Slice (29 page)

S
EVENTY-TWO

A
bby pumped the air with her little legs as hard as she could, struggling to keep up with Aaron on the swing beside her, who seemed to reach the sky each time he flew by.

“How can you get so high?” Abby asked.

“It's easy,” Aaron said. “I can show you how.”

“Please do!”

“But you won't want to do it,” Aaron said, whizzing past her. “Because you're a scaredy cat.”

“I'm not a scaredy cat!”

“You were a scaredy cat the night in the barn. You wouldn't jump!”

“That's only because my mother was there. She wouldn't let me!”

Aaron dropped one of his feet to the ground, breaking the momentum of his swinging, and dragged himself to a stop. Abby did the same, stirring up a sudden cloud of dust and soil.

“If you're really brave, Abby, I have lots more special, secret places I can show you,” Aaron said, his big round brown eyes shining.

“I can't wait!” Abby exclaimed.

“But you can't be such a scaredy cat this time.”

“I won't be!”

Aaron smiled. “Do you promise you will not be scared and follow me wherever I take you?”

“I promise!”

“Good,” Aaron said, and he began swinging again. “Because if you're a scaredy cat again, I'll go away and never come back to play with you again.”

Abby certainly didn't want that. She had missed Aaron too much to lose him again.

“I won't be scared,” she promised, and struggled once more to swing as high as he could.

S
EVENTY-THREE

C
hief Belinda Walters looked across her desk at the square-shaped face of Patrick Castile, who'd shown up with an air of brisk, emotionless authority from the FBI. The state's attorney's office had phoned her, explaining that the federal agency needed to be brought into the case. Walters was entrusted with bringing the agent up to date.

“So this Heather Pierce has made allegations that Jessie Clarkson was having an affair with her husband ?” Castile asked.

Walters nodded, pushing the nude photograph of Jessie across her desk so that Castile could inspect it. She didn't like touching it, so she just edged the Polaroid forward with her fingernails.

“Problem is,” the chief told Castile, “it's probably a decade old. Anyone can see that Jessie is a lot younger in that photo. Heather sees what she wants to see, however.”

Castile made no expression as he glanced down at the photograph, nor did he pick it up to examine it. “I don't have any interest in the rantings of a scorned wife,” he said dismissively. “Bryan Pierce may be alive and well, living in Tahiti or someplace. There's no evidence his disappearance has anything to do with the murders that have been taking place in Sayer's Brook.”

“I agree,” Walters said. “But the connections are worth investigating.”

Castile made no response, so whether he agreed or disagreed, the chief couldn't tell. The FBI agent was a young man, probably not much older than thirty, with a short blond crew cut and drooping shoulders. His questioning of Walters so far had centered around why Jessie had returned to Sayer's Brook, and her connections to Emil Deetz. He had seemed particularly intrigued by Walters's statement that Paulette Drew had claimed to have seen Deetz, and that was the topic he returned to now.

“I'd like to interview this Drew woman,” Castile said. “She lives on Hickory Dell as well, behind Ms. Clarkson?”

“Yes,” the chief told him. “But let me point out, Mr. Castile, that Paulette Drew is hardly a reliable person. She's a fortune-teller.”

“I understand that.”

“Frankly, in my view, I think we need to question John Manning further. The dossier he kept on Deetz and the excessive attention he's been showing to Jessie—rather aggressively insinuating himself in her life—is very suspicious, in my opinion.”

Castile lifted a thin eyebrow in her direction. “This was the line of investigation pursued by the late Detective Wolfowitz, wasn't it, Chief Walters?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It was.”

“A line of investigation you were skeptical of at the time, if the notes I've reviewed are correct.”

“I was merely trying to get Wolfie to stay on protocol.”

“I find it interesting that you are now championing his theory. Are you doing so out of some sense of loyalty to your fallen comrade?”

Walters frowned. “I don't like the insinuation that I'm not basing my investigation on facts.”

“You know as well as I do, Chief, that one has to consider everything. No question is off-limits.”

“I never disagreed with Wolfie that Manning was a person of interest in this case. And it just seems the more that happens, the more interesting he becomes. He had a fight with Bryan Pierce, and after that, Pierce disappears.”

Castile gave her a rare, small smile. “But there's no evidence yet that Pierce's disappearance is even connected to this case.”

“The key word, Mr. Castile, is yet.”

The FBI agent's smile faded. “Well, I think I have everything I need for now. But I'm certain we will have many more conversations.”

“All right,” the chief said.

Castile stood. “Thank you for all your work and your advice, Chief Walters.”

She nodded.

She did not like this man.

S
EVENTY-FOUR

J
essie and John were sitting in a small coffee shop in town at a table near the back. After the altercation with Heather, they'd walked for a while so that Jessie could cool down. She'd been horrified by the photo of herself that Bryan had taken. She felt violated, sick to her stomach. John had assured her that Chief Walters would never allow the photo to be made public, and that he was certain she would recognize it was an old shot. Jessie shouldn't worry that it would be used against her in any way. If anything, it just made Bryan look worse.

“Thank you, John,” Jessie had said. “Your words have helped.”

After walking for what seemed to be a mile, they'd come into this café, where a couple of old ladies who had lacquered bouffants and were sitting in a booth up front had seemed to recognize them. The biddies had begun to immediately whisper under the breaths. Neither John nor Jessie had commented on it as they'd found their table in back. They ordered their coffees and sat there drinking them, mostly in silence for the first ten minutes. Jessie had let her mind go numb, still exhausted by the scene with Heather. At last John jarred her back into consciousness.

“Jessie,” he said, “I'm not going to write the book.”

She said nothing in return, just looked at him.

“I need you to understand that I wasn't using our friendship for the purposes of gaining information,” John continued. “I didn't intend to pursue a friendship with you. If anything, the day I first met you, at your picnic, I tried to be cordial but also to keep a certain distance.”

Jessie remembered that. She recalled now her ridiculous, childish envy when it had been Inga that John had seemed interested in.

“I'm scrapping everything I've written,” John told her. “It's not worth it if it comes between our friendship.”

“I can't ask you to do that,” Jessie said quietly.

“You're not asking me. I'm telling you it's what I'm doing.”

“No,” she said. “I can see now that you weren't using me for information. And the book is fiction, as you say. It's not about me.”

“My mind is made up, Jessie.”

“Look, John. What really concerned me was the possibility that you might somehow have some connection to Emil. . . . That was what I feared deep down. That you were somehow . . . involved with him.”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“I was scared,” Jessie said. “But I believe you, John. You were just writing a book, and you never intended to exploit our friendship. And it's not fair to you to have to stop working on a project just because we've become friends.”

John's eyes popped open. “The matter is closed, Jessie. I've already permanently deleted it from my computer.”

“Oh, John . . .” Jessie struggled for the right words. “I appreciate the gesture very much. But it seems too much. How could you delete all that work?”

“Easy. I just dragged the file to the trash.”

“You must have backups.”

“Jessie, I destroyed it all.”

“Oh, John . . .”

Those deep dark eyes of his searched her out. “I can't profit off something that might take advantage of the pain of someone that I care about.”

Jessie was silent. Finally, very softly, she said, “Thank you, John.”

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “But that wasn't all I wanted to talk to you about, Jessie. I wanted to ask you about the boy.”

“You mean Abby's friend.”

“Yes.”

“What could you possibly know about Aaron?”

“What did you say his last name was?”

“Smelt,” Jessie told him. “Aaron Smelt.”

She saw the look cross John's face. “Spell it for me,” he said.

Jessie complied.

John sat back in his chair. “Jessie . . . does that name mean anything to you?”

“Well,” she admitted, “when I was pregnant with Abby, I discovered I was carrying twins. I lost one of the twins in a miscarriage eventually, but I had been planning on naming the boy Aaron.”

This seemed to surprise John. “A rather eerie coincidence,” he said.

“Yes. I felt tremendous guilt after the miscarriage, because I'd been wishing I wasn't carrying a boy, just a girl. I didn't want a boy who might grow up to be like Emil.”

“That's a natural feeling.”

“Still . . . when a little boy named Aaron showed up in Abby's life, it freaked me out a little,” Jessie admitted.

“But didn't his last name trouble you too?” John asked.

Jessie shook her head. “Why would it?”

“Does ‘Smelt' have any relevance to you?”

“No,” Jessie told him. “That's why I asked Chief Walters about it.”

“Then you didn't know that . . .” John hesitated, then continued. “You didn't know that Smelt was the maiden name of Emil Deetz's mother?”

Jessie's blood instantly ran cold.

“I see from your expression you didn't,” John said. “You see, I had done some research on Emil when I was planning the book. I obtained his birth certificate. I remembered the mother's name because I had attempted to track down family . . . cousins and the like. I didn't have any success.”

“Emil barely knew his parents,” Jessie said. “He was abandoned.”

John nodded. He apparently was aware of the facts of Emil's life.

“So Smelt was Aaron's mother's name?” Jessie asked, as if the full force of the news was just hitting her. “That seems too much of a coincidence.”

“Did Emil know you were planning on naming his son Aaron?”

Jessie shook her head. “He never even knew that I was pregnant. I hadn't yet told him when . . . when I saw him commit the murder.”

“Might he have found out?”

“I suppose . . .” Jessie shuddered. “What are you thinking, John?”

“I'm thinking that maybe your aunt was correct that she saw him. I'm thinking that it might well be true that Emil is alive.”

Jessie eyed him cagily. “Why do you think so?”

“I don't know. A gut feeling, maybe.”

For a moment, Jessie's doubts resurfaced.
Is there a connection between John and Emil? Why is he suddenly so convinced that Emil is alive?

John seemed to read her mind. “It's just that . . . well, your aunt's report of seeing someone who looked like Emil, combined with the a boy named Smelt showing up seemingly out of nowhere, has led me to at least consider the possibility that Emil is alive, and that he's back in Sayer's Brook.”

“I guess that does make sense,” Jessie said.

“And might Emil be trying to torment you in more ways than one . . . the murders . . . and arranging for a boy to spend time with Abby, reminding you of your miscarriage?”

Jessie shuddered again. “I wouldn't put it past him.”

“We need to talk with this boy, find out his story,” John said. “He could lead us to Emil.”

Jessie was aware that he was using the pronoun “us,” and she liked it. She took a sip of her coffee, allowing its warmth to calm her nerves. “Perhaps I should tell Chief Walters about this,” she said. “About the coincidence of names.”

“Eventually,” John said. “But she seems disinclined to take the idea of Emil being alive seriously. I suspect. . .” His voice trailed off for a second before he continued. “I suspect the FBI agent, if he contacts us, may be more interested in what we have to say.”

“Why do you suspect that?”

“Just a hunch.” He smiled and took Jessie's hand in his again. “But for the time being, the next time that boy comes around your house, I'd suggest you pin him down, and find out as much as you can about him.”

Jessie agreed.

She was very happy that she and John were friends again.

S
EVENTY-FIVE

“I
was beginning to worry about you,” Mr. Thayer said, stepping aside from his front door so that Todd, carrying a suitcase, could enter.

“I'm sorry,” Todd told the old man. “I needed the time away. I kept in touch with the office by phone and by iPad.”

“I don't mean that I was worried about business,” Thayer said, shutting the door behind him. “I meant on a personal level, Todd. I wish you had come to me before you ran off. I thought we were better friends than that.”

Todd frowned. “I'm sorry. Really I am. It's just that . . . I needed some time by myself to think. I went out and stayed at my brother's place in Montauk.” He set his suitcase down. “But it's okay that I stay here now for a few nights? Just until my apartment in the city is available?”

“Of course.” Mr. Thayer gave him a terribly sad face. “So you're really certain you want to leave Monica ?”

“Our marriage has been deteriorating for years,” Todd told him. “Now I understand why. It was founded on a lie. Monica was never pregnant—in her entire life. I spoke with our doctor. I asked him directly. He hemmed and hawed, blathering on about doctor-patient confidentiality . . . but that alone told me what I needed to know. I could see from his face that he knew Monica had never been pregnant.”

“I'm so sorry, Todd.”

Todd looked out the window, down the darkening street toward the home he'd shared with Monica. He spotted Jessie's car as it rattled past Mr. Thayer's house and turned into her driveway.

He pulled away from the window and looked over at Mr. Thayer. “I never stopped loving Jessie,” he said. “That's clear to me now. And somehow . . . I need her to know that. If only it wasn't too late to change things.”