by James King
Works in strange ways, Mike thought, pouring some more Jack into his plastic cup.
There were others. He used to keep track. Then he stopped keeping track. When he started with Stephanie, he didn’t pretend that she would be the last. He didn’t plan on anyone being the last. He guessed he’d just keep going until he got caught—or didn’t.
And now it had happened. He thought of a picture he’d seen in the newspaper of the funeral of that French president or prime minister or whatever. His mistress and illegitimate child were right there at the casket, weeping, identified, plain as day. The French got a few things right.
Mike closed his eyes. He thought he should put the cup down on the floor next to the chair. He didn’t want to spill the stuff in his lap as he had done the night before, jerking awake to a cold, wet crotch. He focused on the warmth of the whiskey, the buzz. And then he felt an actual buzzing: his cell phone, which he’d put on vibrate so it wouldn’t ring during his interview with the nitwitted, nice-titted “search specialist.” He sat up quickly, spilling the drink on his lap, after all. It was only after he stood up, looking for a place to put the cup, that he realized he’d had too much. By the time he pulled the phone from his pants pocket, the caller had hung up. He checked the missed-calls feature and saw that it had been Colleen. Damn! She was calling to beg him to come home. He started to dial her number—their number—but then stopped. Maybe he should call back later, let her sweat it out. He went to the bathroom, used one of the hand towels to soak up some of the whiskey from his pants. When he finished that, he felt another buzz—the voice mail signal. He smiled to and congratulated himself for not getting in touch with her first. He was tempted to start packing, go home, surprise them all. But first, he decided to call voice mail. He wanted to hear the remorse; better yet, the begging.
It’s me. I got a call from April, Marcy’s daughter. She sounded strange. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. You need to call her on her cell phone. Call her right away. Here’s her number . . .
That was it. No Come home, the kids miss you, I miss you. Nothing.
Mike refilled his plastic cup. As he replayed the message—several times—so he could jot down the number, he analyzed Colleen’s tone, searching for hidden messages, signals. Nothing.
Cold bitch when she wanted to be.
Through the whiskey haze, the name April jarred him. For the past week, he’d chosen to forget all the nonsense developing back in Woodlake, but with the missing person herself dialing in, he didn’t see how he had a choice in the matter. He needed to make the call, which, given the number of times it took for him to dial the right numbers on the keypad, was looking more dubious by the minute.
“Hello?” The voice sounded older than he’d expected. Mature, but uncertain. No, that was how all teenagers talked these days, he reminded himself, ending all their sentences with question marks.
“April?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Mike. Your . . . uncle. Uncle Mike.”
“Oh. Hi.” She didn’t sound upset. She almost sounded surprised to hear from him. What was going on?
“April, where are you?”
There was a long pause.
“April?”
“I can’t tell you. It doesn’t matter.”
“Your mother is worried sick.” Mike hadn’t talked to Marcy, but he guessed this was a safe assumption. “I don’t know what your grandfather is trying to—”
“He wanted me to give you a message.”
“What?”
“He said he was supposed to mail it to you. But he forgot. He gets kind of mixed up.” Now Mike heard in her voice the “strangeness” that Colleen had referred to.
“April, tell me where you are.”
“I can’t. But Grandpa wanted me to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Of course this is a good idea. You have to tell me.”
“That’s the message.”
“What’s the message?”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“That’s the message. You mean, from my father?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him on, please, honey.” He tried very hard to enunciate very clearly.
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him up.”
“You want me to wake him up?”
“Yes. Will do you that, please?”
“Hold on.” There was muffling, some voices. “Uncle Mike . . . Grandpa . . . Wants to talk to you.”
“Who is this?” The voice was scratchy. Mike remembered it well from his childhood, his father waking up after he’d fallen asleep in front of the television.
“Dad? What in the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea—?”
“Who is this?” his father asked again.
“Mike. It’s Mike.”
There was silence. Mike decided to fill it.
“I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but all it’s doing is worrying Marcy. What is it with these messages, Dad? What are you trying to prove? Is there any reason we shouldn’t just call the cops? You’re kidnapping your own granddaughter, for chrissake.”
There was another silence.
“Dad?”
“Who is this?”
Mike shook his head to ward off the chill he felt creeping up his spine. “It’s Mike. Let me talk to April.”
“Did you get my message? I told Clare to give you the message. I should have mailed it.”
Clare? “Dad, I don’t understand. Something about a bad idea . . . ?”
“Get a pencil, dipshit. Write it down exactly.”
Dipshit?
“The message is: I don’t think this is such a good idea, Dad.”
“ ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea, Dad’?” Mike repeated.
“That’s it. Wait. That’s not all. Tomorrow. Noon.”
“What are you doing? Please put April back on.”
“She’s in the bathroom.”
“Look, Dad. I don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t understand your message.”
“Then call someone else,” his father said. “She might know.”
“Tell me where you are.”
There was a series of tones. Then he heard his father say, his voice far away, “How the hell do you shut this damned thing off?” and then the line went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marcy Warrington laughed when she nearly sideswiped an Escalade. She laughed when the guy in the Escalade nearly lost control of his tank as he leaned over to give her the finger. She laughed because she was going to be late for her flight and if she missed it she was screwed because there weren’t any more flights out that night and if she didn’t laugh she might scream and drive the Camry that April loved to hate right up the back of the Suburban that had stopped short at a light.
“Doesn’t anyone drive a normal goddamned car anymore?” she screamed, gripping the steering wheel so tight her wrists hurt. She was having trouble sitting still. “Move it, douche bag!” she yelled when the light turned red. Marcy jumped into the right lane as soon as there was an opening and floored it. She checked her rearview mirror. The guy driving was on a cell phone, shaking his head in disgust—obviously at her. Marcy flipped him off and stepped on the gas.
This was all Hank’s fault, Marcy thought, fuming as she tried to pass a garbage truck straddling both lanes. Hank had wanted to come. Couldn’t understand why she didn’t want him to. Nothing against him, she’d explained. It was between her and April, something she had to take care of herself.
“But you’re not doing it yourself,” he had said as she finished packing, his hurt-little-boy look really starting to irritate her.
“For chrissake, Hank, Nick is my brother!”
Hank looked away, his bon voyage visit apparently falling short of expectations. Marcy had no doubt that he had packed and stashed a valise in th
e trunk of his car, ready to go should Marcy give the word. “So where was he when you needed to talk so much about April?”
Marcy slammed her suitcase shut. “What are you saying, Hank? That because you sat with me, listened to me, consoled me—things a boyfriend, a lover, should do, by the way—that you have a right to something that’s frankly none of your goddamned business?”
Hank stared at her. “So that’s how it is, after all this?”
Marcy looked back at him. And then the answer hit her: Hank was looking for an excuse. If he’d had a suitcase in the trunk of his car, it was for a weekend jaunt with some other woman he’d set his sights on. Hankering Hank.
“That’s how it is,” Marcy said. “We can talk about this when I get back.” She picked up her suitcase. “Or not.”
“Why don’t you at least let me drive you to the airport? You’re upset.”
Vintage Hank, Marcy thought. I’ll protect you. You can’t do anything without me. Don’t even try. How did this happen? When had he first started acting this way?
“I’m upset because I’m going to be late because you’re acting like a love-lost teenager who can’t handle the idea that his girlfriend has a brain and can actually survive without him!”
That caught his attention. His cheeks darkened, his eyes narrowed. He seemed to be weighing his words very carefully. “So go survive,” he said.
Nick was waiting for her at the airport—on time, of course.
“You’d show up early for you own hanging,” Marcy said as she hugged him.
“All set?” he asked. Marcy nodded into his chest. She was through with words. She was afraid she might start crying.
Nick picked up her suitcase, and his. He nodded toward the terminal. “What do you say we go get April?” he asked.
Marcy smiled—until she saw the line at the check-in counter.
“Holy shit!”
Nick laughed and told her to follow him. Marcy did so, passing dozens of other passengers as they made their way through the adjacent elite flier line.
“Guess you’ve been flying a lot,” Marcy said.
“Writing travel articles,” Nick said, “has its perks.”
The agent smiled and asked Nick for his ID and what his final destination was. “Des Moines,” he answered. “We’re running a little late. Anything you can do to help would really be appreciated.”
The agent frowned when Nick said Des Moines. She clicked away on her keyboard for a few more moments. “Did anyone call you, Mr. Warrington?”
“Call me? No. Why?”
“I’m afraid that flight’s been canceled. Someone should have called you. I’m checking now to see if any other flights . . .”
Her words were drowned out by her furious typing and the blood that had rushed to Marcy’s ears. “Canceled?” she said, knowing she was loud but unable to do anything about it.
Nick turned to her and held up his hand to calm her . . . or stop her.
“What’s the problem?” Nick asked the agent. “Can’t be weather. It’s beautiful outside.”
“Not in Chicago,” she said.
“But we’re not going to Chicago,” Marcy said. “We’re flying to Des Moines.”
“Your aircraft is coming from Chicago, ma’am,” the agent said. “I can put you on the first flight out tomorrow morning.”
“We have to get there tonight!” Nick glanced at her. A warning. “What about a later flight?” he asked the agent. “Could just be a storm moving through Chicago and—”
“Yes, I’m checking that now,” the agent answered. “There is only one other flight to Des Moines tonight, and it appears to be full. Overbooked, in fact. Would you like me to confirm those seats on the flight tomorrow morning?”
“I know you’re in a tough spot,” Nick said. “But, see, we need to get to Des Moines because my mother’s dying. I’d hate to bump anyone off that flight, but I hope you understand the situation.”
Marcy wanted to smile but was afraid it would tip the agent off. Who would have thunk Nick had it in him? It was the first lie she believed she’d ever heard from him.
The agent didn’t look up. She kept typing and frowning at the computer screen. Marcy wanted to reach across the counter, rip the agent’s little airplane lapel pin off her blouse, and jab it in her eye.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Warrington. I wish I could help, but the first available flight is tomorrow at six thirty a.m. Would you like me to confirm those seats for you?”
“This is unacceptable,” Marcy said, trying her best to remain professionally calm. Assertively calm, they had called it in a negotiation program she’d recently attended with Hank. But whenever she thought of the cancellation, she thought of April. “You have to put us on that plane.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I’ve checked everything, including flights through connecting cities. Everything is booked solid. When O’Hare shuts down—”
“That’s not good enough,” Marcy said.
Nick turned and glared at Marcy. “Let me handle this, okay?”
“Oh, great. Another man telling me he can handle it.” She looked at the agent. “Come on, sweetie. I know you can do this. Get me on a goddamned plane. Tonight.”
The agent stopped typing. Nick led Marcy a few feet away from the counter and grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. “I know you’re upset, but—”
“You bet I’m upset. This is your fault. Couldn’t get out until the last flight. Now look what the fuck has—”
“We’re going to get there, Marcy,” Nick said. “But you’re about one curse word away from having security called over. Then we’ll never get out of here.”
He waited until Marcy broke eye contact, then walked back to ticketing. He spent a long time there, hunched over the counter. Every now and then he said something and the agent smiled. After an eternity, he turned, picked up the suitcases, and walked over to Marcy. Marcy felt a tear run down her cheek. “I guess since those suitcases aren’t on that conveyor belt . . .” She couldn’t continue.
Nick put the luggage down and smiled. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he said.
“What? You got us on another flight? Another airline or something?”
Nick shook his head and pulled out his wallet. He removed a card and held it up to her.
“Hertz Club Gold,” he said. “Another perk.”
Marcy groaned. This was his solution? She wanted to sit on the floor, right there in the middle of the airport, and wail. “We’ll never get there in time.”
“We will if we drive straight through,” Nick said. “We’ll take turns driving.”
“It’s so far,” Marcy said.
“Six hours to Chicago, another five or so from there to Des Moines. We can do it. Hell, Dad did it, by himself, when we were kids. And I don’t fart nearly as often as he does.”
They were just west of Toledo when Marcy finally got through to Mike. He had just cleared security and was walking to the gate for the flight to Des Moines, where the three of them were supposed to meet. Marcy heard the announcements of boarding and departure delays as Mike listened. She pictured him in a crowded terminal hall, people swirling about him like leaves as he stood with his cell phone to his ear. She imagined his brow was furrowed as he listened, in that serious way he looked whenever he talked on the phone.
“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.
Marcy was taken aback by the question. Until he asked it, she hadn’t realized she’d expected Mike to tell her what to do. She’d always surrendered something—again, unconsciously—when she knew she’d be talking to her oldest brother. How old did you have to be before that reflex slackened? “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m worried we might not get there in time. Maybe we should just try to meet at the park?”
Now that she was aware of the dynamic at play, she was uncomfortable either way: accepting ideas from Mike, or suggesting them to him. Mike had never invited suggestions; he scoffed at them. He never waited for feedback on his ideas;
he went ahead and implemented them. Better to ask forgiveness than seek permission, Marcy remembered him saying when she asked him—how long ago had it been?—if she should “forget” to ask her father if she could go to a party that she knew would be unsupervised.
“You don’t mind, do you, Mike? I mean, normally I’d just tell you to forget it and go home, but the old man said all three of us had to be there, right?”
“Right,” Mike said. “I’ll be there.”
“You’re sure? I mean, can you take time off from work like this?”
“No problem there.”
What was with these questions? Hadn’t they already been answered when Mike agreed to travel with them to Des Moines after they’d figured out what her father’s message was all about? He’d bought his ticket. He was standing at the gate.
“Great,” she said. “See you tomorrow, then. Noon, right?”
Did Mike actually laugh? Or was it a passerby?
“High noon at the Legend,” he said. “He’s got a knack for the dramatic, eh?”
Marcy waited for more, but either Mike had hung up or the signal had been lost. She put her cell phone in her pocketbook.
“Something’s wrong with Mike,” she said. “He sounds different.”
Nick made a sound; Marcy couldn’t interpret it. Lately, whenever Mike’s name came up, Nick grew quiet. She knew it was because Nick had somewhere along the line decided that their oldest brother was no longer worth the emotional investment he had been making: birthday cards never reciprocated, telephone calls not returned, Christmas cards with preprinted warmest holiday wishes from the Warringtons: Mike, Colleen, Clare, and Tyler.
“Different as in friendly?” Nick asked, after all.
“Exactly!” Marcy said. But then she realized that Nick was being ironic. She felt foolish.
Indiana welcomed them, according to a sign they now passed.
“Remember how the old man used to sing ‘Gary, Indiana,’ from The Music Man?” Marcy asked. “God, he loved that musical.”
“Of course he did,” Nick said. “Harold Hill, traveling salesman. Gotta know the territory. Dad loved Harold Hill because ‘Seventy-six Trombones’ is a far happier version of Willy Loman’s shoeshine and a smile. But it still all boils down to the same thing: a con job.”
