“Hello?”
“Fletch?”
His brother’s voice catches him off guard. He’d been expecting David, or the detectives looking for Jeremiah, or even the kid himself.
“What the hell is going on there?” Aidan asks, his voice crackling across the wires. The distance or the storm: Fletch isn’t sure which is responsible. “I got an urgent message to call you.”
“Why did it take you so long?”
“I can’t say,” Aidan tells him. “I was just out of reach for a few days.”
Fletch realizes his brother is involved in military operations that are top secret. This has happened before. It took him a few days to get through to Aidan when Melissa died, too. Still, it strikes him as irresponsible, now that his brother is a single parent, for Aidan to be so far away, and so out of touch.
Well, it’s not his business to judge. Or is it since he’s the one burdened with Aidan’s kids while he’s overseas?
Fletch quickly explains the situation. His brother is silent for a long time.
Then he asks, “Have the police come looking for Jeremiah again yet?”
“My lawyer seems to feel it’s just a matter of time. They don’t know he’s missing. But when they find out it definitely won’t look good.”
“No, it won’t,” Aidan agrees. “Listen, Fletch, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“How long?”
“I have no idea. But if Jeremiah shows up in the meantime, tell him to hang in there. I’ll be on my way.”
Yeah, Fletch silently tells his brother, hanging up. You’ll come back. But how long will you stay? Just long enough to get things straightened out—whatever that takes. And then you’ll be gone again, playing soldier overseas when your kids need a hero here at home.
Well, who is he to judge? He’s no hero himself.
And who’s to blame? Not him. Not Aidan.
One person is responsible for what Fletch and Aidan have become, and that’s their father. If it weren’t for him, they might have had normal lives. Lived happily ever after.
Instead . . .
Sighing heavily, Fletch goes up the steps, certain his nieces are sound asleep in their room, and that he’ll have the bed to himself in his.
On nights like this, Eric Stamitos always wishes he had any other job—anything at all. Even working the grill on the overnight shift at his father’s Queens diner, which he did for a few years after high school. Then he met Elena, got married, moved out of the city, and found it necessary to work a couple of jobs to support them. His mother had never worked, not even in the diner. His father was proud of that. Eric doesn’t want Elena to work, either.
That’s why he took the job driving the tow truck on weekends for the service station where he’s a mechanic during the week. It’s not bad, most of the time. Only in winter, when he’s called out in raging blizzards to tow fancy cars out of ditches because their hotshot owners don’t know enough not to speed when it’s icy. Or on raw nights like this, when the rain is coming down in sheets and the town is overrun with oblivious parking violators who either don’t believe the signs or don’t give a shit whether their cars are towed.
With a sigh, Eric props his lit cigarette in the ashtray and pulls up in front of the final car he has to tow from the commuter parking lot. Unlike most of the others, this one has a local plate. It’s a beauty, too—a new Lexus SUV. Not only doesn’t it have the required permit sticker in the rear window, but the driver left it in a handicap spot. Nice.
After pulling the tow truck into position, Eric jumps out to attach the chains to the Lexus. As he does, he notices that the door on the driver’s side is unlocked.
You don’t see that very often, even around here.
Well, that makes his job a little easier. He opens the door and climbs inside to shift it into neutral. The interior smells faintly of perfume. And it’s clean. Not even a speck of mud on the mats or a stray wrapper or spare change in the console.
But he’s sitting on something.
He pulls the flat wooden rectangle from beneath his bottom and glances at it.
That’s odd.
The car is so spotless, he would have sworn the owner didn’t have kids. But he’s holding a puzzle.
An illustration of a nursery rhyme Eric’s mother had taught him long ago.
The one that begins, “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . .”
Stashing the wooden puzzle under the seat, Eric shifts the SUV into neutral, then climbs out to resume his job.
She was supposed to be the last.
Sharon.
But that was before, when it was all in a planning stage. And anyone knows that plans are subject to change.
Once the plans were under way, circumstances presented unexpected complications. Well, no matter. It will be even better this way. As it turns out, the pieces will fall perfectly into place with the addition of the last one.
Tasha.
Does she suspect what’s coming?
Does she sense that peril is closing in on her even now, as she lies in her bed in the wee hours of this stormy Sunday morning?
Or is she peacefully asleep, unaware that before the day ahead has drawn to a close, her cozy little world will be shaken to its very core?
Sleep well, Tasha. This may be the last time you ever will . . .
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 14
Chapter 13
Tasha awakens on Sunday to the sound of the rain overhead.
Lulled by it, she rolls lazily onto her side and snuggles beneath the quilt, her gaze falling on the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s a few minutes past twelve.
Twelve . . .
Noon?
How can she have slept so late?
She bolts out of bed, noticing as she does that hers is the only side that’s been disturbed. Last night rushes back at her. Joel must have slept on the couch.
But what about the kids? They have to be up by now. Why didn’t they wake her? Why doesn’t she hear them?
She hurries into the hallway. Their bedroom doors are open, the shades pulled up to let in what dreary light there is.
“Hunter? Victoria? Max?” She checks one room after another, her voice unnaturally hollow to her ears. The second floor is deserted.
So is the rest of the house. She can feel it, hear it, sense it, even before she descends the stairway to find no evidence of her family in the hall, the living room, the bathroom, the family room. Everything is unnaturally quiet. Unnaturally tidy.
In the kitchen, she finds a row of empty hooks beside the back door.
They’ve gone out? The kids . . . and Joel?
Her heart is pounding even as she tells herself not to panic. Of course the kids are safe. Of course they’re with their dad.
It’s just that this never happens.
She never sleeps this late.
And Joel never leaves the house with all the kids. He usually complains about bringing even one of them along if he has to run an errand. In fact, she can’t recall him ever taking two of them out at a time without her, let alone three.
So . . .
Where did they go?
And why is she so apprehensive?
Joel would never let anything happen to the kids, she reminds herself. He’s their daddy. It’s his duty to protect them.
All of them. Tasha, too.
Again, the nagging question troubles her.
If that’s true—if Joel is her protector—then why is he leaving town when somebody out there is clearly preying on young stay-at-home mothers exactly like her?
Fletch hangs up the telephone slowly, having just been notified that his wife’s Lexus has been towed after being illegally parked in the town commuter parking lot.
“Was that Aidan, Uncle Fletch?” Lily asks.
He looks up
to see her standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. Daisy is right behind her. They’re both in pajamas, their hair disheveled from sleep. If Sharon were here, they’d be washed and dressed, their beds neatly made.
“No, it wasn’t Aidan,” he says slowly, distracted by his thoughts. “But he called last night after I got home.”
“We tried to listen for the phone,” Daisy tells him apologetically. “But we got really tired.”
“We figured we’d hear it ringing even if we were in bed, but we must’ve fallen asleep,” Lily says.
“It’s okay. I heard it.”
“Well, what did Aidan say when you told him about Jeremiah running away?” Daisy asks.
“He’s coming home.”
“When?” Lily wants to know.
Fletch shrugs, looking from one twin to the other. “As soon as he can get away. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
The sisters look at each other.
Then Daisy asks, “Where’s Aunt Sharon?”
“I don’t know,” Fletch tells her, trying not to betray his uneasiness.
“Didn’t she come home last night?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you think she ran away too?” Lily asks.
“I doubt that,” Fletch tells her. “Why don’t you two get dressed now? I have to go take a shower.”
They leave the room.
He closes the door behind them. After a moment, he locks it.
Then he reaches for the phone again.
The visitors’ waiting area at Haven Meadows is always busy on Sunday afternoons.
Today, when Paula walks in, she finds the rows of vinyl chairs occupied by an assortment of visitors: gray-haired spouses sitting in thoughtful silence; middle-aged children clutching bouquets of flowers or white bakery boxes tied with string; small, antsy grandchildren, perhaps great-grandchildren, chasing each other up and down the rows as their elders shush them.
With any luck, Paula won’t have to linger here. Some days she does. Others, like yesterday, she doesn’t.
The nurse behind the counter is the same young blonde she met yesterday. She smiles when she recognizes Paula.
“Mr. Bailey’s daughter, right?”
“That’s right.”
The woman pushes the clipboard across the counter toward her. “If you’ll sign in, I can call upstairs and see if you have to wait or if you can go right up.”
Paula accepts the clipboard and takes a pen from the cup on the counter. She pretends to scan the list for a place to sign.
“At the bottom of the page,” the nurse points out helpfully.
“Thanks,” Paula mutters, taking her time putting the pen to paper. There’s no sign of Frank’s name. But today’s entries began on the previous page. Or he could have come back yesterday, after her. Does she dare flip the page to see if his name is there?
The nurse is busy on the phone.
Paula lifts the page and sneaks a peek at the row of names below yesterday’s date: she sees her own. No Frank.
Not unless he used a different name. She wouldn’t put that past him. She wouldn’t put anything past him.
“Okay, you can go right up,” the nurse tells her. “Your father is asleep, but they said he’ll probably wake up soon.”
“Did they give him more medication?” Paula asks as a group of elderly women walk in the door behind her, dressed as though they’ve come straight from church.
“You’ll have to check with the nurse upstairs,” the woman says, turning her attention to the newcomers.
Paula climbs to the second floor, wrinkling her nose at the smell that hovers in the air. Cooked cabbage, antiseptic, and age—the house and its residents.
Well, she won’t stay long.
She finds her father lying in the same position as yesterday, his breathing soft and rhythmic. The hallway is deserted for a change. Still, she closes the door. That’s allowed, for privacy’s sake, during visits.
“Hi, Pop,” she says, sitting carefully at the edge of the bed. “It’s me, Paula. I’m back. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
No reply.
She peers at his face, at skin that resembles an old road map: a yellowed network of lines and wrinkles. He’s so old. So helpless.
“I know Frank was here, Pop,” Paula says softly. “I was wondering why. If you can hear me, Pop, I wish you’d open your eyes. I wish you’d tell me.”
Silence.
She stares at him, remembering.
Not just the recent times, when he lived with her and Mitch in the tiny Townsend Heights apartment . . .
But the old times, too.
When she was a little girl, wanting nothing more than to spend time with him. Just the two of them. She remembers how he would put her on his shoulders and carry her around their small apartment in the Bronx, bouncing her and pretending he was going to drop her. But her mother always cut that game short, yelling that it was dangerous, that Paula was going to fall or bump her head on the low ceiling. She resented her mother for that. She resented her mother for a lot of things.
But that was so long ago. . . .
It’s all so unimportant now.
Now there are other worries. Other problems.
Biting her lip, Paula reaches for her father’s hand.
“Pop?” she says again, squeezing it. “Pop? Can you hear me?”
Tightly clutching an umbrella over her head as the wind threatens to whip it from her grasp, Karen hurries up the wet concrete steps of the Townsend Heights police station. Funny how you can live in town for several years and drive by the familiar small red-brick building every single day without ever wondering what it looks like inside.
Now, as she collapses the dripping umbrella and wipes her feet on the rubber mat just inside the double glass doors, she finds herself in a medium-size room. There are several doors and interior windows leading to separate areas.
She takes in the drinking fountain, the American flag, the wilted potted plant too far from the lone high window to absorb any light. The few rigid plastic chairs in a waiting area beside the door. The high desk a few yards in front of her. And the uniformed police officer seated behind it.
“Can I help you?” he asks, watching her as she lingers beside the door.
Here goes, she thinks, walking toward him, wondering if she’ll regret her decision. When she told Tom her intention this morning, he wasn’t thrilled. But he didn’t protest when she asked him to stay with Taylor while she came down to talk to the police. She figured it should be done in person rather than over the phone. That way, they could see for themselves that she’s not a crank or a meddling-old-lady type.
Or so she hopes.
She clears her throat and addresses the desk sergeant, who is clean-shaven and baby-faced. He can’t be more than twenty-five years old, Karen realizes. She shouldn’t be intimidated by someone his age, even if he is a cop.
“I’d like to talk to someone about the Leiberman murder,” she says at last.
He raises his eyebrows and she wonders what he was expecting. Clearly not this. He probably thought she was coming in to complain about a parking ticket or a neighbor’s dog.
“What about the Leiberman murder?”
“I live on Orchard Lane. I have information that might be helpful to the investigation.”
“Just a second,” the sergeant says. He picks up a phone and punches a number, barking into it, “Where’s Summers?”
He listens for a minute.
Then he says, “Well, then, tell Ed to get up here. I’ve got someone who knows something about the Leiberman case.”
“I might know something,” Karen amends.
He ignores that, hanging up the phone.
“Take a seat,” he tells her. “Someone will be right out to talk to you.”
Before she’s taken two steps, a door opens and a short, stocky, balding man hurries toward her. He’s wearing an ill-fitting sport shirt and a pair of slacks that could stand to be ironed.
“I’m Detective Matteo,” he says. “We can talk back there.”
Karen allows herself to be escorted into a small, windowless office behind one of the doors—not the one the detective came through. Once they’re inside, he closes the door behind them and offers her the chair beside the paper-cluttered desk, then sits behind the desk. He breathes heavily through his nose, probably because he’s so overweight, she thinks.
Before beginning a conversation, he takes down information about her: name, age, address—just the basics, really, but she’s uncomfortable. Tom wouldn’t like this. Well, it’s too late to back out now.
“Now, Ms. Wu, you say you have knowledge about the Leiberman murder?”
“I’m not sure.” She pauses. “It’s just that I saw something that didn’t seem quite right.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
She does. To her relief, he doesn’t scoff or tell her that she’s wasting his time. He listens carefully, and he takes notes.
Then he tells her something that catches her completely off-guard.
It seems that not more than an hour ago, Fletch Gallagher filed two missing persons reports: one on his nephew, the other on his wife.
The green Ford Expedition, with Joel and the kids in it, pulls into the driveway shortly after one o’clock. Tasha is pacing the living room, one eye on the television screen, the other on the driveway outside the window.
The TV is tuned to the Weather Channel, partly because she’s concerned about the storm, and partly because the others are mainly showing football or coverage of the deaths in Townsend Heights.
Tasha meets them at the door.
“Mommy, we got Happy Meals!” Victoria squeals as they burst into the house. She waves around a colored plastic gadget of some sort. “See my prize?”
“Look at mine,” Hunter says, holding up something similar. He reports, “Victoria didn’t eat any of her Chicken McNuggets, and Daddy let her have the prize anyway. I told him you only give it to her if she finishes all her food.”
The Last to Know Page 30
