by Rick R. Reed
“If she wants me to come on her show and start crying about Beth for the entertainment of your viewers, you’re wasting your time, Ms. Blake.”
“I don’t think it’s wasting my time. But I do think you’ll be wasting your time if you close that door.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because, if you let this opportunity slip by, I think you’ll be throwing away one of your best chances at finding your daughter.”
“Oh, you’re good.”
Yoshi smiled. “I am good at my job. And part of that job is making sure you get treated with respect. Five minutes, Mrs. Donner, and then I’ll go. Just five.”
Kate breathed in, shaking her head. “Five minutes. No more.”
* * * *
“You know, of course, Joanna helped solve the Albert Kerns disappearance last year. Everyone believed it was a suicide, but because of Joanna’s show, someone in Downers Grove, where Mr. Kerns was hiding, called in and reported they had seen him. It led to him being found. Within. One. Week.” Yoshi knew her emphasis on time would raise Mrs. Donner’s hope.
She hated herself for what she was doing. Everyone with any sense knew Beth Walsh was probably dead.
Yoshi also hated how Mrs. Donner’s face lit up when she’d said those words. She plunged on, feeling like an actress playing a part, which wasn’t far removed from the truth. “We could get you on our show, and maybe your husband, and give you a chance to make a plea for Beth that would reach hundreds of thousands of people. We could show a lot of pictures of Beth. You know, Mrs. Donner, that in cases like these, it’s very often true that the victims are right in the immediate area. Maybe someone has seen your daughter and didn’t realize it. Our show could help find her. Do you really want to throw away this opportunity?”
Eating a cookie, Mrs. Donner looked away. Tears glistened in her eyes. And in Yoshi’s mind, she could hear Joanna Downs’ voice. “Gotcha!”
* * * *
“You what?” Ted stared at her, mouth agape.
Kate began to tremble. All she had eaten that day began to churn. His ice-blue gaze bore into hers and, for several moments, she remained dumbstruck. It seemed she had completely lost the thread of what they were talking about. Her husband terrified her. After all these years, how could he still have that power?
How had she let him?
Kate swallowed and tried to calm herself. “Don’t you see how this could be a good thing? Don’t you see how this might help find our daughter?”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Who?”
“The producer person who was here this morning.”
She stared out the window. Why was everyone smarter than she was? Why could he always see right through her, make her feel stupid? He used to ask her if she was retarded when she had trouble doing something. Now, she whined, and hated herself for it. “Please, Ted, I’m willing to do anything I can to help find Beth.”
“Including making a mockery of yourself on TV? Don’t you know what this Downs person will do to you? Do you really think she cares about us? She’ll reduce you to tears so the audience can watch and gloat. And the camera will just love your weight.”
“Stop it, Ted. It’s not like that.”
“It is like that. It’s entertainment. Are you really so dense? It’s exploitation. I want you to call that show right now and cancel.”
“They’re doing the program whether I appear on it or not.”
“Then let them.” Ted’s eyes flashed; his teeth clenched.
Kate pushed herself back against the kitchen counter. Beth. What about Beth? “I think this could help,” she whispered.
“So you’re telling me you’re going ahead with this asinine idea?”
“Yes.” Had he even heard a word she had said?
“Then you’ll go it alone.” He started out of the room. “You can go a lot alone, my dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t handle all this. I just can’t.”
He started away again. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’m going to pack a bag and stay at the University Club for a while. Call me when you’ve returned to your senses.”
Kate slumped down in the breakfast nook. She knew she should cry or at least attempt to convince him to stay, but she felt only relief.
* * * *
McGrew knew he should have left the office when he’d originally planned. He knew he should have let the phone ring and gone out for something to eat. If he had left only a couple minutes sooner, he would have missed the call.
And then it wouldn’t have mattered.
But now, he sat with a dark sky behind him and Beth Walsh’s mother in front of him.
“My life is falling apart, Mr. McGrew. I’ve been as cooperative as possible with you, now I expect the same in return.”
Her eyes were rimmed in red. She had burst into his office ten minutes ago, as if wired on speed, and spilled out a story about how she’d been duped into appearing on The Joanna Downs Show and how her husband had left her.
“I have to know everything you have on this case. I have to find my daughter.”
“We’re doing everything—”
“And don’t give me that! You’re part of the police force. You have other cases. You go home at night, see your family, watch TV, eat a meal.” She stopped for a moment. “I can’t go home again.”
“I understand that.”
“This isn’t a job for me, Mr. McGrew. I can never get away. The more time goes by, the more my chances grow of never seeing my daughter again.” She looked at him. “She’s really all I have.”
He stared down at his desk, tracing patterns in the blotter with his fingernail.
Suddenly, she stood above him, leaning over the desk. He could smell her breath. “Give me what you’ve got. Let me see the leads you’ve developed. Let me get out there and see what I can find.”
“I can’t do that, Mrs. Donner. You could compromise the investigation. You could actually make it harder for us to find Beth.”
“Compromise? Compromise!?”
“Yes, compromise. You’re too involved. The fact that this is just a job for me, as you put it, gives me something you don’t have—detachment. And by saying that, I’m not stating I don’t care. I want to solve this case. I want to find Beth for you. I just don’t go home and forget about it, Mrs. Donner. I work twelve-, thirteen-hour days on this case. And I think about it when I’m off.” He almost blurted out that Beth’s face haunted him, but realized that would be going too far.
“Mr. McGrew, I pay your salary.”
“Let me do what you pay me for.”
“I can’t.” She stared at the floor. The fight seemed to have rushed out of her, and she looked like a deflated balloon. “I thought if I could just—you know, I thought if I could just know what you know, I could help. Maybe with what you know and I know together, I could find Beth.”
“Mrs. Donner—”
“But I know that isn’t true. Because I’m not sure at all I know Beth.” She fell silent. McGrew wanted to reach out to her, but that kind of encouragement wasn’t his to offer. He thought of Ila Perkins. “Listen, Kate, I can tell you this much. There is someone out there who might be able to help us. But I don’t know yet if it’s a solid lead or a dead end. I’ll be finding out soon. Can you trust me to do that?”
“I wish you’d tell me something more specific. Maybe I could use it on the show.”
The show. McGrew snorted. He wondered if Ila Perkins would be watching.
Chapter 25
A hot bath. Ila Perkins could just soak away her troubles. She pulled the edge of her terrycloth robe over the palm of her hand and cleared the bathroom vanity mirror of fog.
Baths had worked in the past, the hotter the better. Just let those old blues melt away. Ila looked at herself in the mirror, revealing her worried face. Her close-cropped gray hair lay mashed to her skull and her scalp peeked through. Four years of wearing a wig hadn’t done much
to give her hair fullness and shine, but now that she had started the habit, she couldn’t go back. When did I get so old? Ila wondered, studying at the bags under her eyes.
An unfiltered Camel burned in an ashtray on the back of the toilet. Ila lifted it, watching herself in the mirror as she smoked. It was a hard life, she thought.
And now it was getting harder. That McGrew fella, that detective, sniffing around made it difficult to think of anything else. She’d be watching an episode of The Golden Girls on Lifetime and realize she had no idea what everyone was laughing about. All she could think about was McGrew. Would he find out? Would he make the connection?
Ila let her robe drop to the floor and slipped into the bath. The hot water made her suck in a breath. She sat back and tried to think of nothing, but images kept rising to torment her. She’d see Candy’s face, the green-blue eyes she’d been so proud of, a pair of earrings that almost brushed her shoulders. Candy. Ila squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to push the image of the face out of her mind. Soon, the face would change and she’d see it as in memory: the mascara running, the tears, her painted-on eyebrows coming together quizzically. Why, Ila? Why would you do this to me?
That face never had a chance to grow old. Youthful, it had succumbed to the effects of Seconal and vodka.
And Ila held herself responsible.
No, she hadn’t been the one who had raped her. Ila slid down all at once into the steaming water, submerging her head. She held her breath until she felt her lungs would explode, then reemerged.
There was no way to escape what she had done. No matter what she had done in the ensuing years to make up for it, she knew she was guilty of helping to ruin the lives of a woman and her innocent son, Abbott.
Ila got out of the tub and toweled herself off. She donned her robe and lit a Camel, then went into the living room and put on a Jerry Vale record.
All of this had happened in 1974. More than thirty years ago. It was stupid not be able to just forget about it. It was water under the bridge, right? Maybe if Candy hadn’t killed herself, maybe if Abbott hadn’t turned out the way he did…
Of course, it wasn’t until years later that Candy had taken the overdose, so how could Ila really hold herself responsible? And maybe Abbott would have turned out the way he did, regardless. Who knew with kids these days?
It had been Abbott’s fourth birthday. She remembered her nephew, Gene, telling her he was going to the kid’s party…
* * * *
“You? At a child’s birthday party? Christ come down from the mountain!” Ila slapped her knee on that one! That was great! She took a swig of Bud from the bottle and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
“Yeah. What’s so funny about that, Aunt Ila?” Gene put special emphasis on the word aunt; she was only eight years older than he.
“It’s just that I can’t picture you in a party hat and playin’ Pin the Tail on the Donkey.”
His eyes flashed. “Shit. I don’t give a fuck about that kid. It’s Candy who I wanna get next to. You know?”
* * * *
Ila stubbed out the Camel and lit another one. He had gotten next to Candy, all right, whether the woman liked it or not.
But hadn’t she deserved it? Candy certainly wasn’t known as Miss Purity around the neighborhood. What was one more dick?
Ila shook her head. It still wasn’t right. What her nephew had done wasn’t right.
She pictured Candy once more. That heartbreaking face—stunning, like Marilyn Monroe.
There had been another conversation with Gene later…
* * * *
“You gotta help me, Ila.” Her nephew’s face had never looked more desperate.
“What is it now, Gene?”
“It looks like I might get arrested. They’re closing in on me.”
“What for?” This wouldn’t be the first time her nephew had had a run-in with the law. She was sure it wouldn’t be the last. She just wondered what she could do about it.
“Remember that kid’s birthday party?”
“Yeah, Candy’s kid. What his name? Somethin’ odd…”
“Screw that, Ila. I’m in trouble here.”
“Well, what’s a kid’s birthday party have to do with you gettin’ in trouble?”
Gene paced the room, smoking. Finally, with his back to her, he said, “That Candy bitch. She’s sayin’ I raped her.”
Ila felt a jolt pass through her. “Shit,” she whispered. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
“What do you think?”
She couldn’t answer. A porno played in her mind and it made her sick. “I don’t know what to think, Gene.” Shaking, she lit a cigarette.
“C’mon. She’s a whore. Everybody knows it.” Gene snorted. “If she showed everything that had been stuck into her, she’d look like a fuckin’ porcupine!”
“That’s not funny. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“She’s a prick tease, Ila. A man’s got a right when a woman sends out signals and then tries to renege.”
“You’re still not answering the goddamn question.”
Gene scratched the back of his neck. “Hell, no, I didn’t rape her. She asked for it. I just gave her what she wanted, is all.”
Ila sighed. “Did she ever say ‘no’? Tell you to stop?”
He squatted to his knees and grasped her hand. “You gotta help me, Ila. We’re blood.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to say you were with me, partyin’ at my house—with me and Duke—the night Candy got raped.”
Ila began to tremble. She didn’t want to do this. “Weren’t there other people at the party?”
“Yeah, but this was after they’d all left. Nobody knows how long I stayed. It’s my word against hers. And who’s gonna believe a slut like her?”
“There were no witnesses?”
“Well, uh, her kid was there.” Gene looked away.
Ila’s stomach churned. “Her kid? You mean her kid saw?”
“Well, yeah.” He quickly looked at her, then glanced away. “It was all Duke’s fault. He’s the one who wanted to tie up the kid, to make him watch.”
She wanted to cry, wanted to beat on Gene’s face and tell him to get the hell out.
“Please, Aunt. They could send me to jail for a long time…”
* * * *
Darkness had fallen. Smoke and purple shadows filled the room. She had done it. She had gone into the courtroom, lied, and tried to shut it out of her mind. But that wasn’t so easy.
Later, Candy approached her in a store down the street. Her face was tearful, wondering. “Why?” she’d asked. “Why?” She had walked away before Ila had a chance to answer.
What could I have said anyway?
Abbott had never known of her connection to Gene. Renting the apartment to the boy when he was seventeen was her way of trying to make amends. She thought that maybe the two of them might become friends. She could make him casseroles, take the place of his dead mother.
But Abbott didn’t make friends, and Ila was sure he didn’t know how. She was also sure his mistrust of people had a lot to do with her.
The last she’d heard of Gene, he was in Vegas, dealing blackjack. Ila stubbed out her cigarette, picked up the phone and began punching in numbers. She wasn’t sure what help she could give to the detective, but this was the right thing to do.
And she didn’t know how many right things could ever make up for the great wrong she had never been able to forget.
Chapter 26
The Ball jars stood on shelves along one wall, their blue-green surfaces shrouded in dust, years thick. It was possible to look into the murky liquid in each and see something floating inside. But Beth couldn’t imagine the contents were something as innocent as pickles, tomatoes, or beets; instead, she fantasized that embryos floated within—an entire freak show of abortions and miscarriages.
Abbott should have been among them, the most beautiful and freak
ish of them all. Someone had saved him, because he was so beautiful. He was as beautiful as nightshade, his deformities and evil all inside.
She lay back, removing her stare from the shelves. She looked up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the throbbing in her fingers.
Fingers no longer there.
She had read once about phantom limbs, never certain until now such a phenomenon existed. When she had emerged from a sea of disturbing dream images, she saw her hand cleaned and bandaged in gauze and tape. Underneath, a dull throbbing pain reached new crescendos of hurt if she put even the slightest pressure on what was left of her hand.
And as consciousness clarified more and more, she wondered, what will he do next?
* * * *
Outside, the lake looked like slate under a mass of gray, low-hanging clouds. Abbott sat on the sun porch, looking out over the water.
Beth wasn’t working out. Things weren’t going as he had planned. He would have to deal with her. Perhaps she was incapable of understanding how to transform herself into a good person. Perhaps she was like Gene, the man who had raped his mom. Abbott was sure that guy could never be shown the error of his ways, no matter what you did to him.
Guys like that were better off dead.
And maybe death would be the best thing to give to Beth. Just get rid of her. He was tired of her, of the whining, the gasping, and the pleading. He was sick of the shaved head and the bandages, the place where he had burned her thigh with acid and which was becoming infected and beginning to stink.
Besides, she would be nothing but trouble should he ever free her; she would never see what he had tried to do for her. She would go to the authorities and make it look like he was the one in the wrong.
Just like they had made his mother look like she was in the wrong when she’d reported Gene.
It was no use. He could burn Beth from head to toe with acid, pull her hair out by the roots, and cut off her ears. None of it would solve anything. She would still be a slut underneath it all.
Maybe human nature just didn’t change.
Nah. He couldn’t believe that. But Beth was getting boring.
