“How long have you known about him?”
He looked into the memory. “A long while.”
I stared at the house, and something inside me wanted to send a signal. I climbed the hill, walked into the house, disabled the sprinkler system, and then doused the great room with fifteen gallons of gasoline meant for the snowmobiles. I lit my Zippo, threw it into the room, and returned to Bones while the flames grew. By tomorrow morning, only the foundation would remain.
We turned toward the plane, but when I tried to take a step, I stumbled and Bones caught me. My energy reserves had almost played out. He locked his arm in mine, saying, “Weebles wobble.”
“Yeah, and all the king’s horses . . .” By the time we reached the stairs of the plane, he was almost carrying me. “That guy played me tonight . . . a pawn on the chessboard. He used those kids as decoys.” I was losing the ability to think clearly. I spoke through the fog. “Why’re you just now telling me about him?”
He shrugged. “Some things are better left unsaid.”
Maybe I spoke because I’d been shot. Maybe I spoke out of exhaustion. Maybe I was tired of losing to evil. Maybe I spoke because I needed to hear the truth. Whatever the case, the words left my mouth before I had a chance to filter them or call them back. And when I spoke, my tone changed and I made eye contact for the first time. “Like Marie?”
He exhaled. “That’s different.”
I knew my words had caught him off guard and stung him. I wanted to take them back, but silver bullets never return once fired down the barrel. So I faced him. “You may have convinced yourself of that, but not me. Remember that.”
We leveled off at forty thousand feet and I slipped into an uneasy sleep, drifting in and out of conscious thought. Bones helped the nurse change the bandages on both my arm and leg, then sat back and sipped his wine. When he spoke, I could feel his whisper on my face. “I do.” He took another sip as he stared out across Montana blanketed in moonlight white. “Every day.”
Chapter 4
New York City
I pulled my collar up, my beanie down, tucked the roses beneath my arm, and buried my hands deep in my pockets. My exterior wounds were healing, leaving only scars and sandpaper skin in their wake. Those on the inside might need more time.
Central Park was cold. I missed Gunner, Clay’s laughter, and the quiet of the water. Weaving among greedy pigeons, I found myself looking down. At gum. At feet. Cracks in the sidewalk. Anywhere but at people. I didn’t want to read their eyes or their hurts or the emotions painted across their faces.
My back was stiff so I stretched, but it did little good. Tender from the needle and fresh ink. When Peacock finished the last two names, he told me, “Grow taller or start a new list. Not much room left back here.” He smiled. “No pun intended.” During a pause, I heard him counting, touching my skin every ten with his finger. When finished, he whispered, “Two-fifty.” He slid his stool around to face me. “Can you still remember them?”
The slideshow returned and I nodded.
Summer had called me six weeks ago. A producer in New York had contacted her, having seen her instructional videos on YouTube and read through her résumé, and asked if she’d help train young dancers for an off-Broadway production. She was calling to ask what I thought.
I thought the idea stunk, but I kept that to myself. “You should go.”
“You think?”
A nod. “Definitely.”
“You’ll come see me.”
“Just as soon as you’re settled.”
A pause. “They’re putting me up in my own apartment. One room. Not much space but . . .”
I knew what she was asking. I cleared my throat. “New York isn’t my favorite place. I have this thing in my head that starts beeping whenever I land. An internal clock. I have about forty-eight hours to leave the city or my head explodes.”
She knew this. “But you’ll come see me?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“When?”
Our conversation ended when I promised I’d come up for the first show.
Walking across Central Park, the clock in my head was ticking. Forty-four minutes and counting. I had come a day early to surprise her. Our phone calls had been sporadic since rehearsals had kept her busy—sometimes twenty hours a day.
She’d become “Momma Dancer” to the younger dancers. And after she told them the story of us and the Intracoastal, she said they couldn’t wait to meet me. No telling what lies she’d told them.
As a credit to her own abilities, plus a lifetime of training and teaching others how to dance, the producers had given her a bit part in one of the last acts, which included eight other dancers onstage. Because Summer was old school, one of her talents was tap dancing. And since time was short and she’d known the routine for twenty years, they let her audition. They also discovered Summer’s innate ability to read people by how they danced, which was invaluable to the production team and the three dozen girls now under her care. She could write her own ticket.
Unexpected and “late in life,” as dancers go, this was her shot. “Maybe my last,” she’d said with a laugh.
“You should take it.” And I meant it. I just wasn’t ready for what it meant.
At least that was what I was telling myself as the pigeons strutted across the asphalt in front of me. Every phone call she was excited. Out of breath. “I can’t wait to show you . . .” But she was also tired. Burning both ends. Life in the city.
I bought my ticket. Balcony. Couple rows back. The place was packed. When the curtain lifted, I looked around and felt sort of foolish since I was the only one holding two dozen roses. But I had quit caring what other people thought long ago.
Sitting for long periods of time had grown more difficult over the years. And in the last three months, while my wounds sustained in the Keys had mostly healed, the more recent batch from Italy and Montana had not.
But the flesh wounds I’d sustained in recent days were grammar school compared to the piercing one in my heart. Most hours of every day, my mind returned to Marie. The thought of her wasting away alone in that bed in that convent and why Bones had not told me about her. The wound in me was festering, and I simply could not wrap my head around the fact that for fourteen years he’d known, even been to see her, and yet he never told me she was alive.
How did he keep that a secret?
I pushed the thought out of my head as the curtain fell, marking an intermission and a chance to stretch my legs. I left the roses in my seat and walked to the bathroom. Showgoers milled about the red-carpet hallways, a throwback to the theater’s illustrious past. Pictures on the walls showcased the greats who’d performed there. Fred Astaire. Pavarotti. Judy Garland. When I saw the picture of Ginger Rogers, I could hear Summer’s voice. “Ginger did everything Fred did except backward and in high heels.”
In one of our last phone calls, Summer had told me there were nights when rehearsals ended and she’d stand on that stage and close her eyes and listen for the echo of Ginger’s feet following Fred’s.
“Have you heard it?” I asked.
She laughed, embarrassed by her own childish reminiscence. “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like I’m living somebody else’s dream.”
The guy in the hallway was muscled. Shaved head. Tight suit. Scanning eyes. The bulge in his jacket told me he was not in compliance with New York City firearms regulations. The girl was drug-skinny. Attractive. Or had been. Coming down off something. Clinging to him. Looked like someone else had dressed her. Maybe him. Her eyes looked down. Hair covering her face. His hand was walking up and down her back and bottom, suggesting ownership.
I turned left, shook off the image, and found the bathroom. When finished, I returned to my seat by another hallway. I did not have the mental bandwidth to enter another story. Which, if I’d been paying attention, should have told me something.
The third act started and I sat up straighter. Summer, in what she’d tol
d me was her first of two solos, appeared stage left and put on a dizzying display of foot speed and rhythm, which captivated the audience. Including me. She was thinner. But fit. Looked twenty years younger. In fact, she looked better than many of the girls in the show. I watched dumbstruck. I knew she was good, but I had no idea she was this good. She was next-level.
In three dance routines, Summer stole the third act. And when the curtain fell and then rose, and the cast appeared for a bow, the producer introduced all the stars and finally Summer—who, he added, was making her return debut to Broadway after a twenty-year absence.
Watching the show had been fun. Watching the standing ovation spread delight across Summer’s face was like a balm on my insides. She, of all people, had earned this, and she deserved every accolade.
I waited across the street outside the “Cast Only” door. Roses spread in front of me, behind me, and then across my arms. Eventually, I just held them off to one side. One cast member, her face still painted with too much makeup, scurried past me and quipped, “Those for me?”
I smiled. Wouldn’t be long now. I had waited weeks to see her. Waited until I was healthier. Till my head was clear. Or at least, clearer.
When I’d returned from Montana, Clay had flown down on the jet and joined me at my island. Said he needed an escape from the Colorado snow. In truth, I had the feeling that after sixty years in prison, he disliked being cooped up and enjoyed—probably more than most all of us—the freedom to come and go as he liked. He’d grown fond of private jet travel. Plus, I think he just missed me. I didn’t mind. I’d missed him. I loved that old man and the slow, measured way he spun his stories.
Clay helped me clean up. Heal. And he didn’t talk too much. But then, he’d never felt the need to fill the air with needless chatter, which was one of the reasons we got along so well. He knew when to be quiet and I did, too, which was most of the time. When I told him I was coming up here, he paused, sipped his coffee, and said, “Think that’s a good idea?”
I shrugged. “You don’t think so?”
He tilted his head to one side without looking at me and didn’t say anything, which was his way of saying a lot. After a minute, he asked, “How much longer you gonna keep doing this?”
“Which this are you talking about?”
“The this where Bones sends you a pic any hour day or night and you drop everything and take off. Always with the possibility of never returning.”
Hearing him say it reminded me that my life of abnormality had become the status quo. Upside down and backward. I wasn’t exactly boyfriend material. I shrugged.
He leaned forward. Care in his eyes. “Mr. Murphy, you’re numb and you don’t know it.”
The temperature had dropped so I zipped up, pulled my beanie down over my ears, and wrapped my scarf tighter about my face. Summer exited the door. A sunflower reflecting the sky. While she’d always had muscled calves, the last two months had shaped them further. This was no longer the mom I’d met in the Intracoastal carrying an extra fifteen. Her dress flowed and draped across her legs as she wiggled her arms into a full-length down coat popular among true city goers. She was laughing. A concert of beauty and movement. Younger girls floated about her in a circle. High-pitched voices. Rapid-fire questions. They pulled on her, stuck to her like magnets, and invited her for drinks, but she refused, saying—unlike them—she needed her beauty rest. She reminded them about early morning rehearsals.
When they had cleared and she stood alone, I stepped from the shadows. As I did, a handsome, slightly older gentleman stepped out the back door. Confident. Fit. He was immaculately dressed. Suit. Overcoat. Polished shoes. Impressive watch. I had no idea how much all that cost, but it didn’t look cheap. He waved a hand and a Bentley appeared from my left, cutting off my approach.
He pulled on the door latch, gestured to Summer, and held the door while she stepped inside.
Smiling. Like she’d done it before.
I retreated to the shadows, and I heard him tell the driver, “Tom’s. And take us around the back.” Watching them leave, I can honestly say I did not dislike him.
I had no idea what or where Tom’s was, but that was not my primary concern as I watched the taillights fade and heard the clock tick louder inside my mind. Obviously, he was somebody. Had money. Could take care of her. And judging by the way he had brushed her waist with his hand as she’d stepped into his car, he wanted to. Maybe he already was.
I walked the twelve blocks to my hotel beneath the buzz of streetlights and the hum and honk of taxis, not cognizant of the fact that the night air had frozen the roses. Unbeknownst to me, my route brought me in front of Tom’s Brasserie—a popular late-night restaurant with a ninety-minute wait, even after midnight. Only in New York City. Snow started to fall as I leaned against a lamppost and stared up through the two-story window that faced the street.
Summer and Mr. Bentley sat at a corner table. His back to the glass. Her left shoulder to me. The tables did not have tablecloths, which made it a popular destination for street gawkers to stare up beneath the tables. A weird voyeurism. I wasn’t the only one.
I tried to shake myself away and could not. Summer never looked better. She laughed. He held her hand. At one point, his hand slipped beneath the table and touched her thigh. First, her knee. Then higher, toward her hip. Even sliding a finger along the seam of the slit in her dress. A gentle yet intimate gesture. One that brought a smile from Summer.
Two older ladies walked toward me, arm in arm. Guarding against the cold. I separated the roses. Gave them each a dozen, and they thanked me in Russian.
The conversation in my head as I walked to my hotel was a machine-gun volley of two competing voices.
Why should I be mad? She doesn’t belong to me. She owes me nothing. She made no promises.
But what’s she doing with him?
She’s been here two months. Without you. What’d you expect her to do? Sit alone in her apartment and stare at the phone?
There’s something between us. She’s got to feel that.
She’s healthy. Living her dream. You promised her nothing. She’s not getting any younger. You’re never home and you never call. What’d you expect?
But I told her I was coming!
Right. Tomorrow. She doesn’t owe you anything.
I know that.
You don’t act like it.
I had no answers for me. All I knew was that she looked as healthy as I’d ever seen her and like she was having fun. Why would I interrupt that? I should be happy for her. Problem was, I wasn’t. By the time I got to the hotel, I was engaged in a full-on pity party, tripping over my bottom lip.
When my phone rang, I didn’t answer it and I didn’t need to check the caller ID. Right now I did not want to talk to him. Usually when I decline a call, he gets the message and leaves me a voicemail. But not tonight. I was standing on the balcony overlooking Central Park, the noise of the city a few floors below me. After the third decline, I clicked Accept but said nothing.
He said, “Looks cold in New York City.”
I’d not told him I was coming. “It is.”
“How was the show?”
I’d also said nothing about a show. “Summer’s . . . in her element. She was . . . unreal.”
“She happy to see you?”
“Seems happy.”
“That didn’t really answer my question.”
“She was busy.”
“She talk you into staying a few weeks?”
“Headed back tonight.”
In the last few months, despite his persistent calls, the quiet between us had grown. He tried to bridge the gap, tried to engage me in the conversation that swam beneath the surface. But when I didn’t move out from behind the emotional bunker I’d constructed to protect the few remaining pieces of my shattered heart, he didn’t push. When I got home and my bullet and knife wounds began to heal, I found that my heart had not escaped the shrapnel. The first casualty at the altar of be
trayal was trust. Which meant I was questioning everything. Including him.
By now, I knew he knew I felt this way. And he knew I knew that he knew.
“You got plans when you get back?”
“Thought I’d take Gone Fiction north. Maybe skirt the East Coast. See some different country.”
He’d done what he wanted. He’d let me know he was thinking about me. “I’ll check in on you in a few days.”
One of the hazards of my job was complacency. This meant Bones sent me a new phone every couple of weeks. The frequency depended on use and travel. I hung up and dropped my phone in the trash can.
Chapter 5
My Island, Northeast Florida
I found Clay as I’d left him. Standing beneath the shade of a tattered straw hat, a pole in one hand, iced tea in the other, content look on his face. He’d taken to island life and, to his credit, had a stringer full of fish. Which he held in display. A wide smile told the story. Clay had a thing for cornmeal and hot oil, so we’d eat well tonight. The events of South Florida had knit us together. So, even in Colorado, he was never far. Gunner sat beside me, attached to my hip. Smartest animal I’d ever known. One quarter human. I don’t know how he knew what he knew, he just did.
I sat on the stern of Gone Fiction, a pen in my hand. I’d not written a single word since Marie died and I rewrote the ending to the last book. And I really didn’t intend to now. But a pen was a comfort, and I thought best with one in my hand. I often didn’t know what I thought until I’d written it out and could see it. Only then could I know if I knew it.
I was tapping my teeth with the pen when Gunner started pulling on my flip-flop. Snarling in a playful way. I told him to go away but he wouldn’t listen. I sat on the captain’s bench, propping my feet on the steering wheel, and he started tugging on my shorts. Under normal circumstances, this meant he was lonely and wanted to play, but unfortunately, I was about to learn these were not normal circumstances. I threw his training buoy in the water, and I should have asked myself what was going on when he didn’t follow it—but my mind was elsewhere. Finally, Gunner tugged on my shorts so hard they tore, snarling in a way that was not playful. When I told him to get lost, he ran down the dock, jumped in the water, and beckoned me to follow.
The Letter Keeper Page 3
