The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Uh, sure, I guess. It’s just, I’m really feeling a little isolated right now. And if you were free for dinner tonight . . .”

  “I’m not,” she said. “Listen, got to go.”

  And she hung up on me.

  Now that was totally strange. Alice was probably the most left-wing person I knew, and someone who would have called me the moment Tobias Judson aimed his neocon guns at me. Maybe I did just catch her at a bad moment. Or maybe she was with some people just now and couldn’t be mouthing expressions of support with them nearby.

  I had wanted to ask Alice about the names of any lawyers in town who might handle criminal cases (she knew everybody in Portland). Instead, it was Dad who came through on this one. I rang him after Alice and told him everything. He was so outraged on my behalf, especially at Dan.

  “It’s one thing to play around; it’s another to walk out when your wife is under attack. It’s cowardly—but, deep down, he knows that.”

  “Cold comfort.”

  “The way everyone’s behaving, you’d think you’d helped Osama bin Laden to escape.”

  “It’s now all come down to that snippet on television when I refused to say I was sorry. But as I explained in the Globe . . .”

  “I saw what you said about only having to apologize to your family—and completely agreed. It was a good interview. You came out of it well.”

  “Well, I’m glad you think that. Because according to your grandson and daughter-in-law . . .” And I told him how I had been barred from seeing my grandkids.

  “That won’t be a permanent situation.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I said. “Jeff is very unforgiving, especially toward his mother.”

  “I suppose I could try to have a word with him myself, but I think he considers me to be the Trotsky of the family.”

  “Shannon is worse. To her we’re all rabid fetus killers. And now, after all that’s been revealed about my wayward past, and all that stuff in the book about you . . .”

  “Does that ‘stuff’ still bother you?”

  “It’s a long time ago . . .”

  “Answer the question,” he said gently.

  “It bothered me then, sure. I didn’t like the idea of you being unfaithful to Mom, even though I understood back then that this is how things worked between you two. I guess, deep down, Mom was right about me—at heart, I’ve always been a small-c conservative. And with the exception of that one time with Judson . . .”

  “I don’t need to know this, Hannah. It really makes no difference to me anyway. If you’d had a lover on the side for the past thirty years . . .”

  “I wish . . .”

  He laughed. “Well, had that been the case it wouldn’t have changed how I feel about you, or that I see you as a remarkable person.”

  “I am hardly remarkable, Dad. I haven’t written books or become famous for a stand I’ve taken against the government. I’ve led a small life. Not a bad one up until now, but small nonetheless. And when it’s over in twenty or thirty years, who will remember that I even passed through? You’ll be gone. Dan will have long since shut me out of his mind. Ditto Jeff. Ditto his children—who will never have gotten to know me in the first place. And then there’s Lizzie . . .”

  I felt my eyes well up and my voice crack. I suddenly felt more tired than I had ever felt in my life and about to lose the battle I had been fighting for days—to somehow not fall apart. But there was a small, sane part of me that stopped myself from going over the edge, that bit down on a knuckle to halt the pending emotional torrent.

  “Hannah, stop,” Dad said. “There are enough people kicking you right now. You don’t have to add to the onslaught. Because, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing wrong . . .”

  “Oh please . . .”

  “Nothing . . . and believe me, I’d be the first to tell you otherwise.”

  No, he wouldn’t. Dad never took me to task for anything. That was, I realized now, one of the many remarkable things about him. And hearing my father now, on the other end of a long-distance call, I could only think how lucky I was to still have him around . . . and how he would always defend me, no matter what the circumstances.

  “Now if you wouldn’t mind a little bit of paternal advice, whatever interviews you do next, I think it’s best if you keep to the idea that you have already said sorry to the people who count, but that being bullied into something you didn’t want to do doesn’t merit a general apology to the nation.

  “And I know this one lawyer in the Portland area who might be interested in handling your case. Ever heard of Greg Tolland?”

  “Everyone in Portland’s heard of Greg Tolland,” I said. He was an aging, late-fiftyish radical attorney who’d been a thorn in the state government’s side when it came to native land rights and corporate pollution by the big logging companies up in Maine’s huge northern forest reserves. To say that Greg Tolland divided local opinion was the understatement of the new century. To that small coterie of local environmentalists and left-wing political activists in Maine, he was a hero. To the rest of the state, he was an old-style sixties troublemaker.

  “Well, if he did take my case,” I said, “it would cause a lot of talk around town. But since I’m already causing a lot of talk around town . . .”

  “I’ll call him now. And as much as I’d like to offer you safe shelter over here in Burlington, I really do think you have to stick it out in Portland—just to show the bastards that they won’t intimidate you.”

  An hour later, the glazier showed up—a quiet, laconic guy named Brendan Foreman who looked at the word TRAITOR scrawled on the front door and said, “Glad I don’t have your neighbors.”

  By mid-afternoon he’d removed all traces of the graffiti and had replaced the shattered pane of glass. As I wrote him a check for $300 and thanked him for coming so quickly, he said, “If they come back and write something nasty again on the door, just call me and I’ll do the job for half-price. I don’t believe in intimidation . . . especially when it comes to stuff that happened so long ago.”

  Then, with a sly wink, he headed off.

  That encounter cheered me. So too did the phone call from Greg Tolland. He was phoning from the state capital, Augusta, where he’d been arguing a case in front of the Maine Supreme Court, and said, “Great minds think alike. I’ve been following everything that’s been going down with you, and was wondering if you could use legal representation. You know, I was an undergraduate at UVM in the mid-sixties—and your dad was my adviser . . . so we go back a long ways. Now I’m stuck in Augusta until lunchtime tomorrow, but could you come and see me at my office tomorrow afternoon? Say, four p.m.? And here’s my cell number—if anything happens before then . . . if feds come to your door with an arrest warrant or any such crap, you call me immediately and I’ll be there asap. Otherwise, see you tomorrow.”

  That afternoon, I headed off to the local big supermarket, where nobody stopped me at the front door to tell me my patronage wasn’t wanted. When I came back home, I braced myself for another bit of graffiti on the door—but then thought: Nobody would attack my door in broad daylight. I thought right. All was quiet at home.

  Until the phone began to ring again.

  “Hannah, hon, it’s me,” Margy said. “And do I have news for you.”

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “Interesting news. Ever heard of Jose Julia?”

  “Sure, the right-wing talk-show guy.”

  “Right wing is a little extreme. He’s a real libertarian—government out of our lives, nothing wrong with cigarettes as long as you don’t blow them in my direction—which makes him something of a Republican. But he’s also very anti-Puritan and has often admitted that he’s an atheist . . . and, as you probably know, he’s got a big audience, largely as a scandalmonger . . .”

  “He’s been doing some stuff on Lizzie’s disappearance, hasn’t he?”

  “Sure he has. And you know why?”

  “Married Celebri
ty Doctor possibly involved in disappearance of his Investment Banker Lover . . .”

  “It’s right up his grubby alley, I’m afraid. But the guy’s ratings are huge—and he doesn’t like the religious Right, which is something in our favor. And he also has a thing about people who play the moral card, which means he could give Tobias Judson a very hard time . . .”

  “I also remember reading in some crappy magazine that he has a fanatical thing against adulterous behavior, as he caught his first wife in flagrante with another guy—and, as it turned out, she’d been cheating on him for years . . .”

  “Where’d you see that?”

  “People, I think—and yeah, I only read People at the hairdresser’s.”

  “Me too, but I’m a complete liar. Listen, here’s the thing: whatever you think about Jose Julia’s ex-wife, the fact is: he’s huge, he’s influential, everybody watches him, and he wants you to meet Judson face-to-face on his program.”

  “No way.”

  “I know it sounds tacky and tabloidy, but think of the possibilities. You get to present your side of the story. You get to take Judson on, to call him a liar, you get to . . .”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Look, I can understand how the idea of even being in the same room as him . . .”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “And I also know how much you hate the sort of moronic television that Jose Julia represents. But if you score a knockout punch . . .”

  “Margy, I’ve seen his show once or twice. He starts hectoring his guests, going all moral on them, waving an accusatory finger, telling them what bad people they are. And I have been through enough recently without subjecting myself to—”

  “Okay, okay, I hear you. But you don’t have to give me a definitive yes or no until—”

  “It’s a definitive ‘no.’”

  “Hear me out. The Jose Julia people will need to know by the end of tomorrow. Think it over—and think about how good it would be to show up that asshole in public, to really stick it to him. Anyway, we’ve got just over twenty-four hours before telling them, so . . .”

  “All right, all right, I’ll think about it. More important, are you still in the hospital?”

  “Yeah, but they’re sending me home tomorrow.”

  “You shouldn’t be putting yourself under such pressure.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Sit here and keep worrying that every time I cough, blood will follow? Among other things, this takes my mind off the thought that this thing might kill me.”

  “Don’t talk that way. The doctors told you they got it all . . .”

  “Now they’re starting to wonder if there was some secondary or tertiary tumor they hadn’t caught.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

  “I’m not, but thanks for the platitude. I need all possible platitudes right now. Please tell me you’ll give serious thought to the Jose Julia proposition . . . especially now that I’ve emotionally blackmailed you with my recurring lung cancer.”

  I laughed.

  “I will think about it.”

  My plan for the evening was a straightforward one. I was going to make myself a light dinner, curl up in front of the television, and watch an old movie. I saw that one of the cable channels was showing Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole, that wonderfully sulfurous story of American-style yellow journalism. It seemed appropriate viewing right now. But before I could settle down to this much-needed quiet evening, the phone rang again. I thought about ignoring it. Instead I answered it—a decision I instantly regretted.

  “Hannah, it’s Sheila Platt.”

  Just what I need.

  “Hi, Sheila, and thanks so much for your message of support the other day. It was very welcome.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I—”

  “Might we be able to talk tomorrow, Sheila. I’m awfully tired . . .”

  “This won’t take long,” she said. “We had a meeting last night of the book group—and we overwhelmingly voted to bar you from it. I’m very sorry to have to be the bearer of this news . . .”

  I started to laugh. Loudly.

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “In fact, I bet you not only put the motion forward to kick me out, but you also volunteered to be the messenger.”

  A small pause. “Well, I’ve never liked you either,” she said.

  “I’m devastated,” I said, “even though I actually considered you a class act when you called last week to offer your support.”

  “That’s before I found out you betrayed your husband and your country.”

  “Well, thank you for only believing a Christian like yourself. And, speaking of belief, I can’t believe that it was a unanimous vote, especially if Alice Armstrong was there.”

  A long nasty cackle of laughter from Sheila Platt.

  “You can’t be serious about Alice,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “You really don’t know that your husband’s moved in with her?”

  It took a moment to register.

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  “You wish I was lying,” she said.

  I still couldn’t believe what she’d just said.

  “How long—” I started saying.

  “—has it been going on?” she answered. “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask Dan?”

  Another bark of laughter. I hung up.

  Without stopping to think, I picked up the phone again and dialed Alice’s home number. After five rings, the call was answered.

  “Hello?” Dan said.

  The receiver started to shake in my hand.

  “You cowardly little shit,” I said, my voice tremulous, on the edge of a shriek. “You fire me from our marriage in a hotel bar, but you can’t bring yourself to tell me the truth.”

  There was a silence, followed by a decisive click. The line went dead. Immediately I hit redial, but the line was engaged. I hit the redial button three more times. The ongoing busy signal said it all: he’d deliberately left the phone off the hook. I suddenly found myself grabbing my coat and car keys and storming out the door. Before I knew it, I was driving toward downtown Portland, fully prepared to slam the front of my vehicle into the front door of Alice Armstrong’s house . . .

  But another voice inside my head whispered, “Do that, and they’ll have you committed for psychiatric observation, and then everyone will believe you really are totally gaga and wayward. Go back home now.”

  I heeded the first part of the message. I ignored the second part. I kept driving. On through the center of Portland to the junction with I-95. I didn’t really have a plan. I just decided to keep driving. I reached the interstate. I sped south. Within forty-five minutes I was at the state line. An hour later, I was on the outskirts of Boston. I crossed the bridge. I took the exit near the Fleet Center. I pulled up in front of the Onyx Hotel. I handed my keys to the doorman. I went inside and approached the front desk and said I’d like a room for the night. The desk clerk looked at me with some suspicion when I said I had no luggage. It was a last-minute trip, I said. I could see him studying my face. I couldn’t tell whether he was wondering if I was a potential suicide or if he had seen my face somewhere before—like in the newspapers or on the television or perhaps the last time I stayed here. To stop his scrutiny I handed over my Amex card. He ran it through the machine, received approval, and handed it to me with a room key.

  “You’ll just be staying the night?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I went upstairs. I opened the door of my room. I walked inside. I looked at the big bed and thought that I no longer had a husband to share it with. I sat down in the armchair near the bed. I wondered what the hell I was doing here. I checked my watch. Just after nine-thirty. I kept thinking: Maybe I should start scouring the city again . . . an all-night expedition to find Lizzie. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d snuck back in
to her apartment in the Leather District and was hiding out there, living on ordered-in food. Or maybe . . .

  I suddenly dug out my cell phone and rang Lizzie’s number. A man answered. A voice I knew.

  “Who’s this?” asked Detective Leary.

  I told him who it was.

  “Any reason why you were calling?” he asked.

  “Desperation,” I said. “Any news, Detective?”

  “You would have been the first to know.”

  “Why are you answering this number? Are you at the apartment?”

  “Hardly, but we arranged for all calls to Lizzie’s number to be redirected to us over here. I just happen to be working late tonight, which is why I answered. You at home in Maine?”

  “No, I’m in Boston.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and started to cry, suddenly letting go of all that pent-up rage and distress that I had been holding in for days. I must have cried for a good minute—unable to stop. When I finally got myself under control, I lifted the receiver again, fully expecting Leary to have hung up. But he was still there.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, sounding spent.

  “Where are you right now?”

  I told him.

  “Listen, I’m just finishing up here. Give me a half hour and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “You really don’t have to . . .” I said.

  “I know I don’t,” he said, “but I will.”

  He was there, as promised, thirty minutes later. He looked around at the superchic, hypertech design of the lobby and said, “There’s this Irish bar next door, which is a little more my kind of place.”

  We ended up in a corner booth. The bartender came over and shook Leary’s hand, and told him the first round was on the house. He ordered us both double Bushmills straight up, with beer chasers.

  “I’m not much of a whiskey drinker,” I said.

  “Take it from me, Bushmills is the best anesthetic going—and you need an anesthetic tonight.”

  The drinks arrived. We clinked glasses. I sipped the whiskey. The initial back-of-the-throat burn transformed quickly into a pleasurable buzz.

  “That’s not bad,” I said.