“Then help me,” Justin said. “Help me find out who killed your husband.”
“They said it was an accident.”
“But you know it wasn’t, don’t you?”
She stared with her hard, almost lifeless eyes, and then she said, “Yes. I know.”
From upstairs, the sound of the television filtered down. Justin heard frenzied, silly music. The girls must be watching cartoons.
“Do you mind,” Justin said very slowly, so carefully, “if I just sit and have a cup of coffee?”
Another long silence. The woman’s neck was stretched so taut he didn’t think it was even possible for her to speak. Her fingers moved even faster, picking deeper into her own skin, and he could see her shiver. She was like a fragile piece of glass and he was afraid to speak; she’d flinched at his words as if each were a rock being hurled directly at her. But the silence ended when she turned back to the stairs and yelled, “Reysa! Hannah! Stay upstairs and play! I need some quiet so I can talk to this man. Do you hear me? Stay upstairs!”
Justin heard two voices yell down, “Yes, Momma,” and then Mrs. Cooke spun on her heels and headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He waited a moment, watching the woman walk, her spindly legs looking as if they were going to snap after each step. When she disappeared around a corner, he emerged from his reverie and realized he should follow. It looked like he was about to get what he’d come for.
Justin sipped the hot black coffee, served in a delicate cup and saucer. He raised his eyebrow to let her know that it was good.
“I’ve lost twelve pounds since my husband died,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat. Or sleep.”
“Have you been talking to anyone?”
She shook her head. It didn’t move more than an inch in either direction.
“Is there anyone who’s been coming in to help with the children?”
Now she recoiled as if slapped. “You think I don’t know my responsibilities?” she snapped. “I know my responsibilities!”
“I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about making things a little easier on you, that’s all. You’re under a lot of strain. And you’ve suffered a loss. Everybody needs help in that kind of situation.”
“My husband! Hutch had responsibilities but he didn’t care!”
“I’m sure that he did.”
“No! He didn’t! And now my babies don’t have a father!”
Justin kept his voice soft and soothing. “What was he doing, Mrs. Cooke? What was he doing that made someone rig his plane and cause a crash?”
She didn’t seem to hear the question. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her chest. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“They took him, didn’t they? Those bastards! We don’t even get a real funeral.”
Justin nodded. “Do you know who ‘they’ are?”
“No. Not really.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Maybe.”
That was as far as she was willing to go, at least for the moment. She tried drinking some coffee but she only managed one sip before putting the cup down.
“Theresa, do you know-”
“Terry. People call me Terry.”
“Okay. What was your husband doing over the past year or so, Terry?”
“Flying. Flying like always.”
“But not for the Air Force.”
“No. Special people.”
“What kind of special people?”
“Scary people.”
“Like who?”
She shook her head again. This time it might have swung two whole inches from side to side.
“People at Midas?”
He could see the fear run through her. It left her eyes and seemed to rip through her insides like an insidious, all-consuming disease.
“Can you give me the names of any people at Midas, Mrs. Cooke?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “A phone number? An address?”
The fear was clamping her jaws shut. Justin waited until he knew she wouldn’t-or couldn’t-respond.
“I spoke to your husband’s commanding officer,” he said finally.
The fear let go of her throat and allowed her to speak now. “Zanesworth?”
Justin nodded and said, “He told me your husband was stationed at Andrews the last eighteen months, that things were done just as they’d been done in the past.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you have any idea why he’d lie?”
“Because somebody told him to. Because he’s scared, just like me. Or at least he should be.”
Justin wished he’d brought a flask with him. He’d sneak into the bathroom, have a long pull, and feel a lot better than he felt at this moment. But it was just wishful thinking. Something he didn’t have much time for. “Who did your husband fly when he was in the Air Force?” he asked, when he finally got away from the image of nice, warm alcohol flowing down his throat. “What kind of passengers?”
“Everyone.”
“The president?”
“No. Everyone but him.”
“The vice president?”
“Sure.”
“He piloted the vice president? Vice President Dandridge?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Lots of them. Secretary of state. Defense secretary. Everyone had their territories. Hutch had the Middle East a lot. That was his route.”
“He never left the Air Force, did he?”
“No.”
“They just let him take time off from his duties to do something else.”
She nodded.
“The people he was working for, they must have been pretty important to arrange that.”
She nodded one more time. He was beginning to wonder if he’d hear her speak again.
“During the time off, did he fly some of the same people he was flying for the Air Force?”
Another nod. Then, “I think so. Yes.”
“Was he still flying to the Middle East?”
“Yes. I mean, I was never sure where he was. He said it was usually better for me not to know. But he forgot sometimes, and told me things. They slipped out. Or else he’d give me hints. It was kind of like a game. Once he called me up from a hotel and I asked him how he was and he said, ‘I fell down the tower,’ and I didn’t know what he meant but it sounded bad so I got all concerned, but he was just laughing and told me to think about it. After we hung up, I figured out what he meant. He was saying Eiffel Tower to let me know he was in Paris. I think he flew the secretary of state there for some secret conference. No, it was the vice president, because after that he flew him to Saudi Arabia. I remember because Hutch brought me back this little veil thing, like Arab women wear, and he said that Dandridge was making fun of him on the flight back. Whenever he had time, Hutch always tried to bring me back something from one of his trips.”
She laughed now, at the memory, then started to cry. She was starting to break down, so he asked her a question quickly, wanting to get her to focus again. “Where else did he fly, Terry, while he was flying these special people? Over the past year and a half.”
“Florida.” Suddenly she jumped up, ran over to the kitchen counter, brought back a bottle. “This was from his last trip there, that’s how I know where he was.”
Justin looked at the bottle. The label said it was Havana Club rum, aged fourteen years.
“This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida.”
“I know. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.”
“Where else did Hutch fly?”
“Texas. A lot of times to Texas. I don’t think I can keep talking,” she said. “I think I’m going to start to cry again.”
“You’re entitled to cry,” he told her. “Can I just finish my coffee? I won’t talk about Hutch anymore.”
She nodded. He took another sip. It was cold but he pretended not to not
ice.
“I heard that you’re selling the house.”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because they told me to.”
Justin put his coffee cup down. “What? Who told you to?”
“The people who bought it for us.”
“Who was that?”
“The people Hutch was working for. That was one of the reasons why he did it. They said they’d buy him a house. This house. And they did. Now they told me to sell it. They said I could keep all the money. But they said to sell it and move away.”
“How did they tell you this?”
“On the phone.”
“When?”
“The day Hutch died. They called to say that his plane had crashed, that he was dead. They said I should sell the house, that I could keep all the money, they’d take care of it, not to worry about the mortgage. They said I should just take the money and use it to go somewhere else.”
“Who called you?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Justin closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them, he said, “Terry. If you tell me who called you, then maybe I can find out who killed your husband.”
“And maybe, if I tell you what you want to know, they’ll also kill me and my little girls. I think you better leave. I shouldn’t have talked to you at all.”
Justin tried to think of something else to say, to prolong his stay, but no words came. He stood up, stretched his stiff back, and let Terry Cooke escort him to the door.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I just want to get out of here, forget everything that’s happened.”
“Where are you going? I mean, when you sell the house.”
“My parents live in New Mexico. I thought we’d go out there. It’ll be good for the girls. Maybe I’ll be able to eat and sleep out there.”
“I bet you will.” He reached for the doorknob. “Can I just ask you one thing? Did Hutch own his own plane?”
“No. He never needed one, really.”
“Whose plane was he flying?”
She didn’t answer.
“Terry, why was he in East End Harbor? Why that airport? Why that town?”
“You think it’s because of the bombing, don’t you? The Harper’s bombing.”
“Yes. That is what I think.”
“My husband was a pilot. All he did was pick people up and drop them off. He wasn’t political. He didn’t even like the Air Force all that much, they just let him fly. He was just a good guy who liked to fly.”
“Why East End Harbor, Terry?”
“Did you see him?”
“What?”
“Hutch. My husband. Did you see him. . after the crash?”
“Yes.”
“Was it. . was it bad?”
“I think it’s always bad when someone dies who doesn’t have to.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. With them still closed she said, “He was going to stop, you know.”
“Hutch? Stop what?”
“He was going to stop working for these people. He didn’t like what they were doing.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded. “He just flew them. And it was exciting at first. Glamorous and fun. And he made a lot of money. But he said he thought he was working for the good guys. Only it turned out they were the bad guys. That’s what he told me. So he was going to stop.” She sniffled, holding back another barrage of tears. “Well. . he did stop working for them, didn’t he? He just stopped a little too late.”
“Why East End, Terry?”
“I don’t know. I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?” When he nodded tentatively, she took his hand. Not shaking it, just holding it for support. Or simply to have some human contact. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Things are just so muddy. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Justin said, then he gently released his hand, thanked her for talking to him, stepped outside. She closed the door behind him and he heard the click of the lock turning inside. He walked to his car that he’d parked in the thin gravel driveway. Muddy, he thought. A strange phrase but an accurate one. Things were definitely muddy. Thick, slimy, filthy, and muddy.
He got behind the wheel, started the ignition, glanced in his rearview mirror. . and there were those eyes again. The big brown round saucer eyes that he’d seen peering out at him from behind the Cookes’ front door.
“You know, it’s dangerous to get into strangers’ cars,” he told the little girl.
“You’re not a stranger,” she said. “You know my mom.”
“Hannah, right?”
“My sister’s Reysa.”
“I have to go now, Hannah, so you’d better go inside. I don’t want your mom to worry.”
“My mom’s not worried. She’s afraid.”
“I know she is. But you don’t want her to worry, too, do you?”
“No.” But the little girl didn’t make any move to leave. “Can you help her stop being afraid?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to try. But I don’t know.”
“Sometimes she’s too afraid to take us to McDonald’s. Yesterday, Reysa cried because she wanted a Big Mac but Mommy wouldn’t take us.”
“Sometimes,” Justin told her, “when people are afraid it makes them not act like themselves. But you know what? It always changes. People change back to the way they were. And they act just like they used to. You and your sister have to try to be really nice to your mom while she’s nervous and afraid. That’s what she needs. And pretty soon she’ll be just like she used to be.”
“And she’ll take us to McDonald’s?”
“I promise.”
Nine-year-old Hannah Cooke thought about this for a moment, then she decided to continue the conversation from the front seat. She pulled herself up over the top of the passenger seat and plopped alongside Justin. As she landed, something fell out of her hand. Something small and shiny.
“What’s that?” Justin asked.
The girl reached down, picked it up with her right hand, then opened the palm of her left to show him what she had.
“Jacks,” he said quietly. “Are you a good jacks player?”
“Uh-huh,” she told him. “I play all the time. Are you good?”
“I haven’t played in a long time.”
“I know. That’s what happens to grown-ups. They stop playing.”
“Can I ask you something, honey?” She nodded, so he said, “Do you know what your mom’s so afraid of?”
“The men.”
“What men?”
“The men Daddy brought to the house.”
“Do you know who they were?”
Hannah shook her head. “One was scary. I didn’t like him.”
“Do you remember anything about him?”
“Uh-huh. He was a general.”
“A general? Like in the army?”
“I think he wasn’t a real general. Just an assistant general.”
“An assistant general? Like a colonel?”
“No. He wasn’t a colonel. He was an assistant general. And he was mean to my daddy.”
“How about the other man? Was he mean, too?”
“No. He was nice. I liked him.”
“What did you like about him?”
“He played with me. The general talked bad to my dad but the nice one played with me. For a long time.”
“Hannah,” Justin said, and suddenly the inside of the car seemed very quiet and still. “Did he play jacks with you?”
“Yup,” the little girl said. “And guess what?”
“What?”
“He was really, really, really good.”
He was back in his house by a few minutes before ten, happy to be in East End, happy to be away from soldiers and bureaucrats and widows. By ten, he was at his living room window, looking at the house across the street, catty-corner from his. R
eggie’s lights were on. She was awake. Go on, he told himself. She told you to come over. So go. Go. But he stayed, one knee on the couch, his arms leaning on the backrest, looking at the stillness of her front yard.
Justin’s eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness outside his window. He could make out the edges of the telephone wires across the street. And the hedges that sat below them. He thought about the little girl’s jacks, the way her soft hands curled around them, and it made his stomach hurt. He thought about Martha Peck, not knowing whether or not she’d come through as promised. And the colonel; his fierce and misplaced loyalty. Again, he could see Hannah Cooke’s hand curl around the jack, and now he closed his eyes and he was back inside Harper’s, walking through the bombed-out remains, and Chuck Billings was pulling a jack out of the wall. A tiny children’s toy, embedded in the wall. A toy stained with dried red-brown blood.
He opened his eyes. Saw-or maybe just felt-some kind of movement in Reggie’s house. Maybe she’d noticed his car. Maybe she was coming over. He waited but there was no further movement. Just silence. And shadows.
Things are muddy, he thought. Things are muddy.
He looked at his watch. Ten-twenty.
He walked over to his computer, turned it on, waited for it to boot up. When it was ready, he went to his “Shared” folder, where he kept his downloaded music. He turned the volume on his computer all the way up, clicked on a Tim Curry song from the early ’80s, “I Do the Rock.” He let the music wash over him, its hard, staccato rhythm and its cynical obscure lyrics. In a crazy world, the only thing that still made any sense was to do the rock. Forget ideology. Forget growing old. Stay away from fame and politics and philosophy. Just do the rock. Justin agreed. It was about the only thing that still made sense to him, too. But his job was to make sense of things he didn’t understand, so, music blaring, he went to the folder he’d cleverly labeled “MI” for “Murder Investigation” and began to update his list. The first column he went to was “Connections.” There he found the link he’d initially marked as so tentative-Vice President Phillip Dandridge-between Bradford Collins and Hutchinson Cooke. He had typed in several question marks his first go-round. Now he deleted every one of them. He didn’t know what it meant, but he had a firm connection. Dandridge definitely knew both men. Justin stared at the fact, couldn’t make anything new of it, glad in a way that he couldn’t because what the hell was he possibly going to do to the vice president of the United States if it ever came to that, so he began typing again, adding everything he’d learned in D.C. Not a hell of a lot, he realized as he typed. But small bits and pieces. In the space he’d allotted for Hutch Cooke, he added, “Daughter plays with jacks,” and to the right of that he put in “Connection to bomb?”-and then he typed in all the question marks he’d just removed from link number one. He also wrote down just about everything he could remember that had come out of the mouth of Theresa Cooke. He even wrote down, “I fell down the tower-Eiffel Tower.” It seemed idiotic, but he’d learned never to dismiss anything. It meant that Cooke was a game player, he liked puzzles. Info that somehow might prove relevant since this was as complicated a puzzle as Justin could imagine. When he’d entered everything he could recall, he was about to shut down the computer, stopped, went back into the file, and added one more thing: “Everything’s muddy.” It seemed fitting.
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