by Glenn Meade
“The police wouldn’t confirm or deny it. But it makes some kind of sense. Why would anyone deliberately want to kill Jan?”
Carla looked toward the window, a sickening emptiness in the pit of her stomach. She had been trembling, and now she began to shake violently. She slid down her hand, felt where her baby was growing in her stomach. She should have felt joy, but at that moment she felt nothing, only despair. “I . . . I can’t believe this . . .”
“None of us can, Carla. It’s so senseless.”
The door opened and the doctor with the bandana reappeared. “Mrs. Joran, sorry to intrude but I had a question for Carla.”
He came over and took hold of Carla’s right arm, his fingertips touching the series of thin, faintly raised scars down her arm. “When did this injury happen?”
Baize replied, “A long time ago. When Carla was eleven. Why, is anything the matter?”
“Just professional curiosity. I worked in microsurgery for a time. What happened exactly?”
Baize hesitated. “An . . . an accident. Carla cut her arm badly on a broken window pane.”
The doctor let go of Carla’s arm, gave a brief smile. “It’s excellent work. The surgeon did a good job.”
He moved back toward the door. “I’m sorry for interrupting. But we’ve got some more tests to do, so we’ll need more time with your granddaughter, Mrs. Joran.” His eyes met Carla’s. “You know about Jan . . . ?”
“Yes.” Carla felt the branding iron pain again.
“I always prefer that a patient has a little time to recover before they have to be told news. That isn’t always possible. We did everything we could. If it’s any consolation, Jan wouldn’t have felt a thing. He was unconscious when they brought him in, and never regained consciousness. I’m truly sorry.”
Carla said nothing. There was nothing she could say that would have changed anything. She felt fragile. As if there were thin ice beneath her feet and it could crack at any time and plunge her into freezing water.
And then the door closed and the doctor was gone.
• • •
Later that evening, two police detectives from the Midtown North Precinct came to see her.
One was named Soames; he was about fifty, with expensive white teeth.
The second detective, Reilly, had thick, wild red hair, with muscular arms, mid-thirties.
They asked about Jan’s work, if he had any enemies, if he owed anyone money, had any connections to organized crime, or to a terrorist group, or knew anyone who did.
It seemed absurd to ask such questions of Jan, but the detectives wanted to know everything. They were very thorough men, probing her gently and tactfully, taking notes, but they seemed confused about a motive for the blast.
“Was it a bomb?”
“Yes, it was, ma’am. A pipe bomb under your Volvo.”
“How did it get there?”
“We’ve no idea yet. It could have been placed there deliberately or it could have been meant for another vehicle and rolled under your car by accident. We can’t tell yet how it was detonated until we find more evidence.”
“My grandmother said the newspapers are claiming it was a case of mistaken identity.”
White Teeth, the older of the two detectives, spread his hands. “That’s really the only sensible answer we can come up with right now. There was over a hundred and fifty VIPs and dignitaries at the concert that night. Any one of them might have been a target.”
“Don’t you have any clues?”
Red Hair ran a hand though his Celtic mop. “Not really, Mrs. Lane. We’ve a lot of backgrounds to check. This is going to take time. We’ll likely need to talk with you some more. We’d also appreciate it if you inform us if you need to leave the state or the country for any reason.”
“Why?”
“Ma’am, until we know the reason for your husband’s death, and what we’re dealing with here, I’d like to know you’re safe. So if you get any suspicious calls, or you feel in any kind of danger, you call us at once.”
They finally left, leaving her their cards, and then Carla was alone.
She felt exhausted, every part of her racked by a powerful fatigue as if her senses were shutting down; the body’s way of handling the stress and aftershock.
She looked at her hands—they were numbly folding and unfolding the corners of her blanket.
Survival was the thing, she knew. She had to get through these days, for her baby’s sake. She would do whatever she had to.
Just before midnight a nurse came and took her blood pressure and gave her a mild sedative. She closed her eyes after that, her mind lingering in that place where a flimsy curtain hangs between reality and dreams.
As she lay there, on the edge of sleep, a mad, disjointed film clattered behind her closed eyes.
The parking lot near Carnegie Hall, a smiling Jan coming toward her, the explosion, a burst of white, celestial light; the faces of a small, emaciated boy staring up at her with huge sad eyes; a woman’s frail hand, outstretched toward her. A bright lightbulb swinging in a dark room. A fluttering of snowflakes falling on woods on a cold winter’s night.
The images floated ghostlike, as if in some distant world.
Aware that she was sobbing, she drew up her legs, her hands between her knees in the fetal position, like a child seeking the comfort of its mother’s womb, until at last sleep claimed her with its velvet embrace.
6
* * *
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Sunrise.
Orange rays splaying their fingers of light across the parched desert.
The man was still awake, lounging on the couch, watching the TV screen with a blank stare.
He hadn’t slept all night and the glass in his hand was empty of Scotch. He scratched his unshaven jaw, stood, and checked the bottle.
A dribble remained.
He ran a hand though his hair. The cable TV was showing The Three Stooges. He stood there, watching the screen with sunken red eyes.
Larry hitting Moe on the head with a baseball bat and then Moe chasing Larry around in circles. He’d watched those reruns so many times as a kid and always laughed out loud at that scene. He wasn’t laughing now.
Upstairs, his wife and daughters slept. Their photographs adorned the shelves. The girls aged nine and twelve. His wife, all-American, blond, beautiful. The family photos on the walls, the ranch, the art pieces scattered about the house, all attested to his perfect life.
The ranch was on five acres in a desirable subdivision, with his studio on the side. Never a hint of trouble in his life in the last twenty years.
And now this.
He swallowed the last dribble of Scotch, and tossed the bottle on the couch.
He felt drunk.
He wanted to feel even more drunk.
To forget.
There had to be something else to drink. Vodka? Wine? Windex? Scope mouthwash as a last resort.
He could have slept, given in to exhaustion and rested his tortured mind, but he knew he wanted to wallow, to feel his pain. Like a man on top of a burning building who had a rope thrown to him from a rescue helicopter, he didn’t want that rope, not just yet: Give me a moment here, okay? Let me feel the searing agony.
He padded into the kitchen, like a sleepwalker. The suitcases were still in the corner, and looking at them made the memories crowd in on him again. He searched among the cupboards.
No alcohol.
He swore.
He needed fresh air.
He lurched toward the patio door, slid it open, the sun already warming his skin. Not branding-iron hot yet, but give it a few hours.
The rich red Arizona soil stretched to distant hills. He took a deep breath and stood there looking out at the desert sunrise, as they had often stood as kids, and felt his memories attack him. He wanted to cry. But he’d cried so much these last few days he had no tears left.
Then something odd clicked in the back of his mind.
The dog.
The dog hadn’t barked.
The dog hadn’t come to greet him.
The dog always barked and greeted him with a wagging tail when he came out in the morning.
Colleen’s kennel was around the side of the house.
He’d made sure to leave enough food and water for while they were away. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen or heard Colleen when they got home last night. He’d been too distracted to take any notice. The dog often wandered off into the desert alone.
He stepped out into the yard.
Taking a deep breath of air into his lungs he stretched his arms again.
That’s when he saw the black clump about fifty yards from the back of the house.
His heart beating faster, he walked out, and saw the dog lying on her side.
Colleen’s mouth was open, her tongue hanging out.
A crimson gash stained the soil around the dog’s neck where its throat had been cut.
The man recoiled, stumbling to the ground, and threw up.
He wiped his mouth and pushed himself up.
Suddenly he felt stone-cold sober.
And close to tears again.
He didn’t want his wife and daughters to see the dog. Didn’t want them to know. He looked out at the desert.
Nothing.
A few neighbors’ houses nearby, but no sign of life. Not even a whisper of wind.
Frantically, he kicked over the crimson with sandy soil until the red Arizona earth covered the blood.
Then he ran to the garage to fetch the shovel.
7
* * *
NEW YORK
The sun was struggling that day, angry white waves clawing the Long Island shoreline.
Not like the kind of days when she and Jan would swim in the sea.
Baize pulled up in the driveway and switched off the engine.
Carla looked at the yellow painted door among the row of neat detached houses overlooking the gray Atlantic.
Once, the house had offered everything she and Jan wanted: peace, comfort, the sea, a place to start a family. Now it looked empty, the curtains drawn. Jan’s favorite rocking chair abandoned on the porch, next to hers.
Baize touched her arm as Carla went to climb out. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Let me come with you?”
“I’d prefer to go in alone.”
“Carla . . .”
“Please. I want to stay here tonight.”
“You really think that’s such a good idea?”
“Maybe not, but I have to.”
Baize sighed. “Okay, just let me drive over to my place and grab a change of clothes and some toiletries.”
Carla opened the car door.
“Give me a little while, okay? There are some things I need to do.”
• • •
She put the key in the yellow door. The wood creaked as she moved inside.
Home. Not that Carla could call it home anymore, not with Jan gone, but right now it was where she had to be.
The hallway was cluttered with mail. Mostly letters addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jan Lane. She placed them on the hall table. Glancing back, she saw Baize start the car, then roll down the window and light a herbal cigarette.
Baize waved.
She waved back, and the car drove away.
In the front room, the big old Zeiss telescope on its tripod still pointed seaward. She recalled the first day she and Jan were shown the house, by a little old real estate lady named Myrtle, in her eighties and long past retirement, and who wore a hearing aid and kept reminding them, “Just remember, I’m not completely deaf, so don’t be afraid to make me an offer.”
She recalled the first time they made love here.
And the last.
Now Jan was gone. She simply couldn’t believe it, or the manner of his death—there was no logic to it.
But she still sensed him, in this house.
Her hand went down to touch her pregnant stomach, as if to reassure herself. That morning when she woke she felt a touch of nausea, but the doctor told her nausea and fatigue were to be expected in pregnancy.
She walked through every room, taking in the smells. In the bedroom, the big walnut bed was made up with white cotton sheets. She pulled back the curtains and sunlight drenched the room.
She remembered summer mornings when she and Jan would run out into the waves together, giggling and laughing like kids.
She felt that nothing could ease her anguish. She would never hear Jan’s voice or laughter again, never see him.
She felt so desolate that a part of her felt like walking down to the sea, and pushing out into the white waves, and not coming back.
For no reason she could fathom she crossed to the closet, removed all of Jan’s clothes, and flung them on the bed.
A frightening surge of anger raged through her, and it felt molten hot. She was furious at Jan being taken away from her, furious at losing him just when their life together was beginning.
Tears racked her, and she flailed her fists on the bed and tore at the clothes, until all her strength was gone and she lay there, feeling completely broken, and her eyes were red and dry.
• • •
“If it’s any consolation, I felt the same way after your grandfather died.”
“Tell me.”
“The day they called me and told me his helicopter was shot down on a training exercise, that there was no hope, I was devastated. It felt as if my entire world had ended.”
They sat in the rockers on the porch, Baize touching Carla’s arm.
“You were in school. I took all Dan’s clothes out of the closets, piled them high, and lay on top of them, sobbing my eyes out. It was as if I was trying to will him back.”
Carla always wished she’d known her grandfather better. An army colonel, he’d died when she was sixteen. “Did you have dreams, too?”
Baize laughed. “Dreams? It was like your grandma was on crack, sweetie.”
“Troubled dreams?”
“You bet. They came at me like a bayonet charge.”
“Tell me.”
“I guess it was because we’d been so close all our lives. Dan and I were high school sweethearts. It didn’t matter that we were complete opposites. He was set on a military career, but me, I was something of a wild child. He used to jokingly call me his Yoko Ono.” Baize looked across. “Why, are you having dreams?”
“More like nightmares.”
“Have you been taking any medication?”
“Only folic acid for the baby. And your herbal sleeping pills at night to relax me.”
“Tell me about the nightmares.”
“It’s like a film playing over and over in my head.”
“What sort of film?”
Carla considered. “I see Jan’s death. The explosion. A white light. But other images are mixed in with them. Images I’ve been seeing for a while now. Months maybe.”
“What kind of images?”
“Strange ones. Bizarre, I guess.”
“Describe the images, Carla.”
“A woman with her hand outstretched is reaching toward me. A frail little boy stares up at me, as if he’s pleading for something. I see a swinging lightbulb in a darkened room. I see snowflakes falling at night. It’s so real, I can almost feel their coldness.”
Baize looked concerned. “These people, the woman and the boy.”
“What about them?”
“Could . . . could you see their faces?”
“No. I try to focus on the images, to make sense of it all, but I can’t. Why?”
“But the images disturb you?”
Carla looked at her. “Of course. And they seem to be getting more frequent. I’ve had them on and off now for months. They’re even more intense since Jan died.”
“Did you ever tell Jan?”
“I meant to that day in the restaurant but I never got the chance. Why?”
Baize bit her lower lip. “
I think there’s someone you ought to see, Carla.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Raymond Leon.”
“That nice man, your therapist friend?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he helped me. And I think he can help you with the nightmares. I don’t want you being troubled, especially not when you’re pregnant. I’ll make an appointment.”
“For when?”
“Tomorrow if he can fit you in. Will you do that for me, please? It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re talking to someone.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something I want to do in memory of Jan. And someone I need to see.”
• • •
That evening she booked the flight to Phoenix.
A Delta early bird leaving the next morning at seven.
Then she sat on her bed with the clock radio on.
Baize had placed a small wicker basket filled with fresh lavender on the nightstand, the scent calming. The music on the radio she recognized—the haunting strains of Led Zeppelin’s ballad “Stairway to Heaven.”
For a classical musician, she always thought Jan was a frustrated rocker at heart. It was one of his favorite pieces and it made her think of him, and suddenly she felt completely alone.
As she stood at the window she saw a young couple ramble along the beach. The man carried a little boy in his arms. The woman looked pregnant again, her belly swollen.
The couple touched their heads together as they shared a joke, and then the man leaned in to kiss the woman’s cheek.
Carla stared at them as they disappeared toward the sand dunes at Cove Point, where she and Jan used to like to swim.
She turned off the radio, lay down on her bed, and closed her eyes.
A little later she swallowed one of the green herbal pills with a glass of water and curled up, praying for sleep.
8
* * *
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
She took a cab from the airport and drove north in the shimmering heat.
The ranch property was in a quiet community. It was really two houses in one: an old ranch house built more than fifty years ago, and a large modern extension with an artist’s studio. A white Mustang was parked under a metal awning.
