Extracurricular Activities (17 page)

I awoke with my tongue still stuck to the roof of my mouth, but fortunately, in no pain. I turned to look at my clock and caught sight of a figure—Crawford, I assumed—framed in shadows, in the corner of my room. I smiled, happy that I wasn't alone, and fell back to sleep.

I dreamt of Ray. I don't know why, but he kept appearing, an annoying phantom, messing up my peaceful, drug-induced slumber. I kept asking him to leave but all he did was smile, hold his hands out to me, and disappear, only to reappear after a few minutes. Finally, in my dreams, I asked him to go away for good, and he did.

When I awoke, although I couldn't remember what time I had gotten into bed, it was dark in the room. My limbs were heavy and I stayed on my back with my head heavy on my pillow, my thoughts jumbled and confused. Still doped up on my new favorite drug, I fell back to sleep for a few more minutes, thinking about how I could con my gynecologist—the only doctor I ever saw—into giving me a refill of Vicodin.

I awoke to the sound of a dog barking. I reached across the bed to the nightstand and grabbed the clock, squinting to see the time: eight-thirty in the evening. I kicked the covers off and pulled myself into a sitting position, which wasn't as hard now that the Vicodin had worn off and I was more in control of my limbs.

I stood. My arm was sore, but the pain wasn't unbearable. I gingerly touched the covered wound with my good hand and was relieved to find the gauze dry and soft. I left the room and started down the stairs.

Crawford's back was to me; he was standing in the kitchen, looking down. When he heard me, he turned around, and I noticed that he was standing with Trixie, which gave me pause. Maybe I was still asleep. Trixie gave me a short “woof” in greeting and a big golden retriever smile: tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, drool pooling on my kitchen floor. Crawford looked at me, confused.

“What's Trixie doing here?” I asked, making my way down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“That's what I was going to ask you,” he said, wrapping the leash around the knob of the back door. “She was in the backyard tied to a tree when I got back.” He handed me an envelope. “There was a note taped to the back door.”

I opened the note. The envelope was lavender and the note inside was, too; the paper was thin, lacy, and scented. It had the markings of Terri all over it. I read it out loud.

I looked at Crawford. “How long have I been asleep exactly?” I asked, feeling suddenly like Rip Van Winkle.

Crawford stood and looked at me. “Long enough for you to inherit a dog, apparently.”

“Where did they go?”

Crawford shrugged. “Not a clue.”

I looked at Trixie. I did love her but I wasn't sure that I wanted to live with her. I made a couple of noises of protest but they were weak.

He pointed to a bag on the counter. “I don't know what she eats, but I went to the grocery store on Route 9 and got some dog food.”

I pushed my good hand through my hair. “This is weird.” I looked out the window at the house next door. “Do you think maybe they finally split up and went their separate ways?”

He shrugged. “Hard to tell. You think she was lying in her note that they went together?”

I didn't know. I started for the back door.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Next door,” I said.

He put his hand on the door. “No you're not.”

I gave him an impatient look.

“I already went over there. There's nobody there. It's locked, no cars in the driveway, all lights are out. They're gone.” He waited a beat watching my face and recognizing that I had a joke that just had to come out, said, “Okay, just say it.”

I let out a laugh. “They don't call you Detective Hot Pants for nothing.”

He bowed at the waist. “Thank you.”

I thought for a moment. “I don't want a dog,” I said, almost whining. “And you can't take her. You're never home.”

Crawford looked at me with his sad face. “You could always give her to a shelter.”

I looked at Trixie, who seemed to be wearing the same sad face that Crawford was. “I don't want a dog,” I said again, this time with less whining but with much less conviction. Crawford and Trixie seemed to sense my weakening resolve and continued to look at me with their pathetic faces. “Okay. She can stay. Until I track them down.”

Crawford sighed, relieved. “This will be great for you. Dogs are wonderful. And Trixie seems like she's very special.”

I sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the decision I had just made. I thought about Jackson and Terri. “We have to find out where they went,” I said. Although I never talked to either of them unless I had to, it seemed odd to me that they had left without telling me. There had to be more to this story than met the eye.

When I was a child, my parents, concerned that I was an only child, bought me a dog. “Dog” actually was a dubious characterization: Coco was five pounds, furry, and looked like a cat. But my father swore that she was a teacup Yorkshire terrier and really a dog. I had Coco until I left for college. She wasn't there when I returned for my first Thanksgiving break, having succumbed to a rare blood disease that had set my mother back three thousand dollars.

Coco wasn't a ton of work for me; she was walked four times a day by either my father or mother. Because in addition to being an only child, I was spoiled rotten and not expected to have to do any heavy lifting, so to speak. So, when I awoke the next morning, Crawford in bed beside me, snoring like a buzz saw, and Trixie licking my face, I wasn't exactly sure what that meant. After a few moments of staring into Trixie's sad eyes, it occurred to me that she probably had to go out.

I stuck my foot into Crawford's side, interrupting a long, wheezing snore. He sat up, grabbed for the gun on the nightstand, and looked around. “What?”

“I think the dog has to go out,” I said, touching the gauze on my graze. Again, it was dry, a good sign. I yawned. “Can you take her?”

He lay back down and put his hand to his heart. “I forgot where I was for a minute.”

“You don't usually wake up with someone sticking their foot into your side?”

He shook his head and rolled over onto his side. “I don't usually wake up with someone next to me at all.”

That's what I wanted to hear.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

I sat up and took stock. “Not bad. I think I have a Vicodin hangover, but other than that, I'm good.”

“Any more nightmares?” he asked, rolling onto his side and putting an arm over my waist.

“Nightmares?”

“You don't remember?”

I shook my head.

“You woke me in the middle of the night because you thought Ray was downstairs. You heard noises. It was Trixie,” he explained. “I don't think Trixie's ever been told to put her hands in the air.”

I pondered that. Time to lay off the Vicodin. The pain had subsided to a dull ache and I had to pretend, at least, to be a little bit tough and deal with whatever pain the wound would deliver. The crying, fainting, and general kvetching had to be getting on Crawford's nerves. Hell, I was starting to annoy myself.

“We have to figure out where Terri and Jackson went and how I ended up with this dog,” I said.

Crawford moaned. “Can we eat breakfast first?”

I rolled over and looked at him. “Of course we can.” Did he remember who he was talking to? “I just think this whole situation is extremely odd and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

He sat up and looked at the gauze on my arm. “Looking good.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood after a minute, naked except for a baggy pair of red plaid boxer shorts. Every other time he had slept over, he had slept in his clothes. I guess we were making progress.

“Nice boxers, Crawford,” I commented. I lifted the comforter and was relieved to find that I was fully dressed. If we were going to be intimate at some point in the relationship, I at least wanted to remember it. I gave him another look; he had gotten thin. He was on the thin side to begin with, but since the last time I had seen him this undressed—in the spring—he had clearly lost some weight.

He dug into a D'Agostino's shopping bag next to my dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, both of which he put on. “Why don't you get up and we can both take Trixie for a walk?” He pulled a pair of low hikers onto his feet.

Trixie bounded over to my side of the bed and gave me a look that told me I wasn't getting off the hook. I pulled myself out of bed and found a cardigan sweater in the closet that I could pull on over my bad arm. I slipped my feet into clogs. “Ready.”

Crawford gave me the once-over. “You're going outside in your pajamas?”

“More disturbing is that I haven't brushed my teeth or hair, but what the hell?” I took his hand. “Let's walk this animal.”

Trixie followed us downstairs and into the kitchen. I found an old
New York Times
home delivery bag to pick up whatever present Trixie left us and we headed outside. The day was bright, sunny, and pleasant. Crawford came out behind me, Trixie on her leash, and we started down the driveway. The sound of bagpipes came wafting through the light breeze.

“Is there a parade today?” Crawford asked.

I pointed to Bagpipe Kid's house. “No, the kid over there plays the bagpipes. Badly.”

“How can you tell?” he asked. Trixie sat down on the driveway and looked over at her former abode. She whined softly and looked up at the two of us. “Everyone who plays the bagpipes sounds awful.” He walked Trixie to the front of my house and let her stroll around, looking for a spot that suited her. After a few minutes, she squatted and took care of business. “Good girl, Trixie,” he said, and scooped everything up in the plastic bag. He turned to hand it to me. “Here you go.”

I stepped back, crinkling my nose in disgust. “What do you want me to do with that?”

“Put it in the garbage?” he suggested.

I took the bag between my thumb and index finger and walked back up the driveway to put it in the garbage can. When I came back to where Trixie and Crawford were standing, he handed me the leash.

“I'll walk into town and get us some coffee. Are you hungry?” he asked.

What kind of question was that? Of course I was hungry. I'm always hungry. “There's an Italian deli in town,” I said, figuring it was safer to send Crawford to Tony's alone than to accompany him and risk Tony's wrath. “Go there. He's got espresso and cappuccino and muffins. Tony's. You can't miss it.” I gave him general directions.

“Got it.” He started down the driveway. “Do you think you can stay out of trouble until I get back?” he asked, calling back over his shoulder.

“I'll try,” I said, and knelt down to rub Trixie's head. I watched him amble down the street, waiting until he was out of sight before starting back up the driveway.

I gave Jackson and Terri's house another look. There were still curtains hanging in the windows, and the lawn furniture—a leftover vestige from the summer—was still on the back patio. It looked like they still lived there, but there was clearly no sign of them. The minivan was gone and, apparently, so were they.

Something occurred to me. When Jackson and Terri had first moved in, I remember him giving me his card. Something about “if you ever need anything.” Yeah, I need you to leave me alone and mind your own beeswax, had been my first thought; I had been going through a particularly rough patch with Ray and was kind of cranky. But I thought about that card now and figured if I could find it, I could call his work number to see what the message was on his voice mail.

I ran up to the bedroom that doubles as an office. Ray had used this room mostly, but I had an old table that served as a desk with old checks, bills, letters, and the like strewn across its oak top. I rummaged through a bunch of the papers. “Oh, there's my diploma!” I said happily. I had been looking for that. I finally found the card, stuffed between a stack of my mother's old recipes on the right side of the desk: “Jackson Morrison, Graphic Designer.”

Well, well. I picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the number. Instead of ringing two or three times before going to voice mail, it went directly to a recorded message. “Hi, this is Jackson Morrison. I'm on an extended leave of absence. If you need immediate assistance, please call Rick Felter, who'll be handling my projects in my absence.” Click.

“Felter? I hardly know her,” I said, cracking myself up.

So they were going to be gone for a while. I called again, jotting down Rick Felter's number.

I might just be in the market for some graphic design, I thought.

 

Crawford strolled off in the direction of Main Street, Dobbs Ferry, feeling better about things than he had in a long time. The circumstances surrounding his visit to this bucolic town were still frightening and disturbing, but he was happier being with Alison than living his somewhat safe existence in Manhattan. He rounded the corner and caught sight of the Hudson, glimmering in the autumn sun, and smiled. Everything would be fine.

He found Tony's deli right away and stocked up on coffee and breakfast food. If he knew anything about Alison, it was that she had a tremendous appetite, and if he didn't buy enough food, she would eat what was rightfully his. Her lack of appetite the day before was an anomaly and he wanted to make sure he was prepared.

Tony was a friendly guy who communicated in heavily accented English. He asked Crawford if he was new to town, and Crawford told him he was visiting a friend.

“A friend? In Dobbs Ferry? Who?” Tony asked, throwing four muffins into a brown paper bag.

Crawford hated small talk and didn't want to go any further with the conversation but didn't want to appear rude, either. “Alison Bergeron.” Crawford thought he detected a slight hesitation in Tony's actions, but brushed it off.

“Nice girl,” Tony said, turning and giving Crawford the once-over. “What do you do for a living, my friend?”

“I'm a police officer,” Crawford said.

Tony turned back to the coffee maker but didn't respond. “Milk and sugar?”

“Black.”

Tony turned back around and put the two coffees on the counter. He punched some numbers into the cash register and told Crawford the total. Crawford handed him a twenty and waited for his change.

Tony counted out the change and put it in Crawford's hand, grabbing his wrist. “Listen, my friend. You be nice to her.”

Crawford pulled his hand away and put the money in his pocket. He wasn't sure what kind of response was appropriate so he gave Tony a steely look, one that usually had perps shaking in their boots. Tony surprised Crawford by holding his gaze as Crawford backed away from the counter and out the door.

So, Alison could count an elderly Italian deli owner among her conquests. He'd have to ask her just how serious she was with Tony before investing any more time in their relationship. He started down Main Street and hung a right onto her street.

His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket, looking at the caller ID: the precinct. He flipped the phone open and sat on the curb, his bag of food beside him.

“Crawford? Moran.”

“Hi, Champy. What's up?”

“We've got a girl here, a St. Thomas student. Came in on her own; wants to help. Her name is…Julie Ann Podowsky.”

Crawford waited through Champy's pregnant pause.

“Says she had a relationship with Dr. Stark,” Champy said, and by the way he said “relationship,” his tongue rolling around the syllables, Crawford knew what that meant. “She's a senior; broke it off last winter with him. He was getting kind of clingy, she said.”

Crawford shifted on the curb. “Clingy how?”

“Wanted a long-term thing. She was just having fun, she said.” He paused again. “And let me tell you something: this is a girl who looks like she knows how to have fun. I'm just saying.”

Crawford didn't even want to think about that; his girls weren't much younger than Julie Anne and he told Champy so. “She's someone's daughter, Champ. Just keep that in mind.”

“Will do,” Champy said. “She's a big girl, too. She's gotta be six feet if she's an inch.”

Crawford looked down toward the river and considered this. None of this was terribly meaningful to him; Ray had slept with countless women, based on what they had learned in the course of the investigation. “Where you going with this, Champ?”

“Guess what her hobby is, Bobby?”

Crawford didn't have a clue.

“Fencing.”