When he and Patricia go to buy rings, he maneuvers her into picking a wedding band for him identical to the one he has in his pocket. Later, he returns it to the store, gets his money back, and is able to wear the one ring he already has, all the time. He fraudulently fills out applications for a variety of municipal and state licenses, everything from a driver’s license to a library card-it’s a lot less tricky then than in a post-9/11 world-so he can bamboozle the marriage license office when the time comes.
He must deceive Patricia, but he tries to be good to her. At least when he is home.
She gives him two children. A boy first. They name him Todd. And then, a couple of years later, a baby girl they christen Cynthia.
It is an astonishing juggling act.
A family in Connecticut. A family in upstate New York. Back and forth between the two.
When he’s Clayton Bigge, he can’t stop thinking about when he will have to return to being Clayton Sloan. And when he’s Clayton Sloan, he can’t stop thinking about hitting the road again so he can become Clayton Bigge.
Being Sloan is easier. At least that’s his honest-to-God name. He doesn’t have to worry so much about identification. His license, his papers, they’re legitimate.
But when he’s in Milford, when he’s Clayton Bigge, husband to Patricia, father of Todd and Cynthia, he’s always on his guard. Doing the speed limit. Making sure there’s money in the meter. He doesn’t want anyone running a check on his license plate. Every time he drives to Connecticut, he pulls off the road someplace secluded, takes off the orangey-yellow New York plates, puts a stolen blue Connecticut plate on the back of the car in its place. Puts the New York plates back on when he goes to Youngstown. Has to always be thinking, watch out where he makes long-distance calls from, make sure he doesn’t buy something as Clayton Sloan and give his Milford address without thinking.
Always uses cash. No paper trail.
Everything about his life is false. His first marriage is built on a lie told by Enid. His second marriage is founded on lies he’s told to Patricia. But despite all the falsehoods, all the duplicity, has he managed to find any true happiness, were there any moments when he-
“I have to pee,” Clayton said, stopping his story.
“Huh?” I said.
“I gotta take a leak. Unless you want me to go right here in the car.”
We’d recently passed a sign promising a service center any time now. “There’s something coming up,” I said. “How you feeling?”
“Not so good,” he said. He coughed a few times. “I need some water. And I could use some more Tylenols.”
I hadn’t thought to bring any bottles of water, given how quickly we had left his house. We’d been making pretty good time on the thruway. It was nearly four in the morning and we were closing in on Albany. The Honda, as it turned out, needed gas, so a pit stop was a good idea all around.
I helped Clayton shuffle into the men’s room, waited for him to do his business at the urinal, assisted him back to the car. The short trip drained him. “You stay here and I’ll get some water,” I said.
I bought a six-pack of water, ran it back out to the car, cracked open the plastic cap on one of them and handed it to Clayton. He took a long drink, then took the four Tylenols I’d put into his hand and downed them one at a time. Then I drove over to the gas pumps and filled up, using almost all of the cash in my wallet. I was worried about using a credit card, fearful that police had figured out who’d taken Clayton out of the hospital, and that they’d be watching for any transactions by my credit card.
As I got back into the car, I thought that maybe it was time to let Rona Wedmore know what was going on. I felt, the more Clayton talked, the closer I was getting to the truth that would, once and for all, end Wedmore’s suspicions about Cynthia. I dug around in the front pocket of my jeans and found the card she’d given me during her surprise visit to the house the previous morning, before I’d gone looking for Vince Fleming.
There was an office and cell number, but not a home phone. Chances were she’d be asleep this time of the night, but I was betting she kept her cell next to the bed, and that it was on 24/7.
I started the car, pulled away from the pumps, but pulled over to the side for a minute.
“What are you doing?” Clayton asked.
“I’m just going to make a couple of calls.”
Before I tried Wedmore, however, I wanted to give Cynthia another try. I called her cell, tried home. No luck.
I took some comfort from that, strangely enough. If I didn’t know where she was, then there was no way Jeremy Sloan or his mother could, either. Disappearing with Grace turned out to be, at this moment, the smartest thing Cynthia could have done.
But I still needed to know where she was. That she was okay. That Grace was okay.
I thought about calling Rolly, but figured that if he knew anything, he would have called, and I didn’t want to use the phone any more than I had to. The battery didn’t run down that quickly with the phone on, but once you started talking on it, the power drained in a hurry.
I entered Detective Rona Wedmore’s cell phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Wedmore,” she said. Trying very hard to sound awake and alert, although it came out more like “Wed. More.”
“It’s Terry Archer,” I said.
“Mr. Archer,” she said, already sounding more focused. “What is it?” “I’m going to tell you a few things very quickly. I’m on a dying cell. You need to be on the lookout for my wife. A man named Jeremy Sloan, and his mother, Enid Sloan, are heading to Connecticut, from the Buffalo area. I think they intend to find Cynthia and kill her. Cynthia’s father is alive. I’m bringing him back with me. If you find Cynthia and Grace, hold on to them, don’t let them out of your sight until I get back.”
I had expected a “What?” or, at the very least, “Huh?” But instead, I got, “Where are you?”
“Along the New York Thruway, coming back from Youngstown. You know Vince Fleming, right? You said you did.”
“Yes.”
“I left him in a house in Youngstown, north of Buffalo. He was trying to help me. He was shot by Enid Sloan.”
“This isn’t making any sense,” Wedmore said.
“No shit. Just look for her, okay?”
“What about this Jeremy Sloan, and his mother? What are they driving?”
“A brown…”
“Impala,” Clayton whispered. “Chevy Impala.”
“A brown Chevy Impala,” I said. To Clayton, I said, “Plate?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a plate number.”
“Are you coming back here?” Wedmore asked.
“Yes. In a few hours. Just look for her. I’ve already got my principal, Rolly Carruthers, looking for her, too.”
“Tell me what-”
“Gotta go,” I said, then folded the phone shut and slipped it into my jacket. I pulled the automatic transmission back to Drive and got back onto the thruway.
“So,” I said, taking us back to where Clayton had left off before we got off the highway. “Were there moments? When you were happy?”
Clayton takes himself back again.
If there are moments of happiness, they only ever happen when he is Clayton Bigge. He loves being a father to Todd and Cynthia. As best he can tell, they love him in return, maybe even look up to him. They seem to respect him. They aren’t being taught, each and every day, that he’s worthless. Doesn’t mean they always do as they’re told, but what kids do?
Sometimes, at night in bed, Patricia will say to him, “You seem someplace else. You get this look, like you’re not here. And you look sad.”
And he takes her in his arms and he says to her, “This is the only place I want to be.” It isn’t a lie. He’s never said anything more truthful. There were times when he wants to tell her, because he doesn’t want his life with her to be a lie. He doesn’t like having that other life.