Blood Red (22 page)

How well do I know him now?

How well did I know him, ever?

Those are the questions that have been running through Bob's mind for the past hour, as he sipped a beer and nibbled the appetizer he'd felt compelled to order. The restaurant is crowded tonight with several office Christmas parties occupying the private rooms and large tables, along with crowds of shoppers who made their way across the street from the Union Square Holiday Market.

He can't sit here much longer without either ordering dinner or asking for the check.

He types another text to Rick—­
Worried about you
, and adds it to the stack of sent messages that include:
Where are you?
;
I'm at the table
;
Can I order you a drink?
; and
Is everything okay?

No reply.

Ten minutes later, the waiter has pocketed a generous tip, a pair of German honeymooners has happily settled at the unexpectedly vacated table for two, and Bob is out on the street. He pulls up the hood of his nylon jacket, wishing he had something warmer to ward off the chill and knowing it would take more than a layer of down.

Rick's silence and failure to show up seem even more ominous now that he's left the restaurant.

The sidewalk is teeming with ­people. It's still rush hour, and this is one of the busiest neighborhoods in the city. The NYPD presence is strong, with uniformed cops directing traffic and pedestrians. Across the street, Union Square Park is bedecked with garlands, flooded by warm white twinkle lights, and lined by red-­and-­white-­striped canvas-­covered market stalls.

If Rick had taken the subway to Union Square from his midtown office as he'd claimed he was about to do earlier, then he would have had to walk through or around the market to get to the restaurant.

Maybe he got this far, was drawn over to . . . to pick up a last-minute gift, and . . .

And lost track of time? For over an hour? And didn't notice his phone ringing or buzzing or vibrating?

It seems ludicrous to imagine that something happened to him along the way, though. Not here, anyway. This isn't a deserted outer borough street corner in the middle of the night. If there had been a violent crime or a serious accident in the vicinity, Bob would have heard sirens and there would be evidence even now: bystanders, commotion, flashing red lights.

Most likely, Rick never got this far. Maybe something came up at work.

He would have called or texted, though.

Okay. What else might have happened?

Maybe Rick lost his phone. He doesn't have a landline at his apartment. A lot of ­people don't these days—­that's not unusual.

He still could have found a way to call—­unless he kept Bob's number stored in his phone and not on paper or in his head . . .

That's possible.

Or maybe it was plain old cold feet?

That might have made sense yesterday, when they were about to see each other for the first time since Vanessa died. But not today. The ice was already broken. Rick seemed to want to talk.

Even if he'd changed his mind at the last minute for some reason, he'd have come up with a reasonable excuse. He was always good at telling white lies.

And I was always good at seeing right through them.

Rick may have teased him about playing detective, but Bob does have a keen sense of intuition. Right now, his instincts are telling him that something is wrong.

A gust of raw wind goes right through him, and he thinks longingly of his warm hotel bed thirty blocks north. He should probably head back there—­but this time, he isn't going to walk. Having had no luck finding a cab on his way downtown, he can already sense that it's going to be a challenge to find one heading back up. He can take the subway, and keep an eye out for Rick as he makes his way toward it, just in case.

Shoving his chapped hands deep into the pockets of his light jacket, Bob crosses the street toward the maze of brightly lit stalls.

The rain has given way to a yellow haze drifting in the festive glow, fragrant with steamy cider and cocoa, rife with chatter and piped-­in music and a chorus of sidewalk Santa bells.

Caught up in the slow-­moving crowd of shoppers, Bob gradually makes his way toward the domed subway kiosk on the south side of the park.

“Todd!” a female voice shrieks a little too close to his ear. “There you are! Where have you been? I've been waiting an hour!”

“Sorry,” calls a guy who's shouldering his way toward her. “Some guy jumped in front of my train and I've been stuck in the tunnel.”

“No way, that's sick! Did you see it?”

Todd's reply is lost as the crowd propels him away, but a new realm of possibility has been introduced that Bob finds either comforting—­or terrifying.

Maybe Rick, too, was delayed by the subway incident . . .

Or maybe he was the reason behind it, having chosen to take his own life just as Vanessa had taken hers last November.

 

From the
Mundy's Landing Tribune
Archives

Editorial

June 23, 1992

On Monday, researchers in Moscow announced that they had used computer modeling to positively identify the remains of Russian Czar Nicholas II and his wife, Alexandra. Murdered by the Bolsheviks on July 17, 1918, along with their five children, three servants, and the family doctor, the Romanovs were among nine skeletons unearthed last year in a shallow grave in Yekaterinburg. Tests will continue on the remaining bodies, along with the search for the missing two. That this development comes as a prelude to next week's historical society fund-­raiser is an interesting coincidence.

Last year's inaugural gathering was such a resounding success, drawing attendees and media attention from across the globe, that the society determined that it will be an annual event whose purpose is twofold. Primarily conceived to raise much-­needed funding for the non-­profit, the event lured armchair sleuths by extending an invitation to solve the so-­called Sleeping Beauty murders that took place here in 1916. Never identified, the trio of young female victims is buried in Holy Angels Cemetery.

At last summer's event, sitting on a panel of scientists and criminologists, chemistry professor Lina Abu Bakr of Hadley College stated that it might very well be possible now to identify those bodies using modern scientific methods that were unavailable in 1916. The issue will be further examined at this year's convention. Many locals are in favor of exhumation in order to lay the mystery to rest at last. Yet perhaps an equal number of us are opposed to disturbing the remains, citing ethical or fiscal reasons.

Indeed, is it prudent, in this pivotal presidential election year, with an ever-­tremulous economy and unemployment at levels not seen in nearly a decade, to devote significant resources to further investigate a crime whose victims have not only been deceased for three quarters of a century, but whose loved ones and yes, most likely the perpetrator himself, are likely also dead or infirm?

 

Chapter 11

E
arly Tuesday morning, Casey is back behind the wheel of the van, heading north and admiring the winter sunrise—­the first actual glimpse of the sun in days—­visible through the passenger's side window. Ordinarily on this journey, the speakers would be blasting “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.” But today the radio is on, tuned to 1010 WINS, New York City's all-­news station. Politics, sports scores, and even the traffic report hold little interest, but this morning, there are two reasons to listen.

The first is the weather forecast. When your livelihood depends—­quite literally—­on which way the wind is blowing, you pay close attention. The storm brewing out West is threatening to turn into a full-­fledged blizzard. Naturally, the tri-­state meteorologists are orgasmic at the idea that it might pick up steam and hit here by the weekend. Casey has been keeping tabs on the potential storm on television and online as well. But the day's most compelling news involves the latest updates on the West Side homicide victim. She has yet to be identified, but there are reports that she fits a missing persons report filed last night.

Looks like pretty soon, I won't be the only one who knows her name.

But that's okay, Casey decides, leaving the highway at the familiar exit and heading west. Last night was an unexpectedly busy night. It may not have been a Sunday, but it was sufficiently bloody. Perhaps the experience wasn't quite as gratifying as Julia had been—­or nearly as thrilling as Rowan will be—­but it was satisfying in its own way.

Now Casey has a new secret, and the intoxicating afterglow lingers like the faint streaks of red in the patch of eastern sky visible in the rearview mirror.

The ache lessened a bit after last night, though it has yet to subside completely.

How much longer can you hold out?

Not as long as you thought.

The storm might force a game change.

Up ahead, the bare branches, rooftops and steeples of Mundy's Landing are bathed in golden light.

The streets are stirring to life as Casey drives into the village proper. A ­couple of delivery trucks are parked along Market Street, unloading stacks of the
Mundy's Landing Tribune
at the deli and paper-­wrapped loaves of fresh bread at the café. A few blocks away at the elementary school, a green truck is just pulling into the parking lot, past the row of yellow buses that won't embark on their daily routes for at least another hour.

Casey drives on past the school, parks the van around the corner in the empty bank parking lot, and darts on foot through the woods that border the back of the school playground. From that spot, there's a clear view of the green truck parked alongside the back door of the school. The Wholesome & Hearty deliveryman is propping it open so he can roll in a hand truck bearing food ser­vice supplies.

Casey has witnessed this routine enough mornings to know that the delivery will demand four or five trips, and that each trip from the truck into the school and back again will take sixty to ninety seconds. That leaves a golden opportunity during the thirty-­second safety window while the deliveryman is busy stacking cartons in the cafeteria kitchen.

Casey waits for the man to embark on the second delivery. The moment he disappears inside, Casey races from the playground toward the door, counting down the seconds.

Thirty . . . twenty-­nine . . . twenty-­eight . . .

The interior corridor is deserted and dark other than the pool of light spilling from the lunchroom. Water is running there, and the deliveryman's voice mingles with that of a woman, probably a cafeteria worker. Beyond the lunchroom, another hallway branches off into the main part of the school.

Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .

Casey swiftly tries the handles of several doors that line the ser­vice hallway. All are locked.

Dammit! . . . eleven . . . ten . . . Dammit!

Trapped in a dead end, Casey has two choices: either head back outside, or scoot past the cafeteria doorway and risk being seen.

Sometimes, you have to take the risk.

Seven . . . six . . . five . . .

Casey strides quickly down the hallway. Inside the cafeteria, the water is still running but the voices have ceased. Just as Casey reaches the doorway, the deliveryman steps through it and out into the hall, pushing the hand truck.

They make eye contact.

Immediately slowing to a stroll, Casey forces a smile and a casual “Morning.”

“Morning.” Bearded and burly, albeit much younger than he looks from afar, the man nods and goes on his way, apparently unaware that he's just encountered a trespasser.

Heart pounding, Casey follows the hallway to the end and turns, passing the gym, the auditorium, and the music room. All is shadowy and still. A window overlooking the back parking lot reveals Mr. Wholesome & Hearty rolling a fresh load of supplies toward the door as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Casey stays and watches until he returns again, this time to load the hand cart into the back of the truck and secure the doors. Then he climbs into the cab and drives away, obviously none the wiser.

Safe. For now, anyway.

Casey moves on to the stairwell and ascends to another deserted hallway lined with lockers and classroom doors. This is where Rowan's room is located, marked by the cardboard pencil cutout. Noting with interest that something is hanging from the doorknob, Casey walks closer and sees that it's a small gift bag imprinted with snowflakes. The matching gift tag is filled out in round, perfect penmanship.

To: Rowan

From: Your Secret Santa

A second golden opportunity.

Casey seizes it, opening the bag and finding a tube of almond-­scented hand lotion—­Rowan's favorite. She's been using it for years.

But I've got a much better gift for you.

Out of Casey's pocket and into the bag it goes.

A few minutes later, Casey is back in the van, weaving through the still quiet streets. Here a dog walker, there a jogger, and another, and another . . .

Driving past a female jogger on Prospect Street, Casey spots a long red braid dangling beneath the rim of her backward baseball cap. Belated recognition comes courtesy of the rearview mirror: the cute redheaded waitress from the restaurant where Mick works.

Brianna. Beautiful Brianna, with the long red hair and the fair, freckled skin. A perfect stand-­in.

The hunger gains a stranglehold on Casey's soul.

If something were to happen to her now, Mick would be crushed with grief. And then to lose his mother on the heels of it . . .

Hmm. Casey circles back around the corner to drive by her again, this time slowing the van to a crawl.

Plugged into headphones, the girl is oblivious.

Casey clenches the steering wheel, running through possible scenarios.

A third golden opportunity in one morning shouldn't be taken for granted, and yet . . .

Mundy's Landing is supposed to be off limits until it's time. Time for Rowan.

It would be so easy, though, to pull up at the curb just ahead of the girl and then pull her into the van when she passes. So easy, and so perfect . . .

“W
ow—­I thought I smelled bacon but I figured I must be dreaming!”

Standing at the stove, Rowan turns to see Jake walking into the kitchen, black suit coat slung over one arm as he expertly knots his red necktie.

“Meatloaf for dinner last night and bacon for breakfast? Are you trying to kill me?”

She turns over a sizzling strip in the frying pan. “Eh, a little meat never killed anyone.”

“Liar. But since you're dishing up hot breakfasts, I might throw in a ­couple of eggs to go with—­wow,” he says again, spotting the second skillet. “What's that?”

“An omelet.” She gestures at the cutting board, still littered with the remnants of all the vegetables she'd chopped. “Scallions, red and green peppers, mushrooms, and cheddar.”

“What's the occasion?”

“No occasion. I just thought you and Mick deserved a real breakfast for a change.”

“Mick left.”

“He left? What do you mean?”

“While you were in the shower. He said he had to be at school early today. I told him I'd drive him but he had a ride.”

“From who . . .
m
?” she amends. Noreen would say
whom
.

“One of his friends, I guess.”

“Which friend?” The good mood that settled over her last night, courtesy of her perfect sister's perfectly reasonable explanation for the cookie drama, is rapidly evaporating. “You didn't ask?”

“You know me when it comes to questions.” Jake shrugs. “I never ask enough, do I?”

No, and he and the kids are always saying that she asks too many. Which, she suspects, is precisely why Mick waited until she was in the shower to head to school.

She lifts the bacon from the pan and presses it between layers of paper towels to blot the grease.

“Did Mick eat before he left?”

“I don't know.”

“His medicine upsets his stomach if he doesn't eat.”

“I'm sure he did, then.”

“I doubt it. Did he say why he had to go early?”

“I think he had to take a test.”

“For which class? Never mind. I know you didn't ask. I just hope it wasn't math, because if it was, it was probably a makeup test for something he missed or failed and I guarantee he didn't study last night.”

She'd kept a plate of gravy-­smothered meatloaf and mashed potatoes warm for Mick, but when he got home after work, he said he was too tired to eat and was going straight to bed. When she looked in on him twenty minutes later, she found him tucked in and sound asleep.

Remembering that incident, and how preoccupied he'd been yesterday when she dropped him off, she asks Jake, “Have you noticed that something seems to be bothering Mick?”

Expecting a no, she gets a yes.

“He was definitely quieter than usual over the weekend,” Jake reports. “Maybe he's in love.”

“That's what I thought. I bet he's meeting her before school. Did he seem . . . you know, giddy?”

“He's not Katie. He's Mick. He seemed grumpy and gloomy. Definitely not giddy.”

“Maybe it isn't a girl, then.”

“Or it is, and he knows she's not interested.” Jake pours a cup of coffee and adds a warm-­up splash to the one she was sipping.

“That doesn't explain why he left early, unless it really was to take a test.”

“It might be. Some ­people do tell the truth, you know.”

Jolted by the words, even if he was just kidding, she busies herself dishing up omelets, bacon, and toast.

Sitting at the granite counter, mindlessly eating the hearty breakfast she intended for Mick, she makes conversation with her husband, worries about her son, and wonders about Rick.

He never did return her phone call last night. If he had, she was prepared to let it go directly into voice mail. It was a relief to put aside a week's worth of toxic stress and get a good night's sleep for the first time since the box of burnt cookies arrived.

I don't want to go back to that
, she thinks as Jake puts their breakfast things into the sink and she steps over Doofus to look around for her car keys.

Not on the counter, not in her bag, not in the door . . .

“Here they are.” He puts them into her hand.

“Where did you find them?”

“Same place they've been every time you've lost them for the past twenty years. In the pocket of the coat you had on last night. You're welcome, and I know, you have no idea what you'd do without me, and you love me. I love you, too. Go, you're late. I'll walk Doofus. See you tonight.”

He kisses her on the cheek, and she's out the door with a grateful grin, calling back, “Oh, and I'm making chicken Marsala for dinner.”

“You're on a roll, babe. I'll be here.”

Making the short drive through the village to the elementary school, Rowan drinks in the winter sun splashing through a canopy of bare branches against an ice blue sky and revisits her gratitude for the return of precious normalcy—­marital, maternal, domestic.

Last night Jake opted for a nice cozy dinner in the kitchen with her over
Monday Night Football
. They made holiday plans, agreeing to stay home and invite Jake's aunt, uncle, and cousins who still live in the area, to come for Christmas dinner. The only vaguely unpleasant moment—­for her, anyway—­was when Jake suggested that they include Noreen and her family.

“I doubt they'll come, but I'll ask,” she said, though she has no intention of doing that. Her sister's insight might have saved the day yesterday, but Rowan isn't eager to face her lone confidante in the near future.

Anyway, it's a moot point: Noreen would never spend Christmas in Mundy's Landing.

Rowan recalls the day she called her sister to tell her that she and Jake were moving back here.

“I have big news,” she said.

Noreen laughed. “Are you serious? We're doing it
again
?”

“We're doing what again?”

“Being pregnant together!”

The sisters had been simultaneously pregnant with Braden and Sean and then again with Mick and Shannon. So when Rowan called with “big news,” Noreen, who had just confirmed her fourth pregnancy the day before, was certain she was also having “an oops baby.”

“You're pregnant? Congratulations!” Rowan said.

“You're not?”

“Are you kidding? No way. Three kids is enough for us. My news is that we're moving back to Mundy's Landing.”

Silence, and then: “Why would you want to go back up there?”