Thorns of Truth (46 page)

Rachel shook her head. “I looked in the drawer where she keeps her passport. It’s still there, thank God.”

“That only rules out other countries.”

“I found her checkbook in her room, with her bank card tucked inside. It doesn’t look like she’s made any withdrawals this past week. Besides … that’s not like Iris. She’s always stuck pretty close to home.”

“What about her therapist? Maybe he knows something.”

“I called him. It seems she had an appointment with Dr. Eisenger this morning, and never showed up.” Tears glimmered in Rachel’s eyes. “Oh, Rose, I should have listened to you. Everything you said was true. She
does
need help—much more than we’ve been able to give her. I see that now.”

“It’s not too late,” Rose reassured her. “We’ll find her.”

“Where
?” Rachel’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper.

Rose thought for a moment. Not like a mother, but like a lawyer. As she often did with cases involving potential witnesses who seemed to vanish into thin air when she tried to have them subpoenaed, Rose mentally put herself in Iris’ shoes: where would she go? What haven would seem the safest?

A beloved aunt or uncle? Grandparents?

Suddenly it came to her: Sylvie.

Except Sylvie was gone … and her beloved house was empty.

Still, Iris could have her own key.

That’s crazy,
Rose thought.
I was there most of yesterday. If she ‘d been in the house, I would have seen her.

Unless, of course, Iris had sneaked in after she’d left. Or was lying low in one of the upstairs rooms. The place was so huge. How else could Sylvie have managed to have an affair practically under her husband’s nose? Rose, struck by the irony of it, nearly gave in to a bitter laugh—if it hadn’t been for all those hidden corners, she herself might not have been conceived.

“Let’s go.” She grabbed Rachel’s hand; she would call Jay on her cell phone on their way, let him know she’d be late getting home. “I have an idea where she might be.”

As the taxi sped up Park Avenue, Rose said a silent Hail Mary. She hadn’t been to church in years, except at Max’s funeral. Whenever someone asked what religion she was, she would always joke, “I’m a recovering Catholic.” She’d had both her sons baptized, of course, and as a family they’d attended services on Christmas and Easter. But whenever she knelt to pray, it always felt phony somehow, pointless. If God even existed, He would know she was merely going through the motions. And why should He listen? Prayers were just words. Dogma hammered into her brain by nuns who’d been just as thorough at smacking the backs of wrists with a ruler. What had God ever done for her? What had He given her other than lies and false promises?

But perhaps the praying she’d done at Sylvie’s, when she discovered those letters, had loosened some rusted tap Rose had believed forever frozen shut. The familiar words came easily now, soothing as cool spring water.
Hail Mary, Mother of God, the Lord is with you.…

Maybe you didn’t actually have to believe the words, she thought. Maybe all you had to do was
say
them, wrap their familiar cadences around you like an old quilt, worn soft with many washings. In this world of bumps and bruises, maybe praying wasn’t meant to solve anything, but was simply a way of smoothing the rough edges.

Lord,
she found herself praying,
I know 1 haven’t been very good at keeping in touch. You have my sister for that. The way Clare acts, you’d think she had the 800 number to Your special hot line. But, see, I figured You’d pretty much given up on me, so what was the point? This time, I’m asking for real: help Rachel find her daughter. And help me do what’s right for MY children.…

Rose’s eyes were wide open, her hands loose in her lap. Yet her prayer was more sincere than any of the thousands she’d murmured into her steepled fingers while in church. More heartfelt, in its way, even than her you-owe-me appeals to God in the months after Max’s death.

Max. She’d mourned him with all her heart, each day without him faithfully ticked off like another bead on a rosary; every light switch fumbled for in a dark room like a penny candle lit in his memory. And what had it gotten her? No more than the prayers she’d offered up merely out of duty, or self-pity.

With Eric, she’d had a shot at something real and sustaining. But she’d tossed it away. Yes, maybe she wasn’t destined to be happy. Maybe, like Iris, she’d been damaged in some crippling way that wasn’t visible to the naked eye, and the contentment she’d known with Max had been the exception rather than the rule …

“…
If you’re tuned in right now. Iris, please, call home just to let your family know you’re okay. Okay?
”

Rose snapped to attention with a little jerk of her head. The voice coming out of nowhere was Eric’s. Had she conjured it up?

Then she realized—it was coming from the taxi’s radio.

She turned to Rachel, whose eyes were wide with amazement. They shared a long look before Rachel, her voice hushed with gratitude, said, “Drew. He must have asked Eric to do it.”

Eric had to be subbing for someone else, Rose thought. His show aired earlier in the day; he’d clearly made a special effort to trade slots with one of the other hosts.

Oh, Eric, you’re a good man, with good instincts. It was just rotten luck that made you fall in love with me.

She stared out the window at the hulking prewar apartment buildings that, in the purplish October twilight, seemed to preside over the avenue like heavily decorated old generals on parade. Eric had been right about one thing, she thought. He deserved a woman who would meet him halfway. Someone who wasn’t too paralyzed by her past to move forward.

The taxi was on West Seventy-ninth, nearing Riverside Drive, when Rose first heard it: the wail of approaching sirens. The taxi swerved into the far lane just as a fire engine came looming out of the deepening shadows to streak past them like a comet. Rose rocked back in her seat, her heart leaping. Farther up the block, she saw a cloud of gray, like a huge thumbprint smudging the line of rooftops sketched against the evening sky. She caught a whiff of smoke … and something more acrid-smelling, like burning rubber.

No. It can’t be …

But as the taxi slowed to a stop near the row of blue police barricades closing off access to West Seventy-ninth, Rose saw with a sick, spreading horror that the house on the corner facing Riverside, the one surrounded by fire trucks and snaking hoses, was Sylvie’s.
Mother of God.
Reflexively, she made the sign of the cross. This wasn’t happening, she thought. It was a bad dream. No, worse, like watching Sylvie die all over again.

Beside her, she heard Rachel give a startled cry. “No! Oh no!” She gripped Rose’s arm. “You don’t think … Oh, Rose, tell me you were only guessing.
Tell me Iris isn’t in there!
”

Rose stared at her. An old memory was floating to the surface. Years and years ago, being summoned to the Seventeenth Precinct one hot summer night. Her friend Lieutenant O’Neill had phoned to let her know they’d picked up the woman suspected of abandoning her three-year-old—the little girl Rose had moved bureaucratic mountains to place with Brian and Rachel.

When Rose arrived at the station, she’d feared the worst—that the woman, a
mother
no matter what she’d done, would want her child back. Hadn’t Sylvie suffered such regrets, after all? But instead she’d found a drug-addicted wreck, a once-pretty woman who couldn’t have been more than thirty but looked sixty—wasted, unkempt, filthy. Most of her ravings had made no sense … except for one that had raised the hair on the back of Rose’s neck.

The woman had been burned out of her apartment, Rose learned. Rose would never forget the lunatic light in her sunken eyes, how she’d gripped Rose’s hand and pulled her close to rasp,
My kid, she set it. It was no accident, either…

Rose hadn’t believed it, of course. What three-year-old was capable of purposely setting such a fire? That was why she hadn’t said anything. What would have been the point of pushing the panic button? Brian and Rachel had enough to worry about as it was.

Two weeks later, Iris’ mother was dead of an overdose. That was all Rachel and Brian needed to know. Rose had decided. Just the facts. It was enough that the little girl they’d taken into their home and hearts would bear the scars of neglect—did they have to wonder if Iris might be deranged as well?

Over the years, Rose often wondered if she should have said something about the fire. Especially when it began to grow clear that Iris’ scars went much deeper than any of them had initially suspected. But whatever harm Iris had inflicted, it was mostly to herself.

Rose had never
seriously
questioned her judgment … until this moment.

God. Suppose that crazy woman
had
been telling the truth?

Rose, taking a deep breath, placed a steadying hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I don’t know for sure, but there’s a good chance Iris may have been responsible for this fire. Don’t ask me why I think so, there’s no time now. I promise I’ll tell you later. Just trust me.”

Rachel gave her a searching look, then nodded. She grabbed the door handle while Rose tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver.

As they shouldered their way through the small crowd gathered behind the barricade, Rose felt sickened by the awful realization that Iris must have set fire to the house out of spite. She remembered how upset Iris had been when she learned Sylvie had left it to Rose. If Iris or her family couldn’t have it, she must have wanted to make sure
nobody
could.…

Rose was seized with panic. What if she really IS in there? Trapped?

A burly fireman in a yellow turnout was yelling at everyone to stand back. Parked at an angle on the far side of the barrier, its red lights flashing, an EMS truck was the hive around which a dozen or so cops and paramedics swarmed. Fifty feet away, a canvas hose hooked to a hydrant bucked and twisted in the hands of two straining firemen. The hiss of gallons of water turned instantly to steam filled the air like the rushing of a mighty river. As Rose watched, momentarily frozen by the spectacle, a loud explosion caused her to jerk her head up. In horror, she watched a cloud of thick black smoke pour from a shattered window on the third floor of the once-beautiful house.

Sylvie’s things … her lovely antiques … her books and knickknacks … the hopelessly impractical Irish linens Milagros had ironed faithfully each week. Her garden, too. Lost. All of it lost forever.

Rose heard someone scream.

She was vaguely aware that Rachel was screaming, but a moment or two passed before Rose’s disengaged mind, like an oar that had slipped its oarlock, dropped back into place.

Iris.
She had to think about Iris. The rest was just
things.
She scanned the nightmarish scene, but saw no sign of any rescue equipment, no ladders propped against the house’s blackened facade. Instead of being reassured, she felt even more panicky. If Iris
was
in there and hadn’t shouted for help, how would the firemen know to rescue her?

She turned toward Rachel … just in time to catch sight of her ducking under the police barricade. Rose yelled, “Rachel, no!”

Catching a glimpse of Rachel as she disappeared up the front walk. Rose thought.
Dear God, she’s doing it. She’s actually going in there.
And no one was stopping her.

Rose waited until the cops were all looking the other way, then darted past the police line.

With her eyes watering, and darkness closing in, it was several long moments before Rose spotted Rachel again: a slight figure in a tan Burberry vanishing into the blackness of the columned portico, from which water poured in steady streams.

No … Rachel  … NO …

She was past the wrought-iron gates to the front entrance, usually closed but now wide open—when a hand landed on her shoulder with the jarring suddenness of a falling brick, bringing Rose to an abrupt halt. A voice, muffled by the din, bellowed, “
Hey, lady … whaddaya think yer doin’?
”

More precious seconds lost. Desperate, too desperate even to turn and look the guy in the face. Rose wrenched free of his grasp and stumbled down the short walkway … up the steps puddled in filthy water … and through the open front door …

… into a scene from hell.

Chapter 17

R
ACHEL WASN’T AWARE
of anyone, or anything, except the thick smoke, blanketing everything in sight. She coughed, beating at it, but her arms swung in wide, weightless arcs. At the same time, the hot gray haze felt like something solid—a rubber anesthesia mask clamped over her nose and mouth, making her woozy.

Feeling her way along one wall of the front hallway, mostly by heart, she stumbled into the small sitting room to the right of the staircase. Here and there, amid the lazily drifting gray, she caught the outline of a table, the curve of a sofa back, a glint of porcelain like a milky blind eye. No flames, though. The fire must have started on one of the upper floors, she thought. She still had time—a few minutes, maybe longer.

Iris. I have to find her. She’s in here … somewhere.

Something huge and dark leaped out at Rachel, causing her to jump back with a strangled yelp. But it was only the Queen Anne butler’s secretary, which she’d mistaken for the doorway to the dining room. Behind its glass panes, she glimpsed a neat row of spiral-bound notebooks—her mother’s household accounts, neatly recorded in Mama’s precise, elegant handwriting—before she was seized by a fit of coughing that bent her over nearly double. She coughed until her throat was stripped raw; the searing smoke had settled heavily into her lungs like old rags soaked in kerosene.

She could hear streams of pressurized water striking the outside of the building with a hollow drumming sound, followed by the faint tinkle of exploding glass somewhere upstairs. In the distance, sirens wailed, and voices shouted. She thought she heard someone calling her name, but it seemed to be coming from
inside
the house. She must have imagined it. No one would be crazy enough to follow her into this.