by Farris, John
When she looked at me again, my spine tingled the way it had when she'd first opened the door to me: they were Sharissa's eyes, an even lighter shade of amber than the half ounce of the Dickel that was left in her crystal glass. Her hair, white but thick for her age, was cut straight across her forehead, bangs that nearly met the unplucked line of eyebrows.
"So the man was a bigamist—all the years he lived with Caroline. And what does that make my granddaughter?" Her face wrinkled in an expression of disgust and pity. She leaned forward on the settee in front of the partly draped windows; her hand trembled when she touched the folder of photographs, the DNA documentation I'd brought with me. She exhaled and I had a whiff of her breath, which convinced me, along with the thickened, heavily veined whites of her eyes, that she wasn't just drinking to keep me company, it was a daily necessity. She looked up at me sharply. "Cheat, liar, opportunist—but this isn't all you know about him."
I shook my head. "All anyone knows about Sullivan is there. Everything else is speculation on my part. I've spent a lot of time thinking about—why don't we just call him Greg?"
"There are better names I can think of. Oh, all right." She paused, studying me grimly, and with a certain calculation. I was as much a stranger to her as the man who had called himself her son-in-law, "I suppose you've come here because there's nothing the police can do."
"That's one reason."
"What do you know about—Greg—that you suspect, but can't prove?"
I hesitated. She drew herself up tightly, fists in her lap, and said, "Does my granddaughter have anything to fear from this—prize son of a bitch?"
"I can't be sure, Mrs. Crowder. Obviously he's not your average human being."
"I should say not! My age. And he was married to—I had better not ever lay eyes on him again, that's all I can tell you! I was a crack shot when I was younger. My father taught me. Dove, quail, we never missed a season. The guns are still there, in the armoire. And I don't neglect them."
"Mrs. Crowder?"
She wrenched her attention back to me. For a few moments she trembled, and looked dismayed. "My God. If anything should happen to Sharissa! You don't suppose—he is that kind of man?"
"No. If he was sexually obsessed with Sharissa, it probably would've surfaced before now. I had a talk with Dr. Jesse Fernando—the neurosurgeon who operated when Greg was shot. I leveled with him, showed him what I had. And he told me something they discovered about Greg. He has an extremely rare gene, or combination of genes, that could contribute to unusual longevity. It's possible that Greg's history goes farther back than his identity as Frederick Sullivan. No way to trace it, of course, no matter how much time or money you had to spend."
"My granddaughter is coming home! If I have to go and fetch her myself."
"Do you know where she is?"
"At the moment, on a cruise ship." She pondered this dilemma, and looked to me for help.
"Suppose you catch up to them. Then you try to convince Sharissa her father hasn't exactly been a paragon, way back when. The fact is, she loves him for who he is now, what he's always meant to her. I think from what I know of Sharissa that she's a stout-hearted kid, but there's a limit to the emotional shocks any of us can absorb in a short period of time. You have to consider her breaking point. First Bobby, then her mother. Then you're attempting to take her father away—even her name. A question of identity—potentially that's more devastating to Sharissa than coming to terms with Caroline's death. And just how well is she coping right now?"
"I had a postcard yesterday. From some island in the Caribbean. She sounded as if she were all right." Mrs. Crowder shook her head glumly. "Yes, yes, I see what you mean. Open one can of worms, there's another can inside."
"Are they planning to come back to Sky Valley after the cruise?"
"Oh, no. They're going to do missionary work. Some Third World village—Guatemala, I think. Why he couldn't let Sharissa finish the school year baffles me. She had completed her requirements to graduate, of course, but she's missing all the activities, the fun of graduation . . ."
Mrs. Crowder looked at the bottle of sippin' whiskey, and steeled herself against its allure. "Oh, well. No use pretending she might have enjoyed those things after so much tragedy. Maybe she's better off away from here, even though she's with him."
"I don't think so," I said.
She frowned. "It won't be for much longer. With your permission I'll turn this information over to Fitz—our attorney. He will find a way to deal with this man, get him out of our lives forever, while sparing my granddaughter as much heartache as possible."
"I think Greg may save you the trouble by turning into somebody else. After all, he's done it before."
"Wouldn't that be a blessing."
"The big question is, what happens to Sharissa?"
"Well—in time—surely she will get over—"
"Mrs. Crowder, I could use this much more of the Dickel's." I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
"Surely." She poured whiskey into the glass I held out to her, not looking at me; but there was trouble in her eyes, in the deep lines of her forehead. She gave in and poured one for herself. "All right," she said shrewdly, "what haven't you told me yet?"
I took an eight-by-ten enlargement of an old photo from the envelope I deliberately hadn't opened until now, and gave it to her. She stared at it, feeling around on the coffee table for her reading glasses.
"Him again? And—who is this girl he's with?"
"Her name is—was, Bonnie. Frederick and Roxanne Sullivan's adopted daughter. She left Canada with Frederick a few months before he reappeared, in this country, as Greg Walker. I was able to find out that the two of them were issued Canadian passports a few days before they—as far as anyone can determine—vanished. They didn't need passports to go to the States. Sullivan must have had a particular destination in mind. Europe? Mexico? South America? A country in which he was unknown and could change his identity, leave Frederick Sullivan behind him. But where?"
"Does it matter?"
"I think so. If he also left Bonnie behind, which he almost certainly had to do. Remember, he was about to become someone else. A totally new person, judging from what I know about Sullivan. I lie awake nights wondering about this. Why did he take Bonnie with him, if his plan was to change, not only his identity, but his personality? Would've been simpler just to leave her in Canada. It's almost as if he was compelled, for some reason I don't understand, to take the girl along. She was only sixteen. Was he indifferent enough to abandon someone that young in a foreign country? Or did something happen to her?"
Adrienne Crowder didn't say anything. But the pulse in her throat was visible again, and she didn't take her eyes from my face.
"Was he—a murderer? Did he commit some other crime that forced him to leave Canada?"
"Not that I've been able to learn."
"Then—if he had no logical reason to change his identity—"
"His reasoning was illogical. To you and to me, that is."
"You're saying that—he might be insane."
"We know that Greg is a biological rarity. Sawmill accidents and gunshot wounds apparently leave no permanent marks on him. He may also be a psychological rarity, someone whose motives are beyond our understanding."
She bowed her head for a long moment. "You have succeeded in frightening me, Sergeant Butterbaugh."
"I'm sorry. I scare myself sometimes, because I'm obsessed by him."
"Greg," she pointed out, "has not disappeared. Hi intentions are quite clear."
"So far. But is there a pattern in his behavior, an obscure timetable he's following? How long did he know your daughter before they were married?"
"Less than three months. The wedding was in October, as I recall. Yes. They would have celebrated their eighteenth anniversary a few weeks ago."
"Frederick Sullivan was married for eighteen years. Then, for whatever reason, he got up and left. Eighteen years and a bit, and now
Greg is gone, too. With Sharissa."
"But they are going to Guatemala! They arrive there at the end of January, after attending seminars for lay mission work. Sharissa stays in very close touch with us." She wagged a finger at me, not lecturing, but as if she needed to reassure herself with a display of authority. "I see coincidence, not pattern, in his behavior."
A middle-aged LPN looked into the family room from the hall, and Adrienne Crowder glanced at her.
"Yes, Maria?"
"Mr. Crowder was asking for you."
"Tell him I'll be a few more minutes. Has he had his bath?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The nurse went upstairs and Adrienne Crowder looked vague and distracted for a few moments, absently stroking her chin with the back of one hand. The long-necked Abyssinian cat that had occupied the center of the mantel like a piece of bric-à-brac stirred suddenly and began washing with half-closed eyes. It was warm in the room; there was a gas-log fire going and the midafternoon sun fell directly on the large picture window.
"Barr is making progress," she told me. "Certainly he's better off at home than he would be in a hospital."
"Cancer, you said?"
She nodded. "They discovered the tumor shortly after—after the funeral. Barr and Caroline were very close. I didn't enjoy that sort of relationship with her, unfortunately. She was never good at accepting my advice and I was, I suppose, too ruthless in applying it. But all I ever said when she told me she wanted to marry—Greg—was, 'Wait a little longer, Caroline. Be very sure.'" Her hard-bitten mouth set itself in a line of bitter dismay; then her attention wandered again, from the unchangeable past. "I believe it was Barr's grief that set the thing off. A little time bomb, ticking away in some obscure gland for who knows how many years." Her head went from side to side, as if she were subconsciously miming the mortal ticking she seemed to be hearing in the otherwise quiet house. Then, for the first time since I'd met her, she smiled, and I recognized a fleeting ghost of Sharissa again. "But from the beginning Sharissa and I understood each other so well."
"Mrs. Crowder, suppose I could prove that when Frederick Sullivan left Canada with Bonnie, he went to Guatemala."
"And what would that prove?"
"That he is on a timetable, acting in accord with some deep-seated psychological, maybe pathological need. Tell me this: were they assigned to Guatemala by the Baptist Mission Board, or was it Greg's choice?"
"I—I don't know. As a lay missionary, I believe he could select the area where he wanted to do his service. I can find out, with a phone call to a friend who's a member of the board."
"If Greg did choose Guatemala, then I think I'm going to have to go there."
"You suspect—"
"That he may be planning to change his identity again. But that's not what I care about. I care most about Sharissa."
"Sergeant Butterbaugh, do you have any knowledge whatsoever that would lead you to believe Sharissa might be in danger?"
I was so long in answering she began to fidget, not concealing her displeasure with me.
"No," I admitted. "There's nothing. Nothing. She's his daughter, after all. Sharissa loves him, and if he's capable of loving anything or anyone, Greg must love her. This is where I—run into a big blank wall."
Adrienne Crowder nodded, almost as if she'd lost interest in the discussion, and in me. Then she surprised me by saying, "So you came to tell me that you'd like to get Sharissa away from him, by such means as you think necessary. Until, legally, I can make sure he's never allowed to go within a mile of her again. Or until I've bought him off, and facilitated his—next change of identity. I'm convinced this must be done. I must also speak my mind and say I have grave doubts that you're the man for the job."
"Well, you see . . . I'm in love with Sharissa, Mrs. Crowder."
That made her smile again, but not as if she were delighted. "Oh. So there's an imperative, if not proficiency."
"I've been a cop for a while, Mrs. Crowder. I've managed to handle myself well enough in places like South Central Los Angeles. I wouldn't delude myself that Sharissa loves me or ever will, but I think she's learned to trust, maybe even depend on me, through some rough times this year."
She gestured, palms up. "I'm very grateful for all you've had to tell me. I am impressed with the care you've taken not to go beyond the facts. And I very much share your concern for Sharissa. No matter what manner of man he may be, and I have never come across anyone remotely as loathsome, obviously Greg has destroyed any hope of a continuing relationship with his daughter. It can't be permitted. I want her home, with me, as soon as possible. I know there are men I can hire—"
"The right people won't touch it, Mrs. Crowder. The wrong people could cause a hell of a lot of damage, trying to get Sharissa away from her father and out of a foreign country. No matter if Greg's marriage to Caroline was not legitimate, in the eyes of any court he is still Sharissa's father and her legal guardian, until she's eighteen. Your husband is sick, and you can't leave him now. I'm the only one who has a chance to pull this off, to get Sharissa home in the shortest possible time. To do that I'll have to deal with Greg in some way."
"But you have no plan."
"I have an idea of how to go about it."
"I suppose you will need my—financial help?"
"I've got a VISA card and nine hundred dollars in the bank. I'll have to take an unpaid leave of absence from the Sky Valley police department. I don't know how long I'll be away. Both of my parents are infirm, and caring for them is a big expense."
She said, noncommittal as a banker, "Do you have a figure in mind?"
I took a folded sheet of paper from my inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. She put her reading glasses on and went over my estimates with a cold eye. As usual, when I didn't have anything else to do, I took off my grandfather's Hamilton watch and wound it, a ritual that I found soothing, although it couldn't compare with a couple of Tums and a glass of Dr Pepper. I waited to be humbled, or dismissed, but she nodded instead, adopting me without exactly approving.
"I believe I can manage this, Sergeant Butterbaugh. What other help can I give you?"
"Their itinerary. You said they expected to be in Guatemala by the end of January?"
Adrienne Crowder carried my estimate of expenses to an antique secretary, returned with a checkbook and a copy of an itinerary prepared for Greg and Sharissa Walker by a local travel agent.
"They'll be arriving in a place called Cobían on the twenty-fourth. The hotel is the Itzá Maya. Certainly Greg made no effort to conceal his travel arrangements."
"He wouldn't want to give anyone here cause for concern. And if he decides to change his plans at the last minute, it wouldn't be any problem. He has plenty of money, I think."
"Caroline was insured for two hundred thousand dollars."
"And they had thirty percent equity in the house. By the way, he took out a loan against that equity three days before they left Sky Valley. Adding joint savings with Caroline to his other reserves, Greg had a total of $1,200 in checking at Wachovia and $260,000 in a no-load European government bond fund with Schwab. His taxes are up to date. He's paying for their trip with credit cards."
"How do you know all that?"
"Equifax. Greg Walker will continue to live in their computers, with gold-plated credit, long after there is no more Greg Walker. One of the ironies of the Information Age. They know everything about him, except who he really is."
Which, of course, was my major problem. Once Adrienne Crowder's check cleared, I made arrangements with a couple of cousins I knew to be reliable, paying them to live in and look after my parents. I sorted through my options. Finally I made plans to fly to Guatemala, without any certainty that Greg would show up there. By then Adrienne had talked with Sharissa in Venezuela, where she was having problems with a stomach virus at the training seminar. I was itching to go to Venezuela, but there was no way I could position myself in a rural area to keep an eye on both of them without let
ting Greg know he was under surveillance.
I made a phone call and learned that the Itzá Maya was a resort-style hotel and, in midwinter, nearly booked solid. A visa for Guatemala was available from American Airlines. I also needed a passport, but that had to wait until my beard grew out. I drove to Atlanta to be fitted for a hairpiece and to pick up a new camera, the Nikon N6006 with additional lenses. So much for eyes; for extra ears I visited a shop on the sixth floor of an office building near Lenox Square. No name on the door, just a tasteful brass plate and three script initials. It was a candy store for paranoid business executives and professional snoops who wanted the latest in ultrasensitive listening and recording devices, packaged to be undetectable, even to Customs officials.
With the addition of long-wear contact lenses, I was all set.
When I saw my passport photos I didn't know myself; I doubted if either Greg or Sharissa would recognize me, if we happened to pass by in the lobby of the Itzá Maya. Truthfully, I thought the added hair and cropped beard were major improvements in my looks. After leaving my job I'd had extra time to work out at the Y, and the pounds that had accumulated while I was sitting at a desk most of the time were gone. I had almost forgotten what it was like to have a flat stomach.
A new, bolder, more capable-looking me: the transformation gave me an insight into the seductive pleasure of becoming someone else. My passport still read C.G. Butterbaugh, but I couldn't find him in the mirror. I felt reckless and eager, overconfident. It was all acting-out and maybe I needed the courage a disguise lent me, because my common sense told me to be very, very careful: the temporary jolt of pleasure I'd felt could be a serious addiction for Greg Walker. And addicts reacted viscerally whenever they were threatened with a loss of whatever it was that turned them on.
On the eighteenth of January I flew to Miami and from there to Guatemala City, laid over in a hotel near the airport, and then caught a feeder flight north to Cobían at seven-thirty the next morning. The plane, a retread 737, must have felt heavy to the pilot, because he didn't seem to gain much altitude. We skimmed over dark-green forested hills half obscured by fog and haze, close enough to get a good look at some king-sized vultures floating above the treetops. There were small plots of farmland in the forest basins, occasional villages, and very few roads. The Latin businessman sitting next to me spent all fifty minutes in the air saying his rosary. I assumed he'd been on this flight before.
