Blood Red (26 page)

 

Chapter 13

B
ack home after dropping Mick at work, Rowan goes straight upstairs to retrieve the box containing the snow globe. When Mick startled her earlier, she'd dashed up the stairs and stashed it in the hall bathroom hamper beneath a pile of dirty clothes.

Again, she looks at the Polly Pocket dolls glued inside the jar.

Is it possible?

She carries the snow globe out into the hall, past her sons' bedrooms. Mick's door is closed, as always, to hide the mess and protect his teenage sanctuary. Braden's door is open and the room is tidy—­but it would have been that way even when he was Mick's age.

How can brothers born of the same gene pool into the same household be so drastically different?

Her own mother must have wondered the same thing about her and Noreen.

Struck by a familiar longing for the woman who'd been yanked from her life far too soon, and for her father—­not to mention for her firstborn son, and her daughter—­Rowan feels as though most of her adult life has been spent missing the ­people she loves. Just when you think you've moved past one loss, bam! Another one takes its place.

But eventually, you figure out how to survive without that person, and maybe you hold on a little tighter to the ones who are left.

When Braden first left for college, she couldn't walk by his empty room without sobbing. She kept the door closed and avoided it until he came home the following May with a heap of clothes and dorm room accessories that seemed to have quadrupled over the course of two semesters. When he left again the following fall, she missed him terribly all over again, but was nonetheless relieved to see the pile of stuff evaporate. She took advantage of his absence to paint the walls, update the bedding, and create space in his desk drawers for some of her school files.

Katie's departure last August brought another momentary wave of grief, but Rowan got over it quickly enough to move part of her accumulated wardrobe to her daughter's half-­empty closet and stash some of her books on built-­in shelves left barren in Katie's absence. She's been in and out of the room often enough these past few months to feel that she isn't violating her daughter's privacy as she crosses the threshold now.

Dusk is falling beyond the tall, lace-­curtained windows that overlook the street. She flips the overhead light switch. It throws a bright yellow glare over the room. She quickly turns it off again, feeling oddly exposed and reaching instead for the bedside lamp.

There. That's better. Now the girly bedroom, decorated in pastel shades of green and lavender, is bathed in warm light, a sharp contrast with how she's feeling inside. The moment she saw that snow globe, a chill snaked through her and withered every glimmer of contentment she'd experienced on the drive home from school.

Talking to Noreen had helped a little, but her sister doesn't seem to grasp the gravity of this situation, and why would she? To her, it's ancient history.

Rowan drags Katie's desk chair over to the closet. Built on a swivel, the seat jerks back and forth beneath her weight as she climbs on it to retrieve a clear plastic bin from the top shelf.

Super-­organized Katie keeps her belongings sorted and labeled. In some ways, she's cut from the same cloth as Aunt Noreen.

And Mick . . . poor Mick is so much like me.

The conversation in the car had left her worried. There were so many things she wanted to say to her son; so many things she probably should have said to him long before now.

She'd been so determined to put her troubled teen years behind her that she hadn't shared many details with the kids. Now she realizes that it might help Mick to know she gets it, gets him. That she knows exactly what it's like to do . . .

Something I wouldn't have done if I'd stopped to think.

Mick's words, but they could have been her own, thirty years ago and fourteen years ago.

She won't confess the most sordid sins of her past, but she'll share what she can and suggest that they find a therapist for him. Armed with a diagnosis, medication and therapy, he can turn things around now, while he's still young. Before he makes a reckless mistake that will have more serious repercussions than a friend's cold shoulder.

Ah, there it is—­the bin marked in pink Sharpie:
Polly Pocket, Hello Kitty, & Barbie
. As she goes through the contents, she lays the entire collection of Polly Pocket dolls out on the lavender patchwork quilt. They're neatly organized in Ziploc bags individually marked with each doll's name and clothing and accessories. It looks like Katie kept them all.

All except two?

Rowan isn't sure whether her daughter ever owned the little redheaded doll glued inside the homemade snow globe, but she's a hundred percent certain about the male.

She goes through the box three times, just to be sure.

Yes.

The Rick doll is missing.

B
eyond the screen walls of Bob Belinke's Florida room, the insect and amphibian chorus has taken up its nightly serenade. A gentle evening breeze stirs the palm fronds.

Ah, home.

He's been back for a few hours now—­long enough to change into shorts and flip-­flops, go through the pile of accumulated mail, and notice that there's nothing in the fridge fit for consumption.

He has yet to do anything about that, but is planning to head over to Publix as soon as he gets ahold of Rick, who never did reply to his text this morning or the voice mail he left when he landed in Tampa.

When he didn't pick up the phone then, Bob was slightly worried. When Rick doesn't pick up now, he decides to do something about it.

He goes into the house, sits down at the computer, and pulls up an e-­mail from last winter. It was from Rick, and it lists all four of his kids' addresses. Bob had asked for their contact information after Vanessa died so that he could send individual condolences for the loss of their mother, since none of them was living with Rick at the time.

He sent four cards, writing messages telling every one of the kids that he would be there for them if they ever needed anything. He included his contact information. He heard back from the two oldest, Rick's stepsons. They thanked him for his concern. The younger kids, both in college, didn't respond.

The family might be fractured in the wake of Vanessa's suicide, but they need each other's support if they're going to heal.

Using the addresses of Rick's stepsons, Bob manages to locate phone numbers for both. Rick wouldn't be thrilled that Bob's reaching out to the kids directly, but it's for his own good.

That's what friends are for.

“M
ick, have you talked to Brianna today?” Gina asks when he walks into the restaurant kitchen, wearing her telltale bursting-­with-­news expression.

His heart immediately starts pounding. Old Jiffy Pop may be privy to just about everything that goes on around here, but she can't possibly know he's Brianna's Secret Santa.

“No, why?” he asks as casually as possible.

“She didn't show up for work, and my mom can't get ahold of her.”

“Oh well, she's sick,” Mick tells her above the clatter of pots and pans, running water, and sizzling food. “She wasn't in school today.”

“Then she should have called my mom. Now we're totally short-­handed and there's a birthday party coming in with fifteen ­people in twenty minutes.”

“Well, maybe she's feeling better. Your mom should call and—­”

“She tried. Brianna's not picking up her cell phone and no one is answering at her house. Obviously she's not really home sick.”

Mick's instinct is to snap at her, but remembering what happened with Zach—­who barely greeted him when he walked into the restaurant a few minutes ago—­he says only, “She's probably sleeping or plugged into headphones. Happens all the time in my house.”

Shaking her head and emitting sounds that may or may not be actual words, Gina grabs her order pad and heads back out into the dining room.

As Mick rolls silverware and steak knives into cloth napkins, he hopes Brianna isn't so sick she had to go to the doctor—­or the hospital, even. She seemed fine last night, though.

Maybe she really is playing hooky. Maybe she snuck off to a Hadley dorm to be with her college boyfriend or something.

Disturbed by the thought of that, he fumbles the cutlery and drops a steak knife onto the floor. He starts to bend over and pick it up, but someone gets there first.

If this were a romantic movie, Mick thinks, it would be Brianna handing him the knife, and their hands would brush and they'd look into each other's eyes.

But it isn't a movie, and it's Zach who hands him the knife that just dropped at his feet. “Hey, Lou—­you missed.”

“What?” Startled, Mick looks from the knife in his hand to Zach's face and sees that he's smiling.

“If you're gonna get rid of me, you're gonna need better aim, see?” Zach the wiseguy is back. “And you might wanna wait till there are no witnesses, or it's gonna get messy. Capiche?”

“Capiche. Thanks, Lou.” Mick grins and takes the knife from him, glad that at least something is going his way today.

S
itting in her study, trying to make sense of what's gone on in her life, Rowan can't stop thinking about the carnival that came to Mundy's Landing every summer when she was growing up. For one long weekend in June, an ordinary grassy field out on Colonial Highway would burst to life with crowds and commotion and color.

In the early 1900s, an amusement park midway had stood on that spot. In her childhood, you could still see faint ruts in the grass where the penny arcade had been, and rotting wood and pilings from the old boardwalk and pier. Back in the woods, there were other ruins belonging to the park, and the picnic grove structures and a stone storage building remained intact, albeit covered by graffiti.

In those days, there was talk of bringing a new theme park to the site, but it never happened. Wistful kids of her generation made do with the traveling carnival—­and her own wistful kids didn't even have that.

Too bad. Even when she was very young, Rowan relished the fleeting danger and decadence of it all: food stands dishing up deep-­fried, spun-­sugared, gooey confections; barkers convincing you to try your luck at games that were impossible to win; wanton rides that rattled and shook, flashing lights and blaring music as they hurtled you into the sky or twirled you so fast that your brain rattled.

Noreen always got sick on rides, even the carousel, but not Rowan. She loved them. The higher, the faster, the scarier, the better.

The barrel-­shaped Gravitron was her favorite. She rode it over and over, standing with her back against its padded interior wall as the ride began to spin, picking up speed, until the floor abruptly dropped out from beneath her feet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she always expected to fall, but of course she never did, safely pinned to the wall by centrifugal force.

It's been years since she's even seen a Gravitron.

But today, she feels like an unwilling rider, her back against the wall as the world spins crazily.

And you know what's coming, don't you?

You know that any minute, the bottom is going to drop out.

T
he moment Rowan's first text message appeared this afternoon, Casey knew the snow globe must have arrived at last. Of course, she didn't mention it directly. But it was clear she was in distress.

Mission accomplished.

Does she realize that the miniature dolls inside the globe came from a box in her daughter's own bedroom? Casey found them there while browsing a month or two ago and knew that they'd be perfect.

Even if Rowan missed that connection, surely she knows that her secret is in jeopardy. Too bad she doesn't yet realize that her life is as well.

Maybe the gifts shouldn't have been quite so . . . benign. Maybe she should be made aware that this is life and death. It's not turning out to be nearly as much fun to imagine her squirming with discomfort as it would be to terrify her. The wait that promised to be so tantalizing has grown tedious.

Casey read online that the NYPD confirmed Julia Sexton's identity a little while ago. There was a teaser for the story at the top of the evening newscast. Sitting in front of the television in anticipation, especially on the heels of Rowan's text, Casey can't stop glancing over at the razor blade in the drying rack beside the sink. It might as well be flashing a neon beacon.

I'm bored. That's the problem. I need something else to do. Something constructive, to keep my mind and my hands occupied like when I made those little gifts for Rowan, and the time capsule scrapbooks, too.

I always was artistic. Too bad I never got to put my creativity to good use until lately.

Maybe Casey should become an artisan of some sort when this is all over. A sculptor or a painter, creating masterpieces that will hang on museum walls all over the world . . .

That might make up for the fact that I'll never get to take credit for this magnum opus.

The newscast is back from commercial with a chalk outline graphic. This is it. The shot of the news desk gives way to a reporter standing on the street outside a familiar Chelsea apartment building fronted by a grid of fire escapes.

Too bad I didn't get to climb them
, Casey thinks, turning up the volume and leaning forward eagerly.
Rapunzel made it too easy for me. That's why I'm so tempted to get careless.

Even the girl this morning made it easy.

“The victim in Saturday night's homicide case has been identified as Julia Sexton, a young singer-­songwriter who, like many, came to New York City with dreams of stardom . . .”

It wasn't Saturday night, Casey thinks critically. It was Sunday morning. Sunday, bloody Sunday. Even the media can't get it right.