The Bullet (11 page)

Eighteen

C
heral Rooney looked surprised to find me on her doorstep again.

After hanging up with Martin, I had checked my watch and calculated that I might yet make my flight if I floored it to the airport. That would be the sensible thing to do. My brother was right: I needed to get home, get my neck seen to, and forget about the past. But I couldn't do it. Not yet. Instead I backed out of the newspaper parking lot, pointed the car toward Cheral's house, and stepped on the gas.

From the car I made two phone calls to Washington. The first was to my mother, to reassure her that I was still alive. The second was to Will Zartman, to let him know I wouldn't be on the flight this afternoon after all. His response was uncharacteristically subdued. He didn't protest and he didn't ask why. He merely inquired into how I was feeling, and whether I needed a refill on painkillers. He hung up before I'd even said good-bye. Strange. I wondered whether I'd misread his intentions. The way he had touched my hair the other day, and that comment about my body. I'd been sure he was building up to something. But today, he could not have sounded less interested.

Cheral Rooney, by contrast, lit up when she saw me.

“Caroline!” She pulled me in out of the rain. “Come in, come in.
You'll get soaked out there.” She stood back and inspected me. “I wasn't expecting to see you again. I thought you'd already left town? Let me put on a pot of coffee. Or, no, you're partial to tea, aren't you?”

“Cheral. Leave the drinks for a minute. Come here and sit down.” I led her back into the living room where she'd received me yesterday.

“Did you see the article in this morning's paper?”

She nodded.

“Apparently a lot of people did. And one of them told me some things about Sadie Rawson that I didn't know. Some not very nice things. He told me that before she died, she might have been having an affair.”

Cheral stiffened. “Who told you that?”

“One of the cops who investigated the murders. He said
you
were the source for that. That you were the one who told police about it. Is that true?”

She was looking strangely at me. “Does it matter? Why would that even come up now?”

“Because I was asking him about suspects. So, is it true?”

She pursed her lips in apparent annoyance. “Well, I can't think why a police officer would want to dredge all this up. Why he would want to tarnish a daughter's memory of her mother. You want to know what's true? Sadie Rawson was beautiful, she was funny, she loved you. Everything I told you, it's all true. I really think that's all you need to know, Caroline.”

I reached forward and touched her knee. “Thank you. For trying to be kind. But I'd rather know the whole story, all of it, even the bad parts.”

Cheral stared into the corner of the room for a long moment. “Oh, I don't know what the right thing is to do,” she murmured.

“Look, you said yourself, none of this probably matters now. But since I'm here, and since I'm asking, I think I deserve an answer.”

Several seconds passed, then Cheral began to speak. “I didn't know
your mother before she was married. I knew her type, though, and so do you. You only had to talk to her for five minutes before you guessed that she'd been the prom queen, and the prettiest girl in her sorority, and that a dozen boys had dropped down to one knee and begged her to marry them, before she picked your daddy. She had that way about her, you know? A mystique.”

I nodded.

“I was flattered that she wanted to be my friend, if you want to know the truth. I mean, it was only because we were next-door neighbors. Her best friends were still her sorority sisters. They were mostly up in North Carolina, though, and she was down here and stuck home with a baby.”

“And so this other man—” I interrupted, hoping to hurry her along.

“But it was like she couldn't stop,” said Cheral, ignoring me. “She was so used to having men buzzing around her. Like flies drawn to honey. The four of us—Rick and me and your parents—we would go to a party together, and she would be dancing and flirting and carrying on. She wasn't happy unless every man in the room fell a tiny bit in love with her by the end of the night. Scarlett O'Hara had nothing on your mother, I tell you that.”

“She was young.”

“She was old enough to have a husband and a child. She was old enough to know better.” Cheral heaved a deep breath. “Sadie Rawson did love you, she really did. She was sweet when she was pregnant with you. She wanted a girl. She wasn't much better at sewing than she was at baking, God knows, but she stitched together dresses for the two of you. Red and white gingham, with fancy, red bows at the waist. Mother-daughter dresses, so you two could be all matchy-matchy. Before she even knew whether you would be a boy or a girl! She just knew she wanted a girl, and Sadie Rawson
always
got what she wanted.”

The bitterness in Cheral's voice was now unmistakable. “Wouldn't you know she bounced right back, got her figure back in about four seconds flat? And I don't know exactly when, but sometime after that, somewhere around the time you learned to walk, she started carrying on with Tank.”

“Tank?”

“He was a football star in high school. Notorious for rolling over the other team like a tank. I guess the nickname stuck.” Cheral rolled her eyes. “He and Sadie Rawson used to flirt like crazy. I'm sure it drove Tank's wife nuts. But then, after a while, I noticed Sadie Rawson was ignoring him. We'd all go out, and she wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't even make eye contact with him.”

“And so you assumed something must have happened between them?”

“She seemed to think it was a game,” spat Cheral. “That having an affair was a great big funny game. She didn't seem to get that what she was doing was . . .
wrong
. That she was hurting people.”

So this was the sour undercurrent I had sensed. Cheral had watched my mother cheating and had disapproved. Maybe she felt protective of my father and me. Or maybe she was jealous, as Beamer Beasley had suggested.

“But are you sure something happened, something more than flirting?” I pressed.

“Oh, honey. They were in love. They were discreet enough, but sometimes I'd see his car parked in your driveway. He'd pull all the way up, so you couldn't see the car from the street. But my upstairs window looked right out over your parents' backyard.”

I pictured Cheral scowling out her window at the driveway next door. Tried not to picture what must have been going on inside Sadie Rawson's bedroom, with me asleep in my crib down the hall. “Do you have a photo of him? I want to see what he looked like.”

“Maybe somewhere.” Cheral shrugged. “Our old albums are boxed up in the storage unit. I keep meaning to clean it out.”

I pressed my fingers to my lips, thinking. “What about Boone? Did he know?”

“I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I don't think so. I never saw the car except on nights when your daddy was flying overnight somewhere. And Sadie Rawson kept her mouth zipped shut. She didn't talk about it, not even to me, not until after she ended it.”

“Ended it—you mean, ended the affair?”

Cheral nodded yes. “She eventually came to her senses, decided she wanted to try to make things work with your daddy. I'll give her that.”

Relief washed over me. I couldn't tell you why it mattered, but it did, to know that at the end my mother might have been faithful to Boone. To believe that, maybe, at the end they had been happy.

Then Cheral spoke again. “She was terrified, that's why she talked to me. Scared out of her mind.”

“Scared? Of what?”

“Of Tank! He wanted them to run away together. Wanted her to leave Boone, and he was going to leave his wife, and they would run away. But Sadie Rawson wouldn't do it. She could be so damn stubborn, your mother. When she broke things off for good, he went crazy.”

“Crazy how? Threatening to tell Boone?”

“Oh, worse than that. He hit her. He was a big guy, as the name suggests.”

“He
hit
her?”

“That's when she finally told me everything. She came over and sat down in my kitchen and cried and cried. She didn't know what to do. I told her she'd made her bed, literally”—a sad laugh escaped Cheral's lips—“she made her bed, and now she had to lie in it. But she was scared.”

I felt sick.

“I've thought about this, so many times. Whether there was something I could have done. Somebody I should have told. But I don't think even Sadie Rawson believed he would really harm her.”

I frowned in confusion. “You said he hit her. It sounds like he harmed her plenty.”

“He said he would kill her,” Cheral whispered. “Tank said he would kill her before he would lose her. And then she was dead.” Tears began to fall down Cheral's cheeks. “She was dead, and I knew he had kept his word.”

Nineteen

T
here is a ring road that circles Atlanta. It functions like the Beltway in Washington, separating the core of the city from its surrounding suburbs. In Atlanta, this road is called I-285. Locals refer to it as the Perimeter. I had learned this at the Hertz desk three days ago, when I picked up my rental car, and the agent instructed me to avoid the Perimeter like the plague at rush hour.

“Un-frigging-believable that a sixteen-lane highway can get backed up, but it does,” he'd advised. “Better to take Georgia 400. Otherwise you'll be stuck in mind-numbing traffic
forever
, wishing you could slit your wrists.”

I had made a mental note and kept away.

But as I drove away from Cheral Rooney's house, I noticed a sign marking an I-285 entrance ramp, and on a whim, I took it. Frankly, mind-numbing traffic sounded appealing. Mind-numbing anything, for that matter. I was desperate not to think about what I'd just heard. I steered down the ramp and into the stream of cars, which—sure enough—was barely crawling.

By the time I had completed a full circle around the Perimeter—two hours in the late-afternoon traffic—my mind began to clear. I decided I'd had enough. Enough with chasing phantoms. I could try to find this Tank, confront him, demand to know what had happened
that day back in 1979. But what good would it do? It wouldn't bring back Boone and Sadie Rawson. What had happened to them—what had happened to me—was unspeakable. It would be a long time before I got over the shock of seeing Sadie Rawson's face in that photograph. But you can feel only so much sorrow for a person whom you physically resemble, but can't actually remember. Enough. It was time to go home.

Dusk was falling. I had nearly finished another loop around the city. The car needed gas and I needed a drink.

Out of habit, I headed back to the St. Regis. I had handed in my room key this morning, to discover that Ethan Sinclare had picked up the tab for my entire stay. Three nights, plus (I cringed to think of him seeing this) the gargantuan bill for my room-service cheeseburger frenzy. He must have circled back and handed the manager his credit card after we'd finished breakfast together this morning. He had left a handwritten note at the front desk:

Caroline—

Such a pleasure to meet you. Hope you don't mind my doing this. Betsy and I would love to take you to dinner if you ever find yourself in Atlanta again. I like to think that somehow, Boone is watching over you, and that he knows his friends are looking after his baby girl.

Yours truly,

Ethan

What a nice man. No wonder Boone had liked him. And thanks to his thoughtfulness, this trip had now cost me a fraction of what I had budgeted. I could afford to stay put tonight, catch my breath, and fly back to Washington first thing tomorrow.

Soon I was stepping out of the Mazda and onto the stone driveway of the hotel. The elegant lobby was hushed, only a few people milling around, a piano tinkling somewhere out of sight. A familiar-looking
bellhop scurried over to take my suitcase. I was headed toward the front desk when I froze. Did a double take. Felt my heart skip.

Standing there, beside the elevators, was Will Zartman.

•   •   •

WE STARED AT
each other for a long moment.

Then Will held up a hand and waved.

I crossed the lobby to where he stood. “What are you
doing
here?”

“Hey, Caroline. Nice to see you, too.” He smiled, waited.

But I wasn't in the mood for routine pleasantries. “What are you doing here?” I demanded again.

“I was worried. You sounded awful on the phone.”

“Did I? Well, it's been a hell of a day. I didn't think—you didn't sound very interested when I called.”

“I was interested.” His voice was both determined and a little shy. “I was starting to think the only way to get you back to Washington was if I came down and dragged you back myself.”

“If you came down and dragged me back? And so—so you just went and jumped on a plane this afternoon?”

“You need to keep your appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, Caroline. Either that, or let me connect you with one down here.”

I stared at him, trying to take this in. “How did you find me?”

“You told me where you were staying. Remember? And I did try to reach you this afternoon, to tell you I was coming. As you would know if you ever, just once in a while, answered your phone.”

“But I checked out of the St. Regis this morning. How did you know I would come back here? I didn't decide myself until a few minutes ago.”

He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Where else would you go?”

“Well. This is—it's incredibly sweet of you. But don't you have, like, a job? Patients you're supposed to be seeing?”

“Look, if you want me to turn around and go home, just say the word.” Will sounded offended.

“It's not that, I just—”

“And actually, caring for patients
is
my job,” he continued huffily. “Although you'd be amazed how helpful it is when they do what I tell them. To take a wild example, when I've wrangled an appointment with one of the most respected surgeons in Washington, it's helpful when my patients bother to show up. As opposed to, say, embarrassing me, ignoring my medical advice, and carrying on in a way that is, frankly, reckless.”

I held up my hands. “Touché.”

“To answer your original question, I don't see patients on Fridays. It's my writing day. I don't see patients after lunch on Thursdays, either. But thanks for your concern about my practice.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.”

He stepped back, crossed his arms on his chest, and regarded me with an expression that was half-angry, half-sheepish. “Another thing I don't usually do is fly around the country chasing down disobedient patients. But you . . . you sounded like you were in trouble. I feel responsible.”

“Responsible? Why? What does all this—”

“I screwed up. I told you to slap on a wrist brace and you'd be fine. I should have taken your wrist pain more seriously, should have ordered an MRI months ago. I wouldn't blame you if you sued me for mal­practice. But I'm trying to put things right, so here I am.”

“So here you are.”

We stood facing each other awkwardly. Did he expect me to thank him? To reach out and shake his hand? Lean in for an embrace? This encounter was clearly beyond the remit of the typical doctor-patient relationship. But what otherwise
was
our relationship? Unspoken words hung in the air.

“Hungry?”

“God, yes,” I said, grateful to have the silence broken. And I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since Ethan Sinclare had bought me breakfast this morning. “I could do with a drink, too.”

He glanced around. “Where's the bar?”

“I'm not actually sure. There's a restaurant upstairs, but . . . you know, I don't think I've eaten anywhere besides this hotel in three days. I keep ordering room service. Would you mind if we went out?”

It didn't take long for the concierge to size us up. He recommended two places nearby; one was high-end sushi and the other, a steak house. He probably got a cut for every reservation he steered their way. When I insisted we didn't need fancy, that my primary concern was an icy pitcher of margaritas, he relented and directed us to a place called the Georgia Grille.

“Order the jalapeño poppers,” he said. “Trust me on this.”

Fifteen minutes later, it seemed that trusting him might have been a mistake.

The Georgia Grille was one of the least inviting restaurants I'd ever seen. Set in the back corner of a bland strip mall, it was squashed between a dry cleaner's and the parking lot. Neon letters spelled out the name across a grimy stucco wall. You couldn't see inside; there were no windows. No way to tell if the place was even open.

“This can't be right,” I said, checking the piece of paper where the concierge had scribbled the name. “What was he thinking? It looks awful.”

“It does,” agreed Will. “If it's as bad inside as out here, let's maybe try that steak house after all.”

He held open the door; we stood squinting on the threshold. Once our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, we decided to stay. The place was packed. An old wormwood bar slouched across one wall. The walls were painted tawny butterscotch, and candles glowed on every surface. The scents of roasted pork and fresh tortillas hung in the air. It was hard to imagine a starker contrast with the dingy exterior.

We slid onto two seats at the bar. I peeled off my jacket and looked around.

“Y'all look like you wouldn't say no to a couple of margaritas.” The bartender peered at us.

“You read my mind.”

“Y'all plannin' to eat, too? Want to look at a menu or just let me tell you what's good?” He salted the rims of two glasses. “Lobster enchilada's the best thing on the menu.”

“Sold,” said Will.

“I should clarify. It's the best thing on the menu unless it's a Thursday night. Which I believe you'll find it is. In which case, what you want is the cowboy shrimp special.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm not a big shrimp eater.”

“Fat, juicy babies grilled up on a bed of grits, with bacon and white beans and spinach—”

“I take it back. You had me at bacon.”

“Smart girl.”

“Oh, and the jalapeño—what was it we're supposed to ask for?” I looked at Will. “The fritters?”

“The poppers.” The bartender set down our drinks. “That went without saying.”

I was beginning to feel better. Funny how a large margarita and the prospect of a good meal can do that. I downed my drink in two long swallows and signaled for another.

Will raised his eyebrows. “I guess you needed that.”

“Like I said. It's been a hell of a day.”

“Just so long as you stay away from the rye. Not that I wouldn't enjoy having to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home.”

I pretended to scowl. Will was tall and broad-shouldered; he would have no trouble slinging me over his shoulder and carting me off. Tonight he looked annoyingly good. He wore a camel-colored cashmere sweater and boot-cut Levi's.

“May I ask you a personal question?” I asked.

“Uh, sure. Shoot.”

“Have you ever owned a pair of black, skinny jeans?”

“Skinny jeans? You mean like mall-rat teenage girls wear?”

I laughed. “I guess so.”

“Umm, no. I'm afraid that's a glaring omission from my wardrobe. Why?”

The tequila was hitting my bloodstream. I smiled at him. “No reason.”

He gave me a quizzical look, then cleared his throat. “Look, Caroline. At the risk of embarrassing myself, can I say something? I meant what I said before. If you want me to walk away tonight and never bother you again, I will. Okay? The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable, especially with everything else you're dealing with. And Lord knows my own life doesn't need any more complications. But I—I really like you. I do. I have for a while.” His eyes held mine. “I'd like to help you, if you'll let me.”

I felt something soften inside me.

“I'd like that, too. And I . . . I'm glad you flew down.” The words spilled out before I had time to think. I was surprised to realize they were true. My cheeks burned, and I busied myself tracing my finger around the rim of my glass and licking off the salt.

“You're blushing.”

“Am not.”

He swiped his hand across his mouth to hide a grin. “Fine. Change of subject then. Want to tell me about your day from hell?”

“Oh, it's been the longest day ever.” I sighed. “The phone started ringing before I even got out of bed. First this guy who used to play tennis with my dad. With Boone Smith, I mean. And then this cop called—”

“Hang on, hang on. Why were these people calling you? How do they even—”

“Because of the newspaper story.”

Will looked blank.

“The
Journal-Constitution
wrote a profile, about me coming back to Atlanta. It's on the front page today.”

“You're on the
front page
of today's paper? Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. I must have walked right past it at the airport.”

“Well, every single other person in Atlanta seemed to see it.” I described for Will how I'd met Beamer Beasley in the newsroom, and what he'd told me about the day of the murders. Eventually, I arrived at what Beasley had told me about the bullet itself.

Will went pale and touched my hand. “That must have been awful to hear.”

“Yes. I—I wanted to claw it out right there. I still do.” I shuddered.

“I don't blame you.”

We were both still. Then, suddenly, Will sucked in his breath. “Tell me again what exactly the cop wanted to know about the bullet? When he asked whether you could feel it in your neck?”

“That was pretty much it, I think.” My forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Beasley was walking me downstairs, and he asked whether the bullet hurt. Whether I'd ever explored getting it surgically removed.”

Will threw me a sharp look. “You see why he was asking that? It sounds like your case preyed on him, all these years. He never solved it. No wonder he wanted to meet with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He told you there was no physical evidence, right? Don't you think the police would have liked to get their hands on the bullets? Then they might have figured out what type of gun was used. Maybe they could even have identified the actual murder weapon; I'm not sure how these things work. But Beasley said the bullet that hit your father disappeared, right? And the other one was off-limits to police, because it was sewn up inside a hurt little girl. Inside you, Caroline. You're walking around with the evidence in your neck.”