Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2

by Jan Burke

  “That you could go back to being your old self?” Jack asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Give up on that one, Irene. Just about everything changes.” And with that, he said good night again and left.

  OVER THE NEXT WEEK or so, I tried to come to grips with the implications of just about everything changing. The first disappointment came with the unsettling realization that I was not going to heal overnight. I didn’t like being so dependent on others, but that was the simple fact of the matter. There was very little that I could do for myself, even when I started to be able to hobble around a little.

  There was also the fact that I was still feeling scared. Afraid that if I was alone I would be kidnapped. What were the odds? A million to one still made me break out in a cold sweat.

  Looking back on it, that week I did more feeling than thinking. It was as if everything I had tried to repress during my captivity came boiling up and over me. The terror of it demanded to be acknowledged.

  Frank’s support was unwavering, but I doubt that we could have made it through that time alone. Fortunately, we didn’t have to try. Lydia, Guy, Rachel, and Pete came by and spent hours with me, talked to me, watched me sleep, woke me from nightmares. Took care of and cared about me.

  When I protested to Rachel that she should find something more enjoyable to do with her vacation, she said, “What, I don’t look like I can make a decision? When I’m doing something I don’t want to be doing, you can put the story in that newspaper of yours. Basta.”

  Okay, enough. I didn’t mention it again.

  Two new friends were over fairly often: Jacob and Jack. Like my other friends, the first time Jacob came over, he was shaken by my appearance. But, like them, he recovered quickly. He was full of youthful energy and loaded with questions about working for newspapers. His father, I learned, had won the election. Julie’s parents had put her on restriction, so he hadn’t seen much of her. I imagined I would see less of him once she was paroled.

  Jack seemed to need to be around us, and he came by several times each day. He brought groceries, helped Lydia and Rachel cook, talked hockey with Guy and Pete. He did errands that would have taken up Frank’s time, allowing Frank to spend it with me instead.

  Jack was solicitous to me, and kept me company if none of my other baby-sitters could be there, but usually he allowed the others to pamper me.

  I woke up and limped out of the bedroom on Tuesday morning, and found him sitting on the couch with Cody, reading a book.

  “Rachel had to leave for a few minutes,” he said, looking up. “Need anything?”

  I shook my head and slowly made my way over to a chair. “What are you reading?”

  “Ovid,” he said, and laughed at my undisguised look of surprise.

  “I never know what to make of you, Jack,” I said, then felt embarrassed at my own bluntness. As usual, he didn’t seem to mind.

  “No, I guess not. And I suppose that extends beyond catching me reading the Metamorphoses.”

  I nodded. Jack never ceased to puzzle me. Two days before, I had found him sitting on the couch, working with a notebook computer. When I asked why a biker needed a computer, he told me that the notebook had been his first indulgence after coming into his inheritance; he found he needed a computer to keep track of his mother’s complex estate. I noticed that he had yet to go on a big spending spree; like his mother, he seemed to prefer to live simply.

  “Okay,” I said, “I give up. Why the Metamorphoses?”

  “As for that, my mother read more Greek mythology than Mother Goose to me when I was a little sprout. So I guess I just wanted to remind myself of those days.”

  “Oh.”

  He closed the book and studied me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “It’s just a mood, Jack. Give me five minutes — or maybe less — and it will change.”

  “So talk to me before the five minutes are up. I’d hate to miss the full impact of this one.”

  “Just feeling frustrated.”

  “About your injuries?”

  “Not this time — not any more than usual. It’s just that I know there’s a fourth person involved in all of this. The department won’t let Frank work on the case. I’m in a funk because Frank can’t seem to get anyone to even take the idea seriously.”

  “I guess they consider it a closed case.”

  “But it’s not. This fourth man is still out there.”

  “How did you learn about him?”’

  I swallowed hard, pushing the suddenly sharp memory of the cabin away. “The second day I was up there. I heard Devon and Raney talking about him.”

  “You’re sure? You were scared and in a lot of pain and—”

  “I’m sure. There’s another man involved in this.”

  “And you want him brought to justice.”

  “It’s more selfish than that. I’m scared to death of him.”

  He idly fingered the pages of the closed book, then said, “Maybe you should tell me what happened.”

  Why I found it easier to tell that story to Jack Fremont, whom I had known only for a number of days, than to friends I had known for years, I can’t say. He listened calmly, which somehow kept me calm as I sketched out the basics of what had happened.

  When I finished, Jack was quiet for a while, then said, “There’s no immediate help for feeling afraid, I suppose. You’ve obviously been through a lot, and it will take time before you feel safe again.”

  “That’s why I was hoping that somehow we could find this ‘Pony Player.’”

  “You suspect someone in particular?”

  I hesitated. I had suspicions, but they were based on seeing a limo at a funeral and one brief conversation with Murray Plummer. I didn’t even know how Malcolm Gannet might have earned the nickname “Pony Player.” I hadn’t had a chance to determine who else might be the Pony Player; as soon as I was able to go back to work, I intended to do some digging, but until then, I couldn’t do much more than guess.

  “It’s not the kind of thing I’d like to say about anyone,” I answered uneasily, “at least, not without more reason to do so. I’m just saying that I’ll feel less afraid when the fourth person is caught.”

  “I think it would be a mistake to believe that would be enough,” he said.

  “You think there are more people involved in this?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s a possibility, but not my point. I’m just saying that you need to start getting out and around a little, to work on overcoming your fears on your own. Don’t let finding or not finding the Pony Player decide whether you do or don’t get on with your life.”

  I was about to ask him what the hell he thought he knew about overcoming fear, when the word “leukemia” occurred to me.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “But I’d still feel better if I knew more about the Pony Player. I guess you don’t think there’s much hope of catching him.”

  “Irene, I’m living proof that you ought to expect the unexpected. I’d never tell you to give up.”

  I WON’T CLAIM that I jumped right up, shouted hallelujah, and started dancing a jig, but I did slowly start taking Jack’s advice. I began by seeing an orthopedist and a physical therapist, which forced me to get out for a while each day. I had to fight down panic every time I stepped out the front door, and clutched Frank’s hand throughout each brief car ride to the doctor’s office, but at least I wasn’t cowering in the house.

  That’s how things were going until the day we went sailing. Like Jack said — expect the unexpected.

  31

  BY THE WEEKEND before Thanksgiving, I thought Frank might sell me off to Sea World as the planet’s largest living crab. I was restless and frustrated and tired of not being able to do things for myself. I felt like I wasn’t getting any better.

  In reality, I was making great progress, healing quickly and steadily, in perhaps everything but my n
erves. Frank tried to be patient, but both the lack of sleep my nightmares caused him and my changeable moods took their toll, and after a while we started snapping at each other over little things.

  We had a particularly nasty round about our Thanksgiving plans. He still wanted me to go with him to Bakersfield — while I worried that my casts and slings would be met with slings and arrows.

  “Sure, Frank. I can see it now: ‘Hello, Mrs. Harriman, I’m Frank’s girlfriend. Live-in girlfriend. Yes, I know I look like I’ve gone a couple of rounds with Jack Dempsey.’”

  “Irene—”

  “‘Tutankhamen? The mummy? No, I don’t think I am related to the Egyptian Pharaoh, but why do you ask?’”

  “It won’t be like that.”

  “You’re right. It will be worse. ‘No, no, Mrs. Harriman, even before this happened to me, Frank cut up my food for me. Do you have a bib I could borrow?”

  “You’re going to be fine. Do you think I’d let anyone give you a bad time?”

  “You go. I’ll stay here.”

  “If you don’t go, I don’t go.”

  “Don’t be childish.”

  “Look who’s talking! You’ve been whining like a damned baby for the past two days.”

  “I didn’t ask to be brought here. Send me home.”

  “That is a ridiculous suggestion and you know it.” And at that, he stormed out of the house.

  As with every encounter of this nature, once I had simmered down a little, I felt overcome with guilt. That in turn fed a kind of depression that I found difficult to fend off. And so it was that I went into a funk not long after he had slammed the front door.

  Cody came over to me, leapt up into my lap, and made a irksome yowling sound, acting like he would like to bite me.

  “Not you, too.”

  He turned around and gave me the cat version of a mooning and jumped down. Wonderful. Male bonding had gone a little too far in that household. I got up and started doing my Peg-leg Pete imitation, a lopsided pacing that only seemed to further irritate me.

  Before long, Frank came back in and watched me thumping around. “Irene, that can’t be good for your ankle.”

  I wanted to say, “Forgive me, Frank, I’ve been a jerk.” What I did say was, “Leave me alone.”

  “I came in to apologize,” he said, ignoring my snottiness. “Never mind about Thanksgiving. Maybe we can just spend it here together.”

  I stopped pacing and scowled. “You’re being too reasonable.”

  He started laughing, and despite my efforts to the contrary, I found my scowl lifting into a grin.

  “You’re being impossible and you know it,” he said.

  “Yes, I am,” I sighed, and eased myself down on to the couch. “I’m going crazy, Frank.”

  He sat next to me. “I know. What can we do about it?”

  “I don’t know.” I was out and out glum.

  Just then there was a familiar pattern of knocks on the front door. We both recognized it and Frank called out, “Come on in, Jack.”

  Jack took one look at us and said, “You’ve just had a fight, haven’t you?”

  Frank and I exchanged a look that was a mixture of surprise and shame.

  “I knew it. Okay, that does it. I’ve been meaning to suggest this for a couple of days. Frank, have you got a pair of warm sweatpants that will fit over Irene’s cast?”

  I frowned, but Frank was answering, “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. We’re going sailing.”

  “What?” I yelped.

  “We’re going sailing. You know, a boat, the ocean, and a little breeze?”

  “Forget it, Jack,” I said. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I hesitated. “I just can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t do it,” Jack said evenly.

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “Not an acceptable answer. I’ll be back in an hour. Be ready. I’ve got a big sweater that will fit over that harness you’re in.”

  And with that set of directives, he left. Frank, damn him, was grinning.

  “You aren’t seriously thinking of doing this, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank, he’s crazy.”

  “No, he’s making more sense than we have lately.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You love the ocean. Don’t you miss seeing it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What would O’Connor tell you to do?” he asked.

  “You fight dirty, you know that?” I said, then sighed. “I give in. I can’t take on you and Jack and Cody all in the same afternoon.”

  “Cody?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get ready.”

  Frank went into motion. Seeing his enthusiasm, I felt a little twinge of guilt at the thought that this very active man had been cooped up in the house with me whenever he wasn’t at work or accompanying me to the doctor’s office. I decided that for Frank’s sake, if not my own, I needed to go along with Jack’s plan.

  JACK RETURNED with a sweater large enough to get on me without jarring my shoulder. Frank put a stocking cap on my head for warmth.

  “Let’s go!” Jack said.

  Outside, we were waved to by a couple of neighbors and got a wide-eyed look from a cable-TV installer; otherwise no one was out on the street, so this venture out of the house wasn’t too bad. We drove down to the marina; we were in our by-now standard arrangement of Jack driving while Frank sat in the backseat, next to me. Frank kept hold of my hand, but this time, I wasn’t clenching it in fear. I traced my fingers over his, enjoying the feel of his hand, his closeness.

  Above the rows of masts in the marina, the sky was a soft, cloudy gray. I was grateful for the sweater. There were people out and about, but the weather wasn’t warm enough to draw a big crowd. We stopped at a sharp-looking Catalina 36. Jack told us the boat had been his mother’s; he had lived aboard it when he first came back to Las Piernas. It was named the Pandora.

  “More Greek mythology?” I asked.

  Jack nodded. “Mom once told me that I shouldn’t see it as a story which blamed the world’s troubles on a woman; I should simply remember that the world would have been a very dull place if Pandora hadn’t been inquisitive.”

  It was a calm day, just enough wind to move us along. The sea was smooth, Jack was an able skipper, and we made our way out onto the bay in an easy fashion. For all I cared, it might as well have been a sunny summer afternoon. Even though it was gray above and below, there was still something uplifting about being out on the water.

  “It’s good to see you smile, Irene,” Jack said. I noticed we were all looking content.

  Frank made his way over and sat next to me.

  “Any more news about the case?” Jack asked.

  “Not much,” Frank said. “Hernandez is working on identifying some hairs he found in Sammy’s wounds.” Seeing Jack’s look of puzzlement, he added, “Dr. Carlos Hernandez, the coroner.”

  “You mean he’ll be able to tell who the hairs belonged to?” Jack asked.

  “They don’t belong to a human being. We thought at first that they might be from a goat. But they didn’t match up with the goat hair samples he had. So now he’s going through samples of other animals to try to match it up.”

  “Any other hair or fibers?” I asked.

  “Some, but you have to remember that just finding a hair or a type of fiber doesn’t prove much. Carlos is putting in whatever time he can on it. He verified that she wasn’t killed in the field. And he did find wool fibers, so maybe those came from the blanket you heard them talking about.”

  Frank changed the subject after that, and I let myself be distracted from thoughts of Sammy’s murder. I looked out over the water, felt the breeze, listened to the two men talking. We sailed out beyond the breakwater, and headed down the coast, away from the boats going to Santa Catalina Island. Although eventually I was feeling at ease again, I wore down fairly quickly. Frank noticed.
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  “You’re tired, aren’t you?”

  I nodded to him.

  “Take her below,” Jack said. “Sleep for a while, Irene, and I’ll take us back in.”

  Frank helped me down the companionway ladder and forward into a bunk. He lay down next to me, gently stroking my hair. He leaned over and gave me a long kiss. We hadn’t kissed like that in a while.

  “I have a good mind to untie those sweatpants,” he said.

  “Frank! Not with Jack right above us.”

  He laughed and left me. I fell asleep quickly.

  When I woke up, we were back in the marina. Frank helped me up the ladder. Just as we cleared the hold, I saw a sleek yacht going by, looming above our much smaller craft.

  “Whose is that?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s Malcolm Gannet’s,” Jack said.

  “Gannet?” I said, just as the name painted on the yacht’s stern came into view.

  The Long Shot.

  “The Pony Player,” I said, and suddenly felt the blood drain from my face.

  32

  “IRENE? Irene? Are you okay?”

  I looked blankly into Frank’s worried face, my mind still flooding with images of being in a small, cold, dark room; of being beaten; of being afraid I would be killed. Dice rolling across a bare wooden floor.

  “Sit down,” I heard Frank saying, as if from a great distance. “Try to put your head down.” I let him position me without resistance; I couldn’t seem to will myself to do anything.

  When I had recovered somewhat, I lifted my head and said, “Sorry,” and took a few deep breaths. Frank and Jack were anxiously watching me. I was shaking. I started to talk to them, but it was no good. I wanted the fear to pass, but it was like waiting for a long freight train at a railroad crossing.

  “He’s the one,” I finally managed, but my mouth was so dry it came out a whisper. “He really is the one,” I said again. “Malcolm Gannet. The Pony Player.”

  “The fourth man?” Frank asked.

  I nodded.

  “How do you know it’s Malcolm Gannet?” Jack asked.

  “Devon and Raney kept talking about someone they called the Pony Player. They also said he was the big boy. They were afraid they might be set up to take a fall for Paul or the Pony Player. I got the impression that Devon and Raney didn’t do the actual killing — they were there, but Paul or maybe this Pony Player were the ones that actually carried out the murders.”