Mindy focused her attention on Paul’s heavy tread on the steps. One footfall then the other, each beat like the tick of a clock, signaling that she was running out of time on a decision. She hadn’t decided what to do about the mysterious jewelry charge. She could let it go or she could confront him—but she couldn’t be accusatory, she had to use I-words, and not point her finger, literally. Their ground rules had been laid down by their marriage counselor, though Mindy couldn’t believe that her husband was threatened by her manicured fingernail.
Mindy knew that when she forgave Paul, she was letting him off the hook, but she didn’t want him thinking that he was off the hook forever. She had consulted a divorce lawyer, unbeknownst to him even to this day, and the lawyer had told her about the “one free bite” rule, which was the law in Pennsylvania with respect to dog bites—every dog gets one free bite before the owner is liable. Well, her dog had had his free bite, and after the next one, he was getting neutered.
Mindy tried to make a decision. To confront or not to confront? The footfalls disappeared, which meant that Paul was crossing the carpeted hallway, then he materialized in the doorway, looking tired, though she didn’t know if that was an act.
“Hey honey, sorry I’m late,” Paul said, flashing her a tired smile, though he barely met her eye.
“It’s okay.” Mindy’s instant impression was he’s hiding something. He was tall, a trim six-footer with dark hair going prematurely gray, and it looked slightly greasy, since he had a nervous habit of raking his hair. His dark brown eyes were small, set far apart, and slightly hooded for a forty-five-year-old, with deep crows’-feet. Mindy always thought he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, being an oncology surgeon, but now she was wondering where he had been. She asked him, lightly, “What kept you?”
“The last case took forever. My feet are killing me.”
“You poor thing. What was it?”
“The case?” Paul slid out of his suit jacket, which he tossed on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. “Lawson. I think I told you about him. He’ll make it, Thank God.”
“Great. I don’t remember you mentioning a Lawson. What was the problem?”
“Honey, you know I don’t like to talk about my cases. Let me leave it at the hospital, please.” Paul came around the bed and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
“Mm, okay.” Mindy received his kiss like a happy wife, though she sniffed him like a hound dog. Or maybe a cadaver dog. Was their marriage dead or alive? Was it buried under some rocks, waiting to be rescued?
“How was your day?” Paul kicked off his shoes.
“We had some bad news.”
“What?” Paul slid out of his tie and threw it on top of his suit, then began to unbutton his shirt around his growing paunch, which pleased Mindy more than it should have. She hated that Paul did nothing to stay thin, which was metabolically unfair. Plus he would’ve been dieting if he were having another affair. Last time, he’d started going to a gym and dyeing his hair, a Hubby Renaissance that would’ve tipped off any wife but her.
“You know Mr. Y, Evan’s Language Arts teacher? He committed suicide.”
“Whoa.” Paul frowned. “That’s terrible. How?”
“I know, isn’t it? He hung himself.” Mindy felt terrible about Mr. Y’s death, but she was happy to have some actual news to tell Paul. Ever since the affair, she’d worried that she was boring. She tried to think of stories that happened to her during the day, just to have something to tell him. Sometimes she even made them up. See, I’m not just a housewife. I’m fascinating!
“Wait. Language Arts is English, right?”
“Right.”
“Why don’t they call it that?”
“Progress?” Mindy answered, as Paul slid out of his pants, hopping around in his socks to stay on balance. She bit her tongue not to tell him to sit down when he took his pants off, because he always said she sounded like his mother. She wondered if every man married his mother, then hated his wife for being his mother, or if he didn’t marry his mother, then he would eventually act like such a child that he would turn his wife into his mother.
“Be right back.” Paul stripped to his undershirt and boxers, then went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, which he never did. Hmmm.
Mindy eyed her phone without seeing a word. She realized she was tallying the clues about whether Paul was having another affair, like an Infidelity Ledger. In the No Affair column he was gaining weight, and in the Divorce column was home late, lame explanation, oddly tired, shut the bathroom door, and mysterious jewelry charge. Mindy heard him washing his face, buzzing his teeth clean, flushing the toilet, then he left the bathroom and was back in the bedroom.
“God, I’m beat,” Paul said, which Mindy knew was marital code for I don’t want to have sex. He walked around the bed, climbed in, and pulled up the covers with a grunt. Of satisfaction? Of pain? Why hadn’t she noticed before that he made so many noises?
“Me, too,” Mindy said, which communicated, I don’t want to have sex either, so don’t sweat it, I won’t hold this one against you—unless you don’t want to have sex because you just had sex with someone else. In which case, I’ve got a divorce lawyer who’s dying to take half of your money, and I’m keeping Evan and the house. And I’m melting your Porsche for scrap metal.
“How was your day?”
“Fine, but it’s so sad about Mr. Y. The school is having grief counselors on Monday, and Evan was upset about it, too. He really liked Mr. Y. He spent most of the day in his room.”
“Bastard!”
“Who? Evan?”
“No, the teacher.” Paul inched down in bed. “What kind of teacher does that? He’s not thinking about the kids.”
“Well, I think people who commit suicide are in despair. They don’t see a way out.”
“Yes, there is one. Work through your problems like an adult.”
“It’s not that easy—”
“Of course it is. Mindy, you’re too soft.”
Mindy cringed. She heard everything he said as a criticism of her weight, ever since he told the therapist he wanted her to lose thirty pounds. She had to stop the drinking, that’s what did it, the sugar. Then the thought struck her. She was too soft, and Paul was too hard.
“I see my cases, like Lawson tonight, fighting for his life. If these people spent one day in my OR, they’d see what life is worth. Everything.”
Mindy didn’t reply, because he didn’t need any encouragement to talk anyway. She was too soft. Her hand went to her tummy, and she squeezed the roll under her T-shirt. She held it like a security blanket, trying to decide whether to confront him. He seemed irritable tonight. Maybe he really had been at the hospital.
“People don’t have a governor anymore. They do whatever they please. They don’t control themselves. They don’t think of the consequences. They lack discipline. Willpower.”
Mindy cringed again. Once Paul had told her that she was fat because she didn’t have willpower.
“So what’s the school going to do for a Language Arts teacher now? What about the class? These are high-school juniors. Can’t screw with their grades right now.” Paul turned over, his back to her.
“I suppose they’ll figure out something.” Mindy switched off the bedside lamp, plunging the bedroom into darkness, the way Paul liked it. He would’ve been perfectly content to sleep in a cave, and she used to call him Batman. The consolation prize was that she had custom curtains made with a lovely Schumacher fabric that she’d used for the headboard, bench, and two side chairs.
“Good night, honey.”
“Paul, there’s something I wanted to mention,” Mindy said, making her decision to confront him.
“I know, I forgot to bring up the recycling bin when I came in. Does it really matter?”
“No, it’s not that.” Mindy lightened her tone, as if she were a violinist playing a Stradivarius instead of a wife asking her husband a legitimate question.<
br />
“What is it?” Paul said, staccato, and Mindy wished she could see his face, but she couldn’t. He was turned away, and it was dark, the only bright spot in the room was his undershirt.
“I was going through the Visa bill and I noticed a charge I didn’t understand.”
“Like what?”
“A three-hundred-twenty-seven-dollar charge at the jewelers, you know, the one in that strip mall? Do you know if that was Evan or you? Because if it was Evan, I told him to ask me before he bought any more jewelry.”
Paul fell silent a beat. “That was my charge.”
“For what?” Mindy felt relieved and nervous, both at once, and it was a struggle to maintain her falsely light tone. He wasn’t denying it, which was a good sign. It went into the No Affair column on the Infidelity Ledger.
“Carole’s birthday, remember? The new secretary? I got her a fancy picture frame. I picked it up on the way to the hospital. I thought I paid cash for that, but I was short that day. I charged it.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” Mindy’s chest eased. That was a reasonable explanation, and more importantly, a verifiable one. She could double-check Carole’s birthday. She used to note all of the staff’s birthdays to buy them their gifts, but after therapy, they decided that Paul should buy his own gifts, since he never liked what she picked out anyway.
“It really bothers me that you do that,” Paul said coldly, after a minute.
“Do what?” Mindy said, but she knew. Here it comes.
“You question me.”
“I wasn’t questioning you.” Mindy hated Paul’s habit of construing every question as an accusation. Except this time it was.
“You were questioning me. You’re questioning me all the time. I mean, I do a nice thing, handle my own people myself, even though I have no time. I got the present myself, and here you are, fly-specking the credit cards.”
“I’m entitled to that—”
“No, you’re not, you’re not at all.” Paul huffed. “What the hell, Min? I’m walking on eggshells around here!”
“I’m the one walking on eggshells, not you.” Mindy would never understand how he always accused her of things he did, but he got it out first, so he won.
“I don’t deserve this, not in the least. I get called in on a Saturday, no less, and I work my ass off. I’m in the OR all day, then this pain-in-the-ass daughter of one of my cases is asking me four hundred questions. I barely get dinner and when I finally get to bed, you question my integrity.”
Mindy rolled her eyes, since he was turned away. Sometimes she gave him the finger behind his back or when they were on the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, but you can understand it—”
“No I can’t.”
“A jewelry store charge? From the same store?”
“Okay, listen, Min.” Paul flopped over in the darkness, facing her. “You have to let it go. We’ve been through the mill. We’ve worked through it and we did everything we’re supposed to do. We’re past it now.”
“Are we?” Mindy heard herself say, her genuine voice poking through her self-editing, like a blade of grass peeking through a crack in a pavement.
“Yes, we absolutely are. I love you.” Paul’s tone softened, and Mindy felt her heart ease.
“I love you, too. I really do.”
“Okay, so remember that, Min. You love me, I love you.”
“But I worry—”
“So, don’t. Don’t worry so much. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.” Paul reached out, pulling her to him for a hug.
“Well, good.” Mindy hugged him back, burying her face in his undershirt, which was when she realized something. He didn’t smell like he’d been in the OR. Those odors always clung to his undershirt, an acrid antibacterial tang and even the metallic scent of blood. And he always took his undershirt off when he’d been in the OR, a habit he probably didn’t even know he had. Then she thought back to when he’d first come in the bedroom. His hair had been greasy, but he hadn’t had helmet head from his surgical cap, like he always did. She would’ve bet money that he hadn’t been in any OR tonight.
“Good night, honey.” Paul kissed her again on the cheek, then flopped back over.
“Good night.” Mindy lay in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling, her heart sinking as she added another two items to the Divorce side of the Infidelity Ledger.
Which only made her think about what she would do next.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chris hunched over his computer and watched the videotape of Trevor Kiefermann at the team party, his suspicions beginning to focus on the boy because of what Jordan had told him. Chris had called the office to see if the Kiefermanns or Skinny Lane Farm was registered with Homeland Security to purchase and store ammonium nitrate fertilizer, but he hadn’t gotten a call back yet. It always frustrated him that it took so long to get answers, not like in the movies with split-second replies, magical indexes, and seamlessly shared intel. In truth, federal law enforcement too often functioned like any other government bureaucracy. Except that lives were at stake.
Chris watched the video, and the scene changed to Trevor standing in front of the gun case, telling his teammates about the weapons. The boy seemed to have a working knowledge of firearms, which was consistent with the profile of a domestic terrorist, though not dispositive. And Trevor and his family had lied to school authorities about his true address. That wasn’t proof either, but it sent up red flags. It was likely that any bomber would be part of a conspiracy, even a family conspiracy like the Tsarnaevs in Boston and Bundys in Montana.
Chris eyed the screen, concerned. He didn’t know Trevor’s political leanings because the boy wasn’t in his Government class, but there was an array of antigovernment groups on ATF’s radar: neo-Nazis, Ku Klux Klan, skinheads, Nationalists, Christian Identity, Originalists, Constitutionalists, and militia groups. Plenty of them were in rural Pennsylvania, and Trevor and his family could belong to any one of them. Or be lone wolves.
Chris checked the clock, which read 2:03 A.M. He wasn’t tired, but jazzed. He closed out the computer file and grabbed his phones, keys, and windbreaker on the way out. He hurried from the apartment, left the townhouse, and hustled to the Jeep as he thumbed his phone to Google maps and plugged in Skinny Lane Farm Rocky Springs PA.
Fifteen minutes later, he was driving the deserted streets of Central Valley, then leaving town behind as he headed north. The outlet malls and chain restaurants gradually gave way to open farmland, and he rolled down the car window. He passed barns and farmhouses set far from the road, their windows black. There was no traffic and no ambient light. The moon hid behind a dense cloud cover, and only Chris’s high beams illuminated the road. Bugs dive-bombed in the jittery cones of light, and dark fields of new corn rustled in the chilly breeze.
He drove on and on, following the twists and turns, and the only sound was the coarse thrum of the Jeep’s engine, the mechanical voice of the GPS app, and outside the window, the constant chorus of crickets. Chris’s nostrils filled with the earthy scent of cow manure and the medicinal odor of chemical fertilizer, and he breathed deeply, letting his thoughts run free.
Scraps of memories floated into his consciousness, and they were times he didn’t want to remember, especially not on the job. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, a ten-year-old on a ramshackle farm in the middle of nowhere, the only foster son of the Walshes, chosen by the local DHS for their allegedly wholesome life.
You don’t listen, boy.
Chris kept going as he approached the sign, SKINNY LANE FARM, HORSES BOARDED, SELF-CARE, at the end of a dirt road. Up ahead, the road bottomed in a compound that included a small gray farmhouse, nestled among two white outbuildings, a chicken coop, and a large red barn. He turned off his headlights and steered onto a narrow dirt road between vast cornfields. Corn was the primary crop fertilized with ammonium nitrate, but ammonium nitrate wasn’t generally used by farmers on the East Coast, where humidity turned it to rock quickly, r
endering it less spreadable. It wasn’t impossible that Trevor’s family could legitimately have ammonium nitrate fertilizer, and there was only one way to find out.
Chris traveled up the dirt road slowly, and when he was about a quarter of the way toward the house, he cut the engine. He got out of the car, closed the door, and stayed still for a moment, waiting for the bark of a dog. There was no sound. He ran down the road toward the house, turned into the cornfield so he wouldn’t be seen, and kept going. It was pitch-black, and he ran with his hands in front of him, got the pattern of the rows, then angled to the right toward the main house. Bugs flew into his face, and dust filled his nostrils. He reached the end of the corn rows and peeked out. The farmhouse was to the right, and the barn and the outbuildings were to the left. There was still no barking dog, so he hurried from the cornfield, and ran to the barn, where the smell was unmistakable. Horses.
You don’t listen, boy.
Chris used to love horses, one horse in particular, an old mare. The Walshes had been horse brokers, of the worse sort, and the mare didn’t even have a name. She was a brown quarterhorse from some third-rate racetrack, on her way to a kill pen, for horsemeat to Canada or other countries. He had named her Mary, for which the Walshes had teased him.
Chris put the thoughts out of his mind as he walked down the center aisle of the barn, four stalls on each side, and he could see the shadows of the horses, the graceful curve of their necks and their peaked ears wheeling in his direction. He hustled to the end of the barn, knowing that there would be a feed room and hayloft. He opened the door, slid out his phone, scrolled to the flashlight function, and cast it around. There was nothing untoward, only galvanized cans of feed, labeled with duct tape, Purina Senior, Flax Seed, Alfalfa Cubes.