The Ninth Step (17 page)

Helen ended the call when she heard Edgar emerging from the bedroom. He passed her on his way to the kitchen.

“I don’t see how we’ll ever find him,” she said to Edgar’s back. “Or what the point would be. Maybe we should talk to a private investigator. Or a lawyer. Or Martha. That’s what she does. Finds people.”

Edgar emerged from the kitchen reading from the phone book.

“Cornell Smith, seventeen thirty-five Finney Road.” Old school triumphed yet again.

“Oh. You’re so thorough.”

Edgar put down the phone book and picked up his keys.

“I’m going to see him.”

“And do what? Thorough him to death? Thorough him into leaving us alone?”

“I think I’ll just ask him how bruises in the shape of his fingers ended up on my wife’s arm.”

“If I turn myself in, it can be manslaughter. Seven years. I can be out in seven years.”

“You’re due in two weeks. Two weeks—”

Helen talked over him. “Seven years. She will still be young.
Young enough that she might not even remember later. Maybe even less than seven years. With a good lawyer. I checked. Then we’ll be clean.”

“No. Never. That’s unacceptable. I lost a lifetime already. I won’t risk seven years.”

“It’s the only way. It’s the ninth step. Make amends. I have to make amends.”

Edgar brushed past her.

“I’m going to see him. I’ll buy him off. I don’t know what will happen. Maybe he needs to make amends too. Maybe I can help him. Or maybe I’ll just put my fucking foot up his ass.”

Helen grabbed his arm to hold him back, but Edgar pulled away.

The doorbell rang, and Edgar stormed to the door. He yanked it open to find the last person in the world he expected to see standing on his front porch. Cornell Smith.

“Hi there. Is Helen home?

Without missing a beat, Edgar said, “Just one minute,” and closed the door.

Edgar ripped the Cornell chart off the wall, wadded it up, and tossed it into the trash.

He called out to Helen: “Dear, you have a visitor.”

Edgar peeked in on Cornell from the kitchen while Helen prepared coffee.

A light sparked in Edgar’s eyes, giving him a wild, almost unhinged look. He was running on adrenaline, and he seemed almost giddy. To Helen, he appeared to be on the edge of losing control.

Conversely, Helen was subdued and calm and seemed more sure of herself than ever before.

Edgar whispered to Helen, “Just pretend.”

Helen shook her head—more in disgust than refusal.

“Just let him think that I still don’t know. Let him think that it’s the same as before. That he’s got the upper hand. That you’re scared. You can do that, right? Be scared?”

“And what are you going to do?” Helen hissed. “Call the police? Do it or I will. I mean it.”

Edgar poked his head out of the kitchen and called out.

“Uh, Cornell, we’re just gonna make a fresh pot of coffee.”

“That’s mighty decent of you, old sport.”

Edgar stared at him, then shrugged.

“Just pretend,” Edgar pleaded one last time as he grabbed the coffee tray and headed out with it.

“So you two grew up together?”

“We surely did. We were always close. Weren’t we, Helen?”

Helen was loath to join in this charade. Her head might have nodded in agreement, but then again it might not have.

The three of them sipped their coffee in an interlude of keenly uncomfortable silence. Helen’s cell phone rang. She reached into her purse, silencing it.

Edgar asked, “And what did you say brought you out today, Cornell?”

As though Cornell had been waiting all along to be asked this very question, his demeanor took on a humble cast and he leaned forward as though speaking in the strictest of confidence.

“Well, Edgar, I guess… I guess when an old friend turns up unannounced as I have today, it’s usually because they need some kind of help.”

Edgar cleared his throat. “Is that right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Speak your mind, Cornell.”

“I thank you for saying that. Truth is, I’m looking for investors. I need to raise—”

Edgar snapped his fingers.

“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

Edgar left the living room and went upstairs.

Cornell stared at Helen.

“You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?”

Helen shook her head, speechless.

“I don’t want to mess up your life. But I will. I’ll ruin everything. All you have to do is get him to invest in my business deal. When I disappear with the money, your husband will just think you were conned. He’ll never know.”

Edgar rummaged through the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. Bottles fell and scattered as he picked through them. At last he found the expired bottle of Xanax that had been prescribed to him to treat his anxiety after Judy’s death. He’d never actually taken any, so the bottle still held the full prescribed amount.

Edgar pocketed the bottle and headed back downstairs.

Crossing the living room, he asked Cornell, “How’d you like a little something-something to perk up that coffee?” And even gave Cornell a sly wink.

“I believe I’d like that just fine.”

In the kitchen, Edgar found a soup bowl and dumped about half of the Xanax in it. Applying pressure with his thumb, he used the back of a spoon to crush the blue oval tablets. Then he dug out the bottle of commemorative brandy from the bottom cabinet. He broke the seal and poured some of the brandy into
the sink. He made a funnel shape with one hand and poured the ground Xanax into the brandy bottle. Edgar capped it and shook the concoction until he was sure the grainy powder had dissolved.

“Here we go,” he said to Cornell, “just the thing.” He poured a healthy dollop into Cornell’s coffee.

“Oh, we go way back.”

Cornell was greatly relaxed and took no notice that he was the only one partaking of the brandy.

“Do tell.”

“Fact is, and not to make you uncomfortable, but we courted as teenagers. Remember that, Helen?”

Helen refused to respond.

“Well, no point in digging up the past, is there, Helen? Some things that’s buried should stay buried.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Cornell pushed his cup toward Edgar.

“You can skip the coffee.”

Edgar loaded him up, and Cornell drained the cup, wiping the last drop from his chin.

“Thanks, old sport. Now, I hate to say this, Edgar, Helen, but like I said, I have a reason for looking you up. It’s uncomfortable to say, but I need a loan. Well, no, not a loan. I didn’t mean to say that. It’s an investment opportunity.”

Edgar refilled Cornell’s cup and said, “Money can ruin a friendship.”

“We wasn’t never that close nohow,” Cornell said, and then burped. He was beginning to sway like a bowling pin.

“It’s up to Helen. I support her in whatever she chooses to do.”

Helen shook her head and said, “I don’t want anything to do with any of this.”

Cornell peered imperiously down at Helen through slitted eyes.

“That just ain’t gonna work.”

Edgar appeared to be giving the matter careful consideration. He said, “Well, how about this, Cornell? How about we tie you up, kill you, and bury you in the backyard?”

“Edgar!”

Cornell cocked his eyebrow as though mulling over that proposal, then slumped forward onto the floor.

The house was unnaturally quiet. Edgar and Helen stared at each other over their blackmailer’s unconscious body.

What now?

As if in answer to that unspoken question, shrill electronic music broke the silence in the living room. Edgar and Helen exchanged a curious look as the theme from
The Sting
played over and over.

Edgar uncrumpled Cornell’s slumped body and went through his pockets until he found the cell phone. He held it up to show Helen, then shoved it back into Cornell’s pocket without answering it. It finally stopped ringing.

The doorbell rang, followed by an urgent knock on the front door.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Edgar said.

“Let me—”

“Shhhh, maybe they’ll go away.”

But the knocking and ringing continued. Insistent. Then a faint voice that they both recognized as Martha’s: “Hello! Helen? Helen?”

“Just ignore her.”

“She knows we’re home. Our cars are out there. And so is Cornell’s.”

“Helen? Are you okay? Helen!”

“For the love of Christ.”

Helen got up, but Edgar motioned her back down.

“Maybe she can help us. She knows about stuff like this.”

“Nobody knows about stuff like this.”

“But—”

“No!”

They could now see Martha trying to peer in through the front window, cupping her hands to block out the horizontal glare of the setting sun.

Edgar went to the door and opened it. Martha was standing off to the side in an azalea bed, still peering through the window. She looked up, startled.

“You
are
home.”

“Martha, now is not a good time. You can call—”

“I’m afraid I must insist. I have to speak to Helen.”

“She’s not home.”

“She just called me. And her car’s right there.”

“True. But can’t people go places without their cars?”

“Typically, no.”

“A friend picked her up.”

“Her friend appears to have left his or her car here as well.”

Martha had made her way out of the azalea bed and back up the front porch. She tried to glance through the open door into the house, but Edgar had it blocked.

“That’s
my
friend’s car.”

“Oh. Well, be a dear and let me use the bathroom before I go.”

Edgar didn’t budge.

“I’m going to soil myself. You know I have bowel issues. Don’t tell me you’re going to stand there and let an old lady shit her pants right before your very eyes?”

“Look, Martha, I’m going to level with you. This is… I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Helen. She probably called you because she found out I’m having an affair. She’s upset. It’s personal. Private.”

“I want to see her.”

“Now is not the time.”

“I believe it is. And whose car is that in the driveway?”

Edgar looked again at Cornell’s beat-up Volvo looking out of place.

He didn’t know what else to say, so Edgar said, “Fuck off!” and slammed the door.

Not looking very happy, Martha got back in her car and drove away. Once she was out of the neighborhood, she turned around and drove back in.

She parked a safe distance from the house.

Watching. Worried.

The last of the day’s sunlight cast weak, slender beams through gaps in the curtains. Helen sat across from Cornell’s supine body while Edgar paced.

Nylon cord bound Cornell at the wrists, ankles, and thighs. Mitzi licked his stubbly face, and Molly had curled up in the warmth of his stomach.

“You’ve got him trussed up like the Christmas goose. What now?”

“We have to check his house. He might have something there. Something that incriminates us. And his car is in our driveway.”

“I’m not going to let you hurt him.”

“I have no intention of hurting anybody.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’ve got to get him out of here.”

The headlights of Cornell’s Volvo illuminated only what was directly in front of Edgar. All else was hidden in the dark. In the rearview mirror, Edgar checked on Helen following behind them in Edgar’s vehicle.

Cornell was in the backseat, the seat belt doing little to hold him up. He was starting to regain a degree of consciousness. He was too big for Edgar to carry alone, and Helen was too pregnant to help carry him, so they removed the cord from his legs and waited until Cornell could be roused enough to stagger to the car with Edgar’s support.

Cornell’s cell phone rang again, and the familiar notes of “The Entertainer” filled the car. Edgar looked at Cornell in the rearview mirror.

“Want me to get that? Tell them you’re tied up right now?”

Edgar was wearing gloves. He didn’t let Helen see him bring the gloves. Something told him it would be best to leave no fingerprints.

Finney Road was on the undeveloped outskirts of Mantissa County. Mobile homes dotted the roadside, some set back in the pines, some just a few feet off the road.

At 1735 Finney Road sat Cornell Smith’s dilapidated trailer with its stolen electricity and hacked satellite TV. Edgar draped
a coat over Cornell’s bound wrists and assisted Cornell into the trailer. Cornell was groggy but awake. Helen struggled along behind them.

Edgar stumbled over the threshold and his glasses flew from his face as he struggled to keep both himself and Cornell from falling. He shoved Cornell onto the unmade bed and retrieved his glasses from the corner. He inspected them and saw that the left lens was horizontally cracked, but still functional. He and Helen looked around at the general shabbiness of the place. Cornell was aware of what was happening but still very much subdued. He gave no indication of protest or fight.

Edgar set about searching the trailer. He was determined to make a thorough job of it. He wanted to know what Cornell knew. To see if there was physical evidence of any kind.

Helen plopped onto the couch, very pregnant and very tired. She watched Edgar go about his search, and she thought that in his white shirt, tie, and black overcoat, he looked like an FBI agent.

“I do want to say that drugging me was—”

“I need for you to not talk.”

Edgar’s tone clearly communicated that now was not the time for discourse or bargaining.

Helen asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Anything that links him to you. To us.”

“Why? What does it matter? Are you going kill him?” That pierced Cornell’s brain, and roused him to full attention. “If not, then what’s the point? There could be something hidden. Something that you could never find. You’ll never be sure.”

Helen took a deep breath. She was cramping. But she knew that it wasn’t a real cramp. That it was a contraction. Her water had broken during the car ride. She’d cleaned herself up with fast-food napkins from the glove box. But she didn’t want to tell Edgar. Not yet. If there was any way that this could all come to some kind of conclusion tonight, then she would find a way to will the labor to slow down. She didn’t see how this could end in a good way, but she believed in Edgar’s decency. She believed in his intelligence. If there was a solution, she believed he could find it. He just needed to take a breath and get back on a good path.