by Rio Youers
Brody needed to face it, though. The question is, how do you want to play it? Renée had asked in regard to everything he’d learned, and getting closer to the truth about his father’s death would factor heavily in his decision.
Now Renée lowered the armrest on her chair and transferred to the sofa. A smile touched her lips and eyes. That kindness again, never far away, and she patted the seat beside her, inviting Brody to sit. He did, and he held his breath.
“I can’t say for sure,” she said. “But taking everything into account, I’d say the probability is high.”
Something inside Brody rattled with a cold, heavy sound. It felt like a chain strung through several of his ribs. He breathed around it with tremendous effort, then looked at Renée and nodded. She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already suspect, but to hear her say it out loud was harder than he had anticipated. The first of his tears came. Renée rubbed his back and said nothing until he did.
“I’ll be okay. It’s . . .”
“Take your time.”
Brody remembered his dad’s smile, as welcoming as blue water, and the sturdiness of his arms. He’d had tough mechanic’s hands, but a deft touch, so he could apply a Band-Aid, or wipe the goop from beneath Brody’s nose, with a fabulous tenderness. A kind man, a hopeful man, and Brody’s favorite place, as a child, had been in his arms, enjoying the warmth of him, listening to the blood rush through his kingly body.
“After the funeral, I went to the Rebel Point Police Department and asked them to launch a murder investigation. I had no evidence other than my absolute conviction that my father would never commit suicide.” Brody took a Kleenex from the box Renée offered and dragged it across his cheeks. “The sergeant I spoke to told me that mental health issues present in many forms, and not all of them are obvious. He gave me the number for a bereavement counselor and sent me on my way.”
Renée rubbed his back again. A small gesture, but it felt wonderful. He didn’t think it possible to miss something he’d never had, but he missed extended family. How much fuller would his life have been with a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins?
“I went in for justice, but all I got was a business card.” Brody wiped his damp eyelashes, then balled the Kleenex and tossed it on the side table. “I knew it, though. I fucking knew Dad was murdered. And now I know who did it.”
Had Dad been accosted in the street, Brody wondered, dragged into an alleyway and sedated? Or maybe one of Jimmy’s boys had hidden in the back of his Malibu, and as soon as Dad got behind the wheel: Drive, motherfucker. A northeastern accent. A .45 locked to his temple. Do exactly what I tell you, and don’t try anything stupid. Brody pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to urge the images to the rear of his mind. What good would it do, to imagine Dad’s fear, his consternation? How could it help, to envision Jimmy’s goons balancing Dad at the edge of the Folgt Building’s rooftop, with Jimmy snarling in his face? Where is she, Ethan? And Dad desperately holding on with those tough, deft hands—the same hands that had applied Band-Aids to Brody’s knees and wiped his nose. You tell me what you know, or by God it’s the express way down for you.
“He must have been so scared,” Brody said. “And confused. He died . . . confused. That’s . . . I almost can’t bear to think of that. Poor Dad. Poor, sweet Dad.”
Renée handed him another Kleenex and he took it. He didn’t want to use it, but to think of his dad in the closing moments of his life . . . Jesus, how many stunned, panicked thoughts had he processed in the three seconds it took to plummet fourteen stories?
He used that Kleenex and another two besides.
“Jimmy,” he said, except he growled it, a sound like rocks tumbling down the chute of his throat. “Jimmy fucking Latzo. But this isn’t just about him, is it? My mom has a lot to answer for.”
“Brody—”
“She’s caused so much pain. How could she do this to us?”
“She loved you, Brody.” Renée adjusted her position on the sofa, tilting her upper body so that she could look Brody in the eye. “You and Molly. From the few notes and photographs she sent me, it’s clear how much she loved you. It would have broken her heart to run away. But she did it to keep you safe—to move the target away from you.”
“If she loved us,” Brody said, “she would have given herself up. Or fought Jimmy. If she’s such a badass, why didn’t she fight him again?”
“Your mom did what she thought was best,” Renée said. The kindness in her voice was laced with seriousness. “And she was careful. There was no way Jimmy should have tracked you down.”
“I guess she wasn’t careful enough.”
“You were three random people with no connection to Lola Bear,” Renée said. “I don’t know how Jimmy found you.”
“And you?” Brody broke her gaze for a second. He gestured at Renée’s empty wheelchair. “Was it really a motorcycle accident, or did Jimmy get to you, too?”
“It was an accident,” Renée said. “And it was entirely my fault; I was going too fast, and riding conditions were not good. But my lack of judgment, my fate . . . it does play a part in this. I appreciate now how breakable we all are, and how valuable life is. And knowing what had happened to Karl Janko, I made the decision that if Jimmy came for me, I’d tell him everything I know.”
The chain strung through Brody’s rib cage snapped tight. He managed a shallow breath and said, “You know where my mother is, don’t you?”
And Renée said, “I have a pretty good idea.”
* * *
Brody took Tylenol to manage the ache in his chest. Despite downing her own medication after dinner, Renée selected a bottle of Merlot—“For special occasions or maudlin moments”—and poured herself a glass.
“Jimmy spent two years in the hospital, and another two years convalescing. During this time, Lola Bear disappeared. Poof! Gone, baby.” Renée snapped her fingers and sipped her wine. “With you and Molly filling in the blanks, I now know that she changed her name to Natalie Myles and moved to Minneapolis.”
“Uh-huh.” Brody nodded. “Nokomis East, close to the lake.”
“I also know that she met and fell in love with a young mechanic named Ethan Ellis.”
“And I was born in August of ’95, twenty-three months after she tried to kill Jimmy.” Brody lifted one side of his mouth, closer to a sneer than a smile. “She didn’t waste any time, did she?”
“A family is the perfect cover,” Renée said. “She threw herself into being a wife and mother just like she had everything else: quickly, and with passion.”
“So we were . . . what? Camouflage?”
“Don’t go down that road, Brody. Just because she fast-tracked the family life doesn’t mean she loved you any less.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Renée gave him a sideways glance, then continued, “Other than the occasional cryptic note and a few photographs of you and Molly, I never heard from your mom. She had severed all ties with her old life, except for one.”
Brody recalled the visits from the tall guy with the tight T-shirts and Boston accent. “Karl Janko.”
“Right. She and Karl were close, but Jimmy never knew that. They had kept their alliance under the radar—smart practice in an environment where so many people want to put a bullet in your back.”
“It couldn’t have been that under the radar,” Brody remarked. “I saw a photo of them together, standing shoulder to shoulder, like a couple of old hermanos. Not exactly covert.”
“It was normal to fraternize; they were colleagues, not enemies. But Jimmy had no idea how close they really were. I guess he was more focused on Lola’s relationship with Vince, and how he might worm his way between them.” Renée swirled the wine in her glass, then took a deep drink. “Lola stayed in touch with Karl after she blew the scene. He was her link to the western Pennsylvania crime scene, and, more importantly, to Jimmy. Karl informed her of Jimmy’s every move. Where he went. Who he questio
ned. Lola was able to stay one move ahead.”
“And Jimmy never questioned you?” Brody asked.
“He did, but not in person. This was twenty-two years ago, when he was still too weak. So get this: he sent Karl.” Renée snickered, one hand over her glass to keep the wine from spilling. “I remember that day. Karl and I watched Friends and ate banana bread. I think he told Jimmy that he broke both my legs, and Jimmy was satisfied with that.”
“You were lucky,” Brody said. He thought of his dad again, dropping to his death, and Karl, upended into a barrelful of water with his arms tied behind his back. “He could easily have sent another of his guys.”
“True, but even if he had, and even if that guy had broken my legs, or worse, I wouldn’t have told him where your mother was, because I didn’t know where she was.” Renée shrugged, finished her wine. “Not then, anyway.”
She set her empty glass down, then transferred back to her chair and wheeled over to a display case with a drawer in the bottom. With a little effort—and refusing Brody’s offer to help—she opened the drawer and pulled out a folded manila envelope. She placed this in her lap, rolled back to the sofa, and eased into the seat beside Brody.
“I destroyed most of the notes your mom sent.” Renée opened the envelope and withdrew a handful of photographs. She flipped through them while she talked. “They were veiled enough that I probably didn’t have to—there was no name on them, certainly no return address—but I didn’t want to take any chances. I liked receiving them, though. They offered a tiny window into your mom’s new life, and let me know she was still alive.”
Brody glimpsed some of the photographs as Renée flipped through them. Many were of her—a younger Renée, standing next to her date on prom night, sitting on the hood of an old Dodge with a beer in her hand, straddling a custom chopper with ridiculous ape hanger handlebars. There were tourist shots—Niagara Falls, Machu Picchu, the Eiffel Tower—along with snaps of pets and flowers and some well-known faces from her time with the Colts. A more recent photograph showed Renée with her arm around a man with close-set eyes and babyish curls.
“Boyfriend?” Brody asked.
“Fiancé,” Renée said, and rolled her eyes. “He called the engagement off after my accident. I guess he couldn’t deal with the wheelchair.”
“Some kind of guy, huh?” Brody said. “I think maybe you dodged a bullet.”
“No maybe about it.”
She flipped through a few more shots, pausing to look at one of her and Lola in their teens—Renée was holding a copy of Bop magazine, Lola had a hunting knife strapped to her thigh—before handing Brody a photograph of a baby swaddled in a Sesame Street blanket.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“It’s you,” Renée replied. “Four weeks old.”
“Oh.” A new pain rose in his chest. It hit his throat and dissolved, leaving a vapor of melancholy. The baby in the photograph was cradled in female arms. Her face was out of shot, but these were his mother’s arms. Over the last couple of days, he’d learned that Lola Bear seldom showed emotion, but he saw only love in the way she held him, one hand tenderly supporting his tiny head.
To mask his own emotion, he said, “I was an ugly little bugger.”
“You were beautiful. Here.” Renée handed him another photograph, this one of Molly. She was maybe three years old—all curls and smiles—leaning on her walker.
“I remember that walker,” Brody said. He blinked at tears. “Molly hated it.”
“One more.”
This final photograph was of Brody and Molly together, Christmas morning of 2006—their last Christmas with Mom. They wore matching sweaters and outstanding grins, surrounded by gifts and torn wrapping paper. Brody’s melancholy deepened. He’d been happy once. He had a mom and a dad. Life was easy. It was good.
“Why are you showing me these?” he asked.
“You have a lot of anger toward your mom, and that’s justified. But you need to know that she was proud of you. Of Molly, too. And she loved you very much. She wouldn’t have sent me these photographs if she didn’t.”
“Maybe, but it changes nothing.” Brody handed the photos back. “This is her war. She’s been running for too long.”
“I agree.” Renée nodded and touched his knee gently. “You know I do. But without the truth, it’s hard to make a decision that you can live with.”
“What’s hard is feeling like a pawn on somebody else’s chessboard,” Brody said. “I’m tired of being moved around. I need to take control.”
Renée held up both hands, perhaps to illustrate that she was not controlling him at all, merely passing along information. She poured another glass of wine.
“This is going to my head. I should slow down.” She took a big glug anyway. “Your mom sent a photo, or a note, every eighteen months or so. They stopped completely after Karl was killed: 2007. That’s when she left you, right?”
Brody nodded.
“She must have felt that, without Karl, she couldn’t keep her family safe. So she ran away, taking the target with her.” Renée swigged wine and started flipping through the photographs again. “I heard nothing. For years. I thought she was dead. And then, last summer . . .”
She passed him a photo of a beautiful black horse with a splash of white on its nose. It stood in a field. There was a fence in the background, and what looked like the edge of a red barn, or maybe a silo. Brody flipped the photo over. A short message had been printed on the back.
I found Little Moon
Miss you, Pickle
“I don’t understand,” Brody said.
“You’re not supposed to. It’s veiled. Like all of your mom’s messages.” Renée took the photo back and looked at it fondly. “We’d spend hours watching TV, your mom and I. Eating popcorn, huddled beneath a comforter. The A-Team, Three’s Company, Scarecrow and Mrs. King. My favorite was The Facts of Life. Your mom really liked Little Moon Farm.”
Brody stared at Renée vaguely.
“Little Moon Farm,” Renée continued after another hit of wine, “was about two teenage sisters—Sage and Pickle Moon—who moved away from the city to run a farm they’d inherited. It was nonsense. The kind of schlock that was everywhere on TV back then. But, you know, we kind of loved it.”
“A guilty pleasure,” Brody said.
“Yes, but without the guilt.” Renée smiled, turning the photo over to read the message on the back. “We always said we’d buy a farm one day. It was our dream for a while.”
“I found Little Moon,” Brody mumbled, reading the first part of the message. “So she lives on a farm? Well, that’s narrowed it down to, what, two million possibilities?”
“Silly boy,” Renée said playfully. The wine was definitely going to her head. “This photo was sent in an envelope with a postmark from Lenora, Kansas. Now, your mom is too smart to mail anything from the town she’s hiding in, but I figured she wouldn’t travel too far to mail one photograph.”
“Okay.” Brody leaned a little closer.
“It was a long shot, but I had a realtor friend of mine search for all the farms in a seventy-five-mile radius of Lenora that had sold within the previous year.” Renée sipped her wine and winked. “I told him I was thinking of writing a book about agricultural buying trends.”
“Riveting,” Brody said. “And?”
“I’d hoped to whittle it down to maybe a dozen properties,” Renée said. “But he came back with a hundred and eighteen hits, everything from tiny chicken shacks to multimillion-dollar farms that had sold to huge corporations.”
“That doesn’t help much,” Brody said.
“Right. I went through them, eliminating anything too rickety or expensive, but that still left me with forty or so, spread across northwest Kansas and into Nebraska. I didn’t know how to narrow them down further, other than fly out there and wheel myself door-to-door. It all seemed too much, and I’d started to question why her location was so important to me.” Renée sigh
ed, and after a solemn pause added, “I knew why, of course. I just didn’t want to admit it.”
“You wanted that information,” Brody said, “in case Jimmy came knocking.”
“It’s like I said . . .” Renée gestured at her ragdoll legs. “I appreciate how valuable life is, and how easily we break.”
“I get it,” Brody said.
“Anyway, I got lucky,” Renée said. “I was idly going through the listings, looking at the photographs, when something caught my attention: a red barn. Well, not the barn, exactly, but the word ‘Owlfeather’ painted across the front in big yellow letters.”
Renée showed Brody the photo again, pointing out the barn that had sneaked into the right side of the frame. He hadn’t noticed before, but now saw the beginning of a letter that had been painted across the front. An O, yes, or maybe a C. Whichever, it was bright yellow.
“It’s the same barn,” Renée said. “I put the two photographs side by side. And it’s not just the yellow lettering. The trees behind, the wooden fence . . . it’s all the same.”
“Okay,” Brody said, and sat up in his seat. “That’s good.”
“Owlfeather Farm, two miles west of Lone Arrow, Nebraska. It was purchased in June of 2018 by a lone female buyer. I couldn’t find any information about her, other than her name: Margaret Ward.”
“At the risk of sounding like a misogynist dick,” Brody said, “is it unusual for lone females to buy farms?”
“I asked my realtor friend the same question,” Renée said. “And get this: only eight percent of farms in Nebraska have a principal female operator. So while it’s not unheard of, it is unusual. This information, together with the photo . . . I’d say there’s a good chance Margaret Ward used to be known as Natalie Ellis, and Lola Bear before that.”
Questions elbowed and pushed in Brody’s mind, all wanting to be heard first. How could his mom afford to buy a farm? How far away was Lone Arrow, Nebraska? How long would it take to get there on a bus? Brody placed a hand on either side of his head and squeezed, narrowing his focus.
