She sits up in bed.
"Not if it involves him seeing Mikey. I won't allow that."
"I'm thinking of buying him off. Guys like Jana—money talks with these fools."
"You’re thinking we buy my son from him?"
"Exactly. Jana is young. He has lots of women. He could raise someone else’s kid if it’s that important to him, which I seriously doubt.”
"How much would I have to pay to get him to go away?"
"You know the hundred grand for the Brian Rowdy medical malpractice settlement?"
“What about it?”
"Jana will accept that amount and he'll even sign papers giving up his parental rights."
"You sound like you know this already. Have you talked to him about it?"
"Yes. We've talked several times by phone. He basically thinks you're keeping Mikey away just to fuck with him."
"That would be the last thing I would do," she says. "I'm just trying to protect my son from a very evil man."
"He knows you think that and he knows you're not about to change your mind. So he said why not buy him out?"
"He told you this?"
"He did," I reassure her. "I talked to him tonight."
"When was that?"
"While you were asleep. I called him on the phone."
"I thought I had made it clear you're not to go behind my back."
"Just trying to protect you, Danny. You and our little Mikey."
“Gunnar, this kind of stuff has to stop. I can fight my own battles. You of all people should know that."
"Hey, I settled the medical malpractice case when you were in over your head, didn't I?"
She shakes her head violently. "No, because if you had I would have the money by now. At this point it's just an expectancy. I'm not sure I believe you much anymore, Gunnar."
I feel body-slammed. It's horrible when she doesn't trust me. I fight for her and do the stuff she's not capable of doing. And this is how she treats me in return?
"Let's go see Jana tonight. We can leave right now," I tell her. "Monday you'll have the money and you can go back home to Michael and the kids."
"Leave for where?"
"Jana's living in Alton. Down by St. Louis."
"Why on earth would we go down there?"
"He is insisting you come. He won't deal with anyone but you."
"Then I'm not going. It sounds like a setup to me, Gunnar. Are you purposely trying to get me hurt?"
"There you go again! I'm making my best efforts here and you keep accusing me! Grab your stuff. We're leaving while we have the chance."
She knows I mean it. I can be very forceful when I need to be. There are times when we do things and she doesn't even know. She wants to be in charge so she's the one who has to decide if she wants me to take over or if she wants to be in the driver's seat. She makes her decision and starts climbing out of bed.
"All right. I'm in. I should wake Michael and tell him."
"What? Don't touch him! He won't let you go with me! Are you losing your mind?"
She stops and mutters under her breath, "That happened long, long ago. Now I'm trying to find my mind."
"Hurry up. He's stirring."
Michael has turned over onto his back and now flops an arm across his eyes. His head is probably still hurting from the fight, poor guy.
"Coming, coming," she tells me. She throws on her slacks and sweater and we creep out the door into the hallway. She looks both ways and when we're sure there's no one around, we're off.
11
Danny
25 Years Ago
The usual growing-up problems for a pretty, large-breasted teen: an uncle with secret hands; a stepfather who left no doubt about whose property I was.
All of it, all through high school. Groped in the front seat, full court press in the back seat. A tangle of unbuttoned clothes and sweaty hands. It was all becoming clearer, until the day I graduated and I knew I belonged only to myself. I left that same day, stopping by home only to change from graduation gown to jeans, sandals, a gold sweatshirt that said LSU, a book bag stuffed with makeup and the few dollars saved from two years behind the counter at DQ. Oh, and The Pill. Walk off—literally walk—out to the highway and put my thumb out. I hold my head high: there is no shame in launching forth in a financial Alert Level Red.
The first ride is an 18 wheeler steered by a crazy, pill-popping twenty-two-year-old from Muscle Shoals. We listen to Johnny Cash on the tape deck and have a go in the sleeper compartment. He exhausts himself on me and says he loves me. I decide to swear off sex forever.
Sure, I've heard that before. Even my own stepfather said it.
Rule 1: When a man says he loves you, he means that you belong to him. I knew better than to mistake that for real love. It was just that I didn't know what real love felt like—but I knew it didn't feel like heavy panting in my ear and being called someone else's name.
Rule 2: No sex. It didn't work anymore. Everything inside was broken, head to toes, and I felt nothing.
Rule 3: It was time to heal.
Forty hours later we roll into Chicago.
I sleep in the Amtrak waiting room that first night. As if I'm waiting on my train. Only I have nowhere else to run. Chicago is two days away from New Orleans and that will have to do. So I spend the night plastered against the wall in a plastic chair, nodding off and coming to, nodding off and coming to. One time there's a five-year-old girl with blond curls standing right at my knee, dipping into a bag of Corn-Nuts and staring at my face. When I open my eyes a second time, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand and holds out the bag to me.
"Some?" she says.
"No thank you, I'm full up to here," I say, making the up-to-my-neck-full sign.
"Thank you," she says, and runs for the other end of the waiting room. Then we play peekaboo for a half hour before I nod off again. This time when I come to, there's a two-person crew pushing mops and nudging people awake so they lift their feet. I'm next; I get nudged; I come awake with a start. Just for a second I'm back in the Big Easy and daddy is looking for me. I'm hiding in the shower with the water off, hoping to God he won't pull open the curtain. He doesn't—and then I'm awake. I lift my feet and fold my legs under me. Now they can mop on by, and they do. I stretch, yawn, and check my Mickey Mouse watch. It's five-thirty in the a.m. Time to find a local paper and run down a job. The newsstand has a fresh stack of Tribunes.
Back at my chair, the little blond girl is sitting in my seat.
"Saved your place," she says.
"Bless your heart," I tell her when she pops up. And she has saved me a place as the room has all but filled up with people headed out of town.
"Would you save my seat while I get coffee out of that machine?" I ask her when she skips up to me a minute later.
She's only too happy to help, and now I have coffee and a newspaper. It doesn't take but a minute to skim the Tribune employment ads, and a minute later I have jobs, jobs, and more jobs. Doing just about anything from out-call massage to legal secretary. I know what a hand job is worth, but I am full-up done with that crap, so I look at Office and Clerical.
A little about me: I'm tall, about five-nine, no hips, big boobs, and a face like Cher when she was with Sonny. Except I'm broke and my nose isn't as perfect. High school: yes; military: no; arrests: none; bankruptcies: no (no one was ever crazy enough to give me credit—yet); marital: single. I hit the pay phone and make a call. They take my app over the phone—very odd, very today. It’s with the insurance company in Northbrook. The Good Hands one. They say they will call me. I scout the area around the train station and check into a floptel for $39 a night. Then, to my huge astonishment, Good Hands calls me. Can I start tomorrow? Doing what? Pounding a keyboard. Starting salary is enough to go halfsies with a roomie. I'm so all over it. Eight o'clock sounds perfect, I tell her.
I'm giddy. So I stroll down to the 7-Eleven and pick up a quart of beer, a bag of pork rinds, and Fritos. I pass by all
the Dolly Madison stuff. I have no hips and plan to keep it that way.
I'm walking two blocks back to the floptel when it happens. The same guy as gave me a ride up from Louisiana comes pulling his eighteen wheeler across three lanes of traffic, almost killing two people in a minivan, and hits the jake brake. He motions me over and tells me to get in. I say no, I'm staying in Chicago. He gets pissed and blasts the air horn. I start walking again and he's following right behind me, hitting the air horn, and creeping along. Then he starts yelling obscenities at me. By this time people behind him are honking like mad (this is Chicago, dude, where they'd just as soon run over you as look at you) and he won't speed up. He just stays right beside me, leaning on the air horn and calling me names.
Which is when a dude on a Harley pulls up in front of him, hits the brakes, and steps off the bike. The truck shudders and stops. The biker puts down the kickstand and walks over to me.
But the trucker screams before the biker gets to me.
"I'm gonna run over that piece of shit if you don't move it!"
"Knock yourself out," the biker yells back. "I've got your license plate and I've got insurance. My lawyer belongs to HOG and eats truckers for breakfast!"
He comes up to me. Illinois must have a helmet law, because I can't see his face, the dark faceplate’s down. So he spreads the helmet and yanks it off. This beautiful flop of blonde hair falls down below his ears and the most intelligent crystal blue eyes I have ever seen pierce right through me.
"Wanna ride?"
I'm stunned, this guy's so incredible.
"What would I have to do?" I manage to say. My voice cracks and I'm sure I have pork rind in my teeth. Mort-ti-fied.
"Like the Boss says, wrap your arms around my engine!"
"I'm just a block up. See that green sign with the smiling cowboy up there?"
He turns and looks. "The Rodeo Motel? What, you on your way down or on your way up? Wait, don't answer that. Climb on before moron man has a cow."
We climb on the bike and I can smell his leather coat. I hug up to him and smell his neck. He smells like sunshine and faint aftershave. But there's a beard so he doesn't shave. Must be deodorant—whatever, I'm immediately in a swoon. I grip him tighter than necessary and lay the side of my face against his back.
He guns it and we pull away. He hits the brakes ten seconds later and we're turning in.
I don't want to let go, but then he's turning and asking me for a room number.
I tell him and he pulls down four doors. The motor is still running and the faceplate is down again, so I can't get another look at those blues. Then it's like he could read my mind, because he slides the faceplate up and I'm looking into two robin's eggs again. Perfect pale blue, crystal pure and friendly. In fact, his eyes dazzle and dance, like he's got this huge secret I'm dying to know.
"Why are you laughing at me?"
“I’m smiling because it's a beautiful day and I just did my good deed."
He guns it.
"So are you going to buy curtains for the place? Fix it up?"
He's pointing behind me, at the door to my room.
"Not exactly. It's just for a few nights. I just got to town."
"Can I bring a housewarming gift by?"
"Like I said, it's very temporary."
"So that's a No?"
"That's a No," I tell him and I'm immediately kicking myself. Still, I promised myself, no more sex, no more fooling around. I've had it with men and their hungry hands and don't even want to think about going there. I turn away and take out my key.
"Welcome to Chicago," he calls after me. He guns the bike and swings around and lurches for the driveway.
"Thank you!" I yell, but he's already gone, and I listen to his straight pipes rumble down the block until I can't hear them anymore. Gone, just like that. I missed my chance but I don't regret it. First, me alone, for at least a year, then I'll come up for air.
Mr. Motorcycle is adorable. There may need to be adjustments about the sex rule.
That is, if I ever see him again.
12
Michael
Palmer House Hotel - Danny’s Disappearance
Early in the morning, just before dawn, Delphi called me from the Arlington Heights police station. She had my cell number because we were old friends. At the first chirp of the phone, I jerked awake and fumbled the phone up to my ear. No need to turn the light on; I meant to let Danny keep sleeping.
"Michael," she cried, "It's Delphi. I've been arrested for drunk driving. They're claiming I killed someone in a crosswalk. I'm being asked for a statement. I want to talk to them and clear up what happened, but the lawyer inside me knows that would be stupid." She then came unglued and was weeping on the phone. Through her tears she managed to tell me that she had been at a party with her husband and she was driving them home, when a pedestrian appeared out of nowhere. Yes, she had had a few drinks. But only a few.
I was instantly awake. I rubbed my eyes and switched on the bedside lamp. Five a.m. It wouldn't hurt to leave the light on; I would be telling Danny I had to leave for the jail. I reached behind and touched her side of the bed, expecting to make contact with her warm body. Instead, I came up with the feel of a rumpled sheet. But no warm body. My hand lurched out for her again, and again I came up with sheet. Then I turned. No Danny.
After telling Delphi I could be there in forty-five minutes, I hung up and made my way to the bathroom, where, I was certain, I would find Danny sitting on the toilet. As I came upright I wobbled and only then realized that my mind was foggy and I was unsteady on my feet. My heart began thumping in my chest as I switched on the bathroom light. No Danny. I turned and hurried back to the parlor, where I was certain I would find her asleep on the couch with the TV just feet away. I peered over the couch, expecting to find her, but nothing. Danny simply was not in our room.
Visions of Jana Emerich creeping into our room and making off with Danny crowded into my head. Instantly I was full of dread and sweating hard. I wished I had brought my gun to the hotel and kicked myself for not taking full precautions, knowing Jana was on the loose.
In minutes I was dressed in khakis and a sweatshirt and headed into the hallway. Down to the ice machine I jogged, just on the off-chance, though I couldn't imagine why she would leave our room for ice before dawn. But she wasn't there either. Now, do I call down to the front desk or take the elevator down? I decided returning to our room would be the smart next move, which I did.
"Desk? This is Michael Gresham in twenty-nine-two-two. My wife is missing."
"I'm sending security right up."
"Send the police as well."
Security reached me first: two gentlemen in blue trousers wearing white shirts and pleated blue windbreakers. The first one through the door was swinging a flashlight, while the second one had a fearful look, as if he expected I might pull a gun at any moment and make him disappear too. He looked downright terrified of me.
I moved back away from the door.
"Please join us at the dining table, sir," said flashlight.
We quickly assembled around the table.
"Your wife's name?"
Now he had a spiral notepad flipped open.
"Dania Gresham. Danny."
"Her age?"
“Early forties.”
"Description?"
"Five-nine, slender, blond hair combed to the side. Caucasian."
"Eyes?"
"Blue. Unless dusk or dawn, then gray."
"Where did you last see her?"
"In our bed."
"What time did you notice she was missing?"
"Sometime around five."
"Fifteen minutes ago, give or take?"
"Something like that. So look, what are you going to do? Taking my statement while time goes by is counter-productive. Shouldn't you be stopping any cars trying to leave the property? Is anyone doing that?"
"No sir, we have no legal right to search motor vehicles."
"W
ell, then, get someone who can! Have you notified the police?"
"They have been notified. They're sending someone."
"You're taking my statement and that's it? How about sending people to check the stairwells, bathrooms, night club? Common areas?"
"Jurgens is going to do that right now. Jurgens?"
Mr. Worried—Jurgens—stood and dashed for the door. Then he was gone.
Five minutes later there was a knock. My heart leapt with hope that Jurgens had found Danny just down the hallway or some such easy thing.
But when I opened up, there stood two police officers—uniforms—peering past me into my room.
"Wife gone missing?" said the heavyset black man.
"Yes, come on in. Security's here."
"Hey, fellas," said flashlight. "Over here, please, and I'll update you."
"No!" I cried., "For the love of God, send somebody down to the parking garage and don't let anyone out without searching their vehicles! Someone is trying to make off with her. I'm certain of that!"
The second police officer, an older man with a white mustache, sat himself at the table. "Sure of that?" he said suspiciously. "How sure would that be?"
It came out in a gush. "She testified in a criminal case. The man she sent to prison wants to kill her! I'm positive he's involved!"
I felt my hands clench and unclench. I wanted to hit someone.
"Why don't you settle down and let us take this?" said the black man. "You're right on the edge and you really should try to take a deep breath."
He was right. I was on the edge.
"All right, all right," I said, all but whispering, proving that I was deflating. "But please. Someone start searching cars. If she's inside the hotel, she'll turn up. But if she's been drugged and taken out, there's maybe a chance to catch him before he gets her out of the garage."
"Why are you here at this hotel?" asked white mustache. "Vacation? Business?"
"We're here because my wife wanted us to get away for a couple’s weekend."
"Your wife's idea?"
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 5
