same description. He wants me to look into it with his wife.”
My father waited. The information sank in. “His wife?”
“He got married in prison.”
“To a guy?”
It almost made me smile. “No, to a pen pal.”
“O19;tify'›I ne of those,” my father said with a disgusted nuance. “Celebrity stalkers, but they only like the mass murderers. They’re just as psychotic.”
“He says she’s been trying to help him. Gathering evidence, I suppose.”
He waited. “If it was anybody else I’d say it was a ploy to get a stay of execution, an appeal, or a new trial.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t want any of that, he says. He just wants me to find out who’s killing these women. He doesn’t even want his own name cleared of that one killing.”
“So why’s he care? Why now?”
“He says it’s because he wasn’t certain if he’d killed the girl or not, but now his wife’s been bringing him information and he knows for sure there’s someone else out there.”
“He’s manipulating you.”
“I get that feeling too, but I can’t see any reason for it.”
“Your brother doesn’t need a reason to do things anymore. Maybe he never did.”
“Does Fingers Brown still sell clean pieces?” I asked.
“Haven’t heard much about him in a while. But I can’t picture him retiring and doing a lot of fishing.”
“Still got the bowling alley?”
“As far as I know. You’re going to pay him a visit?”
“I want to ask him a few questions.”
My old man finished his beer and took another, held the bottle to his chest. “You’ve decided to help Collie?”
“It’s for me. I want to figure out as much as I can about what happened.”
He went to the porch railing, stood against it, and looked at the moon. “Can you let it go?”
“No.”
He was a sensitive and astute man, but I was still surprised that he was able to slice to the heart of the matter.
“You’re not him, Terry.”
I got up and took my place beside him. We watched JFK sniffing around the yard, lumbering across the grass, chasing moths. I said nothing because I had nothing to say.
“I’m sorry I put the call through, son.”
“You were only doing what you had to do.”
“I should’ve let you stay out west on your ranch.”
“It wasn’t my ranch. And it’s all right. I never should’ve left. The last five years were a waste, Dad. I’m sorry I went. I’m sorry I left the family. I never should have gone. It was a mistake to run.”
“Because of Kimmy.”
“Because of everyone.”
He put an arm around me and ruffled my white patch. It was a caricature of what your average American father might do to his son, but I appreciated the effort he was making. I only wished I could make more of one myself.
He whistled and opened the screen door. JFK galloped out of the brush and up the porch stairs, made sure he licked at my hand as he passed, and then rushed into the house.
I said, “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, Terry.” My old man followed the dog inside. But my father, who wasn’t a talkative man, who had lost one son forever and another for five years, who was worried about his teenage daughter, who had a phantom of a father waiting for him hunched in the corner as a constant reminder of what the future might make of him, still wasn’t done speaking his mind. He hovered in the shadowed entranceway and turned back to me. I couldn’t see his eyes. Silhouetted like that, silent as stone, he seemed more myth than man.
“Finish whatever it is you have to do,” he said. His voice was hard, stoic, and indignant. “And let him go forever. Don’t allow your brother to take you with him.”
Then I was alone in the night.
Part II. BEAST ON THE LOOSE
15
Out of sheer exhaustion I was able to catch a couple hours of sleep, but the pain in my kidneys woke me in the deep darkness. I was slathered in sweat and spurred on to the bathroom. I gritted my teeth, pissed blood, and popped five aspirin.
I took a shower and let the cold water wash over me.
I’d dreamed of Kimmy. I was surprised and bothered by the clarity of the memory. We were in the Commack Motor Inn, one of several pay-by-the-hour motels we used to duck into so we could be together. Intimacy and privacy weren’t among the benefits of living in a large house with an extended family. The backseat of a car got old quick. We were catching our breaths, lying back in each other’s arms. Her hair was wet and scoured my cheek. She pressed her lips to my ear.
“Terry, I’m pregnant.”
It was dark. I couldn’t make out her face. Her voice was steady and I couldn’t tell if she was glad or terrified or excited or indifferent. I knew that was why she’d chosen this precise moment to tell me. She wanted my own honest reaction not influenced by her own.
I said, “We’re not naming her after a fucking dog.”
It made her giggle, a sound that transformed me and lightened me and always seemed to make me float to somewhere safe. “Her? You want a girl?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Why?”
“I like the idea of saying, ‘I’m going home to my girls.’ ”
She let go with a relieved quiet laughter that soon turned into tears as we muttered our sweet somethings and made love again. I thought of the child growing inside her, and we were gentler and somehow more generous than we had been in a while. Afterward I looped my arms around her and kissed her belly. Our breathing was in sync, which meant our breathing was in sync with the baby’s. I’d never felt quite so significant or so vulnerable.
“We’ll get married tomorrow.”
“No,” Kimmy said. “I don’t want to rush i maere c @wert. We can take our time.”
“This summer? On the beach? We can rent the Montauk Lighthouse, have the ceremony at the top.”
“You’ve been thinking about this?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Since when?”
“Since I met you,” I said. It was the truth. “We can buy a house out east. Something nice and affordable, but private, maybe near the Hamptons.”
“You don’t have that kind of money.”
“Not
“Don’t I get any say in the matter?” she asked.
“No. I’m going to take care of my girls. You just sit back and let me run the show and love you both. This
