No Time for Goodbye (17 page)

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

“This accident, this woman who got killed—what was her name again?”

“Connie Gormley,” I said. “She was twenty-seven.”

“I’ve never heard that name in my life. It doesn’t mean a thing. And what if that’s it? What if that’s the piece?”

“Do you think it is?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly. “No.”

Neither did I.

But it didn’t stop me from going upstairs with the clipping and sitting in front of the computer and looking for any information about a twenty-six-year-old hit-and-run accident that left Connie Gormley dead.

I came up with nothing.

So then I started looking up Gormleys in that part of Connecticut, using the online phone listings, wrote down names and numbers onto a scratch pad, stopped when I had half a dozen, and was about to start calling them when Cynthia poked her head into the room. “What are you doing?” she asked.

I told her.

I don’t know whether I was expecting her to protest, or offer encouragement, to grasp onto any thread no matter how slender. Instead, she said, “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

When someone actually answered, I identified myself as Terrence Archer from Milford, said that I probably had the wrong number, but I was trying to track down anyone who might have information about the death of Connie Gormley.

“Sorry, never heard of her,” said the person at the first number.

“Who?” said an elderly woman at the second. “I never knew no Connie Gormley, but I have a niece goes by Constance Gormley, and she’s a real estate agent in Stratford. She’s terrific and if you’re looking for a house, she could find you a good one. I’ve got her number right here if you’ll hold on a second.” I didn’t want to be rude, but after I’d held for five minutes, I hung up.

The third person I reached said, “Oh God, Connie? It was so long ago.”

It turned out that I had managed to reach Howard Gormley, her sixty-five-year-old brother.

“Why would anyone want to know about that, after all these years?” he asked, his voice hoarse and tired.

“Honestly, Mr. Gormley, I don’t quite know what to tell you,” I said. “My wife’s family had some trouble a few months after your sister’s accident, stuff that we’ve still been trying to sort out, and an article about Connie was found among some mementos.”

“That’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” Howard Gormley said.

“Yes, it is. If you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, it might clear things up, at least allow me to eliminate any connection between your family’s tragedy and ours.”

“I suppose.”

“First of all, did they ever find out who ran your sister down? I don’t have any other information. Was someone finally charged?”

“Nope, never. Cops never found out a thing, never put anyone in jail for it. After a while, they just gave up, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it just about killed our parents. Grief ate away at them. Our mother died a couple years after that, and our dad went a year later. Cancer, both of them, but you ask me, it was the sorrow that overtook them.”

“Did the police ever have any leads? Did they ever find out who was driving?”

“Just how up-to-date was that article you found?”

I had it next to the computer, and read it to him.

“That was pretty early on,” he said. “That was before they found out the whole thing had kind of been staged.”

“Staged?”

“Well, at first, they figured it was a hit-and-run, plain and simple. Maybe a drunk, or just a bad driver. But when they did the autopsy, they noticed something kind of funny.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“I’m no expert, you know? I’ve been a roofer all my life. Don’t really know much about that forensic stuff. But what they told us was, a lot of what happened to Connie, the damage done to her from the car? That happened after she was already dead.”

“Wait a sec,” I said. “Your sister was already dead when the car hit her.”

“That’s what I just said. And…”

“Mr. Gormley?”

“It’s just, this is hard to talk about, even after all this time. I don’t like to say things that reflect badly on Connie, even after all these years, if you understand.”

“I do.”

“But they said, well, that she might have been with someone shortly before she got left in that ditch.”

“You mean…”

“They’re not saying she was raped, exactly, although that might have happened, I suppose. But my sister, she kind of got around, if you understand, and they say she met up with someone that evening, most likely. And I’ve always wondered if that’s who it was, who set it up to look like she got hit by a car, dumped her into that ditch.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Connie and me was close. I didn’t approve of the way she lived her life, but then, I was never no angel myself and was never in any position to point a finger. After all these years, I’m still angry, and wish they’d find the bastard who did it, but the thing is, it was so long ago, there’s a pretty good chance that son of a bitch may be dead himself by now.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s very possible.”

When I was done talking to Howard Gormley, I just sat there at my desk for a while, staring off into space, trying to figure out whether it meant anything.

Then, reflexively as I often do, I hit the Mail button on the computer keyboard to see whether we had any messages. As usual, there were a bunch, most of them offering deals on Viagra or stock tips or places to get a Rolex cheap or solicitations from widows of wealthy Nigerian gold mine owners looking for assistance transferring their millions to a North American account. Our anti-spam filter caught only a fraction of these annoyances.

But there was one e-mail, from a Hotmail address that was nothing but numbers—05121983—with the words “It won’t be much longer” in the subject line.

I clicked on it.

The message was short. It read: “Dear Cynthia: As per our earlier conversation, your family really does forgive you. But they can’t ever stop asking themselves: Why?”

I must have read it five times, then went back up to the subject line. It wouldn’t be much longer till what?

24

“How could someone get our
e-mail address?” I asked Cynthia. She was sitting in front of the computer, staring at the screen. At one point, she reached toward the monitor, as if touching the message might somehow reveal more about it.

“My father,” she said.

“What about your father?”

“When he got in here, when he left the hat,” Cynthia said. “He could have come up here and looked around, got on the computer, figured out our e-mail address.”

“Cyn,” I said cautiously, “we still don’t know that your father left that hat. We don’t know who left that hat.”

I thought back to Rolly’s theory, and my own briefly held suspicion, that Cynthia could have placed the hat there herself. And for an instant, no longer, I thought about how easy it would be to set up a Hotmail address and send an e-mail to yourself.

Knock it off, I told myself.

I could sense Cynthia bristling at my comment of a moment ago, so I added, “But you’re right. Whoever got in here, they could have come upstairs and nosed around, turned on the computer, gotten our e-mail address.”

“So it’s the same person,” Cynthia said. “The person who phoned me, the one you said was just a crank, is the same person who sent this e-mail, and the same person who snuck into our house and left the hat. My father’s hat.”

That made sense to me. The part I was having trouble with was, who was that person? Was it the same person who’d murdered Tess? Was it the man I’d spotted through Grace’s telescope the other night, watching our house?

“And he’s still talking about forgiveness,” Cynthia said. “That they forgive me. Why does he say that? And what does it mean, that it won’t be much longer?”

I shook my head. “And the address,” I said, pointing to the e-mail box on the screen. “Just a jumble of numbers.”

“That’s not a jumble of numbers,” Cynthia said. “It’s a date. May 12, 1983. The night my family disappeared.”

“We’re not safe,” Cynthia said that night.

She was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled up to her waist. I happened to be looking out the bedroom window, taking one last peek at the street before I got under the covers with her. This was a habit I’d developed in the last week.

“We’re not,” she repeated. “And I know you feel the same way, but you don’t want to talk about it. You’re worried you’re going to upset me, send me over the edge or something.”

“I’m not afraid you’re going to go over the edge,” I said.

“But you’re not willing to say we’re safe,” Cynthia said. “You’re not safe, I’m not safe, Grace is not safe.”

I knew that very well. She did not need to remind me. It was never out of my thoughts.

“My aunt has been murdered,” Cynthia said. “The man I—we—hired to find out what happened to my family is missing. You and Grace saw a man watching our house a few nights ago. Someone was in our house, Terry. If not my father, then somebody. Whoever left that hat, sat at our computer.”

“It wasn’t your father,” I said.

“Are you saying that because you really know who left it there, or are you saying that because you think my father’s dead?”

I had nothing to say.

“Why do you think the DMV has no record of my father’s license?” she asked. “Why’s there no record of him with Social Security?”

“I don’t know,” I said tiredly.

“Do you think Mr. Abagnall found out something about Vince? Vince Fleming? Didn’t he say he wanted to find out some more about him? Maybe that’s what he was doing when he disappeared. Maybe Mr. Abagnall’s okay, but he’s following Vince, hasn’t been able to call his wife.”

“Look,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s try and get some sleep.”

“Please tell me you’re not keeping anything else from me,” Cynthia said. “Like you did about Tess’s illness. Like you did about her telling me about the payments she received.”

“I’m not keeping anything from you,” I said. “Didn’t I just show you that e-mail? I could have just deleted it, not even told you about it. But I agree with you, we have to be careful. We’ve got new locks on the doors. No one’s breaking in now. And I’m not going to give you a hard time about walking Grace to school.”

“What
do
you think’s going on?” Cynthia said. There was something in the way she asked the question, something almost accusatory, that suggested to me she still suspected I was holding something back.

“Jesus Christ,” I snapped. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my fucking family that vanished off the face of the fucking earth.”

It stunned Cynthia into silence. I’d stunned myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, this is taking a toll on all of us.”

“
My
problems are taking a toll on
you
,” Cynthia said.

“That’s not it,” I said. “Maybe, look, maybe we should go away for a while. The three of us. We’ll pull Grace out of school. I can wangle a few days from Rolly, he’ll cover for me, get a substitute in, they’ll understand if you take some time away—”

She threw the covers off her legs and got up. “I’m going to sleep with Grace,” she said. “I want to be sure she’s okay. Somebody has to do something.”

I said nothing as she tucked her pillows under her arm and left the room.

I had a headache and was headed for the bathroom, where I’d find some Tylenols in the medicine cabinet, when I heard running in the hall.

Before Cynthia actually appeared in the bedroom door, she was screaming, “Terry! Terry!”

“What?” I said.

“She’s gone. Grace isn’t in her room. She’s gone!”

I followed her down the hall, back to Grace’s room, flipping on lights as I went. I passed Cynthia, went into Grace’s room ahead of her.

“I looked!” Cynthia said. “She’s not in here!”

“Grace!” I said, opening her closet door, glancing under her bed. The clothes she’d been wearing that day were balled up and left sitting on her desk chair. I ran back out and into the bathroom, pulled back the curtain on the bathtub, found it empty. Cynthia had gone into the room where we kept the computer. We met back in the hall.

No sign of her.

“Grace!” Cynthia shouted.

We threw on more lights as we came running down the stairs. This couldn’t be happening, I told myself. This simply could not be happening.

Cynthia swung open the basement door, shouted our daughter’s name down into the darkness. No response.

As I entered the kitchen I noticed the back door, with its new deadbolt installed, was just barely ajar.

I felt my heart stop.

“Call the police,” I said to Cynthia.

“Oh my God,” she said.

I turned on the outside light over the door as I swung it open and ran out, in my bare feet, into the yard.

“Grace!” I shouted.

And then a voice. Annoyed. “Dad, turn off that light!”

I glanced to my right, and there was Grace, standing in the yard in her pajamas, her telescope set up on the lawn, pointed at the night sky.

“What?” she said.

We both could, and probably should, have taken more time off work, especially after the night we’d put in, but we both returned to our jobs the following morning.

“I’m really sorry,” Grace said, for about the hundredth time, as she ate her Cheerios.

“Don’t you
ever
pull a stunt like that again,” Cynthia said.

“I said I’m
sorry
.”

Cynthia had still ended up sleeping with her for the night. She wasn’t about to let Grace out of her sight for a while.

“You snore, you know,” Grace told her.

It was the first I’d felt inclined to laugh in a while, but I managed to hold it in.

I left first for work, as usual. Cynthia did not say goodbye or walk me to the door. She still hadn’t forgotten our fight before the false alarm with Grace. Just when we needed to pull together, there was this invisible wedge being driven between us. Cynthia remained suspicious that I was still keeping things from her. And I was feeling uneasy about Cynthia in ways I was finding it hard to articulate, even to myself.

Cynthia thought I was blaming her for all our current troubles. It was undeniable that her history, her proverbial baggage, was currently haunting our days and nights. And at some level, maybe I was blaming her, even though it wasn’t her fault that her family had disappeared.

The one concern we had in common, of course, was how all this was affecting Grace. And the way our daughter had chosen to cope with the household angst—so troubling that thoughts of a destructive asteroid actually provided some sort of an escape—had itself become the catalyst for another blowup.

My students were amazingly well behaved. Word must have gotten around about why I’d been away the last couple of days. A death in the family. High school kids, like most natural predators, will typically seize on their prey’s weakness, use it to their advantage. From all reports, they had certainly done this with the woman who’d been called in to cover my classes. She had the tiniest trace of a stutter, usually no more than a hesitation with the first word in any given sentence, but it was noticeable enough for the kids to all start mimicking it. She’d evidently gone home the first day in tears, other staff members told me over lunch without a hint of sympathy in their voices. It was a jungle down that hallway, and you either made it or you didn’t.

But they cut me some slack. Not just my creative writing group, but my two other English classes as well. I think they were behaving not just out of respect for my feelings—in fact, that was probably a very small part of it. They didn’t act out because they were watching for signs that maybe I’d behave differently, shed a tear, get impatient with someone, slam a door, anything.

But I did not. So I could expect no special considerations the next day.

Jane Scavullo hung back as my morning class filed out of the room. “Sorry about your aunt,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “She was my wife’s aunt, actually, although I felt every bit as close to her.”

“Whatever,” she said, and caught up with the others.

About midafternoon, I was walking down the hall near the office when one of the secretaries charged out, saw me, and stopped dead.

“I was just going to go looking for you,” she said. “I paged your office, you weren’t there.”

“That’s because I’m here,” I said.

“Phone call for you,” she said. “I think it’s your wife.”

“Okay.”

“You can take it in the office.”

“Okay.”

I followed her in and she pointed to the phone on her desk. One of the lights was flashing. “Just press that one,” she said.

I grabbed the receiver, hit the button. “Cynthia?”

“Terry, I—”

“Listen, I was going to call you. I’m sorry about last night. What I said.”

The secretary sat back down at her desk, pretended not to be listening.

“Terry, something—”

“Maybe we need to hire another guy. I mean, I don’t know what’s happened to Abagnall, but—”

“Terry, shut up,” Cynthia said.

I shut up.

“Something’s happened,” Cynthia said, her voice low, almost breathless. “I know where they are.”