Abby crossed the room to one corner where someone had set a gorgeous seashell, a huge conch, on a tiny ornate table. She ran her fingertips lightly over the unfurled lip that was ruffled and tinged a shade of pink as delicate as the curl of sea foam at dawn. On the wall above it, a small, framed oil painting led her eye through an open garden gate and down a flower-bordered path. There were shelves on another wall filled with books and photographs, and in a windowed alcove that gave a view of the back of the property, a dining table for two in front of the window held a green glass vase filled with dried grasses.
She could have chosen these furnishings herself, Abby thought; she could move into this little home this very instant and be comfortable, delighted even, to live here. She thought of Hank’s house in Houston, its drab, sterile environment created by Kim to keep Caitlin well. The comparison to this home, to this shabby but studied, soft elegance, was more than curious; it was disconcerting. Did Caitlin not come here? Abby went around the high, rolled arm of a sofa that was pulled at an angle near the iron-bellied stove. The dark, tufted leather was worn, but the sofa looked well made, heavy and durable. An afghan matching the faded colors of the area rug was tangled among the cushions as if someone might have recently lain beneath it and tossed it aside.
Abby couldn’t take her eyes off it. If her nose wasn’t full of the smell of dust, if the wood stove behind her wasn’t cold, she would think someone was here, that they had only straightened up and gone out for a walk.
Hank reappeared.
“You said Sondra was into interior design. Did she do the decorating here?” Abby asked. “It’s so different from your home in Houston.”
Hank said she did. He said, “Some of the things were her grandmother’s.” He crossed the room and picked up the conch. “We found this in Spain, Marbella. Sondra had to have it. Cost a fortune. It’s perfect, did you notice? Not a break anywhere. We found the painting there, too. She was on a bender that trip.”
“A bender?” Abby remembered Hank had used the word before when he’d mentioned Sondra and the dancing.
Hank put the shell down. “Kitchen’s through there.” He gestured toward the archway. “Bedrooms and a bathroom are down the hall.”
All at once, Abby realized how much she needed a bathroom. “Could I...?”
“Last door on the left,” he said.
The bathroom was colder than the rest of the cabin but very clean. The porcelain fixtures, a vintage, claw-footed tub, pedestal sink and toilet, were stained from hard water, from age and use, rust-edged, like the floor tiles, but still, the surfaces had a just-scrubbed gleam.
Abby hung her jacket on an iron hook on the back of the door and used the toilet. A sense of foreboding stood up in one corner of her mind; she pushed it down, washed her hands, patted cold water onto her cheeks, her closed eyes.
She looked into the bedrooms on her way out. A pair of old iron, twin-size beds furnished the smaller of the two, and a handsomely carved, antique four-poster, a double, sat in the larger bedroom. A wedge of ash-colored light fell across the matelassé coverlet. Two flattish pillows cased in crochet-trimmed cotton lay at its head. She didn’t want to imagine Nick in this room, that bed, and she left before she could.
Hank had started coffee when Abby joined him. “So, what’s next?” he asked. “Do you want to search the place?”
She laughed nervously and tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “Everything is so clean.”
He looked around. “Yeah, I guess no one’s ever here enough to make a mess.”
He went back into the kitchen. Abby studied the collection of photographs. They were mostly candid shots of Caitlin: on the bank of a lazy stream balancing an inner tube around her middle, sitting in a boat with an outboard motor, standing on a dock, dimpled arms encased in floaties, holding a fishing pole. Obviously she came here. Abby lifted a photo that had been taken outside on the porch. Hank was sitting on the bench. Caitlin was on her knees at his feet, holding up a Barbie doll, grinning into the camera. Other Barbie things were strewn around her, half concealed in nests of brightly patterned wrapping paper. It looked like a birthday party. Kim had said Caitlin hated Barbie. But it didn’t look as if she did from the picture.
Abby returned it to the shelf, took down another, an eight-by-ten, that showed Caitlin holding hands with a woman who was dressed in a flamingo-pink bikini top cut low to reveal her generous cleavage and a matching sarong tied to showcase her sleek torso and pierced navel. Abby carried the photo to the window, tipping it toward the light. The woman had to be Caitlin’s mother. This was Sondra, slim and lithe and lovely. Abby could see now where Caitlin had gotten her angelic beauty. Sondra’s features were as delicate, and her blond hair, like Caitlin’s, cupped her finely molded jaw. A wisp of bangs fell provocatively across her dark eyes. Sondra was bent slightly at the waist, gazing adoringly down at Caitlin, who was smiling up at her. A fashion advertisement couldn’t have been more intimately posed.
Or a centerfold out of Playboy.
She likes attention. Craves it, actually. What Hank had said about his wife trailed through Abby’s mind. He had looked half-killed with shame and lustfulness when he’d said it; he had been agitated. Abby set her fingertip near the image of Sondra’s face. She couldn’t put this woman together with this cabin, couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Abby put the photo back, knocking over a smaller photo in the process. She fumbled to rearrange things, feeling clumsy and furious. The awful foreboding, that terrible prescient monster in her mind, was growing, pushing an image at her of Nick and Sondra together. And it seemed so possible. On a certain level, Abby saw Sondra as Nick’s sort of woman. All elegance and dazzle, but not flagrant, not in-your-face. And she was adventurous, clearly up for anything. Sondra would take risks; she would embrace them. Nick would go for that. He’d be intrigued by it.
But, no. Abby gave her head a small, firm shake. Nick having a fling with Sondra was no more possible than Nick having partnered with Adam Sandoval, no more possible than the ridiculous notion that the three were involved in some kind of outlandish corporate robbery scheme. That was the stuff of television crime shows or Hollywood thrillers. She crossed the room to the dining alcove and looked out the window. A shed stood in a clearing some fifty feet away, but the woods were reaching for it, would soon reclaim it and the land it sat on, if cutting wasn’t done. It relieved Abby somehow to think of the upkeep on this place, what it must cost in terms of time and money. Didn’t Nick complain that he never had enough of either? Wasn’t it silly to think he would hide himself away here—but suddenly her attention was diverted by a flash of movement.
Abby focused on trees clustered nearest the shed. A person, she thought. But who would be out there? It was so damp and freezing.
Hank joined her, handing her a mug. “Couldn’t remember if you took sugar or anything.”
“Black’s fine.” Abby was glad just to cradle the warmth in her hands. “I thought I saw someone out there.”
“Hunter, probably. It’s the season.”
She thought of the fawn again. She started to tell Hank the rescue story, but then she couldn’t bear being so close to him. She felt a renewed sense of pity for him, that he was so homely and morose, so dull. Insurance, she thought. Why didn’t he find a better occupation than selling insurance? He might keep Sondra’s interest if he made more money. Or why didn’t he join a gym and work out? If he got into shape, maybe Sondra wouldn’t have to go off and dance naked for other men. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go after someone else’s husband. Abby went to the sofa, unsure of herself and the hot, panicked direction of her thoughts. She yanked on the afghan thinking she would fold it or jam it in her mouth before she screamed.
Something came with it. A pillow, she thought. But when she gave the blanket a sharp shake, what dropped to the floor was a jacket. Brown leather, the same as the couch.
Bomber style. Abby stepped back, clutching the afghan to her chest as if she might be in danger of attack. Then thrusting the coverlet aside, she went to her knees, putting her fingers on the jacket, pulling it toward her, turning it over, examining it, finally standing with it in her hands to find Hank watching her.
She held it out to him. “It’s Nick’s. I gave it to him for Christmas last year.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding?”
Abby said she wasn’t. “How did it get here?”
“What do you mean, how? On his goddamn back is how.”
Abby ran a hand down one sleeve.
“I guess that about says it.”
“It could be something else,” Abby said, and when Hank laughed, she hated him for it, for making her feel she was naïve and a fool, for making her think Nick had betrayed her. “But it was at home. After the flood, I mean. I saw it there last summer, in June, or no, it was May, the end of May.” I put it on, wanting him, wanting his arms around me….
“He must have gone back there for it.”
“What are you saying? You think he’s alive?”
“I got the impression that’s what you’ve believed all along. Why else would you contact me and suggest we come up here, if you didn’t think there was a chance he was alive? You wanted proof, one way or the other, and now you have it.”
Abby couldn’t take it in, what Hank was saying.
“Look, you told me you didn’t stay at home all the time after the flood last April. You stayed with your mom or with your friend at her ranch. Your husband could have snuck back. He could have gotten his jacket. Maybe he got other stuff. You ever check?”
“Not really,” Abby said. She told him how she’d found a window open once, and, on a couple of other occasions, lights had been inexplicably turned on. “The last time I came home, the back door was ajar.”
Hank kept nodding, kept repeating, “It was him.”
Abby ignored Hank. “The jacket was in the closet in May,” she said, trying to sort it out. “I found it and I found this.” She dug into the inside pocket and pulled out Nick’s checkbook, waving it at Hank. “I hunted for this the other day. I needed a check to pay the plumber, and when it wasn’t there, in the closet, I thought I’d moved it myself.” Abby held the jacket away from her by its shoulders, staring at it as if it might offer an explanation. “Now it’s here and there’s no way it’s possible. No way,” she repeated.
Hank snorted. “Get a grip, woman! Don’t you see? Men do this shit all the time. They duck out on their old life, especially when it sucks the way your old man’s did. They fake their death, whatever it takes.”
“Nick’s life did not suck!”
“Hah! You’re the one who told me how down he was on himself, how he wasn’t acting right. Didn’t you say that? So he hooks up with Sondra at work, they get a thing going. Wouldn’t be the first time for her. Goddammit!”
“You honestly believe your wife and Nick have been together here, that they’re—”
“Fucking each other! You’re holding the fucking proof!” Hank stalked into the kitchen and out again. He returned to the window and leaned stiff-armed against the frame.
Abby dropped the jacket onto the sofa, dropped herself down beside it, dropped her face into her hands and tried to think. She had imagined it was the reporter, Nadine Betts, who was her intruder, and that had seemed preposterous, but to suppose it was Nick? That he had come home at some point between May and now and taken his jacket and possibly other belongings? How insane was it to believe that? Abby remembered her mother saying that when your mind is without an explanation, it will invent one. Is that what was happening? Were she and Hank inventing a story to suit facts that weren’t more than conjecture?
Abby uncovered her face. “You don’t think they’re here now, do you?”
“You see them anywhere? You see a car? Jesus Christ. They’re long gone. If they helped Sandoval rob that settlement fund, you can bet all three of them are out of the country by now.”
“What about Lindsey? Did they take her? Would they take her and leave Caitlin? You said Sondra was devoted to her. None of this makes any sense.”
“It makes perfect goddamn sense.”
Abby could see Hank had made up his mind.
“The cops were right about Sondra when they said she’d run off with some guy and made herself a new life. Your husband was the guy; he’s done the same thing. That jerk Sandoval, too.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Abby said, but now she felt uncertain. “We should call the police.” She looked around for her purse where she’d stowed her cell phone, and when she realized she’d left it in the car, she started for the door. “If it’s even remotely possible, what you’re saying—” Was it? “It means Lindsey is with them. She could be—Oh my God, Hank! She could be alive!”
Abby turned to him, feeling almost manic in her excitement, wanting to see his reaction. He met her gaze, but his expression was troubled, intense in a way that was unsettling. It was as if he didn’t see her.
“Hank?” she prompted.
He didn’t answer.
His breath was audible and the pulse she’d noticed earlier was jittering under the skin at the corner of his jaw again. She would think later she should have realized what was happening; she should have remembered what he told her about his temper. She might have remembered if he hadn’t turned away and rested his forehead against the window, if he hadn’t in that moment seemed so defeated.
Abby saw his shoulders heave. She heard a small sound of distress, but that might have come from her. She was still holding Nick’s jacket and she lifted it to her face to stifle the noise.
Hank said something about Caitlin and the light she put on for Sondra in the window at home every night. “How can a mother do this to a kid who loves her like that?”
Abby thought he was addressing her, that he wanted an answer, but when she looked, Hank’s back was still turned, his forehead still pressed to the window. She wondered if he was crying, if she should go to him, if she could, but then suddenly he wheeled on her.
“What kind of—?” he began, but then his voice broke and before Abby could register his intention, he spun back to the window and drove his fist through the glass, shouting, “That fucking whore!”
The noise as the window shattered seemed to go on forever. As if in slow motion, Abby saw Hank pull his hand to his chest; she saw herself rise and cross the room to him. And then he was going down, folding, buckling, an injured animal run to ground, driven to its knees. She tried, but she couldn’t help him. She staggered in her attempt to brace him with her body. But she was too light. He collapsed to his side, drawing himself into a knot, good hand cradling the injured hand. She knelt and spoke his name. His gaze locked with hers, and she saw the anguish in his eyes and something else. Something manic and furious, a rage so profound that it shook her worse than the sight of his blood.
“Hold on,” she told him. She straightened, and using what mental strength she could muster, she went into the kitchen and found dish towels folded in a drawer. As she dampened the top one, she saw that it was hand-appliquéd with the patchwork figure of an old-fashioned girl in a bonnet hanging out the wash. Under her tiny feet, a lilting row of embroidery spelled: Laundry on Monday. It had probably belonged to Sondra’s grandmother, Abby thought. And then she thought: what a shame it will be ruined now, as if the loss of a vintage dish towel could matter.
She found tweezers in the bathroom, and back in the dining alcove, she knelt beside Hank again and grasped his elbow. “Can you sit up?”
He obeyed docilely, like a child. She set the damp towel to one side and draped a dry towel, Visit on Friday, over her forearm, waiter-style. He balanced his palm on it. Delicately, she picked out the slivers of glass she could see. Then, with the damp towel,
she began dabbing at the wounds, applying gentle pressure. A jagged gash running roughly perpendicular to his knuckles was especially deep and continued to bleed each time she drew the cloth away. “I think you need stitches.”
He didn’t answer.
She began wrapping his hand in a fresh towel, leaving his fingers free, tucking the loose end near his wrist. Then, keeping his hand in both of hers, she squatted in front of him. His eyes were unfocused. His face was gray and beaded with sweat. What if he was going into shock? She felt pulled toward that edge herself, and she fought it. “Hank?” she said.
No response.
“We have to get you to a doctor. Can you stand up?” She slid her hand under his forearm.
He jerked his elbow as if her touch offended him. “I’m all right,” he said, and rising unsteadily to his feet, he went into the kitchen, leaving her to watch in disbelief as he unwrapped the bandage she’d made, turned on the tap, thrust his injured hand under the water and groaned.
* * *
Hank wouldn’t let Abby drive. He’d rewrapped his injured hand himself in a clean towel, Mending on Wednesday, and he used his left hand to steer. They were headed down the winding road. Toward Bandera, Abby guessed, although they hadn’t discussed where they were going. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse.
“I doubt you can get a signal this far out,” Hank said.
Abby punched in the Bandera County sheriff’s office number and hit send, but as Hank predicted, there was no reception.
“The local cops won’t find them anyway, if that’s who you’re calling, not if they’ve left the country.”
Abby looked at Hank. He was pale and haggard, but he seemed calmer now; he seemed all right or as all right as he could ever be. She thought she could talk to him; she had to talk to him. “I want to let Sheriff Henderson know we found the jacket. I want him to know what you suspect. It could mean Lindsey’s alive, Hank.” She repeated what she had tried to tell him earlier, before he put his fist through the window.
Evidence of Life Page 21
