by David Bell
“You know what I want, right?” Kimberly asked. She saw the bruise on the woman’s arm, remembered Brooke mentioning a fall.
“She’s not here,” Valerie said.
“I figured that. Has she been by at all?”
Valerie started fumbling with the covers.
Kimberly craned her head. “Are you looking for the remote?” she asked.
“I want that off.”
Kimberly went around to the other side of the bed and found the remote. She clicked the TV off. “Better?”
But Valerie had let her eyes close, and Kimberly feared she’d fallen asleep. There was only so far she wanted to push a cancer patient, but then Valerie’s eyes popped open a moment later, and she fixed her gaze on Kimberly.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Morgan. Has she been here?”
“I’m tired. I’m dying.”
“Do you know where she is?” Kimberly asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Where might she go? Does she have friends or family anywhere else?”
“I’m her family,” Valerie said.
“That must mean she came to see you. Or told you where she was going.”
Valerie started fumbling around again. She reached for the bedside table, where Kimberly spotted a call button on a cord that she knew could be used to summon the nurse. Valerie couldn’t quite get ahold of it, so Kimberly picked it up, holding it just out of reach.
“What did Joshua Fields want?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Your visitor yesterday.”
“I don’t know who that is,” she said, irritated. “Give me that.”
Kimberly handed it over. She didn’t want to be accused of tormenting a dying woman.
But Valerie held the device without calling the nurse. She kept it in her hand, running her thumb over the button without pressing.
“Do you want to tell me something, Valerie?” Kimberly asked. “I came all the way from Laurel Falls.”
“I left Kentucky behind. Wyckoff. All of it.”
“Can you tell me anything about your gun? You know, the one you use to threaten men? Where is it now?”
Valerie closed her eyes. She looked like she’d been hit by a wave of pain. But it seemed to pass quickly, and she opened her eyes again, wider than ever. She pursed her lips with disdain.
“You cops always think you know everything, don’t you?”
“I’ll be the first to admit how little I know,” Kimberly said.
“I’m ready for my lunch now. They come in and spoon broth or gruel into my mouth every day, whether I want it or not.”
“If you care about Morgan, if you want to protect her, then you should tell me where she is. If we can get to her, it will make things go better.”
Valerie’s eyelids closed a little. “Promises, promises. I’ve heard it all.”
“Okay,” Kimberly said. “I’ll leave you alone.” She took a step away from the bed. “That seems like what you want anyway.”
“It is.” Valerie raised the call button, preparing to push.
But she didn’t.
“If I see Morgan,” Kimberly said, as she backed up to the door, “I’ll tell her you said hi. Of course, I’ll be arresting her at the same time.”
Her hand rested on the door handle, but Valerie still hadn’t pushed the call button.
“You sure you want me to go?” Kimberly asked.
Valerie stared at her, her face displaying a trace of desperation. Kimberly couldn’t be certain, but it looked like she shook her head no.
“Okay,” Valerie said. “Stay. If you really want to know what happened . . .”
73
TWO WEEKS LATER
I went through my usual routine in the Atlanta airport.
But everything seemed different. I’d probably never again be able to visit the Atlanta airport without thinking of Morgan, without reliving our first encounter.
I felt a greater sense of anxiety as I went through the security line, fumbling with my belt, almost falling over as I took off my shoes. My hands trembled ever so slightly as I gathered my belongings from the plastic bin once I reached the other side, where a single airport cop stood, watching me, watching everything, his thumbs hooked into the thick gun belt he wore around his waist.
Cops. I knew they’d be everywhere.
When my shoes were tied, I went to the gift shop closest to my gate. I did everything I normally did. I purchased a pack of gum, grabbed another paperback. This one promised twists and turns galore as an alcoholic ex-cop helped his former army buddy find his missing daughter. The army buddy was an alcoholic too. I felt their pain. I needed something to calm my nerves as well.
I went into the bathroom and used the facilities, then washed my hands. I reached into my pocket and took out the Xanax. I needed it then. More than ever. I stared at the little orange pill resting in the palm of my hand. People came and went around me. I probably looked like a junkie, wrestling with some inner demon over whether to pop that pill.
I decided I wouldn’t take it.
Not because I didn’t want it, but because I needed to be sharp. When I’d boarded any one of the thousands of flights I’d taken in the course of working for my dad, I hadn’t worried about being clear. I didn’t need to be. The work became routine. I felt like I could do it in my sleep. A little Xanax haze made no difference.
But a lot was at stake that day.
I wanted to remember everything that was about to happen.
I went into the concourse, looking both ways when I emerged from the bathroom, scanning the faces around me, searching for any that might be familiar. I saw the usual blur of anonymity, people rushing here and there, none of them making eye contact, none of them noticing me.
I crossed the stream of people and entered a bar called BrewFlyers. It was the first time I’d been back in that airport since I’d met Morgan three weeks earlier. I walked around to the back, to the far side of the bar away from the concourse. It wasn’t as nice as the Keg ’n Craft, not even close, but it would have to do. Five bleary-eyed travelers were scattered around the place, most of them sipping coffee and eating breakfast. One man, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants, drank a large beer while he tapped away on an iPad. Wherever he was heading, he felt no need to remain sharp.
I hopped onto a barstool, dropping my carry-on to the floor next to me and looking up at the inane morning show playing on the TV. The volume was off, but the closed captions told me all I needed to know. Two talking heads were discussing disciplining children and whether spanking caused permanent psychological damage.
I thought of my dad. He’d never laid a hand on me. He’d never done anything but support me. And yet I’d recently told him I didn’t want to work for his company anymore. That he’d be on his own going forward. I’d been trying very hard to suppress my guilt, to remind myself that it was my life to do with as I wanted.
I told myself he’d be fine. He’d adjust. He’d hire someone else.
But I didn’t quite feel better yet. . . .
And I wondered when—or if—I’d see him again, depending on how my time in the airport went.
The TV program shifted to a commercial, an advertisement for a Caribbean vacation. Just as I found myself getting sucked in by the images of palm trees and blue-green water, someone slid onto the stool next to mine.
I waited a moment before I looked, even though the anticipation flooded my bloodstream like boiling oil.
When a sufficient number of seconds had ticked away, I turned my head.
She’d cut her hair a few inches shorter and dyed it a different color. A dark, subtle shade of red. Again she wore dark glasses, but not the same ones she wore in the Keg ’n Craft. These were bigger, rounder, seemed to cover half of her
face. She wore a knit cap that hugged her skull, and she carried just one bag, which she plopped on the floor next to mine.
Our hands rested next to each other on the bar top. My left and her right. The polish on her nails was chipped. I wanted to slide my hand over, place it on hers, and squeeze. But I didn’t. I couldn’t be that demonstrative, could I? Not yet.
The bartender approached us from across the way and asked us what we wanted.
I ordered a bourbon on the rocks, then turned to my left to watch her.
She kept the sunglasses on but ordered in the same voice I remembered from that first day.
“Bloody Mary,” Morgan said.
And it was all under way.
74
We didn’t say anything to each other as we waited for the drinks.
My heart thrummed along at what felt like twice its normal rate, fluttering like a trapped bird inside my rib cage, the adrenaline pumping through every cell in my body, lighting each up with a vibrant, surging energy.
I needed the alcohol to help me mellow out, and when the bartender set our drinks in front of us, I reached for mine right away, like a child grabbing at candy. Once the first couple of sips were down, a measure of calmness worked through me, tamping down the heat of the adrenaline. From the corner of my eye, I saw Morgan take long pulls through her straw, the red liquid of the Bloody Mary drawing up into her mouth like a transfusion.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I said as I turned to face her. “About Valerie.”
“Thank you.”
“I saw the obituary online,” I said. “But I guess you know that.”
“I know. Or you wouldn’t be here. It’s been exactly a week. . . .”
“That was the plan,” I said. My mind raced along, full of a swirl of questions. “There are so many things I’ve wanted to ask you, so many things I’ve been trying to piece together. Questions you wouldn’t answer that day—”
“Like what?”
“Like the name. You started using her last name. That’s why you didn’t show up on the passenger list the first time we met.”
“You guessed. Or someone told you. The police, I’d imagine.” She nodded. “You really want me to explain this stuff? Now?”
“I do.”
“Okay, I’ll try. I started the process to change my name right before I moved back to Nashville. But it takes a few months at least. So I kept using Reynolds until it became official, which was about a month before I met you. I’d always felt something special for Valerie, so I went with it. New life, new name. My own mom left something to be desired. And she was gone. . . . And, yes, it came in handy when I needed to travel under the radar. I used my new name on the plane. I’m using it now.”
“But you told me Reynolds in the airport that first day. Why?”
“I didn’t want you to find me. I really meant to never see you again. It was all too complicated. And I was right—it was. But you looked and found me anyway. I hadn’t changed my name on Facebook yet, so the trail was right there for you.”
I swallowed more of my bourbon, the ice rattling in the glass. “Did you get to see her? I mean, before she died?”
Morgan nodded. “I got in there a couple of times. Once just a few days before she died. There was one clerk, a woman who worked a lot of nights. I told you this, didn’t I? I knew when she slipped out to smoke. She drank a lot of coffee and went to the bathroom over and over. When I got in that last time . . . Valerie . . . Mom . . . wasn’t doing well. I don’t even think she knew I was there. But I saw her. I squeezed her hand. I kissed her cheek. If she was still with it at all, then she knew.”
I told her what I thought she wanted to hear. After all, I didn’t know the answers to those questions better than anyone else. “I’m sure she knew you were there.”
Morgan held my gaze for a second, then turned away, taking another long sip of her drink and staring at the bar top. She stayed that way for a moment before she reached up, swiping her index finger under the edge of her sunglasses.
“I guess you couldn’t go to the funeral,” I said.
She shook her head. “She really didn’t have one. Just a small memorial. But I stayed away. I figured that’s where the police would expect me to be, that’s where they’d look for me. . . . Anyway, I’d already said good-bye.”
“Sure, sure. That makes sense.”
Then she seemed to get it together. She sniffled a couple times before taking another drink. “I went back to Wyckoff. I obviously had to leave in a hurry that night we were at Fantasy Farm.”
Involuntarily I reached up and touched the back of my head, letting my fingers run over the spot where she’d hit me with the bottle. It was fully healed, didn’t even hurt anymore. Morgan offered no comment about my injury or the fact that she was the one who’d inflicted it. So I asked.
“Why did you bring me out there to Fantasy Farm and then whack me with the bottle? What good did that do?”
“You have a lot of questions, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. And time is short, so could you answer them?”
“I know time is short,” she said. “Our flight for LA boards in forty minutes. We’ll be on the plane for four hours.”
“I’d like to talk about some things now.”
She sighed. “Okay. I got scared. I panicked when Simon showed up,” she said. “I brought you there because . . . you’d been telling me to come clean, and I wanted to. I wanted to leave the ring there, with the body, and make a phone call to the police. They could find everything there and give it back to Simon. Then it would be over. And I could leave when Valerie died. But I was too scared to do it alone. I got panicky. When I went into that barn and came close to that body . . . it all hit me. Everything that had happened, how big it all was. I thought having you there would help. That you’d understand and support me. And someone else could go through it with me. No one else knew what I was going through except Valerie. But Simon blew the whole thing when he arrived. I freaked out. I couldn’t deal with you and everything else.”
“You could have just told me.”
“I’m sorry. I am.”
“Okay. What have you been doing?” I asked.
“I went back to Wyckoff last week,” she said. “I visited my mom’s grave. My biological mom. I hadn’t seen it in a little while, and I figured I’m not going back there for a long, long time. Likely not ever. So I wanted to take one last look. I wanted to remember.”
“That was probably a good idea.”
“We can talk about all of this later,” Morgan said. “Once we’re on the plane and once we’re away.”
“Sure we can,” I said. “But there’s something you need to know.” I hesitated, wondering what her response would be. “Did you hear the latest about the case? About Giles?”
“No, obviously I’ve been lying low.”
I left my drink in front of me on the bar and swiveled on my stool so that I faced Morgan. She kept the sunglasses on, and I didn’t bother to ask her to take them off.
“Several women who worked for Giles over the years reported feeling threatened by him. Several. They had disputes with him, problems at work over pay or bonuses or promotions, and he became physically aggressive toward them.”
“I heard some rumors like that when I worked there, but none of it seemed conclusive.”
“How about Megan Bright? Do you remember her?”
“I remember her. Barely. But, yeah, I remember her.”
“She went on record and told the police that Giles grabbed her by the arm when they had a dispute at work. She feared for her safety—she thought he might hit her. And she eventually quit her job at the company and moved away. She didn’t want to be around him, didn’t want to deal with him. And, apparently, the company just overlooked these things or made them go away. No one really knew.”
<
br /> Morgan’s lower lip dropped. She nodded a couple of times but didn’t say anything.
“You see where I’m going with this?” I asked. “These women have said they felt threatened by Giles. In danger. So maybe you felt threatened by Giles. Maybe that’s why everything that happened in his house that night happened. Maybe it was all an act of self-defense. Is that it? Is that what went down that night?”
“That’s what you’re hoping, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I’m kind of hoping for the truth more than anything else,” I said.
She reached over and put her hand on mine and gave it a squeeze.
“That’s not exactly what happened, Joshua,” she said. She paused, considering her words carefully. “That’s not what happened at all.”
And then my phone rang. Insistently.
I knew who it was.
75
The phone rang and rang.
Kimberly muttered under her breath. . . .
“Come on. Come on. Answer.”
“Nothing?” Brandon asked.
Kimberly looked around at the uniformed airport cops, at Brandon. They were all looking to her, seeking her guidance and leadership.
Her wisdom, if she had any.
She ended the call when it went to voice mail and then immediately hit REDIAL.
The phone started its endless, annoying ringing again.
Kimberly replayed everything with Joshua Fields. . . .
They trusted him. They made a deal with him. He was supposed to be at the Keg ’n Craft in Concourse B. He was supposed to call and let them know once he met her.
But he hadn’t called. . . .
And now no answer . . . Was he backing out?
Would they be able to find him in the giant Atlanta airport?
The phone kept ringing.
“Come on,” she said. “Come on.”
76
The phone stopped ringing. Then it started again. It insisted on being answered.
“I have to take this,” I said.