The One I Left Behind (27 page)

“Who?” For a second, she thought he was asking if she thought Len could really be Mr. Right.

“Neptune. Do you think it’s him or some sick copycat? I mean, shit, it’s been twenty-five years. That’s a long time for a killer to lay low.”

“I don’t know, but either way, he’s got Tara, right?”

“That’s another thing, isn’t it?” Charlie said. “Why Tara? Why take her?”

Reggie shrugged. “Maybe she knew something. Lorraine said my mom was really agitated the night before last and that Tara was up all night with her. I’ve been thinking that maybe my mom gave her some clue that she decided to follow up on, and she got too close.”

Charlie nodded. “Good theory. Makes sense. Especially given her background. Remember how crazy the whole Neptune thing made her? How obsessed she was? Like it was her mission to catch him and no one else stood a chance?” He was breathing too fast, taking little fish-out-of-water gulps of air.

Reggie nodded. “Is your dad still a cop?”

“No. He retired four years ago. Spends most of his time working on this old boat he bought. He’s got it docked down in New London. Between you and me, I think he spends more time in the bar down there than on the boat.” He smiled. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it. That’s what retirement should be, right? Shooting the shit with other old guys, making up fish stories.”

Reggie smiled.

“You know what Tara would say if she were here, don’t you?” Charlie asked. “I bet she’d say what she did all those years ago—the cops aren’t going to catch this guy. If we want to find her, we have to do it ourselves.”

“I know,” Reggie said, her hand touching her shirt just over her collarbone, feeling through the fabric for Tara’s necklace. “I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.”

Chapter 28

June 21, 1985

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

W
HEN
R
EGGIE WALKED INTO
Runway 36, she knew it was the place her mother had taken her the day she lost her ear. She recognized the red vinyl barstools, now cracked and patched with duct tape, the sad little booths on the left side of the restaurant, the pool table shimmed with a phone book. She bet if she was able to lift the table and look at the date on the phone book it would be at least eight years old.

Want to see a trick? Buy me a drink and I’ll show you.

Reggie’s chest felt tight. The scar tissue over her missing ear tingled.

She glanced at the glossy wood bar top, could almost see her mother’s right hand, still perfect, sprinkling salt and setting the egg on its end.

Reggie blinked the past away and looked around.

It was Friday night and the place was packed with people blowing their week’s pay. The place stank of greasy food, beer, cigarette smoke, and unwashed bodies. The floor was sticky under her feet. She felt a tug of fear and apprehension as she stepped into the loud, smoky space, thinking back to how the events that transpired here eight years ago led to her losing her ear.

Glen Campbell was singing “Rhinestone Cowboy” on the jukebox. A group of leather-clad, bearded bikers were playing pool on the shimmed table, and the one waiting to take his shot looked their way, sneering. He wore a black leather skullcap and riding chaps over his jeans.

A big guy in a tight Members Only jacket was standing by the door. He had a broad, sloped forehead that reminded Reggie of pictures she’d seen of a Neanderthal.

“No underage,” he barked as they came in.

“It’s cool, Terry, they’re with me,” Sid said, stepping up to shake the big guy’s hand. He whispered something to Terry, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Terry took the cigarettes and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, nodding thanks.

“We good, then?” Sid asked.

Terry gave a noncommittal grunt and let them pass.

Reggie, Tara, and Charlie followed Sid as he approached the bar, where a thin, grizzled man was polishing glasses behind the counter. A hunched-over june bug of a man was sipping a drink at the end of the bar. The man to their left wore a blue airport security uniform. Reggie guessed him to be in his early forties. His skin had the look of someone who’d spent most of his life outdoors in all kinds of weather. Alligator hide. Reggie glanced to her right, where a man dressed like he’d spent all day in the tobacco fields was whispering in Spanish into a woman’s neck, his breath tickling, making her laugh. Reggie saw she was missing a front tooth, poking her tongue out of the gap as she giggled.

Reggie leaned forward, her hands resting on one of the red stools, maybe even the one she’d sat on as a little girl, the man with the crooked nose promising to give her a dollar if she could finish her burger. Reggie imagined running into him now. Wondered if her mother had kept in touch. Jesus, maybe the Boxer was Neptune.

Did anyone ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Marlon Brando?

Reggie scanned the crowd, studied all the rough male faces. The biker with the skullcap glowered at her.

Any of these men could be Neptune,
Reggie thought, her eyes turning back to the skinny bartender.
Any of them.

“If you want to order some food, you can go ahead and sit down.” The man hardly looked up from his glasses to spit out his greeting.

“Nah, no food tonight,” Sid said to the bartender. “We’re kinda looking for someone.”

Reggie was sure that once they learned who she was they’d pat her on the back and tell her whatever she needed to know.

“Who isn’t?” asked the june bug with a snicker.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, kids?” said the skinny man, sighing. “Your mamas are probably wondering where you’re at.” He eyed Terry at the door, but Terry was talking to one of the pool players and didn’t see.

Charlie started to inch toward the front door.

“Tell ’em who you are,” Sid said, shoving Reggie forward, toward the bar.

Reggie put her hands on the scarred bar top, feeling the scratches, initials of lovers long gone, drinkers who probably died of cirrhosis.

“I’m Vera Dufrane’s daughter. You know her?”

“Everyone
knows Vera,” said the june bug, laughing in an ugly way.

The skinny bartender looked up, stopped polishing for a minute. His eyes were dull and watering, his nose dripping. Reggie smiled, knowing her mother’s name was the ticket. Now she was getting somewhere.

“Didn’t know Vera had a kid,” admitted the bartender.

“Neither did I,” agreed the june bug.

For a moment no one spoke. Reggie’s cheeks grew hot and she felt the heat radiating out to her one real ear, making it red.

The jukebox blared “A Horse with No Name.”

Runway 36 was a little behind in the music department. No Madonna or Wham! on the soundtrack.

“She’s been doing a play in New Haven,” Reggie said. “We were hoping we could find some of her theater friends and talk to them.”

The bartender squinted at her. “A play?”

Reggie nodded. “In New Haven.”

The bartender stared blankly at her.

“Reggie here said her mom was planning to get married,” Sid said. “Any idea who the lucky guy might be?”

“Married?” said the june bug. “Vera?” He laughed a rusty little laugh. “Right.”

“The cops were in here earlier asking about her,” the bartender said. “She in some kind of trouble or something?”

“Maybe,” said Tara.

“Probably just lying low,” the june bug said. “Vera does that sometimes.”

Behind them, one of the bikers playing pool, yelled, “Scratch!”

Reggie spun around, looking for her mother’s version of Old Scratch—horns, hooves, and pitchfork. Then Reggie realized it was just the game, a bad shot. The biker in the skullcap was pounding his opponent on the shoulder, saying, “Fifty bucks! Cough it up.”

Reggie turned back to the bar.

“Did you try Vera’s place?” the guy in the security uniform asked. duane said his name tag.

“We just came from the house,” Sid said.

The security guard smiled a
You kids sure can be stupid
smile and shook his head like he wasn’t at all surprised.

“Not her house. Her
place
. She’s always kept a room over at Alistair’s. About two miles down the road. Airport Efficiencies, it’s called.”

Chapter 29

October 21, 2010

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

C
HARLIE AND
R
EGGIE SAT
across from each other at the kitchen table, steam from coffee cups rising between them. The morning edition of the
Hartford Examiner
was open on the table, Tara’s face peering up at them. In the lower left corner, was an old photo of Vera. Reggie skimmed the article.

“Shit,” she said. “They know everything. It says that Tara was working here, taking care of my mom.”

Charlie nodded, reaching for his coffee. “I’m surprised it took them this long.”

Reggie folded up the paper in disgust.

Charlie had carried his guitar out of the tree house, and it was now sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, a silent and watchful old friend joining them for coffee.

Reggie had made herself a triple espresso, and an Americano for Charlie.

“This is great,” he said, taking a sip. “Sure beats my usual Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Be careful,” Reggie warned with a sly smile. “Once you’ve tasted real coffee, there’s no going back.”

Charlie took another sip and looked around the kitchen. “I can’t believe your aunt’s still here. This is a big house to live in and take of. It’s a lot for one person.”

“Well, as you can see, she hasn’t exactly been keeping up with things.”

“Think I should give her a card? Would she ever consider selling, moving into someplace more manageable? There are some new condos across from Millers’ Farm—they’re actually pretty nice.”

Reggie shook her head. “She’ll never leave here. She and this house, they’re . . .”—Reggie searched for the right word—“bound.”

She couldn’t imagine her aunt anywhere else.

The Nautilus house Reggie was designing would be perfect for a single person on the move. Lorraine could cross the country, going from one trout stream to the next. But she’d never leave. It was as if she were a part of the house, a woman formed from stone and cement, just as cold and unyielding as the foot-thick walls that formed their fortress.

As if on cue, Lorraine wandered into the kitchen, carrying a dirty bowl to the sink.

“You remember Charlie Berr?” Reggie said.

Lorraine eyed him suspiciously. “Yes. Of course. Nice to see you again, Charles.”

“You too, Miss Dufrane.” He gave her his warmest smile, but Lorraine’s face remained unchanged.

“How’s your father?” Lorraine asked.

“Fine, thanks. Busier than ever now that he’s retired. He went and bought a boat. Does a lot of fishing.”

Lorraine gave a stiff nod. “And your uncle Bo, how’s he?”

Charlie looked down at the floor. “Not so good. He’s got cancer.”

“Cancer?” Lorraine said, frowning hard.

“Yes, ma’am. Pancreatic.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her face softened. “How’s Frances holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Lorraine nodded. “You give them my best, will you, Charles?” She ran water into the bowl in the sink and reached for a sponge and dish soap.

So much for cold and unyielding. Lorraine had softened in her old age. Maybe it was seeing her peers get old and sick. Or maybe, Reggie thought, Lorraine was only sympathetic to people who were dying.

“Lorraine,” Reggie said, “I found yesterday’s paper out in the trash can. Are you sure you didn’t put it there?”

Lorraine shook her head. “I told you, the last time I saw the paper was yesterday when you were looking at it. It was right here on the table.” She finished washing the bowl and put it in the dish drainer. Then she turned to face Reggie. “Maybe you put it out in the trash and just don’t remember.” Lorraine seemed flustered.

“Maybe,” Reggie said, thinking
No way in hell
.

“I got your mother some oatmeal, but she went back to sleep before she had much,” Lorraine said.

Reggie nodded. “We can try again later. If you need me for anything, we’ll be upstairs.”

Lorraine gave her a disapproving look that made Reggie feel like she was a teenager again, trying to sneak a boy up to her bedroom. Lorraine went back to looking at Charlie with suspicion. Then her eye caught on the newspaper and she unfolded it, saw the photos and headline, and immediately closed it.

“Is this yours?” Lorraine said, holding up the large screwdriver Reggie had left sitting on the table beside the paper.

Not wanting to admit to grabbing it as a weapon earlier, Reggie reached for it and said, “Yeah. The window in my room is stuck. I needed something to loosen it up a bit.”

Lorraine nodded.

“Come on upstairs,
Charles,
” Reggie drawled in her best impression of Lorraine. It was stupid and petty, making fun of her aunt, especially after she’d just watched Lorraine being so kind.
Grow the hell up,
she told herself.

Charlie grabbed his guitar and followed, giving a respectful nod to Lorraine. When they were climbing the stairs, he said, “I don’t think she’s too happy that I’m here.” His voice was a low hiss, air coming out of a punctured balloon.

“Lorraine’s never too happy about much of anything,” Reggie said.
Except when she learns someone’s dying. Then she’s all sweetness and sympathy.

They stopped at Vera’s doorway and looked in. She was sound asleep, head at an awkward angle, oatmeal covering her chin.

“Wow.” Charlie gasped, his breath rattling in his chest. “I can’t believe it’s her.”

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Reggie said. “Like she’s come back from the dead.”

Reggie gazed in at her mother’s pale, skeletal face. She looked like a visitor from the land of the dead but was clearly just passing through—she’d be returning soon.

“So where’d she turn up?” Charlie asked.

“A hospital in Worcester, Mass. Before that, she’d been staying in a homeless shelter there on and off for the past two years. I’m going to call the social worker at the hospital later and see if I can find out any more. There’s a woman at the shelter my mom keeps talking about—Sister Dolores. I’ll see if I can track her down.”