Hard Feelings (26 page)

I cried again for a while, letting the tears run freely down my face, then I flicked off the TV and got into bed. Usually, the noise of Third Avenue traffic was a constant in my apartment, but tonight the city seemed unusually silent.

When I woke up I went right to my computer and checked my e-mail, but there was still no response to my message.

Himoto hadn’t called so I decided to call the precinct to find out if there was any news. A woman who answered said that, as far as she knew, there hadn’t been any developments, but that she would leave a message with Himoto that I had called.

It was raining steadily when I left for work but, miraculously, I was able to hail a cab on the corner of Lexington and Sixty-fourth. I realized that it probably wasn’t helping my cause to go in to work today. Most men whose wives are missing would stay home, awaiting any word from the police. I would have stayed home, but I couldn’t miss my meeting with Jim Turner.

At my cubicle, I logged onto my computer right away and checked my e-mail, but there was still no response. I called Himoto and managed to speak with him briefly. He said he had spoken to Doug and Doug had admitted that he had come to visit Paula on Tuesday evening at around nine-thirty, but he claimed he had stayed at the apartment only for about ten minutes.

“Why didn’t he tell you this before?” I asked.

“He said he didn’t think it was important,” Himoto said.

“Give me a break,” I said. “It’s obvious he’s hiding something.”

Himoto said he was going to follow up on some more leads and that he would be in touch by the end of the day.

I confirmed the one o’clock meeting with Jim Turner by leaving a message with his secretary. At ten o’clock, I attended an internal sales meeting, to discuss the status of our current projects and to make sure we had the right personnel in place. I spoke about my projects with Jim Turner and Don Chaney. The whole time, I was distracted, worrying about Paula, and my presentation was disjointed and rambling. As I was talking, I couldn’t help noticing how Steve Ferguson was smirking, whispering something to John Hennessy. When I was through speaking I glared at Steve and he looked back at me defiantly. Our standoff lasted for several seconds, then I looked away.

When the meeting ended, I returned to my cubicle and checked my e-mail log.

WHO THE HELL IS DOUG?
I’M SICK OF YOUR BULLSHIT.
TWELVE NOON AT TEXAS ARIZONA
ON RIVER STREET IN HOBOKEN.
NO MORE GAMES.

20

I TOOK THE D train from Forty-seventh Street and switched for the PATH train at Thirty-fourth. At a little before twelve, I arrived at Texas Arizona, a casual restaurant directly across the street from the Hoboken train station.

When I entered the bar area a waitress came over to me by the door and asked me how many.

“Two,” I said. “I think.”

“You think?”

“A table for two would be fine,” I said.

There were only about ten other customers in the whole place. I looked around, but I didn’t recognize anyone and no one seemed to recognize me.

The waitress led me to a table by the window and I sat down facing the entrance. She asked me if she could get me a drink while I was waiting. I asked for an iced tea.

Some Springsteen song was playing on the restaurant’s stereo. I stared out the window, sipping the iced tea, watching the street in front of the bar and the entrance to the train station. I figured that Doug had sent me the latest e-mail, pretending not to be himself. I imagined him crossing the street and then sitting across from me, confessing that he had murdered Paula. Then I imagined myself leaping across the table and sticking a fork into his face.

I patted my forehead with a napkin.

At a quarter past twelve, I was starting to wonder if I was going to be stood up. I decided to give it another ten minutes.

I looked over and saw a big muscle-head guy in a tank top and jeans, standing near the door with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked like a bouncer, but I hadn’t noticed him before.

Then a teenager, about sixteen years old, entered the restaurant and I nearly choked on the sip of iced tea I had just taken. I had to be asleep, having a nightmare, or maybe I was hallucinating.

The teenager stopped a few feet in front of my table and stared right at me. Now I was convinced that I was flipping out, having some sort of breakdown. Why else was I seeing a teenaged Michael Rudnick standing in front of me?

He must have enjoyed making me feel like I was losing my mind, because he didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring at me with a blank expression. Maybe he didn’t look exactly like the Rudnick of old—his jaw was larger and his lips were thinner—but the similarity was still incredible. He was the same size as Rudnick used to be—big and flabby— and his face was covered with acne. He had the same dark, staring eyes that had once terrorized me. He was even wearing clothes that the young Rudnick might have worn—jeans and a big, baggy sweatshirt. But the most startling resemblance was the single dark eyebrow that stretched straight across his forehead like a thick, ugly caterpillar.

Finally, he sat down across from me, but he wouldn’t stop staring. I thought about reaching across the table and trying to stick my hand through his body to test if he were real, but I didn’t budge.

“You recognize me, huh?” he said.

It was incredible. Even his high-pitched voice sounded like the young Rudnick.

“Of course I recognize you,” I said. “You look exactly like—”

“My father,” he said.

At least I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. I realized he’d probably been at the police station that day too.

The waitress came over and asked Rudnick Jr. if he wanted a drink.

“That’s all right,” he said, continuing to stare at me. “I don’t think I’ll be staying too long.”

The waitress asked me if I wanted to order anything to eat and I shook my head. She went away.

“So what do you want from me?” I asked.

“You know what I want,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Actually, I don’t.”

“I want a confession.”

“A confession to what?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“If you don’t tell me what you—”

“I know you killed my father.”

“But I didn’t kill him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I didn’t kill your father. I don’t know how you got that idea.”

I had a flashback to the parking lot, when I was crouched over Michael Rudnick’s body, driving the knife into his groin.

“It was obviously you,” Rudnick Jr. said. “Just confess to the cops already . . . or else.”

“Or else what?” I said, wondering if he was hinting about Paula.

“Or else you’ll find out what else,” he said.

“I’m telling you,” I said. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I know you did it,” he said. “If you didn’t do it, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I came here to find out who was harassing me.”

“I know what happened at my father’s office that day.”

“Nothing happened at his office.”

“You tried to attack him.”

“That was just a misunderstanding.”

“There were witnesses so stop fucking lying to me!”

The waitress and people from other tables were looking in our direction. The big guy came over to our table.

“Everything okay here?” he asked Rudnick Jr.

“Yeah,” Rudnick Jr. said. “Everything’s fine. Just hang out by the door, man. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The big guy glared at me for a few seconds, then he returned to his spot by the door.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

“He’s my bodyguard,” Rudnick Jr. said.

“Bodyguard? Why do you—”

“Protection.”

“Protection from who?”

“Who do you think? You killed my father. How do I know you won’t try to kill me?”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Didn’t your father tell the police that a teenager attacked him in that parking lot? Do I look like a teenager?”

“Teenagers discovered him in the lot. He could’ve gotten confused.”

“But the police questioned me about it twice. If they had any evidence don’t you think they would have arrested me by now?”

“So what about the day you attacked him in his office?” Rudnick Jr. said. “You’re gonna deny that, too?”

“It’s true, I
was
in his office that day and we had an argument, but I didn’t
attack
him.”

“People were there. They saw you.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk to you about this because I know it’ll upset you.”

“Oh, so now you wanna protect me?”

“Yes,” I said. “In a way I do.”

“I know exactly what happened.”

I paused, then I said, “How do you
know?
”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you know. How do you know?”

He was looking away now. I knew I’d hit on something.

“I just do.”

“How? Did the detectives tell you? Did your mother tell you? If they did it would just be my word against your father’s. How do you know I’m not lying, making it all up?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about,” Rudnick Jr. said, still avoiding eye contact.

“Come on, tell me,” I said. “Did your father say something about me?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know I’m not lying? You wouldn’t’ve started sending me those e-mails, gone to all this trouble, if you weren’t sure. Why are you so sure?”

“Fuck you,” Rudnick Jr. said.

“That other kid and I weren’t the only ones, were we?” I said. “Did your father play Ping-Pong with you? Did he say, ‘You’re gonna feel it?’ ”

“Shut up!”

“That’s why you think I did it, isn’t it? Because you wanted to kill him yourself.”

“Shut up, you fuckin’ son of a bitch!”

The bodyguard started toward our table again. Rudnick Jr., his face suddenly pink, motioned with his hand for him to stay away.

“I’m warning you,” Rudnick Jr. said to me. “This is your last chance. Go to the phone and call the cops right now or you’ll be sorry—very sorry.”

I glanced at my watch—it was past twelve-thirty.

“Look, I have to get back to the city,” I said to Rudnick Jr. “It seems to me that you should probably see a shrink. Your father hurt you when you were a child and you obviously haven’t recovered from it yet. My wife has a good shrink in the city—Dr. Carmadie, I forget the first name. You should look him up.”

“Crazy son of a bitch,” Rudnick Jr. said as he stood up. “I hope you rot in hell.”

Rudnick Jr. stared at me menacingly for a few more seconds, then he and his bodyguard left the restaurant. As I paid my bill at the register, I glanced up at a clock on the wall—it was twelve thirty-six. I could still make it back to Manhattan in time for my meeting.

I jogged across the street to the train station. At the bottom of the stairs, someone grabbed my arms from behind. Suddenly, Rudnick Jr. was standing in front of me.

“You didn’t think I’d let you get away that easy, did you?” he said.

While his bodyguard held me, Rudnick Jr. punched me several times in the face. Each punch hurt more than the one before and my head kept snapping back. I realized that he had something hard in his fist, or maybe he was wearing brass knuckles. It was difficult to breathe through my nose and I felt dizzy, like I might pass out.

After finishing off with a few solid punches to my stomach, Rudnick Jr. held a switchblade to my neck, the tip of the blade under my chin, and said, “That was for my father, you fuckin’ asshole.” He moved the blade higher, cutting into my skin.

“Come on,” the bodyguard said, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Confess,” Rudnick Jr. said to me, “or else,” then he and the bodyguard took off up the stairs.

For several seconds, I remained keeled over, trying to catch my breath. My face was sore and I was sucking blood off my lips. Finally, I limped toward the turnstile.

As I waited on the platform for a train I tried to clean myself up the best I could. I found a tissue in my back pocket and I wiped some blood off my lips. The tissue quickly turned red and was useless. My lips seemed to have stopped bleeding, but blood had dripped onto my shirt and suit jacket.

A midtown-bound train arrived quickly. People on the train were staring at me so I turned toward the door, ignoring them. In the door’s Plexiglas window, I barely recognized my battered reflection.

At Thirty-fourth Street, I waited for a D train, but after five minutes there was no train in sight. Finally, at a few minutes to one a train pulled into the station. When I got out at Forty-seventh Street, I pushed through the crowd—people who looked at my face moved out of the way quickly—and then I exited the station and ran as fast as my aching ribs would allow me to run, across Sixth Avenue to my office building. In the elevator I checked my watch and saw it was five after one.