Witness to Death (15 page)

Michelle Sandler drove to her father’s. She’d promised him she’d stay the night.

She used her key to open the door, figuring her father would be long asleep. The house was dark and quiet and she felt like a kid again, sneaking in after curfew not wanting to wake her father up. The floorboards always creaked then. She hoped they wouldn’t tonight.

Her father was sitting in his easy chair in the dark. Michelle expected him to be snoring, maybe the glass of scotch spilled on the ground, ice cubes melting into the carpet. But that was not the case. He lifted his right arm and she heard him slurp from his scotch glass. The ice rattled in a nearly empty glass.

“Dad?”

He didn’t jump. He never jumped. Richard Sandler barely turned his head.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. He paused. “Even when you were a kid, you didn’t like to stay here.”

Her dad had separated from her mom, Evelyn, twenty years ago. Right when Michelle was about to start second grade. After four years of cheating on her, Mom finally woke up and walked out on him. Michelle was only eight at the time, and heard some mumblings about what was going on. She didn’t find out what had happened until she was about to start college.

“I said I was going to.”

“You’ve always tried to keep your promises.”

“I know.”

Her father stood up and took an unsteady step toward her, then turned and strode to the wall. He flicked a switch and all the lights came on.

He was dressed in flannel pajamas and slippers. His hair was sticking out at every angle, as if he’d at least tried to sleep. Richard poured another glass of scotch.

“How many of those have you had?” Michelle asked.

“Your room is arranged. You can use it.”

The air in the house smelled stale, like old potato chips. It was as if the house had been closed up for a long vacation.

“Where’s Guadalupe?”

“She decided to take this week off. I’ve been picking up after myself. Go to bed.”

“What’s going on, dad?”

He took a step forward, and leaned in close to her. She smelled the thick scotch on his breath. His eyes were a bit glassy. He used his big right arm and pulled Michelle close in a hug.

“I love you,” he said. “Go to sleep. The phone’s going to ring a lot tonight. Ignore it, get your rest. I’m glad you’re here.”

Michelle pushed her father away. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Trying to remember the last time her father hugged her, she turned and went to the stairs.

As she climbed them she remembered. It was a late Tuesday night. She’d was a senior in college and had rushed home to see her dad, make sure he was okay.

It was the night of September 11, 2001.

****

“Why don’t you stay here for the day?” her dad said, the next morning.

Icy rain tapped on the roof. The weather was supposed to turn to snow late in the day, but according to Guadalupe—who showed up in time to make breakfast—it was still too warm.

Michelle looked up from her steaming coffee.

“Why?” she asked. “I want to be home in case news comes in from John. Frank said he’d be home tonight as well. I don’t need to stay here.”

He crooked the newspaper under his arm, and then took a deep sip of coffee. He wore a robe and slippers. Never used to dress like that in the morning when Mom was around. It was as if the longer he’d gone without her, and the more money the arms business brought in, the more stereotypical he tried to become. Two ex-wives. Drinking scotch with a smoking jacket on. Hiring a maid.

“I’m worried about John.” Her dad put his mug down on the counter, and unfolded the newspaper. Guadalupe was whistling as she fried bacon. “What if he killed those people?”

“Dad—”

“What if he’s snapped? What if he comes after you next?”

Michelle put a hand on the counter, and breathed through her nose. She thought about the conversation she’d had with Frank.

“He’s not going to come after me, Dad. I don’t even think he did it.”

His face went red.

“What about Les? I can call him when you get in touch with John.”

“If I hear from John, at home, I can get here quicker than the lawyer.”

Her dad sat on a stool at the counter and flattened out the newspaper. He read the top article using his finger as a guide.

“Fine,” he said. “Go home. But I’m worried about you.”

Michelle finished her coffee. Goosebumps raised on her flesh. Her father
never
acted like this.

Maybe she should have gone to her mother’s last night.

Morning came, and with it the rain infused with ice. The drops didn’t splatter on the ground, they shattered. Last night John had found an unlocked back door a few blocks from Ashley’s. It led to a small laundry room. Luckily no one was doing laundry on a late Friday night. He didn’t get much sleep, but he tried his best to relax for a few hours. Come up with some sort of plan. A way to get moving and stay alive.

He stumbled outside and across the street, through the driving sleet. As the water slapped his shoulders, his legs tensed to run. Just get the hell out of the weather. He forced himself not to and walked into a Dunkin Donuts. He ordered a huge coffee and two donuts and bought a newspaper. He sat at a table, brushed some of the ice off his shoulders and opened the paper. There was an article on the fire last night in Jersey City. The photo on the front page showed flames licking the sky from the second floor windows. A throng of people watched from behind police caution tape.

John took a long sip of coffee, feeling the burn down his esophagus as he drank. It pooled in his stomach and then spread through his body. For a few minutes, he was able to relax. The smell of coffee reminded him of school. The sixth grade teacher Kim Gomez always went out to get Dunkin Donuts third period. She picked up a huge cup for him as well. It was tradition. Every day she’d knock on his classroom door three minutes before the period ended and bring the cup to him. All his students watched. And then complained.

How come you didn’t bring me coffee, Miss?

Miss, I woulda got a donut if I knew you were going!

John smiled at the memory.

Then he turned the page of the paper and saw his face. The photo was blurred at the edges, as if the photographer’s hand had been shaking, but it was definitely him. Taken from a cell phone, no doubt. He looked up from the paper and around the restaurant. No one else was reading the paper, but two people in line had it tucked under their arms.

John wolfed down one of the donuts, folded the paper and left with the coffee.

He crossed Route 4 and walked down Boulevard into Elmwood Park. Michelle’s apartment was just around the corner. He saw the brick building in the distance, a squat three story cube. It looked like Ashley’s apartment building.

The image of her turning around, bleeding,
scared,
danced in his mind. He dropped the coffee and it splattered against his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, the rain pounding on his head.

He’d never seen her like that. She’d always been vibrant, confident. He shoved his free hand into his pocket.

Fix it. Make it better.

Maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe she was never vibrant and her confidence was a mask. She was a bitch, someone he never should have liked. Never should have loved. He didn’t know anymore. Maybe what his shrink said was true. He
didn’t
love her. He just didn’t want to end the relationship.

John pressed the buzzer to Michelle’s apartment and waited for the sound of her voice through the intercom. It wouldn’t be asking how he was and telling him to come up. It would be telling him to run. Or that she was scared.

Or that she was calling the cops.

John looked across the street. Some of the parked cars’ windshields were covered with ice. If this were a school day, students and teachers both would be complaining about having to go to work. How any time there was even the threat of snow, they should just close school.

John wondered what would happen in a week when they had to go back to work. What would his administration say? Would he even have a job waiting for him? What was the policy on suspected murderers?

Pressing the buzzer again, John wondered why Michelle didn’t answer. He stepped back down the stairs to look up at her apartment window, ice creeping up the sills. Michelle wasn’t looking through the blinds. Perhaps she had already called the police. He felt his legs tense, thinking it was time to run again.

Unless something else was wrong upstairs. He pictured Ashley once more on the floor, the life oozing from her. And then his mind’s eye replaced Ashley with Michelle. He had to see her, make sure she was okay. He used the palm of his hand to press all the buzzers, hoping someone would respond without asking questions.

Seconds later, someone buzzed him in. He raced upstairs to the third floor, and saw Ashley’s—Michelle’s—door was closed. He gripped the handle and twisted. It didn’t give; locked. He stepped back, hand still on the handle and slammed his good shoulder into the door. It didn’t open. But now that shoulder was on fire.