by Chris Mooney
“He’s accepted a research position at the University of California in San Diego.”
“That’s why you’re upset?”
“He accepted the position without telling me.”
That wasn’t much of a surprise. He had never met the man personally, had only seen pictures of Ted Giroux, this big bear of a man with a full, thick beard and black-rimmed shop glasses, a chemical engineer who, according to Rose, spent the majority of his time either at work or holed up in his office in the basement. Based on the few stories Rose shared, Mike had the guy pegged as a cold fish.
“I told him I wasn’t leaving—that I couldn’t leave this house,” Rose said, and then cleared her throat. “You know what he told me? He said, ‘Do whatever you want, Rose, but I’m going.’ It’s his way of punishing me. Like keeping the dining table. Remember how I told you that I used to have Father Jonah over to my house for dinner?”
“I remember.”
“He’d sit at our dining room table next to Ashley and our other children and after he left, every time—every time Ted would tell me what an odd duck he thought Jonah was. I told Ted he was being foolish. Ted doesn’t go to church. ‘Hocus-pocus,’ he calls it. When he said those things about Father Jonah, I’d brush them off, and it infuriated Ted.”
Rose blew her nose. Mike pictured her in his mind’s eye sitting alone in the dark in some part of her house, wrapped up in a robe, a Kleenex balled in her plump fist.
“It was a different time back then,” she said. “It’s still a nice community, but back then, we knew all of our neighbors. Our kids grew up together. They hopped on their bikes and rode wherever they wanted. When you enrolled your child in the church’s after-school program, you didn’t worry about priests molesting children or the church covering it up. Even when the police told me they found Ashley’s shoes in Jonah’s office, when they told me about what he did in Seattle, I defended him, told Ted that there had to be some sort of rational explanation for this. You didn’t question priests. You didn’t question the church. And I had this man in my home. I confessed my sins to him. I trusted him.” Rose blew her nose again. “Ted never forgave me, you know.”
Rose had spoken at length of her daughter’s disappearance but had never talked about how it had affected her relationship with her husband. Mike always had the impression that they were a united front, bonded by their grief and love for their daughter, committed to finding a way to move forward together.
“And you know what, Michael? Ted’s right. He’s right. A mother’s supposed to protect her children. The signs were there and I chose to ignore them.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, then wished he could take it back. That was the stock response and besides, how many times had that line been used on him? How many times had he ignored those words, just flushed them away? Sarah walking up the Hill by herself—that was his fault. Apologize all you want but nothing would change that fact. Words couldn’t erase grief.
“I still own that damn dining-room table,” she said. “Ted refused to get rid of it. Ashley was gone less than a year and Ted went into her room and packed up all of her clothes and gave them away without telling me—told me that I had to move on. But the dining-room table? Oh no. We couldn’t get rid of that. It didn’t matter how much I hated looking at it, we just had to keep it because it belonged to his precious mother. I stopped eating there, but you think he cared? He wanted to punish me. For what happened to Ashley. For refusing to go with him to Cambridge when Harvard offered him a research position. There was no way in hell I was going to move, plus we had the kids to think of. I didn’t want to disrupt their lives any more than they had been. But Ted, he pushed for a fresh start. I finally told him if he took that position, I’d leave him.”
She sniffed away her tears and then said, “I deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this, Rose.”
“The doctor said these things happened.”
“How could you have known about Jonah’s past?”
“I mean the baby.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was a baby before Ashley. Ted and I thought the pregnancy was going along fine,” she said. The words came out sounding as if they were being torn from her chest. “The middle of the fourth month came along and we found out that the baby didn’t have a brain. The doctor gave us two choices and Ted … Ted convinced me what the right thing, the humane thing was to do. Made it sound all so scientific and practical. The doctor was very gentle and understanding, but it didn’t matter. In the eyes of God, I had committed murder. I knew that.”
Rose was cut from the same die-hard Catholic mold of his mother—Rose a product of Catholic school from a time when nuns would crack you across your knuckles with a ruler. You went to Mass every Sunday, you took an active interest in the religious education and formation of your children—you followed the rules and did what you were told, and you did not, under any circumstances and for any reason, participate or approve of the great evil known as abortion. Such matters were left to God.
Mike wanted to tell her what he felt to be true: that God didn’t care. That the only person looking out for yourself was you.
“Under Canon law, anyone who receives an abortion is automatically excommunicated,” Rose said. “I knew that, but I couldn’t live with, you know, the burden of it. I wanted the Act of Contrition, but I couldn’t confess it to Father Jonah. I was afraid he’d judge me. So I went three towns over and talked with Father Morgan.”
Rose cried harder. “He screamed at me,” she whispered through her tears. “Said that I had no right to make that decision, that I should have delivered the baby so the baby could have been baptized. Then he could have been properly buried and his soul sent to heaven, but I didn’t do that. I took the easy way out and damned his soul to hell.”
Navigating through these sorts of emotional landmines was Jess’s specialty. She never had to fumble over the right choice of words, was never dumbfounded or speechless the way he was right now.
“Father Jonah … he knew something was wrong. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I told him. And you know what, Michael? He was so gentle with me. So kind. That was what I remembered when all that stuff about him came out. To be so gentle and kind and then to turn around and do whatever he did to Ashley, I just—I don’t understand anymore, Michael. I just don’t understand.” Rose broke down, then pulled herself back a moment later. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no right to call and dump this all on you. I don’t know why I called, honestly.”
“It’s okay. Really. I just don’t know what to say. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing.”
“You’re listening. That’s more than Ted ever did.”
“Is there something I can do?”
“Talk to me about Sarah. All these times we’ve talked, you’ve never really told me what she was like … before.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Rose said. “I want to know everything.”
CHAPTER 33
It’s a totally legit question,” Bill said as he flipped over the hamburgers and hot dogs cooking on the gas grill set up on the driveway. It was a perfect spring evening, and everyone was outside, enjoying the pleasantly cool air filled with the shouts of a group of kids playing street hockey at the end of the street.
Mike bounced the yellow rubber lacrosse ball against the driveway to shake off the dog drool, and when the ball bounced back up, he grabbed it and chucked a grounder across Bill’s backyard, Fang barking as he tore after it.
“Okay then. I’d be Spider-Man.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“If I could pick one superhero to be, then yes, I’d be Spider-Man.”
“But Superman can fly.”
“So can Spider-Man. He’s got web-swinging action.”
Bill was shaking his head. “Swinging’s not flying, bro.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No way. Spider-M
an needs tall buildings, skyscrapers—you know, shit to attach his web to. Otherwise, he’s stuck on the ground. How could he swing—excuse me, how could he fly—over a cornfield?”
“And why would Spider-Man want to fly over a cornfield?”
“Suppose he was called in to investigate crop circles.”
“Crop circles,” Mike said. Fang, the ball wedged firmly in his mouth, stopped near the grill, inspecting it with a sniff, before lumbering back over to Mike.
“Aliens leave them. It’s part of their navigation system,” Bill said through the smoke. “Didn’t you see that movie Signs?”
“No. And by the way, what was with the argument with Patty about the grilling?”
“Because last time she did it, she snuck a tofu dog on the grill, thinking I wouldn’t taste the difference. Damn thing tasted like feet. Rent that movie Signs. Dude who did that, M. Night? Pure genius.”
Mike picked the ball back up and saw a silver BMW with tinted windows slide up to the front of Bill’s house.
“You didn’t tell me Bam was coming over.”
“Bam just leased a Lexus,” Bill said. “Hey, maybe it’s the Publishers Clearing House people. Watch for a camera—and balloons. Balloons are always a dead giveaway.”
“Those guys travel in vans.”
The driver’s side door opened and out sprang a young guy with platinum blond hair cut short and spiked with gel, his ungodly thin body dressed in, oh sweet Jesus, maroon pants with a black shirt. He pushed the black-rimmed sunglasses up his nose.
“Mr. Sullivan! It’s me, Anthony!”
Bill picked up his bottle of Sam Adams. “Well, at least I know why I haven’t seen you dating any chicks lately.”
“It’s Sam’s secretary.”
“Sam’s got a dude for a secretary? You go girl.”
Mike chucked the ball into the backyard and then walked down the driveway.
“We’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone all day,” Anthony said when Mike reached him.
“I forgot to recharge my cell phone last night. What’s up?”
“Okay, here it goes: your father has retained Mr. Weinstein as his lawyer.”
Mike’s felt the skin along his face stretch tight.
“Sam warned me you might have that reaction,” Anthony said. “I know you two had some sort of deal in place. I don’t know what went wrong. She told me to tell you she’d call you later.”
“Sam in her office?”
“She’s stuck in a meeting until eight. She’ll call, I promise.” Anthony reached in through the opened window, yanked a white envelope off the dash and handed it to Mike. The envelope was sealed. “This is something Mr. Weinstein wanted hand-delivered to you. The couriers we use don’t come out this far, so yours truly offered his services.”
“Thanks,” Mike said. “I owe you a beer.”
“It’s a date,” Anthony said and winked. He got back in his car, his hand out the window and waving goodbye as he sped off.
Using his thumb, Mike ripped open the envelope. Inside were a house key and a folded piece of paper. He took out the paper, unfolded it and in the fading evening light read Lou’s trademark scrawl written on the law firm’s stationery.
Michael,
I was denied bail. They got me holed up in Cambridge until my trial. I’m meeting with my lawyer at 10 tomorrow. He’s looking for $50,000 as a retainer. Money’s in a floor safe. Peel back the carpet in your old bedroom closet and you’ll find it. Combo’s 34-26-34. Take out the money and leave the rest.
You said you wanted to trade. At the bottom of the safe you’ll find some items that belonged to your mother. Drop off the payment tomorrow and I’ll answer any questions you want. I can have visitors.
I had nothing to do with burning that man.
Mike folded the paper back up and walked up the driveway. He felt dizzy.
Bill pointed to the letter with his barbecue tongs and said, “That a love note from your fancy gentleman caller?”
Mike held the paper out. Bill grabbed it by a corner with his barbecue tongs and snapped it open.
“I sure hope your old man likes hot climates,” Bill said and placed the letter on the grill. Mike watched the paper burst into flames, wishing he could do the same with all the questions inside his head, just put them one by one on the funeral pyre and walk away.
CHAPTER 34
The cell phone pressed against his ear,Mike leaned back in the front seat of his truck and said, “You said Weinstein wouldn’t take the case unless he got the go-ahead from you.”
“Your father left a message with Miranda—”
“Who?”
“Miranda is Martin’s secretary,” Sam said. “Your father left a message with her saying that if Martin took the case, he’d be looking at a twenty-five thousand cash bonus. If Martin got your father off, then he was looking at a bonus of a hundred grand. The operative word here is cash. You understand what I’m driving at?”
He did. In addition to whatever percentage the firm would give Martin Weinstein for taking on the case, he was looking at a potential $125,000 bonus—all of it tax free since Lou agreed to pay him in cash. No records, no way for the IRS to come knocking.
“And let me guess,” Mike said. “Martin won’t be sharing any of that bonus money with the firm, will he?”
“Martin will throw some money Miranda’s way to keep her quiet, and she will. She’s been with him for a long time. Wherever Martin goes, Miranda goes. He pays her well for her loyalty.”
“So far she’s not doing a very good job at keeping quiet.”
“Miranda didn’t tell me any of this. Martin did.”
“Martin care where this money came from?”
“No. He needs it. He’s got his eye on a new Bentley.”
“Sounds like a hell of a guy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me your father had that kind of money on hand?”
“I had no idea.” Lou was never a flashy guy. Sure he wore suits, but he didn’t dump money into fancy cars or big vacations. His house in Belham was a one-floor ranch, and there was a time, during those first few years back from Vietnam, when money was tight.
Sam said, “When you and I first talked about this, I said that if you used Martin’s name as bait—and you clearly did—then there was a possibility that your father would pick up the phone and call Martin directly.”
“Which is why I thought we had a deal in place.”
“You didn’t tell me your father was going to throw around wads of cash. If I had known that, I would have tried another tactic.”
Mike wasn’t pissed at Sam; he was pissed at himself. He had been so consumed with the idea of having Lou cornered that he hadn’t thought about the money. Sure, Mike knew about the armored car jobs, about the load that had totaled close to two million. His error had been in assuming—incorrectly—that Lou had blown through the money. Mike hadn’t figured Lou to be a guy who would have a lot of dough socked away somewhere.
And don’t forget all that time Lou spent in Florida. What, you think he didn’t do any jobs while he was down there?
Sam said, “Why is this bothering you so much? I thought you wrote him off.”
“It doesn’t matter now. How much I owe you for all of this?”
“No charge.”
“Let me take you out to dinner then. I’ll come into town and we’ll go someplace nice.”
“Nice could be dangerous to your wallet.”
“What are we talking about here? Salads that cost fifty bucks a plate?”
“Oh no. Much, much higher than that.”
“And I suppose I’m going to have to dress up.”
“You bet your ass.”
“Pick a time and place. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Mike hung up and looked out the window at Lou’s house—and make no mistake about it, it had always been Lou’s house,mother and son nothing more than extended guests. The last time Mike was here, he was just shy of eighteen. Aft
er Lou had left for work, Mike packed up his stuff—what he owned fit into two boxes—and drove over to his room at the O’Malley house, the room vacated by Chuck and Jim O’Malley, the two of them enlisting in the army at the same time.
That was two decades ago and now the old neighborhood had undergone a conversion. The ranch homes had been leveled and replaced with nicely sized Colonials, a few of them with two-car garages. Two decades and during that time Lou hadn’t spruced his place up, made it look a little cheery instead of like a brooding hideaway for a serial killer.
Mike sat in his truck, staring at his old home and thinking about Lou’s note. Lou was giving him a one shot deal. If Mike didn’t show up with the cash tomorrow morning, it was over. Lou would gladly take all of his secrets with him to the grave. Like Jonah.
No good can come of this. You know that.
It was that rational, sensible voice that had kept him out of a good deal of trouble most of his early life. Sensible and rational. Just like his mother.
Mike stepped outside, shut the door, and walked up the sloping lawn to the front door, fishing the key out of his jeans pocket. He unlocked the door and stepped inside the living room, his right hand sliding up the wall on his right for the light switch.
The living room still had the same low-pile tan carpeting, the walls still painted white, not a mark on them. No pictures, no framed prints. Beyond the living room was a small kitchen—same white linoleum floor, clean and polished, spotless as always, the green counters, sink and kitchen table absent of any clutter. The air lingered with traces of ammonia and bleach—harsh, antiseptic smells that went right along with the cold furniture: hard, functional pieces that could have been plucked from a hospital room, places where you were forced to ponder your bruises and scars.
Mike shut the door behind him. Six steps and he had walked through the living room and part of the kitchen. He flipped another wall switch and moved down the narrow hallway, about to head to his old bedroom when he passed by Lou’s opened bedroom door and caught a glimpse of what looked like picture frames displayed on top of a bureau.