“Well . . . if you’re hungry . . . or something . . . feel like talking . . . you can knock on my door. I’m sure I’ll be up.”
“What a good neighbor,” he said.
“You can even borrow a cup of sugar,” she told him.
They hung up and Justin headed for Silver Spring, Maryland, blaring the Lou Reed CD, Magic and Loss, he’d brought with him. It was the perfect music for his mood. Quiet and harsh, and all about love and loss and bewildering, incomprehensible death.
Justin found the house without too much trouble. Sense of direction was not his best thing, so he made several wrong turns, went too far going one way, went too far again coming back, finally stopped and asked directions, made one more wrong turn, then he was there. Not too much trouble compared to his usual treks.
There was a car in the driveway and there seemed to be movement in the house, so he knocked on the front door. It was a decent-sized two-story colonial, and when no one answered, Justin figured it was possible that whoever was home had gone upstairs and hadn’t heard him, so he knocked again, this time louder. He waited one full minute, knocked one more time, then forced himself to wait two more minutes, timing it to the second on his watch. He decided enough was enough, that something was wrong, so he tried turning the doorknob, confirmed that the door was locked, took two steps back, swayed his weight onto his back right foot, lowered his left shoulder, took one very deep breath . . . and then the door slowly swung open. Justin didn’t move for what felt like a very long time, long enough for him to feel extremely foolish, hunched over, ready to try to ram the door open. He coughed awkwardly, stood up straight. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side of the door so he stepped forward, gently pushed the door a few inches farther open with two fingers. He heard a quiet breath, then another, but didn’t see anything until he lowered his gaze. That’s when he saw them: two large brown eyes at about the level of his waist, peering up at him from behind the door. Justin let a little air seep out of him.
“You’re Hannah, I bet,” he said. When the little girl nodded shyly, Justin asked, “Is your mom home?”
The girl nodded a second time. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Would you do me a big favor?” he asked.
“What?”
“Would you go tell her that I’m here?”
The little girl pondered the request quite seriously, then nodded again and went scurrying up the stairs. Justin stepped farther into the small foyer, peered into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean. Everything was obsessively dusted, waxed, and shiny and there was the pervasive odor of Lemon Pledge everywhere. Odd for a house with two kids. It was too clean. Seemed like there were very few personal possessions or touches, too. It was all rather barren and antiseptic. Like a movie set meant to parody a suburban, middle-class house.
Justin turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The woman coming toward him was probably in her early fifties, tall and bony, with her dark hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She looked stern, not particularly attractive, but as she got nearer he saw that she had probably been quite attractive. And she wasn’t nearly as old as he’d thought. She could have been in her mid- to late thirties, but fear or worry or sadness had both aged and hardened her. As he took a few steps in her direction, he saw that she was shaking. Her cheek was twitching and the veins in her neck were taut. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, but that didn’t stop her from chewing on her cuticles. As she walked, her fingers were in constant motion, and the only way she seemed to be able to keep them still was to pick and scratch at them. He saw that the areas around her nails were bleeding and that her fingertips were picked red and raw.
“Mrs. Cooke?” he asked. “Theresa Cooke?”
“That’s right.” Her voice was as twitchy as the rest of her. He got the feeling that if she didn’t bite off each word, keep each syllable short and terse, she’d just open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. Scream until she couldn’t make another sound. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “I’m a policeman. Police chief. Justin Westwood.”
“The police chief of Silver Spring?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from a town in Long Island, New York. East End Harbor.”
She practically wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were now physically holding herself together. “That’s the town where my husband was killed.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
She seemed to age several more years right before his very eyes.
“What . . . what . . .” She had to lick her cracked, dry lips to get the words out. “What is it you want?”
“I’m just looking for some information.”
“What kind of . . . of . . . information?”
Justin lowered his voice to a near whisper. He looked the woman directly in the eye and did his best to give her a gentle smile. “Is there something you’re afraid of, Theresa?” When she didn’t answer, just stared back at him, he said in the same even tone, “You can tell me. What are you so afraid of?” he asked.
“Afraid of?” she whispered back. And when he nodded, she said, “I’m afraid of everything.”
“Then let me help you.”
A laugh escaped through her lips, but there was no humor in it. It was a harsh, crackling sound.
“Then help me,” Justin said. “Help me find out who killed your husband.”
“They said it was an accident.”
“But you know it wasn’t, don’t you?”
She stared with her hard, almost lifeless eyes, and then she said, “Yes. I know.”
From upstairs, the sound of the television filtered down. Justin heard frenzied, silly music. The girls must be watching cartoons.
“Do you mind,” Justin said very slowly, so carefully, “if I just sit and have a cup of coffee?”
Another long silence. The woman’s neck was stretched so taut he didn’t think it was even possible for her to speak. Her fingers moved even faster, picking deeper into her own skin, and he could see her shiver. She was like a fragile piece of glass and he was afraid to speak; she’d flinched at his words as if each were a rock being hurled directly at her. But the silence ended when she turned back to the stairs and yelled, “Reysa! Hannah! Stay upstairs and play! I need some quiet so I can talk to this man. Do you hear me? Stay upstairs!”
Justin heard two voices yell down, “Yes, Momma,” and then Mrs. Cooke spun on her heels and headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He waited a moment, watching the woman walk, her spindly legs looking as if they were going to snap after each step. When she disappeared around a corner, he emerged from his reverie and realized he should follow. It looked like he was about to get what he’d come for.
Justin sipped the hot black coffee, served in a delicate cup and saucer. He raised his eyebrow to let her know that it was good.
“I’ve lost twelve pounds since my husband died,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat. Or sleep.”
“Have you been talking to anyone?”
She shook her head. It didn’t move more than an inch in either direction.
“Is there anyone who’s been coming in to help with the children?”
Now she recoiled as if slapped. “You think I don’t know my responsibilities?” she snapped. “I know my responsibilities!”
“I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about making things a little easier on you, that’s all. You’re under a lot of strain. And you’ve suffered a loss. Everybody needs help in that kind of situation.”
“My husband! Hutch had responsibilities but he didn’t care!”
“I’m sure that he did.”
“No! He didn’t! And now my babies don’t have a father!”
Justin kept his voice soft and soothing. “What was he doing, Mrs. Cooke? What was he doing that made someone rig his plane and cause a crash?”
She didn’t seem to hear the que
stion. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her chest. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“They took him, didn’t they? Those bastards! We don’t even get a real funeral.”
Justin nodded. “Do you know who ‘they’ are?”
“No. Not really.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Maybe.”
That was as far as she was willing to go, at least for the moment. She tried drinking some coffee but she only managed one sip before putting the cup down.
“Theresa, do you know—”
“Terry. People call me Terry.”
“Okay. What was your husband doing over the past year or so, Terry?”
“Flying. Flying like always.”
“But not for the Air Force.”
“No. Special people.”
“What kind of special people?”
“Scary people.”
“Like who?”
She shook her head again. This time it might have swung two whole inches from side to side.
“People at Midas?”
He could see the fear run through her. It left her eyes and seemed to rip through her insides like an insidious, all-consuming disease.
“Can you give me the names of any people at Midas, Mrs. Cooke?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “A phone number? An address?”
The fear was clamping her jaws shut. Justin waited until he knew she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—respond.
“I spoke to your husband’s commanding officer,” he said finally.
The fear let go of her throat and allowed her to speak now. “Zanesworth?”
Justin nodded and said, “He told me your husband was stationed at Andrews the last eighteen months, that things were done just as they’d been done in the past.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you have any idea why he’d lie?”
“Because somebody told him to. Because he’s scared, just like me. Or at least he should be.”
Justin wished he’d brought a flask with him. He’d sneak into the bathroom, have a long pull, and feel a lot better than he felt at this moment. But it was just wishful thinking. Something he didn’t have much time for. “Who did your husband fly when he was in the Air Force?” he asked, when he finally got away from the image of nice, warm alcohol flowing down his throat. “What kind of passengers?”
“Everyone.”
“The president?”
“No. Everyone but him.”
“The vice president?”
“Sure.”
“He piloted the vice president? Vice President Dandridge?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Lots of them. Secretary of state. Defense secretary. Everyone had their territories. Hutch had the Middle East a lot. That was his route.”
“He never left the Air Force, did he?”
“No.”
“They just let him take time off from his duties to do something else.”
She nodded.
“The people he was working for, they must have been pretty important to arrange that.”
She nodded one more time. He was beginning to wonder if he’d hear her speak again.
“During the time off, did he fly some of the same people he was flying for the Air Force?”
Another nod. Then, “I think so. Yes.”
“Was he still flying to the Middle East?”
“Yes. I mean, I was never sure where he was. He said it was usually better for me not to know. But he forgot sometimes, and told me things. They slipped out. Or else he’d give me hints. It was kind of like a game. Once he called me up from a hotel and I asked him how he was and he said, ‘I fell down the tower,’ and I didn’t know what he meant but it sounded bad so I got all concerned, but he was just laughing and told me to think about it. After we hung up, I figured out what he meant. He was saying Eiffel Tower to let me know he was in Paris. I think he flew the secretary of state there for some secret conference. No, it was the vice president, because after that he flew him to Saudi Arabia. I remember because Hutch brought me back this little veil thing, like Arab women wear, and he said that Dandridge was making fun of him on the flight back. Whenever he had time, Hutch always tried to bring me back something from one of his trips.”
She laughed now, at the memory, then started to cry. She was starting to break down, so he asked her a question quickly, wanting to get her to focus again. “Where else did he fly, Terry, while he was flying these special people? Over the past year and a half.”
“Florida.” Suddenly she jumped up, ran over to the kitchen counter, brought back a bottle. “This was from his last trip there, that’s how I know where he was.”
Justin looked at the bottle. The label said it was Havana Club rum, aged fourteen years.
“This is Cuban, Terry. Not from Florida.”
“I know. Hutch said they sold it in Florida ’cause there are so many Cubans there. Refugees.”
“Where else did Hutch fly?”
“Texas. A lot of times to Texas. I don’t think I can keep talking,” she said. “I think I’m going to start to cry again.”
“You’re entitled to cry,” he told her. “Can I just finish my coffee? I won’t talk about Hutch anymore.”
She nodded. He took another sip. It was cold but he pretended not to notice.
“I heard that you’re selling the house.”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because they told me to.”
Justin put his coffee cup down. “What? Who told you to?”
“The people who bought it for us.”
“Who was that?”
“The people Hutch was working for. That was one of the reasons why he did it. They said they’d buy him a house. This house. And they did. Now they told me to sell it. They said I could keep all the money. But they said to sell it and move away.”
“How did they tell you this?”
“On the phone.”
“When?”
“The day Hutch died. They called to say that his plane had crashed, that he was dead. They said I should sell the house, that I could keep all the money, they’d take care of it, not to worry about the mortgage. They said I should just take the money and use it to go somewhere else.”
“Who called you?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Justin closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them, he said, “Terry. If you tell me who called you, then maybe I can find out who killed your husband.”
“And maybe, if I tell you what you want to know, they’ll also kill me and my little girls. I think you better leave. I shouldn’t have talked to you at all.”
Justin tried to think of something else to say, to prolong his stay, but no words came. He stood up, stretched his stiff back, and let Terry Cooke escort him to the door.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I just want to get out of here, forget everything that’s happened.”
“Where are you going? I mean, when you sell the house.”
“My parents live in New Mexico. I thought we’d go out there. It’ll be good for the girls. Maybe I’ll be able to eat and sleep out there.”
“I bet you will.” He reached for the doorknob. “Can I just ask you one thing? Did Hutch own his own plane?”
“No. He never needed one, really.”
“Whose plane was he flying?”
She didn’t answer.
“Terry, why was he in East End Harbor? Why that airport? Why that town?”
“You think it’s because of the bombing, don’t you? The Harper’s bombing.”
“Yes. That is what I think.”
“My husband was a pilot. All he did was pick people up and drop them off. He wasn’t political. He didn’t even like the Air Force all that much, they just let him fly. He was just a good guy who liked to fly.”
“Why East End Harbor, Terry?”
“Did you s
ee him?”
“What?”
“Hutch. My husband. Did you see him . . . after the crash?”
“Yes.”
“Was it . . . was it bad?”
“I think it’s always bad when someone dies who doesn’t have to.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. With them still closed she said, “He was going to stop, you know.”
“Hutch? Stop what?”
“He was going to stop working for these people. He didn’t like what they were doing.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded. “He just flew them. And it was exciting at first. Glamorous and fun. And he made a lot of money. But he said he thought he was working for the good guys. Only it turned out they were the bad guys. That’s what he told me. So he was going to stop.” She sniffled, holding back another barrage of tears. “Well . . . he did stop working for them, didn’t he? He just stopped a little too late.”
“Why East End, Terry?”
“I don’t know. I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?” When he nodded tentatively, she took his hand. Not shaking it, just holding it for support. Or simply to have some human contact. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Things are just so muddy. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Justin said, then he gently released his hand, thanked her for talking to him, stepped outside. She closed the door behind him and he heard the click of the lock turning inside. He walked to his car that he’d parked in the thin gravel driveway. Muddy, he thought. A strange phrase but an accurate one. Things were definitely muddy. Thick, slimy, filthy, and muddy.
He got behind the wheel, started the ignition, glanced in his rearview mirror . . . and there were those eyes again. The big brown round saucer eyes that he’d seen peering out at him from behind the Cookes’ front door.
“You know, it’s dangerous to get into strangers’ cars,” he told the little girl.
“You’re not a stranger,” she said. “You know my mom.”
“Hannah, right?”
“My sister’s Reysa.”
“I have to go now, Hannah, so you’d better go inside. I don’t want your mom to worry.”
“My mom’s not worried. She’s afraid.”
Midas Page 20
