No Time for Goodbye (18 page)

25

“Sometimes, when you don’t call
when I’m expecting you to,” she said, “I think
I’m
the one being driven crazy.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve got good news. I think it’s happening.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. What was it Sherlock Holmes used to say? ‘The game is afoot?’ Or was it Shakespeare?”

“I’m not really sure,” he said.

“So you delivered it?”

“Yes.”

“But you need to stay a little longer to see what happens.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “I’m sure it will end up on the news.”

“I wish I could tape it here.”

“I’ll bring home the newspapers.”

“Oh, I’d love that,” she said.

“There haven’t been any more stories about Tess. I guess that means they haven’t found out anything.”

“I guess we should just be grateful for whatever good fortune comes our way, shouldn’t we?”

“And there was something else on the news, about this missing detective. The one my…you know…hired.”

“Do you think they’ll find him?” she asked.

“Hard to say.”

“Well, we can’t worry about that,” she said. “You sound a bit nervous.”

“I guess.”

“This is the hard part, the risky part, but when you add it all together, it’s going to pay off. And when it’s time, you can come back and get me.”

“I know. Won’t he wonder where you are, why you’re not going to see him?”

“He hardly gives me the time of day,” she said. “He’s winding down. Maybe a month to go. Long enough.”

“You think he’s ever really loved us?” he asked.

“The only one he’s ever loved is her,” she said, making no attempt to hide her bitterness. “And has she ever been there for him? Looked after him? Cleaned up after him? And who solved his biggest problem? He’s never been grateful for what I’ve done. We’re the ones who’ve been wronged here. We were robbed of having a real family. What we’re doing now, this is justice.”

“I know,” he said.

“What do you want me to make for you when you get home?”

“A carrot cake?”

“Of course. It’s the least a mother can do.”

26

I phoned the police and left
a message for Detective Rona Wedmore, who’d given me her card when she’d asked me questions after we’d scattered Tess’s ashes on the Sound. I asked if she could meet me and Cynthia at our home, that we’d both be there shortly. Gave her the address in case she didn’t already know it, but I was betting she did. In my message I said that what I was calling about didn’t have to do, specifically, with the disappearance of Denton Abagnall, but it might, in some way, be related.

I said it was urgent.

I asked Cynthia on the phone whether she wanted me to pick her up at work, but she said she was okay to drive home. I left the school without explaining to anyone why, but they were, I guess, becoming accustomed to my erratic behavior. Rolly had just come out of his office, seen me on the phone, and watched as I’d run out of the building.

Cynthia beat me home by a couple of minutes. She was standing in the doorway, the envelope in her hand.

I came inside and she handed it to me. There was one word—“Cynthia”—printed on the front. No stamp. It had not gone through the mail.

“Now we’ve both touched it,” I said, suddenly realizing we were probably making all kinds of mistakes the police would give us shit for later.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Read it.”

I took the sheet of plain business paper out of the envelope. It had been folded perfectly in thirds, like a proper letter. The back side of the sheet was a map, crudely drawn in pencil, some intersecting lines representing roads, a small town labeled “Otis,” a rough egg shape labeled “quarry lake,” and an “X” in one corner of it. There were some other notations, but I wasn’t sure what they meant.

Cynthia, speechless, watched me take it all in.

I flipped the sheet over and the moment I saw the typed message, I noticed something about it, something that jumped out at me, something that disturbed me very much. Even before I’d read the contents of the note, I wondered about the implications of what had caught my eye.

But for the moment, I held my tongue, and read what it said:

Cynthia: It’s time you knew where they were. Where they still ARE, most likely. There’s an abandoned quarry a couple of hours north of where you live, just past the Connecticut border. It’s like a lake, but not a real lake because it’s where they took out gravel and stuff. It’s real deep. Probably too deep for any kids swimming there to have found all these years. You take 8 north, cross into Mass., keep going till you get to Otis, then go east. See the map on the other side. There’s a small lane behind a row of trees that leads to the top of the quarry. You have to be careful when you get up there, because it’s really steep. Down into the quarry there. Right down there, at the bottom of that lake, that’s where you’ll find your answer.

I flipped the sheet over again. The map showed all the details that were set out in the note.

“That’s where they are,” Cynthia whispered, pointing to the paper in my hand. “They’re in the water.” She took in a breath. “So…they’re dead.”

Things seemed almost blurry before my eyes. I blinked a couple of times, focused. I turned the sheet over again, reread the note, then looked at it not for what it said, but from a more technical point of view.

It had been composed on a standard typewriter. Not on a computer. Not printed off.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, trying very hard to keep my voice controlled.

“It was in the mail at Pamela’s,” Cynthia said. “In the mailbox. Someone left it there. The mailman didn’t bring it. It doesn’t have a stamp on it or anything.”

“No,” I said. “Someone put it there.”

“Who?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“We have to go up there,” she said. “Today, now, we have to find out what’s there, what’s under the water.”

“The detective, the woman who met us at the dock, Wedmore, she’s coming. We’ll talk to her about that. They’ll have police divers. But there’s something else I want to ask you about. It’s about this note. Look at it. Look at the typing—”

“They have to get up there immediately,” Cynthia said. It was as if she thought whoever was at the bottom of that quarry might still be alive, that they might still have a bit of air left.

I heard a car stop out front, looked out the window and saw Rona Wedmore striding up the driveway, her short, stocky frame looking capable of walking straight through the door.

I felt a sense of panic.

“Honey,” I said, “is there anything else you want to tell me about this note? Before the police get here? You have to be totally honest with me here.”

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Don’t you see something odd about this?” I said, holding the letter in front of her. I pointed, very specifically, to one of the words in the letter. “Right here, at the beginning,” I said, pointing to “time.”

“What?”

The horizontal line in the “e” was faded, making it almost look like a “c.” The word almost appeared to be “timc.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cynthia said. “What do you mean, be honest with you? Of course I’m being honest with you.”

Wedmore was mounting the front step, fist ready to knock.

“I have to go upstairs for a moment,” I said. “Answer that, tell her I’ll be right down.”

Before Cynthia could say another thing, I bolted up the stairs. Behind me, I heard Wedmore knock, two sharp knocks, then Cynthia open the door, the two of them exchange greetings. By then I was in the small room I use to mark papers, prepare lessons.

My old Royal typewriter sat on the desk, beside the computer.

I had to decide what to do with it.

It was obvious to me that the note Cynthia was, at that moment, showing to Detective Wedmore had been written on this typewriter. The faded “e” was instantly recognizable.

I knew that I had not typed that letter.

I knew Grace could not have done it.

That left only two other possibilities. The stranger we had reason to believe had entered our home had used my typewriter to write that note, or Cynthia had typed it herself.

But we’d had the locks changed. I was as sure as I could be that no one had been in this house in the last few days who wasn’t supposed to be here.

It seemed unthinkable that Cynthia had done this. But what if…what if, under what could only be described as unimaginable stress, Cynthia had written this note, which was directing us to a remote location where supposedly we would learn the fate of the members of Cynthia’s family?

What if Cynthia had typed it up, and what happened if it turned out to be right?

“Terry!” Cynthia shouted. “Detective Wedmore is here!”

“In a minute!” I said.

What would that mean? What would it mean if Cynthia somehow actually knew, all these years, where her family could be found?

I was breaking into a sweat.

Maybe, I told myself, she’d repressed memories. Maybe she knew more than she was aware. Yes, that could be it. She saw what happened, but forgot it. Didn’t that happen? Didn’t the brain sometimes decide,
Hey, what you’re seeing is so horrible, you have to forget it, otherwise you’ll never be able to get on with your life
? Wasn’t there an actual syndrome they talked about that covered this sort of thing?

And then again, what if it wasn’t a repressed memory? What if she’d always known—

No.

No, it had to be another explanation altogether. Someone else had used our typewriter. Days ago. Planning ahead. That stranger who’d come into the house and left the hat.

If it was a stranger.

“Terry!”

“Right there!”

“Mr. Archer!” Detective Wedmore shouted. “Haul it down here, please.”

I acted on impulse. I opened the closet, picked up the typewriter—God, those old machines were heavy—and put it inside, on the floor. Then I draped some other things over it, an old pair of pants I’d used to paint in, a stack of old newspapers.

As I came down the stairs, I saw that Wedmore was now with Cynthia in the living room. The letter was on the coffee table, open, Wedmore leaning over it, reading it.

“You touched this,” she scolded me.

“Yes.”

“You’ve both touched it. Your wife,
that
I could understand—she didn’t know what it was when she took it out. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I ran my hand over my mouth and chin, tried to wipe away the sweat I was sure would betray my nervousness.

“You can get divers, right?” Cynthia said. “You can get divers to go into the quarry, see what’s there.”

“This could be a crank,” Wedmore said, taking a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eye and tucking it behind her ear. “Could be nothing.”

“That’s true,” I offered.

“But then again,” the detective said, “we don’t know.”

“If you don’t send in divers, I’ll go in myself,” Cynthia said.

“Cyn,” I said. “don’t be ridiculous. You don’t even swim.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mrs. Archer,” Wedmore said, “calm down.” It was an order. Wedmore had a kind of football coach thing going on.

“Calm down?” said Cynthia, unintimidated. “You know what this person, who wrote this letter, is saying? They’re down there. Their bodies are down there.”

“I’m afraid,” Wedmore said, shaking her head skeptically, “that there might be a lot down there after all these years.”

“Maybe they’re in a car,” Cynthia said. “My mother’s car, my father’s car, they were never found.”

Wedmore took a corner of the letter between two brilliant red-polished fingernails and turned it over. She stared at the map.

“We’ll have to get the Mass. State Police in on this,” she said. “I’ll make a call.” She reached into her jacket for her cell phone, opened it up, prepared to put in a number.

“You’re going to get some divers?” Cynthia said.

“I’m making a call. And we’re going to have to get that letter to our lab, see if they can get anything off it, if it hasn’t already been made pretty useless.”

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia said.

“Interesting,” Wedmore said, “that it was done on a typewriter. Hardly anyone uses typewriters.”

I felt my heart in my mouth. And then Cynthia said something I couldn’t believe I was hearing.

“We have a typewriter,” she said.

“You do?” Wedmore said, holding off before entering the last number.

“Terry still likes to use one, right, honey? For short notes, that kind of thing. It’s a Royal, isn’t it, Terry?” To Wedmore, she said, “He’s had it since his college days.”

“Show it to me,” Wedmore said, slipping the phone back into her jacket.

“I could go get it,” I said. “Bring it down.”

“Just show me where it is.”

“It’s upstairs,” Cynthia said. “Come, I’ll show you.”

“Cyn,” I said, standing at the bottom of the stairs, trying to act as a barrier. “It’s a bit of a mess up there.”

“Let’s go,” Wedmore said, moving past me and up the stairs.

“First door on the left,” Cynthia said. To me, she whispered, “Why do you think she wants to see our typewriter?”

Wedmore disappeared into the room. “I don’t see it,” she said.

Cynthia was up the stairs before me, turned into the room, said, “It’s usually right there. Terry, isn’t it usually right there?”

She was pointing to my desk as I came into the room. She and Wedmore were both looking at me.

“Uh,” I said, “it was in my way, so I tucked it into the closet.”

I opened the closet door, knelt down. Wedmore was peering in, over my shoulder. “Where?” she said.

I pulled away the newspapers and the paint-splattered pants to reveal the old black Royal. I lifted it out, set it back on the desk.

“When did you put it in there?” Cynthia said.

“Just a while ago,” I said.

“Got covered up awful fast,” Wedmore said. “How do you explain that?”

I shrugged. I had nothing.

“Don’t touch it,” she said, and got her phone back out of her jacket.

Cynthia looked at me with a puzzled expression. “What’s with you? What the hell is going on?”

I wanted to ask her the same thing.