by Joshua Corin
The boy, apparently unaware of her change, continued his line of inquiry. “Does she have a favorite toy? Do you sing her a song?”
“Timothy…” said P.J.
“A song…” Gladys echoed, and angled her body toward Marcy’s photograph.
P.J. grabbed his son by the arm. “It’s time to go.”
But then she began to softly sing.
Only Timothy and P.J. could hear her at first, especially with the hubbub of the crowd. They stood at her side, almost like sentries.
She took a step toward her daughter’s photograph. Her voice raised itself, in volume, in emotion.
My God, she was singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.”
Now some in the crowd were hearing and seeing. They parted, made room for her to pass, on her way to the easel with her serenade.
Even Harold now perked up, the familiar song piercing through his sudsy stupor. It was Harold, after all, who’d wanted to name the child Patsy.
She was almost at the easel, only three feet away, almost close enough to touch. Her hands reached out, ready to embrace.
P.J. looked away from the scene. He couldn’t watch it anymore. He turned to take his son away with him, back up the hill, back to the house, but Timothy was gone.
9
Monday morning and, with it, Tom and Esme drove out to New Paltz in his black Mustang to catch a killer. It was a handsome day to do so. The sun, perhaps to make up for his absence over the weekend, had climbed high into the attic of the heavens and was splashing his warmth and cheer across upstate New York. It was the kind of November weather that reinforced one’s reluctance to pack away the short sleeves and flannels of autumn.
Esme thought about her daughter. She’d called Oyster Bay last night, after a grease-soggy meal at McDonald’s with Tom, and it was obvious that Sophie was still upset. And who could blame her? A promise had been made and a promise had been broken. From Sophie’s reductive point of view, the facts were that simple. Even from Esme’s more adult perspective, even though she knew she had made the responsible choice, she couldn’t help but feel tremendous guilt. Sophie was the heart of her heart. Someday she would understand what Rafe never could: it wasn’t a choice of work over family; it was acting, changing, fixing, rather than remaining on the sidelines. If she could make the world a better place, then certainly—
“Here we are,” said Tom as they exited the rusty Wallkill Bridge. The state road became Main Street, as all state roads eventually did. Esme tried to recall the directions from Saturday, but everything looked so different under sunshine than it had in the previous postblizzard gloom. They took a left and passed by what looked like a historical district, and it was those familiar antique landmarks that Esme used to fix their location. The strip mall wasn’t far from here.
The Science Museum of Long Island, which occupied an old mansion not unlike the ones in downtown New Paltz, had, that day, a special exhibit on magnets. Sophie Stuart stood with the other first-grade classes as a man with comically large blue glasses explained how magnetic fields worked through a demonstration involving a huge metal U and a collection of Matchbox cars.
Sophie tuned him out. She wanted to play with the crystal ball with the lightning inside, but it seemed that the teachers, including Mrs. Morrow, had their own agenda and so far it hadn’t included crystal balls with lightning inside.
So she discreetly snuck away.
She didn’t feel bad for doing it. She had every right to go exploring. And if she got in trouble, what could her parents do? After all, her mother had broken her word. If she’d been here, then Sophie would have had no reason to go off on her own, would she?
It made perfect sense to Sophie.
She passed by a display about atoms, which looked a lot like a map of the solar system that Mrs. Morrow had on their classroom wall. What an unusual coincidence. She then entered another room full of fossils. She was on the second floor, and was sure the lightning ball was on the second floor. Her parents had taken her here last summer, after that bad man broke into their house. She didn’t remember too much about him. But she vividly recalled the crystal ball of lightning and all the bolts of electricity shooting harmlessly at her hand like she was Storm from the X-Men and her father had even taken a photograph of it with his digital camera so it must have been true—
And here it was. The labyrinth of the second floor led here, to a room dedicated to electricity. There was the crystal ball of lightning on a short pedestal, but in the room there was also a kite with a key at the end of its tail and a series of lightbulbs attached to a series of levers and buttons. Sophie didn’t remember the lightbulbs from before and was tempted to try them out, but she knew she had limited time. Eventually, Mrs. Morrow would realize a student of hers was missing and that would be the end of her adventure. Unless Mrs. Morrow never realized it and they got on the bus and left her here. That wouldn’t be so fun.
So Sophie hesitated, pivoting between decisions. Should she rejoin the group to keep from being abandoned or should she do what she came here to do, what she had every right to do, what she was supposed to do with her mother? When she put it like that, the decision was simple.
She approached the crystal ball of lightning with an eager grin and a pair of outstretched arms.
“Careful there,” said Grover Kirk, who had been watching her, arms crossed, from the exhibit hall entryway. “You might get shocked.”
Esme and Tom had a plan to outsmart the killer and nullify his threat. Their plan was easy to both implement and execute. They were going to blitz him.
And so, once they’d made sure the strip mall was clear of any suspicious witnesses, they charged together into the travel agency, and before P. J. Hammond could even look up from his paperwork, Tom had locked the door behind them.
“Hi, there,” said Esme.
P.J. cocked his head, confused. “Uh, do we have an appointment?”
He started to stand.
“Please remain seated,” answered Tom, “if you don’t mind.”
Esme didn’t lower the window blinds. She and Tom needed to make this seem, to any outside observers, as a casual conversation. It was unlikely that she would be recognized, especially without the police escort.
Still, they had no time to waste.
“I’m Special Agent Piper. You already know Mrs. Stuart. Now, if you could be so kind,” Tom said, “please explain your connection to the murder of Lynette Robinson and the disappearance of Marcy Harper.”
Nope, no time to waste at all.
“I’m not sure…”
Esme leaned forward and looked the man in the eye. “Yes, you are.”
She couldn’t read him. He still seemed the affable, if flustered, gentleman she’d met on Saturday. But the preponderance of evidence was undeniable. P.J. was either their guy or was being framed by their guy. Either way, he was the key.
“Who else has regular access to your computer?” she asked him.
“Just me. I run a small business. One-man operation. Look, I’m just a travel agent, and—”
“I like your wedding ring,” Tom interjected. “Silver. Simple. What’s your wife’s name?”
“Mary. Why do you—”
Now Esme: “How’s her computer skills?”
“Okay, I suppose. She doesn’t work here, though, so you can cross her off whatever list you’re compiling. She runs the vet clinic a few doors down and, trust me, that’s a full-time…”
Tom and Esme exchanged glances.
Then Tom took the lead. “Do you and Mary have any children, P.J.?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Tom leaned forward. “See, P.J., that’s what, in our business, we’d refer to as an unusual response. You answered every one of our other questions truthfully and with full disclosure, but when it comes to your children, you go the other way. Now that’s either because you don’t have any kids and you don’t want us to know about it because it’s a sore subject—or i
t’s because you do have kids and you don’t want us to know about it because…well, you tell me, P.J.”
P.J. squirmed in his seat. He was scratching at his thumbnails with his index fingers. What an odd nervous habit, thought Esme.
“Please leave,” he said quietly. “I’m begging you.”
“Look at me, P.J.”
To which P.J. responded by looking everywhere but at Tom. So Tom slammed the flat of his palm against the man’s desk. The hollow thump captured P.J.’s attention—he had no choice, it was instinctual—and Tom caught his gaze and held it.
“Now listen. A little girl is in danger. You have the power to save her, but you’re trying to protect someone else, someone whose well-being means a great deal more to you than that of an innocent child. It’s obvious we’re talking about one of your own kids. They’ve either been taken themselves and you don’t want to risk harm coming to them…”
“…or they’re the ones causing the harm,” finished Esme. “So which is it?”
Sophie took a step away from the tall bald man. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“That’s where you and I are different.” He smiled. His teeth were perfect. “I go out of my way, every day, to talk to someone I don’t know. I love people. But that’s actually beside the point, Sophie, because I’m not really a stranger. I’m an acquaintance of your Grandpa Lester. How else would I know your name?”
Sophie thought about it for a minute. He had a point.
“My name’s Grover. Like on Sesame Street. Do you like Sesame Street, Sophie?”
Sophie replied, “When I was little. Now I watch different stuff.”
“I’m curious…” He took a step toward her. “Why did you sneak away from your class?”
“I…”
“I’ll bet I know.”
She watched as he took another step toward her, and another. He was within jumping distance, then reaching distance, then breathing distance. She could smell his cologne. It smelled like almonds.
He outstretched his hand…and touched the crystal ball of lightning. Immediately, all the forks of electricity inside the ball zapped harmlessly against the glass near his hand. It was so cool. And he was right. That’s what Sophie had wanted to do.
He smiled at her again, those teeth of his like carved snowflakes.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I won’t tell.”
He removed his hand from the crystal ball and motioned for her to touch it. She did, and watched the electrical forks storm at her hand. The glass was warm, but the blue-white rips of energy didn’t hurt her at all. They were at her command. She was Storm from the X-Men, just like on the TV, mistress of lightning.
“You’re like me,” said Grover. “You’re curious. That’s a wonderful thing to be.”
He gently placed his hand over hers. His hand was quite large and covered hers completely. It was almost as if she had no hand at all. She immediately felt uncomfortable and tried to slip her hand away, but couldn’t. His hand pressed hers against the glass like a lead weight, and all the while the lightning zapped and zipped.
He leaned down to her level.
Her breathing sped up. If she screamed, people would come, right?
But at that moment she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t say a word.
“Sophie,” he said, “I need you to give your mother a message.”
P.J.’s gaze never left Tom’s face.
“You don’t have any kids,” P.J. said.
Tom frowned. “Sir, I—”
P.J.’s eyes briefly flickered to Esme. “But you do, don’t you?”
Esme nodded.
“What’s her name?”
Tom sighed. “This isn’t really—”
“What’s the matter? You can ask questions but you can’t answer them? That makes you a bully, Special Agent Piper.”
Tom sat back in his seat. He looked to Esme. The decision was hers to make.
“Her name is Sophie,” she replied. “She’s seven.” P.J. nodded. “Seven’s a good age. My boy just turned fourteen.”
“What’s his name?” Tom asked.
But P.J.’s attention had shifted to Esme. “Your Sophie…is she well-behaved?”
“Yes. She is.”
“I always wondered what it would be like to have a daughter. Sugar and spice and everything nice, right? But God gave us a boy. He works in mysterious ways. Tell me, Mrs. Stuart, would you sacrifice your life for your child?”
Esme answered without hesitation. “Yes, I would.”
“Because that’s our obligation. As parents. No matter what, the child’s security and happiness comes first.”
“P.J.,” said Tom, “tell us what he’s done.”
But P.J. was lost in the valley of his own thoughts.
So Esme took a stab at it. “It’s our job to protect them, but it’s also our job to teach them right from wrong. It’s our job to rein them in when they misbehave. And punish them.”
“But whose fault is it, in the end, when they do the things they do?” His voice was so distant, so emotionally faraway. “It can’t be theirs. They’re children. Somewhere along the line, we did something that made them this way. Maybe it’s the way they were raised. Maybe it’s the genes we gave them. Either way, every horrible, horrible thing they do…it all tracks back to us.”
Sophie was unusually quiet during the bus ride back to school. Her friends Robyn and Holly attributed it to the tongue-lashing Mrs. Morrow had given her for running off. Robyn gave Sophie a butterfly sticker. Sophie thanked her softly and put it in her pocket.
The north shore of Long Island trundled by. Factories, homesteads, shopping malls. The waters of the Sound sparkled like a field of blue diamonds.
Robyn and Holly were talking about earrings. Holly had just gotten her ears pierced and wanted to know anything and everything there was to know, and Robyn knew anything and everything there was to know, or at least pretended as if she did.
Sophie wanted to take a nap.
They arrived back at school right before lunch. Because of the field trip, though, the first-grade classes were receiving early dismissal, so Sophie halfheartedly waved goodbye to Robyn and Holly and walked over to her grandfather’s blue Cadillac, parked with all the other cars in front of the school. He was listening to talk radio and didn’t notice her approach.
“Hey there, pun’kin,” he said, and lowered the radio’s volume. “Have fun at the museum?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders.
“Well put,” replied Grandpa Les, and he shifted into Drive.
The house wasn’t far, but he drove slowly. Sophie was desperate to find out if he actually knew that man, Grover. Part of her hoped he did. Part of her hoped he didn’t. She leaned back in her seat and clutched tightly on the strap of her seat belt.
When they arrived home, Grandpa Les, perhaps noticing her downcast mood, offered to make her a peanut-butter-and-Fluff sandwich. Even on her worst of days, she couldn’t turn down peanut butter and Fluff. But first she asked him to leave the kitchen.
“I want to call Mom.”
“So?”
“So it’s private.”
Grandpa Les chuckled at her precociousness and wandered over to the desktop computer in the living room. He could use the time to finish his online search for a good divorce lawyer for his son.
Once she was sure he was out of earshot, Sophie picked up the kitchen phone and dialed her mother’s cell number. Whatever her mother was doing, she wouldn’t be too busy for a call from home.
And Sophie really needed to speak with her.
But the call went to voice mail, and Sophie was left relaying Grover’s message—and emptying her heart—to a machine.
P.J. scratched again at his thumbnails, absently, habitually. Esme knew that the past fourteen years of his life was flashing before this poor man’s eyes. She’d made it sound as if she’d empathized with him, but what parent could? Could she really know what it was like to be, say, the
father of Jack the Ripper or the mother of Ed Gein? That someone you brought into this world got pleasure out of murder…
And then P.J. smiled. He beamed, really, that effervescent charm suddenly glowing off him like stardust. He stood, smoothed out his crisp white button-down shirt and held out his hand.
He might as well have been offering them a dead fish, for all the enthusiasm Tom and Esme demonstrated. P.J. noted their confusion, so he just opened his smile even wider and elaborated.
“You are both absolutely right. I’ve been a passive observer and I required an intervention. I want to express my gratitude, to both of you, for providing it.”
“Um?” said Esme.
“The world moves on whether we shut our eyes or not, and if our eyes are shut, we may be able to block out all the negativity, but look at all the wonder we’ll be missing, as well!”
He illustrated his point with a flourish of his hands at the walls of his office and the dozens of exotic destinations promised by dozens of colorful posters. The pyramids, the Great Wall of China, the Kremlin. The moai statues of Easter Island. Not to mention Atlantic City, now for only ninety-nine dollars each way.
“There are so many places to see. Mary and I make an effort to travel at least once a year to a different country. The next one on our list is South Africa. Have either of you been to South Africa? I hear they make the best barbecue in the world. Well, I’ve been to Rio during Carnival, so we’ll see.”
He passed them both and headed for the door.
“I’m pretty sure Timothy’s at home, but I’m also pretty sure I know where he’s keeping Marcy Harper. There is a place he’s been going to the past few days. He thinks I don’t know about it, but the fact of the matter is I’ve known everything all along. He is my son, after all. I was too busy trying to protect him from the world that I didn’t bother trying to protect the world from him. Anyway, come on. The child’s almost certainly there now.”
