Harriet isn’t concerned about my ID or the credit card. Her attention has turned to Carl and Barfly. “Are they both with you?”
I’m hoping Barfly’s soft golden nose and brown eyes are very hard for her to resist. His coat is already a little fluffier. Right now he’s performing his role better than Carl, who’s sneering at the blown-up oceanfront photo of a muscled, chest-bared man with an adorable shaggy blond toddler on his shoulders. The life you want.
“Yes, they’re with me.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t take dogs.” She really does look sorry, so I think I picked the right reception clerk.
“He’s an ESA,” I say smoothly. “Your website says you have no problem with that.” In fact, the website says nothing about this at all.
Harriet glances toward her colleague, who is busily changing rooms for a businessman who wants to know why his fucking TV does not face the bed. I silently thank him for being an asshole, so Harriet has to deal with me on her own.
“An emotional support animal,” I explain softly, “for my father. E.S.A. He’s here to visit a specialist tomorrow morning in the medical district. We brought Barfly all the way from Phoenix. My father really struggles without him.” Casually, I drop my hand with its many-splendored rings to the driver’s license still lying on the counter. The license does, indeed, say Phoenix, even though I’ve never stepped foot in the state.
“I like your rings. Barfly…is the dog?” Harriet asks. I had only two choices about Barfly. I could have tried to sneak him in, but then there would be the maid to deal with. Instead, I am banking on the proven fact that people are far more likely to buy a lie if there is a cute animal like Barfly advertising it.
Carl waves at Harriet. She cheerfully waves back.
“Yes, the dog is Barfly. My dad named him.”
“Is he well trained?”
I don’t hesitate. “Oh, the dog. Yes. By the best—a former Iraq War veteran who takes in strays and turns their lives around so they can help the elderly. He’s part Cherokee. He’s been on 60 Minutes. He might get a reality show.”
“That’s awesome. Your dad is cute.” She’s lowered her voice. “My aunt has Alzheimer’s.”
“Lung cancer,” I lie.
Harriet’s fingers are busily working the computer. “I’m so sorry. MD Anderson is amazing. Maybe you know that Hermann Park is just outside the hotel. It’s gorgeous. You won’t even know you’re in Houston. You can walk him there. Not your dad. The dog. Also, we have a free shuttle service that runs every twenty minutes in the morning to the hospital district, which is super easy. Oh, I see here that you already booked for the medical rate. I’ll take another ten percent off for AARP. I don’t need to see a card.”
I feel a firm nudge at my leg. Barfly has wandered over with his leash hanging free and his bandage in full view. I flip around, and Carl is nowhere in sight.
“Hi, there.” Harriet leans over the desk, gushing down at Barfly. “What happened to you, sweetie?”
I grab the leash. “He just had a suspicious knot removed. We’re hoping for the best. My father is bonding with him more than ever now, of course.”
I can see her mind working, I just don’t know if it’s in my favor. I’m already loading up the truck again and sleeping on sandpaper sheets, searching for pubic hairs on pillowcases before I put my head down.
“You know what,” she says, returning to her screen, “we have a larger suite available on one of the high floors. A bridal party just backed out. I heard the groom was hooking up with a bridesmaid.” She rolls her eyes. “OK, here we go. You’ll love this suite. And I won’t charge you extra. It will just be sitting empty anyway for the next few days. One of the bathrooms is bigger than my kitchen. It’s perfect for your dog. The windows have crazy gorgeous views of the skyline, the museum district, and the fountains in the park. When you look down, it feels like you’re falling, you know?”
I certainly do.
30
I let Carl order New Zealand Lamb Lollipops and Volcano Salt Fries off the room service menu. I feel reckless. Not like counting at all. Not money, not days, not how many times Carl says Walt has farted. We pick out a couple of craft beers apiece. I go for the Southern Star Bombshell Blonde and he picks the Buffalo Bayou More Cowbell IPA. I’m wondering how drunk you have to be to name any of the things we ordered.
The two-room suite spreads out before us with eclectic grandeur: Three deep couches, a dining table with six chairs, a lovely private bedroom with a plushy white comforter, two big-screen TVs. The hotel’s signature red has dripped its way from the lobby into lampshade fringe and paintings of dancing poppies.
I keep catching unnerving glimpses of Carl and me in the antique-framed mirrors. It would be hell to be pimply or plump in here, and I say that not to be snotty but because I’ve been both at one point or another. I know the purpose of all this reflection—to pouf bridal tulle and adjust cleavage and paint pouty lips and snap drunken selfies. But every time I move and see myself before I know who I am, my heart bangs.
Of course, the first thing I did was check for a solid lock on the door between the bedroom and the living area. Otherwise, I’d be spending the night on the marble floor of the locked master bath curled up with Barfly on top of Walt’s sleeping bag, and that would have meant another fight with Carl.
The bedroom lock plus the Door Jammer is going to be good enough, though. Carl is oddly amenable to sleeping in the living room on a foldout couch as long as Walt can stretch out on the other one across the room. Walt’s snoring has started to keep Carl awake. I say it as a fact, because no matter how utterly coherent, even rational, Carl has been at times, there is one thing I absolutely believe at this point: Carl sees and hears his ghosts.
“Glad you’re loosening up.” Carl pokes the last fry in his mouth. “Not worrying so much about your budget. I can help if I need to. I have a little tucked away.” This announcement makes me immediately want to count my cash, $2,000 of which I wisely or unwisely left locked in a box in the bed of the pickup after moving it from the spare tire in the Buick.
As far as I know, another $500 is still in the suitcase with my underwear, ready to replenish my wallet, pretty decimated at this point. The wallet sits in the hotel safe in the walk-in closet that Barfly has already adopted as his private quarters.
Carl is in a mellow mood. After I’d hurriedly finished checking in, I found him seated at the restaurant bar with an empty shot glass and several stacks of quarters. Now he’s halfway through a second beer.
While I set the room service dishes outside the door, Carl flips on a rerun of Family Feud. “For Walt,” he informs me, and then suggests a trip to the balcony to finish off the Larry G.
On TV, it’s a storm of neon and an ebullient Steve Harvey in an electric green suit asking a fat contestant in a Hawaiian shirt littered with pink flowers, “What is a word that follows pork?” The man replies, “Upine.” The audience laughter is like a porch full of tuneless wind chimes.
“Come on,” Carl urges. “If someone smells pot, we can always say it’s medicinal. For my lung cancer.”
“No,” I respond firmly. “I didn’t know you heard that.”
Ten minutes of Carl whining and Steve Harvey’s exaggerated facial contortions make me change my mind. I dig the little bag out of my purse and roll a tiny joint over the bathroom sink. In minutes, Carl’s seated on a cushioned outdoor chair on the balcony and I’m standing in the open French doorway, leaning against the frame.
Houston stretches out before us, a modern goddess, bruised but not defeated.
Carl gestures toward the other balcony chair, but I won’t be taking him up on it. There isn’t a move he could make I haven’t taken into account. That includes tossing me down eleven stories into the circular lighted fountains that glow at night like landing pads for flying saucers.
The heat easily snuffs the chilly air-conditioning escaping out the door. Sweat trickles down my back while Carl is flicking a lighter,
turning Larry G into a tiny firefly.
Surprise. In the brief spurt of flame, I see the lighter is the silver one with the N I’d found hidden in his suitcase at Mrs. T’s. He snaps it shut. “This was my father’s. Pretty thing, isn’t it? Can’t tell if it’s for a girl or a boy.”
“What was his name? Your father.”
Carl travels his finger over the N. “Everybody called him Cutter. He told me it was a high school nickname because he was real good with a hunting knife, not because he got his arm cut off. Not sure what this N stood for, either. He’d never say.”
He takes a hard drag and tilts his head. His profile in shadow is like sculpture against the abstract edges of the skyline. I’m reminded again that Carl is, and was, a good-looking man, especially in the dark. I can’t control a shiver as his lips pucker and the vapor swims lazily over the edge of the balcony.
Claire in House of Cards sucks a drag like that, like Carl. The utterly ruthless way she treats a cigarette, the intimate one that she and Frank pass back and forth like Russian roulette, is the thing that finally convinced me she is the more evil of the two.
“Walt’s got a crazy laugh, doesn’t he?” Carl asks. “He gets a kick out of the sexual innuendo. Steve Harvey saying badonkadonk. Baloney pony. Going to pound town.”
Suddenly, he’s scooting the chair around, harsh metal scraping concrete. I take a quick step back across the threshold.
“Relax, kiddo.” He holds out the joint. I shake my head.
I want the thudding in my chest to stop. I want to ask Carl whether his female ghost has joined us for the finer accommodations and if she’s steaming up the mirrors and leaving damp, curvy prints of her behind on the cushions. I want to ask about those beautiful, spirited twin girls who kept me company as a child and now feel so worrisome.
I want to put my Glock to his head and ask why in the hell that photograph of them was stored under my staircase like a secret long before my sister disappeared.
I want to know everyone he killed and when and how and why because I don’t know which case will be the one to trap him into admitting he’s a monster.
Rachel vanished into vapor. She was here, and then she was not, just like Nicole and Vickie and Violet. I had no choice but to follow their cases. In Nicole’s, at least there was a bit of her DNA on a five-dollar bill and a trial. In Vickie’s, there was a crime scene, her blood spattered on the walls. In Violet’s, there was a frightening stretch of water and a best friend who maybe hadn’t told the police everything.
I want to provoke a driving, productive conversation, instead of waiting passively for Carl’s memory to uncurl from a fetal position on its own. I want to find my sister, whatever it takes.
Right now, I have to refrain. I have to leave my gun where it is. I can’t throw too much at him at once. My trainer was a stickler on negotiating strategies.
Use comfortable surroundings. Interrogators are fourteen times more likely to get information quickly if they are nonconfrontational and establish rapport first. A confession is four times more likely if you strike a neutral and respectful tone.
But something in my gut is howling that I’m not going to get six more days to parlay this out—that the shadows pounding in the sand behind us are catching up. So I move a knight instead of a pawn.
“I saw a ghost once,” I say.
“Oh, yeah? How’d that go?”
“I was fourteen. I walked in the kitchen at our house. She was at the microwave, making macaroni and cheese out of a box.”
“Did she say anything?”
“She said, ‘Fooled ya, didn’t I?’ And then she was gone.”
“Ghosts are like that. Kind of funny.” Carl, giving nothing. Asking nothing.
“My school counselor told me it wasn’t that unusual,” I persist carefully. “She called it a bereavement hallucination. She said half the people in the world who lose someone think they hear or see them again at least once. She told me one student saw his friend’s face for a month if he looked up high and to the right. Just a tiny head floating in the upper corner of his vision. He went to three optometrists.”
Carl’s silence is painful.
“The ghost I saw was my sister,” I say.
Carl drops the joint and crushes it with his heel. He’s up on his feet, this part of the night over.
“My mother said I just made it up to feel better. That’s what I think, too.” There’s a desperate edge to my voice. I hope he’s too high to notice.
“They can explain ghosts any way they like,” Carl says. “But no one has a clue.”
31
After I opened that book of photographs in my teacher’s classroom, I did all of the obvious things. I sat my mother and father down at our kitchen table and asked why one of Carl Louis Feldman’s photographs was hidden under our attic staircase. I reminded them who he was, a suspected serial killer. I explained exactly when I found the twins and who they were to me. Playmates. Sisters.
Rachel was so busy.
My words were frantic, garbled. The despairing look they exchanged felt like they’d picked up the crumby butter knife on the table and stabbed it in my chest. Their faces were frightened, not by my story, but by me.
Both of them said they had no idea what I was talking about. They asked me to retrieve the photograph. I was on my knees in the dark, searching the closet floor, when they came up behind me. My mother made a terrible sound, an animal strangling for air.
In my panic to find the photo, I’d piled most of the hanging clothes on the bed. My pathological crazy quilt of suspects plastered on the back of the closet wall was in full, raw view.
My mother fell on my sister’s bed, wailing. My father just put a hand on my shoulder. He helped me sweep every scrap out of my closet, down to the brown petal dust of one of my sister’s old homecoming mums. The twins were gone. Had I thrown them out?
I showed them exactly where I found the envelope, halfway up, underneath the tenth attic step from the bottom. There was a piece of yellowed tape hanging loose, which I eagerly pointed to as proof.
My father, still wearing his work uniform, a blue starched shirt and a tie with red stripes, retrieved a flashlight. He crept into the crawl space that stored the upstairs furnace and shined it up to make sure nothing else was there but fluffy streamers of spider silk. He beamed the light on every single step that was visible.
That was a Friday. On Monday morning, he arranged two appointments—one with the young FBI agent who’d been newly assigned to my sister’s cold case. The second I saw him—tall, strong, energetic—I’d felt better, like something would happen.
He smiled at me with white, perfect teeth. His physique had bullied an inexpensive pilled blue suit into hanging like Armani. Rachel always said she wouldn’t marry anyone without good teeth or a six-pack. My dad teased her that she’d never get married. I’m sure he regretted that.
It felt like my sister was approving her investigator, too.
It wasn’t just his looks. He’d stuck out a handshake that felt genuine and firm. “I’m DeAndre, but you can call me Andy if you don’t tell my mother.” I didn’t care how many times he’d used that line—it made my parents smile. Instead of stashing us in a refrigerated interview room, he had arranged three desk chairs neatly around his cubicle.
He talked directly to me instead of at my parents, even when they were the ones asking the questions. I later learned this is a technique that neurologists use when their patients have dementia, to make them feel worth something. I’m listening to you, not them, even though you are out of your mind.
He scribbled notes. He told me he was officially adding Carl Feldman to my sister’s suspect pool. That came with a warning not to hope too much for quick answers. Carl had vanished not long after being acquitted in the Nicole Lakinski trial. No one knew where he was.
Andy politely wrote down the name of Carl’s book so he could see the photograph of the twins for himself. The whole time, his computer was open to a pictu
re of my sister. It was the only way he was insensitive. My parents and I couldn’t bear to look at it. At that time, we were all parked somewhere on the ladder of grief. My father was locked in at anger, which produced calves carved from treadmill running and a lawn scraped bald by ruthless mowing. My mother hunkered down at depression with an endless, golden glass of “iced tea” that smelled like varnish.
I was still foundering on guilt. For instance, I knew Rachel would blame me for the fact that the picture she hated most represented her on every FBI computer and missing persons poster.
Andy didn’t know that his picture of reference, this senior class portrait, had produced a screaming match between my mother and sister. It was the one time my mother put her foot down on my sister’s love affair with blue hair dye and nose rings.
So, for the first time in her life, my sister was documented as ordinary and cookie-cutter as everyone else, an immortalized Texas girl in jeans, boots, and a crisp white shirt.
The weathered red barn she’d leaned against would forever loom like a blood-spattered premonition. My mother limited her to one necklace and her favorite turquoise ring, the one that is tight on my finger right now, turning it a little pink. Her hair had been dyed dirty blond, back to its estimated natural color.
The second appointment my dad had made was with my art teacher, Alegra-with-one-l. In the way that one page turns another, my father struck up an affair with her two months later while my mother drank from her icy glass. But I didn’t know that then, and I thought my teacher was nice to murmur sympathy and spend an hour with us thumbing through Carl Feldman’s book.
She’d sworn she was going to burn it in her gas fireplace that night even though it was 70 degrees outside. As the pictures bled into one another and my mother murmured these photos are sick, I was surprised that something inside me had protested. Even as a teenager scared out of my mind, I knew there was something important about Carl’s work.
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