"Hide" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner Lisa)

15

THEY WERE BOTH silent on the drive back to the North End: Annabelle staring out the side window, sliding the glass pendant back and forth on her necklace; Bobby staring out the windshield, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

Bobby thought he should say something. He tried out several lines in his head: Don't worry. Things will seem better in the morning. Life goes on.

It sounded like the same bullshit people had fed him after the shooting, so he kept his mouth shut. Truth of the matter was, Annabelle's life did suck, and he had a feeling things were only going to get worse. Particularly once she came face-to-face with Catherine Gagnon.

He'd first mentioned Annabelle's name to Catherine out of sheer curiosity; Annabelle claimed to not know Catherine, what was Catherine's impression? Catherine, it turned out, was as oblivious to Annabelle's existence as Annabelle was to hers.

Yet both women had been targeted by predators who favored underground chambers. Both women shared a close physical resemblance. And both had resided near Boston in the early eighties.

Bobby continued to believe, had to believe, there was a connection.

Apparently, the higher-ups had agreed, because they'd okayed the Arizona expedition. Theory was, if they could get Catherine and Annabelle together in a room, something was bound to shake loose. The connecting factor. The common denominator. The startling revelation that would break the case wide open, making the BPD look like heroes and allowing everyone to resume sleeping at night.

Earlier, the idea had seemed a slam-dunk winner. Now Bobby was less certain. He had too many questions racing through his mind. Why had Annabelle's family continued to run even after leaving Massachusetts? How had Annabelle become a target in Arlington, if the perpetrator was operating out of Boston State Mental in Mattapan? And why did a former lunatic-asylum volunteer, Charlie Marvin, also seem to recognize Annabelle, when according to her she'd never set foot on Boston State Mental grounds?

Bobby blew out a puff of air, rubbed at the back of his neck. He wondered when he was going to start to develop some answers instead of a longer list of questions. He wondered how he was going to squeeze approximately twelve hours' worth of phone calls into the approximately two hours he had before the next task-force meeting.

He wondered, once again, if he should say something reassuring to the subdued woman sitting beside him.

No answers yet. He kept driving, hands upon the wheel.

Night had descended, end of day prodding the city to life. Route 93 streamed ahead of them, a long ribbon of glowing red brake lights coiling to an island of glittering skyscrapers. People commented that the Boston cityscape was particularly beautiful at night. Bobby'd spent his whole life living in the city and his whole career driving around it. Frankly, he didn't get it. Tall buildings were tall buildings. Mostly, this time of night, he wanted to be home.

"You ever lose someone close?" Annabelle spoke up abruptly. "A family member, friend?"

After the long silence, her question startled him into an honest answer. "My mother and brother. Long time back."

"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't mean… That's sad."

"No, no, no, they're still alive. It's not what you think. My mother walked out when I was six or seven. My brother made it about eight more years, then followed suit."

"They just left?"

"My father had a drinking problem."

"Oh."

Bobby shrugged philosophically "Back in those days, the choices were pretty much flee the scene or dig your own grave. To give my mother and brother credit, they didn't have a death wish."

"But you stayed."

"I was too young," he said matter-of-factly "Didn't have long enough legs."

She blinked her eyes, looking troubled. "And your father now?"

"Has been sober for nearly ten years. Been a rough road for him, but he's holding course."

"That's great."

"I'm proud of him." He glanced over at her for the first time, making eye contact, holding it for the fraction of an instant driving would allow. He wasn't sure why he said this, but it felt important to get it out: "I'm not so great with booze myself. I understand how hard my father has to fight."

"Oh," she said again.

He nodded at that. Oh summarized his life quite nicely these days. He'd killed a man, gotten involved with the victim's widow, realized he was an alcoholic, confronted a serial killer, and derailed his policing career all in the course of two years. Oh was pretty much the only summary he had left.

"Do you still miss your family?" Annabelle was asking now. "Do you think about them all the time? I honestly hadn't thought of Dori in twenty-five years. Now I wonder if I'll ever get her out of my head."

"I don't think about them the way I used to. I can go weeks, maybe even a month or two, not thinking of them at all. But then something will happen-you know, like the Red Sox winning the World Series-and I'll find myself wondering, What is George doing right now? Is he cheering in some bar in Florida, going nuts for the home team? Or when he left us, did he leave the Red Sox, too? Maybe he only roots for the Marlins these days. I don't know.

"And then my mind will go nuts for a few days. I'll find myself staring in the mirror, wondering if George has the same wrinkles around his eyes that I'm getting. Or maybe he's a plump insurance salesman with the beer gut and double chin. I haven't seen him since he was eighteen years old. I can't even picture him as a man. That gets to me sometimes. Makes me feel like he's dead."

"Do you call him?"

"I've left messages."

"He doesn't return your calls?" She sounded skeptical.

"Not so far."

"And your mom?"

"Ditto."

"Why? That doesn't make any sense. It's not your fault your father was a drunk. Why do they blame you?"

He had to smile. "You're a kind person."

She scowled back. "I am not."

That just made his smile grow. But then he sighed. It felt strange, but not bad, to be talking about his family. He had been thinking about them more and more since the shooting. And leaving more messages.

"So, I went to this shrink a couple years ago," he said. "Department orders. I'd been involved in a critical incident-"

"You killed Jimmy Gagnon," Annabelle said matter-of-factly

"I see you've been busy on the Internet."

"Were you sleeping with Catherine Gagnon?"

"I see you've been talking to D.D."

"So you were involved with her?" Annabelle sounded genuinely surprised. Apparently she'd just been fishing, and he'd stupidly taken the bait.

"I have never so much as kissed Catherine Gagnon," he said firmly

"But the lawsuit-"

"Was ultimately dropped."

"Only after the shoot-out in the hotel-"

"Dropped is dropped."

"Sergeant Warren obviously hates her," Annabelle said.

"D.D. will always hate her."

"Are you sleeping with D.D?"

"So," he said loudly, "I did my job and shot an armed man holding his wife and child at gunpoint. And the department sent me to a shrink. And you know that old saw that shrinks only want to talk about your mother? It's true. All the woman did was ask about my mother."

"All right," Annabelle said, "let's talk about your mother."

"Exactly, one soul-baring moment at a time here. It was interesting. The longer my mother and brother stayed away, the more, on some level, I'd internalized things as being my fault. The shrink, however, raised some good points. My mother, brother, and I shared a pretty traumatic time in our lives. I felt guilty they'd had to run away. Maybe they felt guilty for leaving me behind."

Annabelle nodded, jingled her necklace again. "Makes some sense. So what are you supposed to do?"

"God give me the strength to change the things I can change, the courage to let go of the things I need to let go, and the wisdom to know the difference. My mother and my brother are two of those things I can't change, so I gotta let go." Their exit was coming up. He put on the blinker, worked on getting over.

She frowned at him. "What about the shooting? How are you supposed to handle that?"

"Sleep eight hours a day, eat healthy, drink plenty of water, and engage in moderate amounts of exercise."

"And that works?"

"Dunno. First night, I went to a bar, drank until I nearly passed out. Let's just say I'm still a work in progress."

She finally smiled. "Me, too," she said softly "Me, too."

She didn't speak again until he parked in front of her building. When she did, her voice had lost its edge. She simply sounded tired. Her hand went to the door latch.

"When do we leave in the morning?" she asked.

"I'll pick you up at ten."

"All right."

"Pack for one night. We'll handle the arrangements. Oh, and Annabelle-to board the plane you're going to need valid photo ID."

"Not a problem."

He arched a brow but didn't press. "It won't be so bad," he found himself saying. "Don't let the news articles fool you. Catherine's a woman, same as any other. And we're just going to talk."

"Yeah, I guess." Annabelle popped open the door, stepped out onto the curb. At the last moment, however, she turned back toward him.

"In the beginning," she said softly, "when I saw myself declared dead in the paper, I was relieved. Dead meant I could relax. Dead meant I didn't have to worry about some mysterious boogeyman chasing me anymore. Dead left me feeling a little giddy."

She paused, took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye. "But it's not like that, is it? You, Sergeant Warren, and I aren't the only ones who know it wasn't my body in that grave. Dori's killer also knows he abducted my best friend in my place. He knows I'm still alive."

"Annabelle, it's been twenty-five years…"

"I'm not a helpless little girl anymore," she filled in.

"No, you're not. Plus, we don't know if the perpetrator is active these days. The chamber was abandoned. Meaning he could've been incarcerated for another crime, or here's a thought, maybe he did the world a favor and dropped dead. We don't know yet. We don't."

"Maybe he didn't stop. Maybe he moved. My family kept running. Maybe it was because someone kept chasing."

Bobby didn't have an answer for that one. At this point, anything was possible.

Annabelle shut the door. He rolled down the window, so he could monitor the situation while she went to work inserting the keys. Maybe he was getting a little paranoid, too, because his gaze kept scouring up and down the street, checking every shadow, making sure nothing moved.

The outer door opened. Annabelle turned, waved, stepped into the brightly lit space. He watched her pull the door shut firmly behind her, then go to work on the inner sanctum. Then that door was also opened and closed and he caught one last glimpse of her back as she headed up the stairs.