My Wife's Husband

by E H Davis

  “Are you serious? After you asked me to come down here and keep your ‘unsub’ company?”

  She broke into a wide grin.

  “Naw, I’m just messin’ with you. C’mon, let’s go down to commissary. I’m treating.”

  Jens’ eyes sought Nola, still on her rounds apparently, before acquiescing. They set off for the cafeteria, located on ground level.

  “Doc says the unsub is going to make it.” She glanced at Jens, trying to read him. When he didn’t respond, she slipped a manila envelope from beneath her arm, and slapped it against her leg as they walked.

  “There’s something I want to run by you.”

  Jens smiled to himself: suddenly everyone wanted something from him.

  “Why don’t you just call me Jens?”

  They turned the corner to the stairs to the basement.

  “I will if you promise not to call me by my first name.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Because you’ll laugh. And then you’ll think you know me.”

  Her look was unguarded, amused. Jens decided to take the bait.

  “Okay, what is it?” They came around the bend leading to the cafeteria.

  “Ferdinand.”

  Jens couldn’t suppress a snigger as they entered.

  “That’s a girl’s name?”

  She gave him a mock-severe look.

  “My parents thought so.”

  “Oops,” he said, retreating. “Anyway, it fits.”

  She struggled to keep a straight face.

  “Thanks, I think. Anyway, Ferdie, for short.”

  “Ferdie, it is, then.”

  “But only in private.” She flicked a hand to her holstered weapon. “Otherwise ...”

  He raised a hand in mock protest.

  ________

  The commissary was bright and sunny, with lemon-colored walls that reminded Jens of the 60s, when he assumed this wing of the hospital was built. Wall dividers made of opaque glass squares confirmed his suspicion.

  The room was empty aside from a few kitchen workers in white smocks and hairnets bustling about setting the tables. Along one side, windows gave out onto a landscaped park and duck pond. Though it was early, patients in robes sat on benches at the edge of the pond; attendants pushed others in wheelchairs along the arbored paths.

  “Ferdie” led Jens to the cafeteria’s food line. They slid their trays onto the runners and began helping themselves to breakfast. Jens was starved. He heaped eggs, toast, bacon, and hash browns onto his plate. He glanced at Ferdie taking a Spartan repast of juice, oatmeal, and coffee. Jens caught up with her at the coffee urn and poured himself a cup.

  “Long night,” said Ferdie sympathetically, as she fished out her wallet to pay.

  The cashier, a young Asian, able to dispense with the customary hair net because of his shaved skull, glanced at the larger-than-life female trooper as he rang her up, not even trying to hide his contempt for the uniform and the law it represented. Jens wondered if Ferdie’s cross-gender cues, understated as they were, added to his contempt.

  Meanwhile, a party of nurses arrived. Leaving their sweaters and jackets at their table, they went to the food line. Jens checked to see if Nola was among them. He tried to downplay his attraction to her — a former student who’d flattered him by remembering him. Though he felt abandoned emotionally by Vivian, he’d never considered cheating on her.

  Dismissing his thoughts with an inward shrug, he joined Ferdie at a table overlooking the garden.

  “Gangbanger. Thai,” said Ferdie without preamble. She nodded at the cashier as they sat down.

  Jens followed her eyes, registering her comment. He shoveled scrambled egg onto his fork with his toast, blew on his piping-hot egg.

  “Thanks for this.”

  “Maybe it will help you say yes to what I’m going to ask.” Ferdie brought a spoonful of oatmeal to her lips. Jens noted that, as before, she wore no lipstick.

  Jens continued eating.

  “What changed your mind about me? Yesterday, you seemed ready to accuse me of having something to do with the shooting.”

  “It’s my job to be suspicious. And when we couldn’t find the gun, well, you understand.”

  She reached into her manila envelope and drew out a hardcover of Jens’ novel, The Killing Kind.

  “That was before I read this,” she enthused. “Kept me up all night. Your Detective Poulon is one spot-on lawman.”

  Jens laughed to hide his embarrassment.

  “I’m honored.”

  “No doubt he’s modeled after me.”

  “No doubt. A female version, I’m sure.” Jens pursed his lips, waiting.

  “I made some inquiries — with law enforcement agencies where you researched your book. They said you know social network tricks even criminologists miss. Help me track down the unsub — Daniel.”

  Jens shook his head in disbelief. A part of him was held in reserve, studying her as Cassie’s prototype.

  “You’ve got local, state, national, and even international law enforcement at your disposal, along with national fingerprinting, DNA, and missing persons dedicated tracking networks, not to mention state DMV, FBI, and Home Security.”

  “It’s not so easy. I warned you that his prints may not be in the system, and they’re not. Means he’s never served in the armed services, been arrested, or applied for a job with the federal government. Secondly, there’s no missing person bulletin out of Florida fitting his description or the car he was driving.”

  She sipped her coffee.

  “Last night his vehicle was spotted crossing a checkpoint on the Canadian border. It’s long gone by now, chopped into parts, so that eliminates anything we might have found in his vehicle to track him with, like a VIN number. Further, of the fifteen million motor vehicles registered to drivers in Florida, two thousand are Escalades. And one-hundred and fifty are registered to doctors.”

  Jens raised an eyebrow.

  “And?”

  “We’re checking those out now, but registrations can be misleading. Savvy doctors use their corporations to register their personal vehicles and drive them as tax write-offs. It could be weeks before we get a hit off the registration, if ever.”

  “Why is it so important you identify him? His doctor doubts that he’ll regain consciousness. I know attempted suicides in New Hampshire undergo mandatory treatment, but that’s irrelevant now, with his life hanging in the wind.”

  Ferdie nodded. She seemed to be debating whether or not to say more. She touched up her crewcut, brushing her hand over the top, careful not to mess her jelled coif. A nervous “tell,” noted Jens the writer.

  He pushed hash browns onto his fork, glancing up at her.

  “I don’t get it.”

  She picked up the manila envelope she’d brought with her.

  “I went back to the ledge on Black Mountain and found these.”

  Three spent cartridges bounced onto the table. Their clang attracted looks from the table of nurses.

  “NIBID. The National Integrated Ballistics Information Network —”

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  Jens put his fork down. Ferdie had his attention.

  “— came back with a match.”

  Jens scooped up the shells, examined them, and stared at her expectantly.

  “According to the markings on the cartridges, the gun that Daniel used to shoot himself matches shell casings left at a crime scene down in Florida last year.”

  “What kind of crime scene?”

  “Double homicide — a young couple in the wrong place at the wrong time — a bank robbery.”

  “How would someone like Daniel get a gun like that?”

  Ferdie shrugged.

  Jens squinted at her doubtfully.

  “Double homicide?”

  Now he felt like a suspect being interrogated. He didn’t like it. He crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto the table.

  “What exactly do you w
ant from me?”

  Her handsome face seemed carved in stone.

  “If you don’t have the gun then who does?”

  Jens stood abruptly. Left without a word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Out in the parking lot Jens was pleased, if he was honest, to find Nola waiting for him, leaning against his car.

  He’d had time to calm himself after Ferdie’s insinuation that he or Teddy had Daniel’s gun. He’d wanted to ask her about Laurent, if she knew about him, and whether she would help him make sure he was no threat to him or his family. But her suspicions about the gun had ended any further discussion.

  Nola saw him coming and waved. She’d changed into tight jeans and a snug, peach-colored cashmere top that hugged her lithe figure. Her hair was brushed out, falling in rich waves onto her shoulders. She pushed off his car, arching her back, looking younger than the thirty-something years he’d calculated earlier. Jens tried not to stare, but it was hard not to.

  “Heard you say you were heading back down to the seacoast.” She paused to gauge her effect on him. “Wanted to say goodbye.”

  “That was nice of you, Nola. Really, you didn’t have to.” Privately, he was pleased.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, in response to his apparent discomfort, “I don’t bite.”

  “I should hope not.” He laughed nervously. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I do remember you — class of ‘05?”

  She nodded affirmatively.

  “You sat in the second row back, aisle seat, next to one of the” — he started to say ‘jocks’ but corrected himself — “hockey players, as I recall. Because you two were always whispering, I thought you weren’t paying attention, but then when I called on you, your answers were on the mark.”

  She smiled.

  “Wow! You’ve some memory. I’m flattered you remember me ... and Bobby, too. Actually, your class was an inspiration for both of us. Because of you, Bobby took some acting classes before he graduated and went out to the West Coast, where his uncle, a cameraman, helped him land a recurring role on a TV series. He’s done really well. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” She named a TV star always in the news for his romantic links.

  “That’s Bobby?”

  When she looked up, the light splashed across her face, highlighting a sprinkling of freckles. Her green eyes drew him in; her long lashes sun-bleached, iridescent. His eyes darted to her pursed lips. Mesmerized, he forced himself to look away.

  “He changed his name.” Pause. “We stayed in touch for a while ...” Her voice trailed off.

  He knew where this was going. Bobby had dropped her, his college sweetheart, for life in the fast lane. Jens really didn’t want to know anymore; it would be too much sharing. She seemed vulnerable. So was he, he realized. Especially now that he suspected his wife of cheating. Where did that leave him?

  She brightened.

  “I applied to NYU and got accepted to the screenwriting program. But ... other things came up.” She smiled wistfully. “I know nursing’s not glamorous, but I feel like I’m making a difference.”

  I can’t do this, he told himself. Here he was: forty-seven, married with a sixteen-year-old in an expensive private school, a burdensome mortgage, and an idea for his next book that would take him out on a limb. Not to mention a scary interloper focused on his wife. He pushed it all aside, caught up in the moment, liking her. Wanting, perhaps, to make a fresh start with someone who didn’t take him for granted. And liked him.

  “You are making a difference, Nola.”

  “Oh, I haven’t given up on my writing. I write poetry and short stories published on the Internet. I’m waiting to hear back on a script I sent to a contest in L.A.”

  “Great!”

  Interesting and attractive as she was — a writer after all — he was not going to let himself fall into a romantic mentor relationship. Vivian, the possessive type, oddly, could smell student-worship a mile away. But so what? Hadn’t she been exchanging love letters with a former lover who just happened to be an ex-con?

  “I should let you go,” she said, reading his ambivalence. “It was great seeing you again.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I think your presence last night saved your friend.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “He is now. I hope you’ll be back.”

  She held out her hand.

  Good manners predicated he take it.

  “Take care, Nola.”

  “You, too, Jens.”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand before letting go.

  Dazed, he got into the Subaru. She watched him as he shifted into reverse and backed away. When he looked in the rear-view mirror, she was still standing there, smiling, wistful. Then she shrugged and walked briskly away.

  The odor from her hand filled the car. It smelled like peaches and something more feminine and intimate. He recognized it as civet, which seemed to him the tantalizing essence of every Eve since the beginning of time.

  Even with the windows down, it was a long time before the scent of her dissipated and his fantasies subsided.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The phone rang in the Corbins’ farmhouse. It interrupted Vivian’s painting trance, what she called “being in the zone.” The moment when all the words, the mind’s negative chatter, consciousness, receded like an ebb tide.

  She stepped briskly from the barn to the house, thinking, Jens wouldn’t persist, knowing she would be out in the barn painting. Unless it were an emergency.

  As she entered the house through the sliding kitchen door, the ringing stopped. Bruzza, their French bulldog, glanced up from his slumber and then dozed off again.

  Whoever it was, they were welcome to call back while she fixed herself some lunch. And if it was him? Armand Laurent? Well, she’d hang up on him. Too much water under the bridge. Besides, she never went back — only forward. The curtain had been drawn.

  ________

  Halfway through her sandwich, the phone rang again.

  “Hello. Jens?”

  “Vivi ...” His name for her. “Vivi, it’s me. Armand...” His first name, intimate, flush with memories.

  His voice seemed to fly across the trough of time, jolting her awake, all senses alert. Her heart was pounding.

  “Armand? Really? It’s really you?”

  “I told you I’d come for you.” His voice trembled.

  Hadn’t he promised in his letters to call once he said it was safe? What had he meant by that? she wondered. Why wouldn’t it be safe? Because of her husband? Her son? What did he want from her that couldn’t be dealt with openly, straightforwardly? Surely, he didn’t expect her to go around her husband’s back.

  His letters clearly spelled out his intentions, his desire to reclaim her, a married woman and a mother. Did he really think she would drop her safe, comfortable life to run off with him, a man with no prospects, a convicted murderer, and do what? Play Bonnie to his Clyde? Disappear in Mexico like old hippies? Become starving artists? To beg, con, and steal?

  She shook her head unconsciously and gripped the phone to her ear, pulling the wire tight as she paced like an animal in a cage.

  “Come for me?”

  His silence bespoke disappointment. This was crazy, she told herself. She found herself feeling sorry for him. The least she could do was let him down easy.

  “Armand,” she said, her voice aquiver. “Is there something you need? Money? I can help you with that.”

  “Oh, Vivi ... is that why you think I’m calling?”

  He sounded like he’d been cut loose from his earthly tether and was careening through darkest space, to his eternal doom.

  She did not know what to say.

  “Meet me, please,” he begged. “Just for a few minutes ... in a public place. Okay? Please?”

  When she didn’t answer, he took a new tack.

  “Vivi, you owe me,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Please,” he repeated.

  Was he
crying? she wondered. Was he? Or had she heard a tinge of anger?

  “Okay ...,” she said, her voice subdued. “Where?”

  Chapter Twenty

  As Jens drove away from the hospital in Conway, the morning sky turned leaden with thunderheads. A light rain began to fall. Within minutes the rain gathered force. It made the Scenic Conway Railroad, a local landmark with its turn of the century train station and locomotives, look like a page out of history.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into his driveway, watching as the rain poured over his tightly-shingled roof and ran off the eves into the shale beds surrounding the house.

  He shut off the engine and listened to the beat of the rain on the Subaru’s hood and roof. It was a pleasant sound, reminding him vaguely of his college days: of rented attic rooms with tin roofs that syncopated with the rain; of pots and pans pinging with leaks; of the candlelit nights spent with a girlfriend, hunkered down against the New England weather, a bottle of Liebfraumilch to warm them.

  He was unhappy in his marriage, this he knew. And now?

  He smiled ruefully to himself, recalling how he’d chased Vivian around Portsmouth until she’d relented. He’d practically stalked her, turning up at her gallery openings, buying her watercolors to flatter her, though he’d not been as taken with her paintings as he had been with her and her dark Arcadian beauty. When she failed to show any interest in him except as a collector, he’d redoubled his efforts, regaling her with roses, taking her to romantic supper clubs, drawing her out. She found herself relying on him for advice about her career and later about her insecurities, which were many.

  Had she been in love with someone else the whole time?

  He burned with anger and shame at her likely betrayal.

  Yet, he did not believe it — did not want to.

  He flashed back to the morning a few days ago when he was leaving for Jackson with Teddy. There’d been that shot fired in the woods. Plot-savvy by trade, he began to make connections, unbidden, between the shot and Teddy’s reference to that “bastard ex-con Laurent.”

  Were they in danger? Teddy would have to come clean. And Vivian, too, if he was going to protect his family, the thing that mattered most, his ambition aside.