He shook his head, rolled his eyes.
“Strange coincidence, I will admit,” he said. “I’d like to hold onto this as well, check it for prints along with the paintings.”
“You have my blessing.”
“You sure that’s everything?” he asked once more.
I spotted Harris’s cell phone set on the desk top. I was immediately reminded of the strange texts I’d been receiving for some months now. I went to open my mouth up about it. But something held me back. I knew I should have told Harris everything. But something inside my gut stopped me from doing the right thing. Something entirely to do with Molly.
I knew that if I told Harris about the texts, he might confiscate my cell and look for a way to break into the data base to find a way to expose the unknown caller’s ID. He might take away my only physical link to Molly.
Michael slipped on his jacket and his beret. Harris took special notice of the beret, squinting his eyes and slipping out from behind his desk. He opened the office door, held it open for us.
“I understand you write detective novels, Mr. Hoffman,” he smiled. “Anything published?”
“ The Hounds of Heaven,” Michael said. “Came out a few years ago. I’m working on something new right now.”
Reaching into his pocket the detective handed us each a card.
“Give me a call anything else happens,” he said. “Call anytime day or night. My cell number is also on there.”
I thanked him.
He told me not to worry; to get a good night’s rest.
As we started to walk out, I said, “I do have one more question, Detective.”
His eyebrows perked up.
“You never asked me why my sister and I didn’t come to you about the attack thirty years ago.”
He picked at his right earlobe quickly with an extended index finger.
“I’ve been working this job for thirty-eight years,” he said with a resignation I hadn’t noticed until now. “I know precisely why you didn’t come to me, Rebecca. It’s not your fault.”
With that I turned, led Michael toward the exit. Handing in our visitor’s passes to the watch commander, he asked us to have a nice day. But it seemed a little late for that.
Chapter 31
“Why didn’t you tell him about the texts?”
Michael was speaking to me out the side of his mouth as he pulled out of the police station onto South Pearl Street.
I turned to him, watched his profile while he drove. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
He was quiet for a minute, pretending to concentrate on the road when in fact he was filled with thought.
“It’s your call,” he said after a while. “I know how you feel about the texts; about them coming from…” Instead of finishing his thought he allowed it to dangle, as if it were too strange for him to say it.
“Coming from Molly,” I uttered for him. “From heaven above… You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”
“That the tangible proof you need that heaven exists? That God exists? That Molly lives? A cell phone?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“I still think you should have told the dick,” he added.
“I will tell him. As soon as I can convince myself that Molly has nothing to do with it.”
We let the subject drop. But our silence didn’t lighten things up for even a moment. By the time we approached my apartment complex I was so nervous, so pent up with anxiety, I felt like jumping out of my skin.
Michael couldn’t help but notice my apprehension. He thought it would be a good idea for us to simply head into the apartment, lock ourselves behind closed doors and do something we hadn’t done together in ages: cook.
It felt like a good idea; a comforting idea. It’s exactly what we did, even though I wasn’t particularly hungry. It had been a long time since I’d shared a dinner with another man. It’d been a long time since I cooked for myself. Anything other than Stouffers. My kitchen shelves were not exactly stocked with food. I was just one person after all.
But Michael wasn’t the least bit fazed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he staunchly replied that he would make do with whatever I had. Which pretty much consisted of three boxes of wheat pasta and some tomato sauce.
“Minimalism,” Michael smiled. “Simply perfect. Like a Ray Carver short story.”
“A rose is a rose is a rose,” I recited.
“Gertrude Stein,” he stated proudly.
He filled a large pot with cold tap water then set it onto the gas stove to boil. He uncorked a bottle of red, poured us each a glass and took them with him into the living room. While I slipped the new Belarus disk into the CD player, he sat down on the couch, exhaling a long sigh.
“Feel better?” he said, taking a small sip of wine. “I know I do. In a proactive sort of way.”
I listened for the music to begin. Slowly strummed guitar, smoothly exhaled harmonica, deep bass, steady drums. Voices followed. Harmonious and touching me in the spot that made tears press up against the backs of my eyeballs.
I shuffled around the coffee table, sat myself down on the couch beside my ex-husband. Reaching out I picked up my wine, took a small sip.
“I’m not entirely sure what I feel.”
“Harris is looking out for you now. That’s gotta mean something, afford you just a semblance of peace. Even if you did avoid the issue of the texts.”
“I got the distinct feeling he thought I was out of my head.” Turning to Michael, I continued, “In fact, I’m starting to feel the same way. That maybe I’m just a little nutty; that maybe much of what’s happened over the past few days is in my head.” I laughed. “Heaven sent text messages for God sakes. I’m not even sure I believe in God anymore!”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Michael said, taking a large swallow of wine.
“I don’t know what to believe sometimes,” I said.
“You can’t deny Franny’s paintings,” he pointed out. “You can’t deny seeing the words in them.”
“Why is it so much more difficult for other people to see the words?”
“It’s just easier for you to see them. Or maybe you want to see them.”
“Okay, so what else can’t I deny?”
“You mean what else proves you’re not a nutcase?”
“Sure.”
“You can’t deny that the images Franny paints are similar to your dreams.”
“No, I can’t. But not even Franny is gifted enough to be inside my head.” I paused. “Or is he?”
Cocking his head, Michael exhaled. “Maybe he’s in tune with you. Your thoughts and fears. I think that he somehow sees your dreams; paints them. He has no choice but to paint them for you. He wants you to see your dreams through your conscious eyes.”
As much as I couldn’t deny any of what Michael was telling me, I could just as easily look at it all as a remarkable coincidence. But then how could I deny the painting of me and Molly that was presently stored inside Franny’s basement storage room? How could I deny the identical black and white snapshot I found on my parents’ porch? How could I deny Whalen’s release from prison?
Maybe I wasn’t nuts after all. Maybe everything was somehow fitting into place. Maybe Whalen truly was a threat. Maybe Franny knew this and was doing everything in his power to warn me.
I rested my head back against the couch.
