I woke with a start. The light outside was almost gone, houses across the street edged in thin lines of pink. The smell of smoke crept through the house. I got up and ran into the kitchen. The soup had cooked off, and the pot was burned on the bottom. I cleaned up as best I could and opened a window. Then I sat at the kitchen table and rubbed my temples with my fingers. Every now and then it happened. She’d be there, picking up the thread of a conversation we’d never had. Dreams like jagged pieces of shrapnel, cutting the wounds fresh. The doorbell rang, and I jumped. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard it ring. I put my mom’s letter away and hustled to the door. Sarah Gold stood on the porch. First, a visit from my dead mother. Now, Sarah.
“Just thought I’d come by,” she said. “See how you were doing.”
“Thanks. I just woke up.”
“Oh. Maybe I should come back?”
“No, no. Come on in.”
And so Sarah Gold walked into my house. She seemed larger than life at school. In my living room, her smile threatened to melt the wallpaper off the walls. She sat on the couch and looked around. I sat across from her.
“Sorry,” I said, waving away the smell of scorched metal and plastic. “I was cooking something and it burned.”
“You live alone?” she said.
“Pretty much, yeah. How about you?”
“I live in the city. North Side. You seem a little out of it.”
I gave myself an invisible shake. “I’m fine. Just half asleep.”
Sarah gave the place another look. I felt an urgent need to fill the yawning chasm of quiet.
“I grew up here,” I said. “I know, it’s weird. A guy living in the house he grew up in.”
“I didn’t say that.” Her voice had softened; her smile invited me in.
“My mom lived here,” I said. “She lived here with me.”
“Oh …”
“She passed last year.”
Sarah reached out and touched my sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”
I felt a dry patch in my throat and sudden tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Outside of the undertakers, not many people had ever told me they were sorry. But Sarah Gold had. And it caught me good.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Is your dad around?”
“He passed a long time ago.”
“I don’t mean to pry …”
I brushed her concerns aside. “She suffered from early-onset dementia. Be there one minute and gone the next. Everyone at the funeral told me it was a blessing.”
We were quiet again.
“Was this all going on … during undergrad?”
“Yeah. But it’s cool.”
It wasn’t cool. Nothing about coming home every night to a nurse we couldn’t afford and my mom, semiconscious and hooked up to a bunch of tubes, was cool. Not at any age. And definitely not when you were eighteen and a freshman in college. I let myself touch the anger for a moment. Allowed it to mingle with the grief. Then the guilt set in, and I put it all away.
“I’m so sorry, Ian.”
“Like I said, don’t worry about it. But now you know why I live here.” I got up from the couch. “You want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” A car passed by the front of the house. Sarah seemed to watch it through the living room walls. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a glass of water?”
I got her some water with ice. Myself, a Coke.
“You want to talk about today?” she said.
“You first. Tell me about the records center.”
“Pretty boring, actually.”
“Really?” I took a sip and felt the spring inside unwind a little. Boring was exactly what I needed.
“They had a file on Harrison,” Sarah said. “Briefs, pleadings, trial transcripts. Some documents that were entered into evidence.”
“And?”
“It had been redacted to hell. Almost all of the substantive information was blacked out.”
“Is that unusual?”
“I asked the clerk, but she had no idea.” Sarah zipped open her backpack and pulled out a stack of papers. “I made copies of some things, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“You show Havens what you got?”
She nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was working on an angle.”
“Huh.” I thumbed through her stuff. Sarah was right. It seemed pretty much useless.
“I think we might be wasting our time,” she said.
I looked up. “On Harrison?”
“Yes.”
“I disagree.”
“Why?”
“First of all, if you believe the cops stopped me to get that paperwork, then someone’s scared.”
“But it’s not evidence.”
“Second, there might be a way to get back some of the stuff I lost today.”
“How?”
“Hang on.” I went into the kitchen and came back with a pen and pad of paper.
“You going to write something?” she said.
“Not yet. For right now we need to sit and be quiet.”
A light flush stained her cheeks and a small smile played across Sarah’s lips. “Quiet, you say?”
“Absolute quiet.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We aren’t going to do anything. I’m going to relax. You just sit.”
I settled myself in an old leather recliner and closed my eyes. My body softened. My heart slowed. I counted forty-two beats a minute. Then thirty-seven. Somewhere Sarah fidgeted, but I was already slipping under. Thirty-five beats. I focused on my breathing. Inhale through one nostril. Exhale out the other. Flesh and bones melted away until only the core remained. The thump of my heart. The pump in my lungs. The third floor of the Cook County warehouse flickered across the back of my eyelids and came to life. I watched patiently, as if through a sheer curtain. Files from the Wingate case sat on a crooked wooden table. Havens stood to one side, making his copies. I pushed the curtain aside. The colors flared and hurt my eyes until I had to retreat. I waited a moment and tried again. This time the images came into a slow focus. The Wingate files were laid out on the table. Lines of dark print. Drawings. Scrawled notes and numbers. I saw each page distinctly. And yet all at once. My scalp tingled. My fingers itched. The images flashed past until they became a blur. Then there was nothing but heaviness. The download had finished.
I blinked my eyes open. Sarah was staring at me.
“How long has it been?” I said.
She checked her phone. “Ten minutes?”
I picked up a pen and began to write. She started to say something, but I stopped her. A half hour later, I’d finished. Sarah leafed through a dozen pages of scribble. Not perfect, but I figured I’d gotten back 60 percent of what the cops had taken.
“You have a photographic memory?” She was looking at me like I might be radioactive.
“If only. I have what they call a highly selective, short-term memory that has some eidetic components to it. If I focus and visualize, I can sometimes recall things for a very short period of time. Then they’re gone forever. I can also do numbers. See different combinations of digits, equations in my head.”
“You’re Good Will Hunting.”
“Hardly.”
Sarah scooted a little closer. “Names, phone numbers. You’ve even reconstructed some of the autopsy sketches.”
I went to the bathroom for some aspirin. Whatever kind of memory I had, it always gave me a headache. This one seemed especially bad. When I returned, Sarah was typing away on her iPhone.
“What are you doing?”
She hit SEND and looked up. “Just told Jake Havens we’ve gotten back our notes from the evidence warehouse. And we have a genius in the class.”
“I only got sixty percent of what we lost.”
“Close enough. Besides, the genius stuff will kill him. You want to go through all this? Maybe try to clean it up?”
“Might as well.”
For the next three hours Sarah and I translated what I’d written into a coherent narrative. When we were finished, we sat back and read. The first few pages were mostly descriptions of the crime scene, comments by investigators on pieces of evidence and possible leads. I’d been able to recall some details from Harrison’s arrest report and the bare bones of a memo I’d glimpsed from the files of the Cook County state’s attorney. The latter summarized the blow-by-blow of James Harrison’s trial. Best I could tell, there hadn’t been much of one.
The county’s case against Harrison consisted of an eyewitness named Bobby Atkinson who saw a man and a boy near Peterson Avenue at four-thirty in the afternoon on the day Skylar disappeared. The man fit Harrison’s description and was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. According to Atkinson, the boy looked a lot like Skylar. The state also presented evidence of a bloodstain on Harrison’s jeans that was matched for type to the boy. DNA testing was available in Cook County in 1998, but neither the state nor the defense requested it. Harrison declined to take the stand in his own defense and offered no clear alibi. The entire proceeding took a day and a half. The jury deliberated for less than an hour. I dropped my notes onto the coffee table.
“Guilty or not, this guy didn’t get the trial he deserved,” I said and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”
“A little past eleven. You must be tired.”
“I’m not that bad.”
“How about we get out of here? Go get a drink?”
“Nevin’s?”
“I’ve got something better in mind.” Sarah was smiling when she said it.
15
The vodka was cold, and the bottle passed easily between us.
“I love it out here at night.” Sarah dug her feet down into the sand. We were sitting on an empty beach, less than a mile from Fisk Hall. The wind was up, and the lake was crested in white. The surf moaned in the darkness.
“You come here a lot?” I said.
“Sometimes. When it’s like this.” She held out her hand, and I passed the Absolut. I’d found it, cold and lonely, in my freezer. Sarah took a sip and handed it back.
“You ever been in love, Ian?”
My response was a grin that was lopsided and leaking at the edges.
“What was her name?” Sarah said.
“Never mind.”
“Why do you hold back?”
“What does that mean?”
“You hold back. Pieces of yourself. In class. Out of class. Now, when we’re just talking.”
I waggled the bottle in front of her. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Four years in school and no one ever knew you. Hardly anything.”
“And you think that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.” She edged a toe through the sand and kept her eyes down as she spoke. “Is it because of your mom?” She looked up. “I’m sorry. Should I not talk about that?”
“If you shouldn’t talk about it, then don’t. If you do talk about it, don’t ask for permission after the fact.”
“Ian …”
“You think I just started existing because you’re suddenly aware of me?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I knew it wasn’t what she meant. And I hated that it had turned ugly. “Don’t worry about it.” I wiped my mouth. She looked over carefully.
“I’m serious, Sarah. My mom’s situation was what it was. Did I keep to myself because of it?” I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’m not complaining.”
“It’s okay to complain.”
“I know that.” I took another hit from the bottle, desperate to regain that Absolut glow. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t care.”
“Ian …”
“It all right, Sarah. Really.”
We sat some more and let the night settle around us. We were close by the water, and the breeze kept us dry.
“Can I tell you something else?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I’m glad we met. Even if it did take four years plus.” Her smile lit up the darkness between us, and suddenly everything was all right again.
“Me, too.”
“Good.” She leaned across and kissed me lightly. Easily. It tasted like citrus and sand. Then she was on her feet.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“For a swim.”
“Bullshit.”
She turned and padded silently toward the water, shedding clothes as she went. I got up and followed. I’d have been a fool not to.
16
The man with yellow eyes sat on the beach, a hundred paces south. Might as well have been a mile away for all they knew. He could tell they were drinking and imagined how the rest of it might go. But that didn’t interest him. Unless he decided to kill them. Then everything changed.
The girl got up and began to run in his direction, at an angle toward the water. He watched her strip off her shirt. Then her shorts. The boy sat in the sand, like a fucking idiot. Finally he got up and hobbled, almost bent at the waist, toward the surf. The man with the yellow eyes understood now what he’d sensed in the woods. All in all, it made perfect sense. The man crept forward, drifting like a dark sigh along the water’s edge and taking a small inhale before slipping beneath a wave. He stroked to within fifty feet of the two of them and surfaced. Then he treaded water. And listened.
17
I could just see her as she hit the surf, body arched, cutting into the face of a wave as it broke and popping up on the other side. And then she was swimming, a strong freestyle stroke, up and over the next roller. Best I could tell from the trail of clothes, Sarah Gold still had her bra and panties on. Part of me was disappointed. Part was relieved. I stripped down to my underwear and tested the temperature.
It was barely July in Chicago. The lake hadn’t warmed up a whole lot when the sun was out. At night it was out of the question. Except, apparently, for Sarah. I put a foot in and gasped. She was maybe twenty yards out now and turning to look back. Cold be damned, I ran until I was waist-deep. I couldn’t feel my legs, but that was okay. She rose up out of the water and waved. I took a deep breath and plunged into a wave. Sarah was waiting on the other side.
“Sobers you up, huh?” She whipped her head free of water and tucked her hair behind her ears.
“Freezing.”
She ducked into a wave and paddle kicked back out. “Stay in the water. You’ll keep warm.”
I wasn’t much of a swimmer, but I followed anyway. I was fairly certain I’d follow Sarah Gold all the way to Canada if she had a mind. Or die trying, with a big smile on my face. We paddled past the line of surf. The water wasn’t as rough out here, and we bobbed up and down, treading water as the rollers swept past.
“I used to lifeguard every summer,” Sarah said, her voice lonely in the lake at night.
“Where?”
She nodded in the general direction of Michigan. “Harbor Springs.”
I knew about Harbor Springs. Or at least had seen the pictures. Clear blue water, deep, sandy beaches, and carpets of thick grass rolled up to gabled homes with long sweeping porches and wicker furniture. Men with white teeth and heavy gold watches. Women with flawless complexions and wide-brimmed hats. Everyone tanned, living forever, and drinking gin and tonics.
“Heard it’s nice,” I said.
“It’s where I’m from.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just that everyone’s from somewhere, and you wear it like a second skin. Anyway, it’s a long way from Chicago.”
“Yes, it is.”
We treaded water for a while longer. The sky was black and deep, impossibly huge, with a handful of pale stars tossed across it. A breeze kicked up around us, and I felt my body spasm in the cold. Sarah seemed immune to it.
“I’m not the gre
atest swimmer,” I said.
“You’re doing fine.”
A wave caught me on the chin, and I spit out a little water. “Yeah, well, it’s fucking cold.”
She laughed. “Come here. I’ll warm you up.”
Sarah moved close and wrapped her legs around mine. I could feel the strength in her thighs as she gripped me.
“In lifeguard training they taught us how to share body heat.” She spit a small bit of water from her mouth.
“Oh, yeah?” I could hear the strain and catch in my voice.
“Yeah.” Sarah moved closer, rubbing her entire body against mine. The water temperature might have been sixty degrees, but things were happening. And Sarah couldn’t help but feel it. “It’s critical that we stay warm,” she said. Her face was inches from mine, both arms draped around my shoulders.
“You think so?”
We bobbed up and down on a wave as she nodded. I felt myself falling toward her. This kiss was the real thing, long, deep, and wet. I could feel her breasts against my chest, her nipples hard through the fabric. We pulled apart but kept our bodies touching. Her eyes were closed, face upturned and edged in moonlight. “That was nice.” Sarah opened her eyes and splashed me. “Race you back.” Then she was gone again, ducking under the water and knifing away.
I followed her back in, the waves pushing us home. She streamed up and out of the water. I struggled in the surf, which, truth be told, wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I needed a little time for Mother Nature to settle before stepping onto the beach. So I wallowed and watched. Sarah walked without a trace of self-consciousness. Body, tanned and cut. Legs, lean muscle, perfectly proportioned. She was beautiful. As beautiful as she’d ever be. And I suddenly felt sad because of it.
Sarah picked up her clothes, found a rock to sit on, and got dressed. When it was safe, I came out of the water. She was waiting up the beach.
“That was fun.” She handed me the vodka, but I wasn’t as interested. “Fun” wasn’t the word I was looking for, although I certainly would have accepted it an hour ago. Had the stakes shifted? Sarah Gold and Ian Joyce? A couple? I chuckled and changed my mind about the bottle.
The Innocence Game Page 6
