John Walters, who had recently been promoted to managing editor, arrived about the same time as the explosives experts did. His concern that subscribers would be unhappy if their morning papers were not on their driveways before breakfast time did not count for much with the bomb squad. He paced back and forth on the perimeter, where the delivery drivers and press operators waited.
John scowled every time he saw me, but he hadn’t spoken to me yet. I took that to mean that even if nothing was found in the car, there was bound to be at least one type of explosion that morning.
Cassidy ambled over to him, spoke with him for a moment, and John stopped pacing. He slumped a little, looking toward his shoes, but I doubted he could see them over the curve of his belly. He glanced back at me, but this time the look was different. Sympathy. An offering I refused by fixing my gaze on the car.
Since the only way to get sympathy from John was to have something really awful happen to you, I preferred seeing him upset. I wasn’t exactly cool and calm myself. Although we were some distance away, I could see that the explosives experts had their specially trained dogs out. The two animals worked in a team, cautiously sniffing the exterior of the car. One of the dogs showed some interest in the trunk, but when the handler brought over the other one, the two dogs moved along.
“If the dogs detect any kind of explosive, they signal it very clearly,” Cassidy said, now back at my side. “I don’t think they found anything just then.”
I nodded. As I watched the officers go through other checks, using mirrors on long extensions and other devices, I could feel the weight of each passing moment, every delay seeming to decrease the odds of finding Frank.
“Cut it out,” Cassidy said next to me.
“Cut what out?”
“You’re winding yourself up tighter than an eight-day clock.”
“Forgive me. I’m sure if your wife was missing and the bomb squad was inspecting her car while terrorists did as they pleased with her, you’d just be sitting around whistling Dixie.”
For a moment I imagined that I had made him angry. After putting up with his irritating calm, I’d have found it a refreshing change. But I was wrong — he smiled and looked away from me, an expression of private amusement on his face.
“Come on, Ms. Kelly,” he said, “they’re gonna let us take a look-see.”
We moved to the next barrier — yellow police tape surrounding the part of the parking lot where the Volvo stood.
The bomb squad was packing up, and Cassidy was directing the uniformed officers who had been working crowd control to let people back into the building. John was avoiding me for the moment, talking to the production and circulation managers, undoubtedly trying to figure out what this interruption was going to do to press and delivery schedules. Photographs, which had been taken at several points, were now taken from closer angles. A fingerprint technician was already dusting the door handles and other surfaces. Most of the attention was on the open trunk.
As we drew closer, my sense of dread became so acute that the trunk seemed to become a gaping maw, Jonah’s whale come to swallow me whole. Police interest of this kind was like John’s sympathy — it could not be associated with anything good.
Cassidy took hold of my elbow at some point; I guess I had slowed without realizing it. I heard voices around me, introductions, comments, even Cassidy’s drawling version of my name. He was repeating it.
But they were all far away. I was in an incomprehensible world, a world composed solely of the large, dark bloodstain on the carpet in the trunk of my husband’s car.
5
I WAS ABLE TO AVOID FAINTING or screaming or going into hysterics, but the tears refused all orders not to fall. Next to the stain, an orderly display of three items caught my eye: a pager, a cellular phone, a gun in a shoulder holster. I knew they were Frank’s even before Cassidy steered me away from the car and into the building.
The big marble-and-brass lobby was empty; the security guard was outside, engrossed in watching the police action. Cassidy seated me on a bench and asked for directions to the nearest vending machines. I managed to point the way. I sat there, trembling, hoping I could stop quivering before he came back. I couldn’t. He handed me a cup of hot coffee and made me drink it while he watched.
John came in, took in my tearstained face, and snapped, “Get her another cup of that stuff,” as if Cassidy were his to command. Cassidy didn’t make a fuss about it. The minute he stood up, John sat next to me, even took my hand and patted it in an awkward gesture of reassurance. I wasn’t reassured, but it was so weird to have John do something like that, I dried up.
“You going to be okay, Kelly?”
I nodded.
“Can I do anything for you?”
I shook my head.
“Mark’s here. I’ve asked him to cover this.”
“Keep him away from me,” I said, hating how shaky my voice sounded.
“But, Kelly—”
“I just can’t talk to him now, John. Maybe later.”
“Before deadline?”
I choked out a laugh.
“You don’t blame Mark for this, do you, Kelly?”
Did I? Maybe. It was wrong, I knew. But what if Mark’s story had triggered what happened? I thought of the bloodstain. No, I told myself, it’s wrong to blame Mark.
