"Of course you matter. What do you think I've been talking about?"
"I don't know, Dad. As far as I can tell, you're just trying to justify your behavior."
"This is pointless. I can't undo the past. I can't change what happened back then. Brian and I are going to turn ourselves in. That's the best I can do, and if that's not good enough, then I don't know what to say." Michael broke off eye contact, shaking his head with frustration. I watched him consider and discard a retort.
Wendell cleared his throat. "I have to go. I told Brian I'd be there." He got to his feet, shifting the baby against his shoulder. Juliet swung her legs over to the side of the bed and got up, prepared to take Brendan from his grandfather's arms. It was clear the conversation had upset her. Her nose was pink, her mouth swollen with emotion.
Michael shoved his hands down in his pockets. "You didn't do Brian any favor with that fake jail release."
"That's true, as it turned out, but there was no way we could know that. I've changed my mind about a lot of things. Anyway, this is something your brother and I have to work out between us."
"You've got Brian in worse trouble than he was in before. You don't move fast, the cops'll pick him up and throw him back in the slammer and he won't see daylight 'til he's a hundred and three. And where will you be? Off on a fuckin' boat without a care in the world. Good luck."
"Doesn't it occur to you that I'll have to pay a price too?"
"At least you don't have a murder charge hanging over your head."
"I'm not sure there's any point in going on with this," Wendell said, ignoring the actual content of Michael's remark. The two of them seemed to be talking at cross purposes. Wendell was trying to reassert his parental authority. Michael wasn't having any of that shit He had a son now himself, and he knew how much his father had forfeited. Wendell turned away. "I have to go," he said, holding one hand out to Juliet. "I'm glad we had a chance to meet. It's too bad the circumstances weren't happier."
"Are we going to see you again?" Juliet said. Tears were spilling down her cheeks. Mascara had formed a sprinkling of soot beneath her eyes. Michael seemed watchful, his expression haunted, while grief poured from Juliet like water bursting through a wall.
Even Wendell seemed affected by her open display of feeling. "Absolutely. Of course. That's a promise."
His gaze lingered on Michael, perhaps hoping for some sign of emotion. "I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. I mean that."
Michael's shoulders hunched slightly with the effort to stay disconnected. "Yeah. Right. Whatever," he said.
Wendell hugged the baby to him, his face buried in Brendan's neck, drinking in the sweet, milky smell of the child. "Oh, you sweet boy," he said, his voice tremulous. Brendan was staring fascinated at Wendell's hair, which he grabbed. Solemnly he tried to put a fistful in his mouth. Wendell winced, gently extracting the baby's fingers. Juliet reached for Brendan. Michael watched, his eyes pooling with silver before he looked away. Sorrow rose from his skin like steam, radiating outward.
Wendell passed the baby to Juliet and kissed her on the forehead before he turned to Michael. The two grabbed each other in a tight embrace that seemed to go on forever. "I love you, son." They rocked back and forth in an ancient dance. Michael made a small sound at the back of his throat, his eyes squeezed shut. For that one unguarded moment, he and Wendell were connected. I had to look away. I couldn't imagine what it must feel like to find yourself in the presence of a parent you thought was dead. Michael pulled back. Wendell took out a handkerchief and swiped at his eyes. "I'll be in touch," he whispered, and then let out a breath.
Without looking at them, he turned and left the room. His guilt probably felt oppressive, like a weight on his chest. He moved through the house, heading for the front door with me right behind him. If he was aware of my presence, he didn't object.
The outside air had picked up a sting of moisture, wind tossing through the trees. The streetlights were almost entirely blocked by branches, shadows blowing across the street like a pile of leaves. I intended to bid the man a fare-thee-well, get in my car, and then play tag with him, following at a discreet distance until he led me to Brian. As soon as I got a fix on the kid's location, I was calling the cops. I said good night and moved off in the opposite direction.
I'm not sure he even heard me. Preoccupied, Wendell took out a set of car keys and crossed the grass to a little red Maserati sports car that was parked at the curb. Renata apparently had a fleet of expensive autos. He unlocked the car and let himself in, quickly sliding in under the steering wheel. He slammed the car door. I unlocked my VW and jammed my key in the ignition in concert with his. I could feel Renata's gun pressing into the small of my back. I pulled it out of my waistband. I torqued myself around to the back- seat, where I snagged my handbag and deposited the gun into the depths. I heard Wendell's engine grind. I fired mine up and sat there with lights out, waiting for his front and rear lights to come on.
The grinding continued, but his engine didn't turn over. The sound was high-pitched and unproductive.
Moments later I saw him fling open his car door open emerge. Agitated, he checked under the hood. He did something to the wires, got back into the car, and started grinding again. The engine was losing hope, batteries surrendering any juice they had. I put the VW in gear and flipped my lights on, pulling forward slowly until I was next to him. I rolled my window down. He leaned over from the driver's seat and rolled his down.
I said, "Hop in. I'll take you to Renata's. You can call a tow truck from her place."
He debated for a moment, with a quick glance at Michael's. He didn't have much choice. The last thing in the world he wanted was to go back in with a chore as mundane as a call to triple A. He got out, locked his car, and came around the front, getting into mine. I turned right on Perdido Street and took a left before I reached the fairgrounds, thinking to hit the frontage road that ran along the beach. I could have hopped on the freeway. Traffic wasn't heavy. The street leading to the Keys was just one ramp away, and just as easily reached by this route.
I turned left when I reached the beach. The wind had picked up considerably, and there were massive black clouds above the pitch black of the ocean. "I had a nice chat with Carl Monday night," I said. "Have you talked to him?"
"I was supposed to meet with him later, but he had to go out of town," Wendell said, distracted.
"Really. He thought he'd be too mad to talk to you."
"We have business to settle. He has something of mine."
"You mean the boat?"
"Well, that, too, but this is something else."
The sky was charcoal gray, and I could see flashes out at sea, an electrical storm sitting maybe fifty miles out. The light flickered among the darkening cloud banks, creating the illusion of artillery too far away to bear. The air was filled with a restless energy. I glanced over at Wendell. "Aren't you even curious how we picked up your trail? I'm surprised you haven't asked."
His attention was fixed on the horizon, which was illuminated intermittently as the storm progressed. "It doesn't matter. It was bound to happen sometime."
"You mind telling me where you've been all these years?"
He stared out the side window, his face averted, "Not far, You'd be surprised how few places I've been."
"You gave up a lot to get there."
Pain flickered across his face like lightning. "Yes."
"Have you been with Renata the whole time?"
"Oh, yes," he said with just a hint of bitterness. A small silence fell, and then he stirred uneasily, "Do you think I'm wrong to come back like this?"
"Depends on what you were hoping to accomplish."
"I'd like to help them."
"Help them do what? Brian's already on his path, and so is Michael, Dana coped as well as she could, and the money's been spent, You can't just step back into the life you left and make all the stories come out differently. They're working out the consequences of your decision. You
'll have to do that, too."
"I guess I can't expect to mend all my fences in the course of a few days."
"I'm not sure you can do it at all," I said. "In the meantime, I'm not going to let you out of my sight, I lost you once. I don't intend to lose you again."
"I need some time, I have business to take care of."
"You had business to take care of five years ago!"
"This is different."
"Where's Brian?"
"He's safe."
"I didn't ask how he was, I said 'where.' " The car began to lose speed. I looked down with bafflement, pumping the accelerator as the car slowed. "Jesus, what's this?"
"You out of gas?"
"I just filled the tank." I steered toward the right curb as the car drifted to a halt.
He peered over at the dashboard. "Gas gauge says full."
"What'd I just tell you? Of course it's full. I just filled it!"
We had reached a full stop. The silence was profound, and then the underlying thrum of wind and surf filtered into my consciousness. Even with the moon obscured by storm clouds, I could see the whitecaps out in the water.
I hauled my handbag from the backseat and fumbled in the front pocket until I found my penlight. "Let me see what's going on," I said, as though I had a clue.
I got out of the car. Wendell got out on his side and moved around to the rear in concert with me. I was glad of his company. Maybe he knew something about cars that I didn't – no big trick. In situations like this, I always like to take action. I opened the back flap and stared at the engine. Looked like it always did, about the size and shape of a sewing machine. I expected to see sprung parts, broken doohickies, the flapping ends of a fan belt, some evidence of rogue auto parts adrift from their moorings. "What do you think?"
He took the penlight and leaned closer, squinting. Boys know about these things: guns, cars, lawn mowers, garbage disposals, electric switches, baseball statistics. I'm scared to take the lid off the toilet tank because that ball thing always looks like it's on the verge of exploding. I leaned over and peered with him. "Looks a little bit like a sewing machine, doesn't it?" he remarked.
Behind us, a car backfired and a rock slammed into my rear fender. Wendell made sense of it a split second before I did. We both hit the pavement. Wendell grabbed me, and the two of us scrambled around to the side of the car. A second shot was fired, and the bullet pinged off the roof. We ducked, hunched together. Wendell's arm had gone around me protectively. He flipped the switch on the penlight, making the pitch dark complete. I had a terrible desire to lift up to window level and peek out across the street. I knew there wouldn't be much to see: dark, a dirt bank, swiftly passing cars on the freeway. Our assailant must have followed us from Michael's house, first incapacitating Wendell's car and then mine.
"This has got to be one of your pals. I'm not this unpopular in my set," I said.
Another shot was fired. My rear window turned to cracked ice, though only one chunk fell out.
Wendell said, "Jesus."
I said, "Amen." Neither of us meant it as profanity. He looked at me. His previous lethargy had vanished.
At least his attention had been sharpened by the situation. "Someone's been following me the last few days."
"You have a theory?"
He shook his head. "I made some phone calls. I needed help."
"Who knew you were going to Michael's?"
"Just Renata."
I thought about that one. I'd taken her gun, which I remembered now was in my handbag. In the car. "I have a gun in the car if you can reach it," I said. "My handbag's on the backseat."
"Won't the inside light come on?"
"In my car? Not a chance."
Wendell opened the door on the passenger side. Sure enough, the interior light came on. The next bullet was swift and nearly caught him in the neck. We ducked down again, silent for a moment while we thought about Wendell's carotid artery.
I said, "Carl must have known you'd be at Michael's if you told him you'd meet him afterward."
"That was before his plans changed. Anyway, he doesn't know where Michael lives."
"He says his plans changed, but you don't know that for a fact. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to call Information. All he had to do was ask Dana. He's kept in touch with her."
"Hell, he's in love with Dana. He's always been in love with her. I'm sure he was delighted to have me out of the picture."
"What about Harris Brown? He'd have a gun."
"I told you before. I never heard of him."
"Wendell, quit bullshitting. I need some answers here."
"I'm telling you the truth!"
"Stay down. I'm going to try the car door again." Wendell flattened himself as I gave the door a yank. The next shot thunked into the sand close by. I flipped the seat forward and grabbed my bag, hauled it out of the backseat, and slammed the door again. My heart had rocketed. Anxiety was coursing through my body as if a sluice gate had opened. I needed to pee like crazy, except for the fact that my kidneys had shriveled. All my other internal organs had circled, like wagons under serious attack. I pulled out the revolver, with its white pearlite grips. "Gimme some light over here." Wendell flipped on the penlight, shielding it like a match.
I was looking at the sort of single-action six-shooter John Wayne might have favored. I popped open the cylinder and checked the load, which was full. I snapped the cylinder shut. The gun must have weighed three pounds.
"Where'd you get that?"
"I stole it from Renata. Wait here. I'll be back."
He said something to me, but I was already duck- walking my way out into the darkness, angling toward the beach and away from our assailant. I cut left, circling out a hundred yards around the front of the car, hoping I wasn't visible to anybody interested in target practice. My eyes were fully adjusted to the dark by now, and I felt conspicuous. I looked back, trying to measure the distance I'd come. My pale blue VW looked like some kind of ghostly igloo or a giant pup tent. I reached a left-turning curve in the road, crouched, and crossed in a flash, easing back toward the point from which I imagined our attacker was firing.
It probably took ten minutes until I reached the spot, and I realized I hadn't heard a shot fired the whole time. Even in the hazy visibility of the half-dark around me, the area felt deserted. I was now directly across from my car on the two-lane road, keeping myself low to the ground. I popped my head up like a prairie dog.
"Wendell?" I called.
No answer. No shots fired. No movement in any direction and no more sense of jeopardy. The night felt flat and totally benign at this point. I stood upright.
"Wendell?"
I did a 360 turn, sweeping my gaze across the immediate vicinity, and then sank down again. I looked both ways and crossed the street at a quick clip, keeping low. When I reached the car, I slid past the front bumper into home base. "Hey, it's me," I said.
There was only sea wind and empty beach. Wendell Jaffe was gone again.
Chapter 20
* * *
It was now ten o'clock at night, and the roadway was deserted. I could see lights from the freeway tantalizingly close, but no one in their right mind was going to pick me up at that hour. I found my handbag by the car and hefted it over my shoulder. I went around to the driver's side and opened the car door. I reached in, leaning forward to snag the keys from the ignition. I could have locked the car, but what would be the point? It wasn't running at the moment, and the rear window was shattered, open to the elements and any pint-size little car thieves.
I hiked to the nearest gas station, which was maybe a mile away. It was very dark, street lamps appearing at long intervals and even then with only dim illumination. The storm had apparently stalled off the coast, where it lingered, brooding. Lightning winked through the inky clouds like a lamp with a loose connection. The wind whuffled across the sand while dried fronds rattled in the palm trees. I did a quick self-assessment and decided I was in pretty
good shape, given all the excitement. One of the virtues of physical fitness is that you can walk a mile in the dark and it's no big deal. I was wearing jeans, a short-sleeved sweatshirt, and my tenny bops, not the best shoes for walking, but not agonizing, either.
The station itself was one of those places open twenty-four hours a day, but it was run largely by computer, with only one fellow in attendance. Naturally he couldn't leave the premises. I got a handful of change and headed for the public phone booth in the comer of the parking lot. I called AAA first, gave them my number, and told them where I was. The operator advised me to wait with the car, but I assured her I had no intention of hiking back in the dark. While I waited for the tow truck, I put a call through to Renata and told her what was happening. She didn't seem to bear me any grudges after our tussle on the boat deck for possession of the gun. She said Wendell wasn't home yet, but she'd hop in the car and cruise the route between the house and the frontage road where I'd last seen him.
The tow truck finally appeared about forty-five minutes later. I hopped in with the driver and directed him to my disabled car. He was a man in his forties, apparently career tow truck, full of sniffs, tobacco chaws, and learned assessments. When we reached the vehicle, he stepped down from the truck and hiked his pants up, circling the VW with his hands on his hips. He paused and spat. "What's the deal here?" He might have been asking about the shattered rear window, but I ignored that for the moment.
"I have no idea. I was tooling along about forty miles an hour and the car suddenly lost power." He reached toward the car roof where a large-caliber slug had punched a hole the size of a dime. "Say, what is this?"
"Oh. You mean that?" I leaned forward, squinting in the half-light.
The hole looked like a neat black polka dot against the pale blue paint. He stuck the tip of one finger into it. "This here looks like a bullet hole."
"Gosh, it does, doesn't it?" We circled the car, and I echoed his consternation at all the hurt places we came across. He quizzed me at length, but I fended off his questions. The guy was a tow truck driver, not a cop, I thought. I was hardly under oath.