‘You have to talk to her, Dev. You have to convince her to wait.’
‘I’ve never even met the woman. Why would she listen to me?’
‘She’s heard good things about you. From David. He was the only one who liked the idea of bringing you down here. The rest of them were threatened.’
‘Why now? What changed her mind?’
‘I guess her two little daughters. They keep asking about their father. She’s getting scared that maybe something happened to him. You know, the way it happened to Jim Waters.’
‘Well, I suppose I can give her a call.’
‘No!’ he said. ‘No, not a call. You have to see her in person. The phone won’t cut it.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? I need to be here at ten when the news comes on. We need an angle so we can respond.’
‘This isn’t a big city. She’s maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes away. I can give you the address. Hell, you can watch the news there. She’ll appreciate the company. She’s going crazy and she doesn’t think I’m a help at all.’
‘I really resent this, Ward.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘You don’t blame me but you still want me to do it.’
‘I’m desperate. You bought in, too — so now we’re both desperate.’
I took down the address. Of course. And then went down to my rental. Of course. And set out in the dark rainy night. Of course.
PART THREE
SIXTEEN
Bryn Nolan wasn’t as highly lacquered as Mrs Burkhart. She didn’t need to be. She was a tall, preppy blonde with one of those freckled upper-class faces that you find in an F. Scott Fitzgerald. She wasn’t quite a beauty but her face was so urgently pretty that she drew you in without any tricks. Gatsby would have invited her to any number of his parties.
She wore a dark brown sweater and a tweed skirt and a frown. ‘This was so stupid of Jeff, Mr Conrad. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m sorry he made you make the trip.’ She was as jittery as a junkie in need of needle love.
‘So I should just go back to my car and get out of here?’ Pity has never worked well for me. But I keep trying.
‘Oh, Lord.’ She flung a welcoming arm out. ‘Please come in. At least let me pour you some coffee. David loves my coffee. Says it’s the best he’s ever had.’
She said all this to my back as I entered a small vestibule and turned left into a large living room at the suggestion of one more arm fling. The good taste assaulted me. This woman or her decorator had contrived a room that was imperious in its perfect harmony. Stone fireplace, Persian rugs, enormous couch, small sofa, love seat, and hardwood coffee table. Not necessarily all that expensive but not a single element that would upset a snob. Unlike my apartment in Chicago, there wasn’t a stray sock or shirt to be found anywhere.
The fire was as appealing as she was. I sat in a leather chair staring into the flames. My mind was so overloaded it refused to deal with any of the problems at hand. It just roamed around image to image, mostly related to other fireplaces that had figured in my life. I thought of my ex-wife and of our daughter, of a girl I’d loved in high school, and of a cabin I’d rented once that had made me feel like a pioneer — until I’d had to use the outhouse in the middle of a snowy night.
‘Here. I’m sorry it took so long.’
She was breathless; a few seconds away from hysteria. I took the saucer and cup she handed me. She went over and parked herself primly on the couch. She folded her hands as if in prayer and then loosed them like fluttering doves.
‘You need to calm down, Mrs Nolan.’
‘I know; I know. This is all my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t been so stupid…’ Her hands returned to prayer. ‘I’m thirty-six years old and I feel like a college slut or something. Really. I even went to Confession. He was one of those new priests who “understands.” I wanted the old-fashioned kind.’ She had a smile that could start wars. ‘You know, some big old monsignor who’d come over to your side and drag you out of the confessional and then start yelling at you in front of everybody else.’
‘Well, if you find a church like that, let me know. I’d like to go there.’
The joke landed about thirty seconds after I sent it.
‘Oh — right. You’re kidding. God, I’m so scattered I can’t think straight. I keep thinking David’s dead.’ Then, ‘I wish I could tell you it wasn’t exciting. It was. He made me feel alive again instead of like some dreary housewife. Jeff’s very good at that. He got me to the point where I’d come to him any time of night or day. I was ashamed of myself but I couldn’t stop. It was so high school. And then one day one of our daughters started screaming about something so I ran downstairs to see what was wrong. Jeff had sent me a kind of sexy letter and I was writing him back sort of a sexy one myself. I thought it was kind of a goof. I didn’t close my computer. And I forgot about it because Chrissie had fallen on the driveway and had a cut on her head. When David found the letter he exploded, even though I told him it didn’t mean anything.’
So Ward was telling poor Nolan that it didn’t mean anything and his wife was telling Nolan that it didn’t mean anything — apparently the only person it meant anything to was Nolan himself.
‘He’s a bender drinker,’ I said. I wasn’t in the mood to play a righteous monsignor. I wanted to find out where the hell her husband was.
‘Yes. He goes to AA meetings twice a month.’
‘So it is a definite possibility he’s trying to drink through this.’
‘Yes. But after what happened to poor Jim-’
‘Does he ever call you when he’s on one of his benders?’
‘Not usually.’
‘Does he tend to go to the same places?’
‘He says not. Sometimes he goes into Chicago. A lot of the time he’s not even sure where he went. He has to reconstruct his trips with credit card receipts.’
We fell into one of those uncomfortable silences that neither of us had the ingenuity to break. The phone rang and she leapt for it with Olympian zeal and prowess. It was on an end table. She probably could have picked up the entire table with her crazed strength.
‘The Nolan residence.’ Then: ‘Oh, God, no, listen — I don’t want to take a survey now and why the hell are you calling me at nine twenty? The cut-off’s supposed to be nine o’clock!’ She slammed the receiver down so hard I thought I heard the phone groan.
She touched long fingers to her perfect right breast. A hint of nipple made her all the more fetching. ‘Now I know how people get heart attacks. Every time the phone rings my mind just explodes. And then my heart does, too.’
She came back and sat down. Her very nice legs were set exquisitely together. ‘What were we saying?’
‘I was wondering why you wanted to call in a missing persons report now?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Because I’m having nightmares. I studied medieval English literature in college. Nightmares figured in a lot of the plays. They foreshadowed what was to come. We do some of that today. Look at all the paranormal shows on TV.’
‘So you’ve been having nightmares about your husband.’
‘As soon as I close my eyes they start. He’s usually trapped somewhere — buried alive — or on an elevator — or in the trunk of a car — and he’s always crying out for me to help him. He never talks about how I betrayed him. He doesn’t have to. It’s all I think about. Over and over and over. God, I wish I’d never met Jeff Ward.’
Sometimes the greatest mystery of all is the mystery of ourselves. We do something so out of character that
