A Field of Red (9 page)

So he said nothing.

Burwell glanced up.  “Reports, huh?  We’re already spread thin, getting ready for the ransom drop later today.”

Frank nodded. “My boss used to say the department was just like an outhouse – it didn’t run without the paperwork,” he said.

The burly sergeant nodded, and Frank thought he saw the hint of a smile.

“It’s just that I don’t really have time for this shit.”

Frank nodded. “Sorry about that. But I couldn’t just stand by and let him grab her.”

Burwell looked him in the eye. “So, you’re happy to get involved in this, but you can’t lift a finger when it comes to two kidnapped girls? Sorry, I’m having trouble figuring out your priorities.”

“He got aggressive,” Frank said quietly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Burwell said. “You call 911, or clear everybody out, or just draw down on him. I know you’re carrying. But the assault charge – I can’t make that go away. If Stan presses charges, it’ll be up to a judge.”

Frank shook his head. “I should have stayed out of it.”

“Right.”

“But he’s a cop—he should know how to hold his temper. Don’t you guys get trained?”

Burwell looked up sharply. “Of course he should have known better, but you’re looking at an assault charge, if he presses.”

Frank shook his head.

“I don’t think it would stick—too many witnesses saw him come in and push her around,” Frank said. “Yelling like an idiot. Besides, I’ve been coaching her, getting her to take the steps she needed to take to get away from him. She told me a long story—sounds like everyone was on his side.”

Frank looked at Burwell, the implication obvious. Had the cops been covering for one of their own?

Burwell nodded. “Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t have taken his stories at face value. He said she was a crazy bitch.”

Frank turned and looked at the ambulance, as they closed the back doors and prepared to leave. Gloomy rain clouds smudged the horizon.

“I don’t know. I only know what she said,” Frank said, nodding at Gina. “And I can tell when a woman is scared for her life. I told her what to do—change the locks, take a bunch of pictures, get his stuff out of the house. Any judge in the world will see him as the aggressor, coming to where she works.”

“I know,” Burwell agreed. “Gina came in a couple days ago and filed all the TRO paperwork. Surprised the hell out of a lot of people. That takes nerve, when your husband works there. Was that your idea?”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded. A few drops of rain began to fall from the darkening sky above them. “I gave her my opinion. Once they start hitting…well, you know.”

Burwell nodded.

“Like you said, he’s a dick,” Burwell conceded. Clearly, the man was starting to warm to Frank. “Always has been. But now I’ve gotta do a report and write everything up. He can press charges, but I’ll get statements and all that kind of stuff.”

Frank looked up at Burwell. Any normal person would thank Burwell. This could have been an ugly situation, a run-in that ended with a cop in the hospital. But Frank’s mind was already on other things—getting disengaged from this situation, concentrating on his meeting later with Laura, leaving town. He didn’t want anything to do with Burwell or anyone else. When Frank opened his mouth, Burwell was probably expecting a “thank you,” or at least a kind word, from one cop to another.

Instead, Frank nodded curtly.

“So, can I go?” Frank asked curtly.

Burwell nodded, the half-smile fading from his lips. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

Frank was taken aback.

Burwell leaned forward, his face turning red. “You aren’t worried at all about this, are you? And you don’t care at all about those kidnapped girls. You don’t even care about Gina, either. So why get involved in anything?”

Frank glanced back at where the ambulance had been, but he refused to get pulled into the debate again.

“We done here?” Frank asked quietly.

Burwell looked furious, but the man was a professional. After a long moment, he nodded.

“For now.”

Frank nodded and walked back inside, not looking back. It was starting to rain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ambulance leave.

He sat back down at his booth, ignoring the eyes of everyone in the restaurant. He picked up the paper again and started reading. After a minute or two, Frank picked up his drink and sipped at the half-empty mug. The coffee was cold.

Charlie shook her head. She had been so stupid.

After a few hours, a young man came to take care of them. He brought them their meals and untied them so they could use the bathroom a few times a day. Sometimes, at night, another person would come to let them use the bathroom, a woman with that screechy, horrible voice that sometimes echoed through the house. Charlie never saw the woman’s face.

Other than that, she’d been on this bed for days and days. Charlie hoped it would all be over soon.

There was a scrape on the stairs—she’d seen the staircase railing through the open door yesterday, so she knew the bedroom was on the second floor—and she knew someone was coming. She’d heard the young man talking to two other people, the woman with the high, squeaky voice and another, older man, but only the young man talked to them. It was probably him.

The door unlocked and swung slowly open. The young man entered, carrying a tray.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” he asked, setting the tray down on a side table next to the bed.

She nodded, and he cut the zip tie around her wrist and let her go into the attached bathroom by herself. As she’d done in the past, she’d done her business and turned the water on to wash her hands. While the water ran, Charlie spent a short amount of time searching the bathroom for anything that could help her escape but found nothing. She climbed up onto the sink and peeked out the window, but only saw a roof sloping away and a tree. It looked too dangerous to try and escape that way. The window would be a tight fit as well.

She climbed down, shut off the water, and went back out into the bedroom.

“OK?” the man asked.

Charlie nodded.

“My Daddy is on the city council, you know,” Charlie said, climbing onto the bed. “The police work for him. I’m sure they’re looking for us.”

The young man nodded. “I know. And don’t worry—as soon as we get our money, you and Maya will be going home.”

“Money?”

The man nodded again and set out the lunch—bologna sandwich, coleslaw, apple juice. Simple food. “It’s called a kidnapping—the people pay a ransom, and then they get you back.”

She thought about it a moment and picked up the sandwich, taking a bite.

“You asked for money for me. What if you don’t get it?”

The man looked away.

“Have I told you about the ocean?” the man asked smiling.

She nodded. He’d told her before about San Francisco, a town that she’d heard about but never visited. This time he talked to her while she ate, telling her about the Fisherman’s Wharf and an island jail in the middle of the harbor called “the Rock.” And something called a Coit Tower.

Frank sat in her tiny living room on Tuesday, nervous.

It was just before noon. He’d gotten there early. She’d smiled and let him in and directed him to the threadbare couch and gone off to make coffee.

It was awkward, stiff.

At least she’d invited him in.

Weeks ago, he’d called her. They hadn’t seen each other in six years and had only spoken two or three times since. Laura had seemed very surprised by his call and that he was willing to drive all the way up to Ohio to have coffee.

Maybe it was because he was finally making the effort, or maybe enough time had passed. Or maybe it was Jackson. Perhaps she wanted her little boy to finally meet his grandfather. Frank had spent most of the drive up to Ohio from Birmingham thinking about that short phone conversation with his daughter, thinking about her words and the long spaces between those words. Trying to figure out what they meant.

Either way, she’d given him the address. At least it was a start. And now he was here.

It wasn’t much of an apartment. He wondered if she would refuse if he offered her money, not that he had any to give. She had done what she could with the place: there was a small television near the front window, and a chipped coffee table separated the couch from an armchair that had seen much better days. In one corner of the room, a child’s drawings and paintings were tacked to the walls above a second-hand dining room table that was piled with stacks of folders and paperwork. Fighting for room on the table were a pile of colorful construction paper, a box of crayons, and a toy robot.

But the place had the colorful, worn look of a house with kids—around the rest of the space that he could see, there were pictures and toys scattered about and drawings by Jackson in little frames.

Laura walked into the room—she was pretty, more than he remembered. Tall and blonde and pretty, like Trudy had been the first time he’d met her at that random “casual cotillion” in Baton Rouge during the summer of 1984. Trudy had breezed into the room and caught his eye with no effort. What had ever happened to that young girl, willing to date an impulsive military man and move away from Louisiana? Somehow, Trudy had changed into a person he didn’t like anymore.

Or maybe he had changed into something she hated.

He smiled at Laura. She was six years older than he remembered and much more independent. He could tell she had changed. Now, she was a mother, and on her own, working a career and navigating life all on her own.

It made him suddenly sad. For her and for him. He’d missed so much.

He watched her walk across the room, carrying a small tray.

“I couldn’t remember how you liked your coffee,” Laura said, smiling at him.

“Just a little cream. Thanks.”

She handed him a cup and set the tray down—on it were small, mismatched bowls of cream and sugar, along with a sleeve of sugar cookies. She took one and plopped down in the old chair, sitting back and nibbling on it, as he made his coffee. One thing he’d noticed about this new Laura was a new air of confidence, out in the world, doing her thing, working hard and raising a child.

Frank added the cream, then took a sip.

“Umm...that’s good,” he said, sitting back.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

The room got very quiet again—each of them was probably waiting for the other to start. He looked around at the drawings and noticed a grouping of pictures on the table next to the TV. Two of Laura and Trudy and several of Jackson—he was at preschool right now—and Jackson with his mother. They were cute together.

None of Frank, or Kyle, her grease-ball ex-husband, the father of Jackson who had skipped out last year. So he was in the same club as Frank.

Frank nodded to the drawings and paintings tacked to the walls above the dining room table.

“Are those his?”

Laura followed his eyes and smiled.

“Jackson’s really taken to preschool. He’s enjoying learning his letters,” Laura said. “The teachers are great, and he’s getting along great with the other kids.” Laura looked up at him and shook her head. “Kyle was nothing but trouble for me, but the move also delayed Jackson’s start at kindergarten.  But he’s catching up, and loves learning.”

Frank nodded.

“You were always good in school,” he said.

She nodded and nibbled her cookie, waiting.

He turned and looked at the clock on the wall. It was an old clock, a white face with blocky, black numbers. He suddenly remembered the clock—it was from their old home in Louisiana, back before Trudy had moved out and taken Laura. It had always ticked too loud for him. Trudy had taken it with her, along with so many other things. How could he have not recognized it?

 “You still drinking?” he heard her say.

Frank nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah, but I’m working on it. How’s the job?”

“Good, good.” Laura smiled at his obvious changing of the subject. “I’m at the new salon downtown, A Cut Above. Dumb name, I know, but they’re very nice. I get plenty of customers and good shifts, and they give me nights off for Jackson.”

Frank nodded. “Sounds like you like it there.”

“It’s okay. Not using my accounting degree at all, but it’s work,” she said, shrugging. “They just remodeled one of the buildings downtown,” she said. “It used to be a little grocery store. These new owners fixed it up. Plus, it’s next to DMs, the only pizza place downtown.”

Frank smiled. He suddenly remembered that pizza had been her favorite food growing up. Was it still? How much had he missed? How much had changed?

“You like working there?” he asked. He needed to keep her talking. Listening to her talk was infinitely better than listening to that ticking clock on the wall, loudly counting down until this precious conversation was over.

“Yeah, it’s better than down in Cincinnati,” she said. “My last place, she nickel and dimed us about everything and charged us late fees if we didn’t pay our chair rental on time. Plus, she would sit on our commissions for a month before handing them over.”

Another pause began and threatened to drown the conversation. He hated these fits and starts, but he didn’t want to do all the talking. Frank didn’t want to come off desperate, even though, on some level, he wanted nothing more than to connect with this mysterious woman his little girl had become.

Frank leaned forward, setting the coffee cup down, and looked at her.

“Look...look,” he began, looking at the tray on the table between them. “I just have to say this much, at least: I’m sorry. Sorry for the way things were. I know things were hard when you were growing up.” The words raced out of him, escaping. Rats from a sinking ship. “You and Trudy—I was never around, and I wasn’t always in the best shape when I was. I can’t go back and fix any of that. But I’m...I’m trying to make up for it now, in my way. If I can.”

It might have been the longest speech he’d ever given. It felt good, just getting it out there.

She nodded thoughtfully but didn’t say anything.

“I know you don’t want to hear about all of it,” Frank said, looking at her. “You were there, even if you don’t remember. But I was always off working, trying to close cases or investigate something or drink away the stress,” he said, looking at her. “Anyway, it wasn’t good for Trudy, or you, and after Katrina it got worse. A lot worse. Maybe if things had been different—”

“It’s okay,” she said quietly.

Frank stopped and looked at her, then slowly nodded. He wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with her or encouraging her to keep talking or both, but he treasured those two words. He wasn’t sure if this conversation would ever get to those words. And so quickly…

“Trudy...well, she hung in there,” Frank continued. He felt like a person in church, giving confession. “Longer than anyone could expect, really.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said something nice about Trudy, or even thought something nice. He’d blamed her for so much—”

Laura just nodded and leaned forward.

“I mean it, Frank,” she said. “It’s okay.”

He sat back and smiled.

“Thank you. Thank you for that,” he said, then looked up at her, curious.

Laura smiled at him, and he saw a glimmer of the small girl she had been. “Too easy?”

He laughed. It sounded strange in his ears, a rare sound that he was not used to hearing. Frank was not the laughing kind.

“Maybe,” Frank said, taking a sip of coffee. “You need to make me work harder.”

Laura looked around at the art above the dining room table.

“Two years ago, I would have,” Laura said thoughtfully. “But Jackson changed things. I’m…less angry, I guess. You hurt me, a lot. You hurt me and Mom—put us through a lot of mess. You made Mom so angry, for so long, that she doesn’t even like to talk about it anymore.”

Frank didn’t know what to say.

“And you hurt me,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “You were never there near the end, like you said, but I remember a time before, when we were close. We talked and had fun, and you and Mom and me used to go places. I remember a trip to Six Flags. Do you remember that trip?”

He nodded. He wasn’t sure of the year, but he remembered the trip. The park was east of New Orleans, out near the Bayou Savage. It had been a good day—roller coaster rides and laughing on the merry-go-round. Amusement park food, greasy and wonderful.

“Yes, I remember,” he said.

She nodded. “That was a good day. Things were okay. But then you got more and more into work, and things got bad between you and Mom. Fights, arguing. And then Katrina came, and you changed. You were different, and Mom was different, and everything fell apart. Just like the park.”

He looked up at her.

“What do you mean?”

Laura laughed. “You don’t know about it? That Six Flags is famous—the park was flooded during Katrina and abandoned afterward. There are pictures all over the Internet from people who have snuck in there in the years since. Creepy broken rides, tall weeds grown up through the boardwalks, rusted clown faces. Now, it looks like the set of a horror movie. I think it’s more famous now than it was before, when it was open.”

Frank didn’t know what to say. He still had fond memories of that park, and he’d been there many times. He didn’t want to think about it abandoned, moldering into the ground.

“But people make mistakes, and things get screwed up,” Laura continued. “That was my point. Look at me and Kyle. We went through a lot, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it, other than Jackson and a box of photos. And a lot of bad memories. That’s one of the things I had to figure out—people make mistakes, even parents.”

Frank nodded, not wanting to interrupt her, now that she was talking.

“You know,” she continued. “The whole time you’re growing up, these people seem like rocks of stability. Your parents and other ‘grown-ups.’ And then, at some point, you figure it out: they’re just people. Fallible, thick-headed. Even petty. It’s a difficult realization, but freeing at the same time.”

Frank didn’t know what to say. His little girl had turned out to be a thinker. He’d always known she was good in school, smart. But this was a whole new level of insight, brought on by careful thought and experience. Brought on by time and introspection and maturity.

“You seem surprised,” she said, smiling.

“I guess I am,” Frank said, picking up his coffee and sipping at it again. “You just seem so…grown up.”

She nodded. “Yeah. That happens.”

Frank smiled and looked around at Jackson’s drawings.

“I can’t believe he’s four,” Frank said.

Laura nodded and grabbed another cookie. She sat back in the chair and folded her legs up underneath her.

 “They have him in the three-times-a-week class,” Laura said. It’s more than I can afford, really. I’ll have to figure out what to do next semester. But the schedule works really well with my job—lets me pick up extra shifts and appointments.”

Laura was still staring at her son’s picture.

 “I’m glad he’s at school,” she said quietly. “It makes me feel safer. Every parent in town is freaking out because of the kidnapping. At least they haven’t canceled school.”

Frank frowned. He’d figured this would come up

“The missing girls?” he asked. “I’ve heard about it. I’m sure they’ll find them.”

Laura looked at him, her eyes shiny.

“You’re sure?” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “The girls were snatched on the way to school, right in broad daylight. Just a few blocks from here. And nobody saw a thing. A few of the parents are keeping their kids home.”

“Most of the times, these situations turn out OK,” Frank lied. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he didn’t like—

 “You worked a bunch of kidnappings, right?” she asked, looking at him. “How many came out OK?” Her eyes were so sharp, eyes like Trudy’s, boring into him.

He couldn’t look away and nodded slowly.

 “OK, look, I’m not going to lie to you,” Frank said. “There’s been enough of that, and I’m looking for a fresh start. I’ll tell you straight up, if that’s what you’re asking. Are you?”