by Sharon Potts
“He was useless. Said he didn’t know what we were talking about.”
“Found him where?”
Smolleck shook his head, annoyed. “He’s still working as a janitor at some upscale shopping mall in Buckhead. He’s been there forever.”
Upscale shopping mall in Buckhead. Where had she heard that reference? “Peachtree Shoppes?”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
Her heart was pounding. “Because Star owned a business there years ago.” She made a quick calculation. The article was from ten years ago. It said Star had owned the business for ten years. That would have been twenty years. “If this man worked as a janitor when Star was there, she could have known him. She could have convinced him he was Jeffrey Schwartz and told him to go the FBI.”
“Enough, Aubrey. You’re pushing for impossible connections. How would Star even know about Schwartz?”
“Because she isn’t Star. She’s Linda Wilsen.”
“She isn’t, Aubrey. Stop this and tell me where your mother is.”
“Think about it,” she said. “There’s a physical similarity between Star and Wilsen. They’re the same age.”
He shook his head. “You’re completely off track here.”
“Star could have been working on an elaborate plan to punish my parents all these years. First she convinces some guy with delusions to go to the FBI knowing that news about April Fool will rattle my parents, then she gets my father to leave my mother, and finally, when the timing is right for her, she gets my dad to convince Kevin to let my mother be part of Ethan’s life and kidnaps him.”
“Aubrey.”
“I know. You need a motive,” she said. “Linda Wilsen was completely disfigured in the explosion. If she blamed my parents, there’s your motive.”
“Aubrey.” His voice was sharp. A couple of people at the next bench turned to stare at him. He shifted closer to Aubrey. “Star isn’t Linda Wilsen,” he said quietly.
“But—”
“Linda Wilsen is dead.”
“No, she isn’t. You said you couldn’t find her.”
“We found her. She moved to Canada in 1971 and changed her name. We’ve confirmed that she died in 1980.”
“But—”
“Star isn’t Linda Wilsen. We need to talk about your mother.”
Aubrey looked at the old woman. Her face was now in shadows, but she kept her eyes closed and head back as though hoping the warmth would find her again.
Was Aubrey so desperate to prove her mother’s innocence that she was finding patterns in unrelated events and creating a flawed, alternative narrative?
“I know you think you’re doing the right thing by trying to protect her,” Smolleck said, “but you aren’t.”
Aubrey wished the sun would come around to the bench where they were sitting. “Star could still be involved,” she said.
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“Where was she when my father was hit by the car?”
Smolleck shook his head.
“Before you convict my mother, I want to know why you’re so sure Star can’t be a suspect.”
“Star was in her apartment,” Smolleck said. “She told us she had a migraine and asked your father to pick up her medicine from the drugstore.”
“But doesn’t that sound like a perfect opportunity for her to have followed him and tried to kill him?”
“Except that the driver of the car looked like your mother.”
“Star could have been wearing a wig.”
“The SUV was the same make and model as Jonathan’s.”
“What?”
“A valet saw a woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a white blouse drive out of the garage in Jonathan’s SUV minutes after he fell to his death. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have GPS, so we can’t track it.”
“It still could have been Star,” Aubrey said. “Have you checked out her alibi? Have you looked into her background?”
“Where is your mother, Aubrey?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your mother was seen at Jonathan’s condo shortly before he died. Someone who looked like her was seen driving Jonathan’s SUV away from the building immediately after his death. An eyewitness described someone who fits the description of your mother as the driver of the SUV that ran down your father, almost killing him.”
“But she didn’t arrange for the babysitter,” Aubrey said.
“I can’t explain that yet.”
“So you believe my mother was also behind Ethan’s kidnapping?”
He didn’t answer. Just kept his face in a rigid, unreadable mask.
Aubrey couldn’t find her breath.
“Where is she?” Smolleck said.
The corner of the courtyard was completely in shadows, and the old woman in the wheelchair was gone. “I don’t know,” she said.
“If you did know, would you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated.
He stood up. “Well, I appreciate your honesty.”
She watched him walk through the courtyard and back into the hospital. She wanted to call after him, tell him that he was chasing after the wrong person, that her mother wasn’t a murderer. But she knew he wouldn’t believe her.
Because neither did she.
CHAPTER 39
Aubrey left the courtyard and went around to the back of the hospital, past the emergency room and parking lots, to the broad bay.
Mount Sinai was on one of the most beautiful pieces of land in Miami Beach, once the site of a grand hotel. Now, a number of buildings made up the medical complex, most with fabulous views of the bay and downtown Miami.
She walked to the edge of the water. The sun was beginning its descent and hurt her eyes as she stared into it. She blinked. The bay spread out before her, clear and sparkling, but beneath the water, she could see shifting shadows.
She never should have let her mother leave the Circle. She should have called Smolleck and had the FBI pick her up, so another near-tragedy could have been avoided. Once again, Aubrey had allowed herself to be duped. She had wanted so much to believe her mother was innocent and that letting her go was best for Ethan that she’d ignored the signs of her mother unraveling—the angry denials, plaintive entreaties, ardent assurances. It should have been clear to Aubrey, given all her psychological training, that her mother was distraught and capable of doing things that would have been unthinkable in a sane state.
Mama could have killed Jonathan, believing that to be the only way she could get Ethan back. But why would she have tried to kill Dad, when just yesterday she had been defending him? Unless she feared he would reveal some incriminating secret from their past. One thing Aubrey knew for certain: both her parents had been hiding something from their college years.
Was Mama so unhinged that this killing spree was only just the beginning? Kevin had referred to their mother as the devil and believed she was lashing out at everyone close to her, that even her own children weren’t safe. Aubrey didn’t accept that. If her mother had killed Jonathan and attempted to kill Dad, it was because she believed their deaths would somehow save Ethan. Her mother may have murdered, but she wasn’t a psychopath.
Smolleck had also implied that Mama was behind Ethan’s kidnapping. Was that possible? Mama’s grief over her grandson’s disappearance appeared to be real, and unlike for Jonathan and Dad, she had no compelling motive to harm him. But that didn’t mean her mother didn’t know things that might help them get Ethan back.
She breathed in the muggy air. Shadows shifted beneath the water.
A few musical notes broke through Aubrey’s musings. It was her cell’s generic ringtone, but although she didn’t recognize the number, it was very likely her mother.
She let it ring as a cloud drifted in front of the sun. She needed a moment to prepare herself for what might happen if she answered. The phone went silent after the sixth ring. Aubrey stared at the missed call icon.
She co
uld call back and arrange to meet, but Smolleck would most certainly follow her. He would probably bring in the police with a SWAT team. Helicopters, people in Kevlar carrying M16s and shotguns. They’d surround Mama. Would she run? Would they shoot?
Her phone began ringing again. Same number.
Mama had said something disturbing as she was leaving Circle Park.
Even if you end up hating me, know that I love you more than life itself.
Her mother may have killed her fiancé and tried to kill Aubrey’s father.
But she might also know who had Ethan.
Aubrey pressed “Answer” and held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Sweetheart,” her mother said. Sweetheart, like Mama always called her.
She was still her mother.
“Meet me at Grandma’s place,” her mother said, then disconnected from the call.
Aubrey stared at her phone. Grandma’s place. Once again, her mother was being cryptic, probably assuming the call was being monitored, but she knew Aubrey would recognize the reference. Her mind raced over her options.
She pressed Smolleck’s number. “I need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” he said. “Talk.”
The setting sun was behind a cloud, blocking the painful rays. Mama, I hope you’ll forgive me for this.
“If I meet my mother, I’m concerned you’ll follow me and arrest her.”
“You can’t protect her anymore.”
“You said we have the same goal—to get Ethan back safely. I believe my mother may know who has him.”
“Why would she keep that information from us?”
“I’m not sure. She may be protecting someone or something from her past. But if you arrest her, things might go wrong with Ethan.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“My mother trusts me. Let me meet her alone.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“I understand, but can you do it surreptitiously? Let me talk to her and try to find out who has Ethan, if she even knows.”
He was quiet for a long time. “You’re putting yourself in danger,” he said.
The cloud in front of the sun had turned a bruised purple pink. “She’s my mother. She would never hurt me.”
“She’s likely killed her fiancé and tried to kill your father.”
“My mother would never hurt me.”
“Let’s hope not,” he said.
CHAPTER 40
Aubrey hadn’t been to the Miami Beach Holocaust Memorial since her grandmother died ten years before. The park and sculpture garden were located on Nineteenth Street and Meridian Avenue. She, Mama, and Kevin used to come here with Nana three or four times a year, for certain Jewish holidays and other occasions that were special to her grandmother.
As she pulled her mother’s BMW into a parking spot just outside the memorial, she had the uncomfortable realization that this was only a few blocks away from the time-share and where her father had been hit by a car. Her mother had been in the vicinity, but Aubrey was relieved not to see Jonathan’s black SUV parked nearby. She wondered where Smolleck’s agents would station themselves.
She hurried toward the entrance, surprised there were no people around, but the memorial closed at sunset, and the sky was already beginning to darken. Her mother wasn’t in the Garden of Meditation. Aubrey gazed at the giant bronze upstretched hand, which rose out of a lily pond toward the sky, and remembered the awe she had felt the first time she’d seen it. The sculpture was beautiful, until you noticed the tormented souls trying to climb up the hand and out of hell.
She continued past a statue of two terrified children clinging to their mother, then through the wooden arbor overhung with white-bougainvillea vines and past the black-granite slabs etched with photos of the Holocaust.
Her mother wasn’t there, either.
As she stepped into the stone tunnel, the piped-in haunting voices of children singing surrounded her. She slowed as she got closer to the statue at the end of the tunnel. A small child reaching for help. Standing beside it was a woman in a white blouse with dark shoulder-length hair.
Her mother turned as Aubrey got nearer. Mama held out her arms toward her. “Sweetheart.”
Aubrey couldn’t hug her, she just couldn’t.
Her mother dropped her arms.
This place was too quiet, too personal. Besides, Smolleck would have a difficult time watching them here.
“I’d rather not stay here,” Aubrey said.
Her mother cocked her head but didn’t question her. “All right.” She followed Aubrey through the rest of the arbor, back to the giant hand sculpture in the lily pond.
Traffic went by in the street beyond the memorial. A couple of men stood on the other side of the pond. Probably Smolleck’s.
Her mother sat on one of the benches near the last statue of the same woman who stood at the entrance of the memorial. Here at the end of her journey, the woman and her two children lay dead, in the shadow of Anne Frank’s words about shattered dreams and ideals.
“Come sit, Aubrey.”
Aubrey stayed where she was.
“You remember coming here?” her mother asked.
“Of course.”
“This place was very special to my mother,” Mama said. “You know she lost her parents and older brothers and many other relatives in the Holocaust.”
“I know.”
“My mother was lucky.” Mama rubbed her hands together as though she were cold. “Her paperwork came through in 1939, so she was able to go to America. She was only sixteen. Then the door slammed shut. Very few Jews got out of Poland after that.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want you to understand why I did what I did.”
Aubrey’s legs went weak. She sat down on the bench, avoiding her mother’s eyes, terrified that she was about to hear her mother’s confession of guilt. Several white bougainvillea petals were scattered over the stone tiles with one crushed red petal.
“Your grandmother didn’t talk about the Holocaust when I was growing up, but before I left for college, she told me what had become of everyone in her family. Of her guilt at not being able to save them.” Her mother stared at her hands. “At first it made me sad, especially for my mother to have lost so much. But shortly after I got to college, I started thinking about things differently. I became angry that the people of Germany, as well as the Jews, hadn’t protested more vehemently about what their government was doing. Maybe if they had, they could have stopped the Nazis, stopped the war, prevented the Holocaust.”
Her mother turned to Aubrey. Her eyes were red. “I started college in 1969. The US government had pushed itself into a war with Vietnam. Many of us were angry, but I suppose I saw myself as being on a mission. I believed the aggression in Vietnam was a first step in curtailing the freedoms of Americans, and convinced myself that ordinary citizens had to stand up against the government or we would be opening ourselves up to another Holocaust. I wanted to do what my mother had been unable to. To save her family. To save her country.” Her eyes drifted to the statue of the woman with her dead children. “I failed.”
“You were a member of Stormdrain, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And Dad?”
“Your father was the one who started Stormdrain.”
Aubrey heard herself gasp. She had suspected he was involved, but not at that level. “But I did an online search. Neither of you came up in connection with Stormdrain. Was that because you made a deal with the FBI?”
Her mother nodded. “We also had different names, then. I was Di Hartfeld, and your father was Lawrence Lyndberger. We legally changed to Lynd when we married in 1971.”
How could Aubrey have not known that? But her parents had many secrets they’d kept from her. “Why did you make a deal with the FBI?”
“Things changed,” her mother said. “Your father and I had been naive to think we could remain pacif
ists.”
“Pacifists? You were setting off bombs.”
“Yes, we were, but we always took precautions that no one would get hurt. Then when some people in the organization decided to take things in a different direction, your father and I tried to stop them.”
“How?” Aubrey asked.
Her mother looked back down at her hands. The sky had darkened. Cars went past on Meridian Avenue. The lights came on around them, casting the giant hand sculpture in an eerie green.
“Mama, what really happened at the brownstone explosion?”
CHAPTER 41
Diana turned toward the sculpture of souls trying to claw their way up out of hell. Would she ever make it out of her own hell?
“I found plans to blow up Columbia’s Low Library,” she said. “Someone had marked up the blueprint indicating where to plant bombs to kill hundreds of people, mostly students.”
Her daughter made a little noise, like a kitten that’s been kicked aside.
“I went to your father and told him things had gone too far and we needed to end Stormdrain. I wanted him to go with me to the FBI. We had to do whatever was necessary to stop it.”
“Did he go with you?”
Diana could still see Larry’s expression of fear when she’d told him what needed to be done. “He was worried,” she said to her daughter. “Concerned our friends would all be arrested and probably go to prison, even those who knew nothing about the library.” She took in a breath. “You see, he knew the FBI would never be able to ignore the intent to kill innocent people. He was adamant that we shouldn’t mention the plan to blow up the library.”
“You went along with that?”
“He persuaded me we could avoid the library disaster and protect our friends.”
“How?”
“We made an agreement with the FBI that we would arrange for each Stormdrain member to come forward, sign an affidavit, and be granted immunity. Your father also insisted that my file and his be kept out of all public records.”
“So you and Dad made a deal with the FBI and got off scot-free.”
Diana winced. “Scot-free? Hardly.”
“The FBI never knew there was a plan to blow up the library?”
