I didn’t want to lose time stopping for breakfast, but I was also very much aware of Clayton’s weakened condition. Once morning hit, and the car was filled with light, I saw how much worse he looked than when we’d fled the hospital. He’d been hours without his IV, without sleep.
“You look like you need something,” I said. We were going through Winsted, where Route 8 went from a winding, two-lane affair to four lanes. We’d make even better time from here, the last leg of the journey to Milford. There were some fast-food joints in Winsted, and I suggested we hit a drive-through window, get a McMuffin, something like that.
Clayton nodded wearily. “I could eat the egg. I don’t think I could chew the English muffin.”
As we sat in the drive-through line, Clayton said, “Tell me about her.”
“What?”
“Tell me about Cynthia. I haven’t seen her since that night. I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years.”
I didn’t entirely know how to react to Clayton. There were times when I felt sympathy for him, the horrible life he’d led, the misery he’d had to endure living with Enid, the tragedy of losing loved ones.
But who was to blame, really? Clayton had made the point himself. He’d made his choices. And not just the decision to help Enid cover up a monstrous crime, and to leave Cynthia behind, to wonder her whole adult life what had become of her family. There were choices he could have made earlier. He could have stood up to Enid, somehow. Insisted on a divorce. Called the police when she became violent. Had her committed. Something.
He could have walked out on her. Left her a note. “Dear Enid: I’m out of here. Clayton.”
At least it would have been more honest.
It wasn’t as if he was looking to me for sympathy, asking about his daughter, my wife. But there was something in his voice, a bit of “poor me.” Haven’t seen my daughter for two and a half decades. How terribly sad for me. There’s the rearview mirror, pal, I thought to myself. Twist it around, take a look. There’s the guy who has to carry a lot of the load for all the fucked-up shit that’s been going on since 1983.
But instead, I said, “She’s wonderful.”
Clayton waited for more.
“Cyn is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me,” I said. “I love her more than you could ever know. And as long as I’ve known her, she’s been dealing with what you and Enid did to her. Think about it. You wake up one morning and your family is gone. The cars are gone. Everyone fucking gone.” I felt my blood starting to boil, and I gripped the wheel more tightly in anger. “Do you have any fucking idea? Do you? What was she supposed to think? Were you all dead? Had some crazy serial killer gone through town and killed all of you? Or had the three of you decided, that night, to go off and have a new life somewhere else, a new life that didn’t include her?”
Clayton was stunned. “She thought that?”
“She thought a million things! She was fucking abandoned! Don’t you get it? You couldn’t have gotten word to her somehow? A letter? Explained that her family met with a horrible fate, but at least they loved her? That they hadn’t just up and fucking walked out on her one night?”
Clayton looked down into his lap. His hands were shaking.
“Sure, you cut a deal with Enid to keep Cynthia alive by agreeing to never see her again, to never get in touch. So maybe she’s alive today because you agreed to live out the rest of your life with a monster. But do you think that makes you some kind of fucking hero? You know what? You’re no fucking hero. If you’d been a man, from the get-go, maybe none of this shit would ever have happened.”
Clayton put his face into his hands, leaned against the door.
“Let me ask you this,” I said, a kind of calm coming over me. “What kind of man stays with a woman who’s murdered his own son? Can someone like that even be called a man? If it’d been me, I think I’d have killed her myself.”
We were at the window. I handed the guy some cash, took a bag with a couple of Egg McMuffins and hash browns, plus two coffees. I pulled ahead into a parking slot, reached into the bag, and tossed a breakfast sandwich into Clayton’s lap.
“Here,” I said. “Gum this.”
I needed some air and to stretch my legs for two seconds. Plus, I wanted to call home again, just in case. I took my cell out of my jacket, opened it up and glanced at the screen.
“Fuck,” I said.
I had a message. I had a goddamn voicemail message. How was that possible? Why had I not heard the phone ring?
It had to be after we got off the Mass Pike, when we were driving south of Lee, down that long, winding stretch of road. Cell reception was terrible through there. Someone must have called me then, couldn’t get through, left a message.
This was the message:
“Terry, hi, it’s me.” Cynthia. “I tried to call you at home, then I tried your cell, and God, where are you? Look, I’ve been thinking of coming home, I think we should talk. But something’s happened. Something totally unbelievable. We were staying at this motel, and I asked if I could use the computer in the office? To see if I could find any old news stories, anything, and I checked my mail, and there was another message, from that address, with the date? You know. And this time, there was a phone number to call, so I decided, what the hell. So I called, and Terry, you’re not going to believe what’s happened. It’s the most amazing thing. It’s my brother. My brother Todd. Terry, I can’t believe it. I’ve talked to him! I called him and I spoke to him! I know, I know, you’re thinking it’s some crank caller, some kind of nut. But he told me he was the man at the mall, the man I thought was my brother. I was right! It was Todd! Terry, I knew it!”
I was feeling dizzy. The message continued:
“There was something in his voice, I could tell it was him. I could hear my father in his voice. So Wedmore was wrong. That must be some other woman and her son in the quarry. I mean, I know we don’t have my test in yet, but this tells me something else happened that night, maybe some kind of mix-up. Todd said he was so sorry, that he couldn’t admit who he was at the mall, that he was sorry about the phone call, and the e-mail message, that there was nothing I had to be forgiven for, but that he can explain everything. He was working up his nerve to meet with me, tell me where he’s been all these years. It’s like a dream, Terry. I feel like I’m in some sort of dream, that this can’t be happening, that I’m finally going to see Todd again. I asked him about my mom, about Dad, but he said he’d tell me all about it when I see him. I just wish you were here, I always wanted you to be there if something like this ever happened. But I hope you understand, I just can’t wait, I have to go now. Call me when you get this. Grace and I are heading up to Winsted to see him now. My God, Terry, it’s like a miracle has happened.”
47
Winsted?
We were in Winsted. And Cynthia and Grace were coming to Winsted? I checked to see how long ago she’d left the message. Nearly three hours. So she’d made the call even before we’d got off the Mass Pike, probably when we were in one of those valleys between Albany and the Massachusetts border.
I started doing the math. There was a very good chance Cynthia and Grace were already in Winsted. They could have been here as long as an hour, I guessed. Cynthia probably broke every speed limit on the way up, and who wouldn’t do the same, anticipating a reunion of this nature?
It made some sense. Jeremy sends the e-mail, maybe before he even left Milford, or maybe he’s got a laptop or something, waits for Cynthia to call his cell. She reaches him while he’s en route, and he suggests Cynthia head north for a rendezvous. Gets her away from Milford, saves him having to drive all the way back.