Doubleback: A Novel (4 page)

Dad was silent for a minute. Had she stumped him? Then he said, “What about miracles? Do you believe in them?”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

I recalled a book called
Small Miracles
that someone had given Rachel when she was thirteen. She read it from cover to cover and gushed to me about the stories, mostly warm-hearted tales of coincidences and seemingly random events that changed peoples’ lives. I considered the book vaguely seditious but never said anything. At least she was reading voluntarily.

“Well,” Dad went on, “maybe you could take a piece of paper and draw a line down the middle. On one side, list all the atrocities, horrors, and disasters you can think of. On the other, write down all the things you think could be miracles. See if it balances out. Perhaps that will help you decide.”

I finished chopping and went into the family room. Rachel was on the couch with a pad of notebook paper, scratching out her list. Dad was in the easy chair, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He smiled. I went over and kissed the top of his head. Except for a thin fringe of hair around the base of his skull, he’s bald, and his skin is freckled with age spots. He’s never been tall, and age has stooped him, but mentally he can still bench press a Cadillac, and when he smiles, everything seems possible.

“I’m hungry,” he announced. “When do we eat?”

“I’m throwing the steaks on the grill now.”

“Good. Red meat. Hubba hubba.” He shot a glance at Rachel and rubbed one of his hands over the other in fast little circles.

She giggled at that—she always does.

Twenty minutes later, we were eating dinner like good carnivores on the deck outside my kitchen.

“So what are you working on?” Dad asked.

I’m an independent video producer—it’s how I support myself and Rachel, especially since Barry, my ex-husband, is, at best, “irregular” with child support. Although the video world can be feast or famine, I’ve been lucky to eke out a living. Sometimes the topics I cover are even worthwhile.

“I’m excited about this one, Dad. I’m working for Voss-Peterson.”

“The agricultural processor?”

“You got it.” Voss-Peterson is a huge conglomerate that turns crops into soymeal, oil, corn sweeteners, flour, feed, and ethanol. “They’ve got a new ethanol facility, and they want to make a video about it.”

“That’s the stuff they mix with gasoline to extend its life, right?”

“Right. It comes from corn. Essentially, it’s a form of grain alcohol.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I. Anyway, it burns cleaner than gasoline, it’s cheap, it’s renewable, and it can reduce our dependence on foreign oil. I’m finally working for a company that’s on the right side of an issue for a change.”

Dad raised his eyebrows.

“In fact, Mac and I are driving out tomorrow to scout locations.”

“Where?” Rachel asked.

“Their headquarters is in central Illinois. Between Peoria and Bloomington. We’ll be taking a look at some farms out that way, too. We can’t shoot until the corn is higher, of course.”

“Knee high by the Fourth of July,” Dad said. He put down his fork and started to hum.

Rachel looked mystified.

“There’s an old saying...” I started to explain then glanced at Dad. He was still humming and his eyes twinkled. I listened more closely. It was the tune of “Wonderful Guy” from
South Pacific,
the song that goes, “I’m as corny as Kansas in August...” I shook my head. Dad’s sense of humor still surprises me.

Rachel looked from Dad to me, still puzzled. I was about to explain, but the phone rang. Rachel jumped up and hurried into the kitchen to answer it.

“Oh hi, Becky.” Her voice carried back outside. “Yeah. I’m just finishing dinner. Nothing except that my Opa is practicing for
American Idol
...”

Dad smiled, then picked up his knife. His eyes went flat. “So, what do you hear from that—Sutton man?”

Dad still can’t accept that David Linden and I broke up. My boyfriend of three years, David and my father had a personal, almost familial connection: as a young man my father had been in love with his mother. But intimate relationships have never been one of my strengths, and David was deficient in that area too. We might still have been stumbling along, had I not fallen in love with Luke Sutton.

Not that it’s been easy there. Luke has baggage—serious baggage filled with the repercussions of family secrets that I unintentionally exposed. In fact, you couldn’t really call what we have a “relationship.” It’s more like an IOU, a chit to be surrendered sometime in the future. Still, when he walked through my front door last summer, I remember tingling and blazing like a Fourth of July sparkler. I still do. Susan says it’s just hormones. I think she’s wrong, but even if she’s not, I’m grateful I have enough of them left to fire.

All of which made it difficult to answer my father. “Luke’s fine.” I finally managed. I felt like an uncommunicative teenager.

It was dark, and long shadows fell across Dad’s face, but I could feel him frown.

“Look, I know he’s not Jewish,” I said. “And I know he’s got issues, but—”

“What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”

“Example? Me?” Irritation scratched the back of my throat. I was tempted to tell him about the condom. Although, in truth, since meeting Christine Messenger, the condom incident just didn’t seem that significant. Rachel was eighteen; her grades were good; she had a job as a lifeguard. She might even have been telling the truth: that it was Mary—not she—who’d been partying in the guest room. In the end, though, if it was Rachel, she’d been practicing safe sex, she was out of harm’s way, and, unlike Molly Messenger, she was
here
.

I kept my mouth shut.

The wonderful thing about my father is that he doesn’t rub it in. As I got up to clear the dishes, he rose too and tried to lower the umbrella that had been angled to block the rays of the setting sun. He wrestled with it, pulling and pushing and finally shaking the pole, but he couldn’t straighten it. “I think something’s wrong,” he said.

Rachel came back out with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. I helped myself to one. Rachel passed the plate to my father.

“Sweetheart, Opa says something’s wrong with the umbrella. Can you lift it up and put it away? I’ll ask Fouad to look at it next time he comes.”

“It’s pretty old. Why don’t you throw it away and get a new one?” she said.

“I just bought it last year,” I said around a mouthful of cookie. “Can you put it away, please?”

“Okay.” She grabbed a couple of cookies.

We cleared the rest of the plates and went inside before the mosquitoes made a meal out of us. Dad and I settled in the family room to watch the nine o’clock news.

The program preceding the news ended, and the screen cut to a teaser shot of the news anchor. “Abducted North Shore Girl Comes Home!” she announced breathlessly. “Details Ahead!”

I gasped. Was this Molly Messenger? Had she been freed? I waited impatiently as a series of commercials told me about yet another sale at Macy’s, a new car for zero percent financing, and the latest menu addition at Red Lobster. Finally, the news began, and the program cut to a close-up of a little girl in a school photo with a blue background.

Molly.

“Our top story is the return of an eight-year-old North Shore girl to her family. Molly Messenger was abducted three mornings ago. Gerry Rivers has the story.” The report cut to B-roll of the park district building, kids getting out of cars, parents walking them inside.

A male voice-over continued. “Molly Messenger’s parents have been working with police ever since the girl was kidnapped from camp on Monday. Then, today, just a couple of hours ago, witnesses say, a car stopped at the end of this block.” The story cut to a wide shot of the reporter walking down the middle of Molly’s street. “The door to the car opened, Molly got out, and, according to witnesses, ran down the block to her house. Her parents say she appears to be healthy, although she will undergo tests at a nearby hospital. Her parents, of course, are exceedingly thankful.”

The story cut to a shot of Christine Messenger on her front steps. She still looked pale and haggard, but the tension had drained from her body. Standing beside her was a bald man. He looked handsome and young, forty at the most, so the baldness was probably a choice, not a condition. He wore navy chinos and a red golf shirt. The ex-husband. They stood close together. Trying to put on a united front for the public?

“This is a miracle. My prayers have been answered,” Christine said. “I am so very grateful to have my daughter back. She seems to be fine, and she’s already asking when she can go to the pool.” A wan smile flitted across her face.

The husband cut in. “But, as you might imagine, we have been through an ordeal, and now we need time to heal. We hope you understand our need for privacy.”

The report cut back to the reporter who said the family was going into seclusion. “No one appears to have seen the car Molly was in. And, as far as we know, there never was any demand for a ransom. In fact, police remain tight-lipped about the case. Which means the mystery surrounding this bizarre kidnapping persists.” The reporter signed off after bantering with the anchorwoman about staying on the story and reporting new developments as soon as possible.

As the program transitioned to a fire in a West Side warehouse, I ran a hand through my hair.

“
Nu
?” Dad asked. That’s Yiddish for “well” or “so” or just “what’s going on”?

“I know that woman. I—uh—went to her house three days ago.”

My father’s eyes narrowed and he pointed to the TV. “You met with that woman? I thought you were done with your—meddling.”

“I was doing Susan a favor. Christine Messenger is her neighbor. Susan thought I might be able to help.”

“And?”

“I told her to call the police. So did Georgia Davis.”

“Georgia Davis? How do I know that name?”

“She’s an investigator. Used to be on the police force up here. She—”

“I remember. Rachel saw her for a while.”

Whoever said elderly people’s memories get foggy doesn’t know my father. “That’s right. And then a couple of winters ago, she and I—well, never mind.”

“So, what’s the problem? The girl is home. She’s okay. It’s a happy ending.”

I wasn’t convinced. Usually the police love to crow about their accomplishments, and resolving the Messenger kidnapping was a big one. So why were they, in the reporter’s words, so “tight-lipped?” I’m no cop, but I know that when people decline to talk to the press, it’s because they’ve done something either so shocking or so stupid they’re afraid it will be revealed.

chapter
5

S
ometimes there really is a happy ending, Georgia thought as she drove back from the gym Thursday morning. When she heard the news about Molly Messenger on the radio, she felt relief, elation, then a deep sense of satisfaction. She hadn’t especially liked Christine Messenger. There was a remote quality about her, almost guarded. Georgia thought Molly’s disappearance seemed to be more of an inconvenience, a disruption to Messenger’s carefully planned career, than a gut-wrenching tragedy.

At the same time, Georgia realized she was being uncharitable. People dealt with suffering in all sorts of ways. The woman had been to hell and back. Who was she to pass judgment? She turned off the radio and took a swig from her bottled water. At least one child had been rescued from the maw of tragedy. That was cause for celebration, wasn’t it?

Back home she showered, toweled off, put on a clean pair of jeans. A new case had come in, and she was eager to start in on it. A lawyer suspected a dating service was a front for an identity theft ring and wanted Georgia to investigate. One of the lawyer’s clients had met with “More-than-Friends” in an out-of-the-way office in Palatine, a suburb about thirty miles northwest of Chicago. The woman hadn’t given them any money but did surrender her address and social security number. A week later, her credit cards were maxed out and her bank account emptied.

Georgia Googled the company and checked their website, but other than the address, phone number, and a few “testimonials,” she didn’t learn much. She went into her kitchen. Bright morning sunshine poured in through the window, and a squirrel was perched on the telephone line. She’d always wondered how they could balance on such a flimsy tightrope. Then it scurried across the line and hopped onto a nearby branch.

She went back to her computer. The best way to get a first-hand look at “More-Than-Friends” would be to see it herself. She thought about impersonating a potential client. She was in her thirties, the right age, and she could act the part of the lonely, desperate woman. She’d been there, not so long ago.

She jotted down the number then clicked to a news website to skim coverage of Molly’s return. She wanted to see how the police cracked the case: the communications, negotiations, how it played out. But there was nothing. No statement, no photos, no comment. She went back to the More-than-Friends website but couldn’t get the kidnapping out of her mind. Five minutes later, she picked up the phone.

•   •   •

Thursday evening was a good night at Solyst’s, a village tavern with rough-hewn floorboards and neon red beer signs on the walls. Solyst’s was a blue-collar haunt, with drinks as cheap as the conversation, but somehow it had flourished. While other places on the North Shore changed hands faster than you could say under-the-table-payments, Solyst’s had been owned by the same family for seventy-five years.

Georgia hadn’t been inside in a while, but nothing had changed. On one side was the bar, its stools patched with duct tape and, despite the new law, a residue of cigarette smoke in the air. On the other side was a brightly lit room with tables and chairs and a menu of pizza, salads, and surprisingly good fried fish.

The faces at the bar looked like the same ones she’d seen two years ago. In fact, several nodded as though it had only been two weeks since she’d been in. She found who she was looking for at the bar near the dart board.