by G. M. Ford
“That gets out and you’re going to have a thousand reporters clawing at your door.”
“That concerns me.”
“That makes two of us.”
Ken came around the corner and into the kitchen. “I gotta run down south,” he announced. “One of my crews has run into some trouble. I’ll give you guys a ride home on the way.”
Helen trotted upstairs to get her things. Randy pulled his jacket off the back of the chair, stuffed the diary back into his bag, and got to his feet.
Ken pointed at the diary. “That’s a bestseller, you know.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. That’s big-time Oprah material right there.”
“She didn’t know anything.”
“Does it matter?” he said. “Helpless woman, living a lie for the sake of her daughters.” He leered at Randy. “Bestseller stuff, I’m telling you.”
“WHAT CAN I DO for you gentlemen?” Kirsten asked.
FBI. Three of them. Two young. One older.
“Adrian Hope,” the older one said.
“What about him?”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t.”
The older guy looked her over, searching her for any sense that she might be lying to him. “You’re sure?”
She raised her hand like she was taking an oath. “I have no idea as to the present whereabouts of Adrian Hope.”
“Where did the fingerprints come from?” the younger agent on the right asked.
“A confidential source,” Kirsten answered.
“We’re going to need the name,” said the other younger guy.
“There are other considerations,” Kirsten said.
“Such as?”
“Such as the privacy of the people involved.”
“This is an ongoing federal investigation.”
“Is there a crime involved?”
The young guys looked to their leader. Kirsten felt a chill run down her spine. The older guy seemed to be having a discussion with himself.
“You’re aware of the investigation taking place in Florida.”
“The family disappearance.”
“Indeed.”
“Then it shouldn’t be any surprise to you that we want to know the source of the fingerprints.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, is there a crime in here somewhere?”
“Our technicians have been going over the house,” the older one said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Somebody went to a great deal of trouble to remove what appears to be a rather substantial collection of bloodstains from the master bedroom.”
Kirsten’s stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a shoe.
“You’re sure.”
“A single blood type.”
“And?”
“The profile matches Wesley Howard’s NASA profile.”
Kirsten rubbed her temple with the fingers of her right hand. “So what you’re saying is that the man of the house…this Wesley Howard, was probably killed in the bedroom.”
“Exactly.”
“And the wife and daughters?”
“Gone.”
“How is all of this related to Adrian Hope?” she asked.
They exchanged glances again. The older guy took the lead. “In the course of searching the premises, our agents made an interesting discovery.”
“What was that?”
“A bomb shelter.”
“Really?”
“The original owners had it built along with the house.”
“And?”
“And Mr. Adrian Hope’s fingerprints are all over it.”
41
For once, the weatherman was right. Randy was standing at Helen Willis’s picture window watching a hell of a storm roll their way. Ken had called to say he was going to be a while and not to expect him for dinner. Helen and Mrs. Forbes were running all over the house making sure everybody had a flashlight and nobody had any candles.
Out over the rooftops, the sky was boiling, running over at the edges. Three miles distant, out over the bay, a gossamer curtain of rain danced along in front of the storm, anointing everything in its path. The trees in the backyard were beginning to sway; buffeted by the offshore wind, the tops seemed to be moving in all directions at once.
He’d never seen a sky quite like it before, almost like a Florida hurricane, purple at the center, running to a deep gray at the edges. A trident of lightning flashed on the horizon and then another higher in the sky as the storm rumbled his way.
He watched as the moving wall of turbulence swallowed the waterfront whole and began creeping up the hill in his direction. He checked the clock over the sink. Just before three in the afternoon and it was getting black as night. The trees were beginning to sway in earnest now. Anything loose became a prisoner of the wind. The lights flickered but stayed on. The slide of the elevator door announced Helen’s arrival.
“You’re all the rage downstairs.”
“They know I’m here?”
“Mrs. Dahlberg. We’re right over her room. She may be stone blind but she can identify a person’s footsteps. She told everybody you were up here.”
“Shit,” Randy said.
“You know what Carman calls you?”
“What?”
“She calls you ‘New Face Paul.’”
A volley of raindrops drummed the window, pulling both of their heads toward the noise. Dime-size hail bounced off the glass like bird shot. The front of the storm was no more than half a mile down the hill, swirling everything in its path as it worked its way inland. The intercom buzzed. Helen walked over to the call box.
“Yes?”
“There’s a lady here.” Eunice’s voice.
“Would you ask her for a name, please?”
Pause.
Another buzz. “She says her name is Kirsten Kane.”
Helen looked over at Randy.
Buzz. “She says it’s important.”
“She already knows the story,” Helen said.
“But she doesn’t know what I look like.”
“I’ll go downstairs.”
“No,” he said. “Tell Eunice to send her up.”
“You sure?”
“She’s the only ally we have,” he said.
They stood in silence until the elevator door slid open.
She was tall for a woman. Somewhere right around six feet, he guessed. Beautiful face. Dark hair cut straight across the front. Sensible shoes. Soaking wet. Helen took her sopping raincoat and carried it to the bathroom. Her eyes searched the room before coming to rest on him.
She gave him a wan smile. “The weather’s terrible,” she said.
“And about to get worse,” he added.
“Are you…”
“Yes.”
Helen returned.
“Have you…”
“We’ve sort of introduced ourselves,” he said.
Kirsten gathered herself. “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” she said. “But I thought I owed it to you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For the double dose of bad news I’m about to deliver.” She looked as if she was going to cry. “My boss…”
“Bruce Gill,” Helen said.
“Mr. Gill…” She shook her head in disgust and then looked over at Helen. “The second I got off the phone with you, he had his secretary pull my phone logs. He knows the number I called. He’s got a couple of researchers working on it right now. Within an hour he’s going to know everything I know.” She looked back at Randy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never dreamed he’d sink that low.” She slapped the side of her head. “I should have called from an outside phone.”
He told her not to worry. Spilt milk and all that. She went on.
“I spent the past hour dodging questions from the FBI. By the time I get back to the office, they’ll have a federal material witness warrant for your arrest.”
“Witn
ess to what?” he asked.
“They want to question you regarding the disappearance of a family in Florida.”
“The Howards.”
“They found your fingerprints in…in an air-raid shelter or something.”
“Do what you have to do,” he told her. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I’m an officer of the court. They get a warrant and I’m going to have to tell them what they want to know…which is everything I know about you. Otherwise I find myself disbarred and on my way to jail.”
She pointed over at the TV. “Gill has a news conference at four.” She checked her watch. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “After that, everybody is going to know about Harmony House and Paul Hardy.” She took a deep breath. “Another hour and he’s going to know about the plastic surgery. Then the race is on for the first picture of the new Adrian Hope.” She waved a well-shaped arm toward the front of the house. “That street out there won’t hold all the reporters. There’ll be photographers in the trees.”
“They can camp out there in the rain for all I care,” Helen said. “Nobody says I have to let them in.”
“The FBI isn’t going to camp out,” Kirsten said. “They’ll kick down the door if they have to.”
She looked at Randy. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
42
And then the rain arrived in earnest, blasting into the picture window with the strength of a fire hose, bowing the glass with its ferocity, whistling from some crack as a sudden gust of wind shook the house.
“Goodness,” Helen said. “Was that an earthquake?”
“The wind,” Randy corrected.
And then another gust rattled the house to the rafters. From the floor below, several high-pitched cries seeped through the floorboards.
“I’ve got to go,” Helen said quickly.
They watched as she trotted over to the elevator and disappeared.
He read the question in her eyes. “Problem is, I don’t know any of the things they want to know,” he said.
“What?”
“I don’t remember anything before I woke up in the hospital seven years ago. I don’t know what happened to Adrian Hope on the night before he was supposed to blast off. I don’t know what happened to the Howard family or why.”
“You’re serious.”
“Absolutely.”
“Nothing?”
“An image here, an image there,” he said. “For a while there, it seemed like I might get my memory back. I started remembering random bits and pieces.” He shrugged. “But that stuff stopped coming a few days ago.”
“What kind of images?”
“Oh…I can see myself sitting at a desk in a classroom. You know, one of those desks with the arm you can write on.”
She nodded.
“I can see out the window…out over this big expanse of snow.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s all.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “You’re from Wisconsin.”
“If they say so. In my mind, I’m not from anywhere. In my mind, Adrian Hope is just a name. At best, he’s who I used to be.”
“Who are you now?”
“The jury’s still out on that one.”
The lights flickered, went out for ten seconds, and then came on again. Sounds of commotion rose from the floor below. The screech of Shirley’s voice caught his ear.
“Come on,” he said, heading across the room to the elevator. He slipped an arm around Kirsten’s waist and let her precede him into the elevator car. Half a minute later, they were greeted by a scene of chaos. Shirley was down at the far end of the hall squawking at Eunice, who, for her part, was hollering back about how she’d stand anyplace she wanted. The lights flickered again. Screams of protest rose to the ceiling.
Helen shouted them down. “Let’s all go down to the TV room,” she yelled. “That way we’ll all be together.”
The notion was well received. Charles and Randall immediately went running down the stairs. “Everybody bring your flashlight,” Helen shouted.
Carman was rolling Mrs. Dahlberg toward the elevator. Dolores and Darl walked along with Shirley, waited for the elevator, and all rode down together. As usual, Eunice brought up the rear. She stopped in front of him and looked him over.
“I liked your other face better,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Let’s go, Eunice,” Helen said.
Helen, Kirsten, and Randy stood on the second-floor landing and watched as Eunice flounced down the stairway in slow motion. “Funny as it may sound…” he said when she was out of sight, “but these guys feel a hell of a lot more like my family than those people I see on television.”
They descended the stairway three wide. “Shirley thinks you’re mad at her,” Helen said as they walked toward the back of the ground floor.
“I don’t understand what she’s saying anymore,” Randy said.
Helen stopped and looked at him. “You’re serious?”
“I don’t know what happened, but it just sounds like noise to me now. It’s like some switch got thrown in my brain.”
“She’s going to be crushed.”
“I know.”
“You should tell her.”
He thought it over. She was right.
“I will,” he promised. “First chance I get.”
As they turned the corner into the TV room, Eunice was trying to pull the remote control from Darl’s hand. He could see in her face how she was hoping Darl would get agitated and give her an excuse to pop him one.
“Hey,” Randy called. They both turned his way. “What happened to sharing?”
Helen settled the matter by snatching the remote from Eunice’s hand. She hit the power button and channel-surfed to the local ABC affiliate. They were a minute or so late for the press conference. By the time Helen found the channel, Gill was already holding forth on the subject of Paul Hardy, about how he’d been found in a railroad car, about how he’d lived for seven years in a home for disabled adults. About the plastic surgery and Paul’s ultimate recovery. Cut to a photo of the famous plastic surgeon Dr. Lenville Richard and then back to Gill. The lights flickered; the TV quit.
The storm couldn’t have been more than a block away now. The windows were shaking, bending inward from the wind. The volume of water dropping from the sky had rendered the panes completely opaque, like riding in the car through the car wash. The roar of the wind sounded like an airplane flying low over the house. The doorbell rang.
Randy said he’d get it. Without thinking, he took Kirsten by the arm and pulled her along with him. She came without a struggle. He looked out through the little telescope in the door. An older guy, but real lithe and fit looking, holding a huge plate of what looked like brownies before him on a platter.
Randy pulled open the door. The guy was a bit taken aback by the sight.
“Uh,” he stuttered, “…uh…is Hel…Ms. Willis here?”
Behind him, Arbor Street was being thrashed by the storm. The trees bent like supplicants. Leaves swirled through the air. A black plastic garbage can was rolling down the middle of the street. A limb was down in the front yard. The trees groaned and cracked. Somewhere up the street something hit the ground so hard he could feel the impact tremor in his feet.
Randy took the stranger by the elbow and pulled him into the house. “Come on,” he said. Kirsten followed along as Randy led him back to the TV room. Helen’s shoulders slumped at the sight of him. “Mr. Jaynes,” she said. “You shouldn’t have. Really there was no need.”
She kept on at how he shouldn’t have, but it didn’t matter. The brownies were a big hit. The assembled multitude made short work of what must have been thirty brownies.
Kirsten and Randy were standing hip to hip and neither of them bothered to move. On the other hand, Mr. Jaynes had moved in on Helen. Randy could tell from her body language he was way inside her bubble. “Watch him, he’s making a move on her,” Kirsten whispered in h
is ear.
She was right, no doubt about it. This Jaynes guy definitely had the hots for Helen. Helen turned and looked at Randy as if he’d just pissed on the rug. That’s when the lights went out and Kirsten leaned against his shoulder in the darkness.
43
Looked like a prison break. Flashlight beams zipped around the walls and the ceiling for about five minutes, until everybody calmed down and got used to the idea that things were going to be dark for a while.
The storm settled over the house. The walls creaked and groaned from the power of the wind. The rain attacked the windows, sweeping across the backyard in ranks of silver soldiers, exploding on the grass, one following another in close ranks as the storm spent its fury on Arbor Street.
The joy of sitting in the TV room without the TV working was short-lived. Helen broke out the playing cards and the games. Half an hour later, the grumbling began in earnest. The house was starting to cool down. Dolores had her jacket on. Darl was playing poker with gloves. Eunice was cheating at dominoes.
“Everybody…everybody,” Helen sang out. Things quieted down. “Everybody grab your flashlight.” Chinese fire drill. “We’re going to go upstairs to our rooms. It’s warmer up there, and if the heat doesn’t come back soon, the only place to stay warm will be in bed.” They stood up one by one. “Let’s put the cards and the games away before we go.” Grudgingly, they began to put things away.
A knock on the door. And then another, harder and more insistent this time. Helen looked at Randy through the darkness. “I’ll get it,” she said immediately. Anything to get away from Mr. Jaynes. She was gone less than a minute. Her face was hard when she returned.
“We’ve got company,” she said. She jerked her thumb toward the front hall. “I told them to go away.”
Randy hurried to the front hall and peeked around the window sash. Two remote TV trucks and counting. The curb was mostly full already. Seemed like every car had a logo. Must have been thirty media types braving the elements out there.
Kirsten cocked an eyebrow. “The media,” Randy said.
She winced and walked away.
