Hold Tight (25 page)

FIRST Ron Hill made sure that neither Betsy nor the twins were home. Then he headed up to his dead boy’s bedroom.

He didn’t want anyone to know.

Ron leaned against the doorway. He stared at the bed as though that might conjure up the image of his son-that he could look so hard that a figure would eventually materialize and it would be Spencer and he’d be lying on his back and he’d be staring at the ceiling the way he did, silent and with small tears in his eyes.

Why hadn’t they seen it?

You look back and you know the kid was always a little morose, always a little too sad, too even. You don’t want him labeled with words like manic depression. He’s just a kid after all, and you figure that he will outgrow it. But now, with the wonder of hindsight, how often had he walked past this room and the door was closed and Ron would open it without knocking-this was his house, damnit, he didn’t have to knock-and Spencer would just be lying on that bed with tears in his eyes and he’d look straight up and Ron would ask, “Is everything okay?” and he’d say, “Sure, Dad,” and Ron would close the door and that would be the end?

Some father.

He blamed himself. He blamed himself for what he missed in his son’s behavior. He blamed himself for leaving the pills and vodka where his son could so easily grab them. But mostly he blamed himself for what he’d been thinking.

Maybe it had been a midlife crisis. Ron didn’t think so. He thought that was too convenient, too easy an out. The truth was, Ron hated this life. He hated his job. He hated coming home to this house and the kids not listening to him and the constant noise and running to Home Depot to get more lightbulbs and worrying about the gas bill and saving for the college fund and, God, he so wanted to escape. How had he gotten trapped in this life anyhow? How do so many men? He wanted a cabin in the woods and he loved being alone and just that, just being deep in the forest where no cell phone could reach him, just the way he could find an opening in the trees and raise his face up to the sun and feel it.

So he wished this life away and longed to escape, and pow, God answered his prayers by killing his son.

He dreaded being here, in this house, this coffin. Betsy would never move on. There was a disconnect between him and the twins. A man stays out of obligation, but why? What’s the point? You sacrifice your happiness in the thin hope that it will make the next generation happier. But does that come with a guarantee-I remain unhappy but my kids will be more fulfilled? What a load of crap. Had it worked for Spencer?

He flashed back to the days after Spencer’s death. He had come in here not so much to pack things away but to go through them. It helped. He didn’t know why. He was drawn to sifting through his son’s stuff, as if getting to know him now would make a difference. Betsy had walked in and threw a fit. So he stopped and never said a word about what he found-and though he would continue to try to reach Betsy, though he’d hunt and search and beckon, the woman he fell in love with was gone. She might have left a long time ago-he wasn’t sure anymore-but whatever had remained had been buried in that damn box with Spencer.

The sound of the back door startled him. He hadn’t heard the car pull up. He hurried toward the stairs and saw Betsy. He saw the look on her face and said, “What happened?”

“Spencer killed himself,” she said.

Ron just stood there, not sure how to reply to that one.

“I wanted there to be more,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“We’ll always wonder about what we could have done to save him. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe there was nothing. Maybe we missed stuff, but maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. And I hate thinking that because I don’t want to let us off the hook-and then I think, well, I don’t even care about hooks or blame or any of that. I just want to go back to another day. You know? Just another chance and maybe if we could change just one thing, the smallest thing, like if we took a left out of the driveway instead of a right or if we painted the house yellow instead of blue, anything, it would have all been different.”

He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “What happened, Betsy?”

“I just saw Adam Baye.”

“Where?”

“In the backyard. Where they used to play.”

“What did he say?”

She told him about the fight, about the calls, about how Adam blamed himself. Ron tried to process it.

“Over a girl?”

“Yes,” she said.

But Ron knew that it was far more complicated than that.

Betsy turned away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I have to tell Tia.”

TIA and Mike decided to split the load.

Mo met them at the house. He and Mike drove back toward the Bronx while Tia took to the computer. Mike filled Mo in on what had happened. Mo drove without asking for elaboration. When Mike was done, Mo simply asked, “That instant message. From CeeJay8115.”

“What about it?”

Mo kept driving.

“Mo?”

“I don’t know. But there is no way that there’s eight thousand one hundred and fourteen other CeeJays out there.”

“So?”

“So numbers are never random,” Mo said. “They always mean something. It is just a matter of figuring out what.”

Mike should have known. Mo was something of an idiot savant when it came to numbers. That had been his ticket to Dartmouth- perfect math SAT scores and off-the-charts arithmetical testing.

“Any thoughts on what it could mean?”

Mo shook his head. “Not yet.” Then: “So what next?”

“I need to make a call.”

Mike dialed the number for Club Jaguar. He was surprised when Rosemary McDevitt herself answered the phone.

“It’s Mike Baye.”

“Yeah, I figured. We’re closed today, but I was expecting your call.”

“We need to talk.”

“Indeed we do,” Rosemary said. “You know where I’m at. Get here as fast as you can.”

TIA checked Adam’s e-mail, but again there was nothing relevant coming in. His friends Clark and Olivia were still sending messages, each somewhat more urgent, but still nothing from DJ Huff. That worried Tia.

She got up and headed outside. She checked the hidden key. It was where it was supposed to be. Mo had used it recently and said he put it back. Mo knew where it was and in some ways, she guessed, that would make him suspect. But while Tia had her issues with Mo, trust was not one of them. He would never harm this family. There were few people you knew would take a bullet for you. He might not for Tia, but Mo would for Mike and Adam and Jill.

She was still outside when she heard the phone. She sprinted back in and picked it up on the third ring. No time to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Tia? It’s Guy Novak.”

His tone was like something dropping from a high building with no place safe to land.

“What’s wrong?”

“The girls are fine, don’t worry. Have you seen the news at all?”

“No, why?”

He stifled a sob. “My ex-wife was murdered. I just identified the body.”

Whatever Tia had been expecting to hear, this was not it. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Guy.”

“I don’t want you to worry about the girls. My friend Beth is watching them. I just called the house. They’re fine.”

“What happened to Marianne?” Tia asked.

“She was beaten to death.”

“Oh, no…”

Tia had only met her a few times. Marianne had run off right about the time Yasmin and Jill had started school. It had been juicy town scandal-a mother not able to hack the pressures of motherhood, cracking, running off and leading some rumored wild life in warm weather, no responsibilities. Most of the mothers talked about it with such disgust that Tia couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t a little envy, a little admiration for shedding the chains, albeit in a destructive and selfish way.

“Did they catch the killer?”

“No. They didn’t even know who she was until today.”

“I’m so sorry, Guy.”

“I’m on my way back to the house. Yasmin doesn’t know yet. I need to tell her.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think Jill should be there when I do.”

“Definitely not,” Tia agreed. “I’ll come pick her up right away. Is there anything else we can do?”

“No, we’ll be fine. I mean, it might be good if Jill could come over later. I know that’s asking a lot, but Yasmin might need a friend.”

“Of course. Whatever you and Yasmin need.”

“Thank you, Tia.”

He hung up. Tia sat there stunned. Beaten to death. She couldn’t wrap her brain around that. Too much. She had never been much of a multitasker, and the last few days were playing havoc with her inner control freak.

She grabbed her keys, wondered if she should call Mike, decided against it. He was laser-focused on finding Adam. She did not want to interrupt that. When she stepped outside, the sky was the blue of a rob- in’s egg. She looked down the road, at the quiet homes, at the well-tended lawns. The Grahams were both outside. He was teaching his six-year-old how to ride a two-wheeler, holding on to the seat as the boy pedaled, one of those rites of passage, a question of trust too, like those exercises when you let yourself fall back because you know the person will catch you. He looked hopelessly out of shape. His wife watched from the yard. Her hand was cupped over her eyes to block the sun. She smiled. Dante Loriman pulled into the driveway in his BMW 550i.

“Hey, Tia.”

“Hi, Dante.”

“How are you?”

“Good, you?”

“Good.”

Both lying, of course. She looked up and down at the block. The houses were all so alike. She thought again about the sturdy structures trying to protect lives that were much too fragile. The Lorimans had a sick son. Hers was missing and probably involved in something illegal.

She was slipping behind the wheel when her cell phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID. It was from Betsy Hill. Might be best not to answer it. They were after different things here, she and Betsy. She wouldn’t tell her about the pharm parties or what the police suspected. Not yet.

The phone rang again.

Her finger hovered near the SEND button. The important thing here was finding Adam. Everything else had to take a backseat to that. There was a chance that maybe Betsy had found something that could give her a clue about what was going on here.

She pressed down.

“Hello?”

Betsy said, “I just saw Adam.”

CARSON’S broken nose was starting to ache. He watched Rosemary McDevitt put down the phone.

Club Jaguar was so quiet now. Rosemary had closed it down, sending everyone home after the near-fight with Baye and his crewcut buddy. They were the only two still here.

She was gorgeous, no question, a total hottie, but right now her usual tough exterior looked like it might crumble. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Carson sat across from her. He tried to sneer, but it made his nose hurt.

“That was Adam’s old man?”

“Yes.”

“We need to get rid of both of them.”

She shook her head.

“What?”

“What you need to do,” she said, “is let me handle it.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Rosemary said nothing.

“The people we work for-”

“We don’t work for anybody,” she interrupted.

“Fine, put it however you want. Our partners. Our distributors. Whatever.”

She closed her eyes.

“These are bad people.”

“Nobody can prove anything.”

“Like hell they can’t.”

“Just let me handle it, okay?”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yes. I’m going to talk to him. I know what I’m doing. You should just leave.”

“So you can be alone with him?”

Rosemary shook her head. “Not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“I can work this out. I can get him to see reason. Just let me take care of it.”

ALONE on this hill, Adam could still hear Spencer’s voice:

“I’m so sorry…”

Adam closed his eyes. Those voice messages. He had kept them on his phone, had listened to them every day, felt the pain rip through him anew.

“Adam, please pick up…”

“Forgive me, okay? Just say you forgive me…”

They still came to him every night, especially the last one, Spen- cer’s voice already slurred, already hurtling toward death:

“This isn’t on you, Adam. Okay, man. Just try to understand. It’s not on anyone. It’s just too hard. It’s always been too hard…”

Adam waited on the old hill by the middle school for DJ Huff. DJ’s father, a police captain who grew up in this town, said that kids used to get high up here after school. The tough kids hung out here. The others would rather walk the extra half mile to avoid it.

He looked out. In the distance he could see the soccer field. Adam had played there in some league when he was eight, but soccer was never for him. He liked the ice. He liked the cold and the glide of the skate. He liked putting on all those pads and that mask and the focus it took to guard the goal. You were the man then. If you were good enough, if you were perfect, your team could not lose. Most kids hated that pressure. Adam thrived on it.

“Forgive me, okay?…”

No, Adam thought now,
you
have to forgive
me
.

Spencer had always been volatile, with swooping highs and earth-crushing lows. He talked about running away, about starting a business, and mostly about dying and ending the pain. All kids do, to some degree. Adam had even started making a suicide pact with Spencer last year. But for him it was talk.

He should have seen that Spencer would do it.

“Forgive me…”

Would it have made a difference? That night, yeah, it would have. His friend would have lived another day. And then another. And then who knows?

“Adam?”

He turned to the voice. It was DJ Huff.

DJ said, “You okay?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I didn’t know that would happen. I just saw your dad following me and called Carson.”

“And ran.”

“I didn’t know they’d go after him.”

“What did you think would happen, DJ?”