He opened his mouth to form some retort, then shut it again. His face flushed so deeply red it looked as though it were covered with fresh blood. With that color against his silver hair, he looked ridiculous, like some first-time Florida tourist with a lobster sunburn.
“It was a poor word choice,” he said slowly, dangerously. “But I hope you aren't suggesting that I—”
Jillian shifted her weight from one foot to the other, arms still crossed, and tilted her head to glare at him. “Ron. Please. It's Monday and I've got a lot to do today. If I'm being enough of a bitch that you can't stand it, fire me. If I'm doing my job well, chalk it up to PMS and just tell me who to ream.”
He blinked in shock, suddenly the picture of propriety. “Jesus, Jillian.”
“Ron,” she said tiredly.
“Her name is Vanessa something.”
“Castille,” Jillian said with a sigh. “Vanessa Castille. Third strike. She's out.”
“That's a little harsh, don't you—”
“Brad Klein made it clear to me that if Vanessa screwed up again he wanted her fired. Are you telling me not to fire her?”
He contemplated that a moment and then shook his head. “No. Go on ahead. Just make sure we have a paper trail on her performance.”
“Fine. Write me a memo about the complaint you got on her.”
Without waiting for any further reply she turned and left his office. The day was looking brighter by the moment. As she strode through the bustle again she sipped at her coffee. It scalded her lips, but she didn't mind. Her mood could not have been any fouler.
When she reached her own little corner of the Dawes, Gray & Winter fortress, she slid into the chair behind her desk and scowled at the red light blinking on her phone. Reluctantly she put her coffee down, punched in the code for her voice mail, and listened to the messages. Her sister had called, but Jillian was in no mood for Hannah right now. There were half a dozen work-related messages that she scribbled down onto a pad to deal with after she had finished her coffee. There was a message from Michael that she deleted without even listening to. Bob Ryan had left her two messages, and there was one from a reporter at the Eagle Tribune, one of the larger local papers, who wanted to discuss the following year's election with her. She had not even made her candidacy official, and Ryan or one of his cronies had already leaked it. What was she supposed to say to a reporter? Hell, what was she supposed to say to Ryan, today?
Jillian let her head drop, her forehead banging the desk. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me? She didn't feel like herself. The way she was behaving this morning wasn't giving her any pleasure . . . or maybe a very little bit. But if she couldn't play nice with Ron Balfour she was going to be headed out the door right after Vanessa Castille.
You stupid ass, she thought. If you call Bob Ryan like this, your future in politics is over before it starts. She stared at the message she had scribbled on her pad. No. Tomorrow she would call him, apologize and say she had been too busy to talk to him. Tomorrow, things would be better. Maybe Michael would even have gotten his act together and gone back to work.
Shaking her head, Jillian picked up the phone and punched in Vanessa Castille's extension. The paralegal's voice mail picked up.
“Vanessa, it's Jillian. I need to see you in my office. Now.”
Her eyes hurt and itched. Her head ached. Jillian set the phone down and leaned back in her chair, massaging the bridge of her nose. She felt like she had acid on her tongue, or some kind of snake's venom, and she just wanted to spit it at people. It was the strangest feeling. There was a kind of echo in the back of her mind telling her that she ought to feel guilty, but instead she was exhilarated.
She reached for her coffee. The phone rang and she spilled some of it onto the notepad, blurring the words.
“Motherfucker!” she snarled.
Cursing again, she snatched up the phone. “Hello?”
“Jilly? What's wrong?”
Hannah. Jillian sighed. Of all the people she wanted to talk to this morning, her sister would have been pretty close to last on the list.
“Jilly?”
“Hannah, didn't you leave me a message?”
Her sister hesitated. “I . . . yeah, I did. I just wanted to tell—”
“Did I call you back?”
“No. Jillian, what's wrong with you? Did something happen? You sound like someone just killed your dog. If you had a dog.”
For a moment Jillian could only clench her teeth and squeeze her eyes closed. Then she laughed softly.
“Hannah, if I haven't called you back that means I don't have time for you right now. That's what voice mail is for. When I do have time, I'll call you back. Until then, just let me breathe, okay? I'm your sister, not your fucking boyfriend.”
All she heard on the phone was a little gasp. But she knew Hannah. Any second now her sister would start in with the hurt feelings and all of that.
Jillian hung up on her.
It wasn't half a minute before there came a knock on her door and she looked up to see Vanessa Castille standing in the doorway. The woman's expression showed plainly just how worried she was. Jillian had no patience for trying to be her friend today. She was the boss. It was time she started acting like it.
“You wanted to see me?” Vanessa began.
“Any idea why?” Jillian asked.
Vanessa shook her head, trying to mask the obvious, like someone getting pulled over for doing seventy in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone and acting all mystified about why the cop would bother her.
“The other day when I talked to you about the Lyons Publishing thing, I thought I made it clear to you that you needed to avoid making any other mistakes.”
Vanessa stared at her. “I didn't. I mean, I don't think I did.”
There was a hurt-little-girl thing going on with her, both in her face and her voice, and it made Jillian want to slap her. Maybe Ron Balfour had used the right word for Vanessa after all.
“One of the senior partners had a complaint from a client about your behavior. You were rude, apparently.”
Vanessa tried for solemn indignation. She stood a bit straighter. “I think I deserve at least to know what I've been accused of and who's doing the accusing.”
Jillian nodded. “You're probably right. But I don't have the stamina for dealing with bullshit like this right now, so you're going to have to get the details from Human Resources during your exit interview.”
“My . . .” Vanessa began to hyperventilate a little and she took a step back, shaking her head. “Jillian, come on. Don't . . . my exit interview? We're friends. What are you doing?”
It was funny. Jillian couldn't help it. She laughed.
“Friends? We get along, Vanessa, but it's not like we're chatting on the phone every night about the size of our husbands' dicks. You're an employee of this firm. I'm your boss. Now, seriously, I don't have the time for this and my head hurts like a bitch. Pack up your crap and get out of here by lunchtime. Call H.R. to make an appointment for the interview. We'll mail your last check.”
THE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT REACHED LONG fingers across the floor of the Danskys’ living room. Dust motes danced in those shafts of autumn light and Michael watched them, entranced. He lay upon his side on the sofa, legs tucked up under him in near-fetal repose. The television had not been on today. He had not read a single page from a book. The morning newspaper still lay at the end of the driveway. The postman had come, but the mail remained in its box.
In the silence of the house he could hear the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock from the kitchen. He could hear trucks passing by on the main road, not far away. All weekend he had moved through the house as though he himself had become the ghost, haunting it. He had spent today on the sofa, not moving except to piss and to eat a bowl of Cheerios when his stomach growled. He barely tasted them. The house seemed to breathe around him. From time to time he had the distinct impression that he was not alone. The pressure in t
he room changed and he felt certain that if he looked behind him, he would see the girl there.
Scooter.
Or, worse, the ugly women in their shapeless coats. Misshapen women whose long fingers had been like daggers as they slipped into Jillian's skin, sinking into her flesh without leaving a wound. . . .
“Oh, Jesus,” Michael whispered, breaking the silence.
But there was no one in the house to hear him. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. The dust motes danced. And there he lay, frozen. Outside the living room window he saw figures moving along the street and he held his breath, held down a scream that pushed against the backs of his lips.
Voices reached him, muffled by the windows. Laughter.
It was just kids, fresh off the school bus, walking home. Even now he could hear the rumble of the bus as it trundled along to its next stop. A girl passed by, perhaps twelve years old. She had black hair and a bright red jacket, and she swung her backpack as she went past the window. Two boys followed her, bumping each other and laughing. All on their way home.
Michael felt trapped in his own living room. He wished he could call to them, ask them to come in and watch television in his house, just for company. Just for life and laughter. But he could never have done such a thing. What would their parents think?
And what might happen to them here? he wondered. Would the ugly women appear again, to touch them with fingers that passed through flesh like water?
He swallowed and his throat burned. A shiver went through him, and abruptly he felt tears burn at the corners of his eyes as he recalled the fingers that had been thrust into his throat, the words that had been forced out of his mouth in a voice that was not his own. His stomach churned at the utter alienness of that touch. It had tainted him.
But that was nothing. Not in comparison to whatever they had done to Jilly.
Jilly. Sweetie, what did they do?
He was afraid to go outside. The house was no safer, yet he felt safer here. In the living room. Downstairs. Michael had not dared go upstairs all weekend, and had slept on the sofa in front of the television every night. Nothing could have made him go into his bedroom. Scooter might come back. Or the ugly women.
The two were connected. He knew that. They had warned him. You can not help her. She is ours. If you continue to search, you will not like what you find.
Michael bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes closed, swallowing the grief he felt. Whatever they had done to Jilly had been a warning. It was all about the girl, somehow. And none of it was in his head. None of it. Fucking psychiatrists couldn't help him. Not an army of them.
With his eyes pinched shut, the images from Friday night were too sharp, too clearly etched in his mind. He opened them.
The phone rang, and he let out a shout as though someone had crept up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. The ring was tinny and shrill. Part of him was drawn by instinct to answer the phone, but the rest of him was unwilling to rise off of the sofa.
On the third ring he sprang up and raced into the kitchen. He snatched the portable phone from its cradle and pressed Talk.
“Hello?”
“Michael, it's Hannah.”
Hannah. He felt a wave of hope go through him. If he told Hannah about her sister, she might be able to help. Just telling someone, sharing what he was feeling, sharing the burden, would be a relief.
“Michael?”
“Yeah, hi, Hannah,” he said. “Listen, I'm . . . I'm glad you called.”
“I'll bet. What did you do to her?”
He blinked several times, frowning deeply. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I talked to her this morning. She was a total bitch, Mike. Not at all like her. In all my life, I've never heard her like this. So what's the story? Are you messing around on her or something? 'Cause Jillian's not going to just go off like that without a reason, and I racked my brain to figure out what it could be, and all my questions lead back to you.”
Michael shivered. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself so that he would not scream.
“It's nothing like that, Hannah. I don't know what it is. Something's happened to her.”
There was a long silence, as though his wife's sister was trying to decide if she believed him or not.
“I'll talk to her,” Hannah said. “Try to figure out what it is. You really don't have a clue?” She sounded a bit lost as she said the latter, as though the idea of Michael being unfaithful was infinitely preferable to having her sister's behavior a mystery.
“I don't. And I think . . . I'm not sure there's anything you can do to help.”
“She's my sister, Michael.”
“Right. Of course.” He sighed. “I'll . . . talk to you soon.”
He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. Instead of making him feel less alone, Hannah's call had made him feel more isolated than ever. What could he have said to her that wouldn't have sounded insane?
It's on you, Mikey. You've got to do something.
Like what?
Both hands on the kitchen counter, he leaned there for several seconds, just breathing. Listening to the clock and the fridge and his heart.
Stay away, those nightmare women had said. But if what they had done to Jillian was connected to the lost girl, then staying away was not the answer. The answer was going to be in finding her. It might lead him to nothing. It might make them come back and do to him what they had done to Jillian, but it was a far better option than living on his sofa and letting his mind break down while he waited for the bitch his wife had become to come home from work.
Come find me, Scooter had said. And now Michael believed that he had to, that everything relied upon him doing exactly that.
He started back into the living room and the phone rang again behind him, startling him once more. When he went to pick it up, he saw on the caller ID that the call was from Krakow & Bester. He let the answering machine pick it up.
“Michael?” came Teddy Polito's voice. Angry. Cold. “Michael, pick up the goddamn phone if you're home. Look, I've been worried about you, but I'm getting past it pretty quick and moving onto being pissed off. You said you'd have the designs to me today, but you didn't show up, and I haven't heard from you all day. If you don't get those designs in by the end of the week, you're going to blow the whole account. Even if Gary assigns someone else, it's still going to reflect badly on me. He might even go with a completely different team. Which would suck for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that we've got a good campaign for them. Look, if you want to piss away your own career, that's your business. But don't fuck up my livelihood in the process.”
There was a pause, as though Teddy spent a moment wondering if his tirade would convince Michael to answer the phone. Then he hung up. The answering machine recorded the day and time, and then it was quiet in the house again.
Michael stared at the phone.
“I'm sorry, Teddy,” he whispered aloud. “But it just isn't important.”
My wife is losing her mind. Something took away everything sweet in her, everything kind. Every damn thing that makes her Jillian.
Nothing else matters.
Nothing.
CHAPTER TEN
Johnny Carson is on the TV. Which is weird, isn't it? Johnny hasn't been on TV since Michael was a teenager. And the man looks good, that's the strangest thing about it. Looks like he hasn't aged a day. Michael laughs as he watches Carson on TV, sitting behind that old desk. He's tapping a pencil and making a point about something, but it's hard to hear with the audience laughing like that. He arches his eyebrows and glances at the camera, to let the folks watching at home in on the gag.
That Johnny. He's the best.
The camera cuts away to Ed McMahon for a reaction shot. The big man's guffawing, shaking in his chair. When the angle shifts back to Carson, he's wearing that crazy feathered turban, the Carnac the Magnificent turban. Michael laughs just looking at him. Carson holds up s
everal envelopes, inside which are the questions, for which Carnac/Carson now has to supply the answers.
Michael leans back on the sofa. It's the red sofa, the itchy, uncomfortable pullout that used to be in the basement of his parents' house, the one he fell asleep on so many nights while he was growing up, watching Johnny Carson. The King of Late Night. The hell with all of the other guys who came in later. Nobody can hold a candle to Johnny. Nobody can replace him.
Weird. Replace him? Why replace him? He's right there on the TV. Michael sprawls across that itchy red sofa in plaid flannel pajama pants. He hasn't worn pajamas since the age of twelve, but damn, aren't they comfortable? A ripple of laughter comes from the TV. Johnny has broken character as Carnac and is snickering about something, his face flushed red. Michael has no idea what the joke was but laughs anyway. Carson is just funny. He's Carson. He's like everyone's naughty uncle Johnny.
In the shadows of the corner behind the television, Scooter stands and watches him. She's in that same peasant blouse. Those same jeans.
Michael doesn't want to look at her. He keeps his eyes right on the TV. On Carson. Uncle Johnny.
“Next, oh Great Carnac?”prompts Ed McMahon.
“Mm-hmm,”Carson replies, mugging for the camera as he pretends to concentrate on the small envelope he holds against his forehead. “I love you, the check's in the mail, and I promise I won't come in your mouth.”
The television flickers. On the Tonight Show set—the classic one, not the slick setup that the replacement will use later—the lights darken. Ed McMahon is laughing again, that deep, bust-a-gut-cough-up-a-lung laugh that seems simultaneously the fakest and most genuine thing Michael has ever heard. His eyes are damp and he's brushing at them as though at any moment he'll weep with merriment.
Carnac tears open the envelope. “‘Name the three biggest lies men tell women,'”he reads from the card.
Michael frowns. This isn't Carson. Uncle Johnny could be a wiseguy with the double entendres and the naughty, knowing looks, but . . . not this. Not crude.
His stomach burns, suddenly, and twists with the need to vomit. There's something in his throat, some phlegm he can't hack up or swallow, like there are . . . what? Like there are fingers in there.
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