Missing Pieces (47 page)

Of course, my projected radio show came to naught. Robert called to say that the powers that be at the station had decided that, in light of all the recent publicity, now was probably not the best time for me to be launching such a high-profile career. He talked about the need for credibility in broadcasting, without actually saying that mine had been seriously undermined. He never said a word about what happened—what
hadn’t
happened—at the Breakers. He wished me all the best; I wished him the same.

Yesterday, I was flipping through the channels on my car radio, and I caught the end of Faith Hill’s bloodless rendition of
Piece of My Heart,
immediately followed by a husky, and strangely familiar, voice: “We’re talking about heartache today on WKEY-FM’s Country Counselor. The call lines are now open. If there’s anything you want to tell me about the last time you lost a piece of your heart, or you need some advice on finding it again, or you just want to hear a song about it, then call me right now. I’m Melanie Rogers, and I’m here to help.”

I recalled the honey-voiced redhead with the emerald-green eyes I’d met in Robert’s office. “Let me introduce you to an old friend,” Robert had said by way of introduction. “Melanie Rogers, this is Kate Sinclair. We go back a very long way.” All the way back to high school and Sandra Lyons, I thought, understanding that some things never change.

It seems almost inconceivable to me now that I could have seriously considered jeopardizing my marriage to Larry for someone like Robert. The truth is that I love my
husband, that I always have. I can’t imagine life without him. Lately, Larry and I have been talking about leaving Florida, going back to Pittsburgh. We’ve never made any real friends here, and Larry says he misses the change in seasons. His golf game is the pits, he claims, and besides, he can no longer look at a golf club without thinking of my mother and Colin Friendly.

It’s still amazing to me that Colin Friendly survived the attack, although I really shouldn’t be surprised. People like Colin Friendly always survive. It’s the innocent who perish. I read in the paper the other day that the Florida Supreme Court turned down his latest request for a stay of execution. If I remember correctly the things Jo Lynn told me, that would leave the federal district court, the U.S. Eleventh Court of Appeals in Atlanta, and the U.S. Supreme Court. It’s a long process. It could drag on for years.

My mother is in a nursing home now, and something of a celebrity, although she doesn’t seem to understand what all the fuss is about. She hasn’t spoken since that morning she took a club to Colin Friendly’s head, and I’m pretty sure she has no memory of the incident. I’m not even sure she knows who I am anymore, although she always looks pleased to see me when I visit.

Sara and Michelle often accompany me on these visits. Sara’s hair is back to basic brown, her wardrobe an eccentric combination of hooker and hippie. Michelle has discovered black. They’ve been staying pretty close to my side these days, which is normal considering what we’ve been through. I confess to loving this renewed closeness. I savor every minute, partly because I know it won’t last much longer. Several times lately, I’ve caught the whiff of cigarettes on Michelle’s breath, and heard the hint of impatience in Sara’s voice. I know they’re getting ready to resume their lives. I’m bracing myself, trying to prepare
for this eventuality, knowing that whatever course they choose, it is out of my control. I can’t protect them forever. I can only tell them how much I love them.

Therapy has helped. Sometimes we all go together; sometimes we go individually. After years of listening to everyone else’s problems, I’ve rediscovered the joys of talking about my own. But it’s a long road back to normalcy, and I know it’ll take time. I’m only grateful we have that time. For people like Donna Lokash, that time is gone forever.

The police found Amy Lokash’s remains buried beside the day camp center in John Prince Park, exactly where Colin Friendly said they’d be, and they located his so-called goody box, filled with items belonging to each of his victims, all neatly labeled with the victim’s name and date of death. Nineteen in all, including a hair curler belonging to his mother and a silver cross that once hung around Rita Ketchum’s neck.

And so the police can now indisputably link Colin Friendly to the disappearances of six more women. Six more cases closed.

Incidentally, I just heard on the news that Millie Potton was found limping along the shoreline of Riviera Beach in her underwear, sunburnt and confused, but otherwise seemingly healthy. I’m glad. I was worried about her.

I think that’s everything. I’ll probably edit out some of the more personal revelations before I hand this over to the police. I’m not sure that any of this is what they were expecting. But I’ve tried to provide substance, context, explanations. I’ve searched my memory and bared my soul. I’m sure there are still some pieces missing. But I’ve done my best. Hopefully, it will be of some use.

At any rate, it’s time to pick up the pieces. And go on.