by Sharon Potts
The arbor of trees that led behind the Memorial was in shadows. “That’s right,” she said. “We told them about the bomb factory in the brownstone and Stormdrain’s plans to blow up the armory on Lexington Avenue. We also took responsibility for a number of bombings Stormdrain had been involved with. But we assured the FBI that we always took precautions to avoid injuring or killing anyone.”
“How could you be sure the people who’d planned to blow up the library wouldn’t do it?”
“Once the FBI knew about the bomb factory, the plan couldn’t go forward.”
“How did the Stormdrain members feel about Dad and you going turncoat?”
“You have to understand something. Your father was like a god to everyone in Stormdrain. They listened to him. If he said it was time to retreat, they retreated.”
“So what happened?”
“A group of our friends were supposed to be at a neighborhood bar that afternoon. Your father went there to tell them about the deal and persuade them to talk to the FBI in exchange for immunity.”
“And you?” Aubrey asked. “Where did you go?”
“I went to the brownstone, where we held our meetings.”
“Where the bomb factory was.”
Diana nodded. “A few Stormdrain members were there. I wanted to warn them that the FBI would be coming to dismantle everything and let them know we had gotten everyone immunity.”
“So what went wrong?”
“There was a ringleader,” Diana said. “My roommate, Gertrude. I think she went a little crazy. She believed killing was the only answer to righting the wrongs of our society.”
“Gertrude Morgenstern,” Aubrey said.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.” Diana remembered the fury and arrogance on Gertrude’s face when she had confronted her in their dorm room with the blueprint of the library. “Why I thought I’d be able to reason with her.”
The memory pushed against her brain, as painful as ever. “A little boy on a red tricycle was riding around in front of the brownstone.” She squeezed her eyes closed, but the memory remained.
The little boy pedaled past her on a red tricycle. He was wearing a blue-and-white-striped sweater. He rode the tricycle around and around on the cracked sidewalk in front of the old brick brownstone, stopping to smile and wave at her. She hurried past him to the weathered oak door and banged hard with the brass knocker. She needed to talk to them.
“Let me in.” She pounded on the door. “Let me in!”
She opened her eyes. Aubrey was watching her, her daughter’s face apprehensive, as though she were expecting a pail of water to be thrown at her.
“The door opened,” Diana said. She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “It was Gertrude.”
Her daughter didn’t move, not even her eyes.
“I told her Larry and I had gone to the FBI. That we had told them about Stormdrain, and they had agreed to grant everyone immunity.”
The memory ran through her mind, like sandpaper over raw skin.
“What about the library?” Gertrude asked.
“We didn’t tell the FBI about that,” Di said. “If they knew that any of us intended to kill, they’d have never agreed to immunity.”
“Then it’s over,” Gertrude said. “It’s all been for nothing.”
“We’ve done what we could.”
Gertrude stared at her, eyes throbbing like ancient stars before they explode. “Done what we could? They’ll never remember. They’ll never learn.”
“It’s our chance to start over.”
“Whose chance?” Gertrude’s voice was flat. She glanced down the street toward the boy on the red tricycle, then slammed the door.
Di’s heart was beating too fast, as though her body sensed some danger that hadn’t yet reached her brain. She turned from the door and watched the little boy pedal around and around, wondering whether she had done the right thing. She should have known Gertrude wouldn’t take the news well. Maybe she should have told the FBI about Gertrude and the plan to blow up the library, no matter what Larry had said. Her roommate was unpredictable. In Gertrude’s mind, there was no victory unless someone died.
Di glanced back at the weathered front door. It was too late now. She couldn’t change what was done.
She went down the stoop past the little boy on his tricycle. He squeezed the little bulb horn, honked twice, then waved.
Di waved back and kept walking.
Diana shook her head, trying to clear it, but she couldn’t erase the guilt.
Aubrey was as stiff as one of the statues, as she waited for her to continue.
“Gertrude was furious about the FBI deal,” Diana said. “I never should have left her in that state, but I walked away.”
“You did what you could, Mama.”
Did I? I walked away.
“I was only a short distance from the brownstone when I was shaken by a blast. It was like a sudden thunderclap. Then a tidal wave of air flattened me against the sidewalk, and everything went black.”
She blinked hard, clearing her vision. “I don’t know how long I was out. Seconds, maybe longer. When I came to, something in my brain clicked. I needed to save my friends. I pulled myself up and ran back to the building.”
She was breathing hard, running. Running with her feet mired in mud.
Aubrey touched her hand.
“That’s when I saw the little boy who’d been riding the tricycle. He was lying on the sidewalk. Bleeding. I went to him. There was another blast. Something hit my head. I couldn’t hear anything but ringing.”
She could hear it now—that high-pitched squeal that erased all other sounds.
“I don’t know how, but I picked up the little boy and carried him away.”
The hellish, copper-green hand seemed to be emerging from the pond, the light playing on each of the tormented souls.
My fault. It was my fault.
“I couldn’t save him,” Diana whispered. “Or the others.”
CHAPTER 42
Shadows from the sculptures and trees surrounded them. There was an unnatural lightness in the sky as the moon tried to push through the clouds.
“Do you believe Gertrude blew up the brownstone?” Aubrey asked.
Her mother didn’t answer, just continued to stare at the tortured bronze hand in the pond.
“It wasn’t your fault, Mama. You did the right thing. If you hadn’t gone to the FBI, Gertrude or the others in the brownstone might have done much more damage. They might have blown up the library. Think how many more people may have died.”
“Your father used to say that, but I could never forgive myself for my friends’ deaths or that innocent child’s.”
The story explained a great deal, but not everything. Not enough to persuade Aubrey that her mother wasn’t responsible for Jonathan’s death and the attempt on her father’s life.
“Mama,” she said as gently as she could, “you’ve been through a lot of very terrible things. I’m sorry you’ve had to keep this inside all these years. But it’s time to let the past go. Please, tell me, do you know who took Ethan?”
In the dim light, she could see disappointment in her mother’s face. “Oh, Aubrey, do you really believe I wouldn’t have gone straight to the police if I had some idea of who had him?”
Her mother sounded genuine, and her slumped body reflected grief, but Aubrey recognized she wanted so much to believe her mother that she could no longer read her accurately.
Aubrey sat up straighter. She had to distance herself and get to the truth. She had to find Ethan. “I think you know things you aren’t telling me. That you’re protecting someone or something.”
“And put Ethan’s life at risk?” her mother said. “Don’t you know me, Aubrey?”
No, Mama. I don’t. “Tell me everything that could have led to someone kidnapping Ethan.”
Her mother stared at her tight, interlocked fingers. “I don’t know who took him. I only know it’s someone fr
om Stormdrain.”
“Why?” It had been the question Aubrey had been unable to answer.
“Someone may have seen your father and me as traitors or blamed us for the brownstone explosion and the deaths of Gertrude, Michael, and Gary.”
“Why would they blame you? Didn’t Dad tell your friends at the bar about the deal you made with the FBI to get immunity for everyone?”
Her mother shook her head. “They weren’t at the bar when he got there. Then, once the brownstone blew up, the FBI withdrew the deal. There was too much public outrage to let any of the other Stormdrain members go free.”
“So that’s why they all went into hiding.” Aubrey thought for a moment. “I can see someone from Stormdrain resenting you and Dad for getting off, but it’s just a theory. There’s no proof.”
“The greeting card is proof.”
“How?”
“Because whoever left it wrote my college nickname on the envelope and knew the little boy outside the brownstone rode a red tricycle.”
“Who knew about the tricycle?”
“The police and FBI. I told them what happened.”
“Anyone else?”
“Gertrude saw the boy riding his tricycle.” Her mother frowned. “Maybe someone else was in the brownstone and saw the child from a window.”
Mama was doing something liars frequently did—making up things as they went along—but Aubrey couldn’t tell whether her mother was trying to come up with a cover story or if she was genuinely searching for an explanation. She decided to see where this was going.
“Everyone in the brownstone died in the explosion,” Aubrey said, “except Linda Wilsen, and the FBI confirmed she died in 1980.”
“Linda’s dead?”
“According to Smolleck,” Aubrey said. “Who else knew about the tricycle?”
Mama rubbed the finger where she once wore her wedding ring. “I told your father about the little boy.”
“Dad knew?” That meant her father was the only one alive from Stormdrain who knew everything. Aubrey felt sick. Mama had been leading her on. In a distorted way, her mother may have started seeing her onetime co-conspirator as an enemy. “Is that why you tried to kill him?”
Her mother’s eyes grew large. “What are you talking about? Did something happen to your father?”
Was this an act, too?
Her mother grabbed Aubrey’s wrist. “What happened to your father?”
Aubrey was torn, uncertain whether she was dealing with a pathological liar or a victim of a terrible scam. “He was hit by a car,” she said, watching her mother’s reaction. “He may not survive.”
Her mother brought her hands to her face. “How did it happen?”
“Hit-and-run.”
“Did they see the driver?”
“Yes. She looked like you, Mama.”
“Like me?” She blinked, and Aubrey could see the confusion turn to recognition. “I see.” Her mother ran her tongue over her lips. “That’s why you’ve been so distant. You think I’ve done all these horrible things.”
Aubrey glanced at the statue of the mother with her two dead children. The inscription talked about shattered dreams and ideals. “I don’t want to believe it.”
“Tell me all the evidence they have against me.”
If only Mama could persuade her she was telling the truth. “Someone who looked like you was seen at Jonathan’s building shortly before he died,” Aubrey said. “She drove away in his car after he fell from the balcony. The car that hit Dad was the same make and model. The driver also looked like you.”
Her mother frowned. “Someone is posing as me, making it look like I’ve gone crazy.”
Aubrey studied her mother as a thin ray of moonlight broke through the clouds. Crow’s-feet around her dark eyes. A few silver hairs at her temples. Lips that she sometimes pressed against Aubrey’s forehead for no special reason.
“Who hates you that much?” Aubrey asked.
Her mother got a faraway look. “Gertrude did.”
“But she died in the explosion. They found a piece of her finger, hair, clothes, her glasses.” Aubrey stopped. No vital organs. Nothing that meant she was unquestionably dead. “What if Gertrude escaped from the brownstone? What if she’s still alive?”
“Gertrude. Alive.” The words came out softly, as though her mother were testing them out.
“Did Gertrude know Jonathan at Columbia?” Aubrey asked. “Did she have a reason to kill him and try to kill Dad?”
“She had once been in love with both of them.”
The pieces were starting to fall into place. “But they loved you more?”
“I believe they did,” her mother said.
Was that enough to connect the ghost of Gertrude to Jonathan’s murder, the attempt on Dad’s life, and Ethan’s disappearance?
Aubrey considered the theory she had shared with Smolleck. She had been certain Star was involved, but she had thought Linda Wilsen was posing as Star, seeking to take revenge against Aubrey’s parents for her ruined body. But Gertrude may have had an even stronger motive to destroy Aubrey’s mother and father.
Was Star Matin really Gertrude Morgenstern?
Had Gertrude reinvented herself as a southern belle through surgery and a new veneer, or was Aubrey trying too hard to make the pieces fit?
She looked up at the black space between several shifting clouds. In the darkness, she could see a tiny glimmer. Star had arranged for the babysitter, disappeared around the time of Jonathan’s murder, and had an unsubstantiated alibi when Aubrey’s dad was hit by a car. All that was missing was motive, unless Star was Gertrude, then everything made sense. But other than a theory, there was no way to tie them together.
The star grew brighter.
And then it hit her. Of course Star was Gertrude.
Impostors often left a telltale sign of their true identities. On some level they either wanted to be caught or at least have someone acknowledge the cleverness of their deception. Star Matin was no exception. Her name was the giveaway.
Aubrey felt a powerful wave of relief. Mama was not a murderer. She had been telling the truth.
Then her heart dropped.
Because she knew where Ethan was and what Star was capable of doing to him.
CHAPTER 43
As they hurried to the car, Aubrey explained to her mother what she had only just put together. She asked her to drive so she could call Smolleck. They weren’t going to be stupid and try to confront a murderer by themselves.
“Where the hell are you going?” Smolleck asked.
“To the time-share where my father and Star are staying,” she said. “Ethan’s probably there.”
“Your mother confessed to taking him?”
“My mother is innocent,” Aubrey said. “Star is behind everything. Like I told you earlier. Someone from my parents’ past is trying to get even. I was wrong about Linda Wilsen, but I was right about Star. Star very likely persuaded the janitor who worked at the mall in Buckhead to tell the FBI he was Jeffrey Schwartz. She knew all about Schwartz and the explosion because Star is Gertrude Morgenstern. Star Matin, Morgenstern. She even used the same name. Matin is French for ‘morning.’ Morgenstern is ‘morning star’ in German.”
“Go on,” Smolleck said.
“The time-share is owned by J. W. Hendrix of Atlanta.” She kept talking as her mother tried to drive through the crowd of people crossing Lincoln Road against the light. “That’s probably Janis Hendrix. Star has a daughter named Janis who lives in Atlanta.” She took a breath. “Janis is probably also the babysitter.”
Smolleck was quiet. Aubrey could hear a police radio in the background. “It’s a pretty big leap,” he said.
“Please,” Aubrey said. “Can you try to get a match between the photo of the babysitter and Janis or J. W. Hendrix with facial-recognition software? Then you’ll know I’m right.”
“We’ll check it out,” he said. “Until we have a confirmation, your mother rema
ins a suspect.”
Their car made it past the crowd, crossed to the other side of Lincoln Road, and picked up speed.
“Park away from the apartment,” Smolleck said. “I’m right behind you. I’ll alert the police and the other teams in case Ethan is in there.” He disconnected from the call.
The neighborhood changed abruptly from crowded tourist destination to a quiet residential quarter. Large, overhanging trees and widely spaced streetlights made the street eerily dark. They rode along with the neighborhood park on their right until they came to a couple of “resident only” parking spots a half block from the time-share. Aubrey told her mother to park. A black sedan pulled in behind them. Smolleck and three agents got out of the car.
Mama was staring out the windshield, her hands clutching the wheel.
“We have to get out and talk to the FBI,” Aubrey said. “I don’t think they’ll arrest you.”
“I don’t care about that,” her mother said. “We need to get Ethan out safely.”
“We will, Mama.”
She and her mother left their car and approached Smolleck, who was on the phone, standing outside the glare of one of the few streetlights. Several police cars stopped at the corner behind them, blocking off the street. No sirens or flashing lights. Nothing to alert Star.
Smolleck finished his call and nodded at Aubrey and her mother. “We’re trying to develop a possible timeline for Star’s involvement with Judge Woodward and your father,” he said. “Can you help me out with a couple of things?”
He believed her?
“We’ve been considering her all along,” he continued, as though he could read the question on Aubrey’s face. “Star left the Ritz around eleven thirty, just after your mother called you and said she was going to Jonathan’s apartment. Did Star know about your conversation with your mother?”
“Yes,” Aubrey said. “Star was with me at the hotel when my mother called. She could have picked up from my side of the conversation that my mother was going to Jonathan’s.”
Smolleck nodded. “After Star left the Ritz, she took a taxi to a shopping mall where we lost track of her.”
“Maybe she changed into a wig and dark glasses,” Aubrey said. “Then she could have gone to Jonathan’s building from the mall and waited outside until she saw my mother leave.”