We Are Here (10 page)

Not tonight, evidently. David tilted his head. “You okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“Seem a little preoccupied, is all.”

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t, quite. “So … everything’s okay?”

“Yes, worry-guts. Apart from the dumb-ass questions, anyway. And the weather.
Listen
to it out there.”

The wind got a lot louder and more violent, peaking in occasional mournful howls. As they watched a final chunk of random television, there was a banging sound out in the yard. They looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and David got up and went to the back window.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s the end times.”

Rain was lashing down from what appeared to be all directions. A newspaper appeared, in several installments, blown over the fence. It spun chaotically around the yard before reversing direction and rocketing toward the bench that stood in the middle. An austere wrought-iron two-seater, this had been a moving-in gift of Dawn’s parents. It stood in the middle of the yard because that’s where Dawn’s father liked to sit when he came to visit. David found the thing uncomfortable.

“What’s happening? Is anything down?”

David was distracted by the newspaper. It looked like it was stuck on something. It could only have been the strange flicker light caused by branches moving back and forth in front of the moon, but it seemed almost as if the paper had become plastered around a shape on the bench, as if someone was sitting there.

Two seconds later it was yanked back up into the sky. The bench was empty. Of course.

“Nothing,” David said. “Just the wind.”

Dawn was out long before he was. Sleep was Dawn’s buddy and welcomed her with a warm smile and open arms. Sleep got a little goddamned fresh with Dawn, as a matter of fact. It was different for David. Sleep was the soul sister to his muse, and treated him much the same way. Sometimes she would be all friendly and hey-how’s-it-going. At others she looked at him sideways, and with disdain, as if he’d suggested playing Twister, just the two of them.

After lying patiently on his right side and then his left, as was his practice, he wound up on his back listening to the wind. He tried to empty his mind, but after a while he made the decision to think about work instead. He could feel it stirring tendrils of panic but he kept focused on this for as long as he could, though he knew it was generally a one-way train to insomniaville.

Pretty soon he found himself running over the very thing he’d been attempting to avoid, however. The money Dawn had found on the top step.

It bugged him. He didn’t understand why it bugged him quite so much. Sure, it was odd, but there could be mundane explanations. He’d already come up with several. Each had checked out for credibility, but then been dismissed. Why was that? Why did he think there was something more, something that he should know, and be taking seriously?

He couldn’t remember, and that made him uncomfortable.

A while later it seemed like he’d managed to fall asleep after all, or at least be on the verge. He was distantly aware of the sound of the wind outside, sprays of rain thrown like gravel over the roof and windows, and the sound of some small metallic object cartwheeling down the road outside. Probably a stray soda can.

Then someone knocked on the door.

David lay rigid, listening so hard that the blood in his ears sounded like footsteps in the attic space above. He didn’t hear anything else for a while. But then …

Yes, there it was again.

Someone was knocking on the front door of the house.

He got up and pulled on his robe, quietly left the room, and went downstairs. The noise had stopped. Now that he was up and about, David felt he’d better check, in case … in case …
what
? He wasn’t sure. For whatever reason, you checked these things. He’d thought he’d heard a knocking and that could mean a neighbor was outside, desperate after an accident or a branch had come crashing through their roof. Either way, you checked out a noise. That was what grown-ups did, grown-up men in particular. It was the law.

As he unlocked the door, David realized how unconvinced he was that he
was
a grown-up after all.

Buffeted by the wind, the door flew open so hard that he had to use both hands to stop it swinging around to crash against the wall. Once he got it stable, he stepped forward to take a better look.

There was no one outside.

The lamp that hung above the doorway cast a light unequal to the conditions. It did enough, however, to show that on the top step, where Dawn had found the small change, something small and flat and square now lay.

David picked it up, squinting against the rain being driven into his face. It was a matchbook.

Plain white on the outside, with the name of a bar—Kendricks—in red, and an address on the back.

It
could
have been dropped out on the road and blown across the yard to here.

David opened the matchbook. At first he thought the inside of the flap was plain too, and unmarked. As he moved it against the light he saw something. He held it up and looked more closely.

It was hard to tell if the marks had been made with a pen whose ink had run dry, or a fingernail, or toothpick. There were just three characters.

David thought it likely that the time and the name on the outside of the matchbook were supposed to be a message. The message could be a reminder for whoever had dropped the matchbook, in theory, the hypothetical person for whose existence he had no proof, only hope.

He didn’t think so, though.

He slipped the matchbook into the pocket of his robe and went back inside and up to the bedroom.

He lay on his back, hands down by his sides, until an overcast morning finally arrived.

This time it wasn’t so cold, but it was raining, a persistent drizzle that reminded me of summer in Oregon. The upside was this empowered me to wear a workman’s jacket with turned-up collar, which I borrowed from the thrift store near the restaurant. As I was likely to be in close proximity to Catherine for at least some of the afternoon, this could help keep me from being spotted too quickly—by her or anybody else. Wearing the coat made me feel ridiculous, but no more than being there in the first place. At least I wasn’t alone this time.

The “walking away” approach hadn’t worked out. I didn’t know whether this was down to the unhappiness I’d heard in Catherine’s voice before she put down the phone or if I was an asshole who couldn’t let things lie, but Kristina and I wound up talking about it and it became clear I was looking for ways of refining the investigation rather than ending it. Kristina hadn’t helped by pointing out that (probably) removing Thomas Clark from the picture had made the situation
worse
, rather than better, for Catherine. What’s more un-settling than being followed by someone you know? Being followed by someone you
don’t
know. The threat level of a stranger is much harder to gauge. The only thing you can be sure of is their intentions are unlikely to be good.

Mario had been annoyed when I’d told him I wouldn’t be able to cover for Jimmy that afternoon. Not as far as I was concerned—there are squirrels who can do my job—but because of Kristina and the bar. I reassured him we’d be back in plenty of time for evening service, and he was mollified, but gave me a lingering look as I left. It made me realize this was becoming too much of a hobby. We’d spent a lot of the last week talking about it—so much that it had even taken the idea of moving to the Village out of the picture. I wasn’t sure what our joint obsession said about us or our lives. Perhaps, though I’d thought I was content to be a waiter living in a tiny apartment, the reality was I’d allowed myself to float downstream into a pleasant backwater that part of me knew was insufficient. I also had the feeling I was pandering to some unwholesome impulse—and not just to my own.

As we reached the sidewalk after leaving the apartment, I stopped and looked meaningfully at Kristina. “This is it,” I told her. “If nothing comes of this afternoon, I’m done. So are you.”

She cocked her head, but saw my face and nodded. She knew we were getting fixated too. “You’re the boss.”

“Yeah, right.”

The idea—Kristina’s—was to observe Catherine picking her daughters up from school, on the grounds that this was another predictable routine in her life. Once again, Catherine would be unaware we were watching. The Gower School is small and boutique and stands on the north side of 15th between Ninth and Tenth, sandwiched between town houses on a quiet and leafy Chelsea street. It had a cute hand-painted sign declaring that it specialized in the methods of Montessori or Steiner or some other educational haute cuisine. That made sense. Catherine Warren wasn’t going to just go ahead and trust the New York school system. She’d have spent time researching the alternatives and debating the issue with husband and friends and selecting first the ideology and then its outpost, yet another existential choice in her life. I envied her this level of constant self-determination while knowing that I simply didn’t have the energy.

We got to the street at 2:40. School got out at three o’clock. Early birds were spread along the sidewalk, chatting or consulting smartphones, some huddled under umbrellas, others braving the drizzle without.

“How are we going to do this?”

“We take opposite ends of the block,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get down there, and we keep the line open. Holding the phones will give us cover, too.”

Kristina nodded. “Nice.”

“When one of us sees Catherine, we say so, and stay put. The person at the
opposite
end drifts toward the school on the other side of the street. The other holds their position on the assumption Catherine will leave the street the same way she came in. When she comes back past with the kids, that person follows at a distance. The other walks parallel a block away, taking the third man role. This is assuming that—”

I noticed Kristina was grinning. “What?”

“Can I buy you one of those slouch hats to go with that coat?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, go on. Once we solve this case, can we set up a private detective agency?”

“Ain’t going to happen. And it’s not a ‘case.’ And remember what I

said about this being the end of it.”

She pouted and walked over to stand on the corner.

I walked briskly down the street and past the school. Weaving through the scattering of women near the school gate, I was confident they were all mothers. Mothers are the backbone of reality and the ether feels different around them. They broadcast a signal, even the ones that are convinced they’re doing a lousy job. There was one male present, but he had a very tidy beard and was chatting earnestly with two women who might as well have had the word “parent” tattooed on their foreheads, so I was content to assume he was someone’s telecommuting/creative/unemployed dad. When I got to Tenth, I looked back along the street and got out my phone.

Kristina answered quickly. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“So now?”

“We wait.”

“That’s all we
can
do now … wait,” Kristina intoned solemnly, and giggled.

“I hope you’re taking this seriously.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

“By the way, I’ve never been more attracted to you than I am right now.”

“Could be because we’re eighty yards apart.”

“You know, I think that might be it.”

“Great. Now shh. Concentrate. If you want to diss me you can do it later, at leisure, in the comfort of our own ratty little home.”

And so we waited, in silence. Meanwhile the clouds got darker and the tips of my fingers started to go white.

“I’m hungry,” Kristina muttered. “And cold.”

“Shh.”

At five minutes to the hour the street got a lot busier—many mothers evidently operating a just-in-time policy. They came toward the school from both ends like hordes of exceptionally well-groomed zombies. I panned my gaze across the throng, phone still up to my ear, walking in a circle as if in conversation. I didn’t see anybody odd. Just mothers. En masse.

“Got her,” Kristina said. “Brown coat. Walking fast, north side of the street.”

I started to head back along the sidewalk opposite the school. When I was fifty yards away, I slowed and stepped out into the street, skirting around the back of the main knot of people but keeping close enough to the fringes to remain part of the crowd.

Seconds later I spotted Catherine cutting through the gathered with the air of a woman who was by God going to be at the gates by 3:00:00. She got there with moments to spare and exchanged a businesslike nod with the teacher in black pantsuit who was manning the gate, clipboard in hand.

“Catherine’s at the gate,” I said, cutting through the women to aim toward the sidewalk on the school side of the street, a decent distance from Catherine, so I could covertly look back through the crowd in the hope of spotting anyone taking an interest in her.

“And the condor flies tonight,” Kris intoned.

“Shut up.”

Before I even got to the sidewalk I noticed someone back in the mix, obscured behind the bearded man and two women. A knot of umbrellas prevented me from seeing the newcomer’s face, but I saw enough.