Scar Tissue (9 page)
“I know. But as far as I know, the only person Jake might've wanted to kill was himself.”
“How did Jake and Sprague get along?”
“Get along? Like would Jake want to shoot him?” She laughed quickly. “They got along great. Jake liked Ed. Respected what he did. He coached Brian's soccer team. He was a good coach. The kids had fun playing for him. Ed really cared about kids. Jake appreciated that.”
“That morning,” I said. “Sunday. The day he left. Was anything different?”
“Different?”
“Did he mention Sprague?”
She shook her head.
“Did Jake say or do anything unusual? Anything that might explain whyâ?”
“Why he left?” She shrugged. “Not really. He went upstairs, and when he came back down he had a suitcase. Said he was leaving, and he left.”
“Did he seem angry?”
“No. Sad, distracted, maybe. Depressed, I guess. We both were. But no, not angry.”
“He stayed in Brian's room longer than he usually did, you said.”
She shrugged. “It seemed like it.”
“And you saw him lying on the bed.”
“So?”
“I don't know.”
“Before he went upstairs, did you have any sense that something was different?”
“No.”
“Something bothering him? Other than ⦔ I waved my hand.
She shook her head.
“So something happened upstairs.”
“What could happen?”
“I don't know. Something to make him decide to leave.”
“I assume he just got the idea he wanted to leave, that's all. He thought of it, and he lay down on the bed to think about it some more, and then he decided to do it.”
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe he'd been thinking about it for a while.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But if he had been, I didn't have a clue. I still don't. Not a clue.”
While we were talking I finished my burger and Sharon emptied her wineglass. She hadn't touched her salad. The waitress appeared and asked us if we were finished. Sharon waved the back of her hand for the waitress to take away her salad and asked for another glass of wine. I asked for more coffee.
“I'm drinking too much,” Sharon said after the waitress left.
“Is it helping?”
“Yes.”
The waitress brought Sharon's wine and my coffee, and we lapsed into a silence that was not uncomfortable. I drank my coffee and smoked a couple of cigarettes, and Sharon sipped her wine. She kept touching the condensation on the outside of the glass, staring down into it, and I watched her, thinking how young and pretty she looked, too damn young to have to endure the sudden death of her only child and the strange disappearance of her husband, who was now a murder suspect.
When we slid out of the booth to leave, she grabbed my arm. “Geez,” she said. “I maybe shouldn't've had that last glass of wine.”
I helped her into her jacket, and she held on to my arm as we walked out.
“I'll drive you home,” I said.
“I'm okay.”
“Humor me, okay?”
She looked up at me and nodded. “What am I thinking? I'm not okay. Actually, I'm a little drunk. You're right.”
“You must have a neighbor who'll bring you back for your car later.”
“Sure. I've got lots of friends.”
I unlocked the door to my car for her and held her elbow while she got in. Then I went around to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel.
Sharon huddled against the door with her chin down on her chest. “I don't know if I can do this anymore,” she mumbled.
“It's going to be okay,” I said.
She turned her face away and looked out the side window. “You think so?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I'm sure of it.”
I
t took about ten minutes to drive from the restaurant to Sharon's house. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and went around to open the door for her. She reached out her arm, and I took it to help her out. She leaned against me. “Don't let go,” she said. “I'm feeling kinda woozy.”
t took about ten minutes to drive from the restaurant to Sharon's house. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and went around to open the door for her. She reached out her arm, and I took it to help her out. She leaned against me. “Don't let go,” she said. “I'm feeling kinda woozy.”
I helped her up the sidewalk and into the house. She went into the living room, dropped her jacket on the floor, and flopped onto the sofa. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
“I better make some coffee,” I said.
“Good idea.”
I went into the kitchen and got a pot brewing. Then I went back into the living room. “It'll be ready in a few minutes,” I said.
Sharon nodded. She was lying on her back with her arm across her forehead. Her eyes were closed.
“Would you mind if I went up to Brian's room?” I said.
She waved her hand, then let it fall. “Go ahead.”
“I'll be right back,” I said.
Brian's bedroom was at the end of a short hallway. I opened the door and stood there in the doorway, overwhelmed for a moment by the realization that the boy who had slept virtually every night of his life in this room would never come back.
It had a sloping ceiling with two large windows looking out onto the backyard. A desk with a laptop computer and a
printer, a chest of drawers, a wall-size bookcase, a twin bed, a bedside table, and a stereo system on a table against one wall. A collection of CDs was stacked under it. A big steamer trunk sat at the foot of the bed.
printer, a chest of drawers, a wall-size bookcase, a twin bed, a bedside table, and a stereo system on a table against one wall. A collection of CDs was stacked under it. A big steamer trunk sat at the foot of the bed.
I knew what teenage boys' bedrooms looked like, and Brian's would've fooled me. No Jockey shorts or athletic socks lying on the floor, no torn posters of Twisted Sister or Michael Jordan or the Patriots cheerleaders on the walls, no baseball gloves or basketballs or skis or hockey sticks strewn around. Brian's room was neat and uncluttered, almost sterile.
In fact, the only indication that the room had been lived in was the pillow on the bed, which had a head-shaped dent in the middle of it. The head had been Jake's.
I opened the closet. Pairs of shoes, boots, and sneakers were lined up on the floor. Shirts and jackets and pants hung precisely on hangersâjackets on the right, shirts in the middle, pants on the left. Sweaters and sweatshirts, neatly folded, were stacked on the shelf.
I didn't know what I was looking for.
The chest of drawers held boxer shorts and socks and handkerchiefs and T-shirts. There were pencils and paper clips and rubber bands in the single desk drawer.
Brian's CD collection featured artists like Smashing Pumpkins, Rage Against the Machine, Jewel, and Janet Jackson, although there were a few by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Fleetwood Mac, too.
I studied the books in the bookcase. A completely eclectic collectionâpaperback mysteries and Westerns and sci-fi, some Hemingway and J. D. Salinger and Stephen King, a set of World Book encyclopedias, an atlas, a dictionary.
What had Jake seen that sent him off?
The steamer trunk at the foot of the bed was secured with a combination lock. When I knelt down to look at it, I saw that the rivets holding the latch were missing. I flipped the latch with my finger and the whole thingâlock and latchâlifted away.
Jake, I thought. Jake had jimmied it open.
If a boy had any secretsâand every boy has secretsâa locked trunk would be a logical place in which to keep them.
I imagined how it had been for Jake. Every time he came into Brian's room he saw this trunk, wondered what private stuff his son had kept locked in it, what the contents of this trunk might tell him about his dead boy, and he had to force himself to resist the temptation to pry it open.
He'd think about that trunk and the secrets it might reveal. It would haunt him. His son was dead. They hadn't known each other very well. At least that's how Jake saw it. And it was driving him crazy.
Finally he couldn't resist. He'd popped the rivets, forced it open, and lifted the lid. And when he did, he found something that caused him to pack a bag and move to a motel on Route Nine in Framingham, and that, in turn, had resulted in the execution of the local chief of police. Maybe at Jake's hand.
Far-fetched, Coyne.
Maybe not.
I lifted the lid of the trunk.
Blankets.
On top was a patchwork quilt. I took it out and put it on the floor. Under it was a brown Army blanket. I took it out, too. Another blanket, this one blue, and under it a crocheted afghan.
That was all.
I stared into the empty trunk, sat back on my heels, then looked in again. The bottom was a solid sheet of plywood. I tapped it with my knuckle. It made a hollow sound. I estimated the depth of the trunk from the inside, then looked at it from the outside. It looked like there was a space of three or four inches between that sheet of plywood and the bottom of the trunk.
I fished out my Buck pocket knife, slid the blade along the edge of the false bottom, and pried it up. It was quarter-inch plywood, and it wasn't nailed down. I got a finger under it and took it out.
Then I saw what Jake had seen.
At first I thought it was just a couple of handfuls of torn green-and-white paper. I scooped some up in my palm and looked closer.
It was money. Bills. United States currency. They'd been torn into scraps the size of postage stamps. Mostly tens and twenties.
It was impossible to tell how much ripped-up money was in the secret compartment at the bottom of Brian Gold's trunk. A few hundred, anyway.
What did it mean?
Jake had found this currency confetti and had asked the same question.
His answer had sent him to King's Motel in Framingham.
I shook my head. I was overreacting.
I put the money scraps back, then the plywood, then the blankets. Then I closed the lid the way I had found it and went back downstairs.
Sharon had rolled onto her side with her face pressed against the back of the sofa. She had kicked off her shoes and drawn her knees up to her chest. Her skirt had ridden up high on her slender legs. Her cheek rested on her hands and she was snoring quietly. She looked peaceful and vulnerable and young.
An afghan similar to the one in Brian's trunk was folded over the back of the sofa. I spread it over Sharon and tucked it around her.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee lured me to the kitchen. I poured myself a mugful and sat at the table.
Little gangs of titmice and chickadees and nuthatches were taking polite turns plucking sunflower seeds from the bird feeder that hung over the back deck. I watched them eat while the shadows lengthened in the Golds' backyard, and I sipped my coffee and waited for Sharon to wake up.
W
hen I first came downstairs from Brian's room, I was eager to ask Sharon about the ripped-up money I'd found in the trunk. But the more I thought about it, the less I wanted to mention it to her. She'd insist on knowing what I suspected, how it explained Brian's accident, what it had to do with Jake's sudden departure, how it could be connected to Ed Sprague's murder.
hen I first came downstairs from Brian's room, I was eager to ask Sharon about the ripped-up money I'd found in the trunk. But the more I thought about it, the less I wanted to mention it to her. She'd insist on knowing what I suspected, how it explained Brian's accident, what it had to do with Jake's sudden departure, how it could be connected to Ed Sprague's murder.
I had no answers for her. It would only upset her and she'd start imagining terrible scenarios. She didn't need that.
I decided not to leave Sharon alone while she was still sleeping. I thought it would be better if someone was there when she woke up. Afternoon napsâespecially those induced from drinking too much white wine on an empty stomachâcan be disorienting and depressing in the best of times. But crawling up out of some vivid nightmare late on a Friday afternoon and finding yourself alone in a dark, silent, empty house when your only child has been killed and your husband has disappeared and the police are looking for him, suspecting him of murder, and with a long lonely weekend facing you ⦠I couldn't let that happen to Sharon.
I figured it would be better if I was there with a mug of coffee and a smile for her when she woke up.
I kept going into the living room to check on her. This was no fitful nap. This was deep, sound sleep. Aside from the soft burble of her slow breathing and the faint rise and fall of her chest under the afghan, she wasn't moving. I figured she hadn't been getting much sleep lately.
At quarter of five she'd been asleep for nearly two hours and was showing no signs of waking up. I used the kitchen phone to call Evie's office.
“Glad I caught you,” I said when she answered.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Long story,” I said. “Wanted you to know that I'm tied up here and don't know when I'll be able to make it.”
“Where's here?”
“Reddington.”
“Snooping, huh?”
“Sort of. Things have been happening. I'll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling.”
“I'll come over when I'm done here.”
“No,” she said, “that's all right. I'm totally wiped. Long day, long week, you know?”
“Honeyâ”
“All I want to do is go home, soak in a bubble bath, and go to bed. You do what you've gotta do.”
“I'll probably be done here in an hour or two.”
“Why don't you call me tomorrow?”
“Well, okay.” I hesitated. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine.”
“I meanâ”
“Brady, really,” she said, “I'm very busy, and I just wanna get out of here. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Right,” I said. “Have a nice evening, then.”
“I expect I will. You, too.”
When I was an adolescent, I had no problem understanding
women. My friends and I firmly believed that girls' moods were entirely explained by their menstrual cycles. If a girl was grouchy or teary or otherwise unfathomable, it was because it was her “time of the month.” The girls did nothing to disabuse us of this idea. They used funny euphemisms like “I got the curse,” or, “I fell off the roof.”
women. My friends and I firmly believed that girls' moods were entirely explained by their menstrual cycles. If a girl was grouchy or teary or otherwise unfathomable, it was because it was her “time of the month.” The girls did nothing to disabuse us of this idea. They used funny euphemisms like “I got the curse,” or, “I fell off the roof.”
Over the years, I've gradually learned that it's far more complicated than that. Now the only thing I understand about women is that I do not, can not, and never will understand what makes them tick, and if it's hormones, that's no help whatsoever, so there's no sense in trying.
I suppose that's progress.
I sat there at Sharon's kitchen table drinking coffee and trying not to decipher Evie's mood while darkness seeped into the backyard and the birds went to bed. After a while I turned on some lights and got another pot of coffee brewing.
It was close to seven o'clock when I heard Sharon mumble from the living room. I poured a mug of coffee and brought it in to her.
She was sitting up on the sofa. The afghan was still wrapped around her.
“Hi,” I said.
She rubbed her face, then stretched. “Hi, yourself,” she said softly.
“Here.” I handed her the coffee. “Careful. It's hot.”
She took the mug and held it in both hands. “Thank you.” She bent her head to it and took a sip. “What time is it?”
“About seven.”
“God,” she said. “I haven't slept that well since ⦔
“I guess you needed it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I did.” She patted the sofa beside her. “Sit with me, Brady.”
I sat beside her.
She sat in the corner of the sofa wrapped in her afghan with her legs tucked under her. “I dreamed that I was lying here and Brian and Jake walked in,” she said. “They were coming home
from soccer practice. In my dream, Jake was the coach, and he and Brian were laughing and punching each other on the shoulder, and I was feeling terribly guilty that I didn't have any dinner ready for them, and ⦔ She looked at me with big glittery eyes. “And I forget the rest of it. Maybe that was it. The entire dream. But I was thinking, âOh, Brian's still alive after all. The accident, it didn't happen. And Jake's back, too. They're both here, and everything's fine.' It was such aâa relief, Brady. I was so happy in my dream. And just now, when I woke up, for a minute there I was
still
happy.”
from soccer practice. In my dream, Jake was the coach, and he and Brian were laughing and punching each other on the shoulder, and I was feeling terribly guilty that I didn't have any dinner ready for them, and ⦔ She looked at me with big glittery eyes. “And I forget the rest of it. Maybe that was it. The entire dream. But I was thinking, âOh, Brian's still alive after all. The accident, it didn't happen. And Jake's back, too. They're both here, and everything's fine.' It was such aâa relief, Brady. I was so happy in my dream. And just now, when I woke up, for a minute there I was
still
happy.”
I just nodded. There was nothing to say.
“It was better than the other dream I've been having,” she said.
“Sharonâ”
“In that one, I'm standing outside some building. It's like in a city, and there's all this traffic wooshing past right behind me, and there's a big plate-glass window, and Brian's inside the building, and he's pressed against the glass, clawing at it, trying to get out, and he's got this scared look on his face and he's yelling at me, except I can't hear what he's saying through the glass. And I start screaming at him, but no words come out of my mouth. And ⦠and then I wake up.”
I reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“Will it ever go away?” she whispered.
“Not entirely,” I said. “But you'll learn to accept it. It'll take a long time.”
“It's so strange,” she said. “I can't tell what's real anymore. Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself from high up in the sky somewhere, like I'm two people, and I can study myself and analyze myself. It's like I can look around corners and over hills, see what's there waiting for me before I get there, as if I could yell down to myself, tell myself to watch out. And then that faraway me zooms down into my other self, and the two of us merge, and then it's just me again, and I'm all alone.”
“It might help to talk to somebody,” I said.
She looked up at me and smiled. “I've got somebody,” she said.
“Not me,” I said. “I mean a professional.”
“I like talking to you. You're my dear old friend. I trust you.”
“Friends are important,” I said. “But for someone who's been through what you've been through, professionals are important, too.”
“Sure,” she said. “You're probably right.” She bent her head and sipped her coffee. “I'm kind of hungry. Should've eaten my salad, I guess. Are you hungry?”
“I'm getting there.”
“I could make us some soup. Canned soup, I mean. Nothing fancy. I've got split pea, lentil, black bean, chicken ⦔ She looked up at me and shook her head. “Geez, I'm sorry. You've probably got a date or something. It's Friday night.”
“No,” I said. “I don't have a date. Soup sounds good.”
S
haron poured some Old Grand-Dad on the rocks from one of Jake's bottles for me and a glass of wine for herself. She dumped two cans of Progresso black bean soup into a pot and set it simmering on top of the stove. Then she sat down across from me at the kitchen table.
haron poured some Old Grand-Dad on the rocks from one of Jake's bottles for me and a glass of wine for herself. She dumped two cans of Progresso black bean soup into a pot and set it simmering on top of the stove. Then she sat down across from me at the kitchen table.
“So what'd you think of Brian's room?” she said.
I shrugged. “Typical boy's room, I guess.”
“I always thought teenagers were supposed to be slobs,” she said.
“Some are. I have two boys. One was a real slob and the other was just moderately slobbish.”
“I only had one boy,” she said.
I nodded.
“So I'm no expert on teenagers, I guess.” She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms. “What did you see up there?”
“Nothing. Just a neat room.”
“Since he was a little boy, he always vacuumed and took care of his own clothes and made his bed himself. He didn't like me and Jake going in there. He wanted to take care of it himself.”
“Everybody likes privacy,” I said.
“So you didn't figure out why Jake went away?”
I shook my head. “Like you said, he probably just decided he had to go away for a while.”
“There doesn't have to be some big dramatic reason for everything, I guess.”
“No,” I said. “Some things just happen.”
“They sure as hell do.”
When the soup was hot, Sharon ladled it into bowls. She put a loaf of crusty French bread on a plate and sat down across from me.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then I said, “Do you know a girl named Sandy?”
She looked up at me and frowned. “Sandy who?”
“I don't know her last name. Heavy-set girl, black hair. I met her the day after the accident. She said she was a friend of Brian's. I thought maybe he'd brought her around sometime, or she was on his soccer team or something.”
“Brian didn't bring his friends around much. He had a lot of friends, but he usually went to their houses. I don't know why. I'd tell him, I'd say, âWhy don't you have some friends over? Order some pizza or something.' He'd just shrug. âMaybe sometime,' he'd say.” She frowned at me. “Why? What about Sandy?”
I waved my spoon in the air. “Oh, nothing. I talked with her a little. She seemed bright.”
Sharon put her elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “You think this Sandy knows something about Jake and what happened to Ed?”
I smiled. “No, Sharon. That seems unlikely. I guess I was just making conversation.”
We had finished eating and Sharon was loading the dirty dishes in the dishwasher when the phone rang. The kitchen phone sat on the counter, and she picked it up and said, “Hello?”
Jake,
I thought.
I thought.
Sharon glanced at me, rolled her eyes, and said, “Oh, hello, Mother.”
The phone was on a long springy cord. Sharon tucked it into the crook of her neck and finished putting our dishes into the dishwasher. Then she dampened a sponge and began wiping off the counters and table. Now and then she said, “Yes, I know,” and, “He's fine,” and, “Of course I'll tell him,” and, “I don't think so,” but mostly she just listened, and I couldn't help wondering if it really wasn't Jake, and Sharon was putting on an act for my benefit.
She talkedâlistened, reallyâfor about ten minutes. When she hung up, she flopped into the chair across the table from me. “My mother,” she said. “Calling from Wisconsin. She drives me nuts. She will not mention Brian. She's called me every day since she left, and not once has she given any hint that she knows anything's changed. She talks about her bridge games, her friends, her stupid cat, her television shows, asks after Jake as if she didn't know he'd packed his suitcase and gone away, and she just goes on and on, and she gets upset when I don't chatter right back at her.”
“I was thinking it might be good if she'd come back to stay with you again,” I said.
“Oh, God,” she said. “I'd end up killing her.”
“It's not good that you're alone.”
“Jake will be back.” She looked at me. “Won't he?”
There was no sense in reminding her of the fact that Jake was the prime suspect in a murder. “I'm sure he will,” I said. “But in the meantime ⦔
“I can take a phone call from my mother now and then,” she said. “That's about it. Anyway, I've got plenty of friends.”
I nodded.
“Well,” she said after a minute. “How about some tea or something? Or are you in a hurry?”
“No,” I said. “Tea would be nice.”
She brewed a pot of Lapsang souchong, and we took it into the living room to steep. Sharon fetched two bone china cup-and-saucer sets, poured the tea, and we sat beside each other on the sofa.
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