by David Bell
“I see,” Jason said, noting the use of the word “distant.” Were the man’s concerns about Regan’s behavior extending beyond work?
“Have you noticed anything about her?” the man asked. “I mean, you said you’re friends with Regan. I’ve seen you here before.”
“We grew up together. And, no, I haven’t noticed anything too unusual. Like I said, this friend of ours . . .”
“I’m sorry about that,” the man said. “I’m assuming. I mean . . . does it have anything to do with the body they found on Heroin Hill?”
“Yes,” Jason said. “That’s our friend. He died the night we graduated from high school apparently.”
The man bit down on his upper lip and made a low grunt of sympathy, a sound that said, That’s tough.
“Thanks,” Jason said. “I suspect that’s what she’s upset about. A lot of memories have been coming up.” He thought of his own fragmented memories and possible culpability, a sensation that manifested itself as a needlelike jab in his chest. Jason reached out and shook the man’s hand. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“One more thing,” the man said as he let go of Jason’s hand. “Again, I don’t want to sound indelicate.”
“What is it?”
“Yesterday, Regan left with a man. Now, I try very hard not to judge people. I try to—because I deal with all walks of life in here—I try to see everyone as worthy of my respect. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Jason said.
“But some people just seem beyond that consideration. When I was leaving here yesterday, I saw Regan in the parking lot, and she was talking to a man who just didn’t seem to fit the kind of person Regan is.”
“What did this man look like?”
“He wore a ball cap and a flannel shirt, work boots. But it’s not his clothes that bothered me. It was something about the way he looked at me as I walked to my car. The expression on his face carried a warning, and I could see from the man’s eyes that he meant it. He seemed to want me to challenge him in some way, and I have no doubt he would have welcomed the chance to show me what he could do if it came to a physical altercation.”
“Did he have a scar here?” Jason asked, touching the skin around his eye.
The man looked at Jason’s neck again. “Yes. You know him?”
“He’s another old friend from school. You say Regan left with him?”
“She got into his truck and they drove off together.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She waved. She didn’t look happy to be going with the man, but she didn’t seem to be in a lot of distress either. Believe me, if she were crying or something, if she’d signaled me that there was trouble, I would have called the police.”
“She didn’t say anything?” Jason asked.
“No.” A sheepish look spread across the man’s face. He blushed a little as well. “I admit I thought about the whole scene during the evening. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to call Regan and seem to be checking up on her, so I did something else.”
“What?”
“I came back,” the man said. “Around eight thirty or so I drove back here to the branch. Regan’s car was gone by then, so I assumed she was okay. I know it’s not conclusive, but it made me feel better. And then she was back at work this morning as though everything was normal.”
“Until she got that call,” Jason said.
“Exactly.”
“Thanks again,” Jason said.
“So you and Regan are old friends,” the man said.
“Yes,” Jason said. “Just friends. Always have been.”
The man looked relieved, and Jason took comfort in knowing that at least one person’s mind had been eased about something.
Chapter Thirty-three
Jason called Regan a few more times as he drove to her house.
Her house. Jason had never been there. Regan had told him the address and described the home she shared with her two children—and used to share with her ex-husband—but Jason had never set foot there. He respected the boundaries of her family life, just as Regan respected the boundaries of his marriage.
But it felt like all bets were off. He needed to talk to Regan more than ever, to ask her if there was anything else she remembered from that night Logan disappeared—died—and also to ask her about what he just learned at the bank: Why was she going somewhere with Jesse Dean Pratt?
* * *
As he drove to Regan’s house, his phone rang. It was Nora. He had to answer. In the midst of everything else, he hadn’t checked in on Sierra.
“Hello?”
“Jason? Are you still at work?”
“Not exactly.”
“It sounds like you’re in the car.”
“I am. I have to take care of something.”
“Jason.” He heard the sympathy in Nora’s voice. She’d heard already. “Have you spoken to Detective Olsen? He was looking for you.”
“Yes, he came by the office.”
Jason made a couple of quick turns and headed south on the Bypass toward the older subdivision where Regan lived.
“I’m sorry, Jason. I know that news is shocking. I can’t imagine.”
“Is Sierra okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. We’re both fine. This news threw both of us for a loop. She’s in the shower now. We were thinking of watching another movie or something. I don’t know. I’m trying to keep her distracted.”
“She’ll be fine. She likes spending time with you. I can tell.”
“That’s nice of you to say. But I’m worried about you. Do you want to come home and talk about this?”
“I’ll be home . . . shortly. I have to talk to Regan about Logan.”
“Okay, well, remember that we’d like to see you here. It’s a little unnerving to know that Hayden is missing and your friend is dead. And that guy you ran into yesterday tried to hurt you. We’re here at the house, trying to keep our sanity.”
Jason turned down Regan’s street. “Keep the doors locked. And don’t open them for anybody who shows up unless it’s a cop.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
Jason began reading the house numbers on the mailboxes. He saw Regan’s ahead on the left.
“No,” he said, “it’s not. But the police said they’d keep an eye on us. Call me if there are any problems.”
* * *
No one answered the bell when Jason rang it. He tried again and then stepped back from the front door. He looked up at the two-story brick house and saw that most of the blinds were closed and no lights burned. No one moved a curtain aside to see who was out on the stoop. Jason gave the knob a gentle turn, but felt the resistance right away. The door was locked.
He started to walk back to the car, the phone still in his hand. He considered calling Regan again, but what was the point? Wherever she was and whatever she was doing, she couldn’t or wouldn’t answer the phone. Her situation might be serious enough to warrant calling the police, and for a moment, that thought flickered through Jason’s mind. But, again, what would he tell Detective Olsen? That his friend from high school was seen with Jesse Dean Pratt. Talking to him. Driving away with him. For all Jason knew, Regan was involved with something he couldn’t comprehend—and bringing the police into it might make more trouble for Regan, the kind she didn’t need or want right then.
A noise from the back of the house interrupted Jason’s thoughts. It sounded like a raised voice, a shout. His body tensed. He waited for the sound to come again, and when it didn’t, he wondered if he had imagined it or mistaken the sound of something else for the sound of a human voice. But before his feet moved again, he heard another, similar shout. The voice might have belonged to a child. Or to a woman.
Jason looked down the driveway to where it bent around the side
of the house. He saw nothing. A few trees around the perimeter of Regan’s property, and beyond that, a jungle gym in the neighbor’s yard, one of those plastic monstrosities that seemed to dominate the suburban landscape. He started back that way, the phone still clutched in his hand. As he moved down the drive, his body close to the side of the house, another voice reached him. This one was masculine, deeper, and definitely adult. Jason recognized something in the tenor of that adult voice. It didn’t indicate fear or danger. Instead, the voice sounded celebratory, almost joyous. When he reached the back, Jason saw the source of the noise. A man about his age, somewhat burly and wearing a red Windbreaker, threw a football to a boy who looked to be about twelve. They punctuated each throw and catch with one of the shouts.
The man stood with his back to Jason. As he caught the thrown ball, the boy pointed in Jason’s direction, and the man turned around. He raised his eyebrows in greeting.
“Hello.”
Jason felt stuck for an answer. He looked from the man to the boy and then back before saying, “I was looking for Regan.”
A hint of suspicion spread across the man’s face. “She’s not home. Can I tell her who came by?”
“I’m Jason Danvers. I’m an old friend from high school.”
Jason could tell the man recognized his name. Why wouldn’t he? Jason was one of Regan’s oldest friends. She had to have mentioned him from time to time over the years.
“I’m Tim,” the man said, but he didn’t offer a hand to shake. He held the football as though it were a precious object. “I’m Regan’s husband. Ex-husband, I guess. I’m spending time with Chad while she’s out.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your game.”
Jason looked past Tim to the boy. He carried his resemblance to his mother around the eyes and in the color of his hair. He didn’t appear impatient. He stood with his hands on his hips, squinting against the daylight.
Tim lowered his voice. “I’d give you some kind of hint about when she’ll be back or how you can reach her, but I don’t know those things. I guess you don’t either.”
“No,” Jason said. “We didn’t have plans. I just needed to ask her about something.” Jason paused. “You know, she got some bad news about another old friend of ours this week.”
“I know.” Tim sounded more sympathetic. “That knocked her off the beam a little. She and I have spent some time talking through it.” He studied Jason’s face. “I guess it did the same to you. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help either,” Tim said. He took a quick glance down to the end of the yard where his son still stood. “But Regan and I . . . Things are a little tentative between us.”
“Tentative?”
“You’re married, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand. It’s complicated.”
“Sure. I guess I’ll see her somewhere.”
“You know she’s always been skittish about the past,” Tim said.
Skittish? Jason didn’t know and couldn’t guess what Tim meant.
He explained without prompting. “Whenever the subject of the past came up, high school and old friends, Regan seemed guarded. She had a wall up about that. I’m from out of town. I didn’t grow up here, and I never pressed hard, but I suspected something must have gone wrong when you all were in high school. I guess that’s all being made clear this week with them finding the body of your friend.”
“It was a shock to all of us,” Jason said.
Tim shrugged. “I guess maybe I’ll find out about it someday. I may have to read it in the papers, but I’ll find out something.” He held the ball up in the air between them. “Would you like to throw it around with us a little? Maybe Regan will come home in that time.”
Jason took in the scene. The smell of the perfectly cropped green grass, the bright sun. The boy and the father working up a little sweat with a wholesome game of catch. Making memories, as Jason’s mother would say. What could be more perfect and inviting? What could be more normal?
But Jason knew he couldn’t stay.
“Sorry,” he said. “I have somewhere else I have to go.”
Tim patted the ball twice, then turned and threw a tight spiral to his son while Jason walked back down the driveway to his car.
Chapter Thirty-four
Logan’s father lived in the same house Logan grew up in, the same house Jason spent so much time in when they were kids and teenagers. It sat in an upscale subdivision on the east side of Ednaville, about half a mile from the town’s older and more exclusive country club, Indian Lake. Logan’s father brought the boys to the country club for dinner several times a month—awkward meals during which the old man rarely spoke—and they made liberal use of the pool during the summer. Jason knew even as a kid that he’d never get inside the country club any other way unless he went to work there—busing tables in the restaurant or hauling some doctor’s clubs around the golf course.
When Jason was young, the house looked massive. Every time he went to see Logan, the same thought cycled through his mind: They’re rich. This is what it means to be rich. As an adult, driving past the entrance to Forest Glen subdivision, Jason was struck by how much smaller everything seemed. The houses remained beautiful, the yards perfectly manicured, but they had nothing on the mini-mansions being built in other subdivisions around Ednaville, the places that housed executives from America’s Best and other companies. By current standards, Mr. Shaw appeared to be a man of modest means. And Jason knew what the old man would say if someone questioned him about it. He’d heard Logan’s father make similar comments during those long awkward dinners at Indian Lake. “A house is a house. It’s better to have just enough than too much.”
Mr. Shaw lived in a ranch that sprawled in both directions away from the double front doors. Jason remembered that the main floor felt formal and unused, the furniture sparkling new and unblemished. He and Logan spent their time in the large finished basement, where the Shaws had a TV, a bar, a pool table, and a stocked refrigerator. The main floor, including the kitchen, was just a place to pass through. Logan claimed that, except for the occasional fried egg or pancakes on the weekends, his father never ate at home.
Jason parked in front. The sun was still bright in the late afternoon, but Jason could see that the lights along the driveway and on either side of the front door burned as though they were always lit. There were no other cars present, which wasn’t a complete surprise. Jason knew Mr. Shaw—Peter—wasn’t well and probably didn’t drive anymore. As he approached the front door, Jason wondered what level of care the man needed at that point in his illness, and if professional nurses or health aides tended to him around the clock.
Jason received his answer shortly after he rang the bell. An African-American woman in a light blue smock and white pants and shoes opened the door. She was about sixty, and the hair she wore pulled back on her head showed streaks of gray. Jason experienced a moment of recognition.
“Hello?” she said.
“Pauline?” Jason said. The name popped into his head as his mouth formed the word. “Are you Pauline?”
“I am. It’s good to see you again, stranger.”
“Do you remember me? I’m Jason Danvers.”
“Of course I do. You haven’t changed that much.”
“Wow. You still work here.”
“I still do.”
Pauline smiled at Jason, but she didn’t step aside or offer to let him in the door. She stood with her arm blocking the way as though he were an annoying salesman. He hadn’t seen Pauline since before Logan went away. Was killed, he reminded himself. But during those years when he was a regular visitor to the Shaw house, Pauline worked as their housekeeper. Jason didn’t see her every time he went to the Shaws’ house—she seemed to be on duty during the day—but she was in the home quite a
lot, a quiet presence in the background. Dusting shelves, folding laundry, directing a plumber to a leaky sink. She occasionally cooked for the boys, although she always made a point of telling them that cooking wasn’t part of her job, and she seemed to dote on an unappreciative Logan. Jason assumed, as only a clueless teenager could, that Pauline’s entire life was dedicated to the Shaws, and he was surprised once when Logan informed him that Pauline had three children of her own.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” Logan said.
“That’s okay. The door is always open for an old friend.”
Pauline didn’t seem to catch the irony of her statement. The door was open, but not enough to let the old friend inside.
“I guess the police have been by here,” Jason said.
“They left a couple of hours ago. Mr. Shaw is resting.”
“I’m sorry about the news.”
“Thank you,” Pauline said. “I’m sorry for you too. It must have been a shock after all these years.”
“It was.”
Pauline cocked her head. “Were you just coming to express your condolences to Mr. Shaw?”
Jason sensed the possibility of an opening. Without that, he really wasn’t sure what he was doing out there. “Yes, that’s it,” he said. “Is he seeing people right now?”
“He’s tired.” Pauline lowered her arm from the door and moved it to rest on her right hip. “He’s not well, you know. I’m not even sure he understands what the police were telling him.”
“Is he frail? Mentally?”
Jason felt like an idiot saying it that way. Why did they all have to tap-dance around these problems? Why couldn’t Jason just ask what he wanted to ask: Does the old man still have any marbles rolling around in his brainbox?
“It’s hard to tell,” Pauline said. “He has a neurological disorder called progressive supranuclear palsy. It affects the frontal lobe, kind of like Parkinson’s, and he has trouble speaking. It’s hard to tell what he’s able to comprehend sometimes.” She leaned forward. “Although I suspect he catches a lot more than he lets on. He’s like that, you know. Sneaky.”
