The Abortionist's Daughter (24 page)

“Go home,” said Edgar. “We’re done here.”

“Do you get it?”

“I get it.”

Frank went back out to the kitchen then and relit the burner. He took the picture of Megan from his pocket, held it over the burner, and watched the blue flame lick its way up through the folds. When the paper was engulfed, he dropped it into the sink. Then he went out to the entryway and dug his heels into his shoes and zipped up his jacket.

It is highly probable that Mr. Love’s whereabouts can be traced, and I will cooperate fully with state and federal authorities to locate him, to bring him back to the United States, to hold him accountable for his actions.

Outside the snow was blowing harder, but by remaining in second gear, he made it safely down through the hairpins. In town the plows were out, and he drove along the main artery acutely aware of how brilliant and beautiful the Christmas lights were this year. He was a lucky man. Lucky for a lot of things—lucky that apologizing came easy for him, so that he could go home and apologize to Diana for the things he had said. Lucky he had the relationship he did with his daughter, that he would be able to put this behind him and forget about it. Everyone has a few youthful indiscretions, he reminded himself. Let’s hope this was her only big one.

—————

It was light when Frank finished his letter. The espresso sat like thick mud in his cup, and he was tired of room service breakfasts, so he left the hotel and drove to a diner and ordered as much meat as possible: bacon and ham and pork chops and sausage, causing the waitress to smile, as though she’d been waiting years for such an order. While his food sizzled on the griddle, he bought a newspaper and skimmed the headlines, then turned to the op-ed page—something he rarely did these days, knowing there would be at least one article about his wife’s death.

Today there were two. One, a tangential piece by a Denver fellow (of dubious intellect, in Frank’s view, a man who would spend his life writing for local papers while trolling for the one story that would land him a limp book deal), opining that a recent bill before the state legislature to expand the bubble law lacked teeth because it failed to provide for stricter penalties. And another, this by a more intelligent writer, that chastised the police department for getting rid of the one detective who might have proven useful in solving the investigation.

“Speculation that the detective in question may have engaged in unethical conduct remains unproven, a red herring at best and a witch hunt at worst,” the woman wrote. “Let’s not lose sight of the fact that a killer remains at large.”

Frank closed the newspaper as the waitress set down his plate of cholesterol. Perhaps now, with Edgar Love behind him, he could focus more rationally on helping the police find the killer. He could speak out and make those impassioned pleas the public craved. Perhaps it was naÏve of him, but he felt he would be forgiven for doing what he did—by anyone who had children, at least.

“More coffee, Frank?” the waitress asked.

Megan was right; he was famous. “Please,” he told the waitress. If only Diana were here now, he thought. She would be proud.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

——————

THAT MORNING HUCK
looked at his face in the mirror and was shocked at his appearance. The corners of his mouth pointed down in a U. His skin was doughy, and his eyelids were fat. The ancient scar on his chin appeared recently snipped. He looked like his father used to look, he realized: old, worried, slightly dented.

Heat poured out of the vent in the bathroom, and from his kitchen came the sounds of Carolyn stacking dishes. These days she was always up earlier than he. She’d been back for almost a month now, and he had yet to level with her about Megan. At first he was going to tell her right away. Then he thought that would be a bad way to spend their first night together. The next day—her first day back at work—they had lunch together, and he was going to tell her then, but she thought she was coming down with the flu, and he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. You total shit, he thought afterward. Then, when she decided it was just a cold and not the flu, he told her what Bill had told the chief of police, and, full of loyal assumptions, she rolled her eyes and shook her head and said what a dickhead the chief was; and Huck didn’t have the gumption to tell her the truth. And that was where things stood, with every day of silence another frayed thread between them.

Thank god it had only been one time.

No. Not thank god. Because what disturbed him above all else was that in a small dark corner of his mind, he kept thinking of Megan coming over that night, kept replaying the exact same scenario over and over. And it made him feel bad, once again, when he wanted to feel good.

You coward, he told himself.

“Hey you,” Carolyn said through the door. “Coffee’s ready.”

He finished shaving, dried his face, and turned out the vanity lights. Without them his face didn’t look so bad, he decided. He dressed and joined her in the kitchen. She was still in her robe, sitting at the little table reading the newspaper. She’d gelled her hair and combed it straight back, like a greaser.

“Here.” She straightened the paper and stood up. “You sit. I’m finished.”

“I’ve really got to fix that other chair,” said Huck.

“I’ll bring one from my place,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “Then we can sit here together.”

“Oh Huck,” she said. “You are so cute.”

She kissed the top of his head and was about to leave the room when there was a knock at the door. “Sit still,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

She went to the door and opened it. He heard her say, “Yes?” Then he heard a man’s voice say, “I’m looking for Huck, actually.

“Dude!” Bill Branson exclaimed when Huck appeared in the little entry foyer. “I didn’t wake you, did I? Here, I brought you a latte.”

Huck crossed his arms. “It’s quarter of eight in the morning, Bill.”

“I’ll take the latte,” Carolyn said.

Bill handed the cup to her. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to barge in. But I have the cell phone numbers of the guys I told you about.”

“Who is this guy?” Carolyn asked Huck.

“This is Bill Branson,” Huck said.

“The Bill?”

Bill held his hand out to her, but she just blew on the latte.

“Get a life, kid,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

“Ooh.” Bill winced intimately at Huck. “Not exactly a morning person, is she? Man, it’s cold. How about I come in?”

“How about not,” said Huck.

Bill murmured something about two nonmorning people. “Anyway, I’m on my way north,” he said. “I thought you’d like to have these phone numbers.”

“Take them to headquarters,” said Huck. “Give them to Ernie.”

“I can’t,” said Bill. “It’ll take too much time, and I have an exam at ten this morning.”

Huck realized he wanted Bill out of his house as quickly as possible. “Fine,” he said. “Just give me the list.”

Bill glanced at the paper. He took his gloves off and retraced a few sloppy digits with a pen.

“And who are these guys again?” Huck said.

“Dealers, suppliers. I told you. People who might have been upset with Dr. Duprey. If I were you, I’d start with Trigger here. Trigger’s real name is Owen Capshaw. Wonder why they call him Trigger, huh?” Bill let a snarky grin slide across his face. “Owen’s a Gulf War vet. He likes his peace and quiet, likes to make a little easy money and doesn’t like it
at all
when people owe him. Hey:
Owen—Owe-him!
Wow.”

Huck folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. He guided Bill outside and shut the door behind them. They stood together on the stoop.

“Look, Bill,” he said quietly. “I don’t like you. Stay away from my house. If you have something for the police, go to the police. Don’t come to me. Don’t come here.”

Bill frowned. “God, I was just trying to help.” He glanced over Huck’s shoulder at the door. “Did you see the op-ed today?”

“Thank you, Bill.”

“Or I guess the question is, did
she
see the op-ed?”

“I said thank you, Bill, now—”

“Does she know about you and Megan?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not nice,” said Bill, “sleeping with two people at the same time. Megan did that to me, and I know how it feels. She was sleeping with her English teacher! And then she’d come home and fuck me blind! I thought that was really low.”

“Get out of here,” said Huck.

“How
is
Megan these days?” Bill asked. “Do you think she’s moving on? Getting over her mom’s death? What a tragedy. She was my virgin, you know. Guess who taught her how to give a good blow job?”

Huck couldn’t stop himself; before he even realized it, he’d slammed his fist into Bill’s face. Along with the smack of skin and bone came a grunt from the boy’s chest as he staggered back.

Huck loomed toward him. “If you ever,” he said, “and I mean ever, show up here again I will beat you to a bloody pulp. I will beat you so bad your mother won’t recognize you. Am I clear on this? I want to be real clear, Bill, because I really don’t want that to happen.”

Bill spat blood onto the walkway. He wiped his mouth. “She’ll fuck you over, you know. She’ll bust your balls, and then she’ll dump you. You think she actually feels something for you? You think you’re better than me? She’s a cunt,” he said, spitting another bloody glob at Huck’s foot. “A cunt who uses anyone she can get. Hey man, all the best.” He backed down the walkway, holding out his hands, preacherlike. “Gimme a call in six months, you can fill me in on where things stand. Joke’s on you, asshole,” and he hitched up his collar.

“Try a video camera,” he called just before sliding into his car. “I never got that far myself, but I bet she’d really get off on that.” He slammed the door and revved the engine and spun his tires in the muddy slush as he backed up Huck’s long driveway. Then, giving a long honk, he drove off.

It took Huck a good minute or so to regain his composure. When he finally went back inside, there was Carolyn, buttoning her coat.

“Needs a little anger management therapy, doesn’t he?” she remarked. “Did you ever ask him why he came up with that story?”

Misery clawed at Huck’s heart. “What good would it do?”

“I guess I’d just want to confront him,” Carolyn said, “knowing he’d said that about me. Well, I’m off. Are we having dinner here or at my place tonight?”

“Yours,” he said, but before he could kiss her, she’d already gone out the door. A minute later she came back in and tossed a pair of gloves into the basket by the door.

“He dropped these,” she said.

Huck closed the door. With a morning like this, things could hardly get worse. He went into the kitchen. There on the table lay today’s newspaper. He sat down, picked it up, skimmed the headlines, then turned to the op-ed page.

—————

At five o’clock that evening, after a day of doing nothing, he walked into a quiet, staid jewelry store downtown and picked out a ring. He paid by check, then slipped the black velvet box into his pants pocket and walked outside. People looked at him differently, he thought. He found himself smiling back. He stopped at a florist and bought a dozen red roses, tightly budded. Then he went home. He showered, shaved, and put on a clean shirt. At six-thirty he drove across town to Carolyn’s and let himself in. He hung up his coat on the coatrack. The cats rubbed at his leg, and he fed them and then waited for her to come home.

At seven o’clock he heard her key in the lock. She wasn’t surprised to see him. Nor was she surprised when he handed her the flowers; she exclaimed and fretted over them while setting her bag down and taking off her coat. Huck reached into his pocket and fingered the velvet box. She seemed like a stranger to him right now, something he attributed to the thing he was about to do.

“You wouldn’t believe the crap that’s going on,” she told him, taking the flowers into the kitchen, where she unwrapped the cellophane and began hacking off the stems. “John’s been talking to these people in Texas about a buyout and Al’s mad because of some figures John made him adjust last year and he’s afraid everything could come out with an audit.”

She filled a vase with cold water and plunged the flowers into it. The whole thing looked sloppy and artless.

She went on: “And Al gave me this huge new project, like I don’t have other things to do. That Al. If he didn’t like what John was telling him to do with the books, why’d he do it? If it were me, I would have just said no.”

Then she turned to him and put her arms around him and laid her head against his chest. Huck felt a sudden terror that she was going to feel the box. He pulled back. It was, after all, to be a surprise.

He asked if she’d talked to her mother today.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “And that’s another thing! My sister just got back from Hawaii, and all she keeps saying is she needs to get away from the kids. Why do people have kids when they don’t want to spend time with them?”

“Well,” Huck said, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you think it’s selfish?”

“Maybe,” said Huck, “although—”

“It’s so selfish,” she declared. “When I have kids, I’m not going to farm them out to somebody else.”

Her chatter annoyed him. Suddenly he felt like a supreme fraud. He excused himself and went out to the car and put the ring in the glove compartment. Back inside, he suggested that they go out to dinner. She said she’d eaten a huge lunch and wasn’t very hungry. He suggested takeout. She said she’d eaten too much takeout in Minnesota. Huck ended up cooking a pot of ramen noodles for himself, but couldn’t eat for the darts ricocheting off the wall of his chest.

He had
grossly
underestimated the trouble he was in.

In the meantime Carolyn had changed into sweats and was now settled on the sofa. Her heels were cracked, and she dug at the skin while moisturizing them. He dumped the noodles down the disposal and rinsed his dish, and as he loaded things into the dishwasher, he was struck with the awful feeling that he knew all there was to know about this woman. Finally, after polishing every available surface of her kitchen, he walked into the living room.