“But why can’t we just do what they want and they’ll leave us alone.”
“And you’ll never know what’s being covered up,” I said.
“So,” she said, “I won’t know. You didn’t see the look in that man’s face when he put his heel into my crotch.”
“He meant that look,” I said. “He wanted you to feel not only scared but small and powerless.”
“Well, I am. Why not just face it and get on with my life.”
I leaned back in my chair and waved the cigarette smoke away from my face. If we were going to do much of this, we’d have to have some arrangement.
“Because,” I said, “and you’ll have to excuse the psychological jargon, you are a fucking mess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sarah said.
“It means that you use too many drugs, and drink too much booze, and smoke too many cigarettes, and screw too many men you don’t like.”
“Yeah, well maybe you’d be a little messed up, too, if you grew up like me.”
“I am messed up,” I said. “It takes one to know one. But I’m trying to fix what’s wrong with me. You’re just going to walk away.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, “when I know. Right now it’s about you. You let them scare us away from this and you can kiss any chance for happiness goodbye.”
She laughed an awful little laugh.
“Happiness?” she said.
“You can stay here with me,” I said. “No one knows you’re here. I can protect you. If we need them, I have friends who can protect you. If you’ll let me, I will do this for you.”
“Where am I going to sleep?” she said.
“Fold-out bed,” I said. “In the couch.”
Sarah flapped her hand to indicate the openness of my space.
“We’d live together in the same room?” Sarah said.
“I know. It’s lousy, but it needs to be done.”
“Is there another bathroom?”
“No,” I said. “We’ll share.”
“Share one bathroom?”
“I know it’s icky, but people do it.”
“I got no clothes or anything.”
“Some of my stuff will fit you. The rest I can buy for you.”
“I don’t have any money with me.”
“I’ll put it on my bill,” I said.
“And you promise I’ll be safe?”
“You’ll be safe,” I said.
“Why are you pushing me so hard to do this.”
“I care about you?”
Sarah laughed that awful little laugh again.
“You must really need the money,” she said. “To do this.”
“That’s it,” I said. “The money.”
21
I had Rosie on her leash. I had my shoulder bag with my cell phone in it, and my makeup, and my gun. I was wearing a black satin trench coat with a notched leather collar. I had on my black Oakley wraparounds. I was ready, and I was looking really good.
“You have any problem, what will you do?”
“I’ll call nine-one-one,” she said, “and the cell-phone number for your friend Spike.”
“Call Spike first,” I said. “He’ll arrive quicker.”
“Okay.”
“Where’s the number?” I said.
“On the little chalkboard by the phone. You’re sure he’ll come?”
“I’ve talked to him,” I said. “He’ll come.”
“How will I know it’s him?”
“Big, with a beard. Looks sort of like a bear.”
“A bear?”
“Yes. When he rings the intercom, he’ll give you his name.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said.
She was drinking more coffee and smoking more cigarettes and looking very small, sitting alone at my breakfast table, looking cautiously out the window.
“You will,” I said. “No one knows you’re here. The building is secure. My door is secure. Lock the deadbolt when I leave.”
“Could the dog stay?” Sarah said.
“She’d rather go with me,” I said. “She likes to ride in the car.”
“You don’t trust me with her?”
Actually, I didn’t. But I saw no reason to say so.
“I bring her with me because she likes to go.”
Sarah looked a little puzzled at that concept, but she didn’t say anything.
“Okay. Obviously, don’t go out. There’s stuff for sandwiches and things in the refrigerator.”
Sarah nodded. Rosie was staring at the door as if hoping it would melt.
“I’m going out and work on your problem,” I said. “You have my cell-phone number.”
Sarah nodded again. Rosie gave a sharp, nasty yap.
“Okay,” I said. “We’re going.”
Sarah said, “I can call you.”
“Call me whenever you need to,” I said.
“Even if I don’t really have anything to say?”
“Even,” I said.
22
Rosie waited in the car. I went in and sat with the Markhams in the silent living room of their soundless house. There were no lights on. The Markhams sat on the couch. He at one end, she at the other. I sat in the flowered easy chair. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight that came in from the front windows.
“Two men beat up your daughter yesterday,” I said.
“My God,” Markham said. “Is she all right?”
“She is,” I said.
“Where is she?” Markham said.
“She’s safe,” I said. “Can you think of any reason why that would happen?”
“No. My God!”
“She probably made it up,” Mrs. Markham said.
“Why would she do that?” I said.
“She makes up all kinds of stuff,” Mrs. Markham said.
Well, well. The gloves were off.
“She does?” I said.
“All this nonsense about who her parents are. The girl is a born liar.”
Mr. Markham stared at his wife for a moment and frowned.
“Come on, Barb!” he said.
“She is, George, and you’d know it, too, if you didn’t always coddle her.”
“She did have some bruises,” I said.
“Probably one of her drug-addict boyfriends,” Mrs. Markham said.
“She wasn’t,” Markham said, “you know, I mean, there was nothing else happened to her?”
“No,” I said.
“Why did they do it?” Markham said.
“They told her to stop investigating her parentage.”
“She’s crazy,” Mrs. Markham said. “She’s a crazy liar.”
All three of us were quiet. The dust motes drifted. The silence pressed in.
“Sequence,” I said finally, “doesn’t necessarily prove cause. But the beating happened shortly after I talked to you about your days in Moline.”
Mrs. Markham looked quickly at her husband.
“Moline?” she said.
Mr. Markham looked straight at me.
“I told you before,” he said. “I’ve never been to Moline.”
“What is this about Moline?” Mrs. Markham said to me.
“You lived there twenty years ago. Your husband was an announcer at WMOL.”
“That’s crazy,” Mrs. Markham said. “I don’t even know where Moline is.”
“Are you suggesting that I had something to do with Sarah getting hurt?” Mr. Markham said.
“Did you mention our conversation to anyone?”
“No. Of course not. It was too absurd.”
“But if it were that absurd, wouldn’t you tell people about it? Your wife, for instance. Wouldn’t you say, maybe, like, ‘Gee, Barb, that crazy broad that Sarah hired claims we lived in Moline, Illinois’?”
“I don’t waste time on foolishness,” Mr. Markham said, “Neither does my wife.”
“Well,” I said. “Somebody, for some reason, doesn’t want this investigation to go further. Can you imagine who that would be?”