Already Gone (3 page)

Diane isn’t taking this very well, so after I hang up with the police, I sit next to her on the couch and put my hand on her leg.

She looks at me. “What did they say?”

“They’re sending someone.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Now, I guess.”

Diane turns toward the window and stares out at the empty street, silent.

I want to tell her everything will be okay, but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend that what happened to me that night in the parking lot was a random act, not anymore. I’m being targeted, and we both know it. I owe her more than false comfort.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said in the hospital,” I say. “About my dad and the people he knew.”

Diane looks at me.

“I’ll give the cops a couple names. Maybe they can come up with some answers.” I pause. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to find out who’s doing this.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’ll call Gabby, see if he can ask around. Someone has to know something.”

“Gabby?”

“If anyone can find out, he can.”

“That’s your solution?”

“Whoever’s doing this, we can find them. We can end it with one phone call.”

She shakes her head then turns away and runs her fingers under her eyes, wiping away tears. “Just let the police handle it, okay? Don’t get involved.”

“I’m already involved.”

“You’re also still alive.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t know anything about these people or what they’re capable of doing. You’re in way over your head, even with Gabby.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I am, Jake. I’m fucking terrified.”

I start to argue, but she stops me.

“I can’t stand by and watch you get hurt again, I can’t do it.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m not helpless, Diane. I can handle myself.”

She hesitates, and the way she looks at me makes me feel like a boasting child. I want to argue, but then I think about how hard all of this has been hard on her, and I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach out and put my arm around her shoulder.

She resists at first, then leans into me and whispers something I can’t hear.

I ask her to tell me again.

She sits up and touches my bandaged hand. “What kind of person would do something like this?”

I can think of a few people who wouldn’t blink at doing things like this, or worse, but I keep that to myself and say, “I don’t know.”

Diane folds into me, and a moment later the tears begin again. We sit like that for a while, and neither of us says anything for a long time.

The field tech arrives ten minutes after the detective. He comes in wearing jeans and sandals and carrying a large black case over his shoulder. The detective, whose name is Nolan, motions him toward the kitchen.

“On the counter.”

The tech nods then disappears through the French doors. When he comes back he’s carrying the jar in a large plastic evidence bag.

He asks if anyone touched the item.

“Mr. Reese here is the only one.” Nolan watches me over his wire-framed glasses. “Is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

He looks at Diane, then turns back to the tech and says, “Better get them both, just to be safe.”

The tech opens his case and takes out a smaller, dark blue container and a pair of plastic gloves. He unsnaps the smaller container. Inside is an ink tray, a roller, and several fingerprint sheets. He lays them out on the dining room table and slips on the gloves.

Diane stares at him, then looks away.

Detective Nolan flips through the pages in his notebook. “So this name, Thomas Wentworth.” He taps the paper with his pen. “It doesn’t mean anything to you?”

It’s the third time he’s asked the question, and I tell him my answer hasn’t changed.

“No need to get defensive,” he says. “I’m here to help.”

“How exactly?” Diane says. “All you’ve done is ask the same question again and again.”

“Mrs. Reese, I know these questions seem redundant, but look at it from our point of view. If you knew how many people we talk to—”

I see the field tech wave me over. I get up, leaving Diane alone on the couch with Detective Nolan.

“I thought you could go first,” the tech says. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“What’s this for?”

“We need to distinguish your prints from anyone else’s they might find on the jar. It’s standard.”

“Sounds reasonable.” I hold out my bandaged hand. “I’ll be the easy one. Only half the work.”

The field tech smiles, but I can tell he doesn’t know what to say. He runs through the fingers on my right hand, rolling them along the inkpad then across the paper. When he finishes, he hands me several Kleenex and thanks me.

“No problem.”

Behind me, I hear Diane say, “But you’re not doing your job. If you were, we wouldn’t be sitting here. Those two men would be in jail.” She stands, and her voice gets louder as she speaks. “Don’t come here and act like this is his fault.”

Detective Nolan holds up his hands. “Mrs. Reese, I never said anyone was at fault.”

“Just do your fucking job.”

She moves past him to the front door. I try to stop her, but she grabs her purse from the small table in the entryway and walks out.

I look back at Nolan. He’s watching me.

“What the hell did you say to her?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I asked if you had any enemies, that’s it.”

I look out the window in time to see Diane’s car pull out of the driveway and disappear around the corner.

“Maybe I should’ve saved that question for you.”

I let the curtain close, then turn back to the living room and Detective Nolan. “The cop at the hospital already asked me.”

“Right, but it’s been a while, and you’ve had time to think about it since then. I thought you might’ve remembered someone.”

“Sorry,” I say. “No one.”

Nolan flips through his notebook. “I pulled your old file.” He taps his pen down the page, counting as he goes. “Multiple assault and battery charges, disturbing the peace.” He turns the page. “And an assault with a deadly weapon charge. A brick.” He looks at me. “All street fights. Sounds like you had quite a temper.”

“It was a bad neighborhood.”

“Does your wife know about all these?”

“She knows.”

“Are you sure?” He motions to the door. “Because it doesn’t look like it to me.”

I hear the smile in Nolan’s voice, and all the muscles in my body get tight, ready to snap. I remind myself who I’m talking to and try my best to calm down.

“She knows about all of it.”

“Then what else can you tell me?”

“You’ve got my file. It’s all in there.”

“It’s never all in there.” Nolan closes his notebook. “Look, Mr. Reese, I want to help, but I can’t do much if you won’t talk to me.”

“That was another life,” I say. “I put those days behind me a long time ago. And if someone from those days is coming for me, why did they wait so long?”

“You tell me.”

I shake my head. “Isn’t that your job to figure out?”

Nolan stares at me for a moment, and then he stands and takes a card from his jacket pocket. He holds it out to me and says, “Call if you think of anything that might help.”

I don’t take the card.

He drops it on the coffee table. “Tell your wife I’m sorry for upsetting her.”

“I’ll do that.”

Nolan walks to the kitchen table where the lab tech is filling out forms. He leans in and says something I can’t hear. The tech nods, then packs his case and slides it over his shoulder.

I hold the door open for them as they leave. Once they’re outside I remember and ask about my ring.

“Your ring?”

“My wedding ring.” I point to the evidence bag the tech is carrying. “On my finger, in the jar.”

“What about it?”

“I want it back.”

“Evidence,” I say. “I can get the ring back when they send my finger off to medical disposal, whenever the hell that happens. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Diane doesn’t say anything.

She walked through the door about an hour after the cops left. Now she’s sitting at the kitchen table picking over a bowl of butter noodles with a fork.

I watch her for a while, then say, “You think this is my fault, don’t you? Something I did.”

She looks up. “No, I don’t.”

“What’d that cop say to you?”

“He kept asking about you.”

“Do you think I’m hiding something?”

“No.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Diane sets her fork down then reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “I know you’re not. And I know that whatever this is about, you’re not the one to blame.”

“You’re distant now.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

She sits back. “I suppose I feel helpless, like I should be able to do something.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I don’t believe her.

I know Diane loves me, but this wasn’t what she signed up for. She wanted to marry the kid she read about in the book, the one who pulled himself out of the fire, not the one still burning.

I hope I’m wrong, but something tells me I’m not.

Two days later, I go back to the doctor and have the Q-tip bandage replaced with a smaller one. The new bandage covers the fingers on the left side of my hand, leaving my thumb free. It’s not much, but I can use my hand again.

We haven’t heard from Detective Nolan, so on the third day, I call him. He tells me there were no fingerprints, other than mine, on the jar, the tape, or the packaging.

“So now what?” I ask.

He pauses, then gives me the stock answer: following every lead, no stone unturned.

My fault for asking.

“How about the two men who attacked me? Anything on either of them?”

“Not yet,” Nolan says. “We talked to the bartender who was working that night. He remembered them, but didn’t have much to add. Said they never talked, even to each other, and when they talked to him, he could barely understand a word.”

“That helps.”

“Did your wife make it back?”

“She did.”

“No worse for wear, I hope.”

“She’s fine.” I try to move the conversation away from Diane. “Will you call if you find anything else?”

“You’ll be the first person I call.”

The next day Diane tells me she’s leaving.

“Just for a couple days,” she says. “I have to meet with a client in Phoenix who wants to sell part of his modern collection. We’re meeting with his lawyer to go over the details. He has to sign some papers.”

I’m used to Diane traveling for her job, but this time it’s different. I want to ask her why she didn’t tell me about this trip before now, but I don’t.

I understand what’s happening.

We drive to the airport, and I wait with her until the flight boards. Diane doesn’t like to fly, so I keep talking, trying to distract her.

“My classes start this week,” I say. “I think I’m ready, but I guess we’ll see.”

She nods, silent.

“There were still seats open last time I checked. That’s not a good sign.”

Diane looks at her watch, then back over her shoulder. She’s not listening to me, so I decide to keep quiet until they start boarding her flight.

When it’s her turn, she looks at me for the first time since we arrived, then leans in close and kisses me, long and soft.

I tell myself it isn’t a good-bye kiss.

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” she says.

“Call me when you get to the hotel.”

She stands and slides her purse over her shoulder then takes a deep breath. “I should’ve driven. If I’d gone through the mountains I could’ve made it to Phoenix in plenty of time.” She smiles at me, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Have I ever told you how much I hate flying?”

“You might’ve mentioned it a few times,” I say. “But it’ll be all right. It’s a short one.”

She nods, kisses me again. “Bye, Jake.”

I watch her cross the terminal and hand her boarding pass to the ticket agent. Before she starts down the tunnel toward the plane, she looks back and waves.

I raise my hand. Then she’s gone.

A couple days turns into a week.

Diane apologizes. She tells me her client and his wife are fighting over what pieces to sell, and the lawyer can’t work up a contract until they make a decision.

I tell her it’s fine, then ask, “How’s Phoenix?”

“Hot, dry, and crowded,” she says. “It’s grown so much since the last time I was here. I’m not sure I like it anymore.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“No, I’m being too negative. The hotel is gorgeous. I’ve got a row of palm trees right outside my window, so that’s nice. I just wish you were here.”

“Me too.”

“I think I’ll take a day and explore, maybe drive up north to Sedona. Spend some time having my chakras realigned or my aura polished or whatever else they do up there these days. I’ll bring you back a crystal necklace.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’d rather be home.” She pauses. “Hey, how did your class go? I forgot to ask.”

“Not what I was expecting,” I say. “Mostly business majors who signed up thinking it’s an easy class.”

“Is it?”

“Haven’t decided, but there are a lot of things I’d rather do than grade essays.”

“I don’t blame you.”

I look at my watch. “Speaking of class, I should go. My next one is about to start.”

“Monday, then?”

“Monday.” She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I love you, Jake. Very much.”

It fills me.

“I know,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”

And for the first time since she left, I believe it.