The Request

by David Bell

  “Has she mentioned anything about Blake? Any trouble?”

  “Not to me.” She wiped her hands again. “What did you think of all that the cop told us?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t conceive of Blake murdering someone. I just can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Amanda, we’re talking about murder. Not being a jackass. Or bumping a baby’s head against a lampshade.”

  “That’s your baby he did that to.”

  “Our baby. And it was an accident. Not attempted infanticide.”

  “Isn’t it obvious why Blake would kill this woman?” Amanda asked. “Isn’t it clear the motive the cop was laying out?”

  “I can see it. Maybe she made things awkward with Sam. Or she didn’t want to break up when he ended it. Something like that.”

  “Pretty good motivation, isn’t it?” Amanda said. “If he loses Sam once and for all, he loses everything. I always knew they’d get married. I knew he’d go through with it . . . for the money, if nothing else.”

  “I know. You always said that.”

  “And I’m right. Where does he want to work? He’s always talked about it.”

  “Her dad’s company. I know. And Sam’s mentioned her dad might hire him. That’s always been in play.”

  “He can’t blow all that,” Amanda said. “Hell, Sam’s parents have plenty of money. And she only has one sister. Think of what they’ll inherit.”

  “That’s a little cynical, isn’t it?” But as I said it, I remembered what Sam had told me about Blake’s dad losing his job and maybe losing a lot of money and how that had led to Blake finding work in Rossingville. Blake had always been the rich kid. Had that been put in jeopardy?

  “Does it sound like a fair assessment to you?” she asked. “You know Blake. Would that motivate him to get married?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but I think there’s more to it than that. Sam is a good balance for him. She brings out the best in him. You know that.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Not maybe. You’ve said yourself it was true. They work well together . . . when they’re actually together.”

  Henry was moving his head around as Amanda tried to feed him.

  “Do you want me to do that?” I asked, pointing to Henry. “I’m just standing here. Not helping.”

  “It’s fine. He and I have our routine. When I go back to work, we can share the duties more. We’ll have to.”

  “I’m glad you’re ready to go back,” I said.

  “I am too. I don’t want to feel like I’m sitting on the sidelines while everyone else advances their careers. I’m sure Jennifer had a nice career. I’m sure Jennifer was making good money.”

  “She’s dead, Amanda. Whoever killed her . . . she’s dead.”

  She let out a deep breath. “I know. I shouldn’t talk about her that way.”

  “If you’re ready to go back to work, we can figure things out with Henry and everything. You know your parents would help too. They’d love to spend more time with Henry.”

  “You’re right. I know.”

  Henry started grabbing for the spoon, as if he wanted to feed himself. He couldn’t, not yet. But he would be there soon. And crawling and talking and walking all lay ahead. Everything with him would speed past like the scenery outside a fast-moving train.

  “It’s tough for me to be charitable to a woman who came after you,” Amanda said, “and then was involved with Blake.”

  “We don’t know what went on between Blake and Jennifer,” I said. “But Blake said he ended it when he and Sam were going to get back together. I believe him.”

  Henry seemed content to play with the spoon. He tried to get it into his mouth. Then he banged it against the high chair tray. Amanda and I had both quickly grown deaf to the noise he made. The pounding, the rattling, the squealing. The spills and the mess. At some point we just let go, figuring all of these things were going to happen, so no need to get bent out of shape about them.

  Amanda arched her back, stretching and groaning, and leaned against the counter.

  “You saw Blake earlier in the evening yesterday,” she said. “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “Would you have wanted me to?”

  “I told you, Ryan,” she said. “I don’t want to think we have secrets from each other. You kept this Jennifer stuff from me. You didn’t tell me you had coffee with Blake last night. I said I can try to be more charitable toward him. To respect your friendship with him.”

  Bang, bang, bang went the spoon against the high chair.

  “I heard all that,” I said. “And I appreciate that. But it wasn’t planned. I ran into him. But if you don’t want me to hide my interactions with Blake, I won’t. I’m not sure there are going to be too many more of them.”

  Amanda glanced at her phone. “Nothing from Sam.” She set it down and looked up at me. “I don’t want to turn into one of those couples who keep things from each other. The way my mom doesn’t tell my dad when she buys something expensive. Or the way he doesn’t tell her when he’s going drinking with his friends. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Unpleasant, I guess.”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “But my parents were always honest with each other,” I said.

  “You always said that. And it’s a shame your dad isn’t here to see how you’re doing. Or to meet Henry.”

  “I know.” I went over and slipped the spoon out of Henry’s hand. He barely noticed and kept waving his hand around like a conductor without an orchestra. “So . . . in the interest of honesty, I’m going to tell you what I want to do right now. No one can reach Blake, and I think he’s in big trouble. And it’s all trouble he brought on himself, I know. But . . .”

  “You still want to go find him,” she said, reading my thoughts.

  “I think it’s the best thing.”

  “And take him to the cops?”

  “I just want to find out what’s going on,” I said. “Why he’s acting this way.”

  Amanda nodded. “I figure I can’t stop you. And for Sam’s sake, I hope he does go and tell the cops whatever he knows. But can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What?”

  She looked up at me again. “Tell him if he was the one creeping outside the house last night to just knock the next time. I’ll try not to bite him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I dressed quickly upstairs. For all I knew, Blake had left town, fleeing like a thief in the night to avoid whatever trouble he might have found himself in. Given his refusal to answer calls from anyone—the police and me—was I willing or able to shift my opinion of him? Was it possible for me to accept that Blake might very well have killed Jennifer for the reasons Amanda gave?

  Was I ready to accept it, Blake as a murderer, even as a remote possibility?

  “No,” I said out loud. And pushed the thought away.

  But did I push with as much force as I would have once been able to summon?

  Once dressed, I went downstairs and stopped in my office. I took the laptop, sliding it into my messenger bag.

  I heard Amanda and Henry in the living room. I went in there to get my coat.

  Henry was on the floor, squirming around on a blanket. Amanda sat in a chair nearby, trying to read for her book club. I knew she wouldn’t be able to get much reading accomplished. It was tough to read a book with one eye on the kid.

  “I guess it would be foolish of me to ask you not to go,” she said. “To just let Blake deal with his own problems with the police and everything else.”

  “You know I have to do this.”

  “And you know I’m not going to beg,” she said.

  “I know that very well.”

  I put my coat on. But then I didn’t know what to say or do next. I couldn’t really tell Amanda all
the reasons why I needed to go out to try to find Blake. I couldn’t unroll the long scroll of secrets I had kept from her. My presence in Jennifer’s house, my taking of the phone. My role in the accident all those years ago.

  And I wasn’t even sure what my involvement would do for Blake.

  When the police found him—and I believed they inevitably would—he’d have to tell them the entire story. Which would expose everything I’d already tried to keep under wraps.

  So was there any way for this to turn out well for me? Or Blake?

  Or Amanda? Or Henry?

  A wave of hopelessness descended on me. Was there any way out that would leave my life intact?

  “I just . . . Maybe you should do something else today,” I said. “You could go see your parents or something.”

  “Why are you telling me to do that?”

  “Look, I really don’t know who was sneaking around last night when I wasn’t here. Maybe Blake. He came to the house looking for me and saw you were home or something. But we can’t be sure. We just can’t.”

  “Are you saying you think Henry and I are unsafe?” Her voice remained calm. No hysteria. No loss of control for her.

  “I doubt it. But . . . we don’t really know what’s going on. Do we?”

  “Do you think Blake would come by and hurt us?”

  “No,” I said, and I meant it. “Not at all. Not Blake. I guess I don’t know who all he might be mixed up with. If someone hurt Jennifer—”

  “Killed her. Not hurt, Ryan. They killed her.”

  “Right. If someone killed her, and they know I know her, or they know I know Blake, is it possible they’d come looking for me?”

  Amanda put her book on the end table, splayed open to hold her place. Color rushed to her face as she appeared to be processing what I’d told her. “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  Amanda stared at Henry on the floor, while I stood there with my coat on and my bag in my hand. I let her have the time to think and absorb the possibilities.

  And I kept some of the possibilities to myself. Dawn Steiner. Amanda didn’t know anything about her. And I didn’t want her to. It was my problem to solve, something I hoped to keep her protected from.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll find somewhere to go until you come home.”

  “I can drop you off if you want. Your parents . . .”

  “No, I’ll go. You’re in a hurry. And I’m not sure I’m even doing the right thing. I feel like a little kid jumping at shadows.”

  “It might be best.”

  “Are you going to keep in touch while you’re out?” she asked. “I want to know that you’re okay. Even if you are doing something kind of stupid for a person who is definitely stupid.”

  “I’ll keep in touch,” I said. “I promise.”

  “You know what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I have a feeling we’re not going to get to watch that movie tonight either.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I should have been going to work.

  As I drove through town, I saw school buses and cars, service trucks and delivery people, everyone going about their daily routines. I should have been part of that stream, with nothing more to look forward to than meetings over coffee and a boatload of e-mails to answer.

  Instead I drove through Rossingville—a small city named for a Union general who quartered his troops here during the Civil War and then decided to stay and farm—trying to find an old friend who might have committed a murder. And was definitely a suspect in one.

  A light flashed on my dashboard display, and a chime sounded. Low fuel.

  “Great.”

  I’d planned on getting gas on the way home from the Pig the night before. Then Blake had distracted me and made me late. Then, when I went to Jennifer’s house, I ignored it again.

  And there I was with a low-fuel warning.

  But I caught a break. Just outside of our neighborhood, I passed a gas station, and I pulled up to a pump and started fueling. The station had just opened, and a tired-looking clerk with a ponytail and an arm full of tattoos pushed a rack of motor oil out the door and into place. When he stopped moving, he stretched his back, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through with his thumb.

  I reached for my own phone and started scrolling while the tank filled. I wanted to see the latest about Jennifer. Anything new. But as was so often the case, I saw only the same things repeated over and over.

  A car door slammed, but I didn’t look up. The sound barely registered.

  A moment later I sensed someone standing near me.

  “What are you looking at on there?”

  My head snapped up, followed by the feeling of my chest deflating.

  “Surprised to see me?” Dawn asked. She wore sunglasses and workout gear. Despite the early hour, her erect posture and crisp voice gave the impression of someone who’d been awake for hours. “We’re overdue for a talk.”

  “Did you follow me? Were you at the house last night?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Were you at my house? My wife called the police.”

  “You don’t want me talking to the police, do you? Worlds could collide. Everyone would know things about you. Bad things.”

  The pump clicked off, and I let out a sigh. “Not today, Dawn. I’ve got other stuff going on.”

  “The clock is ticking on our agreement.”

  “Your agreement. You set the deadline and made the demand.”

  “And you have to pay. It’s a simple transaction.”

  “I told you. We’re having work done on our yard. I just had to put down a deposit on that. So you have to wait. A few weeks.”

  She started shaking her head before the words were even out of my mouth. And she continued to shake once I was finished. I looked at my watch. I wanted to get going. I didn’t want to be dealing with her.

  “I need the money.”

  “What do you even need it for? I’m sure you’re not giving it to your family.”

  She lifted her sunglasses and squinted at me in the growing light. Her eyes were a cool green shade, and as I stared into them, I couldn’t help but think of her two younger sisters. I saw the resemblance in the shape of the face, the thinness of her lips. It was like staring at a ghost from my past.

  “I have things I need it for. More than just fixing up my backyard. It’s my own concern.”

  “If you told me what it was, maybe I could help you in a different way. Or maybe I’d just be more likely to help. I don’t like what happened to your family. If I could erase it all, I would. I promise.”

  Dawn took a step closer and spoke through gritted teeth. “Look, you have one job. Give me the money in twenty-four hours, and your name stays out of the headlines. Got it? You know, I did a little research. Whoever was driving that car that hit my sisters can still face legal jeopardy. Not to mention the civil suit that would follow.”

  “Someone already went to jail.”

  “But was it the right someone? If the right guy went to jail, why is the guy who sat in the backseat the one bringing my parents money? Anonymously?”

  “Just drop it.”

  “You’ve never denied it. Not once. Why not just deny it if it wasn’t you?”

  I grabbed the pump handle and withdrew it from my car, taking care not to dribble gas on either of our shoes. The pungent fumes hit me in the nose and almost caused a cough. While Dawn hovered nearby I finished the transaction, making sure to ignore her and avoid any eye contact.

  “Well?” she said. “What’s the answer? If you want to drive to the bank, I’ll follow you. You can make some of the withdrawal. Call it a down payment.”

  Her assertiveness struck the wrong note in me
. I was starting to feel like a pinball, bouncing between people who wanted something, and they all seemed to feel a great deal of ease about telling me what to do. Blake. The cops.

  I took a step closer to her, putting us toe-to-toe. Anger superseded my guilt.

  And I noticed she wore sneakers. Clean and almost new.

  “Look.” I jabbed the air between us with my index finger. She flinched when I started speaking, acting as though I’d tried to strike her. “You’ll get your money when I have it. I have other problems right now. Personal problems. So you need to back off.”

  “I can tell—”

  “Tell who?” I asked. “Sure, tell the cops what you think you know about the accident. Expose me as a liar. But then what? The golden goose gets neutered. Where would you be getting your eggs from then? Hell, where else would your parents get that little bit of help I’ve been giving them?”

  “You’re too afraid to stop. You’re too afraid—”

  “You should be afraid—”

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

  The voice cut through our conversation.

  Argument.

  We both turned and looked. The gas station employee—the guy with the ponytail, the tattoos, and the phone—stood nearby, studying us. He was younger than he’d looked from afar, closer to twenty than to thirty. And his face showed concern. His eyes were dialed in on Dawn, and he expectantly waited for her to say something to him.

  When she didn’t, he said, “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Okay?”

  “Is this man harassing you?” the guy asked. “He made a threatening gesture to you. Like this.” The guy imitated my finger jab, except he made it appear as though he was Norman Bates and my finger was a knife. “I’ve got my phone right here. And you can step inside if that makes you feel safer.”

  “Harassing her?” I said. “Me? You don’t even know what’s going on.”

  “Now, sir, don’t direct your hostility toward me. That wouldn’t be right either.” He lifted his phone and tapped it. “I’m calling the police.”