, pushing us around. We clutch our flapping coats and hustle across the lot, the pavement dry as old bone in the cold.

Inside, the diner is warm and boisterous, packed with truckers and travelers. The air smells like meat loaf and fried chicken; silverware clatters against plates. Through speakers in the ceiling, a twangy voice sings a country- western rendition of “Holly Jolly Christmas.” Colored lights blink and twinkle all around the buffet.

Bennett nods at the garland- wrapped sign in the entry. “Apparently, we’re to seat ourselves.”

I’m already scanning the tables and booths. We’re fifteen minutes late, and I’m wondering if we’ve blown it.

Then I see a head pop up. Last booth in the back, away from the windows.

It’s no wonder I missed him. I doubt I’d have recognized Darius Calvin at all if it weren’t apparent that he recognizes me.

“There he is.” I start through the dining area. “Come on.”

A middle- aged waitress with sinewy arms and a pot of coffee in each hand says, “Be with you boys in a minute.”

“Last booth in the back,” I tell her. Suddenly I’m starving. “Love some of that coffee.”

“You got it, hon.”

We make our way back. I slide into the booth without waiting for an invitation and say, “Guess you’re working on a new look.”

Darius Calvin says, “Guess you’re late.”

“Sorry.” The difference in his appearance truly is startling. He’s shaved his head bald, and a dense black beard covers his jaw. He looks a little bit like Isaac Hayes. I touch my own head. “Isn’t it colder with no hair?”

“Man, that psycho cop been by twice since I seen you.” He pushes back from his plate—a half- eaten pile of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes, all smothered in brown gravy. Judging by the gelid dregs in the empty plate by his elbow, he’s working on his second helping. He looks to his left, leans forward, drops his
voice. “Tells me I see you come around again, I better be callin’ him.” Darius runs a hand over his bare scalp as if to remind himself of how different he looks.

I play dumb for Bennett’s sake. “Which cop?”

“Man, you know which cop.”

“Stockman?”

He spreads his fingers.
There you go.
Then he picks up his fork and his knife and saws off a bite of meat. “Saw you on the news.”

“Oh?” I haven’t seen the news yet.

“Guess you’re in some trouble.”

“It seems I am.”

Darius Calvin points sideways with his fork, still chewing, eyes still on me. “Who’s this?”

Bennett has remained standing there at the end of the table in his suede overcoat and gloves. He raises his eyebrows at me.

“This is my attorney, Douglas Bennett. Bennett, this is Darius Calvin. Tell him who you are, Darius.”