by Terri Nolan
“You took money?” said Birdie.
“I’m not a mercenary. I didn’t take his money.”
“The man I loved for fifteen years is alive,” Birdie spat. “How can I put that aside?”
“You can’t,” said Frank. “But your heart is big enough to love two men.”
“Frank, why are you pushing this agenda?” said Birdie.
“I love my brother. I love you. I loved the idea of the two of you together in marital bliss, but Matt never took that step and one is left to ponder why.”
“He didn’t love me enough.”
“Not true. He loved you more than life itself. But his journey wasn’t going to lead him to a proper relationship with you or anyone. His is to take a different pathway that he has yet to discover. When he does, his life’s purpose will be fulfilled. The point is he made this sacrifice so you’d have the freedom to find love. Live love.”
“Yes,” said Birdie sadly, “but the bottom line is that he left on purpose.” She sighed heavily. “Please tell me the specifics.”
Ron sat next to Frank. “Matt had already begun preparations, but the so-called domestic shooting accelerated his plans. His life was in extreme danger. He believed that he couldn’t live without constantly looking over his shoulder. If he were dead, he wouldn’t have to. But he didn’t like the government’s requirement of turning over the evidence before getting his new identity. That’s why he planned his own death. He and Jacob worked out the scenario.”
“What was your responsibility in this mad scheme?” said Birdie.
“To do my job. Jacob and Matt did the makeup, set the scene. Jacob called the Sheriff. The rest you know. I did keep something out of the official report. You already know I found vials of methadone in the bathroom. Methadone usage is regulated by the federal government. Each vial is microprinted with a tracking number. So I did what I’d do in any investigation. I tracked the numbers. His doctor on record is the same as yours, Dr. Ryan, which is peculiar on its own. I learned that Ryan is the private physician of the entire Keane and Whelan families. He has no other patients.”
“I could’ve told you that,” said Frank. “Dr. Ryan and I are the keepers.”
“In my world that looks suspicious, like the families have something to hide.”
“He’s a boutique doctor,” added Birdie.
“Well the numbers weren’t a match to Ryan as dispenser. Their origin is still unknown.”
“Those methadone vials are another clue Matt left behind,” said Birdie. “I bet you money that when my tox report comes back it will show methadone was used to murder me.” She shook her head. It was a lot of information to process. “What about the photo I saw? There’s a thermometer sticking from Matt’s liver.”
“Jacob released it as proof of death for those with unfriendly intentions. He didn’t expect that you’d see a copy and he feels really bad.”
“An optical illusion. What about the vomit and waste?”
“Oh, that was real. You don’t want to know the process.”
“The blood for the coroner?”
“Jacob drew a pint of blood, mixed it with a drug concoction and pre-loaded a heart syringe. Jacob used sleight-of-hand and I did a clever job of videoing what looks like an actual recovery of blood from the heart.”
“This is so crazy. Who knows he’s alive?”
“Just us.”
“He used close friends he trusted.”
“Matt didn’t want to involve Parker,” said Frank, “but we needed his services.”
“He filed the burial certificate with the state,” said Ron. “Neither Jacob nor I could falsify that document. Matt also didn’t want to involve his brother, but a priest coming to retrieve his dead brother’s body wouldn’t seem suspicious.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Birdie. “Matt thought of everything. Is there a money trail?”
“No,” said Ron. “Nor a paper trail.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know,” said Frank. “He made those arrangements himself. He has a new name, a passport, social security number, an entirely new identity. He didn’t tell any of us. Safer that way.”
“I can’t believe its true,” said Birdie. “Matt and I have a second chance. All I have to do is find him.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” said Ron, tension oozing from his pores. “Matt left you behind so that you and I could have a chance together.” He pointed at her to drive the point home. “He. Left. You. Behind.”
“Have you heard nothing we’ve said?” said Frank. “Don’t you think he worked this through? He knew the consequences. He didn’t walk away from you lightly. Do you think he wanted you to live an underground life? Away from friends, family, work? Never write another article or book? He loved you too much to put you there. Give him the benefit of doubt and know he made the right decision.”
The words spoken so plainly stabbed her heart. She coughed out a cry.
Ron wrapped his arms around her. “He can never come back.”
Her body shook and shuddered. The girl in her cried because Matt left her. The investigative reporter in her wanted to find him. And the woman in her was crushed because he didn’t love her enough.
“When you were at Henshaw House and clutched that picture to your chest I witnessed the love you have for Matt. I’ve seen it in him. I’ve never experienced a love that deep. I wanted what Matt had. It was the possibility of you that was the motivator for agreeing to Matt’s insane plan. Love is here. Wrapped around you.” He whispered in her ear, “Let go. Feel it.”
Birdie did feel the warmth of Ron’s love. But would it ever be enough?
_____
Birdie locked the bedroom door. She needed to escape, shut down. The whole of the world’s experiences since January 6 crushed her. She couldn’t process. She fell into the bathroom and locked that door, too. In a violent, wracking grief her body shuddered with spasms like dry heaves. She wept with incoherent rage. How could Matt do this? Whatever the boxes contained surely couldn’t be bad enough to betray the woman you love and leave a life behind.
_____
Birdie wasn’t nearly ready to own the atrocities of her confinement, but she’d take a peek. She ripped the newsprint off the bathroom mirror, shrugged off the robe, stepped out of the flannel pajamas, and stared at her naked image. Madi was right; a textbook anorexic stared back, bug-eyed and shrunken with skin of kaleidoscope colors in huge overlapping patches. The image struck hard. Forget the drug overdose. She had taken such a horrific beating that she’d nearly bled to death from the inside.
She examined her once pretty face. She gently pressed the red cut across her cheek, felt the hard stitches underneath the red line. Even in its current state of medicinal immobilization and swelling she could foresee what the end result would be. A thin scar would bisect the right side of her face.
Birdie wondered where she’d find the courage to continue what she knew she had to do. Her own words to Eileen replayed in her head, “If you let it destroy your marriage, they win.” If I let them destroy my spirit they win. I will not end up a worthless piece of collateral.
thirty-seven
Sunday, February 5
Birdie shuffled down the hall toward the service stairs. Yesterday after she locked herself away she ignored Ron and Frank’s through-the-door pleas to come out and talk—or at least eat. Eventually they left her alone to process in her own way. Even now she felt their nervous strain hanging over the house.
Birdie had thought long and hard. She decided not to punish Ron or Frank or Jacob or Parker for a decision that rested squarely with Matt. When she rounded the corner and entered the kitchen she saw Ron shouldering the worry and guilt. He thought he’d lost her a second time—it was in his posture, etched into his face. But when he saw her concern for him in her expression, his smile was quick
and it warmed her marrow. She went straight to him and hugged him, pressing her head against his chest; listening to the lullaby of his heartbeat. Ron held her and sighed with relief. She reached up and gently kissed him on the lips. She felt the press on the stitches, but there was no pain, just a slight tugging sensation.
“Thank you,” he said, “I figured I’d be lucky to get a cold shoulder today.”
“You’re not responsible for Matt’s choices. I don’t like it, but I understand that you guys wanted to help. Besides, Matt could be very persuasive.”
Birdie’s stomach growled and Ron was quick to respond, having already put together the makings of skillet eggs. As he went about preparing breakfast, Birdie poured herself a cup of coffee and huffed and groaned her way onto a bar stool. Ron was already dressed in a pair of tan slacks and shiny black pullover. A tan and black checked jacket hung on the back of a chair.
“You look nice,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Nora called to make sure we’d be at the Manor after Mass.”
Birdie had lost track of days and didn’t realize it was Sunday. “I’m not ready for a public debut.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I hear disappointment.”
“I’m back on the job Tuesday and have stuff to get caught up. Louise and I bounce at dawn. I wanted to see your family before I left.”
The blood drained from Birdie’s face. Yes, Ron drove her crazy with his intense nursing and attention, but she’d begun to feel a rhythm when he was around—like a new dance beat she hadn’t heard before. Just as well, she told herself. She had to put this business of Matt’s behind her and finish the mission, but as long as Ron was around he’d make sure that she was distracted from the task. With him out of the way she’d be free of his over-protectiveness. No, she determined, his departure was a good thing. But she couldn’t be over-enthusiastic or he’d get suspicious.
“Patrick’s going to be there, too,” continued Ron.
“I heard that you two got close while I was missing. Madi said that Dad partnered you two and assigned a city grid.”
Ron busied his hands with toast. “I don’t want to talk about that. But, yeah, we get along great. And with the Emmett situation he needs all the support he can get.”
“How about after breakfast you help me with my exercises. By then Mass will be over and you could still go to the Manor. I’ll be fine for a few hours. I’ve been thinking about trying to shower anyway and this’d be a perfect opportunity.”
“I don’t think I should let you shower for the first time without help.”
“Come on, Ron. Have you learned nothing? Please stop treating me like an invalid.”
Ron turned off the gas and scooped the eggs, peppers, and potatoes on top of the toast. He purposely dropped a bit on the floor and Louise scarfed it up immediately. “Okay,” he finally said, “Only if you promise to use the grab bar.”
_____
Later that day Ron and Birdie sat in the library. She sat on the couch, rubbing Louise’s ears as the dog snuggled against her thigh. Ron sat in the opposite chair going over the schedule. “The refrigerator’s full with pre-made meals. Re-heating instructions are on the lids.” He handed her a paper. “Here’s the exercises you’re to do and when to do them. Dr. Ryan wants you to drink two eight-ounce glasses of cranberry juice per day. It will help with kidney function.”
As he went on and on Birdie wished she could tell him that she loved him back. Give him something to take away in payment for all he’d done for her and her family.
She just couldn’t do it.
thirty-eight
Monday, February 6
Birdie awoke with the violent shiver of a nightmare. She rolled over and caught the time: 6:30 a.m. She picked up the phone and dialed Pearl’s number, asked him if he could come back today to search her house again. He said he’d be by later. She pulled the covers tighter around her body and had just fallen back asleep when at straight-up seven the phone rang. She’d had the ringer off. Ron must’ve turned it back on before departing. He had recorded a message: Good Morning, Birdie. Don’t be mad at me for not waking you. You were resting peacefully for a change. But it’s time to get up and eat. Today’s breakfast selection is whole wheat pancakes, maple syrup, egg white scramble, turkey sausage, and an apple muffin. You may also have coffee or tea. Don’t forget your exercises. Have a good day.
Ron’s cleverness made Birdie smile. Then the loneliness immediately set in. No cute dog padding down the hallway. No former
Marine to encourage her to stretch farther, lift a heavier weight. No one to force her to drink the prescribed cranberry juice. She already missed him.
She sat up on the edge of the bed and circled her ankles, slowly turned her head and stretched her neck side-to-side, rolled her shoulders. Mornings were the worse. Her muscles were stiff, circulation sluggish. At this time of day she felt like a ninety-year-old. She stretched her hands over her head and grimaced from the discomfort of the stretch against the ribs. Then she got up and gently swung them forward and back. Then she shuffled into the bathroom for her morning rust-colored pee.
By the time she ate breakfast and did the required amount of treadmill walking and the resistance and weight training, it was nearly ten before she entered her office. Pearl had already arrived and was diligently checking the house.
Birdie hadn’t been keeping track of her sober days so she had to count them out on the calendar and rip off the pages until 269 appeared. She sat at her desk and bounced into the chair; her bony butt acutely feeling the mashed, practically nil padding from long hours of butt time. She powered up her computer and launched a de-bug program that detected any hidden and/or encrypted files that keylogged.
Her cell rang. Time for a snack, said the recorded message. Greek yogurt. A pre-mixed topping of almonds, dried cranberries, and granola is in a baggie in the bread box. Don’t forget your first serving of cranberry juice. Now that her body was loose with the exercise she could walk to the kitchen almost normally. She downed the juice like medicine and ate the yogurt.
Back in the office she raised the screen covering the dry erase board. While her computer did its work, she reviewed the notes on the board. The convoluted math formula was no longer relevant. She knew what happened to Matt. The key worked a padlock at an undisclosed location she guessed to be at his property in Indio. The hidden evidence probably contained information on Paige Street as well as the Blue Bandits. She had yet to find out who had bugged her house. And the big question of the day …
who was the ringleader of the kidnap crew and why did they take her? Because unless they questioned her while she was drugged and unaware they hadn’t spoken to her. They sexually abused her and beat her, but why? Just for jollies? The third man, the company man, had a purpose. But what?
_____
“My computer’s clean,” said Birdie to Pearl when he re-entered the office. “This anti-spy program you installed is really cool.”
“Glad to hear it. Your house and car are squeaky,” he said.
“I’m sorry to drag you out here for nothing.”
“Tweety, don’t worry none. Let me call Danny now and get you set up. Are you sure you want a web call? He’s gonna be upset by the way you look.”
“That’s the point. My appearance will make an impact on his emotions.”
“For the record, I’m against this manipulation of yours.”
“Yeah, well if I hadn’t been murdered this little manipulation wouldn’t be necessary. Danny knows more then he’s telling me and he must cough it up.”
“You’re playing hardball.”
“Something he does every day.”
“He has legal constraints.”
“I have safety issues. Besides, I’m not here,” said Birdie. “He’s having a conversation with his brother who happens to be a trusted investigator on his
payroll.”
“I’m gonna catch hell for this.”
_____
Birdie could see the framed quote that hung behind Danny’s head. It read: I don’t play politics with the truth. He took a healthy swig from a bottle of Wild Turkey: 101 proof with a flavor of tobacco and molasses—Rotgut strong. Birdie had had her fair share of swills in that office. As if to honor that past, Danny nodded as he put the bottle back in his desk.
They’d been hooked up for nearly a minute and still he said nothing. He looked over her face as if reading a seismograph.
“You know,” he finally said, “you really know how to pull the heart strings, showing yourself all beat-up and bruised and swollen just to get something out of me.”
“You need to know about my abduction.”
“I already knew. I didn’t need to see your face.”
“How could you have known?”
“Very little happens in this city without my knowledge. Just because your family can conceal details from the media doesn’t mean it escapes my attention. The Irish Mob and one San Diego detective were tearing this city apart looking for something precious.”
“Oh-oh,” said Birdie, “I detect a preachy tone in your voice. The media is usually respectful to crime victims, especially when the victim is a member of a cop family.”
“True. But they also love the gritty details when said family member breaks the law. As I recall, you’ve been on the other side many times and were still spared the watchful eye.”
