Animosity (7 page)

“Hard at work on a new one, huh? What’s this one called?”

“
A Feast of Souls
.”

“
A Feast of Souls,
” Ben said. “Classy.”

I slowed, unsure whether or not I had detected a hint of sarcasm in my neighbor’s tone.

“If it’s all the same to you, my friend,” he said, “I think I’ll stick with my Tom Clancy novels.”

I nodded, but did not respond. I just continued on, slump-shouldered, toward home. I stared at my feet as I walked.

“Hey, Andy?” Ben called after me again, as I stepped off of his property and onto mine.

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way, okay? But at a time like this, I can’t help thinking maybe Oliver Goldsmith was right…”

I swallowed a sick taste in my mouth. Waited for it.

“ ‘
Do not let us make imaginary evils,
’ ” Ben quoted, “ ‘
when we have so many real ones to encounter
.’ ”

I stopped in my tracks. Turned. Glared up at my neighbor.

“No offense, Andy,” he said, from the shadows of his front porch. “I’m just saying… with everything that’s happened…”

“No offense taken, Ben,” I lied.

I left him standing there.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the two men across the street watching my every move as well. One of them mumbled something to the other, and that was followed by a low, mean chuckle.

“Talk to you later, Andy,” Ben Souther said, as I stomped up my front steps. “Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

A kind, accommodating, but still inhuman computer voice:
“YOU HAVE…
THIRTEEN…
NEW MESSAGES. LISTEN TO ALL MESSAGES NOW?”

YES.

***

BEEEEEP.

“
FIRST MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 10:57 A.M.”

“Andy? Ben. Jesus, I just heard. Jesus. Call me. I need to know you’re okay. Or just come on over. I’ll be home all day.”

BEEEEEP.

“
SECOND MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 1:00 P.M.”

“Andy. Joe Tuttle here. Umm… Eileen and I were just wondering what in the world’s going on over there. We heard about what happened and… my God, I don’t know what to say, man. We’ll be stepping out for a late lunch in a few, but we’ll be back around three. Give us a ring.”

BEEEEEP.

“
THIRD MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 2:22 P.M.”

“Andy, it’s Mona. Are you all right? Gosh, I… I heard about that little girl, and… my dear Lord, this is too terrible to comprehend. You know where I live if you need to talk to anyone, okay? Okay. Ta-ta for now, Andy.”

BEEEEEP.

“
FOURTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 3:10 P.M.:

“Hi, Mr. Holland. This is Staci Gayle-Mathis, with the WKLS Channel 10 Evening News? I regret we missed you this morning. I would like to talk to you about a possible interview, when you have the time. Could you please give me a call at your earliest convenience? 555-8345. Thank you.”

BEEEEEP.

“
FIFTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 4:04 P.M.”

“Hello, Mr. Holland. My name is James Melnath. Mr. Holland, I’m writing an article about the Rebecca Lanning murder for tomorrow’s edition of the
Harris City Tribune,
and if possible I would like to ask you a few questions. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes of your time. If you could call me at 555-4777, that would be great. Again, that’s 555-4777. Ask for Jim. Thanks!”

BEEEEEP.

“
SIXTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 5:14 P.M.”

“Mr. Writer Fella. Sal Friedman here. Yeesh, I hate talking to these goddamn machines. You have no idea. But, hey, uh… I heard about what happened. Sweet Mother Mary, it’s hard to believe something like this could happen here. Anyway… give me a ring when you get a chance, will ya? That’s all.”

BEEEEEP.

“
SEVENTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:07 P.M.”

“Andy? Ben. Are you there? Sorry to bother you again, but… we need to chat, man. Really. Drop by tomorrow morning. We’ll have a beer.”

BEEEEEP.

“
EIGHTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:13 P.M.”

“Did I mention I hate talking to a machine? Christ. You really should turn on the news, Mr. Writer Fella.”

BEEEEEP.

“
NINTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 6:36 P.M.”

“Andrew? What in the world is going on over there? God. I just heard. I can’t believe it. That poor little girl. Is it true you found her—what? Sam, honey, no. Hold on a sec, can’t you see I’m on the phone? Yes, it’s your father. No, it’s just his voice-mail. Andy, I have to go. Sam, turn off the television. I don’t know why he’s on the news. Of course everything’s okay, baby, he’s just—”

BEEEEEP.

“
TENTH MESSAGE—YESTERDAY, 7:09 P.M.”

“Andy? Mona again. I was watching the news tonight, and I’m awfully disturbed by some of the things they’re insinuating. It’s almost as if… gosh, I can’t even repeat it, it’s so dreadful. I hope you’re well, dear. Please,
please
give me a call. Ta-ta.”

BEEEEEP.

“
ELEVENTH MESSAGE—TODAY, 7:46 A.M.”

“Andy? Ben. You up yet? Check out this morning’s
Tribune
.”

BEEEEEP.

“
TWELFTH MESSAGE—TODAY, 8:14 A.M.”

“—know where the hell he is, Francine, but I think it’s about damn time we got some answers, don’t you? He can’t expect the rest of us to sit around whil—oh, uhh, hello? Holland? Hello? Um… ah, screw it.”

BEEEEEP.

“
THIRTEENTH MESSAGE. TODAY, 8:21 A.M.”

“Mr. Writer Fella? You read the paper yet? This isn’t good at all, my friend. This isn’t good at all…”

BEEEEEEEEEEP.

***

“
CONFIRM: ERASE ALL MAIL MESSAGES?”

YES.

I could wait no longer. I had to speak with my daughter. Even if it meant calling Karen, interrupting her wonderful weekend on Lake Jocassee in Jason Burke’s precious love boat.

“Andy!” Karen exclaimed as soon as she picked up. “I tried to call you a hundred times last night, but you never answered your phone. I tried the land-line and your cell. My God… are you okay?”

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I heard genuine concern in her tone. For me. Something about that made me even more depressed.

In the background, on her end of the line, I could hear my ex-wife’s new fiancé saying something about “catching a whopper.” Beneath that: Fleetwood Mac singing “Little Lies” on a tinny radio… the lonely call of a loon… the
slosh-slap
rhythm of the lake against the hull of the
S.S. HOMEWRECKER
…

. . . and a child’s sweet, sweet laughter.

An invisible fist gripped my heart. Squeezed.

Karen said, “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. To be the one who found her…”

“It was awful, Karen,” I said. “I’ll never forget the sight of that little girl… lying there… as long as I live.”

“How in the world did you find her?”

Briefly, I filled her in on the details of my ill-fated walk with Norman.

“Jesus, Andy. I don’t know what to say. Are you… I hope you’re okay?”

“I will be,” I said. “It’s that poor child’s family I’m worried about.”

Neither of us said anything for one long, awkward minute or so. I knew we were thinking the same thing, though:
What if it had been our daughter? What if some sick fuck had hurt Samantha?
How would we ever begin to cope with such a thing?

Finally, Karen said, “I’m sorry, Andy. I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

“No, I mean it. I’m
sorry
.”

“Me too.”

She sighed. Sounded as if she were about to say something else, but then her next words died on her lips. I imagined my ex-wife twirling a lock of her wavy brown hair around one finger, like she always did when she was feeling stressed. I wondered if she was wearing her bright blue bikini with the little black turtles on it, the one that had always been my favorite and hers too ’cause she said the way I stared at her when she wore that bikini was the same way I had stared at her when we first started dating.

Instantly I forced such thoughts from my mind, for down that road lay… well, things I didn’t care to think about.

Like whether or not it was
his
favorite bikini, too.

As if on cue, I heard the captain of the
S.S. INFIDELITY
whisper in the background, “Babe? Who is it? Is everything okay?”

“It’s Andy,” she told him.

“Oh.”

I bit my tongue. Almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Karen?” I said.

“Hmm?”

“You know I don’t watch TV,” I said. “Hardly ever. But tell me the truth…”

“Okay.”

“Do I even want to know what they said on the news last night?”

Her silence was enough to answer my question.

“How bad was it?” I groaned.

“It was bad, Andy. Pretty bad.”

“Shit.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise. But that poor child wasn’t even the focus of the story. Not really. It was… you. And what you do for a living.”

“Shit,” I said again.

“ ‘Local author of the macabre discovers real-life horror practically in his own back yard,’ ” Karen recited. “Or some such nonsense.”

“God damn it.”

“I know. I was furious.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And the other thing?” I already knew the answer from my conversation with Ben Souther, but I asked it anyway. “The thing on my record?”

“They mentioned that too. Once or twice.”

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Ran one hand through my sweat-soaked hair.

Meanwhile, from the sounds of it, Samantha was having the time of her eleven-year-old life aboard the
S.S. TAKE-MY-WIFE-PLEASE
. In the background I could hear the long, ratcheting
click-whirrrrr
of a fishing line being cast into Lake Jocassee, a distant splash…

And more ecstatic giggles.

My daughter’s laughter was the greatest sound in the world. It warmed my soul like beautiful music. Lifted my spirits like a drug. Yet, at the same time, it filled me with the most heartrending regret I had ever known. Sam might as well have been a million miles away, on another planet. And she sounded so happy there. Had she ever been that happy with
me,
I wondered? Had either of them? I tried to remember the last time my ex-wife
or
my daughter had sounded so carefree—so full of bliss—when we were together. Had I neglected my family by focusing first and foremost on my career, by fretting endlessly over this deadline or that contractual obligation? Writing is such a solitary job, after all. What if I had pushed them
both
away—first Karen, and now my little girl?

No.
Please, God,
I prayed,
don’t let that be true.

Choking back a sob, I said, “Can I… may I talk to Sam now, please?”

“Of course you can,” Karen replied. “Hold on a second.”

I sniffled softly as I waited to hear my daughter’s voice. Dried my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Sam, honey?” Karen said. “It’s your father.”

“Yay!” I heard Sam exclaim. “Dad!”

The metallic clatter of a fishing pole, dropped and forgotten. Hurried footsteps across fancy hardwood deck.

“How is he holding up?” I heard Jason Burke ask Karen, as if he might suddenly cease to exist if she didn’t tell him my business right this second. And I could tell by their hushed conversation that she wasted no time obliging the prick.

But I did not care at all about that once my daughter came on the line. At the sound of her voice, I smiled wider than I would have ever thought possible.

“Hi, Dad!” Samantha said, coming through loud and clear. She always thought she had to yell to be heard on her mother’s cell phone.

“Hey, baby!” I said. “How are you?”

“Fine. Jason was just showing me how to cast a line. He says I’m a born fisherwoman!”