by Lisa Unger
I thought about the last conversation I had with him.
It was nearing the end of my parents’ annual Christmas Eve party. My father had led a group out for the inevitable neighborhood candlelight stroll, and my mother was furiously scrubbing pots in the kitchen, rebuffing all of my attempts to help her with the usual implication that no one could do it the way she could. Whatever. I wandered into the front room in search of more cookies and found my uncle Max sitting by himself in the dim light of the room before our gigantic Christmas tree. That’s one of my favorite things in the world, the sight of a lit Christmas tree in a darkened room. I plopped myself down next to him on the couch and he threw an arm around my shoulder, balancing a glass of bourbon on his knee with his free hand.
“What’s up, Uncle Max?”
“Not much, kid. Nice party.”
“Yeah.”
We sat like that in a companionable silence for a while until something made me look up at him. He was crying, not making a sound, thin lines of tears streaming down his face. His expression was almost blank in its hopeless sadness. I think I just stared at him in shock. I grabbed his big bear-claw hand in both of mine.
“What is it, Uncle Max?” I whispered, as if afraid that someone would find him like this, his true face exposed to the world. I wanted to protect him.
“It’s all coming back on me, Ridley.”
“What is?”
“All the good I tried to do. I fucked it up. Man, I fucked it up so bad.” There was a shake in his voice.
I shook my head. I was thinking, He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. But he grabbed me then by both of my shoulders, not hard but passionately. His eyes were bright and clear in his desperation.
“You’re happy, right, Ridley? You grew up loved, safe. Right?”
“Yes, Uncle Max. Of course,” I said, wanting so badly to reassure him, though I was uncertain why my happiness meant so much to him at that moment. He nodded and loosened his grip on me but still looked at me dead in the eye. “Ridley,” he said, “you might be the only good I’ve ever done.”
“What’s going on? Max?” We both turned to see my father standing in the doorway. He was just a black form surrounded by light and his voice sounded odd. Something foreign had crept into him. Max’s whole body seemed to stiffen, and he released me as if I’d burned his hands.
“Max, let’s talk,” said my father, and Max rose. I followed him through the doorway and my father placed a hand on my shoulder. Max continued and walked through the French doors that led to my father’s study. His shoulders sagged and his head was down, but he turned to give me a smile before he disappeared behind the closing doors.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked my father.
“Don’t worry, lullaby,” he said with a forced lightness. “Uncle Max has had a bit too much to drink. He’s got a lot of demons; sometimes the bourbon lets them loose.”
“But what was he talking about?” I asked stubbornly, having the sense that I was being shut out of something important.
“Ridley,” said my father, too sternly. He caught himself and softened his tone. “Really, honey, don’t worry about Max. It’s the bourbon talking.”
He walked away from me and disappeared behind his study doors. I hovered there a minute, heard the rumbling of their voices behind the oak. I knew the impossibility of listening at those thick doors; I’d tried it many times as a kid. Plus, I ran into my favorite aunt in the hallway. You remember her, Auntie Denial. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered comforting sentiments: Just the bourbon. Just Max’s demons talking. You know Max. Tomorrow he’ll be fine. As fragile as she is, she’s powerful when you cooperate with her, when you let her spin her web around you. Yes, as long as you don’t look her in the face, she’ll wrap you in a cocoon. It’s safe and warm in there. So much nicer than the alternative.
That’s the last time I saw my uncle Max. His face still wet with tears and flushed with bourbon, his sad smile, his final words to me. Ridley, you might be the only good I’ve ever done.
Those words had taken on different meanings for me with every new thing I’d learned about Max. They meant one thing when I thought he was just my sad uncle whom I had loved and who had died later that night. They meant another when I found out he was my father, a man who’d made so many awful mistakes, who’d failed me in so many ways. I wondered what they’d mean to me at the end of the road I found myself on now. I flashed on the articles in Jake’s files—those grisly crimes, those missing women, children and girls abducted from nightclubs and sold into prostitution. Why had he saved those articles? What did it have to do with Max? And why was the FBI still interested in him?
The man next to me snored softly, his head leaning at an awkward angle against the airplane window. The girl across the aisle read a Lee Child novel. Normal people leading normal lives. Maybe. They probably thought the same of me.
I found the harder I reached for my memories of Max, the more vague and nebulous they became. One thing was certain, though: If Nick Smiley was right, if Max was who Nick believed him to be, then I had never met that man. He’d been so well-hidden behind a mask that I’d never even caught a glance. I’d seen only a sliver of the man, the part of himself he’d allowed me to see.
In the cab on the way home from La Guardia, I pulled the cell phone from my bag. Yes, I’d kept my cell phone in spite of my repeated threats to get rid of it. You might remember my disdain for the things (I hate them even more than I do digital cameras). Cell phones are just another excuse for people to not be present, another reason for them to be even ruder and more unthinking than they normally are. But what can I say? I got hooked on the convenience.
There were three calls from Jake, according to the log, but no messages. I was aching to call someone. Not Jake; I didn’t want to fan the flame of his obsession. I couldn’t call Ace or my father; neither of them would want to hear the questions I had to ask (though my father was the most logical person to go to). I hadn’t had a real conversation with my mother in over a year. I leaned my head back against the vinyl seat and watched the glow of red taillights and white headlamps blur in the darkness.
Then the phone, still in my hand, started to ring. I didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, but the 917 exchange told me it was a wireless phone. I picked up out of sheer loneliness.
“Detroit’s nice this time of year,” said a low male voice when I answered. “If you like shitholes.”
“Who is this?” I said, my stomach clenching. Nobody knew I’d been to Detroit. I’d told no one, took off that morning, paid a ridiculous sum for a round-trip same-day ticket.
“Let me guess. The pictures got to you, right? Then I suppose you talked to your boyfriend. Has anyone ever told you that you have an investigative mind? You might have missed your calling.”
“Agent Grace?” I said, annoyance replacing trepidation, a feeling that was beginning to characterize our encounters.
“So what did Nick Smiley tell you?”
“That Max was a psychopath,” I answered, figuring he probably already knew that much. “A killer.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I said.
“An interesting fact about Nick Smiley: Did he tell you that he is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic who has been doped up on lithium for the last twenty years on and off?”
“No,” I said. “He failed to mention that.” Something like relief made the muscles in my shoulders relax a bit.
“Doesn’t make him a liar. Just makes his version of the truth questionable.”
Isn’t that what the truth comes down to? An agreement of variations? Think about your last family drama or the last fight you had with your spouse. What really happened? Who said what and when? Who was the instigator and who was the reactor? Is there an absolute truth, one that exists separately from the personal variations? Maybe. But maybe not. Quantum physics tells us that life is a series of possibilities existing s
ide by side in any given moment; it is our choices that create our version of reality. Nick Smiley has chosen his memory of Max. I have chosen mine. Who’s right? But maybe the truth is that Max was a shape shifter, becoming what he needed to be to control whatever situation he was in. He controlled Nick with terror, me with adoration, and kept his true form hidden from both of us.
“So what are you trying to tell me?” I asked him. “And why are you following me?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said calmly.
I thought on it for a second. First they snatch me on the street and take my photographs, then they let me go after showing me blowups of a man they obviously believe is Max even though I know him to be dead. Then Agent Grace makes this call, clearly toying with me, clearly letting me know that they’re on my every move. I couldn’t figure out his agenda, what he was trying to accomplish. Maybe he was just lonely, alone with his obsession, like me, like Jake. Maybe he needed someone to talk to.
“You still there, Ridley?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“You still there, Ms. Jones?”
“No,” I answered, and hung up.
OF COURSE, HE was waiting for me on the street in his sedan when the cab dropped me off. His partner stayed in the car as he climbed out the passenger side. I ignored him as I put my key in the lock.
“I figured you for a driver, not a passenger,” I said, nodding toward the sedan.
“I’m not allowed to drive the government cars for a while,” he said with a smile that told me he thought a lot of himself. “I’ve totaled three cars in seven months. I’ve got to pass an evasive driving course. Till then, shotgun.”
For some reason, I found myself comparing him to Jake. There was a kind of arrogance (or maybe it was just confidence) to him that contrasted with Jake’s kind humility. He lacked Jake’s essential sweetness but also the rage Jake held at his center. Jake was physically exquisite, not just handsome or sexy but truly beautiful to behold. Agent Grace…well, there was a hardness to him, a lack of artistry. If Jake was marble, he was granite. But in the curve of his lips, the lids of his eyes, there was an animal sexuality that made me nervous, like you would feel in the cage of a tiger that you’d been assured was as gentle as a lamb. Agent Grace made me miss Jake, the safety I felt in his arms.
I decided I didn’t like Agent Dylan Grace at all. I might have even hated him a little.
“Good night, Detective,” I said, just to be annoying.
“I’m a federal agent, Ms. Jones.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
I was shutting (slamming) the door on him when he stopped it (hard) with his hand.
“Can I come in? We need to talk.”
“In my experience, federal agents are like vampires: Once you’ve invited them in, they’re very hard to get rid of. Next thing you know, they’ve got their teeth in your neck.”
He smiled at this and I saw a flash of boyishness there. It softened him a bit. Then he ruined it by saying, “I don’t want to take you in again, Ms. Jones. It’s late. But I will.”
I didn’t want him to take me in again, either. I was way too tired. I considered my options, then stood aside and let him walk through the door. He let me pass and then followed me into the elevator. We rode to the fifth floor in silence, eyes on the glowing green buttons above as they marked our passage upward. It was so quiet I could hear him breathing. We were so close I could smell his aftershave.
“Nice building,” he said as we stepped into the hallway. “Prewar?”
I nodded as we came to a stop at my door. I unlocked it and we stepped inside.
“Your boyfriend home?”
I turned to look at him as I shifted off my jacket and dropped my bag on the floor.
“What do you want, Agent Grace?” I asked, anger in my chest, tears gathering in my eyes. I felt invaded and helpless against it. He was trampling on every boundary I had, and it was infuriating me. When I’m mad, I cry. I hate that about myself, but I don’t seem to be able to change it no matter how hard I try. “I mean, seriously,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’re playing with me, right? What do you want?”
He got that horrified look on his face that a certain type of man gets when he thinks a woman is going to cry. He lifted his palms.
“Okay,” he said. “Take it easy.” He spoke carefully, as if he were talking a jumper in off a ledge. He glanced around the room; I’m not sure what he was looking for.
“Don’t you get it?” I asked him. “I don’t know anything.”
“Okay,” he said again, pulling out a chair at the table and motioning me to sit. I sat and put my head in my hands, noticing that Jake’s file was still on the table where I’d left it. I’m not sure why, but I had expected it to be gone when I came home. Agent Grace sat across from me and I slid the file toward him. Mercifully, my tears retreated soon after and I was spared the humiliation of weeping in front of this stranger who’d forced his way into my life and my home.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Jake gave it to me,” I said, looking up to show him I wasn’t crying. “The article on top—that’s how I knew about Nick Smiley, why I went to Detroit. I couldn’t make any sense out of the rest of it.”
He was quiet for a minute as he shuffled through the pages, then he closed the file with a little laugh.
“Your boy has got an ax to grind, huh?”
I nodded.
“You think he wants a job with the FBI?”
I glared at him. “Something in there has meaning to you?”
He took out the New York Times clippings and turned them toward me. “What do these articles all have in common?”
I glanced through them again and nothing popped. I shrugged and looked up at him. He had been watching me as I looked through them and didn’t take his eyes away. There was a strange expression on his face. He reached across and pointed to the byline. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it. What writer reads an article but doesn’t look at the byline? They were all written by the same person: Myra Lyall. The name rang a bell but I couldn’t quite say why.
“Who is she?”
“She’s a career crime writer, short-listed for the Pulitzer twice. Most recently she wrote for the Times.”
“‘Wrote,’ past tense?”
“She and her husband, a photographer, went missing about two weeks ago.”
I flashed on the news story I kept seeing on television and in the papers. Still, I had the feeling I’d heard the name somewhere else.
He went on. “Friends showed up for dinner; Myra and her husband, Allen, weren’t there. After a day of trying to reach them, the police were called. There was a pool of blood on the floor in the apartment, no sign of the couple. The table was set for dinner, a roast in the oven, pots on the stove.”
I started to hear that noise I get in my right ear when I’m really stressed out. “What was she working on?” I asked.
“We don’t know. Both her laptop and her box at work had been wiped clean. Even the Times server had been cleared of all her e-mail exchanges.”
I thought about this. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Finally I asked, “So this is your case? This missing couple?”
He nodded.
“What does it have to do with me?”
“The last story Myra Lyall published was about three Project Rescue babies, how each had been affected by what happened to them. It was a feature for the Magazine, something softer than her usual investigative pieces.”
I remembered now where I’d last heard her name.
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked again, though it was clearer now.
“She had your name and number in a notebook. According to what she’d written there, she’d tried to call you three times for comment but you never returned her calls.”
“The only people I enjoy speaking to less than FBI agents are reporters.”
He gave a little
laugh. “Aren’t you a reporter?”
I bristled at this. “I’m a writer,” I said haughtily. “A feature writer. It’s not the same thing.”
“Whatever you say,” he answered.
It wasn’t the same thing. Not at all. But I wasn’t going to get into it with this bozo. Subtleties and nuances were lost on people like Agent Grace.
“So you said they’ve been missing two weeks?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Two weeks, three days, and approximately ten hours, according to the time line we created.”
“But those pictures—my pictures—some of them were taken months ago.”
He nodded, looked down at the table. I got it then.
“The FBI has been watching me?”
“For over a year, yes.”
“Why?”
He took the ME’s report out of the file. “There are inconsistencies in this report. Time of death is about ten hours off, according to our experts.” He pointed to something Jake had circled. “This body weighed a hundred and eighty-six pounds. But you know Max was a much bigger man than that—must have been over two-fifty.”
I looked at the document in front of me. “Okay. So this was a small-town medical examiner. He made some mistakes. It happens all the time. What did he say when you interviewed him?”
“He’s dead,” Agent Grace said. “He had a fatal car accident just a few days after he filed the report, right around the time this body was cremated.”
I noticed how he kept saying “this body.”
“What do you mean accident?” I asked, mimicking his inflection.
“I mean someone accidentally cut his brake lines.”
I scanned the report, feeling desperate and afraid. “Esme Gray identified the body,” I said weakly. “They were lovers once. She would have known it wasn’t Max if it wasn’t.”
Agent Grace looked at me with something like pity on his face. “Esme Gray is not exactly unimpeachable.”
I thought about that last night with Max, how he’d started to cry, how my father had appeared, a dark form in the entryway, how he’d taken Max into his office and shut the doors on me. It’s the bourbon talking, my father said, before closing the door.
