by Lisa Unger
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been saving it for you, Ivan. For your release from prison.”
“You’re such a good brother,” Ivan said grimly, looking at the road ahead. He spoke in Czech. Outside the sky was turning grayish black. Snow.
Ivan turned on the radio. He liked classical music, found a violin concerto Kristof didn’t recognize, kept the volume low.
“I had a lot of time to think. To wonder who might have informed the police about the guns in our apartment, Kristof.”
It was the apartment they’d shared. He’d cleared out his stuff and found another place before making the call, knowing that Ivan would never tell the police that they shared the apartment. There was no lease; his name was on nothing, not even the electric bill. Kristof felt a thump begin in his chest.
“And?”
“I was never able to figure it out.”
“Where are we going, Ivan?”
His brother ignored him. “Then, just days before my release, I had a visitor.”
Kristof thought it was best to stay silent. He knew who had visited Ivan.
“Camilla Novak. The girl you loved so much, the one you had to have. She said you betrayed me to the police. That you broke all your promises to her. That we did all the work—she getting you access to the apartment, his accounts and passwords, all his identification. I took care of the murder, the disposal of the body. And you? You took all the money.”
Kristof smiled. “Ivan, come on. She’s lying. She’s angry because I don’t want her any longer. You know how I am with women. Easily bored.”
“Then who?”
“How should I know? I’m sorry it happened. But I can help you now. There’s money, a lot of it. What’s mine is yours. You’re my brother.”
He patted the big man on the shoulder. Ivan didn’t turn to look at him. Kristof knew it was too late. Ivan was lost to the silent rage brewing within him.
“Where are we going, Ivan?”
“Some people want to talk to you.”
“What people?”
“Friends of mine.”
Kristof’s mind was racing. How was he going to get himself out of this? Ivan had locked the doors. He was unarmed, outweighed by Ivan. He had no choice but to play it out.
“I always took care of you. I always loved you,” said Ivan. He looked so sad.
“I know.”
Kristof looked out the window of the passing landscape of concrete buildings, the gunmetal sky. Ivan was fast, silent. Kristof never even heard him reach for the gun and deliver a sure blow to the side of his head. The world just grayed out. Then, the next thing he knew, he was facedown on a cold, hard floor, surrounded by Ivan and his gloved, black-clad friends. It wasn’t much of a party and it didn’t end well.
HE THOUGHT OF this as he trekked across the uneven gray cobblestones of the ancient Karluv Most, the Charles Bridge, in Prague. The hours of unpleasantness, his ultimate escape thanks to moves he had learned from, of all people, Sara. They knew the day might come when he’d have to extract himself from a bad outcome, had planned for it. The memory of Ivan, his time in the warehouse, the last moments on the dock caused him to look over his shoulder.
The bridge was mobbed with tourists, snapping pictures of the towering saints—St. Francis Borgia, St. John the Baptist, St. Ann, St. Joseph—leaning over the edge to gaze at the swans in the gray water of the Vltava River. The bridge had stood since 1357. Now people strolled across it sipping soda and listening to iPods. He didn’t resent them. In fact, he was always glad for a crowd. Easier to be invisible.
He passed the Old Town Bridge Tower, a magnificent Gothic structure reaching into the sky with a pinnacled wedge spire. Tourists sat at its base eating ice cream cones, in spite of the cold. Shops lining the street sold wooden toys and Czech glass, Tshirts and rolls of film and candy bars.
He made a left and passed a popular chain called Bohemia Bagel and was suddenly off the main drag, alone on a narrow street. To his right a courtyard behind a high, wrought-iron gate, a dark alley to his left where a woman’s shoe lay in a puddle of black water. The street was quiet, as if the crowded street just a hundred feet away didn’t exist at all. Prague was like that. Turn one corner and you move from the modern to the ancient, as though you’ve stepped through a portal to another time and place.
For now he was home. He was safe. All threats delayed or neutralized. The streets of Prague welcomed their native son, allowed him to blend into their gray mystery, took him into their sandstone arms, hid him no matter what he’d done elsewhere in the world. It didn’t matter here. Prague was the mother he’d never had.
He ducked into the dark side entrance of the building where Beethoven himself composed during his stay in Prague, when the building was known as the Inn of the Golden and White Unicorn. He liked the romance of that, even if he doubted its veracity. Now it housed sleek, trendy condos with all the modern amenities. Real-estate ventures had come to Prague. He’d bought the apartment pre-construction in 2003 and now it was worth a fortune. There were legitimate ways to make money. Of course, one had to have money first in order to do that.
He unlocked the heavy wooden door and pushed inside. He had a futon and a large flat-screen television equipped with satellite, pulling in hundreds of channels from around the world. In one of the bedrooms, there was a simple platform bed. Then just a desk and his laptop computer. The place smelled of fresh paint and new linens.
In the kitchen, he made himself an espresso and thought of the coffee he’d shared with Isabel on their last morning together. He searched for the pain and the sadness he’d felt as he’d driven off with Ivan. But it was gone. He wondered if he’d ever felt anything at all. Or was it all part of a charade he’d played too well? What did it really mean to love someone? Did it have to last forever to have existed at all?
He took his coffee and sat on the futon, flipped on the television, scanning the menu for CNN. He didn’t have to wait long for the story. After ten minutes of enduring news of the real-estate and mortgage crisis, the discovery of a Texas cult compound, the newest way to lose those extra ten pounds, before he saw Isabel’s face on the screen, then his own. He turned up the volume.
“Detectives working the case have tied the recent crimes to the unsolved 1999 disappearance of Marcus Raine, a man they now believe was murdered. They say they are exploring connections from the current crimes, including the recent murder of Camilla Novak, who was also the girlfriend of the man who went missing in 1999.” A picture of Camilla filled the screen.
Her image faded to an image of his face. This did not disturb him; his facial hair grew quickly and he’d more than doubled his caloric intake. Within a few days, he’d look different enough to pass anywhere unnoticed. Until then he’d stay out of sight.
“This man, whom officials say is Kristof Ragan, is a Czech immigrant who came to the U.S. on a student visa in 1990 and disappeared in violation of his visa after graduating from Hunter College in 1994 with a degree in computer science, and is the husband of bestselling author Isabel Connelly.”
That disturbed him. How had they learned a portion of his true history and his given name? Of course, he wasn’t using that name now, but still. Who knew the truth about him? Sara would not betray him; he knew that. The only other possibility was Ivan. He regretted his decision to spare his brother. Another weakness, another mistake made out of love—or something like it.
“Isabel Connelly is considered a person of interest. Her whereabouts are currently unknown.”
“We urge Ms. Connelly to turn herself in,” said a handsome detective. He was well-dressed, his shield on a chain around his neck. “Kristof Ragan is a dangerous man.”
The shellacked, plastic woman who passed as a newscaster looked deeply into the lens of the camera and said, “In a case that involves murder, identity theft, and the disappearance of over a million dollars, truth, it would seem, is stranger than fiction.”
In his stomach, he felt an uncomfortable mingl
ing of anger and fear. Sara had warned him: “You let Camilla live, and look where it got you. It will be the same with this one. She’ll rest no easier, I promise you.”
“She will,” he’d said, not actually believing it himself. “She has too much to tie her to her life—her work, her family. A threat to them will keep her in line. She can’t afford to come after me.”
“Hmm,” Sara had said skeptically. “I saw her. I think nothing could keep her from coming after you.”
“If that happens, it will be my problem.”
Another error in judgment, another knot to be tied now.
Then the cell phone in his pocket rang. It was a disposable phone he’d picked up at the airport, and only one person had the number. He answered quickly, surprised.
“I didn’t think you’d call,” he said by way of greeting.
There was a pause, a light breathing on the line. He could almost smell the peppermint on her breath.
“I didn’t think I would, either,” she said finally. Her voice was sweet, with a lilting British accent that spoke volumes of her wealth and education. “What you said, about not having time to play games. I liked it. I … don’t want to play games, either.”
“Then I’ll see you tonight?” He had a way of making his voice sound halting, nervous, and vulnerable when he was anything but.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
23
In the East Village studio where he lived, police found evidence of Ben Jameson’s powerful obsession with Linda Book. Stacks of newspaper clippings, photographs from interviews, as well as many taken while she shopped with her kids or dined with her husband or attended her yoga class—he’d been watching her. He’d kept a journal of their imagined affair.
He’d been married, had two small girls. But his wife had left him years ago; he had only limited, supervised time with his children. His wife had cited abuse, mental illness, finally left him after he put her in the hospital with a concussion and a broken nose. She loved him still but was afraid of his terrible rages, the deep well of depression where he often disappeared for weeks, months.
On medication, he was the kindest man, loving and gentle, thoughtful and romantic, she claimed. But without, he could be a monster. She’d been hopeful over the last year. He’d been stable, dutiful about his meds, had seemed almost happy. His visits with the girls were enjoyable, peaceful. But it was his fantasy about Linda Book that had been bolstering him. When he stopped his medication, the downward spiral was quick and final.
“We met at the gallery that was showing my work, at the opening party,” Linda told Erik. “You remember, we had an encounter over a bad review he wrote about one of my shows. But it was fine, even funny. He called a few days later to apologize. We met for coffee. I was networking, you know. But then he kept calling. A week later I bumped into him outside my yoga studio. He said that he’d been in the neighborhood interviewing another artist. But that was the first time I realized there might be something wrong.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want anyone to worry.”
“How long has this been going on, Linda?”
“Six months, on and off.”
“Linda.”
“It’s been so stressful lately. I didn’t want to add anything to our plate. Maybe I thought by ignoring it, it would just go away. He was always polite, never crazy. I don’t know, maybe I liked the attention.”
Erik was silent, his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry.”
She hated herself for her sins of omission, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell the truth, to take another brick out of the foundation of their marriage. Ben was dead. His obsession with her was obvious and documented. No one even seemed to suspect that there was an actual affair. She’d never left him a voice-mail message or sent him an e-mail. She knew his cell phone records, if it came to that, would show a lot of calls to her, but only a couple from her phone. Returning his calls, she’d say. She thought they were friendly, she’d say, if not quite friends. She didn’t want to be rude. He was a reviewer for a major paper, after all. She knew even the text messages she’d sent were purposely vague, innocuous.
“Did you sleep with him, Linda? Were you having an affair?”
She hadn’t expected him to ask the question flat out like that. She tried to muster righteous indignation, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even bring herself to answer.
“Last night on the phone you said, ‘I’ve made mistakes, too.’ Do you remember?”
She nodded. They were alone, for the first time since “the event,” as she’d heard it referred to a number of times. The event of a man blowing his head off in front of their eyes. She found she couldn’t remember anything but the sound of her own screaming. No one should have to see such a thing twice; her psyche seemed to know this and cut her a break. The event, from the moment she heard him call her name on the street, was now a vague black-and-red blur in her memory.
John Brace had left them, finally. Trevor and Emily were still with Erik’s mom and would be for a couple of days until they figured things out. Fred was back at home being tended to by Margie, with staff, of course, to do any of the heavy lifting. And Izzy was out in the fray.
Isabel had left a message saying that she was going to make things right, and not to worry. “Linda, don’t worry. I promise, I’m going to make everything all right for you and Erik again. And I swear I wouldn’t have shot him.” She sounded so young and sweet and silly. Isabel thought that it was about the money. She thought if she could get that money back, she’d fix what was broken in all of their lives, that retrieving it would begin the healing all of them needed so desperately now.
Why didn’t she see that it was about betrayal? Infidelity? That it was about secrets and lies, an erosion of trust? Why didn’t she know that those things cannot be fixed? You can’t restore torn fabric to its original state. You can patch it, you can sew it—but there will always be a seam, a place you can touch with your finger, a place that’s weaker, prone to tearing again.
“I did say that. I remember,” Linda said, looking at her husband.
She was about to deny everything because she could. Because it would be better for her, for him. She could deny any wrongdoing to her grave, and never worry about proof to the contrary, but she realized, in that moment, that more lies would only weaken them further. They needed to accept the truth of each other, to see each other for all their individual flaws and weaknesses and choose to continue on just the same. Or not at all. More lies didn’t mean less pain. Maybe in the moment, but not down the road. She was about to tell him this. She was about to tell him everything. But he spoke first.
“Then let’s move forward from here, Linda. Can we?” He had moved from the couch where he had been sitting beside her, and now kneeled on the floor. He took her hands in both of his, pressed his chest against her knees. “If we’ve both made mistakes and love each other still, can we just move ahead without looking back in regret and recrimination?”
She shook her head. “But Erik, I—”
“I’m begging you,” he interrupted. “Can you forgive me for what I’ve done?”
“Erik, yes,” she said, squeezing his hands, closing her eyes. “But I need forgiveness, too.”
“It’s already done. Don’t say another word. From right here, from this place, let’s move forward and do better for each other. Without looking back even once. Can we? Can we, Linda?”
The look on his face was so wide open, so earnest. He’d known all along she’d been having an affair, hadn’t he? She could see the pain and the understanding and forgiveness in the blue wells of his eyes. She could even see that it was the reason he’d done what he did. He thought that if he could give her the security she craved, she wouldn’t be tempted to seek the cheap and foolish comfort she’d sought elsewhere. She bowed her head in shame.
She’d not been able to keep her father from l
eaving her. But she could hold her family together now; she could forgive them all, even herself.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. She looked up at him. From this place, he’d said. He hadn’t meant the actual apartment, of course. But it was here that they’d conceived their children. These rooms had been the battleground for every major argument, the place where they’d first made love, where’d they laughed so hard it hurt, where they’d wept and yelled and cooked their meals. Sure, it was hocked up to heaven at the moment, but it didn’t make it any less theirs. She thought of one of Fred’s Zen adages: The journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step.
“Yes, of course we can.”
She felt grief for Ben. She’d cared for him, made love to him, considered him a friend. She felt some culpability—however irrational—for his death. But she also knew that he was a very sick man. The knowledge of what he would have done to Erik, to her, to both of their children, eclipsed the feelings of affection she’d had for him. She found she couldn’t muster much compassion for him, in spite of her sadness.
She remembered that closed-down, shut-off feeling from the night her father killed himself, as if some critical part of her had drifted off into space. When she could feel anything at all, it was only rage. If he’d loved her, he’d have remembered the moon was full. He’d have remembered the night belonged to her. He’d have known she’d find him. She’d always believed this in her darkest heart. But now she understood he hadn’t been thinking about anything except his own unbearable psychic pain.
When she wept in her husband’s arms then, she knew it was the first time she’d allowed herself to really cry for her father. She wept for him as much as she did for everything she’d almost destroyed in her life because she just couldn’t let him go.
Hello, Moonbeam.
Goodbye, Daddy.
