Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

  “What did you say?” Billy poked Hopkins in his chest with his pointer finger. I swear he left an impression in Hopkins’s torso.

  “What’s your beef?” Hopkins asked, eyes wide. Billy never confronted anyone. Well, except when he enraged the chief into declaring he was gay.

  “My beef? My beef is with you using that word,” Billy said.

  “What word?” Hopkins was leading with his jaw. Not a good move. Lewis was still looking to punch him, and Billy hadn’t given an inch.

  “You know what word. My cousin, Jake, is slow. I hear someone call him that word, there’s going to be problems.” Billy wasn’t shouting, but he wasn’t quiet either.

  The UPS guy looked all around for someone to sign his form, but everyone was watching Billy and Hopkins.

  “I didn’t call your cousin a retard!” Hopkins wailed. “I was just—”

  “Don’t use the word again,” Lewis said. He’d come up behind Hopkins. Hopkins turned, his face red. Lewis raised one finger. “Don’t,” he said, so quietly I strained to hear.

  “Okay, guys, enough,” the chief said. He clapped his hands and said, “Back at it. Someone sign for that damn package.” He pointed to the UPS guy. “And don’t use the term that was bandied about a moment earlier. It’s insensitive and rude. We don’t only uphold the law. We uphold standards, including standards of civility and respect.”

  Hopkins said, “Okay, okay. You fellas wanna back off?” A bead of sweat rolled from his brow to his neck. Lewis took a step back and Billy stepped aside, waving Hopkins before him.

  Lewis looked at Billy and said, “Mike was right. You’re the best of us, Billy.”

  Billy looked like he’d seen Santa Claus in person. He nodded, unsure what to do. Lewis clapped a hand to his shoulder and patted it twice. “The best,” he said. Billy blushed and ducked his head.

  The UPS deliveryman asked, “Can someone sign for this package?”

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  TUESDAY, JUNE 22, 1999

  1900 HOURS

  The baseball pitching machine spat a ball at me. Right over the plate. Matt had said he’d give me more coaching, but he’d cancelled an hour earlier. When I’d pressed, he said, “I’m busy. Sorry. I can’t see you, and, um, don’t drop by later.” He had company. No, he had company he’d dumped me for. I swung hard and whiffed it. Jesus. Damn machine handed me a home run on a platter, and I couldn’t nail it.

  “You swung early,” Wright said.

  “Thanks, Sherlock.”

  We’d agreed to meet at the batting cages. I’d invited him to my place first, but he’d demurred.

  The next pitch came in low. I struck it with the tip of my bat, and it swept short and low.

  “Too slow on that one.”

  Five minutes of Wright’s eagle-eyed observations were driving me to thoughts of violence. “I have a bat in my hands.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe you should keep your comments work-focused, yeah?”

  He sighed. “I looked into the altar boys at the church, Luke Kelly and Peter Walsh. Luke had a girlfriend when Susan was volunteering at the church. Doesn’t rule him out.”

  “Nope.” I swung hard and whiffed the next two pitches. Matt would despair of his coaching if he could see me now. Not that he could. It was one thing to arrange another date, but then tell me about it, in his roundabout I’m busy, don’t stop by later way? That was bullshit.

  “What rules out Luke Kelly is that he’s infertile,” he said.

  “Infertile.” I smacked the next ball, high and away. It had been a meatball, but still. “How do you know that?”

  “He told me. Turns out his two kids are adopted.”

  “You sure?”

  “He sent me copies of their paperwork.”

  “Why?” That seemed excessive. And excessive volunteered information always made me suspect that there was a secret the person was trying to hide by misdirecting attention elsewhere, like a magician.

  “He seemed troubled I’d try to lay that baby at his doorstep. Said Susan was a nice girl, but she never seemed interested in him. He got the impression she had eyes for someone else.”

  “Peter Walsh?”

  “Peter, or Petey, as they called him, was two years younger than Susan. He says she treated him like a little brother. Taught him how to dance.”

  “Sounds like romance.”

  “Sounded like she was doing him a favor,” he said.

  The next pitch went high, and I swung for it even though I knew better.

  “Give me the bat.” Wright removed his jacket. While I stood, away from the plate, he rolled up his shirt cuffs and removed his tie. He held out his hand as a ball whumped past. I slapped the bat into it, none too gently.

  “Get closer to the plate.” He demonstrated, by stepping to it. “You’re treating it like it’s a woman,” he said. “Try not to be afraid of it.”

  Oh, funny. I hoped he choked on this pitch. I hope he did a damn pirouette chasing its tail.

  Wright squared himself at the plate, tapped it twice with the bat, and said, “Come to Daddy.” The machine spat a low pitch, and Wright laid into it, knocking it clear and far. An outfielder would be hard-pressed to get it. The next one came in perfect, and his bat cracked against it, sending it into home-run territory. Fuck. He’s good.

  “Of course, we play softball, so the ball is bigger, and the pitches are slower,” he said, “So maybe that’s more your speed.”

  “The softball-pitching machine is broken,” I said between clenched teeth.

  “Turns out our Petey is also unlikely to have been romancing Susan, as he was too busy. He had two summer jobs, altar boy duty, and he helped his elderly grandparents with their shopping.”

  “Good boys don’t always stay good,” I said.

  “Petey did provide an insight, though. He said Susan was dropped off twice from a Ford Mustang. He recognized the car. Belonged to a neighborhood bad boy.”

  Wright kept hitting them out of the park, one after the other. It would’ve been beautiful if it had been anybody else. He set the bat down.

  “This bad boy have a name?”

  “Jack McGee.”

  “Bullshit,” I whispered.

  “No, that’s his name.”

  “No, I mean that’s what Mike wrote, Finny wrote, on his interview statement. He wrote ‘bullshit.’ Jack claimed he was working on his car the day she went missing, and I don’t think Mike believed him.”

  Bullshit. Like Matt leaving me alone at the batting cages while he kept company with some younger guy. I’d told him it was okay, but I was wrong. It wasn’t.

  “Maybe his instincts were good. We should follow up,” he said.

  I grabbed the bat. Got closer to the plate. Bided my time. I let one pitch go past. Then swung hard at the next one and connected. Line drive to first. No home run, but no strike either.

  “Better,” Wright said. A phone rang. He glanced around. Realized his jacket was a yard away and hurried to retrieve his mobile. I kept swinging. “Yeah, I’m on my way… . I am… . I know. I said I would… . No, honey, I’m—. I am. I know… . I understand you’re under a strain. I do. I’ll be there,” he glanced at his watch, “in twenty minutes… . No. I had to stop off at the dry cleaner’s. I forgot. Yes… . Okay. See you soon. Love you.” He snapped his phone shut. “I’ve got to go.”

  I didn’t look his way. “If juggling this case with the other is too much, you can drop it. I want you focused on the Gardner case.”

  “I can do both.”

  “Sounds like you might be stretched.” I swung and missed. Damn it.

  “I can do both,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ll look up Jack McGee. See if he has a criminal record.”

  “Okay.” My next hit went high and far. I turned to smirk at Wright, but he was walking away, my batting average gone from his mind. He had other things to think about, like the people waiting at home for him.

  Me?

  I had nothi
ng but time on my hands.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  THURSDAY, JUNE 24, 1999

  1230 HOURS

  Finny burst into my office, his face pink. Had he run here? What had happened? Had he found Susan? Or had he and Wright managed to find their chief suspect, Daniel Waverly?

  “You dick!” he shouted. “You let the entire neighborhood know Susan got knocked up. That she had a baby.”

  “Wait. What?” I hadn’t done that. I hadn’t. When I’d spoken to Abigail Waters I hadn’t breathed a word about Susan’s pregnancy. And I hadn’t told … Damn it. Wright. When he’d asked the altar boys about their relationships with Susan, he’d revealed that she’d had a baby. He’d told me as much.

  “Now my brothers and sister are fielding questions about my sister from classmates they haven’t spoken to in twenty years, and how she was easier than everyone thought, and how come we don’t know who the father of her kid was.”

  I couldn’t tell him it wasn’t me. I’d have to absorb the blowback and ask for forgiveness.

  Wright stormed into the office. “What’s going on?”

  Finny turned to Wright. “This jackass just told everyone in my old neighborhood that my baby sister was a slut.”

  I stood up. “Hold on, now.”

  “You’re denying it?” Finny said. “Jesus, Chief, you can’t even admit to your own mistakes? No wonder they wanted to be rid of you in New York.”

  That hurt, so I said, “Watch your tone, Detective! You’re two seconds from suspension.”

  “Where have I heard that line before? Oh right, when you were handing me ultimatums earlier. I bet the mayor would love to know about that exchange.”

  “It was me!” Wright yelled. “I told your neighbors.”

  Finny, full of steam, didn’t register what he said. “And another thing, if you think I’m gonna keep quiet about the North case—”

  “Mike, stop! He didn’t tell them,” Wright said. He pointed to himself. “I did.”

  Finny reared back, his flustered face uncertain. “What are you talking about?”

  Wright sighed and rubbed his face. “I revealed that Susan was pregnant when I spoke to some boys she knew from back then. Luke Kelly and Peter Walsh.”

  “Luke? Peter? Wait. What? Why are you looking into Susan’s disappearance? Did he tell you?” He waved his arm at me.

  Wright clucked his tongue. “You really give me no credit, Mike. You think I didn’t know about Susan? That I haven’t seen those pictures in your wallet? I’m not stupid. No matter what you think.”

  “You knew?” Finny asked.

  “Of course, I knew! You’re not exactly a pro at keeping secrets, and you left a scene behind you in Boston. I have a buddy in the police department there. You’re known. Okay?”

  “Instead of asking me about it, you go behind my back with him?” Again, the pointed finger my way, the reference to me as “him,” as if I was below naming. “You didn’t think to ask me before you went poking in my life, before you revealed to everyone that Susan was knocked up at sixteen?”

  “She’s dead!” Wright shouted. “She doesn’t care about her reputation. Why are you so concerned with it?”

  Finny lunged at Wright. Wright sidestepped, too late. Finny punched him. The blow glanced off Wright’s jaw. “How dare you!” he screamed. “I didn’t tell everyone your secrets!”

  I ran around my desk. Finny was swinging at Wright. Wright cupped his jaw, stunned. I stepped between them, and Finny’s next punch landed on my ribs. “Oof.” I pushed him back and held my arms out. “Stay back!”

  He stood still. His face was red, and he panted, shallow breaths. “I didn’t tell people about your baby,” he yelled at Wright. “How would you like that, huh? If I told everyone your baby has Down’s?”

  Wright lunged, and he caught my side as I tried to intercept him. His weight threw me off balance. I stumbled and fell, knocking into my desk. Thump. I hit the carpet. My vision went gray. Ouch. I touched my head. Ow! Everything went white. A low buzzing sound started up. I couldn’t see. Ow. I tried to sit up, but kept leaning too far over.

  “Oh, shit,” one of them said, low and quiet.

  “Back off.” That was Wright. “Chief, you okay?”

  I moved my neck. My head hurt. My vision was clearing, like a windshield clearing snow with wipers. I stood up, holding the desk as I elevated myself. A wave of nausea passed through me, and I gagged. Hot liquid at the back of my throat. I choked for a second and swallowed it back down. Gah. That was nasty. My throat burned from the acid I’d ingested. Wright’s arm was under me, supporting me.

  “I’m fine.” I stepped away from him. My vision blurred again, and my knees buckled.

  Finny said, “Chief, your head is bleeding. You knocked it on the way down. I think you need a doctor.”

  I waved my arm, or tried to. It felt wrong, like the movement was slower than it should be. “I don’t need a doctor.” Was my tongue thick? That was odd.

  “You do,” Wright said. “You’re bleeding, and you’re not steady on your feet.”

  Way to rub it in. “It’s your fault.” When he opened his mouth to protest, I said, “The two of you. If you hadn’t come in here screaming and scrapping, my head wouldn’t have connected with the desk. Just bless all the saints you can name that Mrs. Dunsmore isn’t here.” Thank God. She’d hold me responsible. A burst of pain made me groan.

  “Chief?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but that wasn’t true, because I could feel more vomit damming near my esophagus, and then it was out of me, splashing on the floor and my shoes.

  “Call an ambulance,” Wright ordered. “Now!”

  I didn’t argue.

  In a surprise move, it was Wright who insisted on accompanying me to the hospital. He was the one to override my objections that I didn’t need an ambo or a doctor. He was the one who threatened to call Grace Dunsmore right this minute if I didn’t shut up and do as the nurse asked once we were inside the ER.

  They flashed lights in my eyes and asked me all sorts of questions like who the president was. “Clinton,” I said. What day was it? Where was I? Did I know how I got to the ER? Could I count backward from ten? Yes, yes, I could do all of those things, but did the lights have to be so bright, and could they please stop touching my head. The cut I’d endured required cleaning and a butterfly bandage, but not stitches. “Am I gonna have a scar?”

  “You must be feeling better,” Wright quipped.

  “Why?”

  “Your vanity is intact and on display.”

  “This is your boyfriend?” the nurse asked, nodding at Wright. I don’t know why the question surprised me. She knew my name and had probably read one of many articles announcing my “First Gay Police Chief” status.

  He looked ready to jump out the window. “No,” I said. “I have taste.”

  She laughed and then touched my head again. I swallowed a yell. “How’s the nausea?” she asked.

  “Better.” Mostly true. I hadn’t thrown up again, and my stomach felt steadier, if not steady.

  “When you’re released,” she said, “You’ll need to go home and rest.” This last was delivered in a firm tone. “I mean it. No going back to work. Your brain got a wallop, and it needs to relax. You have a slight concussion, so you’ll need someone to check on you each hour, to make sure you’re conscious and well.” She glanced at Wright.

  “Not it,” he said, quickly.

  I closed my eyes. I wanted a nice dark room. “As if I’d pick you.”

  “Do you have someone who can stay with you? If not, I can see if we can scare up a bed.” She sounded doubtful.

  “I can find someone.” I didn’t want to call my family. They didn’t own cars, and my parents would make a fuss. John would have to come to my place, and it would be a whole thing. I could hear the stories he’d tell about the time he had to mind me because I’d bumped my head. Nope.

  It was another hour and a half before I was allowe
d to leave. We had to wait for someone to read my scans and make sure my brain wasn’t going to … what? Explode? Whatever it was, it seemed I was safe.

  Billy chauffeured me home, with Wright in the backseat, handling the questions.

  “What happened?” Billy asked. “We all heard shouting, and then it sounded like fighting, and the next thing we know an ambulance shows up and you two get in it.”

  “We were discussing the Gardner case,” Wright said. “Working out how the crime might’ve taken place. Chief was playing the victim, and we had a slight mishap. He tripped and hit his head on his desk. Concussed himself.”

  Oh, that was rich. I played the victim and was klutzy? Not Finny and Wright were fighting like children, and Wright assaulted me and I got injured?

  “That’s not what Finny said,” Billy said.

  Uh-oh. We hadn’t thought about Finny, about the fact that we hadn’t coordinated stories. Too late now. “What did Detective Finnegan say?” Wright used his best “detective” voice.

  “Not much. Said you tripped Chief as a joke and he hit his head. He left right after you guys. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “He was joking,” Wright said, his tone making it clear this was the official version and no further questions were allowed.

  I wondered where Finny had gone to but gave up because thinking hurt.

  They tried to assist me into my house, and I barked at them that I was fully capable of walking into my own home. Then I dropped my keys trying to open the door, and after Billy got the door open, I tripped on the riser into the kitchen. My language turned blue.

  I headed for my recliner. Collapsed into it. “You can leave now!”

  Billy looked around, eyes stopping on every ancient artifact that had come with my place: floral loveseat, misshapen homemade key holder, avocado-colored fridge. “It’s true,” he said, under his breath.

  “Who should I call?” Wright asked.

  I met his stare. He wasn’t leaving without a guarantee that someone would come and watch me, as if I was a damn child.

  “Matt’s number’s on the fridge,” I said, each word costing me.

  “Great.” He stalked to the fridge, grabbed the card, and picked up my phone.