She was never here.
And now Nicole knows why she came all the way to the Aquatic Center in East Meadow. When she got up this morning she told herself she needed to get out of the house. She needed some exercise. Something to take her mind away from the horrors of reality.
Swimming, she decided. She has always been a good swimmer.
But now she knows it was her mind playing tricks on itself. She didn’t really have to settle on swimming as a distraction. And even if that was all she could come up with, she could have visited a pool closer to home.
No, she came here not to forget but to remember. To make a connection. This is Megan’s place. This is where she spent a huge portion of her free time outside school hours. Not hanging around on street corners. Not going off to places like the East Village. Why would she? This sport was her life.
And now Nicole knows why she didn’t execute her dive. It wasn’t just her fear. It was the fact that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what was expected. By either of them. If Nicole had dived, there would have been no laughter, no ribbing. It would have been the end. It would have closed a door.
‘Nic? Are you okay?’
Phil. One of the pool guards.
‘I. . I heard about Megan,’ he says. ‘I’m real sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she replies. But then she hurries away. Back to the changing rooms. She doesn’t want to lament; she wants to celebrate. She wants to keep the laughter of Megan ringing in her ears for ever.
A crap.
That’s all he’d gone for. A quick dump.
It’s always the same when he drinks strong coffee. It pushes everything else out of his system. He couldn’t contain himself any longer.
Besides, he’s not a nursemaid. He’s not paid to sit here minding Doyle all day.
But he can guess where Doyle has gone. His choice of the very moment that LeBlanc slips out of the squadroom to do his own disappearing act is no coincidence.
Of that LeBlanc is certain.
He is angry, but his anger is tempered by a sense of sadness. He feels he has given Doyle every opportunity to do things in the right way and, every time, Doyle has insisted on shrugging off his partner’s helping hand.
I can’t stop Doyle’s march of destruction, thinks LeBlanc.
All I can do is make sure the only one destroyed by Doyle is himself.
SEVENTEEN
‘Jesus, Stan! What the hell happened to you?’
He’s not concerned, thinks Proust. Curious, yes. But Doyle doesn’t care about my welfare. Wouldn’t matter to him if I was dead.
‘I got on the wrong side of someone.’
There, Doyle. Make of that what you will. You wanna play games, let’s do it, you sonofabitch.
‘Who would that be, Stan?’
‘Why? You think they should be arrested? Think they should be locked up for doing this to me?’
He sees the confusion in Doyle’s eyes. The uncertainty. He’s on unfamiliar ground now, and he doesn’t like it. Well, fuck him. He started this.
‘What’s going on, Stan? You looking to jam me up for what happened to you? You really think you could pull that off?’
Doyle advances as he says this. He cuts a threatening figure, and although Proust has the counter between him and Doyle, he still feels nervous. He can feel himself starting to tremble.
No, he tells himself. You can do this. Stand up to him. He’s a bully, and there’s nothing a bully likes better than a willing victim. Show him what you’re made of. What’s the worst he can do? Inflict pain? Ha! I can do pain now, you bastard. Try me. Go ahead, you big fucking nobody, try me.
‘I’m not looking to do anything, Detective. Why would I? What would be the purpose? I’m just a plain ordinary citizen, wanting to get on with his plain ordinary life. There something wrong with that?’
When Doyle slams his palm down on the countertop, the bang echoes around the room and Proust flinches visibly.
Stay calm, he tells himself. Anyone would have jumped at that. Doesn’t mean you’re scared. Don’t let him get to you.
Doyle raises his voice. ‘No, Stan. You’re not a plain ordinary citizen. Ordinary citizens don’t torture and kill other citizens. You’re special in that way, Stan. That’s why you get my special attention.’
Proust can feel his eye twitching. Shit! He gets it sometimes. A nervous tic. He rubs his eye, trying to massage it back into its normal behavior. He doesn’t want Doyle thinking he’s intimidated by him, because he’s not. Damn straight, he’s not.
‘I ain’t nothing special. I just do tattoos. And you need to stop making all these accusations about me.’
Doyle leans forward over the counter, his expression menacing. ‘Or what, Stan? What will you do?’
Proust wants to maintain eye contact. He wants to look this bastard right back in his pupils and tell him what a sad, pathetic clown he is. He wants to punch him. Right in the mouth. Knock a few teeth out.
But he can’t do any of that. Can’t even endure the staring match. He has to look away. And it shames him to do so. Reminds him of all the times he backed down from the bullies at school. It makes him sick to the stomach, and he feels the self-loathing start to rise in his gullet.
And then, as if to make amends for all the times he has been put through situations like this, fate offers him a helping hand. If he hadn’t averted his gaze just when he did, he might never have detected the opportunity being presented to him.
In one of the wall mirrors he sees a movement on the street outside. A man, getting out of his car. It’s Doyle’s partner. The blond cop. LeBlanc, or whatever his name is. He’s looking at another car parked behind his own. Doyle’s car. And now he’s throwing his hands up in despair and shaking his head.
‘Are you listening to me, Stan? I asked you what you were going to do about it.’
Proust runs his hand through his hair. Pretends he’s considering Doyle’s question. Acts as though he’s about to collapse under this onslaught, which is exactly what Doyle wants him to do.
He sees LeBlanc move to the curb, a look of grim determination on his face. He’s getting ready to cross the street. Getting ready to barge straight in here.
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but that’s when Proust gets his idea. The muse strikes. Oh, yes, that beautiful muse grabs him right by the crotch and whispers sweetly in his ear.
‘I ain’t doing this no more,’ he says to Doyle, and then he’s gone.
It takes Doyle by surprise, Proust walking off like that. It’s as if the man was suddenly seized by an impulse to get away. As if he knows that a bomb is about to go off in here.
Doyle knows he can’t leave it at that. He can’t just go back to his car. He has to find out what the hell is going on. Why is Proust acting so peculiarly? Why the sudden need to go into his living area? Has he finally snapped? Is he going to fetch a weapon of some kind, or to call the cops?
Doyle steps around the counter. He pushes open the door through which Proust has just exited. It leads to a small, narrow room. Windowless, it is illuminated by only a single naked bulb of feeble wattage. The walls are mostly lined with dark wooden shelves holding tattoo equipment and books on art and design. At the far end of the claustrophobic space, in the left-hand wall, another door creaks as it slowly closes. Proust has just left through that door.
Doyle picks up his pace as he traverses the storage room. He doesn’t want to give Proust time to set a trap or locate a weapon. He gets there before the door can finish closing, and puts a hand out to stop it. The door consists almost entirely of a panel of translucent glass, enclosed in a narrow painted frame. The glass is an ugly pale yellow, like paper aged by sunlight, and through it Doyle can just make out the shape of Proust in the room beyond. He pushes the door open and steps inside.
The place hasn’t changed much since Doyle was last in here, all that time ago when he was looking into the
