Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale (12 page)

“Yes you do. Of course you do. You always do.”

For the first time since we left the island, his smile falters. His lips press together and tuck down for just a fraction of a second—a sad look made much sadder by how quickly he turns it back into a smile.

“I’ll miss you, Red. Please be safe. Be careful. Your account is full now. Hire some security if you feel you need it. Use the number I gave you for the conference call, and check in with me in two days. Bob will contact you after that. He’s not far from you. He’ll take care of you.”

But I don’t want Bob.

I don’t want Bob.

I don’t want anyone but Race.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RED
Six days later

They say time dulls all aches, but I don’t believe it.

I’ve been back for almost a week now, and if possible, I feel worse than I did the day I left the harbor. At least then, I could still smell him on me. For the first two days after returning to my old apartment, I could smell the ocean on my bag and clothes.

I called the conference call at the time Race told me to. I sat on the floor of my kitchen, eating Goldfish, holding my breath, because I just knew he would say something to me. Instead, I only heard the beep of him signing on. I said, “hello,” and sealed my fate. He didn’t need to speak, because he’d heard my voice. He knew I was okay.

I cried that night. I curled under my covers and asked myself what the hell’s the matter with me. I think back to the things I did with Race—the physical things—and wonder why I never even came close to most of that with Carl. It’s not because he liked guys, too. I know deep down: It was because of me. Because I never trusted him. I never opened to him fully.

And yet, I did with Race?

Why is that?

I don’t shower until the third day. When I do, the scent of Gertrude’s shampoo leaves my hair. When I go to sleep, my red mane spills around me, and that’s when I feel the worst. I only slept by Race one night, but a few times, he got close enough so I could feel him on my hair. Here I sleep comfortably, in the queen sized bed I bought with his money.

Money. I never cared so much about it before, but now I love to check my bank account. Every penny displayed on my new iPhone bears his fingerprints.

There are times, like today, when I walked to check the mailbox where I first mailed Gertrude the letter—or yesterday, when I jogged home from my new kick boxing class—that I fanaticize about calling the bank, and somehow bribing them to tell me where he is. My bloated bank account connects us. It’s the only thing I have right now. I’m aware of the irony—how, before I left Boston, money was the only thing I didn’t have. The only thing holding me back. Now I’ve got it, yet it feels like I have nothing.

I spend a lot of time wondering if he’s okay. Other than our one-time-only conference call date, Race left me no way to check on him—except for Bob, who hasn’t called me yet. I wonder if he recovered. I hope he did.

I think a lot about Cookie’s father, Robert Smythson. I look him up on Wikipedia and decide I hate him. On the fifth day, I spend almost all afternoon stalking Cookie’s records. Newspaper articles that mentioned her before her death. Pictures of a vibrant, dark-haired woman with a big smile. I look up Bryson Paige, memorizing yet another player in their game, and then read all the stories from the trial.

When I’m feeling really masochistic, I go to Google Images and look for pictures of Race. Of course, the name I type in is James Wolfe. I never even found out why he told me to call him Race, but I think it suits him.

I don’t like seeing the pictures of James. He looks so somber. His skin is pale, and his hair is collar-length. He’s younger, but I’m not sure I can say he looks more innocent. He really just looks ill. Trod upon. Like he needs the refuge of a private island.

Whatever else I feel, I’m glad he found it.

On the sixth day, I finally get together with my old crew. I’ve talked to Katie a few times on the phone, but I haven’t seen her since I got back. I haven’t wanted to. It’s hard to pinpoint why. Maybe I hold the picture thing against her. God knows it’s not logical, but then I guess feelings sometimes aren’t.

We got to trivia night, the same old crew, and I do worse than ever. I just can’t think. I’m too distracted. I drink two beers and wander home to my lonely apartment, where I take a bath. I close my eyes and pretend that it’s the ocean.

It’s been six days. It feels like sixty.

And then the seventh sun rises, and I’m awoken by the vibrating of my cell phone on my new nightstand.  

I grab it and pull it into my den of blankets. It’s a New York number, so I’m hopeful. “Hello?”

“Red?”

For a second, a heartbreaking second, I think it’s Race. Then the man speaks again, and I hear New York City there. His accent lacks a certain refinement Race’s had—has.

I catch my breath. “You must be Bob.”

“That’s me.”

I squeeze the phone, unsure, for a long moment, what to say. “I hope you’re okay now.”

“Doing better, yes. Thank you for asking. How are you, Red? You okay?”

I nod, then shake my head. “I could be worse,” I tell him honestly.

“I’m in your neck of the woods for a few days. Would you like to meet tomorrow afternoon?”

*

Bob is short—nothing like Race—with a mop of orange hair and a damp squeeze of a handshake. He wears a pale blue button-up without a tie, and black slacks that widen at the top for his apple-shaped midsection.

When I meet him at a bistro a few blocks from my place, I know him immediately, because he gives me a discreet, curious-seeming once-over, followed by a sincere smile.

“Right this way,” he says, and leads me to a booth already stocked with bread.

I settle in across from him and check him out discreetly, too. He looks healthy, so that’s good.

“Nice to meet you.” I give him what I hope is a polite smile. “Race was so worried about you. I can tell he really cares for you.”

He smiles tightly. “We go way back. Cousins—his father, my mother.”

“Oh, okay.” I cringe inwardly. I sound like a moron.

He waves at the bread. “Eat.” He looks into his lap—no, down at a briefcase I failed to notice until this moment. His eyes flick up to mine. “I’ve got a few things here for you.”

I’m reaching for a piece of bread when he says that. Instantly, my stomach clenches. I rub my lips together and get the bread anyway. I spend some time dipping it in olive oil, my fingers moving more slowly than usual. I feel frozen inside. Waiting to see what he has for me. And then I have a horrible thought, and I can’t breathe without asking: “Is that the NDA?”

He smiles, a little distracted as he thumbs through folders. “No. Race didn’t want a NDA with you.”

He plucks out a folder, cracks it open, and begins to look over something. I wait a few beats, and when he doesn’t lift his head, my curiosity overwhelms me.

“Where is Race now? Is he okay?”

Bob frowns. “He hasn’t been in touch with you?”

“No. Should he have?”

He shrugs. “My cousin, he’s got his own ideas about the best way.”

I have no idea what that means, so I nod, hoping I don’t look too pensive. Too impatient. I want to jump over the table and demand Bob tell me everything there ever was to know about Race.

Instead, I focus on measuring my breaths and eat my fucking bread.

Finally, he slides the folder to me. “Here ya go.”

I open it and skim the first sheet of paper inside. “It’s a consent form?” I frown. “For a painting?”

Bob nods. “Consent to use you as a model. This will give you fifteen percent of the proceeds, just the way he wanted.”

“Wanted?” I breathe.

“Wants,” he corrects with an awkward laugh.

I feel my cheeks go sunburn-hot. “What kind of picture is it?” I squeak. I fear I know the answer.

He laughs again. “I thought maybe you could explain to me. In the description here,” he points, “it says the painting is of a stallion and a fox.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WOLFE

It’s the first time since Red left that I’ve seen another human face. The courier is a tall, thin, bearded man who looks about sixty. He arrives on a large sail boat, which he docks with surprising efficiency beside my small dock. He climbs out, walks straight to me, and introduces himself as Frank.

“I live nearby,” he tells me conversationally. “One of the smaller islands that way—” He points west. “You’re Race, I hear,” he tells me, holding out his hand. “I offer a discreet courier service. Don’t know what’s in those boxes, don’t care. In the future, you want to just leave ’em, you go right ahead. Anything goes as long as the cargo doesn’t scream.”

He winks, and I smile tightly. “Good to meet you.”

Fifteen minutes, and he’s gone. I walk slowly back to Trudie’s.

I’ve been here every day since Red left—when I’m not in the tree stand hunched over a canvas—and I’ve packed a few rooms: laundry, living room, and now most of the kitchen. There are only a couple of rules, and I never break them. I use the john at my place, and I never go near Trudie’s office.

I’m boxing up a collection of Garfield-themed coffee mugs when I hear a low whine, followed by another one. Sounds like speedboats, though who enjoys driving a speedboat on the ocean—I don’t know. I look out a few windows, but I can’t see anything. The damn thing is loud. As if it’s approaching the island.

I walk into Gertrude’s office, which faces the point. I know I shouldn’t do it, and maybe that’s why I do. Sometimes pain is good. Keeps numbness at bay.

I step into the office and walk over to the window, where sure enough, I see a lone speedboat bumping through the waves.

Right away, I think of Smythson. I’ve heard nothing from anyone since the day Linn and his crew left. I’ve had two tails on Linn, and confirmed he’s done nothing out of the ordinary. He and his wife are seeing a marriage counselor.

Bob’s phone was hacked, which is presumably how we were found out. There’s no evidence the Smythsons found out from the picture Red sent Katie. Bob says Linn was behind him at the bank one day, when Linn was discussing me with a mutual friend and former Bonesman. Maybe that’s how Linn knew to hack his phone. Maybe it was Smythson, and he dispatched Linn. Maybe Linn just lost it. I don’t know.

I find myself not caring much.

I sit down at the desk, where I first assembled a stack of photos and mementos for Red. I lean back a little, listening to the ancient rolling chair creak. Then I do what I’ve been wanting to do. I spin around slowly and look at the nearest picture of her.

It’s a five-by-seven in a pale frame that looks almost like shell. I find it beside a volume of Hunter S. Thompson poems and scoop it up, bringing it close to my face. She’s younger here. So much younger, in her pale green dress and braces. I run my thumb over the glass, wishing I knew more about this girl. What she wanted. What she needed.

I have so many questions. How did she handle her mom’s death? What was her life like in college?

I’ll admit, I’ve gotten overly involved with the idea of her. And it’s gotten worse, not better, since she left.