The Devil's Wire (16 page)

39

Jennifer turns to go upstairs to talk to McKenzie but the phone rings. Surely not.

"Jesus Christ, leave us alone."

"Whoa. Bad time?"

It's not Lenise, but a man.

"I thought you were someone else," says Jennifer.

"You don't know me," says the voice, "but I used to work with Hank."

She stops breathing. The world becomes a tight black light focused on her.

"Um, this is awkward because I know you guys were having issues but Hank was staying at my place while I was on vacation and I got back yesterday and he's not here. In fact, by the looks of what's growing in the fridge, he hasn't been here in a while." He pauses. "Jen, is it?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure what to do."

Her throat constricts to the width of a soda straw and it's difficult to talk.

"Jen?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Have you seen him?"

"He mentioned Seattle."

"Seattle?"

It's the first thing that pops into her head. Seattle, way across the other side of the country, about as far away you can get.

"Something about a job," she says.

"But why would he leave all his stuff behind?"

"I don't know."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"He probably just needs time by himself."

"You don't think he would go and do something stupid. I mean if he was really upset?"

She sees the lifeline. "It's true he hasn't been himself lately."

"Listen, Jen, I think we should call the cops."

"The police?" She does her best to keep her voice even.

"Well, this is like a missing person isn't it? We should report it."

"I'm sure he'll be in touch."

"And if he isn't? Then what?"

"What's your name?"

"Sorry?"

"Your name?"

"Patrick."

"Let's give it another week, Patrick. See if he turns up."

She hears his breath on the other end of the phone.

"Alright," he says finally. "One week but then we call the cops."

*

Oh God. It's over. She was going to prison, McKenzie was going into foster care. The game was up. Jennifer turns and faces the wall, rests her forehead against the cool brick, tries to get some air into her lungs. What a screw up. Of course someone would notice he was gone. No human being lived in a vacuum. She'd been stupid not to think of it before now, not to be ready with a plan. Soon there'd be more than just this Patrick guy to deal with, like Hank's brother from San Diego who had the habit of phoning up out of the blue and saying "Hey guys, I'm in town and on my way over," or Hank's old college friends who liked to catch up every once in a while for beer and football or a guys' night out.

Jennifer tells herself to calm down. She lights a cigarette and stares at the pond, which at this time of year is green and gelatinous. It was Hank's job to put the cover on for winter but with everything that had happened, she'd forgotten to do it. Now two dead sparrows drift across the surface.

The chill of the night settles her some and she flicks the spent cigarette into the brackish water and returns to the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. She stays there all night, listening to the wind circle outside and whisper through the gaps. The night grows impossibly dark.

Somewhere along the line it clicks into place and daylight happens and the kitchen turns grey then blue then white. There's no other choice. It's risky, but the only plan she's got. So at precisely 7:30am Jennifer gets to her feet and picks up the phone.

40

He tells her his name is Detective Ethan North and shakes her hand briefly. When he does so, his eyes are not on Jennifer but elsewhere, just left of her shoulder, like he's practicing a public speaking technique to focus on some midpoint above the heads of the audience. He isn't much older than her and seems shy or distracted, she can't tell which. There's a continuous, serious frown too, as if he's sleep deprived or has too much on his plate, which makes sense given the splodge of baby food on his crumpled lapel. Jennifer notes too, the dark hair spilling over his shirt collar and thinks that someone ought to tell Detective North he needs a haircut and shave.

The night before, she'd rehearsed the meeting over and over in her mind because there was no room for error. She had visualized letting the police in, offering coffee, beginning with the story she had developed, affecting just the right amount of concern and indifference.

But things don't happen that way.

For one thing, Detective North turns down the coffee and barely looks at her, choosing instead to scribble in that little black book of his.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?"

When he speaks it's almost a mumble, which draws attention to his mouth and the faint, silken scar of a hare lip that ran, at an angle, from the bottom left side of his nose to the outer edge of his top lip.

"Two or three weeks ago," she says. "We were meant to make arrangements about the house, that sort of thing."

Jennifer tries to remain calm and hopes the blotchy red neck won't give her away.

"And where was that?" he asks without looking up.

"Sorry?"

'Where did you see him?"

"Here."

"This house?"

"Yes."

And he writes that down, holding the pen so tightly, Jennifer thinks it might snap in two.

"You're divorced, is that correct?"

"Not yet. Separated, I suppose."

Detective North stops writing and looks at the daisy frame photograph on the fridge.

"That him?"

She nods.

"Who's the girl with him?"

"My daughter, McKenzie."

"How old is she?"

"Twelve." She tries for her best smile. "Do you have kids, Detective?"

He shakes his head and turns back to the notebook. "Never had the pleasure. He been in contact with her?"

Jennifer glances at the stain on his jacket and concludes it must be his own doing and begins to wonder whether he might be one of those dedicated, dogged, workaholic types married to the job, which would most definitely not be a good thing in the circumstances.

"Isn't it unusual for a detective to be involved so early in the process?"

He pauses and his frown grows deeper. "The county takes all missing persons seriously."

She catches it then, a hook of resentment in his voice.

"Still, you must have more serious matters to investigate."

He ignores her and turns back to his notebook and repeats the previous question. "Has your husband had any contact with your daughter?"

"None that I believe."

He points a knuckle at the photo. "Can I have it?'

"Go ahead, if it helps."

He slips the photograph into his folder.

"And your full name," he asks, pen poised over his notebook.

"Jennifer Marie Blake."

"And his?"

"Hank Andrew Blake."

"His date of birth?"

"12 November 1972."

There's a beep and Detective North digs into his pocket for his phone with his free hand and thumbs in a password. His eyes narrow as he reads a text message. He returns the phone to his pocket and closes his notebook and lifts his eyes to look at Jennifer, but even then she can't be sure he isn't really glancing past her shoulder, off to the side.

"There's something else," she says.

"Okay."

"He was abusing my daughter."

His eyes finally land on her face.

"I went to police to lay a complaint," Jennifer continues. "I'm sure you'll find it when you run your checks. They said I needed more evidence. He wanted to work things out. Of course I said no."

Detective North opens his notebook again.

"He seem depressed to you?"

She paused.

"He threatened to kill himself but I didn't take it seriously. My primary concern at the time was for my daughter."

"What about in the past – he ever show any signs of depression?"

"He had a bad patch. He's a building contractor and the market's been tough. He was on Prozac for a while. Look, I don't know if it means anything, but he mentioned Seattle. Suicide may not be the only possibility."

"You think he might be in Seattle?" says Detective North, writing it all down.

"I'm just saying he mentioned it."

"What are his doctor's details?"

"His doctor?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Little over on Corbett Street."

He closes the notebook.

"I'll be in touch," he says.

He circles around looking for the way out.

"This way," says Jennifer.

He follows her down the hallway and Jennifer opens the front door. A rush of crisp, wet air hits them. He looks out into the street and over at the woods, seems to forget she's there.

"It's pretty," he says and she can't be sure he isn't speaking to himself.

Then he turns and walks down the path toward his unmarked patrol car. He looks back at Jennifer.

"Oh, and I'll need to speak to your daughter."

A fist materializes in her throat. "I didn't want to her involve in this. It will just upset her."

He scratches the inside of his ear and stares at a rose bush.

"Procedure," he says.

Then he gets into his dirty, dented car and drives away.

41

The next day Jennifer gets to the clinic early to beat Rosemary and opens up herself. She has trouble remembering the alarm code and nearly sets it off, but then recalls it's the same date she first opened for business. After stepping inside, she allows herself a moment in the stillness. This clinic had been her greatest accomplishment. It had signaled the transformation from ordinary working stiff to business owner. At the time, the sense of pride she had felt was enormous. They had celebrated with a cake in the shape of eyeballs – one green, one blue – the David Bowie cake Hank had called it.

It all seemed to mean nothing now. That person no longer exists. That life too, gone.

She leaves off the lights and walks through to her office and searches through the top drawer of her desk. Among the bull dog clips and boxes of staples she finds the black leather business card holder. She flips through the plastic sleeves until she locates the one she's looking for.

Amy Stein.

It had been three years since Jennifer last spoke to her old college friend. They had bumped into each other at the National Optometric conference in St Louis and spent the night in the hotel bar laughing about frat parties, caffeine-fuelled all nighters and the sense of freedom they missed. Funny, beautiful, smart Amy Stein who graduated and moved South to pursue a great career and had done exactly that, eventually creating her own successful eyewear manufacturing business. Amy Stein who slipped Jennifer her business card at the end of the night and said if you ever want a change of scene, I can always use an outstanding woman like yourself.

Jennifer had saved the card never giving it a second thought. Now that offer seemed like a life line. She picks up the phone and dials the number and hears the spritely hello.

"Amy?" she says. "It's Jennifer."

*

"But we don't know anything about Florida."

"We can learn."

"What about school?"

"There are schools in Florida."

McKenzie's tears fall freely down her cheeks and onto the knife and fork she had so diligently cleaned with the antiseptic wipes she had taken to carrying around in the front pouch of her black hoodie.

"Come on, hon, don't cry."

A waitress hovers nearby, wiping circles on a table, shooting them glances. Jennifer leans forward and lowers her voice. "Everything's going to be okay. You need to trust me on this one."

"What about Lenise? She's my friend. We can't just leave her behind, she'll be lonely, and Dad? He won't know where to find us."

"I know this is a big change but think of it as a fresh start. The offer's just too good to pass up."

And it was – chief operating officer of the new Miami branch, a salary $20,000 higher than she was earning now.

"But I don't want to go."

Then McKenzie begins to sob, big chest-heaving numbers, sucking in breath like she's been running a race. The few customers there were begin to stare. A heavy-set woman in a snug navy polo looks pointedly over the rim of her glasses.

"The boy okay?" she says to Jennifer.

"She's not a boy," snaps Jennifer.

"I'm just saying the child don't look fine to me."

McKenzie regains her composure and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

"I'm okay," she says.

Satisfied, the woman turns back to her meal.

"Please don't make me go."

"It'll be good for us. I promise," says Jennifer.

McKenzie looks at her through watery eyes. "When?"

"A few weeks."

"That soon?"

"Amy needs me on the ground before December."

McKenzie blinks in a daze at the plastic gingham table cloth.

"There's one other thing," says Jennifer. "Let's keep this to ourselves for now."

"What do you mean?"

"Lenise – she might take it badly and I want to pick the right time to tell her."

McKenzie doesn't say anything.

"McKenzie, it's important."

"I heard."