My mother hung around too much. She had just plopped another tray of food in front of me. I ignored it and for the millionth time, Mom repeated her mantra: “You have to keep up your strength for Tara.”
“Right, Mom, strength is the key here. Maybe if I do enough bench presses, that’ll bring her back.”
Mom shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. It was a cruel thing to say. She was hurting too. Her granddaughter was missing and her son was in horrific shape. I watched her sigh and head back to the kitchen. I didn’t apologize.
Tickner and Regan visited frequently. They reminded me of Shakespeare’s sound and fury signifying nothing. They told me about all the technological wonders that were being utilized in the quest to find Tara—stuff involving DNA and latent prints and security cameras and airports and tollbooths and train stations and tracers and surveillance and labs. They trotted out the tried-and-true cop clichés like “no stone unturned” and “every possible avenue.” I nodded at them. They had me look at mug shots, but the bagman in flannel was not in any of the books.
“We ran a trace on B and T Electricians,” Regan told me that first night. “The company exists, but they use magnetic signs, the kind you can just peel off a truck. Someone stole one two months ago. They never thought it was worth reporting.”
“What about the license plate?” I asked.
“The number you gave us doesn’t exist.”
“How can that be?”
“They used two old license plates,” Regan explained. “See, what they do is, they cut the license plates in half and then they weld the left half of one with the right half of the other.”
I just stared at him.
“There is something of a bright side to that,” Regan added.
“Oh?”
“It means we’re dealing with professionals. They knew that if you contacted us, we’d be set up at the mall. They found a drop spot that we couldn’t get to without being seen. They have us tracking down useless leads with the fake sign and welded license plates. Like I said, they’re pros.”
“And that’s good because . . . ?”
“Pros usually aren’t bloodthirsty.”
“So what are they doing?”
“Our theory,” Regan said, “is that they’re softening you up, so they can ask for more money.”
Softening me up. It was working.
My father-in-law called after the ransom fiasco. I could hear the disappointment in Edgar’s voice. I don’t want to sound unkind here—Edgar was the one who provided the money and made it clear he would do so again—but the disappointment sounded more aimed at me, at the fact that I had not taken his advice about not contacting the police, than at the final outcome.
Of course, he was right about that. I had messed up big time.
I tried to participate in the investigation, but the police were far from encouraging. In the movies the authorities cooperate and share information with the victim. I naturally asked Tickner and Regan a lot of questions about the case. They didn’t answer. They never discussed specifics with me. They treated my interrogatories with near disdain. I wanted to know, for example, more about how my wife was found, about why she’d been naked. They stonewalled.
Lenny was at the house a lot. He had trouble meeting my eye because he, too, blamed himself for encouraging me to come forward. The faces of Regan and Tickner fluctuated between guilt because everything had gone so wrong and guilt of another kind, like maybe I, the grieving husband and father, had been behind this from the get-go. They wanted to know about my shaky marriage to Monica. They wanted to know about my missing gun. It was exactly as Lenny had predicted. The more time passed, the more the authorities aimed their sights on the only available suspect.
Yours truly.
After we hit the one-week mark, the police and FBI presence started fading. Tickner and Regan no longer came by very much. They checked their watches more often. They excused themselves for phone calls involving other cases. I understood that, of course. There had been no new leads. Things were quieting down. Part of me welcomed the respite.
And then, on the ninth day, everything changed.
At ten o’clock, I began to get undressed and ready for bed. I was alone. I love my family and friends, but they began to realize that I needed some time by myself. They had all left before dinner. I ordered delivery from Hunan Garden and, per Mom’s earlier instructions, ate for strength.
I looked at the bedside alarm clock. That’s how I knew that the time was exactly 10:18P .M. I glanced at the window, just a casual land sweep. In the dark, I almost missed it—nothing consciously registered anyway—but something snagged my gaze. I stopped and looked again.
There, standing on my walk like a stone, staring at my house, was a woman. I assume that she was staring. I did not know for certain. Her face was lost in the shadows. She had long hair—that much I could see in the silhouette—and she wore a long coat. Her hands were jammed into her pockets.
She just stood there.
I was not sure what to make of it. We were in the news, of course. Reporters stopped by at all hours. I looked up and down the street. No cars, no news vans, nothing. She had come on foot. Again that was not unusual. I live in a suburban neighborhood. People take walks all the time, usually with a dog or spouse or both, but it was hardly earth shattering for a woman to be walking alone.
Then why had she stopped?
Morbid curiosity, I figured.
She looked tall from here, but that was pretty much a guess. I wondered what to do. An uneasy feeling slithered up my back. I grabbed my sweatshirt and threw it over my pajama top. Ditto with a pair of sweatpants and the bottoms. I looked out the window again. The woman stiffened.
She had seen me.
The woman turned and began to hurry away. My chest felt tight. I tried to open the window. It was stuck. I hit the sides to loosen it and tried again. It grudgingly gave me an inch. I lowered my mouth to the opening.
“Wait!”
She picked up the pace.
“Please, hold up a second.”
She broke into a run. Damn. I turned away and sprinted after her toward the door. I had no idea where my slippers were and there was no time for shoes. I ran outside. The grass tickled my feet. I sprinted in the direction she had gone. I tried to follow, but I lost her.
When I got back inside my house, I called Regan and told him what had happened. It sounded stupid even as I said it. A woman had been standing in front of my house. Big deal. Regan, too, sounded thoroughly unimpressed. I convinced myself that it was nothing, just a nosy neighbor. I climbed back into bed, flipped the television, and eventually I closed my eyes.