Two Nights Page 4

  “Beats me. I was planning to throw on brats. You hungry?”

  “I can’t stay that long.”

  “You need to slow down and smell the gardenias.”

  “I’m allergic.”

  “Since when?”

  “Adult onset.”

  Beau snorted. Sherman rolled his eyes up without lifting his head.

  “Spill,” I said. “What do you know about this Drucker thing?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t connect the dots. The media slavered over the story for weeks.”

  “I don’t have a TV. And the vics were named Bright, not Drucker. So what’s the deal?”

  A long pull of Amstel, then, “The Drucker money has roots. Opaline’s the last of the line, wears a sash says she’s riding on genes from a Confederate soldier.”

  “UDC?” I referred to the United Daughters of the Confederacy.

  “Yep. When Mary Gray was sixteen, Opaline made her do the whole debutante thing. Balls and gowns weren’t the kid’s style. After her coming-out she got defiant, so Opaline shipped her off to Switzerland for her final two years of high school.”

  “Opaline made a comment that implied she disliked Mary Gray’s husband.”

  “Can’t fault her there. Alex Bright’s a sleaze.”

  “I know you’ll explain that.”

  “Bright ran some sort of real estate and mortgage scam. It was the feds busted him, not us. So I don’t know all the details. He ended up doing time. Opaline did the happy dance when Mary Gray dumped his ass.”

  “Where was Bright when the bombing went down?”

  “Scraping plates at Butner.”

  “The federal prison near Raleigh.”

  Beau nodded. “Bright was never a suspect, if that’s where you’re going. He went quietly after Mary Gray filed. Kids were just knee-high. He showed zero interest in ’em, before or after the divorce.”

  “Was Bright Jewish?”

  “Didn’t ask about that. But the Drucker family’s WASP as Old Whitey.”

  “Who’s Old Whitey?”

  “Zach Taylor’s horse.”

  “So how did they end up dead in a terrorist attack on Jews?”

  “Mary Gray was what you might call a beatnik.”

  “You might. I was born after Dobie Gillis was canceled.”

  Beau turned to face me, faux offended. “How would you know about Dobie Gillis?”

  “Read about it in a book on ancient history.”

  “You know what you are?”

  “Young. Go on.”

  A few rounds on the rocker, then, “Mary Gray wasn’t much older than you. In fact, all accounts, she was a lot like you.”

  “How so?”

  “Impulsive. Hotheaded.”

  “I admire you, too.”

  “Seemed she was always looking.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Something beyond Charleston. At least beyond blue blood and sashes.”

  Beau took another sip and gazed out at the pelicans. The fliers had moved on, but a few bobbers were working the current. I made an impatient gesture. Pointless, but good practice to sharpen my skills.

  “She’d converted to Baha’i,” Beau continued. “Not sure that’s the right term. Conversion, I mean.”

  “There’s a Baha’i presence here?”

  Now the look was one of faux indignation. “If you’d come in off your island you’d be more aware.”

  “Baha’i isn’t Jewish.” I knew little about the faith, except that.

  “Mary Gray had the kids on some sort of multireligion experience. They were visiting churches, synagogues, temples, schools, cultural centers, that sort of thing. Wanting to expose them, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll have to check on this, but I think the tour was organized through a big Baha’i temple outside of Chicago. That day the group was visiting a Jewish girls’ school on the north side of the city. The other vics were Jewish. Two women, both with the group.”

  “Stella was fifteen?”

  “She was in high school, so that sounds about right.”

  “Drucker said she was awkward.”

  “Coming from Opaline, that could mean anything.”

  “Crage said Drucker was erratic.”

  “She’s made some abrupt reversals that left a bad taste. Pulling out on charity events, business deals, firing folks, that sort of thing.”

  “What do you think happened to Stella?”

  “Probably dead.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “An abandoned Subaru Forester was found the day after the attack. Matched the description of the SUV spotted at the scene. CSU found blood inside. DNA testing showed it belonged to Stella.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s not alive.”

  “ ’Course it doesn’t.”

  I debated the ethics of revealing a confidence. Decided the information was safe with Beau. “Did you know Opaline received a ransom demand a few weeks after the bombing?”

  Beau’s expression told me he didn’t.

  “Fifty thousand. She ponied up, but no Stella.”

  Beau gouged the label on his bottle with one yellowed thumbnail.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Lowball.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Sounds amateur.”

  “The Chicago cops find out about the ransom?”

  “Hell if I know. Are they still on the job?”

  “Oh yeah. Bernie Clegg and Roy Capps. Guys in the squad there call them C-squared.”

  “Amateur operation, yet C-squared never found the kid or her body. Never nailed a single one of the doers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Odd.”

  “That’s why I rolled the shitball to you.”

  “You said it was to save me from myself.”

  “That too.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “You did your time.”

  “About five minutes.”

  “I thought this child’s plight might stir your juices.”

  Beau could always read me. Usually better than I read myself.

  “Be easier if you had a phone,” he said.

  “I do now.”

  “You sleeping these days?”

  “Sure. I slept last Wednesday.”

  “Still popping pills?”

  Nope.

  “Tomorrow I fly to Chicago.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Anything I can cover?”

  “Keep an eye on my boat.”

  “Always do.”

  “And check on Bob now and then.”

  Beau gave me a look that said he’d rather drink sewer sludge.

  I crumbled. Beau wanted company, and I owed him for the Drucker intel.

  And lingering delayed going home to my ghosts.

  He grilled on a Weber whose entry into the world had predated mine. We reconvened on the porch and ate the brats from plastic plates with coleslaw and beet salad purchased at the Harris Teeter. Using stealth, I violated the rules of Sherman’s newly imposed nutritional regimen. The dog never left my side.

  At full dark, Beau fired up his old Coleman lantern. Maybe testing the spiders nesting in my head. I willed them calm and stayed on the swing. Kept my eyes off the bright little flame. Conversation drifted from boats to booze to my choice of weapons for the upcoming trip.

  We were on our third Amstel and a plate of Oreos when Beau queried my strategy for Chicago.

  “First I’ll meet with Capps and Clegg, get their take.”

  “I could request they get the file to you ASAP.”

  “That would be good. Then I’ll talk to folks, make my interests known, hang around and see what breaks.”

  “Precision planning,” Beau deadpanned.

  “Yes.”

  “Could be tough churning leads on a case a full year cold.”

  “If nothing happens, I’ll stir the pot
.”

  “Using what kinda spoon?”

  “You say the bombing and search for Stella were high-profile?”

  “Until the next breaking news came along.”

  “I’ll get online tonight, plant messages on social media to tweak some memories.”

  “What do you know about social media?”

  “I live on an island. Not a gulag.”

  “Could put an ad in the paper for us dinosaurs don’t tweet or twiddle or Facebook.”

  “Good idea.” I thought a moment. “Opaline’s got deep pockets. Maybe I’ll offer a fat reward.”

  “You think a reward could get one of them to turn on the others?”

  “For every participant in an assassination or bombing there’s a support network of minimally three or four people.” How often had I imparted that wisdom in my SERE courses? “Who knows how their group dynamics have changed. You know what Opaline said?”

  “Do something with your hair?”

  “She said some people will do anything for a big enough sum. Anyway, knowing there’s a price on their heads might get one of them to try to make contact with me.”

  “Or try to kill you.”

  “That’s contact.”

  “And you’ll have the Glock.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “You think they’re still in Chicago?”

  “It only takes one. Perps like to burrow in where they feel safe.” More SERE insight.

  “I wouldn’t hang around.”

  “You wouldn’t blow up a school.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Yeah. I like that part.”

  “You joke, but I suspect that’s true.” Beau believes a death wish lurks in my subconscious.

  “Sunday’s excellent adventure.” I drew a hand through the air as though highlighting a title.

  “Am I gonna regret laying this thing in your lap?” Snappish.

  “Jesus. I’m doing it for the kid.”

  Our eyes locked for a beat, then Beau looked away. We sat silent, Beau rocking, me swinging, Sherman nudging my leg.

  “How ’bout I take you to the airport?” An olive branch for the lantern. For tweaking my crazies.

  “I can grab a taxi,” I said.

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “Sure. A ride would be nice.”

  It was pitch-black and moonless when I headed down to the boat. Didn’t matter. The trip was short and I knew the way by heart.

  On Goat Island, I tied up, grabbed my packages, then checked the fishing line I keep stretched low across the end of my dock. Satisfied it was undisturbed, I headed to the house.

  Once inside, I locked the locks and changed the alarm from “away” to “home.” I’d barely turned on a lamp and popped a jazz CD into the player when I heard claws on glass. Crossing the kitchen, all of three steps, I disengaged the latch and slid the window sideways. A squirrel crouched on the ledge outside, eyes two shiny black beads focused on me.

  “How’s tricks?”

  Bob twitched his tail but said nothing.

  “Hungry?”

  Bob sat up. Twitched again.

  I reached out, pulled a metal bin across the sill and into the sink, filled it with the newly purchased pumpkin seeds, and returned it to the ledge. Bob scampered over and executed a Louganis into the chow.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Bob’s response was continued digging and cracking.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom.” Removing the gun and holster from the small of my back. “We need to talk.”

  I slid the window, leaving a three-inch opening, then wedged a wooden dowel into the track. My improvised squirrel-friendly security system. Sunday Night, girl genius.

  Packing took little time. Two pairs of jeans, tops, undies, socks. Two sets of toiletries. A backpack. The box for the Glock. A couple of .40 S&W thirteen-round magazines.

  I paused. Reassessed. Got my Glock 17 and a spare cartridge from the gun safe, boxed, and threw them in. Better to have and not need than to need and not have. Anything else I would purchase in Chicago.

  Propped in bed, I opened my MacBook Air and got online. Yeah, even on Goat. A laptop and Bluetooth-enabled phone and you’re cybercooking.

  I linked the burner to the computer and spent some time surfing the World Wide Web, looking for anything I could find on the murder of Mary Gray Drucker Bright and her son and the disappearance of her daughter.

  For several weeks following the bombing, every TV, radio, and print outlet in America had been on fire providing minutiae and offering speculation. Then, with nothing new to report, the media moved on.

  Stella’s picture came up again and again. The copper hair. The petulant frown. The same frown I’d worn as a kid. With each image I felt I’d been kicked in the gut.

  Irrational. But staring at those eyes, I heard a whispered call for help. Stella reaching out to me from some dark place.

  After supplying an alias to create a temporary Gmail account, I considered the small rectangle requesting a username.

  Diana Krall’s purring vocals began conspiring with the brats and the beer. My brain grew thick, my lids heavy. I closed my eyes for a second. Just one second.

  My thoughts drifted to a conversation long ago. Not a conversation, an interrogation.

  Name?

  Sunday.

  Sunday what?

  Just Sunday.

  Come on, kid. You got a last name.

  Pavement at my feet pulsing red and blue. Heart banging. Mosquitoes whining high and hungry in my ears.

  You listening to me, girl?

  Lyrics drifting from a radio far off.

  “Hot August night, and the leaves hanging down…”

  Give it up here, or give it up in jail.

  Night. Sunday Night.

  I snapped back. Ella Fitzgerald was urging someone to hurry home.

  I entered hurryhome and added three digits from my Marine Corps service number. The email address hurryhome407@gmail.com was all mine.

  Armed with what little information I’d gleaned, I found the Chicago Tribune website and placed an old-fashioned ad in the classified section. One column, three lines:

  Info wanted re: bombing at Bnos Aliza School, Devon Ave., October 2014. Contact S. Night, Ritz-Carlton Hotel. hurryhome407@gmail.com $5,000 REWARD.

  In addition to five days in the paper, Opaline’s sixty-two bucks got her three days in the Spanish-language Hoy, one Monday in the RedEye, and seven days online at classifieds.chicagotribune.com.

  Finally, I opened a Twitter account. My first tweet was a two-part, 280-character version of the Trib ad, adding only that the attack had occurred in Chicago. That done, I repeated the process with every form of social media I knew.

  Ninety minutes after starting, I logged off.

  I was in the mudroom cleaning the Glock 23 when Bob scampered onto the table. I explained the upcoming trip. Said Beau would have his back while I was away. He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t object.

  “You staying the night?” I asked.

  Bob dropped to the floor and shot down the hall.

  I slid the kitchen window tight and locked it. In the bedroom, cracked another and engaged an identical dowel.

  Cold shower. Bed.

  As I tossed and turned in the dark, the spiders crept from their silken tunnels, all hairy legs and surplus eyes. Dragging questions, some old, some new.

  Was Beau right about my drive toward self-destruction? Did that explain the lure of the military? The job? The cold hard steel of a gun?

  Was the search for Stella Bright about some twisted need in me? If so, why the gut clench every time I thought of this kid?

  Why had I withdrawn to Goat Island? Was I slowly creeping toward a replay of Henry and Blanche? In a few years would boaters skim the shoreline hoping for a glimpse of the deranged old lady who talked to squirrels?

  Was I already mad? Would I end up like Arthur, hanging from a rope with gull shit o
n my head?

  If I felt for Stella, might I start feeling for others? For everything?

  Across the water, the bright spot of Beau’s Coleman burned in the night.

  Two Weeks

  She’s locked in the cellar again. The room is small and windowless, with a heavy wood door that feels rough to the touch. She won’t make the mistake of pounding or scratching. The slivers will hurt. And no one will come.

  She reaches out, knowing the brick will be cold. It is.

  She shivers. Draws her heels beneath her. Pain flames across her raw knees.

  She’s done something to make them unhappy. She’s unsure what.

  She closes her eyes to the darkness and tries to think. She’s exhausted. They were up all night. First the Testing. Then sitting stiffly on the old wooden chairs, spines straight, attentive.

  She listened, knowing their goal was righteous. Her reason for being put on the earth.

  Her tailbone aches. Her back. She pictures the scars, some red, some waxy white, all in a sea of pale freckled skin. She viewed them once by angling a mirror. Never again.

  What did she do to anger them?

  That’s it. She grew restless and allowed her mind to drift. Something she heard couldn’t be right. Her question seemed valid to her.

  An older woman also raised her hand.

  Interruptions are allowed. But hers upset them.

  Her exile will be temporary. If they feed her, she’ll use meals to measure the time. Two per day. It’s what she always does.

  She understands the punishment is her fault. That they love and value her. She vows to be better. Stronger.

  She wishes she could see the sky. Imagines it blue with clouds like tendrils of gauzy white cotton.

  She pictures the field. She’s permitted to go there if she’s good. Never alone, but she doesn’t mind.

  The crocuses are poking up through the soil. The redbuds have blossoms that look like crumpled little faces. She’s allowed to read the book about plants that she found in the attic. She wishes she had it. A flashlight.

  Stillness.

  She smells mildew and dampness.

  She wants to feel sunshine on her face. To run. Skip. Do cartwheels and handsprings.

  Stillness.

  The chill and the darkness seem to thicken around her.

  She opens her eyes. Closes them again.

  She trembles. Draws her legs tighter.

  Stillness.