I couldn’t say for sure that it was the same man from the ransom drop. Red-and-black flannel is hardly an uncommon pattern. And maybe it was my imagination—I was pretty far away—but I think he was smiling at me. I felt my whole body jerk.
Edgar said, “Marc?”
I barely heard him. I rose and kept my eyes up. At first, the man in the flannel stayed perfectly still. I ran toward him.
“Marc?”
But I knew that it was no mistake. You don’t forget. You close your eyes and you still see him. He never leaves you. You wish for moments like this. I knew that. And I knew what wishes could bring. But I ran straight toward him. Because there was no mistake. I knew who it was.
When I was still a good distance away, the man lifted his hand and waved to me. I kept moving, but I could already see that it was futile. I was only halfway across the park when a white van drove up. The man in flannel snapped a salute in my direction before disappearing into the back.
The van was out of sight before I reached the street.
Chapter 14
Time started playinggames with me. Going in and out. Speeding up and slowing down. In focus and suddenly blurred. But that did not last long. I let the surgeon side of me take over. He, Marc the Doctor, knew how to compartmentalize. I have always found this easier to do at work than in my personal life. The skill—to partition, to separate, to detach—has never translated. At work, I am able to take my emotional excess and channel it, allow it to converge into a constructive focus. I have never been successful at doing this at home.
But this crisis had forced a change. Compartmentalizing wasn’t a question of desire as much as survival. To get emotional, to allow myself to wallow in doubt or consider the implications of a child missing for eighteen months . . . it would paralyze me. That was probably what the kidnappers wanted. They wanted me to come apart. But I work well under pressure. I am at my best. I know that. I had to do that now. The walls came up. I could look at the situation rationally.
First thing: No, I would not contact the police this time.
But that did not mean I had to wait around helplessly.
By the time Edgar handed me the duffel bag stuffed with money, I had an idea.
I called Cheryl and Lenny’s house. There was no answer. I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen in the morning. I didn’t have Cheryl’s cell phone, but it would be better to do this in person anyway.
I drove over to Willard Elementary School and arrived at eight twenty-five. I parked behind a line of SUVs and minivans and got out. This elementary school, like so many others, has the bricks, the cement back steps, the one level, the architectural design made shapeless by the many additions. Some additions try to blend in, but then there are the others, usually built between 1968 and 1975, that were faux-sleek with blue glass and odd tiling. They looked like post-apocalyptic greenhouses.
Kids scrambled around the playground as they always do. The difference was, the parents now stayed and watched. They chatted with one another and when the bell rang, they made sure that their charges were safely ensconced inside the brick or sleek blue glass before departing. I hated to see the fear in the eyes of the parents. But I understood it. The day you become a parent, fear becomes your constant companion. It never lets you go. My life was Exhibit A in the why.
Cheryl’s blue Chevy Suburban pulled into the drop-off line. I started toward her. She was unharnessing Justin from his car seat when she spotted me. Justin gave her a dutiful kiss, an act he takes for granted which, I guess, is how it should be, and then he ran off. Cheryl watched him as though afraid he could vanish on the short concrete trek. Kids can never understand that fear, but that’s okay. Hard enough to be a kid without having that weight on you.
“Hey,” Cheryl said to me.
I said hi back. Then: “I need something.”
“What?”
“Rachel’s phone number.”
Cheryl was already back at the driver-side door. “Get in.”
“My car is parked over there.”
“I’ll bring you back. Swim practice ran late. I’ve got to get Marianne to school.”
She had already started the car. I hopped up into the front passenger seat. I turned and smiled at Marianne. She wore headphones and quick-fingered her Game Boy Advance. She gave me an absentminded wave, barely glancing up. Her hair was still wet. Conner was in the child seat next to her. The car reeked of chlorine, but I found the smell oddly comforting. Lenny, I know, cleans out the car religiously, but you can’t possibly keep up. There were French fries in the crevice between the seats. Crumbs of unknown origin clung to the upholstery. On the floor by my feet lay a potpourri of school notices and children’s artwork that had been subjected to onslaughts of rain boots. I sat on a small action figure, the kind that McDonald’s gives away with their Happy Meals. A CD case readingNOW THAT ’S WHAT I CALL MUSIC14 sat between us, providing listeners with the latest from Britney and Christina and Generic Boy Band. The windows in the back were smeared with greasy fingerprints.
The kids were only allowed to play with the Game Boy in the car, never in the house. They were never, under any circumstance, allowed to watch a PG-13 movie. I asked Lenny about how he and Cheryl went about deciding such matters and he responded, “It’s not the rules themselves, but the fact that there are rules.” I think I know what he meant.
Cheryl kept her eyes on the road. “It’s not my nature to pry.”
“But you want to know my intentions.”
“I guess.”
“And if I don’t want to tell you?”
“Maybe,” she said, “it’s better if you don’t.”
“Trust me here, Cheryl. I need the number.”
She flipped on her signal light. “Rachel is still my closest friend.”
“Okay.”
“It took her a long time to get over you.” She hesitated.
“And vice versa.”
“Exactly. Look, I’m not saying this right. It’s just . . . there are some things you need to know.”
“Like?”
She kept her eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel. “You asked Lenny why we never told you she got divorced.”
“Yes.”
Cheryl glanced in the rearview mirror, not at the road, but at her daughter. Marianne seemed wrapped up in her game. “She didn’t get divorced. Her husband is dead.”
Cheryl glided to a stop in front of the middle school. Marianne took off the headphones and slid out. She did not bother with the dutiful kiss, but she did say good-bye. Cheryl put the car back in drive.