The Wreck (8 page)

His face fell with disappointment when he
saw she hadn’t packed anything. With his hands on his hips and his jaw tight
with tension, he stood perfectly still and looked at her, as if to fill his
heart and mind with enough to get him through a life without her. “I have no
idea what I’m supposed to do right now,” he finally said. “I never imagined
we’d end up this way.”

Carly handed him the note she’d written
at five o’clock that morning. It said, “Every dream I’ve ever had begins and
ends with you. No matter how much time passes, if you want to come home, I’ll
be here. I love you always. Only you.”

Blinded by tears after reading it, he
folded the note and put it in his shirt pocket. Then he reached for her.

With her arms around his waist, she
rested her head on his chest.

He held her tight against him.

She wasn’t sure if ten minutes had passed
or only one when he whispered, “Brian Westbury loves Carly Holbrook.” With a
kiss to her forehead, he was gone.

Carly flew over to the window and held
the curtain aside to watch her mother walk Brian and his parents to their car.
At the gate, her mother hugged him and then reached up to wipe tears off his
face. He said something, and Carol hugged him again.

He got into the car with his parents.
With a last wave to Carly’s mom, they drove away.

Carly stared out the window until long
after the car was out of sight. Finally, she released the curtain and it fell
back into place, cutting off her view of the outside world.

Part II

May 2010

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time
to keep silent, and a time to speak.

Ecclesiastes 3:7

M
ichael Westbury flipped on the radio and
took the frozen dinner from the microwave, dropping it onto the stovetop with a
muttered curse. He always forgot about the steam. Turning on the faucet, he let
the cool water soothe the stinging burn on his hand. After waiting a safe
amount of time, he peeled back the plastic and dug into the roasted turkey and
potatoes.

While he ate, he pored over the files he
had brought home from the station and nursed one of the two light beers he
allowed himself every night after work. At the top of the hour, he tuned the radio
to a news station in New York City. “We have a verdict,” the announcer teased
before launching into a commercial break that seemed to last forever.

Michael pushed the files aside and took a
long drink from his beer bottle. “Come on,” he whispered, his heart beating
fast with anticipation while he waited through the interminable commercials.

“The jury has found New York socialite
Barry Gooding
guilty
on all counts in the grizzly stabbing murder of his
wife Giselle in their Park Avenue penthouse just over two years ago.”

“Yes!”
Michael pumped his fist into the air. “Yes!”

“Assistant District Attorney Brian
Westbury had this to say after the verdicts: ‘It’s a great day for the City of
New York and for Giselle Gooding’s loved ones. Justice has been served.’”

While Brian’s tone was reserved and
professional, Michael could hear the excitement in his son’s voice.

“I’d like to thank everyone in my office
who worked with me over the last two years to get this killer off the streets
and to provide closure for the Goodings’ two young children, whose bravery and
courage has been an inspiration to us all. District Attorney Stein will hold a
press conference later tonight. I’ll let him take it from here. Thanks.”

“Nice job, son,” Michael whispered. “Nice
job.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number in Florida. “Did you hear?” he
asked when Mary Ann answered.

“Just now on TV. How about that boy of
ours?”

“I’m busting,” Michael confessed.

Mary Ann laughed. “I can picture it. Has
he called you yet?”

“Not yet. I’m sure he’s bogged down with
the media and a bottle of bubbly.”

“You’ll get a call before the night is
over.”

“I know.” He stabbed his fork at what was
left of his dinner. “How’s the weather?”

“Gorgeous. I wish you were here.”

“I’ll be down next weekend.”

“I guess I can wait that long.”

He paused and then forced himself to ask,
“You doing all right?”

“Define all right,” she said with a
laugh.

“I know. Me, too. Fifteen years.
Impossible to believe.”

“Life has some nerve going on like
nothing happened, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Tugging on the raised corner of
the beer bottle label, Michael said, “I wonder what he’d be up to these days.”

“With his good looks and smooth talk,
he’d probably be a millionaire several times over by now.”

Michael laughed. “Then I could finally
retire, and we could live large in Florida year-round.”

“That would work for me.” Her voice
softened. “You understand why I can’t be there right now, don’t you, Mike?”

“Of course I do.”

“When you talk to Brian, ask him to call
me when the dust settles.”

“I’m sure you’ll hear from him today or
tomorrow.”

“Will you take some flowers to the
cemetery this week?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him his mother is thinking of him.”

Michael’s throat tightened with emotion,
but he managed to say, “You got it.”

“Love you.”

“You, too, babe.”

Michael clicked off the phone and set it
on the table. He attempted to return his attention to the files, but his
concentration was blown. Pushing back the kitchen chair, he got up, dropped the
plastic dinner tray into the recycling, and then wandered down the hallway. He
rested his hand on the doorknob to Sam’s room and worked up the wherewithal to
open the door.

The room was just as Sam had left it:
clothes in piles on the floor, three pairs of size twelve sneakers scattered
about, scraps of paper on every surface, shelves of trophies and mementos, and
a rumpled bed. For years after the accident, the room had smelled like him—an
appealing combination of sweat, cologne, and youthful exuberance. Now, it was
musty and lifeless.

At times, Michael could still hear his
boys running through the house as toddlers, as Cub Scouts, as Little League
standouts, and as high school stars. The two of them, looking so much alike that
sometimes even he had to take a second look before he called them by name, were
always together, always close, always a pair until one was gone.

During the chaotic years of working and
raising a family, a man doesn’t have time to prepare himself for the day when
his house will once again fall silent. He doesn’t know until it’s too late that
the quiet can break a father’s heart.

When she was home, Mary Ann dusted in
Sam’s room once in a while, but otherwise they kept the door closed. They’d
talked about cleaning out the room but had never gotten around to doing it.
Michael suspected they might’ve moved if the specter of dealing with Sam’s room
hadn’t hung over them.

Michael sat on the bed and reached for
the photo on the bedside table. On one side of the double frame, Sam and Jenny
were decked out for her junior prom. On the other side was a group shot of the
eight friends in formal attire at the same prom. Tracing his fingers over the
picture, he brushed away the dust that had settled on the glass.
Such
beautiful kids
, Michael thought,
and such an awful waste
.

He and Mary Ann had set out to have four
children but had been blessed with only two—one right after the other. They’d
tried for years to have more, and when it didn’t happen, they had thrown themselves
into enjoying every minute with their two boys. The six others in the picture
had become their extras, and they had mourned the loss of every one of them—and
suffered through the added burden that came with being the parents of the one
who’d been driving.

Fortunately, they’d never once felt an
ounce of recrimination from any of the other parents. He suspected they had
taken a “there but for the grace of God go I” philosophy, knowing that by the
luck of the draw it’d been Sam Westbury behind the wheel that night when on any
given night, it might’ve been one of their kids driving the doomed car.

Not a day had gone by in fifteen years
that Michael hadn’t thought of Sam and the lingering questions surrounding the
accident—questions that had never been answered to Michael’s satisfaction. But
after more than thirty years in uniform, he knew the only thing that could
clear his son’s name was the one thing he didn’t have: hard evidence.

Despite constant, relentless effort, he’d
never found a shred of evidence to prove anything other than what they already
knew: the car driven by his son had taken the curve on Tucker Road at a speed
of at least forty miles per hour—fifteen miles above the speed limit—barreled
into a massive oak tree, and burst into flames on impact.

Since the accident, two more rattled
drivers had reported seeing a man standing in the middle of Tucker Road, but
Michael and his officers hadn’t been able to catch him. Years of beefed up
patrols in the area had yielded nothing. Tired of seeing him defeated by the
situation, Mary Ann had encouraged him to let it go, but he never would. As
long as he had a breath left in him, he would work to clear his boy’s name.

Michael returned the photo to Sam’s
bedside table and left the room, closing the door behind him. In the room that
used to be Brian’s, Mary Ann had set up her sewing machine and Michael had
installed a computer. He chuckled at the dichotomy—a shrine to the boy who’d
died and nothing in Brian’s old room to remind them of the boy who had lived. Not
that he would care. True to his word, Brian had never come home again after he
left for college.

The phone rang, and Michael dashed into
the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad, did you hear the news?”

Michael smiled at the rare sound of
euphoria in his son’s voice and a party going on in the background. “I sure
did. Congratulations, Bri.”

“Thanks. It’s a huge relief. That bastard
was guilty as sin, but he had one hell of a defense attorney. I was sweating
this one big-time.”

“You did a great job.” Michael had read
every word written about the trial and knew Brian had left nothing to chance.

“My eyes are burning from the champagne
they sprayed at me when I got back to the office.”

“Enjoy the celebration. You’ve certainly
earned it.”

“You’ve just got to wonder how a guy can
do what he did in front of his kids.”

“He’s a monster, and thanks to you, he’s
exactly where he belongs tonight. Where are the kids now?”

“Living with Giselle’s sister in
Missouri, and I hear they’re doing a lot better. They were amazing during the
trial.”

“I read about them in the paper.”

“Their testimony definitely sealed the
deal. Hopefully, they can move past it now and have relatively normal lives.”

“With luck, they won’t remember much of
it,” Michael said, even though he was skeptical. Some things could never be
forgotten. “Mom sends her congratulations, too.”

“I’ll call her when we hang up.” Brian
paused before he asked, “How’s she doing?”

“She seems to be hanging in there.”

“And you?”

“I’m okay. Tough time of year for all of us.”

“Yeah. I could come up if you don’t want
to be alone that day.”

“What’s this?” Michael joked. “You? Come
home?”

“I would if you needed me.”

“I know, son.” His good boy had grown up to
be a nice man. “But it’s not necessary. We’ll plan a weekend in New York soon.
Mom will fly up to meet us.”

“Saul’s been making noise about me taking
a vacation now that the trial is over.”

“When was the last time you had one? A
real one?”

“He says six years, but I think it’s more
like three.”

“I believe him.”

Brian laughed. “What the hell am I going
to do with a vacation?”

“Oh, I don’t know, relax maybe? Read a
book? Get laid?”

“Christ, Dad,” Brian huffed. “Is that
necessary?”

“Absolutely necessary to your health and
well-being.”

“All right, this conversation is over.
I’m calling my mother who would never dream of saying such a thing to me.”

Laughing, Michael said, “You need to get
yourself a life outside of that office.”

“I tried that—twice, in fact—and as you
well know, I discovered I’m a much better workaholic than I am a husband.”

Michael grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was out
of line.”

“Don’t go all serious on me, Dad. I like
you better when you’re busting my balls, even if it’s embarrassing.”

A knock on the back door brought Michael
to his feet. “It’s open,” he called. To Brian, he said, “Congratulations again.
I couldn’t be more proud of you.”