Live to Tell (13 page)

He waves as he passes Eddie, the Korean grocer, arranging cellophane-wrapped gladiolus bouquets on the sidewalk display.

“Good morning, good morning,” Eddie calls, same as always.

Rounding the corner, Garvey spots a pair of familiar deliverymen wheeling box-laden hand trucks from their van to a store. They, too, greet him as he passes.

He smiles—at them, and to himself. Yes, there’s something to be said for establishing a good, solid routine.

Garvey crosses Fifth, enters the park, and runs along the stone-lined transverse road and through the arched tunnel. He takes East Drive north, alongside the reservoir. There’s little automobile traffic at this time of morning, but there are plenty of joggers, along with bikers and Rollerbladers, most of whom whiz past.

He runs a steady pace, keeping his eyes peeled on the path ahead.

There.

On a bench, a helmeted figure in a bulky T-shirt and black leggings adjusts a pair of blades. From here, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s a male or a female—but Garvey knows.

As he passes, the figure rises from the bench and falls into pace near him—not right alongside, so that they appear to be together, but close enough to carry on a conversation and not be overheard. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity, and these days, most people work out wearing iPod earphones anyway.

“Tell me what happened yesterday,” he commands in a low voice.

As he listens to the disturbing tale, he can feel his jaw clenching in fury. They follow the road in its westward turn, following the curve of the reservoir. His tightened fists pump at his sides in rhythm with a heart that isn’t racing from exercise alone.

“Is that it?”

“That’s what happened. Yes.”

“So where is it, then?”

“I told you, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but—”

“Why don’t you take a wild guess,” he bites out.

“He has a kid. Three, but there’s a little girl, and—”

“Where?” Garvey asks impatiently, glancing at the skyline behind him. The sun is coming up.

“Westchester. Glenhaven Park. Do you know where it is? It’s only about twenty minutes from—”

“I know where it is. Go.”

“There are kids involved.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“But you can’t expect me to—”

“You’ll do whatever you have to do. You don’t even
have
kids, for God’s sake.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me sick to think of—”

“Oh really? Then you’ve certainly changed your tune in the last fourteen years, haven’t you?”

Garvey’s question is met with silence. He’s always known how to hit low and dirty, right where it hurts most.

“Listen to me. You have no choice. You’re in this as deeply as I am now. You have to do whatever it takes to find that file. Do you understand me?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Garvey nods.

Conversation over.

With a burst of anger-fueled adrenaline, he sprints away, heading toward the still-darkened western sky like a nocturnal creature trying to outrun the dawn.

CHAPTER NINE

P
erched on the front steps with her second cup of coffee, Lauren watches a monarch butterfly fluttering around a hydrangea bloom on the shrub beside the porch and wonders what to do about Nick.

Something is wrong. She’s sure of it. He should have called last night; certainly by now.

Lauren left one last message on both Nick’s phones before she went to bed, telling herself that she’d take action in the morning.

It’s morning. What are you going to do?

Nothing yet. Ryan is up, getting ready to help her with the boxes and then meet his friends. He asked about Nick again, first thing, and Lauren didn’t want to worry him. She assured him that his father must have gotten the Sunday brunch date wrong, that he’d probably made other plans, that he’d undoubtedly resurfaced too late last night to call.

Ryan seemed satisfied with that.

I wish I were.

When she gets back, while the girls are still asleep, she’ll do something about the Nick situation.

Like…?

Like call the police…

And tell them what? That your husband went away with another woman and hasn’t come back yet, or called—other than to let you in on a little heavy-breathing episode?

She can just imagine a seasoned cop’s reaction to that bit of news—particularly a local cop, who’d quite possibly already be privy to the sordid details of Lauren’s marital problems.

Yet Saturday’s wordless call from Nick isn’t a detail she’d be able to leave out if she calls to report him missing, given her theory that he might have had some kind of accident.

Frustrated, she watches the butterfly move on to a clump of pink and purple verbena beside the porch rail. A breeze stirs the flowers. Lauren shivers—not entirely from the chill in the air, though it’s definitely there.

Just yesterday, it was summertime.

This morning, the first hint of autumn is palpable.

The maple and oak leaves remain lush and green; the perennials are at the height of their bloom. The neighborhood still languishes in that lazy, half-deserted August aura.

Yet the air isn’t quite as humid today. It feels cooler. And the dappled morning sunlight seems to fall through the trees at a longer angle, casting shadows where there were none just a few days ago.

Or maybe it’s just her imagination. Paranoia about Nick, making the world suddenly seem like a threatening place.

As if to punctuate the thought, Lauren suddenly sees, out of the corner of her eye, a stranger coming up the street—a shaggy-haired guy wearing a baseball cap, shorts, a T-shirt.

Not wanting to be caught watching him—and not quite sure why—she turns to glance at the stack of boxes waiting on the porch behind her.

As soon as Ryan gets out of the shower, the two of them are going to load the car and transport the boxes out of here.

This is your last chance to change your mind about any of that stuff
, she reminds herself.

But what would she possibly want to retrieve now? The ugly curtains she and Nick bought on clearance for the downstairs bath years ago and never bothered to hang? The double-rings-etched silver frame that once held the wedding portrait now stashed in the bottom of her dresser drawer? The Van Morrison CD?

Really, she doesn’t want any of it…but suddenly, the idea of parting with it brings a pang of regret.

It’s because of Nick. Because she’s worried about him. Not because she’s genuinely nostalgic about all the household belongings packed inside, never to be seen again.

I’m wondering if I’m ever going to see Nick again. That’s the problem.

“Mrs. Walsh?”

She looks up, startled, sloshing coffee over the rim of the cup.

The stranger in the baseball cap is now standing at the foot of the steps. From here she can see that he’s college-age, with a scruffy goatee and a tattoo on his right bicep.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” he says again, watching her wipe her coffee-spattered hand on her denim shorts. “I’m here to walk your dog?”

Is he asking her, or telling her?

“Your regular dog walkers are on vacation this week,” he explains.

That makes sense, she supposes. Who
isn’t
on vacation this week?

“So you work for Dog Days?”

“Yeah. My name is John.”

“Hi, John. You can call me Lauren.”

“Because Mrs. Walsh is your mother-in-law, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Women always say that. ‘Don’t call me Mrs.—that’s my mother-in-law.’”

How about
Don’t call me Mrs.—my husband traded me in for another woman.

Or
I’ve never even met my mother-in-law because her son stopped speaking to her when she left his father for someone else. And yeah, I guess it does run in the family.

“I’ll get Chauncey.” Lauren turns toward the door and jumps, once again startled to find someone standing right behind her.

Oh. It’s just Ryan this time, his hair damp and spiky from his shower.

“Geez, Ry, you scared me!”

“Sorry—I’m ready to go, Mom.”

“Can you just grab the dog?” She wipes her hand, once again wet with coffee, on her shorts. “This is John. He’s here to walk him.”

Ryan and John size each other up, then exchange the customary guy greeting.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How come you don’t have a bunch of other dogs with you?” Ryan asks.

“A lot of people are on vacation. I guess they board them. So your dog gets me all to himself today.”

“Actually, Chauncey loves to hang with the other dogs, but…whatever.”

“Ry, are the girls still sleeping?” Lauren asks as he starts into the house—and she immediately regrets the question.

“I guess,” comes the reply.

What is she thinking, letting this stranger know that she has two daughters asleep in the house?

Uneasy, she glances at John. He doesn’t even seem to be listening.

“Wow, that sucks,” he says, focused on the porch railing.

Lauren follows his gaze to see that the butterfly has become ensnared in a spiderweb. Watching it struggle to free itself, she thinks again of Nick, trapped in his car, helpless, calling her…

The police. I need to call them, tell them everything, no matter what they think of me.

Ryan reappears quickly with a frisky Chauncey. John pats the dog’s head and is rewarded with a trusting lick on the hand. He fastens the leather leash to Chauncey’s collar. “Okay, fella, let’s go.”

Ryan picks up the nearest box. “Ready, Mom?”

Lauren hesitates. “We need to wait until John gets back with Chauncey.”

“What? But you said we could do this fast so I can go meet the guys.”

“I know, but—”

“Half the time no one’s even around when the dog walker comes,” Ryan points out. “They just come and go. What’s the big deal?”

“I can put the dog back in the house,” John assures her, as Chauncey strains at the leash, ready to get moving. “Someone’s home, right?”

“Yes, but…”

My innocent daughters are home, asleep, and you’re a stranger, and I’m feeling paranoid this morning and I don’t trust you.

“They gave me your key,” John tells her, “so you can lock the door and everything.”

They gave him her key? They just hand out keys to anyone?

Well, not just
anyone
. Surely the agency screens even its short-term employees.

Lauren thinks back, trying to remember whether anyone has ever pinch-hit for the regular walkers before. Not recently.

Possibly last summer, though. She never paid much attention to who was coming and going, accompanied by a posse of barking dogs.

After all, back then, she wasn’t living in the house alone. And before Nick gave her reason to avoid being seen around town in public, she didn’t spend much time at home on summer days.

“Mom, come
on
.”

“Go put that in the car, Ryan. I’m going to wake up Lucy.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Ryan mutters, passing her with the box.

Lucy isn’t exactly known around here for bouncing cheerfully out of bed in the morning.

John is already headed for the sidewalk with Chauncey.

As she steps into the house, Lauren can’t help but look back over her shoulder at the helpless butterfly caught in the spider’s web.

Sitting on the window seat in her bedroom, Sadie watches Mommy and Ryan load the last of the boxes into the back of the car.

There goes all the stuff Mom says they don’t need or want anymore.

Sadie wipes a tear from her eye, wishing she didn’t care about anything in the boxes. But she does. She can’t help it. She can’t help but feel like it’s a part of Daddy and now it’s leaving, just like he did.

Maybe Mommy feels the same way. She keeps looking around like she’s nervous about something, and she doesn’t seem to want to go.

Ryan does, though. Even from here, Sadie can see that he’s antsy to get moving. And he keeps shaking his head at whatever Mommy is telling him.

Sadie wishes she could hear what they’re saying. Her window is open, but someone is mowing a neighboring lawn and the noise drowns out their voices. For all she knows, they’re talking about how they’re going to make her give away all her toys and clothes.

Finally, Mommy backs out of the driveway.

As soon as the car is safely out of sight, Sadie gets up and goes over to her toy box.

She pulls out the length of fishing line she stole from Ryan’s tackle box yesterday while he was at Ian’s. He doesn’t like anyone in his room while he’s gone—in fact, that’s why she got the idea.

Last winter, when Ryan thought someone was stealing his Archie comics, he secretly taped a strand of fishing line across the doorway to his room so that he’d be able to tell if anyone went in there while he was gone.

No one did…until cleaning day.

It turned out the maid service had a new lady who kept finding the comics on the floor and dumping them into the trash. Mommy and Daddy said that was what Ryan got for being careless.

Sadie never leaves her things around the way Ryan does. Lucy, too, and even Mommy sometimes. But Sadie knows where everything is.

Everything except Fred.

She wipes away another tear.

Daddy said he’d get Fred back for her. She really wants—
needs
—to believe that.

Meanwhile, it will be easier for her to keep track of the rest of her belongings, in case anything else goes missing.

She opens the desk drawer where she keeps her art supplies and takes out a roll of Scotch tape.

It takes her a few minutes to rig the fishing line across the doorway at shoulder height for herself—and leg height for everyone else in the house.

There.

It’s impossible to see the fishing line unless you’re looking for it…and no one will.

Sadie looks around her room, memorizing exactly where everything is—which doesn’t take long, because everything is right where it should be. Then she ducks under the fishing line and walks across the hall to Lucy’s room.

The door is open. Sadie overheard Mommy telling Lucy to get up a few minutes ago, before she went down to load up the car with Ryan.

“I’m up, I’m up,” Lucy assured Mommy. She even went down the hall to the bathroom, as if to prove the point before Mommy, satisfied, went back downstairs.

Now, however, Lucy is back in bed, lying on her back, eyes closed. There’s a hardcover book lying open on her bed.

“Lucy?”

No reply.

“Lucy?” Sadie repeats. “Why do you think Daddy didn’t come yesterday?”

Her sister doesn’t say anything.

She must be sleeping.

Sadie turns away.

“I don’t know, Sades.”

Startled, she looks back at her sister.

Now Lucy’s eyes are wide open—and her expression tells Sadie that her big sister is even more worried about Daddy than she is.

Stepping from her car onto the sunlit parking lot at Tide-water Animal Rescue, Elsa inhales the briny breeze off the nearby Long Island Sound.

Remember to appreciate the tiniest pleasures
, Joan told her before she left the therapist’s office after her last appointment.

Tiny pleasures. Yes. Sunshine, salt air…puppies.

A trucker found a newborn mixed-breed litter yesterday, abandoned in a plastic laundry basket left along I–95. According to an e-mail Elsa received early this morning from Karyn, the director of the privately funded shelter, only three of the puppies had made it through the night.

Hurrying across the pavement toward the low, cedar-shingled building, she hopes the trio is still hanging in there.

She opens the door to an encouraging sign: Karyn seated at her desk, bottle-feeding a tiny bundle of black fur.

“Morning, Elsa,” she says softly—which is completely out of character for a vivacious motor mouth like Karyn. Obviously, she’s trying not to jar the puppy.

“Good morning. Who do you have there?”

“This is Zuko.”

“Zuko?”

Karyn nods enthusiastically. She gives a temporary name to every animal, believing an identity is important even for the shelter’s transient residents. A major film buff, she tends to choose characters or elements from her favorite movies, based on her perception of the creature’s temperament or appearance.

“Remember John Travolta in
Grease
? Black hair, black leather, very cool…Danny Zuko.”

Elsa grins. It could be worse. Much. Just last week, they took in a Rottweiler Karyn dubbed Hannibal—as in Lecter—whose owner mercifully surfaced a few days later to reclaim him.

Elsa peers into the cardboard box on the floor beneath a strategically placed warming bulb. Curled together on a blanket are two more puppies. Unlike their brother, they have russet-colored fur.

“I suppose these are the Pink Ladies?”

Karyn shakes her brunette curls. “Close. The runt is Frenchy, but the other one’s a male—his name is Greased Lightning.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see when you pick him up. Listen, why don’t you grab yourself some coffee and then update the Web site with the puppies? I took some pictures of them earlier—they’re in the digital camera by the computer.”