The Girl In The Glass (7 page)

Chapter 12

M
C
C
ABE WOKE
WITH
a start when he heard the front door open and then softly close.

A male voice came from the living room. “You got any beer?”

He instinctively reached for his weapon. It wasn’t there. He didn’t remember locking it up. He sat up, ready to get out of bed and find it, when he heard Casey’s urgent whisper. “Sssh. Be quiet. My father’s here. He’s sleeping.”

He looked at the bedside clock to see if she’d made curfew. Just after midnight. Nearly an hour early. Which he would have felt good about if his head wasn’t hurting and his mouth didn’t feel like sandpaper.

The male voice came again, this time speaking in not quite a whisper.

“Sorry. You got any beer?”

“Yes. But you can’t have any.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a cop, you jerk, and you’re underage. If he woke up, he’d probably throw both of us in the clink.”

“C’mon. You’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah, I’m kidding. He’d only throw
you
in the clink.” There was a brief silence. “All right. He wouldn’t throw you in the clink either, but he wouldn’t be happy.”

McCabe knew he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on his daughter and somebody who might be her boyfriend, but it was too much fun not to. He was tempted to wander out and say hi and give the kid the once-­over, but he knew Casey would give him absolute hell if he did. Not knowing what else to do, he piled up four pillows—­his two and Kyra’s two—­and lay back on his bed without turning on the lights. Parenting was hell.

Okay, he told himself. It was just after midnight. He’d been dead to the world for nearly nine hours. Unlikely he’d get any more sleep. He wondered if the world had changed in any meaningful way since he’d gotten himself so stupidly, staggeringly drunk. He checked his phone. No calls from Kyra. It was only a little after nine in San Francisco. She was probably out at dinner with some guy who wasn’t a cop.

Nearly dawn in England. He supposed Sandy was still snoozing in London, dreaming about shooting grouse or riding to the hounds or whatever the hell it was Lord MuckyMuck had planned for the weekend. On the other hand, maybe her plane had crashed and she was dead. That’d suit him just fine, except a lot of other ­people would have died with her. So maybe her plane had just developed engine trouble and had been diverted to someplace like Gander, Newfoundland. Man, would Sandy ever be pissed off finding herself in Gander. Who the hell can you show off to in Gander?

Tired of lying down, McCabe got up again and listened to Casey and the boy speaking softly. Nothing of consequence. Then the talking stopped. He supposed they were making out. Hoped the kid, whoever he was, deserved whatever affection he was getting. He was pretty sure things wouldn’t go very far. Not with Daddy, the cop, supposedly asleep in the next room. He heard soft laughter. A whispered good-­night.

I love you.

Yeah
,
I love you too. See you Saturday.

The door to the apartment opened and closed. The door to Casey’s bedroom opened and closed. McCabe walked to the window and peered through the blinds. He watched a tall skinny kid with carrot-­top hair leave the building. Kind of geeky looking. Geeky is good, McCabe told himself. Geeky wouldn’t push things too far too fast. The kid stopped. Took out a cell phone. Began texting. With his fingers still pecking away at the phone, he got into his car, an old Saturn, started the engine and drove away.

I love you. I love you too. See you Saturday.

Probably wouldn’t come to anything. She’d be in Providence come September. Ready for new adventures with college boys. The idea of being without her, of being alone with both Casey and Kyra gone, was painful.

Okay. No way was he going to sleep any more. He supposed he could go to the office, but he didn’t have much to do there either. Maybe go for a run? Nah. Running while hungover wasn’t appealing. He looked around the room. The bed, the rocking chair, the empty closet where Kyra’s clothes used to hang. It all felt like it was closing in. He needed air. And space. He went to the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee. Came back. Took off the clothes he’d been sleeping in. Blue button-­down shirt, crappy tie and gray pants. Clearance rack stuff from Men’s Wearhouse. The raspy voice from the commercials growled through his mind.
You’re gonna like the way you look.
But he didn’t like the way he looked. Point of fact he thought he looked like shit. Still, you had to save money somewhere.

He took a one-­minute shower. Dried himself and found a pair of jeans and a blue sweatshirt with USM written across the front. He pulled them on. Sorted through the shoes in the closet and found some black Nikes. He unlocked the gun safe, pulled out his holster and ser­vice weapon, checked the load and strapped it on. Pulled the sweatshirt down over it. Not that he thought he’d need the gun, but he never left it unattended in the apartment.

He poured a large travel mug of black coffee. Crept into Casey’s room. Watched her sleep for a few seconds, her face softly lit by moonlight streaming through the window. A face so like Sandy’s. A personality so different. He kissed her softly on the forehead.
Sleep well
,
my love.

“G’night, Dad,” she murmured
.

He double-­locked the apartment door and headed down and out into the pleasantly cool night air. He walked over to the only good thing—­not counting Casey—­that had come out of his eight-­year marriage. A cherry-­red ’57 T-­Bird convertible he and Sandy bought the first year they were together and had spent innumerable weekends restoring. Even more weekends driving out to the Hamptons with the top down.

He turned the key and listened with pleasure as the big Ford V8 came to life with a throaty roar. He took a minute to connect his smartphone to the newly installed Bluetooth player and tapped
Bird: The Complete Charlie Parker on Verve.
Hadn’t listened to much else since he’d downloaded the life’s work of the musician he considered the greatest and most innovative jazz man of all time. As the sounds of Bird’s sax tumbled out of the speakers, McCabe pulled his own Bird out onto the Eastern Prom and roared off to the left, heading for the interstate. He lowered both windows and sucked in cool, fresh air. He didn’t know where he was going, but there were plenty of empty places in Maine, and he just wanted to lose himself.

As he drove, McCabe’s mind went back to the final scene with Kyra. She’d threatened to leave him before. Had actually done it a ­couple of times when he’d been so absorbed in a case he barely said hello. He knew that pissed her off. He’d be pissed if she did the same to him. He couldn’t count the times he told her he was sorry. Mostly she forgave him. Said it was just the way he was made. An obsessive personality obsessing about catching and punishing one slime ball or another who thought he could get away with rape, murder, assault, whatever.

He’d asked her to marry him half a dozen times, and the response was always the same. “The day you stop being a cop.”

“Kyra, ­people marry cops. My mother married a cop.”

“Not a cop like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The problem with marrying you, McCabe, is that you’re already married to your job. When you’re in the middle of a case, you barely know I’m alive. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what happened with Sandy.”

When she said that two months ago, she hit a hot button. He lost his temper and slammed out. When he came back four hours later, she was gone. He didn’t think much of it. She’d left in the past and had never gone far. Just down the hill, back to the small artist’s loft on Chestnut Street that doubled as her studio and bolt-­hole. When she’d come back days later, she’d tell him she loved him. And ask him once again to quit the department. Say she couldn’t take much more of either the loneliness or the angst of never knowing if he’d come home dead or alive or maybe not come home at all.

He’d tell her he loved her too. Enough to want to live with her forever. But he didn’t know what he would do with himself if he stopped being a cop. It was part of his genetic code, his DNA, and he didn’t know if there was anything he could do about that.

Her response rang in his ear. “Enough of this, McCabe. Either get another job or get yourself another girlfriend. You can’t have both.”

He never thought she meant it. But then came that day eight weeks ago when the phone rang and he discovered she hadn’t just gone down the hill to Chestnut Street.

“Where are you?”

“San Francisco.”

He frowned. She hadn’t said anything about going to San Francisco. “What are you doing there?”

“Starting a new job.”

He didn’t respond. Just tried to figure out what she was talking about.

“A tenure track job at the San Francisco Art Institute,” she said. “Too good to turn down.”

“You didn’t tell me you were applying for that.”

“You weren’t around.”

“What’s wrong with teaching at MECA?” MECA, the Maine College of Art, was right down the hill on Congress. Five minutes from the apartment even if you didn’t make every light.

“What’s wrong with MECA,” she said, “is the same thing that’s wrong with my loft on Chestnut Street. It’s way too close. Whenever I go there, all you have to do is leave me alone and, in no time at all, I’ll come home, wagging my tail behind me. And we’re right back where we started. McCabe, I can’t take it anymore.”

“If I stopped being a cop, would you take me back?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“What would I do with myself in San Francisco?”

“I’ve told you before. You could teach.”

“Teach what? Where?”

“I’m sure they’ve got courses in criminal justice out here. As far as I know, it’s the only thing you’re a certified expert in. Or maybe you could do corporate security. That guy you went to NYU with once offered you a job doing that. Six-­figure salary, as I recall. Probably some tech companies out here that would love to have you.”

McCabe shook his head. “Kyra, I don’t teach. I don’t do tech. I chase bad guys. That’s who I am.”

There were ten seconds of silence before she said, “I know.” The two words pregnant with regret for what might have been. For what would never be. “That’s why I’m in San Francisco. Too far away to pop over when missing you really starts to hurt. Which I know it will.”

“Or when I start missing you?”

“Which I know you will. And guess what? You’ll always be welcome.”

“Even if you fall in love with another guy? One of those Bay Area painters. Like that Richard Diebenkorn guy you’re always talking about.”

“Unfortunately, Diebenkorn’s dead. Almost twenty years now.”

“All right then. Somebody who’s alive.”

“I’ll let you know if that happens.”

That pretty much finished the conversation.

He asked her what he should do with her paintings that hung in the apartment.

“Just keep them as a reminder of what might have been.”

He hadn’t taken them down yet. But he knew he would.

Chapter 13

“
D
O YOU KNOW
what today is?” Aimée asked.

“Graduation day?”

“For me, my lovely Lord Byron, today is Independence Day.” Her warm breath blew softly in his ear as her hand explored her AP English teacher’s slender white body, still moist from lovemaking.

“What do you mean?”

“As of today, according to the official rules of the game, I can fuck you anytime, anywhere and in any weird way I want. And nobody can do a damned thing about it. Isn’t that delicious?”

Knowles smiled. “Not for the next ten minutes you can’t. I don’t care how delicious you are.”

She slipped her tongue in his ear. “Wanna bet?” she murmured, sliding her hand between his legs. He began growing hard.

“C’mon, Byron,” she breathed playfully, “rise to the occasion.” Her voice little more than a whisper, she pulled him toward her, sliding her legs around his.

Aimée suddenly tensed. She could have sworn she’d heard someone laughing outside the window. Could Mr. Jolley be up to his old tricks? Or was Moseley spying on her? She slid out of bed, walked to the window and peered out. Saw nothing but moonlight broken by the blackness of trees. Heard nothing but the sound of a gentle wind blowing through the leaves. Perhaps that was all the sound had been. A gust of wind.

“What’s the matter?” asked Byron.

“Nothing. Just thought I heard something. Or maybe someone.”

She made sure the curtains were as tightly closed as they could be, checked the lock on the door and returned to bed.

Byron slipped his arms around her body, stroked her back and pulled her down on top of him. They began to move together, slowly, rhythmically. Not the eager, breathless coupling of twenty minutes earlier, but a gentler, more measured lovemaking. Knowles murmured poetry in her ear as they moved.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

He knew Aimée loved it when he recited Lord Byron during sex.

When they’d finished, the two of them lay silently, side by side, on the pull-­out sofa bed in the same small studio on the far end of the island where the first Aimée had painted her paintings and pleasured her lover. The same studio where, a little more than one hundred years ago, Mark Garrison was said to have stabbed and then chased her as she’d fled toward the cliff two hundred yards away.

Some of Garrison’s studies of her, paintings and drawings both clothed and nude, hung on the wall, having been methodically hunted down and purchased over the years by the first Aimée’s son, Edward Whitby III. The one they called Teddy. Daddy’s grandfather. Most of the drawings predated the large portrait in the main house. The story, the way it was told, was that their affair had been going on long before Garrison painted the portrait. Mostly they met in Boston, but occasionally, when Edward was away, here on the island. It was said that the affair was the main reason the first Aimée had wanted Garrison, rather than Sargent, to paint her portrait though Sargent was generally considered superior.

Byron Knowles slid off the bed and walked over for a closer look at the drawings. This was his first time in the studio. His first time on the island.

Aimée followed and stood behind Byron as he examined them. She wrapped her arms around his body. Rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know, it’s amazing,” he said. “Even in these gestural drawings you look exactly like her. Face. Body. Physical attitude. Everything. It’s quite remarkable.” He turned, slipped his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “And now, my darling girl,” he said softly, “it’s time for me to leave. I promised Gina I’d be home by midnight. And it looks like I’m going to be more than two hours late. There’ll be an almighty row when I get there. I know she suspects what’s going on.”

Aimée pulled him even closer. “Byron, please. Isn’t it time you told your wife you’re leaving her? That you’re coming to Providence with me? You don’t love her. You love me. You’ve told me so at least a dozen times.”

“We’ve talked about this before. You know it can’t happen. At least not right now.”

“Why can’t it happen? You know you’d be happier.”

“Yes, I probably would be. At least for a while. Until you grew bored with me.”

“That wouldn’t happen.”

“If you were being honest, you’d know it would. Besides, what could I do in Providence? Having walked out on my pregnant wife and child and run off with a former student, no school would ever hire me. In Providence or anywhere else. I’d be lucky if I didn’t get sent to jail.”

Knowles smiled sadly and kissed her softly on the lips. Walked over to the window and looked out into the night. “There’s a law against teachers falling in love with their students. At least those under eighteen.”

Aimée retreated to the bed and covered herself with the sheet. “I’m no longer your student. And I’m no longer under eighteen.”

“No, but this affair didn’t start twelve hours ago, and ­people would surely figure that out. If that somebody happened to be your father, I hate to think what he’d do. Probably pay somebody like that Kraft guy or my wife’s macho-­man father to come down to Providence, cut me into little pieces and throw me in the river.”

“Daddy’s not like that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t take kindly to ­people who mess around with what he considers his.”

“He’s not a thug, and I’m not his property.”

“No. But he loves you and he’ll want to protect you.”

“Byron, this isn’t fair. I don’t want to lose you.” Aimée felt tears coming. She’d always been capable of crying on demand, but these were genuine. “If you came to Providence, you could concentrate on your writing. Your poetry or maybe the screenplay we talked about. You said your friend Meyers thinks it’s a great idea. And at night, when I come back from my classes, we’d drink wine, eat dinner and make love all night. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Sounds delightful. It really does. But poetry doesn’t pay enough to keep a mouse alive. And while Meyers thinks the movie idea has potential, potential is not a contract. Besides, I’m not even halfway done with it.”

“Why does any of that matter? I’m rich, remember? My grandfather’s trust fund became all mine last April. Which makes me . . . what would Lord Byron have called it? A woman of independent means?”

“That wasn’t Lord Byron,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, it was Sally Fields. At least in the movie version. Anyway, even if I didn’t get arrested and go to jail, there’s still no way I could allow myself to live off your money.”

“You let me pay rent on the apartment.”

“Yes. And I feel guilty as hell about that.”

“You also told me you planned on divorcing your wife.”

“Aimée, we’ve talked about this before. Yes, I want a divorce. I’ve told Gina I wanted one. Not once but three or four times. But she’s a good Catholic girl and she won’t hear of it.”

“You’re not her slave. You could just leave.”

“Yes, I could. But she’s eight months pregnant and I’m sleeping with a teenager and former student. Gina’s vindictive. She’d let everyone from Cobb to your father know what happened. She’d try to humiliate us publically. And if she ever did agree to a divorce, even a semicompetent lawyer would make sure she got every nickel I ever made. Now and forever more. She’s a self-­righ­teous bitch who’d hang us both out to dry.”

Aimée folded her arms across her chest. Her mouth went into classic pout mode. “What good is being rich if I can’t have the things I want?”

Knowles shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. Life isn’t easy? Even if we suffered the slings and arrows of public humiliation and I allowed you to support me, what would happen when you lost interest? When you got bored playing house with an aging poet and wannabe screenwriter and decided you wanted somebody new? Somebody younger. More exciting. More interesting.”

“I won’t get bored. I promise.”

“Yes you will, and I think you know that as well as I do. What do I do then?”

Aimée stared at him angrily. He was being an asshole. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Get a job. Write a book. Make your fucking movie. Jesus Christ, Knowles, get a life instead of letting your nasty little wife treat you like a fucking floor mat.”

“I’m afraid, Aimée, I already have a life,” he said as he pulled on his clothes. “Which at the moment includes not just my wife but a little girl, just four years old, who I love. Not to mention another child due in a month. No, I don’t think so. As amazing as you are and as sad as it makes me to say this, I think this will have to be our last time.”

Her body jerked, as if shocked by an electric current. “As
amazing
as I am? Don’t you really mean as amazing as the
sex
has been? Isn’t that what you
really
meant to say? Probably all you ever wanted from me was sex. All that ‘I love you’ stuff and ‘I want to divorce my wife’ stuff? That was all bullshit, wasn’t it?”

He reached out for her. She slapped his hand away.

“I’m sorry, Aimée. I do love you. You’re one of the most beautiful, talented, irresistible women I’ve ever met. But you’re also my student. Which makes my behavior over the past few months not only illegal but also unforgivable.” He smiled ruefully. “It was stupid and self-­indulgent. I’ve never been strong enough to say no to you, but now I have to be.”

Aimée’s face contorted in anger. “You stupid, stupid man. Don’t you know what you’re throwing away?”

“Not throwing away. I’m giving you your life back.”

“You bastard,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “You’ve taught me well. I can quote your namesake as well as you: ‘
Remember thee! Remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream. Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
’ ” She spat out the words. “Remember thee, my dear Byron, remorse shall haunt thee like a feverish dream!”

Byron Knowles barely heard the last few words before he closed the door and headed for the Whitby family’s private dock, where his boat was tied up.