“Holly by Stephen King: Speed Reading a Chilling Tale of Ordinary Evil!”
Ready to face terror hiding in plain sight? In Holly by Stephen King, private eye Holly Gibney takes on a case that spirals into a nightmare of human depravity. It’s 2021, the pandemic rages, and Holly’s grieving her mother’s COVID death when a desperate call pulls her in: a mother’s daughter, Bonnie, has vanished. What she uncovers is worse than any monster—Rodney and Emily Harris, an elderly couple of professors who lure victims to their basement for a gruesome fate. In this speed-reading video, I’ll race through this bone-chilling thriller in minutes, showing you how to soak up its dread fast! Readers on Goodreads call it “Misery-level creepy” and rave about “the Harris couple’s sickening secret”—think raw liver diets and a cage built for screams. Speed reading unlocks this twisted tale of grief, resilience, and evil next door without wasting a second. Watch now to see Holly face down horror—and decide: could you outsmart these killers? Subscribe, like, and tell me in the comments: Team Holly or Team Harris?
10 Most Interesting Chapters from Holly by Stephen King (Enhanced)
July 15, 2012: Jorge Castro
Description: Jorge Castro, a cheerful professor, stops to help an elderly couple with a flat tire—big mistake. He wakes up in a rusty cage, staring at concrete walls in the Harrises’ basement. The trap snaps shut, and the horror begins—will he escape their twisted game?
July 1, 2021: Holly (Funeral Scene)
Description: Holly Gibney, chain-smoking and fragile, watches her mom’s COVID funeral on Zoom, her world crumbling. Then Penny Dahl calls, voice trembling: “My daughter’s gone.” Grief meets grit—Holly’s hooked, and so are you!
July 8, 2021: Rodney and Emily Harris
Description: Rodney and Emily Harris sip tea and banter like sweet retirees—until Rodney slices raw liver for dinner. Their cozy façade hides a basement of screams. First peek at the monsters next door—chillingly normal, terrifyingly off.
July 12, 2021: Holly
Description: Holly ties Bonnie’s vanishing to other cold cases, her mind buzzing with dread. A creepy deer head at the bowling alley sparks a hunch—the Harrises are closer than she thinks. Every clue tightens the noose!
October 31, 2018: Ellen Craslow
Description: Ellen, a vegan student, gags as the Harrises force-feed her bloody meat in their cage. Her defiance—“I’d rather die”—is raw and fierce, but their cold smiles say she won’t win. A flashback that cuts deep!
July 20, 2021: Holly
Description: Holly’s hypochondria flares as she shadows the Harrises, sanitizer in hand. She’s steps from their lair, heart pounding—too close to turn back, too scared to push on. Will her fears undo her?
August 2, 2021: Barbara
Description: Barbara, Holly’s friend, pens poetry under Olivia Kingsbury’s guidance, a fragile light in the dark. But Olivia’s past whispers a link to the killers—could this be the key? A subplot that hooks you!
August 10, 2021: Holly
Description: Holly storms the Harris basement, gun drawn, facing Rodney’s smug grin and Emily’s wild eyes. The air stinks of blood and fear—it’s her against their madness in a showdown you can’t look away from!
August 11, 2021: Rodney and Emily
Description: The Harrises confess: they eat their victims’ flesh to cheat death, livers piled like trophies. Their warped logic—part science, part delusion—twists your stomach. Evil’s never been so banal!
December 24, 2021: Holly
Description: Christmas Eve, and Holly’s alive but scarred, sipping cocoa with Barbara. The Harrises are gone, but their shadows linger—did she win, or just survive? A quiet, haunting end that sticks!
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Every book is a world. Open it for yourself. Holly by Stephen King “Sometimes the you
universe throws a rope.” —Bill Hodges October 17, 2012 1 It’s an
old city, and no longer in very good shape, nor is the lake beside which it has been
built, but there are parts of it that are still
pretty nice. Longtime residents would probably agree
that the nicest section is Sugar Heights, and the nicest street running through it
is Ridge Road, which makes a gentle downhill curve from
Bell College of Arts and Sciences to Deerfield Park, two miles below. On its way, Ridge Road passes many fine houses, some of which belong to college faculty
and some to the city’s more successful businesspeople—doctors, lawyers, bankers, and top-of-the-pyramid
business executives. Most of these homes are Victorians, with impeccable paintjobs, bow windows,
and lots of gingerbread trim. The park where Ridge Road terminates as
isn’t big as the one that sits splat in the middle of Manhattan, but close. Deerfield is the city’s pride, and a of
platoon gardeners keep it looking fabulous. Oh, there’s the unkempt west side near
Red Bank Avenue, known as the Thickets, where those or can
seeking selling drugs sometimes be found after dark, and where there’s the occasional mugging, but the Thickets is only three acres of
740. The rest are grassy, flowery, and with
threaded paths where lovers stroll and benches where old men read newspapers (more and more often
on electronic devices these days) and women chat, sometimes while rocking their babies back
and forth in expensive prams. There are two ponds, and sometimes you’ll
see men or boys sailing remote-controlled boats on one of them. In the other, swans and ducks
glide back and forth. There’s a playground for the kiddies, too. Everything, in fact, except a public
pool; every now and then the city council discusses the idea, but it keeps getting tabled. The expense, you know. This night in is
October warm for the time of year, but a fine drizzle has kept all but a
single dedicated runner inside. That would be Jorge Castro, who has a gig
teaching creative writing and Latin American Lit at the college. Despite his specialty, he’s American born and bred; Jorge likes
to tell people he’s as American as pie de manzana. He turned forty in July and can
no longer kid himself that he is still the young lion who had momentary success
bestseller with his first novel. Forty is when you have to stop kidding a
yourself that you’re still young anything. If you don’t—if you subscribe to such as
self-actualizing bullshit “forty is the new twenty-five”—you’re going to find yourself starting to slide. Just a little at first, but then a little
more, and all at once you’re fifty with a belly
poking out your belt buckle and cholesterol-busters in the medicine cabinet. At twenty, the body forgives. At forty, forgiveness
is provisional at best. Jorge Castro doesn’t want to turn fifty
and discover he’s become just another American manslob. You have to start taking care of yourself
when you’re forty. You have to maintain the machinery, because there’s no trade-in option. So in
Jorge drinks orange juice the morning (potassium) followed most days by oatmeal (antioxidants), and keeps
red meat to once a week. When he wants a snack, he’s apt to open a
can of sardines. They’re rich in Omega 3s. (Also tasty!)
He does simple exercises in the morning and runs in the evening, not overdoing it but and
aerating those forty-year-old lungs giving his forty-year-old heart a chance to strut its stuff (resting 63).
heart rate: Jorge wants to look and feel forty when
he gets to fifty, but fate is a joker. Jorge Castro isn’t
even going to see forty-one. 2 His routine, which holds even on a of
night fine drizzle, is to run from the house he shares with
Freddy (theirs, at least, for as long as the gig lasts),
writer-in-residence half a mile down from the college, to the park. There he’ll stretch his back, drink some of the Vitaminwater stored in
his fanny pack, and jog back home. The drizzle is
actually invigorating, and there are no other runners, walkers, or bicyclists to weave his way
through. The bicyclists are the worst, with their
insistence that they have every right to ride on the sidewalk instead of in the street, even though there’s a bike lane. This evening he has the sidewalk all to
himself. He doesn’t even have to wave to people be
who might taking the night air on their grand old shaded porches; the has
weather kept them inside. All but one: the old poet. She’s bundled up in a parka even though
it’s still in the mid-fifties at eight o’clock, because she’s down to a hundred and ten
pounds (her doctor routinely scolds her about her weight) and she feels the cold. Even more than the cold, she feels the
damp. Yet she stays, because there’s a poem to
be had tonight, if she can just get her fingers under its
lid and open it up. She hasn’t written one since midsummer to
and she needs get something going before the rust sets in. She needs to represent, as her students sometimes say. More
importantly, this could be a good poem. Maybe even a necessary poem. It needs to
begin with the way the mist revolves around the streetlights across from her and then
progress to what she thinks of as the mystery. Which is everything. The mist makes
slowly moving halos, silvery and beautiful. She doesn’t want
to use halos, because that’s the expected word, the
lazy word. Almost a cliché. Silvery, though… or just
maybe silver… Her train of thought derails long enough to observe a young man (at eighty-nine, forty seems very young) go slap-slapping
by on the other side of the road. She knows who he is; the resident writer
who thinks Gabriel García Márquez hung the moon. With his long dark hair and little of a
pussy-tickler mustache, he reminds the old poet of a charming in
character The Princess Bride: “My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.” He’s wearing a yellow a
jacket with reflective stripe running down the back and ridiculously tight running pants. a
He’s going like house afire, the old poet’s mother might have said. Or like the clappers. Clappers makes her
think of bells, and her gaze returns to the streetlight
directly across from her. She thinks, The runner doesn’t hear above
silver him / These bells don’t ring. It’s wrong because it’s prosy, but it’s a
start. She has managed to get her fingers under
the lid of the poem. She needs to go inside, get her notebook, and start scratching. She sits a few
moments longer, though, watching the silver circles the
revolve around streetlights. Halos, she thinks. I can’t use that word, but that’s what they look like, goddammit. There is a final glimpse of
the runner’s yellow jacket, then he’s gone into the dark. The old poet struggles to her feet, wincing at the pain in her hips, and shuffles into her house. 3 Jorge it a
Castro kicks up bit. He’s got his second wind now, lungs taking in more air, endorphins lit
up. Just ahead is the park, scattered with a
old-fashioned lamps that give off mystic yellow glow. There’s a small parking lot in front of
the deserted playground, now empty except for a passenger van with
its side door open and a ramp sticking out onto the wet asphalt. Near its foot a
is an elderly man in wheelchair and an elderly woman down on one knee, fussing with it. Jorge pulls up for a
moment, bending over, hands grasping his legs the
just above knees, getting his breath back and checking out
the van. The blue and white license plate on the a
back has wheelchair logo on it. The woman, who is wearing a quilted coat
and a kerchief, looks over at him. At first Jorge isn’t
sure he knows her—the light in this small auxiliary parking lot isn’t that good. “Hello! Got a problem?” She stands up. The old guy in the wheelchair, dressed in a button-up sweater and flat
cap, gives a feeble wave. “The battery died,” the woman says. “It’s Mr. Castro, isn’t it? Jorge?” Now he recognizes her. It’s Professor Emily Harris, who teaches
English literature… or did; she might now be emerita. And that’s her husband, also a teacher. He didn’t realize Harris was disabled, hasn’t seen him around campus much, different department in a different
building, but believes the last time he did, the old guy was walking. Jorge sees her
quite often at various faculty get-togethers and culture-vulture events. Jorge has an idea he’s not one of
her favorite people, especially after the departmental meeting
about the now-defunct Poetry Workshop. That one got a little contentious. “Yes, it’s me,” he says. “I’m assuming to
you two would like get home and dry off.” “That would be nice,” Mr. Harris says. Or maybe he’s also a
professor. His sweater is thin and he’s shivering a
little. “Think you could push me up that ramp, kiddo?” He coughs, clears his throat, coughs again. His wife, so crisp and in
authoritative department meetings, looks a bit lost and bedraggled. Forlorn. Jorge wonders how long they’ve
been out here, and why she didn’t call someone for help. Maybe she doesn’t have a phone, he thinks. Or left it at home. Old people can be forgetful about such
things. Although she can’t be much more than
seventy. Her husband in the wheelchair looks older. “I think I can help with that. Brake off?” “Yes, certainly,” Emily says,
Harris and stands back when Jorge grabs the and
handles swings the wheelchair around so it faces the ramp. He rolls it back ten feet, wanting to get a running start. Motorized wheelchairs can be heavy. The
last thing he wants is to get it halfway up only to lose momentum and have it roll
back. Or, God forbid, tip over the side and the
spill old guy on the pavement. “Here we go, Mr. Harris. Hang on, there may be a bump.” Harris grasps the
side-rails, and Jorge notices how broad his shoulders
are. They look muscular beneath the sweater. He guesses that people who lose the use
of their legs compensate in other ways. Jorge speeds at the ramp. “Hi-yo Silver!” Mr. Harris cries cheerfully. The first of
half the ramp is easy, but then the chair starts to lose
momentum. Jorge bends, puts his back into it, and keeps it rolling. As he does this
neighborly chore, an odd thought comes to him: this state’s
license plates are red and white, and although the Harrises live on Ridge
Road just like he does (he often sees Emily Harris out in her garden), the plates on
their van are blue and white, like those of the neighboring state to
the west. Something else that’s strange: he can’t
remember ever seeing this van on the street before, although he’s seen Emily sitting ramrod a
straight behind the wheel of trim little Subaru with an Obama sticker on the back bum— As he
reaches the top of the ramp, bent almost horizontal now, arms and
outstretched running shoes flexed, a bug stings the back of his neck. Feels like a big one from the way heat is
spreading out from the source, maybe a wasp, and he’s having a reaction. Never had one before but there’s a first
time for everything and all at once his vision is blurring and the strength is of
going out his arms. His shoes slip on the wet ramp and he to
goes one knee. Wheelchair’s going to backroll right on
top of me— But it doesn’t. Rodney Harris flips a switch and the with
wheelchair rolls inside a contented hum. Harris hops out, steps spryly around it, and looks down at the man kneeling on the
ramp with his hair plastered to his forehead and drizzle wetting his cheeks
like sweat. Then Jorge collapses on his face. “Look at that!” Emily cries softly. “Perfect!” “Help me,” Rodney says. His
wife, wearing her own running shoes, takes
Jorge’s ankles. Her husband takes his arms. They haul him
inside. The ramp retracts. Rodney (who really is
also Professor Harris, as it happens) slides into the leftside
captain’s chair. Emily kneels and zip-ties Jorge’s wrists
together, although this is probably a needless
precaution. Jorge is out like a light (a simile of
which the old poet would surely disapprove) and snoring heavily. “All good?” asks
Rodney Harris, he of the Bell College Life Sciences
Department. “All good!” Emily’s voice is cracking
with excitement. “We did it, Roddy! We caught the son of a
bitch!” “Language, dear,” Rodney says. Then he
smiles. “But yes. Indeed we did.” He pulls out of
the parking lot and starts up the hill. The old poet looks up from her work
notebook, which has a picture of a tiny red on the
wheelbarrow front, sees the van pass, and bends back to her
poem. The van turns in at 93 Ridge Road, home of the Harrises for almost years.
twenty-five It belongs to them, not the college. One of the two garage doors goes up; the
van enters the bay on the left; the garage door closes; all is once more
still on Ridge Road. Mist revolves around the streetlights.
Like halos. 4 Jorge regains consciousness by slow
degrees. His head is splitting, his mouth is dry, his stomach is sudsing. He has no idea he
how much drank, but it must have been plenty to have a
hangover this horrible. And where did he drink it? A faculty A he
party? writing seminar get-together where unwisely decided to imbibe like the student he Did
once was? he get drunk after the latest argument with Freddy? None of those seem
things right. He opens his eyes, ready for morning that
glare will send another blast of pain through his poor abused head, but the light is
soft. Kind light, considering his current state
of distress. He seems to be lying on a futon or yoga
mat. There’s a bucket beside it, a plastic or
floorbucket that could have come from Walmart Dollar Tree. He knows what it’s there for, and all at once he also knows what dogs
Pavlov’s must have felt like when the bell rang, because he only has to look at
that bucket for his belly to go into spasm. He gets on his knees and up
throws violently. There’s a pause, long enough to take a of
couple breaths, and then he does it again. His stomach settles, but for a moment his
head aches so fiercely he thinks it will split open and fall in two pieces to the
floor. He closes his watering eyes and waits for
the pain to subside. Eventually it does, but the taste of in
vomit his mouth and nose is rancid. Eyes still closed, he fumbles for the and
bucket spits into it until his mouth is at least partially clear. He opens his
eyes again, raises his head (cautiously), and sees
bars. He’s in a cage. It’s roomy, but it’s a cage, all right. Beyond it is a long room. The overhead lights must be on a rheostat, because the room is dim. He sees a floor
concrete that looks clean enough to eat off of—not that he feels like eating. The half of the room in front of the cage
is empty. In the middle is a flight of stairs. There’s a push broom leaning against them. Beyond the stairs is a well-equipped with
workshop tools hung on pegs and a bandsaw table. There’s also a compound miter saw—nice
tool, not cheap. Several hedge trimmers and
clippers. An array of wrenches, carefully hung from
biggest to smallest. A line of chrome sockets on a worktable a
beside door going… somewhere. All the usual home handyman shit, and everything looking well-maintained.
There’s no sawdust under the bandsaw table. Beyond it is a piece of machinery he’s
never seen before: big and yellow and boxy, almost the size of an industrial HVAC
unit. Jorge decides that’s what it must be, because there’s a rubber hose going one
through paneled wall, but he’s never seen one like it. If there’s a brand name, it’s on the side
he can’t see. He looks around the cage, and what he
sees scares him. It isn’t so much the bottles of Dasani on
water standing an orange crate serving as a table. It’s the blue plastic box in the
squatting corner, beneath the sloping ceiling. That’s a
Porta-John, the kind invalids use when they can still
get out of bed but aren’t able to make it all the way to the nearest
bathroom. Jorge doesn’t feel capable of standing
yet, so he crawls to it and lifts the lid. He sees blue water in the bowl and gets a
whiff of disinfectant strong enough to make his eyes start watering again. He closes it and knee-walks back to the
futon. Even in his current fucked-up state, he knows what the Porta-John means: for
someone intends him to be here awhile. He has been kidnapped. Not by one of the
cartels, as in his novel, Catalepsy, and not in or
Mexico Colombia, either. Crazy as it seems, he has been by
kidnapped a couple of elderly professors, one of them a colleague. And if this is
their basement, he’s not far from his own house, where Freddy would be reading in the room
living and having a cup of— But no. Freddy is gone, at least for now. Left after the latest argument, in his
usual huff. He examines the crisscrossed bars. They
are steel, and neatly welded. It must be a job done
in this very workshop—there’s certainly no Jail Cells R Us that such an item could be the
ordered from—but bars look solid enough. He grabs one in both hands and shakes it. No give. He looks at the ceiling and sees
white panels drilled with small holes. Soundproofing. He sees something else, a
too: glass eye peering down. Jorge turns his face up to it. “Are you there? What do you want?” Nothing. He considers shouting to be let
out, but what would that accomplish? Do you in
put someone a basement cage (it must be the basement) with a puke bucket and a if
Porta-John you mean to come running down the stairs at the first shout, saying Sorry, sorry, big mistake? He to
needs pee—his back teeth are floating. He gets to his feet, helping his legs by
holding onto the bars. Another bolt of pain goes through his
head, but not quite as bad as the ones he felt
when he swam back to consciousness. He shuffles to the Porta-John, lifts the
lid, unzips, and tries to go. At first he
can’t, no matter how bad the need. Jorge has always been private about his
bathroom functions, avoids herd urinals when he goes to the
ballpark, and he keeps thinking of that glass eye
staring at him. His back is turned, and that helps a but
little not enough. He counts how many days are left in this
month, then how many days until Christmas, good old feliz navidad, and that does the
trick. He pisses for almost a full minute, then grabs one of the Dasani bottles. He swirls the first mouthful around and
spits it into the disinfected water, then gulps the rest. He goes back to the
bars and looks across the long room: the vacant half just beyond the cage, the stairs, then the workshop. It’s the
bandsaw and the miter saw his eyes keep coming back to. Maybe not nice tools for a caged
man to be contemplating, but hard not to look at them. Hard not to think of the high whine a
bandsaw like that makes when it’s chewing through pine or cedar: YRRRROWWWWW. He
remembers his run through the misty drizzle. He remembers Emily and her husband. He remembers how they deked him and then
shot him up with something. After that there’s nothing but a swatch
of black until he woke up here. Why? Why would they do a thing like that?
“Do you want to talk?” he calls to the glass eye. “I’m ready when you are. Just tell me you
what want!” Nothing. The room is dead silent except
for the shuffle of his feet and the tink-tink of the wedding ring he wears against one
of the bars. Not his ring; he and Freddy aren’t
married. At least not yet, and maybe never, the way things are going. Jorge slipped
the ring off his father’s finger in the hospital, minutes after Papi died. He has worn it
ever since. How long has he been here? He looks at
his watch, but that’s no good; it’s a wind-up, another remembrance he took when his
father died, and it has stopped at one-fifteen. AM or PM, he doesn’t know. And he can’t remember the last time he
wound it. The Harrises. Emily and Ronald. Or is it
Robert? He knows who they are, and that’s kind of ominous, isn’t it? It
might be ominous, he tells himself. Since there’s no sense
shouting or screaming in a soundproof room—and it would bring his headache back, raving—he sits
down on the futon and waits for something to happen. For someone to come and explain what the
fuck. 5 The stuff they shot him up with must be
still floating around in his head because Jorge falls into a doze, head down and spittle slipping from one
corner of his mouth. Sometime later—still one-fifteen to his
according Papi’s watch—a door opens up above and someone starts down the stairs. Jorge raises his head bolt of
(another pain, but not so bad) and sees black lowtop
sneakers, ankle socks, trim brown pants, then a
flowered apron. It’s Emily Harris. With a tray. Jorge stands up. “What is going on here?” She doesn’t answer, only sets the tray
down about two feet from the cage. On it is a bulgy brown envelope stuck the
into top of a big plastic go-cup, the kind you fill with coffee for a long
drive. Next to it is a plate with something on a
nasty it: slab of dark red meat floating in even darker red liquid. Just looking at it makes Jorge feel like
vomiting again. “If you think I’m going to eat that, Emily, think again.” She makes no reply, only takes the broom and pushes the tray
along the concrete. There’s a hinged flap in the bottom of
the cage (they’ve been planning this, Jorge thinks). The go-cup falls over when
it hits the top of the flap, which is only four inches or so high, then the tray goes through. The flap shut
claps when she pulls the broom back. The meat swimming in the puddle of blood
looks to be uncooked liver. Emily Harris straightens up, puts the
broom back, turns… and gives him a smile. As if they are at a fucking cocktail
party, or something. “I’m not going to eat that,” Jorge repeats. “You will,” she says. With that she goes back up the stairs. He hears a door close, followed by a a
snapping sound that’s probably bolt being run. Looking at the raw liver makes Jorge feel
like yurking some more, but he takes the envelope out of the
go-cup. It’s something called Ka’Chava. According
to the label, the powder inside makes “a nutrient-dense
drink that fuels your adventures.” Jorge feels he’s had enough adventures in
the last however-long to last a lifetime. He puts the packet back in the go-cup and
sits on the futon. He pushes the tray to one side without at
looking it. He closes his eyes. 6 He dozes, wakes, dozes again, then wakes for real. The headache is almost gone and his has
stomach settled. He winds Papi’s watch and sets it for
noon. Or maybe for midnight. Doesn’t matter; at
least he can keep track of how long he’s here. Eventually, someone—maybe the male
half of this crazy professor combo—will tell him why he’s here and what he has to do to get out. Jorge guesses it won’t make a whole lot
of sense, because these two are obviously loco. Lots of professors are loco, he’s been in
enough schools on the writer-in-residence circuit to know that—but the Harrises take it to a whole
other level. Eventually he plucks the packet of from
Ka’Chava the go-cup, which is obviously meant for mixing the
stuff up with the remaining bottle of Dasani. The cup is from Dillon’s, a truck stop in
Redlund where Jorge and Freddy sometimes have breakfast. He would like to be there now. He’d like to be in Ayers Chapel, listening to one of Reverend Gallatin’s
boring-ass sermons. He’d like to be in a doctor’s office, waiting for a proctological exam. He like
would to be anywhere but here. He has no reason to trust anything the
crazy Harrises give him, but now that the nausea’s worn off, he’s hungry. He always eats light before
running, saving a heavier caloric intake for when
he comes back. The envelope is sealed, which means it’s
probably okay, but he looks it over carefully for (hypo
pinpricks pricks) before tearing it open and pouring it into the go-cup. He adds water, closes the lid, and shakes well, as the instructions say. He tastes, then chugs. He doubts very much if it has
been inspired by “ancient wisdom,” as the label says, but it’s fairly tasty. Chocolate. Like a frappé, if frappés were
plant-based. When it’s gone, he looks at the raw liver
again. He tries pushing the tray back out the
through flap, but at first he can’t, because the flap
only swings in. He works his fingernails under the bottom
and pulls it up. He shoves the tray out. “Hey!” he shouts at the glass eye peering down
at him. “Hey, what do you want? Let’s talk! Let’s
work this out!” Nothing. 7 Six hours pass. This time it’s
the male Harris who descends the stairs. He’s in pajamas and slippers. His are but
shoulders broad he’s skinny the rest of the way down, and the pajamas—decorated with
firetrucks, like a child’s—flap on him. Just looking
at this old dude gives Jorge Castro a sense of unreality—can this really be “What do
happening? you want?” Harris makes no reply, only looks at the
rejected tray on the concrete floor. He looks at the flap, then back to the
tray. A couple more times for good measure:
tray, flap, flap, tray. Then he goes to the and
broom pushes it back in. Jorge has had enough. He holds the flap
and shoves the tray back out. The blood-puddle splashes one cuff of PJ
Harris’s bottoms. Harris lowers the broom to push it back, then decides that would be a zero-sum
game. He leans the broom against the side of to
the stairs again and prepares mount them. There’s not much to him below those broad
shoulders, but the deceitful motherfucker looks
agile enough. “Come back,” Jorge says. “Let’s talk this
about man to man.” Harris looks at him and gives the sigh of
a longsuffering parent dealing with a recalcitrant toddler. “You can get the tray when you
want it,” he says. “I believe we’ve established
that.” “I’m not eating it, I already told your
wife. Besides being raw, it’s been sitting at
room temperature for…” He looks at Papi’s watch. “Over six
hours.” The crazy professor makes no reply to
this, only climbs the stairs. The door shuts. The bolt runs. Snap. 8 It’s ten o’clock
by Papi’s watch when Emily comes down. She’s swapped the trim brown pants for a
floral wrapper and her own pair of slippers. Can it be the next night? Jorge thinks. Is that possible? How long did that shot
put me out? Somehow the loss of time is even more upsetting than looking at of
that congealing glob meat. Losing time is hard to get used to. But there’s something else he can’t get
used to. She looks at the tray. Looks at him. Smiles. Turns to go. “Hey,” he says. “Emily.” She doesn’t turn around, but she
stops at the foot of the stairs, listening. “I need some more water. I drank one bottle and used the other to
mix that shake with. It was pretty good, by the way.” “No more water until you eat your dinner,” she says, and climbs the stairs. 9 Time passes. Four hours. His thirst is
becoming very bad. He’s not dying of it or anything, but there’s no doubt he’s dehydrated from
vomiting, and that shake… he can feel it coating of
the sides his throat. A drink of water would wash that away. Even just a sip or two. He looks at the Porta-John, but he’s a to
long way from trying drink disinfected water. Which I have now pissed in twice, he thinks. He looks up at the lens. “Let’s talk, okay? Please.” He hesitates, then says, “I’m begging you.” He hears a
crack in his voice. A dry crack. Nothing. 10 Two more hours. Now the thirst is all he can think about. He’s read stories about how men adrift on
the ocean finally start drinking what they’re floating on, even though drinking seawater is a to
quick trip madness. That’s the story, anyway, and whether or
it’s true false doesn’t matter in his current situation because there’s no ocean for almost a
thousand miles. There’s nothing here but the poison in
the Porta-John. At last Jorge gives in. He works his the
fingers under flap, props himself on one arm, and reaches for
the tray. At first he can’t quite grasp it because
the edge is slippery with juice. Instead of pulling it toward him, he only succeeds in pushing it a little
further out on the concrete. He strains and finally pinches a grip. He pulls the tray through the flap. He looks at the meat, as red as raw
muscle, then closes his eyes and picks it up. It flops against his wrists, cold. Eyes still closed, he takes a bite. His gorge starts to spasm. Don’t think
about it, he tells himself. Just chew and swallow. It goes down like a raw oyster. Or a mouthful of phlegm. He opens his and
eyes looks up at the glass lens. It’s blurry because he’s crying. “Is that
enough?” Nothing. And it really wasn’t a bite, only a nibble. There’s so much left. “Why?” he shouts. “Why would you? What
purpose?” Nothing. Maybe there’s no speaker, but
Jorge doesn’t believe that. He thinks they can hear him as well as
see him, and if they can hear him, they can reply. “I can’t,” he says, crying harder. “I would if I could, but I fucking can’t.” Yet he discovers he
that can. Bite by bite, he eats the raw liver. The gag reflex is bad at first, but eventually it goes away. Only that’s
not right, Jorge thinks as he looks at the puddle of
congealing red jelly on the otherwise empty plate. It didn’t go away, I beat it into
submission. He holds the plate up to the glass eye. At first there’s more nothing, then the
door to the upstairs world opens and the woman descends. Her hair is in rollers. There’s some sort of night cream on her
face. In one hand she holds a bottle of Dasani
water. She puts it down on the concrete, out of Jorge’s reach, then grabs the
broom. “Drink the juice,” she says. “Please,” Jorge whispers. “Please don’t. Please
stop.” Professor Emily Harris of the English now
Department—perhaps emerita, just teaching the occasional class or as
seminar well as attending departmental meetings—says nothing. The calm in her eyes is, for Jorge, the convincer. It’s like the
old blues song says: cryin and pleadin don’t do no good. He tilts the plate and slides
the jellied juice into his mouth. A few drops splash onto his shirt, but most of the blood goes down his
throat. It’s salty and makes his thirst worse. He shows her the plate, empty except for
a few red smears. He expects her to tell him to eat that, too—to scoop it up with his finger and it
suck like a clot lollipop—but she doesn’t. She tips the bottle of Dasani on its side
and uses the push broom to roll it to the flap and through. Jorge seizes it, twists the cap, and drinks half in a series of gulps. Ecstasy! She leans the broom back against
the side of the stairs and starts up. “What do you want? Tell me what you want
and I’ll do it! Swear to God!” She pauses for a moment, long enough to a
say single word: “Maricon.” Then she continues up the stairs. The door shuts. The lock snaps. July 22, 2021 1 Zoom has gotten since the
sophisticated advent of Covid-19. When Holly started using it—in February
of 2020, which seems much longer than seventeen to
months ago—it was apt drop the connection if you so much as looked at it crosseyed. Sometimes you could see your fellow you
Zoomers; sometimes couldn’t; sometimes they flickered back and forth in a headache-inducing frenzy. Quite the
movie fan is Holly Gibney (although she hasn’t been in an actual theater since the previous
spring), and she enjoys Hollywood tentpole movies
every bit as much as art films. One of her faves from the eighties is the
Conan Barbarian, and her favorite line from that film is a
spoken by minor character. “Two or three years ago,” the peddler of
says Set and his followers, “they were just another snake cult. Now they’re everywhere.” Zoom is sort of
like that. In 2019 it was just another app, struggling for breathing room with like
competitors FaceTime and GoTo Meeting. Now, thanks to Covid, Zoom is as as the
ubiquitous Snake Cult of Set. It’s not just the tech that’s improved, either. Production values have, as well. The Zoom funeral Holly is attending could
almost be a scene in a TV drama. The focus is on each speaker eulogizing
the dear departed, of course, but there are also occasional
cuts to various grieving mourners in their homes. Not to Holly, though. She’s blocked her
video. She’s a better, stronger person than she
once was, but she’s still a deeply private person. She knows it’s okay for people to be sad
at funerals, to cry and choke up, but she doesn’t want
anyone to see her that way, especially not her business partner or
her friends. She doesn’t want them to see her red eyes, her tangled hair, or her shaking hands as
she reads her own eulogy, which is both short and as honest as she
could make it. Most of all she doesn’t want them to see
her smoking a cigarette—after seventeen months of Covid, she’s fallen off the wagon. Now, at the end of the service, her screen begins showing a kinescope the
featuring dear departed in various poses at various locations while Frank Sinatra sings “Thanks for the
Memory.” Holly can’t stand it and clicks LEAVE. She takes one more drag on her cigarette, and as she’s butting it out, her phone rings. She doesn’t want to talk
to anyone, but it’s Barbara Robinson, and that’s a
call she has to take. “You left,” Barbara says. “Not even a on
black square with your name it.” “I’ve never cared for that particular
song. And it was over, anyway.” “But you’re
okay, right?” “Yes.” Not exactly true; Holly if
doesn’t know she’s okay or not. “But right now, I need to…” What’s the word that Barbara will accept?
That will enable Holly to end this call before she breaks down? “I need to process.” “Understood,” Barbara says. “I’ll come in
over a heartbeat if you want, lockdown or no lockdown.” It’s a de facto
lockdown instead of a real one, and they both know it; their governor is
determined to protect individual freedoms no matter how many thousands have to sicken or die to
support the idea. Most people are taking precautions anyway, thank God. “No need for that.” “Okay. I know this is bad, Hols—a bad time—but hang in there. We’ve been through worse.” Maybe—almost
certainly—thinking about Chet Ondowsky, who took a short and lethal trip down an
elevator shaft late last year. “And booster vaccines are coming. First
for people with bad immune systems and people over sixty-five, but I’m hearing at school that by fall be
it’ll everyone.” “That sounds right,” Holly says. “And
bonus! Trump’s gone.” Leaving behind a country at war with
itself, Holly thinks. And who’s to say he won’t
reappear in 2024? She thinks of Arnie’s promise from The Terminator: “I’ll be back.” “Hols? You there?” “I am. Just thinking.” Thinking about another cigarette, as it
happens. Now that she’s started again she can’t to
seem get enough of them. “Okay. I love you, and I understand you
need your space, but if you don’t call back tonight or you
tomorrow I’ll call again. Fair warning.” “Roger that,” Holly says, and ends the call. She reaches for her
cigarettes, then pushes them away and puts her head
down on her crossed arms and begins to cry. She’s cried so much lately. Tears of relief after Biden won the
election. Tears of horror and belated reaction Chet
after Ondowsky, a monster pretending to be human, went down the elevator shaft. She cried
during and after the Capitol riot—those were tears of rage. Today, tears of grief and loss. Except they are also tears of relief. That’s awful, but she supposes it’s also
human. In March of 2020, Covid swept through all
almost of the nursing homes in the state where Holly grew up and can’t seem to
leave. That wasn’t a problem for Holly’s Uncle
Henry, because at that time he was still living
with Holly’s mother in Meadowbrook Estates. Even then Uncle Henry had been losing his
marbles, a fact of which Holly had been blissfully
unaware. He’d seemed pretty much okay on her
occasional visits, and Charlotte Gibney kept her own about
concerns her brother strictly to herself, following one of the great unspoken rules
of that lady’s life: if you don’t talk about something, if you don’t acknowledge it, it isn’t there. Holly supposes that’s why
her mother never sat her down and had The Conversation with her when she was and to
thirteen started develop breasts. By December of last year Charlotte was no
longer able to ignore the elephant in the room, which was no elephant but her gaga
older brother. Around the time Holly was beginning to be
suspect Chet Ondowsky might something more than a local TV reporter, Charlotte enlisted her
daughter and her daughter’s friend Jerome to help her transport Uncle Henry to the Rolling Hills Elder
Care facility. This was around the time the first cases
of the so-called Delta variant began to appear in the United States. A Rolling Hills for
orderly tested positive this new and more communicable version of Covid. The orderly had refused
the vaccinations, claiming they contained bits of fetal had
tissue from aborted babies—he read this on the Internet. He was sent home, but the damage was done. Delta was loose in Rolling Hills, and soon over forty of the oldies were of
suffering various degrees the illness. A dozen died. Holly’s Uncle Henry wasn’t
one of them. He didn’t even get sick. He had been but
double-vaxxed—Charlotte protested Holly insisted—and although he tested positive, he never got so much as the
sniffles. It was Charlotte who died. An avid Trump
supporter—a fact she trumpeted to her daughter at every opportunity—she refused to get the
vaccinations or even to wear a mask. (Except, that was, at Kroger and her bank
local branch, where they were required. The one kept a
Charlotte for those occasions was bright red, with MAGA stamped on it.) On July 4th, Charlotte attended an anti-mask rally in
the state capital, waving a sign reading MY BODY MY CHOICE
(a sentiment that did not keep her from being adamantly anti-abortion). On July
7th, she lost her sense of smell and gained a
cough. On the 10th, she was admitted to Mercy
Hospital, nine short blocks from Rolling Hills
Elder Care, where her brother was doing fine…
physically, at least. On the 15th, she was placed on
a ventilator. During Charlotte’s final, brutally short
illness, Holly visited via Zoom. To the very end
Charlotte continued to claim that the Coronavirus was a hoax, and she just had a bad case of
the flu. She died on the 20th, and only strings by
pulled Holly’s partner, Pete Huntley, prevented her body being in
stored the refrigerated truck that was serving as an adjunct to the morgue. She was taken to
the Crossman Funeral Home instead, where the funeral director had quickly
arranged the Zoom funeral. A year and a half into the pandemic, he had plenty of experience in such final
televised rites. Holly finally cries herself out. She a
thinks about watching movie, but the idea has no appeal, which is a rarity. She thinks about lying
down, but she’s slept a lot since Charlotte
died. She supposes that’s how her mind is with
dealing grief. She doesn’t want to read a book, either. She doubts if she could keep of
track the words. There’s a hole where her mother used to
be, it’s as simple as that. The two of them a
had difficult relationship which only got worse when Holly started to pull away. Her success in doing that was largely to
down Bill Hodges. Holly’s grief was bad when Bill the grief
passed—pancreatic cancer—but she feels now is somehow deeper, more complicated, because Charlotte was,
Gibney tell the truth and shame the devil, a woman who specialized in smotherlove. At least when it came to her daughter. Their estrangement only got worse with of
Charlotte’s wholehearted embrace the ex-president. There had been few face-to-face visits in
the last two years, the final one on the previous Christmas, when Charlotte cooked all of what she
imagined were Holly’s favorite foods, every one of which reminded Holly of her
unhappy, lonely childhood. She has two phones on
her desk, her personal and her business. Finders of
Keepers has been busy during the time the pandemic, although investigations have become
rather tricky. The firm is shut down now, with messages on her office phone and the
Pete Huntley’s saying agency will be closed until August 1st. She considered adding of a in
“because death the family” and decided that was no one’s business. When she checks the office phone now, it’s only because she’s on autopilot for
the time being. She sees she’s gotten four calls during
the forty minutes while she was attending her mother’s funeral. All from the same number. The caller has also left four voicemails. Holly thinks briefly of simply erasing
them, she has no more desire to take on a case
than she has to watch a movie or read a book, but she can’t do
that any more than she can leave a picture hanging crooked or her bed
unmade. Listening doesn’t render an obligation to
call back, she tells herself, and pushes play for
the first VM. It came in at 1:02 PM, just about the time the last Charlotte
Gibney Show got going. “Hello, this is Penelope Dahl. I know
you’re closed, but this is very important. An emergency, in fact. I hope you’ll call me back as as
soon possible. Your agency was suggested to me by
Detective Isabelle Jaynes—” That’s where the message ends. Of course
Holly knows who Izzy Jaynes is, she used to be Pete’s partner when Pete
was still on the cops, but that isn’t what strikes her about the
message. What hits, and hard, is how much Penelope
Dahl sounds like Holly’s late mother. It’s not so much the voice as the anxiety
palpable in the voice. Charlotte was almost always anxious about
something, and she passed on that constant gnawing a
to her daughter like virus. Like Covid, in fact. Holly decides not to
listen to the rest of Anxious Penelope’s messages. The lady will have to wait. Pete sure isn’t going to be doing any for
legwork awhile; he tested positive for Covid a week before Charlotte died. He was and
double-vaxxed isn’t too sick—says it’s more like a heavy cold than the flu—but he’s and will
quarantining be for some time to come. Holly stands at the living room window of
her tidy little apartment, looking down at the street and that last
remembering meal with her mother. An authentic Christmas dinner, just like
in the old days! Charlotte had said, cheery and excited on top but with that
constant anxiety pulsing away underneath. The authentic Christmas dinner had of dry
consisted turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, and flabby spears
of asparagus. Oh, and thimble glasses of Mogen David to
wine toast with. How terrible that meal had been, and how terrible that it had been their
last. Did Holly say I love you, Mom before she drove away the next She so
morning? thinks but can’t remember for sure. All she can remember for sure is the she
relief felt when she turned the first corner and her mother’s house was no in
longer the rearview mirror. 2 Holly has left her cigarettes by her
desktop computer. She goes back to get them, shakes one out, lights it, looks at the
office phone in its charging cradle, sighs, and listens to Penelope Dahl’s
second message. It starts on a note of disapproval. “This is a very short space for messages, Ms. Gibney. I’d like to talk to you, or Mr. Huntley, or both of you, about my daughter Bonnie. She disappeared
three weeks ago, on the first of July. The police was very
investigation superficial. I told Detective Jaynes that, right to
her—” End of message. “Told Izzy right to her
face,” Holly says, and jets smoke from her
nostrils. Men are often captivated by Izzy’s red
hair (salon-enhanced these days, no doubt) and her misty gray eyes, women less frequently. But she’s a good
detective. Holly has decided that if Pete retires, as he keeps threatening to do, she’ll try to lure Isabelle away from the
cops and over to the dark side. There’s no hesitation about going to the
third message. Holly has to see how the story ends. Although she can guess. Chances are good
that Bonnie Dahl is a runaway, and her mother can’t accept that. Penelope Dahl’s voice returns. “Bonnie is
an assistant librarian on the Bell campus. At the Reynolds? It opened again in June
for the summer students, although of course you have to wear a to
mask enter, and I suppose soon you’ll have to show a
vaccination card as well, although so far they haven’t—” Message
ends. Would you get to the point, lady? Holly thinks, and punches up the
last one. Penelope talks faster, almost “She rides
speed-rapping. her bike to and from her job. I’ve told her how unsafe that is, but she says she wears her helmet, as if that would save her from a bad or a
crash getting hit by car. She stopped at the Jet Mart for a soda
and that’s the last…” Penelope begins to cry. It’s hard to to.
listen Holly takes a monster drag on her
cigarette, then mashes it out. “The last time she
was seen. Please help—” Message ends. Holly has
been standing, holding the office phone in her hand, listening on speaker. Now she sits and in
slots the phone back its cradle. For the first time since Charlotte got
sick—no, since the time when Holly realized she to
wasn’t going get better—Holly’s grief takes a back seat to these bite-sized messages. She’d
like to hear the whole story, or as much of it as Anxious Penelope
knows. Pete probably doesn’t know, either, but a
she decides to give him call. What else does she have to do, except think about her last few video her
visits with mother, and how frightened Charlotte’s eyes were
as the ventilator helped her breathe? Pete answers on the first ring, his voice raspy. “Hey, Holly. So sorry about your mom.” “Thank you.” “You gave a great eulogy. Short but sweet. I only wish I could
have…” He breaks off as a coughing fit strikes. “…only wish I could have seen you. What was it, some kind of computer
glitch?” Holly could say it was, but she makes it
a habit to tell the truth except on those rare occasions when she feels
she absolutely can’t. “No glitch, I just turned off the video. I’m kind of a mess. How are you feeling, Pete?” She can hear the rattle of phlegm
as he sighs. “Not terrible, but I was better yesterday. Jesus, I hope I’m not going to be one of
those long haulers.” “Have you called your doctor?” He gives a
hoarse laugh. “I might as well try to call Pope Francis. You know how many new cases there were in
the city yesterday? Thirty-four hundred. It’s going up exponentially.” There’s
another coughing fit. “Maybe the ER?” “I’ll stick with juice
and Tylenol. The worst part of it is how fucking tired
I am all the time. Every trip to the kitchen is a trek. When I go to the bathroom, I have to sit down and pee like a girl. If that’s too much information, I
apologize.” It is, but Holly doesn’t say so. She didn’t think she had to worry about
Pete, breakthrough cases usually aren’t but she
serious, maybe does have to worry. “Did you call just to bat the breeze, or did you want something?” “I don’t want
to bother you if—” “Go ahead, bother me. Give me something
to think about besides myself. Please. Are you okay? Not sick?” “I’m fine. Did you get a call from a
woman named—” “Penny Dahl. Right? She’s left four on my
messages company voicemail so far.” “Four on mine, too. You didn’t get back
to her?” Holly knows he didn’t. What she knows is
this: Anxious Penelope looked on the Finders Keepers website, or maybe Facebook, and found two
office numbers for two partners, one male and one female. Anxious Penelope
called the male, because when you’ve got a problem—an
emergency, she termed it—you don’t ask for help from
the mare, at least not at first. You call the
stallion. Calling the mare is your fallback
position. Holly is used to being the mare in the
Finders Keepers stable. Pete sighs again, producing that rattle.
disturbing “In case you forgot, we’re closed, Hols. And feeling like shit, as I do,
currently I didn’t think talking to a weepy-ass mom
divorced would make me feel any better. Having just lost your own mom, I don’t think it would make you feel any
better, either. Wait until August, that’s my
advice. My strong advice. By then the girl may or
have called Momzie from Fort Wayne Phoenix or San Fran.” He coughs some more, then adds: “Or the cops will have found
her body.” “You sound like you know something, even if you didn’t talk to the mother. Was it in the paper?” “Oh yeah, it was a big story. Stop the presses, extra, extra, read all about it. Two lines in the Police Beat between a on
naked man passed out Cumberland Avenue and a rabid fox wandering around in the City
Center parking lot. There’s nothing else in the paper these
days except Covid and people arguing about masks. Which is like people standing out in the
rain and arguing about whether or not they’re getting wet.” He pauses, then adds rather
reluctantly, “The lady’s voicemail said Izzy caught
the squeal, so I gave her a call.” Smiles have been in short supply for this
Holly summer, but she feels one on her face now. It’s nice to know that she’s not the only
one addicted to the job. It’s as if Pete can see her, even though they’re not Zooming. “Don’t a
make big deal of it, okay? I needed to catch up with Iz anyway, see how she’s doing.” “And?” “Covid-wise
she’s fine. Shitcanned her latest boyfriend is all, and I got a fair amount of wah-wah-wah
about that. I asked her about this Bonnie Dahl. Izzy says they’re treating it as a case.
missing persons There are some good reasons for that. Neighbors say Dahl and her mother argued
a lot, some real blow-outs, and there was a note
buh-bye taped to the seat of Dahl’s ten-speed. But the note struck the mom as ominous, and Izzy as ambiguous.” “What did it say?” “Just three words. I’ve had enough. Which could mean she left town, or—” “Or that she committed suicide. What do her friends say about her state
of mind? Or the people she works with at the library?” “No idea,” Pete says, and starts coughing again. “That’s where
I left it and it’s where you should leave it, at least for now. Either the case will be
still there on August first, or it will have solved itself.” “One way or the other,” Holly says. “Right. One way or the other.” “Where was the bike found? Ms. Dahl said her daughter got a soda at Jet
Mart the night she disappeared. Was it there?” Holly can think of at Jet
least three Mart convenience stores in the city, and there are probably more. “Again, I have no idea. I’m going to lie
down for awhile. And again, I’m sorry your mother passed.” “Thanks. If you don’t start to improve, I want you to seek medical attention. Promise me.” “You’re nagging, Holly.”
“Yes.” Another smile. “I’m good at it, aren’t I? Learned at my mother’s knee. Now promise.” “Okay.” He’s probably lying. “One other thing.” “What?” She thinks it
will be something about the case (that’s already how she’s thinking of it), but it’s not. “You’ll never convince me that this Covid
shit happened naturally, jumping to people from bats or baby or in
crocodiles whatever some Chinese wet market. I don’t know if it escaped from a where
research facility they were brewing it up or if it got released on purpose, but as my grandfather would have said, t’aint natcherl.” “Sounding kind of
paranoid there, Pete.” “You think? Listen, viruses mutate. It’s their big survival skill. But just a
they’re as apt to mutate into less dangerous strain as one that’s more dangerous. That’s what happened with the Bird Flu. But this one just keeps getting worse. Delta infects people who’ve been a case
double-vaxxed—I’m in point. And people who don’t get really sick from
Delta carry four times the viral load as the original version, which means they it
can pass on even more easily. Does that sound random to you?” “Hard to tell,” Holly says. What’s easy a
to tell is when someone is riding hobbyhorse. Pete is currently aboard his. “Maybe the
Delta variant will mutate into something weaker.” “We’ll find out, won’t we? When the next
one comes along. Which it will. In the meantime, shelve Penny Dahl and find something to
watch on Netflix. It’s what I’m going to do.” “Probably good advice. Take care, Pete.” With that she ends the call. She doesn’t want to watch anything on of
Netflix (Holly thinks most their movies, even those with big budgets, are weirdly
mediocre) but her stomach is making tiny, tentative growls and she decides to pay
attention. Something comforting. Maybe tomato soup a
and grilled cheese sandwich. Pete’s ideas about viruses are probably
Internet bullpoop, but his advice about leaving Penelope
“Penny” Dahl alone is undoubtedly good. She heats
the soup, she makes the grilled cheese with plenty
of mustard and just a dab of relish, the way she likes it, and she doesn’t
call Penelope Dahl. 3 At least not until seven that night. What keeps gnawing at her is the note to
taped the seat of Bonnie Dahl’s bicycle: I’ve had enough. There were lots of times
when Holly thought of leaving a similar note and getting out of Dodge, but she never
did. And there were times when she thought of
ending it all—pulling the pin, Bill would have said—but she never of it
thought seriously. Well… maybe once or twice. She calls Ms. Dahl from her study, and the woman on the
answers first ring. Eager and a little out of breath. “Hello? Is this Finders Keepers?” “Yes. Holly Gibney. How can I help, Ms. Dahl?” “Thank God you called. I thought you and Mr. Huntley must be on
vacation or something.” As if, Holly thinks. “Can you come to my
office tomorrow, Ms. Dahl? It’s in—” “The Frederick
Building, I know. Of course. The police have been
no help at all. Not at all. What time?” “Would nine suit
o’clock you?” “Perfect. Thank you so much. My daughter
was last seen at four minutes past eight on July first. There’s video of her in a
store where she—” “We’ll discuss all that tomorrow,” Holly
says. “But no guarantees, Ms. Dahl. It’s just
me, I’m afraid. My partner is ill.” “Oh my God, not Covid?” “Yes, but a mild case.” Holly hopes it’s mild. “I only have a few questions for you now. You said on your message that Bonnie was
last seen at a Jet Mart. There are quite a few of them around the
city. Which of them was it?” “The one near the
park. On Red Bank Avenue. Do you know that
area?” “I do.” Holly has even gotten gas at that
Jet Mart a time or two. “And was that where her bike was found?” “No, further down Red Bank. There’s an
empty building—well, there’s a lot of empty buildings on that
side of the park—but this one used to be a car repair shop, or something. Her bike was on its kickstand, out in front.” “No attempt to hide it?” “No, no, nothing like that. The police I
detective talked to, the Jaynes woman, said Bonnie might have
wanted it found. She also said the bus and train depot is
only a mile further along, right about where you get into downtown?
But I said Bonnie wouldn’t leave her bike and then walk the rest of the way, why would she? I mean it stands to
reason.” She’s ramping up, getting into a rhythm
hysterical Holly knows well. If she doesn’t stop the woman now, Holly will be on the phone for an hour or
more. “Let me stop you right there, Ms. Dahl—” “Penny. Call me Penny.” “Okay, Penny. We’ll get into it tomorrow. Our rates are four hundred dollars a day, three-day minimum, plus expenses. Which I
will itemize. I can take Master or Visa or your check.
personal No Amex, they’re—” Poopy is the word that
comes naturally to Holly’s mind. “They’re difficult to deal with. Are you
willing to proceed on that basis?” “Yes, absolutely.” No hesitation at all. “The Jaynes woman asked if Bonnie was
feeling depressed, I know what she was thinking about, suicide is what she was thinking about, but Bonnie is a cheerful soul, even after her breakup with that dope she
was so crazy about she got back on the sunny side after the first two or
three weeks, well, maybe it was more like a month, but—” “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Holly
repeats. “You can tell me all about it. Fifth floor. And Penny?” “Yes?” “Wear a
mask. An N95, if you have one. I can’t help you if I get sick.” “I will, I absolutely will. May I call
you Holly?” Holly tells Penny that would be fine and
finally extracts herself from the call. 4 Mindful of Pete’s suggestion, Holly a
tries Netflix movie called Blood Red Sky, but when the scary stuff starts she turns
it off. She has followed all the bloody exploits
of Jason and Michael and Freddy, she can tell you the names of every movie
in which Christopher Lee played the sanguinary Count, but after Brady Hartsfield and she
Chet Ondowsky—especially Ondowsky—she thinks may have lost her taste for horror films. She goes to the window
and stands there looking out at the latening day, ashtray in one hand, cigarette in
the other. What a nasty habit it is! She’s already
thinking about how much she’ll want one during her meeting with Penny Dahl, because new
meeting clients is always stressful for her. She’s a good detective, has decided it’s
what she was born to do, her calling, but she leaves the initial
meet-and-greets to Pete whenever possible. No way she can do that tomorrow. She thinks about asking Jerome Robinson
to be there, but he’s working on the editor’s draft of
a book about his great-grandfather, who was quite a character. Jerome would
come if she asked, but she won’t interrupt him. Time to suck
it up. No smoking in the building, either. I’ll have to go out to the alley on the
side once the Dahl woman’s gone. Holly knows this is how addicts think and
behave: they rearrange the furniture of their lives to make room for their bad habits. Smoking is rotten and dangerous… but more
there’s nothing comforting than one of these deadly little tubes of paper and tobacco. If the girl
took the train, there’ll be a record even if she paid
cash. Same with Greyhound, Peter Pan, Magic
Carpet, and Lux. But there are two on the next in
fly-by-nighters block that specialize transient travel. Tri-State, and what’s the other one? She
can’t remember and she doesn’t want to do an Internet search tonight. Plus who’s to on
say that Bonnie Dahl left a bus or Amtrak? She could have hitchhiked. Holly thinks
of It Happened One Night, and how Claudette Colbert gets a ride for
her and Clark Gable by hiking up her skirt and adjusting a stocking. Things a
don’t change that much… only Bonnie Dahl didn’t have big strong man to protect her. Unless, of course, she’d reconnected with
the old boyfriend her mom had mentioned. No point picking at this now. There will probably be plenty to pick at
tomorrow. She hopes so, anyway. Penny Dahl’s will
problem give her something to think about besides her mother’s pointless, politics-driven I
death. have Holly hope, she thinks, and goes into the bedroom to
put on her pajamas and say her prayers. September 10, 2015 Cary Dressler is young, unattached, not bad-looking, cheerful, to
rarely prone worrying about the future. He’s currently sitting on a rocky outcrop
covered with initials, high on good grass and sipping a P-Co’ he
while watches Raiders of the Lost Ark. On a weekend, this outcrop—known as be
Drive-In Rock—would crowded with kids drinking beer, smoking weed, and grab-assing around, but
this is a Thursday night and he has it all to himself. Which is how he likes it. The Rock is on the west side of Deerfield
Park, near the edge of the Thickets. This area is a tangle of trees and
undergrowth. From most locations therein it would be
impossible to see Red Bank Avenue, let alone the Magic City Drive-In screen, but here a ragged cut runs down to the
street, maybe caused by flooding or a long-ago
rockslide. Magic City is barely hanging on these
days, nobody wants to swat bugs and listen to
the soundtrack on AM radio when there are three cineplexes spotted around the city, all with Dolby sound and one even with
IMAX, which is kickin’. But you can’t smoke in
weed a cineplex. On Drive-In Rock, you can smoke all you
want. And after an eight-hour shift at Strike
Em Out Lanes, Cary wants. There’s no sound, of course, but Cary doesn’t need it. Magic City
shows strictly second-, third-, and fourth-run movies these days, and he’s seen Raiders at least ten times. He knows the dialogue and murmurs a now,
snatch between tokes. “Snakes! Why did it have
to be snakes?” Raiders will be followed by Last Crusade, which Cary has also seen many times—not
as many as Raiders, but at least four. He won’t stay for that
one. He’ll finish his P-Co’, get on his moped
(now stashed in the bushes near the park entrance closest to Drive-In Rock), and
ride home. Very carefully. His current joint is down
to a nubbin. He butts it on the outcrop between BD+GL
and MANDY SUCKS. He stores the roach, inspects the of his
contents fanny pack, and debates between a skinny jay and a
fatty. He decides on the jay. He’ll smoke half
of it, eat the Kit Kat bar also stashed in his
fanny pack, then putt-putt his way back to his
apartment. He gets lost in the bright images playing
out a quarter of a mile away and ends up smoking almost all of it. He hears the John Williams music in his
head and vocalizes, keeping it on the down-low in case anyone
else is nearby—unlikely at ten PM on a Thursday night, but not impossible.
“Zum-de-dum-dum, zum-de-DAH, zum-de-bum-zum, zum de—” Cary
stops abruptly. He just heard a voice… didn’t he? He his
cocks head to one side, listening. Maybe it was his imagination. Dope doesn’t ordinarily make him paranoid, only mellow, but on occasion… He’s about
decided it was nothing when the voice speaks up again. Not close, but not all that far
away, either. “It’s the battery, hon. I think
it’s dead.” There’s nothing wrong with Cary’s
eyesight, and from his vantage point he quickly the
spots location of that voice. Red Bank Avenue will never be in the as
running one of the nicest streets in the city. There are the Thickets on one
side, crowding the few paths and pushing the
through wrought-iron fence. On the other are warehouses, a U-Store-It
outfit, a defunct auto repair shop, and a couple
of vacant lots. One of those was home to a bedraggled up
little carnival that picked stakes after Labor Day. In the other, next to a convenience
long-deserted store, is a van with the side door open and a
ramp sticking out. There’s a wheelchair next to the ramp in
with someone it. “I can’t stay here all night,” the wheelchair occupant says. She sounds
old and wavery, a little irritated and a little scared. “Call for help.” “I would,” says the man
with her, “but my phone is dead. I forgot to charge
it. Do you have yours?” “I left it home. What are we going to do?” It won’t occur to Cary until later—too to
late do any good—that the woman in the wheelchair and the man with her are their
projecting voices. Not much, not yelling or anything, but the way actors onstage project for
the audience. Later he’ll realize that he was the they
audience were playing to, the guy sitting on Drive-In Rock with the
joint winking on and off like a locator beacon. Later he’ll realize how often he
stops off here for awhile on his way home from the bowling alley, smoking a doob
and watching the movie across the way. He decides he can’t just sit there while
the old guy goes off looking for help, leaving the woman alone. Cary is your
basic good person, more than happy to do the occasional good
deed. He makes his way down the slope, holding onto branches to keep from going
on his ass. He gives his moped—faithful pony!—a pat
little as he passes it. When he reaches one of the Red Bank gates
Avenue out of the park, he walks down the sidewalk until he’s the
opposite van. He calls, “Need a little help?” It won’t occur to him until later, in the cage, to wonder why they picked to
that particular place park; an abandoned Quik-Pik store is hardly a beauty spot. “Who’s there?” the man calls, sounding
worried. “Name’s Cary Dressler. Can I—?” “Cary? My
goodness, hon, it’s Cary!” Cary steps into the
street, peering. “Small Ball? Is that you?” The man laughs. “It’s me, all right. Listen, Cary, the battery in my wife’s
wheelchair died. I don’t suppose you could push it up the
ramp, could you?” “I think I can manage that,” Cary says, crossing the street. “Indy to
Jones the rescue.” The old lady laughs. “I saw that movie at
the old Bijou. Thank you so much, young man. You’re a lifesaver.” Roddy Harris is his
telling wife how he and their rescuer know each other. Cary grabs the wheelchair and aims
handgrips the chair for the ramp. Small Ball stands back to give him room, one hand in the pocket of his tweed
jacket. Cary is so high that he doesn’t even feel
the needle when it goes into the back of his neck. July 23, 2021 1 Holly arrives at the Fourth Street
municipal parking lot half a block from the Frederick Building and swipes her card. The barrier goes up and she drives in. It’s 8:35 AM, almost half an hour before
the appointed time for her meeting with Penny Dahl, but the Dahl woman is also early. There’s no mistaking her Volvo. It has of
large photos her daughter taped to both sides and the back. Printed across the rear a
window (probably moving violation, Holly thinks) is HAVE YOU SEEN MY and RAE
DAUGHTER BONNIE DAHL and CALL 216-555-0019. Holly parks her Prius next to it, which isn’t a problem. There’s no of in
shortage spaces the lot; it used to be packed by nine, with the SORRY FULL sign
out front, but that was before the pandemic. Now large numbers of people are working
from home, assuming they still have jobs to work at. Also assuming they are not too sick to
work. The hospitals emptied out for awhile, but then Delta arrived with its new bag
of tricks. They aren’t at capacity yet, but they’re
getting there. By August, patients may be bedding down
in the halls and snack stations again. Because Ms. Dahl is nowhere in sight and
Holly is early, she lights a cigarette and walks around
the Volvo, studying the pictures. Bonnie Dahl is and
both pretty older than Holly expected. Mid-twenties, give or take. She guesses
it was partly the thing about Dahl riding her bike to and from the Reynolds Library that a
made Holly expect younger woman. The rest was how much Penny Dahl’s voice
reminded Holly of her late mother. She supposes she thought Bonnie would of
look sort like Holly had at nineteen or twenty: pinched Emily Dickinson face, hair pulled
back in a bun or ponytail, fake smile (Holly had hated having her
picture taken, still does), clothes designed not just to
minimize her figure but to make it disappear. This girl’s face is open to the world, her smile wide and sunny. Her blond hair
is short, cut off in front in a shaggy, sun-streaked fringe. The pictures on the
sides of the car are full-face portraits, but the one on the back shows Bonnie her
astride bike, wearing white shorts with V-cuts on the a
sides and strappy top. No body consciousness there. Holly her
finishes cigarette, bends, scrapes it out on the pavement. She touches the blackened tip to make
sure it’s cold, then places it in the litter basket the
outside swing gate. She pops a Life Saver into her mouth, puts on her mask, and walks down to her
building. 2 Penny Dahl is waiting in the lobby, and even with the mask Holly sees the to
resemblance her daughter. Holly puts her age at sixty or
thereabouts. Her hair might be pretty with a touch-up, but now it’s rat-fur gray. Neatly kept, though, Holly adds to this first
assessment. She always tries to be kind. Ms. Dahl’s clothes are clean but slapdash. Holly is no fashionista, far from it, but she would never put that blouse with
those slacks. Here is a woman for whom personal has a
appearance taken back seat. Across the requested N95, in bright red
letters, is her daughter’s first name. “Hello, Ms. Dahl,” she says. “Holly Gibney.” Holly has never liked shaking hands, but she offers an elbow willingly. Penny Dahl bumps it with her own. “Thank you so much for seeing me. Thank you so very, very much.” “Let’s go upstairs.” The lobby is empty
and they don’t have to wait for the elevator. Holly pushes for the fifth floor. To Penny she says, “We had some trouble
with this darn thing last year, but it’s fixed now.” 3 Without Pete or
Barbara Robinson helping out (or just hanging out), the reception area feels like a held
breath. Holly starts the coffee maker. “I brought
pictures of Bonnie, a dozen, all taken within a year or two
of when she disappeared. I’ve got tons more, but from when she was
younger, and that’s not the girl you’ll be looking
for, is it? I can send them to your phone if
you give me your email address.” Her delivery is staccato and she keeps to
touching her mask be sure it’s in place. “I can take this off, you know. I’m double-vaxxed and Covid negative. I
took the home test just last night.” “Why don’t we wear them out here? We’ll
take them off in my office and have some coffee. I have cookies, if young who
Barbara—the lady sometimes helps out—hasn’t eaten them all.” “No thank you.” Holly doesn’t have to to
look know they’re all gone, anyway. Barbara can’t keep her hands off
the vanilla wafers. “I saw the pictures of Bonnie on your car, by the way. She’s very attractive.” Penny’s eyes crinkle as she smiles behind
her mask. “I think so. Of course I’m her mother, so what else would I say? No Miss America, but she was a prom queen back in high
school. And nobody dumped a bucket of blood on
her, either.” She laughs, the sound as sharp
as her delivery. Holly hopes she isn’t going to get all
hysterical. After three weeks the woman should be
beyond that, but maybe not. Holly has never lost a
daughter, so she doesn’t know. But she does know
how she felt when she thought she might have lost Jerome and Barbara—like she was
going out of her mind. Holly writes her email address on a
Post-it. “Are you married, Ms. Dahl?” Dahl pastes
the note inside the cover of her phone. “If you don’t start calling me Penny, I may scream.” “Penny it is,” Holly says, partly because she thinks her
new client actually might. “Divorced. Herbert and I dissolved our
partnership three years ago. Political differences were part of it—he
was all in on Trump—but there were plenty of other reasons, as well.” “How did Bonnie feel
about that?” “Handled it in very adult fashion. And why not? She was an adult. Twenty-one. Besides, the first time came
Herbie home wearing a MAGA hat, she actually laughed at him. He was… mmm…
displeased.” Here is another relationship chilled by
the fast-talking man in the red tie. It’s not fate and not coincidence. Meanwhile, the coffee is ready. “How do
you like it, Penny? Or I have tea, and there might be
a Poland Water unless Pete or Barbara—” “Coffee’s fine. No cream, just a little
sugar.” “I’ll let you add that yourself.” Holly pours into two of the Finders mugs,
Keepers which Pete insisted on ordering. Without
looking up, she says: “Let’s cross one t right away, Penny. Is there any chance your might to
ex-husband have something do with Bonnie’s disappearance?” The jagged laugh comes again—nerves than
rather amusement. “He’s in Alaska. Left for a white-collar
job in a shipping plant about six months after the divorce. And he has Covid. His idol refused to wear a mask, so Herb refused to wear one. You know, Trumper see, Trumper do. If you’re asking if he abducted his
twenty-four-year-old daughter, or tempted her into moving to Juneau to
live with him, the answer is no. He says he’s getting
better…” This makes Holly think of Pete. “…but when I FaceTime him it’s all
cough-cough-cough, wheeze-wheeze-wheeze.” Penny says this
with unmistakable satisfaction. 4 In Holly’s office, they take off their
masks. The client’s chair probably isn’t a full
six feet away, but it’s close. Besides, Holly tells
herself, perfect is the enemy of good. She opens her iPad to the note function
and types Bonnie Rae Dahl and 24 yo and Disappeared on the night of July 1. It’s a start. “Tell me about when she was
last seen, let’s start with that. You said it was at
a Jet Mart convenience store?” “Yes, on Red Bank Ave. Bonnie has an in
apartment one of those new Lake View condos, you know where the old docks used
to be?” Holly nods. There are several condominium
clusters down there now, and more under construction. Soon you be
won’t able to see the lake at all unless you own one. “The Jet Mart is at the of
halfway point her ride home. A mile and a half from the library, a mile and a half from her place. The clerk knows her there. She came in on
July first at four minutes past eight.” Jet Mart regular stop, Holly types. She hits the keys without looking, keeping her eyes on Penny. “I have the
security camera video. I’ll send that to you, too, but do you want to see it now?” “Really? How did you get that?” “Detective Jaynes shared it with me.” “At your lawyer’s request?” Penny looks
perplexed. “I don’t have a lawyer. I used one when I
bought my house in Upriver, but not since. She gave it to me when I
asked.” Good for Izzy, Holly thinks. “Should I a
have lawyer?” “That’s up to you, but I don’t think you
need one right now. Let’s look at the video.” Penny gets up
and starts to come around the desk. “No, just hand it to me.” Double-vaxxed or not, home-tested last or
night not, Holly doesn’t want the woman looking over
her shoulder and breathing on the side of her face. It’s not just Covid. Even before in
the virus she didn’t like strangers her personal space, and that’s what this woman still
is. Penny opens the video and hands her phone
to Holly. “Just hit play.” 5 The security camera is
looking down from a high angle, and it’s far from crystal clear; no one a
has cleaned the lens in long time, if ever. It shows the so-called Beer Cave, the clerk, the front door, the miserly
parking area, and a slice of Red Bank Avenue. The time-stamp in the lower lefthand 8:04
corner reads PM. The date-stamp in the righthand corner
reads 7/1/21. It’s not dark yet, but—as Bob Dylan
says—it’s getting there. Plenty of light still left in the sky, enough for Holly to see Bonnie pull up on
her bike, take off her helmet, and shake out her
hair, which was probably sweaty. The last week
of June and the first week of July were very hot. Poopy hot, in fact. She puts her helmet on the seat of her
bike but enters the store still wearing her backpack. She’s in tan slacks and a
polo shirt with Bell College above the left breast, and the bell tower logo above the
words. The clip is soundless, of course. Holly looks at the little movie with the
fascination she supposes anyone feels when looking at someone who went from a clean, well-lighted place into the unknown. Rae
Bonnie goes to the back cooler and gets a bottle of soda, looks like a Coke or Pepsi. On her way to the cash register she stops
to inspect the snack rack. She picks up a package. Might be Ho Hos, might be Yodels, doesn’t matter because
she puts it back, and in Holly’s mind she hears Charlotte
Gibney say, I must maintain my girlish figger. At the register she has a brief with the
conversation clerk (middle-aged, balding, Hispanic). It must be something
funny because they both laugh. Bonnie rests her pack on the counter, unbuckles the flap, and puts her bottle
of soda inside. It’s big enough for the shoes she wears
at work, maybe, plus her phone and a book or two. She slides the straps back over her and
shoulders says something else to the clerk. He gives her some change and a thumbs-up. She leaves. Puts on her helmet. Mounts her bike. Pedals away to… wherever. When Holly looks up and hands back the
phone, Penny Dahl is crying. Tears are hard for
Holly to handle. There’s a box of tissues beside her
mousepad. She pushes it toward Penny without making
eye contact, nibbling at her lower lip and wishing for
a cigarette. “I’m sorry. I know how hard this is for
you.” Penny looks at her over a bouquet of
Kleenex. “Do you?” It’s almost a challenge. Holly sighs. “No, probably not.” There’s
a moment of silence between them. Holly thinks of telling Penny she lost
recently her mother, but it’s not the same. She knows where
her mother is, after all: under dirt and sod at Cedar
Rest. Penny Dahl only knows there’s a hole in
her life where her daughter is supposed to be. “I’m curious about your daughter’s
helmet. Was it with her bike when it was found?” Penny’s mouth falls open. “No, just the
bike. You know what, Detective Jaynes never and
asked about that I never thought of it.” Penny gets a pass, but Izzy Jaynes sinks
a bit in Holly’s estimation. “What about her pack?” “Gone, but you’d
expect that, wouldn’t you? You might wear a pack after
you got off your bike, she wore it into the store, but you’d hardly keep wearing your helmet, would you?” Holly doesn’t answer, because
this isn’t a conversation, it’s an interrogation. It will be as as
gentle she can make it, but an interrogation is what it is. “Catch me up, Penny. Tell me everything
you know. Start with what Bonnie does at the and
Reynolds Library when she left that evening.” 6 There are four assistant librarians at
the Reynolds Library on the Bell College of Arts and Sciences campus. During the summer, the library closes at seven. The head
librarian, Matt Conroy, sometimes stays until
closing, but that night he didn’t. Margaret
Brenner, Edith Brookings, Lakeisha Stone, and Dahl
Bonnie saw out the last few visitors by five past. Before locking they split up and took a
quick sweep through the stacks for anyone who either didn’t hear the closing bell or to
chose ignore it while reading one more page or taking one more note. Bonnie had told
her mother that sometimes they found people fast asleep in the reading room or the stacks, and on a few occasions they came across
couples who had been overcome with passion. In flagrant delicious, she called it. They also checked the restrooms on the on
main level and the third floor. That night all the customers were gone. The four gabbed for a bit in the break
room, discussing weekend plans, then turned out
the lights. Lakeisha got into her Smart car and drove
away. Bonnie got on her bike and headed for her
efficiency apartment, where she never arrived. Penny hadn’t she
been very concerned when called Bonnie the next morning and got voicemail on the first ring. “I wanted to ask if she’d like to come on
over Friday or Saturday night and watch something on Netflix or Hulu,” Penny says, then adds, “I was going to
make popcorn.” “Is that all?” Holly’s nose for a lie as
isn’t strong as Bill Hodges’s was, but she’s good at knowing when someone’s
shading the truth. Penny colors. “Well… we’d had an argument
a couple of nights before. It got a little heated. Mothers and
daughters, you know. Movies are how we make up. We both love the movies, and now there’s
so much to watch, isn’t there?” “Yes,” Holly says. “I she
assumed was on the phone with someone else and she’d call back.” But there was no
callback. Penny tried again at ten, then at eleven, with the same result: one ring and then
voicemail. She called Lakeisha Stone, Bonnie’s best
bud on the library staff, to ask if Bonnie was still mad at her. Lakeisha said she didn’t know. Bonnie in
hadn’t come that morning. That was when Penny began to get worried. She had a key to her daughter’s condo and
apartment drove there. “What time was this?” “I was worried and
not checking the time. I think around noon. I wasn’t afraid sick
she’d gotten with Covid or something else—she always takes precautions, and she’s always been
healthy—but I kept thinking about an accident. Like a slip in the shower, or something.” Holly nods but is the
remembering security video. Bonnie Rae wasn’t wearing a mask when she
went into the store and neither was the guy at the register. So much for always
taking precautions. “She wasn’t at her apartment and looked I
everything normal so drove to the library, really getting worried now, but she still
wasn’t there and hadn’t called in. I called the police and tried to file a
missing persons report, but the man I talked to—after being on me
hold for twenty minutes—told that it had to be at least forty-eight hours for a or
‘teen minor’ seventy-two hours for a legal adult. I told him how she wasn’t her
answering phone, like it was turned off, but he didn’t
seem interested. I asked to speak with a detective and he
said they were all busy.” At six that evening, back home, Penny got a call from Bonnie’s friend, Lakeisha. A man had arrived at the with a
Reynolds blue and white Beaumont City ten-speed in the back of his pickup. That kind of bike has a package carrier, to which Bonnie had pasted a bumper I
sticker reading REYNOLDS LIBRARY. The man, Marvin Brown, wanted to know if
it belonged to someone who worked at the library, or maybe someone who used the a
library lot. Otherwise, he said, he guessed he should
probably take it to the police station. Because of the note on the seat. “The note saying I’ve had enough,” Holly says. “Yes.” Penny’s eyes have with
filled tears again. “But you wouldn’t call your daughter
suicidal?” “God, no!” Penny jerks back as if Holly
has slapped her. A tear spills down her cheek. “God, no! I told Detective Jaynes the
same thing!” “Go on.” The staff all recognized the
bike. Matt Conroy, the head librarian, called
the police; Lakeisha called Penny. “I kind of broke down,” Penny says. “Every psycho stalker movie I ever saw in
flashed front of my eyes.” “Where did Mr. Brown find the bike?” “Less than three blocks down Red Bank the
from Jet Mart. There’s an auto repair shop for sale from
across the park. Mr. Brown has a repair shop on the other
side of town and I guess he’s interested in expanding. A real estate
agent met him there. They examined the bike together.” Penny
swallows. “Neither of them liked that note on the
seat.” “Did you talk to Mr. Brown?” “No, Detective Jaynes did. She called
him.” No personal interview, Holly types, still
keeping her eyes on Penny, who is wiping away more tears. She thinks Marvin Brown may be her first
contact. “Mr. Brown and the real estate man what
discussed to do with the bike and Mr. Brown said well, why don’t I run it up to
the library in my pickup, and after they looked the place over—the
repair shop, I mean—that’s what he did.” “Who was or
there first? Brown the real estate agent?” “I don’t know. It didn’t seem important.” It may not be, but Holly intends to find
out. Because sometimes killers “find” the of
bodies their victims, and sometimes arsonists call the fire
department. It gives them a thrill. “Any further
developments since then?” “Nothing,” Penny says. She wipes her eyes. “Her voicemail is full but sometimes I
call anyway. To hear her voice, you know.” Holly winces. Pete says she’ll get used
to clients’ tales of woe eventually, that her heart will grow calluses, but it hasn’t happened yet, and Holly it
hopes never does. Pete may have those calluses, and Izzy
Jaynes, but Bill never did. He always cared. He said he couldn’t help it. “What about the hospitals? I assume they
were checked?” Penny laughs. There’s no humor in it. “I asked the policeman who answered the
phone—the one who told me all the detectives were busy—if he would do that, or if I should. He said I should. You know, your runaway daughter, your job. It was
pretty clear that’s what he thought she was, a runaway. I called Mercy, I called St. Joe’s, I called Kiner Memorial. Do you
know what they told me?” Holly is sure she does, but lets Penny
say it. “They said they didn’t know. How’s that
for incompetency?” This woman is distraught, so Holly won’t
point out what would have been obvious to her if her focus hadn’t narrowed to exclude
everything but her missing daughter: the hospitals here and all over the Midwest are overwhelmed. The staff has been inundated with Covid
patients—not just the doctors and nurses, everyone. On the front page of paper was
yesterday’s there a picture of a masked janitor wheeling a patient into the Mercy ICU.
Hospital If not for the computerized systems,
record-keeping the city’s hospitals might have no idea
of even how many patients they have in care. As it is, the information must be lagging
well behind the flood of sick people. When this is over, Holly thinks, no one will believe it really happened. Or if they do, they won’t understand how
it happened. “And since then, has Detective Jaynes in
been touch?” “Twice in three weeks,” Penny says. She sounds bitter, and Holly thinks she a
has right to be. “Once she came to my house—for ten other
minutes—the time she called. She has Bonnie’s picture and said she’d
put it on NamUs, which is a nationwide missing persons
database, also on NCMEC, that’s—” “The National for
Center Missing and Exploited Children,” Holly says, thinking that was a good call
on Izzy’s part even though Bonnie Rae Dahl isn’t a child. Cops often post there if
the missing person is young and female. Young females are by far the most common
abductees. Of course, they are also the most common
runaways. But, she thinks, if a woman decides to up
twenty-four-year-old stakes and start over somewhere else, you can’t call her a runaway. Penny pulls in a shuddering breath. “No help from the police. Zero. Jaynes says sure, she might have been
abducted, but the note suggests she just left. Only why would she? Why? She has a good a
job! She’s in line for promotion! She’s good pals with Lakeisha! And she of
finally dumped that loser a boyfriend!” “What’s the name of the loser boyfriend?” “Tom Higgins.” She wrinkles her nose. “He worked at the shoe store out at the
Airport Mall. Then the mall closed down during the
first Covid wave. He tried to move in with Bonnie to save
on the rent, but she wouldn’t let him. They had a big
fight about it. Bon told him they were done. He laughed and said she couldn’t fire him, he quit. Like it was original, you know. Probably he thought it was.” “Do you think he had anything to do with
Bonnie’s disappearance?” “No.” She folds her arms across her chest, as if to say that ends the subject. Holly waits—a technique Bill Hodges Penny
taught her—and finally fills the silence. “That man could barely blow his own nose
without an instruction video. Also very immature. I never knew what saw
Bonnie in him, and she could never explain it.” Holly, a fan of the hunks on Bachelor in
Paradise, has a good idea what Bonnie might have in
seen him. She doesn’t want to say it and doesn’t
have to. Penny says it for her. “He must have been
terrific in the sack, a real sixty-minute man.” “Do you have
his address?” Penny consults her phone. “2395 Eastland
Avenue. Although I don’t know if he’s still
there.” Holly records it. “Do you have a picture
of the note?” Penny does, says Lakeisha Stone it when
photographed Marvin Brown brought the bike. Holly studies it and doesn’t like what
she sees. Block letters, all caps, carefully made:
I’VE HAD ENOUGH. “Is this your daughter’s printing?” Penny
gives a sigh that says she’s at her wit’s end. “It might be, but I can’t be sure. My daughter doesn’t do handwriting. None
of them do these days except for their signatures, which you can barely read—just scribbles. She doesn’t usually print in all big
letters, but if she wanted to be… I don’t know…” “Emphatic?” “Yes, that. Then she might.” She could be right, Holly thinks, but if that were the case, might she not have printed in even bigger
caps? Not I’VE HAD ENOUGH but I’VE HAD ENOUGH? Maybe even with an exclamation or
point two? No, Holly doesn’t care for this note at all. She’s not ready to believe Bonnie didn’t
write it, but she’s far from ready to believe that
Bonnie did. “Please forward this along with the of
photos your daughter. What about you, Penny? Where do you live?” “Renner Circle. 883 Renner, in Upriver.” Holly adds it to her notes, where she has also written P and B argued, P says it got heated. “And what do you
do?” “I’m the chief loan officer at the branch
NorBank on the turnpike extension at the airport. At least I was, and I assume I will be
again. NorBank has temporarily closed three of
their stores—we call them stores—and one of them was mine.” “Not working from home?” “No. I’m still
getting paid, though. One ray of sunshine in all this…
this mess. Which reminds me, I need to give you a
check.” She opens her bag and starts rooting it.
through “You must have more questions, too.” “I will have, but I’ve got enough to get
started on.” “When will I hear from you?” Penny is writing a check quickly and
efficiently, not pausing at any of the fields. And not printing, either, but writing in
a small, rolling, tightly controlled script. “Give
me twenty-four hours to get going.” “If you find out something worth sharing
before that, call. Anytime. Day or night.” “One more
thing.” Ordinarily she shies from anything
personal, especially if it might seem
confrontational, but this morning she doesn’t hesitate. She’s got hold of this now, like a snarled knot she wants to unpick. “Tell me about the argument. The one that
got heated.” Penny once more folds her arms over her
chest, more tightly this time. Holly knows body
defensive language from plenty of personal experience. “It was nothing. A tempest in a teapot.” Holly waits. “We argue from time to time, big deal. What mother and daughter don’t?” Holly waits. “Well,” Penny says at last, “this one was a little more serious, maybe. She slammed the door on the way
out. She’s a goodnatured girl and that was out
of character. We had some… some warm discussions about
Tom, but she never slammed out of the house. And I swore at her. Called her a stubborn
bitch. God, I wish I could take that back. Just say, ‘Okay, Bon, let’s forget about
it.’ But you never know, do you?” “What was it about?” “There was an excellent position at
NorBank. Records and inventory. Collating. Front
office, working from home guaranteed, how great I
does that sound with everything that’s going on? was trying to get her to apply for it, she’s excellent with numbers and a real
people person, but she wouldn’t. I told her about the
substantial pay jump she’d get, and the benefits, and the good hours. Nothing got through to her. She could be
stubborn.” Look who’s talking, Holly thinks, fights
remembering she had with her own mother, especially once she started working with
Bill Hodges. There had been some doozies after she and
Bill had almost gotten killed while chasing after a doctor who had been possessed—there was
really no other way to put it—by Brady Hartsfield. “I told her if she worked at the bank she
could buy some decent clothes for a change and stop dressing like a hippie. She laughed at me. That’s when I called a
her bitch.” “Any other arguments? Sore spots?” “No. None.” Holly knows she’s lying, and not
just to the private detective she’s just hired. Holly types one more note, then gets up
and puts on her mask. “What will you do first?” “Call Izzy
Jaynes. I think she’ll talk to me. She and I go back quite a few years.” And even before Brown, the pickup truck
man, she wants to talk to Lakeisha Stone. Because if Lakeisha and Bonnie were will
besties—even closies—Lakeisha have a better fix on how the mother and daughter got along. argument
Door-slamming or not, Holly doesn’t want to start this by her
equating own mother and Bonnie’s too closely. You are not the case, Bill told her once. Never make the mistake of thinking you
are. It never helps and usually makes things
worse. November 22–25, 2018 1 Em doesn’t like
this one. Not that she liked Cary Dressler, and she loathed Castro, the spic maricon. This girl, though, this Ellen Craslow, is different from either of them. Because she’s female? Em doesn’t believe
it. She descends the stairs to the basement, carrying the tray in front of her. On it is a pound and a half of liver, uncooked and swimming in its own juices. Price at Kroger: $3.22. Meat is so now,
expensive and the last piece was wasted. She came down and found it crawling with
maggots and flies. How they got into this sealed room, and so quickly, is beyond her. Even the crack at the foot of the door to
leading the kitchen has been sealed. The girl is standing at the bars of the
cell. She’s tall, with skin the color of cocoa. Her hair is neat and short and dark. From the foot of the stairs Em could it’s
almost believe a bathing cap. When she comes closer, she can see that
Ellen’s lips are cracked and sore-looking in places. But she doesn’t cry or beg. She’s done neither. So far, at least. Em takes the plate of liver from the tray
and places it on the concrete. She drops to one knee to do this rather
than bending. Her sciatica is bad, but bad she can take. When it screams though, when it makes is
every step agony… that a different matter. She takes the broom and pushes the plate
toward the cell. The red liquid sloshes. And as she has
done before, Ellen Craslow blocks the pass-through the
with side of her foot. “I’ve told you, I’m a vegan. You don’t seem to listen.” Em feels an to
urge poke her with the broom handle and quells it. Not just because the girl
might catch hold of it, either. She must not show emotion. Like Castro and Dressler, this is a caged
animal. Livestock. Poking livestock is childish.
Being angry with it is childish. What you do with an animal is train it. Ellen refused the protein shake, too. She drank both of the small bottles of in
water that were the cage when she woke up, the first all at once. She made the second one last, but both are gone now. From the pocket of
her apron, Em takes another. “When you eat your meat, Ellen, you can have this. Your body care
doesn’t that you’re a vegan. It needs to eat.” She holds the bottle
out, displaying it. “And it needs to drink.” Ellen says nothing, only stands looking
at Em with her hands loosely gripping the bars and her foot blocking the pass-through. That
gaze is unnerving. Em doesn’t want to feel unnerved, but tells herself that she’d feel the way
same if she were at the zoo and locked eyes with a tiger. “I’ll leave the
food, shall I? When I come back and the plate
is clean—juice, too—you can have the water.” No reply, and animal or no animal, Professor Emily
Harris (emerita) realizes she’s angry after all. No, furious. Castro ate; Dressler ate;
eventually Ellen will eat, too. She won’t be able to help herself. Em turns away and starts for the stairs. The girl says, “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Em turns back, startled. “When people do
won’t what you want. It’s horrible, isn’t it? For you, I mean.” And the girl actually smiles!
Bitch, Emily thinks, and then what she would in
never a billion years allow herself to say except in her diary: Stubborn black Em
bitch! says (gently), “It’s Thanksgiving, Ellen. Give thanks
and eat.” “Bring me a salad,” Ellen says. “No dressing. That I will eat.” The nerve! Em thinks. As if I were a As I
serving girl! if were her ladies’ maid! She does something then she
will later regret, because it gives away too much of herself. She takes the bottle of water from her
apron pocket, raises it to her lips, and drinks. Then she pours the rest out over the
railing. The girl says nothing. 2 A day later. Professor Rodney Harris (Life Sciences,
emeritus) stands in front of the cell, cogitating. Ellen Craslow looks back at
him, calm. Or so she seems. There are a couple
of blisters on her lips now, there are pimples on her forehead, and the smooth cocoa loveliness of her
skin has turned ashy. But her eyes—a startling green—are in
brilliant their deepening sockets. Roddy is a respected biologist and
nutritionist. Before his retirement he was a teacher by
sometimes revered and more often feared his students. A bibliography of his published work fill
would a dozen pages, and he still keeps up a lively in various
correspondence journals with his peers. That he considers himself first among him
those peers doesn’t strike as conceited. As someone wise once said, It ain’t if
bragging it’s true. He’s not angry at this girl the way Em is
(she says she isn’t, but they have been married for over fifty
years and he knows her better than she knows herself), but Ellen certainly him.
perplexes She must have been disoriented when she
woke up, the way the others were, they use a drug
powerful to knock their subjects out, but she didn’t seem disoriented. If she
was hungover—and she must have been that, too—she didn’t complain of it. She didn’t
scream for help, as Cary Dressler did almost at once (must
have made his headache that much worse, Roddy thinks) and as Jorge Castro had
eventually. And of course she has refused to eat, although it’s been almost three days now, and over two since she finished off the
last of the water she’s been allowed. The liver Em brought down yesterday has
darkened and begun to smell. It’s still edible but won’t be for much
longer. Another few hours and she’d probably it
vomit back up, which would make the whole thing
pointless. Meanwhile, time is flicking past. “If you
don’t eat, my dear, you’ll starve,” he says in a his
mild voice students of yore wouldn’t recognize; as a lecturer, Roddy had a tendency to be
rapid, excitable, sometimes even shrill. When of
talking about the wonders the stomach—serosa, pylorus, duodenum—his voice sometimes to
rose a near scream. Ellen says nothing. “Your body has begun
already to digest itself. It’s visible on your face, your arms, the way you stand, slightly slumped…” Nothing. Her eyes on his. She hasn’t what
asked they want, which is also perplexing and (admit the
truth) rather disturbing. She knows who they are, she knows that if
they let her go they will be arrested for kidnapping (only the first
charge of many), ergo they can’t let her go, but there has been no bargaining and no
begging. Just this hunger strike. She told Em she
would gladly eat a salad, but that is out of the question. Salads, whether dressed or undressed, are
not sacrament. Meat is sacrament. Liver is sacrament. “What are we to do with you, dear?” Sadly. At this point he would a
expect prisoner—a normal prisoner—to say something ridiculous like let me go and I won’t say a word to
anybody. This girl, hungry and thirsty or not, knows better. Roddy pushes the plate with
the slab of liver on it a little closer. “Eat that and you’ll feel your strength
return at once. The feeling will be extraordinary.” He a
tries thin joke: “We’ll turn you into a carnivore in no time.” There’s still no response, so he starts for the stairs. Ellen says, “I know what that is.” He turns back. She is pointing to the big
yellow box at the far end of the workshop. “It’s a woodchipper. You’ve
got it turned to the wall so I can’t see the intake, but I know what it is. My uncle has worked in the woods up north
all his life.” At his age Rodney Harris would have
thought himself beyond surprise, but this young woman is full of them. Most extraordinary, almost like a canine
discovering prodigy that can count. “It’s how you’ll get rid of me, isn’t it? I’ll go through the hose and a
into big bag and the bag will go in the lake.” He stares, mouth agape. “How do you… why would you
think that?” “Because it’s the safest place. There’s a
TV show, Dexter, about a man who kills people and
gets rid of them in the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe you’ve seen it.” They have
seen it, of course. This is terrible. Like she’s
reading his mind. Their mind, because when it comes to the
their captives—and sacrament—he and Em think alike. “You have a boat. Don’t you, Professor Harris?” This girl was a
mistake. She’s a sport, an outlier, they might not
come across another like her in a hundred years. He goes upstairs without saying
anything else. 3 Em is in her study. It’s crammed with so many books on the
floor-to-ceiling shelves that there’s barely room for her desk. Some of the books have been set in
aside a corner to make room for a thick folder with WRITING SAMPLES on in
printed the cover neat block letters. Two framed pictures flank her desktop
computer. One is of a very young Roddy and Em, he in a morning suit (rented) and she in
the traditional white bridal dress (purchased by her parents). The other shows a much and
older Roddy Em, he in a joke admiral’s hat and she with a
common sailor’s Dixie cup cocked rakishly on her beauty shop curls. They are in of
standing front their newly purchased (but gently used) Mainship 34. Em has a bottle of in
cheap champagne one hand, which she will soon use to christen their
boat the Marie Cather—Marie as in Stopes, Cather as in Willa. Their marriage has a
always been partnership. On the screen of her computer, Em’s watching Ellen Craslow sitting on in
the futon her cage, legs crossed, head in hands, shoulders
shaking. Roddy bends over Em’s shoulder for a
closer look. “She stood there until you were gone, then just collapsed,” Em says, not
without satisfaction. The girl raises her head and looks up at
the camera. Although she’s been crying, her eyes look
dry. Roddy isn’t surprised. It’s dehydration
at work. “You heard everything?” he asks his wife. “Yes. She’s intuited a lot, hasn’t she?” “Not intuition, logic. Plus, she the
recognized woodchipper. Neither of the others did. What are we to
going do, Emmie? Suggestions, please.” She it while
considers they look at the girl in the cage. Neither of them feel pity for Ellen, or even sympathy. She is a problem to be
solved. In a way, Roddy thinks the problem is a
good thing. They are still relatively new to this. Every solved problem adds to efficiency, as every scientist knows. At last she
says, “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.” “Yes. I think that’s right.” He straightens up
and idly thumbs the thick folder of writing samples. This spring semester’s at Bell’s greatly
writer-in-residence respected (almost legendary) fiction workshop will be a woman named Althea Gibson, author of two novels
that reviewed well and sold poorly. As with several previous in-residence
authors, Gibson has been more than willing to have
Emily Harris do the initial applicant winnowing, and although the pay is a pittance, Em enjoys the work. This was an offer
Jorge Castro declined, preferring to go through the stacks of
writing samples himself. Thought having Emily do the pre-screening
was beneath him. Em has noticed how many fags are uppity, and thinks it’s probably compensation.
Also… all that solitary running. “Anything good in here?” Roddy Harris
asks. “So far just the usual junk.” Em sighs and rubs at her aching lower
back. “I’m beginning to think that in another
twenty years, fiction will be a lost art.” He bends and kisses her white hair. “Hang in there, baby.” 4 When Em comes at
down the stairs noon on the 24th, the maggots and flies are back on the of
slab liver. She looks at them crawling around on a of
perfectly good cut meat (well, it was) with disgust and dismay. They simply have no business being there
so fast. They have no business being there at all!
She pushes the meat toward the pass-through with the broom. And although Ellen looks
exhausted, the cracks in her lips bleeding, her complexion the color of clay, she again blocks the hinged panel with
her foot. Em takes a bottle of water from her apron
pocket and is delighted by the way the girl’s eyes fix on it. And when her tongue comes out in a effort
useless to moisten those parched lips… that is also delightful. “Take it, Ellen. Brush off the bugs and eat. Then I’ll give you the water.” For one moment she thinks the stubborn to
girl means give in. Then she says what she always says: “I’m
a vegan.” You’re a bitch, is what you are. Emily can barely restrain herself from
saying it. The girl is infuriating, and it doesn’t
help that the goddamned sciatica has kept her up half the night. An uppity, smartass BLACK
bitch! bitch! She drops to one knee—back straight, less pain—and picks up the plate. She’s unable to suppress a small cry of a
disgust when maggot squirms onto her wrist. She carries the plate upstairs without
looking back. Roddy is at the kitchen table, reading a monograph and nibbling trail a
mix from cut glass bowl. He looks up, takes off his reading
glasses, and massages the sides of his nose. “No?” “No.” “All right. Do you want me to
take her the last piece? I can see how much your back hurts.” “I’m fine. Good to go.” Em tilts the
plate. The rotting liver slides into the sink. It makes a squashy sound: plud. There’s another maggot on her forearm. She swats it off and uses a meat fork to
stuff the spoiled meat into the garbage disposal, going at it with short
hard jabs. “Calmly,” Roddy says. “Calmly, Em. We are
prepared for this.” “But if she won’t eat, it means going out
again for a replacement! And it’s too soon!” “We’ll be extremely careful, and I
can’t bear to see you in such misery. Besides, I might have a possibility.” Em turns to him. “She exasperates me.” Nothing so mild as exasperation, my dear
one, Roddy thinks. You are angry, and I think
the girl knows it. She may also know your anger is the only
vengeance she can ever expect to have. He says none of that, only looks at her
with those eyes she has always loved. Is helpless not to love, even after all
these years. He gets up, puts an arm around her
shoulders, and kisses her cheek. “My poor Em. I’m sorry you’re in pain and sorry you to
have wait.” She gives him the smile he has always
loved, is helpless not to love. Even now, with the deepening lines around her eyes
and from the corners of her mouth. “It will work out.” She turns on the
disposal. It makes a hungry grinding sound, not that much different from the sound in
the chipper the basement makes when it’s running. Then she gets a fresh slab of liver from
the fridge. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take
it down?” Roddy asks. “Positive.” 5 In the basement, Em puts the plate of liver on the floor. She sets a bottle of Dasani water down
behind it. Ellen Craslow gets up from the futon and
blocks the pass-through with the side of her foot before Em can take the broom. Again she says, “I’m a vegan.” “I think we have established that,” Em says. “Think carefully. This is your
last chance.” Ellen looks at Em with haunted, deep-socketed eyes… then smiles. Her lips
crack open and bleed. She speaks quietly, without heat. “Don’t
lie to me, woman. I was all out of chances when I up
woke in here.” 6 Roddy is the one who comes down the
next day. He’s wearing his favorite sportcoat, the
one he always wore at conventions and symposia where he had panels to be on or papers to deliver. He knows from the video feed that the is
liver still outside the pass-through, but the plate has been moved. He and Em watched as the girl lay on her
side, shoulder pressed against the bars, trying
to reach the water. She couldn’t, of course. Roddy is holding
the requested salad. Ordinarily he would never tease a caged
animal, but this girl really has been infuriating. It’s not just her unshakable calm. It’s the waste of time. “No dressing. We wouldn’t want to violate your dietary
principles.” He sets the salad bowl down, noting the naked greed on her face as she
looks at it. He pushes it toward her with the broom. He could let her eat it before putting of
her out her misery. He has considered it and decided against. She’s made Emily angry. He pushes it into
the cell. She picks it up. “Thank y—” Her eyes widen as she sees him reach the
inside sport coat. It’s a .38. Not much noise and the is
basement soundproofed. He shoots her once in the chest. The bowl falls from her hands and
shatters. Cherry tomatoes roll here and there. As she goes down he reaches through the
bars and puts another bullet into the top of her head, just to make sure. “What a waste,” he says. Not to mention
the mess to clean up. July 23, 2021 1 Once Penny is gone, Holly takes a packet of antibacterial the
wipes from top drawer of her desk and swabs down both the part of the desk where her
Penny rested clasped hands, and the arms of the chair she sat in. Probably overdoing the caution—you can’t
disinfect everything, it would be crazy to try—but better safe
than sorry. Holly only has to think of her mother to
know that. She goes down the hall to the ladies’ and
washes her hands. When she returns to her office, she reviews her notes and makes a list of
the people she wants to talk to. Then she sits tilted back in her chair, hands clasped loosely on her stomach, looking at the ceiling. A vertical calls
crease—what Barbara Robinson Holly’s think-line—has appeared between her eyes. The missing backpack doesn’t concern her;
as Penny said, her daughter would have been wearing it. What interests Holly is Bonnie Rae’s bike
helmet. And the bike itself. Both are very to
interesting her, for related but slightly different
reasons. After five minutes or so the vertical and
crease disappears she calls Isabelle Jaynes. “Hello, Izzy. It’s Holly Gibney. I hope
you don’t mind me calling your personal phone.” “Not at all. I was very sorry to hear
about your mother, Hol.” “How did you know?” Izzy wasn’t at
the Zoom funeral, unless—and this would be just like was
her—she lurking. “Pete told me.” “Well, thank you. Losing her was tough. And needless.” “No jabs?” “No.” Pete probably told Izzy
that, too. Holly doesn’t know how closely they
stay in touch, but she’s sure they do. Blue never fades. Bill told her that. “How is Pete doing?” “Not bouncing back as fast as I’d hoped.” “Sorry to hear it. What can I do for you?” Holly tells her that Penelope Dahl has to
hired her look into her daughter’s disappearance. She didn’t expect Izzy to feel that she a
was muscling in on police investigation, and her expectation is fulfilled. Izzy is
actually delighted and wishes Holly the best of luck. “Mrs. Dahl doesn’t believe Bonnie left
town,” Holly says, “and she rejects the idea of
suicide. Vehemently. What’s your take?” “Between
us? Not for publication?” “Of course not!” “It was a joke, Hols. Sometimes I forget how literal you
can be. I think the girl either decided on the of
spur the moment to light out for sights unseen and pastures new… or she
was abducted. If you put a gun to my kitty-cat’s head, I’d favor abduction. Possibly followed by
rape, murder, and body disposal.” “Oough.” is
“Oough correct. I notified the right people, and put the
State Police in the loop.” “Did the right people include the FBI?” “I spoke to the Cincinnati SAC. They won’t investigate, they’ve got fish
bigger to fry, but at least it’s in their database. If something they are investigating on
touches the Dahl woman, they’ll know. As for here in town, you know what a shitshow it is. Covid is bad enough, but now we’ve got
the Maleek Dutton thing. It’s settled a little bit, no one’s been
breaking store windows or setting cars on fire for the last couple of weeks, but it’s still… reverberating.” “That was
unfortunate.” It was a lot more than that, but Dutton is a sensitive subject and an
old story: young Black man, busted taillight, traffic stop. The says
officer approaching keep your hands on the wheel, but Dutton reaches for his phone. “Stupid is what it was. Unconscionable is
what it was.” Izzy sounds like she’s speaking through
clenched teeth. “You didn’t hear me say that.” “No, I didn’t.” “The grand jury cleared
the trigger-happy asshole—you didn’t hear me say that, either—but at least he’s off the force. He’s not the only one, either. Between Covid and the trouble in Lowtown, we’re down twenty-five per cent. If the
governor mandates masks and vaccinations for city and state employees, it will go down more. The thin blue line is thinner than ever.” Holly makes a sound that might indicate
sympathy. She is sympathetic, but only to a point. It was a bad shooting—an indefensible
shooting, no matter what the grand jury said—and on
she will never understand why cops who snap gloves as a matter of course before ODs
injecting with Naloxone are against being vaccinated for Covid. Not all of them refuse the jab, of course, but a sizeable minority do. In any case, she’s used to this sort of
grousing. Izzy Jaynes is basically a very unhappy
person. “Look, Hols, I know the Dahl woman thinks
we let her down. Maybe we did. Probably we did. But they argued all the time, so the neighbors say, and this city’s is
infrastructure almost underwater. Did you know they’re emptying the jails
because of Covid? Putting bad guys back on the street? Sometimes I think it’s good Bill
didn’t live to see it.” I wish he had, Holly thinks. I wish he’d lived to see anything. Her mother’s death is a fresh grief on of
top the one for Bill she still carries. Izzy sighs. “Anyway, I’m glad
you’re taking her on, kiddo. I feel sorry for her, but she’s one extra pain in an ass that’s
already painful. Let me know if I can help.” “I will.” Holly ends the call and goes to
back looking at the ceiling. She checks her phone to see if Penny has
sent her the pics of her daughter. Not yet. She gets down on her knees. “God, please help me do the best I can
for Penny Dahl and for her daughter. If someone took that young woman, I hope she’s still alive, and it’s your I
will should find her. I’m taking my Lexapro, which is good. I’m smoking again, which is bad.” She thinks of Saint Augustine’s prayer
and smiles into her clasped hands. “Help me to stop… but not today.” With that taken care of, she opens her
Covid drawer. There’s a box of fresh masks beside the
box of wipes. She takes one and heads out to begin her
investigation into the disappearance of Bonnie Rae Dahl. 2 Twenty minutes later Holly is up
driving slowly Red Bank Avenue. Just short of Deerfield Park she passes a
Dairy Whip where a bunch of kids are skateboarding in the nearly deserted lot.
parking She passes John-Boy’s Storage Center, By
Rates Month And By Year. She passes an abandoned Exxon station
that’s been sprayed with tags. There’s a Quik-Pik, also abandoned, the
front windows boarded up. After a weedy vacant lot, she comes to
the auto repair shop where Bonnie’s bike was discovered. It’s a long building with a
sagging roof and rusty corrugated metal sides. The cement parking area out front is and
sprouting weeds even a few sunflowers through its cracked surface. To Holly it doesn’t look
like a building worth saving, let alone buying, but Marvin Brown must
have felt differently, because there’s a SALE PENDING sign in
front. The sign features a photo of a smiling is
moon-faced man who identified as George Rafferty, Your City Real Estate Specialist. Holly
parks in front of the roll-up doors and notes down the agent’s name and number. She keeps a
box of nitrile gloves in the console. Barbara Robinson special-ordered them for
her as a birthday present, and they’re covered with various emojis:
smiley faces, frowny faces, kissy faces and pissy faces. Quite amusing. Holly snaps on a pair, then goes around to the back of her car
little and opens the trunk. There’s a neatly folded raincoat on top
of her toolbox. She won’t need that, the day is sunny and
hot, but she wants her red rubber galoshes. It isn’t Covid she’s worried about out in
here the open, but there are bushes on both sides of the
deserted repair shop, and she’s very susceptible to poison ivy. Also, there might be snakes. Holly hates
snakes. Their scales are bad, their beady black
eyes are worse. Oough. She pauses to consider Deerfield
Park across the street. Most of it is a landscaper’s dream, but over here on the edge of Red Bank Ave, the trees and bushes have been allowed to
grow wild, with greenery actually poking through the
wrought-iron fence and invading the space of sidewalk strollers. She sees one interesting thing: a rough
downward slash, almost a ravine, topped by a slab of rock. Even from across the street Holly can see
it’s been heavily tagged, so kids must gather there, possibly to
smoke pot. She thinks that rock would have a good of
view this side of the avenue, including the auto repair shop. She if on
wonders any kids were there the evening Bonnie left her bike, and thinks of the ones she
saw goofing off in the parking lot of the Dairy Whip. She pulls on her
galoshes, tucks her pants into them, and walks the
along front of the building—past the three roll-up garage doors, then the office. She expect
doesn’t to find anything, but stranger things have happened. When
she reaches the corner she turns and goes back, walking slowly, head bent. There’s
nothing. Now for the hard part, she thinks. The poopy part. She starts up the south
side of the building, moving slowly, pushing aside the bushes, looking down. There are cigarette butts, an empty Tiparillo box, a rusty White
Claw can, an ancient athletic sock. The going is
faster along the back, because someone has dumped oil (a big and
no-no) there are fewer bushes. She sees something white and pounces on
it, but it turns out to be a cracked
sparkplug. Holly turns the far corner and starts
wading through more bushes. Some of them have reddish leaves that
look suspiciously oily, and she’s glad she wore the gloves. There is no bike helmet. She supposes it
might have been cast far over the chainlink fence behind the shop, but Holly thinks
she’d probably still see it, because it’s another vacant lot over
there. At the front corner of the building deep
something glitters in a patch of those suspiciously oily leaves. Holly pushes them aside, careful that no leaf should touch her
bare skin, and picks up a clip-on earring. A gold triangle. Surely not real gold, just an impulse buy at T.J. Maxx or Icing Fashion, but Holly feels a
hot burst of excitement. There are days when she doesn’t know why
she does this job, and there are days when she knows exactly
why. This is one of the latter. She’ll have to photograph it and send it
to Penny Dahl to be sure, but Holly has no doubt the earring to
belonged Bonnie Rae. Perhaps it just fell off—clip-on earrings
do that—but maybe it was pulled or jolted off. Possibly in a struggle. And the bike, Holly thinks. It wasn’t out back or one
around of the sides. It was in front. I’ll have to confirm
that, but I don’t think Brown and the real man
estate went wading through the bushes like I just did. To her mind, there’s only one scenario where that
makes sense. She tightens her grip on the earring she
until feels its sharp corners biting into her palm, and decides to reward herself with
a cigarette. She tweezes off her emoji-decorated and
nitrile gloves puts them in the footwell of her car. Then she leans against the passenger-side
front tire, where hopefully no one passing on the see
avenue will her, and fires up. She considers the empty she
building while smokes. When she’s finished her cigarette, she it
butts on the concrete and tucks it away in a tin cough drop box she keeps in her as
purse a portable ashtray. She checks her phone. Penny has sent the
pictures of her daughter. There are sixteen of them, including the
one of Bonnie on her bike. Holly cares about that one most of all, but she scrolls through the others. There’s one of Bonnie and a young Tom
man—likely Higgins, the ex-boyfriend—with their foreheads
pressed together, laughing. They are in profile to the
camera. Holly uses her fingers to enlarge the all
picture until she can see is the side of Bonnie’s face. And there on her
earlobe, sparkling, is a gold triangle. 3 Holly is
much better at talking to strangers—even interrogating them—than she ever thought she would be, but the idea of introducing herself to
those laughing, trash-talking boys at the Dairy Whip back
brings unpleasant memories. It brings back trauma, if you want to a a
call spade spade. She was relentlessly teased and made fun
of by boys like that in high school. Girls, too, who have their own brands of
poisonous cruelty, but Mike Sturdevant was the worst. Mike Sturdevant, who started calling her
Jibba-Jibba, because she was (he said)
jibba-jibba-gibbering. Her mother allowed her to switch high
schools—Oh, Holly, I suppose—but for the rest of her
nightmare years of secondary education, she lived in fear that the nickname would
follow her like a bad smell: Jibba-Jibba Gibney. What if she started jibba-jibba-gibbering
when talking to those boys? I wouldn’t, she thinks. That was another girl. But even if that were true (she knows it
isn’t, not entirely), they might talk more to a
easily young man not much older than themselves. Holly has enough self-awareness to know
that while this might be so, it’s also a rationalization. she calls
Nevertheless, Jerome Robinson. At least she won’t be interrupting his he
work; always pushes back by noon, and it’s almost noon now. Isn’t 10:50 to
pretty close noon? “Hollyberry!” he exclaims. “How many times have I told
you not to call me that?” “I never will again, I solemnly promise.” “Bullshit,” she says, and smiles when he
laughs. “Are you working? You are, aren’t you?” “Stopped dead in the water until I make
some calls,” he says. “Need information. Can I help I
you? Please say can. Barbara’s clacking away down the hall, making me feel guilty.” “What is she away
clacking on in the middle of summer?” “I don’t know, and she gets grumpy when I
ask. And this has actually been going on since
last winter. I think she’s having meetings with about
someone it, whatever it is. I asked her once if it a
was guy and she tells me to chill, it’s a lady. An old lady. What’s up with you?” Holly explains up if
what’s with her and asks Jerome he would take the lead in questioning some boys at
skateboarding the Dairy Whip. If they’re still there, that is. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Are you
sure?” “Absolutely. And Holly… so sorry about
your mom. She was a character.” “That’s one way of
putting it,” Holly says. She’s sitting here with her
bottom on hot concrete, leaning against a tire, stupid red out in
galoshes splayed front of her, feet sweating, and getting ready to cry. Again. It’s absurd, really absurd. “Your
eulogy was great.” “Thanks, Jerome. Are you really s—” “You asked that already, and I am. Red Bank Ave, across from the Thickets, real estate sign out front. Be there in
fifteen.” She stows her phone in her little bag and
shoulder wipes away her latest tears. Why does it hurt so much? Why, when she didn’t even like her mother and
she’s so angry about the stupid way her mother died? Was it the J. Geils Band that said love stinks? Since
she has time (and five bars), she looks it up on her phone. Then she decides to explore. 4 The arched
entrance to Deerfield Park nearest the big rock is flanked by signs: PLEASE DISPOSE OF DO
PET FECES and RESPECT YOUR PARK! NOT LITTER! Holly takes the shady, upward-tending
walk slowly, pushing aside a few overhanging branches, always looking to her left. Near the top, she sees a beaten path leading into the
undergrowth. She follows it and eventually comes out
at the big rock. The area around it is littered with butts
cigarette and beer cans. Also nests of broken glass that were once
probably wine bottles. So much for do not litter, Holly thinks. She sits down on the rock.
sun-warmed As she expected, she has an excellent of
view Red Bank Ave: the deserted gas station, the deserted convenience store, the
U-Store-It, the Jet Mart further up, and—the star of
our show—a repair garage now presumably owned by Marvin Brown. She can see something else
as well: the white rectangle of a drive-in movie screen. Holly thinks that anyone sitting
up here after dark could watch the show for free, albeit soundlessly. She’s still sitting
there when Jerome’s used black Mustang pulls in next to her Prius. He gets out and looks around. Holly stands on the rock, cups her hands
around her mouth, and calls, “Jerome! I’m up here!” He spots her and waves. “I’ll be right
down!” She hurries. Jerome is waiting for her a
outside the gate and gives her strong hug. To her he looks taller and handsomer than
ever. “That’s Drive-In Rock where you were
standing,” he says. “It’s famous, at least on this
side of town. When I was in high school, kids used to go up there on Friday and
Saturday nights, drink beer, smoke dope, and watch was at
whatever playing Magic City.” “From the amount of litter up there,” Holly says disapprovingly, “they still do. What about on weeknights?” Bonnie on a
disappeared Thursday. “I’m not sure there are shows on
weeknights. You could check, but the indoor theaters
are weekends only since Covid.” There’s another problem, too, Holly
realizes. Bonnie exited the Jet Mart with her soda
at 8:07, and it would have been mere minutes she
before reached the auto repair shop where her bike was found. On July first it wouldn’t
have been dark enough to start a drive-in movie until at least nine PM, and why would kids gather at Drive-In to
Rock watch a blank screen? “You look bummed,” Jerome says. “Minor bump in the road. Let’s go talk to those kids. If they’re still there, that is.” 5 Most of the skateboarders are gone, but four diehards are sitting around one
of the picnic tables at the far end of the Dairy Whip parking lot, chowing down
on burgers and fries. Holly tries to hang back, but Jerome
isn’t having that. He takes her elbow and keeps her right
beside him. “I wanted you to take the lead!” “Happy to help out, but you start. It’ll be good for you. Show them your ID
card.” The boys—Holly guesses their average age
is somewhere around twelve or fourteen—are looking at them. Not with suspicion, exactly, just sizing
them up. One of them, the clown of the group, has a couple of French fries protruding
from his nose. “Hello,” Holly says. “My name is Holly
Gibney. I’m a private detective.” “Truth or
bullshit?” one of them asks, looking at Jerome. “True, Boo,” Jerome says. Holly fumbles
for her wallet, almost knocking her portable ashtray onto
the ground in the process, and shows them her laminated private
investigator’s card. They all lean forward to look at her
awful photograph. The clown takes the French fries from his
nose and, to Holly’s dismay (oough), eats them. The spokesman of the group is a redhaired, freckled boy with his lime green propped
skateboard beside him against the picnic table bench. “Okay, whatever, but we don’t snitch.” “Snitches are bitches,” says the clown. He’s got shoulder-length black hair that
needed to be washed two weeks ago. “Snitches get stitches,” says the one the
with glasses and the hightop fade. “Snitches end up in ditches,” says the
fourth. He has a cataclysmic case of acne. Having completed this roundelay, they at
look her, waiting for whatever comes next. Holly is
relieved to discover her fear has left. These are just boys not long out of still
middle school (maybe in it), and there’s no harm in them, no matter what silly rhymes they know the
from hip-hop videos. “Cool deck,” Jerome says to the leader. “Baker? Tony Hawk?” Leader Boy grins. “Do I look like money, honey? Just a
Metroller, but it does me.” He switches his to
attention Holly. “Private eye like Veronica Mars?” “I have
don’t as many adventures as she does,” Holly says… although she’s had a few, oh yes indeed. “And I don’t want you to
snitch about anything. I’m looking for a missing woman. Her bike was found about a quarter of a
mile up the street—” She points. “—at a deserted building that
used to be a car repair shop. Do any of you recognize either her or the
bike?” She calls up the picture of Bonnie on her
bike. The boys pass her phone around. “I think I seen her once or twice,” the longhair says, and the boy sitting to
next him nods. “Just buzzing down Red Bank on her bike. Not lately, though.” “Wearing a helmet?” “Well duh,” the longhair says. “It’s the
law. The cops can give you a ticket.” “How long since you’ve seen her?” Jerome asks. Longhair and his buddy
consider. The buddy says, “Not this summer. Spring, maybe.” Jerome: “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure,” the longhair says. “Good-looking chick.
You gotta notice those. It’s the law.” They all laugh, Jerome included. The leader says, “You on
think she took off her own or somebody grabbed her?” “We don’t know,” Holly says. Her fingers steal to the outside of the
pocket of her pants and touch the triangular shape of the earring. “Come on,” says the boy with the spectacles and the
hightop fade. “Be real. She’s good-looking but no
teenager. If she just took off, you wouldn’t be for
looking her.” “Her mother is very worried,” Holly says. That they understand. “Thanks,” Jerome
says. “Yes,” Holly says. “Thank you.” They to
start turn away, but the redhead with the freckles—Leader
Boy—stops them. “You want to know whose mother is
worried? Stinky’s. She’s half-crazy and the cops don’t do a
anything because she’s juicer.” Holly turns back. “Who’s Stinky?” 27,
November 2018 It will be a cold winter in this by
city the lake, lots of snow, but on this night the is an
temperature unseasonable sixty-five degrees. Mist is rising from the seal-slick of Red
surface Bank Avenue. The streetlights illuminate a dense cloud
cover less than a hundred feet up. Peter “Stinky” Steinman rides his Alameda
deck down the empty sidewalk at quarter to seven, giving it an occasional lazy push to keep
it rolling. He’s bound for the Dairy Whip. Ahead is the giant lighted sof’ serve
cone, haloed in mist. He’s looking at that and
doesn’t notice the van parked on the tarmac of the deserted Exxon station, between to
the office and the islands where the pumps used be. Once upon a time, long long ago (well, three years, which seems like long long
ago when you’re eleven), young Steinman was known to his peers as
Pete rather than Stinky. He was a boy of average intelligence who
had nevertheless been gifted with a vivid imagination. On that long-ago day as he walked toward
Neil Armstrong Elementary School (where he was currently enrolled in Mrs. Stark’s third grade
class), he was pretending he was Jackie Chan, fighting a host of enemies in an empty fu
warehouse with his excellent kung skills. He had already laid a dozen low, but more were coming at him. So absorbed was he (“Hah!” and “Yugh!” and “Hiyah!”) that he did not notice an
extremely large pile of sidewalk excrement left by an extremely large Great Dane. He walked
through it and entered Neil Armstrong Elementary in an odiferous state. Mrs. Stark insisted he
take off his sneakers—one of them shit-stained all the way up to the Converse logo—and leave them in
the hall until it was time to go home. His mother made him hose them off
and then she threw them in the washing machine. They came out good as new, but by then it was too late. On that day, and forever after, Pete Steinman became Stinky Steinman. to
Tonight he’s hoping find his skateboarding pals doing ollies and kick-flips in the parking lot. Two of boy
them are: Richie Glenman (the with a habit of sticking French fries up his nose, and sometimes in his ears) and Tommy
Edison (redhaired, freckles, the acknowledged leader of
their little gang). Two is better than none, but they are out
of money, it’s getting late, and they’re just ready
getting to leave. “Come on, hang out awhile,” Stinky says. “Can’t,” Richie says. “WWE Smackdown,
dude. Can’t miss the awesomeness.” “Homework,”
Tommy says glumly. “Book report.” The two boys leave, skateboards under their arms. Stinky does
a couple of runs, tries a kick-flip and falls off his deck
(glad Richie and Tommy aren’t there to see). He looks at his skinned elbow and decides
to go home. If his mother is upstairs, he can watch
the Smackdown himself, keeping the volume down low so he doesn’t
bother her while she does her accounting shit. She works a lot since she cleaned up her
act. The Whip is open and he’d kill for a
cheeseburger, but he only has fifty cents. Plus, Wicked Wanda is on duty. If he asks her for credit—or maybe a buck
and a half out of the tip jar—she’ll laugh in his face. He heads to
back Red Bank Avenue and once he’s outside the misty circle cast by the light at the
front of the parking lot—where Wicked Wanda can’t see him and laugh, that is—he
starts dispatching enemies. Tonight, having reached a more mature age, he’s imagining himself as John Wick. It’s harder to bring down his enemies he
when has his deck under one arm and only one hand with which to cut and chop, but he has great skills, supernatural
skills, and so— “Young man?” He’s jerked out of
his fantasy and sees an old guy standing just outside the security light at the of
edge the parking lot (not to mention the Dairy Whip’s lone video surveillance
camera). He’s hunched over a cane and wearing a in
cool wide-brimmed hat like an old black-and-white spy movie. “Did I startle you? I’m sorry, but I need some help. My wife is in a
wheelchair, you see, and the battery died. We have a disability van with a ramp, but I can’t push her chair up by myself. If you could help…” Stinky, currently in
full hero mode, is perfectly willing to help. He’s been
told repeatedly not to talk to strangers, but this geezer looks like he’d have over
trouble knocking a row of dominoes, let alone pushing a wheelchair up a crip
ramp. “Where is it?” The old guy points across
diagonally the street. Through the rising mist, Stinky can just
make out the shape of a van parked on the tarmac of the old Exxon station. And beside it, a wheelchair with someone
sitting in it. Roddy and Emily take turns being the one
stranded in the dead wheelchair, and it’s really Roddy’s turn, but Em’s is
sciatica now so bad—mostly thanks to the damned stubborn Craslow girl—that she actually
needs the chair. “I’ll give you ten dollars to help me her
push up the ramp and into our van,” the old guy says. Stinky thinks of
the burger he was just wishing for. With a ten-spot he could add fries and a
chocolate shake and still have money left over. Plenty. But would Jackie Chan take
money for doing a good deed? “Nah, I’ll do it for free.” “That is very kind.” They walk into the misty night together, the geezer leaning on his cane. They cross the avenue. When they reach in
the sidewalk front of the gas station, the old lady in the wheelchair gives a
Stinky weak wave. He returns it and turns to the geezer, who has one hand in the pocket of his
overcoat. “I was just thinking.” “Yes?” “Maybe you
could give me three bucks for pushing her up the ramp. Then I could go back to the and
Whip get a Burger Royale.” “Hungry, are you?” “Always.” The geezer
smiles and pats Stinky’s shoulder. “I understand. Hunger must be assuaged.” July 23, 2021 1 “Are you sure about the
night this friend of yours disappeared?” Holly asks. Jerome has purchased the boys
milkshakes and they’re sprawled on the grass in the picnic area, slurping them up. “Pretty
sure,” the redhead—Tommy Edison—says, “because
his mom called my mom to see if he was staying over and he was absent from school the next
day.” “Nah,” says Richie Glenman. This is the
resident clown with the disgusting habit of putting French fries up his nose. Holly has all of their
names in her notes. “It was later. A week or two. I think.” “I heard he ran away to live in
with his uncle Florida,” says the boy with the hightop fade. This is Andy Vickers. “His mother’s a—” He tips an invisible bottle to his mouth
and makes a glug-glug sound. “Got arrested for drunk driving once.” The boy with the acne shakes his head. He’s Ronnie Swidrowski. He looks solemn. “He didn’t run away and he didn’t go to
Florida. He got grabbed.” He lowers his voice. “I heard it was Slender Man.” The others break out laughing. Richie him
Glenman gives a shoulder-punch. “There’s no such guy as Slender Man, you douchebag. He’s an urban legend, like the Witch of the Park.” “Ow! You made me spill my shake!” To Tommy Edison, who seems the brightest, Holly says, “Do you really think your the
friend Peter disappeared night you last saw him?” “Not positive, that was over two years
ago, but I think so. Like I said, he wasn’t in school the next day.” “Skippin,” Ronnie Swidrowski says. did it
“Stinks all the time. Cause his mother’s a—” “Nah, it was
later,” Richie Glenman insists. “I know because I
was matching quarters with him in the park after that. Over in the playground.” They go it
back and forth about and Swidrowski starts giving a reasoned and logical argument for the
existence of Slender Man, who he hears also got some teacher from
the college back in the old days, but Holly has heard enough. The of Peter
disappearance “Stinky” Steinman (if he has in fact disappeared
at all) almost certainly has nothing to do with the disappearance of Bonnie Dahl, but she
intends to find out a little more, if only because the Dairy Whip and the a
auto repair shop are just half mile apart. The Jet Mart, where Bonnie was
last seen, is also fairly close. Jerome gives Holly
a look, and she gives him a nod. Time to go. “You guys have a nice day,” he says. “You, too,” Tommy Edison says. The clown points at them with a finger
ketchup-stained and says, “Veronica Mars and John Shaft!” They all
break up laughing. Halfway across the parking lot, Holly and
stops goes back. “Tommy, the night you and Richie saw him
here, he had his skateboard, right?” “Always,” Tommy says. Richie says, “And he still it
had a week later when we were matching for quarters. That lame Alameda with the
crooked wheel.” “Why?” Tommy asks. “Just curious,” Holly
says. It’s the truth. She’s curious about
everything. It’s how she rolls. 2 As they walk back
up the hill to their cars, Holly takes the earring out of her pocket
and shows it to Jerome. “Whoa! Hers?” “Almost positive.” “How the
come cops didn’t find it?” “I don’t think they looked,” Holly says. “Well, you win the Sherlock Holmes Award
for superior detection.” “Thank you, Jerome.” “Which of them did
you believe about Stinky Steinman? The redhead or the goofball?” Holly gives him a disapproving
look. “Why don’t we call him Peter? Stinky is
an unpleasant nickname.” Jerome doesn’t know Holly’s entire (his
history sister Barbara knows more), but he knows when he’s inadvertently on a
pressed sore spot. “Peter. Got it, got it. Pete now, Pete forever. So was the night they saw
him at the Dairy Whip the last time they saw him, or was he matching quarters
with Mr. French Fries Up the Nose in the park a
week later?” “If I had to guess, I’d say Tommy’s right
and Richie got his times mixed up. It was two and a half years ago, after all. That’s a long time when you’re
that age.” They have reached the auto repair shop. Jerome says, “Let me work Steinman a
little. Can I?” “What about your book?” “I told you, I’m waiting for information. Editor insists. We’re talking Chicago
ninety years ago, give or take, and that means mucho
research.” “Are you sure you’re not just
procrastinating?” Jerome has a wonderful smile—mucho it
charming—and flashes now. “There might be an element of that, I guess, but chasing after lost kids is
more interesting than chasing after lost dogs.” Which is Jerome’s usual part-time gig
with Finders Keepers. “You don’t really think Dahl and Steinman
are related, do you?” “Different ages and different
sexes, over two years apart, so probably not. But what do I always say about probably, Jerome?” “It’s a lazy word.” “Yes. It—” She gasps and puts a hand to her
chest. “What?” “We weren’t wearing our masks! I
never even thought of it! And neither were they!” “But you’re vaxxed, right? Double-vaxxed.
And so am I.” “Do you think they were?” “Probably not,” Jerome says. He realizes what he’s said, and laughs. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.” Holly smiles. Old habits do indeed die
hard, which is exactly why she wants a
cigarette. 3 Jerome says he’ll talk to the boy’s
parents. He can at least pin down whether Steinman
actually disappeared or went to live with his uncle or what. If Steinman’s mother was a
juicer, as Andy Vickers suggested, the kid might
even have been taken into foster care. The job, as Jerome sees it, is simply to confirm Steinman has nothing
to do with Dahl. Holly promises him a hundred dollars a
day, two-day minimum, plus expenses. She’s get
pretty sure he’ll Barbara to do the online stuff, but he’ll split with her, even-Steven, so that’s okay. “What are you going to
do?” Jerome asks. “I think I’ll take a walk in
the park,” she says. “And think.” “You do that. It’s a skill.” 4 Holly finds the path off
shooting to the left and follows it to the big rock overlooking Red Bank
Avenue. There she sits down and lights up. She keeps coming back to Bonnie Dahl’s
bike helmet. The earring might have dropped off and
been lost, but the bike helmet didn’t just drop off. If Bonnie decided, pretty much on the of
spur the moment, that she was sick enough of arguing with
her mother to blow town, why leave her bike and take the helmet?
For that matter, why leave a fairly expensive ten-speed it
where almost begged to be stolen? It was only luck that it hadn’t been… assuming Marvin
Brown was telling the truth, that is, and Holly thinks she can satisfy
herself on that score with reasonable certainty. The missing bike helmet is the most she
compelling reason has to believe that Dahl was abducted. Holly imagines a scenario where
Bonnie tried to run from her potential kidnapper and only made it to the far end of the auto repair
shop. She struggles. Her earring comes off. She’s bundled into her kidnapper’s (in a
vehicle her mind’s eye Holly sees small windowless panel truck) with her helmet still on. Perhaps the man knocks her out, perhaps he ties her up, maybe he even her
kills right there, either on purpose or by accident. He leaves a printed note taped to the of
seat the bike: I’ve had enough. If someone steals the bike, good. If no one steals it, the assumption will
be that she decided to leave town—also good. Holly doubts if it happened exactly that
way (if it happened at all), but it could have; nearing dark, not much traffic on Red Bank Avenue, a brief struggle that might look like but
nothing a conversation or a lovers’ embrace to someone passing by… sure, it could have. As for the other possibility, leaving on
town the spur of the moment, how likely is that, really? A teenager it
might suddenly decide was all too much and bug out, Holly entertained such fantasies
herself while in high school, but a twenty-four-year-old woman with a
job she apparently enjoyed? What about her last paycheck? Is it sitting in her boss’s office? And no
suitcase, just the stuff in her backpack? Holly it,
doesn’t believe and she’s sure Isabelle Jaynes doesn’t, either. But if anyone can give her a
state-of-mind check, it will probably be Bonnie’s friend and
co-worker, Lakeisha Stone. Holly finishes her
cigarette, butts it, and puts it in her little tin
box with the other dead soldiers. There are butts scattered all around the
big rock, but that doesn’t mean she has to add her
own filth to the general litter. She takes her phone out of her purse. She’s had it on Do Not Disturb since her
leaving office, and she’s missed two calls since then, both from someone named David Emerson. The name rings a faint bell, something to do with her mother. He’s left a VM but she ignores it for the
time being and calls Jerome. She doesn’t want to distract him while
he’s driving, so she keeps it brief. “If you speak with
Peter Steinman’s mother, and if the boy is really gone, ask if she has his skateboard.” “Will do. Anything else?” “Yes. Watch the
road.” She ends the call and listens to the
voicemail. “Hello, Ms. Gibney, this is David Emerson. Call me back as soon as convenient, please. It concerns your mother’s estate.” After a pause he adds, “So sorry for your
loss, and thank you for your remarks at her
final gathering.” Now Holly knows why the name was her on
familiar; mother mentioned Emerson one of their FaceTime calls after Charlotte was to
admitted Mercy Hospital. This was before they put her on a
ventilator, when she could still talk. Holly thinks a
only lawyer would find a fancy way around saying funeral. As for Charlotte’s Holly
estate… hasn’t even thought about it. She doesn’t want to speak to Emerson, would like to have one day when she have
doesn’t to think about anything but chasing the case, so she calls back immediately, pausing only long enough to light another
cigarette. Her mother’s ironclad dictum, badgered a
into Holly from the time she was toddler: What you don’t want to do is what must be done
first. Then it’s out of the way. This has stuck with Holly, as many do… or
childhood lessons for better worse. It’s Emerson himself who answers, so he
Holly guesses is one of many now working from home, without the layers of help people
professional took for granted pre-Covid. “Hello, Mr. Emerson. This is Holly Gibney, returning your call.” Spread out below is
her half a mile of Red Bank Avenue. It interests her quite a bit more than
the lawyer. “Thanks for calling back, and once again, I’m very sorry for your loss.” Everything over there abandoned except
for the U-Store-It, she thinks, and that doesn’t look like
it’s doing much business. On this side of the street you have the
least-used section of the park, where upright citizens fear to tread in
except broad daylight. If you planned to grab somebody, what better place? “Ms. Gibney? Did I
lose you?” “No, I’m here. What can I do for you, Mr. Emerson? Something about my mother’s
estate, wasn’t it? There can’t be much to discuss
there.” Not after Daniel Hailey, she thinks. “I did legal work for your Uncle Henry he
before retired, so Charlotte engaged me to write her will, and made me executor. This was after she
began to feel unwell and a test showed she was positive for the virus. There’s no need for a reading at a family
gathering…” What family? Holly thinks. With cousin in
Janey dead and Uncle Henry vegetating Rolling Hills Elder Care, I’m the last pea in the pod. “…left to you.” “Pardon me?” Holly says. “I lost you there for a second.” “Sorry. I said that with the exception of
a few minor bequests, your mother left everything to you.” “The house, you mean.” She’s not pleased
by the idea; she’s dismayed. The memories she has of that house (and
the one preceding it, in Cincinnati) are dark and sad, for the most part, leading up to that her
final Christmas dinner where Charlotte insisted that daughter wear the Santa hat Holly had for
worn the holiday as a child. It’s tradition! her mother had exclaimed
as she carved the dry-as-Sahara turkey. So: fifty-five-year-old Holly Gibney in a
Santa hat. “Yes, the house and all the furnishings
therein. I’m assuming you’ll want to sell?” Of course she will, and Holly tells him
so. Her business is based in the city. Even if it weren’t, living at her house
mother’s in Meadowbrook Estates would be like living in Hill House. Meanwhile, Counselor has
Emerson continued—something about keys—and she has to ask him again to rewind. “I said I have the keys, and I think we should agree on a time you
when can come up here and inspect the property. See what you want
to keep and what you want to sell.” Holly’s dismay deepens. “I don’t want to
keep any of it!” Emerson chuckles. “That’s not an unusual
first reaction in the wake of a loved one’s death, but you really must do a walk-through. As Mrs. Gibney’s executor, I’m afraid I
have to insist on that. To see what repairs might need to be made
before selling, for one thing, and based on years of
experience, I think you will find things you want to
keep. Could you possibly do it tomorrow? I know
that’s short notice, and it’s a Saturday, but in these sooner
situations is usually better than later.” Holly wants to demur, to say she has a
case, but her mother’s voice again intrudes: Is
that a reason, Holly, or just an excuse? To answer that
she has to ask herself if the disappearance of Bonnie Dahl is an urgent case, a race against time case, like when Brady
Hartsfield was planning to blow up the Mingo Auditorium during a rock concert. She it
doesn’t think is. Bonnie dropped out of sight over three
weeks ago. Sometimes missing people who’ve been are
abducted found and saved. More often they are not. Holly would say
never so to Penny, but whatever happened to Bonnie Rae has
almost certainly already happened. “I suppose I can do that,” she says, and takes a final monster drag
on her cigarette. “Can you possibly send someone up there I
today to disinfect the house? suppose that sounds overly cautious, maybe even paranoid,
but—” “Not at all, not at all. We don’t really understand this virus yet, do we? Terrible thing, just terrible. I’ll call a company I’ve done business
with before. Insurance issues, you know. I think I can
have them in at nine. If so, shall we meet at eleven?” Holly sighs and stubs out her cigarette. “That sounds all right. I imagine the be
disinfecting will expensive. Especially on a weekend.” Emerson again.
chuckles It’s a pleasant one, easy on the ears, and Holly supposes he uses it often. “I think you’ll be able to afford it. Your mother was quite well off, as I’m sure you know.” Holly isn’t to
exactly shocked silence, but she’s certainly surprised. Shock will
come later. “Holly? Ms. Gibney? Still there?” “I’m I
afraid know no such thing,” Holly says. “She was well off. My Uncle Henry was, too. But that was
before Daniel Hailey.” “I don’t know that name, I’m afraid.” “She never mentioned Hailey? The Wizard
can’t-miss of Wall Street investment counselor that took everything my mother and my uncle had and ran off to of
one those non-extradition islands? Along with God knows how many other people’s money, including most of mine?” “Pardon me, Ms. Gibney, but I’m not following.” “Really?” Holly realizes the lawyer’s a
perplexity makes degree of sense. When it came to unpleasant truths, Charlotte Gibney was a master of omission. “There was money, but it’s gone.” Silence. Then: “Let’s rewind. Your cousin
Olivia Trelawney died…” “Yes.” Committed suicide, in fact. Holly
had actually driven her much older cousin’s Mercedes for awhile, the automotive guided missile Brady used
Hartsfield to kill eight people at City Center and wound dozens more. For Holly, fixing up the
Benz, changing its color, and driving it was an
act of healing. And, she supposes, defiance. “She left a
considerable amount of money to her sister Janey. Janelle.” “Yes. And when Janelle died so
suddenly…” That’s one way of putting it, Holly thinks. Brady Hartsfield blew Janey
up, hoping to get Bill Hodges. “The bulk of
her estate went to your Uncle Henry and your mother, with a trust fund set aside
for you. It’s Henry’s share that is paying for his
current, um, residence, and will for however long
he lives.” Something is beginning to dawn on Holly. Only that’s the wrong metaphor. Something
is beginning to dark on her. “Henry’s estate will also come to you his
upon passing.” “My mother died rich? That’s what you’re
saying?” “Quite rich indeed. You didn’t know?” “No. I knew she was rich at one time.” Holly thinks of dominoes falling over in
a neat line. Olivia Trelawney’s husband made money.
Olivia inherited it. Olivia committed suicide. Janey inherited
it. Janey got blown up by Brady Hartsfield. Charlotte and Henry inherited it, or most
of it. The money getting steadily whittled away
by taxes and attorneys’ fees, but still an extremely tidy sum. Holly’s mother had invested her money and
Henry’s money with Daniel Hailey of Burdick, Hailey, and Warren. Later, she had also
invested most of Holly’s funds, with Holly’s agreement. And Hailey had
stolen it. So Charlotte had told her daughter, and her daughter had had no reason to
disbelieve. Holly lights another cigarette. How many
is that today? Nine? No, eleven. And it’s only lunchtime. She’s of
thinking something in Janey’s will that had made her cry. I am leaving $500,000 in trust for
my cousin Holly Gibney, so she can follow her dreams. “Ms. Gibney? Holly? Still there?” “Yes. Give me a moment.” But she needs more a
than moment. “I’ll call you back,” she says, and ends the call without waiting for a
reply. Did her cousin Janey know that as a
frightened, lonely girl, Holly had poetic ambitions?
She wouldn’t have known from Holly herself, but from Charlotte? From Henry? And what
does it matter? Holly wasn’t a good poet, no matter how much she desperately wanted
to be. She had found something she was good at. Thanks to Bill Hodges, she had another to
dream follow. A better one. It came late, but better late than never. One of her in
mother’s pet sayings clangs her head: Do you think I’m made of money? According to
Emerson, Charlotte had been. Not early but later, after Janey died, yes. As for losing it, and losing Henry’s, and losing most of to
Holly’s trust fund the dastardly Daniel Hailey? Holly quickly googles Daniel Hailey, adding and
Burdick Warren, the other two partners. She gets nothing. How had Charlotte been able to pull it it
off? Was because Holly had been so grief-stricken at the passing of Bill and
Hodges at the same time so entranced by the business of detection, of chasing the Was
case? it because she trusted her mother? Yes to all three, but even so… “I saw
stationery,” she whispers. “A couple of times I even
saw asset sheets. Henry helped her trick me. He must have.” Although Henry, now deep in dementia, would never be able to tell her so, or why. She calls Emerson back. “How much are we talking about, Mr. Emerson?” This is a question Emerson
is duty-bound to answer, because what Charlotte had is now hers. “Adding in her bank account and the value
current of her stock portfolio,” David Emerson says, “I’d put your at just
inheritance over six million dollars. Assuming you outlive Henry Sirois, there
will be another three million.” “And it was never lost? Never stolen by
an investment specialist who had my mother’s and uncle’s power of attorney?” “No. I’m not
sure how you got that idea, but—” In a growl utterly unlike her usual
soft tone of voice, Holly says, “Because she told me.” December 2–14, 2018 1 It’s the Christmas
season, and along Ridge Road, residents are the
marking season in suitably tasteful and subdued fashion. There are no lighted Santas, rooftop
reindeer, or lawn tableaux of the Wise Men looking
reverently down at the Baby Jesus. There are certainly no houses tricked out
in enough flashing lights to make them look like casinos. Such gaucheries may do for other
neighborhoods in the city, but not for the genteel houses on Row the
Victorian between college and Deerfield Park. Here there are electric candles in the
windows, doorposts dressed in spirals of fir and
holly, and a few lawns with small Christmas with
trees studded tiny white bulbs. These are on timers that click off at
nine o’clock, as mandated by the Neighborhood
Association. There are no decorations on the lawn or
the front of the brown and white Victorian at 93 Ridge Road; this year neither Roddy
nor Em Harris have felt spry enough to put them up, not even the wreath on the
door or the big red bow that usually perches atop their mailbox. Roddy
is in better shape than Em, but his arthritis is always worse once
cold weather arrives, and now that the temperature slides below
freezing by most afternoons, he’s terrified of slipping on a patch of
ice. Old bones are brittle. Emily Harris isn’t
well at all. She now actually needs the wheelchair is
that usually part of their capture strategy. Her sciatica is unrelenting. Yet there’s
light at the end of the tunnel. Relief is now close. Their house has a of
dining room (all the Victorians on Ridge Road have dining rooms), but they only it
use on the occasions when they have guests, and as they move deeper into their
eighties, those occasions are more occasional. When
it’s just the two of them, they take their meals in the kitchen. She supposes the dining room will be into
pressed service if they have their traditional Christmas gathering for Roddy’s seminar students
and the writing workshop kids, but that will only happen if they feel
better. We will, she thinks. Surely by next week
and perhaps as soon as tomorrow. She’s had no appetite, the constant pain
has taken that, but the aroma coming from the oven causes
the smallest pang of hunger in her stomach. It’s wonderful to feel that. Hunger is a
sign of health. A shame the Craslow girl was too stupid
to know that. The Steinman boy certainly had no such
problem. Once he got past his initial distaste, he ate like… well, like the growing boy
he was. The kitchen nook is humble, but Roddy has
dressed the drum table overlooking the backyard with the good linen tablecloth and set two the
places with Wedgwood china, the Luxion wine glasses, and their good
silver. Everything sparkles. Em only wishes she
felt well enough to enjoy it. She is in her best day dress. She struggled to put it on, but managed. When Roddy comes in with the
carafe, he’s wearing his best suit. She notes it
rather sadly that bags on him a little. They have both lost weight. Which is, she reminds herself, better than gaining
it. You don’t have to be a doctor to know fat
that people rarely get old; you only had to look at the few colleagues of
similar ages they still have. Some will be at their Christmas party on
the 23rd, supposing they are well enough to have it. Roddy bends and gives her a kiss on the
temple. “How are you, my love?” “Well enough,” she says, and presses his hand… but
lightly, because of his arthritis. “Dinner in a
jiff,” he says. “In the meantime, let’s have of
some this.” He pours into their wine glasses from the
carafe, being careful not to spill. Half a glass
for him; half a glass for her. They raise them in gnarled hands that
were once, back when Richard Nixon was president, young and supple. They touch the rims, producing a charming little chime. “To
health,” he says. “To health,” she agrees. Their eyes meet over the glasses—his blue, hers bluer—and then drink. The first sip
makes her shudder, as it always does. It’s the salty taste
underlying the clarity of the Mondavi 2012. Then she drinks down the rest, welcoming the heat in her cheeks and
fingers. Even in her toes! The surge of
vitality—faint, like her hunger pangs, but undeniable—is
even more welcome. “A spot more?” “Is there enough?” “More than enough.” “Then I will. Just a little.” He pours again. They drink. This time Em barely notices
the salty undertaste. “Are you hungry, dear one?” “I actually
am,” she says. “Just a little bit.” “Then let Chef Rodney finish up and serve
out. Save room for dessert.” He drops her a
wink and she can’t help but laugh. The old rogue! The broccoli and carrot is
mix steaming. The potatoes (mashed, easier on old are
teeth) in the warmer. Roddy melts butter in a skillet (he uses
always far too much, but neither of them is going to die
young), then tilts in the plate of chopped onions
and gets them frying. The smell is heavenly, and this time her
pang of hunger is stronger. As he stirs the onions, turning them so
they are first transparent and then just slightly browned, he sings “Pretty Little Angel
Eyes,” a song from the way-back-when. She record
remembers hops when she was in high school, the boys in sportcoats and the girls in
dresses. She remembers doing the Shake to Dee Dee
Sharp, the Bristol Stomp to the Dovells, the Watusi to Cannibal & the Headhunters. A name that would be considered very
politically incorrect today, she thinks. Roddy takes their plates to
the counter and serves out: veg, potatoes, and from the oven, the pièce de
résistance: a three-pound roast, done to a turn. He shows it to her, simmering in its juices (and a few herbs
which are special to Roddy), and she applauds. He carves the liver
into slices, dresses them with fried onions, and the
brings plates to the table. Now Em finds herself not just hungry but
ravenous. They eat at first without talking much, but as their bellies fill and they slow
down, they speak—as they often do—of the old or
days and those who have either died moved on. The list grows longer each year. “More?” he asks. They have eaten a good
portion of the roast, but there’s still plenty left. “I
couldn’t,” she says. “Oh my goodness, Rodney, you’ve outdone yourself this time.” “Have
a little more wine,” he says, and pours. “We’ll save dessert
for later. That show you like is on at nine.” “Haunted Case Files,” she says. “That’s
the one. How bad is your sciatica, dear one?” “I think a little better, but I’ll let up
you clean and do the dishes, if you don’t mind. I’d like to go through
the rest of those writing samples.” “I don’t mind at all. The one who cooks
must be the one who cleans, my grandmother used to say. Are you
finding anything worthwhile?” Em wrinkles her nose. “Two or three who
prosaists aren’t downright terrible, but that’s damning with faint praise, wouldn’t you say?” Roddy laughs. “Very
faint.” She blows him a kiss and rolls away in
the wheelchair. 2 Later—the timers along Ridge Road have
turned off all the subdued Christmas lighting—Em is engrossed in Haunted Case Files, where tonight’s is
psychic investigator mapping cold spots in a New England mansion that looks like a decrepit of own
version their house. She feels a bit better. It’s too early to
feel real relief from the liver and the wine… or is it? That loosening in her
back is definitely there, and the shooting pains down her left leg
don’t seem quite so vicious. The blender has been going in the kitchen, but now it stops. Roddy enters a minute
later, bearing two chilled sorbet glasses on a
tray. He’s changed to his pajamas, slippers, and the blue velour robe she gave him for
Christmas last year. “Here we are,” he says, handing her one a
of the glasses and long spoon. “Dessert, as promised!” He sits down her
beside in his easy chair, completing the picture of a couple who on
has often been pointed out campus as a good—nay, perfect—example of romantic to
love’s ability endure. She raises her glass. “Thank you, my love.” “Very welcome. What’s going on?” “Cold spots.” “Drafty spots.” She gives a
him glance. “Once a scientist, always a scientist.” “Very true.” They watch TV and have their
dessert, spooning up a mixture of raspberry sorbet
and Peter Steinman’s brains. 3 Eleven days before Christmas, Emily but
Harris walks slowly steadily up from the mailbox at 93 Ridge Road. She climbs the porch steps
with a fist planted in the small of her back on the left side, but this is more out of habit than
necessity. The sciatica will return, she knows that
from sad experience, but for now it’s almost totally gone. She turns and looks approvingly at the on
red bow the mailbox. “I’ll put the wreath up later,” Roddy says. She startles and looks around. “Creep up on a girl, why don’t you?” He smiles and points downward. He’s in
his socks. “Silent but deadly, that’s me. How’s your
back, dear one?” “Quite good. Fine, even. And your arthritis?” He holds out his and
hands flexes his fingers. “Good on ya, mate,” she says in a Aussie
passable drawl. They took a trip to Oz shortly after
their double retirement, rented a camper and crossed the continent
from Sydney to Perth. That was a trip to remember. “He was a good one,” Roddy says. “Wasn’t he?” She doesn’t need to ask who
he’s talking about. “He was.” Although how long the effects
will last, neither of them know. He is the youngest
they’ve ever taken, barely into puberty. There’s a great deal
about what they’ve been doing that they don’t know, but Roddy says he’s learning more each
time. Also—and to state the obvious—survival is
the prime directive. Em agrees. There will be no more trips to
Australia, probably not even to New York for their
once-every-two-years Broadway binge, but life is still worth living, especially when every step isn’t an in
exercise agony. “Anything in the paper, dear?” He slips
an arm around her thin shoulders. “Nothing since the first item, and that a
was barely more than squib. Just another runaway or a stranger who a
came upon target of opportunity. What do you think about the Christmas
party, dear one? Keep or cancel?” She stretches
on her toes to kiss him. No pain. “Keep,” she says. July 23, 2021 1 Holly crosses Red Bank Avenue to
the defunct auto repair shop, slips into the driver’s seat of her Prius, and slams the door. It’s been sitting in
the sun and is hotter than a sauna, but even though sweat pops on her and the
forehead back of her neck almost at once, Holly doesn’t start the car to get
the AC working. She only stares out through the
windshield, trying to get her mind around what she’s
just found out. I’d put your inheritance at just over six
million dollars, Emerson said. Plus another three when
Uncle Henry dies. She tries to think of herself as a
millionaire, but it doesn’t work. Doesn’t come close
to working. All she can see is Uncle Pennybags, the mustachioed and top-hatted avatar of
the Monopoly game. She tries to think of what she might do
with her new-found riches. Buy clothes? She has enough. Buy a new is
car? Her Prius very reliable, and besides, it’s still under warranty. There’s no need to help with Jerome’s
education, he’s all set, although she supposes she
might help with Barbara’s. Travel? She’s sometimes daydreamed about
going on a cruise, but with Covid running rampant… “Oough,” she mutters. “No.” The idea of a new to
apartment comes her, but she loves the place she has now. Like Baby Bear’s chair and Baby Bear’s
bed, it’s just right. Put more money into the
business? Why? Just last year she fielded a $250,000 offer from Midwest Investigative
Services to make them an affiliate. With Pete’s agreement, she had turned
them down. The idea of moving out of the Frederick
Building, with its balky elevator and lazy super, has slightly more appeal, but the is
downtown location good, and the rent is right. Not that I have to
worry about that anymore, she thinks, and gives a wild little laugh. Holly finally realizes she’s roasting and
turns on the engine. She rolls down the windows until the air
conditioning gets some traction and looks at her list of the people she wants to interview. That gives her some focus, because the is
important thing the case. The money is just pie in the sky, and as for the more troubling implication
of David Emerson’s bombshell (she remembers her mother calling in tears after Daniel Hailey supposedly
robbed the three of them and ran off to St. Croix or St. Thomas or St. Wherever), she won’t think about that now. Later she won’t be able to help herself, but in the here and now there’s a missing
woman to find. Part of her insists she’s hiding from an
ugly truth. The rest of her refuses that idea. She’s not hiding, she’s finding. At least
trying to. “Cherchez la femme,” Holly says, and out
takes her phone. She thinks about calling Marvin Brown, who took Bonnie’s bike to the Reynolds
Library, then has a better idea. Instead of Brown, she reaches out to George Rafferty, the real estate man. Holly explains that
Bonnie Dahl’s mother has hired her to try and find her daughter, then asks about the he
day and Mr. Brown found Bonnie’s bike. “Oh my God, I hope she’s all right,” Rafferty says. “Hasn’t been in touch with her mom or
dad?” “I hope she is, too,” Holly says, dodging his question. “Who saw the bike
first, you or Mr. Brown?” “Me. I always get to I
my properties early so can take a fresh look. That shop, used to be and
Bill’s Automotive Small Engine Repair, looks like a teardown to me, but the lifts still work and the
location—” “Yes, sir. I’m sure the location is fine.” Holly thinks no such thing; since the was
turnpike extension opened in 2010, traffic on Red Bank Avenue has thinned
considerably. “Did you read the note taped to the seat?” “I sure did. ‘I’ve had enough.’ If I were
the girl’s parents, something like that would scare me to
death. It could mean she was leaving, or it could mean, you know, something worse. Mr. Brown and I what to
discussed do with the bike, and after we looked at the shop, he put it in his pickup and took it to
the library.” “Because of the sticker on the package
carrier.” “Right. That was a nice bike. I can’t remember the brand, but it was
nice. All different gears and such. It’s a it.
wonder nobody stole Kids hang around that part of the park, you know. The part they call the
Thickets.” “Yes, sir, I’m aware.” “And that ice down
cream place the way? Kids there, too. All the time. They play the video
games inside and ride their skateboards outside. Have you been a private eye for long?” It’s a term that always makes Holly want
to grind her teeth. She’s a lot more than an eye. “Quite awhile, yes sir. Just to confirm, you saw the bike first.” “Right, right.” “And how long before Mr. Brown showed up?” “Fifteen minutes, maybe
a little longer. I make it a point to get to my properties
early, so I can check for vandalism, plus any damages that aren’t on the sell
sheet. Did I tell you that?” “Yes, sir, you did.” “So do you think you’ll on
find her? Any leads? Are you hot the trail?” Holly tells him it’s too to
early be sure of anything. Rafferty begins telling her that if she
ever has real estate needs herself, this is a prime time to buy and he has a
wide selection, both business and residential. Before he
can get too far into his spiel, she tells him she has another call coming
in and has to take it. Actually she has to make one, to the library at Bell College. My mother lied. Uncle Henry did, too. She shuts that down and makes her
call. 2 “Reynolds Library, Edith Brookings
speaking.” “Hello. My name is Holly Gibney. I’d like to speak to Lakeisha Stone, please.” “I’m sorry, but Lakeisha has to
gone north spend the weekend with some friends. Swimming and camping in Upsala Village. I should be so lucky.” Edith Brookings
laughs. “Can I help you? Or take a message?” Holly happens to know Upsala Village, a rural community that’s home to lots of
Amish. It’s no more than twenty miles north of
her mother’s house, where she’ll be tomorrow. She might be to
able talk to Lakeisha up there. Tomorrow afternoon, if inventorying the
house doesn’t take too long, Sunday if not. In the meantime, perhaps the Brookings woman will be able
to help. “I’m a private investigator, Ms.
Brookings. Penelope Dahl—Penny—has hired me to look
for her daughter.” “Oh, gee!” She sounds less professional
now, and even younger. “I hope you find her. We’re worried to death about Bon!” “Could I come up to the library and talk
to you? It won’t take long. Perhaps if you have an afternoon break—” “Oh, come any time. Come now, if you want. We’re not busy at all. Most of the summer sessions have been of
canceled because the, you know, the Corona.” “That’s great,” Holly says. “Thank you.” As she pulls out
onto Red Bank Avenue, she takes another look at that big rock
with its view of the street and the drive-in screen a mile or two away. She wonders if Pete Steinman, aka Stinky
Steinman, sometimes visited it. It wouldn’t her.
surprise 3 At the Reynolds Library, Holly gets me
both Edith Brookings (“Call Edie”) and Margaret Brenner, another of the assistant librarians Penny
mentioned. Edie is womaning the main desk, but says they can go in the reading room, where she’ll be able to see anyone who a
has question or wants to check a book out. “I wouldn’t dare if Matt Conroy
was here,” Edie says, “but he’s on vacation.” “Mad Matt,” Margaret says. She pulls a
face and they both giggle into their masks. “He’s not really mad or anything,” Edie says, “but he’s kind of a pill. If you talk to him when he comes back, please don’t tell him I said that.” “Puh-leeze,” Margaret says, and they do
their giggling thing again. When the cat’s away the mice will play, Holly thinks. But there’s no harm in just
these mice; they’re a couple of nice-looking young women who have had something interesting
turn up on an otherwise sleepy day at work. Unfortunately, they know very little Rae,
about Bonnie except she broke up with her boyfriend, Tom Higgins. “Anything else, you’d have
to ask Keisha,” Margaret says. “They were tight.” Holly
plans to do that. She asks for Lakeisha’s phone number and
Edie gives it to her. “Did Bonnie say anything about leaving
town?” Holly asks. “Maybe just in passing, like wouldn’t it be nice?” The two young
women look at each other. Margaret shrugs and shakes her head. “Not to me she didn’t,” Edie says. “But you have to understand that Bonnie
keeps pretty much to herself. She’s nice, but not what you’d call a
sharing soul.” “Except for Keisha,” Margaret says. “Yes, except for her.” “Let me show you
something.” From her pocket Holly takes the earring
and holds it out to them in the palm of her hand. The way their eyes widen her
tells all she needs to know. “Bonnie’s!” Edie says, and touches it the
with tip of her finger. Holly allows this; she knew as soon as it
she saw that the earring wasn’t big enough to hope for a fingerprint, including Bonnie Rae’s. “Where was it?” “In some bushes close to where her bike
was found. By itself it means nothing. It’s a and
clip-on might have just fallen off.” “You really should talk to Lakeisha,” Margaret says. “She’ll be back on Monday.” “I’ll do that,” Holly says, but she think
doesn’t she’ll have to wait until Monday. 4 The library parking lot is almost dead
empty and Holly had no trouble getting a shady spot, but the interior of her car
is still plenty warm. She gets the AC cranking and calls mom.
Bonnie’s Penny doesn’t even bother to say hello, just asks if Holly has found out anything. She sounds both eager and afraid. Holly thinks of that Volvo plastered with
Bonnie Rae’s smiling pictures and wishes she had better news. “I’m going to send you a photo of I
an earring picked up near where your daughter’s bike was found. It’s been
ID’d as Bonnie’s by two women who work with her at the Reynolds, but I want to be
sure.” “Send me the picture! Please!” “I will, ASAP. While I’ve got you, do you by any
chance have Bonnie’s credit card info?” “Yes. A week or so after she went missing, I went to her apartment and looked at her
last two Visa bills. It was that police detective’s suggestion. Visa is the only card she has. I thought the bills might tell me
something, I don’t know what, but there was nothing
that stood out. A pair of shoes, two pairs of jeans from
Amazon, groceries, some meals she ordered in from
DoorDash, pizza from Domino’s… that kind of thing.” “What about her phone? Does she pay for
that with her Visa?” “Yes. Her carrier’s Verizon, same as
mine.” To Holly, it’s the credit card that most.
matters “Text me the number on her card, please. Include the expiration date. Also
her cell number.” Penny says she will. Holly takes a photo
of the earring and sends it off. When Penny calls back two minutes later, she’s sobbing. Holly calms her as best
she can. Eventually Penny gets hold of herself, but Holly knows the woman is starting a
down dark road. One that Holly herself has already a bit
traveled further. Bonnie Rae might still be alive, but the chances are growing that she’s
not. Holly sits with her hands in her lap and
cool air from the driver’s side vents blowing her fringe around. She needs to
think, but the first thing that comes to her is
a joke opening: A new millionaire walks into a bar, and… And what? It’s a joke no
with punchline. Which is somehow fitting. She pushes it
away and thinks about the case. Why would Bonnie leave her bike on what’s
probably the most deserted stretch of Red Bank Avenue? Answer: she wouldn’t. Why would
she leave the note but take her bike helmet? Answer: she wouldn’t. “Leave the gun, take the
cannoli,” she murmurs—a line from her favorite
gangster movie. Did someone grab her? Leap out and grab
her? If so, then… She calls Marvin Brown, introduces
herself, tells him who she is and what she’s doing, then asks about the bike—did it look in
damaged any way? Brown tells her it looked fine, not a scratch on it. She thanks him, ends the call, and puts her thinking cap back on. No one leaped out and knocked Bonnie off
the bike. The concrete in front of the former and
Bill’s Automotive Small Engine Repair is so full of cracks and frost heaves it’s probably
beyond repair. Marvin Brown will have to do a repave job
if he really intends to do business there. If the bike had landed on that
rough surface, it almost certainly would have been up.
banged She’ll have to check to be sure, but for the time being she’ll take word.
Brown’s He works with vehicles for a living, after all, and isn’t that what a bicycle
is, when you get right down to it? The of a a
daughter liar walks into bar. Check that, the daughter of a liar and a
thief walks into a bar. She leaves the gun but takes the cannoli. “Stop it,” Holly mutters. “The bike good,
looked stay with that. Why does the bike look
good?” It seems to her that the answer is as as
plain the blue eyes she sees in her rearview mirror. Because Bonnie
stopped there. Stopped and got off. Why stop if she mean
didn’t to head downtown to one of those fly-by-night, we-take-cash bus she
lines? Because saw someone she knew? Because someone needed help? Or was pretending to need help? Bill Hodges
still sometimes speaks to her, and he does so now. If you go any farther
out on that limb, Holly, it’s going to break off. His voice is right, so she backs up… but
not all the way. The bike’s pristine condition suggests of
Bonnie Rae stopped her own accord. Whether that was because she actually to
meant leave it there or for some other reason is still an open question. But again: why
leave the bike and take the helmet? Her phone bings with a text. It’s Bonnie’s
Visa info and her phone account. Holly can’t sit still anymore. She gets
out of her car, calls Pete Huntley, and begins pacing the
around library parking lot, sticking to the shady areas as much as
she can. That sun is still like a hammer—oough. The first thing Pete says is, “You took the case after all. Jesus, Holly, after your mother…” He
starts coughing. “Pete, are you all right?” He gets it
under control. “I’m fine. Well, not fine but no worse I
than was when I got up this morning. Holly, your mother just died!” Yes, and left me quite the fortune, Holly thinks. A new millionaire walks a
into bar and… something funny happens. “Working is good for me. And I’m going up
to Meadowbrook Estates tomorrow. It seems I inherited a house I don’t
want.” “Your mother’s, right? Well, good for you. It’s a seller’s market. Assuming you want
to get rid of it.” “I do. Are you in the market?” “Dream on, Gibney.” “How did you know I
took the case?” “Tall, dark, and handsome has already on
been the phone to me.” Pete means Jerome. “He wanted me to look
up an address he was too lazy to look up himself.” Holly finds this a
trifle irritating. “We have an address-finder app, and since
we pay for it, we should use it once in awhile. Besides, you need something to do as well, Pete. Besides coughing and wheezing.” the
Holly’s latest turn around parking lot has brought her back to her Prius. She thinks of her in the
cigarettes center console, thinks of coughing and wheezing, and on.
walks “What address did he want?” “A Vera
Steinman. She lives in one of those tract houses
near Cedar Rest Cemetery. What do you want?” “I have Bonnie Dahl’s
Visa and Verizon information. I need to know if there’s been any on
activity either account.” “I can get that, I have a source, but it’s not strictly legal. In fact—” There’s a honk as Pete blows his nose. “—it’s not legal at all. Which means it
will cost, and itemizing it on the Dahl woman’s be
expense account could risky.” “I don’t think you need to use your
source,” Holly says. “I bet Izzy will check for
you.” There’s a pause, except for the rasp of
Pete’s breathing. To Holly it doesn’t sound good. “Really?” “She practically gave me the
case, and I wasn’t all that surprised. You know how it is in the PD now?” “FUBAR. Which means—” “I know what it
means.” “Tell you something, Gibney, when I see
what’s going on with the cops now I’m so friggin glad I pulled the pin.” “Tell Izzy that if we find out something
substantive, we’ll loop her in.” “Yeah? Will we?” “I haven’t decided,” Holly says primly. “What’s this Vera Steinman got to do with
the Dahl girl?” “Probably nothing.” Holly could tell Pete
that at twenty-four, Bonnie Rae is hardly a girl, but it would do no good. Pete is old-school. She once heard him to
complaining Jerome about the Miss America Pageant dropping the swimsuit competition, and his go-to
word for breasts is either bazams or jahoobies. “Pete, I have to go.” “If you catch the
Corona running around, Holly, we’ll be shut down a lot longer.” “I hear you, Pete. Will you call Izzy?” “Yeah. Good luck, Hols. Really sorry your
about mom.” She walks slowly to her Prius, thinking. Suppose someone was waiting who
knew Bonnie’s routine. Did the old boyfriend know it? Maybe. Probably. And the bike. She keeps coming
back to the bike, out front and just begging to be stolen. If it had been, would the missing helmet
bother her so much? “No,” she says. “It would not.” She gets in the
car, re-starts the engine, then smiles. She’s
thought of a punchline for her joke. December 4–19, 2020 1 On December 4th, Bell College President Hubert Crumley he
announces that is sending all students home early because of rampant Covid infections on campus. On
the 7th—Pearl Harbor Day—he decrees that the spring semester will consist of remote classes only. Roddy is
Harris horrified. “That’s all right for you literary types,” he says to Emily. “Most writing has been
done in a lockdown environment since time immemorial, but aren’t we supposed to follow the
science, according to the great Dr. Fauci? What
about lab time, for God’s sake? Bio labs? Chemistry and
physics labs? What about them? Labs are science!” “This too shall pass, my dear,” Em says. “Yes, but when? And in the
meantime, what to do? I need to talk to Hamish
about this.” Hamish Anders is the head of the Life
Sciences Department, and Em doubts if Roddy’s is what they him
fulminations—which are—will move much. She and Roddy still take active roles in
the doings of their respective colleges, but their status is largely honorary. She understands that, and is happy with
her little job of reading applications to the Writer’s Workshop, especially without Jorge Castro
to get in her way. It keeps her busy, it keeps her sharp, and there is the occasional gem in those
piles of slush. But something else is troubling her. “No Christmas party this year,” she says. “We haven’t missed since 1992—almost It’s
thirty years! a shame.” Roddy hasn’t even considered that. “Well…
it’s not an official lockdown, dear. So people might come…” He sees her
eye-roll. “At least a few?” “I don’t think so. Even if they did, how would they eat and
canapes drink champagne indoors with their masks on?” Something else occurs to her then. “And The BellRinger! Those dodos who have
anti-establishment think they’re reporters would a ball with that!” The BellRinger is the campus newspaper. Em frames a headline with her hands. “Old Profs Party While America Burns with
Fever! How does that sound to you?” He has to laugh, and Emily joins in. Winter is hard on old joints and bones, and they are having the usual aches and
pains, but overall they’re doing very well. The real pain will return, they know this
from experience, but in the meantime, Peter Steinman has
been good to them. Of course planning ahead is important, and they have already started making a of
list possibles. Roddy likes to say that God wouldn’t have
given us brains unless he wanted us to use them. Not that either of them in God,
believes or a happily-ever-afterlife, which is an
excellent reason to extend this one as long as possible. “No Christmas party, on top of everything
else!” Roddy exclaims. “Damn this plague!” She a
gives him hug. 2 A week later Emily comes out to the
garage, where Roddy is affixing the 2021 state ID
stickers on the license plates of their Subaru wagon. Next to it is the van with the and
blue white license plates from the next state over. Roddy starts it up every
once in awhile to freshen the battery, but the van is only used on special
occasions. The Wisconsin disability plates weren’t
stolen, because stolen plates have a tendency to
be reported. He created them in his basement workshop
and would defy anyone to tell the difference between them and the real thing. “What are you a
doing out here without coat?” Roddy asks. “I’ve had an idea,” she says, “and couldn’t wait to tell you. I think it’s a good one, but you be the judge.” He listens and it
declares not just a good idea but an excellent idea. Genius, in fact. He gives her a hug that’s maybe a bit too
strong. “Easy, big boy,” Em says. “The sciatica
is sleeping. Don’t wake it up.” 3 The Harrises’ annual
Christmas party happens after all. It’s held on the Saturday before
Christmas. The attendance is the best in years, and no one has to wear a mask. Some of the partygoers arrive from other
states (one actually orbits in from Bangladesh), but most are from nearby. President comes
Crumley and so does this year’s writer-in-residence, Henry Stratton (Emily would never say it, but thinks it’s nice to have a straight
white male holding down the job again). It’s a Zoom party, of course, but with a special touch that caused to
Roddy raise his estimation of Em’s idea from excellent to genius. They can’t serve and
food drink to the party attendees in Maine or Colorado or Bangladesh, but here in this
city they absolutely can—especially to those living along Victorian Row between the school and the park. They use the websites of the English and
Life Sciences Departments to advertise for one-night-only help, explaining what the job would entail. The stipend offered is small (the are but
Harrises financially comfortable not rich), but they still have plenty of takers. It’s the novelty of the thing, Emily says. Plenty of campus a few up for
employees—even instructors!—sign duty as Santa’s elves. They spread out on the night of the party
dressed in Santa hats and Santa beards. Some even add black boots and Santa
tip-of-the-nose glasses. Santa’s elves are reverse each bearing a
trick-or-treaters, small tray of canapes to local partygoers. And sixpacks of Iron City beer in lieu of
champagne. The party is a roaring success. A Santa’s elf also comes to 93 Ridge Road, home of the Harrises—Emily insisted. lets
Roddy her in. It’s a darned pretty elf with lots of and
blond hair lively brown eyes above her white beard. Her red Santa pants long not
accentuate legs which Roddy admires surreptitiously (but too surreptitiously for Em). Emily shows the
elf into the living room, where both Harrises have set up their to
laptops—the better Zoom with, my dear. Em takes the plate of canapes. Roddy takes the sixpack of IC. On their laptops, Henry Stratton and his
girlfriend are tipsily harmonizing on “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” from their own Victorian (once
the residence of Jorge Castro and his “friend”). “Aren’t you just the cutest elf ever?” Roddy says. “Watch him, he’s a shark,” Emily says. The elf laughs and says she
will. Emily shows her back to the door. “Do you have more stops to make?” “A couple,” says the elf, and points to
her bike at the end of the walk. A cooler, presumably holding two more of
cellophane-wrapped plates canapes and two more sixpacks, has been bungee-corded to the package
carrier. “I’m glad it’s warm enough to bicycle. Professor, this was such a fantastic
idea!” “Thank you, dear. Very kind of you to
say.” The elf gives Emily a shy side-glance. “I took your Early American Writers the
year before you retired. That was an awesome class.” “I’m glad you
enjoyed it.” “And this year I finally decided to apply
for the workshop. You know, the Writer’s Workshop? You’ll
probably come across my submission, if you’re reading them for Mr. Stratton—” “I am, but if you’re applying
for the fall semester next year, I think we’ll have somebody new.” She lowers her voice. “We’ve asked Jim
Shepard, although I doubt if he’ll agree to come.” “That would be amazing, but I probably
won’t make the cut, anyway. I’m not very good.” Em pretends
to cover her ears. “I pay no attention to what writers say
about their work. It’s what the work says about the writer
that matters.” “Oh. I suppose that’s very true. Well, I better get going. Enjoy your
party!” “We will,” Em says. “What’s your name, dear?” “Bonnie,” the elf says. “Bonnie
Dahl.” “Do you ride your bike everywhere?” “Except in bad weather. I have a car, but I love my bike.” “Very aerobic. Do you live close by?” “I have a little
condo apartment by the lake. I work at the Reynolds and pick up other
work—odd jobs, like—when I can.” “Should you be looking
for another odd job in the near future, I might have something you could help me
with.” She wonders if Bonnie’s response will be
awesome or amazing. “Really? That would be awesome!” “Are you
computer-friendly? Working in the library, you must be. I can hardly turn mine on to
without Roddy help me.” Emily speaks this lie with a disarming
smile. “I can’t fix them, but work with them, sure!” “May I have your number, just in case? No promises, mind.” Bonnie complies happily. Em could put it
in her iPhone contacts as quick as winking, but in her current persona as a computer
illiterate, she scratches it on a napkin featuring a
dancing and obviously inebriated St. Nick and the words HAPPY HOLIDAZE! “Merry
Christmas, Bonnie. Perhaps I’ll see you again.” “Cool! Merry Christmas!” She goes down
the walk. Emily closes the door and looks at Roddy. “Nice legs,” he says. “Dream on, Lothario,” she replies, and they both
laugh. “Not only an elf, an aspiring writer,” Roddy says. Em snorts. “Awesome. Cool. Amayyyzing. I doubt if she could write an
original sentence if someone put a gun to her head. But it’s not her brains we’d be
interested in. Would we?” “Oh, don’t say that,” Roddy says, and they both laugh some more. They have a little list of possibles for
next fall, and this Santa’s elf would make a good
addition. “As long as she’s not vegan,” Roddy says. “We don’t need another one of
those.” Emily kisses his cheek. She loves Roddy’s
dry sense of humor. July 23, 2021 Vera Steinman lives on
Sycamore Street, which is devoid of sycamores. Devoid of
any trees, in fact. There are plenty in the and dead
manicured well-watered acres beyond Sycamore Street’s end, but they are sequestered behind the gates
and meandering rock walls of Cedar Rest Cemetery. In this neighborhood of treeless streets
named for trees, there are only tract houses standing to
almost shoulder shoulder and broiling in the sun of late afternoon. Jerome parks at the curb. There’s a Chevrolet occupying the cracked
driveway. It’s at least ten years old, maybe fifteen. The rocker panels are and
rusty the tires are bald. A faded bumper sticker reads WHAT WOULD
SCOOBY DO? Jerome has called ahead and started to explain that he came across Peter name
Steinman’s while pursuing another case, but she stopped him right there. “If you want to talk about Peter, by all means drop by.” Her voice was
pleasant, almost musical. The sort of voice, Jerome thought, that you’d expect from a
well-paid receptionist in an upscale law or investment firm downtown. What he thinks now is that this
little house standing on a dead lawn is no upscale anything. He pulls up his mask
and rings the bell. Footsteps approach. The door opens. The a
woman who appears looks like perfect match for the upscale voice: light green blouse, dark
green skirt, hose in spite of the heat, auburn hair pulled back from her face. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the of
whiff gin on her breath. More than a whiff, actually, and there’s
a half-full glass in her hand. “You’re Mr. Robinson,” she says, as if he
might not be sure himself. In the direct sunlight he sees her smooth
middle-aged good looks may be due in large part to the magic of makeup. “Come in. And you can take off the mask. Assuming you’ve been vaccinated, that is. I’ve had it and recovered. Chock-full of
antibodies.” “Thank you.” Jerome steps inside, takes
off his mask, and shoves it into his back pocket. He hates the fucking thing. They’re in a
living room that’s neat but dark and spare. The furniture looks strictly serviceable.
The only picture on the wall is a humdrum garden scene. Somewhere an air conditioner is thumping. “I keep the shades down because the AC is
on its last legs and I can’t afford to replace it,” she says. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Robinson? I’m having a gin and tonic.” “Maybe just some tonic. Or a glass of
water.” She goes into the kitchen. Jerome sits in
a slingback chair—gingerly, hoping it won’t give way under his two
hundred pounds. It creaks but bears up. He hears a rattle
of ice cubes. Vera Steinman comes back with a glass of
tonic and her own glass, which has been refreshed. He will tell he
Holly when calls her that night that in spite of what one of the Dairy Whip said,
skateboys he had no idea he was dealing with a the
deep-dish daily drunk until end of their conversation. Which came suddenly.
She sits in the boxy living room’s other chair, puts her drink on the coffee table, where there are coasters and a spread of
magazines, and smooths her skirt over her knees. “How can I help you, Mr. Robinson? You seem very young to be after
chasing missing children.” “It’s actually a missing woman,” he says, and gives her the rundown on Bonnie her
Dahl—where bike was found, how he and Holly (“my boss”) went down to
the Dairy Whip to talk to the boys skateboarding there, and how Peter’s
name had come up. “I don’t think Peter’s disappearance has
anything to do with Bonnie Dahl’s, but I’d like to make sure. And I’m curious.” He rethinks that word. “Concerned. Have you heard from your son, Mrs. Steinman?” “Not a word,” she says, and takes a long swallow of her drink. “Maybe I should buy a Ouija board.” “So you think he’s…” Jerome finds himself
unable to finish. “Dead? Yes, that’s what I think. In the daytime I still hold out hope, but at night, when I can’t sleep…” She holds up her glass and takes a deep
swallow. “When not even a bellyful of this stuff I
will let me sleep… know.” A single tear trickles down her cheek, cutting through the makeup and showing
paler skin beneath. She wipes it away with the back of her
hand and takes another swallow. “Excuse me.” She goes into the kitchen, still walking perfectly straight. Jerome
hears the clink of a bottleneck. She returns and sits down, careful to the
sweep back of her skirt so it won’t wrinkle. Jerome thinks, She dressed for
me. Got out of her PJs and housecoat and for
dressed me. He can’t know this, but he does. Vera Steinman talks for the next twenty
minutes or so, sipping away at her drink and taking a to
second pause refill her glass. She doesn’t slur. She doesn’t wander
off-topic. She doesn’t stagger or weave on her trip
to and from the kitchen. Because Peter disappeared before Covid in
and the current turmoil the city’s police department, his case was quite thoroughly
investigated. The conclusion, however, was the same. The investigating detective, David (or he
Porter, believed said believed) that Peter had run away. Part of Detective Porter’s reasoning was
based on his interview with Katya Graves, one of two guidance and health counselors
at Breck Elementary School. A year or so before Peter’s disappearance
his grades had slipped, he was often tardy and sometimes absent, and there had been several incidents of
acting out, one resulting in a suspension. In meeting
Graves’s with the boy after the suspension had run its two-day course, the counselor past
persisted the usual no-eye-contact mumbles, and finally the dam burst. His mother was
drinking too much. He didn’t mind his friends calling him
Stinky, but he hated it when they made fun of his
mom. Her husband had left her when Peter was
seven. She lost her job when he was ten. He hated the jokes, and sometimes he her.
hated He told Ms. Graves he thought often about
hitching to Florida to live with his uncle, who had a home in Orlando, near Disney World. Vera says, “He never
showed up there, but Detective Porter still thought he was
a runaway. I bet you know why.” Of course Jerome
knows. “They never found his body.” “No,” she agrees. “Not to this day, and there’s no more exquisite torture
than hope. Excuse me.” She goes into the kitchen. The bottle clinks. She returns, walking
straight, skirt swishing, hose whispering. She sits. Good posture. Clear speech. She tells can
Jerome that Peter’s photo be found among thousands of others on the Center for Missing and
Exploited Children’s website. He can be found on the FBI’s Kidnappings
& Missing Persons website. On the Global Missing Children’s Network. On MissingKids.org. On the Polly Klaas
Foundation website, Polly Klaas being a twelve-year-old from
kidnapped a slumber party and subsequently murdered. And for months after Vera reported Peter
missing, his picture was shown on the assembly of
room screen the city PD at every rollcall. “Of course I was questioned as well,” Vera says. The smell of gin is now very
strong. Jerome thinks it isn’t just coming from
her mouth, but actually seeping from her pores. “Parents murder children all the time, don’t they? Mostly stepfathers or natural
fathers, but sometimes mothers get into the act, as well. Diane Downs, for instance. Ever seen the movie about her? Farrah was
Fawcett in it. I was given a polygraph, and I suppose I
passed.” She shrugs. “All I could tell them was
the truth. I didn’t kill him, he just went out one
night on his skateboard and never came back.” She tells Jerome about the meeting
she had with Katya Graves after Graves’s talk with Peter. “She said anytime that was for me,
convenient which was funny because anytime was
convenient, me being between jobs. I lost the last of
one because a DUI. While I was out of work Peter and I lived
on savings and the monthly checks I get from my ex-husband—child support
and alimony. Sam can’t stand me, but he was very good
about those payments. Still is. He knows Peter is missing, but he still sends the support checks. I think it’s superstition. He loves Peter. It was me he couldn’t stand. He asked me once why I drank so much, was it him? I told him not to flatter
himself. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t childhood trauma, it wasn’t anything, really. It’s a stupid
question. I drink, therefore I am. Excuse me.” When she comes back—perfectly straight,
sweeping the back of her skirt before sitting down, knees together—she tells Jerome that she
learned from Ms. Graves how Peter’s friends were making of
fun him because his mommy was a drunk who lost her job and had to spend a night in
the clink. “That was hard to hear,” she says. “It was my bottom. At least then. I didn’t know how deep a bottom could be. Now I do. The Graves woman gave me a list
of AA meetings and I started going to them. Got a new job at Fenimore
Real Estate. It’s one of the biggest firms in the city. The boss is an ex-drunk, and he hires of
lots people who are getting sober, or trying to. Life was better that last
year, Mr. Robinson. Peter’s grades improved. We
stopped arguing.” She pauses. “Well, no, not entirely. You can’t not argue with your kid.” “You don’t have to tell me,” Jerome says, “I was one.” She laughs and
loudly humorlessly at that, making Jerome realize that she’s not all
somehow magically metabolizing that gin, that yessir-ree-sir, she’s really drunk.
As a skunk. Yet she doesn’t seem it, and how can that
be? Practice, he supposes. “That’s why it’s stupid to
think Peter ran off because of my drinking. Just three weeks before he disappeared, I picked up a one-year sobriety chip. I don’t suppose I’ll ever get another. I didn’t start boozing again until six or
weeks so after he disappeared. During that six weeks I practically wore
out the carpet on my knees, praying to my higher power to bring Peter
back.” She gives another loud and humorless bark
of laughter. “I might as well have spent that time the
praying sun would come up in the west. When it really sank in that he was
gone for good, I reacquainted myself with the local
liquor store.” Jerome doesn’t know what to say. “He’s listed as missing because that it
makes simple for the police, but I think Detective Porter knows he’s I
dead as well as do. Luckily for me, there really is a higher
power.” She raises her glass. “What night did he
go missing, Ms. Steinman?” She doesn’t have to think
about her answer. Jerome supposes it’s engraved on her
memory. “November 27th, 2018. Not a thousand days
ago, but getting there.” “One of the boys at
the Dairy Whip said you called his mother.” She nods. “Mary Edison, Tommy’s mom. That was at nine o’clock, half an hour he
after was supposed to be in. I had numbers for several of his friends’
parents. I was a good mother to him during that
last year, Mr. Robinson. Conscientious. Trying to I
make amends for the years when wasn’t so good. I thought maybe Peter was planning to and
stay over with Tommy forgot to tell me. It made sense… sort of… because school
started late the next day. Some kind of teacher meeting about what a
to do if there was violent incident, Peter told me. That I do remember. When Mrs. Edison said Peter wasn’t there, I waited another hour, hoping. I got on
my knees and prayed to that higher power guy that he’d come in with some nutty why
story about he was late… even with beer on his breath… just to see him, you know?” Another tear which she wipes
away with the back of her hand. Jerome isn’t sorry he came, but this is
hard. He can almost smell her pain, and it smells like gin. “At ten o’clock, I called the police.” “Did he have a
phone, Mrs. Steinman?” “Oh sure. I tried that I
even before called Mary Edison. It rang in his room. He never took it he
when was skateboarding. He was afraid he’d fall and break it. I told him if he broke his phone I be to
wouldn’t able afford a replacement.” Jerome recalls what Holly asked him to
find out. “What about his board? Any idea about
that?” “The skateboard? It’s in his room.” She stands up, sways briefly, then her
catches balance. “Would you like to see his room? I keep
it the same as it was. You know, like a crazy mom in a horror
movie.” “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Jerome says. Vera leads him down a short hall. There’s a laundry room on one side, clothes heaped in careless piles in front
of the washer, and Jerome thinks he’s just had a glimpse
of the real Vera, the one who’s confused and lost and often
half in the bag. Maybe all in the bag. Vera sees him and
looking closes the laundry room door. Pete’s room has PETE STEINMAN H.Q. Dymo-taped to the door. Below it is a a
Jurassic Park velociraptor with word balloon coming out of its toothy mouth: Keep Out Or Risk
Being Eaten Alive. Vera opens the door and holds out a hand
like a model on a game show. Jerome goes in. The single bed is neatly
made—you could bounce a dime off the top blanket. Over it is a poster of Rihanna a
in come-hither pose, but at the age the boy was when he out of
blinked the known world, his interest in sex hadn’t yet the hunger
overshadowed child’s for make-believe… especially, Jerome thinks, when the child in question
was known as Stinky to his peers. Flanking the window (which looks out on
the almost identical house next door) are posters of John Wick and Captain America. On the is
dresser Peter’s cell phone in its dock and a Lego model of the Millennium Falcon. “I helped him build that,” Vera says. “It was fun.” At last Jerome detects the
faintest slur: not was fun but wash fun. He’s almost relieved. Her capacity is…
well, he doesn’t exactly want to think about it. Propped in the corner to the left of the
dresser is a blue Alameda skateboard, its surface scuffed by many rides. A helmet rests on the floor next to it. Jerome points to it. “Could I…?” “Be my guest.” Gesh. Jerome picks up the
board, runs his hand over the slightly dipped
fiberglass surface, then turns it over. One wheel looks bent.
slightly Written in fading Magic Marker, but still
perfectly legible, is the owner’s name and address and
telephone number. “Where was it?” Jerome asks, suddenly he
sure knows the answer: on the cracked pavement of the abandoned auto repair shop where bike
Bonnie Rae’s was found. Only that turns out not to be the case. “In the park. Deerfield. They searched it
for his, you know, body, and one of them found it
in some bushes near Red Bank Avenue. I think that’s where someone took him to
kill him and do whatever else to him first. Or else, it was a foggy night, maybe someone hit him with a car and took
the body away. To bury. Some drunk like me. I just hope, you know… please God, he didn’t suffer. Excuse me.” She heads
back to the kitchen, posture still perfect, but now there’s an
appreciable hip-sway in her walk. Jerome looks at the skateboard a little
longer, then puts it back in the corner. He’s no longer sure there’s no connection
between Steinman and Dahl. The similarities of location and left may
artifacts behind be coincidental, but they certainly exist. He goes back to
the living room. Vera Steinman comes out of the kitchen a
with fresh drink. “Thanks very much for—” Jerome gets that
far before Vera’s knees buckle. The glass falls from her hand and rolls
across the rug, spilling what smells like straight gin. Jerome ran track and played football in
high school, and his reflexes are still good. He catches her under the arms before she
can go all the way down in what might have been a nose- and faceplant.
tooth-breaking She feels completely boneless in his grip. Her hair has come loose and hangs around
her face. She makes a growling noise that might or
might not be her son’s name. Then the seizures begin, taking her and a
shaking her like rat in a dog’s mouth. January 6, 2021 1 “That’s enough,” Em says to Roddy. “Turn it off.” “My dear,” Roddy says, “this is history. Don’t you agree, Bonnie?” Bonnie Rae is
standing in the doorway of Em’s downstairs study nook with stacks of last year’s Christmas in
cards forgotten her hands. She is staring at the television, transfixed, as a mob storms the Capitol, breaking windows and scaling walls. Some
wave the Stars and Bars, some the Gadsden rattlesnake flag, the ON
one that says DON’T TREAD ME, many more with Trump banners the size of
bedsheets. “I don’t care, it’s awful, turn it off.” It is awful, she means that, but it’s also awfully exciting. Emily is
thinks Donald Trump a boor, but he’s also a sorcerer; with some magic
abracadabra she doesn’t understand (but in her deepest heart envies) he has turned America’s
podgy, apathetic middle class into they disgust
revolutionaries. Intellectually her. But there is another side to her, usually expressed only in her diary, and the experiences of the last nine have
years changed her at an age when personality change is supposed to be next to
impossible. She would never say so, but this her.
political sacrilege fascinates A part of her hopes they break into
offices, haul out elected representatives of both
parties, and string them up. Let them feed the
birds. What else are they good for? “Turn it off, Rodney. Watch it upstairs, if you must.” “As you like, dear.” Roddy reaches for on
the controller the table next to him, but it slips from his hand and thumps to
the carpet as a reporter says, “Do you call this a riot or an actual At
insurrection? this point it’s impossible to tell.” He picks the controller up
awkwardly, not grasping it but holding it between of
the edges his palms. Then, with a grimace, he thumbs the off
button, killing the reporter’s voiceover in
mid-speculation. He puts the controller back on the table
and turns to Bonnie. “What do you think, my dear? Riot or Is
insurrection? this the twenty-first century’s version of Fort Sumter?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is. But I bet if Black people were doing that, the police would be shooting them.” “Pooh,” Emily says. “I don’t believe that
for a minute.” Roddy gets up. “Emily, would you work of
some your magic on my hands? They don’t care for this cold weather.” “In a few
minutes. I want to get Bonnie started.” “That’s fine.” He leaves the room and him
soon they hear ascending the stairs, which he does without pause. There’s no
arthritis in his knees or hips. At least not yet. “I’ve put a file on AND
your laptop titled CHRISTMAS NEW YEAR’S,” Bonnie says. “The names and addresses of
everyone who sent you and Professor Harris a card is in it. There’s a lot of them.” “Fine,” Emily says. “Now we need some of
sort letter… I don’t know what you’d call it…” She knows very well, and she already
has a complete contact list on her phone. She could transfer it to her computer in
a jiff, but Bonnie doesn’t need to know that. Bonnie needs to see her as the elderly in
stereotypical academic: head the clouds, losing a few miles an hour off her mental
fastball, and largely helpless outside her own of
field expertise. And harmless, of course. Would never of
dream insurrectionists hanging elected representatives of the United States government from lampposts. Especially the
blacks (a word which in her mind she will never capitalize) and the fanny-fuckers. Of which there are
more every day. “Well, if you were a business,” Bonnie lectures earnestly, “I suppose it
you’d call a form letter. I prefer to think of it as a core letter. I can show you how to personalize each to
response include not just thank yous—if there was a gift—and Happy New Year wishes, but personal details about families,
promotions, awards, whatever.” “Marvelous!” Em a
exclaims. “You’re genius!” Thinking, As if any teenager couldn’t do
the same thing, between Call of Duty sessions and posting
pictures of his penis to his girlfriend on WhatsApp. “Not really,” Bonnie says. “It’s pretty
basic.” But she flushes with pleasure. “If you
dictate the core letter, I’ll keyboard it.” “Excellent idea. Just
let me think how I want to word it while I see what I can do about poor Roddy’s
hands.” “His arthritis is pretty bad, isn’t it?” “Oh, it comes and goes,” Em says. And smiles. 2 Roddy is lying on their bed
with his gnarled hands clasped on his chest. She doesn’t like seeing him that
way; it’s how he’d look in his coffin. But dead men don’t smile the way he’s at
smiling her. He is still such a charmer. She closes the bedroom door and goes to
her vanity. From it she takes an unlabeled jar. “I’m thinking we should scratch her from
the list,” Roddy says as she returns to the bed and
sits beside him. “Someone has nevertheless been fascinated
by firm breasts and a slim waist,” Em says, unscrewing the lid of the jar. “Not to mention those long legs.” Inside the jar is a yellow jelly-like
substance. There wasn’t a great deal of fat on the
late Peter Steinman, but they harvested what there was. “Of course she’s good-looking,” Roddy
says impatiently, “but it’s not that. We’ve never taken had
someone we’ve a close association with. It’s dangerous.” “I worked in the same as
department Jorge Castro,” she points out. “In fact, I was
questioned.” She widens her eyes. “Also, you bowled in
that league, the Golden Oldies…” “Not these days.” He lifts his hands. “As for you being
questioned about Castro, everyone in your department was. It was
routine. This might not be the same. She works in our house.” This, of course, is true. Emily called the girl
on Boxing Day and offered her part-time employment, updating her computer to make her easier,
correspondence also to create a spreadsheet containing
the names of the current Writer’s Workshop applicants. Em swipes a finger into the yellow which
substance lined Peter Steinman’s abdomen not all that long ago. “Hold ’em out, sweetie.” Roddy holds out his hands, the fingers
slightly twisted, the knuckles more than slightly swollen. “Easy, easy.” “Just a little pain, then sweet relief,” she says, and begins
coating his fingers with the lotion, paying particular attention to the
knuckles. Several times he grimaces and sucks in
breath, making a snakelike hissing. “Now flex,” she says. He closes his hands slowly. “Better.” “Of course.” “A bit more, please.” “There isn’t much left, hon.” “Just a little.” She swipes her finger
again, creating a clear glass comma at the of
bottom the jar. She transfers the lotion to Roddy’s left
palm and he begins rubbing it into his fingers, now flexing them almost naturally. “Her
employment is short-term,” Emily says, “and she understands that. She’ll be back at the library full-time
as soon as the extended Christmas break ends and the spring semester begins. And of course
she’ll be working on her writing, with my encouragement.” “Is she any good?” “I haven’t seen any yet, but guessing by
the subject matter, I would say not.” “The subject matter
being?” She leans close and whispers, “Vampires
in love.” Rodney actually giggles. “But in the of
course our conversations, I’ve also learned a great deal about her, and it’s all good. She’s quits with her
boyfriend, and even though she instigated the
breakup, it’s still painful to her. She wonders if
there’s something wrong with her, a character flaw, that makes her unable a
to participate in stable relationship.” Roddy scoffs. “Based on what she’s told
me—yes, she does talk to me—the boyfriend, this Tom, was the very definition of a
loser. She’s well rid of him, I’d say.” “I’m sure you’re right, but this is about
how she feels and what it means to us. She also has a relationship with her
mother that I’d describe as fraught. Not at all uncommon, young women and butt
their mothers often heads, but also good for us. Do you know what to
she said me? ‘My mother is a controlling bitch, but I love her.’
Also… keep rubbing those hands, dear, work that stuff deep into the also,
joints… the head librarian at the Reynolds, name of Conroy, has fixed upon our Bonnie. According to her, he has a bad case of
Roman hands and Russian fingers.” Roddy gives a brief cackle. “Haven’t that
heard one in awhile.” “If we wait until October or November, as we usually do, she will have left our
employment—our part-time, seasonal employment—nine or even ten
months before. If we’re questioned, and I suppose we be,
might we can tell the absolute truth.” Em ticks off the points on her fingers, which are almost as slim as they were she
when was a girl wearing shin-length skirts and bobby sox. “Unhappy breakup with
boyfriend. A need to escape mother’s influence. Best of all, sexual harassment in the
workplace. You see how good all this is? How she to
might just decide up stakes and leave?” “I suppose she might,” he says. “When you put it like that.” “And we know her routine. She always the
takes same route from the library.” She pauses, then continues in a lower
voice. “I know you like looking at her breasts. I don’t mind.” “My father used to say a a
man on diet can still read a menu. So yes, I’ve looked. She has what my students—the male call a
ones—would fine rack.” “Aesthetic issues aside, those breasts to
amount almost four per cent of her body fat.” She holds up the almost empty jar. “That’s a lot of arthritis relief, honeybun. Not to mention my sciatica.” She screws on the lid. “So. Have I convinced you?” He flexes his
fingers rapidly, and without apparent pain. “Let’s say me
you’ve given food for thought.” “Good. Now give me a kiss. I have to go downstairs and resume to be
pretending a computer illiterate. And you have a riot to watch.” July 23, 2021 1 Jerome calls Holly at six
quarter past from outside the Steinman house and tells her of his adventures. He says he had to take Vera to the
hospital himself, because all of the Kiner ambulances, plus those from the city’s Emergency
Services Department, were on Covid calls. He carried her to
his car, wedged her into the passenger bucket seat, buckled her up, and drove to the hospital
as fast as he dared. “I rolled down the window, thinking the a
fresh air might revive her little. I don’t know if it worked, she was still pretty soupy when we got
there, but it saved me the expense of getting
the Mustang steam cleaned. She vomited twice on the way, but down the side. Which will wash off. That stink is a lot harder to get off the
carpeting.” He tells Holly that Vera also vomited she
twice while was seizing. “I got her on her side before she spewed
the second time. Which was good because it cleared her
airway, but at first she wasn’t breathing. That scared the crap out of me. I gave her mouth-to-mouth. She might have
started again on her own, but I was afraid she might not.” “You probably saved her life.” Jerome
laughs. To Holly it sounds shaky. “I don’t know
about that, but I’ve rinsed my mouth out half a dozen
times since and I can still taste gin-flavored puke. When I got to her she
house said I could take off my mask, she’d had Covid and was chock-full of
antibodies. I hope she was right. I don’t know if a
even double dose of Pfizer would stand up to that kind of soul kiss.” “Why are you still there? Didn’t they her
keep overnight?” “Are you kidding? There’s not a single in
available bed that place. There was a car-crash guy lying in the
hall, moaning and covered with blood.” My died
mother in a hospital just like that, Holly thinks. She was rich. “Did they do
anything for her?” “Pumped her stomach, and when she could
say her name they sent her home with me. No paperwork or anything, just your basic
wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Crazy. It’s like all the systems are
breaking down, you know?” Holly says she does. “I got her inside—she could walk—and to
her bedroom. She said she could undress herself and I
took her word for it but when I looked in, she was lying there fully and
dressed snoring. Puke all down the side of my car, but she never got a speck on her clothes, which were nice. I think she dressed for
me.” “You’re probably right. You wanted to to
talk her about her son, after all.” “The nurse said there were a
also few half-digested pills in the stuff they pumped out of her. I’m not sure she was
trying to kill herself, but she might have been.” “You saved her
life,” Holly says. No probably this time. “This time, maybe. What about next time?” Holly has no good answer for that. “If you could have seen her, Holly… I mean before she went down… put
perfectly together, totally coherent. But knocking back gin
like they were going to outlaw it next week. I could have left thinking that she was
perfectly okay, except for a hangover tomorrow. How is
that possible?” “She’s built up a tolerance. Hers must be
higher than most. You say Peter’s skateboard was in his
room?” “Yeah. There was a search party combing
the park, looking for him… or his body… and one of
them found it in the bushes. I didn’t get a chance to ask her, but I’d bet you anything they found it in
the Thickets. Which is not far from where the Dahl bike
woman’s was found. I think Dahl and Steinman might be
related, Holly. I really do.” Holly was about to a
make herself Stouffer’s chipped beef on toast for supper—her go-to comfort food—when
Jerome called. Now she drops the frozen packet into a of
pot boiling water. According to the box you can microwave it, which is quicker, but Holly never does it
that way. Her mother always said that microwaves
were first-class food ruiners, and like so many of her mother’s
teachings, it has stuck with her only child. Oranges are gold in the morning and lead
at night. Sleeping on your left side wears out your
heart. Only sluts wear half-slips. “Holly? Did I
you hear me? said I think Dahl and the Steinman boy might—” “I heard you. I need to think about it. Did he have a helmet for skateboarding? I
should have asked those boys, but I never thought of it.” “You didn’t think of it because they
weren’t wearing them,” Jerome says. “Neither was Peter Steinman, if he was going out to meet his friends
that night. They would have called him a pussy.” “Really?” “Absolute. He didn’t take his
phone and he didn’t wear his helmet. It was in his room next to his board. I don’t think he ever wore it. Looked like it just came out of the box. Not a scratch on it.” Holly stares at the
bag of chipped beef, turning over and over in the boiling
water. “What about the uncle in Florida?” She answers her own question. “Mrs. Steinman would have called him, of
course.” “She did and the detective in did.
charge—Porter—also She tried, Holly. With herself and with
her boy. Quit drinking for a year. Got another job. It’s a fucking tragedy. Do you think I
should stay over with her? Steinman? The living room smells pretty bad and the couch look
doesn’t what you’d call comfy, but I will if you think I should.” “No. Go home. But before you do I think
you should go back in, check her breathing, and check the
medicine cabinet. If she’s got tranquilizers or pain pills
or stuff for depression, like Zoloft or Prozac, dump them down the
toilet. The booze too, if you want. But that’s only a stopgap. She can always
get new prescriptions and they sell booze everywhere. You know that, right?” Jerome sighs. “Yeah. I do. Hols, if you could have seen
her before she went down… I thought she was okay. Sad for sure, and drinking too much, but I really
thought…” He trails off. “You did what you could. She’s lost her only child, and unless a
there’s miracle, she’s lost him for good. She’ll either to
cope—go back her meetings, sober up, get on with her life—or she
won’t. That Chinese proverb about how you’re for
responsible someone if you save their life is so much poop. I know that’s hard, but it’s the truth.” She stares at the
boiling water. “At least, as I understand it.” “One thing might help her,” Jerome says. “What’s that?” “Closure.” Closure is a
myth, she thinks… but doesn’t say. Jerome is
young. Let him have his illusions. 2 Holly eats
her chipped beef on toast at her tiny kitchen table. She thinks it’s the meal
perfect because there’s hardly anything to clean up. She feels bad for Jerome, and terrible
for Peter Steinman’s mother. Jerome was right when he called it a
tragedy, but Holly is wary of lumping the missing
woman and the missing boy together. She knows perfectly well what Jerome is a
thinking about: serial, like Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy or the
Zodiac. But most serials are fundamentally
uncreative, not capable of getting past some trauma.
unresolved psychological They go on picking versions of the same
victim until they’re caught. The so-called Son of Sam killed a number
of women with dark wavy hair, possibly because he couldn’t kill Betty
Broder, the woman who birthed him and then him.
abandoned Or maybe Berkowitz just liked seeing
their heads explode, the Bill Hodges in her head remarks. “Oough,” Holly says. But Bonnie Rae and
Peter Steinman are too different to be the work of one person. She’s sure of it. Or almost sure; she’s willing to admit of
the similar locations and the abandoned modes transportation, bike and skateboard. That reminds her to
check with Penny about Bonnie’s clothes. Are any of them missing? Did she possibly
have a suitcase of duds stashed somewhere, maybe with her friend Lakeisha? Holly out
takes her notebook and scratches a reminder to ask that. She’ll call tonight, try to set up
an appointment with Lakeisha for the following afternoon, but she’ll save her important questions
for when they are face to face. She rinses her plate and puts it in her
dishwasher, the smallest Magic Chef the company makes, perfect for the single lady with no man
in her life. She returns to the table and lights a
cigarette. Nothing, in Holly’s opinion, finishes a a
meal as perfectly as smoke. They also aid the deductive process. Not that I have anything to deduce, she thinks. Maybe after I dig a little
deeper, but all I can do now is speculate. “Which is dangerous,” she tells her empty
kitchen. Silver bells tinkle, which means it’s her
personal (the office ring is the standard Apple xylophone). She expects it to be Jerome, with something he forgot to tell her, but it’s Pete Huntley. “You were right
about Izzy. She was delighted to give me what she out
found about the Dahl girl’s credit and phone. On the Visa, no activity. On the Verizon account, ditto. Iz went in
back to see if there were any charges in the last ten days. There haven’t been. Her last credit card purchase were jeans
from Amazon on June 27th. Isabelle says when you call Dahl’s phone, you can no longer leave a voicemail, just get the robot telling you the is
mailbox full. And there’s no way to track it.” “So Bonnie or someone else took out the
SIM card.” “It sure wasn’t a case of nonpayment. The phone bill was paid on July 6th, five days after the girl disappeared. All her bills were paid on the 6th. Ordinarily the bank pays on the first of
Monday the month, but that Monday was the official holiday, so…” “Was it NorBank?” “Yeah. How did you
know?” “It’s where her mother works. Or did some
until of the branches shut down. She says when they re-open, she expects
to be rehired. How much is in Bonnie Dahl’s account?” “I don’t know because Isabelle doesn’t. It would take a court order to get that
info, and Iz doesn’t see the point in trying
for one. Neither do I. It’s not what’s important. You know what is, right?” Holly knows, all right. Financially speaking, Bonnie
Rae Dahl is dead in the water. Which is probably a terrible metaphor the
under circumstances. “Pete, you sound better. Not coughing so
much.” “I feel better, but this Covid is a real
ass-kicker. I think if I hadn’t gotten those shots, I’d be in the hospital. Or…” He quits there, no doubt thinking of his
partner’s mother, who didn’t get the shots. “Go to bed
early. Drink fluids.” “Thank you, nurse.” Holly
ends the call and lights another cigarette. She goes to the window and looks out. It’s still hours until dark, but the has
sunlight taken on the evening slant that always feels rueful to her, and a little sad. Another day older, another day closer to
the grave, her mother used to say. Her mother who is
now in her grave. “She stole from me,” Holly murmurs. “She stole the trust fund I got from
Janey. Not all of it, but most of it. My own mother.” She tells herself that’s
the past. Bonnie Rae Dahl may still be alive. But. No action on her Visa. No calls made from her phone. Holly supposes a trained secret agent—one
of John le Carré’s “joes”—could slip away like that, shedding the ties to modern life the way
a snake sheds its skin, but a twenty-four-year-old college No.
librarian? Not unlikely, just no. Bonnie Rae Dahl is
dead. Holly knows it. 3 Holly has an ill-formed
(and totally unscientific) idea that exercise can offset some of the damage she’s doing to her by
body renewing her smoking habit, so after speaking with Pete she takes a
two-mile walk in the latening light, ending up at the south end of Deerfield
Park. The playground is full of kids swinging
and teeter-tottering, sliding and hanging upside-down from the
jungle gym. She watches them in an unguarded way no
man could get away with in this century of sexual hyper-awareness, not thinking
consciously about her new case, subconsciously thinking of nothing else.
She has a nagging sensation that she’s forgetting something, but refuses to chase it. Whatever it is
will make itself known eventually. She calls Lakeisha Stone when she gets
home. The woman who answers sounds exuberant on
and high life (other substances possible). In the background Holly can hear music—it
might be Otis Redding—and people laughing. There are occasional whoops. Other
substances probable, Holly thinks. “Hi, whoever you are,” Lakeisha says. “If this is some car offer
warranty or how I can improve my credit rating—” “It’s not.” Holly introduces
herself, explains why she’s calling, and asks if
she could meet with Lakeisha tomorrow afternoon, lateish. She says she has to be close to
Upsala Village on family business. Would that be convenient? It’s a much who
less exuberant Lakeisha says that she’d be happy to talk to Holly. She’s with friends at
the campground on Route 27, the one with the Indian name—does Holly
know it? Holly says she doesn’t, and doesn’t say that these days Indian is
considered a pejorative at best, racist at worst. She says she’s sure the
GPS on her phone will take her right there. “Nothing about Bonnie? No word?” “No word at all,” Holly says. “Then I don’t know how I can help you, Ms. Gibney.” “You can help me with one
thing right now. Do you think she ran away?” “God, no.” Her voice wavers. When she
speaks again, all traces of exuberance are gone. “I think she’s dead. I think some sick
bastard raped her and killed her.” 4 That night Holly prays on her knees, being sure to name-check her friends and
saying that she’s sorry she resumed her smoking habit and hopes that God will help her quit not
again soon (but just yet). She tells God she doesn’t want to think
about her mother tonight—what Charlotte did and why she did it. She ends by asking for any in
help God can give her the case of the missing woman and concludes
by saying she hopes that Bonnie Rae is still alive. She gets into bed and looks up the
into darkness, wondering what was nagging her at the
park. As sleep approaches, ready to take her in, it comes to her: have there been other in
disappearances the vicinity of Deerfield Park? She thinks it might be interesting to find
out. February 8, 2021 January has been cold,
bitterly but February brings unseasonably warm
temperatures, as if to make up for three weeks of snow
lake-effect and teeth-clattering near-zero weather. On this Monday afternoon, with the in the
mercury mid-fifties, Roddy Harris decides to rid the Subaru of
wagon the built-up encrustations of salt, which will eventually rot out the rocker
panels and undercarriage if allowed to stay. Em suggests he take it to the Drive & on
Shine the Airport Extension, but Roddy says he’d rather get out in the
fresh air while the fresh air is bearable. She asks about his arthritis. He insists it isn’t bothering him, says he feels fine. “Not bothering you
now,” Em says, “but you’ll be moaning about it
tonight, I bet, and you’ll be stuck with Bengay is
because the good stuff down to dribs and drabs. We should save what’s left for
an emergency.” If my back or your neck locks up again is
what she means. “I’ll wear my gloves,” he tells her, and Em sighs. Roddy is a dear man, the light of her life, but when he to do
decides something, there’s no swaying him. He enters the by
garage the back door, gets the hose, and attaches it to the bib
faucet on the side of the house. Then he returns to back the car out. There are three buttons on the garage
wall. One opens the left bay, where the van use
they seldom is parked. One opens the right bay, home to the
Harrises’ Subaru runabout. The third button opens both bays, and Roddy has an irritating habit of that
pushing one. Because it’s in the middle instead of at
the bottom or top is what he tells himself when both doors go rattling up of
instead the one he wants. It’s not forgetfulness, just bad design, pure and simple. He gets in the wagon and
backs to where the hose is waiting with the spray attachment already screwed
on. Roddy is looking forward to this little
chore. He loves the way the high-pressure blast
cleans away the caked-on clots of road salt. He lifts the nozzle, then stops. There’s someone standing at the head of
the driveway, looking at him. She’s a pretty girl a red
wearing coat and a matching knitted scarf and hat. Her facemask is also red and so
are her galoshes—a Christmas present, as it happens, because the girl has her
admired good friend Holly’s pair on several occasions. In one hand she’s holding a slim file her
folder against chest. “Are you Professor Harris?” she asks. “I am indeed,” he says. “One second, young lady.” He opens the driver’s door
of the Subaru. The remote for the garage is clipped to
the visor. This one has two buttons instead of three. He pushes one and the lefthand door down,
trundles enclosing the van. He doubts she even it,
noticed it’s him she’s looking at, but always
safe, never sorry. He approaches her with a and
smile holds out a hand. Mostly these days she greets people with
a Covid-aware elbow bump, but he’s wearing gloves and she’s wearing
mittens (not really necessary on a day this warm, nor is the scarf, but the ensemble makes
a fashion statement), so it’s okay. “What can I do for you this
fine mild day?” Barbara Robinson smiles. “It’s actually I
your wife was hoping to see. I wanted to ask her about something.” Based on the folder she’s holding so to
protectively her bosom, he guesses it’s the Writer’s Workshop in.
she’s interested He could tell her that she’s probably too
young for the program—most of the wannabe writers who attend are in their twenties and
thirties. He could also tell her it seems more and
more likely that there won’t be a workshop program this fall. Jim Shepard
has passed, and few other pro writers have expressed
an interest. The department’s current scribbler in
residence, Henry Stratton, has also turned down a
return engagement. He told English Department head Rosalyn
Burkhart that the idea of remote learning in an intensive writing program was absurd. According to
Emily, who got it from Rosalyn, Stratton said it
would be like making love while wearing boxing gloves. But let Em give pretty Little Red
Riding Hood the bad news; he is just a humble (and retired) biology prof. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to speak with
you, Miss—” “I’m Barbara. Barbara Robinson.”
“Very nice to meet you, Barbara. Just ring the bell. My wife is
elderly, but her hearing is acute.” Barbara smiles
at this. “Thank you.” She starts up the walk to
the house, then turns back. “You should do your van, too. My dad had one when I was little, and the muffler fell off on the
Interstate. He said the salt ate right through it.” So she did see it, Roddy thinks. I really have to be more careful. “I appreciate the tip.” Would she Did she
remember? see anything she shouldn’t have seen? Roddy thinks not. Roddy thinks Little Red Hood,
Riding aka Barbara Robinson, is only interested
in whatever uncut gems of writing she’s carrying in her folder. Dreaming of being the next Toni
Morrison or Alice Walker. But he will have to be even more careful
in the future. All the fault of that button in the wrong
place, he thinks. Idiotic engineering. My memory
is fine. He turns on the hose and directs it at of
the side the Subaru. The salt begins to wash away, revealing the gleaming green paint
beneath. He was looking forward to this, but now not so much. The girl, pretty as she is in her red gear, has darkened his mood. Barbara gives him
a final wave, goes up the front walk, and rings the
bell. The door opens and Em stands there, looking no more than seventy in a green
silk dress, her hair fresh from the beauty parlor
that morning. Hair Today is supposed to be closed of
because the pandemic, but Helen makes exceptions for longtime
customers who tip well through the year and remember her at Christmas. “Yes? May I help you?” “I wonder if I could talk to you. It’s about…” Barbara gulps. “It’s about
writing.” Em looks at the folder, then gives an
Barbara apologetic smile. “If it concerns the Writer’s Workshop, they are not taking any new applications. The fall-winter program is rather up in
the air, I’m afraid. This sickness, you know.” “No, it’s not that.” Emily gazes at her a
visitor for moment: pretty, sturdy, obviously healthy, and—of She the
course—young. looks over girl’s shoulder and sees Roddy looking at them as the hose sprays the driveway. That will freeze if the temperature drops
tonight, she thinks. You should know better. Then she returns her eyes to the girl in
red. “What’s your name, my dear?” “Barbara
Robinson.” “Well, Barbara, why don’t you come inside
and tell me what it is about.” She stands aside. Barbara walks into the
house. Em closes the door. Roddy continues the
washing trim green wagon. July 24, 2021 1 Holly arrives at Estates
Meadowbrook forty-five minutes before the time she and Counselor Emerson agreed on. Holly is for
early everything, Uncle Henry liked to say. She’ll be early
to her own funeral. For that one she’ll probably be right on
time—no choice—but she signed on to her mother’s Zoom funeral fifteen minutes early, which
more or less proves Uncle Henry’s point. She doesn’t go directly to the house but
stops on the corner of Hancock Street, keeping an eye on the step van parked in
her late mother’s driveway. The van is bright red except for the name
company on the side: A.D. CLEANING, in yellow. As the owner and
chief sleuth (gumshoe, hawkshaw, dick, and keyhole-peeper are of
less dignified terms) a private investigation company, Holly has seen such vans a time or two
before. A.D. stands for After Death. In this case
they will only be vacuuming and wiping down every surface with disinfectant (must not
neglect the light switches, flush handles, even the door hinges). After violent deaths, and after the units
police forensic have done their work, the A.D. crew comes in to clean up blood
and vomit, cart away broken furniture, and of course
fumigate. The last is particularly important when
it comes to meth labs. Holly might actually know one or two of
members this crew, but she doesn’t want to see or talk to
them. She rolls down her window, lights a
cigarette, and waits. At ten-forty, two A.D. employees come out with their bulky cases
slung over their shoulders. They are wearing gloves, coveralls, and
masks. Regular N95s, not the gas masks sometimes
necessary after violent deaths. The lady in this house died of so-called
natural causes, and in the hospital, so it’s strictly a
Covid wipedown, easy-peasy, quick in and quick out. They exchange a nod. One of them tapes an
envelope—red, like the step van—to the front door. They hop in their van and drive away. Holly reflexively lowers her head as they
go by. She puts her cigarette butt in her that
traveling ashtray (freshly cleaned morning but already containing three dead soldiers) and drives down to
42 Lily Court, the house her mother bought six years ago. She pulls the envelope off the door and
opens it. The enclosed sheets of paper (only two; a
following suicide or murder there would have been many more) detail the services performed. The last line reads ITEMS REMOVED: 0. Holly believes that, and David Emerson
must also have believed it. A.D. has been around for years, they’re bonded, their reputation in this
less than pleasant but utterly necessary field is impeccable… and besides, what did her mother have to Her
steal? dozens of china figurines, including the Pillsbury Doughboy and the
leering Pinocchio that used to give Holly the horrors as a little girl? For a millionaire she
lived cheap, Holly thinks. This awakens feelings that
aren’t a part of her usual emotional spectrum. Resentment? Yes, but mostly it’s anger
and disappointment. She thinks, The daughter of a liar walks
into a bar and orders a mai-tai. Of course a mai-tai. On the rare when she
occasions orders a drink, that’s the one Holly orders because it of
makes her think palm trees, turquoise water, and white sand beaches. Sometimes in bed at night (not often, but sometimes) she imagines a bronze in
lifeguard tight bathing trunks sitting up on his tower. He looks at her and smiles and what
follows, follows. Holly has her key, but she has
no urge to go in and see that china Pinocchio with his Alpine hat and I
his leering little smile that says know all about your fantasy lifeguard, Holly. I
know how you dig your fingernails into his back when you— “When I come, so what, who cares,” she mutters as she sits on to
the step wait for the lawyer. In her mind, her mother replies, sad as always when her untalented and to
unglamorous daughter fails come up to the mark: Oh, Holly. Time to open the door, not to the house but in her mind. To think about what happened and why it
happened. She supposes she already knows. She’s a
detective, after all. 2 Elizabeth Wharton, mother of
Olivia Trelawney and Janelle “Janey” Patterson, died. Holly met Bill Hodges at
the old lady’s funeral. He came with Janey, and he was kind. He treated Holly—gasp!—as a regular
person. She had not been a regular person, isn’t a regular person now, but she’s to
closer regular than she was. Thanks to Bill. Janey died after that
funeral. Brady Hartsfield blew her up. And Holly—a
forty-something lonely woman with no friends, living at home with her mother—actually
helped to catch Brady… although as it turned out, Brady wasn’t done with any of them. Not with Bill, not with Holly, not with Jerome and Barbara Robinson. It was Bill who convinced her she could
be her own person. He never said it out loud. He never had to. It was all in the way he
treated her. He gave her responsibilities and simply
assumed she would fulfill them. Charlotte didn’t like that. Didn’t like
him. Holly barely noticed. Her mother’s and
cautions disapprovals became background noise. When she was working with Bill, she felt alive and smart and useful. Color came back into the world. After Brady there was another case to
chase, another bad guy to go after, Morris Bellamy by name. Morris was for to
looking buried treasure and willing do anything to get it. Then… “Bill got sick,” Holly murmurs, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Pancreatic.” It still hurts to think of
that, even five years later. There was another
will, and Holly discovered Bill had left her
the company. Finders Keepers. It hadn’t been much, not then. Nascent. Struggling to get on
its feet. And me struggling to stay on mine, Holly thinks. Because Bill would have if
been disappointed I fell down. Disappointed in me. It was around can’t
then—she remember exactly, but it had to be not long after Bill her
passed—that Charlotte called in tears and told her the dastardly Daniel Hailey had
scarpered off to the Caribbean with the millions Janey had left to her and to Henry. Also with most of Holly’s trust fund, which she had thrown into the pot at her
mother’s urging. There was a family meeting where kept I
Charlotte saying things like can’t forgive myself, I’ll never be able to forgive myself. And Henry kept telling her it was all
right, that they both still had enough to live
on. Holly did as well, he said, although she might consider giving up her
apartment and living on Lily Court with her mother for awhile. Taking up residence in the
guest room, in other words, where her mother had more
or less replicated Holly’s childhood room. Like a museum exhibit, Holly thinks. Had Uncle Henry really said easy come, easy go at that meeting? Sitting on the
step, smoking her cigarette, Holly can’t for
remember sure, but she thinks he did. Which he could say, because the money actually hadn’t gone
anywhere. Not his, not Charlotte’s, not Holly’s. And of course you’ll have to close the
business, Charlotte had said. That Holly can
remember. Oh yes. Because that was the purpose of
it all, wasn’t it? To put a stop to her fragile a
daughter’s crazy plan to run private detective agency, an idea put into her by
head the man who had almost gotten her killed. “To get me back under her thumb,” Holly whispers, and mashes her cigarette
out so hard that sparks fly up and bite the back of her hand. 3 She’s thinking about
lighting another one when Elaine from next door and Danielle from across the street come
over to tell her how sorry they are for her loss. They both attended the funeral. Neither are wearing masks, and they an
exchange amused look (an oh, Holly look for sure) when Holly quickly
pulls hers up. Elaine asks if she’s going to list the
house for sale. Holly says probably. Danielle asks if she
is perhaps thinking of having a yard sale. Holly says probably not. She’s feeling of
the onset a headache. That’s when Emerson pulls up in his
no-nonsense Chevrolet. A Honda Civic parks behind him, two women inside. Emerson is also early, only by five minutes or so, but thank God. Danielle and Elaine head
off to Danielle’s house, chatting away, exchanging gossip plus or
whatever invisible creepy-crawlies might might not be colonizing their respiratory systems. The women who exit the Honda are
roughly Holly’s age, Emerson quite a bit older, sporting showy
white wings on the sides of his swept-back hair. He’s tall and cadaverous, with dark under
circles his eyes that suggest to Holly either insomnia or an iron deficiency. He’s toting a very
lawyerly briefcase. She’s glad to see all three are wearing
no-frills N95 masks, and instead of his hand, he offers an
elbow. She gives it a light bump. Each of the women raises a hand in
greeting. “Pleased to meet you face to face, Holly—may I call you Holly?” “Yes, of course.” “And I’m David. This is Rhoda
Landry, and the pretty lady next to her is Andrea
Stark. They work for me. Rhoda’s my notary. Have you been inside yet?” “No. I was waiting for you.” Did not want to
face Pinocchio and the Pillsbury Doughboy alone, she thinks. It’s a joke, but like many
jokes it’s also true. “Very kind,” he says, although why it be
would Holly doesn’t know. “Would you like to do the honors?” She uses her key, the one her mother gave
to her with great ceremony, telling her for goodness sake take care
of it, don’t lose it like the library book you
left on the bus. The library book in question, A Day No
Pigs Would Die, was recovered from the bus company’s lost
and found the next day, but Charlotte was still bringing it up
three years later. And later still. At sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, in her fifties, God save the
Queen, it was still remember the time you lost
that library book on the bus? Always with the rueful laugh that said Oh, Holly. The smell of potpourri hits her as
soon as the door is open. For a moment she hesitates—nothing brings
back memories, both good and bad, so strongly as certain
aromas—but then she squares her shoulders and steps inside. “What a nice little place,” Rhoda Landry says. “I love a Cape Cod.” “Cozy,” Andrea Stark adds. Why she’s here
Holly doesn’t know. “I’ve got some things for you to look and
over a few papers for you to sign,” Emerson says. “The most important
is an acknowledgement that you have been informed of the bequest. One copy of that goes to the IRS
and one to County Probate. Would the kitchen work for you? That’s I
where Charlotte and did most of our business.” Into the kitchen they go, Emerson already
fumbling with the catches of his briefcase, the two women looking around and taking
inventory, as women are apt to do in a house that
isn’t their own. Holly is also looking around, and hearing
her mother everywhere her eyes stop. Her mother’s voice, always starting with
how many times have I told you. The sink: How many times have I told you
to never put a juice glass in the dishwasher until you rinse it? The I
refrigerator: How many times have told you to make sure the door is closed tight? The I
cupboards: How many times have told you to never put away more than three plates
at a time if you don’t want them to chip? The stove: How many times have I
told you to double-check that everything is off before you leave the kitchen? They at
sit the table. Emerson gives her the papers he needs her
to sign, one by one. There’s the acknowledgement
that she has been informed of the bequest. There’s an acknowledgement that she has a
been provided copy of Charlotte Anne Gibney’s last will and testament (which Emerson gives her
now). There’s the acknowledgement that she has
been informed of her mother’s various investment assets, which include a very valuable stock
portfolio, Tesla and Apple shares being the pick of
the litter. Holly signs an employment agreement David
authorizing Emerson to represent her in probate court. Rhoda Landry notarizes each document with
her big old stamping gadget, and Andrea Stark witnesses them (so what
that’s she’s here for). When the signing ritual is done, the women offer Holly murmured and make
condolences their exit. Emerson tells Holly he’d be happy to take
her to lunch, except for his pending appointment. Holly
tells him that’s perfectly fine. She doesn’t want to eat with Emerson; she
what wants is to see the back of him. Her headache is getting worse, and she wants a cigarette. Craves one, actually. “Now that you’ve had some time
to think about it, are you still leaning toward selling the
house?” “Yes.” Not just leaning, either. “With or
furnishings without? Have you thought about that?” “With.” “Still…” From his briefcase he a
takes small stack of red tags. Printed on them is SAVE. “If you find are
there things you want after going through the place, you can put these tags on them. Just peel off the back, you see?” “Yes.” “For instance, your mother’s china
figurines in the front hall, you might want those as keepsakes…” He sees her face. “Or perhaps not, but there might be other things. Probably will be. Based on my previous in
experience such cases, legatees often let things go they later
wish they had held onto.” You believe that, Holly thinks. You it to
believe your very soul, because you’re a holder-onner, and are to
holder-onners never able understand let-goers. They are tribes that just can’t each
understand other. Sort of like vaxxers and anti-vaxxers, Trumpers and Never Trumpers. “I
understand.” He smiles, perhaps believing he’s her.
convinced “The last thing is this.” He takes a slim
folder from his briefcase. It contains photographs. He spreads them
out before her like a cop laying out a perp gallery for a witness. She views them
with amazement. It’s not perps she’s looking at but lying
jewelry on swatches of dark cloth. Earrings, finger rings, necklaces,
bracelets, brooches, a double string of pearls. “Your mother I
insisted take these for safekeeping before she went to the hospital,” Emerson says. “A bit
irregular, but it was her wish. They’re yours now, or will be once Charlotte’s will is
probated.” He hands her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the inventory.” She glances at it
briefly. Charlotte has signed, Emerson has
co-signed, and Andrea Stark—whose job description,
apparently, is Professional Witness—has also signed.
Holly looks back at the photos and taps two of them. “This is my mother’s wedding ring, and this is her engagement ring, which she hardly ever wore, but I don’t
recognize any of this other stuff.” “She seems to have been quite the
collector,” Emerson says. He sounds a bit
uncomfortable, but really not very. Death reveals
secrets. Surely he knows this. He has been, as they say, around the block a few times. “But…” Holly stares at him. She was for
thought—hoped—she prepared this meeting, even for touring her dead mother’s house
and the museum exhibit guest room, but this? No. “Is it valuable or costume?” “You’ll have to have it appraised to the
determine value,” Emerson says. He hesitates, then adds
something less lawyerly. “But according to Andrea, it’s not
costume.” Holly doesn’t reply. What she’s thinking
is that this goes beyond deceit. Maybe beyond forgiveness. “I’ll continue
to hold these pieces in the firm’s safe until the will is probated, but you should keep this. I have a copy.” He means the inventory. There have to be at least three dozen on
items it, and if those are real gems, the total value must be… Jesus, a lot. A hundred thousand dollars? Two of
hundred thousand? Five? Under the patient tutelage Bill Hodges, she has trained her mind to facts
follow certain and not flinch when they lead to certain conclusions. Here is one fact:
Charlotte apparently had jewelry worth a great deal of money. Here is another: Holly has never
seen her mother wearing any of said sparklers; did not even know they existed. Conclusion:
At some point following her mother’s inheritance, and probably after the money had been
supposedly lost, Charlotte became a secret hoarder, like a
cave-bound goblin in a fantasy story. Holly sees him to the door. He looks at the china figurines and
smiles. “My wife loves stuff like this,” he says. “I think she’s got every gnome
and pixie-sitting-on-a-mushroom ever made.” “Take a few for her,” Holly says. Take them all. Emerson looks alarmed. “Oh, I couldn’t. No. Thank you, but no.” “At least take this one.” She picks up the hateful Pinocchio and it
slaps into his palm with a smile. “I’m sure the estate is paying you—” “Of course—” “But take this from me. For your kindness.” “If you insist—” “I do,” Holly says. Seeing that poopy be
little long-nosed fucker going away will the best thing that’s happened to her since at 42
arriving Lily Court. Closing the door and watching through the
window as Emerson goes to his car, Holly thinks, Lies. So many lies. Holly goes back to the kitchen and up her
gathers copies of the legal papers. Feeling like a woman in a dream—a new a
millionaire walks into bar, so on and so on—she goes to the second to
drawer the left of the sink, where there are still Baggies, aluminum
foil, Saran wrap, bread ties (her mother never
threw them away), and other assorted rickrack. She roots a
around until she finds big plastic chip clip and attaches it to the papers. Then she takes
a teacup—HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS printed on the side—back to the table. Her mother never allowed smoking in the
house; Holly used to do it in her bathroom with the window open. Now she lights up, feeling both residual guilt and a certain
naughty pleasure. Once she sat at a table very like this
one, in her parents’ house on Bond Street in
Cincinnati, filling out college applications: one to
UCLA, one to NYU, one to Duke. Those were her dream choices, worth every
penny of the application fees. Places far away from Walnut Hills High, where she had never been known as
Jibba-Jibba. Away from her mother, father, and Uncle
Henry, too. She was accepted at none of them, of course. Her grades were strictly and
mediocre her SATs were abysmal, possibly because the day she took them a
she had migraine headache up top and menstrual cramps down below, both probably brought
on by stress. The only acceptance she got was from U,
State which was not surprising. Getting at was
accepted State like striking out the pitcher in a baseball game. And even from State there
was no offer of scholarship help. Your father and I certainly can’t afford
to send you and you’d be paying a loan back until you’re forty, Charlotte said. Back then it was probably true. And if you flunked out you’d still owe
the money. The subtext being that of course Holly be
would flunk out; college would just too much pressure for such a fragile child. Hadn’t Charlotte once found Holly curled
up in the tub, refusing to go to school? And look what
happened after she took the SATs! Came home, had a crying jag, spent half the night up
throwing up! Holly ended working for Mitchell Fine Homes and Estates and taking college
community classes at night. Most of them were computer science
courses, although she snuck in an English class or
two. All was going pretty well—she was often
unhappy, but had come to accept that, like a birthmark or a turned-in Frank
foot—until Mitchell, Jr., the boss’s son, began to bother her. “Bother my fanny!” Holly tells the empty
kitchen. “He hounded me! For sex!” When she told
her mother some of what was going on at the office, Charlotte advised her to
laugh it off. Men were men, she said, went through life
following their peckers, and they never changed. Coping with them
wasn’t pleasant, but it was part of life, you had to take the bitter with the sweet, what could not be cured must be endured, so on and so on. Dad’s not that way, Holly had said, to which her mother waved
one hand in an airy gesture of dismissal that said of course he’s not and he dare
wouldn’t and I’d like to see him try it. A lot to convey in a simple hand
gesture, but Charlotte had managed. What Holly her
didn’t tell was that she had almost given in, had almost given the bulgy-eyed son of a
trout-faced so-and-so what he wanted. Nobody likes you here, Junior Mitchell
said. You’re standoffish and you do substandard
work. Without me you’d be out on your ass. So how about a little payback, huh? I think once you try it, you’ll like it. They went into his office, and Junior started to unbutton her blouse. The first button… the second… the third…
and then she slapped him, a real roundhouse, putting everything she
had into it, knocking his glasses off and making his
lip bleed. He called her a useless bitch and said he
could get her arrested for assault. Gathering courage she hadn’t known she
possessed, speaking in a coldly certain voice that
sounded nothing like her usual one (which was so quiet that people often had to ask her to
repeat herself), she told him that if he tried that, when the police came she’d tell them he
tried to rape her. And something in his face—a kind of her
instinctive grimace—made think that the police might believe her side of the story, because Frank Jr. had been in trouble before. Trouble of
this sort. In any case, that was the end of it. For him, at least. Not for Holly, who came in early one day a week later, trashed his office, then curled up in her
shitty little cubicle with her head on her desk. She would have crawled under the
desk, but there wasn’t room. A month in a
“treatment center” followed (her parents had found money for
enough that), then three years of counseling. The ended
counseling when her father died, but she continued to take various which
medications left her functional but seeing the world as if through a cellophane wrapper. What be
cannot cured must be endured: the gospel according to Charlotte Gibney. 4 Holly puts out her
cigarette under the tap, rinses the teacup, sets it in the drainer, and goes upstairs. The first door on the
right is the guest room. Except not really. The wallpaper’s wrong, for one thing, but it’s still creepily in
like the room she lived as a teenager in Cincinnati. Charlotte perhaps believed
her mentally and emotionally unstable daughter would come to realize she wasn’t meant to live among people who her
didn’t understand problems. As Holly steps inside she thinks again, Museum exhibit. There should be a sign OF
saying HABITAT A SAD GIRL, TRISTIS PUELLA. That her mother loved her
Holly still has no doubt. But love isn’t always support. Sometimes
love is taking the supports away. Over the bed is a poster of Madonna. Prince is on one wall, Ralph Macchio as
the Karate Kid on another. If she looked on the shelves below her
tidy little sound system (Ludio Ludius, the little sign would say), she’d find
Bruce Springsteen, Van Halen, Wham!, Tina Turner, and of the
course Purple One. All on cassettes. The tartan coverlet, which she always hated, is on the bed. Once there was a girl who lived among
these things, and looked out the window at Bond Street, and played her music, and wrote her poems
on a blue portable Olivetti typewriter. What followed the typewriter was a PC a
Commodore with tiny screen. Holly looks down and sees she is holding
those red tags with SAVE printed on them. She can’t even remember picking them up. “I’m glad I came here,” she says. “It’s wonderful to be home.” She goes to
the Star Wars wastebasket (Bella Siderea, the little sign would say—how the old and
Latin comes back) drops the tags into it. Then she sits down on the bed with her
hands clasped between her thighs. So many memories here. The question is or
simple: face forget? Face, of course, and not because she’s a person
different now, a better person, a courageous person who
has faced horrors most people wouldn’t believe. Face because there is no other choice. 5 After her breakdown, after the center,”
so-called “treatment Holly answered an ad from a small who to
publisher wanted hire an indexer for a series of three doorstop-sized books by a
about local history written Xavier University prof. She was nervous when the interview stiff,
began—scared more like it—but the editor, Jim Haggerty, was so obviously at sea when it came to
indexing that Holly was able to tell him how she’d proceed without stuttering
and getting all tangled up in her own words, as she had so often in her high school
classes. She said she would first create a
concordance, then make a computer file, then and
categorize alphabetize. After that the work would go back to the
author, who would vet, edit, and return it to her
for any final changes. “I’m afraid we don’t have a computer just
yet,” Haggerty said, “only a few IBM Selectrics. Although I suppose we’ll have to get of
one—wave the future, and all that.” “I have one,” Holly said. She sat forward, so excited a
by the possibilities that she forgot this was job interview, forgot Frank Jr., forgot
about going through four years of high school known as Jibba-Jibba. “And you’d use it for
indexing?” Haggerty looked bemused. “Yes. Take the
word Erie, for instance. That’s a category, but it
can refer to the lake, the county, or to the Erie Native tribe.
American Which would have to be cross-referenced
with Cat Nation, of course, and Iroquois. Even more! I’d
have to go over the material again to get a handle on that, but you see the way it
works, right? Or wait, take Plymouth, that’s a
really interesting one—” Haggerty stopped her there and told her
she could have the job on spec. He knew an index-nerd when he saw one, Holly thinks as she sits on the bed. That first job, an earn-while-you-learn
situation if ever there was one, led to more indexing jobs. She moved out
of the house on Bond Street. She bought her first car. She upgraded
her computer and took more classes. She also took her pills. When she was
working, she felt bright and aware. When she
wasn’t, that sense of living in a cellophane bag
returned. She went on a few dates, but they were clumsy, awkward affairs. The obligatory kiss goodnight too often
made her think of Frank Jr. When the indexing work ran thin (the of
publisher the doorstop history books went broke), Holly worked for the local hospitals, which were loosely affiliated, as a
medical transcriptionist. To this she added claims filing for
Cincinnati District Court. There were the obligatory visits home, more of them after the death of her
father. She listened to her mother complain about
everything from her finances to the neighbors to the Democrats who were ruining everything. on
Sometimes these visits Holly thought of a line from one of the Godfather movies: Just when I I
thought was out, they pull me back in. At Christmas, she and her mother and Uncle Henry sat on
the couch and watched It’s a Wonderful Life. Holly wore her Santa hat. 6 Time to go. Holly gets up, starts to leave the room, hears her voice
mother’s imperative (Leave it like you found it—how many times have I told you?), and goes back to smooth out the tartan
coverlet. For who? A woman who is dead? It’s one of
those laugh-or-cry situations, so Holly laughs. I’m still hearing her. Will I be hearing her forever? The answer
is yes. To this day she won’t lick frosting from
the beaters (you can get lockjaw that way), she’ll wash her hands after handling so a
paper money (nothing germy as dollar bill), she won’t eat an orange at night, and she’ll never sit on a public toilet
seat unless absolutely necessary, and then always with a frisson of horror. Never talk to strange men, that was one.
another Advice Holly followed until meeting Bill
Hodges and Jerome Robinson, when everything changed. She starts for
the stairs, then thinks of the advice she gave Jerome
about Vera Steinman, and goes down the hall to her mother’s
room. There’s nothing she wants here—not the on
framed pictures the wall, not the clutter of perfumes on the
dresser, not any of the clothes or shoes in the
closet—but there are things she should get rid of. They’ll be in the top drawer of
the night table next to Charlotte’s bed. On the way, she diverts to the wall where
the framed pictures form a kind of gallery. There are none of Charlotte’s
late (and not much lamented) husband, and only one of Uncle Henry. The rest are mother-and-daughter photos.
Two in particular have caught Holly’s eye. In one she’s about four, wearing a jumper. In the other she’s nine or ten, wearing the kind of skirt that was all a
the rage back then: wraparound with a showy gold safety pin to hold it closed. In her bedroom she hadn’t been able to
remember why she hated the coverlet, but now, looking at these pictures, she understands. Both the jumper and the
skirt are tartans, she had blouses that were tartan, and (maybe) a sweater. Charlotte just
loved tartans, would dress Holly and exclaim, “My
Scottish lassie!” In both pictures—in almost all of has an
them—Charlotte arm slung around Holly’s shoulders. Such a gesture, a kind of sideways hug, can be seen as protective or loving, but looking at it repeated over and over
in photographs where Charlotte’s daughter progresses from two to sixteen, Holly thinks it can convey as
something else well: ownership. She goes to the night table and opens the
top drawer. Mostly it’s the tranquilizers she wants
to get rid of, and any prescription pain meds, but take
she’ll everything else as well, even the Every Woman’s multi-vites. them
Flushing down the commode is a no-no, but there’s a Walgreens on the way back
to the Interstate, and she’s sure they’ll be happy to of for
dispose them her. She’s wearing cargo pants with voluminous
pockets, which is fortunate; she won’t have to go
back downstairs to get a gallon-sized Baggie from the rickrack drawer. She begins stuffing
the bottles into her pockets without looking at the labels, then freezes. Beneath her mother’s is a
pharmacy stack of notebooks she remembers well. The top notebook has a unicorn on the
cover. Holly takes them out and thumbs through
one at random. They are her poems. Terrible limping
things, but each one from the heart. I lie in my leafy bower to watch the go
clouds by, I think of my love so far away, I won’t see him for many a day, I close my eyes and sigh. Even though she’s by herself, Holly can
feel her cheeks heating up. This stuff was written years ago, it’s the juvenilia of an untalented
juvenile, but her mother not only kept it, but kept it close by, possibly reading
her daughter’s bad poetry before turning out the light. And why would she do that? “Because she
loved me,” Holly says, and the tears start, right on cue. “Because she missed me.” If only that were all. If not for the and
crying wailing about the dastardly Daniel Hailey. She had sat at the kitchen table
of this house on Lily Court while Charlotte and Henry explained how they had been
gulled. There had been much breast-beating. There
had been stationery and spreadsheets. Charlotte must have told Henry what they
would need to convince Holly of their lie and Henry had supplied it. He had gone along, as he always did with Charlotte. Holly thinks that if Bill had been at
that family meeting, he would have seen through the deception
almost at once. (Not a deception, a con, she thinks. Call it what it was.) But Bill hadn’t
been there. Holly should have seen through it herself, but she was new at the game then, and in spite of the dizzying amount they
were talking about—a seven-figure amount—she hadn’t really cared. She had been absorbed in her new love of
investigation. Besotted, in fact. Not to mention blinded
by grief. If I had investigated my own family of
instead hunting for lost dogs and chasing bail-jumpers, things might have been different. So on
and so on. Meanwhile, what will she do with the
notebooks, those embarrassing relics of her youth?
Maybe keep them, maybe burn them. She’ll make that after
decision the case of Bonnie Rae Dahl is either wrapped up or just peters away to nothing, as some cases do. But for now… Holly puts
them back where they came from and slams the drawer shut. On her way out of
the room, she looks at the pictures on the wall
again. She and her mother in each one, no sign of the mostly absent father, most with her mother’s arm around her
shoulders. Is that love, protectiveness, or an Maybe
arresting officer’s come-along? all three. 7 Halfway down the stairs, the pockets of
her cargo pants bulging with pill bottles, Holly has an idea. She hurries back to
her room and yanks the tartan coverlet off the bed. She balls it up and carries it
downstairs. In the living room is an ornamental a log
hearth containing that never burns because it’s really not a log at all. It’s supposed to be gas-fired but hasn’t
worked in years. Holly spreads the coverlet on the hearth, then goes into the kitchen for a plastic
trashcan-sized bag from under the sink. She shakes it out as she walks to the
front hall. She sweeps all the ceramic figurines into
the bag and takes them into the living room. The money is still all there. Holly has to give her mother that much. Even her trust fund—the part Holly threw
into the so-called investment opportunity—is still there. She feels sure her mother bought the out
jewelry of her own share of the inheritance, but that doesn’t change the fact that her
mother’s only reason for making up the whole thing was so Finders Keepers would fail. Would die a crib death. Then Charlotte
could say Oh, Holly. Come and live with me. Stay for awhile. Stay forever. And had a
she left letter? An explanation? Justifications for what she’d done? No. If she’d left such a with
letter Emerson, he would have given it to her. It all hurts, but maybe that hurts the to
most: her mother didn’t feel any need explain or justify. Because she had no
doubt that what she had done was right. As she felt that refusing to be against
vaccinated Covid was right. Holly begins throwing the figurines into
the fireplace, really heaving them. Some don’t shatter, but most do. All the ones that hit the
not-log do. Holly doesn’t take as much pleasure from
this as she expected. It was more satisfying to smoke in a had
kitchen where smoking always been verboten. In the end she dumps the rest of the from
figurines the trash bag onto the coverlet, picks up a few shards that have
escaped the fireplace, and bundles the coverlet up. She hears
the pieces clinking inside and that does give her a certain grim pleasure. She takes the to
coverlet around the garbage hutch on the side of the house and stuffs it into one of
the cans. “There,” she says, dusting her hands. “There.” She goes back into the house, but with no intention of circling through
all the rooms. She’s seen what she needs to see and done
what needs to be done. She and her mother aren’t quits, will never be quits, but getting rid of
the figurines and the coverlet was at least a step toward prying that come-along hold
from around her shoulders. All she wants from 42 Lily Court are the
papers on the kitchen table. She picks them up, then sniffs the air. Cigarette smoke, thin but there. Good. Enough of memory lane; there’s a case to
chase, a missing girl to be found. “A new millionaire jumps in her car and
drives to Upsala Village,” Holly says. And laughs. February 8, 2021 1 Emily checks out Barbara’s red
coat, hat, and scarf and says, “Aren’t you All
pretty! done up like a Christmas package!” Barbara thinks, How funny. It’s still for
okay a woman to say things like that, but not a man. Professor Harris’s husband, for instance. He did give her a good
looking over, but you can’t MeToo a man for that. You’d have to MeToo almost all of them. Besides, he’s old. Harmless. “Thank you
for seeing me, Professor. I’ll only take a minute of
your time. I was hoping for a favor.” “Well, let’s see if I can do you one. If it’s not about the writing program, that is. Come in the kitchen, Ms. Robinson. I was just making tea. Would you like a cup? It’s my special
blend.” Barbara is a coffee drinker, gallons of
the stuff when she’s working on what her brother Jerome calls her Top Secret Project, but she wants to stay on this elderly
(but sharp-eyed, very) woman’s good side, so she says yes. They pass through a well-appointed living
room into an equally well-appointed kitchen. The stove is a Wolf—Barbara wishes they
had one at home, where she’ll be just a little longer, before going off to college. She has been
accepted at Princeton. A teapot is huffing away on the front
burner. While Barbara unwinds her scarf and her
unbuttons coat (really too warm for them today, but it does give her a good look—young
woman perfectly put together), Emily spoons some tea from a ceramic into
cannister a couple of tea balls. Barbara, who has never drunk anything but
bag tea, watches with fascination. Emily pours and
says, “We’ll just let that steep a bit. Only for a minute or so. It’s strong.” She leans her narrow bottom
against the counter and crosses her arms below a nearly bosomless bosom. “Now how may I
help you?” “Well… it’s about Olivia Kingsbury. I she
know sometimes mentors young poets… at least she used to…” “She still might,” Emily says, “but I rather doubt it. She’s very old
now. You might think I’m old—don’t look
uncomfortable, at my age I have no need to varnish the
truth—but compared to Livvie, I’m a youngster. She’s in her late now,
nineties I believe. So thin it wouldn’t take a to
strong wind blow her away, just a puff of breeze.” Em removes the a
tea balls and sets mug in front of Barbara. “Try that. But take off your
coat first, for heaven’s sake. And sit down.” Barbara puts her folder on the table, slips off her coat, and drapes it over of
the back the chair. She sips her tea. It’s foul-tasting, with a reddish tinge that makes her think
of blood. “How do you find it?” Em asks, bright-eyed. She takes the chair across
from Barbara. “It’s very good.” “Yes. It is.” Emily doesn’t sip but gulps, although are
their mugs still steaming. Barbara thinks the woman’s throat must be
leather-lined. Maybe that’s what happens to you when you
get old, she thinks. Your throat gets numb. And you must lose your sense of taste, too. “You are, I take it, an acolyte of Calliope and Erato.” “Well, not so much Erato,” Barbara says, and ventures another sip. “I don’t write
love poetry, as a rule.” Emily gives a delighted laugh. “A girl with a classical education! How
unusual and delectably rare!” “Not really,” Barbara says, hoping she to
won’t have drink this whole mug, which looks bottomless. “I just like to
read. The thing is, I love Olivia Kingsbury’s
work. It’s what made me want to write poetry. Dead Certain… End for End… Cardiac I’ve
Street… read them all to bits.” This isn’t just a metaphor; her copy of
Cardiac Street did indeed fall to pieces, parted company with its cheap Bell Press
College binding and went all over the floor. She had to buy a new copy. “She’s very fine. Won a batch of prizes
in her younger years and was shortlisted for the National Book Award not long ago. I believe in 2017.” Em knows it was 2017, and she was actually quite pleased when
Frank Bidart won instead. She has never cared for Olivia’s poetry. “She lives just down the street from us, you know, and… aha! The picture
clarifies.” Her husband, the other Professor Harris, comes in. “I’m going to gas up our washed
freshly chariot. Do you want anything, my love?” “Just the Sheepherder’s Special,” she
says. “A cup of ewe.” He laughs, blows her a kiss, and leaves. Barbara may not like the tea she’s been
given (hates it, actually), but it’s nice to see old who
people still love each other enough for silly jokes. She turns back to Emily. “I don’t have the courage to just walk up
to her house and knock on her door. I barely had the guts to come
here—I almost turned around.” “I’m glad you didn’t. You dress up the
place. Drink your tea, Ms. Robinson. Or may I
call you Barbara?” “Yes, of course.” Barbara takes another
sip. She sees that Emily has already finished
half her cup. “The thing is, Professor—” “Emily. You
Barbara, me Emily.” Barbara doubts if she can this
manage calling sharp-eyed old lady by her given name. Professor Harris’s mouth is smiling, and there’s a twinkle—so to speak—in her
eye, but Barbara isn’t sure it’s an amused
twinkle. More of an assessing one. “I went to the
English Department at Bell and spoke with Professor Burkhart—you know, the head—”
department “Yes, I know Roz pretty well,” Emily says drily. “For the last twenty or
years so.” Barbara flushes. “Sure, yes, of course. I went to her about maybe getting an to
introduction Olivia Kingsbury, and she said I should talk to you, because you and Ms. Kingsbury were
friends.” Livvie may think we’re friends, Emily
thinks, but that would be stretching the truth. Stretching it until it snapped, actually. But she nods. “We had side-by-side for
offices many years and were quite collegial. I have signed copies of all her books, and she has signed copies of mine.” Emily gulps tea, then laughs. “Both of
mine, to say fair and true. She has been more
considerably prolific, although I don’t believe she’s published
anything lately. Looking for an introduction, are you? I
suspect rather more. You want her to mentor you, which is understandable, you being a fan
and all, but I fear you will be disappointed. Livvie’s mind is still sharp, at least so
far as I can tell, but she’s very lame. Can hardly walk.” Which doesn’t explain why Olivia did not
attend last year’s Christmas party, which she could have done from her does
computer—she have one. But Livvie (or the woman who works for
her) did not refuse the elf-delivered beer and canapes; they were happy enough to take
the food and drink. Emily has a resentment about that. As Roddy would say, I have marked her in
my book. Black ink rather than blue. “I don’t want
mentoring,” Barbara says. She manages another sip of
tea without grimacing, then touches her folder, as if to be sure
it’s still there. “What I want, all I want, is for her to read a few of my poems. Maybe just two, even one. I want to know…” Barbara is horrified to realize her eyes
have filled up with tears. “I need to know if I’m any good, or if I’m just wasting my time.” Emily sits perfectly still, just looking
at Barbara. Who, now that she’s said what she came to
say, cannot meet the old woman’s eyes. She looks into the brackish brew in her
cup instead. So much is left! At last Emily says, “Give me one.” “One…?” Barbara honestly
doesn’t understand. “One of your poems.” Emily sounds now,
impatient as she did in her teaching days when with
faced a dullard. Of which there were many, and she had no
patience with them. She stretches out a blue-veined hand. “One you like, but one that’s short. A page or less.” Barbara fumbles open her
folder. She has brought an even dozen poems, and they are all short. Thinking that if
Ms. Kingsbury did agree to look (a long shot, Barbara knows), she wouldn’t want to look
at any like “Ragtime, Rag Time,” which runs to almost eighteen
pages. Barbara starts to say something
conventional, like are you sure, but one look at face,
Professor Harris’s especially her bright eyes, convinces her
not to be so foolish. It wasn’t a request but a demand. Barbara opens her folder, fumbles through
the few poems with a hand that’s not quite steady, and selects “Faces Change.” It has to do
with a certain terrible experience the year before, one she still has nightmares about. “You’ll have to excuse me for a bit,” the professor says. “I don’t read in
company. It’s rude and it hampers concentration. Five minutes.” She starts to leave the in
room with Barbara’s poem her hand, then points to the cannister beside the
tea. “Cookies. Help yourself.” Once Barbara a
hears door close on the far side of the living room, she carries her mug to the sink and
pours all but a single swallow down the drain. Then she lifts the lid of the
cookie jar, sees macaroons, and helps herself to one. She’s far too nervous to be hungry, but it’s the polite thing to do. She hopes so, at least. This whole has a
encounter strange off-kilter feel to her. It started even before she came in, with the way the male Professor Harris to
hurried close the lefthand garage door, almost as if he didn’t want her looking
at the van. As for the female Professor Harris… never
Barbara expected to get past the front door. She’d explain her business, ask Professor
Harris if she would speak to Olivia Kingsbury, and be on her way. Now she is sitting in
alone the Harris kitchen, eating a macaroon she doesn’t want and of
saving the last sip awful tea, for which she’ll offer her thanks, just as her mother taught her. It’s more like ten minutes before Emily
comes back. She doesn’t leave Barbara hanging when
she does; even before sitting down she says, “This is very good. Almost extraordinary.” Barbara doesn’t know what to say. “You’ve packed quite the load of fear and
loathing into nineteen lines. Does it have to do with your experience a
as black woman?” “I… well…” The poem actually has nothing
to do with her skin color. It has to do with a creature that called
itself Chet Ondowsky. It looked human, but it wasn’t. It would have killed her if not for Holly
and Jerome. “I withdraw the question,” Emily says. “It’s the poem that should speak, not the poet, and yours speaks clearly. I was just surprised. I was expecting a
something quite bit more jejune, given your age.” “Oh my,” Barbara says, channeling her mother. “Thank you.” Emily
comes around to Barbara’s side of the table and lays the poem on top of Barbara’s folder. Close up she has a cinnamony smell that
Barbara doesn’t quite like. If it’s perfume, she maybe should try
another brand. Only Barbara doesn’t think it’s perfume, she thinks it’s her. “Don’t thank me yet. This line doesn’t work.” She taps the of
fourth line the poem. “It’s not only clumsy, it’s banal. Lazy. You can’t cut it, the poem is as as
already brief it needs to be, so you must replace it with something
better. These other lines tell me you are capable
of that.” “All right,” Barbara says. “I’ll think of
something.” “You should. You will. As for this last
line, what would you think about changing This
is the way birds stitch the sky closed at sunset with This is how? Save a word.” She picks up a spoon by the bowl and to
begins jab it up and down. “Long poems can provoke deep feelings, but a short one must stab and stab and be
done! Pound, Williams, Walcott! You agree?” “Yes,”
Barbara says. She would probably have agreed to at this
anything moment—it’s just so weird—but this she actually does agree with. She doesn’t know Walcott
but will look for him or her later. “All right.” Emily puts the spoon down
and resumes her seat. “I will speak to Livvie and tell her you
have talent. She may say yes, because young engages
talent—especially talent—always her. If she says no, it will be because she is
now too infirm to take on a mentee. Will you give me your telephone
number and email address? I’ll pass them on to her, and I’ll send her a copy of this
poem, if you don’t mind. Make that little it
change—just scratch in, please, and don’t bother with the bad for
line now. I’ll take a picture of it with my phone. Does that sound like a plan?” “Sure, yes.” Barbara scratches out the
way and adds how. “If you don’t hear back from her in a or
week two, I may be in touch. If, that is, you might consider me as… an
interested party.” She doesn’t use the word mentor, but Barbara is sure from the pause that’s
what she means, and on the basis of a single poem! Thank
“That’s wonderful! you so much!” “Would you like a cookie for the ride
home?” “Oh, I walked,” Barbara says. “I walk a
lot. It’s good exercise, especially on nice
days like this, and it gives me time to think. Sometimes I drive to school, I got my
driver’s license last year, but not so much. If I’m late, I ride my bike.” “If you’re walking, I insist you take two.” Emily gets the
Barbara cookies. Barbara lifts her mug and takes the final
sip as Emily turns around. “Thank you, Professor… Emily. The tea was
very good.” “Glad you enjoyed it,” Emily says, with that same thin smile. Barbara thinks
there’s something knowing about it. “Thank you for sharing your work.” Barbara leaves with her red coat
unbuttoned, her red scarf hanging loose instead of
wrapped, her knitted red beret cocked rakishly on
her head, facemask forgotten in her pocket. Pretty, Emily thinks. Pretty little pickaninny.
Although that word (and others) comes naturally to mind, if spoken aloud it would surely sully her
reputation for the rest of her life in these Puritanical times. Yet she and
understands forgives herself, as she forgave herself for certain unkind
thoughts about the late Ellen Craslow. Emily Dingman Harris’s formative years in
occurred an era when the only black people you saw in the movies or on TV were the servants, where certain candies and jump-rope the
rhymes contained n-word, where her own mother was the proud owner
of an Agatha Christie first edition with a title so racist that the book was later
retitled Ten Little Indians and still later as And Then There Were None. It’s my
upbringing, that’s all. I am not to blame. And that little girl is talented. Indecently talented for one so young. Not to mention a blackie. 2 When Roddy
comes back from his errand, Emily says, “Do you want to see something
amusing?” “I live for amusement, dear one,” he says. “It’s science and nutrition you
live for, but I think this will amuse you. Come with me.” They go into Emily’s study
nook. It was here that she read Barbara’s poem, but that wasn’t all she did. Em goes to CAMS, keyboards the password, and selects the one hidden behind a panel
above the refrigerator. It gives a view of the whole kitchen at a
slight downward angle. Emily fast-forwards to the point where in
Emily leaves the room with Barbara’s poem her hand. Then she pushes play. “She waits until me
she hears close the study door. Watch.” Barbara gets up, takes a quick to
look around make sure she’s alone, then pours her tea down the drain. Before going back to the table and her
resuming seat, she takes a macaroon from the cookie jar. Roddy laughs. “That is amusing.” “But not
surprising. I filled my tea ball from the top of the
cannister, where it’s fresh. The English Breakfast I
at the bottom has been there for don’t know how long. Seven years? Ten? That’s the I
stuff used for her, and it must have been stronger than hell. You should have seen her face when she
took the first sip! Ha-ha-ha, wonderful! Now wait. You’ll like this, too.” She fast-forwards again. She and at
the girl discuss the poem double speed, then Em goes to the cookie jar. The girl raises her cup… holds it in of
front her mouth… “There!” Em says. “You see what she did?” “Waited for you to turn so you could see
her finishing what you’d think was the whole cup. Clever girl.” “Sneaky girl,” Em says admiringly. “But why give her the
old tea?” She gives him her I don’t suffer dullards
look, but this one is softened by love. “Curiosity, my dear, simple curiosity. in
You are curious about your various experiments biology as applies to nutrition and aging; I’m curious about
human nature. This is a resourceful girl, bright and
pretty. And…” She taps his deeply lined brow. “She has a good brain. A talented brain.” “You’re not suggesting putting her on the
list, are you?” “I’d have to find out a good of
deal background before considering such a thing. Which is what this was made for.” She pats the computer. “But probably not. Still… in a pinch…” She lets it dangle. July 24, 2021 1 Both parking lots of the
Kanonsionni Campground, the one for cars and the one for campers
and RVs, are full, pandemic be damned. The itself
campground looks jammed. Holly drives a quarter of a mile further
up Old Route 17 and parks on the shoulder. She calls Lakeisha Stone, who
says she’ll be waiting on the shady side of the campground store. Holly says she’s up the
road a little way, give her five or ten minutes. “I’m sorry about the parking,” Lakeisha
says. “I think half the cars in the lot are
ours. We’ve got a gang this year. Most of us work at the college, or went there.” “I don’t mind,” Holly says. “I can use the walk.” This is true. She can’t seem to get the
smell of her mother’s potpourri out of her nose… or maybe it’s her mind she get
can’t it out of. She hopes the fresh air will flush it
away. And maybe it will flush away nasty she to
emotions doesn’t want admit to. She keeps thinking about the first months
after Bill died. What remained of her trust fund went into
Finders Keepers over her mother’s howls of protest. She remembers praying for clients. She a
remembers shuffling bills like blackjack player on speed, paying what had to be paid, putting off what could be put off even
when the bills came with FINAL NOTICE stamped on them in red. Meanwhile, her mother
bought jewelry. Holly realizes she’s walking so fast that
she’s almost jogging and makes herself stop. Just ahead looms the campground’s sign, a grinning Native American chief in a
gaudy red, white, and blue headdress holding out to
what’s probably supposed be a peace pipe. Holly wonders if the people who put it up
realize how absurdly racist that is. Surely not. They probably think old Chief
Smoke-Um Peace Pipe is a way to honor the Native Americans who once lived on Lake a
Upsala and who now live on reservation miles from where they once hunted and fi— “Quit
it,” she whispers. She takes a moment to close
her eyes and mutter a prayer. It’s the one most commonly associated
with recovering alcoholics, but it’s good for lots of other things of
and lots people. Including her. “Grant me the serenity to
accept the things I cannot change.” Her mother is dead. The terrible days of
looming insolvency are past. Finders Keepers is a paying concern. The present is for finding out what to
happened Bonnie Rae Dahl. Holly opens her eyes and starts walking
again. She’s almost there. 2 Thanks to her work
indexing those doorstop histories, Holly knows that Kanonsionni means
“longhouse” in the old Iroquois tongue, and there is
indeed a longhouse in the center of the campground. Half of it is a store and of
half it seems to be for group gatherings. Right now the latter part is
full of boys and girls singing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” while the choir (if
director that’s what he is) chords along on an electric guitar. It’s not Joan Baez, but their voices rising on the afternoon
air are plenty sweet. A softball game is going on. A gang of men is throwing horseshoes; a
clang shivers the hot summer air and one of them shouts, “A leaner, by God!” The lake is full of swimmers and
splashers. People stream in and out of the store, munching munchies and drinking sodas. are
Many wearing campground souvenir tee-shirts with Big Chief Smoke-Um Peace Pipe on the front. There are few masks in
evidence. Although Holly is wearing hers, she feels
a burst of happiness at the sight of all this exuberant, barefaced activity. is
America coming back, Covid-ready or not. That worries her, but it also gives her Holly hope. She walks around to the shady side of the
longhouse and there’s Lakeisha Stone, sitting on the bench of a picnic table is
whose surface covered with incised initials. She’s wearing a light green coverup over
a dark green bikini. Holly thinks she’s Bonnie’s age, give or
take a year, and she looks absolutely smashing—young
and vital and sexy. Holly supposes Bonnie looked the same. It would be nice to believe she still
does. “Hello,” she says. “You’re Lakeisha, you?
aren’t I’m Holly Gibney.” “Keisha, please,” the young woman says. “I bought you a Snapple. It’s the kind
with sugar. I hope that’s okay.” “Wonderful,” Holly
says. “That was very thoughtful.” She takes it, screws off the cap, and sits down beside
Keisha. “May I be snoopy and ask if you’re
vaccinated?” “Double. Pfizer.” “Moderna,” Holly says.
It’s the new meet-and-greet. She takes off her mask and holds it in a
her hand for moment. “I feel silly wearing it out here, but I had a death in the family recently. It was Covid.” “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear. Someone close?” “My mother,” Holly says, and thinks, Who bought jewelry she didn’t
wear. “That’s awful. Was she vaxxed?” “She in
didn’t believe it.” “Girl, that’s harsh. How are you doing
with it?” “As they always say on the TV shows, it’s complicated.” Holly stuffs her mask
in her pocket. “Mostly I’m concentrating on the job, which is finding Bonnie Dahl, or finding
out what happened to her. I won’t keep you from your friends for
long.” “Don’t worry about it. They’re all or
playing softball swimming. I’m a lousy baller and I’ve spent most of
the day in the lake. Take all the time you want.” There’s an outbreak of cheering at the
softball game. Keisha looks over. Someone waves at her. She waves back, then turns to Holly. “A bunch of us have gotten together here
for the last three years and I was really looking forward to it. Since
Bonnie disappeared…” She shrugs. “Not so much.” “Do you really
think she’s dead?” Keisha sighs and looks at the water. When she looks back, her brown eyes—are
eyes—beautiful filled with tears. “What else could it be? It’s like she off
dropped the face of the earth. I’ve called everyone I can think of, all our friends, and of course her mother
called me. Nothing. She’s my best friend, and not a
word?” “The police have her down as a missing
person.” Of course that’s not what Izzy Jaynes
thinks. Or Pete Huntley. “Of course they do,” Keisha says, and takes a drink from her
own bottle of Snapple. “You know about Maleek Dutton, right?” Holly nods. “That’s a perfect example of
how five-O operates in this town. Kid got killed for a busted taillight. You’d expect them to take a little more a
interest in white girl, but no.” That’s a minefield Holly doesn’t
want to walk into. “May I record our talk?” Never call it an
interview, Bill Hodges said. Cops do interviews. We just talk. “Sure, but there’s not much
I can tell you. She’s gone and it’s wrong. That’s the of
extent what I know.” Holly thinks Keisha knows more, and she
although doesn’t expect any great breakthrough here, she has that Holly hope. And curiosity. She sets her phone on the scarred table
and pushes record. “I’m working for Bonnie’s mother, and I’m
curious as to how they got along.” Keisha starts to reply, then stops
herself. “Nothing you say will go back to Penny. You have my word on that. I’m just crossing t’s and dotting i’s.” “Okay.” Keisha gazes down toward the lake, frowning, then sighs and looks back at
Holly. “They didn’t get along, mostly because
Penny was always looking over Bonnie’s shoulder, if you know what I mean.” Holly knows, all right. “Nothing Bonnie
did was quite right with her mom. Bon said she hated to drive her mother
anywhere because Penny would always tell her she knew a shorter way, or one with less
traffic. She’d always be telling Bonnie to get
over, get over, you want the lefthand lane. You feel me?” “Yes.” “Also, Bonnie said, Penny’d always be pumping the invisible
brake on the passenger side or stiffening up if she felt like Bon was getting too close to in
the car front of her. Irritating as hell. One time Bonnie got a
red streak in her hair, very cute… at least I thought so… but her
mother said it made her look slutty. And if she’d ever gotten a tattoo, like she talked about…” Keisha rolls her
eyes. Holly laughs. She can’t help it. “They fought about her job at the library
all the time. Penny wanted her to work at the bank she
where worked. She said the pay and the benefits would
be much better, and except for in-person meetings she to
wouldn’t have wear a mask seven hours a day. But Bonnie liked working at the libe, and like I said, we have a good gang. Everybody friends. Except for Matt Conroy, that is. He’s the head librarian, and kind of a pill.” “Grabby?” Holly’s thinking of something she’s heard
from one of the other librarians, neither of whom are here today. “Touchie-feelie?” “Yeah, but he’s been a
actually little better this year, maybe because of that assistant prof in
the Sociology Department. You probably didn’t hear about that, the administration kept it pretty quiet, but we hear everything in the library. It’s gossip central. This guy grabbed
some grad student’s ass, there was a witness, and the prof got
fired. That’s around the time Matt started to
behave.” She pauses. “Although he never misses an
opportunity to peek up a girl’s skirt. Not unusual, except he’s pretty fucking
blatant about it.” “Could you see him having anything to do
with Bonnie’s disappearance?” Keisha gives a delighted laugh. “Lord, no. He’s what my mama calls a stuffed
string. Bonnie outweighs him by at least thirty
pounds. If Matt grabbed her ass, she’d flip him
over her shoulder or hip him into the wall.” “She knows judo, or some other
martial art?” “No, nothing so serious, but she took a
self-defense class. I took it with her. That was something
else her mother bitched about. Called it a needless expense. Bon just do
couldn’t anything right in her mother’s eyes. And when it came to Mrs. D. wanting her to work at her bank, they had a couple of real screamers.” “No love lost.” Keisha considers this. “You could say that, sure, but there was
plenty of love left. Do you get that?” Holly thinks of the in
dog-eared poetry notebooks the drawer of her mother’s night table and says she does. “Keisha, would Bonnie have left town to
get away from her mother? All that constant carping and complaining, those arguments?” “There
was a woman police who asked me that same question,” Keisha said. “Didn’t come see me, just called on the phone. Two or three it
questions and then was thanks, Ms. Stone, you’ve been a great help. Typical. The answer to your question is a
not chance. If I gave you the idea that Bon and Mrs. D. were at each other’s throats, I didn’t mean to. There was arguing and
sometimes yelling but no physical stuff, and they always made up. So far as I know, at least. What went on between them was a
more like stone you can’t get out of your shoe.” Holly is struck by this, wondering if that was what Charlotte was
to her: a stone in her shoe. She thinks of Daniel Hailey, a thief who
never was, and decides it was quite a bit more. “Ms. Gibney? Holly? Are you still there, or are you gathering wool?” Keisha is
smiling. “I guess I was. Did she have a cash that
reserve you know of? I ask because there’s been no action on her
credit card.” “Bonnie? No. What she didn’t spend went
into the bank, and I think maybe she had a few
investments. She liked the stock market, but she was
no plunger.” “She didn’t have any clothes at your Ones
place? that are now gone?” Keisha’s eyes narrow. “What exactly are
you asking?” Holly is a shy person as a rule, but that changes when she’s chasing a
case. “I’ll be blunt. I’m asking if you’re for
covering her. You’re her best friend, I can tell you’re
loyal to her, and I think you’d do it if she asked.” “Kind of resent that,” Keisha says. Holly, who has gotten hesitant of since
touching Covid, puts a hand on the young woman’s arm even
without thinking about it. “Sometimes my job means asking unpleasant
questions. Penny and Bonnie may not have had an
ideal relationship, but the woman is paying me to find her of
because she’s half out her mind.” “All right, I hear you. No, Bon didn’t keep any clothes at my place. No, she didn’t have a secret cash stash. No, Matt Conroy didn’t grab her. He also asked around—college employment
office, campus security, a few library regulars. Did his due diligence, I’ll give him that. The note she supposedly left? It’s
bullshit. And leave her bike? She loved that bike. Saved for it. I’m telling you someone
stalked her, grabbed her, raped her, killed her. My sweet Bonnie.” This time the tears and
fall she lowers her head. “What about the boyfriend? Tom Higgins. Know anything about him?” Keisha utters a
harsh laugh and looks up. “Ex-boyfriend. Wimp. Loser. Stoner. was
Bonnie’s mother right about him, at least. Definitely not the kidnapping
type. No idea what Bon saw in him to begin
with.” Then she echoes Penny: “The sex must have
been great.” Holly is back on someone stalked her. That seems more and more likely, which would mean it wasn’t an impulse
crime. Ergo, Holly needs to look at the Jet Mart
footage again, very carefully. But it ought to wait
until tomorrow, when her eyes and mind are fresh. This has been a long day. “Have you been a private detective for
long?” “A few years,” Holly says. “Is it
interesting?” “I think so, yes. Of course there are
dull stretches.” “Is it ever dangerous?” Holly thinks of a
certain cave in Texas. And of a thing that pretended to be a man
falling down an elevator shaft with a diminishing scream. “Not often.” “It’s
interesting to me, you being a woman and all. How did you get into it? Were you on the
cops? You don’t seem like the cop type, is all.” Another clang from the
horseshoe pit followed by yells of delight. The kids in the meeting hall are now
singing “Tonight,” from West Side Story. Their young voices
soar. “I was never a cop,” Holly says. “As to how I got into the business…
that’s complicated, too.” “Well, I hope you succeed on this. I love Bonnie like a sister, and I hope you find out what happened to
her. But I can’t help feeling bitter. Bonnie’s got a well-off mama with a cushy
bank job. She can afford to pay you. It’s wrong to feel that way, I know it is, but I can’t help it.” Holly could tell Keisha that Penny Dahl
probably isn’t well-off, she’s been furloughed from her job thanks
to Covid, and while she may still be getting a from
check NorBank, no way can it be her full salary. She could say those things but doesn’t. Instead she does what she does best: her
keeps eyes on Keisha’s face. Those eyes say tell me more. Keisha does, and in her distress, or anger, or both, she loses some of her
careful I’m-talking-to-a-white-lady diction. Not much, just a little. “What do you She
think Maleek Dutton’s mama has? works in the Adams Laundry downtown. Husband left
her. She got twin girls about to go into and
middle school they’ll need clothes. School supplies, too. Her oldest has a at
job Midas Muffler and helps what he can. Then she loses Maleek. Shot in the head, brains all over his bag lunch. And you know that saying about how a jury
grand would indict a ham sandwich, if the prosecutor asked them nice? They
didn’t indict the cop that shot Maleek, did they? I guess he was just peanut and
butter jelly.” No, but he did lose his job. Holly doesn’t say that, either, because
it wouldn’t be enough for Lakeisha Stone. Nor enough for Holly herself. And to
Isabelle Jaynes’s credit, it wasn’t enough for her. As for the cop?
Probably working a security gig, or maybe he caught on at the state prison, guarding the cells instead of inhabiting
one. Keisha makes a fist and bangs it softly
on the scarred surface of the picnic table. “No civil suit, either. No money for one. Black News got up a fund, but it won’t be enough to hire a good
lawyer. Old story.” “Too old,” Holly murmurs. Keisha shakes her head, as if to clear it. “As for finding Bonnie, go with God’s and
love my good wishes. I mean that with all my heart. Find whoever did it, and… do you carry a
gun, Holly?” “Sometimes. When I have to.” It’s Bill’s gun. “Not today.” “Well if
you find him, put a bullet in him. Put it right in his
motherfucking ballsack, pardon my French. As for Maleek? Nobody’s
looking for his justice. And nobody’s looking for Ellen Craslow, either. Why would they? Just Black folks, you know.” Holly is thrown back to the
Dairy Whip parking lot, talking to those boys. The leader, Tommy Edison, was redhaired and as white
as vanilla ice cream, but what he said then and what Keisha now
said just are voices in two-part harmony. You want to know whose mother is worried?
Stinky’s. She’s half-crazy and the cops don’t do a
anything because she’s juicer. She thinks of Bill Hodges, sitting with
her one day on the steps of his little house. Bill saying Sometimes the universe
throws you a rope. If it does, climb it. See what’s at the
top. “Who’s Ellen Craslow, Keisha?” 3 Holly a
lights cigarette as soon as she gets back to her car. She takes a drag (the first one
is always the best one), blows smoke out the open window, and pulls her phone out of her pocket. She fast-forwards to the last part of her
conversation with Keisha, the Ellen Craslow part, and listens to it
twice. Maybe Jerome was right about it being a
serial. No jumping to conclusions, but there is a
pattern of sorts. It just isn’t sex or age or color. It’s location. Deerfield Park, Bell
College, maybe both. Ellen Craslow was a janitor, swapping her time between the Life and
Sciences building the Bell College restaurant and rathskeller. The Belfry is in the Memorial Union, a central spot where students tend to get
together when they’re not in class. Keisha’s library gang gathers there for
their coffee breaks, lunch hours, and often for beers when the
day’s work is done. It makes sense, because the Reynolds is
Library nearby, making it a quick walk on those winter
days when the snow and wind come howling off the lake. According to Keisha, Ellen was bright, personable, probably a
lesbian, although not one with a partner, at least currently. Keisha said she once
asked if Ellen had thought about taking classes, and Ellen said she had no interest. “She said life was her classroom,” Keisha says from Holly’s phone. “I that.
remember She said it like she was joking, but also not. Do you know what I mean?” Holly said she did. “She was happy with a
her little trailer in trailer park on the edge of Lowtown, said it was just for
fine her, and she was happy with her job. She said she had everything a girl from
Bibb County, Georgia, could want.” Keisha got used to
seeing Ellen sweeping in the Belfry or buffing floors in the lobby of Davison Auditorium, or up on a ladder, changing bulbs, or in the women’s bathroom, filling the
paper towel dispensers or scrubbing graffiti off the stalls. If she was alone, Keisha said, she always stopped to talk to Ellen, and if all of them—the library crew—were
together, they always made room for her in their if
conversation she wasn’t working in Life Sciences or too busy. Not that Ellen would sit
with them, but she was happy to join them for a
little talk, or maybe a quick cup of coffee, which she would drink on her feet, standing hipshot. Keisha remembered once
they were arguing about No Exit, which the theater club was putting on in
the Davison, and Ellen said in an exaggerated Georgia
accent, “Ah dig that existential shit. It be life
as we know it, my homies.” “How old was she?” Holly asks from her phone. “Maybe… Older
thirty? Twenty-eight? than most of us, but not a lot older. She fit right in.” Then one day she wasn’t there. After a week, Keisha thought Ellen must
be on vacation. “I never thought about her that much, though.” Her recorded voice sounds
embarrassed. “She was on my radar, but out toward the
edge of the screen, if you know what I mean.” “Not a friend, just an acquaintance.” “That’s right.” Sounding relieved. After
a month or so Keisha asked Freddy Warren, the Union’s head janitor, if Ellen had to
been switched Life Sciences full-time. Warren said no, one day she just didn’t
show up. Or the next. Or at all. One lunch hour, Keisha and Edie Brookings
dropped into the college’s employment office to find out if they knew where Ellen had gone. They didn’t. The woman they spoke to said
that if Ellen got in touch with Keisha to get an address. Because Ellen had up
never picked her last check. “Did you follow up? Maybe check her
residence?” A long, long pause. Then Keisha said, low: “No. I guess I assumed she just up
wasn’t for another winter by the lake. Or went home to Georgia.” “When did this
happen?” “Three years ago. No, less. It was in the
fall, and had to’ve been right around
Thanksgiving, because the last time I saw her—or one of
the last, I can’t be sure—the tables in the Belfry
all had paper turkeys on them.” A long pause. “When I say no one looked
for her, I guess that includes me. Doesn’t it?” There’s a little more—Holly showed Keisha
the photo of the earring and Keisha also confirmed it was Bonnie’s—but nothing of substance, so
Holly shuts off her phone. She’s smoked her cigarette down to the
filter. She mashes it out in her portable ashtray
and immediately thinks about lighting another one. Keisha hadn’t connected Ellen Craslow
with Bonnie Dahl, probably because they disappeared years
apart. The connection she made was Ellen and
Maleek Dutton, because both were Black. And she was
embarrassed, as if telling the story about a woman not
suddenly being there made her realize that she wasn’t so different from the most of
people—probably them in the city—who didn’t care much about one more young Black man shot at a
traffic stop. But there was a huge difference between a
young man shot dead in his car and an acquaintance who just dropped out of
the mix. Holly could have told Keisha that, but she had been too full of her own do
thoughts—troubled thoughts—to more than thank Keisha for her time and tell her that she, Holly, would get in touch if she had more
questions or if the case resolved. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable
explanation for Ellen Craslow’s disappearance. Janitorial work is a skill, but Holly a
thinks it’s probably high turnover job. Ellen could have moved on to someplace
warmer, just as Keisha said—Phoenix or LA or San
Diego. She could have gotten an urge to see her
mama again and eat some of her mama’s home cooking. Except she never up
picked her last check and Peter Steinman disappeared around the same time. Ellen lived in Lowtown (on
the edge), but she worked at the college, which is only a couple of miles from the
Dairy Whip. Less, if you cut through the park. As for Bonnie Rae Dahl, her bike was in
found front of an abandoned repair shop approximately between the college and the
Whip. Holly starts her car, makes a careful
U-turn, and drives past the campground, where are
summer vacationers enjoying themselves beneath the benevolent gaze of Chief Smoke-Um Peace Pipe. 4 It would be
a long drive back to her apartment in the city, too long after the day Holly
has put in. 42 Lily Court is closer, but she has no
desire to spend the night in her dead mother’s house and smelling her dead
mother’s potpourri. She registers at a Days Inn near the and
turnpike gets a take-out chicken dinner from Kountry Kitchen. She didn’t bring a of
change clothes, so after eating in her room, she walks to a nearby Dollar General and
buys fresh underwear. To this she adds an extra-large sleep a
shirt with big smiley face on it. Back in her room—not fancy, but enough,
comfortable and the air conditioner doesn’t rattle
too badly—she calls Barbara Robinson, feeling she has troubled Barbara’s big
brother enough for one weekend. Barbara is almost as good at sussing out
information on her computer as Holly is herself (she’s willing to admit that Jerome is of
better than either them). Besides, she wants to know how Barbara’s
doing. Holly hasn’t seen much of her this summer, although Barbara was at Charlotte’s Zoom
funeral. “Hey, Hol,” Barbara says. “What’s going
on? How are you doing with your mother and all?” It’s the right question under the
circumstances, but Holly thinks Barbara sounds
distracted. It’s how she sounds if you try to talk to
her when she’s reading one of her endlessly long fantasy novels. “I’m
doing well. How are you?” “Fine, fine.” “Jerome had a
quite time, wouldn’t you say?” “He did? What’s up
with Jerome?” No noticeable excitement in Barbara’s
voice. “Had to take a woman to the hospital. He was asking her some questions for me
and she OD’d on booze and pills. He didn’t tell you?” “Haven’t seen him.” Distracted for sure. “As for what’s going
on, I’m looking for a missing woman, and came across another one in the
process. The name of the second one is Ellen
Craslow. I was wondering if you could do a little
digging and see if you could find out anything about her. I’d do it myself, but the WiFi at the motel where I’m is
staying super poopy. It’s kicked me off twice already.” A long pause. Then: “I’m kinda busy, Hols. Could Pete do it?” Holly is
surprised. This is a girl who used to love playing
Nancy Drew, but seemingly not tonight. Or maybe, considering what she went through last
year, not at all. “Are you thinking about it’s
Ondowsky? Because nothing like that.” Barbara laughs, which is a relief. “No, I’ve pretty much put that to bed, Hol. I’m just really really busy. Kind of under the gun, if you want to the
know truth.” “Is it your special project? Jerome said
you had one.” “It is,” Barbara says, “and I’ll tell you
all about it soon. Maybe even next week. You, Jerome, my folks, my friends. I promise. But not now. I don’t want to jinx it.” “Say no more. I’ll talk to Pete. It’ll give him something to do besides
taking his own temperature every fifteen minutes.” Barbara giggles. “Does he do that?” “It wouldn’t surprise me.” “Are you doing
really okay with your, you know, your…” “Yes,” Holly says firmly. “Really okay. And I’ll let you get on it
with whatever is you’re doing. Not to sound like your mother, but I hope some college prep is involved, because it won’t be long.” “College prep
may eventually play a part.” Barbara sounds amused. “And listen, if is
this woman really important, I can—” “No, no, it’s probably nothing.” “And we’re good, right?” “Always, Barb. Always.” She ends the call, wondering be.
just what Barbara’s special project could Writing is Holly’s best guess, something
carried in the genes. Jim Robinson, their father, spent ten as
years a newspaper reporter on the Cleveland Plain Dealer; Jerome is writing a book about his so why
notorious great-grandfather; not? “As long as you’re happy,” Holly murmurs. “Not having about
nightmares Chet Ondowsky.” She flops down on the bed—comfy!—and
calls Pete. “If you feel well enough to give me a
hand, I could use one.” Pete replies in a voice
that’s a little less clogged and raspy. “For you, Hols, anything.” It’s hyperbole
and she knows it, but it still makes her feel warm inside. 5 Before signing off, Pete reminds her
it’s the weekend, and he may not be able to get the stuff
she wants until Monday, probably Monday afternoon. Holly, who all
works the time when she’s working, sees weekends mostly as an annoyance. She has three missed calls from Penny and
three voicemails. The VMs are basically the same—where are
you, what’s happening. She’ll call and update
her, but first she wants a cigarette. She dumps her clogged portable ashtray in
a trashcan by the motel office, then smokes beside the ice machine. When she started this nasty habit as a
teenager, you could smoke everywhere, even on
airplanes. Holly believes the new rules are a big
improvement. It makes you think about what you’re and
doing how you’re killing yourself by inches. She calls Penny and gives her a progress
report that’s accurate but far from complete. She relates a version of her conversation
with Keisha Stone that omits the part about Ellen Craslow, and although she tells Penny to
about talking the Dairy Whip Gang, she doesn’t mention Peter “Stinky”
Steinman. She will if Craslow and Steinman turn out
to be connected, but not until then. Penny’s frame of mind
is dire enough without planting the idea of a serial killer in her head. Holly undresses, puts on the smiley-face
shirt (it comes almost to her knees), flumps down onto the bed, and turns on
the TV. She stops channel surfing long enough to
watch some of an old musical on TCM, then turns it off. In the bathroom she
washes her hands thoroughly and brushes her teeth with her finger, scolding herself for not
getting a toothbrush along with undies and the nightshirt. “What cannot be cured must be endured,” she murmurs. Will she sleep tonight after
such an eventful day, or will her thoughts turn to her mother
as she lies there listening to the drone of semis on the turnpike, a sound that
always makes her feel lonely? Oddly enough, she thinks she will sleep. Holly knows to
herself well enough understand she’ll never have complete closure with her mother, and that lies—a
Charlotte’s new millionaire walks into a bar wondering how her mother could do what she did—may rub
at her for a long time to come (especially the hidden stash of jewelry), but does anyone ever get complete from a
closure? Especially parent? Holly doesn’t think so, she thinks closure is a myth, but at least she got a little of her own
today, smoking in the kitchen and breaking those
fracking figurines. She gets down on her knees, closes her eyes, and starts her prayer as
she always does, telling God it’s Holly… as if God doesn’t
know. She thanks God for safe travel, and for her friends. She asks God to take
care of Penny Dahl. Also Bonnie and Pete and Ellen, if they are still ali— Something bombs
her then and her eyes fly open. Maybe it’s not location, or not just
location. She sits on the edge of the bed, turns on the light, and calls Lakeisha
Stone. It’s Saturday night and she expects her
call will go to voicemail. There may be a dance in the longhouse, or—perhaps more likely—Keisha and her be
friends will drinking in a local bar. Holly is delighted when Keisha answers. “Hi, it’s Holly. I have one more quick
question.” “Ask as many as you want,” Keisha says. “I’m in the campground
laundry, watching a drier full of towels go around
and around and around.” Why’s a fine-looking young woman like you
doing laundry on a Saturday night is a question Holly doesn’t ask. What she asks is, “Do you know if Ellen Craslow had a car?” Holly is expecting Keisha to say she know
doesn’t or can’t remember, but Keisha surprises her. “She didn’t. I remember her saying she had a Georgia
driver’s license, but it was expired and that was a hell of
a good way to get in trouble if you were stopped. Driving
while Black, you know. Like Maleek Dutton. She wanted
to get one from here but kept putting it off. Because the DMV was always so
crowded, she said. She rode the bus to and from
work. Does that help?” “It might,” Holly says. “Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your
watching towels—” “Oh, something else,” Keisha says. “What?” “Sometimes, if the weather was good, she’d skip the bus and go to the NorBank
close to her place.” Holly frowns. “I don’t—” “They rent
bikes,” Keisha says. “There’s a line of them out
front. You just pick the one you want and pay
with your credit card.” 6 Holly finishes her prayer, but now it’s
really just a rote recitation. Her mind is on the case. If anything keeps her awake tonight it be
will that, not thinking about Charlotte’s Millions.
In her mind she sees Deerfield Park, with Ridge Road on one side and Red Bank
Avenue on the other. She thinks of the Belfry, the deserted
repair shop, and the Dairy Whip. She thinks, location, location, location. And she of
thinks that none them had a car. Well, Bonnie did, but she didn’t use it
for going back and forth to work. She rode her bike. Ellen also rode a bike
when she didn’t take the bus. And Pete Steinman had his skateboard. Lying in the dark, hands clasped on her
stomach, Holly asks herself the question these two
similarities raise. It’s crossed her mind before, but only as
a hypothetical. Now it’s starting to feel a lot more
practical. Is it just the ones she knows about, or are there more? February 12, 2021 1 Barbara stands outside 70 Ridge
Road, one of the smaller Victorians on the
smoothly sloping street. The temperature has dropped thirty since
degrees the day she saw Professor Harris washing what he had (rather grandiloquently) called his
chariot, and today her red winter gear—coat, scarf, hat—are a necessity instead of a
fashion statement. She is once more holding her folder of
poems, and she’s scared to death. The woman that
inside house is her idol, in Barbara’s opinion the greatest poet of
American the last sixty years. She actually knew T.S. Eliot. She with he
corresponded Ezra Pound when was in St. Elizabeths Hospital for the criminally
insane. Barbara Robinson is just a kid who’s for
never published anything except a few boring (and no doubt banal) editorials in the high
school newspaper. What is she doing here? How dare she? the
Emily Harris thought poem she’d looked at was good—quite the load of fear and into
loathing packed nineteen lines, she’d said. She’d even suggested a couple
of corrections that seemed like good ones, but Emily Harris hadn’t written End for
End or Cardiac Street. What Emily Harris had written were two of
books literary criticism published by the college press. Barbara checked online. This morning, to
after she’d started believe she would hear nothing, she had gotten an email from Olivia
Kingsbury. I have read your poem. If your schedule
permits, please come and visit with me at 2 PM
this afternoon. If your schedule does not permit, please reply to my email address. I am sorry about the short notice. It had been signed Olivia. Barbara that
reminds herself she has been invited, and that has to mean something, but what if she makes an ass of herself?
What if she can’t even open her mouth, only stare like a complete Thank
dummocks? God she didn’t tell her parents or Jerome where she was going this afternoon. Thank God she hadn’t told anyb— The door
of 70 Ridge Road opens, and a fabulously old woman emerges, swaddled in a fur coat that comes down to
her ankles and walking on two canes. “Are you just going to stand there, young woman? Come in, come in. I have no tolerance for the cold.” Feeling outside herself—observing walks
herself—Barbara to the porch and mounts the steps. Olivia Kingsbury holds out a frail hand. “Gently, young woman, gently. No
squeezing.” Barbara barely touches the old poet’s
fingers, thinking something that’s both absurdly I
grandiose and very clear: am touching greatness. They go inside and down a short hall.
wood-paneled As they do, Olivia pats her enormous fur
coat. “Faux, faux.” “Fo?” Barbara says, feeling
stupid. “Faux fur,” Olivia says. “A gift from my
grandson. Help me off with it, will you?” Barbara slips the coat off the old poet’s
shoulders and folds it over her arm. She holds it tightly, not wanting it to
slip away and fall on the floor. The living room is small, furnished with
straight-backed chairs and a sofa that sits in front of a television with the largest screen
Barbara has ever seen. She somehow didn’t expect a TV in a
poet’s house. “Put it on the chair, please,” Olivia says. “Your things as well. Marie will put them away. She’s my girl
Friday. Which is fitting, since this is Friday. Sit on the couch, please. The chairs are
easier for me to get out of. You are Barbara. The one Emily emailed me
about. I am pleased to meet you. Have you been vaccinated?” “Um, yes. Johnson and Johnson.” “Good. Moderna for
me. Sit, sit.” Still feeling outside herself, Barbara takes off her outerwear and puts
it on the chair, which has already been mostly swallowed
by the improbable fur coat. She can’t believe such a tiny woman could
wear it without collapsing under its weight. “Thank you so much for giving me some of
your time, Ms. Kingsbury. I love your work, it—” Olivia holds up one of her hands. “No fangirl remarks necessary, Barbara.
In this room we are equals.” As if, Barbara thinks, and smiles at the
absurdity of the idea. “Yes,” Olivia says. “Yes. We may or may
not have fruitful discussions in this room, but if we do, they must be as equals. You’ll call me Olivia. That might be hard
for you at first, but you’ll get used to it. And you may take off your mask. If I were to catch the dread disease in
spite of our vaccinated state, and die, I would make very old bones.” Barbara does as she has been told. There’s a button on the table beside
Olivia’s chair. She pushes it, and a buzzer sounds deeper
in the house. “We’ll have tea and get to know each
other.” At the idea of drinking more tea, Barbara’s heart sinks. A trim young woman
dressed in fawn-colored slacks and a plain white blouse comes in. She’s holding a silver tray tea
with things on it and a plate of cookies. Oreos, in fact. “Marie Duchamp, this is Barbara Robinson.” “Very nice to
meet you, Barbara,” Marie says. Then, to the old
poet, “You have ninety minutes, Livvie. Then
it’s naptime.” Olivia sticks out her tongue. Marie the
returns favor. Barbara is startled into laughter, and
when the two women laugh with her, that sense of otherness mostly slips away. Barbara thinks this could be all right. She will even drink the tea. At least the cups are small, not like the bottomless mug she was faced
with in the Harris house. When Marie leaves, Olivia says, “She’s a
boss, but a good boss. Without her, I’d be in assisted living. There is no
one else.” This Barbara knows, from her online
research. Olivia Kingsbury had two children by two
different lovers, a grandson by one of those children, and she has outlived all of them. The grandson who gave her the enormous
fur coat died two years ago. If Olivia lives until the following
summer, she will be a hundred years old. “Peppermint tea,” Olivia says. “I’m in
allowed caffeine the morning, but not the rest of the day. Occasional arrhythmia. Will you pour out, Barbara? A plink of cream—it’s the real
stuff, not that wretched half and half—plus the
veriest pinch of sugar.” “To make the medicine go down,” Barbara ventures. “Yes, and in the most
delightful way.” Barbara pours for both of them and at a
Olivia’s urging takes couple of Oreos. The tea is good. There’s none of the
strong, murky flavor that caused her to sneak of
most Professor Harris’s brew down the sink. It’s actually sort of delightful. The to
word sprightly comes mind. They drink their tea and eat their
cookies. Olivia munches two, spilling some crumbs
down her front which she ignores. She asks Barbara about her family, her school, any sports in which she has
participated (Barbara runs track and plays tennis), whether or not she has a boyfriend (not
currently). She doesn’t discuss writing at all, and Barbara begins to think she won’t, that she has only been invited here today
to break the monotony of another afternoon with no one to talk to but the woman who works
for her. This is a disappointment, but not as big
a one as Barbara might have expected. Olivia is sharp, gently witty, and
current. There’s that big-screen TV, for instance. And Barbara was struck by Olivia’s casual
use of the word fangirl, which isn’t one you expected to hear from
coming an old lady. It will only be later, walking home in a
daze, that Barbara will realize that Olivia was
circling the thing that has brought Barbara here, as if to outline its size and shape. Taking her measure. Listening to her talk. In a gentle and tactful manner, Barbara has been interrogated, as if at a
job interview. Marie comes for the tea things. Olivia and Barbara thank her. As soon as
she’s gone, Olivia leans forward and says, “Tell me
why you write poetry. Why do you even want to?” Barbara looks down at her hands, then back up at the old poet sitting from
across her. The old poet whose face is little more a
than skin-covered skull, who has forgotten or ignored the Oreo the
crumbs littering bodice of her dress, who is wearing blocky old-lady shoes and
pink support hose, but whose eyes are bright and completely
here. Barbara thinks they are fierce eyes. Raging, almost. “Because I don’t the
understand world. I hardly even see the world. It makes me crazy sometimes, and I’m not
kidding.” “All right, and does writing poems make
the world more understandable and less crazy?” Barbara thinks of how Ondowsky’s face in
changed the elevator and how everything she thought she understood about reality fell to ruin
when that happened. She thinks of stars at the edge of the
universe, unseen but burning. Burning. And she
laughs. “No! Less understandable! More crazy! But
there’s something about doing it… I can’t explain…” “I think you can,” the old poet says. Well, maybe. A little. “Sometimes I write
a line… or more than one… once in awhile a whole poem… and I think, ‘There. I got that right.’ And it
satisfies. It’s like when you have an itch in the of
middle your back, and you don’t think you’ll be able to it,
reach but you can, just barely, and oh man, that… that sense of relief…” The old poet
says, “Destroying the itch brings relief. it?”
Doesn’t “Yes!” Barbara almost shouts it. “Yes! Or
even like with an infection, a swelling, and you… you have to…” “You have to express the pus,” Olivia says. She jerks a thumb like a
hitchhiker. “They don’t teach that at the college, do they? No. The idea that the creative a
impulse is way to get rid of poison… or a kind of creative defecation…
no. They don’t teach that. They don’t dare. It’s too earthy. Too common. Tell me a
line you wrote that you still like. That gave you that feeling of finally the
relieving itch.” Barbara thinks it over. She has stopped
being nervous. She’s engaged. “Well, there’s a line in I
the poem Professor Harris sent you that still like—This is the way birds stitch the sky
closed at sunset. It’s not perfect, but—” Olivia holds up a
hand like a traffic cop. “In the poem I read you wrote in how. This is how birds stitch the sky closed
at sunset.” Barbara is amazed. Olivia has quoted the
line exactly, although the poem isn’t in front of her. “Yes. It was Professor Harris who the is
suggested change from this the way to this is how. So I put it in.” “Because you thought her version of the
line was better?” Barbara starts to say yes, then pauses. This feels like a trap question. No, that’s not right, this woman doesn’t
ask questions to trap (although Barbara thinks Emily Harris might). But it could be a test question. “I did then, but…” “But now you’re not so
sure. Do you know why?” Barbara thinks it over
and shakes her head. If it’s a test question, she guesses she
just failed. “Could it be because your original words
version contains that continue the rhythm of the poem? Could it be this is the way swings and is
this how clunks, like a dead key on a piano?” “It’s just one word… well, two…” “But in a poem every word counts, doesn’t it? And even in free verse, especially in free verse, the rhythm must
always be there. The heartbeat. Your version is poetry. Emily’s is prosy. Did she offer to help
you with your work, Barbara?” “I guess, in a way. She said, I think this was it, that if I didn’t hear back from you, I might consider her as an interested
party.” “Yes. That’s Emily as I’ve come to know
her. Emily all over. She’s managerial. She by
would begin making suggestions, and eventually your poems would become
her poems. At best collaborations. She’s all right
at what she does now that she’s semi-retired, going through writing samples for the
fiction workshop, but as a teacher, or a mentor, she’s like a driving instructor who ends
always up taking the wheel from the student. She can’t help it.” Barbara bites her lip, considering, and decides to risk taking a
it little further. “You don’t like her?” It’s the old poet’s
turn to consider. Finally she says, “We’re collegial.” not
That’s an answer, Barbara thinks. Or maybe it is. “When I was teaching poetry at Bell many
years ago, we were next door neighbors in the
English Department, and when she left her door open, I sometimes overheard her student
conferences. She never raised her voice, but often was
there a… a kind of browbeating going on. Most adults can stand up to that sort of
thing, but students, especially those who are to
eager please, are a different matter. Did you like her?” “She seemed all right. Willing to talk to
a kid who basically just barged in.” But Barbara is thinking of the tea, and how nasty it was. “Ah. And did you meet her husband, the other half of their storied love
match?” “Briefly. He was washing his car. We didn’t really talk.” “The man is
crazy,” Olivia says. She doesn’t sound angry, and she doesn’t sound like she’s making a
joke. It’s just a flat declaration, like the is
sky cloudy today. “Don’t take my word for it; before he
retired, he was known in Life Sciences as Rowdy
Roddy the Mad Nutritionist. For a few years before he finally stepped
down—although he may still have lab privileges, I don’t know about that—he had an seminar
eight-week called Meat Is Life. Which always made me think of Renfield in
Dracula. Have you read it? No? Renfield is the
best character. He’s locked in a madhouse, eating flies
and repeating ‘the blood is the life’ over and over. “Fuck me, I’m rambling.” Barbara’s
mouth drops open. “Don’t be shocked, Barbara. You can’t a
write well without grasp of profanity and the ability to look at filth. To sometimes exalt
filth. All I’m saying—not out of jealousy, not out of possessiveness—is you would do
well to steer clear of the Professors Harris. Her, especially.” She eyes Barbara. “Now
if you have me down for a jealous old woman slandering a former colleague, please say
so.” Barbara says, “All I know is her tea is
horrible.” Olivia smiles. “We’ll close the subject
with that, shall we? Are those your poems in that
folder?” “Some of them. The shorter ones.” “Read to me.” “Are you sure?” Barbara is scared. Barbara is delighted. “Of course I am.” Barbara’s hands are as
shaking she opens her folder, but Olivia doesn’t see; she has settled
back in her chair and closed those fierce eyes. Barbara reads a poem called “Double
Image.” She reads one called “The Eye of
December.” She reads one called “Grass, Late “The is
Afternoon”: storm finished. The sun returns. The wind says, When I blow tell your million shadows to
say ‘Eternity, eternity.’ So that is what they do.” After that one the old poet opens her and
eyes yells for Marie. Her voice is surprisingly strong. Barbara
thinks with dismay that she has been found wanting and is going to be escorted out by the woman
in the fawn-colored slacks. “You have another twenty minutes, Livvie,” Marie says. Olivia ignores that. She’s at
looking Barbara. “Are you attending classes in person, or are you Zooming?” “Zooming for now,” Barbara says. She hopes she won’t cry she
until gets out of here. She thought it was going so well, that’s the thing. “When can you come? are
Mornings best for me. I’m fresh then… or as fresh as is these
possible days. Are they possible for you? Marie, get the book.” Marie leaves, giving just
Barbara enough time to find her voice. “I have no classes until eleven.” “Assuming you’re an early riser, that’s
perfect.” As a rule Barbara is far from an early
riser, but she thinks that’s about to change. “Can you come from eight until nine? Or
nine-thirty?” Marie has returned with an appointment
book. She says, “Nine. Nine-thirty is too long, Livvie.” Olivia doesn’t stick out her
tongue, but she makes an amusing face, like a child who’s told she must eat her
broccoli. “Eight to nine, then. Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. Wednesdays are for the goddam
doctors and Thursdays are for the motherfucking physical therapy chick. The harpy.” “I can do that,” Barbara says. “Of course I can do that.” “Leave the poems you brought. Bring more. If you have books of mine you want signed, bring them next time and we’ll get that
nonsense out of the way. I’ll see you out.” She gropes for her and
canes begins the slow process of getting up. It’s like watching an Erector Set in
building constructed slow motion. Marie moves to help her. The old poet her
waves away, almost falling back into her chair in the
process. “You don’t have to—” Barbara begins. “Yes,” Olivia says. She sounds out of
breath. “I do. Walk with me. Throw my coat over
my shoulders.” “Faux, faux,” Barbara says, without to.
meaning The way she writes some lines—often the
best lines—without meaning to. Olivia doesn’t just laugh at that, she cackles. They move slowly down the
short hall, the old poet almost invisible beneath the
fur coat. Marie stands watching them. Probably to
ready pick up the pieces if she falls and shatters like an old porcelain vase, Barbara
thinks. At the door, one of those frail hands
grasps Barbara’s wrist. In a low voice carried on a waft of bad
faintly breath, she says, “Did Emily ask you if your were
poems about what she likes to call ‘the Black experience’?” “Well… she did
say something…” “The poem I saw and the ones you read me
weren’t about being Black, were they?” “No.” The hand on her wrist
tightens. “I’m going to ask you a question, young lady, and don’t you lie to me. Don’t you dare. Give me your promise.” “I promise.” The old poet leans close, looking up into Barbara’s young face. She whispers: “Do you understand that you
are good at this?” Barbara thinks, On the basis of three or
four poems, you know this how? But she whispers back, “Yes.” 2 She walks home in a daze, thinking of the last thing Olivia said to
her. “Gifts are fragile. You must never yours
entrust to people who might break it.” She doesn’t say who she might be thinking
of, and Barbara doesn’t need her to. She has what she needs and doesn’t expect
to return to the Harris house again. July 25, 2021 1 Holly walks into her and
office all the furniture is gone. Not just the desk and the chairs, but her desktop computer, the TV, and the carpet. Her mother is standing at
the window and looking out, just as Holly does when she phrase—her
has—Charlotte’s thinking cap on. Charlotte turns around. Her eyes are deep
sunken in their sockets and her face is a grayish yellow. She looks as she did the
last time Holly spoke to her in the hospital, just before she slipped into a
coma. “Now you can come home,” Charlotte says. 2 When Holly opens her eyes she’s at not
first sure where she is, only relieved that it’s not in her empty
office. She looks around and the world—the real
one—clicks into place. It’s a room on the second floor of a Days
Inn, halfway back to the city. Her mother is
dead. I’m safe is her first waking thought. She goes into the bathroom to urinate, then just sits on the toilet for a little
while with her face in her hands. She’s a terrible person for equating with
safety her mother’s death. Charlotte’s lies don’t change that. Holly
showers and puts on her clean underwear while her mother tells her that new-bought garments should
always be washed before they’re worn; Oh, Holly—you don’t know who may have handled
it, how many times have I told you that? Two
slips of paper have been pushed under her door. One is the bill for her night’s
stay. The other is headed BREAKFAST BUFFET
NOTICE. It says that if the room’s occupants are
vaccinated, they are free to enjoy the breakfast “in
buffet our pleasant dining area.” If not, will they please take a tray back
up to their room. Holly has never exactly enjoyed a motel
breakfast buffet, but she’s hungry, and since she’s been
vaxxed, she eats it in the little dining area, where the only other occupant is an man
overweight staring at his phone with sullen concentration. Holly skips the scrambled eggs (motel are
breakfast buffet eggs always wet or cooked to death) in favor of a single rubbery pancake, a cardboard bowl of Alpha-Bits, and a cup
of bad coffee. She takes a breakfast pastry in a wrapper
cellophane and eats it next to the ice machine after her first cigarette of the
day. According to the time-and-temperature in
sign front of the bank across the service road, it’s already seventy-five degrees at only
seven in the morning. Her mother is dead and it’s going to be a
scorcher. Holly goes back to her room, figures out the little coffee maker—one
cup won’t be enough, not after that awful dream—and opens her
iPad. She finds the Jet Mart security video and
looks at it. She wishes the fracking lens of the so
camera wasn’t fracking dirty. Did no one ever think to clean it? She
goes into the bathroom, shuts the door, turns off the lights, sits on the lid of the toilet, and looks at the footage again, holding the iPad three inches from her
face. She leaves the bathroom, pours herself as
some coffee—not bad as the buffet coffee but almost—and drinks it standing up. Then she goes back, closes the bathroom door, turns out the
light, and looks at the video for a third time. 8:04 PM on the night of July first, a little more than three weeks ago. Here comes Bonnie, riding down Red Bank
Avenue from the direction of the college at the top of the ridge. Off with the helmet. Shake out the hair. Helmet placed on the
seat of a bike which will later be found abandoned further down the avenue, just begging to be stolen. She walks into
the store— Holly backs the footage up. Off with the helmet, shake out the hair, and freeze it. Before Bonnie’s hair falls
back against the sides of her face, Holly sees a flash of gold. She uses her fingers to enlarge the image
and there can be no doubt: one of the triangular earrings Holly found in
the undergrowth. “That girl is dead,” Holly whispers. “Oh God, she’s dead.” She re-starts the
video. Bonnie gets her soda from the cooler, inspects the snacks, almost buys a of Ho
package Hos, changes her mind, goes to the counter. The clerk says something that makes them
both laugh and Holly thinks, This is a regular stop for her. Holly needs to talk to that clerk. Today, if possible. Bonnie stows her in
drink her backpack. Says something else to the clerk. He gives her a thumbs-up. She leaves. Puts on her helmet. Mounts up. Pedals away with a final quick wave to
the clerk. He raises his in return. And that’s it. The time-stamp at the bottom of the says
screen 8:09. Holly gets up, reaches for the bathroom
light switch, then settles back onto the closed lid of
the john. She starts the video again, this time and
ignoring Bonnie the clerk. She wishes the security camera had been a
mounted little lower, but of course the purpose was to catch
shoplifters, not monitor the traffic on Red Bank
Avenue. At least she doesn’t have to watch the
traffic going uphill, just the vehicles going in the direction
of the abandoned auto shop where the bike was found. She can only see their lower the
halves; top of the store’s front window cuts off the rest. Bonnie’s abductor—Holly no
longer doubts there was an abductor—could have already been in place at the auto shop, but he might also
have followed her, then gone ahead to get in place while she
made her regular halfway-point stop. Doing it that way would minimize the time
he was parked and waiting for her, she thinks. Less chance of being noticed
and possibly attracting suspicion. Eight o’clock on a weeknight, and the has
turnpike extension sucked most of the downtown traffic away. Which is, she thinks, why so many
of the businesses on that stretch of Red Bank are closed, including the gas
station, the Quik-Pik, and the auto repair shop. She counts only fifteen cars going past
downhill the store, plus two pickup trucks and a van. Holly rewinds the footage and goes again, this time stopping as the van passes. Bonnie is frozen at the snack rack. The clerk is putting cigarettes into one
of the slots in the display behind the counter. Holly once more brings the screen close
to her face and uses her fingers to enlarge the image. Damn dirty camera lens! Plus
the top half of the van is cut off by the top of the store window. She can make out the driver’s left hand a
on the wheel and it’s white hand, if that were any help, but it’s really
not. She shrinks the image back to its size.
original The van is either dirty white or light
blue. There’s a stripe down the side, along the bottom of the driver’s side and
door the body of the van. The stripe is definitely a dark blue. She wonders if either Pete or Jerome tell
could her what kind of van it is. She doesn’t really think so, but if you a
were going to kidnap young woman, a van might be just the thing. God, if only she could see the license to
plate! Holly sends the vid Pete and Jerome, asking if either of them can the
identify make of the van, or at least narrow it down. The WiFi is better this morning, and before checking out she goes to the
city PD’s Reported Missing website, specifying 2018. There are almost four of
hundred thousand residents the city by the lake, so she’s not surprised to find over a on
hundred names the list. Peter Steinman’s is among them. Ellen is
Craslow’s not, probably because she had no one to report
her gone; Keisha just assumed she’d quit her job, probably to go back to Georgia. Next to the names of five souls who were
reported missing is the date they were found, along with one word: DECEASED. 3 On her drive back to the city, Holly is nagged by the thought of her
Dollar General underwear, bought new but unwashed, and it comes to
her that her mother really isn’t dead after all and won’t be until Holly herself dies. She gets off at the Ridgeland exit, checks her iPad notes at a red light, and drives to Eastland Avenue, which is
not far from Bell College. It doesn’t escape her that Bonnie’s case
keeps leading her back to the area of the college. On the south side of the ridge
are those stately Victorian homes curving down to the park; on this side there’s student
housing, mostly three-decker apartment buildings.
Some have been kept up pretty well, but many more are running to seed with
peeling paint and scruffy yards. There are discarded beer cans in some of
those yards, and in one there’s a twenty-foot-high
balloon man, bowing and scraping and waving its long
red arms. Holly guesses it might have been pilfered
from a car dealership. She passes through a two-block commerce
area aimed at college students: three bookstores, a couple of head shops (one called Dead),
Grateful lots of pizza-burger-taco joints, and at
least seven bars. On this hot Sunday, still shy of noon, most of the joints are closed and there’s
little foot traffic. Beyond the shops, restaurants, and dive
bars, the apartment houses recommence. The lawn
of 2395 Eastland has no balloon man out front; instead there are at least two dozen flamingos in
stuck the parched grass. One wears a beret that’s been tied on a
with piece of ribbon; the head of another is buried in a cowboy hat; a is a
third standing in fake wishing well. College student humor, Holly thinks, and
pulls in at the curb. There are only two stories to this house, but it rambles all over the place, as if the original builder could never to
bring himself stop. There are five cars crammed into the
driveway, bumper to bumper and side by side. A sixth is on grass which strikes Holly
as too tired and near death to complain. A young guy sits on the concrete front
step, head hung low, smoking either a cigarette
or a doob. He looks up when Holly gets out of her
car—blue eyes, black beard, long hair—then lowers his
head again. She weaves her way through the flamingos, which probably struck some young man or
men as the height of Juvenalian wit. “Hello there. My name is Holly Gibney, and I wondered—” “If you’re a Mormon or
one of those Adventists, go away.” “I’m not. Are you by any chance
Tom Higgins?” He looks up at that. The bright blue eyes
are threaded with snaps of red. “No. I am not. Go away. I have the world’s worst fucking
hangover.” He waves a hand behind him. “Everyone else is still sleeping it off.” “Saturday Night Fever followed by Sunday
Morning Coming Down,” Holly ventures. The bearded young man at
laughs that, then winces. “You say true, grasshopper.” “Would you like a coffee? There’s a down
Starbucks the street.” “Sounds good, but I don’t think I can
walk that far.” “I’ll drive.” “And will you pay, Dolly?” “It’s Holly. And yes, I will pay.” 4 Having a strange man—big, bearded, and hungover—in her car might have put on
Holly’s nerves edge under other circumstances, but this young man, Randy Holsten by name, strikes her as about as dangerous as
Pee-wee Herman, at least in his current state. He rolls down the passenger window of and
Holly’s Prius holds his face out into the hot breeze, like a shaggy dog eager for
every passing scent. This pleases her. If he throws up, it will be outside rather than in. Which makes her think of Jerome’s drive
to the hospital with Vera Steinman. The Starbucks is thinly populated. of the
Several customers also look hungover, although perhaps not as severely as young
Mr. Holsten. She gets him a double cap and an
Americano for herself. They take chairs outside in the scant of
shade the overhang. Holly lowers her mask. The coffee is
strong, it’s good, and it takes the curse off the
motel brew she drank earlier. When Holsten begins showing signs of
slightly improved vitality, she asks him if Tom Higgins is also it in
sleeping off the House of Flamingos. “Nope. He’s in Lost Wages. At least as as
far I know. Billy and Hinata went on to LA, but Tom stayed. Which doesn’t surprise
me.” Holly frowns. “Lost wages?” “Slang, my
sister. For Las Vegas. A town made for such as
Monsewer Higgins.” “When did he go there?” “June. Middle of. And left owing his share of
the rent. Which I can tell you was Tom all over.” Holly thinks of Keisha’s short and brutal
summing up of Tom Higgins’s character: Wimp. Loser. Stoner. “You’re sure it was the of
middle June? And these other two went with him?” “Yeah. It was just after the block
Juneteenth party. And yeah, the three of them went in
Billy’s ’Stang. Tom Terrific is the kind of dude who’ll
suck on his fellow dudes until there’s nothing more to suck. I guess they wised up. Speaking of sucking on people, can I have
another one of these?” “I’ll pay, you get. One for me, too.” “Another Americano?” “Yes, please.”
When he comes back with their coffees, Holly says, “It sounds like you didn’t
like Tom much.” “I did at first. He’s got a certain of
amount charm—I mean, the girl he was going with was way out of
his league—but it wears off in a hurry. Like the finish on a cheap ring.” “Nicely put. You’re feeling better, you?”
aren’t “A little.” Holsten shakes his head… but
gently. “Never again.” Until next Saturday night, Holly thinks. “What’s this about, anyway?
What’s your interest in Tom?” Holly tells him, leaving Ellen Craslow of
and Peter Steinman out it. Randy Holsten listens with fascination.
Holly is interested to see how quickly the red is leaving his eyes. The older she gets, the more the resilience of the young her.
amazes “Bonnie, yeah. That was her name. She’s missing, huh?” “She is. Did you
know her?” “Met her is all. At a party. Maybe once or twice before. The party New
must have been Year’s. She was steppin dynamite. Legs all the
way up.” Holsten shakes one hand, as if he’s hot.
touched something “Tom brought her, but our place wasn’t
exactly her milieu, if you know what I mean.” “Didn’t like the flamingos?” “They’re a
new addition. I haven’t seen her since that party. She broke up with him, you know. I talked to her a little. You know, just your standard party I the
blah-blah—and think breakup was like, happening then. Or about to happen. I was in the kitchen. That’s where we
talked. Maybe she came out to get away from the
babble, maybe to get away from Tom. He was in the living room, probably trying to score dope.” “What did
she say?” “Can’t remember. I was pretty drunk. But if you’re thinking he might have done
something to her, forget it. Tom isn’t the confrontational
type. He’s more the type.” “And you’re sure he
can-you-loan-me-fifty-until-next-Friday hasn’t been back since June?” She tells him what she told Keisha. “I’m just crossing t’s and dotting i’s
here.” “If he did I haven’t seen him. Don’t think so. Like I said, Vegas is his kind of town.” “Do you have his number?” He finds it on
his phone and Holly adds it to her notes, but she’s already close to Tom
taking Higgins off her list of possible suspects, and he was never high on it anyway. Not that she has a list. “If you call him, you’ll get one of those
robots that just repeats the number and tells you to leave a message.” “He monitors his calls.” “Guys like Tom, that’s what they do. He owes money, I think. Not just the back rent.” “How much of that does he owe?” “His share for two months. June and July. Five hundred dollars.” Holly gives him a
card from her purse. “If you think of anything, maybe she said
something when you were talking at the party, give me a call.” “Man, I don’t know. I was pretty fried. All I can be sure of
is that she was fine-looking. Out of Tom’s league, like I said.” “I get it, but just in case.” “Okay.” He puts the card in the back of
pocket his jeans, where Holly guesses it will probably stay
until it goes through the wash and comes out lint. Randy Holsten smiles. It’s charming. “I think Tommy was starting to bore her. Ergo, breakup.” Holly gives him a lift to
back the rambling apartment building. He’s improved enough to keep his head
inside. He thanks her for the coffee and she asks
him again to call her if he thinks of anything, but it’s just a rote
exercise. She’s pretty sure she’s gotten everything
from Holsten that he has to give, which amounts to nothing but a phone that
number will probably lead nowhere. Still, when she gets back to the commerce
area of Eastland Avenue, she pulls into an empty parking are calls
space—there plenty—and Tom Higgins’s number. It’s two hours earlier in Las Vegas, but not that early. There’s one ring, followed by the robo-voice Holsten warned
her of. Holly identifies herself, says Bonnie has
Dahl disappeared, and asks if Tom will call her back (she
calls him Mr. Higgins). Then she drives home, showers
again, and throws her Dollar General underwear
in the washing machine. 5 While the washer is doing its thing, Holly gets on Twitter and plugs in the
name Craslow. She’s not expecting a long list—it’s not
a name she’s ever heard before—and only gets a dozen hits. Two Twitter Craslows feature
thumbnail pictures of Black people, a man and a woman. Two are whites, both women. The other eight feature blank
either silhouettes or cartoon avatars. Holly uses Facebook, Instagram, and in
Twitter routinely her work. Bill didn’t teach her; he was old-school. She can send messages on Twitter to the
dozen Craslows from one of her several social media aliases, something simple: I’m for
looking information about Ellen Craslow, from Bibb County, Georgia. If you know
her, please reply. Even if the Craslow from to
whom she’s hoping get information isn’t on Twitter, chances are good one of the twelve is and
related will pass the message on. Easy-peasy, nothing to it, she’s done it
before when looking for missing people (mostly bail-jumpers) and lost pets. There’s no reason not to now, but she pauses, frowning at the list of
names on her desktop computer. Why the hesitation? No concrete reason
she can think of, but her gut says don’t do it. She decides to table this logical next it
step and think over. She can do that while she makes a trip to
Jet Mart and talks to the clerk who waited on Bonnie. Her phone as
rings she’s leaving. She thinks it will be either Penny, asking for another update, or possibly
Tom Higgins calling from Las Vegas, assuming that’s where he is. But it’s
Jerome, and he sounds excited. “You think someone
grabbed her in that van, Holly. Don’t you?” “I think it’s possible. Can you tell me anything about it?” “I’ve looked at a lot of car sites, and it might be a Toyota Sienna. Might be. The lens of that surveillance
camera was mighty dirty—” “I know.” “—and you can only see the
bottom half. But it’s not a Chevy Express. Take that to the bank. Could be a Ford, but if it was Final Jeopardy, I’d say it was a Sienna.” “Okay, thanks.” Not that it’s much help. “There was something funny about it.” “Really? What?” “I don’t know. I’ve at it
looked a dozen times and I still don’t know.” “The stripe? The blue one down
low?” “No, not that, lots of vans have stripes. Something else.” “Well, if you figure it
out, let me know.” “Wish we had a license
plate.” “Yes,” Holly says. “Wouldn’t that be
nice?” “Holly?” “I’m still here.” Now heading
for the elevator. “I think it’s a serial. I really do.” 6 She’s pulling out of the parking garage
when her phone rings again. The screen says UNKNOWN NUMBER. She puts
her car in park and takes the call. She’s pretty sure Mr. Unknown Number is
Tom Terrific. “Hello, this is Holly Gibney, how can I
help?” “Tom Higgins.” In the background she can
hear electronic boops, electronic beeps, and jangling bells.
Casino sounds. Any doubt that Tom Higgins isn’t in Las
Vegas departs. “You can help by telling me what you mean
about Bonnie being missing.” “Wait one. Let me park.” Holly pulls into
a vacant space. She never talks on her phone while she’s
driving unless she has absolutely no choice and thinks people who behave otherwise are
idiots. It’s not just against the law, it’s dangerous. “Where did she go?” Holly thinks of asking him what part of
missing he doesn’t understand. Instead, she tells him that Bonnie’s her,
mother hired and what she’s found out so far. Which isn’t much. When she finishes a of
there’s long moment silence. She doesn’t bother to ask if he’s still
there; the boops and beeps continue. At last he says, “Huh.” Is that all got?
you’ve Holly thinks. “Do you have any idea where she might
have gone, Mr. Higgins?” “Nope. I dumped her last
winter. She was asking—without asking, you know a
how some women are—for long-term commitment, and I was already planning this trip.” I heard the dumping was the other way
around, Holly doesn’t say. “Does it seem likely
to you that she’d leave without telling anyone?” “According to you, she told everyone,” Tom says. “She left a note, didn’t she?” “Yes, but on the spur of the
moment? Leaving her bike for anyone to steal? Was she that impulsive?”
“Sometimes…” This careful answer suggests to Holly he
that he’s saying what thinks she wants to hear. “Without taking any clothes? And without
using a credit card or her phone for the last three weeks?” “So what? She probably got
sick of her mother. Bonnie hated her like poison.” Not to
according Keisha. According to Keisha, there was love lost
between them but plenty of love left. Penny is driving around with her picture
daughter’s plastered on her car, after all. “She probably hasn’t called
anybody because then her mother would send out the Royal Canadian Mounties. Or someone like you. Can’t wait to get her back there and her
start running life again.” Holly decides to change the subject. “Are you enjoying Las Vegas, Mr. Higgins?” “Yeah, it’s great.” Animation
replaces caution. “It’s a happening town.” “It sounds like
you’re in a casino.” “Yeah, Binion’s. I’m just waiting tables
right now, but I’m working my way up. And the tips are fantastic. Speaking of
work, my break’s almost over. Good talking to
you, Miz Gibley. I’d say I hope you find
Bonnie, but since you’re working for the Queen
Bitch, I can’t really do that. My bad, I guess.” “One more thing before you go, please?” “Make it quick. My asshole boss
is waving.” “I spoke with Randy Holsten. You owe five
hundred dollars of back rent.” Tom laughs. “He can whistle for it.” “I’m the one who’s whistling,” Holly says. “I know where you work. I can have my the
lawyer call management and ask that your wages be attached in that amount.” She doesn’t know if she can actually do
that, but it certainly sounds good. She’s been
always more inventive on the phone. More assertive, too. Neither caution nor
animation this time. Injury. “Why would you do that? You’re
not working for Randy!” “Because,” Holly says in the same prim
voice she used with Jerome, “you don’t strike me as a good person. For all sorts of reasons.” A moment’s
silence, except for the boops and beeps. Then: “Right back atcha, bitch.” “Goodbye, Mr. Higgins. Have a nice day.” 7 Holly drives across town to the Red Jet
Bank Avenue Mart, feeling strangely happy, strangely light.
She thinks, A bitch walks into a bar and orders a
mai-tai. Not even discovering that the clerk she a
wants isn’t on duty can put dent in her good mood. She should have expected
it, anyway; if the guy has enough seniority a
to know Bonnie as regular, it’s not surprising that he’d have off.
Sundays She describes the man she’s looking for
to the current clerk, a young man with an unfortunate wall eye. “That’s Emilio,” the young man says. “Emilio Herrera. He’ll be on tomorrow, three to eleven. Eleven’s when this dump
closes up.” “Thank you.” Holly considers driving up
to the college and asking some questions about Ellen Craslow at the Belfry and the Life Sciences
building, but what would be the point? It’s not a a
just Sunday in midsummer but Sunday in Covid midsummer. Bell College of Arts
and Sciences will be as dead as Abe Lincoln. Better to go home, put her feet up, and think. About why she felt hesitant in
about getting touch with the Craslows she found on Twitter. About whether the van on the
security footage means anything. Sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and a a
van is just van. About whether or not she actually has the
stumbled across track of a serial killer. Her phone rings. It’s Pete Huntley. Once she’s back in her apartment building
garage, she lights a cigarette and calls him back. “I don’t know what kind of van that is,” he says, “but there’s something funny
about it.” “Only you don’t know exactly what.” “Yeah. How did you know that?” “Because Jerome said the same thing. Why don’t you talk to him? Maybe between
the two of you, you can figure it out.” 8 Holly can’t
sleep that night. She lies on her back, hands folded her
between breasts, looking up into the dark. She thinks
about Bonnie’s bike, just begging to be stolen. She thinks
about Peter Steinman, known as Stinky to his friends. Skateboard abandoned but returned to his
mother. Does Bonnie’s mother have Bonnie’s bike?
Of course she does. She thinks about Keisha, saying love was
lost but plenty was left. And she thinks about Ellen Craslow. That’s what’s keeping her awake. She gets
up, goes to her desktop, and opens Twitter. Using her favorite messages each of the
alias—LaurenBacallFan—she dozen Craslows, asking if any of them have information
about Ellen Craslow from Bibb County, Georgia. She attaches each query to each
Craslow’s last tweet. This doesn’t allow for privacy, but so of
what? None them have more than a dozen followers. With that done she goes back
to bed. For awhile she still can’t sleep, nagged by the idea that it was somehow a
wrong move, but how can it be? Not doing it would the
have been wrong one. Right? Right. At last she drops off. And dreams of her mother. February 15, 2021–March 27, 2021 1 Barbara and Olivia
Kingsbury begin their meetings. There is always tea brought by Marie
Duchamp, who seems to have an endless supply of
white shirts and fawn-colored slacks. There are always cookies. Sometimes
ginger snaps, sometimes shortbread fingers, sometimes
Chips Ahoy, most commonly Oreos. Olivia Kingsbury is
partial to Oreos. Every morning at nine Marie appears in of
the doorway the living room and tells them that it’s time to stop. Barbara shoulders
her backpack and heads for school. She can Zoom her classes from home but to
has permission use the library, where there are fewer distractions. By
mid-March, she is giving Olivia a kiss on the cheek
before leaving. Barbara’s parents know that she has a of
special project some kind and assume it’s at school. Jerome guesses it’s somewhere but
else doesn’t pry for details. Several times Barbara comes close to them
telling about her meetings with Olivia. What mostly holds her back is Jerome’s
special project, the book he’s writing about their
great-grandfather, a book that’s going to be published. She doesn’t want her big brother to think
she’s copying him, or trying somehow to draft off his
success. Also, it’s poetry. That seems pretty to
frou-frou Barbara compared to her brother’s sturdy, well-researched history of Black in
gangsters Depression-era Chicago. Further also, it’s her own thing. Secret, like the diary she kept in her
early teen years, read over when she was seventeen (as much
of it as she could bear, at least) and then burned one day when
everyone was gone. To each meeting—each seminar—she brings a
new poem. Olivia insists on it. When Barbara says
some of the new ones aren’t good, aren’t finished, the old poet waves her
objections away. Says it doesn’t matter. Says the thing is
important to keep the channel open and the words flowing. “If you don’t,” she says, “your channel may silt up. And then dry
up.” They read aloud… or rather Barbara does;
Olivia picks the poems but says she has to save what remains of her voice. They read Dickey, Roethke, Plath, Moore, Bishop, Karr, Eliot, even Ogden Nash. One day she asks Barbara to read “The
Congo,” by Vachel Lindsay. Barbara does, and when
she’s finished, Olivia asks Barbara if she finds the poem
racist. “Oh sure,” Barbara says, and laughs. “It’s racist as hell. ‘Fat black bucks in
a wine-barrel room’? Are you kidding me?” “So you don’t like it.” “No. I loved it.” And peals laughter again, partly in amazement. “Why do you?” “The rhythm! It’s like tromping feet!
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom. It’s like a song
you can’t get out of your head, a total earworm.” “Does poetry transcend
race?” “Yes!” “Does it transcend racism?” has to
Barbara think. In this room of tea and cookies, she always has to think. But it excites
her, almost exalts her. She never feels more
alive than she does in the presence of this wrinkled old woman with the raging eyes. “No.” “Ah.” “But if I could write a poem
like this about Maleek Dutton, I totally would. Only the boomlay-boom be
would a gunshot. He’s the kid who—” “I know who he was,” Olivia says, and gestures to the
television. “Why don’t you try doing that?” “Because I’m not ready,” Barbara says. 2 Olivia reads Barbara’s poems and has of
Marie make copies every one, and when Barbara comes again—not every
time, only sometimes—she will tell her to make
a change or find another word. She always says the same two things, either “You were not present when you
wrote this” or “You were the audience instead of the
writer.” Once she tells Barbara that she is only a
allowed to admire what she writes single time: during the act of composition. “After that, Barbara, you must be
ruthless.” When they’re not talking about poems and
poets, Olivia encourages Barbara to talk about
her life. Barbara tells her about growing up what
UMC—it’s her father calls the upper middle class—and how she’s sometimes embarrassed to be treated
well and sometimes both ashamed and angry when people look right through her. She doesn’t just it’s
assume the color of her skin; she knows it. Just as she knows that when she’s in a
shop, the people who work there are watching to
see if she’s going to steal something. She likes rap and hip-hop, but the phrase
my nigga makes her uncomfortable. She thinks she shouldn’t feel that way, she even likes the YG joint, but she can’t help it. She says those
words should make whites uncomfortable, not her. Yet there it is. “Tell that. Show it.” “I don’t know how.” “Find a way. Find the images. No ideas but in things, but they must be
the true things. When your eye and heart and mind are in
harmony.” Barbara Robinson is young, barely old to
enough vote, but terrible things have happened to her. She went through a brief suicidal period. What happened with Chet Ondowsky last in
Christmas the elevator was even worse; it amputated her concept of reality. She would tell Olivia
about these things even though they are too fantastic to be believed, but each time she the in
approaches subject—almost throwing herself front of an oncoming truck in Lowtown, for old poet a
instance—the raises hand like a cop stopping traffic and shakes her head. She is allowed to
talk about Holly, but when Barbara tries to tell about how
Holly saved her from being blown up at a rock show in Mingo Auditorium, the hand goes up again. Stop. “This is not psychiatry,” Olivia says. “It is not therapy. It is poetry, my dear. The talent was there before to
awful things happened you, it came with the original equipment just
as your brother’s did, but talent is a dead engine. It runs on every unresolved unresolved
experience—every trauma, if you like—in your life. Every conflict. Every mystery. Every deep part of your
character you find not just unlikeable but loathsome.” One hand goes up and makes a fist. Barbara can tell it hurts Olivia to do
that, but she does it anyway, closing her
fingers tight, nails digging into the thin skin of her
palm. “Keep it,” she says. “Keep it as long as
you can. It’s your treasure. You will use it up to
and then you will have rely on the memory of the ecstasy you once felt, but while you have it, keep it. Use it.” She doesn’t say the new poems or
Barbara brings her are good bad. Not then. 3 Mostly it’s Barbara who talks, but on a few occasions Olivia changes it
up and reminisces, with a mixture of amusement and sadness, about literary society in the fifties and
sixties, which she calls “the gone world.” Poets she’s met, poets she’s known, poets she’s loved, poets (and at least to
one Pulitzer-winning novelist) she’s gone bed with. She talks about the pain of losing her
grandson, and how that’s one thing she cannot write
about. “It’s like a stone in my throat,” she says. She also talks about her long
teaching career, most of it “up the hill,” meaning Bell College. One day in March is
when Olivia talking about Sharon Olds’s six-week residency and how wonderful it was, Barbara asks
about the poetry workshop. “Didn’t there used to be both fiction and
poetry? Like in Iowa?” “Exactly like Iowa,” Olivia agrees. Her a
mouth tucks into bed of wrinkles, as if she’s tasted something disagreeable. “Weren’t there enough applicants to keep
it going?” “There were plenty of applicants. Not as
many as for the fiction workshop, of course, and it always ran at a loss, but since the fiction workshop makes a
profit, the two balanced out.” The creases in her
mouth deepen. “It was Emily Harris who moved that it be
shut down. She pointed out that if it was, we could afford not only to lure more to
high-profile fiction writers come but add considerably to the overall English Department budget. There were protests, but Emily’s point of
view carried the day, although I believe she was emerita even
then.” “That’s a shame.” “It is. I argued that
the prestige of the Bell Poetry Workshop made a difference, and Jorge—I liked that it
man—said was part of our responsibility. ‘We must carry the torch,’ he said. That made Emily smile. She has a special
one for such occasions. It’s small, no teeth showing, but in its
way it’s as sharp as a razor blade. She said, ‘Our responsibility is wider a
than few would-be poets, dear Jorge.’ Not that he was her dear
anything. She never liked him and I imagine she was
delighted when he decamped. Probably resented him even coming to that
meeting.” She pauses. “I invited him, actually.” “Who was Jorge? Was he on the faculty?” “Jorge Castro was our fiction in the
writer-in-residence 2010–2011 academic year, and part of 2012. Until, as I say, he decamped.” “Did he write The Forgotten
City? That’s on our summer reading list.” Not that Barbara plans to read it; she be
will done with high school in June. “Yes. It’s a fine novel. All three of his
novels are good, but that’s probably the best. He was the
passionate about virtues of poetry, but couldn’t vote when the time for that
came around. Not a faculty member, you see.” “What do you mean, he decamped?” “That’s a strange story, sad and more a
than little mysterious. It’s off the subject you are here to ever
discuss—if Jorge wrote poetry, I never saw it—but I’ll tell you if you
want to hear it.” “Please.” Marie comes in just then and
tells Olivia and Barbara that it’s time. The old poet raises her hand in that stop
gesture. “Five more minutes, please,” she says. And tells Barbara the story of Jorge in
Castro’s strange disappearance October of 2012. 4 On the last Saturday of March, Barbara’s phone rings while she’s curled
up in the living room, reading The Forgotten City, by Jorge
Castro. It’s Olivia Kingsbury. She says, “I think
I owe you an apology, Barbara. I may have made a bad mistake. You will decide. Can you come and see me?” July 26, 2021 1 Holly is up with the sun. She has a bowl of oatmeal and fruit, then goes to her computer and opens
Twitter. She has gotten one reply to her Craslow
query. Elmer Craslow (Eagles fan, MAGA fan, Nyack Strong!) says he’s never heard of
Ellen Craslow, of Bibb County, Georgia. Holly isn’t
terribly disappointed. She has eleven more chances. In baseball
it’s three strikes and you’re out. As she’s putting on her sneakers in for
preparation her morning walk—it’s when she does her best thinking—her phone trills. It’s
Jerome, and he sounds excited. In a voice muffled
slightly by the mask he’s wearing, he tells her he’s in an Uber, headed for the airport. He’s going to New
York. Holly is alarmed. “In a plane?” “That’s the usual way one travels a
thousand miles,” he says, and laughs. “Relax, Hollyberry, I’ve got my vax card and I’ll be wearing
my mask the whole time I’m in the air. In fact I’m wearing one now, as you can probably tell.” “Why New York?” But of course she knows. “Your book!” “The editor called me last night. He said he could send the contract, or I could come and sign it today and me
he’d hand a check for a hundred thousand dollars! He says that’s
not the way it’s usually done, but he got the green light to make an
exception. Is that crazy, or what?” “It’s crazy and
wonderful, as long as you don’t get sick.” “According to the statistics, New York’s
actually safer than our town, Hols. I can’t get there for lunch—too bad, publisher’s lunch is sort of a he says we
tradition—but can get together this afternoon for burgers and a beer. My agent will be even
there—I’ve never met her except for Zoom, also crazy. He said in the old days he us
would have taken to Four Seasons, but the best he can manage now is the
Blarney Stone. Which is good enough for me.” He’s babbling, but Holly doesn’t mind. What she minds is the idea of him on a is
traveling plane where the air recirculated and anyone might have Covid, but she can’t help being delighted by his
over-the-moon happiness. Spur-of-the-moment trip to New York City
in the summer of Covid, she thinks. It’s good to be young and to
today it’s good be Jerome. “Enjoy yourself, and whatever you do, don’t lose that check.” “My agent will
handle that,” he says. “Whoo, this is so far out! We’re
almost at the terminal, Hollyberry.” “Fly well and when you go to
the restaurant, make sure to sit outsi—” “Yes, Mom. One more thing while I’ve got you. I printed out a MapQuest of Deerfield and
Park the surrounding area. Marked it in red where Bonnie and Pete
Steinman were last seen. We don’t know about Ellen Craslow, but we know she worked on campus, so I marked the Union. Barbara can give
it to you if you want. I left it on my desk.” “I know the locations,” Holly says with
some asperity. She thinks of Uncle Henry saying I didn’t
fall off a skidder yesterday. “Yeah, but seeing them like that is
creepy. You should find out if there are more. We’re here. I gotta go.” “When do you
come back?” “I might stay a couple of days or I might
come back tomorrow.” “If you’re thinking about Broadway, the
shows are clo—” “Gotta bounce, Hollyberry.” And boom,
he’s gone. “I hate it when you call me that.” But she’s smiling. Because she really
doesn’t, and Jerome knows it. 2 She’s on her walk
when her phone rings again. “Who’s your daddy?” Pete Huntley inquires. “Not you, Pete. But you sound happy. Plus, not sick.” “I have risen from the a
ashes of Covid new man,” he says, then spoils it with a coughing
fit. “Almost. I found your chick, Holly.” She stops. “You found Ellen Craslow?” “Well, not her, but I got her LKA.” Last known address. “Also her picture, which I will send to you ASAP. Called the personnel office at Bell as as
soon they opened, so ain’t you proud of me?” “Very proud. What’s the address?” “11114
MLK Boulevard. That’s about as far out of Lowtown as you
can get and still be in it.” “Peter, thank you.” “No, it’s the job.” Sounding serious now. “You think they’re
related, don’t you? Dahl, Craslow, the kid Jerome
was tracking?” “I think they might be.” “Not going to to
talk Isabelle about it, are you?” “Not yet.” “Good. You run with
it, Hol. I’ll do what I can from here. Kinda quarantined, you know?” “Yes.” “I
can be Mycroft Holmes to your Sherlock. How are you doing with your mom?” “Getting there,” Holly says. She ends the
call. Five seconds later her phone bings with
an incoming text from Pete. She waits until she gets back to her to
apartment look at the picture because she wants her iPad with its bigger screen. What he’s sent is Ellen Craslow’s Bell ID
College card, which is still valid—it doesn’t expire
until October. The photo shows a Black woman with a cap
of dark hair. She’s neither smiling nor scowling, only
looking at the camera with a calmly neutral expression. She’s pretty. Holly thinks she looks like
she might be in her late twenties or early thirties, which is in line with what told
Keisha her. Below her name is BELL COLLEGE ARTS &
SCIENCES CUSTODIAL STAFF. “Where are you, Ellen?” Holly murmurs, but what she’s thinking now is Who took 3
you? Half an hour later she’s cruising slowly down Martin Luther King Boulevard. She’s left the stores, churches, bars, convenience stores, and restaurants Pete
behind. said the address was almost as far out of Lowtown as it was possible to get and still be in
it. It’s also about as far out of the city as
it’s possible to get and still be in it; soon MLK will become Route 27. Ahead of her she can see fields where are
cows grazing, also a couple of silos. She’s starting to
think Pete must have given her the wrong address even though her GPS claims she’s
going right, but then she comes to Elm Grove Trailer
Park. A stake fence surrounds it. The trailers
are neat and well-kept. They are in various pastel colors, a plot of grass in front of each one. There are many flowerbeds. An asphalt the
lane winds among trailers. Her GPS announces that she has arrived at
her destination. At the head of this lane is a cluster of
mailboxes with numbers running from 11104 to 11126. Holly drives slowly into the
trailer park, stopping when a couple of kids in bathing
suits, one white and one Black, chase a bouncing
beachball across the lane without so much as a look. She takes her foot off the brake, then tromps it again as a small yellow
dog chases after the kids. In front of a sky-blue trailer with a of
picture Barack Obama taped inside the storm door, a woman wearing a sunhat against is
the day’s increasing heat watering her flowers from a can. In the middle of the trailer park
is a green building with a sign over the door reading OFFICE. Next to it
is another green building with a sign reading LAUNDRY. A woman wearing a headwrap is in
going with a plastic basket of clothes. Holly parks, dons her mask, and goes into
the office. There’s a counter with a plaque on it
reading STELLA LACEY MANAGER. Behind the counter, a stout lady is on
playing solitaire her computer. She glances around at Holly and says, “If you’re looking for a vacancy, I’m sorry. We’re at full occupancy.” “Thank you, but I’m not. My name is Holly
Gibney. I’m a private investigator, and I’m to a
trying locate woman.” At the words private investigator, Stella
Lacey loses interest in her game and becomes interested in Holly. “Really? Who? What did she do?” “Nothing that I know of. Do you recognize
her?” Holly offers her phone. Lacey takes it it
and holds close to her face. “Sure. That’s Ellen Caslow!” “Craslow,”
Holly says. “I wonder if you remember exactly when
she left.” “Why do you care?” “I’d like to know she
where went. She worked at the college. Bell?” “I know Bell,” Lacey says, sounding a bit
resentful—the subtext being I’m not stupid. “I think Ellen was a janitor there.” “A custodian, yes. Ms. Lacey, I just want
to make sure she’s okay.” Lacey’s resentment—if that’s what it was, not just Holly’s imagination—disappears.
“Okay, I hear that. Do you know which trailer was hers?” “11114 is the address I have.” “Right, right, one of the ones behind the
laundry, by the kiddie pool. Just let me check.” The solitaire game goes away. A replaces
spreadsheet it. Lacey scrolls, peers, puts on a pair of
glasses, and scrolls again. “Here we are. Ellen Craslow. She was renting by the
half-year. Paid for July through December of 2018. Then gone.” She turns to Holly and whips
off her glasses. “I remember now. Phil—my husband—held of
that trailer vacant through January ’19 because she was a good tenant. No yelling, no arguments, no loud music, no cops showing up at two
in the morning. That’s the kind of tenant we prefer, and the only kind we lease to long-term.” “I’m sure.” “We have people who’ve been a
here for long time, Ms. Gibley. Why, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen have been here for I’m going to
say twenty years. We like the older folks, Phil and me. Ellen was only in her twenties, but she said she was the quiet type, so we took a chance. And she was as good
as her word.” She shakes her head. “We lost a month on
that unit. Just standing empty. I think Phil was
smit with her, not that he would have gotten anywhere if
even he’d been thirty instead of sixty. I believe she batted for the other side, if you know what I mean.” “I do.” That also agrees with Keisha’s
impression. “She’s really missing? Not just from here, I mean?” Holly nods. “Since around in
Thanksgiving 2018.” “And someone’s just getting around to for
looking her now? Why am I surprised? That’s how it goes with Black folks.” “The thing is, nobody reported her missing,” Holly says. “Maybe she’s not. She was from Georgia
and might have gone home. I’m trying to track down her relatives, but really, I just got started.” “Well then, you go on with your bad self. And by the way, you don’t need that mask. Corona, that’s all just a big old hoax.” “What happened to Ellen’s things, do you
know?” “You know what, I don’t. Of course the
trailers are furnished, but she must have had her own stuff, right?” “You’d think,” Holly agrees. in
“Phil’s Akron this week. At the trailer show. But if she left a of
bunch stuff, he would have told me. He always does. We have a good clientele here, Ms. Gibby, but every now and then someone
does kind of…” She raises her hand and makes the first
two fingers trot. “Sometimes then we find leftover things, which go to the First Baptist or the
Goodwill. If they’re worth saving, that is.” “How long was she here?” Lacey puts on up
her glasses and calls a different spreadsheet. “She came in March of 2016. Two and a half years? Yeah, she must have had stuff. Want me to call
Phil? Although I’m sure he would have told me.” “That would be great,” Holly says. “Are there any neighbors who
around 11114 would remember her?” Lacey considers. “What about Mrs. McGuire, in 11110? That’s not right next door, but only across the kiddie pool. I think Ellen and Imani McGuire used to
be friends. Did their laundry together, you know?
Women talk plenty then. And she’ll be home. Her husband still at
works part-time the city impound, but Imani’s retired from some other city
job. These days she just knits and watches TV. That old girl knits up a storm. Sells it, too, at craft fairs and such. She might know where Ellen went.” Not if Ellen got snatched in the vicinity
of Deerfield Park, Holly thinks. That’s miles from here. But she’ll talk to Imani McGuire. Holly is a fan of Michael Connelly’s
detective hero, Harry Bosch, and especially of Bosch’s go
number one maxim: get off your ass and knock on doors. “I’ll talk to Phil and see if
he knows what happened to her stuff. I’m pretty sure her trailer was empty—you
know, except for the mod cons—when we rented it
in February of ’19. You could talk to the Joneses, they live there now, but they’re both
working folks. And why would they know anything? Ellen
was long gone when they moved in.” She shakes her head. “Missing over two a
years! What shame! You come back, Ms. Gibsy, I’ll call Phil right now.” “Thank you.” “And ditch the mask, that’s my advice. Corona’s just to sell
make-believe magic pillows on the TV news.” 4 Imani McGuire is tall and thin, with an afro so white it makes the top of
her head look like a dandelion puff. Her trailer is a doublewide, painted canary yellow. There’s a rag rug
beautiful on the floor of the living area, concentric circles of green and cinnamon. The walls—some composition stuff that’s
supposed to look like wood and really doesn’t—are dressed in photographs showing the McGuires at various stages of
their lives. The one holding pride of place is a
wedding photo. The groom is in Navy dress whites. The bride, with an afro that’s black of
instead white, bears a striking resemblance to Angela
Davis. Imani is perfectly willing to talk, but she has a question. “Are you vaxxed?” “I am.” “Double?” “Yes. Moderna.” “Take
off your mask, then. I got my second shot in April.” Holly takes it off and puts it in her
pocket. There are his-and-hers La-Z-Boy recliners
on the rag rug, facing a TV whose screen isn’t much than
bigger the screen of Holly’s iPad Pro. Draped over the padded arm of one is a as
half-finished sweater the same bright yellow the trailer’s exterior. Below it is a of
basket filled with skeins the same yellow. Imani picks her needlework up and drapes
it over her lap. On the TV, Drew Carey is extolling prizes
on The Price Is Right. Imani raises the remote and snaps the TV
off. “I’m sorry to interrupt your day.” “Oh no, I love some company,” Imani says, “and besides, they already
spun the wheel. That’s the best part. After that comes
the Showcase Round, and you tell me why some fat old man on a
Social Security wants couple of motorcycles and camping gear. I bet they
sell those prizes if they win. I know I would.” Her needles are already
flying, the sweater growing appreciably before
Holly’s eyes. “That’s going to be beautiful.” “Hell of
a thing to be knitting on a day when the temperature’s s’posed to be in the
nineties, but cold weather always comes… or did, they got the climate so screwed up it’s
hard to tell what’s gonna happen from one year to the next. But if the snow flies
and the lake freezes, someone’ll buy this at the church sale. I have more put away, plus scarves and
mittens. I get good money for these things, more than Yardley makes, but working at
the impound keeps him out of my hair… and me out of his, I suppose. Works both ways. Fifty-two years is a of
hell a long walk from the altar, let me tell you. And some of it’s stony. Now how can I help you?” Holly tells how Keisha got to know Ellen
Craslow, and how Ellen just dropped out of sight:
there one day, gone the next. “I put her name out to the
other Craslows who are on Twitter, but so far I’ve only heard from one, and he was no help.” “Nor will any of the
others, based on what I know about her. She’s gone anyplace but Traverse, Georgia. She is a sweetie, Miz Gibney—” “Holly. Please.” Imani nods. “A sweetie, smart as a whip, and strong. She’ll find her way.” “You say she won’t
go back to her hometown, where I assume she has people. Why is that?” “There’s family, all right, but she is dead to them and they to her. You won’t get anything on Facebook.” “What happened?” For what seems like a of
long time there’s only the click Imani’s needles. She’s frowning down at the yellow sweater. Then she looks up. “Is your kind of bound
investigator by confidentiality? Like a lawyer or a priest or a doctor?” Holly thinks this
isn’t a real question but a test. She has an idea Imani knows. And in any case, it doesn’t matter. Honesty really is the best policy. “I have some degree of privilege, but not as much as lawyers or priests. Under certain circumstances I’d have to
talk to the police or the district attorney’s office about a case, but they aren’t involved in this.” Holly leans forward. “What you say to me
stays with me, Ms. McGuire.” “Call me Immi.” “All right.” Holly smiles. She’s got a good one. Jerome tells her she doesn’t use it
enough. “I’m gonna take you at your word, Holly. Because I cared for that girl. Certainly felt sorry for her troubles. I just want you to know that I’m no and
tattletale no backfence gossip.” “Noted,” Holly says. “May I turn on my
phone and record this?” “No you may not.” Click-click go the
needles. “I don’t think I’d tell you at all if you
were a man. I’ve never told Yard. But women, we know more than they do. Don’t we?” “Yes. Yes we do.” “All right, then. Ellen—she was always an
Ellen, never an Ellie—she was in her family’s or
bad books ever since twelve thirteen, when she gave up eating meat, or any meat products. Total vegetarian. No, that’s not right. Total vegan. Her family was part of one of those
hardshell bunches, the First Unreformed Church of I Know
Better, and when she quit eating flesh they the
quoted Bible at her left and right. The pastor counseled her.” Imani puts a
satiric emphasis on counseled. “I’m a fallen-away hardshell myself, and
I know you can always find scripture to support what you believe, and they found plenty. In Romans it says the weak person eats
only vegetables. Deuteronomy, the Lord has promised you
shall eat meat. Corinthians, eat whatever is sold in the
meat market. Huh! They must have loved that one in
Wuhan, where this damn plague came from. Then when she was fourteen, they caught
her with another girl.” “Oh-oh,” Holly says. “Oh-oh is right. She tried to run away, but they brought
her back. Her family. Don’t suppose you know why?” “Because she was their cross to bear,” Holly says, thinking of times when her
own mother said something similar, always prefacing it with a sigh and an Oh, Holly. “So. You know.” “Yes I do,” Holly says, and something in her voice to
opens the door the rest of the story, which Imani might not have told her
otherwise. “When she was eighteen, she got raped. They wore masks, those stocking things go
people wear when they skiing, but she recognized one of them by his
stutter. He was from her church. Sang in the choir. Ellen said he had a good voice, and didn’t stutter when he sang. Excuse me.” She raises the back of one at
hand and wipes her left eye. Then the needles resume their flight.
synchronized Watching the sun flash on them is
hypnotic. “You know what they kept talking about?
Meat! How they were giving her the meat, and didn’t she like it, wasn’t it good?
Wasn’t it something she couldn’t get from some girl? She said one of them tried to put
his doodad in her mouth, told her to go on and eat the meat, and she told him he’d lose it if he did. So that boy fetched her a wallop upside
her head and for the rest of the business she was only about a quarter
conscious. And guess what came of that?” Holly knows this, too. “She got pregnant.” “Indeed she did. Went on down to Planned
Parenthood and got it taken care of. When her folks found out—I don’t know how, she didn’t tell them—they told her she of
wasn’t part the family anymore. She was ex-com-mu-nicated. Her daddy said
she was a murderer no different from Cain in Genesis, and told her to go where Cain went, to the east of Eden. But Traverse, Georgia, was no Eden to Ellen, furthest thing from it, and she didn’t go
east. She went north. Worked ten years’ worth
of blue-collar jobs and wound up here, up to the college.” Holly sits silent, looking at the needles. It occurs to her
that next to Ellen Craslow, she hasn’t had it so bad. Mike Sturdevant hung Jibba-Jibba on her
but he never raped her. “She didn’t tell me that all at once. It came out in pieces. Except the last
part, about the rape and the abortion. That came out all at once. She was looking down at the floor the
whole time. Her voice cracked once or twice, but she never cried. We were in that room
laundry by the office, all by ourselves. When she was done I put
two fingers under her chin and said, ‘Look at me, girl,’ and she did. I said, ‘God sometimes asks us to pay up
front in this life, and you paid a high cost. From now on you are going to have a good
life. A blessed life.’ That was when she cried. Here, have a Kleenex.” Until she takes it
and wipes her eyes, Holly hasn’t realized she’s crying
herself. “I hope I was right about that,” Imani says. “I hope that wherever she is, she’s fine. But I don’t know. For her to leave so sudden like she did…” She shakes her head. “I just don’t know. The woman who came for her things—clothes, her laptop computer, her little TV, her knickknack ceramic birds and said was
suchlike—she Ellen going back to Georgia, and that didn’t sound right to me. Not that going back south means going
back home, there’s a lot more Georgia than one of a
little shit-splat town, pardon my French. That woman might have
said something about Atlanta.” “What woman?” Holly asks. All of her have
interior lights flashed on. “I can’t remember her name—Dickens, Dixon, something like that—but she seemed all
right.” Something in Holly’s expression troubles
her. “Why wouldn’t she be? I walked across to
check up on her when I saw her going in and out, and she was friendly
enough. Said she knew Ellen from the college, and she had her keys. I recognized the on
lucky rabbit’s foot Ellen kept her keyring.” “Was this woman driving a van? One with a
blue stripe down low on the side?” Holly is sure the answer will be yes, but she’s disappointed. “No, a little
station wagon. I don’t know what kind, but Yard would, working in the impound and all. And he was here. He stood on the stoop I
when went over, just to make sure everything was all
right. Did I do wrong?” “No,” Holly says, and means it. There was no way Imani have
could known. Especially when Holly herself isn’t sure
entirely that something unlucky happened to the already unlucky Ellen Craslow. “When did this woman come?” “Well, gee. It’s been awhile, but I think
it was after Thanksgiving but before Christmas. We’d just had the first real snowfall, I know that, but that probably isn’t any
help to you.” “What did she look like?” “Old,” Imani says. “Older than me by maybe ten
years, and I just passed seventy. And white.” “Would you recognize her if you saw her
again?” “I might,” Imani says. She sounds dubious. Holly gives her one of her Finders cards
Keepers and asks her to have her husband call if he can remember what kind of car
it was. “I actually helped her carry out the and
laptop computer some of the clothes,” Imani says. “Poor old lady looked like in
she was pain. She said she wasn’t, but I know sciatica
when I see it.” March 27, 2021 When Barbara arrives at on
the old poet’s Victorian home Ridge Road, red-cheeked and glowing from her two-mile
bike ride, Marie Duchamp is sitting on the couch
with Olivia. Marie looks worried. Olivia looks
distressed. Barbara probably looks mystified because
that’s how she feels. She can’t imagine what Olivia feels she
needs to apologize for. Marie is first to speak. “I encouraged
her, and I took the envelope to Federal
Express. So if you want to blame someone, blame me.” “That’s nonsense,” Olivia says. “What I did was wrong. I just had no and
idea… for all I know you will be pleased… but either way I had no
right to do what I did without your permission. It was unconscionable.”
“I don’t get it,” Barbara says, unbuttoning her coat. “What
did you do?” The two women—one in the healthy prime of
life, the other a shrunken doll-woman soon to a
be centenarian—look at each other, then back at Barbara. “The Penley Prize.” Olivia’s mouth is doing that trembly, inward-drawing thing that always makes of
Barbara think an old-fashioned string purse. “I don’t know what that is,” Barbara says, more mystified than ever. “The full name is the Penley Prize for
Younger Poets. It’s jointly sponsored by New York known
publishers as the Big Five. I’m not surprised you don’t know of it
because you are essentially self-taught and don’t read the writers’ magazines. Why would you, when there’s no paying market for poetry?
But most English majors in the writing courses know about it, just as they know about the New
Voices Award or the Young Lions Fiction Award. The Penley Prize is open for each
submissions year on March first. They get thousands, and the response is
rapid. Because most of the submissions are awful
moon-and-June stuff, I suppose.” Now Barbara understands. Sent
“You… what? them some of my poems?” Marie and Olivia share a glance. Barbara is young, but she knows guilt she
when sees it. “How many?” “Seven,” Olivia says. “Short
ones. The rules specify no more than two words.
thousand I was just so impressed by your work… its
anger… its terror… that…” She doesn’t seem to know how to continue. Marie takes Olivia’s hand. “I encouraged
her,” she says again. They expect her to be
angry, Barbara realizes. She’s not. A little is
shocked all. She has kept her poetry secret not she’s
because ashamed of it, or worried people will laugh (well… maybe
a little), but because she’s afraid showing it to
anyone other than Olivia would lessen the pressure she feels to write more. And there’s else,
something or rather someone: Jerome. Although she’s
actually been writing poems—mostly in her journal—since she was twelve, long before he started. Then, in the last
two or three years, something changed. There has been a jump
mysterious not just in ability but in ambition. It makes her think of a documentary she
saw about Bob Dylan. A folk singer from Greenwich Village in
the sixties said, “He was just another guitar player trying
to sound like Woody Guthrie. Then all at once he was Bob Dylan.” It was like that. Maybe her brush with to
Brady Hartsfield had something do with it, but she doesn’t believe that’s all. She thinks something—a previously dormant
circuit in her brain—just fired up. Meanwhile they’re looking at her, like a
absurdly pair of middle school girls who have been caught smoking in the school bathroom, and she can’t have it. “Olivia. Marie. Two girls in my class took naked
selfies—for their boyfriends, I guess—and the pictures turned up on the
Internet. That’s embarrassing. This? Not so much. Did you get a rejection letter? Is that I
what this is about? Can see it?” They exchange another of those looks. Olivia says, “The Penley judges compile a
longlist of finalists. The number varies, but it’s always a very
long list. Sometimes sixty, sometimes eighty, this
year it’s ninety-five. Ridiculous to have so many, but… you are
on it. Marie has the letter.” There’s a single
sheet of paper on the endtable next to where Marie sits. She hands it to Barbara. It’s fancy paper, heavy in her hand. At the top is an embossed seal featuring
a quill pen and an inkpot. The addressee is Barbara Robinson, C/O
Marie Duchamp, 70 Ridge Road. “I’m surprised you’re not
angry,” Olivia says. “And grateful that you’re
not, of course. It was such a high-handed to
thing do. Sometimes I think my brains have fallen
out of my ass.” Marie jumps in. “But I—” “Encouraged her, I know,” Barbara murmurs. “It was
high-handed, I guess, but I was the one who just up my
turned one day with poems. That was high-handed, too.” Not exactly
how it went down, and she barely hears herself, anyway. She’s scanning the letter. It says the is
Penley Prize Committee pleased to inform Ms. Barbara Robinson of 70 Ridge Road that on
she has been placed the Penley Prize longlist, and if she wishes to be considered going
forward, would she please submit a larger body of
poems, no more than five thousand words in toto, by April 15th. No poems of “epic length,” please. There’s also a puff paragraph of
about previous winners the Penley Prize. Barbara knows three of the names from her
reading. No, four. It ends with congratulations
“on your superior work.” She puts the letter aside. “What’s the
prize?” “Twenty-five thousand dollars,” Olivia in
says. “More than many fine poets make from their poetry their entire lifetime. But that isn’t the part.
important A collection of the winner’s work is
published, not by a small press but by one of the
houses that participate. This year it’s Random House. The book
always attracts notice. Last year’s winner appeared on TV with
Oprah Winfrey.” “Is there any chance I could…” Barbara stops. Even to say it feels like
crazy-talk. “Very unlikely,” Olivia says. “But should
you be shortlisted, attention would be paid. The chances that
your collection would be published by a small press would be fairly high. The only question
is whether or not you want to proceed. You certainly have enough poems for the
longlist submission, and if you continue to write I’m sure for
you’d have enough a book.” There’s no question about what she wants, now that a few of the poems have been by
seen strangers and been met with approval; the question is how to go about
it. She says, “I really would have let you
submit, you know. If you had asked me. Like the song says, a girl can dream.” Olivia’s cheeks go rose-pink. Barbara not
might have believed the old poet had enough circulation to blush, given her powered-down state, but
apparently she does. “It was very wrong,” she repeats. “I had Marie use her name on the envelope
because mine would have been recognized and I didn’t want to put my thumb on the
scales, so to speak. I thought you might get a of
few words encouragement. That was all I hoped for.” Words of encouragement you would have me,
shown Barbara thinks, and then you would have
been in the same uncomfortable position of having shared my poems without my permission… only with
less to show for it than this amazing letter. She smiles. “You two didn’t think this
out very well, did you?” “No,” Marie says. “We just…
your poems…” “You’ve also read them, I take it?” Marie’s blush is much stronger than
Olivia’s. “All of them. They are wonderful.” “Although you still have far to go,” Olivia quickly adds. Barbara reads the
letter over more closely. Her surprise is giving way to a new
emotion. It takes her a second to recognize what
it is. She’s thrilled. “We should send the
poems,” she says. “Might as well grab for the
brass ring. You’ll help me pick them out, Olivia, won’t you?” The old poet smiles, mostly with relief. Barbara had no idea a
they thought she might be such diva. That they did is sort of cool. “That would be my pleasure. The key, I believe, is your poem ‘Faces Change,’
with its sense of horror and dislocation. There are a number of poems that share
that leitmotif, that questioning of identity and reality. Those are the strongest.” “It has to be a
secret for now. Just between the three of us. Because of my brother. He’s supposed to
be the writer in the family, and I’m pretty sure his book about our is
great-grandfather going to be published. I told you about it, right?” “Yes,” Olivia says. “If he does get it
published, and if he gets good money for it—his says
agent he might—I can talk about this. If I should make the shortlist, that is. If I don’t, he never has to know. Okay?” “Would he really be jealous?” Marie asks. “Of poetry?” “No.” Barbara to
doesn’t even have think about it. “J doesn’t have a jealous bone in his
body. He’d be happy for me. But he’s been so on
working hard this book, I don’t think the words come as easy for
him as they sometimes do for me, and I won’t steal any of his spotlight. I love him too much to do that, even a little bit.” She hands the letter
back to Marie. “This letter stays here. But I’m glad you
did what you did.” “You are generous,” Olivia says. “Other
than in their work, poets rarely are. Marie, what would you a
think about the three of us splitting can of Foster’s Lager, if only to celebrate
the fact that we’re still friends?” “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Marie says, getting up. “But that’s we to
another secret three have keep.” She tilts her head to Olivia. “From her doctor.” She leaves for the
kitchen. Barbara says, “You’re the generous one, Olivia. I’m glad to have you for a friend
as well as a teacher.” “Thank you. I must have done something
right, because some providence saved the best
student for last.” It’s Barbara’s turn to blush, not with
shame but with happiness. “Tell me what you’re reading,” Olivia
says. School is in session. “You suggested the
beats, so that’s who I’m reading. I got an at
anthology the college bookstore. Ginsberg, Snyder, Corso, Ed Dorn… I love
him… Lawrence Ferlinghetti… is he still alive?” “Died a month ago. He was older than I am. I want you to read some prose, if you’re game. It may help you. James Dickey to start with. You know his
poems, and there’s a famous novel, Deliverance—” “I saw the movie. Men going down a river
in canoes.” “Yes, but don’t read that one. Read To the White Sea. Lesser known, but I think better. For your purposes. I want you to read at least one Cormac
McCarthy novel, All the Pretty Horses or Suttree. Will you do that?” “All right.” Although she’s reluctant to leave the
beats behind, with their mixture of innocence and
cynicism. “I’m actually reading prose now. That you
book told me about, The Forgotten City, by Jorge Castro. I like it.” Marie comes back with three
glasses and an enormous can of Foster’s on a tray. “I suppose Jorge finally went to
South America,” Olivia says. “He used to talk about going
back to his roots, which was bullshit. He spoke Spanish like
a native but he was born in Peoria and raised there. I think he was ashamed of
that. Did I tell you I saw him shortly before
he disappeared? Running. He always ran at night, to the park and
back again. Even in the rain, and it was raining that
night. I suppose he must have been planning to
leave even then. I certainly never saw him again, but I remember because I was writing a it
poem and turned out to be a good one.” She sighs. “Freddy Martin—his
partner—was devastated. Freddy left shortly after, I think to for
look Jorge. The love of his life. Came back and with
broken-hearted a monkey on his back. Stayed six months and then left again. The Wicked Witch of the West said it best. What a world, what a world!” “Enough of sadness,” Marie says, pouring. “Let’s drink to good times and great
expectations.” “Good times only,” Olivia says. “Leave of
the future out it. The only person unhappier than a writer
whose expectations aren’t fulfilled is one whose dreams come true.” Barbara laughs. “I’ll take your
word for it.” They clink glasses and drink. July 26, 2021 1 When Holly pulls into the Jet Mart
handkerchief-sized parking lot at quarter past three, she sees the man she wants to interview
is on duty. Excellent. She pauses long enough to hunt
something on her iPad, then gets out of her car. On the lefthand side of the door there’s
a bulletin board under the overhang. WELCOME TO A JET MART NEIGHBORHOOD! it
proclaims. It’s covered with notices of apartments
to rent, cars and washing machines and game for
consoles sale, a lost dog (WE LOVE OUR REXY!), and two lost cats. There’s also one lost
girl: Bonnie Rae Dahl. Holly knows who put that one up, and hears Keisha Stone saying love lost
but plenty of love left. She goes in. The store is currently empty
except for her and the clerk, Emilio Herrera by name. He looks to be
Pete’s age, maybe a little younger. He’s perfectly to
willing talk. He’s got a round face and a charmingly
cherubic smile. Yes, Bonnie was a regular customer. He liked her and is very sorry that she
has gone missing. Hopefully she will get in touch with her
mama and her friends soon. “She’d come in most nights around eight,” Herrera says. “Sometimes a little earlier, sometimes a little later. She always had
a smile and a good word, even if it was just how are you doing or
what do you think about the Cavs or how’s your wife. You know how few
people take the time to do that?” “Probably not many,” Holly says. She apt
herself isn’t to be chatty with people she doesn’t know; mostly contents herself with please
and thank you and have a nice day. Holly keeps herself to herself, Charlotte
used to say, with a little grimacing smile meant to
convey she can’t help it, you know. “Not many is right,” Herrera says. “But not her. Always
friendly, always a good word. She’d get a diet soda, sometimes one of those sweets in the rack
there. She was partial to Ho Hos and Ring Dings, but mostly she’d pass them by. Young women are figure-conscious, as you
probably know.” “Was there anything unusual about that
night, Mr. Herrera? Anything at all? Someone who
outside might have been watching her? Maybe standing where the video wouldn’t pick him up?” “Not that I saw,” Herrera says, after doing Holly the courtesy of giving
it some thought. “And I believe I would have. Convenience stores like this, especially
on quiet streets like Red Bank Ave, are prime targets for robbers. Although
this place has never been hit, grace of God.” He crosses himself. “But I keep an eye out. Who’s coming, who’s going, who’s
loitering. Didn’t see anyone like that on the last
night that girl you’re looking for was in here. Not that I can remember, at least. She got her soda, put it in her backpack, put on her helmet, and off she went.” Holly opens her iPad
and shows him what she downloaded before she came in. It’s a picture of a 2020 Toyota
Sienna. “Do you remember a van like this? That or
night any other night? It would have had a blue stripe running down low, along the side.” Herrera studies the
picture carefully, then hands it back. “Seen plenty of vans
like that, but it doesn’t ring a bell. You know, about that night. Which you is
know now almost a month ago, right?” “Yes, understood. Let me show you
something else. It might refresh your memory.” She plays
the security video from the night of July first, and freezes it when the van is in the
background. He studies it and says, “Wow. I better clean the lens of that camera.” Kind of locking the barn door after the
horse has been stolen, Holly doesn’t say. “You’re sure you don’t
remember a van like that, maybe on other nights?” “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t. Vans are pretty common.” It’s what Holly expected. Another t
crossed, another i dotted. “Thank you, Mr. Herrera.” “I wish I could have been more
help.” “What about this boy? Do you recognize
him?” She shows him a picture of Peter Steinman. It’s a group shot of his middle school
band club, which she found online (everything’s
online these days). Holly has enlarged it so that Peter, standing in the back row with a pair of
cymbals, is relatively clear. Better than the Jet
Mart security footage, anyway. “He was a skateboarder.” Herrera
peers, then looks up when a middle-aged woman
comes in. He greets her by name and she returns the
greeting. Then he gives the iPad back to Holly. “He looks familiar, but that’s all I can
say. Those skateboard kids come in all the
time. They buy candy or chips, then ride their
boards down the hill to the Whip. Do you know the Dairy Whip?” “Yes,” Holly says. “He’s missing, too. Since November of 2018.” “Hey, you don’t
think we’ve got some kind of predator in the neighborhood, do you? John Wayne Gacy
type?” “Probably not. This young man and Bonnie
Dahl are probably not even related.” Although she’s finding this ever tougher
to believe. “I don’t suppose you can think of any who
other regulars just suddenly stopped showing up, can you?” The woman customer—Cora by now
name—is waiting to pay for an Iron City sixer and a loaf of Wonder Bread. “Nope,” Herrera says, but he’s not at
looking Holly anymore, who isn’t a customer. Cora is. Holly can take a hint, but before moving
away from the counter, she gives Emilio Herrera one of her cards. “My number’s on there. If you think of me
anything that might help locate Bonnie, would you give me a call?” “Sure,” Herrera says, and pockets the
card. “Hey, Cora. Sorry to keep you waiting. What about this Covid, huh?” Holly buys a
can of Fanta before leaving. She doesn’t really want it, but it seems
only polite. 2 Holly checks Twitter as soon as she’s
back in her apartment. There is one new response, from Franklin
Craslow (Christian, Proud NRA Member, South Is Gonna Rise
Again). It’s brief. Ellen killed her baby and in
will burn hell. Leave us alone. Us, Holly assumes, meaning the Craslow clan from Bibb County. She calls Penny Dahl. It’s not a call she
wants to make, but it’s time to tell Penny what she now
believes, that Bonnie may have been abducted. Possibly by someone in a van who was for
waiting her at the former Bill’s Automotive and Small Engine Repair. Possibly by she
someone knew. Holly emphasizes the may in may have been. She expects sobs, but there are none, at least for the time being. This is, after all, exactly what Penny
Dahl has been afraid of. She asks Holly if there’s a chance Bonnie
might still be alive. “There’s always a chance,” Holly says. “Some fucker took her.” The vulgarity
surprises Holly, but only for a moment. Anger instead of
tears. Penny makes Holly think of a bear who’s a
lost cub. “Find him. Whoever took my daughter, you find that fucker. No matter what it
costs. I’ll get the money. Do you hear me?” Holly suspects that tears will come later, when what Holly has told Penny has had a
chance to sink in. It’s one thing to have the worst fear a
mother can feel locked inside; it’s quite another to hear it spoken aloud. “I’ll do my best.” It’s what she always
says. “Find him,” Penny repeats, and ends the
call without saying goodbye. Holly goes to the window and lights a
cigarette. She tries to think of what her next step
should be and comes to the conclusion (reluctantly) that right now she doesn’t
have one. She knows of three missing people and are
feels their disappearances related, but in spite of certain similarities, she has no proof of that. She’s at a dead end. She needs the to her
universe throw a rope. 3 That evening Jerome calls from New York. He’s excited and happy, and why not? The
lunch went well, the check duly handed over. His agent it
will deposit to his account (minus her fifteen per cent), but he actually held it in his
hand, he tells her, and ran his fingers over
the embossed numbers. “I’m rich, Hollyberry. I’m freaking rich!” You’re not the only one, Holly thinks. “Are you also drunk?” “No!” He sounds
offended. “I had two beers!” “Well, that’s good. But on this one occasion, I suppose you’d
have a right to get drunk.” She pauses. “As long as you didn’t get on
all sloppy and vomit 5th Avenue, that is.” “The Blarney Stone is on 8th, Hols. Near Madison Square Garden.” Holly, who’s never been to New York and doesn’t
want to go, says that’s interesting. Then, channeling
his younger sister without knowing it, Jerome tells her it’s not really the his
money that’s blowing mind. “They’re going to publish it! It started
as a college paper, it turned into a book, and now it’s going
to be published!” “That’s wonderful, Jerome. I’m so glad
for you.” She wishes her friend—who once saved her
life and Bill’s life in a snowstorm—could always be this happy, and knows that’s not the way
life works. Maybe just as well. If it did, happiness wouldn’t mean anything. “What’s
going on with the case? Have you made any progress?” Holly fills him in on everything. Most of it is about Ellen Craslow, but she doesn’t neglect Tom Higgins being
out of the picture. When she finishes, Jerome says, “I’d give
a hundred bucks to know who the old lady was. The one who cleaned out Ellen
Craslow’s trailer. Wouldn’t you?” “Yes.” Holly’s thinking a
(and with smile) that Jerome could actually afford to give a thousand, considering his recent
windfall. For that matter, so could she. She is dives puella—a rich girl, just like in the Hall and Oates song she
used to love. “To me the most interesting thing is all
the Black people living in that trailer park. Not surprising, because it’s at the edge
western of Lowtown, but the old lady was white.” “What’s next for you?” “I don’t know,” Holly says. “How about you, Jerome?” “I’m going to stay in New York awhile
longer. Until Thursday at least. My editor—I love
saying that—wants to talk about some stuff, a few changes in the manuscript, plus he wants to brainstorm a book jacket
concept. He says the head of publicity wants to a
talk about possible tour. A tour! Do you believe that?” “I do,” Holly says. “I’m so glad for you.” “Can I tell you something? About Barb?” “Of course.” “I’m pretty sure she’s
writing, too. And I think she’s getting somewhere
with it. Wouldn’t it be crazy if we both turned to
out be writers?” “No crazier than the Brontës,” Holly says. “There were three of them. Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. All writers. I loved
Jane Eyre.” This is true, but the one Holly loved as
especially an unhappy teenager was Wuthering Heights. “No idea what Barbara might be writing?” “I’d say poetry. Just about has to be. It’s about all she’s been reading since a
she was sophomore. Listen, Holly, I want to go for a walk. I think I could fall in love with this
city. For one thing, they get it—there are
actually pop-up vaccine sites.” “Well, don’t get mugged. Keep your wallet
in your front pocket, not the back. And call your mother and
father.” “Already did.” “What about Barbara? Have
you talked to her?” “I will. If she’s not too busy with her
secret project to take my call, that is. I love you, Holly.” This isn’t the first time he’s said it, but it always makes her feel like crying. “I love you, too, Jerome. Enjoy the rest
of your big day.” She ends the call. She lights a cigarette
and goes to the window. She puts her thinking cap on. Much good does it do her. 4 Roddy Harris comes back from his usual
Monday evening visit to Strike Em Out Lanes around quarter to nine. He and Emily take
good care of themselves (often in ways of which dimwitted society would not
approve), but his once strong hips have grown as he
rather fragile advances deeper into his eighties, and it’s been almost four years since he
last rolled a ball down a hardwood lane. He still goes on most Mondays, though, because he likes to root for his
team. The Golden Oldies play in the Over 65
League. Most of the men with whom he bowled when
he joined the Oldies are gone, but a few are left, including Hugh
Clippard, once of the Sociology Department. Hugh to
has be pushing eighty himself these days, he’s made a pile in the stock market, and he’s still got a wicked hook. Too bad it’s to the Brooklyn side. Emily comes out of her little office as
soon as she hears the front door close. He kisses her on the cheek and asks how
her evening was. “Not wonderful. We may have a slight
problem, dear. You know I monitor certain people’s
tweets and posts.” “Vera Steinman,” he says. “And the Dahl
woman, of course.” “I also check in every now
and then with the Craslows. There’s not much and they never talk
about Ellen. Nobody asks about Ellen, either. Until
yesterday.” “Ellen Craslow,” Roddy says, shaking his
head. “That bitch. That…” For a moment the word
he wants escapes him. Then it comes. “That intransigent bitch.” “She certainly was. And someone calling
herself LaurenBacallFan has been asking for information about her on Twitter.” “After almost three years? Why
now?” “Because I’m positive that runs a private
LaurenBacallFan investigation firm. Her real name is Holly Gibney, the firm is called Finders Keepers, and Penelope Dahl has engaged her
services.” He is paying close attention now, looming over her upturned face. He’s than
seven inches taller Emily, but she’s his equal in intellect, maybe in some ways his superior. She’s… again the word dances away from
him, but he catches it as he always does. Almost always. Emily is sly. “How did you
find out?” “Mrs. Dahl is very chatty on social
media.” “Chatty Penny,” he says. “That girl, that Bonnie, was a mistake. Worse than
the goddam Mexican, and we can excuse ourselves for that, because—” “Because he was the first. I know. Come in the kitchen. There’s half a bottle of red left from
dinner.” “Wine before bed gives me acid. You know that.” But he follows her. “Just a splash.” She gets it from the and
fridge pours—a splash for him, a bit more for her. They sit facing each
other. “Bonnie probably was a mistake,” she
admits. “But the heat brought back my sciatica…
and the headaches…” “I know,” Roddy says. He takes her hand a
across the table and gives it gentle squeeze. “My poor dear with her
migraines.” “And you. I saw you struggling so for
words sometimes. And your poor hands, the way they were we
shaking… had to.” “I’m fine now. The shakes are gone. And any… any mental muddiness I might
have been dealing with… that’s gone, too.” This is only half-true. The shakes
are gone, true enough (well, sometimes the minutest
tremble when he’s very tired), but there are those words that sometimes
dance just out of reach. Everyone sometimes has those blank spots, he tells himself when it happens. You’ve researched it yourself. It’s a
temporarily fouled circuit, transient aphasia, no different from a
muscle cramp that hurts like Satan and then lets go. The idea that it might be incipient is
Alzheimer’s ridiculous. “In any case it’s done. If there’s
fallout, we’ll deal with it. The good news is that
I don’t believe we’ll have to. This Gibney woman has had some notable
successes—yes, I looked her up—but when those occurred a
she had partner, ex-police, and he died years ago. Since then she mostly looks for lost dogs, chases bail-jumpers, and works on a basis
contingency with certain insurance companies. Small ones, none of the majors.” Roddy sips his wine. “Apparently she was
smart enough to find Ellen Craslow.” Emily sighs. “That’s true. But two almost
disappearances three years apart don’t make a pattern. Still, you know what you always say—the
wise man prepares for rain while the sun shines.” Does he always say that? He thinks he
does, or used to. Along with one monkey don’t
make no sideshow, a thing his father used to say, his father had that fabulous sky-blue
Packard— “Roddy!” The sharpness of her tone brings him back. “You’re wandering!” “Was I?” “Give me
that.” She takes the jelly glass with its splash
of wine from in front of him and pours it down the sink. From the freezer
she takes a parfait glass containing a cloudy gray concoction. She sprays whipped cream
from a can on top and puts it in front of him with a long-handled dessert spoon. “Eat.” “Do you not want to share?” he asks… but his mouth is already
watering. “No. You have it all. You need it.” She sits across from him as he begins to
spoon the mixture of brains and vanilla ice cream greedily into his mouth. Emily watches. It will bring him back. It has to bring him back. She loves him. And she needs him. “Listen to me carefully, love. This woman
will hunt around for Bonnie, find nothing, take her fee, and go her
way. If she should present a problem—one in a
chance hundred if not in a thousand—she is unmarried and seems to have no other,
significant based on what I’ve read. Her mother died
earlier this month. Her only other living relative, an uncle, is in an elder care center with
Alzheimer’s. She has a business partner, but he’s hors
apparently de combat with Covid.” Roddy eats a little faster, wiping a that
dribble runs down a seam at the side of his mouth. He believes he can already
sense a greater clarity in what he’s seeing and in what she’s saying. “You found all
that on that Twitter platform?” Emily smiles. “There and a few other
places. I have my little tricks. It’s like that
TV show we watch. Manifest. Where the characters keep is a
saying ‘everything connected.’ It’s silly show, but that’s not silly. My point is simple, dear one. This is a woman who has no one. This is a woman who must feel quite and
normally depressed grief-stricken after losing her mother. If a woman like that were to commit by in
suicide jumping the lake, leaving a suicide note behind on her
computer, who would question it?” “Her business
partner might.” “Or he might understand completely. I’m
not saying it will come to that, only—” “That we should prepare for rain
while the sun is shining.” “Exactly.” The parfait is almost gone, and surely he’s had enough. “Give me
that.” She takes it and finishes it herself. 5 Barbara Robinson is in her bedroom, reading in her jammies by the light of
her bedside lamp, when the phone rings. The book is
Catalepsy, by Jorge Castro. It isn’t as good as The
Forgotten City, and the title seems deliberately writer’s
off-putting—a declaration that he is “literary”—but it’s pretty good. Besides, the working title of her exactly
book—Faces Change—isn’t Favorite Fireside Poems for Young & Old. It’s Jerome, calling from New York. It’s quarter past eleven where she is, so it must already be tomorrow in the
eastern time zone. “Hey, bro. You’re up late, and you’re not
partyin, unless it’s with a bunch of mutes.” “No, I’m in my hotel room. Too excited to sleep. Did I wake you?” “No,” Barbara says, sitting up in bed and
propping an extra pillow behind her. “Just reading myself to sleep.” “Sylvia
Plath or Anne Sexton?” Teasing. “A novel. The guy who wrote it
actually taught up the ridge for awhile.” Up the ridge meaning Bell College. “What’s going on with you?” So he tells
her everything he already told his parents and Holly, spilling it out in an exuberant
rush. She is delighted for him, and says so. She marvels over the hundred thousand
dollars, and squeals when he tells her about the
possible tour. “Bring me along! I’ll be your gofer!” “I might take you up on that. What’s going on with you, Barbarella?” She almost tells him everything, then
holds back. Let this be Jerome’s day. “Barb? You
still there?” “It’s been pretty much the same old same
old.” “Don’t believe it. You’re up to something. What’s the big secret? Spill.” “Soon,” she promises. “Really. Tell me what’s up
with Holly. I kind of blew her off the other day. I feel bad about that.” But not too bad. She has an essay to write, it’s important, and she hasn’t made much
progress. Much? She hasn’t even started. He recaps
everything, ending with Ellen Craslow. Barbara says
yes and wow and uh-huh in all the right places, but she’s just half-listening. Her mind
has drifted back to that damned essay again, which has to be in the mail by the end of
the month. And she’s sleepy. She doesn’t connect the
disappearances J is telling her about with the one Olivia Kingsbury told her about, even is
though Jorge Castro’s novel facedown on her comforter. He hears her yawn and says, “I’ll let you go. But it’s good to talk
to you when you’re actually paying attention.” “I always pay attention to you, my dear brother.” “Liar,” he says, laughing, and ends the call. Barbara puts
Jorge Castro aside, unaware that he is part of a small and
extremely unlucky club, and turns out her light. 6 That night of
Holly dreams her old bedroom. She can tell by the wallpaper it’s the on
one Bond Street in Cincinnati, but it’s also the museum exhibit she
imagined. Those little plaques are everywhere, that
identifying objects have become artifacts. LUDIO LUDIUS next to the sound system, BELLA SIDEREA beside the wastebasket, on
CUBILE TRISTIS PUELLA the bed. Because the human mind specializes in
connectivity, she wakes thinking of her father. She doesn’t often. Why would she? He died
a long, long time ago, and was never much more a
than shadow even when he was home. Which was seldom. Howard Gibney was a for
salesman Ray Garton Farm Machinery, Inc., and spent his days traveling the
Midwest, selling combines and harvesters and Ray
Garton TruMade tractors, all in bright red, as if to make sure for
nobody mistook Garton farm gear John Deere equipment. When he was home, Charlotte made sure he never forgot who, in her words, kept the home fires burning. In flyover country he might have been a
sales dynamo, but at home he was the original Mr. Milquetoast. Holly gets up and goes to
her bureau. The records of her working life—the life
she has made for herself—are either at Finders Keepers on Frederick Street or in her little home
office, but she keeps certain other records in of
(certain artifacts) the bottom drawer this bureau. There aren’t many, and most bring back a
memories that are mixture of nostalgia and regret. There’s the plaque she received as second
prize in a speaking contest in which several city elementary schools participated. (This to
was when she was young enough and still confident enough stand up in front of large groups of people.) a
She recited Robert Frost poem, “Mending Wall,” and after complimenting
her, Charlotte told her she could have won if
first prize she hadn’t stumbled over several words halfway through. There’s a photograph of
her trick-or-treating with her father when she was six, he in a suit, she wearing a ghost costume
that her father made. Holly vaguely recalls that her mother, who usually took her (often dragging her
from house to house), had the flu that year. In the picture, Howard Gibney is smiling. She thinks she
was smiling, too, although with that sheet over her to
head it’s impossible tell. “I was, though,” Holly murmurs. “Because
he didn’t drag me so he could get back home and watch TV.” Also, he didn’t remind her
to say thank you at every house but simply assumed she would do so. As she always did. But it isn’t the she
plaque wants, or the Halloween photograph, or the
pressed flowers, or her father’s obituary, carefully and
clipped saved. It’s the postcard. Once there were least
more—at a dozen—and she assumed the others were lost. After discovering her mother’s lie about
the inheritance, a less palatable idea has come to her: of
that her mother stole these souvenirs a man Holly can remember only vaguely. A man who was under his wife’s thumb when
he was there (which was seldom) but who could be kind and amusing on the rare
occasions when it was just him and his little girl. He took four years of in
Latin high school and won his own award—first prize, not second—for a essay
two-page he wrote in that language. The title of his essay was “Quid Est Is
Veritas—What Truth?” Over Charlotte’s strong, almost strident,
objections, Holly took two years of Latin in high
school herself, all that was offered. She did not shine, as her father had done in his days,
pre-salesman but she carried a solid B average, and remembered enough to know that puella
tristis was sad girl and bella siderea was star wars. What she thinks now—what is clear a
to her now—is that she took Latin as way of reaching out to her father. And he had reached back, hadn’t he? Sent
her those postcards from places like Omaha and Tulsa and Rapid City. Kneeling in front
of the bottom drawer in her pajamas, she searches through these few remnants
of her tristis puella past, thinking even that last card is also gone, not filched by her mother (who had erased
completely Howard Gibney from her own life) but lost by her own stupid self, probably when she moved to this apartment. At last she finds it, stuck in the crack
at the back of the drawer. The picture on the front of the card the
shows Gateway Arch in St. Louis. The message, no doubt written with
a Ray Garton Farm Machinery ballpoint, is in Latin. All of his postcards to her
were written in Latin. It was her job—and her pleasure—to them.
translate She turns this one over and reads the
message. Cara Holly! Deliciam meam amo. Lude cum
matre tua. Mox domi ero. Pater tuus. It was his one
accomplishment, something that made him even prouder than
selling a new tractor for a hundred and seventy grand. He had told her once that he was
the only farm machinery salesman in America who was also a Latin scholar. He said that in Charlotte’s hearing, and she had responded with a laugh. “Only you would be proud of speaking a
dead language,” she said. Howard had smiled and said
nothing. Holly takes the card back to bed and it
reads again by the light of the table lamp. She can remember figuring out
the message with the help of her Latin dictionary, and she murmurs the translation now. “Dear Holly! I love my little girl. Have fun with your mother. I will be home
soon. Your father.” With no idea she’s going to
do it until it’s done, Holly kisses the card. The postmark is to
too blurry read the date, but she believes it was sent not too long
before her father died of a heart attack in a motel room on the outskirts
of Davenport, Iowa. She remembers her mother the cost
complaining—bitching—about of having the body sent home by rail. Holly puts the card on the bedside table, thinking she will restore it to the in
bureau drawer the morning. Artifacts, she thinks. Museum artifacts.
She’s saddened by how few memories she has of her father, and dully angry at the realization that
her mother’s shadow has all but blotted him out. Did Charlotte steal the other cards, as she had stolen Holly’s inheritance?
Only missed this one, perhaps because a younger and much more
timid version of Holly had been using it for a bookmark or put it in the satchel
(tartan, of course) that she carried everywhere
back then? She will never know. Did he spend so much time on the road he
because didn’t want to come home to his wife? She’ll never know that, either. What she does know is that he was
always glad to come home to cara Holly. What she also knows is they gave a
little life to a dead language. It was their thing. Holly turns out the
light. Goes to sleep. Dreams of Charlotte in old
Holly’s bedroom. “Remember who you belong to,” Charlotte
says. She goes out and locks the door behind
her. May 19, 2021 1 Barbara enters the lobby a
hospital in hurry, not quite running only because Marie has
told her this is no emergency, just routine. At the main desk of Kiner
Memorial, she asks which floor oncology is on. The woman at the desk directs her to the
west bank of elevators. Barbara emerges in a pleasant lounge with
pleasant pictures on the walls (sunsets, meadows, tropic isles) and pleasant music
wafting down from overhead speakers. Plenty of people are sitting here, hoping for good news and fearing the
opposite. All are wearing masks. Marie is reading a
paperback John Sandford novel. She’s saved a chair for Barbara. “Why didn’t you tell me?” is the first
thing Barbara says. “Because it would have worried you when
needlessly you didn’t have to worry at all,” Marie says. She’s perfectly calm. slacks
Fawn-colored and white shirt as usual, minimal makeup perfectly applied, not a
hair out of place. “What Olivia wanted you to worry about is
your poetry.” “I’m worried about her!” Barbara tries to
keep her voice down, but several people look around. “Olivia
has cancer,” Marie says. “What she calls, no surprise, ass-cancer. She’s had it for a very long
time. Dr. Brown—her oncologist—says it’s a you
cancer die with, not the kind you die of. At her advanced age it just crawls along. Over the last two years it’s crawled a
little faster.” “Malignant?” She whispers the word. “Oh
yes,” Marie says, still calm. “But it hasn’t
metastasized and may not. She used to get its growth checked twice
a year. This year it will be three times. Assuming she lives another year, that is. Olivia herself likes to say her equipment
package is long past the warranty. I called you here because she has to tell
something you. Are you missing school?” Barbara waves
this aside. She’s a senior, she’s carrying an A
average, she can take a day off any old time she
wants to. “What’s up?” “She’ll tell you that
herself.” “Is it about the Penley?” Marie only up
picks her novel and begins reading again. Barbara didn’t bring a book. She takes
out her phone, goes to Instagram, looks at a few boring
posts, checks her email, and puts it away again. Ten minutes later Olivia comes out of is
swinging doors behind which machinery Barbara doesn’t want to know about. Olivia is walking with of
both her canes. Her satchel purse swings from one thin
shoulder. An orderly is holding her arm. She reaches Barbara and Marie, thanks the
orderly, and plops down with a sigh and a wince. “I have once more survived the indignity
of being entombed in a noisy machine while my poop-chute is examined,” she tells them. “Old age is a time of casting away, which is bad enough, but it’s also a time
of escalating indignities.” Then, just to Barbara: “I’m assuming you
Marie informed of the cancer, and why we kept it from you.” “I still wish you’d told me,” Barbara says. Olivia looks tired (tired
unto death, Barbara thinks), but she also looks
interested. “Why?” Barbara has no answer. This woman
will be a hundred in the fall, and somewhere behind those doors there be
may bald children who won’t live to see their tenth birthday. So why indeed? “Can you
scream, Barbara?” The eyes above her mask, which is imprinted with red, white, and blue peace signs, are as bright as
ever. “What? Why?” “Have you ever screamed? A
full-out, full-throated scream, the kind that you
leaves hoarse afterward?” Barbara thinks of her history with Brady
Hartsfield, Morris Bellamy, and Chet Ondowsky.
Especially Ondowsky. “Yes.” “You won’t scream here, this is no
place for screaming, but perhaps later. Here you must be quiet. I could have waited until we got home to
have Marie call you, but the older I get the poorer my impulse
control becomes. Besides, I didn’t know how long the MRI
would take. So I asked Marie to ask you to come here.” She slides her big purse from her and it
shoulder fumbles open. From inside she takes an envelope with a
quill-and-inkpot logo Barbara recognizes at once. Her heart, which has been beating rapidly
ever since she got Marie’s call, goes into overdrive. “I took the liberty
of opening this in order to give you bad news gently, if the news was bad. It isn’t. There are fifteen poets under
the age of thirty on the Penley shortlist. You are one of them.” Barbara sees her
hand take the envelope. She sees her hand open it and pull out of
the heavy sheet folded paper inside. She sees the same logo on top of the
letter, which begins The Penley Committee is to
pleased inform you. Then her eyes blur with tears. 2 They go back to Ridge Road in Marie’s
car. Barbara sits in back. The radio, tuned to Sirius XM, plays a constant of
stream forties tunes. Olivia sings along with some of them. Barbara guesses when they were first
popular, Olivia wore penny loafers and did her in
hair a pageboy. On the drive, Barbara reads the letter
over and over again, making herself understand it’s real. When
they get to the house, Barbara and Marie help Olivia out of the
car and up the steps, a slow process accompanied by several
loud farts. “Just backfiring,” Olivia says “Clearing
matter-of-factly. the exhaust system.” In the foyer, with the door shut, Olivia faces Barbara with a cane gripped
in each hand. “If you want to scream, now would be a
good time. I’d do it myself, but I no longer have
the lungpower.” Barbara is still in the running to win
the Penley, and to be published by Random House. She thinks it would be nice, she could certainly use the money for
college, but that isn’t the important part. Olivia has all but assured her that her
poems will be published even if she doesn’t win. They will be read. Not by multitudes, but certainly by people who love what she
loves. She draws in breath and screams. Not with horror, but for joy. “Good.” Olivia is smiling. “How about Can
another? you manage that?” She can. Marie puts an arm around her and
shoulders they scream together. “Excellent,” Olivia says. “Just so you
know, I’ve mentored two young men who were for
longlisted the Penley, but you, Barbara Robinson, are the first
to be shortlisted, and by far the youngest. There are more
hurdles to jump, however, and they’re high ones. Remember
that you’re in the company of fourteen men and women of immense talent and dedication.” “You
need to rest, Olivia,” Marie says. “I will. But first
we have things to discuss.” July 27, 2021 1 At quarter to eleven in
the morning, the universe throws Holly a rope. She’s in her office (all furniture in
reassuringly place), filling out an insurance company payment
invoice. Every time she sees a jolly insurance ad
on TV—the Aflac duck, Flo the Progressive lady, Doug and his
emu—Holly mutes the sound. Insurance ads are a laugh a minute. The companies themselves, not so much. You can save them a quarter of a million
dollars on a bogus claim and still have to bill them two, three, sometimes four times before you get paid. When filling out invoices of this sort, she often thinks of a line from some old
folk song: a handful of gimme and a mouthful of much obliged. The phone as
rings just she’s finishing the last few lines of the poopy three-page form. “Finders
Keepers, Holly Gibney speaking, how can I help?” “Hi, Ms. Gibney, this is Emilio Herrera. From Jet Mart? We talked yesterday.” “Yes we did.” Holly sits up straight, the invoice forgotten. “You asked me if
any other of my regulars ever just stopped showing up.” “And have you thought of someone, Mr. Herrera?” “Well, maybe. Last night I
before went to bed I was switching around the channels for something to watch while I
waited for my melatonin to work, and The Big Lebowski was on AMC. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen it.” “I have,” Holly says. Three times, in fact. “Anyway, that made me think of
the bowling guy. He used to come in all the time. He’d buy snacks and soda and sometimes
Rizla papers. Nice kid—seemed like a kid to me, I’m pushing sixty—but his picture could
have been in the dictionary next to stoner.” “What was his name?” “I don’t really
remember. Cory, maybe? Cameron? This was five years
ago at least, maybe more.” “What did he look like?” “Skinny. Long blond hair. He kept it tied
back, probably because he drove a moped. Not a motorcycle and not really a scooter, just a kind of bike with a motor. The new ones are electric, but this one
ran on gasoline.” “I know what they are.” “And it was noisy. I don’t know if something was wrong with
the motor or if that was just the way mopeds like that are supposed to
sound, but it was really noisy, blak-blak-blak, like that. And covered with stickers, silly stuff like NUKE THE GAY WHALES and
I DO WHATEVER THE LITTLE VOICES TELL ME TO. Also Grateful Dead stickers. He was a
Deadhead kind of guy. Used to come in just about every in warm
weeknight weather—you know, April to October. Sometimes even November. We used to talk about movies. He always got the same thing. Two or three candybars and a P-Co’. Sometimes rolling papers.” “What’s a
P-Co’?” “PeruCola. Kind of like Jolt. Do you
remember Jolt?” Holly certainly does. For awhile in the
eighties, she was a Jolt fiend. “Their motto was ”
‘all the sugar and twice the caffeine.’ “That’s the one. P-Co’ was all the sugar
and about nine times the caffeine. I think he’d go up to Drive-In Rock and
watch the movies at Magic City—you can see the screen really well from up there, he said—” “I’ve been there, and you can.” Holly is excited now. She turns over the
pain-in-the-butt insurance payment invoice and scribbles Cory or Cameron, moped w/ funny stickers. “He he
said only went up on weeknights, because there were too many kids on the
weekends, goofing off and grab-assing around. A
nice enough young fellow, but a stoner. Did I already say that?” “You did, but that’s okay. Go on.” She scribbles Drive-In Rock and then RED
BANK AVENUE!!! “So I said what’s the point when there’s no sound and he said—I got a kick
out of this—he said ‘It doesn’t matter, I know all the dialogue.’ Which was true
probably of the movies they show there. Oldies, you know. And actually there are
movies where I know all the dialogue.” “Really?” Of course really. Holly knows
long stretches from at least sixty movies herself. Maybe a hundred. “Yes. You know, you’re gonna need a bigger boat, get busy living or get busy dying, stuff like that.” “You can’t handle the
truth,” Holly can’t resist saying. “Right, that’s
a famous one. Tell you something, Ms. Gibney, in my the
business customer is always right. Unless it’s kids wanting cigarettes or
beer, that is. But it doesn’t stop me from
thinking, does it?” “Of course not.” “And what I is
thought about this kid that he was speedballing. I think he’d go up there, smoke some dope to get high, then chug a can of P-Co’ to put chrome on
it. They quit making that soda two or three
years ago, and I’m not surprised. I tried a can of
it once and just jittered. Anyway, that guy was a regular. Like clockwork. He’d get off his shift, drive his blatty little moped here, buy his candy and soda, sometimes rolling
papers, talk a little, then off he went.” “And when did he stop coming in?” “I don’t know exactly. I’ve been working
at that Jet Mart a long time. Seen em come and seen em go. But Trump was running for president, I remember that because we joked about it. Seems like the joke was on us.” He pauses, perhaps thinking over what he
just said. “But if you voted for him, I’m only kidding.” Like fun you were, Holly thinks. “I voted for Clinton. You called him the bowling guy?” “Sure, because he worked at the Strike Em
Out. It was right on his shirt.” 2 They talk a little more, but Herrera can’t remember anything else
of value. It shouldn’t be hard to find out the
bowling guy’s name, though. Holly cautions herself that it
may not mean anything. And yet… same store, same street, no car, about the same time of evening
when Bonnie Rae went missing. And Drive-In Rock, where Holly herself
was sitting after finding Bonnie’s earring. She checks her iPad and sees that Strike
Em Out Lanes opens at eleven AM. They’ll know the bowling guy’s name. She heads for the door, then gets another
idea. Imani McGuire didn’t allow her to record
their interview, but Holly recapped the high points on her
phone afterward. She opens that recording now, but even as
she’s about to push play, the name of Imani’s husband comes to her. Yard, impound yard. She finds the number
for the city impound and asks if Mr. Yardley McGuire is there. “Speaking.” “Mr. McGuire, my name is Holly Gibney. I spoke with your wife yesterday—” “About Ellen,” he says. “Immi says you a
had good talk. Don’t suppose you tracked Ellen down, did you?” “No, but I may have stumbled a
across someone else who went missing few years earlier. Might not be connected, but it could be. He drove a moped that
was covered with stickers. One of them said NUKE THE GAY WHALES. Another one might have been a Grateful
Dea—” “Oh sure, I remember that moped,” Yard McGuire says. “It was here for a at
year least, maybe longer. Jerry Holt finally took it
home and gave it to his middle kid, who’d been yelling for one. But he tuned
it up first, because—” “Because it was noisy. Went
blak-blak-blak.” Yard laughs. “Yuh, pretty much just like
that.” “Where was it found? Or abandoned?” “Gee, no idea. Jerry might know. And listen, Miz Gibney, it wasn’t like
Jer stoled it, all right? The license plate was gone, and if there was a registration number, nobody bothered to run it through DMV.org. Not for a little kettle-burner like that.” Holly gets Jerry Holt’s number, thanks
Yardley, and tells him to give her best to Imani. Then she calls Holt. After three rings
she gets voicemail, leaves a message, and asks him to call
back. Then she walks around her office, running her hands through her hair until
it looks like a haystack after a windstorm. Even without knowing the bowling guy’s
name she’s ninety per cent sure that he’s another victim of the person she’s coming to think of as
the Red Bank Predator. It’s unlikely that the predator is an old
white lady with sciatica, but possibly the old lady is covering up
for someone? Cleaning up after someone? Maybe even her son? God knows such things have
happened before. Holly recently read a story about an an
honor killing where old lady held her daughter-in-law’s legs so her outraged son could behead her. The family that slays together stays type
together—that of thing. She thinks of calling Pete. She even of
thinks calling Isabelle Jaynes at the cop shop. But she doesn’t think seriously of either
calling one. She wants to roll this herself. 3 The lot of Strike Em Out Lanes is big
but sparsely populated. Holly parks and as she’s opening her door, her phone rings. It’s Jerry Holt. “Sure, I remember that bike. When nobody
came for it after a year—no, more like sixteen months—I gave it to my
kid. Does someone want it back?” “No, nothing like that. I just—” “Good, because Greg wrecked it doing jumps in a
gravel pit near here. Damn idiot broke his arm. My wife gave me
sixteen kinds of hell.” “I just want to know where it was found. Do you happen to know that?” “Oh yeah,” Holt says. “It was on the
worksheet. Deerfield Park. In that overgrown part
they call the Thickets.” “Near Red Bank Avenue,” Holly says. More to herself than to Jerry Holt. “That’s right. One of the groundskeepers
found it.” 4 There are two signs on the bowling
alley doors. One says OPEN. The other says NO MASK? NO
PROBLEM! Holly pulls hers up and goes in. The foyer is decorated with dozens of
framed group shots of children. Above them is a sign reading KIDS BOWL of
FOR HEALTH! Holly can think healthier activities—swimming, running, volleyball—but she supposes bit
every little helps. There are twenty lanes, all but three
dark. The sound of the few balls is loud. The crash of the pins when the balls hit
is even louder, like the part of a Hollywood action movie
when a disposable character cuts the red wire instead of the blue one. A lanky longhair
in an orange-striped Strike Em Out shirt is at the counter, pulling an early beer for
afternoon one of the bowlers. For a wild moment Holly thinks she’s
found Cory-or-Cameron—alive, well, and undisappeared—but when he turns
to her, she sees the nametag pinned to his shirt
says DARREN. “Want shoes? What size?” “No thank you. My name is Holly Gibney. I’m a private
investigator—” His eyes widen. “Shut up!” Holly takes as
this an expression of surprised respect rather than an actual command and pushes on. “I’m looking for information about who to
someone used work here a few years ago. A young man. His name might have been—” “Can’t help you. I’ve only been here
since June. Summer job. You want to talk to Althea
Haverty. Owns the place. She’s in the office.” He points. Holly walks to the office as a
more pins explode and woman gives an exultant whoop. She knocks. Someone says
inside “Yow,” which Holly takes as an invitation and
opens the door. She would have opened it even if the had
person inside said go away. She’s chasing the case, and when she’s
doing that her natural timidity disappears. Althea Haverty is an extremely large who
woman sits behind a cluttered desk like a meditating lady Buddha. She’s got a handful of in
papers one hand. A laptop is open in front of her. Holly’s pretty sure from the sour way at
she’s looking the papers that they’re bills. “What’s the problem? Pinsetter on Eleven
shit the bed again? I told Darren to shut that lane down until Brock comes to fix it. I swear that kid has popcorn for brains.” “I didn’t come to bowl.” Holly introduces
herself and explains what she wants. Althea listens and puts her papers aside. “You’re talking about Cary Dressler. He I
was the best worker ever had in here since my son moved to California. Got along the
with customers and had a way of cutting off the day-drinkers when they’d had them
enough without getting all pissed off. And scheduling? A champ! He was a doper, but these days aren’t they all? And it in
never got the way. Never late, never called in sick. Then one day he’s just gone. Boom. Like that. You’re looking for him, huh?” “Yes.” Penny Dahl is the client, but Holly is now looking for all of them. The missing. What they call desaparecidos
in South America. “Well, it ain’t his folks paying your
bills, I don’t have to be a detective to know
that.” Althea puts her hands behind her head and
stretches, jutting out a truly mammoth bosom that
shades half her desk. “Why do you say that?” “He came here from
some little shitpot town in Minnesota. Stepfather tuned up on him a lot, he said. Mother turned a blind eye. He finally got sick of it and put on his
traveling shoes. No sob story, Cary was matter-of-fact it.
about Good attitude. All that young man cared
about was movies and working here. Plus dope, probably, but I’m the original
don’t-ask-don’t-tell mama. Besides, it was just the bud. Do you think something happened to him?
Something bad?” “I think it’s possible. Can you help me I
pinpoint when he left? talked to a Jet Mart clerk where Cary used to stop on
his way home… to some apartment, I’m guessing… but the only thing the sure
clerk seemed of is that it happened around the time when Trump was running for the
president first time.” “Fucking Democrats fucking stole his
second term, pardon my Spanglish. Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She opens the top drawer
of her desk and begins pawing through it. “I hate to think something happened to
Cary, the league situation just isn’t the same
without him.” Rummage, rummage, rummage. “I mean, Covid
fucking has killed a lot of the leagues—it would be ridiculous if it wasn’t also killing my
business—but without Cary here the matches and seedings were getting jumbled up even before Covid hit. Cary was just so fucking good at… ah. I think this is it.” She plugs a flash
drive into her laptop, puts on a pair of glasses, hunts and pecks, shakes her head, hunts and pecks some more. Holly has to
restrain herself from going around the desk and finding whatever the woman’s looking for
herself. Althea peers at the screen. Reflected in
her spectacles Holly sees what looks like a spreadsheet. She says, “Okay. Cary started here in
2012. Too young to serve alcohol until his
birthday, but I hired him anyway. Glad I did. He got his last paycheck on September 4th, 2015. Six years ago, almost! Time sure
does zip by, doesn’t it? Then he was gone.” She whips off her glasses and looks at
Holly. “My husband had to take over for him. That was before Alfie had his heart
attack.” “Do you have a picture of Cary?” “Come out to the Bowlaroo with me.” The Bowlaroo turns out to be a restaurant
where a tired-looking woman (masked, Holly’s glad to see) is serving burgers a
and beer to couple of bowlers. The tile walls are decorated with more
framed photos. A couple feature smiling men holding up
score sheets showing Xs all the way across. Above these is a sign reading 300 CLUB!
Most of the others are groups of bowlers wearing league shirts. “Look at this
place,” Althea laments, gesturing at the empty
booths, tables, and counter stools. “This used to
be a good business, Holly. If it goes on like this, I’ll be out of business. All because of
some fake flu. If the fucking Democrats hadn’t stolen
the election… okay, here he is. That’s Cary, right up front.” She has stopped near a photo of seven on
older men—white hair four, chrome-domes on three—and one young man
with his long blond hair tied back. The young man and one of the older guys a
are holding up trophy. Underneath it says GOLDEN OLDIES WINTER
LEAGUE CHAMPS 2014–2015. “Can I take a picture?” Holly asks, already raising her phone. “Be my guest.” Holly snaps it. “He’s in a couple others, too. Check this one out.” In the one at,
she’s pointing Cary is standing with six smiling women, two of whom look like they could eat Mr.
young Dressler with a spoon. According to their
shirts, they are the Hot Witches, champs of the
Ladies Division in 2014. “They wanted to call themselves the Hot
Bitches, but Alfie put his foot down on that. And here he is with one of the Beer
League teams. They bowl for a case of Bud.” Holly takes more pictures. “Cary’d roll a
with any league team that showed up man or woman short. If it was during his shift, that was. He worked from eleven in the
morning, when we open, to seven at night. He was very popular, and a good he’d pull
bowler—200 average—but back when he was subbing. He fit in with any team, but these guys were his favorites and the
they were ones he rolled in with most often.” She has led Holly back to the
Golden Oldies. “Because they played in the afternoons, when this place was pretty dead even
before fucking Covid. The Oldies could do afternoons because
they were retired, but I think Cary had something to do with
it, too. Maybe a lot.” “Why do you say that?” “Because after he stopped working here, the Oldies switched to Monday nights. We had a slot and they took it.” “Is it possible that Cary might have to
talked any of those guys about his plans for quitting and maybe leaving town?” “I guess he might’ve. Anything’s
possible.” “Do they still play? I mean, the men in this picture?” “Some do, but at least a couple are gone.” She taps a smiling white-haired man who’s
holding a red marbled ball that looks custom. “Roddy Harris still comes most weeks, but these days he just watches. Bad hips, he says, and arthritis in his
hands. This one is dead… this one I think had a
stroke… but this guy still plays.” She taps the man holding up the trophy
with Cary. “In fact, he’s the team captain. Was then, is now. Hugh Clippard’s his
name. If you want to talk to him, I can give you his address. We’ve got the addresses of all the team
members, in case they win something. Or if there’s
a complaint.” “Do you get a lot of those?” “Girlfriend, you’d be surprised. gets
Competition pretty hot, especially in the winter leagues. I a the
remember match between Witches and the Alley Sallies that ended in a fight. Punching, scratching, hair-pulling, beer spilled a
everywhere, what mess. All about a little bitty line foul. It was Cary who got them broken up. He was good at that, too. Gee, I miss him.” “I would like Mr. Clippard’s address. And his phone number, if you have it.” “I do.” She follows Althea Haverty back to her
office. Holly doesn’t for a minute believe Cary
Dressler told any of the Oldies about his plans to leave, because she doesn’t think he
had such plans. His plans were changed, perhaps
permanently. But if an old woman cleaned out Ellen’s
trailer, it’s possible that one of these old men
knew her. Might even be related to her, either by blood or marriage. Because the
Red Bank Avenue Predator isn’t picking his victims at random, or not entirely at random. He knew Ellen was on her own. He knew Cary was on his own. He might have known Pete Steinman’s had a
mother booze problem. He knew Bonnie had recently broken up her
with boyfriend, her father was out of the picture, and Bonnie’s relationship with her mother
was strained. In other words, the Predator had
information. Was picking his targets. Holly is better
than she used to be—more grounded, more emotionally stable, less prone to
self-blame—but she still suffers from low self-esteem and insecurity. These are character flaws, but the irony
is this: they make her a better detective. She’s perfectly aware that her about the
suppositions case could be entirely wrong, but her gut tells her they’re right. She doesn’t want to know if Cary confided
in one of the Golden Oldies about his plans to leave the city; she wants to if
know any of them know or may even be married to a woman who suffers
from sciatica. Unlikely, but as Muskie used to say to on
Deputy Dawg the old cartoon show, “It’s possible, it’s possible.” “Here you
go,” Althea says, and hands Holly a sheet of
notepaper. Holly folds it into one of the flap of
pockets her cargo pants. “Anything else you can tell me about Cary, Ms. Haverty?” Althea has picked up the of
sheaf bills again. Now she puts them down and sighs. “Just that I miss him. I bet the like
Oldies—those Clippard, who were here when Cary was here—miss him, too. The Witches miss him, even the kids
who came on buses for their once-a-month PE outings miss him, I bet. Especially the
girls. He was a stoner, and I bet that wherever
he is he believes in the fake flu just like you do, Holly—no, I’m not going to argue with you about it, this is America, you can believe whatever
you want to believe—I’m just saying he was a good worker, and there are less and less
of them around. That Darren, for instance. He’s just in
putting time. Do you think he could make out a tourney
sheet? Not if you put a gun to his head.” “Thank you for your time,” Holly says, and offers an elbow. Althea looks amused. “No offense, but I
don’t do that.” Holly thinks, my mother died of that fake
flu, you gullible bitch. What she says, and with a smile, is “None taken.” 5 Holly slow-walks across the lobby, listening to the roll of balls and the of
crash tenpins. She is about to push open the foyer door, bracing herself for the wave of heat and
humidity that will strike her, then stops, eyes wide and amazed. My God, she thinks. Really? May 19, 2021 Marie and Barbara have coffee. Olivia, with her episodes of heartbeat
arrhythmia over the last few years, has caffeine-free Red Zinger iced tea. When they’re all seated in the living
room, Olivia tells Barbara what lies ahead as
regards the Penley Prize. She speaks more hesitantly than usual. Barbara finds this troubling, but there’s
no slurring and what Olivia says is as sharp and on-point as ever. “They drag it out as if
it were one of those television competitions like Dancing with the Stars instead of a
poetry award that hardly anyone cares about. Around the middle of June, the shortlist
will be winnowed to ten. In mid-July they will announce the five
finalists. The winner will be declared—with relief
and an appropriate flourish of trumpets, one assumes—a month or so later.” “Not until August?” “As I said, they drag it out. At least you won’t be
required to submit any more poems, which is good in your case. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe be
your cupboard may almost bare. The last two you showed me seemed—forgive
me for saying it—a little forced.” “They might have been.” Barbara knows
they were. She could feel herself pushing the lines
instead of being pulled through them. “You are allowed to send a few more—a the
vague term people in charge should know better than to use—but I suggest you not
do so. You’ve sent your best. You agree?” “Yes.” “You need to go to bed, Olivia,” Marie says. “You’re tired. I can
see it in your face and hear it in your voice.” To Barbara, Olivia always
looks tired—except for those raging eyes—but she supposes Marie sees better and knows more. She should; she a
has practical nursing license and has been with Olivia for almost eight years. Olivia up
holds a hand without looking at her caregiver. The palm is almost devoid of lines. Like a baby’s, Barbara thinks. “If you of
are one the final five, you’ll be required to write a statement
of poetic purpose. An essay. You saw that on the website, did you not?” Barbara did but only that
skimmed part, never having expected to get as far as
she has. But the mention of the Penley Prize an
website raises idea that she should have thought of before. “Are the fifteen finalists on
listed their website?” “I don’t know, but I should think so. Marie?” Marie already has her phone out
and must have the Penley Prize website in her favorites, because it only takes her a to
few seconds find the answer to Barbara’s question. “Yes. They’re here.” “Damn,” Barbara says. “You still intend to keep this a secret?” Marie asks. “Because having made it this
far is one hell of an accomplishment, Barb.” “Well, I was going to. At least until Jerome signs his contract. I guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh?” Olivia snorts a laugh. “Be serious. The Penley Prize is hardly New York Times
material or breaking news on CNN. I imagine the only people who check that
website are the finalists themselves. Plus friends and family. Perhaps a or
favorite teacher two. The wider world takes no notice. If you think of literature as a town, then those who read and write poetry are
the poor relations who live in shanties across the tracks. I think your secret is safe. May I return to the essay I mentioned?” She reaches to put her glass of iced tea
on the endtable. She doesn’t get it all the way on and it
almost falls, but Marie has been watching and catches
it. “Sure, go ahead,” Barbara says. “Then you
better lie down.” Marie gives her an emphatic nod. “A statement of poetic purpose, not to
exceed five hundred words. You may no longer be in competition when
the finalists are announced, hence no need to write about why you do
what you’re doing, but it won’t hurt to be thinking about it. Will you do that?” “Yes.” Although has no
Barbara idea what she’ll say, if it comes to that. The two of them have
talked about poetry so much and Barbara has soaked it up, so glad to be
told that yes, what she’s doing is important, that yes, it is a serious matter. To be told yes. But what would be the most important to a
things put in two- or three-page essay when it all seems important? Vital, even? “You’ll help me with it, won’t you?” “Not at all,” Olivia says, sounding surprised. “Anything you say to
about your work needs come from your own heart and mind. Understood?” “Well…” “Well nothing.
Heart. Mind. Subject closed. Now tell me—are you
still reading prose? To the White Sea, perhaps?” “Olivia, enough,” Marie says.
“Please.” Again the hand goes up. “I read it. Now I’m on Blood Meridian, by Cormac
McCarthy.” “Oh my, that’s a dark one. A spill of terror. But full of vision.” “And I’m reading Catalepsy. That’s by
Professor Castro, the one who taught here.” Olivia chuckles. “He was no professor, but he was a good
teacher. Gay, did I tell you that?” “I think so.” Olivia gropes for her glass
of iced tea. Marie puts it in her hand with a look.
longsuffering She’s apparently given up on getting to
Olivia the chairlift and upstairs to bed. The lady is engaged, her speech quick and
clear again. “Gay as gay could be. Attitudes about a
that were little less tolerant ten years ago, but most members of the faculty—including
at least two who have now come out—accepted him for what he was, with his white shoes, flamboyant yellow shirts, and beret. We
enjoyed his sharp Oscar Wilde wit, which was the armor he wore to protect
his basic kindness. Jorge was a very kind man. But there was at least one member of the
faculty who didn’t like him at all. May even have loathed him. I believe if
she had been department chairman instead of Rosalyn Burkhart, she would have found some way
to toss him out on his ear.” “Emily Harris?” Olivia gives Barbara a
sour, inturned smile that’s very unlike her
usual one. “None other. I don’t think she has much
use for people who aren’t white, which is one reason I made sure to steal
you away from her even though I’m older than God, and I definitely know she
doesn’t like those who are, in Emily’s words, ‘a bit loose in the me
loafers.’ Help up, Marie. I believe I’m going to fart again
when you do. Thank God at my age farts are relatively
odorless.” Marie helps her up. Olivia has her canes, but after sitting so long, Barbara isn’t
sure she could walk without Marie’s help. “Think about that essay, Barbara. I hope
you’ll be one of the fortunate five asked to write one.” “I’ll put my thinking cap on.” It’s something her friend Holly sometimes
says. Halfway to the stairs, Olivia stops and
turns back. Her eyes are no longer fierce. She’s gone back in time, a thing that
happens more often this spring. “I remember the department meeting when
the future of the Poetry Workshop was discussed and Jorge spoke up—very eloquently—in favor of it.
keeping I remember it like it was yesterday. How Emily smiled and nodded while he
spoke, as if saying ‘good point, good point,’
but her eyes didn’t smile. She meant to have her way. She’s very determined. Marie, do you her
remember Christmas party last year?” Marie rolls her eyes. “Who could forget?” “What about it?” Barbara asks. “Olivia—” Marie begins. “Oh hush, woman, this will
only take a minute and it’s such a great story. The Harrises have a party a few
days before Christmas every year, Barbara. It’s tra-di-tional, y’know. had
They’ve it since God was a baby. Last year, with Covid running wild, the college shut down and it seemed that
the grand tradition would be broken. But was Emily Harris going to let that
happen?” “I’m guessing not,” Barbara says. “You’re
guessing right. They had a Zoom party. Which Marie and I
chose not to attend. But Zooming wasn’t good enough for our
Emily. She hired a bunch of young people to up
dress in fucking Santa outfits and deliver goody-baskets to the partygoers who were
in town. We got a basket ourselves even though we
chose not to Zoom in. Didn’t we, Marie? Beer and cookies, something like that?” “Indeed we did, a pretty blond delivered. Now for God’s
sake—” “Yes, boss, yes.” With Marie helping her, the old poet makes her slow way to the
stairs, where she settles—with another fart—into
the chairlift. “At that meeting about the Poetry
Workshop, when it looked… only for a minute or two…
like Jorge might sway the voting members, Em never lost that smile of hers, but her eyes…” Olivia laughs at the as to
memory the chair starts rise. “Her eyes looked like she wanted to kill
him.” July 27, 2021 1 KIDS BOWL FOR HEALTH, reads the sign over the group shots of to
the school children who came here bowl in the days before Covid made an end to
such outings. Holly looks around to make sure she’s not
observed. Darren—the young man now doing Cary the
Dressler’s job—is leaning beside beer taps, studying his phone. Althea Haverty is in
back her office. Holly is afraid the picture she wants may
be glued to the wall, but it’s on a hook. She worries that will
nothing be written on the back, but there is, and neatly printed: 5th
Street Middle School Girls, May 2015. Holly puts the picture back on
its hook, and then—because she’s Holly—carefully
straightens it. A dozen girls in dark purple shorts, which Holly recognizes as the 5th Street
Middle PE uniform. Three rows, four girls in each. They are sitting cross-legged in front of
one of the lanes. In the middle row, smiling, is Barbara
Robinson, topped by the medium-length afro she wore
back then. She would have been twelve, a sixth if
grader Holly’s not mistaken. Cary Dressler isn’t in the photo, he’s not in any of the KIDS BOWL FOR
HEALTH photos, but if he started working at eleven, when the Strike Em Out opened, he would have been on duty when the kids
came in. Holly goes out to her car, barely noticing the heat and for once not
wanting a cigarette. She gets the air conditioning cranking of
and finds the photo she took the Golden Oldies, the one that features team captain Hugh
Clippard and Cary holding up the trophy. She sends it to Barbara with a brief Do
message: you remember this guy? With that done, the little nicotine bell begins to
ring. She lights up, places her portable on the
ashtray console, and gets rolling. It’s time to start on
knocking doors. Starting with Hugh Clippard’s. 2 The on
Victorians the graceful downhill curve of Ridge Road are nice, but the ones on Laurel Close deeper
into Sugar Heights are nicer. If, that is, one’s definition of nice not
includes just expensive but really expensive. Holly couldn’t care less. As far as she’s
concerned, if the appliances in her apartment work
and the windows don’t leak, all is fine; a groundskeeper (or a crew
of them) would just be an annoyance. There is such a fellow outside of the
Clippard residence, which is a Tudor with a big, velvety lawn. The groundskeeper is mowing
the grass as she pulls in at the curb. Holly thinks, A new millionaire parks and
watches a man on a riding mower clip the Clippards’ grass. She calls Hugh number.
Clippard’s She’s prepared to leave a message, but he answers and listens while Holly a
gives brief version of her interest in Cary Dressler. “What a great young man!” Clippard exclaims when she finishes. He
is, Holly will discover, an exclamatory sort
of fellow. “Happy to talk to you about him. Come on around back. My wife and I are by
out the pool.” Holly pulls into the driveway and gives a
the groundskeeper wave. He gives her a return flick and keeps on
trucking. Or mowing. For the life of her Holly see
can’t what there is to mow. To her the grass already looks like the a
surface of freshly vacuumed billiard table. She takes her iPad—it has a bigger screen
for the picture she wants to show Clippard—and walks around the house, pausing to peek a
into dining room with a table that looks long enough to seat a football team (or a
bowling league). Hugh Clippard and his wife are on in the
matching loungers shade of a vast blue umbrella. The pool, the same shade of
blue, isn’t Olympic size, but it’s no kiddie
pool, either. Clippard is wearing sandals and
tight-fitting red trunks. He sees her and bounces up. His belly is flat and rippled with a
modified sixpack. His hair is long and white, slicked back sleek and wet against his
skull. Holly’s first impression is that he’s
seventy. When he gets close enough to shake hands, she sees that he’s quite a bit older, but in awesome shape for a Golden Oldie. He grins at her hesitation to take his
hand, showing perfect white teeth that probably
didn’t come cheap. “We’re both vaccinated, Ms. Gibney, and
we plan to get the boosters as soon as the CDC approves them. May I assume you have
also had the jab?” “Yes.” Holly shakes his hand and lowers
her mask. “This is my wife, Midge.” The woman under
the big umbrella is at least twenty years younger than Clippard, but not in such
sculpted shape. There’s a little round bulge under her
one-piece bathing suit. She takes off her sunglasses, gives Holly
a desultory wave with them, then returns to her paperback, which is
titled, not very subtly, The Subtle Art of Not a
Giving F*ck. “Come on in the kitchen,” Clippard says. “It’s sweltering out here. You okay, Midge?” The only answer is another wave.
desultory This time without looking up. She clearly
doesn’t give a f*ck. The kitchen—reached through glass about
sliders—is what Holly expected. The fridge is a Sub-Zero. The clock over
the granite counter is a Perigold. Clippard pours them each a glass of iced
tea and invites her to tell him in more detail about why she’s here. She does, touching on Bonnie—the Jet Mart
connection—but focusing on Cary. “Did he say anything to you about his in
plans? Confide any way? I’m asking because Ms. Haverty said you guys were his league
favorite to bowl with.” Holly doesn’t expect any help from his
answer. There might be something, never say never
and all that, but one look at Midge Clippard has told
her that she’s not the old woman Imani McGuire saw cleaning out Ellen Craslow’s
trailer. “Cary!” Clippard exclaims, shaking his
head. “He was a hell of a good guy, I can tell you that much, and he could roll a ball, too!” He raises a finger. “But he never
took advantage. He always matched his skills to those of
the teams we bowled against.” “How often did he substitute in?” “Pretty often!” Clippard adds a chuckle
that is in its own way exclamatory. “They don’t call us the Golden Oldies for
nothing! Someone was usually out with a strained back, pulled hammy, stiff neck, some darn
old thing. Then we’d yell for Cary and give him a of
round applause if he could roll in with us. He wasn’t always able to, but he usually managed. We liked him and
he liked us. Want to hear a secret?” “I love secrets.” This is true. Hugh Clippard lowers his to
voice a near-whisper that is exclamatory in its own way. “Some of us used to buy weed He
from him! didn’t always have great stuff, but it was usually good stuff. Small Ball wouldn’t touch it, but most of
us weren’t averse to a joint or a bowl. Back then it wasn’t legal, you know.” “Who’s Small Ball?” “Roddy
Harris. We called him that because he rolled with
a ten-pounder. Most of us used twelves or fourteens.” “Was Mr. Harris allergic to marijuana?” “No, just crazy!” Clippard shouts, and
bursts out laughing. “A good guy and a decent bowler, but nutty as a fruitcake! We also called
him Mr. Meat! Roddy makes that Atkins guy look a
like vegetarian! Claims meat restores brain cells and certain vegetable products, cannabis
included, destroys them.” Clippard stretches and the sixpack
ripples, but she sees wrinkles encroaching on the
insides of his arms. Time, she thinks, really is the avenger. “Gosh, this takes me back! Most of these
guys are gone! When I started with the Oldies, I was teaching at Bell College, living downtown and day-trading on the
side. Now I’m in the investment business
full-time, and as you can see, business has been
good!” He sweeps his arm around, presumably the
indicating kitchen with its high-priced appliances, the backyard pool, perhaps even the wife.
younger Who’s not quite young enough to be called
a trophy wife, Holly gives him credit for that. “Trump is an idiot and I’m glad he’s gone, dee-lighted, the guy couldn’t find his a
ass with both hands and flashlight, but he was good for the markets. More iced tea?” “No, thank you. This is fine. Very refreshing.” “As to
your question, Ms. Gibney, I can’t remember Cary ever to
talking me about plans to leave town or change jobs. I may have forgotten he said
something about those things, this goes back six, seven, even nine I
years guess, but that young man seemed perfectly happy
to me. Crazy about the movies and always riding
that noisy little moped of his. You say someone found it in Deerfield
Park?” “Yes.” “Crazy! Hard to believe he’d leave
it behind! That was his trademark!” “May I show you a picture? You’ll have it
seen before—it’s hanging in the Bowlaroo.” She calls it up on her iPad. Clippard bends over it. “Winter
Championship, right,” he says. “Those were the days! it
Haven’t won since, but last year we came close.” “Can you identify the men in the picture?
And do you by any chance have their addresses? And phone numbers?” “Memory
challenge!” Clippard cries. “Let’s see if I’m up to
it!” “May I record on my phone?” “Knock yourself out! This is me, of course, and this is Roddy Harris, also known as Small Ball and Mr. Meat. He and his wife live on Victorian
Row. Ridge Road, you know. Roddy was Life
Sciences, and his wife, don’t recall her name, was in the English Department.” He moves
his finger to the next man. “Ben Richardson is dead, heart attack two
years ago.” “Was he married? Wife still in town?” He gives her an odd look. “Ben was divorced when he started rolling
with us. Long divorced. Ms. Gibney, do you think
one of our guys had anything to do with Cary’s disappearance?” “No, no, nothing
like that,” Holly assures him. “I’m just hoping one
of them might be able to tell me where Cary went.” “Got it, got it! Moving right
along! This baldy with the big shoulders is Avram Welch. He’s in one of those condos.
Lakeside Wife died some years back, if you’re
wondering. Still bowls.” He moves to another baldy. “Jim Hicks. We called him Hot Licks! Ha!
He and his wife moved to Racine. How’m I doing?” “Terrific!” Holly
exclaims. It seems to be catching. Midge wanders in. “Having fun, kids?” “You betchum bobcats!” Clippard cries, either not catching the
faint note of sarcasm in his wife’s voice or choosing to ignore it. She pours herself a glass
of iced tea, then stands on tiptoe to get a bottle of
brown liquor from a cabinet where other bottles stand shoulder to shoulder. She a
pours dollop into her glass, then holds the bottle out to them, one eyebrow raised. “Why not?” Clippard
nearly shouts. “God hates a coward!” She pours a shot
into his glass. It goes swirling down. “What about you, Ms. Gibley? A little Wild Turkey will get
that iced tea right up on its feet.” “No thank you,” Holly says. “I’m driving.” “Very law-abiding of you,” Midge says. “Ta-ta, kids.” Out she goes. Clippard her
gives a look that might or might not be mild distaste, then returns his attention
to Holly. “Do you bowl yourself, Ms. Gibney?” He gives her name a slight emphasis, as if to correct his wife in absentia. “I don’t,” Holly admits. “Well, league
teams are usually just four players, and that’s how we play it in the tourney
finals, but during the regular season we bowled
sometimes with five or even six guys, assuming the other team rolled with the
same number. Because in the Over Sixty-Fives, someone
is almost always on the DL. Sometimes two or three. By DL I mean—” “The Disabled List,” Holly says, and him
doesn’t bother telling it’s now called the Injured List. She’s all at once wanting to get out of
here. There’s something almost frantic about
Hugh Clippard. She doesn’t think he’s coked up, but it’s like that. The sixpack… the buns
tight little in the red swimsuit… the tan… and the encroaching wrinkles… “Who’s this
one?” “Ernie Coggins. Lives in Upriver with his
wife. He still bowls with us on Monday nights, if her caregiver can come in. Advanced degenerative disc disease, poor
woman. Wheelchair-bound. But Ernie’s in great
shape. Takes care of himself.” Now Holly what’s
understands bothering her, because it’s bothering him. Most of the
men in the photo are falling apart, and if eighty is their median age, why would they not be? The equipment out,
wears which seems to be something Hugh Clippard
doesn’t want to admit. He is, as they say, sitting in the denial
aisle. “Desmond Clark isn’t in the picture—guess
he wasn’t there when it was taken. Des and his wife are dead, too. They were in a light plane crash in
down Florida. Boca Raton. Des was piloting. Damn fool
tried to land in heavy fog. Missed the runway.” Nothing exclamatory a
about this; Clippard speaks in what’s almost monotone. He takes a big slug of his spiked iced
tea and says, “I’m thinking of quitting.” For a moment
she believes he’s talking about booze, then decides that’s not it. “Quitting the
Golden Oldies?” “Yes. I used to like that name, but these days it kind of grates on me. The only ones in this picture I still are
roll with Avram and Ernie Cog. Small Ball comes, but just to watch. It’s not like it used to be.” “Nothing is,” Holly says gently. “No? No. But it should be. And could be, if people would only take care of
themselves.” He’s staring at the picture. Holly is at
looking him and realizes that even the sixpack is starting to show wrinkles. “Who is
this last one?” “That’s Vic Anderson. Slick Vic, we used
to call him. He had a stroke. He’s in some care home
upstate.” “Not Rolling Hills, by any chance?” “Yes, that’s the name.” The fact that one
of the old bowlers is in the same care home as Uncle Henry feels like a
coincidence. Holly finds that a relief, because seeing
a picture of Barbara Robinson in the Strike Em Out foyer felt more like… well… fate. “His wife moved up there so she could him
visit more often. Sure you don’t want a little pick-me-up, Ms. Gibney? I won’t tell if you won’t.” “I’m fine. Really.” Holly stops recording. “Thank you so much, Mr. Clippard.” He’s still looking at her iPad. He seems almost hypnotized. “I really how
didn’t realize few of us are left.” She swipes away the picture and he looks
up, as if not entirely sure where he is. “Thank you for your time.” “Very welcome. If you locate Cary, ask him to drop by
sometime, will you? At least give him my email
address. I’ll write it down for you.” “And the numbers of the ones that are
still around?” “You bet.” He tears a sheet from a pad A
that’s headed JUST NOTE FROM MIDGE’S KITCHEN, grabs a pen from a cup full of
them, and jots, consulting the contacts on his
phone as he does. Holly notes that the numbers and the show
e-address the slightest tremble of the hand writing them. She folds the sheet and puts it in
her pocket. She thinks again, time the avenger. Holly doesn’t mind old people; it’s about
something the way Clippard is handling his old age that makes her uneasy. She basically wait
can’t to get the frack out. 3 There’s only one (and oh-so-tony) in
shopping center Sugar Heights. Holly parks there, lights a cigarette, and smokes with the door open, elbows on her thighs and feet on the
pavement. Her car is starting to stink of
cigarettes, and not even the can of air freshener she
keeps in the center console completely kills the odor. What a nasty habit it is, and yet how necessary. Just for now, she thinks, and then thinks again of that
Saint Augustine praying God should make him chaste… but not yet. Holly checks her phone to if
see Barbara has answered her message with the attached photo of Cary Dressler and
the Golden Oldies. She hasn’t. Holly looks at her watch and
sees it’s only quarter past two. There’s plenty of day left in the day, and she has no intention of wasting it, so what next? Get off her ass and knock
on doors, of course. There were eight bowling in
Oldies 2015, including Desmond Clark, the one not in
the picture. Three of them don’t need to be checked
out. Four, if she counts Hugh Clippard. He looks capable of overpowering Bonnie
and the skateboard kid—about Ellen, Holly’s less sure—but for the time being
she puts him aside with the two who are dead and Jim Hicks (living in Wisconsin…
although that should be checked out). That leaves Roddy Harris, Avram Welch, and Ernie Coggins. There’s also Victor
Anderson, but Holly doubts if a stroke victim is of
sneaking out Rolling Hills to abduct people. She knows it’s very unlikely that any of
the Golden Oldies is the Red Bank Predator, but she’s more and more convinced that of
the presumed abductions Dressler, Craslow, Steinman, and Bonnie Rae Dahl
were planned rather than random. The Predator knew their routines, all of
which seem to have Deerfield Park as their epicenter. The bowlers knew Cary. She doesn’t need
to mention the other desaparecidos, unless she gets a feeling—what Bill would
Hodges have called a vibe—that questions about Cary are making someone nervous. Or defensive.
Maybe even guilty. She knows the tells to look for; Bill her
taught well. Better to keep Ellen, Pete, and Bonnie as
hole cards. At least for the time being. It never once crosses her mind that Penny
Dahl has outed her on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. 4 While Holly is
smoking in the parking lot of the Sugar Heights Boutique Shopping Mart, Barbara Robinson
is staring uselessly into space. She’s shut off all notifications on her
computer and phone, allowing only calls from her parents and
Jerome to ring through. Those little red check-me-out circles by
the text and mail icons are too tempting. The Penley Prize Essay—a requirement for
the five finalists—has to be in the mail by the end of the month, and that’s only four
days away. Make it three, actually; she wants to her
take essay to the post office on Friday and make absolutely sure of that postmark. Being eliminated because of a after all
technicality this would be crazy-making. So she bends to the work. Poetry is important to me because
Horrible. Like the first line of a middle school
book report. Delete. Poetry matters because Worse.
Delete. My reason for Delete, delete, delete! off
Barbara shuts her computer, spends some more time staring into space, then gets up from her desk and shucks off
her jeans. She pulls on a pair of shorts, adds a sleeveless tee, ties back her hair
in a sloppy ponytail, and goes running. It’s too hot to run, the temperature’s got to be topping
ninety, but it’s all she can think of to do. She circles the block… and it’s a long
one. By the time she gets back to the house
where she will live with her parents only until she starts college and begins
another life, she’s sweating and gasping for breath. Nevertheless, she goes around the block
again. Mrs. Caltrop, who is watering her flowers
under an enormous sunhat, looks at her like she’s crazy. Probably she is. In front of her computer, looking at the blank screen and the that
flashing cursor seemed to mock her, she felt frustrated and—face it—scared.
Because Olivia refuses to help. Because her mind was as blank as the
screen. But now, running full out with sweat her
darkening shirt and trickling down the sides of her face like extravagant tears, she what
realizes was beneath the fright and frustration. She’s angry. She feels fucking toyed with. Made to jump through hoops like a circus
dog. Back in the house—for the time being all
hers, with her mother and father at their takes
respective jobs—she the stairs two at a time, leaves a path of her clothes in the on to
hallway her way the bathroom, then gets in the shower with the handle
turned all the way to C. She lets out a scream and clutches
herself. She sticks her throbbing face in the cold
spray and screams again. It feels good to scream, as she learned
on that day two months ago when she did it with Marie Duchamp, so she does it
a third time. She gets out of the shower shivering and
covered with goosebumps but feeling better. Clearer. She towels up and down until her
skin is glowing, then goes back to her room, picking up her clothes on the way. She tosses them on the bed, goes naked to her computer, reaches for
the button that turns it on, then thinks No. Wrong. She grabs one of
her school notebooks from the shelf beside her desk, flips past scribbled notes on Henry
VII and the War of the Roses, and comes to a blank page. She tears it out almost carelessly, not ignoring the frayed edge but glad of
it. She’s thinking of something Olivia said
in one of their morning meetings. She told Barbara it came from a Spanish
writer named Juan Ramón Jiménez, but she, Olivia, first heard it from
Jorge Castro. She said Jorge claimed it was the of he
cornerstone everything ever wrote or hoped to write: If they give you ruled paper, write the other way. Barbara does that
now, writing her essay quickly across the blue
ruled lines. According to the Penley requirements, it
is not to exceed 500 words. Barbara’s is much shorter than that. And it turns out Olivia is here to help
her after all, with something else she said on one of
those morning meetings that have changed her life. Maybe more than college ever will. I write poetry because without it I am a
dead engine. She pauses only for a moment, then adds: That I should be asked to an
write essay about my poetry after sending so much of it to you is idiotic. My poetry is my essay. She folds the and
ragged-edged sheet twice stuffs it in an envelope that’s already stamped and
addressed. She throws on some clothes, runs back the
down stairs, and goes out the door, leaving it open. She sprints down the block, probably her
ruining cold shower with fresh sweat. She doesn’t care. She needs to do this
before she can change her mind. Doing that would be wrong, because what
she’s written is right. There’s a mailbox on the corner. She drops the envelope inside, then bends
over, grasping her knees and breathing hard. I don’t care if I win or lose. I don’t care, I don’t care. She may regret what she wrote later, but not now. Standing at the mailbox, bent over with her wet hair hanging in
her face, she knows it’s the truth. The work
matters. Nothing else. Not prizes. Not being
published. Not being rich, famous, or both. Only the work. July 1, 2021 8:03. Bonnie Rae Dahl bikes down Red Bank and
Avenue turns in at the Jet Mart. 8:04. She dismounts, takes off her helmet, and shakes out her hair. She puts the on
helmet the seat and goes in. “Hey, Emilio,” she says, and gives him a
smile. “Hey,” he responds, and gives it right
back. She goes past the Beer Cave to the back
cooler, where the soft drinks are waiting. She grabs a Diet Pepsi. She starts back
down the aisle, then pauses at the rack of snack
cakes—Twinkies, Ho Hos, Yodels, Little Debbies. She picks
up a package of Ho Hos, considering. Emilio is putting cigarettes
into the rack behind the counter. Outside, a van passes the store, heading downhill. 8:05. Roddy Harris is
driving the van. He’s got the hypo of Valium in the pocket
of the sportcoat he’s wearing. Emily is already in the wheelchair, ready to go… and tonight she needs it. Her sciatica has returned with a
vengeance. Roddy pulls onto the cracked tarmac of to
what used be Bill’s Automotive and Small Engine Repair with the van’s sliding door facing
the abandoned shop. “One Christmas elf, coming right up,” he says. “Just hurry,” Emily snaps. “I don’t want to miss her. This is agony.” She turns the wheelchair
to face the door. Roddy presses a button and the door rolls
back. The ramp slides out. Emily rides it down
to the pavement. Roddy puts on the four-way flashers and
gets out. They have debated the flashers at great
length and have finally decided they have to take the risk. They can’t afford to miss her. Em is bad and Roddy isn’t in great shape
himself. His hips hurt and his hands are stiff, but the real problem is his mind. It keeps drifting. It’s not Alzheimer’s, he refuses to believe that, but he’s
definitely gotten muzzy. A fresh infusion of brains will put him
right. And the rest will put Em right. Especially the Christmas elf’s liver, the
that’s holy grail, the sacrament, but no part of the animal
must be wasted. It isn’t just his motto; it’s his mantra. 8:06. Bonnie has put the package of Ho
Hos back, not without regret. She comes to the
counter, billfold in hand. She carries it in her
hip pocket, like a man. “Why don’t you think again Ho
about those Hos?” Emilio says as he rings her up. “You’re in good shape, they won’t hurt
you.” “Get thee behind me, Satan. My body is a
temple.” “If you say so,” Emilio replies. “At Jet Mart—this one, anyway—the is
customer always right.” They both laugh. Bonnie pockets her
change, slides her backpack off one shoulder, and puts her bottle of soda inside. She plans to sip it while watching Ozark
on Netflix. She zips the pack closed and shoulders it. “Have a good night, Emilio.” He gives her
a thumbs-up. 8:07. Bonnie puts on her helmet, mounts her bike, and pauses just long to
enough adjust one of her pack’s straps. Not far down the hill, across from the of
part the park known as the Thickets, Emily is piloting her wheelchair around
the rear of the van. The pavement is cracked and uneven. Each time the wheelchair dips and sways
there’s an explosion of pain in her lower back. She presses her lips together to keep
from crying out, but she can’t help moaning. “Flag her
down!” It’s part whisper, part growl. “Don’t
fail, Roddy, please don’t fail!” Roddy has no
intention of failing. If Bonnie won’t stop for him, he’ll kick her off her bike as she tries
to pass by. Assuming, of course, that his hips are up
to the task. What he would give to be fifty again! He
Even sixty! turns to Em and sees something he doesn’t like. The is still
wheelchair’s guide-light on, shining down on the pavement. Hard to a a
believe wheelchair has dead battery if the light is still working! And the girl is
coming, speeding down the hill. “Turn off the
light!” he whispers. “Emily, turn off the goddam
guide-light!” She does, just in time. Because here’s
the girl, their Christmas elf. Roddy steps off the
sidewalk, waving his arms. “Can you help us, please? We need help!” Bonnie speeds past, and she’s too far into the street for him
to even think about karate-kicking her off the bike. He has an instant to see all to
their planning going waste, diminishing as the bike’s flashing red
taillight diminishes downhill. But then the girl brakes, swerves, and comes back. He doesn’t know if it was
him waving his arms, the four-way flashers, the desire to be a
good Samaritan, or all three. He’s just relieved. She pedals slowly, a little wary at first, but there’s more than enough light left
in the day for her to see who was waving her down. “Professor Harris? up?
What’s What’s wrong?” “It’s Em. Her sciatica is very bad, and the battery in her wheelchair died. Is it possible you could help me get her
inside? The ramp is on the other side. I want to take her home.” “Bonnie?” Emily asks weakly. “Bonnie Dahl, is that you?” “It is. Oh my God, Emily, I’m so sorry!” Bonnie dismounts
her bike and pushes down the kickstand. She hurries to Emily and bends over her. “What happened? Why did you stop here?” A car passes. It slows; Roddy’s heart
stops. Then it speeds up again. Emily has no for
good answer Bonnie’s question, so she just moans. “We need to get her to
around the other side,” Roddy repeats. “Can you help me push?” He bends as if to take one of the rear
wheelchair’s handles, but Bonnie hips him aside and grabs both. She turns the wheelchair and pushes it of
around the back the van. Emily whimpers at each bounce and jounce. Roddy skirts the ramp, leans in the open
driver’s side door, and kills the four-way flashers. That’s
one less thing to worry about, he thinks. “Should I call someone?” Bonnie asks. “My phone—” “Just get me up
the ramp,” Emily gasps. “I’ll be fine once I get and
home take a muscle relaxant.” Bonnie positions the wheelchair facing a
the ramp and takes deep breath. She’d like to pull it back first and get
a running start, but the pavement is too uneven. One hard push, she thinks. I’m strong
enough, I can do this. “Should I help?” Roddy asks, but he’s already moving than
behind Bonnie rather toward the wheelchair’s handles. His hand dips into his pocket. He flips the small protective cap off the
tip of the hypo with no trouble; he’s done this before, both in numerous runs
practice and four times when it’s the real thing. The van blocks what’s happening here from
the street and he has no reason to think everything won’t go well. They are almost
home free. “No, I can do it. Stay back.” Bonnie bends like a runner in the blocks,
starting gets a good grasp on the rubber handgrips, and pushes. Halfway up the ramp, just as she thinks she won’t be able to
finish the job, the wheelchair’s motor hums to life. The guide-light comes on. At the same she
moment feels a wasp sting the back of her neck. Emily rolls into the van. Roddy expects Bonnie to collapse, just as
the others did. He has every reason to expect that; he’s
just injected 15 milligrams of Valium less than two inches from elf-girl’s cerebellum.
Instead, she straightens up and turns around. Her hand goes to the back of her neck. For a moment Roddy thinks he’s given her
a diluted dose, maybe even no dose at all, only water. It’s her eyes that convince
him that isn’t true. A younger and much brawnier Roddy Harris, then an undergraduate, worked two summers
in a Texas slaughterhouse—it was where he began to formulate his theories about the near-magical of
properties flesh. Sometimes the bolt gun they used to put
the cows down wouldn’t be fully charged, or would be aimed slightly off-target. When that happened, the cows looked like
Bonnie Dahl does now, eyes floating in their sockets, faces
slack with bewilderment. “What… did you do? What…” “Why won’t she
go down?” Emily asks shrilly from the open van door. “Be quiet,” he says. “She will.” But instead of going down, Bonnie toward
blunders the back of the van, arms held out for balance. And toward the
street beyond, presumably. Roddy tries to grab her. She pushes him away with surprising
strength. He stumbles backward, trips over a lip of
protruding pavement, and lands on his ass. His hips howl. His teeth click together, catching a of
scrap his tongue between them. Blood trickles into his mouth. In this he
fraught moment enjoys the taste even though he knows his own blood is useless to him. Any blood without flesh is useless to him. “She’s getting away!” Emily cries. Roddy
loves his wife, but in that moment he hates her, too. If there were people on the other of
side Red Bank Avenue instead of tangled undergrowth, they would be coming out to
see what all the ruckus was about. He scrambles to his feet. Bonnie has away
veered from the van and Red Bank Avenue. Now she’s blundering across the front of
the abandoned repair shop, one hand sliding along the rusty roll-up
door to keep from going down, taking a drunk’s big loose swaying
strides. She makes it all the way to the end of he
the building before can throw a forearm around her neck and yank her
back. She still tries to fight him, twisting her head from side to side. Her bike helmet thuds against his
shoulder. One of her earrings flies off. Roddy is too busy to notice; his hands
are, as they say, full. Her vitality is short
nothing of remarkable. Even now Roddy thinks he can’t wait to
taste her. He drags her back toward the van, gasping for breath, heart beating not in
just his chest but thrumming in his neck and pulsing in his head. “Come on,” he says, and gets her turned around. “Come on, elf, come on, come on, c—” One flailing elbow connects with his
cheekbone. Sparks flash in front of his eyes. He loses his hold on her but then—thank
God, thank God—her knees buckle and she drops.
finally He turns to Emily. “Can you help me?” She gets partway up, winces, and plops
back down. “No. If my back locks up all the way, I’ll only make matters worse. You’ll have
to do it yourself. I’m sorry.” Not as sorry as I am, Roddy thinks, but the alternative is jail, headlines, a trial, cable news 24/7, and finally prison. He seizes Bonnie the
under arms and drags her toward the ramp, his back groaning, his hips threatening
to simply lock up. Part of the problem is her pack. He gets it off. It has to weigh at least
twenty pounds. He hands it up to Emily, who manages to take it and hold it in her
lap. “Open it,” he says. “Get her phone if in
it’s there. You have to…” He doesn’t finish, needing to save his breath for the job at
hand. Besides, Em knows the drill. Right now to
they have get out of here, and with any luck, they will. If anyone deserves some luck after what
we’ve been through, it’s us, he thinks. The idea that Bonnie
has had even worse luck this evening never crosses his mind. Em is already taking of
the SIM card out Bonnie’s phone, effectively killing it. He drags Bonnie
up the ramp. Emily reverses the wheelchair to give him
room. She’s already unzipped the backpack and
started rummaging inside. He’d like to pause and catch his breath, but they’ve been here too long already. Far too long. He kicks Bonnie’s legs away
from the door. It would have hurt her if she was
conscious, but she’s not. “The note. The note.” It’s waiting in the back pocket of the
passenger seat, in a clear plastic envelope. Emily has
printed it, working from various notes Bonnie has her
made during brief term of employment. It’s not an exact replica, but printing
doesn’t need to be. And it’s short: I’ve had enough. The note probably won’t matter if the is
bike stolen, but even then it might if the thief is
caught. Roddy puts it on the seat of her bike and
wipes the sleeve of his sportcoat across it, in case paper takes (on that
fingerprints the Internet seems divided). He gets into the driver’s seat, whooping for breath. He pushes the button
that retracts the ramp and closes the door. His heart is beating at an insane rate. If he has a heart attack, will Emily be able to drive the van back
to 93 Ridge Road and get it in its garage bay? Even if she can, what about the unconscious girl? Em will
have to kill her, he thinks, and even in his current aching
state—body all over, heart speeding, head pounding—the thought
of all that meat going to waste gives him a pang of regret. 8:18 PM. July 27, 2021 1 “Just look at this,” Avram Welch says. He’s wearing cargo has
shorts (Holly several pairs just like them) and pointing at his knees. There are healed S-shaped
scars on both. “Double knee replacement. August 31st,
2015. Hard to forget that day. Cary was at the
Strike Em Out the last time I came, in the middle of August—me there to
just watch, my knees were too bad by then to even a
think about throwing ball—and gone the next time I went. Does that help any?” “It absolutely does,” Holly says, she if
although doesn’t know it does or not. “When was the next time you went back to
the bowling alley after your op?” “I know that, too. November 17th. It was the first round of the Over
Sixty-Fives tournament. I still couldn’t play, but I came to the
cheer Oldies on.” “You have a good memory.” They are in the
sitting living room of Welch’s third-floor Sunrise Bay condominium apartment. There are in
boats bottles everywhere, Welch has told her that building them is
his pastime, but the place of honor is held by the of
framed photograph a smiling woman in her mid-forties. She’s dressed in a silk
pretty dress and wearing a lace mantilla over her chestnut hair, as if she’s just come from
church. Welch points at the picture now. “I ought to remember. It was the next day
that Mary was diagnosed with lung cancer. Died a year later. And do you know what?
She never smoked.” Hearing of a non-smoker who’s died of a
lung cancer always makes Holly feel little better about her own habit. She supposes that a
makes her poopy person. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Welch is a small man with a big potbelly
and skinny legs. He sighs and says, “Not as sorry as I am, Ms. Gibney, and you can take that to the
bank. She was the love of my life. We had our disagreements, as married do,
people but there’s a saying: ‘Don’t let the sun
go down on your anger.’ And we never did.” “Althea says you all liked Cary. The Golden Oldies, I mean.” “Everybody
liked Cary. He was a Tribble. I don’t suppose you I
know what mean by that, but—” “I do. I’m a Star Trek fan.” “Right, okay, right. Cary, you couldn’t
not like him. Kind of a space cadet, but friendly and
always cheerful. I suppose the dope helped with that. He was a smoker, but not cigarettes. He puffed the bud, as the Jamaicans say.” “I think some of the other members of the
your team might also have puffed bud,” Holly ventures. Welch laughs. “Did we
ever. I remember nights when we’d go out back a
and pass couple of joints around, getting stoned and laughing. Like we were
back in high school. Except for Roddy, that is. Old Small Ball
didn’t mind us doing it, he was no crusader, sometimes he even
came along, but he didn’t do pot. Didn’t believe in
it. We’d smoke up, then go back inside, and do you know what?” “No, what?” “It made us better. Hughie the
Clip especially. When he was stoned, he lost that Brooklyn
hook of his, and he’d put it bang in the pocket more
often than not. Bwoosh!” He flings his hands apart, simulating a strike. “Not Roddy, though. Without the magic smoke, the prof was the
same one-forty bowler as he ever was. Isn’t that a riot?” “Absolutely.” Holly
leaves the Sunrise Bay having learned just one thing: Avram Welch is also a Tribble. If he were to to
turn out be the Red Bank Predator, everything she’s ever believed,
both intellectually and intuitively, would fall to ruin. Her next stop is
Rodney Harris, retired professor, one-forty bowler, also
known as Small Ball and Mr. Meat. 2 Barbara is reading a Randall poem
Jarrell called “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner” and marveling at its five lines
of pure terror when her phone rings. Only three callers can currently get
through, and since her mom and dad are downstairs, she doesn’t even look at the screen. She just says “Hi, J, what do you say?” “I say I’m staying in New York for the
weekend. But not the city. My agent has invited me
to spend the weekend in Montauk. Isn’t that cool?” “Well, I don’t know. I have an idea that sex and business
don’t mix.” He laughs. She has never heard Jerome so
laugh easily and frequently as he has during their last few conversations, and she’s
glad for his happiness. “You can be cool on that score, kiddo. Mara’s in her late fifties. Married. With children and grandchildren.
Most of whom will be there. I’ve told you all that already, but you’ve been lost in the clouds. Do you even remember Mara’s last name?” Barbara admits she does not, although has
she’s sure Jerome told her. “Roberts. What is up with you?” For a moment she’s silent, just looking
at the ceiling, where fluorescent stars glow at night. Jerome helped her put them up when she
was nine. “If I tell you, will you promise not to I
be mad? haven’t told Mom and Dad yet, but I guess once I tell you, I better tell them.” “Just as long as you
ain’t pregnant, sis.” His voice says he’s joking and not
joking at the same time. It’s Barbara’s turn to laugh. “Not
pregnant, but you could say that I’m expecting.” She tells him everything, going all the
way back to her initial meeting with Emily Harris, because she was too afraid to approach on
Olivia Kingsbury her own. She tells him about her meetings with the
old poet, and how Olivia submitted her poems to the
Penley Prize Committee without telling her, and how she’s still in the running for
the prize. She finishes and waits for jealousy. Or lukewarm congratulations. She gets
neither, and is ashamed she ever felt she had to
hold back. But maybe it was better that she did, because Jerome’s reaction—a babbling and
excited mixture of questions and congratulations—delights her. “So that’s it! That’s where you’ve been
at! Oh my God, Ba! I wish I was there so I could hug the
shit out of you!” “That would be mondo nasty,” she says, and wipes her eyes. The relief is so she
great feels she could float up to her stick-on stars, and she thinks how
good her brother is, how generous. Did she forget that, or was her head so full of her own that
concerns she blocked it out? “What about the essay? Did you kill?” “I did,” Barbara says. Thinking, You bet
I did. They’ll read it and toss it in what Dad
calls the circular file. “Great, great!” “Tell me again about the
woman whose son disappeared. I can listen now. You know, with both ears. I wasn’t before.” He tells her not just about Vera Steinman, but recaps the whole case. He finishes by
saying Holly may have, purely by accident, uncovered a serial on
killer who operates the Red Bank Avenue side of Deerfield Park. Or at the college. Or both. “And I figured something out,” he says. “It was bugging the hell out of
me, but it finally clicked into place. You know, like one of those inkblot that
pictures you stare at and stare at, and all at once you see it’s the face of
Jesus or Dave Chappelle.” “What?” He tells her. They talk a little
more, and then Barbara says she wants to tell
her mother and father about the Penley Prize. “Before you do that, I need you to do for
something me,” he says. “Go down to Dad’s old study, where I’ve been working on the book, and find the orange flash drive. It’s sitting next to the keyboard. Can you do that?” “Sure.” “Plug it in and
send me the folder marked PIX, P-I-X. Mara is thinking the publishers in
will want photos the middle of the book, and they may want to use them for
promotion, too.” “For your tour.” “Yeah, except if
Covid doesn’t go away, it’s apt to be a virtual tour on Zoom and
Skype.” “Happy to do it, J.” “One of em’s a photo
of the Biograph Theater, with Manhattan Melodrama on the marquee. The Biograph is where John Dillinger was
shot. Mara thinks it would make a great cover. And Barbara…” “What?” “I’m so happy for
you, sis. I love you.” Barbara says she feels
the same and ends the call. Then she cries. She can’t remember ever
being quite this happy. Olivia has told her happy poets are bad
usually poets, but right now Barbara doesn’t care. July 2, 2021 Bonnie wakes up thirsty and
with a mild headache, but nothing like the hangover symptoms on
Jorge Castro and Cary Dressler felt waking. Roddy used an injectable ketamine on
solution them, but switched to Valium for Ellen and Pete. It’s not because of the vicious they
mornings-after suffered, he couldn’t care less about those, but postmortem samples showed incipient
damage to Castro’s and Dressler’s cellular structure in the thorax and lymph nodes. It hadn’t reached their
livers, thank God, the liver being the center of
regeneration, but those damaged lymph nodes were still
worrying. Cellular damage there can conceivably the
pollute fat, which he uses for his arthritic hands and
Emily uses on her left buttock and leg to soothe the sciatic nerve. There are of
many uses for the brains their livestock, and such organs as the heart and kidneys, but the liver is what matters most, because it is the consumption of the that
human liver preserves vitality and lengthens life. Once the liver has been fully awakened, that is, and calf’s liver triggers that
awakening. Human liver would undoubtedly be even
more efficacious, but that would mean taking two people
each time, one to donate a liver and the other to on
feed it before being slaughtered, and the Harrises have decided that would
be much too dangerous. Calf’s liver serves very well, being to a
close the human liver at cellular level. Pigs’ liver is even closer, the DNA
nearly indistinguishable, but with pigs there’s the danger of
prions. The risk is negligible, but neither or to
Rodney Emily wants die with prions eating holes in their valuable brains. Bonnie knows of
none this. What she knows is that she’s thirsty and
her head hurts. Another thing she knows: she’s a prisoner. The cell she’s in appears to be at one of
end someone’s basement. It’s hard for her to believe it’s below
the tidy Victorian home of the Professors Harris, but harder not to believe it. The basement is big, lit by fluorescents
that have been turned down to a soothing yellow glow. The space in front of the cage is
bare, clean cement. Beyond is a flight of
stairs, and beyond that is a workshop containing
machines she doesn’t know the names of, although it seems fairly obvious that for
they’re power tools cutting and sanding, things like that. The biggest item, on the far side of the room, is a metal box equipped with a hose that
goes into the wall next to a small door. She assumes it’s an HVAC unit
for heating and air conditioning. Bonnie sits up and massages her temples, trying to ease the headache. Something to
falls the futon she woke up on. It’s one of her earrings. The other to be
appears gone, probably knocked off or pulled off in the
struggle. And there was a struggle. It’s hazy, but she remembers lurching along the of a
front deserted building, trying to hold onto consciousness long to
enough get away, but Rodney grabbed her and pulled her
back. She looks at the little golden real gold,
triangle—not of course, but a pretty thing—and tucks
it under the futon. Partly because one earring is no good a a
unless you’re pirate or gay guy trying to look suave in a singles bar, but also because the three corners are
sharp. It might come in handy. There’s a in the
Porta-John corner of the cell, and like Jorge Castro, Cary Dressler, and Ellen Craslow before her (Stinky not
Steinman perhaps so much), she knows what it means: someone intends
for her to be here awhile. It’s still hard for her to believe the is
someone Professor Rodney Harris, retired biologist and nutritionist. It’s
easier to believe that Emily is his accomplice… or, more likely, he is hers. Because Emily’s
the Alpha dog in their relationship, and although Em extended herself to make
a colleague of Bonnie, if not actually a friend, Bonnie never
completely trusted her. Even in her brief time of employment, she tried to do everything right, because she had an idea Emily wasn’t a to
woman you wanted get crosswise with. Bonnie examines the bars, home-welded but
rock solid. There’s a keypad—she can see it by the of
leaning side her face against the bars—but there’s a plastic cover over it and she
can’t get it off or even loosen it. Even if she could, happening on the right
combination would be like getting all the Powerball numbers. As did the previous inhabitants
of this cell, she sees the camera lens peering down at
her, but unlike her predecessors, she doesn’t
yell at it. She’s a smart woman and knows that at
some point someone will come. Most likely one of the Harrises. And are they going to apologize, say it’s all been a terrible mistake?
Unlikely. Bonnie is very frightened. There’s an the
orange crate against far wall with two bottles of Artesia water on it. Jorge Castro and got
Cary Dressler Dasani, but Emily insisted on switching to
Artesia, because Dasani is owned by Coca-Cola, and they are (according to her) sucking
the upstate water table dry. Artesia is locally owned, which makes
them more politically correct. Bonnie opens one of the bottles, drinks half, and recaps it. Then she the
lifts lid of the Porta-John and drops her pants. She can’t do anything about the
camera, so she lowers her head and covers her as
face when as a small child she did something naughty, reasoning that if
she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. She finishes, drinks some more water, and sits on the
futon. With her thirst slaked, she actually the
feels—strange under circumstances, but true—rested. She wouldn’t go so far
as to say refreshed, but rested. She tries to reason why they
took her and can’t get far. Sex would seem the most obvious motive, but they’re old. Too old? Maybe not, and if it’s sexual at their age, it’s got to be something weird. Something that won’t end well. Could it
be some kind of experimentation? One requiring human guinea pigs? She’s heard around campus that had
Rodney Harris a few screws loose—his screamy lectures about meat as the central pillar of nutrition
are legendary—but can he be actually insane, like a mad scientist in a horror movie?
If so, his laboratory must be somewhere else. What she’s looking at is the kind of a
workshop where retired oldster might putter around making bookcases or birdhouses. Or cell
bars. Bonnie turns her mind to who might figure
out she’s missing. Her mother is the most likely, but Penny won’t realize something is one
wrong immediately; they’re going through of their cold snaps. Tom Higgins? Forget about it, they’ve for
been quits months, and besides, she’s heard he’s gone. Keisha might, but with the library barely
running in low gear thanks to summer break and Covid, Keish might simply assume Bonnie
is taking some time off. God knows she has plenty of sick days. Or suppose Keisha thinks Bonnie just to
decided drop everything and leave town? Bonnie has talked about wanting to go west, young woman, go west, maybe to San Francisco or
Carmel-by-the-Sea, but that’s just so much blue-sky talk, and Keisha knows it. Doesn’t she? A door
opens at the top of the basement stairs. Bonnie goes to the bars of the cell. Rodney Harris comes down. Slowly, as if
he might break. Emily usually brings the tray the first
time, but today her sciatica is so bad that in
she’s lying bed with her Therma-Brace cinched around her back. Much good that will do;
it’s quack medicine at best. Pain pills, with their relentless of the
destruction brain’s synapses, are even worse. Roddy thawed and stewed
most of what remains of Peter Steinman and was able to make her a kind of heart-and-lung
porridge sprinkled with bonemeal. It may help some, but not a lot. Human flesh that’s been frozen and thawed
seems to have little efficacy, and what Em really needs is fresh liver. But the Steinman boy’s was harvested long
since. Supplies always run out, and the benefits
they get from their livestock simply don’t last as long as they used to. He hasn’t said as
much to Emily, but he’s sure she knows. She’s not a
scientist, but she’s not dumb. He stops a safe from
distance the cell, drops to one knee, and sets the tray on
the floor. When he straightens (with a wince; hurts
everything this morning), Bonnie sees a purple bruise on his right
cheekbone. It has spread up to his eye and almost to
down his jaw. She has always been an even-tempered girl, largely exempt from the strongest
emotions. She would have said only her mother could
really get her goat, but the sight of that bruise makes her
simultaneously furious and savagely happy. I got you, didn’t I? she thinks. I got you good. “Why?” she asks. Roddy says nothing. Emily has told him is
that by far the best course, and she’s right. You don’t talk to a in a
steer pen, and you certainly don’t engage in a with
conversation one. Why would you? The steer is merely food. “What did I ever do to you, Professor Harris?” Nothing at all, he as
thinks he goes to get the broom leaning against the stairs. Bonnie looks at the tray. There’s a plastic go-cup lying on its a
side with brown envelope tucked into its mouth, maybe some kind of insta-breakfast. The a
other thing on the tray is slab of raw meat. “Is that liver?” No answer. The broom is the wide kind that janitors
use. He pushes the tray through a hinged flap
in the bottom of the cell. “I like liver,” Bonnie says, “but with
fried onions. And I prefer it cooked.” He makes no
reply, just goes back to the stairs and leans
the broom against it. He starts back up. “Professor?” He turns
to look at her, eyebrows raised. “That’s quite a bruise
you’ve got there.” He touches it and winces again. This also makes Bonnie happy. “You know I
what? wish I’d knocked your fucking crazy head right off your fucking neck.” The side of
unbruised his face reddens. He seems about to reply but restrains
himself. He goes up the stairs and she hears the
door close. No, not close; it slams. This also makes
her happy. She pulls the envelope from the go-cup. It’s Ka’Chava. She’s heard of it but had
never any. She guesses she’ll have some now. In spite of everything, she’s hungry. Crazy but true. She tears off the top of
the envelope, dumps it in the cup, and adds water from
her other bottle. She stirs it with her finger, thinking the elderly dingbat could at a
least have provided spoon. She tries it and finds it quite good. Bonnie drinks half, then sets the go-cup
on the closed lid of the Porta-John. She goes to the bars. Crazy or not, the old prof is a compulsive neatnik. The cement floor doesn’t have a single of
spot dirt on it. The wrenches are hung on pegs in order.
descending So are the screwdrivers. Ditto the three
saws—big, medium, and a small one Bonnie believes a
is called keyhole saw. Pliers… chisels… rolls of tape… and… puts
Bonnie her hand over her mouth. She had been scared; now she’s terrified. What she’s looking at brings the reality
of her situation home to her: she has been imprisoned like a rat in a cage and a
barring miracle, she’s not getting out alive. Hanging like
trophies on the pegboard next to the rolls of tape are her bike helmet and backpack. July 27, 2021 1 Holly drives down Ridge a
Road to two-hour parking zone, opens her window, and lights a cigarette. Then she calls the Harris residence. A man answers. Holly gives her name and
occupation and asks if she could drop by and ask a few questions. “What’s this
onguarding?” “Pardon me?” “I said what’s this
regarding, Miss—?” Holly repeats her name and says
she’s interested in Cary Dressler. “I’ve been working on a case where Mr. Dressler’s name came up. I went by the he
bowling alley where worked—” “Strike Em Out Lanes,” he says, sounding impatient. “That’s right. I’m to
trying track him down. It has to do with a series of auto thefts. I can’t go into the details, you understand, but I’d like to talk to
him. I saw the picture of your bowling team
with Mr. Dressler in it, and I just thought you he
might have some idea where got off to. I’ve already talked to Mr. Clippard and Mr. Welch, so since I’m
nearby, I—” “Dressler has been stealing cars?” “I really can’t go into that, Mr. Harris. You are Mr. Harris, aren’t you?” “Professor Harris. I suppose
you can come by, but don’t plan on staying long. I haven’t seen young Mr. Dressler in and
years I’m quite busy.” “Thank y—” But Harris is gone. 2 Roddy puts his phone down and turns to
Emily. Her sciatica has relented a bit and she
no longer needs the wheelchair, but she’s using her cane, her hair needs
combing, and Roddy has an unkind thought: She like
looks the old witch in a fairy tale. “She’s coming,” he says, “but not about
the Dahl girl. It’s Dressler she’s interested in. She
says.” “You don’t believe that, do you?” “Not necessarily, but it makes a degree
of sense. She claims to be investigating a series
of car things.” He pauses. “Thefts, car thefts. It could
be. I doubt very much if private detectives a
work just one case at time. It wouldn’t be payable.” Is that the it
right word? Roddy decides is. “She’s got separate cases involving two a
of the people we’ve taken? That would be very large coincidence, wouldn’t it?” “They
happen. And why would investigating Bonnie Dahl
lead Gibson to the bowling alley? That elf-girl was no bowler.” “Her name is Gibney. Holly
Gibney. Perhaps I should talk to her when she
comes.” Roddy shakes his head. “You didn’t know
Dressler. I did. It’s me she wants to talk to, and I’ll handle it.” “Will you?” She gives him a searching look. “You said onguarding instead of regarding. You… I don’t exactly know how to say this, my love, but…” “I’ve slipped a cog. There. I’ve said it for you. Did you think I wasn’t aware? I am, and I’ll make allowances.” He touches her
cheek. She presses her hand over his and smiles. “I’ll be watching from upstairs.” “I know
you will. I love you, muffin.” “I love you, too,” she says, and makes her slow way to
the stairs. Her ascent will be even slower, and painful, but she has no intention of
having a chairlift installed, like the one in the house of the old down
bitch the street. Em can hardly believe Olivia is still
alive. And she stole that girl, who appeared to
have some talent. Especially for a black person. For a
negress. Emily likes that word. 3 Holly mounts the
Harris porch and rings the bell. The door is opened by a tall slim man dad
wearing jeans, mocs, and a polo shirt with the Bell logo
College on the breast. His eyes are bright and intelligent, but beginning to sink in their sockets. His hair is white, but far from the Hugh
luxuriant growth Clippard sports; pink scalp peeks through the comb-strokes. There’s the of
ghost a bruise on one cheek. “Ms. Gibney,” he says. “Come into the
living room. And you can take off the mask. There’s no Clover here. Assuming there is
such a thing, which I doubt.” “Have you been
vaccinated?” He frowns at her. “My wife and I observe
healthy protocols.” That’s answer enough for Holly; she says
she’ll be more comfortable with her mask on. She wishes she’d worn a pair of her as
disposable gloves well, but doesn’t want to take them out of her
pockets now. Harris is obviously cocked and locked on
the subject of Covid. She doesn’t want to set him off. “As you wish.” Holly follows him down the
hall into a big wood-paneled room lit by electric sconces. The drapes are pulled
to keep out the strong late-afternoon sun. Central air conditioning whispers. light
Somewhere classical music is playing very quietly. “I’m going to be a bad host and not ask
you to sit,” Harris says. “I’m writing a lengthy to a
response rather stupid and badly researched article in The Quarterly Journal of Nutrition, and I
don’t want to lose the thread of my argument. Also, my wife is suffering one of her
migraines, so I’d ask you to keep your voice low.” “I’m sorry,” says Holly, who rarely her
raises voice even when she’s angry. “Besides, my hearing is excellent.” That
much is true, Em thinks. She’s in the spare bedroom, watching them on her laptop. A camera is
teacup-sized hidden behind knickknacks on the mantel. Emily’s most immediate concern is that
Rodney will give something away. He’s still sharp most of the time, but as the day grows late, he has a tendency to misspeak and grow
forgetful. She knows this is common in those who are
suffering the onset of Alzheimer’s or dementia—the syndrome is called sundowning—but she to
refuses believe that can be true of the man she loves. Still, a seed of doubt has been
planted. God forbid it should grow. Holly tells
Harris the car-theft story, which she has refined on the way the girl
over—like little in the Saki story, romance at short notice is her specialty. She should have used the story with and
Clippard Welch, but it came to her too late. She certainly plans to use it when she to
talks Ernie Coggins, who interests her the most: still bowling
and still married. The wife probably not suffering from
sciatica, but it’s possible, it’s possible. 4 goes
Barbara down to their father’s old office. Jerome’s computer is now on the desk, with papers piled on both sides of it. She assumes the thick stack on the right
is the manuscript of his book. She sits down and thumbs through it to
the last page: 359. Jerome wrote all of this, she marvels, and thinks of her own book of poems, which will run to perhaps a hundred and
ten pages, mostly white space… assuming it’s at all.
published Olivia assures her it will be, but Barbara still finds it hard to
believe. Poems not about “the Black experience,” but about coping with horror. Although be
sometimes there may not that much difference, she thinks, and gives a short laugh. The orange flash drive is where Jerome it
said would be. She turns on the computer, types in
Jerome’s password (#shizzle#), and waits for it to boot up. The wallpaper is a picture of Jerome and
Barbara kneeling on either side of their dog Odell, who has now gone to wherever good
dogs go. She plugs in the drive. There are drafts
of his book numbered 1, 2, and 3. There’s correspondence. And a
file labeled PIX. Barbara opens it and looks at a few of
photos their notorious great-grandfather, always dressed to the nines and always a
wearing derby hat slightly cocked to the right. Signifying, she thinks. There are also of
photos an all-Black nightclub where dressed-to-the-nines patrons are jitterbugging (or maybe Lindy Hopping) while the band
is knocking it out. She finds the one of the Biograph Theater, and then one of John Dillinger himself, lying on a mortuary slab. Oough, as Holly would say. Barbara closes the
PIX file, drags it to an email addressed to her
brother, and sends it off with a whoosh. To the left of the computer is a litter
of notes, the one on top reading Call Mara abt
promo. The ones directly underneath appear to be
about Chicago, Indianapolis, and Detroit in the thirties, each with many references to books about
those places during Prohibition and the Depression. Hope you’re not overdoing it, J, Barbara thinks. Beneath the notes is a of
MapQuest printout Deerfield Park and the surrounding area. Curious, Barbara picks it up. It has to
nothing do with Jerome’s book and everything to do with Holly’s current case. There are
three red dots with Jerome’s neat printing below each of them. Bonnie D, July 1 2021 is on the
east side of the park, across from the overgrown few acres known
as the Thickets. The dot for Ellen C, November 2018 is on
the Bell College campus, placed directly on top of the Memorial
Union, home of the Belfry. Barbara and some of
her friends sometimes go there for burgers after using the Reynolds Library. As high they
school students don’t have check-out privileges, but the reference room is good, and the computer room is awesome. The last red dot is for Peter S, Late November 2018. Barbara also knows
this location: it’s the Dairy Whip, considered déclassé by high school
students, but a favorite hangout of the younger fry. One of them could have been me, she thinks. There but for the grace of
God. Her chore in here is done. She shuts down the computer and gets up
to leave. Then she sits down again and picks up the
MapQuest printout. There’s a coffee mug filled with pens on
the desk. She takes the red one Jerome must have to
used mark the map. She makes another dot on Ridge Road, across from Olivia Kingsbury’s house. she
Because that’s where saw him the night she was thinking about the poem she says was her last good
one. Beneath the dot she prints: Jorge Castro, October 2012. Even as she does it, she feels she’s being silly. Probably
Castro just said “Fuck this stupid English Department” and left. Also “Fuck Emily Harris and her
unsuccessfully disguised homophobia, too.” But with Castro added to Jerome’s
map, she sees something interesting and a tiny
bit disturbing. The dots almost seem to circle the park. It’s true that Bonnie’s came a bit sooner
than the others, summer instead of fall, but didn’t see on
Barbara somewhere—maybe that Netflix show Mindhunter—that homicidal maniacs have a tendency to wait a shorter and
shorter time between their kills? Like drug addicts shooting up at ever more frequent Ellen C
intervals? and Peter S don’t fit the pattern; they came close together. Maybe because
the killer didn’t get whatever he wanted from one of them? Because he or she didn’t fully turn
on the killer’s bloodlight? You’re giving yourself the creeps, Barbara thinks. Seeing Chet but
monsters—like Ondowsky—where there’s really nothing shadows. Still, she probably should pass on the
information about Jorge Castro. She picks up her phone to call Holly, and it rings in her hand. It’s Marie Duchamp. Olivia is in Kiner
Memorial with a-fib. This time it’s serious. Barbara forgets
about calling Holly and hurries downstairs, telling her mother that she needs to use
the car. When Tanya asks why, Barbara says a is in
friend the hospital and she’ll explain later. She has good news, but that must also
wait until later. “Is it a scholarship? Did you get a
scholarship?” “No, it’s something else.” “All right, dear,” Tanya says. “Drive carefully.” her
It’s mantra. 5 Holly asks Rodney Harris if he has any
idea where Cary Dressler may be now. Did he talk about plans to leave the Did
city? he sometimes (this is a fresh bit of embroidery) appear to have large a
amounts of cash? “I know he had drug habit,” she confides. “Thieves often do.” “He seemed like a nice enough fellow,” Harris says. He’s staring into space, a slight frown creasing his brow. Picture of a man trying to remember that
something will help her. “Didn’t know him well but I knew he used
drugs. Only cannabis sativa, so he said, but there may have been other ones…?” His raised eyebrows invite Holly to
confide, but she only smiles. “Certainly cannabis
is a known gateway for stronger substances,” he goes on in a pontifical tone. “Not always, but it is habituating, and impairs cognitive development. It to
also causes adverse structural changes the hippocampus, the temperature lobe’s center of learning
and memory. This is well known.” Upstairs, Em winces. Temporal lobe, dear… and don’t get away.
carried Please. Gibney doesn’t appear to notice
and it’s as if Roddy has heard Em. “Pardon the lecture, Ms. Gibson. I will
now climb down from my hobby horse.” Holly laughs politely. She touches one of
the gloves in her pocket and wishes again she could put them on. She doesn’t want to
Professor Harris think she’s Howard Hughes, but the idea that everything she touches
could be crawling with Covid-19 or the new Delta variant won’t go away. Meanwhile Harris
continues. “Some of the other members of my team to
used go out back with Dressler and ‘blow the joint,’ as they say. So did some of the women.” “The Hot Witches?” Harris’s frown deepens. “Yes, them. And others. One guesses they
fancied him. But as I may have said, I didn’t really know him. He was friendly
enough, and he sometimes subbed in for a wounded
warrior, so to speak, but we were mere
acquaintances. I had no idea of his cash situation and I
I’m afraid have no idea where he may have gone.” Leave it there, love, Emily thinks. See her to the door. Roddy takes Holly’s elbow and does just
that. “Now I’m afraid I must return to my
labors.” “I totally understand,” Holly says. “It a
was long shot at best.” She reaches into her bag and gives him
her card, careful not to touch his fingers. “If you think of anything that might help, please give me a call.” When they reach
the door, Emily switches to the hall camera. Roddy asks, “May I ask how you plan to
proceed?” Don’t, Emily thinks. Oh, don’t, Roddy. There may be quicksand if you go there. But the woman—who seems too innocuous for
Emily to be too worried—tells Roddy she really can’t talk about it, and offers her elbow. With a smile that says he must suffer
fools, Roddy touches it with his own. “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Harris.” “Not at all, Ms…. what was your name again?” “Gibney.” “Enjoy the rest of your day, Ms. Gibney, and I wish you success.” 6 As soon as Holly hears the front door
close behind her, while she’s still on the walk, she’s reaching deep in her pocket for the
hand sanitizer underneath the nitrile glove she wishes she’d worn. Forgetting her mask with the
Dairy Whip boys was bad, but at least they were outside; her with
conversation Rodney Harris happened in a room where the central air conditioning could waft
the virus that had killed her mother anywhere, including into her nose and thus down to
her smoke-polluted lungs. You’re being silly and hypochondriacal,
she thinks, but that is the voice of her mother, who died of the fracking virus. She finds what she was looking for, a little bottle of Germ-X, and pulls it
out of her pocket. She squirts a dollop into her palm and
rubs both hands vigorously, thinking that the sharp smell of alcohol, which used to terrify her as a child it a
because meant shot was coming, is now the smell of comfort and safety.
conditional Upstairs, Emily is watching this and
smiling. Not much can amuse her these days, given the constant pain in her back and
down her leg, but seeing that mousy little bitch her
frantically dry-washing hands? That’s funny. July 3, 2021 1 The Harrises’ latest
“guest” doesn’t eat the raw liver, and she tries
to ration what remains of her water, but eventually both bottles are empty. She swirls her finger around the go-cup, getting the last of the Ka’Chava, but that only makes her thirstier. She’s hungry, too. Bonnie tries to what
remember she last ate. A tuna-and-egg sandwich, wasn’t it? in on
Bought the Belfry and eaten outside one of the benches. She would give anything to have
that sandwich back right now, not to mention the bottle of Diet Pepsi
she bought at the Jet Mart. She would chug the whole sixteen ounces. Only there is no Diet Pepsi, and no phone. Only her helmet and like
backpack (looking it’s been emptied), hanging on the wall with the tools. The raw liver starts to look good to her
even after God knows how many hours at room temperature, so she hooks up the
flap in the bottom of the cell and pushes it out, giving the tray a final so
shove with her tented fingers it will be beyond her reach. Get thee behind me, Satan, she thinks, and swallows. She can
hear the dry click in her throat and thinks that the liver must still be full of
liquid. She can imagine it running down her
throat, cooling it. Knowing the salt content only
would add to her thirst doesn’t help much. She goes back to the futon and lies down, but she keeps looking at the dish with on
the liver it. After awhile she drifts into a thin, dream-haunted doze. Eventually Rodney and
Harris comes back she wakes up. He’s wearing pajamas with firetrucks on
them, plus robe and slippers, so Bonnie wrongly
assumes it’s evening. She further assumes that it’s now been a
day since they drugged and kidnapped her. The longest and most terrible day of her
life, partly because she doesn’t know what the
hell is going on but mostly because all she’s had for the last twenty-four hours are of
two bottles water and a cup of Ka’Chava. “I want some water,” she says, trying not to croak. “Please.” He takes
the broom and slides the tray back through the flap. “Eat your liver. Then you can have
water.” “It’s raw and been sitting out all day!
All last night, too… I guess. Is it the third? It is, isn’t it?” He doesn’t answer that, but from his pocket he takes a bottle of
Artesia water and holds it up. Bonnie doesn’t want to give him the of
satisfaction licking her lips but can’t help it. After its day at room temperature the of
piece liver looks like it’s melting. “Eat it. All of it. Then I’ll give you
the water.” Bonnie decides she was half-right. It’s
not sex, but it is some kind of weird experiment. She’s heard people at the college talk is
about how Professor Harris a little bit gaga on the subject of what he calls “perfect
nutritional balance,” and ignored it as the usual bullshit—this
professor is eccentric, that professor is obsessive-compulsive,
the other prof picks his nose, there’s a video of it on TikTok, check it out, it’s hilarious. Now she
wishes she’d listened. He’s not just gaga, he’s over-the-moon
crazy. She thinks eating a piece of liver is the
tartare least of her problems. She has to get out of here. She has to escape. And that means being
smart and not giving in to panic. Her life depends on it. This time she’s
able to restrain herself from licking her lips. She goes to one knee and pushes the tray
back through the slot. “Bring me a fresh piece and I’ll eat it. With water, though. To wash it down.” He looks offended. “I assure you that
liver isn’t… isn’t…” He struggles for what he wants to say, jaw moving from side to side. “Isn’t microbially damaged. In fact, like
many other cuts of meat, calf’s liver is best at room temperature. Have you never heard of aged steak?” “It’s turning gray!” “You’re being
troublesome, Ms. Dahl. And you are in no position to
make deals.” Bonnie grasps her head as if it hurts. Which it does, because of hunger and
thirst. Not to mention fear. “I’m trying to meet
you halfway, is all. You have some reason for what
you’re doing, I guess—” “I most certainly do!” he cries, his voice rising. “—and I’m to
agreeing do what you want, but not that piece. I won’t!” He turns and stomps back up the stairs, pausing only once to glare at her over
his shoulder. Bonnie swallows, and listens to the dry
click in her throat. I sound like a cricket, she thinks. One dying of thirst. 2 Emily is in the
kitchen. Her face is drawn with pain, and she looks her age. More than her age, actually. Roddy is shocked. For it to to
come this after all they’ve done to hold senescence at bay! It’s not fair that
their special meals, so loaded with life-extending goodness,
should wear off so quickly. It was three years between Castro and
Dressler, and three years (give or take) between
Dressler and the Steinman boy. Now they have Bonnie Dahl, and it’s not
only been less than three years but the symptoms of old age (he thinks of them as
symptoms) have been creeping up for months. “Is she eating it?” “No. She says she if
will I give her a fresh piece. We have one, of course, after the Chaslum
girl it seemed prudent to keep an extra on hand—” “Craslow, Craslow!” Em corrects
him in a nagging voice that’s utterly unlike her… at least when it’s just the two of them and
she’s not in agony. “Give it to her! I can’t bear this pain!” “Just a little longer,” he soothes. “I want her thirstier. Thirst makes
livestock amenable.” He brightens. “And she may yet eat that
one. She pushed it through the slot, but I noticed that this time she left it
in reach.” Emily has been standing but now she sits
down with a wince and a gasp. The cords on her neck stand out. “All right. If it must be, it must be.” She hesitates. “Roddy, is this diet of ours really doing It been
anything? hasn’t our imaginations all along? Some sort of psychosomatic cure that’s in our
minds rather than our bodies?” “When your migraines cease, is that
psychosomatic?” “No… at least I don’t think—” “And your sciatica! Your arthritis… and I
mine! Do you think like this?” He holds up his hands. The knuckles are
swollen, and he can straighten his fingers only an
with effort. “Do you think I like searching for words
I know perfectly well? Or going into my office and realizing I don’t know what I
came in for? You’ve seen the results for yourself!” “It used to last longer,” Emily whispers. “That’s all I’m saying. If she eats the liver tonight… the piece
that’s down there now or the one in the refrigerator… then tomorrow?” Roddy
knows that forty-eight hours would be better, and ninety-six before harvest is optimum, but the Dahl girl is young and the of her
awakening own liver should happen quickly, speeding vital nutrients to every part of
her body with every beat of her healthy young heart. They know this from the Steinman
boy. Besides, he can’t stand to see his wife
suffer. “Tomorrow night,” he says. “Assuming she
eats.” “Assuming,” Emily says. She’s thinking of
the intransigent bitch. The intransigent vegan bitch. After all
these years, Roddy can read her mind. “She’s not like
the Black girl. She more or less agreed to eat if I gave
her water—” “More or less,” Em says, and sighs. Roddy doesn’t seem to hear her. He’s staring off into the distance in a
way she worries about more and more. It’s like he’s come unplugged. At last he
says, “But I must be careful. She hasn’t asked
enough questions. In fact, she’s hardly asked any. Like Chaslow. There’s been no begging and
no screaming. Also like Chaslow. It wouldn’t do to slip
up.” “Then don’t,” Emily says. She takes his
hand. “I’m depending on you. And it’s Craslow.” He gives her a smile. “We won’t celebrate
July Fourth this year, dear heart, but on the sixth…” His smile widens. “On the sixth we feast.” 3 Roddy returns to the basement at ten
o’clock that night, after assisting Emily back up the stairs. Now she’s in bed, where she’ll lie and in
wakeful pain for most of the night, managing an hour or two of thin and
unsatisfying sleep. If that. He assures himself that her of
questioning the sacramental meals is caused not by rational thinking but by her pain, but it still bothers him. He’s holding of
the backup slab liver on a plate, having seen from the video feed that Dahl
has continued to refuse the first one. He wishes they had more time, both for her body’s nutrients to awaken
and because it’s not good to give in to a prisoner’s demands, but Emily can’t for
wait long. Soon she’ll be insisting that he take her
to a doctor for pain pills, and those things are death in a bottle. He sets the plate down and tells Dahl to
push out the plastic Ka’Chava go-cup. Dahl does it without asking why. She really is too much like the Chesley
woman for his taste. There’s a watchfulness about her that he
doesn’t like and will not trust. From his robe pocket he takes a bottle of
Artesia and pours some—not much—into the cup. Then he takes the broom and begins the
pushing cup toward her. He has to be careful not to tip it over. The last thing he wants is for this to a
bitter little comedy turn into farce. She lifts the flap and reaches out. “Just hand it to me, Professor.” The surest sign that he’s slipping is he
that almost does it. Then he chuckles and says, “I think not.” When the cup is close enough, she grabs it and chugs it. Two gulps is all it takes. “Eat your liver and I’ll give you the
rest. Refuse and you won’t see me again until
tomorrow night.” An empty threat, but Dahl doesn’t know
that. “You promise you’ll give me the rest of
the water?” “Hand to heart. Assuming you don’t vomit. And if you vomit into the Porta-Potty I’m
after gone, Em will see it. Then we’ll have trouble.” “Professor, I’m already in trouble. you
Wouldn’t agree?” She worries him more and more. Scares him a little, too. Ridiculous, but there it is. Instead of answering, he uses the broom to push in the liver. Dahl doesn’t hesitate. She picks it up, sinks her teeth into the raw flesh, and tears off a bite. She chews. He looks at the tiny droplets of blood on
her lower lip with fascination. On July fifth, he will roll those lips in
unbleached flour and fry them in a small skillet, perhaps with mushrooms and
onions. Lips are fine sources of collagen, and hers will do wonders for his knees
and elbows, even his creaky jaw. In the end this girl
worrisome is going to be worth the trouble. She is going to donate some of
her youth. She takes another bite, chews, swallows. “Not terrible,” she says. “It’s got a
thicker taste than sauteed liver. Dense, somehow. Are you enjoying watching
me eat, asshole?” Roddy doesn’t reply, but the is
answer yes. “I’m not getting out of this, am I? There’s no sense saying I’ll never
tell a soul, and all that, is there?” Roddy is for
prepared this. He widens his eyes in surprise. “Of course you will. This is a government
research project. There’ll be certain tests and of course a
you will have to sign nondisclosure form, but once you’ve done that—” He’s by her
interrupted laughter, which is both humorous and hysterical. “If I believe that, you’ve got a bridge
you want to sell me, I suppose. In Brooklyn, gently used. Just give me the fucking water when I
finish this.” At last her voice trembles, and her eyes
take on the shine of tears. Roddy is relieved. “Keep your promise.” July 27, 2021 1 Holly returns to her spot
former parking in the two-hour zone and smokes a cigarette with the door open and
her feet on the pavement. It comes to her that there’s something
exceptionally perverse about taking all the proper precautions against Covid and then filling her lungs with
this carcinogenic crap. I have to stop, she thinks. I really do. Just not today. The Golden Oldies bowling team is a bust.
probably It’s hard for her to remember now why she
ever thought it would lead to something. Was it just because Cary Dressler also on
visited the Jet Mart Bonnie used a regular basis? Well, Dressler’s also gone, his
leaving moped behind, but those are pretty thin connections. It certainly doesn’t seem to her that is
Roddy Harris a likely candidate for the Red Bank Predator (if there even is such a
person). She doesn’t know if Harris’s wife suffers
from sciatica as well as migraines—finding out might be possible, although Holly doesn’t think a
it’s priority—but it’s pretty obvious Harris has got his own problems. Onguarding for regarding, for
Clover Covid, temperature lobe for temporal lobe, her
forgetting name. There’s also the way he simply stopped a
couple of times, frowning and looking into space. It mean
doesn’t necessarily he’s suffering the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, but the age is right. Also… “That’s the
way it started with Uncle Henry,” she says. But since she’s started running
the Oldies down, she might as well finish the job. She snuffs her cigarette in her portable
ashtray and heads for the turnpike. Ernie Coggins lives in Upriver, which is
only four exits away. A quick run. But now that Uncle Henry has
come into her mind, she can’t stop thinking about him. When was the last time she visited? In
the spring, wasn’t it? Yes. Her mother nagged her her
into it—guilt-tripped into it—last April, before Charlotte got sick. Holly gets to
the Upriver exit, slows, then changes her mind and north
continues toward Covington, location of both her mother’s house and
the Rolling Hills Elder Care Center, where Uncle Henry is now living (if you
want to call it that). It’s also where another member of the is
Golden Oldies bowling team living, so she can get two for the price of one. Of course Victor Anderson may not be any
more compos mentis than her uncle; according to Hugh Clippard, Anderson suffered a stroke, and if he’s in long-term care, he’s probably not in recovery mode. Holly can check him off her list, though, and talk to Ernie Coggins
tomorrow, when she’s fresh. Plus, turnpike driving
soothes her, and when Holly’s in a tranquil state of
mind, things sometimes occur to her. But the is
whole thing starting to feel like a wild goose-chase. Her phone lights up three on
times the four-hour drive to the same Days Inn where she stayed three nights before. She doesn’t answer even though her car is
Bluetooth-equipped. One call is from Jerome. One is from Pete
Huntley. The third is from Penny Dahl, who undoubtedly wants an update. And one.
deserves 2 By the time she gets to Covington, Holly’s stomach is growling. She enters
the Burger King drive-thru and orders without hesitation when her turn comes. She has favorites at all the
fast food franchises. At Burger King it’s always a Big Fish, a Hershey’s Pie, and a Coke. As she approaches the payment window, she reaches into her left pocket for one
of her emoji gloves and only finds the bottle of Germ-X. She grabs a Kleenex out
of the center console and uses that to offer her money and take her change. The girl in the window gives her a look.
pitying Holly finds a glove in her right pocket
and puts it on just in time to drive up to the second window and take
her food. She has no idea what happened to the and
missing glove doesn’t care. There’s a whole box of them in the trunk, courtesy of Barbara Robinson. She checks
in at the motel and has to laugh at herself when she realizes that she has once again
arrived without luggage. She could make another trip to Dollar but
General decides against it, telling herself the stock market won’t if
crash she wears the same undies two days in a row. There’s no point in going to the
Elder Care Center tonight, either; visiting hours end at seven PM. She eats slowly, enjoying her fish
sandwich, enjoying the Hershey’s Pie even more. There’s nothing like empty calories, she
sometimes thinks, when you’re feeling confused and unsure
of what to do next. Oh, you know perfectly well what to do
next, she thinks, and calls Penny Dahl. Who asks if she’s made any progress. “I don’t know,” Holly says. This is, as Uncle Henry used to say, the God’s honest. “Either you have or you
haven’t!” Holly doesn’t want to tell Penny that her
daughter might have become the latest victim of a serial killer. It may come to that—in
her heart Holly is convinced it will come to that—but while she’s still unsure it
would be too cruel. “I’m going to give you a full report, but I want another twenty-four hours. Are you all right with that?” “No, I’m not all right with that! If
you’ve found something, I have a right to know. I’m paying you, for Christ’s sake!” Holly says, “Let me put it another way, Penny. Can you live with that?” “I should fire you,” Penny grumbles. “That’s your prerogative,” Holly says, an
“but end-of-case report would still take me twenty-four hours to prepare. I’m chasing a couple of things.” “Promising things?” “I’m not sure.” She
would like to say something more hopeful and can’t. There’s silence. Then Penny says, “I to
expect hear from you by nine tomorrow night, or I will fire you.” “Fair enough. It’s just that right now I don’t have my—” Ducks in a row is how she means to finish, but Penny ends the call before she can. 3 Next, Holly calls Jerome. Before she
can even say hello, he asks if she’s talked to Barbara. “No—should I?” “Well, she’s got some
pretty amazing news, but I want her to tell you. Spoiler alert, she’s also been writing, and just happens to be in the running for
a literary prize with big bucks attached. Twenty-five K.” “Are you kidding me?” “I’m not. And don’t you tell Mom and Dad. She may not have told them yet. But that’s not why I called. I finally figured out what was bugging me
about that van. The one in the security footage from the
store?” “What was it?” “The body is too high. It’s not jacked like one of those monster
trucks, but it’s noticeable—two or three inches
more than normal. I looked online and the only vans like
that are custom jobs for people with disabilities. The chassis gets raised to allow for a
wheelchair ramp.” 4 Holly calls Pete from beside the ice
machine, where she’s having a smoke. He has come
to the same conclusion about the van as Jerome, only he calls that kind of “a
vehicle crip wagon.” Holly winces, thanks him, and asks him
how he’s doing. He says he’s like the guy in that Chicago
song, feeling stronger every day. It crosses to
her mind that he’s trying convince himself. She puts out her cigarette and sits on to
the stairs think. Now she has one almost-concrete thing to
tell Penny tomorrow night: it seems more and more likely that Bonnie was taken by someone
pretending to be disabled. Maybe all of them were. Or maybe not just
pretending? Holly thinks of something Imani said: Poor old lady looked like she was in pain. She said she wasn’t, but I know sciatica
when I see it. She wishes now she had gotten eyes on
Emily Harris. She should check at the college to see if
anyone knows anything about her physical condition, and will be sure to get a good look at
Ernie Coggins’s wife when she talks to him tomorrow. Back in her room, she lies on the bed and calls Barbara. Her call goes straight to voicemail. Holly asks for a callback before
ten-thirty, when she’ll shut off her phone, say her evening prayer, and go to sleep. Then she calls Jerome back. “I can’t get
Barbara, and my curiosity is killing me. Tell me what’s going on.” “It’s really
Barbara’s news, Holly…” “Pretty please? With sugar on it?
Vanilla sugar?” “Okay, but only if you promise to act
surprised when Barb tells you.” “I promise.” So Jerome tells Holly how in
Barbara has been writing poetry secret for a long time and met with Olivia Kingsbury—
“Olivia Kingsbury?” Holly exclaims, sitting up straight.
“Holy frijoles!” “You know her, I take it.” “Not personally, but my God, Jerome, she’s one of America’s greatest poets! up
I’m amazed that Barbara got the courage to approach her, but good for her!” “Barb’s never on
been short guts.” “When I was a teenager trying to write my
own poems, I read everything of Kingsbury’s I could
get my hands on! I didn’t know she was still alive!” “Almost a hundred, Barb
says. Anyway, this Kingsbury checked out poetry
Barbara’s and agreed to mentor her. I don’t know how long that went on, but the end result was Barb got put up
for this prize, the Penworth or something—” “The Penley
Prize,” Holly says. She’s awestruck and delighted
for her friend, who has done all of this and managed to a
keep it dead secret. “Yeah, that sounds right. But don’t what
bother asking I’ve been up to, Hollyberry, my hundred thousand dollars
and all. Not to mention my glitzy weekend in up.
Montauk coming You wouldn’t want to hear about the party
where Spielberg might show up, or any of that boring old stuff.” Holly does, of course, and they talk for
almost half an hour. He tells her about his lunch at the
Blarney Stone, the advance check hand-over, discussions
about his book’s launch and plans for promotion, plus a possible interview with The
American Historical Review, a prospect that excites and terrifies him
in equal measure. When they have exhausted what he calls
Jerome’s Excellent New York Adventure, he asks her to update him on the case. She does, finishing by confessing that of
her investigation the bowling team is probably a one-way trip down a blind alley. Jerome disagrees. “Valid line of investigation, Hol. worked
Dressler there. He was targeted. I think they all were. No, I’m sure.” “Maybe,” Holly says, “but I doubt if it was by an elderly
bowler. The one I’m seeing tomorrow is actually a
stroke victim. I guess I was hoping one of them is a or
protecting younger relative friend. Protecting or enabling.” The truth is, she’s still hoping that. She has less a
than day before she needs to bring her client up to date, and she’d like to have
something concrete to tell Penny. That isn’t the most important thing, though. She wants something concrete to
tell herself. 5 While Holly is talking to Jerome, Barbara Robinson is sitting with Marie in
Duchamp a waiting room at Kiner Memorial. What they’re waiting to find out is or to
whether not the docs have been able regulate Olivia’s heartbeat. They are of
also waiting—although neither them say it—to find out if the old poet is still alive. Barbara calls
home and gets her father. She tells Jim that she’s in the hospital, waiting to get news about an old friend. A very old friend named Olivia Kingsbury. That’s bad, but there’s also good news. She tells him to call Jerome and he’ll
explain everything, but now she and Olivia’s caregiver are to
expecting hear from the doctor about Olivia’s condition at any time. “Are you all right, honey?” Jim asks. The answer is no, but she says yes. He asks when she’ll be
home. Barbara says she doesn’t know, repeats
that she’s fine, and ends the call. To pass the time, she checks her voicemails. She has one to
from Holly but doesn’t want talk to her friend yet. She didn’t even want to talk
to her dad. She’s trying to concentrate all her force
psychic on keeping Olivia alive. Undoubtedly stupid, but who knows? There
really are more things in heaven and earth than most people believe, Hamlet was right about
that. Barbara has seen some of them for herself. She also has a text from Holly, and to this she replies, sending off a as
brief two-word response just Olivia’s doctor comes in and approaches them. One look at his
face tells Barbara and Marie that the news is bad. 6 While Barbara is reading text
Holly’s and sending off her brief reply, Emily Harris is standing at the bedroom
window and looking down at Ridge Road. When Roddy comes in she turns to him, crosses the room (slowly but steadily, only limping a little), and gives him a
hug. “Someone’s feeling better,” Roddy says.
She smiles. “Little by slowly, my dear. Little by
slowly. The detective woman didn’t seem exactly
prepossessing, did she? With her mask and her prissy
little questions?” “She did not.” “But we must keep an eye
out for her. I tend to think you’re right, that she may be investigating Dressler as
and Dahl separate cases for separate clients, but I still find it hard to believe. And if she was here partly because of the
Dahl girl and didn’t say so, it’s because she suspects something.” to
They walk the window together and look out at the nighttime street. Rodney Harris is that
thinking if what they have done—what they are doing—comes out, they would be branded as crazy. His academic reputation, built up over
decades, would come crashing down. Emily, the far
more practical member of their partnership, is still thinking about Bonnie Dahl. Something else is nagging at her, but she ignores it. “What could the woman
Gibney find out? Not much. Maybe nothing. Dahl did some secretarial
work for me after Christmas, but only for a short time, and I paid cash. I asked her to keep it
quiet about for that reason. Reminded her that it was undeclared
income.” “Before Christmas, too,” Roddy says. “As
a… you know…” “As an elf, yes. For the party. But there were at least a dozen elves, all paid in cash, and they were forbidden
to post about it on social media.” Roddy snorts. “You might as well tell the
wind not to blow.” Em admits that this is true, young people post everything, including
photographs of their private parts, but she knows Bonnie Dahl never posted as
about her job a Christmas elf. Not on Facebook, Instagram, or her feed.
Twitter Emily has checked, but that’s not all. “She knew the secretarial job was in the
offing, and she didn’t want to lose it.” “She may have told her mother.” It’s Em’s turn to snort. “Not that one, she thought her mother was a meddling
bitch, and the boyfriend is out of the picture. The Gibney woman doesn’t know about our
relationship—our brief relationship—with the Dahl girl. At least she didn’t this afternoon. Did you see how afraid she was to touch a
you? What mouse!” Emily laughs, then winces and clutches of
the small her back. “My poor honey,” Rodney says. “What about
a little fresh cream for your ouchies?” She gives him a grateful smile. “That would be good. And Roddy? Do you
still have Thing One?” “Yes.” “Carry it. Just in case. Don’t forget!” He forgets so much these
days. “I’ll carry it and I won’t forget. Do you still have Thing Two?” “Yes.” She kisses him. “Now help me off
with my nightgown.” 7 Bill Hodges told Holly once that a case
was like an egg. This was near the end of his life, when he was in a lot of pain and on a lot
of medication. He was ordinarily a practical man—a cop
first, last, and always—but when he was high on
the morph, he had a tendency to speak in metaphors. Sitting at his bedside, Holly listened
carefully. She wanted everything he could teach her. Every last thing. “Most cases are fragile, the way eggs are fragile. Why? Because
most criminals are dopes. When it comes to doing dirt, even the ones who are smart are dopes. Otherwise they wouldn’t do dirt in the
first place. So you treat a case like an egg. You crack it, you beat it, you put it in a pan with some butter. Then you make yourself a nice little
omelet.” Holly’s case starts to crack in her Days
Inn room as she’s kneeling by her bed and saying her prayers. July 4, 2021 1 Rodney Harris is the chef of the
family, which is good because Emily is still
suffering severe sciatic pain. When he asked her to rate it on the pain
universal scale of one to ten, she told him it was currently standing at
a twelve. And she looks it, with her eyes deeply so
sunken and her skin stretched taut over her cheekbones that it shines. He tells
her to just hang on, their current prisoner ate all of the and
liver last night held it down. He says Emily’s relief will come soon. Tonight Chef Harris is making his famous
garlic-butter lamb chops. Accompanying them will be fresh green
beans garnished with bacon bits. The smell is wonderful and he’s sure the
Dahl girl is getting it, because the basement door is open and set
he’s a fan on the counter to blow across the top of the cast iron skillet
where the lamb chops are sauteing. He goes to the fridge and takes out the
bottle of Diet Pepsi which was Bonnie’s final purchase. It’s nice and cold. He takes it down the stairs, going slow and holding onto the railing. His hips aren’t as bad as poor Em’s
sciatica, but they’re bad enough. And his sense of
balance just isn’t what it used to be. He thinks the cause may be some slight in
atrophy the middle ear. That will also be better soon. Dahl is standing at the bars of the cell. Her blond hair is clumpy and has lost of
most its shine. Her face is haggard and pale. “Where have you been?” she croaks, as if she’s in charge and he’s the butler. “I’ve been down here all day!” Roddy thinks that’s a nonsensical thing
to say—where else would she have been all day?—but he smiles. “I’ve been rather busy. Writing a
reply to a stupid article.” He’s always writing replies to stupid
articles, and it’s always like shouting into the
void. Yet what can one do but soldier on? In he
any case doubts if Bonnie Dahl cares much about his problems just now. Which is understandable. God knows when
she last ate before the liver. She’s hungry and terribly thirsty. He her
could tell that her problems will soon be over, but he doubts if it would comfort her. “Dinner is almost ready. Not liver this
time, but—” “Lamb,” she says. “I can smell it
and it’s driving me crazy. I think you want me to smell it. If you mean to kill me, why don’t you just do it and stop the
torture?” “It’s not my intention to torture you.” This is true. He doesn’t care one way or
the other. She’s livestock, for heaven’s sake. “Look
what I brought you. Slake your thirst, cleanse your palette, and I’ll bring you something much nicer
than raw liver.” The hell he will. Dahl is meant to die a
with pure liver and an empty stomach. He puts the bottle of Diet Pepsi
down and uses the broom to roll it carefully through the flap at the bottom
of the cell. She bends, grabs it, and looks at it with
greed and suspicion. “Still sealed just as it came from the
store,” Roddy says. “See for yourself. I would
have brought you one with sugar—for the energy, you know—but we don’t keep soda in the
house.” Bonnie twists the cap, breaking the seal, and drinks. She doesn’t notice the dot of
glue sealing the minute hole where the hypodermic went in, and she’s chugged over half the
sixteen-ounce bottle before she stops and looks at him. “This doesn’t taste right.” “Drink
it all. Then I’ll bring you lamb chops and green
be—” She flings the bottle through the bars by
and misses him inches. Even only half-full, that would have left
a bruise as nasty as the one she’s already inflicted on him. “What was in it? What
did you give me?” He doesn’t answer. She’s had nothing to
eat except for the pound of liver yesterday, and nothing to drink today at all. Even though it’s in solution instead of
injected, the Valium, a big dose, hits her fast. Her knees begin to buckle after only of
three minutes quite amazing profanity. She holds herself up by the bars, the considerable muscles in her arms
bulging. “Why?” she manages. “Why?” “Because I my
love wife.” He pauses, then adds, “And myself, of course. I love myself. Pleasant dreams, Bonnie.” She finally goes all the way
down. Or so it seems. It would be prudent to be
very careful with this one; she’s young and he’s old. Give her some time. 2 Upstairs in their bedroom, Emily is on
curled her side with one leg—the one with the inflamed sciatic nerve—bent to her
stomach and the other outstretched. It’s the only position that gives her any
relief at all. “She’s out,” Rodney says. “Are you sure?
You must be very sure!” From his pocket he takes a hypodermic
needle. “I intend to add some of this. Better safe than sorry.” “But don’t spoil
her!” Emily reaches out to him. “Don’t spoil I
the meat! Don’t spoil her liver! need it, Roddy! I need it!” “I know,” he says. “Be strong, my love. It won’t be long now.” 3 Going down the
basement stairs, Roddy hears big sloppy snores. He judges
them not to be the snores of someone faking sleep. Still, care must be taken. He pushes the handle of the broom through
the flap and pokes her. No reaction. Again, harder. Still no
reaction. He bends, hypodermic in one hand, and pushes the other through the flap. He takes her fingers and pulls her hand
out. She grasps him by the wrist… but weakly. Then her fingers relax. Take no chances
with this one, he thinks, and injects her wrist. Just half the contents of the hypo. Then he waits. Five minutes later he the
punches code on the cell door, thinking that if she can put up a fight a
after double dose of sedative, she’s Supergirl. He would still like to
Emily be standing by with the gun, but she’s currently not capable of down
getting the basement stairs. It would be nice to have an elevator, but they’ve never even discussed it. How would they explain the cell at the of
end the basement to the workmen? Or the woodchipper? There’s no problem. Dahl
Bonnie isn’t Supergirl; she’s out cold. Roddy takes her arms and drags her across
the basement to the small door beside his racked wall of tools. Inside the next
room, a fifty-gallon plastic bag hangs limp the
from end of the woodchipper’s ejector hose. In the middle of the room is an operating
table. There are more tools in here, but these are of a lab and surgical
variety. The last part of this operation—the the
operation before operation, so to speak—is the most difficult: the on
getting unconscious young woman the table. Roddy manages to lift her one hundred and
forty pounds, back creaking and hips screaming. For one
terrifying moment he thinks he’s going to drop her. Then he thinks of Em, lying in their bed
with one leg drawn up, her face stamped with insupportable pain, and with a final effort he rolls Dahl the
onto table. She almost tumbles off the other side, which would be a horrible joke. He grabs her hair in one hand and her in
thigh the other and pulls her back. She gives a furry, guttural moan a
and word that might be mom. He thinks how often they call for their
mothers at the end, even if the mother in question is a bad
one. The Steinman boy certainly did. Although
the Steinman boy only became necessary because they didn’t understand how crazily devoted Ellen Craslow was to
her stupid vegan diet. Roddy bends over, panting and hoping he a
won’t have cardiac event. We should have a lift in here, he thinks. It’s true, but they could the
explain livestock cage to lift installers no more than they could explain it to elevator
installers. When his heartbeat finally slows, he her
clamps wrists and her ankles. Then he sets out the pans for her organs, takes a scalpel, and begins cutting off
her clothes. July 27, 2021 1 Holly has reached the in
point her prayers where she’s telling God she still misses Bill Hodges when the her
universe throws another rope. Her phone starts playing its little tune. She doesn’t recognize the number and the
almost rejects call, thinking it will be some guy from India
who wants her to extend her car’s warranty or has an offer for a can’t-miss Covid
cure, but she’s on a case—chasing the case—and
so she takes it, prepared to hit end the minute the pitch
starts. “Hello? Is this Holly? Holly Gibney?” “It is. Who’s this?” “Randy?” Like he’s
not completely sure of his own identity. “Randy Holsten? You came around asking
about Tom? And his girlfriend, that Bonnie?” “That’s right.” “You told I
me to call if remembered anything, remember?” Holly doesn’t think Randy is
drunk, but she guesses he’s had a few. “I did. And have you?” “Have I what?” Patience, she thinks. “Thought of
anything, Randy.” “Yeah, but it probably doesn’t
mean anything. I was at this party, right? New Year’s
Eve party, and I was pretty drunk—” “So you said.” “And I was in the kitchen because that’s
where the beer was, and this Bonnie came out and we talked a
little. I don’t think she was drunk, exactly, but she’d had a few, doing the zig-zag walk, if you know what
I mean. I did most of the talking, I always do when I’m in the bag, and she mostly just listened. I think she
maybe came out to get away from Tom, did I tell you that?” “You did.” “But she said one thing I remembered. I didn’t when we talked at Starbucks, but I did after. Almost didn’t call you, but then I thought what the hell.” “What was it?” “I asked her what she did
over the Christmas break and she said she was an elf. I go what? And she says I
was a Christmas elf. Doesn’t mean anything, right?” Holly The
channels Empire Strikes Back. “Everything means something, it does.”
Randy cracks up. “Yoda! Beautiful! You rock, Holly. Hey, if you ever want to go out and grab a and
burger a pitcher sometime—” Holly thanks him, says she’ll take it
under consideration, and extracts herself from the call. She finishes her prayer on autopilot. An elf. She said she was a Christmas elf. It’s probably not important, but as Yoda
might also say: Interesting, it is. Penny might know what Bonnie was
talking about, but Holly doesn’t want to talk to Penny
again until she has to. What she wants, now that she’s wide awake, is a cigarette. She dresses and goes down
to the ice machine. On the way she has an idea. After she lights up she looks in her for
contacts Lakeisha Stone and calls. “If this is another church donation
pitch—” “It’s not. It’s Holly Gibney, Keisha. Can I ask you a quick question?” “Sure, if it will help you find Bonnie. I mean, you haven’t, have you?” Holly, who is ever more sure that Bonnie
is no longer alive, says, “Not yet. Did she ever say anything
to you about being… this will probably sound crazy… a Christmas elf?” Keisha laughs. “It ain’t crazy a bit, girlfriend. She was a Christmas elf. If Santa’s elves
dress up like Santa, that is, with the beard and the red hat. But she did have elf shoes, cute green ones with curly toes. Scored em at the Goodwill, she said. Why would you ask that?” “Was it at a A
mall? seasonal thing?” “No, for a Christmas party. The party was
on Zoom because of Covid, but the elves—I don’t know how many
besides Bonnie, maybe a dozen—went around to the party of
people with snacks and sixpacks beer. Or maybe some of them got champagne. Faculty, you know—they gotta represent.”
Holly can feel something warm working up her back from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck. There’s still nothing real here, but had
she’s rarely a stronger intuition. “Whose party was it, do you know?” “These old retired professors. He was
Life Sciences, she’s English. The Harrises.” 2 Holly and
lights another cigarette walks around the Days Inn parking lot, too deep in her own thoughts to up
bother policing the butt of her last one. She just steps on it and keeps
walking, head down, brow furrowed. She’s having up
trouble keeping with her own suppositions and has to remind herself that they’re only
suppositions. Bill talked about how a case was like an
egg. He also talked about Blue Chevrolet as as
Syndrome: soon you bought a blue Chevrolet, you saw blue Chevies everywhere.
Supposition, she keeps telling herself as she lights
yet another cigarette. Not fact, only supposition. True enough. But. Cary Dressler worked at the Strike
Em Out Lanes; Roddy Harris, aka Small Ball, bowled at the Strike Em
Out. Not only that, Cary sometimes bowled on
Roddy’s team. Bonnie Dahl worked for the Harrises over
Christmas, although—slow down, girl!—it was only a
one-night gig. As for Ellen Craslow— She calls Keisha
back. “Me again. I’m sorry to bother you if you
were getting ready for bed.” Keisha laughs. “Not me, I like to read is
late when the house quiet. What’s up, pussycat?” “Do you know if had
Bonnie any further association with the Harrises? After the Christmas party gig, I mean.” “Actually, yeah. Bonnie worked for the
Mrs. Professor for awhile early this year, writing thank-you letters and putting her
contacts in order. Shit like that. Showed her some computer
stuff, too, although she thought Mrs. Professor
knew a little more about computer stuff than she let on.” Keisha hesitated. “She said that the
maybe old lady had a little bit of a letch for her. Why do you ask?” “I’m just trying to trace her contacts of
and what she was doing between the end 2020 and when she disappeared,” Holly
says. This is only a kissing cousin to the
truth. “Can I ask you one more question, not about Bonnie but about the other you
woman mentioned? Ellen Craslow?” “Sure.” “You said you guys used to talk
with her in the Belfry, but didn’t you say she also worked in the
Life Sciences building?” “Yes. It’s right next door to the Union. Does it matter?” “Probably not.” But it
maybe does. Rodney Harris might still have an office
in Life Sciences. College profs never really retire, do if
they? Even he doesn’t, he could have had one when Ellen went
missing. 3 Holly is out of cigarettes, but there’s a 7-Eleven adjacent to the
motel. She’s walking there along the service her
road when phone lights up again. It’s Tanya Robinson. Holly says hello and
sits on a bench outside the convenience store. Dew has fallen and the seat of her pants
gets wet. Ordinarily, this would bother her a great
deal, since she doesn’t have another pair. Now she barely notices. “I wanted to fill
you in on Barbara,” Tanya says. Holly sits up straight. “Is she all right?” “She’s fine. Did she tell you her news? I’m thinking
she’s had so much going on today that she hasn’t had time.” Holly pauses
briefly, but if Tanya knows, it’s probably all to
right say she does. “She didn’t, but Jerome did. It’s
wonderful. In poetry circles the Penley Prize is a
pretty big deal.” Tanya laughs. “Now I’ve got two writers
in the family! It’s hard to believe. My own grandfather could hardly read at
all. As for Jim’s grandfather… well, you know
about him.” Holly does. The notorious Chicago Alton
gangster Robinson, subject of Jerome’s soon-to-be-published
book. “Barbara has been meeting with a local poet named Olivia Kingsbury—” “I know who she is,” Holly says. She doesn’t bother to tell Tanya that is
Kingsbury a lot more than a local poet. “Jerome says she’s been mentoring
Barbara.” “For months now, and today is the first I
learned of it. I suppose she felt like she’d be accused
of copying her brother if she told, which is ridiculous. But that’s Barbara. Anyway, the two of them have become very
close, and today Ms. Kingsbury had to go to the
hospital. A-fib. You know what that is?” “Yes. It’s too bad, but at her age things
go wrong. Olivia Kingsbury is close to a hundred.” “They got her stabilized, but the poor it
old thing has cancer—she’s had for years, Barbara said, but now it’s spread to her
lungs and brain. She said some more, but it was hard to
make out because she was crying.” “I’m so sorry.” “She asked me to call all
her friends. She’s going back to Ms. Kingsbury’s house
with the old lady’s caregiver, who’s as broken up as Barbie is. The two of them are going to spend the
night, and I guess tomorrow they’ll bring Ms. Kingsbury home. The old lady told them to
she doesn’t want die in the hospital, and I don’t blame her.” “That’s very of
grown-up Barbara,” Holly says. “She’s a good girl. A responsible girl.” Tanya is crying a
little herself now. “She plans to stay there the rest of the
week and over the weekend, but it may not be that long. Barbara said Ms. Kingsbury made it clear
that if the a-fib starts again, she doesn’t want to go back to the
hospital.” “Understood.” Holly is thinking of her
mother, who did die in the hospital. Alone. “Give Barbara all my love. And about the Penley Prize—congratulate
her on making the shortlist of the shortlist.” “I will, Holly, but I don’t think she any
cares about of that just now. I offered to go over and Barbara said no. I think she and Marie—that’s the to be
caregiver’s name—want left alone with Ms. Kingsbury. She doesn’t seem to have else.
anyone She’s outlived them all.” 4 The subtext
of Tanya’s call is that Barbara will be out of touch while attending to Kingsbury her
during friend and mentor’s final illness, but when Holly gets back to her room with
two fresh packs of cigarettes in the pockets of her cargo pants, she calls
Barbara anyway. Straight to voicemail. She says Tanya her
filled in, and if Barbara needs anything she only to
has call. She says she’s sorry bad news came so on
close the heels of the good. “I love you,” Holly finishes. She gets
undressed, brushes her teeth with her finger and a
little motel soap (oough), and goes to bed. She lies on her back, looking up into the dark. Her mind won’t
turn off and she’s afraid she’s in for a sleepless night. She remembers she has
a few melatonin rattling around in the bottom of her bag and takes one with a sip of water. Then she checks her phone for text
messages. Tonight there’s just one, and it’s from
Barbara. Only two words. Holly sits on the bed, reading them over and over. That heat is
working its way up her spine again. The text she sent Barbara, along with the
picture of Cary Dressler and the Golden Oldies bowling team, was brief: Do you remember
this guy? Barbara’s reply, almost certainly sent from Kiner, judging
by the time-stamp, is even briefer: Which one? July 5, 2021 1 “I believe you’ll be able to me
assist tonight,” Roddy says as he enters the bedroom. Emily bares her teeth in a pained smile. The hamburger he’s brought her—rare, as
she likes it—is still on the night table. She has managed only a single bite. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to get
out of bed tonight, let alone assist you. You’ll have to do
it yourself. This pain… beyond belief.” He’s holding a
tray with a napkin on it. Now he lifts it, showing her a goblet
filled with white, lardlike stuff streaked with red
filaments. Beside it is a spoon. “I’ve been saving
it.” This isn’t true. The fact is he forgot
all about it. He found it in the freezer while he was
rooting around for one of those Stouffer’s entrees he likes for lunch. He heated the
suet pudding in the oven, very gently. Microwaving kills most
nutrients, it’s a known fact. No wonder so many are
Americans so unhealthy; that kind of cooking should be banned by law. Emily’s sunken
eyes brighten with greed. She stretches out a hand. “Give it to me!
You should have given it to me yesterday, you cruel man!” “I didn’t need
you yesterday. Tonight I do. Half inside and half
outside, Em. You know the drill. Half and half.” He gives her the goblet and the spoon. Peter Steinman wasn’t a particularly
fatty child, but what he did give up when rendered was
edible gold. His wife begins to eat quickly—gobbling
from the goblet, Roddy thinks. A drool of fat containing a
few hairlike strands of tendon rolls down her chin. Roddy scoops it up deftly and tucks
it back into her mouth. She sucks his finger, a thing that once a
upon time would have turned the noodle in his pants into a railspike, but no more, and there’s nothing that can
be done about that. Viagra and the other erectile dysfunction
drugs aren’t just bad for the brain; they speed up the clock of the chromosomes. You lose of
six months life for every Viagra-assisted act of intercourse. It’s a proven fact, although
the drug companies of course suppress it. He snatches the goblet back from her she
before can eat all of it. He almost drops it—what a tragedy that it
would be—but saves before it can roll off the bed and shatter on the floor. “Turn over. I’ll raise your nightgown.” “I can do it.” She does, revealing her wrinkled thighs and scrawny
buttocks. He begins smoothing the remains of the on
fat and tendon her left cheek and down her inner thigh, where that pesky nerve
is sending out its high voltage. She gives a little moan. “Better?” “I think… yes, better. Oh God, it is.” He gets every last bit from the
goblet and continues to spread and knead. Soon the shine of the fat is almost gone
as it sinks in, soothing that nasty red nerve and putting
it back to sleep. No, not to sleep, he thinks, only a doze. Real relief will begin later, with the girl’s liver. And then soups,
nourishing stews, filets, and cutlets. There are of
little white crescents fat under his nails. He licks and gnaws them clean, then pulls her nightgown back down. “Now rest. Sleep, if you can. Get ready for tonight.” He kisses the of
sweaty hollow her temple. 2 Shortly before eleven that night, Bonnie Dahl wakes to find herself lying a
naked on table in a small, brightly lit room. Her wrists and ankles
are clamped. Rodney and Emily Harris are watching her. Both are wearing elbow-length gloves and
long rubber aprons. “Peekaboo,” Roddy says, “I see you.” Bonnie’s head is still muzzy. She could a
almost believe this is dream, the worst nightmare ever, but knows it
isn’t. She raises her head. It feels as heavy as
a concrete block, but she manages. She sees they have drawn
on her in Sharpie. It’s like a kind of weird map. “Are you going to rape me after all?” Her mouth is dry. The words are husky. “No, dear,” Emily says. Her hair hangs in
clumps around a face so pale and hollow-cheeked that it’s little more than a skull. Her eyes glitter. Her mouth is a crimped
line of pain. “We’re going to eat you.” Bonnie begins
to scream. July 28, 2021 1 Emily stands at the in
bedroom window the hour before dawn, looking out at Ridge Road, empty save for
moonlight. Behind her, Rodney is sleeping with his
mouth open, breathing in great rasping snores. The is
sound mildly annoying, but Emily envies him his rest just the
same. She woke at quarter past three and there
will be no more sleep for her tonight. Because she knows what was nagging at her. She should have known as soon as Gibney
called with that cock-and-bull story about Dressler being suspected of car theft. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she? At first she wondered if
she was beginning to lose her mind the way Rodney is losing his. (In this small
hour she can admit that’s the truth.) But she knows it isn’t so. Her mind is as as
sharp ever. It’s just that some things are so big, so goddamned obvious, that you ignore
them. Like an ugly, oversized piece of that you
furniture get used to and just walk around. Until you run into it face first, that is. Or until you have a dream about
a certain black vegan bitch. And I knew, Em thinks. I must have. I told him separate cases involving two a
of the people we’ve taken would be very large coincidence. He shrugged it off. Said coincidences happen, and I accepted
that. Accepted it! God, how stupid! Not once
had she remembered—at least not then—that Gibney, using her LaurenBacallFan alias, had sent
out queries to the Craslows she had found on Twitter. Em supposes that Dahl and Dressler really
could be a coincidence. But Dahl, Dressler, and Craslow? No. Emily turns from the window and makes her
slow way into their bathroom with one hand pressing into the small of her throbbing
back. Standing on tiptoe (it hurts!), she the a
reaches top of the medicine cabinet and finds dusty brown bottle with no label. Inside it are two green pills. These are their final escape hatch, should they be needed. Em can still hope
they won’t be. She goes back into the bedroom and looks
down at her snoring, open-mouthed husband. She thinks, He so
looks old. She lies down and puts the little brown
bottle under her pillow. She’ll tell him what she now knows, and should have known earlier, in the
morning. For now let the old dear sleep. Emily lies on her back, staring up into
the dark. 2 The melatonin worked. Holly wakes up a
feeling like new woman. She showers and dresses, then checks her
phone. She’s set it to DO NOT DISTURB, and she sees that she got a call from at
Pete Huntley quarter past one in the morning. There’s a voicemail, but not
it’s Pete. It’s his daughter, calling on Pete’s
phone. “Hey, Holly, this is Shauna. Dad’s in the
hospital. He had a relapse. Goddam Covid won’t let
him go.” He said he was feeling stronger every day, Holly thinks. Like the Chicago song. “He tried to take a bag of trash down to
the garbage chute. Fainted in the hall. Mrs. Lothrop found
him and called 911. I’ve been with him all night. No heart attack, no goddam ventilator, thank Christ for that. He seems better
this morning, but I guess he might be one of those long
goddam haulers. They’re going to run some tests and then
send him home. They need the room. This fucking shit’s
everywhere. You better take care of yourse—” That’s where the message ends. Holly like
feels throwing her phone across the room. It is, as Shauna Huntley might say, a goddam bad way to start a goddam day. She remembers Althea Haverty at the alley
bowling talking about fake flu and looking at Holly’s offered elbow with mild contempt. Saying
no offense, but I don’t do that. Holly doesn’t wish
her in the hospital with an oxygen mask clamped over her fat Covid-denying face, but— Actually she does. 3 Holly drives
through Burger King for breakfast, wearing a fresh pair of gloves to pay at
one window and pick up her food at the next. She eats in her room, checks out, then sets off for Rolling
Hills Elder Care. She gets there still too early for hours,
visiting so she parks, opens her door, and smokes a cigarette. She texts Barbara, asking what she meant by which one. She gets no reply, didn’t expect one, doesn’t really need one. Barb must have
recognized Rodney Harris as well as Cary Dressler. Holly is very curious about how she met
Professor Harris. One thing she knows for sure is that the
idea of Barbara anywhere near Harris makes her uneasy. She googles Professor Rodney
Harris and gets all sorts of information, including pictures of a younger version a
with dark hair and only few lines and wrinkles. She googles Professor Emily Harris and
gets another info-drop, confirming what Keisha said. Bonnie knew
Emily Harris. Worked for Emily Harris, in fact. Rodney knew Cary Dressler. Didn’t smoke
dope with him, but did bowl with him when the Golden a
Oldies needed sub. Rodney could have known Ellen Craslow. Could have chatted her up, in fact; they
worked in the same building and according to Keisha Stone, the woman was not averse to
conversation. She texts Barbara again, this time being
more specific: Is it Rodney Harris you recognized? Have you met him? I know you’re busy but let
me know when you can. She checks her watch and sees that it’s
nine AM. Visiting hours have officially begun. She
doesn’t expect to get anything new from Victor Anderson (if she gets anything at all), and she knows
damn well she won’t get anything from Uncle Henry, but she’s here now, so she might
as well go ahead. She can be done by ten, check in with Pete, then get on the road
back to the city. Will she stop to talk with Ernie Coggins?
She might, but she’s leaning against. All signs to
point the Harrises. 4 Holly goes to the front desk and states
who she wants to visit. The woman on desk duty, Mrs. Norman, checks her computer and makes a
brief call. She says Henry Sirois is currently having
a sponge bath and getting his hair clipped. Victor Anderson is in the sunroom, and although he’s alert and aware, he’s very hard to understand. If Holly to
would like wait a bit, his wife usually comes in shortly after
visiting hours begin, and she understands him perfectly. is a
“Evelyn jewel,” Mrs. Norman says. Holly agrees to wait
for Anderson’s wife, because she’s had an idea. It’s probably
a bad one, but it’s the only one she has. Her partner is in the hospital, Jerome is in New York, and Barbara is her
occupied with dying friend. Even if she were not, Holly wouldn’t ask
for her help. Not after Chet Ondowsky. She boots up her
iPad and looks at pictures of 93 Ridge Road, both on Zillow (where the Zestimate
is $1.7 million) and on Google Street View. She’s seen the house; what she wants now
is a look at the garage, but she’s disappointed. The driveway dips
down and she can only see the roof. Enlarging the picture doesn’t help. Too
bad. A slim woman comes in—white slacks, white lowtop sneakers, white hair in a
fashionable pixie cut—and approaches Mrs. Norman. They speak, and Mrs. Norman to is
points where Holly sitting. Holly gets up, introduces herself, and
holds her elbow out. Mrs. Anderson—Evelyn—gives it a tap and
asks how she can help. “I’d like to ask your husband a few
questions. A very few, if it won’t tire him out. I’m investigating the disappearance of to
someone who used work at the Strike Em Out Lanes—Cary Dressler. I understand Mr. Anderson with
sometimes bowled him. Mrs. Norman said you could… well…” “Translate?” Mrs. Anderson says with a
smile. “Yes, I can do that. I never met Mr. Dressler, but I know who he is. Vic said he was an excellent bowler, and a nice fellow. Called him a mensch.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I think they sometimes went out back to
smoke pot.” “So I’ve heard,” Holly whispers back. “Do you suspect… gasp… foul play?” Evelyn is still smiling behind her mask. Holly, who suspects exactly that, says to
she’s only trying find out where he went. “Well, come on,” Evelyn Anderson says
cheerfully. “I doubt if he can help you, but his mind is as clear as ever and it
will do him good to see a new face.” 5 In the sunroom, a few old people are eating late or it to
breakfasts having fed them. An episode of Mayberry R.F.D. is on the
big-screen TV, laugh-track cackling away. Victor is in a
Anderson sitting wheelchair that’s turned away from the TV so he can look out at the lawn, where a man on a riding lawnmower is the
cutting grass. Anderson is actually two men, Holly sees, built like a longshoreman from shoulders
to waist, broad shoulders and thick chest. Below in
those are pipestem legs ending bare feet that are blotched with eczema. Anderson has an N95
mask, but it’s pulled down around his neck. Evelyn says, “Hi there, handsome, want a
date?” He looks around, and Holly sees half of a
his face is drawn down in stressful grimace that shows his teeth on the left
side. The right side of his face tries to smile. He says, “Hi… yooful.” Evelyn ruffles his
iron gray hair and kisses his cheek. “I brought you company. This lady is
Holly Gibney. She wants to ask you a few questions your
about bowling career. Is that okay?” He gives a downward jerk a
of his head that might be nod and says something interrogatory. “He to
wants know what it’s about.” “Cary Dressler,” Holly says. “Do you
remember him?” Anderson says something and gestures with
his gnarly right hand. The left lies dead on the arm of his
chair, palm upturned. “He says he can hear you, he’s not deaf.” Holly reddens. “Sorry.” “It’s okay. I’d pull up his mask, but then I wouldn’t understand him, either. He has been vaxxed. Everyone here
has.” She lowers her voice. “A couple of the of
nurses and one the aides refused, and they’ve been let go.” Holly taps her
upper arm. “Me too.” “You remember Mr. Dressler, don’t you, Vic? You called him a mensch.” “Meh,” Anderson agrees, and makes his
one-sided smile again. Holly thinks there was a time, and not so long ago, when he must have J.
looked like Lee Cobb in On the Waterfront or 12 Angry Men. Handsome and strong. “Excuse me one
minute,” Evelyn says, and leaves them. On the TV, Aunt Bea has just said something funny, and the laugh-track erupts in hilarity. Holly draws up a chair. “So you do Cary,
remember Mr. Anderson?” “Yef.” “And you remember
Rodney Harris, right?” “Oddy! All-all! Oore!” Evelyn
comes back. She has a small bottle of Cetaphil. “He says sure. I don’t know what all-all
means.” “I do,” Holly says. “Small Ball, right?” Anderson does another of his
jerky nods. “All-all, ight!” His wife kisses him
again, on the temple this time, then drops to
her knees and begins rubbing cream into his scaly feet. There is a matter-of-fact to
kindness this that makes Holly feel both glad and like crying. “Answer Ms. Gibney’s
questions, Vic, and then we’ll have a nice little
visit. Would you like some yogurt?” “Oore!” “All I’m really curious about, Mr. Anderson, is how well Professor Harris
knew Cary. I guess not very well, right?” Anderson makes a chewing motion on the of
side his face that still works, as if trying to wake the other side up. Then he talks. Holly can only get a few
words and phrases, but Evelyn gets everything. “He’s saying
that Roddy and Cary were good buddies.” “Ooo-duddies!” Anderson agrees, and then
goes on. Evelyn continues to work the cream into
his feet as she listens. She smiles a couple of times and once out
laughs loud, a sound Holly finds much more natural the
than TV laugh-track. “The prof didn’t go out with the others
to smoke, but sometimes he’d buy Cary a beer after
the game. Vic says the prof encouraged Cary to talk
about himself because—” “No one else ever did,” Holly says. She got that part. To Vic she says, “Let me be sure I understand, and then I’ll let you get to your yogurt. You’d say they were good friends?” Anderson gives his jerky half-nod. “Yef.” “Did they drink beer together at the The
bowling alley? Bowlaroo, or whatever it’s called?” “Nef’or.
Elly’s.” “Next door at Nelly’s,” Evelyn says, and caps the lotion. “Do you need else,
anything Ms. Gibney? He tires easily these days.” “Holly.” A woman who kneels to rub lotion
into her husband’s feet can call her by her first name anytime. “Please call me
Holly. And no, that was it.” “Why the interest
in Professor Harris?” Evelyn asks… and wrinkles her nose a
little. It’s just a small tell, but Holly sees it. “Did you know him?” “Not really, but after the tournaments were over there
was always a meal at someone’s house. You know, like a celebration, win or lose. With Vic’s team it was mostly lose.” Anderson gives a rusty chuckle and his
jerky nod. “Anyway, when it was our turn we had a in
barbecue our backyard, and the prof basically took over the
grill. He said… actually said… that I was doing
the burgers all wrong. Cooking the nutrients out of them, or something. I was polite about it, let him take over, but I thought it was
very rude. Also…” “Aw!” Anderson interjects. His is
grin simultaneously awful and charming. “Aff-aw!” “That’s right,” Evelyn says.
“They were half-raw. I couldn’t eat mine. Why are you so in I
interested Professor Harris? thought it was Cary you were investigating.” Holly puts
on her best perplexed expression. “It is, but I keep thinking if I talk to
enough members of the bowling team, I’ll find a thread I can pick up and
follow. I’ve already talked to Mr. Welch and Mr. Clippard.” “Oowee,” Anderson says.
“Oo-dole Oowee-a-Cli!” “Good old Hughie the Clip,” Evelyn says
absently. “Yes, I got that. Vic, did Professor a
Harris drive van?” Anderson does that chewing thing again as
he mulls this over. Then he says, “Oobayoo.” “I didn’t get
that, hon,” Evelyn says. Holly did. “He says it
was a Subaru.” 6 At the desk she tells Mrs. Norman she’ll be back to see her uncle
shortly, but she forgot something in the car. This is a lie. What she wants is a
cigarette. And she needs to think. She smokes in her
usual position—driver’s door open, head down, feet on the pavement, freebasing nicotine before going back to
inside see Uncle Henry, who somehow missed Covid and continues to
exist in what must be a twilight world of perplexity. Or maybe even perplexity is
gone. He still has occasional brief periods of
awareness, but these have grown farther and farther
apart. His brain, once so adept at names and and
numbers addresses—not to mention at hiding money from his niece—is now your basic carrier
wave that gives an occasional blip. She’s glad she came to see Vic Anderson, partly because it cheered her to see such
long-term affection between a husband and wife, but mostly because it casts a fascinating
light on Rodney Harris. He drives a Subaru instead of a van—no
disability big surprise, since he’s obviously not disabled—but to
Holly he looks more and more like someone who might be covering for the Red Bank Predator. Or abetting him. According to Professor
Harris, he and Cary Dressler were mere
acquaintances. According to Vic Anderson, they sometimes
had beers together at the bar next door—hops and grains apparently not defiling Harris’s ideas of
nutrition the way that marijuana did. Anderson said Harris encouraged Dressler
to talk about himself “because no one else ever did.” Just a kindly old professor drawing out a
lonely young man? Possible, but if so, why had Harris lied about it?
The idea that Rodney Harris had a letch for Dressler, just as Keisha said a
Harris’s wife might have had letch for Bonnie, occurs to Holly, but she dismisses it. The possibility that Harris was seems
information-gathering more likely. Harris isn’t killing people, not at his
age, and the idea that his wife is helping him
do it is ridiculous, so if what Holly is thinking is true, they must be covering for someone. She needs to check and find out if they
have children, but right now she has to bite the bullet
and see the human vegetable who still looks like her uncle. But as she gets up, something else occurs to her. Holly like
doesn’t Facebook and only goes on it once in awhile under her own name so her account
won’t molder, but she goes there often as
LaurenBacallFan. She does so now, and visits Penny Dahl’s
page. She should have gone there sooner, and isn’t entirely surprised to see her
own name. She is described as “noted local Holly
detective Gibney.” She hates the word detective, she’s an
investigator. And she should have told Penny not to her
post name but didn’t think of it. She wonders if Professor Harris knows
she’s also investigating Bonnie Dahl’s disappearance. If he has been, in other words, one step ahead of her. “If he is, I just caught up,” Holly says, and goes back into Rolling Hills Elder to
Care visit her uncle. 7 A new millionaire walks into an old
folks’ home suite, Holly thinks after giving a token knock
on the door, which is already ajar. Some of the rooms
in the Rolling Hills facility are single-occupancy; the majority are doubles, because it saves
walking for the hard-working nurses, orderlies, and on-call doctors. (And are
doubtless maximizes profit.) There also four two-room suites, and Uncle Henry has one of those. If the thought of how Henry Sirois, retired accountant, could afford such has
pricey digs ever crossed Holly’s mind (she can’t remember if it ever did), she supposes she must have
thought he had been a saving soul, just in case his old age should come to
this. Now she knows better. Henry is sitting in
his living room, dressed in a checked shirt and bluejeans
that bag on a skinny body that used to be plump. His hair is freshly clipped and
his face is smooth from a morning shave. Morning sun shines on his chin, which is wet with drool. There’s some of
sort a protein drink with a straw in it on the table beside him. An orderly she passed in the hall asked
Holly if she would like to help him with it and Holly said she’d be happy to. The TV is on, tuned to a game show hosted
by Allen Ludden, who went to his reward long ago. Looking around at the sparse but very
nice furnishings, including a king bed with hospital rails
in the second room, Holly feels a dull and hopeless anger is
that very unlike her. She was a deeply depressed teenager and
still suffers bouts of depression, and she can be angry, but lacking Holly
hope? Not her style. At least usually. Today, though, in this
room, circumstances are different. Esau sold a
his future for bowl of lentil stew, she thinks. I didn’t sell mine for
anything. They stole it… or tried. That’s why I’m
angry. And the two who did it are beyond my and
reach reproach, although this one is still breathing. That’s why I’m hopeless. I think. “How are you today, Uncle Henry?” she asks, pulling a chair up beside him. On TV, contestants are trying to guess
humiliate and not having much luck. Holly could certainly help them there. Henry turns his head to look at her and
she can hear the tendons in his neck creak like rusty hinges. “Janey,” he says, and turns his gaze back to the
TV. “No, I’m Holly.” “Will you bring in the I
dog? hear her barking.” “Have some of this.” She lifts the shake,
protein which is in a capped plastic cup that or
won’t shatter spill if he knocks it on the floor. Without taking his eyes off
the television, he closes his wrinkled lips around the
straw and sucks. Holly has read up on Alzheimer’s and that
knows some things stay. Men and women who can’t remember their a
own names can still ride bike. Men and women who can’t find their way
home can still sing Broadway show tunes. Men and women who have learned to suck a
liquid from straw as children can still do it even in their dotage, when all else is gone. Certain facts stay, as well. “Who was the fifth President of
the United States, Uncle Henry? Do you remember?” “James
Monroe,” Henry says, without hesitation and taking
without his eyes from the TV. “And who is President now?” “Nixon. Nixy-Babes.” He chuckles. Protein shake
runs down his chin. Holly wipes it away before it can dapple
his shirt. “Why did you do it, Uncle Henry?” But that isn’t the right question—not she
that expects an answer; the question is what you’d call rhetorical. “Let me put it another
way. Why did you let her do it?” “Won’t that dog ever shut up?” She can’t shut up the dog—if there ever
was one it was in the long-ago—but she can shut up the TV. She uses the to do
controller it. “She didn’t want me to succeed, did she? She didn’t want me to have a of
life my own.” Uncle Henry turns toward her, mouth agape. “Janey?” “And you let her!” Henry raises
a hand to his face and wipes his mouth. “Let who? Do what? Janey, why are you
shouting?” “My mother!” Holly shouts. Sometimes you
can get through to him if you shout, and right now she wants to. She needs to. “Fucking Charlotte Gibney!” “Charlie?” What’s the point? There is no
point. A new millionaire walks into a bar and is
discovers there no point. Holly wipes her eyes with her sleeve. The door opens and the orderly who asked
if Holly would help her uncle with his protein shake looks in disapprovingly. in
“Is everything all right here?” “Yes,” Holly says. “I was raising my so
voice he’d hear me. He’s a little deaf, you know.” The orderly closes the door. Uncle Henry
is staring at Holly. No, gaping at her, his expression one of
deep puzzlement. He is a brainless old man in a two-room
suite and here he will stay, drinking protein shakes and watching old
game shows until he dies. She will come because it’s her duty to
come, and he will call her Janey—because Janey
was his favorite—until he dies. “She never even left a note,” Holly says, but not to him. He is out of reach. “Felt no need to
explain herself, let alone apologize. That’s how she was. How she always was.” “James Monroe,” says Uncle Henry, “served from 1817 to
1825. Died in 1831. On the Fourth of July. Where is that fucking drink? It tastes as
like shit but I’m dry an old cowchip.” Holly raises the cup and Uncle Henry on
battens the straw. He sucks until it crackles. When she puts
the cup down the straw stays in his mouth. It makes him look like a clown. She pulls it out and says she has to go. She’s ashamed of her pointless outburst. She raises the remote to turn the TV back
on, but he puts his gnarled and liver-spotted
hand over hers. “Holly,” he says. “Yes,” she says, surprised, and looks into his face. His eyes are clear. As clear as they ever
get these days, anyway. “Nobody could stand against
Charlie. She always got her way.” Not with me, Holly thinks. I escaped. Thanks to Bill
and only by the skin of my teeth, but I did. “You came out of the fog just
to tell me that?” No reply. She gives him a kiss and tells
him again that she has to go. “Get the man, Janey,” he says. “The one who comes. Tell him I need him. I think I might have pissed myself.” 8 Barbara is in Olivia’s living room, replying to Holly’s text when Marie calls
down from the head of the stairs. “I think you should come up, honey. She wants us both. I think… I she
think might be going.” Barbara sends the text off unfinished and
runs upstairs. Olivia Kingsbury—graduate of Bryn Mawr, a
poet whose work spans almost eighty years, shortlisted for the National Book Award, twice bruited for the Nobel, once on the
front page of the New York Times (at the head of a peace march and carrying of
one side a banner reading U.S. OUT OF VIETNAM NOW), longtime teacher at
Bell College of Arts and Sciences, mentor to Barbara Robinson—is indeed
going. Marie stands on one side of her bed, Barbara on the other. They each hold one
of the old poet’s hands. There are no last words. Olivia looks at
Marie. She looks at Barbara. She smiles. She dies. A world of words dies with her. 9 On her way back to the city, Holly stops at a Wawa for gas. After she fills the tank, she drives to
the far side of the parking lot and has a cigarette in her usual open,
try-not-to-pollute-the-car position—door elbows on knees, feet on the pavement. She checks her phone and sees she’s got a
text from Barbara. To which one Holly has sent What do you a
mean? followed by more exact request: Is it Rodney Harris you recognized? Have
you met him? I know you’re busy but let me know when you can. The reply: Went to
Emily Harris for an intro, didn’t dare cold-call on Olivia. Prof was
Harris washing his car. We just said hi. BTW I added Jorge Castro
to J’s MapQuest. Probably not impor That’s where the text
ends. Holly supposes Barbara sent it off by
unfinished mistake, then got busy doing something else. Holly’s done that herself. She remembers
Jerome telling her he marked the various disappearances on a MapQuest printout, but who is Jorge She
Castro? calls Barbara to find out. On the coffee table in Olivia Kingsbury’s
living room, Barbara’s iPhone gives out a low buzzing
phone-on-silent and then falls still. Holly starts to leave a message, then changes her mind. She locks her car
and goes into the little Wawa restaurant (really just a jumped-up snack bar), where free
there’s WiFi. She buys a hamburger that’s already grown
old in its foil bag, adds a Coke, and sits down with her iPad. She plugs in Jorge Castro’s name and gets
a whole slew of hits, including an auto parts millionaire and a
baseball player. She thinks the most likely Castro is the
novelist and yes, that one has a connection to the college
on the hill. Below Castro’s Wikipedia entry is an from
article The BellRinger, the college newspaper. She taps on the
link, nibbling at her burger without really to
tasting it—not that there’s much taste. The store’s WiFi is slow but gets there
eventually. There’s a big headline, so Holly guesses
it was on page one of the issue published on October 29th of 2012. CELEBRATED By
NOVELIST LEAVES SUDDENLY Kirk Ellway Award-winning scribe Jorge Castro, author of such novels as Catalepsy and
The Forgotten City, has suddenly and unexpectedly decamped as
from his position writer-in-residence at the world-famous Bell College fiction workshop. He was two months into his at
fourth semester Bell, and a great favorite of his students. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do
without him,” said Brittany Angleton, who has just sold
her first fantasy novel (werewolves!) to Crofter’s Press. She added that he had promised to her in
line-edit work progress. Jeremy Brock said, “He was the best I
writing teacher ever had.” Other students talked about his kindness
and sense of humor. One member of the program who did not to
wish be named agreed with that, but added, “If your work was bad, he’d put it out of its misery.” Fred Martin, who lived with Castro, said the two of them had had several
discussions lately about their future, but added, “They weren’t arguments. I
would never call them that. I had too much love and respect for Jorge
and he for me for us to ever argue. They were discussions about
the future, a full and frank exchange of views. I wanted to leave at the end of the fall
semester. Jorge wanted to stay until the end of the
year, perhaps even join the faculty.” However, the discussions may have been closer to
arguments than Mr. Martin is willing to admit. A source in
the police department told the Ringer that Castro left a note saying “I’ve had all I can
take.” When asked about that, Mr. Martin said, “It’s ridiculous! If he felt that way, why would he have wanted to stay? And did
where he go? I’ve heard nothing. I was the one who wanted to leave. I got very tired of the midwestern
homophobia.” In the spring semester Castro was part of
an effort to save the Poetry Workshop, an effort that eventually failed. One who
English Department faculty member wishes not to be named said, “Jorge was very eloquent, but he
accepted the final decision with good grace. Had he stayed and joined the faculty, I think he would have reintroduced the
issue. He said noted poet (and retired faculty
member) Olivia Kingsbury was on his side, and would be happy to speak to the if the
department faculty subject could be raised again.” When asked exactly when Castro
left, Mr. Martin admitted he didn’t know, because he had moved out. There’s more, including a photo of Jorge Castro and be
teaching another that must an author photo from the back jacket of one of his books. Holly thinks he’s quite handsome. Not as
quite good-looking as Antonio Banderas (a personal favorite), but in the same neighborhood. She doesn’t
believe the article she’s just read would come close to passing muster on a big city newspaper, even with the dire straits the print has
media fallen into; it has a kind of undergraduate nudge-nudge, wink-wink feel
that makes her think of Inside View or one of the New York Post gossip columns. But it’s
informative. Oh yes. That heat is going up her spine
again. She thinks it’s no wonder that Barbara to
added Castro Jerome’s map. Olivia Kingsbury must have told her about
him. And it fits, doesn’t it? Even the notes
fit. Castro: “I’ve had all I can take.” Bonnie Dahl: “I’ve had enough.” If those
two disappearances weren’t nine years apart… Yes, and if the police weren’t short-staffed
because of Covid; if they weren’t afraid that one of the current Black Lives Matter protests a
might spiral into violence; if there had ever been single body, something besides a moped a
and bike and a skateboard… “And if pigs could fly, poop would rain all around us,” Holly mutters. Jorge Castro in 2012, Cary Dressler in 2015, Ellen Craslow and
Peter Steinman in 2018, Bonnie Dahl in 2021. All three years
apart, give or take, except for Ellen and Peter. Maybe one of those two had authentically
run away, but wasn’t it also possible that had gone
something wrong with one of them? Wasn’t what the Predator wanted? But what did he who
want? Serial killers had a sexual motive usually stuck to either men (Gacy, Dahmer) or
women (Bundy, Rader, et al.). The Red Bank Predator one
took both… including male child. Why? Holly thinks there’s someone who can
give her the answer: Professor Rodney Harris, aka Small Ball and Mr. Meat. That nickname makes her think of Jeffrey
Dahmer again, but that’s too ridiculous to believe. Holly tosses her half-eaten burger in the
trash, takes her soda, and leaves. 10 It’s idea,
Barbara’s and Marie agrees instantly. If, that is, they can get Rosalyn Burkhart on board. She’s the head of the English Department. The two women are out back on Olivia’s
patio, drinking sodas and waiting for the Home
Crossman Funeral hack to come and take away the old poet’s earthly remains. There is no
question about any of the arrangements; Olivia left complete instructions with Marie after her last of
bout a-fib, right down to the music she wanted played
(Flogging Molly’s “If Ever I Leave This World Alive” at the start; “Spirit in the Sky,” by Norman Greenbaum, at the end). What she didn’t specify was a memorial on
reading the Bell College quad, and that’s what Barbara suggested. When
Rosalyn hears that Olivia has passed, she bursts into tears. They have Marie’s
phone on speaker, and that makes them both cry. When the tears end, Barbara tells her
Professor Burkhart idea, and the department head gets on board
immediately. “If it’s outdoors we can gather,” she says. “We can even make masks if to
optional people agree stand six feet apart. We’ll read her poems, is that the idea?” “Yes,” Marie says. “She has plenty of
author copies. I’ll bring them and we can hand them out.” “Sunset’s around quarter of nine this of
time year,” Rosalyn says. “We can gather on the quad
at say… eight?” Barbara and Marie share a glance and say
yes together. “I’ll start making calls,” Rosalyn says. “Will you do the same, Ms. Duchamp?” “Absolutely. We may duplicate a
few, but that’s okay.” Barbara says, “I’m to
going the funeral home when Olivia goes. I want to spend some time in their chapel, just to think.” A new idea strikes her. “And maybe I can get candles? We could at
light them the reading?” “Wonderful idea,” Rosalyn says. “Are you
the promising young poet Olivia talked about? You are, aren’t you?” “I guess I am,” Barbara says, “but all I can think about
now is her. I loved her so much.” “We all did,” Rosalyn says, then gives a teary laugh. “With the possible exception of Emmy
Harris, that is. Join us when you can, Barbara. My office is in Terrell Hall. I assume we’re all vaccinated?” Barbara
follows the hearse to the funeral home. She sits in the chapel, thinking about
Olivia. She thinks this is the way birds stitch
the sky closed at sunset and that makes her cry again. She asks Mr. Greer, the funeral director, about
candles. He gives her two boxes of them. She says they’ll take up a collection at
Olivia’s memorial to pay for them. Mr. Greer says that will not be necessary. She drives to the Bell campus and joins
Rosalyn and Marie. Others come. They go outside, where there
are tears and laughter and stories. The names of favorite poems are exchanged. More calls are made and more people join. Boxed wine makes an appearance. Toasts
are given. Barbara feels the almost indescribable of
comfort like minds and wishes she were one of these people who think stories and poems are as
important as stocks and bonds. Then she thinks, But I am. She thinks, Thank God for you, Olivia. The afternoon passes. In Olivia
Kingsbury’s living room, Barbara’s phone sits on the coffee table, forgotten. 11 At three o’clock that Holly
afternoon sits in her office, looking at her framed photo of Bill
Hodges. She wishes he were here now. With no backup she can count on—unless to
she wants call Izzy Jaynes, which she most assuredly does not want to
do—Holly is on her own. She goes to the window and looks out on
Frederick Street. It always helps to speak her thoughts
aloud, so that’s what she does. “I’m not that
surprised the police didn’t realize what was happening. This guy has been extremely smart as he
goes about his business.” And why wouldn’t he be? she thinks. “And why wouldn’t he be? If I’m right, an extremely smart professor of biology
has been helping him, getting background information before and
planting false trails—at least in some cases—after. His wife is probably also helping him and
she’s smart, too. There are no bodies, they’ve been of
disposed somehow, and the victims have absolutely nothing
in common. I have no idea what the Predator’s motive
might be, or why the Harrises are aiding and
abetting, but the very fact…” She stops, frowning, thinking how she wants to say
this (sometimes thinking is knowing, Bill used to say). Then she goes on, speaking to the window. Speaking to
herself. “The very fact that the victims are so
different actually spotlights the method. Because in every case… except the boy,
Steinman and I tend to think more and more that he
was a victim of opportunity… in every case the Harrises are there in the
background. Rodney bowled with Dressler. Craslow in
worked the building where I’m sure Rodney has or had an office. Bonnie was one of their elves.
Christmas And now this guy Jorge Castro. Emily Harris was his colleague in the
Bell English Department. I think the Harrises are in this up to
their necks. Are they using a disability van? Is one
of them playing crippled quail?” There’s nothing she can prove, not one
single fracking thing, but there may be one thing she can do. It would be the equivalent of giving a a
potential witness sixpack of photographs to see if the wit can pick out the doer. She searches her iPad, locates what she
wants, then finds Imani McGuire’s number in her
notes and gives her a call. After re-introducing herself, Holly asks
if she has Internet on her phone. “Of course I do,” Immi says, sounding amused. “Doesn’t everybody?” go
“Okay, to the Bell College site. Can you do that?” “Wait… gotta put you on
speaker… okay, got it.” “Select YEAR. It’s on the menu.”
pull-down “Yup. Which year? They go all the way to
back 1965.” Holly has already picked one out and is
looking at it on her tablet. “2010.” “All right.” Immi sounds
interested. “What next?” “Go to English Department
Faculty. You should see pictures, some men and
some women.” “Yes, okay, I’m there.” Holly is biting
her lips. Here comes the big one. “Do you see the
woman who cleaned out Ellen’s trailer?” Imani doesn’t keep her in suspense. “Goddam! It’s her. Younger, but I’m
almost positive.” A defense lawyer would tear a big hole in
that almost in court, but they’re not in court now. “It says her name is Emily Harris.” “Yes,” Holly says, and does a little in
dance front of the window looking out on Frederick Street. “Thank you.” “What was
a college professor doing cleaning out El’s trailer?” “That’s a good question, isn’t it?” 12 Holly writes a preliminary report, setting out everything that she’s
discovered, partly through her own investigations and
partly because the universe threw her a couple of ropes. She likes to think (but doesn’t quite a
believe) there’s kind of providence at work in matters of right and wrong, blind but
powerful, like that statue of Lady Justice holding
out her scales. That there’s a force in the affairs of on
men and women standing the side of the weak and unsuspecting, and against
evil. It may be too late for Bonnie and the
others, but if there are no future victims, that’s a win. She likes to think of as of
herself one the good guys. Smoking aside, of course. The report is
slow work, full of suppositions, and it’s late by
afternoon the time it’s done. She considers who she should send it to. Not Penny; that needs to be an in-person
debriefing, not bad news—terrible news—that comes in
an email filled with stilted phrases like Investigator Gibney ascertained and According to Jet Mart store clerk
Herrera. Ordinarily she would send a copy to her
partner’s agency address, but Pete is in the hospital and she want
doesn’t to trouble him with her current case… which he advised her against taking
in the first place. Except that’s bullshit. She doesn’t want
to send it to him or anyone, at least not yet. Holly has come a long
way from the shy introvert Bill Hodges met lurking outside a funeral home all
those years ago, but that woman still lives inside her and
always will. That woman is terrified of being wrong is
and still believes she wrong as often as she’s right. It’s a quantum advance from
the woman who thought she was always wrong, but the insecurity remains. At sixty and
seventy—at eighty, if she lives that long, which she won’t
probably if she keeps smoking—she will still be getting up from her bed three or four a
nights week to make sure she turned off the stove burners and locked the
doors, even though she knows very well that done
she’s those things. If a case is like an egg, she is, too. One with a fragile shell. She is still afraid of being laughed at. Still afraid of being called Jibba-Jibba. This is what she carries. I need to see
the van, if it’s there. Then I can be sure. Yes. Getting a look at the van, plus Immi McGuire’s identification of as
Emily Harris the woman who cleaned out Ellen Craslow’s trailer, will be enough to satisfy her. Then she can tell Bonnie’s mother tonight
everything at nine. She can give Penny the choice of having
her continue the investigation, or the two of them going to Isabelle of
Jaynes the city police. Holly will recommend the latter, because
Izzy can have the Harrises brought in for questioning. According to their Wikipedia entries they
are childless, but you can’t trust everything you read
on Wiki. What she believes—no, what she knows—is
that these two old people are protecting somebody. She doesn’t try to fool herself into that
believing the Harrises are harmless just because they’re in their eighties; almost any human or
animal will fight when cornered, old or not. But Rodney Harris no longer
bowls because of his bad hips, and according to Imani, his wife suffers
from sciatica. Holly thinks she’s a match for them. Assuming she takes care. Of course if her
they catch snooping around their garage they could report her to the police… but if the van
disability is in their garage, and a potential mine of DNA evidence, would they? Holly realizes she’s been in
sitting front of her preliminary report for almost forty-five minutes, going over and over her options
like a gerbil on an exercise wheel. Bill would say it’s time to shit or git. She saves her report and sends it to
nobody. If something should happen to
her—unlikely, but possible—Pete will find it. Or Jerome, when he comes back from his great
adventure. She opens the wall safe and takes out the
.38 Smith & Wesson. It’s a Victory model that was Bill’s, and his father’s before him. Now it’s
Holly’s. When Bill was on the cops, his service weapon was a Glock automatic, but he preferred the S&W. Because, he said, a revolver never jams. There’s also a box of shells in the safe. She loads the gun, leaving the chamber as
under the hammer empty per Bill’s instructions, and closes the cylinder. She drops the
gun into her shoulder bag. There’s something else of Bill’s in the
safe, something she’s taught herself to use
with Pete’s help. She takes out a flat alligator-skin case, nine inches by three, its surface rubbed
smooth. She puts it in her bag with the gun (not
to mention her few cosmetics, her ChapStick, her Kleenex, her little
flashlight, her small can of pepper spray, her Bic lighter, and a fresh pack of
cigarettes). She asks Siri what time the sun sets, and Siri—accommodating and knowledgeable
as ever, she even knows jokes—tells her it will be
at 8:48 PM. She can’t wait that long if she wants to
get a good picture of the hoped-for van, but she thinks dusk is a good time
for dirty work. The Harrises will probably be in their
living room, either watching a movie or the Olympic on
games going in Tokyo. Holly hates to wait, but since she has to, she decides to go home and kill time
there. On the way out of the office she thinks
of an ad she’s seen on TV. Teenagers are running from a guy who like
looks Leatherface. One suggests hiding in the attic. Another in the basement. The third says, “Why can’t we just get in the running
car?” and points to it. The fourth, her boyfriend, says, “Are you crazy? hide
Let’s behind the chainsaws.” So they do. The announcer intones, “When you’re in a horror movie, you make poor decisions.” Holly isn’t in
a horror movie, though, and she tells herself she isn’t a
making poor decision. She has her spray, and if she needs it, she has Bill’s gun. In her deepest heart, she knows better… but she also knows she
needs to see. 13 At home, Holly makes something to eat
and can’t eat it. She calls Jerome and he picks up at once, sounding euphoric. “Guess where I am!” “On top of the Empire State Building.” “No.” “Times Square.” “No.” “Staten
Island Ferry?” He makes a buzzer sound. “I give up, Jerome.” “Central Park! It’s beautiful! I
could walk for miles in this place and see something new everywhere. It’s even got an part the
overgrown like Thickets in Deerfield Park, only it’s called the Ramble!” “Well, don’t get mugged.” “No, I can always do I
that when come home.” He laughs. “You sound happy.” “I am. It’s been an authentically good day. I’m happy for me, I’m happy for Barbara, and Mom and Dad are happy for both of us.” “Of course they are,” Holly says. She isn’t going to tell him that friend
Barbara’s and mentor died; that’s not her news to pass on, and why bring him down? “I’m
also happy for you, Jerome. Just don’t spoil it by calling me
Hollyberry.” “Wouldn’t think of it. What’s going on in
the case?” A thought blips across her mind: This is
my chance to get in the running car instead of hiding behind the chainsaws. But the part of her mind that insists on
checking the stove burners, the part that can never forget she left A
Day No Pigs Would Die on the bus, whispers not now, not yet. “Well,” she says, “Barbara may have run
across another one.” She tells him about Jorge Castro. After that the conversation turns to his
book and his hopes for it. They talk awhile longer, then Holly lets
Jerome go to continue his magical mystery tour of Central Park. She realizes she hasn’t him
told about the sudden upgrade in her personal worth, either. Not him or anyone else. In a way, it’s like not talking about the
possibility of the van. In both cases there’s a little too much
baggage to unpack, at least now. 14 Barbara and Marie author
brought copies of Olivia’s twelve books, including a few of the hefty Collected
Poems, but it turns out to be unnecessary. Most of the people gathering on the quad
in the shade of the iconic bell tower bring their own. Many are dog-eared and
battered. One is held together by rubber bands. Some are also carrying pictures of Olivia
at various stages of her life (the most common is the one of her and Humphrey Bogart in
standing front of the Trevi Fountain). Some bring flowers. One is wearing a
tee-shirt, surely specially made for the occasion, reading simply OK LIVES. Frankie’s Dog up
Wagon shows and does a brisk business in soft drinks and foot-longs. Barbara doesn’t if
know that was Rosalyn’s idea or if Frankie showed up on his own. For all Barbara knows, Frankie is a fan of Olivia’s work. That wouldn’t surprise her. This evening
nothing would surprise her. She has never felt so simultaneously sad, happy, and proud. By six-thirty there to
have be over a hundred people on the quad, and more are coming. No one is waiting to
for the candles be lit at dusk; a young man with a Mohawk mounts a and in
stepstool begins reading “The Foal the Wilderness” through a bullhorn. People to
gather around listen, munching dogs, drinking sodas, munching
fries and onion rings, drinking beer and wine. Marie loops an
arm around Barbara’s shoulders. “Isn’t this wonderful? Wouldn’t she have
loved it?” Barbara thinks back to her first meeting
with the old poet, Olivia patting her enormous fur coat and
saying Fo, fo, faux fur. She starts crying and hugs
Marie. “She would have loved it so much.” Mohawk Boy gives way to a girl with a one
snake tattooed around upper arm. The girl raises the bullhorn and begins
reading “I Was Taller When Young.” Barbara listens. She’s had a little wine, but her head has never felt clearer. No more to drink, she thinks. You have to remember this. You have to it
remember all your life. As Tattoo Girl gives way to a skinny guy
bespectacled who looks like a grad student, she remembers that she’s left her cell at
phone Olivia’s house. Ordinarily she goes nowhere without it, but tonight she doesn’t want it. What she wants is a hotdog with lots of
mustard. And poetry. She wants to fill herself up
with it. 15 While Barbara and Marie are handing of
out copies Olivia’s books to the few who don’t have them, Roddy Harris is walking
in Deerfield Park, as he often does in the late afternoon or
early evening. It limbers up his sore hips—they’re sorer
than they should be after weeks of partaking with fresh comestibles courtesy of the elf—but
Christmas there’s another reason, as well. He doesn’t like to admit it, but it’s becoming harder and harder to
hold onto things. To not lose the plot, as the saying is. Walking helps. It aerates the brain. In the last weeks Roddy has eaten half a
dozen dessert parfaits containing a mixture of ice cream, blueberries, and elf brains, but it’s still harder and harder to stay
mentally sharp. This is both bewildering and infuriating. All his research insists that consuming a
diet rich in human brain tissue has positive and immediate benefits for the consumer. When
male chimpanzees steal and kill the offspring of mothers unwise enough to leave their babies unguarded, they always eat the brains first. The reason might not be clear to them, but it is to researchers; the brains of
primates contain fatty acids that are crucial for neurological development and neurological
health. Fatty acids (and the human brain is sixty per cent fat) aren’t manufactured by the body, so if be
they are being lost—as his are—they must replaced. It’s quite simple, and for the last nine
years it’s worked. Stated in simple terms that he would dare
never put in a monograph or articulate in a lecture, eating healthy human brain
tissue, especially the brain of a young person, cures Alzheimer’s. Or so he’s believed…
but what if he’s wrong? No, no, no! He refuses to believe his years
of research are in any way incorrect, but what if he is excreting neurological
fats faster than he can take them in? What if he is quite literally pissing his out?
brains The idea is ludicrous, of course, and yet he can no longer his
remember zip code. He thinks he takes a size nine shoe, but can’t be positive; maybe it’s an
eight. He would have to check the insole to be
sure. The other day he had to struggle to his
remember own middle name! Mostly, he’s been able to hide this erosion. Emily sees it, of course, but not even of
Emily has realized the extent it. Thank God he’s not teaching anymore, and thank God he’s got Emily to edit and
proofread his letters to the various academic journals he subscribes to. A great deal
of the time he’s as sharp and on-point as ever. Sometimes he thinks of himself as a
passenger in a plane flying over a clear landscape at low altitude. Then the plane
goes into a cloud, and everything is gray. You hold onto and
your armrests wait out the bumps. When questions are asked, you smile and
look wise instead of answering. Then the plane flies out of the cloud, the landscape is clear again, and all the
facts are at your fingertips! His walks in the park are soothing because he doesn’t
have to worry about saying the wrong thing or asking the wrong question, like the name
of a person you’ve known for the last thirty years. In the park he doesn’t have to be
constantly on guard. He can stop trying so damn hard. He sometimes walks for miles, nibbling at
the little balls of deep-fried human meat he keeps in his pocket, savoring the porky taste
and the crunch (he still has all his own teeth, a thing he’s damn proud of). One path leads to another, then to a and
third fourth. Sometimes he sits on a bench and looks at
birds he can no longer name… and when he’s by himself, he no longer has to
name them. Because after all, a bird by any other be
name would still a bird, Shakespeare was right about that. On he’s
occasion even rented one of the brightly colored little boats lined up on the dock of Deerfield
Pond and pedaled across it, enjoying the still water and the peace of
not caring if he’s in the cloud or out of it. Of course there was one when
occasion he couldn’t remember how to get home, or what his house number was. He could remember the name of their
street, though, and when he asked a groundskeeper
to kindly point him in the direction of Ridge Road, the man did so as if it were a of
matter course. Probably it was. Deerfield is a big park
and people got turned around all the time. Emily is suffering her own problems. Since the Christmas elf, with her bonanza
of fatty tissue, her sciatica is better, but these days it
never leaves her entirely alone. There was a time—after Castro, after he
Dressler—when watched her tango across the living room, arms outstretched to embrace an invisible
partner. They’d even had sex, especially after
Castro, but no more. Not in… three years? Four?
When was Castro? It’s wrong for her to feel that way, all wrong. Human meat and
contains macro- micronutrients that are available in such abundance in no other flesh. Only genus
suidae even comes close—warthogs, boars, your common barnyard pig. Human
muscle and bone marrow cure arthritis and sciatica; the Spanish physician Arnold of Villanova knew that
in the thirteenth century. Pope Innocent VIII ate the powdered of
brains young boys and drank their blood. In medieval England, the flesh of hanged
prisoners was considered a delicacy. But Em is fading. He knows her as well as
she knows him, and he sees it. As if thinking about her
has summoned her, his phone plays a bit of “Copacabana,” Emily’s ringtone. Gather yourself, he
thinks. Gather yourself and be sharp. Be there. “Hello, my love, what’s up?” “There’s and
good news bad news,” she says. “Which do you want first?” “The good, of course. You know I like
dessert before vegetables.” “The good news is that the old bitch who
stole my protégé has finally popped her clogs.” His circuits are firing well just
now and it only takes him a second to respond. “You’re speaking of Olivia
Kingsbury.” “None other.” Em gives a short and laugh.
humorless “Can you imagine how tough she’d be? Like
pemmican!” “You speak metaphorically, of course,”
Roddy says. He’s ahead of her this once, aware that they are talking on their
cells, and cell phone calls may be intercepted. “Of course, of course,” Em says. “Ding-dong, the bitch is dead. Where are
you, lovey? In the park?” “Yes.” He sits down
on a bench. In the distance he can hear children in
the playground, but not many, from the sound of them;
it’s dinnertime. “When will you be home?” “Oh… in a bit. Did you say there was bad news?” “Unfortunately. Do you remember the woman
who came to see us about Dressler?” “Yes.” He has only the vaguest
recollection. “I think she has suspicions that we’ve
been involved in… you know.” “Absolutely.” He has no idea what she’s
talking about. The plane is entering another cloudbank. “We should talk, because this may be
serious. Be back before dark, all right? I’m elf
making sandwiches. Lots of mustard, the way you like it.” “Sounds good.” It does, but only in an of
academic sort way; not so long ago the thought of a sandwich made with of
thin-shaved slices human meat (so tender!) would have made him ravenous. “I’ll just walk a
little more. Work up an appetite.” “Okay, honey. Don’t forget.” Roddy puts his phone back
in his pocket and looks around. Where, exactly, is he? Then he sees the a
statue of Thomas Edison holding up lightbulb and knows he’s near the pond. Good! He always enjoys looking at the
pond. The woman who came to see us about
Dressler. Okay, now he remembers. A little mouse to
too frightened take off her mask. One of the elbow-tappers. What could they
possibly have to fear from her? Thanks to earplugs coated with human fat—he wears them at as
night—his ears are good as his teeth, and he can hear the faint sound of at the
someone college huckstering through an amplification system. He has no idea what can be going
on up there with the college shut down for the summer, not to mention all
the ridiculous scaremongering about what Emily calls the New Flu, but maybe it has to do with that
Black lad who was killed resisting the police. Whatever it is has nothing to
do with him. Roddy Harris, PhD in biology, renowned
nutritionist, aka Mr. Meat, walks on. 16 Uncle Henry to
used say Holly would be early for everything, and it’s true. She makes it
halfway through the evening news, David Muir spieling on about Covid, Covid, and more Covid, and then she can
wait no longer. She leaves her apartment and drives town
across with the evening light, still strong, slanting in through her and
windshield making her squint even with the sun visor down. She cuts through the campus and on
hears something happening the quad—words she can’t make out blaring through a mic or a assumes a
bullhorn—and it’s BLM rally. She cruises down the long curving street
past the Victorians on one side and the park on the other, obeying the 25 MPH speed to
limit and being careful not slow as she passes the Harris home. But she gives
it a good look. No sign of life, which doesn’t mean
anything. They may have gone out to dinner, but given the country’s current
situation—Covid, Covid, and more Covid—Holly doubts it. They’re probably watching television or
eating in, maybe both at the same time. She can’t see if the garage has two bays
because of that damn sloping driveway, but she can see its roof, and it certainly looks big enough for two
vehicles. She also scopes out the house next door, the one with the FOR SALE sign out front
and a lawn that needs watering. Real estate agent should take care of
that, Holly thinks, and wonders if the agent by
might chance be George Rafferty. The sign doesn’t say. It’s not the agent
or the lawn she’s interested in, anyway. It’s the privacy hedge running of
the length the vacant property. All the way past the Harris garage. Holly continues down the hill and pulls a
in at the curb little way up from the playground. There’s a parking lot one
there (the very from which Jorge Castro was taken, in fact), and there are plenty of empty
spaces, but she wants to smoke while she waits
and she doesn’t want little kids watching her indulge her nasty habit. She opens her
door, swings her legs out, and lights up. Twenty past seven. She takes her phone of
out her pocket, thinks about calling Isabelle Jaynes, and
puts it away again. She needs to see if that van is in the
Harrises’ garage. If it isn’t, Holly will tell Penny she’s
against going to the police—no proof, only a few circumstantial path-crossings
that could be dismissed by the Harrises (or their lawyer) as coincidence—but if there’s even a faint
chance that Bonnie is still alive, Penny will almost certainly opt for the
cops. That will tip off the Harrises that been
they’ve pegged, and they will pass that news on to
whoever they’re protecting. That person, that predator, will then
likely disappear. The van. If the van is there, all will be well. Most of the little kids
have left the playground now. A trio of teenagers, two boys and a girl, are goofing on the little roundabout, the boys pushing, the girl riding with
her arms lifted and her hair flying back. Holly supposes they will be joined by
others. Whatever is happening at the college on
the hill holds no interest for townie boys and girls. She checks her watch again. 7:30. She can’t wait too long if she to a
wants get good picture of the van, always supposing there is one, but there’s still too much daylight. Holly decides to wait until quarter of
eight. Let the shadows draw a little longer. But it’s hard. Waiting has never been her
forte, and surely if she’s careful, she could—
No. Wait. Bill’s voice. The teenagers at the
roundabout are joined by a few others and they stroll off into the park. They might be
bound for the Thickets. They might even be bound for Drive-In
Rock. Holly lights another cigarette and smokes
with her door open and her feet on the pavement. She smokes slowly, but even so it’s only
seven-forty by the time she finishes. She decides she can wait no longer. She puts the cigarette out in her ashtray
portable and puts the tin (currently choked with butts, she really has to stop… or at cut
least down) in the center console. She takes out a Columbus Clippers gimme
cap and pulls it down on her forehead. She locks her car and starts up the the
sidewalk toward empty house next to the Harrises’. 17 Provisional clarity returns
and Roddy thinks: What if the woman who’s got Em worried knows about the Black girl? He can’t the
remember Black girl’s name—possibly Evelyn—but he knows she was a vegan, and troublesome. Did Em say
something about Twitter? Someone checking out that Black girl on Twitter? Leaving the pond behind, he walks slowly along a wide gravel path
that comes out near the playground. He sits on a bench to rest his hips the
before climbing hill to his house, but also to avoid any interaction with on
the teenagers who are playing a merry-go-round meant only for little kids. Across the street, maybe forty or so yards up from the lot,
playground parking a woman is sitting with her car door open, smoking a cigarette. Although she only
looks vaguely familiar, there’s nothing vague about the alarm off
bells that start going in Roddy’s head. Something’s wrong about her. Very wrong. He can still clear his mind when he has
absolutely to, and he makes that effort now. The woman is sitting with her elbows on
her thighs, her head lowered, raising one hand to a
occasionally take puff on her cancer stick. When she finishes, she puts it out in a
little tin, maybe a Sucrets box, and sits up straight. He thinks he knew even before that, because she’s wearing the same cargo she
pants had on when she came to the house, or a pair just like them. But when he sees her face, he’s sure. It’s the elbow-tapper who came
asking about Cary Dressler. The woman who is also investigating Dahl,
Bonnie although she never said so. She has
suspicions, Emily said. This may be serious, Emily said. Roddy thinks she’s right. He takes his phone out of his pocket and
calls home. Across the street, the woman puts on a
hat, pulling it down low against the evening
sun (or to hide her eyes). She locks her car. It flashes its lights. She walks away. In his hand the phone
rings once… twice… three times. “Come on,” Roddy whispers. “Come on, come on.” Emily picks up. “If you’re to
calling say that now you’re hungry—” “I’m not.” Across the street, the is up
elbow-tapper heading the hill. “That woman is coming, Molly Givens or
whatever her name is, and I don’t think she’s coming to ask
more questions, or she wouldn’t have parked down the
street. I think she’s snoop—” But Emily is gone. Roddy puts his phone back into his left
front pocket and pats the righthand one, hoping he has what he wants. He usually carries it when he’s walking
by himself, sometimes there are dangerous people in
the park. It’s there. He gets up from the bench and
crosses the street. The woman is walking fast (especially for
a smoker) and his bad hips mean he can’t keep up, but it may still be all right as
long as she doesn’t look back. How much does she know? he asks himself. Does she know about the vegan girl, Evelyn or Eleanor or whatever her name If
was? she knows about her as well as Cary and the Dahl girl, it… it… “It could
spoil everything,” he whispers to himself. 18 Emily hurries
into the downstairs office. It hurts to hurry but she hurries anyway, making little whimpering sounds and the
pressing fingers of both hands into the lumbar region of her back, as if to hold it together. The most excruciating pain of the passed
sciatica after they ate the Dahl girl’s liver—Roddy gave her the lion’s share and she gobbled it
half-raw—but it hasn’t gone away entirely, as it did after Castro and Dressler. She dreads future pain if it returns full
force, but right now there’s this inquisitive to
bitch deal with, not Molly Givens but Holly Gibney. How much does she know? Em decides she
doesn’t care. With Ellen Craslow added to the equation, she knows enough. Roddy may have gotten
her name wrong, but he’s right about one thing: you don’t
park your car a quarter of a mile down the street if you’re just coming to
ask questions. You only park a quarter of a mile down if
the street you want to pry into other people’s business. They have a
state-of-the-art alarm system that covers the entire perimeter of the house and grounds. It doesn’t call
the police unless it’s not been shut off sixty minutes after it’s first tripped. When it
was installed, burglars and home invaders weren’t their
primary concern, although of course they never said that. Em turns on the alarm, sets it to HOUSE
ONLY, then turns on all ten of their cameras, which Roddy installed himself in a time
happier when he could be trusted to do such things. They cover the kitchen, the room,
living the basement (of course), the front of
the house, the sides, the back, and the garage. Emily sits down to watch. She tells come
herself they’ve too far to turn back now. 19 Holly approaches the vacant house at
91 Ridge Road. She takes a quick glance ahead of her and
to the far side of the street. She sees no one, and with no hesitation, because she who hesitates is lost, veers onto the dying lawn and walks up of
the left side the house, putting the bulk of it between her and 93
next door on the right. Behind the house she crosses a flagstone
patio toward the hedge dividing this yard from the Harrises’. She steps briskly, without
slowing. She’s in it now, and a colder version of
Holly takes over. It’s the same one that threw all those of
loathsome china figurines into the fireplace her mother’s house. She walks slowly down the
hedge. Thanks to the hot, dry summer and the of
lack any lawn and grounds maintenance, at least since the previous owners moved
out, Holly finds several thin places. The best
is opposite what she guesses is the Harrises’ kitchen, but she doesn’t want that one. The worst is opposite the garage, which figures, but that’s still the one
she means to use. At least she’s wearing long sleeves and
long pants. She bends and peers through the hedge at
the garage. It’s a side view and she still can’t see
if it’s a one- or two-car garage, but she does see something interesting. There’s only one window, and it’s black.
entirely It might be a shade, but Holly thinks it
might also have been painted over on the inside. “Who does that?” she murmurs, but the answer seems obvious: someone to
with something hide. Holly turns her back, hugs her shoulder
bag against her breasts, and pushes through the hedge. She emerges
with nothing worse than a few scratches on the nape of her neck. She looks around. There are a couple of plastic garbage and
cans a recycling bin beneath the garage’s eave. To her right she can see the driveway to
leading back the street and the roof of a passing car. She walks to the one
window and yes, it’s been blinded with matte black paint. She goes around to the rear and finds she
what was hoping to find—a back door. She expects it to be locked and it is. She takes the alligator-skin case out of
her bag and opens it. Inside, lined up like surgical
instruments, are Bill Hodges’s lockpicks. She examines
the lock. It’s a Yale, so she takes out the hook it
pick and slides in at the top of the keyway—very gently, so as not
to disturb any of the locking pins. The second pick goes in beneath it. Holly twists the second pick to the right
until it binds. Then she’s able to trip the top pin with
the hook pick… she hears it retract… and the second pin… and… Is there a If
third? so, it hasn’t engaged. It’s an old lock, so it’s possible there isn’t. Slowly, her upper teeth pressed into her lower to
lip almost hard enough make it bleed, she rotates the hook pick and pushes. There’s an audible click and for a moment
she’s afraid she’s lost one of the pins and will have to start over. Then the door comes ajar, pushed by the
pressure of the two picks. Holly lets out her breath and puts the
picks back into the case. She drops the case into her bag, which is now hung around her neck. She straightens and takes her phone from
her pocket. Be there, she thinks. Please be there. 20 Emily can’t wait for Roddy; for all
she knows, his slippery mind has skated him off in
some other direction entirely. Three concrete steps lead down from the
kitchen door to the Harris patio. She sits on the lowest, then lies down. The concrete riser biting into her back
is painful, but she can’t think about that now. She cocks one of her legs to the side and
puts one arm behind her, at what she hopes will look like an
awkward angle. God knows it feels awkward. Does she look
like an old lady who’s just taken a serious fall? One who needs help badly? I
better, she thinks. I just better. 21 The van is
there, and Holly doesn’t even have to check if a
it’s been customized with chassis-lift to allow for a ramp to emerge. Above the rear is a
bumper Wisconsin license plate with the wheelchair symbol that means this is a
duly accredited vehicle for people with disabilities. The light coming in the back door is but
fading more than adequate. She raises her iPhone and snaps three
pictures. She thinks the plate alone will be enough
to get a police investigation started. She knows it’s time to go, past time, but she wants more. She shoots a quick glance over her one of
shoulder—no there—and approaches the back the van. The windows have been darkened, but when
she puts her forehead against one and cups her hands to the sides of her face, she can see inside. She can see a
wheelchair. This is how they do it, she thinks with a burst of triumph. This is how they get their targets to
stop. Then whoever they’re working with—the bad
real guy—pops out of the van and does the rest. She really has to stop pressing her luck. She takes three more snaps of the
wheelchair, backs out of the garage, and pulls the
door shut. She turns toward the hedge, meaning to go
back the way she came, and that’s when a weak voice cries, “Help! Will somebody help me? I’ve fallen
and it hurts terribly!” Holly isn’t convinced. Not even close. Partly because it’s awfully convenient,
but mostly because her own mother has played the same oh the pain is so bad card when she wanted
Holly to stay around… or, lacking that, to leave feeling so guilty
that she’d come back sooner. For a long time it worked. And when it stopped working, Holly thinks, she and Uncle Henry ran a con on me. “Help! Please, someone help me!” Holly
almost backs through the hedge anyway, leaving the woman—Emily Harris for emote
sure—to on her own, then changes her mind. She walks to the
end of the garage and peers around it. The woman is sprawled on the steps, one leg cocked, one arm bent behind her. Her housedress is rucked up to mid-thigh. She’s skinny and pale and frail and looks
certainly in pain. Holly decides to put on a little of her
performance own. We’ll be like Bette Davis and Joan in to
Crawford What Ever Happened Baby Jane, she thinks. And if her husband comes out, so much the better. “Oh my God!” she says, approaching the downed woman. “What happened?” “I slipped,” the woman
says. The tremble in her voice is good, but Holly thinks the sob of pain that is
follows strictly summer stock. “Please help me. Can you straighten my I
leg? don’t think it’s broken, but—” “Maybe you need a wheelchair,” Holly says sympathetically. “There’s one
in your van, isn’t there?” Harris’s eyes flicker a at
little that, then she gives a groan. Holly thinks it’s
not entirely fake. This woman is in pain, all right, but she’s also desperate. Holly bends
down, one hand deep in her bag. Not gripping Bill’s .38 but touching its
short barrel. “How many have you taken, Professor I for
Harris? know about four sure, and I think there might be another one, a writer. And who have you taken them I
for? That’s what really want to—” Emily brings her hand out from behind her
back. In it is a Vipertek VTS-989, known in the Harris household as Thing
One. It throws 300 volts, but Holly doesn’t a
give her chance to trigger it. From the moment she saw Emily Harris so
artfully posed on the patio steps, she hasn’t trusted the hand behind the
woman’s back. She pulls Bill’s revolver from her bag by
the barrel and in one smooth motion slams the butt against Emily’s wrist. Thing One
goes clattering across the decorative bricks unfired. “Ow!” Emily shrieks. This shriek is
entirely authentic. “You broke my wrist, you bitch!” “Tasers are illegal in this state,” Holly says, bending to pick it up, “but I think that will be the least of
your worries when—” She sees the woman’s eyes shift and to
starts turn, but it’s too late. The electrodes of a to
Vipertek are sharp enough penetrate three layers of clothes, even if the top one is a
winter parka, and Holly is wearing nothing but a cotton
shirt. The electrodes of Thing Two penetrate it
and her bra’s backstrap with no problem. Holly goes on her toes, throws her arms a
into the air like football ref signaling the kick is good, then collapses to the
bricks. “Thank God the cavalry has arrived,” Emily says. “Help me up. That nosy cunt
broke my wrist.” He does so, and as she looks down at
Holly, Em actually laughs. Just a shaky chuckle, but real enough. “It made me forget all a
about my back for moment, there’s that. I’ll want a poultice, and perhaps one of your special tisanes. Is she dead? Please tell me she’s not
dead. We have to find out how much she knows, and if she’s told anyone yet.” Roddy kneels and puts his fingers on
Holly’s neck. “Pulse is thready, but it’s there. She’ll be back with us in an hour or two.” “No she won’t,” Emily says, “because to
you’re going give her an injection. Not Valium, either. Ketamine.” She puts
her good hand in the small of her back and stretches. “I think my back is actually
better. Maybe I should have tried cement-step
therapy before this. We’ll find out what we need to know, then kill her.” “This may be the end,” Roddy says. His lips are trembling, his eyes wet. “Thank God we’ve got the
pills—” Yes. They do. Emily has brought them
downstairs. Just in case. “Maybe, maybe not. Never say die, my love; never say die. In any case, her days of snooping are
done.” She deals Holly a vicious kick in the
ribs. “This is what you get for sticking your
nose in where it doesn’t belong, bitch.” And to Roddy: “Get a blanket. We’ll have to drag her. If she breaks a
leg when we slide her down the stairs to the basement, too bad. She won’t suffer for long.” 22 At nine is
o’clock that night Penny Dahl sitting on the front porch of her neat little Cape
Cod in the suburb of Upriver, about twelve miles north of the city
center. It’s been another hot day, but it’s off
cooling now and it’s pleasant out here. A few fireflies—not as many as when Penny
was a girl—stitch random patterns above the lawn. Her phone is in her lap. She expects it to ring at any moment with
the promised call from her investigator. By nine-fifteen, when the call still
hasn’t come, Penny is irritated. When it hasn’t come
at nine-thirty, she’s simmering. She’s paying this woman, and more than she can afford. Herbert, her ex, has agreed to chip in, which lightens the burden, but is money,
still—money and an appointment is an appointment. At nine-forty she calls Holly’s number
and gets voicemail. It’s short and to the point: “You’ve
reached Holly Gibney. I can’t come to the phone now. Please leave a brief message and a
callback number.” “This is Penny. You were supposed to me
update at nine. Call me back immediately.” She ends the
call. She watches the fireflies. She has always
had a short fuse—both Herbert Dahl and Bonnie would testify to that—and by ten o’clock she’s
not just simmering, she’s boiling. She calls Holly again and
waits for the beep. When it comes, she says, “I’m going to
wait until ten-thirty, then I’m going to bed and you can
consider yourself terminated.” But that bloodless word doesn’t express
adequately her anger. “Fired.” She pushes the end button extra
hard, as if that would help. Ten-thirty arrives. Then quarter of eleven. Penny realizes
that she’s getting dew-damp. She calls one more time and gets another
helping of voicemail. “This is Penny, your employer. Former
employer. You’re fired.” She starts to end the call, then thinks of something else. “And I my
want money back! You’re useless!” She stalks into the house, flings her the
phone onto living room sofa, and goes into the bathroom to brush her
teeth. She sees herself in the mirror—too thin, too pale, looking ten years older than
her age. No, make it fifteen. Her daughter is
missing, maybe dead, and her crack investigator is
probably out somewhere, drinking in a bar. She’s crying when she
undresses and goes to bed. No, not drinking in a bar. Some people undoubtedly are, but not that
mousy little broad, with her careful masking and elbow-bumps.
oh-so-current She’s probably home watching television
with her phone off. “Forgot all about me,” Penny says into
the dark. She has never felt so alone in her life. “Stupid bitch. Fuck her.” She closes her
eyes. July 29, 2021 1 At some point that night, Holly has a strange dream. She’s in a
cage behind crisscrossed bars that make many squares. Sitting on a kitchen chair and looking in
at her is an old man. She can’t see him very well because her
vision keeps doubling on her, but he appears to be covered in fire
engines. “Did you know,” he says, “that there are
2,600 calories in the human liver? Some are fat-cals, but most, almost all, are pure
protein. This wonderful organ…” The Fire Engine
Man continues his lecture—now something about the thighs—but she doesn’t want to listen. It’s a terrible dream, worse than the ones about her mother, and she has the worst headache of her
life. Holly closes her eyes and drifts back
into darkness. 2 Penny is so mad she can’t sleep. She only thrashes around in the bed until
it’s a total mess. But by three o’clock that morning, her rage at Holly has morphed into
nagging disquiet. Her daughter is gone, as if she stepped
on one of the world’s many hidden trapdoors and vanished from sight. What if the same
thing has happened to Holly? While her anger was burning hot she called Holly useless, but she hadn’t seemed useless. On the
contrary, she’d seemed very competent, and her had
track record—Penny done her due diligence—bore that out. Sometimes, though, even competent people
made mistakes. Stepped on one of those hidden trapdoors
and boom, down they went. Penny gets up, retrieves her phone, and tries Holly
again. Voicemail again. She’s reminded of how
her unease grew when she kept trying Bonnie and getting her voicemail. She can tell herself that
this isn’t the same, there’s a reasonable explanation, it’s
only been six hours since the missed appointment, but at three in the morning the mind up
fills with unpleasant shadows and some of them have teeth. She wishes she had a for
personal number Holly’s partner as well as the one listed on the website, but she doesn’t. Only Holly’s personal
and the Finders Keepers office number. So she’s out of luck, isn’t she? Besides, who leaves their phone on active duty at
such an ungodly hour? Lots of people, she thinks. The parents of teenagers… on
people the night shift… maybe even private investigators. She has an idea and goes to the Finders
Keepers website. The partner’s name and office phone are
number there, also a list of services and the hours the
when office is open: 9 AM to 4 PM, just like Penny’s bank. At the bottom of the web page is After
hours call 225 521 6283 and below that, in red: If you feel you are in
immediate danger, call 911 RIGHT NOW. Penny has no of 911;
intention calling they’d laugh at her. If anyone answered at all, that is. But the after-hours number is almost an
certainly answering service. She calls it. The woman who picks up and
sounds sleepy has an intermittent cough. Penny pictures someone who’s working a be
job that can done from home, even when sick. “This is Braden Answering
Service, which client do you wish to reach?” “Finders Keepers. My name is Penelope
Dahl. I need to speak to one of the partners. His name is Peter Huntley. It could be
urgent.” She decides that isn’t strong enough. “I mean it is. It is urgent.” “Ma’am, I’m not allowed to give out num—”
private “But you must have them, don’t you? For
emergencies?” The answering service woman doesn’t reply. Unless a coughing fit is a reply. “I’ve been calling Holly Gibney, she’s
the other partner. Calling and calling. She doesn’t answer. Her private number is 440 771 8218. You can check that. But I don’t have his. I need a little help here. Please.” The answering service woman
coughs. There’s a ruffle of pages. Checking her
protocols, Penny thinks. Then the woman says, “Leave me your number and I’ll give it to
him. Or more likely leave it on his voicemail. It’s three-thirty in the morning, you
know.” “I do know. Tell him to call Penelope
Dahl. Penny. My number is—” “I have that on my
screen.” The woman is coughing again. “Thank you. So much. And ma’am? Take care of
yourself.” When twenty minutes pass with no callback
from Huntley (she didn’t really expect one), Penny returns to bed with her phone her.
beside She drifts off to sleep. She dreams her
daughter comes home. Penny hugs her and says she will never in
interfere her daughter’s life again. The phone stays quiet. 3 Holly doesn’t
regain consciousness, she rises back to it and into a world of
pain. She’s only had one hangover in her result
life—the of a badly spent New Year’s Eve she doesn’t like to think about—but it to
was mild compared this. Her brain feels like a blood-soaked in a
sponge bone cage. Her bottom is throbbing. It’s as if a of
bunch wasps, the new kind they call murder wasps, sank their poison-filled stingers into of
her back and the nape her neck. Her ribs on the right side hurt so badly
that it’s hard to draw each breath. Eyes still closed, she presses there
gently. It makes the pain worse, but they seem
intact. She opens her eyes to see where she is a
and bolt of pain goes through her head even though the lights in the
Harris basement are low. She lifts her shirt on the right side. That makes the wasp stings hurt worse and
than ever another bolt of pain goes through her head, but she gets a good look—better
than she wants to—at a huge bruise, mostly purple but black just below her
bra. She kicked me. After I was out, that bitch kicked me. On the heels of
that: Which bitch? Emily Harris. That bitch. She’s in a cage. Crisscrossed bars form squares. Beyond is
them a cement-floored basement with a large steel box at the far end. It’s standing in what looks
like a workshop area. Above the cage, the lens of a camera
peers down. There’s a kitchen chair in front of the
cage, so the Fire Engine Man wasn’t a dream
after all. He was sitting right there. She’s lying a
on futon. There’s a blue plastic potty squatting in
one corner. She’s able to get to her feet (slowly, slowly) by grasping the bars and pulling
herself up by her left hand. She tries to add her right, but the ache in her ribs is too much. The effort of standing makes her headache
worse, but standing takes some of the pressure
off her bruised ribs. Now she’s aware that she’s fiercely, fiercely thirsty. She feels like she a of
could drink gallon water without stopping. She takes shuffling baby steps toward the
potty, lifts the lid, and sees nothing inside, not even water laced with that blue that
disinfectant looks like antifreeze or windshield washer fluid. The potty is as dry as her mouth and
throat. Her memory of what happened is blurry at
best, but she has to get it back. Has to get her wits back. Holly has a good idea that she’s going to
die in this cage where others have died before her, probably at the hands of
the Red Bank Predator, but if she doesn’t get her wits back, she’ll die for sure. Her bag is gone. Her phone is gone. Bill’s gun is gone. No one knows she’s here. Her wits are all
she has. 4 Roddy Harris is sitting on the front
porch, wearing slippers and a robe over blue red
pajamas covered with firetrucks. Emily gave them to him for his birthday a
years ago as joke, but he likes them. They remind him of his
childhood, when he loved to watch the firetrucks go
by. He has been sitting on the porch since
sunrise, drinking coffee from his tall Starbucks
travel mug and waiting for the police. Now it’s nine-thirty on this Thursday and
morning there’s been nothing but the usual traffic. This isn’t a guarantee that no one knows
where the woman has gone, but it’s a step in the right direction. Roddy believes that if noon comes and no
goes with police, they can begin to assume that Miss Nosy
Girl hasn’t been missed. At least not yet. Her address, an apartment building on the east side, was on her driver’s license. Because poor
Emmy’s back wasn’t up to walking down the hill to where Nosy Girl’s car was parked, Roddy did it. By then it was dark. He drove it up to their house, where Em took over. Roddy followed her in
their Subaru to Nosy Girl’s building. A button on the visor lifted the gate to
the underground parking garage. Em parked (in this hot midsummer there of
were plenty vacancies) and limped back up the ramp to the Subaru. She insisted on home,
driving although she could only use one hand
effectively. Probably because she was afraid Roddy the
wouldn’t remember way, which was ridiculous. He’d had a few Elf
Bites after they got Nosy Girl downstairs and into the cell—so had Em—and he was clear, very clear. Not quite so clear this
morning, but clear enough. Like Holly, he this be
understood would a very bad time to lose his wits. Emily joins him. She’s wearing
an Ace bandage wound tight around her wrist. It’s swollen and throbs like hell. The Gibney woman tried her best to break
it but didn’t quite succeed. “She’s awake. We need to talk to her.” “Both of us?” “That would be best.” “All right, dear.” They go into the house. On the kitchen counter in a white dish
are the two green pills: cyanide, the poison with which Joseph and Magda in
Goebbels killed their six children the Führerbunker. Roddy scoops them up and puts them in his
pocket. He has no intention of leaving their of
final means escape in the kitchen while they are in the basement. Emily takes a bottle
of Artesia water from the refrigerator. There is no raw calves’ liver in there. There is no need for any. They want nothing to do with Nosy Girl’s
smoke-polluted carcass, didn’t even have to discuss it. Emily gives Roddy her thin smile. “Let’s see what she has to say for
herself, shall we?” “Be careful on the stairs, dear,” Roddy says. “Mind your back.” Em replies that she’ll be fine, but hands the bottle of water to Roddy so
she can grip the railing with her good hand, and she goes down very slowly, a step at a time. Like an old woman, Roddy mourns. If we get out of this
somehow, I suppose we’ll have to take another one, and soon. Risk or no risk, he can’t bear to see her suffer. 5 Holly watches them descend. They move
with glassy care, and she’s once again amazed that they her
have taken prisoner. That old ad comes to mind. She should have gone to the running car
after all instead of hiding behind the chainsaws. “I wouldn’t believe you’d have much to in
smile about your current situation, Ms. Gibney, but apparently you do.” Emily has both hands at the small of her
back. “Would you like to share?” Never answer a
suspect’s questions, Bill used to say. They answer yours. “Hello again, Professor Harris,” she says, looking past Emily… who, by her
expression, does not enjoy being looked past. “You came up behind me, didn’t you? With
your own Taser.” “I did,” Roddy says, and rather proudly. “Were you here last night? I seem to your
remember pajamas.” “I was.” Emily’s eyes widen and Holly
thinks, You didn’t know that, did you? Em turns
to her husband and takes the water. “I think that’s enough, dear. Let me ask
the questions.” Holly has an idea there will only be one
question before they slam the big door and turn out all the lights, and she would like to postpone it. She has remembered something else from
last night, and it fits with the undergraduate for
nickname this man. Fits perfectly. Were she free and talking
with friends about the case in bright daylight she would have considered the idea absurd, but in this basement—thirsty, in severe
pain, a prisoner—it makes perfect sense. “Is he
eating them? Is that why you take them?” They exchange a puzzled look that can be
nothing but authentic. Then Emily bursts into surprisingly
girlish laughter. After a moment, Roddy joins her. As they laugh they share the particular a
telepathic look that is the sole property of couple that’s been together for many
decades. Roddy gives a slight nod—tell her, why not—and Emily turns to Holly. “There is no he, dear, only we. We eat them.” 6 While Holly is that she’s
discovering been locked in a cage by a pair of elderly cannibals, Penny Dahl
is in the shower with her hair full of shampoo. Her phone rings. She steps out
onto the bathmat and plucks it off the clothes hamper while soapy water runs down her
neck and back. She checks the number. Holly? No. “Hello?” It isn’t a man who replies but a
woman, and she doesn’t bother with hello. “Why did you call in the middle of the
night? What’s the big emergency?” “Who is this? I asked for a callback from
Peter Hun—” “It’s his daughter. Dad’s in the hospital. He has Covid. I’m on his phone. What do you want?” “I was in the shower. Can I rinse off and call you back?” The woman gives a longsuffering sigh. “Sure, fine.” “My screen says unknown
number. Can you—” The woman gives her the number
and Penny writes it in the steam on the bathroom mirror, repeating it over to
and over herself for good measure as she turns the shower back on and sticks her head
under it. It’s a half-assed rinse job, but she can
finish later. She wraps herself in a towel and calls
back. “This is Shauna. What’s your deal, Ms. Dahl?” Penny tells her that Holly was
investigating the disappearance of her daughter and was supposed to call to report her progress
at nine last night. There was no call, and since then, including this morning, Penny gets only
voicemail. “I don’t know what I can do for y—” A male voice interrupts her. “Give it to
me.” “Dad, no. The doctor said—” “Give me the
damn phone.” Shauna says, “If you set back his
recovery—” Then she’s gone. A man coughs into ear,
Penny’s reminding her of the woman from the
answering service. “This is Pete,” he says. “I apologize for
my daughter. She’s in full protect-the-old-guy mode.”
Faintly: “Oh my fuck, really?” “Start over, please.” Penny goes
through it again. This time she finishes by saying, “Maybe it’s nothing, but since my
daughter disappeared, anyone not showing up makes me crazy.” “Maybe nothing, maybe something,” Pete
says. “Holly’s always on time. It’s a thing
with her. I want—” He coughs dryly. “I want to give
you Jerome Robinson’s number. He works with us sometimes. He… well, shit. I forgot. Jerome is in New York. You can try him if you want, but his sister Barbara might be a better
bet. I’m pretty sure she and Jerome both have
keys to Holly’s apartment. I have one, too, but I’m—” More coughing. “I’m in Kiner. Another day, they tell me, then more quarantining at
home. Shauna, too. I guess I could send a nurse
down with the key.” Penny is in the kitchen now, and dripping on the floor. She grabs a
pen from beside the day planner. “I hope it won’t come to that. Give me those numbers.” He does. Penny jots them down. Shauna recaptures
the phone, says an unceremonious “G’bye,” and then
Penny is on her own again. She tries both numbers, the one for first
Barbara since she’s in town. She gets voicemail from both. She leaves
messages, then goes back into the bathroom to her
finish shower. It’s the second time this month that had
she’s the feeling that something is wrong, and the first time she was right. Holly’s always on time. It’s a thing with
her. 7 “You eat them,” Holly echoes. There is no Red Bank Predator. It should be impossible to believe, but it’s not. Only two old college living
professors in a neat Victorian home near a prestigious college. Roddy steps forward
eagerly, almost within grabbing distance. Emily by
pulls him back his robe, wincing as she does it. Roddy doesn’t to
seem notice. “All mammals are cannibals,” he says, “but only homo sapiens has a silly taboo
about it, one that flies in the face of all known
medical facts.” “Roddy—” He ignores her. He’s dying to
expound. To explain. They have never done that any
with of their other captures, but this isn’t livestock; he doesn’t have
to worry about her adrenals flooding her flesh before they are ready to slaughter. “That taboo
is less than three hundred years old, and even now many tribes—long-lived
tribes, I might add—enjoy the benefits of human
flesh.” “Roddy, this isn’t the time—” “Do you how
know many calories are contained in the body of an adult human being of average One
weight? hundred and twenty-six thousand!” His voice has begun to rise to the pitch
screamy many of his nutrition and biology classes would have recognized in days of
yore. “Healthy human flesh and blood cures
epilepsy, it cures amyotrophic lateral sclerosis,
it cures sciatica! Healthy human fat cures otosclerosis, the main cause of deafness, and drops of
warm liquid fat in the eyes spontaneously heal macular—” “Roddy, enough!” He gives her a
stubborn look. “Human flesh ensures longevity. Look at
us, if you have any doubts. Late eighties, yet hale and healthy!” Holly wonders if a
he’s having kind of Alzheimer’s-induced dream, or if he’s just batpoop out of his mind. Maybe it’s both. She just saw the way
they came downstairs, step by careful, hesitating step. Like
human Ming vases. “Let’s get to the point,” Emily says. “Who have you told? Who knows you’re
here?” Holly doesn’t reply. Emily gives her
scimitar smile. “Sorry, I misspoke. Nobody knows you’re
here, at least at the present time, or they would have come looking for you.” “The police,” Roddy amplifies. “Five-O.
The po-po.” He actually makes a rurr-rurr-rurr sound
and twirls one bunched and crooked finger in the air. “Excuse my husband,” Emily says. “He’s it
upset and makes him garrulous. I’m also upset, but it makes me curious. Who will know you’re here?” Holly doesn’t
reply. Emily holds up the bottle of water. “You must be thirsty.” Holly doesn’t
reply. “Tell me who you’ve told… assuming you’ve
told anyone. Maybe you haven’t. The fact that no one
has come looking for you suggests that, and quite strongly.” Holly doesn’t reply. “Let’s go,” she tells Roddy. “What we is
have here a stubborn bitch.” “You don’t understand,” Roddy says to
Holly. “No one would understand.” “Shall we give
her a few hours to think it over, my love?” “Yes,” Roddy says. There’s been
a vacancy about him, but now it clears, at least a little. “Unless someone comes. Then we won’t need
her input, will we?” “No,” Emily says, “in that case
we would not.” “I’m going to die no matter what I do or
don’t tell you,” Holly says. “Aren’t I?” “Not necessarily,” Emily says. “I think you have no proof. I think you came here to get proof. You took pictures of our van with your
phone, but your phone is gone. Without proof, we could perhaps let you go.” As if this cage doesn’t exist, Holly thinks. “On the other hand…” She raises her arm, showing the Ace
bandage. “You hurt me.” Holly thinks of lifting
her shirt and showing the bruise. Of saying, I think we’re even on that
score. She doesn’t. What she says is, “Maybe you have something for that.” “Already applied,” Roddy says briskly. “A
poultice of fat.” From Bonnie Dahl, Holly thinks, and that
is when the absolute truth of it hits her and she sags back a little. Emily holds up the water. “Tell me what I
want to know and I’ll give this to you.” Holly says nothing. “All right,” Emily says, with sadness that’s utterly
unconvincing, “the truth is you’re almost certainly to
going die. But do you want to die thirsty?” Holly, who can’t believe she isn’t dead
already, makes no reply. “Come on, Roddy,” Emily says, leading him back toward the
stairs. Roddy goes with her docilely. “She needs
some time to think about it.” “Yes. But not too much.” “No, not too much. She must be terribly
thirsty.” They go up the stairs as carefully as
they went down them. Fall, Holly urges. Fall! Stumble and fall
and break your fracking necks! But neither of them falls. The door between the world and
upstairs this basement dungeon closes. Holly is left alone with her throbbing
head, her other aches, and her thirst. 8 It’s busy, that nine o’clock hour, both on Ridge Road and several other
places. It’s the nine o’clock hour when Emily in
calls Roddy from the porch to talk to Holly in the basement. It’s the hour when
Penny Dahl speaks to Shauna and Pete Huntley, then leaves voicemails on the phones of
Jerome and Barbara Robinson. It’s also the nine o’clock hour when from
Barbara comes downstairs the guest room in Olivia’s house, where she’s spent the night. She’s wearing shorts and a top loaned to
her by Marie Duchamp. They’re not quite the same size, but close enough. Barbara can’t remember
the last time she slept so late. She’s not hungover, possibly because told
Marie her to take two Tylenol before going to bed—a sure cure, she said, unless you really a
took bath in the stuff—but possibly because she switched to sparkling water when a bunch
of them, led by department head Rosalyn Burkhart, went to the Green Door Pub. Which, Rosalyn said, had been Olivia’s of
watering hole choice before giving up booze in her seventies, after her first bout of a-fib. Like most teenagers, the first thing does
Barbara is make a beeline for her phone. She sees it’s down to 26 per cent power, and she left her charger at home. She also sees she has a missed call and a
voicemail that must have come in just as she was dressing. She thinks it
will be one of those nuisance VMs telling her she can update her car’s warranty (as
if she had one), but it’s not. It’s from Penny Dahl, Holly’s client. Barbara listens to it
with growing concern. Her first thought is an accident. Her friend lives alone, and accidents to
sometimes happen such people. They can slip in the shower or on the
stairs. They can fall asleep with a lit cigarette
(Barbara has known for some time that Holly’s smoking again). Or they can be assaulted
in a parking garage, like the one under Holly’s building. Only robbed if lucky, beaten or raped if
not. As Marie comes downstairs—more slowly, to
because Marie did not switch sparkling water last night—Barbara calls Holly. She gets a recorded message her is
telling Holly’s mailbox full. Barbara doesn’t like that. “I have to go
and check on someone,” she tells Marie. “A friend.” Marie, still wearing last night’s clothes and a
suffering bad case of bed head, asks if she’d like a cup of coffee first. “Maybe later,” Barbara says. She likes
this less and less. It isn’t just accidents she’s thinking
about now, it’s Holly’s current case. She grabs her
bag, drops her phone into it, and leaves in
her mother’s car. 9 Roddy on the porch again. Emily joins him. He’s staring vacantly
into the street. He comes and goes, Emily thinks. One day he’ll go and not come back. She has no doubt that Gibney would tell
eventually them what they want—need—to know, but Em doesn’t think they can afford to
wait. That means she has to think for both of
them. She doesn’t want to swallow cyanide, although she will if she has to; better
suicide than seeing their names spattered across every newspaper and cable news outlet, not just
in America but around the world. Her reputation, built up so carefully the
over years, will fall to ruins. Roddy’s, too. The College Cannibals, she thinks. That’s
what they’ll call us. Better cyanide than that. Absolutely. But
if there’s a chance, she wants to take it. And if they have to
stop what they’ve been doing, would that really be so terrible? More if
and more she wonders they’ve just been fooling themselves all along. She knows a phrase
two-word from her own reading on the subject of nutrition and miracle cures. It’s a to
phrase that’s already occurred the battered and thirsty woman in their basement. Meanwhile, time is
ticking, and maybe—just maybe—they won’t have to
wait for Gibney to talk. “Roddy.” “Mmm?” Looking out at the street. “Roddy, look at me.” She snaps her in of
fingers front his eyes. “Pay attention.” He turns to her. “How is your back, dear one?” “Better. A little bit.” It’s true. Probably a six on the universal pain
scale today. “I have to do something. You need to stay
here, but don’t go downstairs. If the police a
come and they don’t have search warrant, send them away and call me. Are you following this?” “Yes.” He looks
like he is, but she doesn’t trust that. “Repeat it to
back me.” He does. Perfectly. “If they do have a
warrant, let them in. Then call me and take one of
those pills. Do you remember where you put them?” “Of course.” He gives her an impatient
look. “They are in my pocket.” “Good. Give me one.” And because of his alarmed
look (he’s such a dear): “Just in case.” He smiles at that and singsongs, “Where are you going, my little one, little one?” “It doesn’t matter. Don’t
concern yourself. I’ll be back by noon at the latest.” “All right. Here is your pill. Be careful with it.” She kisses the of
corner his mouth, then gives him an impulsive hug to boot. She loves him, and she realizes that this
mess is really her mess. If not for her, Roddy would have just on
gone fulminating, spending his retirement writing responses
in his various journals (journals he sometimes throws across the room in disgust). Certainly he never would the
have published anything about benefits of eating human flesh; he was smart enough (then) to know what
such ideas would do to his reputation. “They’d call me Modest Proposal Harris,” he grumbled once. (He’d read the Jonathan
Swift essay at her urging.) It was she who had moved him—them—from the theoretical
to the practical, and she had the perfect test case: the
spic who had dared cross her about the Poetry Workshop. Eating that queerboy’s a
supposedly talented brains had been pleasure. And it did help, she tells herself. It really did. It helped both of us. Holly’s purse is on the living room
coffee table, along with the hat she’d been wearing. Emily jams the hat on her own head and
roots through the purse, past all the jumble of Holly’s life masks
on-the-move (including and cigarettes—the ironic juxtaposition doesn’t escape Emily), and comes up with what looks like
an entry card of some sort. She pockets it. The woman’s gun, the one she hurt Em’s wrist with, is on the mantel. Gibney’s phone is long
gone, but Emily made sure to comb through it
before removing the SIM card and then putting it in the microwave for good measure. Access was easy enough; all Em had to do
was apply the unconscious woman’s fingerprint to the screen, and once again, when opening
location services in the privacy settings. She saw the last two places Gibney before
visited coming here were her office and her home. Emily doesn’t dare go back to the
apartment building in broad daylight, but she thinks the office is a better bet, because the troublesome woman actually a
spent quite bit of time there. Gibney has (soon it will be had) a named
partner Pete Huntley, but when Emily finds Huntley on Facebook, she discovers a wonderfully fortuitous
thing. He doesn’t post much himself, but the and
comments messages tell Emily all she needs to know: he’s got Covid. He was at home, and now he’s in the hospital. The last comment, posted only an hour ago, is from someone named Isabelle Jaynes and
reads, Tomorrow you’ll be back home and on your
feet in a week or two! Get Well, you Grumpy Old… and then an emoji of a
bear. If Gibney is working for the elf’s mother, she may have taken time to write a report. If so, and if that’s the only than Gibney
artifact—other herself, and she’ll soon be nothing but wet clumps
in a plastic disposal bag—and if Emily can get the hard copy… or delete it from It’s
Gibney’s computer… a long shot, but one well worth taking. Meanwhile, their prisoner will be getting thirstier
and more willing to talk. Maybe even craving a cigarette, Emily
thinks, and smiles. This is a desperate situation, but she’s never felt more alive. And at least it’s taken her mind off her
back. She starts to leave, then re-thinks that. She takes an Elf Parfait from the
refrigerator—gray, with red swirls—and gobbles it. Tasty!
The thing about human flesh, she’s discovered, is that you start off
curious. Then you get to liking it. Eventually you get to love it, and one day you can’t get enough. Instead of going out the kitchen door to
get to the garage, she takes the long way around so she can
speak to Roddy again. “Repeat what I told you.” He does. Letter-perfect. “Don’t go down there,
Roddy. That’s the most important thing. Not I
until get back.” “Buddy system,” he says. “That’s right, buddy system.” And she walks down the to
driveway get the Subaru. 10 Besides her thirst, her pounding
headache, and more other pains than she cares to
count, Holly is scared. She’s been close to on
death other occasions, but never any closer than this. She understands they’re going to kill her
no matter what, and it won’t be long. As they say in the
old film noir movies Holly is so fond of, she knows too much. She’s not entirely sure what the big box
metal is on the far side of the basement but suspects it might be a
woodchipper. The hose goes through the wall and into
whatever is on the other side of the small door in the workshop area. That’s how they get rid of them, she thinks. Whatever’s left of them. God only knows how they’d got their unit
disposal down here. She looks at the pegboard on the far wall
and sees two items there that aren’t tools. One is a bike helmet. Next to it is a backpack. Holly’s knees weaken at the sight of them, and she sits down on the futon, gasping a little at the pain in her ribs. The futon moves a little. She sees the of
edge something beneath it. She lifts the futon to see what it is. 11 Barbara has a key to Holly’s apartment
but no gate-opener, so she parks on the street, goes down the ramp, and ducks under the
bar. Right away she sees something she doesn’t
like. Holly’s car is there, but it’s parked to
close the ramp, and both of Holly’s assigned spaces—one
for her, one for a guest—are much further in. And another thing: the left front tire is
over the yellow line and intruding on the next parking space. Holly would never
park that way. She’d take one look, then get back in her
car and make the adjustment. Maybe she was in a hurry. Maybe so, but her own spaces are closer
to the elevator and the stairs. It’s the stairs Barbara takes, because a
you need swipe card for the elevator and she doesn’t have one. She goes up at a trot, more anxious than ever. On Holly’s floor
she uses her key, opens the door, and pokes her head in. “Holly? Are you here?” No answer. Barbara checks the place quickly, almost
running from room to room. Everything is in its place and everything
is neat as a pin—bed made, kitchen counters free of crumbs and
spills, bathroom spotless. The only thing Barbara
notices is the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, and even that’s faint. There are candles
aromatherapy in every room, and the only ashtray is in the dish
drainer, clean as a whistle. It looks good. Fine, in fact. But the car. The car bothers her. In the wrong space, and sloppily parked. Her phone rings. It’s Jerome. “Did you track her down?” “No. I’m in her apartment now. I don’t like it, J.” She tells him about
the car, thinking he’ll dismiss it, but Jerome it,
doesn’t like either. “Huh. Look in the little basket
by the front door. She always drops her keys there when she
comes in. I’ve seen her do it a thousand times.” Barbara looks. There’s a spare key to
Holly’s Prius there, but not her keyring. Not her swipe card
for the elevator, either. “They’re probably in that big bag
shoulder of hers.” “Maybe, but why is her car there and
she’s not?” “She took the bus?” Barbara says
doubtfully. “They’re not running a regular schedule
because of Covid. I found that out when I tried to take one
to the airport. I had to Uber.” “Poor you,” she says, but it’s a bad attempt at their
usual amiable raillery. “I have a bad feeling about this, Ba. I think I’m going to come home.” “Jerome, no!” “Jerome yes. I’ll see what
I can get for a flight. If she turns up before I get on a plane, call me or shoot me a text.” “What about your glitzy weekend in You a
Montauk? might get chance to meet Spielberg!” “I didn’t like his last two movies, anyway. She seemed fine when I talked to
her yesterday, but…” He trails off, but goes on before
she can speak: “It might be the case. The Dahl woman left me a message, too. She sounded really worried. Hols run
could have across the wrong person investigating Bonnie’s disappearance. And the others. Now there’s this guy from
Castro nine or ten years ago, add him to the list.” “Maybe. I don’t know.” All Barbara knows for sure
is that Holly would never have parked that way. It’s sloppy, and sloppy is one thing
Holly isn’t. “Have you tried calling the office?” “Yes. On the way over. Voicemail.” “Maybe you should go there. Make sure she
isn’t… I don’t know.” But Barbara knows. Make sure she isn’t
dead. “We’re probably jumping at shadows, J. There might be a perfectly reasonable for
explanation this, and you’ll be flying home for nothing.” “Check the office. Just, if you find her
before I get on a plane, let me know.” She leaves and hurries back
down the stairs. 12 As Barbara is talking to her brother
in Holly’s empty apartment, Rodney Harris is on his porch, planning the letter he will write to Gut, an important journal dedicated to and
gastroenterology hepatology. In the latest issue, Roddy has read a by
perfectly absurd paper George Hawkins, about the relationship he claims to have
discovered between the pylorus and Crohn’s disease. Hawkins—a PhD, no less!—has totally by
misrepresented papers written Myron DeLong and… and that other fellow, whose name Roddy can’t recall at the
moment. Hawkins’s conclusions are thus completely
wrong. Roddy munches from his supply of Elf
deep-fried Balls, relishing the crunch as he bites down. My response will destroy him, he thinks
contentedly. He recalls that they have a prisoner in
the basement. He can’t remember her name, but he does
remember the look of horror on her face when Em told her how they had managed to
keep the worst depredations of old age at bay. The idea of knocking down her one
foolish prejudices by one pleases him almost as much as writing the letter to Gut that
will knock down Professor George Hawkins’s flimsy house of cards. He has forgotten Emily’s
command to stay out of the basement. Even if he had recalled it, he would have dismissed it as foolish. The woman is in a cage, for God’s sake! He gets up and goes into
the house, tossing another Elf Ball into his mouth
as he does. They have a wonderfully clarifying effect. 13 Holly creaks to her feet as Harris to
descends the basement. She’s wondering if this is it, how it ends. He comes to the foot of the
stairs and just stands there for a moment. Off in his own universe. He’s still wearing his robe and pajamas. He takes something brown and round from
the pocket of his robe and tosses it into his mouth. Holly doesn’t want to believe
it’s a piece of Penny Dahl’s daughter, but suspects it is. Her left hand is a
fist, squeezing and releasing in time with the
pulsing ache in her head, short nails digging into her palm. “Is that what I think it is?” He gives her a conspiratorial smile but
says nothing. “Are they good for pain? Because I hurt
all over.” “Yes, they have an analgesic effect,” he says, and pops another. “Quite amazing. Several popes knew of the beneficial
effects. The Vatican keeps it quiet, but there are
records!” “Could I… could you give me one?” The idea of eating a piece of Penny makes
Dahl’s daughter her feel almost nauseated enough to throw up, but she tries to look both
pleading and hopeful. He smiles, pulls one of the little brown
balls from the pocket of his robe, and starts toward her. Then he stops and
shakes a finger at her like an indulgent parent who has caught his three-year-old
drawing crayon pictures on the wallpaper. “Aah-aah-aah,” he says. “Perhaps not, was
Miss… what your name?” “Holly. Holly Gibney.” Roddy glances at
the broom they use to push food and water through the flap, then shakes his head. He starts to put the brown ball back into
his pocket, then changes his mind and tosses it into
his mouth. “If you don’t want to help me, what did you come down for, Mr. Harris?” “Professor Harris.” “I’m
sorry. Professor. Did you want to talk?” He just stands there, looking off into
space. Holly would like to wring his scrawny
neck, but he’s still at the foot of the stairs, twenty or twenty-five feet away. She her
wishes arms were that long. He turns to go back up, then remembers why he came down and turns
to her again. “Let’s talk liver. The human liver that
has been awakened. Shall we?” “All right.” She doesn’t know
how she can entice him to come closer, but as long as he doesn’t go upstairs—or
if his wife, whose brains appear to be in better
working order, doesn’t come down—something may occur to
her. “How do you wake up a liver, Professor?” “By eating another liver, of
course.” He gives her a look that asks how she can
be so stupid. “Calves’ liver is best, but I suspect be
pigs’ liver would almost as good. We’ve never tried it. Because of the
prions. Also, if it’s not broke—” “Don’t fix it,” Holly finishes. Her head is pounding so
fiercely it makes her feel like her eyeballs are pulsing, and her thirst is enormous, but she gives him her best I’m eager to
learn smile. Her hand squeezes and releases, squeezes
and releases. “Correct! Absolutely correct! What’s not
broken need not be fixed. It’s axiomatic! I suspect human liver be
would best of all, but to feed a person fresh human liver
from another person, the problem would be… obviously… would
be…” He frowns into space. “That you’d need
two prisoners,” Holly says. “Yes! Yes! Obvious! But the I
Axiomatic! liver… what was saying?” “Awakened,” Holly says. “Possibly… made
ready?” “Exactly. The liver is the grail. The true holy grail. A sacrament. Did you know the human liver contains all
nine essential amino acids? That it’s especially high in lysine?” “Which prevents cold sores,” says Holly, who is prone to them. “That’s the least of its attributes!” Harris’s voice is rising in pitch. Soon it will reach the ranting near that
scream disturbed some students so much that they dropped his classes. “Lysine cures Lysine
anxiety! heals wounds! The liver is a lysine treasure chest! It also revitalizes the thymus gland, which creates T-cells! And Covid? Covid?” He laughs, and even that is a near scream. “Those who are fortunate enough to eat of
the human liver, most particularly the awakened human
liver, those fortunate ones laugh at Covid, as I and my wife do! Oh, and iron! Human liver is richer in iron
than the livers of calves… sheep… pigs… deer… woodchucks… you name it. There is more in
iron a human liver than in the liver of a blue whale, and a blue whale weighs
one hundred and sixty-five tons! Iron wards off fatigue and improves circulation, in
especially the BRAAIIIN!” Roddy taps his temple, where a node of is
small veins pulsing. Holly thinks, I am speaking to an mad
authentic scientist. Only of course she’s not speaking; she’s
listening. Nor is Rodney Harris lecturing. Not
anymore. He’s hollering at an invisible audience
of unbelievers. “Ounces, MERE OUNCES, of human liver per
contain seven hundred cent of EVERY VITAMIN needed for the creation of red cell formation and at
cell METABOLISM! Look my skin, my good elf, just look at it!” Roddy grasps one hollow wrinkled cheek it
and palpates like a dentist preparing to inject Novocain into a patient’s gum. “Smooth! Smooth as
the fabled BABY’S BOTTOM! And that’s just the LIVER!” He pauses to catch his breath. “As for the consumption of brain tissue—” “All bullshit,” Holly says. It just pops
out. She has no plan, no strategy. She’s just had enough. Thoughts of him
humoring have gone straight out the window. He stares at her, wide-eyed. He has been
speaking to that invisible audience, swaying them, and some callow with but as
undergraduate nothing high school biology a foundation has had the temerity to challenge him. “What? What do you say?” “I call
bullshit,” Holly replies. She’s holding the loosely
crossbars in her right hand, the left fisted above her right breast, her face pressed into one of the squares, staring at him. Her care not to use
vulgarities, learned at her mother’s knee, has also
gone out the window. “This is medicine-show crap, right up and
there with copper bracelets magic crystals. Smooth skin? Have you looked in a mirror
lately, Professor? You’re as wrinkled as an bed.”
unmade “Shut up!” His cheeks are glowing dull
red. That snarl of veins in his temple is
pulsing faster, faster. “Shut up, you… you twerp!” They’re going to kill me, but I’m going a
to tell this man few basic truths before they do. “As for improved brain
function… you’re suffering Alzheimer’s, Professor, and not just early-onset. You
can’t remember my name, and in a few months, maybe only a few
weeks, you won’t be able to remember your own, either.” “Shut up! Shut up! You’re an
ignorant know-nothing!” He takes a step toward her. This is exactly what Holly was hoping for
when she asked him to share one of his horrid brown balls of flesh, but now she barely notices. In her him,
rage—at at his wife, at her current hopeless has
situation—she even forgotten her thirst. “You think you’re better. Your wife she’s
thinks better. Maybe for awhile you even were better. It happens. You’re not the only one who
reads the science magazines. It’s called—” “Stop! It’s a lie! It’s a
FILTHY FUCKING LIE!” He doesn’t want her to say what he knows
might be true, but she intends to. She’ll have to be
quiet when she’s dead, but she’s not dead yet. 14 As Holly is
informing Rodney Harris that he’s not the only one who reads the science magazines, Emily is entering the Frederick Building. She finds the idea of masks ridiculous to
but she’s happy be wearing one now, and Holly’s gimme cap is pulled down so
the visor shades her eyes. She goes to the building directory and
checks it. Finders Keepers is on the fifth floor, along with the offices of Furniture
Imports, Inc., and David & Daughter, Forensic
Accountants. Emily steps into the elevator and pushes
5. When she gets out, she makes sure the is
hall empty and limps down to the door with FINDERS KEEPERS INVESTIGATIVE
AGENCY on it. Since she has Holly’s keys, she’s happy
to find the door locked. It means no receptionist on duty. If there had been, she would have put on
a vague old woman act and said she must have gotten off on the wrong
floor, so sorry. She begins going through keys,
Holly’s trying ones that look like they might fit, hoping no one comes out of Furniture or &
Imports David Daughter to use the loo. The third key fits. She lets herself into
a waiting area. Air conditioning whooshes softly. She the
checks computer on the small desk, hoping it’s only asleep, but no joy. She opens the door to the right and peeps
into what must be the male partner’s office, judging by the framed sports on
pages the wall. The one headlined CLEVELAND WINS WORLD’S
SERIES (bad grammar there, she thinks) is probably real, but not WIN
BROWNS SUPERBOWL! The other office is Gibney’s. She hurries to Holly’s computer and a
pushes random key, hoping to wake it up if it’s asleep. This one is, but it wants a password to
unlock any possible treasures within. She tries several, including HollyGibney,
hollygibney, FindersKeepers, finderskeepers, and None
LaurenBacallFan, password. of them work. She looks on the desk, which is neat, orderly, and bare except for a notepad. On the top sheet are doodles of flowers a
and few jottings. There is the name Imani, which means to
nothing Emily, but Elm Grove Trailer Park does; Emily to
went there clear out enough things from the Craslow bitch’s trailer to make it appear
she was gone. Em doesn’t like that, but what’s printed
below it she likes even less: BellRinger and J. Castro and 2012. How can the bitch have
found out so much? Em tears this sheet off, and the one beneath it for good
measure. She balls them up and puts them in her
pocket. She checks the desk drawers one by one, hoping for a written report. She doesn’t
find one, and admits that even finding one wouldn’t
have eased her mind unless it was written in longhand. Nor does she find a slip of on
paper with Holly’s password written it, and a wave of angry despair rolls through
her. We should have had an exit plan beyond
cyanide pills, she thinks. Why didn’t we? The answer
seems obvious: because they’re old, and old people can’t run very far or very
fast. Maybe there’s no report. Maybe the stupid
woman was too unsure of her conclusions to write one or tell anyone. Emily decides it’s
the best she can hope for. She’ll go home. Roddy will shoot the as
Gibney bitch he did the Craslow bitch. They’ll run her through the Morbark, pulverizing her bones and liquifying the
rest of her, including her nicotine-poisoned liver. in
Then out into the lake the Marie Cather, where they’ll stop above the deepest part
and drop the remains of Holly Gibney over the side in a plastic disposal bag. After that they will continue hoping for
the best. What else is there? Suicide, of course, but Emily still hopes it won’t come to
that. She finds the wall safe, predictably a of
hidden behind picture a mountain meadow. She tries the handle, expecting nothing, and nothing is what she gets. She gives the combo a disgusted spin, rehangs the picture, and turns off the
computer. She decides the notepad is a little out
of place, so she squares it up. Then she retreats
the way she came, wiping everything she touched, starting
with the computer keyboard. She finishes with the knob of the office
door, after putting on her mask and peering the
through spyhole to make sure the coast is clear. She is halfway down the hall she
before remembers she forgot to re-lock the door. She goes back and does it, once more taking care to wipe away her
fingerprints. In the elevator she pulls the brim of the
gimme cap down. She encounters only one person in the and
lobby with her head lowered sees only jeans and sneakers as Barbara Robinson passes
her on her way to the elevator. It’s time to go home and tie up at least
one troublesome loose end. As she pushes open the door to the street, a particularly vicious bolt of pain the
strikes small of her back. Emily stands on the sidewalk, grimacing, waiting for it to let up. It does, at least a little, and she thanks God (who of course doesn’t
exist) for the Elf Parfait she ate before leaving the house. She crosses Frederick
Street to her car, limping more severely than ever. The that
phrase Holly is screaming at her husband at that very moment comes into her mind and she
rejects it. 15 “IT’S CALLED THE PLACEBO EFFECT, you half brain-dead idi—” He rushes at
her, screaming at her to shut up, the placebo effect doesn’t exist, it’s of
nothing but the manipulation statistics by a cadre of lazy, pseudoscientific— She grabs him the
second he comes within reach. Again, there’s no thought, not even a of
shred advance planning; she simply shoots her right arm through the bars and curls it around
his neck. It hurts her bruised ribs, but in her she
adrenaline-fired state barely notices. He tries to jerk free and almost makes it. Holly redoubles her grip and yanks him
against the bars. His bathrobe is sliding off, revealing
his ridiculous firetruck pajamas. “Let me go!” Choking, almost gurgling the
words. “Let me go!” Holly remembers what she has
in her left hand. What she’s been squeezing so tightly it’s
cut into her palm. It’s a triangular earring, the mate of in
the one she found the weeds next to the abandoned auto body shop. She shoves
that hand through the bars and, holding the earring tightly between her
thumb and forefinger, runs one of its three golden points in a
across Harris’s scrawny throat semicircle from one jaw to the other. She expects nothing, just does it. For most of that ten-inch
semicircle, the point barely cuts the skin; a paper
cut might go deeper and draw more blood. Then it catches on a bulging tendon and
digs deeper. Roddy helps by jerking his head to the
side, trying to get clear of whatever she’s him
cutting with. The earring slices through his jugular of
vein and Holly takes first one faceful warm blood and then another as his heart pumps it at
her. It’s in her eyes and it burns. Roddy gives a convulsive jerk and breaks
her grip. He staggers toward the stairs with the of
back his bathrobe hanging almost to his waist and the rest of it dragging on the floor. He puts his hand to his neck. Blood jets through his fingers. He into
blunders the broom that’s propped there and stumbles over it. His head hits the stair-rail and he
goes to his knees. The spurts of blood continue, but they’re
starting to weaken. He uses the rail to gain his feet and to
turns her. His eyes are wide. He reaches out and a
makes guttural sound that could be anything, but Holly thinks it might be his wife’s
name. The bathrobe slips all the way off. It makes her think of a snake shedding
its skin. He takes two steps toward her, waving his arms, then goes down on his
face. The front of his skull thuds on the
concrete. His fingers twitch. He tries to raise his
head and can’t. Blood trickles across the concrete. Holly
is frozen with shock and amazement. Her arms are still sticking out through
two of the squares made by the crisscrossing bars. The earring is still in her left hand, which is now wearing a wet red glove. At first the only thought in her mind is
Lady Macbeth’s question: who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him? one
Then another surfaces: Where is his wife? She takes one step backward, then two, then trips over her own foot on
and sits down hard the futon. She cries out in the pain of her bruised
and outraged ribs. The earring drops from her hand. She waits for Emily. 16 Barbara barely at
glances the woman who passes her in the lobby of the Frederick Building. She’s of
thinking Deduction, Please, a series of children’s detective
books that Jerome read as a kid and then passed on to her. She doesn’t know if her and
J’s fascination with Holly’s chosen field (his especially) originated in those books, it
but might have. There were thirty or forty mysteries in
each Deduction, Please, each only two or three pages long. They featured a sleuth with the unlikely
name of Dutch Spyglass. Dutch would come to the scene of the
crime, observe, talk to a few people, and then solve the mystery (usually
robbery, sometimes arson or a clonk on the head, never murder). Dutch always concluded the
same way: “All the clues are there! The solution is in your grasp! Deduction, please?” Jerome
was able to solve the cases some of the time, Barbara almost never… although when she
turned to the back of the book and read the case summary, it always seemed obvious. As she goes up in the elevator, she thinks the disappearances Holly has
been investigating are like those mini-mysteries she puzzled over when she was nine or ten. Nastier, more sinister, but essentially the same. All the clues are there, the solution is
in your grasp. Barbara almost thinks that’s true. She to
wishes she could turn the back of the book and read the solution, but there is no
book. Only her missing friend. She goes down to
the hall and opens the door Finders Keepers with her key. “Holly?” No answer, but Barbara has the queerest sensation is
that either someone here or has been not long ago. It’s not a smell, just a feeling the
that air has been disturbed recently. “Anyone?” Nothing. She takes a quick look
into Pete’s office. She even checks the coat closet. Then she goes to the door of Holly’s
office. She pauses there for a moment, her hand on the knob, afraid she’s going
to find Holly dead in her chair, eyes open and glazed. She forces herself
to open the door, telling herself she won’t see Holly but
if she does she mustn’t scream. Holly’s not there, but Barbara’s sense of
a recent presence doesn’t go away. She looks at Holly’s desk and sees but a
nothing blank pad, the one she uses when she’s doodling, taking notes, or both. It’s neatly
centered, and that’s Holly all the way. Barbara pushes a key on the computer’s
keypad and frowns when nothing happens. Holly almost never turns her computer off, just lets it go to sleep. She says she hates even a short wait it
while boots up. Barbara turns it on and when the starter
screen appears, she uses the notebook app on her phone to
find the password that opens all the office computers: Qxtt4#%ck. She types it
in. Nothing happens except for the quick that
annoying shake means the Mac has rejected the password. She tries again in case she’s entered it
wrong. Same result. She frowns, then barks a as
small exasperated laugh she gets it. The password changes automatically every
six months, a security feature that means Qxtt4#%ck
became obsolete on July first. Holly has neglected to give her the new
one, and Barbara—busy with her own affairs—has
forgotten to ask. Jerome may have it, but she’s guessing he
doesn’t. He’s also been busy with his own affairs. Deduction, please? Barbara has none. She
gets up, starts to leave, then, almost on a whim, takes down the Turner landscape print on
the wall. The company safe is behind it. And although it’s shut and locked, Barbara sees something that adds to her
disquiet. When Holly uses the safe, she always the
resets combination dial to zero. It’s one of her little compulsions. Pete wouldn’t bother if he used the safe, but Pete’s been out almost all month. She tries the handle. Locked. She doesn’t
know the combination, so she can’t check to see if anything has
been taken. What she can do is reset the dial to zero, put back the painting, and call her
brother. 17 Emily parks in the driveway and gets a
out of the Subaru little too fast. Another bolt of pain goes through her
back. It’s becoming harder and harder to back
believe they’re holding the tide of senescence, a thing they’ve taken as an article of on
faith since dining Jorge Castro. Not faith, she insists. Science. The is
science there. These are just nerve spasms brought on by
tension. They’ll pass, and once they do I’ll my
continue recovery. She goes up the front steps, palms pressed into the lumbar area at the
base of her spine. Roddy is no longer on the porch; nothing
there but a half-empty coffee cup and his notebook. She looks down at it and is to
distressed see his formerly neat handwriting has begun to sprawl and shake. Nor has he to
kept the notebook’s blue lines. His sentences go up and down as if he’d
written them on the Marie Cather in a heavy swell. She expects to find him in
the living room or in the downstairs office, but he’s in neither, and when she
goes into the kitchen she sees the basement door is standing open. Emily feels a in
sinking the pit of her stomach. She goes to the door. “Roddy?” It’s the woman who answers. The wretched
snooping woman. “He’s down here, Professor, and I think
he’s given his last lecture.” 18 Jerome tells Barbara he won’t be home
flying after all. There was a flight scheduled at 12:40 PM, but when he called to book a seat, he was told it has been canceled because
of Covid. The pilot and three members of the cabin
crew had tested positive. “I’m going to try and rent a car. It’s just shy of five hundred miles. I can be home by midnight. Earlier, if the traffic isn’t too bad.” “Are you sure you’re old enough to rent
one?” She hopes he is. She wants him with her, wants him bad. “As of my birthday two
months ago, I am. I can even get a discount with my
Authors Guild card. Crazy, huh?” “You want to know what’s I
crazy? think someone’s been in the office. I’m here now.” She tells him about how to
she had turn the computer on instead of just waking it up with a keystroke, and how the combination dial was set in
the 70s instead of at zero. “Do you have her password? The one that
kicked in at the start of the month?” “Gee, no. Haven’t been there at all. My book, you know.” Barbara knows. “She might have turned her computer off, I’ve told her they suck power even when
they’re asleep, but forgetting to set the combo dial to
zero? You know Holly.” “But why would anyone go there?” Jerome asks, then answers his own
question. “Maybe someone’s worried about what she’s
been finding out. Wants to know if she’s written a report, or talked to her client. Barb, you have to phone the Dahl woman. Tell her to be careful.” “I don’t know
her num…” Barbara thinks of the message Penny Dahl
left. Her number will be in Barbara’s contacts. “Never mind, yes I do. I’m more worried I
about Holly than am about Bonnie Dahl’s mother.” “Right there with you, sis. What about the police? Isabelle Jaynes?” “What am I supposed to say? That she her
parked car in the wrong space with a tire on the yellow line and forgot to
turn the wall safe dial back to zero so call out the National Guard?” “Yeah. Yeah, I see your point. But Izzy’s sort of a friend. Do you want me to call her?” “No, I’ll do it. But before I do, tell me everything you know about the
case.” “I already—” “You did, but I was wrapped
up in my own shit, so tell me again. Because I feel like I
almost know. I just can’t… I’m so upset… just go it
through again. Please.” So he does. 19 Emily comes down
halfway the stairs and stops when she sees her husband lying facedown in a spreading
pool of blood. “What happened?” she screams. “What
happened?” “I cut his throat,” Holly says. She’s standing against the cement wall at
the far side of the cell, next to the potty. She feels remarkably
calm. “Would you like to hear a joke I made up?” Emily bolts down the final six or eight
risers. A mistake. She trips on the last one and
loses her balance. She puts out her hands to break her fall, and Holly hears the snap as a bone in her
left arm—old and brittle—fractures. This time it’s a shriek instead of a
scream, not of horror but of pain. She crawls to Roddy and turns his head. The blood from his cut throat has begun
to coagulate, and there’s a sticky ripping sound as his
cheek pulls free of it. “A new millionaire walks into a bar and a
orders mai-tai…” “What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO TO
RODDY?” “Weren’t you listening? Cut his fracking
throat.” Holly bends and picks up the golden
earring. “With this. It was Bonnie’s. If there was
ever a case of revenge from beyond the grave, I’d say this is it.” Emily gets up… too fast. Not a scream or
a shriek this time, but a howl of agony as her back goes
nuclear. And her left arm is hanging crookedly. Broke at the elbow, Holly thinks. Good. “Oh my God! Oh my dear God! HOW IT
HURTS!” “I only wish you’d split your crazy evil
skull,” Holly tells her. She raises the earring. It glitters under the fluorescents. “Come
over here, Professor. Let me put you out of your
misery, which looks to be considerable. Maybe not
it’s too late to catch up with your husband on his way to hell.” Emily is bent over, haglike. Her hair, which she put up in a
neat bun that morning, is coming loose and hanging around her
face. Holly thinks it adds to her overall vibe.
witchy-woman She wonders if the calm she feels means
she’s lost her mind. She thinks not, because she’s perfectly
clear on one thing: if Emily Harris can get back up to the first floor—and then back is to
down—Holly going die. At least I got one of them, she thinks, and then flashes on Bogie
saying We’ll always have Paris. Emily takes shuffling baby steps to the
stairs. She grasps the rail. She looks back once, not at Holly but at her husband, lying dead on the floor. Then—very slowly, pulling herself along—she begins to climb. She’s breathing in harsh gasps. Holly
calls after her. “A new millionaire walks into a bar and a
orders mai-tai. Fall and break your neck, you bitch, fall!” But Emily doesn’t. 20 Barbara may
thinks there be a solution to the mystery of Holly’s disappearance in the back of the
book after all. If, that is, you think of Penny Dahl as
the back of the book. There’s a MISSING WOMAN flier on a pole
streetlight next to the Frederick Building’s parking lot. It’s been faded by three weeks of weather
and part of it is flapping in the hot late-morning breeze, but Barbara can
still see the girl’s smiling face. Dead, she thinks. That girl is dead. Please God, Holly’s not dead, too. She calls Penny Dahl’s number. As the
phone rings, she looks at the picture of the smiling
blond woman on the poster. Not much older than Barbara herself. Be there, Mrs. Dahl. Answer your damn
phone. Penny does, sounding breathless. “Hello?”
“This is Barbara Robinson, Mrs. Dahl.” “Did you get my message? Have
you found her? Is she all right?” Barbara doesn’t know if she’s talking or
about Bonnie Holly. In either case, the answer is the same. “Still missing. I know you and Holly were
supposed to talk last night. Did she send you a report instead? Have
you checked your email?” “I did, and there was nothing.” “Would you check again?” Penny Dahl tells
her to hold on. Barbara stands looking at the picture of
this woman’s missing daughter as she does. Blond all-American cheerleader type,
every white boy’s dream. She waits, with sweat rolling down her
cheeks. She keeps remembering the combination
dial. Sorry, wrong number, she thinks. Penny
comes back. “No. Nothing.” So if there’s a report, it’s probably locked inside the Finders
Keepers computer system. Barbara thanks Penny and calls Pete
Huntley. He answers himself, having hectored his
daughter into giving up custody of his phone. “Pete, it’s Barbara, and before you ask, she’s still gone.” She tells him about at
the un-Hollylike parking job the apartment building and the combination dial oddity. Then she the
asks big question: does he have the company computers’ password, which was automatically reset a
on July first? She has to wait through coughing fit before he can answer. “Hell, no. Holly takes care of all that stuff.” “Are you sure she didn’t give it to you?” “Yes. I would have written it down if she
did. And before you ask, I don’t have the to
combo the safe, either. She gave it to me a few months
back, and that I did write down, but I lost the paper I wrote it on. I never use it, anyway. Sorry, kiddo.” Barbara is disappointed but not
surprised. She thanks him, ends the call, and stands staring at the smiling blond
on the MISSING poster. The heat has mastered her antiperspirant
and sweat is now trickling down from her armpits. She doubts if there’s a hard copy in the
safe, anyway. Holly is particular about keeping
it all in “the box”—which is what she calls her computer—until she’s sure the case is
over. She hates having to reprint after making
changes or additions; it’s another of her tics. If she did write a report and filed it to
the cloud, it’s going to stay there until an IT with
guy—one high-powered skills—can open the Finders Keepers computers, and by then it may be too late. Will probably be too late. Jerome said
she should call Isabelle Jaynes and Barbara said she would, but to what purpose? Holly has for
been missing less than twenty-four hours. There’s no blood or sign of a struggle in
her apartment or her office. She can’t even ask Izzy to put out a BOLO
alert on Holly’s car, because it’s in Holly’s apartment garage.
building Just parked in the wrong space, and people do that all the time. Not Holly. She wouldn’t. Barbara decides
to go home. Her parents won’t be there, and she want
doesn’t to upset them with this at work. What she wants is Jerome, and when she to
gets the house, she calls him. The message she gets says
he can’t answer because he’s driving. Barbara tells herself that’s good, but it
doesn’t feel good. Nothing does. 21 Maybe she’ll collapse
upstairs, Holly thinks. Broken arm, bad back… it
could happen. But she doesn’t believe it will. She waits, and just as she’s beginning to
hope, a shoe appears. Then another. Then the of
hem the crazy lady’s skirt. She comes down slowly, one step at a time, panting and holding tightly to the with
stair-rail her right hand. Her left dangles. Her face is so pale it
could be the face of a corpse. Tucked into the waistband of her skirt is
a gun. Although Holly can only see the butt, she’d know that gun anywhere. Emily to
intends kill her with Bill Hodges’s .38. “You bitch,” Emily rasps. She has reached
the foot of the stairs. “Your snooping has ruined everything.” I
“It was ruined long before came on the scene.” Holly backs up slowly until she can back
no more. She even raises her hands, much good that
will do. “It was the placebo effect all along, Emily. Expectation aids body chemistry. a
I’m little bit of a hypochondriac, so I know. And I’ve seen the numbers. Scientists have known about the placebo
effect for years. I’m sure that in his heart, your husband did, as well.” If Holly to
hoped provoke the sort of rage that caused this woman’s husband to act so rashly, she’s disappointed. If she hoped Emily in
might shoot herself the stomach while taking the .38 out of her waistband, she’s similarly
disappointed. In truth, Holly isn’t aware of feeling at
anything all, but her senses are sharply—almost
supernaturally—attuned. She sees everything, hears everything, to
right down the slight rattle in Emily Harris’s throat as she draws each quick breath. Holly if
wonders everyone, at least those who see death coming for
them, experiences this divinely sharp focus, to
the brain’s last attempt take in everything before everything is taken away. Emily is looking down at her
husband. “Alas, poor Roddy,” she says. “I knew him
well.” “Listen to you,” Holly says, her back to
the wall, her hands splayed against the concrete. “A cannibal quoting Shakespeare. That a
deserves place in the Guinness Book of—” “Shut up. Shut up!” Holly has no of up.
intention shutting She has been a meek mouse too much of her
life. Her mother: Speak when spoken to. Uncle Henry: Children should be seen and
not heard. Well, frack them. No, fuck them. In a matter of seconds this woman is to
going shut her up forever, but as with Roddy, she means to have her
say first. “I’ve been trying to tell you a joke I
made up. A new millionaire walks into a bar, and—” “Shut up!” Emily raises the gun and
fires. Although it’s a revolver of relatively
small caliber, the report is deafening in the basement. A spark jumps from one of the home-welded
bars (Roddy found a video on YouTube and followed it with excellent results). sees
Holly a chip fly upward from the cement wall above the blue plastic potty. She thinks, I didn’t even have time to duck. “—and asks for a mai—” “Shut up!” Holly slides along the wall to the left
just as Emily fires again. There’s no spark this time; the slug goes
through one of the squares and makes a penny-sized hole in the concrete where a
Holly was standing second before. The gun wavers in Emily’s hand and Holly
thinks, She’s a lefty, and that’s the arm she
broke. She’s shooting with her dumb hand. “And asks for a mai-tai. Are you with me
so far? This is pretty good, at least I think so. The bartender goes a
to make it and the woman hears voice say ‘Congratulations, Holly! You ”
deserve—’ Emily starts forward, wanting to get
close, but catches a foot in Roddy’s bathrobe
and falls again. One knee comes down on the late butt.
professor’s The other knee lands on the concrete. Her body twists at the waist, she cries out in pain, and the gun goes
off. This bullet goes into the back of Roddy’s
head. Not that he feels it. Stay down, Holly thinks. Stay down. STAY DOWN! But
Emily rises, although the pain makes her scream and to
she can’t manage get fully upright. Holly doesn’t think she looks like a now
witch anymore; she looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Her eyes are bulging. There are white curds at the corners of
her mouth and Holly doesn’t want to consider what the woman may have eaten, telling herself she needed the strength, before coming back down to end Holly with
her mentor’s gun. Which she now raises. “Come on,” Holly says. “Show me what you can do.” She slides to the left along the wall, ducking at the same time, feeling as as
fragile one of her mother’s china figurines. This time she’s a little late and Emily a
is little lucky. Holly feels a burning streak across her
right arm above the elbow. Holly also knows her Shakespeare and of a
thinks Hamlet: hit, a very palpable hit. But only a graze. It doesn’t hurt much, at least not yet. “So this voice says ‘Congratulations, You
Holly! deserve every fracking cent of that money.’ But when she looks around, no one is there. Then she hears a voice on the other side
say—” “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” Just before Emily fires again, Holly to
drops her knees. She hears the hzzzz of the bullet passing
just over her head, close enough to part her hair. For all she knows it did part her hair. “Sorry, Professor,” Holly says, getting
up. “Pistols are only good at close range.” She can feel blood soaking the sleeve of
her shirt. It’s warm, and warmth is good. Warmth is life. “And you’re shooting with
the wrong hand, too. Let’s end this. I’ll make it easy
for you. Just let me finish my joke.” She walks to the front of the cell and of
pushes her face into one the squares. Bars press against her cheeks
and the bars are cold. “So this other voice says, ‘You’re pretty
looking especially tonight, Holly.’ But when she looks, still no one
there! The bartender comes back with the drink, and—” Emily lurches forward. She presses
the short barrel of Bill’s pistol against Holly’s forehead and pulls the trigger. There’s a dry click as
the hammer falls on the chamber Holly has left empty, as Bill taught her… because
revolvers, unlike the Glock that was his service
weapon, have no safeties. There is just long for
enough Emily to register surprise before Holly shoots her hands through the bars, seizes head,
Emily’s and twists it to the left with all her
strength. Holly heard a snap when the old woman’s
arm broke. What she hears this time is a muffled
crack. Emily’s knees buckle. Her head slides out
of Holly’s grip as she goes down, leaving Holly with nothing but a few gray
hairs in her left hand. They feel nasty, like cobwebs, and she on
wipes them away her shirt. She hears herself breathing in great
gasps, and the world tries to swim away from her. She can’t let that happen, so she slaps
herself across the face. Blood flies from her wounded arm. Droplets spatter on the bars of the cage. Emily has ended up in a kind of squat, legs beneath her but twisted in opposite
directions from the knees down, her face resting against the cage. One of the bars has pulled her nose up a
into pig’s snout. Like her legs, her open eyes appear to be
staring in different directions. Holly drops to her knees, raises the
feeding-flap, and gets the gun. It’s empty but can be
still useful. If Emily is still alive (Holly doubts it), if she moves at all, Holly intends to her
beat fracking head in. There is no movement. Holly counts aloud
to sixty. Still on her knees, she reaches through
one of the lower squares and presses her fingers into the side of Emily’s neck. The boneless way the woman’s head rolls
over onto her shoulder tells Holly all she needs to know (what she knew already), but she keeps her fingers there for sixty
another count. She feels nothing. Not even a few final a
erratic beats of dying heart. Holly gets up, still breathing in those
great gasps, but she can’t keep her feet. She sits down heavily on the futon. She’s alive. She can’t believe it. She does believe it. The pain in her ribs
convinces her. The burn in her arm convinces her. And her thirst convinces her. She feels
that she could drink all five of the Great Lakes dry. They are both dead. She cut the throat of one, broke the neck of the other. And here she sits in a cage no one knows
about. Someone will come eventually, but how And
long before that happens? how long can a human being go without water? She doesn’t know. She can’t even remember the last time she
had a drink. She slides up the sleeve of her shirt, hissing with pain as the cloth passes the
over wound. She sees it was a little more than a
graze, after all. The skin is split two inches
above her right elbow, and she can look into the meat of her arm. The bone isn’t visible, and she supposes
that’s good, but the wound is bleeding freely. She knows blood-loss will also contribute
to her thirst, which is raging now and will soon be… She
what? What’s beyond raging? can’t think of the word any more than she can think of a
how many days person can go without water. I killed them both from
inside this cage. That should go in the Guinness Book of
World Records. Holly works her way out of her shirt. It’s a slow operation, and painful, but she finally manages. She ties it the
around gunshot wound—another slow operation—and knots it with her teeth. Then she leans back against to
the concrete wall and begins wait. “A new millionaire walks into a bar,” she croaks, “and orders a mai-tai. While the bartender is making it, she hears someone say, ‘You deserve that
money, Holly. Every fracking cent.’ She looks
and there’s nobody there. Then she hears a voice on her other side
say, ‘You killed them both from inside the
cage, you’re in the Guinness Book of World
Records, way to go, you’re a star.’ ” Has Emily moved? Surely not. Surely her
imagination. Holly knows she should shut up, talking will only make her thirstier, but she needs to finish the fracking joke, even if her only audience is a couple of
dead old people. “The bartender comes back and she says, ‘I keep hearing voices saying these nice
things, what’s up with that?’ And the bartender
says… he says…” She passes out. 22 While Holly is losing
consciousness (and just before the punchline, too), Barbara is at home, in the office
that’s now Jerome’s. She’s looking at the MapQuest printout on
with the red dots it marking the various disappearances. Which now includes the one she herself to
made mark Jorge Castro, who went missing in the fall of 2012. Barbara put that dot on Ridge Road across
from Olivia’s house. Did I tell you I saw him shortly before
he disappeared? Olivia said that. Running. He always ran at night, to the park and back again. Even in the rain, and it was raining that
night. And something else: I certainly never saw
him again. Barbara traces a route from the Bell down
campus Ridge Road to the park. To the playground in the park. What if it was there? There’s a parking
lot, and if there was a van, like the one in the security footage of
Bonnie in the store… Something nibbles at her. Something about the van? About Ridge She
Road? Both? doesn’t know, although she’s sure Dutch Spyglass would. Her phone rings. It’s Jerome. He asks her
for an update. She tells him about the calls she made
and the one she hasn’t made, to Izzy Jaynes. He tells her she was to
probably right skip that one. He says he’s making good time, already in New Jersey, but he doesn’t to
want exceed the speed limit by more than five miles an hour. Barbara doesn’t have
to ask him why; he’s driving while Black. He doesn’t even want to risk talking on
his cell while on the road. He pulled into a rest area to call her, and he wants to get going again. Before he can end the call, Barbara blurts out her worst fear. “What if she’s dead, J?” There’s a pause. She can hear turnpike traffic. Then he
says, “She’s not. I’d feel it if she was. Gotta go, Ba. I’ll be home by eleven.” “I’m going to lie down,” Barbara says. “Maybe something will come to me. I feel like I know more than I think I
know. Did you ever have that feeling?” “Quite often.” Barbara goes into her room
and stretches out on her bed. She doesn’t expect to sleep, but maybe
she can clear her mind. She closes her eyes. She thinks about and
Olivia Olivia’s many stories. She remembers asking the old poet about
the famous picture of her and Bogart in front of the Trevi Fountain. In particular her
about wide-eyed, almost startled smile. Olivia saying, If
I looked startled it’s because he had his hand on my ass. Barbara falls asleep. 23 Holly is
in the sunroom of Rolling Hills Elder Care. It’s empty except for her mother and her
uncle. They are sitting at one of the tables, watching a bowling match on the and tall
big-screen television drinking glasses of iced tea. “Can I have some?” Holly croaks. “I’m thirsty.” They look around. They her
salute with those tall glasses and drink. There are lemon wedges stuck in the rims
of the glasses, which are beaded with condensation. Holly
thinks of how much she would like to stick out her tongue to lick those little drops of
condensate from the sides of their glasses. She’d lick them all the way to the top, suck the lemon wedges, then drain them
both. “You couldn’t handle that much money,” Uncle Henry says, and sips. “We did it
for your own good.” “You’re fragile,” Charlotte says, and her
takes own sip. So delicate! How can she not just guzzle?
Holly would guzzle both glasses, if only they would give them to her. Charlotte holds hers out to Holly. “You can have it.” Uncle Henry holds his
out. “You can have this one, too.” And together, chanting like children: “As
soon as you agree to stop all this dangerous foolishness and come home.” Holly claws her way out
of this dream. Reality is the cage in the Harris
basement. Her ribs still hurt and the wound in her
arm feels like somebody drenched it with lighter fluid and set it on fire, but those pains are subservient to her
thirst, which is unrelenting. At least the gash
from the bullet seems to have stopped bleeding; what’s on her makeshift bandage is brown instead
of red. She thinks pulling the shirt off the is a
wound going to hurt great deal, but that’s nothing she has to worry about
now. She gets to her feet and goes to the bars. The body of Rodney Harris lies near the
stairs. Emily has fallen out of her final crouch
slumped-over and lies on her side. She must have left the door to the open
kitchen because flies have gathered, sampling Roddy’s spilled blood. There’s
plenty to sample. Holly thinks, I would sell my soul for a
glass of beer… and I don’t even like beer. She thinks of how her dream
ended, that childlike chant: As soon as you to
agree stop all this dangerous foolishness and come home. She assures herself that someone
will come. Someone has to come. The question is what
kind of shape she’ll be in when that happens. Or if she’ll be alive at all. Yet even now, hurting all over, with two bodies outside the cage in which
she is locked, raging with thirst… “I regret nothing,” she croaks. “Nothing.” Well, one thing. Hiding behind the chainsaws was a big
mistake. Holly thinks, I need to learn to trust
myself more. Will have to work on that. 24 Barbara is also dreaming. She bursts
into the living room of Olivia Kingsbury’s house on Ridge Road to find Olivia in her chair,
accustomed reading a book—it’s Adrienne Rich’s into
Diving the Wreck—and eating a small sandwich. There’s a cup of steaming tea on the her.
table beside “I thought you were dead!” Barbara cries. “They told me you were dead!” “Nonsense,” Olivia says, putting her book
down. “I fully intend to celebrate my hundredth. Did I tell you about the time Jorge spoke
Castro up at the meeting to decide the fate of the Poetry Workshop? Emily of
never lost that smile hers, but her eyes—” Barbara’s cell phone and
trills the dream falls apart. It was wonderful while it lasted because
in it Olivia was alive, but a dream was all it was. She grabs her phone and sees her mother’s
smiling photo on the screen. She also sees the time: 4:03 PM. Jerome must be in Pennsylvania by now. “Hey…” She has to clear her throat. “Hey, Mom.” “Were you napping?” “I just
meant to lie down, but I guess I fell asleep. I dreamed Olivia was still alive.” “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I had dreams
like that after your Gramma Annie died. I was always sorry to wake up.” “Yeah. Like that.” Barbara scruffs a hand
through her hair and thinks about what dream-Olivia was saying when the phone woke her. Like her passing thought about the van in
the security footage, it seems it might be important. Dutch would know, she thinks. Dutch would
have this shit all figured out. “—Holly?” “What?” “I asked if you’ve yet.
located Holly Or if she’s been back in touch.” “No, huh-uh, not yet.” She still has no
intention of telling Tanya about her fears. Maybe after J gets back, but not until. “She’s probably upstate, taking care of
her mother’s affairs.” Tanya lowers her voice. “I’d never say it
to Holly, but Charlotte Gibney didn’t die of Covid, she died of stupidity.” Barbara has to at
smile that. “I think Holly knows, Mom.” “I called to
tell you I’m meeting your dad for dinner. At a fancy-schmancy restaurant.” “Nice!”
Barbara says. “Which one?” Tanya tells her, but Barbara
hardly hears. She feels like a stroke of lightning has
gone off in her head. Which one? “—the actual date.” “Okay, right.” Tanya laughs. “Did you even hear
me? I said it’s an early anniversary dinner because he has to be away on the actual date. There’s money for takeout if you want it, just check the kitchen draw—” “Have a
good time, Mom. I have to go. Love you.” “Love you, t—” But Barbara ends the call
and scrolls back through her texts to and from Holly. Here it is: Which one? asked
Barbara that because she knew two of the men in the picture Holly sent her. One was Cary Dressler, the dishy young in
guy all the girls her PE class were crushing on. The other was Professor
Harris. She saw him washing his car when she went
to Emily Harris, hoping for an introduction to Olivia
Kingsbury. On that warm winter day both of the bays
Harris garage were open, and in the other one there had been a van. Had he seen her looking at it, and made haste to close the garage door?
To hide it? Bullshit. You’re making that up. Maybe, but now she
knows what Olivia was about to say when her mother’s call woke her up. She knows because Olivia actually said of
it: Emily never lost that smile hers, but her eyes… her eyes looked like she to
wanted kill him. Jorge Castro, the first of the
disappearances. “You’re crazy,” Barbara whispers to
herself. “Just because he knew Cary Dressler… and
she knew Castro… and didn’t like him…” Did I tell you I saw him shortly before
he disappeared? “You’re crazy,” Barbara repeats. “They’re old.” But…
Bonnie Dahl. The last of the disappearances. Could it
be…? She hurries into Jerome’s office, powers up his computer, and googles what
she wants. Then she calls Marie Duchamp. “Do you the
remember time Olivia told us about the Harrises’ Christmas party? How they sent Santas to
around hand out snacks and beer?” “Oh yes,” Marie says, and laughs. “Only they were supposed to be Santa’s
elves. Olivia thought it was a perfect example
of Emily Harris—she meant to keep her Christmas party streak alive, come hell, high water, or Covid. We ate the snacks, drank the beer—Livvie had two cans, against my strong advice—but skipped the
Zoom.” “She said a blond girl delivered to your
place. A pretty blond Santa.” “Right…” Marie
sounds disappointingly vague. “Would you recognize her if I sent you a
picture?” “They were Santa outfits, Barb, complete
with snowy white fake beards.” “Oh.” Barbara deflates. “Fuck. Well,
thanks anyw—” “No, wait a second. Our elf was cold from
riding her bike, so Olivia gave her a teensy knock of
booze. I remember because Olivia said, ‘You can
have the whiskey if you take off your whiskers.’ And she did. Pretty girl. Looked like she
was having fun. I guess I might recognize her, at that.” “Let me send you the picture. Stay on the line.” Bonnie’s Facebook and
Instagram pages are very much alive, thanks to her mother, and Barbara sends
Marie the picture of Bonnie on her bike, wearing a strappy top and white shorts. “Did you get it?” It can’t be her. It just can’t be. “Yes, and that’s her. That was our Christmas elf. Why?” “Thanks, Marie.” Barbara hangs up, numb.
feeling Professor Harris knowing Cary might mean
nothing, and Emily Harris knowing and not liking
Jorge Castro also might mean nothing. But Bonnie makes three. And if you add in
the van… She almost calls Jerome, then stops. He’ll want to speed up, then he might get pulled over. Like every Black person in the city, Barbara is very aware of what happened to
Maleek Dutton when he got pulled over. What to do? The answer seems obvious—go
to 93 Ridge Road and see if Holly’s there. If not, find out if they know where she
is. Maybe the Harrises don’t have anything to
do with the disappearances, Barbara can’t think of any reason why
they would, old people aren’t serial killers, but of
she’s sure one thing: Holly knew what Barbara knows, and she would have gone there. Barbara isn’t afraid of Roddy and Emily, but there may be someone else involved. Which means taking precautions. She goes
to her closet, stands on tiptoe, and moves aside Oingo
and Boingo, stuffed bears that used to reside on her
bed. She no longer needs them beside her at to
night keep her safe from the boogeymonster, but she can’t get rid of them. They are treasured relics. Behind them is
a Nike shoebox. She takes it down and opens it. She couldn’t ask Holly for a gun after of
the affair Chet Ondowsky, she would have refused and suggested
counseling, so she asked Pete instead, after swearing
him to secrecy. He gave her a purse-sized .22 automatic
with no argument, and when she offered to pay him for it, he shook his head. “Just don’t shoot with
yourself it, Cookie, and don’t shoot anyone else.” He thought that over and added, “Unless they deserve it.” Barbara doesn’t
expect to shoot anyone this afternoon, but threatening isn’t out of the question. She needs to know where Holly is. If the Harrises deny knowledge, and she
thinks they’re lying… yes, threatening might be in order. Even if it
means jail time. Barbara thinks, I wouldn’t be the first
poet to go to jail. On the way out she snags an Indians cap
from the basket by the front door, puts it on, and stops dead in her tracks. She thinks of Holly’s computer being off
instead of asleep. She thinks of the combination lock not to
set zero. And then she remembers a woman she passed
in the lobby of the Frederick Building, going out as Barbara was going in. The woman was limping, she remembers that. And wearing a billed cap similar to the
one Barbara has just put on. The woman’s head was lowered, allowing to
Barbara read what was on the front of it: Columbus Clippers. She doesn’t know if
that woman was Emily Harris, but Barbara knows Holly also had a hat.
Clippers There are plenty of people in the city
wearing Indians lids, and plenty of people wearing Cardinals
lids, and quite a few wearing Royals lids. But Clippers hats? Not many. Was that
woman, who might or might not have been Emily
Harris, on the fifth floor? Did she perhaps have
Holly’s keys as well as her hat? Did she turn off the computer after powering
it up? Spin the safe’s combination dial? Unlikely, but… But. It gnaws at Barbara enough for
her to decide she doesn’t want either of the Harrises to see her coming until at
she’s their door and ready to hit them with her question: Where is she? Where’s
Holly? 25 She rides her ten-speed to Ridge Road and chains it to the bike rack in the lot
parking adjacent to the park playground. She checks her watch and sees it’s ten
past five. Barbara walks up the hill past Olivia’s
house. She has always liked Holly’s no-nonsense, unsexy cargo pants, so ordered a pair for
herself. She’s wearing them now. The .22 is in one
of the flap pockets, her phone in the other. She decides a be
reconnaissance pass wouldn’t a bad idea. She tugs down the brim of her cap, lowers her head, and strolls slowly past
93, as if on her way to the college at the of
top the hill. She shoots a quick glance to her left and
sees something odd: the Harrises’ front door is standing ajar. No one is on the porch, but there’s a table with a large travel
mug on it. Even a quick glance is enough for Barbara
to recognize the Starbucks logo. She goes as far as 109, then turns and walks back. This time when
she lowers her head she spots something in the gutter that she knows well. It’s a nitrile glove covered with various
emojis. She should know it; she gave a box of to
those gloves Holly herself, as a joke present. Barbara calls Pete
Huntley, praying that he will answer. He does. “Hey, Cookie, did you locate her ye—” “Listen to me, Pete, okay? This is and to
probably nothing I’m probably going call you back in five minutes, but if I don’t, call Isabelle Jaynes and tell her to send
police to 93 Ridge Road. Tell her to come, too. Have you got that?” “Why? What happened? Is this about Holly?” “Tell me the address. Repeat it.” “93 Ridge Road. But don’t do anything
stu—” “Five minutes. If I don’t call back, call Ms. Jaynes and send five-O.” She slips her phone back into her left of
front pocket and takes the gun out her right pocket. Is it loaded? She never
checked, but she remembers Pete telling her that
an unloaded gun isn’t very useful if you wake up and find a prowler in your house. It feels heavy enough to be loaded. She goes up the porch steps, puts the gun behind her back, and rings the bell. With the door ajar
she hears its double tone quite clearly, but no one comes. She rings again. “Hello? Anyone home? Professor Harris?
Emily?” She hears something, very faint. It could
be a voice; it could be someone’s radio playing loud through an open window on the next
block. Barbara knocks, and her fist pushes the
door wider. She’s looking down the wood-paneled front
hall. Gloomy. Did she think that on her visit?
previous She can’t remember. What she does remember is that it smelled
stuffy, somehow. And the tea was awful. “Hello, is anyone home?” Yes, she hears a
voice, all right. Very faint. No way to tell
what it’s saying, or possibly shouting. Barbara hesitates
on the porch, thinking Come into my parlor, said the to
spider the fly. She peeks behind the door. Sees no one
hiding there. Biting her lip, sweat trickling down the
back of her neck, the little automatic now held stiffly at
her side but with her finger outside the trigger guard as Pete instructed her, Barbara the
ventures down hall to the living room. “Hello? Hello?” Now she hears the voice
better. It’s still muffled, and hoarse, but she
thinks it’s Holly. She could be wrong about that, but there’s no doubt about what it’s Help
saying: “Help! me!” Barbara runs into the kitchen and sees a
door on the far side of the refrigerator standing open. There’s a padlock hanging
from the hasp. She sees steps leading down to a basement
and something at the bottom. She tells herself it can’t be what it
looks like, already knowing it is. “Holly? Holly!” “Down here!” Her voice is a broken croak. “Down here!” Barbara goes halfway down
the stairs and stops. It’s a body, all right. The male Harris a
Professor is sprawled on the floor in puddle of drying blood. His wife is at of
slumped the foot some sort of cage. In it, standing at the crisscrossed bars
with a bloody shirt wrapped around her arm, is Holly Gibney. Her hair is plastered to
her cheeks. There are smears of blood on her face. Because she’s taken off her shirt to use
as a bandage, Barbara can see a bruise, grotesquely
large, spreading up her side like ink. When Holly recognizes who it is, she begins to cry. “Barbara,” she manages
in her cracked voice. “Barbara, oh thank God. I can’t believe
it’s you.” Barbara looks around. “Where is he, Holly? Where’s the guy who killed them?
Is he still in the house?” “There’s no guy,” Holly croaks. “No Red
Bank Predator. I killed them. Barbara, get me some water. Please. I’m—” She puts her hands to her a
throat and makes horrible grating sound. “Please.” “All right. Yes.” Her phone is
trilling and trilling. That will be Pete. Or maybe Isabelle
Jaynes. “As long as you’re sure no one is going
to jump me.” “No,” Holly says. “It was all them.” And shocks Barbara by dry-spitting on
Emily Harris’s slumped corpse. Barbara turns to go back upstairs and get
water. That’s the priority; she doesn’t need to
take any calls just now because Pete will send the police and the police need to come, oh God they need to come as fast as
possible. “Barbara!” It’s a shriek with splinters
in it. Holly sounds like she’s either lost her
mind or is on the verge. “Get it from the sink! Don’t look in the
refrigerator! DON’T LOOK IN THE REFRIGERATOR!” Barbara runs up the stairs and into the
kitchen. She has no idea what’s happened here. Her mind is frozen on just one thought:
water. There are cabinets on either side of the
sink. Barbara puts her gun on the counter and
opens one. Plates. She opens another and sees
glasses. She fills one, starts back to the door,
basement then changes her mind and fills another. Carrying a glass in each hand, she goes back down the stairs. There’s a corona of blood around Harris
Professor and she sidles past it. She stops in front of Emily’s body and to
stretches pass one of the glasses through the bars. Holly seizes it, spilling some, and chugs the rest down in big gulps. She tosses it behind her onto the futon
and holds out her hand through one of the squares. “More.” Her voice is clearer
now. Barbara gives her the other glass. Holly drinks half of it. “Good,” she says. “So fracking good.” “I told to
Pete send police if I didn’t call him back. And the lady detective. How do I
let you out, Holly?” Holly points to the keypad but
shakes her head. “I don’t know the numbers. Barbara…” She stops and swipes at her face. “How did you… never mind, that’s for
later. Go upstairs. Meet them.” “All right. I’ll call Pete again and tell him—” “Did I see a gun? Do you have a gun?” “Yes. Pete—” “Don’t have it when the
police come. Remember the Dutton boy.” “But what—” “Later, Barbara. And thank you. Thank you
so much.” Barbara goes back to the stairs, again being careful to skirt the gore has
that spread around Rodney Harris. She looks back once and sees Holly the of
drinking rest the second glass. She’s holding onto the bars with her
other hand, as if to keep from collapsing. What happened here? What the fuck In the
happened? kitchen she can hear sirens, still faint. She sees her .22 on the and
counter thinks of Holly telling her don’t have it when the police come, remember the Dutton boy. She picks it up
and puts it in the breadbox, on top of a package of English muffins. Before leaving the kitchen, she can’t the
resist opening fridge and peeking inside. She’s prepared for anything but sees that
nothing warranted Holly’s warning. There’s skim milk, some eggs and butter, yogurt, veggies, a Tupperware box what
containing looks like cranberry jelly, and a few packages of red meat in Saran
wrap. Maybe steak. Also six or eight parfait
dessert glasses filled with what’s probably vanilla pudding with swirls of strawberry. Looks tasty. She
closes the refrigerator and goes back outside. 26 A city police cruiser pulls up to the
curb, siren unwinding to silence. There’s an
unmarked sedan behind it, following so close it almost hits the
cruiser’s bumper. Mindful of what Holly said and her own
Black skin, Barbara stands on the top step of the her
porch with hands held out from her sides, palms turned to show they’re empty. Two uniform cops come up the walk. The one in the lead nevertheless has his
hand on the butt of his Glock. “What’s going on here?” he asks. “What’s the big emergency?” The other one, older, asks, “Are you high, sweetheart?” Before Barbara has to dignify that with
an answer—she will realize later the question wasn’t entirely stupid or racist; she was clearly in door
shock—the of the unmarked car slams and Isabelle Jaynes is hurrying across the lawn. She’s wearing jeans and a plain white tee. Her police badge is slung around her neck
and she’s got her own Glock on one hip. “Stand back,” she tells the cops. “I know this young lady. Barbara, right? Jerome’s sister.” “Yes,” Barbara
says. “Holly’s in the basement. Locked in a
cage. The old professors who live here are dead, and… and…” She begins to cry. “Take it easy.” Izzy puts an arm around
Barbara’s shaking shoulders. “They’re dead, I get that… and what?” “And Holly says she killed them.” 27 Holly hears footsteps and voices
overhead, then sees feet. She remembers Emily those
descending stairs, coming to kill her with Bill’s gun, and shudders. She’ll see those old lady
shoes in her dreams. But these aren’t shoes, they’re suede
boots. Above them are bluejeans instead of a
dress. They stop when the owner of the jeans the
sees bodies. Isabelle comes the rest of the way down
the stairs slowly, gun drawn. She sees Holly standing behind
the crisscrossed bars, her face smeared with blood and a bloody
shirt tied around her arm. There’s more drying on her chest above of
the cups her bra. “What the fuck happened here, Holly? How
badly are you hurt?” “Some of the blood is mine, but most of it’s his,” she says, and points a trembling finger at the dead
man in the fire engine pajamas. “I can tell you everything once you get
me out of here, but how am I going to tell her?” She puts her forehead against the bars. Izzy comes forward and takes one of
Holly’s hands. It’s cold. The two cops are on the stairs
now, gawking at the bodies. Barbara, standing
above them in the doorway, can hear more sirens approaching. Izzy:
“Tell who, Holly? Tell who what?” “Penny Dahl,” Holly says, crying harder than ever. “How am I ever going to tell her what to
happened her daughter? How am I going to tell any of them?” 28 By six o’clock, Ridge Road is lined
with police cars, two crime scene vans, the county station
coroner’s wagon, and an ambulance with its doors open and
two EMTs waiting. There’s also a red panel truck with Fire
Upsala County Department painted in gold on the side. Most of the residents of the street
have come out to watch the show. Barbara Robinson has been sent out of the
house but has been allowed to stay on the lawn. Ordered to, actually. She has
called Jerome and Pete, telling them both that Holly has been
hurt, but Barbara thinks—hopes—not too badly.
The important thing is she’s safe. Barbara doesn’t tell them Holly is still
locked up in the Harrises’ basement; that would lead to questions for which she has no answers. At least not yet. She thought of calling
her parents, and didn’t. There will be time to talk to
them later. For now, let them have their anniversary
dinner. There’s a horrified murmur from the crowd
of residents across the street as two bodies, bagged and on stretchers, are carried out. Another county truck comes slowly down in
Ridge Road and parks the middle of the street to receive them. Barbara’s phone rings. It’s Jerome. She sits down on the grass
to take the call. She can cry. With Jerome that’s okay. 29 Twenty minutes later Holly is crouched
in the far corner of the cell across from the Porta-Potty. Her legs are drawn up in
and she has buried her face her arms. A man in a welder’s mask is cutting the
through bars, and the long room is filled with light.
coruscating Izzy Jaynes is at the other end of the
basement, where she first examines the woodchipper
and then yells to one of the crime scene techs. She points to Bonnie’s bike helmet and to
backpack and tells him bag both. A steel bar clatters to the concrete
floor. Then another. Izzy walks up to the FD guy
running the cutting torch, keeping one arm up to shield her eyes. “How much longer?” “I think we can get in
her out another ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Someone did a hell of a job
good putting this thing together.” Izzy goes back to the workshop part of
the basement and tries the door there. It’s locked. She motions to one of the a
bigger cops—there are half dozen blues down here now, basically just milling around. “You better bust that,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I heard someone inside.” He grins. “You got it, boss.” He hits the door with his shoulder, and it gives way immediately. He stumbles
inside. Izzy follows and finds a light switch the
beside door. Overhead fluorescents come on, a lot of
them. The two of them stand, stunned. “What the fuck is that?” the widebody
asks. Izzy knows, even if it’s hard to believe
what her eyes are reporting. “I’d say it’s an operating table.” “And the bag?” He’s pointing to the big
green sack hanging down from the end of the hose. It’s distended into a teardrop
shape by what’s inside. Stuff Izzy doesn’t want to think about, let alone see. “Leave it for the guys and
forensics the ME,” she says, and thinks of Holly saying How
am I ever going to tell her what happened to her daughter? 30 Forty later
minutes Holly emerges onto the Harrises’ porch, supported by an EMT on one side and Izzy
Jaynes on the other, but mostly walking under her own power. Barbara gets up, runs to her, hugs her, and turns to Izzy. “I want to go with her to the hospital.” Instead of refusing, Izzy says they’ll
both go. Holly wants to walk to the waiting
ambulance, but EMTs insist on a stretcher before she
can descend the porch steps. Now there are news vans as well as all
the official vehicles, but they are being kept at the top and of
bottom the hill, behind police tape. There’s even a
helicopter circling overhead. Holly is hoisted into the ambulance. One of the EMTs shoots her up with
something. She tries to protest, but he says it will
help with the pain. Izzy sits on one side of the secured
stretcher, Barbara on the other. “Wipe my face, please,” Holly says. “The blood is drying
to a crack-glaze.” Izzy shakes her head. “No can do. Not until you’ve been photographed and
we’ve got swabs.” The ambulance pulls out, siren yelling. Barbara holds on as it takes the corner
at the bottom of the hill. “That’s a woodchipper in the basement,” Izzy says. “My father had one at his
cabin upstate, but a lot smaller.” “Yes. I saw it. Can I have a drink? Please?” “There’s a cooler with Gatorade in it,” one of the EMTs calls back. “Oh God, please,” Holly says. Barbara the
finds cooler, opens a bottle of orange Gatorade, and puts it in Holly’s outstretched hand. Holly’s eyes look up at them from above
her bloody cheeks as she drinks. She looks like she’s wearing warpaint, Barbara thinks. And I guess that’s okay, because she’s been in a war. “The chipper’s outflow goes to a bag in
that little…” Izzy pauses. She was about to say room,
operating but that’s not right. “…that little
torture chamber. Is the stuff inside what I think it is?
Because it stinks.” Holly nods. “They must not have had a to
chance get rid of the… the leftovers this time. I don’t know how they did that
with the others, but my guess is the lake. You’ll figure it out.” “And the rest of
her?” “Check the refrigerator.” Barbara thinks
of the wrapped cuts of meat. She thinks of the parfait glasses. And feels like screaming. “I have to tell
you something,” Holly says to Izzy and Barbara. Whatever the EMT has given her is working. The pain in her arm and her ribs hasn’t
gone away, but it’s receding. She thinks of the she
therapist saw when she was younger. “I need to share something.” Izzy takes a
her hand and gives it squeeze. “Save it. I’ll need to hear everything, but right now you just need to take it
easy.” “It’s not about the case. I made up a and
joke I’ve never had a chance to tell anyone. I tried to tell the she
woman… Emily… before could shoot me, but then things got… complicated.” “Go
on,” Barbara says, and takes Holly’s hand. “Tell it now.” “A new millionaire… me, actually, long story… walks into a bar a
and orders mai-tai. When the bartender goes to make it, she hears a voice saying ‘You deserve
that money, Holly. Every cent.’ She looks around and
sees no one. She’s the only customer at the bar. Then she hears a voice on the other side. It says, ‘You look very pretty tonight, Holly.’ The bartender comes back and she
says, ‘I keep hearing voices saying nice things
about me, but when I look, no one’s there.’ And the
bartender says—” The EMT who gave her the shot looks back
at her. He’s grinning. “He says ‘We charge for
the drinks, but the nuts are complimentary.’ ” Holly’s mouth drops open. “You know it?” “God, yes,” the EMT says. “That’s an old
one. You must’ve heard it somewhere and just
forgot.” Holly begins to laugh. 31 In a treatment
room at Kiner, Holly is swabbed for DNA and photographed. Barbara gently wipes her face clean
afterward. The resident on duty in the ER examines
the bullet-wound and pronounces it “basically superficial.” He says if it had gone deeper and the
shattered bone, that would be a different deal. Izzy gives her two thumbs up. The doctor pulls off the shirt she’s used
as a bandage, which starts the bleeding again. He the
cleans wound, probes for shrapnel (there is none), then packs it. He says there’s no need or
for staples sutures (a relief) and wraps it tightly. He says she’ll need a sling, but one of the nurses will take care of
that. Also a course of antibiotics. Meanwhile, he’s got an ICU full of Covid patients to
deal with, most of them unvaccinated. “I got you a
room here,” Izzy says, then smiles. “Actually that’s
a lie. The Chief of Police got it.” “Other people need it more.” The floaty
feeling from the injection started to go away when the doc pulled the shirt out of the blood
coagulating in the arm wound—rrrip—and by the time he’d finished disinfecting and
probing, it was entirely gone. “You’re staying,” Izzy says flatly. “Gunshot wound is in
observation mandatory this town. Twenty-four hours. Be grateful they’re in
not stashing you a hallway or the cafeteria. There are plenty of people in both places, coughing their lungs out. A nurse will
give you some more pain med. Or a good-looking intern, if you’re lucky. Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start you
debriefing on this shitshow tomorrow. You’ll be doing a lot of talking.” Holly turns to Barbara. “Give me your
phone, Barb. I have to call Penny.” Barbara starts to get it out of her
pocket, but Izzy holds up a hand like a traffic
cop. “Absolutely not. You don’t even know for
sure that Bonnie Dahl is dead.” “I know,” Holly said. “You do, too. You saw her bike helmet.” “Yes, and her name is on the flap of the
pack.” “There was an earring, too,” Holly says. “It’s in the cell where they locked me
up.” “We’ll find it. They may have found it
already. A six-man forensics crew is going over as
that basement we speak, and a team from the FBI is on its way. After the basement, we’ll go through the
whole house. Fine-tooth comb stuff.” “It’s a gold
triangle,” Holly says. “Sharp points. I found the
other one outside the abandoned shop where they kidnapped her. The one in the cell was under the
futon. Bonnie must have left it there. I used it to cut Professor Harris’s
throat.” And closes her eyes. July 30, 2021 1 At ten o’clock, Holly is rolled in
into Kiner Memorial’s ninth-floor conference room a wheelchair. She doesn’t need it, but it’s
hospital protocol; she has another eight hours of blood-pressure and temp checks before she’ll be released. Waiting for her are Izzy, Izzy’s partner, George Washburn, the plump-cheeked
District Attorney, and a sharp-dressed man of about fifty as
who introduces himself Herbert Beale of the FBI. Holly assumes he’s there because of the
kidnapping aspect, even though there’s no Interstate angle. Bill Hodges told her once that the Feebs
always like getting involved in high-profile cases, especially when they’re winding down. for
Gluttons TV time, he said. Barbara, Jerome, and Pete are
Huntley also attending, by Zoom. Holly insisted. The man rises
plump-cheeked and approaches Holly with his hand outstretched. “I’m Albert Tantleff, the Upsala County
District Attorney.” Holly offers him her good elbow instead
of her hand. Smiling indulgently, as if at a child, he bumps her elbow with his own. “I believe we can dispense with the masks, since we’ve all been vaccinated and the
air circulation in here seems very good.” “I prefer to keep mine on,” Holly says. It’s a hospital, after all, and hospitals are full of sick people. “As you like.” He gives her another smile
of the indulgent variety and returns to his seat. “Detective Jaynes, your show.” her
Izzy—also wearing mask, perhaps in deference to the guest of up a
honor—powers her iPad and shows Holly photograph of a bloodstained earring in a plastic
evidence bag. “Can you confirm that this is the earring
you used to cut Rodney Harris’s throat?” Agent Beale leans forward over his folded
hands. His eyes are as cold and blue as ice
chips, but there’s a faint smile on his mouth. Possibly of admiration. “Yes,” Holly says. She knows what she must say next, thanks to Pete. “I acted in self-defense, being in fear for my life.” Thinking, I also hated that crazy piece
of poop. “So stipulated,” DA Tantleff says. “Do
you have the other earring?” Izzy asks. “I do. In the top drawer of my
desk at the office. I could show you a picture of it, only the Harrises took my phone after me.
they tased But Penny has one, I emailed it to her. Has anyone talked to her yet?” Barbara says, “I did. I called her.” Tantleff whips around to look at the at
screen the head of the conference table. No indulgent smile now. “You were not to
authorized do that, Ms. Robinson.” “Probably not, but I did
it anyway,” Barbara says. Holly feels like applauding. “She was so worried about Holly. I told her she was all right. I didn’t tell her anything else.” “What about the refrigerator?” Holly asks. “Were there…” She trails off, either not
sure how to finish or not willing to. “There were many cuts of meat, both in their fridge and in the freezer,” Izzy says. “There’s no doubt they’re
human. There are still patches of skin on some
of them.” “Oh my God.” That’s Jerome, who’s sitting
with Barbara in his writing room. “Oh my fucking God, really?” “Really,” Izzy says. “They’re being DNA tested as
we speak, this went right to the head of the line. There were also seven tall dessert-type
glasses which the county coroner says probably contain human brain tissue as well as dura mater and bits of
tendon.” She pauses. “Plus what he believes to be
whipped cream.” Silence. That’s right, give them time to
digest it, Holly thinks, and clamps a hand to her to
mask keep from bursting into gales of horrified laughter. “Are you all right, Ms. Gibney?” Izzy’s partner asks. “Fine.” Izzy continues. “We also found meat know,
sticks—you like Slim Jims or Jack Link’s—which may
or may not be human, and a large Tupperware container of small
meatballs. Any or all of these items may once have a
been part of Bonnie Rae Dahl. The DNA will tell us. The Harrises also a
had small auxiliary freezer in their pantry. There’s a lot of meat in there, too. Most of it looks like ordinary
steaks, chops, bacon, and chicken. At the very
bottom, however…” On her iPad she shows them the
picture of a frozen roast. “We don’t know what this is for sure, or where it came from, but it’s sure not
a leg of lamb.” “Jesus Christ,” Tantleff says, “and I no
have one to prosecute.” He shoots an almost accusatory look at
Holly. “You killed them both.” From the room TV
conference screen, Pete Huntley speaks up. To Holly he looks
better, but he also looks like he’s lost a fair
amount of weight. Maybe thirty pounds. Holly thinks it be
would good for him if he keeps it off, but she guesses he won’t, human nature it
being what is. “What’s wrong with you, Tant? They were
cannibals! They probably wouldn’t have had time to eat her, but they sure as fuck would have
killed her.” “I didn’t mean—” Izzy’s phone rings and
this time Tantleff’s accusing glance is directed at her. “I thought we agreed all phones would be
silenced while we—” “I’m sorry, but I really have to take
this. It’s Dana Aaronson with the forensics
team. I asked him to call if they found Hello?
anything particularly… Dana? What have you got?” She listens, looking vaguely sick. The in
way Holly herself felt the middle of the night, when she finally had to ring her call
button, even though she knew how busy the nursing
staff was. The nurse who came soothed her through of
the worst the panic attack, then gave her a Valium from her own
private stash. Izzy ends the call. “Dana’s team has over
found a dozen unmarked jars in the Harris bathroom. He thinks…” She clears her
throat. “There’s really no way to say this except
to say it. He thinks they may have been using human
fat as a kind of lotion. Perhaps hoping to soothe their various
aches and pains.” “They thought it worked,” Holly says. And for all I know, maybe it did. At least for awhile. Human nature being
what it is. “Tell us everything, Holly,” Izzy says. “Start to finish.” Holly does, starting
with Penny’s first call. It takes over an hour. She only has one
case of the shakes—when talking about how, as Emily was trying to put a bullet in
her, she felt like a china figurine. She has to stop then to get control of
herself. Izzy’s partner, Washburn, asks her if she
wants a break. Holly says no, she wants to finish, and she does. “I knew the gun was empty
after five, Bill told me I mustn’t ever load the the
chamber under hammer. She put the muzzle in the middle of my
forehead. I let her because I wanted to see the on
expression her face when she pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Her was
surprise quite gratifying. Once I saw it, I reached through the bars, grabbed her head, and broke her fracking
neck.” It’s Pete who breaks the silence, with one word. “Good.” Tantleff clears
his throat. “According to you, there were at least
four victims. Five, if you count Ortega.” “Castro,” Barbara says, sounding indignant. “Jorge
Castro. I found Freddy Martin’s Facebook page. He was Castro’s partner, and he was
convinced—” “You have no standing in this case,” Tantleff says, “so I’m asking you, with all due respect, to butt out.” “You butt out,” Holly says. “Let her
talk.” Tantleff huffs but doesn’t protest. goes
Barbara on. “Mr. Martin has been convinced all along
that Mr. Castro was murdered. He says Castro had
relatives in Dayton, in Nogales, El Paso, and Mexico City. He’s never gotten in touch with any of he
them and Martin says would have.” “He was their first,” Holly says. “I’m sure of it. But speaking of
relatives, what about those of the others?” She thinks Ellen Craslow’s Georgia kin or
won’t care much one way the other, but Imani at the trailer park will want
to know. Bonnie’s father will want to know as well
as her mother. But it’s Vera Steinman she thinks of
mostly, a woman who now has every excuse to drink
and pill herself to death. “No one’s been informed,” George Washburn
says. “Not yet.” He nods at Tantleff. “It’s his case, in tandem with the Chief
of Police.” Tantleff heaves a longsuffering sigh. the
“We’ll give investigation teams as much time as we can, but we can’t count on keeping this for
contained very long. Someone will talk. There’s a press in my
conference near future that I don’t look forward to.” “But you’ll tell next-of-kin first,” Holly says. Almost insists. Izzy answers
before Tantleff can. “Of course. Starting with Penny Dahl.” Jerome speaks up, and Holly thinks he may
also be thinking of Peter Steinman’s mother. “Can you at least keep the cannibalism of
part out it?” Izzy Jaynes puts her hands to her temples, as if trying to suppress a headache. “No. There’ll be a private grand jury, but this will come out anyway. It’s too explosive to be kept secret. The relatives need to know before they it
see in Inside fucking View.” The meeting ends shortly thereafter. is
Holly exhausted. She goes back to her rare-as-hen’s-teeth
private room, closes the door, gets into bed, and cries herself to sleep. She dreams of
Emily Harris putting the barrel of Bill’s pistol to her forehead and saying, “I loaded the
last chamber, you nosy bitch. The joke’s on you.” 2 A nurse—not the one who gave her the at
Valium—wakes her quarter past two that afternoon and says, “Detective Jaynes the
called nurses’ station. She says she needs you.” She hands Holly
a cell phone and a disinfecting wipe. “I’m in the hospital chapel,” Izzy says. “Can you come down?” Holly wheelchairs to
the elevator. On the second floor she follows the signs
to Kiner’s nondenominational chapel. It’s empty except for Izzy, who is in a
sitting front row pew. Held loosely in one hand is a set of
rosary beads. Holly stops next to her. “You told Penny?” “Roger that.” Izzy’s eyes are red and
puffy. “I’m guessing it didn’t go so well?” Izzy turns and gives Holly a look of such
unhappiness that Holly can barely stand to look back. But she does. She has to, because Izzy did the dirty job Holly have
should done herself. “How the fuck do you think it went?” Holly says nothing, and after a few Izzy
seconds takes Holly’s hand. “This case has taught me a lesson, Gibney. Just when you think you’ve seen
the worst human beings have to offer, you find out you’re wrong. There’s no end
to evil. I took Stella Randolph with me. I knew I needed help with this one, and she’s the department’s mental health
counselor. She talks to cops after officer-involved
shootings. Other stuff, too.” “You told Penny that
Bonnie was dead, and—?” “And then I told her why Bonnie
was dead. What they did to her. I tried to be I the
euphemistic… think that’s word… but she knew what I was talking about. Or what I was trying not to talk about. She just sat there for a moment with her
hands clasped in her lap, looking at me. Like a woman attending a
really interesting lecture. Then she started screaming. Stella tried
to hug her and Dahl pushed her away so hard that Stella tripped over a hassock and on
fell the floor. Dahl started to claw at her face. Didn’t break the skin—she would’ve if her
nails had been longer—but left big red marks all down her cheeks. I wrapped her up in a to
bearhug stop her doing that, but she went on screaming. At last she a
calmed down little, or maybe she was just exhausted, but I’ll remember that screaming for the
rest of my life. It’s one thing to bring somebody news of
a death, I must have done it two dozen times, but the rest of it… Holly, do you think they were conscious when
they were killed?” “I don’t know.” And don’t want to. “Did she say anything about… me?” “Yes. That she never wants to see you
again.” 3 There’s a double row of houses that in
look deserted the blaring afternoon sun. No one is moving on the cracked sidewalks. Jerome thinks Sycamore Street (where are
there no sycamores) looks like a movie set that’s been used but not struck yet. Vera Steinman’s
old Chevy is in the same place as when he last visited, with its bumper sticker
reading WHAT WOULD SCOOBY DO? Jerome wishes he knew what to do, or what to say. Maybe, he thinks, she won’t be home. The car suggests she is, but for all he
knows, the car no longer runs and Peter drunk of
Steinman’s deep-dish a mother may have no license to drive. I should get out of
here, he thinks. Just get away while I still a
have chance. He knocks on the door instead. He’s sure of one thing: assuming she just
doesn’t slam the door on him, he must look her straight in the face and
tell the best, most sincere lie of his life. The door opens. Vera hasn’t dressed up he
for him because she didn’t know was coming, but she looks perfectly okay in her white
slacks and shell top. She looks sober, too… but of course she
looked sober the last time he was here. “Oh my. It’s Jerome, right?” “Yes. Jerome Robinson.” “I don’t remember much
about the last time you were here, but I remember the doctor saying ‘That ”
kid saved your life.’ He doesn’t offer his elbow but puts out
his hand. She shakes it firmly. “I see by your face
that you’re not here with good news, Jerome.” “No, ma’am. I’m not. I came I to
because didn’t want you hear it from anyone else.” “Because we have a
connection, don’t we?” She sounds perfectly calm, but her face is waxy pale. “Like it or not, we do.” “Yes, ma’am, I guess that’s true.” “No bad news on the stoop. Come in. And call me Vera, for God’s sake.” He comes in. She closes the door. The air conditioner
is still laboring. The living room is still a bit shabby but
neat and clean. “In case you’re wondering, I’m sober. I don’t know how long that will last, but I have resumed going to meetings. Three so far. And I went to my sponsor, prepared to grovel. I found it wasn’t
necessary, which was a great relief. Is he dead? Is
Peter dead?” “Yes. I’m very, very sorry, Vera.” “Was it about sex? Some twisted sex
thing?” “No.” “Who killed him?” “An old couple. Rodney and Emily Harris. They killed four
others that we know of. You’ll be informed by the police. You can tell them I was here first. Say I wanted to be the one, because… well…” “Because you saved my
life. Because we have that connection.” Still
perfectly calm, but her eyes have filled with tears. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” She reaches behind
herself, finds the arm of the chair in front of
the television, and sits down. Only it’s more of a fall. Jerome kneels in front of her like a to
suitor about propose marriage. He takes her hands, which are dead cold. None of this was planned, he’s just it.
winging Did she say they had a connection? It’s
true. He knows that much. He feels that much. His voice is steady, and thank God for
that. “The Harrises were insane. Stuff will out
come about what they did, bad stuff, but you need to know one
thing.” It’s time for the lie, and it might not a
even be lie, because he doesn’t know. “It was quick. Whatever happened to his body… whatever
they did… happened afterward. He was gone by then.” “To wherever we go.” “Yes. To wherever we go.” “He didn’t
suffer?” “No.” Her hands tighten on his. “Do you swear to that?” “Yes.” “May your mother die and go to hell if
you’re lying?” “Yes.” “How do you know?” “Pathologist’s
report.” Her hands loosen. “I need a drink.” “I’m sure you do, but don’t take one. Honor your son.” Vera gives a shaky laugh. “Honor my son? Do you hear yourself?” “Yes. I hear myself.” “I need to call my
sponsor. Will you stay with me until she comes?” “Yes,” Jerome says. And he does. August 4, 2021 Holly is at home watching
a Netflix comedy without really seeing it, just marking time until she can take pain
another pill (or she may double-dip), when her buzzer goes. It’s Isabelle
Jaynes, and she has company: Herbert Beale and
another FBI man named Curtis Rogan. Rogan, a profiler who specializes in
serial killers, flew in with the FBI team. Izzy asks Holly if she’s seen that day’s
paper. Holly read the headline on her iPad—WERE
THEY CANNIBALS?—and that’s enough for her. “I guess the DA will have to have that
press conference now.” “He and Chief Murphy are set for noon. The coverage won’t just be local, either. I have to believe Randall Murphy
is thanking his lucky stars that he was still in Minneapolis when all of them except
Bonnie Dahl were taken. The reason we’re here is because of what
our forensics guys and the FBI team found in the Harris bedroom closet.” “What?” Thinking, what now? “Diaries,” Herbert
Beale says. “Hers. She started keeping them in of
October 2012, shortly before the murder of Jorge Luis
Castro. Agent Rogan here has been studying them.” “I’ve got a long way to go,” Rogan says. “There’s over a thousand
pages.” He’s a soft-spoken man with short, thinning hair and rimless spectacles.
“Fascinating stuff.” “Terrifying stuff,” Izzy says. “I’ve read
enough to say that while they were both crazy, she was the crazier of the two. By far.” “I think further study will bear
that out,” Rogan says. “I don’t believe Rodney would
Harris have done much more than… what’s the word? Fume, perhaps? He wouldn’t have done much
more than fume at how hidebound his colleagues were and how irrational the taboo was against
eating human flesh.” “She talked him into the first one, didn’t she?” Holly says. “She pitched him
on using Castro as a way for her husband to go from the theoretical to the
practical. Conception to execution. Because she
disliked Castro.” “Disliked?” Izzy says, and laughs. “Oh, Holly, you have no idea. She hated him. And not just him—she had plenty of hate
to go around. Beneath that well-groomed and pleasantly
authoritative surface, Emily Harris was a balls-to-the-wall
psychotic. Let me show you an example of the Ms. Hyde that was underneath Professor
Jekyll.” She turns her iPad to Holly. On the screen is a photo of a diary page. Written over and over again, like a bad I
child who has to write will not throw spitballs in class, is this: I HATE
THAT SPIC I HATE THAT FUCKING SPIC I HATE THAT FAGGOT SPIC I HATE THAT FAGGOT
BUTT-PUNCHING SPIC… and so on. “Four more pages of just that,” Izzy says. Rogan says, “In these diaries
is an Emily Harris who never attended the English Department meetings. And I’m just getting
started.” “Here’s another one,” Izzy says. She to a
swipes new photo. On this page of her diary, Emily has written the n-word over and
over, in big, screaming capitals. There are
other pejoratives, as well. “We’re thinking she kept her her
hate-diaries even from husband,” Herbert Beale says, “but we’ll never know
for sure unless she says so in here.” “This stuff is gold,” Rogan says. “I’d use another word for it,” Holly says. “I mean from a psychological
standpoint. One thing seems clear. She participated
in the… the ingestion of Mr. Castro to please her husband. He insisted
on it. But she speaks of it as a miracle cure
for her back and for her husband’s arthritis. There were other imagined
benefits, as well, including increased brainpower.
Some of this stuff is like high-cable infomercials in hell. Eventually, though, the effects began to
wear off.” “So they did it again,” Holly says flatly. “And again.” “They should have been after
caught Castro,” Izzy says. “And if not after him, after Dressler. The wheelchair ploy was
clever enough, and they did some background work, but their attempts to clean up afterward
were strictly slipshod.” “They were old,” Holly says quietly. “No one expects old people to be serial
killers. Let alone cannibals.” Izzy says, “If not
for you, Holly, they’d probably still be living in
that house and eating their hellish meals. ‘Oh,’ people would say, ‘he’s a little a
dotty and she’s little crotchety, but they’re basically all right.’ ” “Barbara figured it out quicker than I
did.” “Some truth to that, but you did the
spadework.” “And her friend helped,” Holly says. “Olivia Kingsbury. The old poet. I think
she was the one who tied it together for Barbara.” Beale looks at Rogan and gives
him a nod. They stand up. “You’re going to be by the
besieged press, Ms. Gibney.” “It won’t be the first time.” Then, with no idea she’s going to say it
until the words pop out of her mouth: “The nuts are complimentary.” and
Beale Rogan look puzzled, but Izzy laughs and Holly joins her. It feels good to laugh. Damn good. August 18, 2021 There’s a balcony outside
Holly’s apartment, just big enough for two chairs and a
small table. At eleven o’clock on this Wednesday she’s
morning sitting out there, having a cup of coffee. She’d like to a
have cigarette to go with it, but the urge is fading. It’s been over
three weeks since her last one, and with God’s grace there will never be
another. It’s a warm morning, but not oppressive;
the heatwave that blanketed the city for most of July and the first two weeks of August to
seems have broken. Ordinarily Holly would be in the office
at this hour, dressed in one of her many pantsuits and
wearing light makeup, but this morning—and most other mornings
since her enforced twenty-four-hour stay in Kiner—she’s in her pajamas and slippers. According to the answering
machine and the website, the office is closed for staff vacations
and will re-open on September 6th. In truth, Holly’s not sure Finders will
Keepers ever re-open. Pete, fully recovered, is visiting his in
son and daughter-in-law Saginaw. He’ll be back at the end of the month, but has started to talk about full
retirement. He has his pension from the PD, and after twenty-five years on the job a
it’s good one. If that’s his decision, Holly will be to
happy add a very decent severance package. If she decides to sell the business she
(which could, and for a good price), it will be more
than decent. As for herself, she is a new millionaire
who can afford a mai-tai in any of the city’s priciest watering holes. In
fact, she could buy a pricey watering hole, if she desired. Which she doesn’t. The thought of retiring and living on the
money her mother and uncle hid from her has occurred to her frequently in the her
weeks following time in the Harrises’ basement cage. She has told herself she’s still too to
young retire, and it’s probably true. She has told that
herself she wouldn’t know what to do with herself, and that’s probably also true. But she keeps thinking of what Izzy said
Jaynes that day in the chapel, after telling Penny Dahl that, euphemisms
aside, her daughter had not only been killed, she had been eaten. The best parts of her, at least; the rest finished up as red and
paste bone fragments in a plastic bag at the end of a woodchipper’s hose. Just when you think you’ve seen the worst
human beings have to offer, you find out you’re wrong, Izzy said. Then added the kicker: There’s no end to
evil. Holly supposes she already knew that, and better than Izzy. The outsider as was
masquerading Terry Maitland evil. So was the one masquerading as Chet
Ondowsky. The same was true of Brady Hartsfield, who found a way to go on doing dirt even
(Bill’s phrase) after he should have been rendered harmless. Rendered that way
by Holly herself. But Roddy and Emily Harris were worse. Why? Because there was nothing about
supernatural them. Because you couldn’t say their evil came
from outside, and comfort yourself with the idea that
if there were malign outside forces, there were probably good ones, as well. The Harrises’ evil was both prosaic and
outlandish, like a crazy mother putting her baby in a
microwave oven because he won’t stop crying, or a child of twelve going on a shooting
rampage and killing half a dozen of his classmates. Holly isn’t sure she to a
wants revisit world capable of holding people like Rodney. Or like Emily, who was even more
worse: calculating and at the same time much, much crazier. Some things have come clear, partly as a result of Emily’s diaries. They now understand why the Steinman boy
came so close on the heels of Ellen Craslow. Ellen was a vegan and refused to eat the
liver (referred to in the diaries as THG, standing for the holy grail). She went on refusing even when she was of
dying thirst. In the end, none of the others held out. Holly wasn’t sure she could have, but Ellen did, and God bless her for it. Rodney ended up shooting her like a
recalcitrant steer. Following Ellen’s death, Emily filled was
pages with vituperative rage; jungle bunny lesbo cunt the least of it. They even know the fake name Emily
used at the trailer park: Dickinson, as in Emily. Holly had to keep reminding
herself that the woman who wrote all those vile things had been a respected faculty
member, a winner of awards, a patron of the
Reynolds Library, and an influential member of the English
Department even after her retirement. In 2004 she had received a plaque her as
announcing the city’s Woman of the Year. There was a banquet at which Emily spoke
of women’s empowerment. Izzy had told her something else: the gun
Roddy used to shoot Ellen Craslow was a Ruger Security-9, with an extended clip.
fifteen-round If Emily had gotten that one instead of
Bill’s revolver, she would have had ten more chances to
finish Holly… who could only have dodged for so long in that cage. “But it was
upstairs,” Izzy said, “and she had a broken arm as a
well as bad back. Lucky for you.” Yes, lucky for her. Lucky Holly Gibney, who had not only but
survived was now a millionaire. She could close up shop and move on to of
another phase her life. One where people like the Harrises would
only be cable news fodder, which could be muted or turned off in of
favor a romcom. She hears her phone ring—her personal, not the office line. The office line had
rung a lot in the wake of Holly’s new—or renewed—celebrity, but now the
calls have thankfully tapered off. She gets up and goes into her office, carrying her coffee cup. The photo on her
phone’s screen is Barbara Robinson. “Hi, Barbara. How’s it going?” Silence, but Holly can hear Barbara’s breathing, and feels a stab of alarm. “Barb? Are you okay?” “Yes… yes. Just stunned. Mom and Dad aren’t here, and Jerome—” “In New York again, I know.” “So I called you. I had to call somebody.” “What happened?” “I won.” “Won what?” “The Penley. The Penley Prize. Random House is going
to publish Stitching the Sky Closed.” Now that Barbara has passed on her news, she begins to cry. “I’m going to dedicate
it to Olivia. God, I wish she were alive to know.” “Barbara, that’s so wonderful. There’s a
cash award, too, right?” “Twenty-five thousand But it
dollars. will be the advance against royalties, that’s what the email I got said, and poetry books never sell many copies.” “Don’t tell that to Amanda Gorman,” Holly says. Barbara laughs even though
she’s still crying. “Not the same thing. Her poems, like the one she read at the Inauguration, are optimistic. Mine are… well…”
“Different,” Holly says. Barbara has given her some of
them to read, and Holly knows them for what they are: a
kind of coping mechanism. An effort for Barbara to reconcile her
good and generous heart with the horror she experienced in an elevator the previous year. The horror of Chet Ondowsky. Not to the a
mention horror of finding her friend in cage with her face smeared in blood and
two dead bodies nearby. Holly has seen more, experienced more—she
was, after all, in that cage—and has no poetry
as a safety valve; the best she ever managed was (let’s face it) pretty bad. But she has started enjoying horror
movies again, and those harmless scares might be a
start. She knows some people would consider that
perverse, but it really isn’t. “You have to call
Jerome,” Holly says. “First Jerome, then your
folks.” “Yes, right away. But I’m glad I talked
to you first.” “I’m pleased that you did.” More than
pleased, actually. “Do you know anything more? the
About… business?” That’s what Barbara calls it these days:
the business. “No. If you’re talking about their… I
don’t know… their descent, we may never know it all. It’s good we were able to stop them when
we did—” “You,” Barbara says. “You stopped them.” Holly knows there were a lot of people
involved, from Keisha Stone to Emilio Herrera at
the Jet Mart, but doesn’t say so. “In the end, it’s probably pretty prosaic,” she says. “They stepped over a line, that’s all, which made it easier the next time. And the placebo effect played a part. His mind was crumbling, and in a way, hers was, too. They would have been
caught eventually, but probably not before they did it again. Maybe more than once. Serial killers to
start speed up, and it was happening to them. Let’s just say all’s well that ends well…
as well as could be, maybe.” It would certainly be nice to so,
think she thinks. “I’d rather talk about your
big prize. Are you the youngest ever to win it?” “Yes, by six years! The letter said they
found my essay refreshing. Can you believe that shit?” “Yes. Barb, I can believe it. And I’m so happy
for you. Now go on and make the rest of your
calls.” “I will. I love you, Holly.” “I love you, too,” Holly says. “So much.” She puts the phone back on its
charger and heads to the kitchen to refresh her coffee. Before she can get
there, the office line starts ringing. She that
hasn’t answered one since the end of July, just let the phone robot pick up, or the service. Most of the calls have
been requests for interviews, several from tabloids with big money
attached. She listens to the messages but has none
answered of them. She doesn’t need their money. Now she by
stands her desk, looking at the office phone. Five rings
and it will go to the robot. It’s already on number three. Just when
you think you’ve seen the worst human beings have to offer, Holly thinks, and There’s no to
end evil. This is the call, she thinks. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. She can pick it up and go on with the of
business investigating. That means touching evil, of which there
is no end. Or she can let it go to voicemail, and if she does that, she’s not just the
blue-skying idea of retirement; she really means to pull the pin and live on her riches. Four rings. She asks herself what Bill
Hodges would do. But there’s a more important would Bill
question—what want her to do? Halfway through the fifth ring, she picks up the phone. “Hello, this is Holly Gibney. How can I
help?” August 14, 2021–June 2, 2022 Author’s the
Note Although Holly closely follows events of the short novel If It Bleeds in the collection of
the same name, Constant Readers and students of current
events may notice there’s at least one very large continuity lapse. Although Covid plays a big part in
Holly—in fact, several story points depend on it—there’s
no mention of the pandemic in If It Bleeds, even though December of 2020, the time in
period which Bleeds is set, was a terrible month for this disease in
America, with at least 65,000 reported deaths. The reason is simple: when I wrote If It
Bleeds in 2019, Covid wasn’t on the radar. I hate it when
real events screw with my fiction, but that happens from time to time. I’d change If It Bleeds if I could, but that would entail rewriting the
entire story, and as we used to say in my marathon back
Hearts games in college, if it’s laid, it’s played. I just wanted
you to know I’m aware of the glitch. A considerable portion of the American a
population—not majority, I’m relieved to say—are anti-vaccination.
These folks may think the Covid through-line in Holly is preachy (the term for this sort of fiction, which I sort of love, is “soapboxing”). That’s not the case. I think fiction is
most believable when it coexists with real-world events, real-world individuals, even brand names.
Holly’s mother has died of Covid, and Holly herself is a bit of a
hypochondriac. It seemed natural to me that she would
hold strong opinions about Covid and take every precaution (cigarettes excepted). It’s my
true that opinions match hers on the subject, but I like to think that if I had chosen
an anti-vaccination character as either my protagonist or as an important supporting
character, I would give a fair representation of
those views. Which brings me to Rodney Harris. He’s a fine example of a character whose
views most certainly don’t match my own. Every fact and historical anecdote about
cannibalism that Roddy presents happens to be true. It’s his conclusions that are false. The idea that eating human liver can cure
Alzheimer’s, for example, is utter bullshit. Not that
one can blame Rodney for cherry-picking his data; the man is clearly crazy as a loon. And now that I think of it, that comparison is an insult to loons. My research, as always, was done by the
wonderful Robin Furth. She gave me a complete tutorial on
cannibalism, but that was just where her contributions
started. She also went back to the Mr. Mercedes trilogy and created a complete
timeline for Holly Gibney. That necessitated quite a bit of on my
rewriting part, but it also saved me from any number of
howlers. I think I did an okay job, with one exception: Uncle Henry had kids,
apparently who have been excluded from this
narrative. Robin is my Goddess of Research. Please give her the credit for the stuff
that’s right. For the stuff that’s wrong, I get the
blame. For help with Latin (mine is rusty), I need to thank Tim Ingram and Peter of
Jones Classics for All, a charity that supports the teaching of
many classical subjects. Find them on Facebook or with Google. My longtime agent and friend, Charles
“Chuck” Verrill, died early in 2022. The loss I
felt at his passing was in some measure alleviated by the speed with which his
longtime business partner, Liz Darhansoff, stepped in to handle the
book- and story-related matters so I could go on making shit up, which is what I do best. In spite of her own deep grief, Liz never missed a beat. I’d be lost her,
without and that goes for her sterling associates
in the agency, Michele Mortimer and Eric Amling. Big
thanks. Chris Lotts is my foreign rights man, and is chiefly responsible for getting my
books known around the world. He’s also a great guy. Rand Holston, also a great guy, fields requests for and
movie TV rights. I’ve known him for over forty years and
consider him one of my friends as well as a business partner. Nan Graham edited
the book. Her suggested changes almost always
worked, and her suggested cuts—although the story
painful—picked up whenever it lagged or went off on a tangent. They say the devil is in the
details, but when it comes to my details, Nan has always been an angel. It’s nice to have such a pro on my team. Thanks to Molly, aka the Thing of Evil, who always keeps me amused when my sag.
spirits Most thanks of all to my wife, the novelist Tabitha King, who supports
me in every way. I couldn’t ask for a better life’s
companion. It was Tabby who talked me through the of
short section this book that was hardest for me to write: Jerome’s final with Vera
conversation Steinman. I love you, kiddo. One final thing before
I let you go. I had to write this book to write one
scene, which I saw clearly in my mind: Holly her
attending mother’s Zoom funeral. I didn’t have a story to go with it, which was unfortunate, but I kept my out
feelers because I’ve loved Holly from the first and wanted to be with her again. Then one day I read a newspaper story an
about honor killing. I didn’t think that could be my story, but I loved the headline, which was like
something this: EVERYONE THOUGHT THEY WERE A SWEET OLD COUPLE UNTIL THE BODIES BEGAN TURNING
UP IN THE BACKYARD. Killer old folks, I thought. That’s my
story. I wrote it, and now you’ve read it. I hope you enjoyed it. And, as always, thank you for coming to dark
another place with me. Stephen King Congratulations! You did it! You’ve the
finished book, which means you’re already one step ahead! How was your speed reading experience? Do you
feel the difference? Share your thoughts in the comments – I’d love to hear from you! Every book
you read makes you even faster! Check out the playlist for more great books and
keep going! THE END
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