The Follower (25 page)

“Come on, we’re not,” Katie said, but Peter could tell she really loved the idea.

As he made the arrangements with one of the drivers, she went on about how she’d been wanting to go on a carriage ride in the park for years and how excited she was. But then, when he held out a hand to help her get in, he could tell something was bothering her.

“What is it?” He was afraid he’d done something wrong, or said something he shouldn’t have.

“It’s just—” She looked away, trying not to cry.

“One sec,” Peter said to the driver. Then to Katie, “What’s the matter? Was it something I—”

“No, no, it has nothing to do with you. It’s just…I mean, it’s just…I mean, Andy just…”

Peter was relieved that it had nothing to do with him.

“Hey, I totally understand,” Peter said, although he absolutely did not understand. “I mean, if you don’t feel comfortable—”

“No, no, that’s stupid, right? I mean, one thing has nothing to do with the other, right? I mean, it’s just a carriage ride.”

Peter didn’t like the way she’d said
just
a carriage ride when it was so much more than that. He also didn’t want her to be preoccupied with something and the experience to be spoiled, the way the kiss had been spoiled for him.

“If you want to go home, we can,” he said. “We can do this over the weekend or—”

“No, I’m being stupid. Let’s just go. It’ll be fun.”

They got on and the carriage started away. Somehow it didn’t seem as romantic as he’d imagined. There was a lot of street and people noise, and the smell of manure was a big distraction. As they got deeper into the park and after they covered their laps with the fuzzy red blanket, the mood improved, but she was looking away a lot and wasn’t very talkative. He wondered if she was still hung up about Frat Boy. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake, pushing for too much romance, too fast. He knew from past experiences how tenuous love was, how quickly things could go to pot, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “fine.”

He wanted to change the mood fast, get rid of the negativity. He leaned in. There was the sound of the horse’s hooves against the asphalt and the taste of mint in their mouths and a breeze blowing back their hair. Finally, they had a perfect kiss.

It had been the longest, weirdest
first date Katie had ever had. The strangest thing was, it had started so normally. On the way to the park, the conversation was good and she thought it had been very thoughtful and generous of him to buy her flowers and pack the picnic. It must’ve cost him a fortune for the paté and the seafood salad and all the other food and for that expensive wine, Jesus. But when he held her hand, near the pond, she started getting weird vibes. He built up to it so slowly, sliding his hand along the blanket and getting this intense look in his eyes, that she almost started to laugh. She managed not to and was glad because she’d had the feeling that would’ve offended him big-time. But then he wouldn’t let go, even when their hands started to sweat. A few times, she tried to wriggle free, and he squeezed harder. She didn’t want to say anything, though, because it was only slightly uncomfortable and she kind of liked how seriously he was taking everything. Yeah, it was a little over the top, but there was a sincerity about it that she thought was kind of charming.

Their first kiss, near the ducks, seemed way too planned, as if the only reason he’d asked her to look at the ducks was to have an opportunity to kiss her, but it was still a nice kiss—
she
thought so anyway. Afterward he started acting weird again. She had no idea what was wrong. She wondered if she’d said something to offend him. She didn’t think she had, but he seemed distracted and angry. Then she decided it must have to do with his old girlfriend. He’d said they’d broken up,
what, a few days ago? She wondered if he was just rebounding and felt guilty about kissing someone else. Then her guilt, for getting so close with another guy so soon after Andy was killed, set in again. She thought,
What kind of person am I? Can’t I even, like, let his body get cold?
She was going to make up an excuse, say she was tired and wanted to go home, but she was afraid if she left, it would ruin things with Peter, and she definitely didn’t want to end the date on that kind of note.

They went on the carousel, which she had to admit was a lot of fun. Later, when they were sitting on the rocks near Wollman Rink, she decided to bring up the ex-girlfriend issue. She knew she’d hit on something, because he seemed evasive and guarded. She didn’t press him on it, but felt good that at least she’d gotten an inkling of what was going on in his head.

When they left the park, she was looking forward to getting home and relaxing in front of the TV, but then he suggested going out to dinner. She didn’t know how to say no without sounding rude; besides, she was hungry and it was a free meal. The food was excellent again, and she was impressed that he was spending so much money on her. She didn’t know how much he was making at his job at the health club, but it couldn’t be much. She wanted to offer to pay half, but she didn’t, getting the vibe that he’d take that as an insult. Then he kept insisting that she have a chocolate mint. She didn’t want to because she already felt guilty about all the calories she’d had today—she was going to have to go to the gym every day next week—but she felt self-conscious, like he thought something was wrong with her breath or something, so she had some of it.

After dinner, she was
really
ready to go home and crash, but he wanted to take her to some surprise place. Although her feet killed from all the walking she’d done, she didn’t complain, and even acted like she was into it. But, at the same time, she felt bad for not asserting herself. She’d done that a lot in other relationships, and she vowed to not let the pattern continue.

When they got to the horse-drawn carriages, she decided this was way too much for her. She liked Peter a lot, but going on a carriage ride in the park was something you did when the guy proposed, not on the first date. But, again, she didn’t speak up, and instead made up the excuse that she felt guilty about Andy and got into the carriage. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, why it was so hard for her to tell guys what she was really feeling. Then, in the carriage, Peter started kissing her again. She totally wasn’t into it, but she didn’t pull away, afraid it would hurt him if she did, and afterward he rubbed noses with her and smiled, unaware that anything was wrong.

As she finished her nightly routine of exfoliating and moisturizing her face, she wasn’t sure how she felt about the date. Mostly, it had been a lot of fun; but, at times, Peter had made her uncomfortable. She felt like he wanted to get into a relationship right away, and while she liked him, she couldn’t even think about getting serious with someone right now.

But she didn’t want to be too hard on Peter, either. Maybe he’d been nervous and had overdone it, trying to impress her. And maybe this was actually a good sign because it showed he actually liked her. Yeah, he’d gone way overboard, but what if he
hadn’t
done all of the romantic stuff? What if he took her to a cheap restaurant, like Pasta Under Five on Second Avenue? Some stockbroker, must’ve been making two hundred a year, had once taken her there and splurged on pasta primavera for $4.95, the cheap bastard. Or what if Peter’s MO was to get her drunk, then go back to her place for sex? There was no doubt he was a caring, generous guy, a perfect gentleman—she just hoped he toned it down the next time they went out, on Monday night. He’d asked her to go to dinner with him tomorrow, Sunday, but she’d lied and said she had plans. After spending two nights in a row with him, she felt like they needed a break, and she was glad she’d finally asserted herself.

In her bedroom, she went online to check her e-mail. She opened a message from her friend Jane from high school. Jane, who lived in Berkeley now, had gone on an awful blind
date with a guy who had a really greasy forehead—it looked like an “oil field”—and she described how during dinner a zit on his forehead had started bleeding. Katie laughed out loud several times as she read the message, and then wrote back, laughing again as she asked Jane if she was going to go on another date with Oily Man. Then she told Jane all about her date with Peter. She wasn’t sure if Jane even knew Peter from Lenox, because she was Katie’s age and she didn’t have any older brothers or sisters who would’ve been friends with him. Katie loved Jane, but in high school Jane had gone out with a guy, Christopher, who Katie had had a big crush on, and Katie had never gotten over it completely. So Katie didn’t tell Jane about the weird stuff with Peter, only about the good stuff. She even laid it on, telling Jane that Peter could even be the one, knowing that Jane would feel bad, especially coming off her awful date with Oily Man.

Katie felt good after she clicked
SEND
, but several minutes later, when she was lying in bed, trying to concentrate on reading the latest Harry Potter novel, she regretted sending the e-mail. It was mean to do something like that, especially to a good friend, and she wished there was a way she could unsend the message. She was obsessing so much that she kept losing her place in the book and finally closed it in frustration.

She couldn’t sleep. At first, repetitive thoughts about Jane kept her awake, and then she started thinking about Peter. She replayed the date a bunch of times and then rehashed older memories, like the times in Lenox that they’d talked to each other at the ice-cream parlor and the video store. It seemed like it was always that way with her memories—she could remember unimportant things with total clarity, but major events, like prom night, the first time she had sex, or even the day Heather died, were blurred.

But then she remembered something else about Peter from years ago. He was in her house—she must’ve been, what, twelve years old? Heather’s hair was shoulder length with bangs, her high school do, so she must’ve been about fifteen. Peter had come for dinner. He and Heather were in the same grade and she’d had other friends over before, so it wasn’t
weird that he was there. Katie couldn’t remember anything in particular that had happened that night; like the other memories of Peter, it seemed random, uneventful. Still, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it until now. Also, she had a feeling that Peter had been over to the house several times, but she wasn’t sure. She knew that he and Heather were, at least for a while, pretty good friends. Because Katie was very young, wasn’t even a teenager yet, she might’ve missed some of the signals, but it was possible, even likely, that Peter had a crush on Heather. Heather had been very cute and a lot of guys had liked her.

Lying on her side, Katie was uncomfortable, and turned fully onto her stomach. For some reason—and she wasn’t sure why—the idea that Peter and Heather may’ve been together in some way kept nagging at Katie. Maybe she’d ask Peter if he’d ever had a crush on Heather, or if he’d kissed her. Or maybe she wouldn’t. What was the point in causing drama when things were going so well?

Franky Franco looked like the textbook schizo—wide-eyed, fidgety, long messy hair, a scraggly, graying beard. Actually, he seemed so wacko that John Himoto wondered why he’d believed a word the guy had said, despite the polygraph.

Franco stuck to the story he’d told John earlier, that he’d stumbled upon Andrew Barnett in the underpass at Carl Schurz Park and murdered him. He answered every question John asked in a dead serious tone, without cracking a smile, and even started to cry several times. He seemed to believe that what he was saying was the absolute truth. Unfortunately, he didn’t create any new holes in his story and didn’t give any new details, so the forty-five-minute talk with him accomplished absolutely nothing.

After some callbacks that went nowhere, John went to the church on Seventy-ninth Street near First Avenue. He’d been there several times before. Every day the church offered free meals for the homeless, and one morning, about two years ago, a stabbing had taken place. There had been several witnesses to the crime, but no one talked, and the case went unsolved.
A minor blotch on John’s otherwise stellar record. Yeah, right.

John talked to the administrator of the food program, Helena Adams, a nearly anorexic redhead in a black dress and an expensive-looking pearl necklace who seemed surprisingly uppity to have the job she had. She knew Franky Franco, said he’d been having meals at the church for the past couple of months.

“Has he ever been involved in any disputes?” Himoto asked.

“None that I know of,” she said. “But you’re aware of his psychiatric history, aren’t you?”

She couldn’t’ve sounded snootier.

“Yes, I am.”

“He often talks to himself, and seems, well, I guess paranoid is the word. But, no, I haven’t seen him become violent and, frankly, I’ve never felt threatened by him, either. God knows I can’t say the same about some of the others who come here. By the way, we had an incident last month, a man was urinating inside the church, and we called the police and it took nearly an hour for someone to get here.”

John apologized and explained that he had nothing to do with that and gave her a number where she could file a complaint. She mouthed off at him anyway about how important the church was to the community and how neglectful the police department was. John wanted to leave, but he also wanted more information from her, so he had to stand there, nodding with fake sincerity while the uppity biddy shit all over him.

Finally she finished and John asked her if there was anyone else at the church who knew Franco.

“Maybe one of the volunteers who serves meals could help you.”

“You have the same volunteers each day?”

“No, it varies.”

“What about friends or acquaintances?”

She let out an annoyed breath and crossed her arms in front of her chest, a not-so-subtle signal that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.