Haunted Hearts

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “What?” Donovan stared at McGuire as though he were about to break into laughter. “What kind? What, you expect maybe soda water?”

  “Salt or fresh water?” McGuire said to Burnell.

  “The guy was found in the Charles River, remember?” Donovan sneered. “At least a mile from the bay . . .”

  “And he was last seen in Annapolis,” McGuire said. “Which is surrounded by salt water.” He looked at Burnell.

  “Brackish,” Burnell said.

  “Which means salt and fresh,” Donovan said. “Which tells you nothing, if the tide was in that night.”

  “The tide wouldn’t come that far up the river,” McGuire said.

  “You sure about that?” Burnell said.

  “Check it out. And call me here, would you?” McGuire withdrew a pen from his jacket, and scribbled Ollie’s telephone number on a slip of paper from a wastebasket.

  “Do as he says, Carl,” Donovan said. He turned back to the terminal. “I mean, this is the great Joseph P. McGuire, right? Hero of the Boston Police Department. Uses his car to run down hoods. Tracer of lost persons, saver of lost souls.” A grin appeared on Donovan’s face, lit from the soft glow of the terminal. “Screwer of women jailbirds.”

  Don’t, McGuire thought. For once, he heeded his own advice.

  A white envelope was on McGuire’s desk, his name written on the front with a black felt pen, when he returned to his office. His file drawers were empty, and the coffeemaker was set in a brown cardboard box on the floor.

  Inside the envelope was a certified check for $15,000, and a note on Pratt’s personal letterhead that said “See me.”

  Pratt’s secretary told McGuire to go right in, and he entered the lawyer’s office, which was furnished in Early American antiques. “Please close the door,” the birdlike man said. When McGuire did, Pratt gestured towards an oak Windsor chair fitted with a Colonial-print cushion, and McGuire settled himself into it.

  “You might as well know that your departure from the firm isn’t being greeted with unanimous . . .”—Pratt pursed his lips and stared down at his desk, searching for the word—“euphoria.”

  “It seemed unanimous in Pinnington’s office,” McGuire said. “Where’s the address?”

  “Right here.” Pratt handed a folded sheet of paper to McGuire. “I have your word as a gentleman that you will never reveal the source of this information.”

  “You have it.” McGuire opened the paper and glanced at the address and telephone number. Green Valley, Arizona. “I would have found him sooner or later. I preferred sooner.”

  “I often have this notion,” Pratt was saying, “this radical idea, that when a firm gets beyond a certain size, I don’t know, maybe fifty, sixty people, and I don’t mean just law firms, I mean companies of any kind. After they get to be a certain size, they should think of hiring a full-time disturber.” He looked at McGuire. “You know what I mean?”

  “Somebody who raises hell,” McGuire said, placing the paper in an inside jacket pocket.

  “I’m thinking of someone whose function is to ask ‘Why are we doing it this way?’ ‘What’s really going on over here?’ ‘What if we tried this or that?’ He would be exasperating, of course. Or she, I suppose.” Pratt paused as though pondering the idea. “The whole idea is that they couldn’t be fired for asking embarrassing questions.”

  “And you think I’d be good for the job.”

  “I think you’d be perfect. And I wouldn’t abandon any ideas of continuing your association with our firm. Good lawyers have an ability to separate their emotions from their interests, you know. Most of us, anyway.”

  “Maybe Orin Flanigan didn’t.”

  “I’ve often felt that. I’ve often believed that same thing.” When Pratt extended his hand, McGuire shook it.

  “By the way,” Pratt said as McGuire turned to leave, “Cassidy and Dick Pinnington are huddled together discussing Barry’s future with the firm.”

  “Does he have one?” McGuire asked, his hand on the doorknob. “Cassidy?”

  Pratt smiled and shook his head.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Susan was standing at the window of the halfway house, holding a valise, watching for him. A gray-haired woman waited at the door while Susan came to the taxi cab and McGuire handed her DeLisle’s letter. She returned to the residence and gave it to the matron, who read it, nodded approval, and shook Susan’s hand, before passing her a small valise that had been resting on the floor nearby.

  “I can’t believe it,” Susan said when she was in the cab. McGuire looked past her to the halfway house, where someone was standing with the curtains slightly parted, watching McGuire and Susan drive away.

  He stopped the cab twice, once at his bank to deposit most of the law firm’s check and take the rest in cash, and again at a travel agency, where he purchased two return airline tickets to Tucson via Chicago while the cab driver stared at the fare meter. Then they continued north to Revere Beach with Susan beside him.

  He hadn’t felt this good in years.

  The noise assaulted his ears from the second floor, a metallic wail above a staccato beat that reminded McGuire of a wobbly steel wheel, kaching-ching-bang, kaching-ching-bang, over and over.

  “What the hell is that?” he said. He was holding the door open for Susan to enter. The buzzer sounded from Ollie’s room. “Wait here,” he said to Susan, and he climbed the stairs two at a time until he was at the door leading into Ronnie and Ollie’s former bedroom, now occupied by Liz Worthington. When he rapped loudly on the door, the volume of the music dropped.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice called from inside.

  “It’s me. I live here, remember?” McGuire said. “So put the gun down.” He pushed open the door to find the nurse standing in her bare feet, wearing black leotards and a pale blue tunic. The gun was in her hand, and she placed it on the dresser while McGuire watched. On the dresser sat a massive portable stereo, and the scratchy beat of the music spilling from the unit sounded to McGuire as though an autistic animal were trapped within, trying to claw its way to freedom through the speakers.

  “What do you want?” Liz Worthington said.

  “I want you to put a bullet through that son of a bitch,” McGuire said. He pointed at the portable stereo.

  “That’s my music,” she said. “It’s a statement of angst and alienation.” She smoothed the front of her tunic. “It’s also fun to dance to.”

  “You dance to that shit?”

  “I dance to keep me fit and make me happy.”

  “You turn every one of those CDs into beer coasters and I’ll be so goddamn happy I’ll dance across Massachusetts Bay!”

  “It’s not just music, you know. It’s artistic expression.”

  “Well, you got the first part right. And how’d you like to see me express myself artistically with a fire ax?”

  She rested her hand on the gun. “If you enter my room without my permission and armed with a weapon, I’ll shoot you, and that’s a promise.”

  McGuire muttered to himself and returned to the top of the stairs to see Susan looking up at him, her eyes wide and her expression distraught. “Is everything all right?” she asked as he descended the stairs.

  “Just normal insanity,” he said. He took her arm and guided her down the hall to Ollie’s room.

  “You’re like the cavalry riding over the hill just when the bad guys’re ready to burn the virgins.” Ollie’s bed was propped to a sitting position and his moon face was red and creased. “I couldn’t take it anymore. The more I pressed this damn buzzer, the more she turned up that crap until she couldn’t hear me . . . and who the hell is this angel?”

  McGuire introduced Susan, who grasped Ollie’s good hand as it flopped across the bed sheets towards her.

  “Joe, you gotta do something about that woman upstairs,�
�� Ollie said.

  “Like what?”

  “You gotta kill her, Joe.”

  “I can’t kill her, Ollie . . .”

  “Yes, you can. It’ll be justifiable. Tell you what, you do her and I’ll confess to it . . .”

  McGuire turned to look at Susan. “He’s joking,” McGuire said.

  “No, I’m not.” Ollie’s eyes swung to Susan’s. “I’m serious. I’ve got a forty-year-old butch nurse who says my biggest problem isn’t that I can’t walk, it’s that my life’s dull, with no inspiration.”

  “So maybe the music’ll inspire you.”

  Ollie turned his head to mumble at the wall.

  “What’s that?” McGuire said.

  “I said it’s inspiring me to explore her ass with a loaded shotgun.” He flashed a smile at Susan. “Sorry.”

  “We’re going to Arizona,” McGuire said.

  “You wanta take Dizzy Miss Lizzy with you in a trunk?” Ollie asked.

  “She looking after you? Really?”

  “Yeah, yeah. She does what’s needed to be done. She’s pretty good at that, I gotta admit. She knows the ERA of the Sox pitching staff, and what a naked reverse is.”

  “A naked what?” Susan asked.

  “Football talk,” McGuire said. “Ollie, we’ll be gone two or three days. We’re going to find Susan’s kids. You’ll be stuck with her, the nurse.”

  “Go, go,” Ollie said.

  McGuire and Susan left the room to find Liz Worthington in the kitchen. “In case you’re wondering, I only cook for him,” the nurse said.

  “Try to keep it that way,” McGuire said.

  He led Susan upstairs, carrying her valise. In his room he closed the door and stroked her hair and inhaled the aroma of her.

  They left early in the morning, the cab weaving through the light Saturday traffic to the airport. McGuire wore his brown tweed jacket over a blue Oxford-cloth shirt, khaki trousers, and Timberland deck shoes. Susan chose a deep-blue polished cotton skirt, pale blue jersey top, and beige suede jacket, her hair pulled back and held by tortoiseshell combs. During the flight to Chicago, and while they waited at O’Hare to begin the second leg to Tucson, she swung back and forth between excitement and anxiety.

  In Tucson he rented a car, and with the help of the rental agency’s map he found Highway 19 heading south towards Nogales, the highway weaving among low brown hills studded with saguaro cactus. The sky shone like a blue crystal and the air was dry, warm, and benevolent. Within half an hour they encountered Green Valley, an affluent development stretching away on both sides of the highway, extending outward from a low-rise shopping mall that seemed to be its epicenter. McGuire pulled into the mall, found a pay telephone, withdrew the notepaper Pratt had provided, dropped a quarter in the telephone slot, winked across at Susan, who remained in the car, and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice. McGuire asked if Tom Schaeffer was in. “No, but I expect him back in an hour.” She asked who was calling; McGuire said it was a friend, and he would call back.

  A waitress in a nearby coffee shop gave him directions to Schaeffer’s house, and when McGuire returned to the car he said, “You sure you can handle this?”

  “I have to,” she said. “I’ve been dreaming about this for two years. I have to.”

  They drove west among tidy houses with red-tiled roofs and manicured lawns. Late-model minivans were parked in most driveways, and the tops of swimming-pool slides projected above backyard fences. Dark-skinned men with thin mustaches, wearing khaki shirts and trousers, washed cars and trimmed lawns in front of some homes, and dark-skinned women with black hair that shone like coal swept the front walks or shook dust from rugs and blankets.

  Schaeffer lived in a cul-de-sac among a half-dozen other homes, and almost as soon as McGuire turned the corner, Susan leaned forward in the seat and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Ahead of them, in the shade of a low tree on the lawn of the house, which faced down the short street, were two children. A boy wearing blue jeans and a San Jose Sharks T-shirt, lying on his back, tossed a baseball into the air and caught it, over and over. A girl stood talking to him, a small Navajo blanket gathered around her shoulders like a cape, her expression somber. She raised one hand from beneath the cape to brush a lock of hair the colour of bleached straw from her eyes and looked up as McGuire’s car approached.

  “It’s them,” Susan whispered.

  McGuire pulled the car into the driveway while the children watched, the boy sitting up. “What do I do?” Susan said, and McGuire told her to go to them.

  She walked from the car and around the front of the vehicle. The girl, whose age McGuire guessed as eight, stared open-mouthed as she approached. The boy, perhaps two years older, rose to his feet and leaned against the tree as though ready to dart behind it for protection.

  McGuire opened his door and stepped out onto the driveway.

  “Belinda.” Susan dropped to one knee, her arms outstretched. “It’s me,” she said to the girl. “It’s Mummy.”

  The girl dropped the blanket and ran to Susan’s open arms, and they cried together while the boy and McGuire watched. Then both swung their eyes towards the front door of the house where a dark-haired woman wearing thick glasses, a yellow dress, and a shocked expression stood on the threshold, staring at Susan and the girl.

  “Jamie?” Susan said, stretching one hand in the boy’s direction. “Jamie? Please come and hug Mummy.”

  The boy hung back, his eyes on the woman in the doorway. At the sight of the woman Susan stood, one hand pressed against the back of the little girl’s head. “I’m Susan,” she said to the woman. “I’m their mother.”

  The woman nodded and tried with little success to smile. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  The woman invited McGuire and Susan inside. Susan carried Belinda, who wore a blue two-piece bathing suit beneath the blanket. The boy tagged along, looking as uncomfortable as McGuire.

  Inside, the house was furnished in Santa Fe style. The white-washed walls were hung with oversized abstract paintings, the sofas and chairs were overstuffed and covered in Navajo blankets, and the wooden furniture was either dark and heavy or constructed of bleached saguaro wood, painted in pastel greens and blues. The ceilings were high, the layout open, and McGuire was struck by the awareness that a good deal of money was needed to create a mood the Hopis and Navajos and Mexican tribes had refined through centuries of poverty.

  The woman introduced herself as Sylvia, Thomas’s wife. She watched Susan indirectly, swinging her eyes away when Susan glanced in her direction. She explained that Thomas had gone to the hardware store for gardening supplies, and should be back any minute. “May I offer you something to drink?” she asked. Her posture was stiff and unnatural, like someone awaiting punishment. Susan, settled on a sofa with Belinda on her lap, declined. The boy stood near her, his expression solemn. When Susan reached for his hand, he remained as rigid as a rake handle.

  McGuire said he’d love a beer, and Sylvia nodded and walked like a zombie through a wide archway towards the kitchen area.

  “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” Susan said to the children, who looked at each other and weighed their responses.

  McGuire strolled away to a location from which he could see through the archway into the kitchen. Sylvia was standing at the sink, her hands forming tight fists and resting on the counter, her shoulders hunched, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Outside, a car door slammed. McGuire looked to see a slim, bearded man emerge from a Lexus SUV and glance at McGuire’s rental car in the driveway. The man’s forehead was high, above aviator-style sunglasses, and his graying hair was close-cut; he wore a long-sleeved denim shirt and loose cotton trousers, and he walked to the side of the house, where Sylvia opened the door to greet him. As McGuire watched, the woman spoke in a low voice, then clung to him, whi
le Thomas Schaeffer stared over her shoulder at McGuire from behind his sunglasses.

  “He’s here,” McGuire said to Susan.

  Schaeffer entered the house and walked across the tile floor, his eyes flashing briefly at McGuire. “Belinda, Jamie,” he said. “Go into the kitchen and help Sylvia, will you?”

  “Go ahead,” Susan said, and she kissed her daughter’s cheek.

  The adults watched the children leave. “How are you?” Schaeffer asked Susan, who said she was fine and introduced McGuire. Schaeffer kept his eyes on Susan. “How long have you been out?”

  “A few weeks.” Susan moved closer to McGuire and reached for his hand. “Nearly three months. Your beard looks good, Thomas. It suits you.”

  “How did you find us?” Schaeffer asked.

  “Ways and means,” McGuire said.

  “Joe used to be a policeman,” Susan said. “A detective.”

  “You can’t take them back, you know,” Schaeffer said to Susan. “I won’t let you.”

  “I know.” Susan released McGuire’s hand and toyed with her own as she spoke. “I know.”

  “Sylvia’s getting something to drink,” Schaeffer said. “She’s a little surprised. And upset.” One hand stroked his beard as he spoke.

  “She seems very nice,” Susan said. “When were you married?”

  “A year ago last month.” Schaeffer slid his hands into his pockets. “You look good,” he said to his former wife. “Really good.”

  Susan thanked him and reached for McGuire’s hand again. “Joe’s been helpful. Things have not been good. Orin Flanigan was murdered last week, did you hear?”

  Schaeffer nodded. “Boston Police called here. They asked a few questions. I couldn’t help them, of course.” He looked at McGuire with a curious expression. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’d better go help Sylvia.”

  When he was gone, Susan pressed herself against McGuire and wrapped her arms around him.

  McGuire asked how she was holding up. “I’m all right,” she said. “But Sylvia seems nervous, doesn’t she?”