“Missing,” I say.
Mark shakes his head. “The East River is over forty feet deep at the point where the car was pushed in. It’s ice cold and there was a strong current.”
“Was he a veteran?”
Mark shrugs. “Not that I know of.”
I shut my eyes, remembering the driver, standing next to the car outside our apartment. “Three tours. Algeria, then Tunisia, twice.”
I close the folder, returning both to the portfolio.
“That’s it?” Mark asks.
I nod, swigging the last of my beer.
Mark lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, and stares at me intently through the haze of smoke. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” I stand, dropping a twenty on the table.
“Jim,” Mark says, and there’s something in his tone that tells me he’s this close to walking up to the fourth floor of The New York Journal building and telling my Editor-in-Chief, Peter Reston, that his now famous war correspondent has become a certified nut. I’d better give him something, or I’d never hear the end of it. I sit back down.
“Our limo driver was ex-military,” I say.
“You know this?” Mark asks.
“We spoke about it briefly.”
“And… what? You think the government was scared about something you knew? You were a POW, Jim. You’re a hero. Nobody wants you dead.”
I level my gaze on Mark. “The JAS wants me dead.”
“Jaysh al-Saalihin, are you shitting me? Those guys don’t hire ex-military. And even if they wanted to, there’s no ex-military on the face of the planet that would work for Islamist extremists on US soil. You can’t seriously believe they would do this.”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling a knot growing in my chest. “That’s not what I think.”
“Okay,” Mark says.
“I think it had something to do with Molly.” This is what has been keeping me up at night. The single refrain running through my mind. Who was my wife, really? And what was she trying to run from?
“Molly?” Mark’s face breaks into a grin as if waiting for the punchline. When I say nothing, his smile fades into a look of worry.
“She had a fake passport and several thousand dollars in cash, as well as a ticket to Chicago for that weekend. She was supposed to leave the next day.”
Mark shakes his head. “And you think that she was in some kind of trouble?”
“Like you said, the only people that would want me dead are on the other side of the world. The JAS orchestrating a hit in this way would be unprecedented. But, for a woman in trouble with deep enough pockets who wants to disappear, hiring a former military spook, who is clearly living a double life, to crash her into the river and help her swim to safety… I don’t think that’s so crazy.”
Mark squints at me. “Then both of the drivers would have had to have been in on it. Jim. A woman leading a double life is not crazy. A woman faking her death is a little crazy. But this…” he shakes his head. “This is truly crazy. Get some rest, Jim. Plan that funeral. Bury your wife, and move on.”
“Move on?” I start to say. I can feel the floodgates starting to open, ready to release the sadness and grief and anger inside of me and let it all pour out in a torrent, overwhelming him in the flood of my emotion, making him feel my pain. Instead, I stand, slipping both files back into the portfolio. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Come on,” Mark spreads his arms wide in a conciliatory gesture.
I hold the portfolio up. “I mean it. Thanks.” I shrug on my coat, tucking the portfolio under my arm and move toward the exit. I turn back and give Mark a wave, but the look on his face sticks in my memory. His eyes are wide and staring as if I’m the saddest picture of a thing he’s seen in years.
The phone is ringing when I return to my apartment. I throw my coat onto the couch and stumble through the cluttered bags of clothes until I reach the cordless phone. “Who is this?” I snap.
Silence on the other end. A missed call? Then I hear breathing. Anger, hot and pure, rises suddenly in my chest. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know what you’re getting out of this, but I am not amused. You have two seconds to say what you want to say before I call up my buddy at the FBI to have this call traced.” It’s a threat I could never follow through on, but the caller doesn’t know that.
“Is this James Gardner?” The voice is low and cracked with age.
“Yes, who is this?” I ask again.
There’s a moment of quiet on the other end, and then a quick intake of breath. “I want you to know I don’t really read the paper—certainly not the New York papers—so I never would’ve found out about you if someone else hadn’t seen the obituary in the paper and mailed me a copy.”
“What do you want?” I demand. It’s probably someone trying to book me for a radio show or TV interview, but they wouldn't open like that.
“You are the James Gardner whose wife recently died in a car crash?”
“You have about five seconds before I hang up.”
“Your wife, Molly, is my daughter.”
I feel a shiver run down my spine. “Your daughter?”
“That’s right,” the man says.
“My wife’s parents are dead,” I say.
“What you need to understand is that my daughter has been missing for thirty years. But I would recognize her anywhere even though she’s aged. I know it’s her.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“If we met in person—”
“Just tell me what you want?” I say. “Is it money?”
“I don’t want your money. I would like to speak to you if I could.”
“About what?” I demand.
“My daughter, your wife, she isn’t dead,” His voice trembles, filled with emotion. “Your wife isn’t dead.”
I grip the phone, my knuckles turning white. The anger wells up inside of me, filling my chest with heat. “Whoever you are, listen carefully. I don’t know what you want, but you're not going to get away with it. I’m not going to let you trample on a beautiful young woman’s life and profit off her death, or whatever the hell it is you think you’re going to accomplish here. So do not, I repeat, do not ever call me again.”
I smash the phone back on its cradle. Blood pounds in my ears. Adrenaline rushes through me. I look around at the house, feeling suddenly trapped. The shadows on the walls shift and move. A sound causes me to spin. Did someone just whisper my name? The walls and roof, the bags of Molly’s things, all seem be pushing in, threatening to tumble down and smother me, coffining me in their embrace. I grab my coat and hurry for the door, escaping into the biting December air.
December 13
McGee’s pub at 55th and Broadway is mostly empty, but for the business types out on a late lunch and a few sad sops nursing a beer at 2 P.M. It isn’t lost on me that I am slowly becoming one of those sad sops myself. My glass of Guinness is only half-finished, my attention for the last hour having been entirely focused on the file that Mark had put together on Daniel Gaines, a longtime employee of Elite Driver Services with nary a black mark to his name. But Gaines had said he was in the armed forces, and Mark’s work hadn’t turned that up. But the man who’s hand I’d shaken had felt tough as wooden pole, and he had also had a gun on him. Would a man like that really have been unable to survive in the East River when a soft-around-the-middle journalist like myself had made it out alive? The grainy photocopy of his driver’s license does little to help me one way or the other.
“You’ve been coming down here staring at that thing every day for the past week. What’s so interesting about it?” The woman next to me is five-foot nothing, a curly-haired blonde, and definitely not a sad sop. I straighten, closing the file.
“I didn’t know I was bothering you,” I say.
“You weren’t,” the woman responds with an amused smile followed by a roll of her eyes.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s pe
rsonal.”
“What isn’t?” The woman asks.
I let out a breath. “I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just been a hell of a month.”
“Well, I guess I am trying to be rude. Nosy, at a minimum. I’m Samantha.”
“James.” I extend a hand and we shake. My hand envelopes her own, but her grip is strong. “I’ve noticed you here too. Do you always eat lunch alone?”
She smirks. “Only when I’m traveling on business.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s home?”
“Chicago.”
“Nice city,” I say.
“You?” She asks.
“Right here,” I say.
“As in Manhattan?”
“As in just around the corner.”
“Aaaaah,” she draws the sound out. “A true local.” She smiles and then leans forward, tapping lightly on the closed file folder. “This guy… he, what, fucked your wife?”
Her casual profanity makes me want to cringe and laugh at the same time. Somehow I manage both. “No, no, no. Nothing like that.”
She takes out a card, setting it on top of the file. “Because, I am a lawyer.”
“Family law?” I ask.
“No. Corporate law. Horribly boring stuff, and I’d actually be useless to you for divorce issues. But hiring a private investigator, that I could do.”
“Really?”
“Nope, not really. This is my awkward attempt at flirtation.”
I look at the business card. “Samantha Cooper of Orville and Straus. You seem like a really nice person. But…”
Samantha stands up. “No buts.” She points at her business card, still in my hand. “If you ever need a corporate lawyer, or if you one day find yourself in Chicago and would like to have dinner with a true local, then you know who to call.” I watch her move quickly for the door until she’s gone.
I slip Samantha’s business card into my wallet and pull out some cash for my beer. That was… strange. But not entirely unwelcome, I suppose. But not now. Another life, maybe.
I sigh, looking back down at the closed folder. I’ve been sitting on the information Mark had given for over a week. So what is stopping me? It’s because I don’t believe even my own suspicions. They all feel too crazy. Like something Ellis Claymore might play on his radio show. What did Longdale call it? Night Terrors? That pretty much describes my life for the last month.
I still hear the voices at night. Well, not voices. Not exactly. But sounds. Whispers. Whispers from shadows that seem to follow me wherever I go. I’d gone from practically living on the couch in our—my––apartment, to only returning to the apartment when I am ready to collapse from exhaustion, then leaving the first thing in the morning. Since getting that call, I’d unplugged the phone. I’d kept seeing women on television that reminded me of Molly, so I unplugged that as well. Still, the apartment feels haunted. Molly is haunting me. Will the funeral set her free? Planning the funeral is the one useful thing I’ve managed to do this past week. A plot has been secured, the priest scheduled, the flowers ordered, and the invitations sent out to only a handful of our closest friends. I still haven’t picked out the items to bury in her coffin, but all the trash bags of her belongings will be waiting for me when I get home tonight; another way that Molly continues to haunt me.
I flip the file open again, staring at the grainy photograph of Daniel Gaines. I can’t live like this any longer. Maybe exorcising the spirit of Daniel Gaines from my life will get me one step closer to exorcising Molly’s spirit as well. I close the folder, stand, and head for the door.
Stepping out of the cab, I slowly make my way up the driveway of Daniel Gaines Long Island home toward a narrow, two story house. The roof is in disrepair, missing shingles standing out like gaps in teeth. Dirty children’s toys litter the front yard and a tire swing hangs from the branch of an old oak that stretches over the house. I ring the doorbell, but hear nothing so I knock instead. The woman that answers the door is harried looking, wearing stained sweat pants and balancing a six-month-old screamer on her hip.
“Alice Gaines?” I ask.
She responds with a withering glance. “What do you want?”
I hastily compose myself. “My name is Mark Gaffigan, I’m with The New York Times. I don’t mean to bother you, but I only need a few minutes.”
Screaming emits from inside the house midway through my spiel. “Not now!” she yells, then turns back. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.”
She steps back from the door.
I hold my hands out, palms up, in a placating gesture. “I’m not selling anything. I want to talk to you about your husband.”
She narrows her eyes. “What about him?”
I hesitate, feeling even more uncertain and wondering if I’ve gone to the wrong house. “Your husband was killed in a car accident when the car he was driving was pushed into the East River. Is that correct?”
She shifts the baby on her hip. The screaming changes pitch from annoying to ear-piercing. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” I say, feeling exasperated.
Alice shakes her head. “I already said plenty about everything I’ve been doing, saying, and feeling these last few weeks and I am sick and tired of all the judgment. So please, no more.”
This is proving to be harder than I thought. I had intended to flatter her by suggesting a fluff piece on Mrs. Gaines, the forgotten grieving wife. But something about her response doesn’t add up. What had she said about judgment? I take a step forward. “I want to hear about you and your husband’s lives… before all of this happened.”
“Before?” she asks. There’s the sound of a scuffle from inside the house followed by a loud crash and a cry of “moommmmyyy!” She cranes her head around. “Not in the house!” she snaps, and then turns back. She smiles and holds a hand to her chest. “You only want to talk about before?”
I pull my notebook out of my bag. “Yes, and you’re free to stop any time”
“Well,” she smiles a little. “If you insist.”
The inside of the house is a strange contrast to the exterior. A large flat-screen plasma tv sits inside a rickety looking entertainment center. The television box is still leaning against the wall, converted into a child’s fort. On the couch, a cellular phone, still in its plastic casing, has been wedged between the cushions as if forgotten. A young boy, possibly the one that screamed, bolts into the room after a remote-control helicopter. I duck to avoid the spinning blades.
“Travis, I said not in the house! Take that thing up to your room!”
Travis snatches the helicopter out of the air and disappears up the stairs.
I follow Alice to the kitchen in the back of the house where she gestures for me to sit at a round dining room table. It’s cluttered with leftover dishes and children’s coloring books. I clear a space for myself and sit.
“Want some water?” She asks “Or a beer? I’ve got a six-pack of Yeunglings outside in the snow.”
“I’m okay,” I open my notebook to a clean page. “How long were you and your husband married?”
“Thirteen years,” Alice sits across from me, balancing the six-month-old on her knee. The poor kid’s face is a red mask of tears and snot; its crying has transformed into desperate heaves. “I hope you don’t mind,” Alice says and with no more warning, she pulls her shirt down and pops a breast into the kid’s mouth. The crying stops.
I look away. Then, deciding my awkwardness is unprofessional, I turn back and look at her face. It’s lined from stress, but she can’t be much over thirty-five.
“Got married young?” I ask.
“Straight out of high school.” Alice rolls her eyes. “Young and dumb and full of—well, you know what.”
“Do you have any family in the area?” I ask.
“Not any that cared to visit,” she says.
I scrawl down her answers out of habit even though I know I’ll never use them for anything.
&nbs
p; “Now they won’t stop calling.” She shrugs, gesturing around the kitchen and I notice for the first time it is stocked with several very new looking appliances. The microwave looks brand new, and a kitchen-aid sits on the counter, still in its box. Condolence gifts? Perhaps she has wealthy family members. I file that away as another oddity.
“How many children do you have?”
“Three. You saw Travis. He’s nine. This one’s Ethan. He’s six months old. And Andrea is upstairs watching The UnReal World on MTV or whatever it is teenagers are watching these days. She’s thirteen. I told her there was no way in hell she would ever have cable in her room, but here we are. I swear, you say you’ll never spoil your children, but when it’s between that and your sanity…” she rolls her eyes. “You have children, Mr., uh…”
“Gaffigan,” I say. “Mark Gaffigan. And no, I don’t.”
The baby, Ethan, unlatches from Alice’s breast and gives a satisfied burp.
“And how have you been taking things since your husband’s death?”
Her eyes go wide. “Great, all things considered.”
“Sorry?” I ask.
She frowns at me as she shifts the baby to her shoulder and covers herself back up. “You’re not here to talk about the Power Ball?”
“I’m here to talk about your husband’s death.”
She stands. “Well, excuse me for acting surprised, but that’s all every other reporter has wanted to talk about.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head. “What Power Ball?”
“The morning my husband died, I got a letter in the mail with no return address. I let it sit there for a few days before opening it up, and I’m sure as hell glad I did because inside that letter was a lottery ticket. The whole country had been searching for that ticket for a solid week before I found it. 42 million dollars, and if that’s the karma I get for losing my husband in a one-in-a-million wreck then goddamnit, I’ll take that karma. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a family to take care of!”
Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga Page 5
