“Why are you so sure that ignoring this is the right thing to do?”
“I just don’t believe the police are very good at handling lovesick puppies like Gary Varne. We’re handling it fine on our own.”
She glanced out the window, then back at Kevin. “Do you think he read your manuscript?”
“I don’t see how.”
“You left free copies at Booklovers’. Who knows who walked out with them?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” he said with a shrug.
“Do you think that’s where he got the idea for the kidnapping?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You wrote a book about a married woman whose lover was kidnapped. Two weeks after you gave away copies, Gary Varne was kidnapped. All you can say is maybe?”
Kevin gave her a chilling look. “Are you admitting that you slept with Gary?”
“No. He wants you to think I did, so he’s playing out his own kidnapping the way it played out in your book.”
“What difference does it make where he got the idea?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Then why dwell on it?”
“Because the whole thing is creepy,” she said. “Especially the way the husband in your book reacted when he found out his wife had cheated.”
“You know, I have to say that I’m getting sick and tired of having to explain to people that these characters and their stupid problems are all made up.”
“Are they really?”
“Yes, damn it.”
“So not one ounce of your wife is in the character you created?”
“No.”
“That can’t be.”
“Fine, Dr. Freud. You’re in it. Every woman I’ve ever known is in it.”
“Every woman’s an adulteress and needs to be punished? Is that the way you see it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“No, you’re twisting my words.”
“Then stop treating me like the worst adulteress who ever lived. I don’t deserve it. I didn’t even cheat on you.”
“It doesn’t matter. Whether you did or didn’t, I said I’ve forgiven you.”
“I don’t need forgiveness. I didn’t do anything.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Stop testing me,” she said, her voice rising. “Stop forcing me to prove my love for you by doing everything you say, by letting you handle every joint decision exactly the way you think we should handle it.”
“I can do that. Just tell me the truth and stop trying to make me believe that you got drunk and woke up half-naked in your old boyfriend’s apartment and that absolutely nothing happened.”
“That is the truth.”
“I’m sorry, Peyton. I don’t believe it.”
“I’m not an adulterer.”
“As my friend Bill Shakespeare might say, methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Damn it, I am not a bad wife! I’m not like your mother!”
She couldn’t believe her own ears. It was the taboo subject in their marriage, his runaway mother, the cocktail waitress.
“Go to hell,” he said in a voice that chilled her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have said it.” He grabbed his jacket from the closet, then headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Don’t leave me here by myself.”
“You’ll be fine. Call the police, if you want. Call the FBI. The National Guard. Alert the media while you’re at it. Pay Gary Varne his money. Pay him twice his money plus interest. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore.”
The door opened. She hurried after him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Hell if I know. I don’t even have an office to go to anymore.”
She stood in silence as he slammed the door.
37
KEVIN FOUND AN OPEN BAR ON NEWBURY STREET. IT WAS MORE tony than he’d wanted, offering expensive French wines by the glass and burgers without meat, just a big ol’ portobello mushroom on a rosemary-bread bun. He sat at the end of the bar, ordered a draft, and ate peanuts from the shell to create that hole-in-the-wall feeling he desired. Halfway through his Budweiser, his cell phone rang. The illusion faded. Back to reality.
“Weaver here,” said the caller.
It had been ten years since Walter Weaver had retired from the FBI to form his own private detective agency, but he still had the bureau habit of using last names only. Over the years Kevin had used him countless times for investigative work on behalf of clients. This time, he’d only said it was for “a client.” It was a background check on Gary Varne.
“Do you know it’s after midnight?”
“Did I wake you, Stokes?”
“No.”
“Then don’t bitch. You told me to call as soon as I got anything, and boy did I get it. I want you to know in advance that this is going to be double my normal charge.”
“What do you have?”
“No criminal convictions. Of course, your normal background search would have stopped right there. But I went the extra mile and found the real goods.”
“I’m listening.”
“Stokes, my old friend. I think you’ve hit the jackpot.”
The alarm woke her at 5:00 A.M.
Peyton rolled over and killed the buzzer, nearly knocking the clock off the nightstand in the darkness. She hadn’t fallen asleep until sometime after 4:18 A.M., the last time she’d checked the glowing numbers. She’d lain awake thinking, reacting to every sound in the night. The hum of the refrigerator. The air conditioner clicking on and off. In the stillest moments, her mind had even taken her outside the apartment to investigate curious little noises. Magnolia Street was generally quiet, especially on weeknights after bedtime. Cars would usually pass by unnoticed. Last night, however, Peyton had heard every one of them. She’d probably even imagined a few.
She stayed in bed longer than she should have. She barely had time to shower and get dressed. There was definitely no time to eat. She had to be at the hospital by six o’clock. She grabbed her purse and car keys and headed out the door.
Outside it was still dark but showing signs of brightening. The faint glow from the street lamps waned in anticipation of dawn. The car was still parked across the street, where she’d left it last night. Kevin had obviously walked or taken a cab to wherever he’d gone. This was getting to be a habit, his not coming home at night.
She crossed the street with only a casual check for traffic, no cars in sight. She unlocked the door, opened it, and slid into the driver’s seat. She pitched her purse onto the passenger seat and turned the ignition. She put the car in reverse and checked in the rearview mirror.
Her eyes met a stranger’s. A man in a black ski mask.
She was about to scream, but his hand covered her mouth, and a knife was at her throat.
“Don’t move,” he said.
She froze on command, her eyes wide with fear, her heart racing.
“Listen carefully. I have some questions for you. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth so you can answer. If you scream, I’ll slit your throat. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded once, feeling the blade against her jugular as she did. Slowly his hand slid away from her mouth. The knife remained.
“Do you have the money?” he asked.
“I can get it. Don’t hurt me. Whatever you want.”
“I don’t want you to get it. I asked if you got it.”
“No. But, please, I can get it.”
“Just calm down and answer my question. Did you get my money by midnight?”
“I can get—”
“Hush!” he said, pressing the knife more firmly against her neck. Peyton went rigid.
His voice developed an edge, a sign of agitation. “Keep this very simple. Just answer my ques
tions. No pleading, no explanations. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“You remember our phone call, right?”
“Yes.”
“You heard me say your deadline was midnight, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You heard me say that I’d kill Gary Varne if you didn’t get the money. Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Did you get the money?”
Her lips quivered. He grabbed her by the chin, as if to force a response. “Yes or no,” he said firmly. “Did you get the money?”
“No.”
She could hear her own erratic breathing, short panicky breaths. Slowly the tight grasp on her chin released as he said, “Good for you, Peyton. You made the right call.”
Suddenly a rag was over her mouth, a pungent smell. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled to get free and even pounded her fists on the horn, which didn’t blast and had obviously been disconnected—her last coherent thought. She met his eyes once more in the rearview mirror, but her resistance was at an end.
Then something clicked in her brain, a memory—a recognition. The sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. On some level of semiconsciousness, it seemed to register that she’d seen this man before.
With one last whiff from the rag over her mouth, she felt a rush through her body and dizziness in her head. Then everything turned black.
38
FOR KEVIN IT WAS DÉJÀ VU, RUSHING TO THE HOSPITAL AT SUNRISE, his wife’s fate in the hands of modern medicine. This time it was Massachusetts General Hospital, thankfully not the intensive care unit. She was in one of the ER’s small, curtained-off recovery areas when Kevin arrived. The slow drip of IV fluids fed into her veins. A nurse was helping her sit up in the bed as a young ER physician checked her heart and breathing with a stethoscope. To Kevin, she looked barely conscious.
He stood frozen for a moment, overcome with concern. He’d never told her that he was checking into Gary’s past, and he hadn’t had the chance to tell her what his investigator had uncovered. It hardly seemed to matter at this point. “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he went to her side.
Peyton almost seemed to recognize him but didn’t really respond. The doctor said, “She’s still pretty out of it.”
“I’m her husband. Is she okay?”
She plucked the stethoscope from her ears and let it hang around her neck. “Your wife was unconscious but breathing when she was presented to the ER. She lost a lot of fluids from the vomiting. Her stomach’s been pumped. She had—”
“I know. I talked to the police outside.”
“Okay, then you know. We’ll keep her here for observation for a little while. Once she’s lucid, a psych counselor will pay her a visit. Then if everything remains stabilized, she can go home.”
“Are you doing anything to treat her?”
“Right now, just the IV to replace fluids. The nurses have been walking her for the past twenty minutes. They’ll continue to do that every five minutes or so, till she fully regains consciousness.”
“I can do that.”
“Great. Ring the nurse if you need anything.”
The doctor was gone before Kevin could even thank her. The nurse was holding Peyton up in a seated position on the edge of the bed. Kevin took her place, then pulled Peyton close to his side as the nurse disappeared on the other side of the curtain. Peyton buried her head into his shoulder languidly, as if she were drunk. After a minute or so, her body jerked several times in his arms. She was sobbing.
“Peyton. Are you okay?”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was weak, her eyes mere slits.
“Me too. I called your folks. They’re cutting their vacation short and will be here just as soon as they can catch a flight.”
“This is awful. The whole thing.”
“I know.” He stroked her head, trying to console. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Do what?”
“You don’t have to be ashamed. This is my fault more than yours. I’m sorry for the way I treated you last night. I should have realized how much stress you’ve been under, how close you were to the edge.”
Slowly, she became more coherent, as if forcing herself to regain control. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“We all know. The police found the pills.”
“What pills?”
“They found your car parked down by the wharf. You were slumped over the wheel with half a bottle of sleeping pills spilled onto the floor. They assumed you’d taken the rest of them. That’s why they brought you here and pumped your stomach.”
“They think I tried to kill myself?”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to get you help.”
“I don’t need help,” she said, frustrated. “I was abducted. A guy in a ski mask was hiding in the backseat of my car. He put a knife to my throat.”
He tried not to look skeptical. “A ski mask?”
“Yes. Yes!”
The curtain was suddenly pulled back. Kevin looked up and saw a police officer standing before them. It was the same tall, African-American guy he’d talked to in the lobby. Another officer was behind him, one he didn’t recognize.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Stokes.”
“What is it?”
“I was wondering if you or your wife knows a man named Gary Varne.”
Kevin went cold. “Yes. My wife knows him.”
The officer nodded slowly, exceedingly polite. “I hate to have to ask you this under these circumstances and all. But do you think you and your wife might be up to answering a few questions for me?”
“What kind of questions?”
“Actually, it’s more like one question.”
“Sure.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you mind telling me what Mr. Varne’s dead body was doing in the trunk of your wife’s vehicle?”
Kevin nearly fell over. His instincts as a lawyer told him not to say a word, but that didn’t matter.
At that moment, he simply couldn’t speak.
39
PEYTON WAS RELEASED FROM THE MASS GENERAL EMERGENCY ROOM after the lunch hour. It was standard procedure in any case of attempted suicide for the patient to be referred to counseling, so it took some string-pulling to be discharged without it.
With their car impounded indefinitely by the police, she and Kevin took a cab home. It was a comfortable summer afternoon, shorts and shirtsleeves weather. As the cab headed up Magnolia Street, Peyton noticed several of her neighbors out enjoying the sunshine. Strangely, they were all headed in the same direction—toward Peyton’s apartment.
Then she noticed the squad cars. Two from the Boston Police Department and a third unmarked vehicle were parked in front of her apartment. Their front door was wide open and two uniformed officers were posted on the front porch. A handful of rubbernecking neighbors had wandered by to see what was going on.
The cab stopped directly across the street. “Have we been robbed?” asked Peyton.
“I have no idea,” said Kevin as he paid the fare. Together they slid out of the backseat, crossed the street, and climbed the front stairs. The two police officers didn’t move from their post. Their landlord came out to meet them at the threshold.
“What’s going on?” asked Peyton.
The landlord didn’t have a chance to answer. A large man dressed in a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a loosely knotted necktie emerged from the foyer and said, “We’re executing a search warrant.”
Peyton did a double take. It was Detective Bolton, whom she hadn’t seen since Andy Johnson’s death last winter. A pair of thin latex gloves covered his pudgy hands, and he was holding a clear plastic bag that contained a gray metal strongbox that Peyton recognized as hers.
“I’d like to see the warrant,” said Kevin.
“Your landlord has your copy.”
“It really wasn’t necessary to make a neighborhood spectacle out of this. If you had
just called, we would have let you in.”
“Sure,” said Bolton. “And we would have found what we were looking for in a Dumpster eight blocks from your apartment rather than your bedroom closet.”
“Peyton and I have nothing to hide.”
“No, not anymore you don’t.” With a thin smile he thanked the landlord and headed down the steps. As if on cue, the stoic officers in uniform followed him to the curb. Peyton watched as they got into their cars and pulled away.
The landlord handed Kevin a copy of the warrant. “This better not be about drugs or you’ll be looking for a new apartment faster than you can say eviction.” She glowered, then climbed down the stairs, leaving them alone in the foyer. Kevin closed the door and quickly read the warrant.
“That box he carried out is where I keep my gun,” said Peyton.
“Is that what they were searching for?”
“That’s what the warrant says.”
“So what happens now?”
“I presume they’ll run ballistics tests to see if there’s a match on the bullet that killed Gary Varne.”
“That’s good. Because it won’t match.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“What do you mean, hope? You don’t think I shot him, do you?”
“This is just moving so fast. And it keeps getting weirder. Even this warrant is strange. Warrants are required by law to be specific, but this one seems to have been prepared by someone who’s omniscient. Obviously the cops would know what kind of gun you own from registration records, but it’s beyond me how they were able to identify the metal box you kept it in.”
She thought for a moment, then it clicked. “My civil deposition. The lawyer for that jerk who sued me over that disaster at the Haverhill clinic questioned me about my gun. I said I kept it locked in a strongbox on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. The whole deposition turned out to be four transcribed pages. It would have taken the police about thirty seconds to read it.”
“It’s still weird that they would even have known about your deposition, let alone have a copy of it. Unless someone’s feeding them information.”
“You mean an informant?”
Lying with Strangers Page 19
