The Remains (14 page)

“Since it’s impossible for the dead and
missing to testify,” Michael interjected. “No body, no proof.”

Harris nodded. “Exactly, young man.”

“What about missing persons?” Michael went
on. “Records of women who disappeared around that time?”

“Again, it goes back to the bodies, none of
which have been recovered. Which means no evidence that will link
directly to Whalen.”

“You might check the basement of that creepy
house in the woods.”

“We did, as a matter of course, on several
occasions.” The detective tossed up his hands. “But we got
squat.”

We were quiet for a weighted beat until
Michael spoke up again.

“Are you aware that Whalen’s been released
from prison?”

Almost dreamily, Harris peeled his eyes off
the mug, planted them on Michael.

“I’m aware of it,” he nodded. “I try and keep
up on the perps I had a hand in sending away. Meaning, it’s in my
best interest to keep up with their releases.”

“You feel the need to watch your back?”
Michael asked.

He shook his head.

“Not in this case anyway, Whalen’s been
quiet. He’s registered with the necessary data bases according to
Megan’s Law. He checks in regularly with his parole officer.”

“You’re sure about that?” I asked.

His eyes shifting back to me.

“I would be aware of it if he didn’t.”

“But you wouldn’t be aware of it if he was
following me.”

“I’m aware of that possibility now,” he said.
“But I’m going to need a little more to go on than just your word
before I can go pulling him back in here. The last thing I need is
a harassment accusation.”

That’s when I leaned down, unzipped my
portfolio bag, slipped out Franny’s paintings.

Harris eyed the canvases quickly up and down.
Then he looked at me rather quizzically.

“You’re an artist.”

“I wish I could say I painted them. But
they’re the work of an artist-in-residence where I work at the
Albany Center Visual Art Galleries. His name is Francis Scaramuzzi.
He’s an autistic savant. You might have heard of him.”

He shook his head, sat back in his chair.
“What’s all this have to do with Whalen?”

I swallowed a deep breath and told him. I
told him about the abduction and assault that occurred thirty years
ago, almost to the day. I told him about Franny’s paintings; told
him about the voice I heard in my bedroom; told him about the man I
might have seen inside the parking garage.

I thought the wall plaster would crack from
the silent tension. Until Harris brought his hands to his face,
rubbed his eyes. In a word he appeared visibly shaken, if not
pale-faced. He inhaled and exhaled a profound breath. Then,
reaching down with his right hand, he opened the bottom desk drawer
and came away with a bottle of Seagrams 7. He uncapped the bottle,
poured a jigger into his ‘I love my job’ mug and downed the shot in
one swift expert pull. Capping the bottle, he put it back in the
drawer, closing it back up.

He must have realized he’d taken Michael and
me by more than a little surprise because he pursed his lips and
opened his eyes.

“Shocked?”

“A little,” I said, motioning a glance at
Michael. “My dad was a trooper with Rennselaer County.”

Harris pursed his lips. “What’s his
name?”

“
It
was
Daniel
Underhill. He and my mother passed away not long after my sister
died.”

He gave no indication of whether he knew my
father or not; no indication of whether or not my father might have
had a hand in Whalen’s arrest. But then, if he had, I wasn’t the
least bit aware of it.

Instead he said, “Tell you what, Ms.
Underhill, I’m going to request that you leave the paintings with
me for a while. I’ll have the lab draw up a print analysis. That is
you don’t mind.”

“They’re kind of expensive,” Michael
said.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hoffman. The lab people are
very careful. They’ll be well cared for.” Eyes back on me. “Have
you considered seeing your psychologist about this, Ms. Underhill?
Or is it Hoffman?”

“Please call me Rebecca,” I said. “And I’m
not crazy if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He shook his head, raised his hands in
surrender.

“I’m sure you’re not. But keeping a secret of
the magnitude you have for all these years can be considerably
traumatizing. A psychologist can treat you for PTS.”

“Post Traumatic Stress,” Michael interjected.
“Is that what you think my wife has been experiencing Detective
Harris?”

The cop cocked his head. “It’s possible,” he
said.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “I’m not crazy.”

Harris got up.

I stood up along with him.

“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,” he
exclaimed. “I’m going to give Whalen’s probie a call before I leave
tonight, find out where he’s living; find out what he’s doing for a
job. If he lives and works anywhere near you, I’m going to alert
New York State Sexual Predators about it. At your discretion of
course.”

I nodded. Meaning, he had my discretion and
permission.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me
before you go? Anything else you need to show me?”

I thought about it as I slung the bag over my
shoulder. That’s when I recalled the old black and white photo.
Reaching into my jean’s pocket, I set the snapshot onto his
desk.

“What’s this?” he said, picking it up with
his fingers by the narrow white border.

I told him.

“So you found this picture only this morning
on the porch of your parents’ Brunswick home?”

“It matches perfectly a little painting
Francis Scaramuzzi produced years ago. A painting that is now
stored under lock and key inside his personal basement storage
room.”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes.

“Strange coincidence, I will admit,” he said.
“I’d like to hold onto this as well, check it for prints along with
the paintings.”

“You have my blessing.”

“You sure that’s everything?” he asked once
more.

I spotted Harris’s cell phone set on the desk
top. I was immediately reminded of the strange texts I’d been
receiving for some months now. I went to open my mouth up about it.
But something held me back. I knew I should have told Harris
everything. But something inside my gut stopped me from doing the
right thing. Something entirely to do with Molly.

I knew that if I told Harris about the texts,
he might confiscate my cell and look for a way to break into the
data base to find a way to expose the unknown caller’s ID. He might
take away my only physical link to Molly.

Michael slipped on his jacket and his beret.
Harris took special notice of the beret, squinting his eyes and
slipping out from behind his desk. He opened the office door, held
it open for us.

“I understand you write detective novels, Mr.
Hoffman,” he smiled. “Anything published?”

“
The Hounds of Heaven
,” Michael said. “Came out a few years ago. I’m working on
something new right now.”

Reaching into his pocket the detective handed
us each a card.

“Give me a call anything else happens,” he
said. “Call anytime day or night. My cell number is also on
there.”

I thanked him.

He told me not to worry; to get a good
night’s rest.

As we started to walk out, I said, “I do have
one more question, Detective.”

His eyebrows perked up.

“You never asked me why my sister and I
didn’t come to you about the attack thirty years ago.”

He picked at his right earlobe quickly with
an extended index finger.

“I’ve been working this job for thirty-eight
years,” he said with a resignation I hadn’t noticed until now. “I
know precisely why you didn’t come to me, Rebecca. It’s not your
fault.”

With that I turned, led Michael toward the
exit. Handing in our visitor’s passes to the watch commander, he
asked us to have a nice day. But it seemed a little late for
that.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL him about the
texts?”

Michael was speaking to me out the side of
his mouth as he pulled out of the police station onto South Pearl
Street.

I turned
to him, watched his profile while he drove. “Why didn’t
you
tell him?”

He was quiet for a minute, pretending to
concentrate on the road when in fact he was filled with
thought.

“It’s your call,” he said after a while. “I
know how you feel about the texts; about them coming from…” Instead
of finishing his thought he allowed it to dangle, as if it were too
strange for him to say it.

“Coming from Molly,” I uttered for him. “From
heaven above… You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”

“That the tangible proof you need that heaven
exists? That God exists? That Molly lives? A cell phone?”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“I still think you should have told the
dick,” he added.

“I will tell him. As soon as I can convince
myself that Molly has nothing to do with it.”

We let the subject drop. But our silence
didn’t lighten things up for even a moment. By the time we
approached my apartment complex I was so nervous, so pent up with
anxiety, I felt like jumping out of my skin.

Michael couldn’t help but notice my
apprehension. He thought it would be a good idea for us to simply
head into the apartment, lock ourselves behind closed doors and do
something we hadn’t done together in ages: cook.

It felt like a good idea; a comforting idea.
It’s exactly what we did, even though I wasn’t particularly hungry.
It had been a long time since I’d shared a dinner with another man.
It’d been a long time since I cooked for myself. Anything other
than Stouffers. My kitchen shelves were not exactly stocked with
food. I was just one person after all.

But Michael wasn’t the least bit fazed.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he staunchly replied that he
would make do with whatever I had. Which pretty much consisted of
three boxes of wheat pasta and some tomato sauce.

“Minimalism,” Michael smiled. “Simply
perfect. Like a Ray Carver short story.”

“A rose is a rose is a rose,” I recited.

“Gertrude Stein,” he stated proudly.

He filled a large pot with cold tap water
then set it onto the gas stove to boil. He uncorked a bottle of
red, poured us each a glass and took them with him into the living
room. While I slipped the new Belarus disk into the CD player, he
sat down on the couch, exhaling a long sigh.

“Feel better?” he said, taking a small sip of
wine. “I know I do. In a proactive sort of way.”

I listened for the music to begin. Slowly
strummed guitar, smoothly exhaled harmonica, deep bass, steady
drums. Voices followed. Harmonious and touching me in the spot that
made tears press up against the backs of my eyeballs.

I shuffled around the coffee table, sat
myself down on the couch beside my ex-husband. Reaching out I
picked up my wine, took a small sip.

“I’m not entirely sure what I feel.”

“Harris is looking out for you now. That’s
gotta mean something, afford you just a semblance of peace. Even if
you did avoid the issue of the texts.”

“
I got
the distinct feeling he thought I was out of my head.” Turning to
Michael, I continued, “In fact, I’m starting to feel the same way.
That maybe I’m just a little nutty; that maybe much of what’s
happened over the past few days
is
in my head.” I laughed. “Heaven sent text messages for God
sakes. I’m not even sure I believe in God anymore!”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Michael said, taking
a large swallow of wine.

“I don’t know what to believe sometimes,” I
said.

“You can’t deny Franny’s paintings,” he
pointed out. “You can’t deny seeing the words in them.”

“Why is it so much more difficult for other
people to see the words?”

“
It’s
just easier for you to see them. Or maybe you
want
to see them.”

“Okay, so what else can’t I deny?”

“You mean what else proves you’re not a
nutcase?”

“Sure.”

“You can’t deny that the images Franny paints
are similar to your dreams.”

“No, I can’t. But not even Franny is gifted
enough to be inside my head.” I paused. “Or is he?”

Cocking
his head, Michael exhaled. “Maybe he’s in tune with you. Your
thoughts and fears. I think that he somehow sees your dreams;
paints them. He has no choice but to paint them for you. He
wants
you to see your dreams through
your conscious eyes.”

As much
as I couldn’t deny any of what Michael was telling me, I could just
as easily look at it all as a remarkable coincidence.
But then how could
I deny the painting of me and Molly that was presently stored
inside Franny’s basement storage room? How could I deny the
identical black and white snapshot I found on my parents’ porch?
How could I deny Whalen’s release from prison?

Maybe I wasn’t nuts after all. Maybe
everything was somehow fitting into place. Maybe Whalen truly was a
threat. Maybe Franny knew this and was doing everything in his
power to warn me.

I rested my head back against the couch.

“I’m thinking about taking the next couple of
days off,” I said. “Stay close to home until this thing blows over
and Harris can assure my safety.”

“Good idea,” Michael agreed. “You can sleep
in while I bite the nail.” He smiled. “Like we used to do in the
old days.”

I thought
about the old days. Back when the
Hounds of Heaven
was first published. Michael and I would spend a
lot of time in New York City back then. We’d stay at the Gramercy
Park Hotel on Lexington Avenue. In the mornings Michael would run
the paved path that ran parallel to the East River. I’d sleep in
until he came back, body damp from the jog, a paper bag in one hand
filled with hot croissants, a second bag in the other holding two
large coffees with milk. He’d tiptoe around the room while he
undressed and showered, and if I was still sleeping he’d write at
the hotel desk dressed in nothing but his bath towel, until I woke
up. That’s when he’d slip back into bed with me and we’d have our
breakfast and plan out our day while we ate fresh croissants with
jam and drank coffee, our bare feet touching under the covers. Back
then it had never been the things that Michael said to me that made
me feel secure with him. It was the things he did for
me.