Guilt (26 page)

She yearned to talk to Peter, ask his advice. He'd met Jackie and Joe Klevinski. He knew the psychology of abuser and abused. That was precisely why his advice, from the beginning, had been
MYOB.

She sat back in her chair. MacRae had promised to assign someone to look into Brenda Klevinski's disappearance. Next week. He was good for his word. She'd just have to wait.

*   *   *

Peter opened the Saturday morning paper with a mixture of dread and anticipation. On the front page was the drawing of the A-bomber he'd helped the police artist construct. He wondered if this guy would look at the drawing and feel the rush a flasher gets from being seen. After all, that was what he'd been doing, sending email messages and masquerading as a reporter—flashing himself at the world, asking to be caught. In the A-bomber's vocabulary, it was the “Marshal” outing the “Maw.”

Peter spent most of Saturday at the Pearce, catching up on what he should have done Friday—seeing patients and completing paperwork. He checked at least once an hour for email from CANARY911, and each time dutifully reported to Neddleman that he'd received nothing. He knew the police weren't expecting the A-bomber to strike until Monday, but still he kept checking CNN for breaking news.

Peter opened his email one last time later that afternoon, before going over to Toys “R” Us to find a present for Sophie. Still nothing.

He thought the shopping trip would be a welcome distraction, but after ten minutes wandering up and down aisles, being bombarded by the Chipmunks' squeaky-voiced singing on the sound system and assaulted by a mind-numbing array of choices, he was tired and cranky. He bypassed a stuffed, voice-activated Pomeranian that walked and yipped on command; a Russian-speaking doll wearing a pink tutu; and a dancing hamster. Who came up with these toys, anyway? What happened to good old train sets and building blocks?

He made his way over to the Building and Models aisle and found Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs. Sheesh, today's versions were made of plastic. The train sets that looked anything like the ones he remembered started at a hundred bucks. At the end of the aisle, a toddler lay on the floor screaming and kicking his chubby legs, his face beet red. Sensory overload. Peter could relate.

He meandered some more and found himself in an aisle chockablock with art supplies. The make-it-yourself tattoos snagged his attention. Did they have pierce-it-yourself kits for kids, too? He briefly considered bathtub finger paints, but suspected that Jackie wouldn't appreciate them. Then he saw the display of markers, ten feet of shelf space, floor to ceiling, packed with every type of felt-tipped pen imaginable—fat ones, skinny ones, ones that sparkled, others that glowed in the dark, still others that laid down a trail of jelly. He took heart. Sophie loved to draw. When he saw the spiffy-looking yellow-and-blue nylon tote that held a hundred felt-tipped pens in assorted shapes and sizes, he knew that was it. He bought it, along with a pair of oversized pads of paper, six rolls of Lifesavers, and a bag of balloons. He waited while the paper and markers were gift wrapped in twirling pink ballerinas.

He returned home exhausted. A full day at the Pearce was less stressful.
Check your email,
his conscience hectored. He poured himself a glass of wine from the open bottle of zin on the table. His computer was on a table in the corner of his living room, a modern anomaly in the cozy space filled with books and turn-of-the century mission oak furniture.

He jiggled the mouse, then opened a browser window and logged on to the Pearce's email system. He scanned his new messages. He took a sip of wine and started to relax; then he saw it—a message from CANARY911. He dropped into a chair. He could hear that soprano voice reading along:

Subject:
The evidence is clear that you've been scheming

Peter recognized the words from an obscure ode to paranoia that Tom Paxton wrote called “Mr. Blue.” This guy was hypersensitive to all referents to paranoia out there, and had taken them as his own anthems.

He read the body of the message.

The embers of Our pyre definitely seem to be heating up. Soon, We lop off the head of the beast, drive a dagger into the heart of the King. There will be an inferno. Momentary, for sure, then stillness at last.

 

Need to sleep. Days and nights are stretching again, soon they turn upside down. Then the purging will be done. Red segues to Black. We can rest, the Maw sated, the Marshall subdued, the Philosopher King in his proper place in the ascendance among Our unholy trinity, and god can go back to his playacting.

 

Still think this is a singalong?

Peter forwarded the message and called Neddleman.

“Good,” Neddleman said. “What he's saying—it's all consistent. He's planning to strike again Monday, when the governor speaks at the State House. We'll be ready for him.”

Something in Neddleman's tone sounded off. Peter wondered if the confidence was real or bravado.

27

A
NNIE DROVE
to Peter's Sunday morning to help with the preparations for Sophie's party. This was the kind of fall day New England was famous for, maple trees an intense orangey red against a brilliant blue sky. A cop was directing traffic in front of a church at Mass Ave and Orchard Street. Annie found herself scanning the group of pedestrians crossing the street and others milling about in front, looking for the man who Peter said was the A-bomber. She and Peter were the only two, aside from Harvard Harry, who'd actually seen him. But she hadn't been noticing, and had only a vague memory of an overweight, geeky-looking guy wearing horn-rimmed glasses, with press tags dangling from his neck.

Annie's birthday gift for Sophie was wrapped in birthday paper and sitting on the passenger seat. Annie had never been much into toys as a kid; what she'd lusted after was a horse, a real one. She'd read everything she could get her hands on and knew all about saddles and bridles, grooming, even mucking out a stall. Her most cherished gift from that time had been a pair of red cowboy boots and a cap-shooting rifle. She ended up buying Sophie exactly what she'd have wanted: a realistic, eight-inch-high, molded plastic model of a horse. It reminded her of the mare whose shimmering flanks she'd stroked when Uncle Jack took her to the stables south of Boston where the police kept horses for mounted patrols. It had tossed its long mane and whinnied as Annie, half-filled with terror at the sheer size of the beast, approached. It stood while Annie stroked its neck and inhaled the scent of warm horseflesh, hay, and manure.

She arrived at Pearl's to find the house transformed. All the lights were on, and purple and pink streamers had been strung across the living room and dining room ceilings. She smelled freshly baked cake. Mmm. Homemade cake was a treat she hadn't enjoyed in years. And maybe real icing that didn't come from a can?

Mr. Kuppel and Peter sat on the sofa, surrounded by a dozen balloons. Peter was struggling to tie off a fully inflated blue one shaped like a baseball bat. Mr. Kuppel's red face matched his flannel shirt as he strained to get a yellow balloon to inflate. When he saw Annie, he gave her a feeble wave.

“So what happened to good old-fashioned helium?” Annie asked.

“Damn,” Peter said as his balloon went spiraling through the air, making a vaguely obscene noise. It landed in the corner.

Annie went over and picked it up. She remembered one of her birthdays, she couldn't have been more than four years old; she'd watched, fascinated and terrified at the same time, eyes squinched and her hands over her ears, as her dad blew up balloons. She'd watched one after the other, each one getting so big she was sure any moment it would burst.

Annie blew into the blue balloon. It began to inflate. Halfway there she paused, her fingers pinched over the end. “Such a fascinating concept. You put your mouth on the end and blow. What will they think of next?”

Peter cracked up and winked at Annie. “Who knew the package had a hundred and forty-four of these babies?” he said, starting on a red one.

“Hello, Annie dear,” Pearl called from the other room.

“I'm too old for this nonsense,” Mr. Kuppel said, heaving himself up from the sofa.

Annie went into the kitchen and gave Pearl a kiss. Pearl's cheek was cool under Annie's lips, despite the flush on her face.

“You need any help with the cake?” she asked, indicating the two round, golden layers resting on wire racks on the counter.

She glanced at the newspaper on the counter, too. A small, front-page story was about the church service she was going to later that day.

“You could ice the cake,” Pearl said. She dumped potato chips into a bowl. “There's food coloring in the closet. Can you add a touch of red to the icing? Sophie wants pink. She's coming early to decorate it herself.”

Annie lifted the dishcloth covering a small bowl on the counter. Vanilla butter cream, her favorite. Annie found the food coloring and mixed in two drops of red. That turned the icing a raspberry pink. Pearl set one of the layers on a plate and handed Annie a narrow rubber spatula. Annie iced one layer, then set the second layer on top and iced it.

From the living room came the sound of a balloon fart, followed by Peter's “Shit.” Annie loaded her finger with leftover frosting and went out to him.

The pile of blown-up balloons was now at about twenty-five. Peter's glasses were crooked on his nose, and one of his shirttails had come loose.

“You look like you could use a treat,” Annie said, offering up her finger.

Peter smiled and looked around. They were alone. He took her finger in his mouth and held it there much longer than he needed to if all he wanted was that kind of treat.

“That's quite enough,” said Pearl, from the kitchen door.

Annie whipped around and felt herself blushing. She realized Pearl was referring to the balloons.

Pearl held out a ball of string and a scissor. “Make two bundles,” she said. “And hurry up. It's nearly noon.”

“Slave driver,” Peter muttered.

He and Annie cut lengths of string and attached them to the balloons. He tied them together in two bundles. Annie got up on a chair and hung one bunch from the dining room light. She was getting up on the piano bench in the living room to hang a second bunch when the doorbell rang.

“Sophie. It's about time,” Pearl said, bustling down the hall to the front door.

Annie could hear Sophie's high, excited voice. Then Jackie's. Sophie rushed into the room, oohing and aahing over the decorations, then the pile of presents.

“Oh, Daddy, look,” Sophie said.

Annie froze. Joe Klevinski entered the room carrying a Sophie-sized package and a bouquet of heart-shaped, red Mylar balloons. Clearly on best behavior, he was clean-shaven, and had on a brown corduroy suit jacket over a white shirt. His dark hair was combed neatly back. He put down the package.

Annie finished tying the balloons in place and got down off the piano bench. Klevinski stared at her. She checked the buttons on her shirt, and smoothed her pants.

Pearl eyed Joe Klevinski with disapproval. She looked as if she was about to give him a piece of her mind when Sophie came over and slipped her hand into Pearl's.

Pearl's face softened. “Well, if it isn't the birthday girl,” she said, beaming at Sophie. She gave her a kiss on top of her head. “You look lovely.”

Sophie did a little pirouette, showing off her black-and-white taffeta dress with a floppy red silk flower pinned to the waist. She had on black patent leather Mary Janes with frilly white socks. It was sweet the way she sneaked a shy look at Peter.

“You ready to ice the cake?” Pearl asked. “Better shake a leg. Your guests will be here any minute.”

Sophie followed Pearl into the kitchen, her dress making a swishing sound. Jackie sidled over to her husband.
The guy had brass balls,
Annie thought,
showing up and acting as if nothing had happened.
There was a long moment of awkward silence as Annie, Peter, and Mr. Kuppel stared at him.

“Listen, I'm real sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” Klevinski said with a sheepish smile, shifting from foot to foot. This was probably the same act he used on Jackie. “I know you weren't expecting me, but how could I not go to my daughter's seventh birthday?”

“Eighth,” Annie said, the word exploding. Peter clamped his hand on her arm, like a stopper.

“So I can't count.” Klevinski held out his hands in a gesture of contrition. “Sophie wanted me to come.” That was his trump card. He knew they wouldn't make a stink, because, after all, this was Sophie's day.

“Daddy, look!” Sophie called. She came out carrying the layer cake laden with pink frosting. SOPHIE was spelled out in Lifesavers on the top.

The doorbell rang and soon the house was full of little girls. Annie watched, amused, as Peter organized a game of blindman's bluff—Sophie put one of Pearl's gauzy scarves over his eyes, and he stumbled around the living room trying to tag the girls, who squealed and giggled, giving away their locations. He was such a good sport.

Joe Klevinski watched from the dining room, a sour look on his face. But when Sophie went looking for him to ask him to take a turn as blind man, he was out on the back porch smoking a cigarette.

Pearl announced it was time for cake. They herded the kids into the dining room. Sophie sat at the head of the table under the balloons and streamers, her face glowing.

At least Annie would be able to stay long enough to sing “Happy Birthday.” She followed Pearl into the kitchen. Pearl stuck eight candles in a circle around the edge of the cake, and dotted the I in SOPHIE with the one to grow on. She rummaged around in one of the kitchen drawers. “Now where did I—”

“Allow me,” Klevinski said. With a flourish, he produced a book of matches from his pocket, struck one, and lit the candles. Then he picked up the cake, and Annie watched him carry it out into the now darkened dining room, taking center stage, like he'd done a single thing other than show up and buy what looked like a perfectly ghastly stuffed animal.