The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  “Sorry, I almost forgot,” he added. “If you do remember anything or hear from Mr. Lowry or the tenant, please give me a ring.” He pulled his notebook out again and, after jotting something down, tore out the page and handed it to her.

  After he was gone, Nicole remained sitting up in bed, studying the sheet of paper he’d given her. The name, “Reinhardt,” was written in a loose, masculine scrawl. Beneath it was a phone number.

  Replaying their conversation, she remembered things she hadn’t consciously noticed at the time —the heady musk of his aftershave, the dimple in his chin, a scar over his right eye that made that eyebrow slightly irregular.

  He had a nice smile, and there had been moments when she’d felt drawn to him. But there were other points in the conversation when his expression had turned grim and he had all the warmth of a hired killer.

  She still rankled at the things he’d said about Alice, hinting that she wasn’t who she said she was, that she had, in fact, lied about everything.

  Nicole remembered that Alice was from Northern Ireland, a place called Ballycastle. She strained to recall what else Alice had said. The strife of the IRA, the Protestants, and the British government must have been part of her life when she was growing up. Nicole wondered which side her family had been on and how she felt about the use of violence. These were things they hadn’t discussed.

  Not that it made any difference. The trouble in Northern Ireland was history. Of course, there were occasional incidents. If Reinhardt had evidence that Alice was connected with terrorists, he hadn’t mentioned it. Besides, no matter what he thought, Nicole was sure Alice would never engage in a wanton act of violence like booby-trapping a car.

  She thought again of the moment Reinhardt had said goodbye, the way he’d lingered over their parting handshake, holding onto her hand until she’d withdrawn it. She found herself wondering if he’d actually come for some other reason than to ask about Lowry. Maybe he wanted to let her know the police were watching out for her. But that didn’t make sense. If she were actually at risk, he would have said so; he’d have a moral obligation to warn her. Yet both Reinhardt and Keaton denied she was in any danger at all.

  She thought about Reinhardt again—her initial alarm at seeing him here and the ID he’d been so quick to produce. She wondered about his credentials. Surely such things could be forged.

  Thinking about it made her head hurt. The terrible feeling of numbness rendered all questions irrelevant. What did it matter if he was a policeman? What did anything matter?

  She grabbed the extra blanket and, getting into bed, pulled it up to her chin. After a while, when her teeth stopped chattering and her feet no longer felt like ice, she drifted off to sleep.

  Eleven

  Since Nicole’s cell phone was dead, Brad’s call came through the nurses’ station. He had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of static. “I’m calling from the Paddington Green Police Station,” he said. “You know, that’s where they toss us terrorists.”

  “Are you all right?” As she said this, she realized how silly the question was. Of course he was all right, or he wouldn’t be at the other end of the line, making lame jokes. She was also aware of the nurse leafing through papers on the other side of the counter. Although members of the staff had been scrupulously polite in avoiding the subject, Nicole could tell they knew about the bombing. She also suspected they knew the police had taken Brad away.

  “Don’t ask,” he was saying. “The good news is they’ve given me my walking papers.” A loud blast of static cut in, and it was a good fifteen seconds before his voice cut in again. “… contacted every agency in the civilized world trying to get more dirt on me. Some asshole at the office told them about my criminal past.”

  “I know,” she said. “Keaton told me.”

  “She did?” He was quiet, then: “Listen, Nick, that business about me and Brenda. It’s a complete crock.”

  “We’ll discuss it later. Okay?”

  “Right. Sorry,” he said. “Stupid of me to bring it up on the phone. Twenty-four hours in this hole, and you lose all sense of privacy. Look, I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m being released,” she said. “I’ve asked them to call me a cab.”

  “No, no,” he said. “You stay put. I’ll get a cab here and swing by for you.” As he went on, his voice gained enthusiasm. “So —you’re well enough to come home. That’s great! I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you.”

  Without responding, she set the phone in its cradle. “Don’t bother about the cab,” she told the nurse. “Someone is picking me up.”

  Back in her room, the bed had been stripped, the sheets and blankets cleared away. She lay down on the bare mattress, glad of the chance to rest before making the trip back to Chiswick. She wondered if the house was even habitable. Had the explosion blown the front door off? Still, they’d have to go back to the house, at least to get their things.

  The numbness she’d felt since the blast made it hard to think. Worse yet, the flashbacks had become more vivid. For the hundredth time, she heard the deafening blast, felt the heat and fury of the flames. With it came the odor of the explosion — the chemical reek of the burning car, the rank, sweet smell of roasting flesh.

  She kept thinking of Mr. McGiever, that poor old man. She wondered if he had family. He seemed to live alone, and she had the impression he was a widower. She was sorry now that she’d never thought to ask if he had any family. If he did, what must they be going through?

  She thought of the men who’d planted the car bomb. What kind of people would leave loaded explosives in a well-populated area like Chiswick? What had been their intent —to kill someone or simply frighten her husband (whoever they thought he was) into giving them what they wanted?

  Not that their intent mattered. They’d killed Mr. McGiever, and it was unthinkable to let them get away with it. Despite Keaton’s reassurances, she wasn’t convinced that the police were treating them as serious suspects. But maybe this was something she could do for McGiever —make sure the right people were brought to justice.

  Then, Brad was standing over her, his hair wet and slicked back. He reeked of unfamiliar aftershave, a pungent mix of musk and spice. His suit — the same summer-weight tweed he’d been wearing when Keaton took him away — was even more rumpled. But his shirt looked fresh and crisply ironed. She took all this in without asking how he’d managed to shower and shave or where he’d found a clean shirt. Had he come directly from the police station or had he stopped somewhere on the way? These questions took shape and slowly fluttered away, but she lacked the energy to pursue them.

  As he leaned forward to kiss her, she pulled away, swung her legs to the other side of the bed, and stood up.

  “Look,” he said. “I hope you don’t believe any of that crap Keaton fed you. I mean, even she ended up admitting it was a pack of lies. Man, when I find out who was spreading that …”

  “Whatever you say.” She busied herself gathering up her things.

  “Hey, you don’t believe me.” His tone was wounded, calculated to make her feel guilty.

  Instead of answering, she went to the mirror and began to apply her last touches of makeup while silence hovered between them like a malevolent spirit. When she was done with her lipstick, she turned and met his gaze. “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Fine.” His voice had a funny catch in it. “Let’s get out of here. We can’t go back to that house. I think we should move to a hotel.”

  She could see through his thinking. The hotel. Then, as soon as she felt better, he’d put her on the next plane home. “No,” she said. “All my things are at the house, and I’m just too wiped. I can’t move anywhere today. If the front door needs fixing, you can get someone to do it. Because that’s where I’m staying.”

  “Nick …”

  “It’s settled,” she said.

  On the ride, he kept sneaking looks at her, chewing the inside o
f his cheek. Nicole rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes, hoping to discourage any attempts at conversation. She told herself that she was too numb to feel anything; a sick sensation in her stomach gave evidence to the contrary. In addition to the caustic mix of outrage and hurt, she also felt a deep ache of loneliness, the sense of having no one to turn to, no one who cared.

  As the cab turned into the crush of traffic on High Street, Chiswick’s main business drag, Brad reached forward to close the partition between them and the driver. “I just want you to understand,” he said, “there’s absolutely nothing between me and Brenda.”

  “Look, Keaton didn’t have to tell me,” she said. “I already knew you took Brenda to Liverpool.”

  His shoulders sank, as if the air had gone out of him. “Listen, Nick — it isn’t like you think. I’m sorry I didn’t let on about her going to Liverpool, but there was no way you could come, and I was afraid you’d get all weird about it. It was wrong to lie, but that doesn’t mean I...”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course it matters.”

  She stared out the window a while before she answered. “I can’t stop thinking about Mr. McGiever,” she said quietly. “I can’t get him out of my head. He was starting the car for me. Did you know that?” She turned to look at him. “If he’d showed up a minute or so later, it would have been me sitting in the car. And now it’s like — this business between you and Brenda? — it just doesn’t seem very important.”

  “I swear, Nick …”

  “Please.” She turned to stare out the window again. “Don’t.”

  “She’s nothing to me.” He glanced at the driver on the other side of the partition and lowered his voice. “I love you. You know that.”

  Traffic had come to a halt while an ambulance, its siren wailing, tore past them along the center of the road.

  Brad put his hand under her chin and turned her face until she had to look at him. “Give me another chance. I’ll make it up to you.”

  To her surprise, a tear welled up and spilled down her cheek. “It’s not just this business about Brenda,” she said, “or that you lied about Liverpool. Remember the two men I told you about— the ones you refuse to believe blew up the Lowrys’ car? When they first threatened me, I thought it was a case of mistaken identity or that they might be after Lowry. But now I’m wondering if you really do know them, and they’re after you because of some shady deal you’re involved in.”

  “Here we go again,” Brad said. “That’s totally…”

  She studied him. His distress looked genuine. It was possible he was telling the truth, but she was convinced he was lying.

  She wondered if they’d reached the point in their relationship she’d observed in several couples while their marriages were coming apart: It was that moment when all communication broke down because neither believed anything the other said. It marked the end of all trust and respect, the end of the marriage.

  The cab had just entered a vast park with broad, curving roads. They continued on for a while before Brad broke the silence. “There’s something I don’t get,” he said. “If you’re so worried about those men following you, why won’t you go back to L.A.? I mean, you’ll have to be alone all day while I’m at work, and sometimes I’ve got to be out of town. I wish I could stay with you, Nick, I really do. But I can’t.”

  As she listened, she wondered how he could say such things without an inkling of how insincere it sounded.

  “I haven’t made up my mind about what I’m going to do,” she said. “But just suppose I did go back to L.A.? If those men would blow up an innocent bystander with a car bomb, they’re capable of getting on a plane and flying to California. They’re capable of anything.”

  “Did you tell Keaton your theory about who blew up the car?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “She doesn’t think it was those guys either, does she?”

  “I don’t care what she thinks.”

  The cab pulled up in front of the house, and they both sat forward to stare. The Lowrys’ car was gone. On the spot where it had been, parked midway between the Lowrys’ house and Mr. McGiever’s, the pavement was marked with a sooty Rorschach splotch. The Lowrys’ rosebushes had been reduced to charred sticks, but McGiever’s property had taken the real force of the blast. Chunks of burnt debris were scattered everywhere, and scorched earth replaced the old man’s carefully tended lawn and flowerbeds. The hedge that had once separated the two yards was a blackened skeleton.

  Brad paid the driver then helped Nicole out of the cab. Walking through the front gate, they both stopped, mesmerized by the war zone that had once been the two front yards. Then Brad took her arm, and she noticed he was shaking almost as much as she was.

  The Lowrys’ front door was blackened from the explosion, but it was closed and turned out to be locked. Inside, the house was filled with the lingering stench of scorched metal and chemicals. Brad opened some windows then followed her upstairs. His things were still heaped in the pile where she’d thrown them before leaving for the hotel.

  “Christ,” he said. “We’ve been burglarized.”

  “No,” Nicole said quietly. “It was me.”

  Brad stared at her in consternation. “My God, Nick! What on earth?”

  “The afternoon you left for Liverpool,” she said. “I was looking for Brenda’s number.”

  He stared at her a moment longer. Then, without a word, he began picking up the mess. Nicole changed from her street clothes into a nightgown and got into bed.

  It seemed as if she’d only closed her eyes for a moment when she heard him say, “Wake up, sleepyhead. Careful— I’m putting this on your lap.”

  She sat up as he placed an old-fashioned white wicker breakfast tray in front of her. Besides the mug of coffee, it held a newspaper, a vase with daisies from the back garden, and a shrunken looking grilled sandwich on a large white china dinner plate. The sandwich had been quartered, the crusts trimmed, but all other exposed surfaces were charred. It had a squished appearance, as if he’d used a very dull knife.

  She took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. It wasn’t coffee at all but tea — black and thick and bitter.

  She put down the cup and glanced over at Brad, who was sitting backwards on the chair at the desk. He was gazing into space, absorbed in his own thoughts. Her glance seemed to rouse him, for he immediately got up and moved the phone from the desk to the bedside table. “Well, I’d better shove off and face the music downtown,” he said. “There’s a nice obit for McGiever in this morning’s paper. I put it on your tray. Look, you’re not planning to go anywhere, are you? I mean, just promise you won’t. Okay?”

  “I’ll be right here,” she said. “All day.”

  “If you get it in your head to take a walk or something, pick up your phone and let me know. Because if I call the house and don’t get an answer…” He let his voice trail off, then added, “Damn it, Nicole, you don’t understand what I’m going through. This car-bombing thing absolutely scared the shit out of me. I guess it made me realize just how precious you are to me. There’s just one reason I want you to go home: I know you’ll be safe there. And I don’t have any nefarious motive …”

  “What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” Her voice was almost a shout. “You lied about taking Brenda to Liverpool. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  He put his hands up, as if to ward off a blow. “It’s over.” His voice was barely audible. “I’ll tell her.”

  For a moment, her mind refused to take this in. Then understanding came, striking her with the force of fresh betrayal. Despite all evidence to the contrary — some part of her had hoped that she was wrong.

  “I’ll tell Brenda we’re through,” he said. Then he added in a small, cracked voice, “I’ll make it up to you, Nick. You’ll see.”

  She ignored this, grabbing the newspaper and rifling through until the pages fairly rattled with anger. Meanwhile, Brad hovered
in the doorway. She could feel him staring, as if he had more to say.

  She refused to look at him. By the time she found the article about the old man—among the obituaries on page twenty-six—Brad had clumped down the stairs and slammed the front door.

  Bomb Blast Victim Respected Civil Servant

  The victim of yesterday’s bomb blast in Chiswick, Edgar McGiever, 67, was a retired manager of the maintenance department of the Greater London Council’s Board of Public Works.

  McGiever, a veteran of the British Army, had been a widower for several years. He is survived by two sons and six grandchildren. He was an active member of St. Bethany’s Church and leader of their choir. He was also a luminary in the Chiswick Thespians, a local amateur theatrical group that performs children’s plays to benefit a hospital for children with AIDS and cancer.

  “He was a quiet man, except when he appeared in one of our little theatricals,” said the Rev. Wilford Roland, vicar of St. Bethany’s. “He was a true good Samaritan…”

  Nicole closed her eyes and, once more, the flames rose up, engulfing the car. She could feel its ferocious heat, hear its roar. She wondered if there had been much pain, or if the blast had snuffed him out instantly.

  At that moment, the sound of knocking at the front door made her jump. She pushed the tray away, scrambled out of bed, and grabbed her robe. It couldn’t be Brad. He was supposed to take the Lowrys’ extra key and engage the deadbolt from the outside. Had he forgotten? My God, she thought, whatever had possessed her to think she’d be all right alone?

  She tiptoed to the bedroom door and looked out into the hall. Barely daring to breathe, she padded softly to the top of the stairs and peered down. Nothing. As she crept down the steps, the front door came into view. She caught sight of a pile of envelopes lying on the floor and felt a cool flush of relief. The noise she’d heard had only been the postman delivering the mail, the clattering of the mail slot cover as it dropped back in place.