by Jo Macgregor
“He hasn’t arrived?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Dammit!”
Angry, I slipped back inside the room, where Johnson was now talking about a topic I was keenly interested in hearing — his take on how buttons had assumed a meaning greater than the sum of their limited parts in language and culture.
“Not only do buttons bind separate parts together,” he told the audience, “but they can signal personal aspects about us.”
As he listed characteristics, he flashed images of different buttons on the screen: style (a furry animal-print novelty button); status (vintage pearl and gold buttons); national identity (green buttons in the shape of shamrocks); hobbies (a soccer ball button), and age and sex (pink teddy bears). I leaned forward when he explained that buttons could even reveal our personal ethos, but the picture he displayed was merely one of a silver button with the three hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil monkeys engraved on it.
“Buttons have found a way into our language too,” Johnson said. “For example, if you’re pretty in a dainty way, then you’re cute as a button. And if you corner someone to discuss a hot button issue, then you’ve buttonholed them.”
This was more interesting.
“You can be buttoned down or buttoned all the way up—”
Or you can button your lip? Is that what you did to Derek, you vile psycho?
“—and if you’re fully aware of what’s going on, you’re said to have your finger on the button. You might have a cute button nose, but if you annoy someone, you’re said to be …?”
He paused, cupping a hand behind one of his ears, and someone from a row near the back shouted, “Pushing their buttons!”
“Correct! And when you want to sleep longer, what do you do?”
“Hit the snooze button,” a woman in the row behind me called out.
“And if you’re smart and alert, then you’re …?”
“Bright as a button!” a few people responded.
Johnson smiled and nodded. “Right on the button!”
The audience laughed, clearly enjoying the game.
I couldn’t stand the hilarity or the chasm between the humorous, urbane fellow he pretended to be and the reality of who he truly was. Out of everyone in this audience, I alone knew what he’d done. Never had sitting and doing nothing felt so intolerable. I wanted to run down the aisle and tackle him at the knees, to knock him unconscious with something heavy and sit on his chest until the cops arrived. I wanted justice. No, I wanted vengeance for funny, daring Jacob Wertheimer and for all the other young men — possibly even poor, sad Derek — whose lives Johnson had snuffed out to satisfy some sick urge or fantasy.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, that brings me to the end of my presentation. We have a little time left for questions, if anyone has any,” Johnson said.
A woman near the front asked about the ethics of using ivory and tortoiseshell to make buttons. I checked the door — still no sign of Singh. I checked my phone — no messages. I let out a deep sigh of disappointment. It looked like he wasn’t coming. I was desperate for Larry to be taken in for questioning today, but now it seemed like that wasn’t going to happen.
“But I don’t see the harm in repurposing old buttons made of those substances,” Johnson was saying. “After all, the creatures are already dead.”
And you enjoy killing creatures, don’t you? Even Derek’s innocent little cat!
“So, in a way,” Johnson said, “if you appreciate and wear those buttons, you’re giving meaning to their deaths, aren’t you?”
And what meaning did you give to the deaths of all those young men, you utter and complete bastard?
On the remote chance that Singh was waiting outside the room, ready to nab his suspect, I took a photo of Lawrence Johnson using the highest zoom on my phone camera and sent it to the agent so that he would know the suspect the moment he saw him. Meanwhile, Johnson replied to a question about whether he thought buttons would still be around a hundred years from now, and then the MC said he’d allow one final question. A final question? I checked the time display on my phone. According to my calculations, there were still fifteen minutes to go before the end of the presentation.
“We have to finish a little early because Lawrence has a flight to catch,” the MC explained.
A flight? Shit. He was going to get away. I’d tracked him down, and now he was just going to walk out of here, and the day after tomorrow, another man would die. I needed to delay him as long as I could. When I raised my hand, Johnson acknowledged me with a smile of recognition. Here was the button-obsessed woman from earlier at his booth, his expression said. He pointed at me.
“That was a fascinating talk, Mr. Johnson. Thank you so much. Especially the part about … um … the poison rings. I really found that so interesting and … er … unusual. And the hidden compasses, I mean, wow!”
He glanced at his watch and asked, “Do you have a question?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” At that moment, my mind went blank. The only answers I wanted belonged to questions I couldn’t ask without tipping him off. Finally, I settled for “Do you think buttons will survive zippers and Velcro?”
“They have so far,” he said with a light laugh.
I checked both doors. No FBI agent. “And can I also just ask—” I began.
But the MC cut me off, saying, “Sorry, we really are out of time.” He thanked his speaker, the audience applauded, and then with a last wave, Johnson walked up the aisle toward the far exit.
I groaned in frustration, not knowing what to do. Along with the rest of the audience, I stood up, then I began pushing my way through the throng in the aisle, heading for my exit and hoping against hope that Singh — and Washington, too, maybe — was waiting outside to apprehend Johnson. I exited the venue to find myself in a lobby now packed with convention goers. Standing on tiptoes, I scanned the crowd but saw no police or FBI presence at all.
I did, however, spot a flash of black and blue plaid at the far exit. Johnson had been cornered by someone determined to have a last word with him. When he shifted slightly, I saw that, of all people to be waylaying him, it was my mother. What the hell was she doing? I began weaving through the crowd, keeping my gaze fixed on the odd couple ahead. I saw her lay a restraining hand on his arm, and a sense of dread bloomed in my stomach like a dark, poisonous flower.
As though she could feel my dismayed gaze on her, my mother looked up, saw me, and waved. Pointing at me, she leaned over to tell a smiling Johnson something. Just that I’d attended his talk because I was super interested in buttons? Or that I was a psychic private eye investigating murders in which the serial killer had left buttons with his victims? I began to move quicker, pushing past people. No time for apologies now. My mother half-turned to point at the hotel entrance, then held her hands up in a shrug. I could almost hear her saying, “We were hoping the FBI agent investigating the murders would attend your talk, but it looks like he didn’t come. I wonder why?”
Johnson turned his head to meet my gaze while my mother kept spilling the beans, and I saw the indulgent smile fade from his face. He knew. And in that moment when he comprehended the danger, he grabbed my mother’s elbow and dragged her off with him.
What?
“No!” I screamed. “Stop him. Stop that man!”
Galvanized into panicked action, I barged through the crowd, throwing elbows and shoving people aside. I caught a glimpse of them headed toward the main entrance of the hotel. Johnson was keeping his hold on my mother while she stumbled along beside him, her shopping bags bouncing against her side.
“Stop that man! Help!” I screamed.
Two men in security uniforms stepped in front of me, blocking my way.
“Let me go!” I tried to sidestep them, urging them to hurry. When one grabbed my arm, I wrenched it free and pointed at the hotel entrance. “That man is kidnapping my mother!”
One guard spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Seal
the exits. Repeat, seal all doors!”
The other, moving with infuriating slowness, turned to stare where I’d pointed. “What man?” he asked.
Lawrence Johnson and my mother were nowhere to be seen.
– 43 –
My mother is gone. The Button Man got away.
I sat cross-legged on my bed in my old bedroom in my parent’s house, staring blankly at the wall, reliving that moment earlier in the afternoon when Lawrence “Larry” Johnson had dragged my mother off.
My mother is gone. The Button Man got away.
The words raced around inside my mind like greyhounds on a never-ending track.
More than twelve hours after she’d been kidnapped, my mother was still missing. Despite every law enforcement agency being on the alert, no one had spotted her. Or him. I understood why he might’ve taken her. Maybe he’d feared the authorities were waiting outside the hotel, and she could be the hostage that ensured his getaway. But why had he kept her? The only reason I could think of was me. He was holding her to keep me in check, in case he needed leverage.
I opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand. All the equipment I needed was still there, waiting to be called back into use. I’d used it in those bleak months after Colby died, but I’d deliberately left it behind when I moved to Boston, hoping to shake the horrible habit. And when I moved some of my old belongings to the loft above Henry’s Mason’s garage, I had again chosen not to take it with me. But I hadn’t gotten rid of it either. Maybe I, too, had anticipated a time when I’d need some leverage against myself. I peeled off my socks and let my fingertips trail lightly over the sole of one foot, hunting for a raised ridge, a rough edge, a filament of skin.
Singh and Washington had arrived together, twenty minutes too late. When they came over to where local cops were taking my statement, Washington explained that they’d been delayed by a multi-car pileup on I-89 outside Montpelier. He then gave my shoulder a sympathetic pat and told me they were doing everything possible to try to find my mother. Singh offered no words of comfort; his face was thunderous, and a tic pulsed in his cheek. I knew he was furious that, against his instructions, I’d involved myself in the case again. But I, too, was full of anger, and mine was fueled by uncontrollable fear and panic.
I turned on him and demanded, “If you knew you’d be late, why didn’t you alert local police? They could’ve gotten here in time.”
“Because I don’t mobilize law enforcement agencies based on the hunch of some self-proclaimed psychic!” he snapped.
“Turned out my ‘hunch’ was right, though, didn’t it?” I snarled.
Singh’s mouth curled in contempt. “Oh, my bad! I didn’t realize you’d had a premonition about your mother being kidnapped.”
That hit home. But my only defense was to attack, so I yelled, “Your stupid lack of trust in me is costing us. It’s risking lives!” I was only just holding my tears at bay.
The two police officers had been looking from me to Singh and back again, tracking the volley of shots. When the agent, his face tight with fury, took a step toward me, they fell back a few paces and pretended an interest in their notepads.
“A, there is no ‘us,’” he said in a voice icy with barely controlled wrath. “And B, it is your stupid trust in yourself that is risking lives. Your mother’s, for one!”
At that, my tears spilled over. Regret, fear, anger, shame, humiliation — I felt them all. Looking disgusted, Singh told Washington to take my statement.
“And when he and the Montpelier police have finished with you, go home,” he told me. “Go home and stay there. Do not contact me or anyone at our agency. Keep your interfering nose out of this investigation, or I will allow myself the great pleasure of arresting you for obstruction of justice myself.”
He’d stalked off, and shaking with rage and terror, I’d jumped through all the official hoops necessary before being given the go ahead to leave.
Now I picked at the ball of my foot, raising a tiny shred of skin. Gripping it with my old purple tweezers, I pulled down slowly and steadily. It was important to get just the right tension and speed. Pull too hard or too fast, and you merely succeeded in breaking off the tiny edge. And where was the satisfaction in that? Where was the pain?
I so desperately wanted someone to blame. Someone other than myself. I wanted to believe that if Singh had left earlier, arrived sooner, or trusted me more, then Johnson would’ve been apprehended, and my mother would now be safely back at home, making us chamomile tea after the day’s excitement.
The thin filament of skin peeled off in a satisfyingly long strip. I laid it on a Kleenex on the bedspread beside me and stared at the raw band of flesh now exposed — pink, with a small jewel-bright drop of blood just oozing at one end. Pretty in its own way. The first piece was always the hardest — finding the place to begin, getting the movement just right, and feeling the first shock of pain — but the second was always easier. With the tweezers, I pinched at the edge of skin beside the peeled strip and tore down, holding my breath against the burn.
Why hadn’t I anticipated what had happened? How could I not have foreseen the possibility of it? Yes, I’d never been able to see the future — my stupid “talent” was only good for seeing the past — but I should’ve thought ahead, realized that my mother, who always wanted to be helpful and didn’t know that I suspected Lawrence Johnson of being the Button Man, might’ve tried to detain him for a minute so that I could have a word with him, or she might have wanted to let him know that he could be able to help out the FBI with his button expertise.
I was to blame for what had happened to my mother, for what might even now be happening to her. Why had I let her go to the damn convention with me? I’d known after our unsettling experience at that creepy house in Hucknall that it was stupid, reckless even, to take her with me on my investigations, and yet, I’d done it again. I’d welcomed her company on the trip, and ignoring my father’s warnings that it could be dangerous, I’d exposed her to a man who was deadly.
I peeled another shred of skin, laid it beside the others on the tissue, and watched a trickle of blood traverse the wrinkled surface of my foot.
If only I’d told her why we were really there. I hadn’t trusted her not to say or do something stupid, but I was the one who’d been stupid. If she’d known who I suspected Johnson to be, she would never have approached him. I was always holding back from trusting others, rationalizing that I didn’t want to impose on them, while deep down believing I couldn’t rely on them. It was inexcusable hubris, as though I alone knew what to do in any situation, as though I could handle any eventuality by myself. And look what my desire for self-reliance and my fear of being let down had resulted in now.
When I’d gotten home, I checked the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and found her blood pressure and blood thinner medications still there. She hadn’t taken them with her — why would she? — and the situation she was in had to be cranking up her blood pressure. Was she even still alive?
I tore another strip, wider, deeper, to block out the thought, to pull me back from the torment of what-ifs and if-onlys and anchor me in the here and now of my pain. I was an idiot and a bad daughter. My mother was kind, thoughtful and loving. She only ever meant well. Any problems in our relationship were my fault. I was too easily irritated, too keen to avoid spending time with her, too intolerant of her enthusiasms and eccentricities.
If she comes back safely, I’ll be a better and more loving daughter, I promised whoever might be listening in the universe.
I dabbed at the bloody bottom of my foot and then twisted the top off an old tube of iodine ointment, wishing I could cleanse myself of guilt as easily as I could disinfect my foot. The distinctive smell took me back to my darkest periods of grief, but the searing sting when I anointed my flayed flesh brought me right back to the present.
Back in Montpelier, I’d begged Washington to hold off on calling my father. I needed to be the one to break the news, and I ne
eded to do it in person. I’d left as soon as I could and driven home with my head swirling and my heart in my throat, constantly checking my phone for any updates.
It was dark by the time I’d arrived at my parents’ home and went inside. My dad was in the living room, reading a book, and he greeted me with a smile. I tossed my jacket onto the couch, and the crystals in its pockets spilled out onto the cushions. The news, so terrible, was impossible to speak, and yet, I had to say the words, had to repeat them when he failed to understand the first time. I watched how his face drained of color, how his fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, how his mouth opened to speak the recriminations he must be thinking — this is your fault. I told you to stay out of it. I knew something bad was bound to happen. Your mother’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere, and you’re to blame! — and then closed again, with the unuttered words ghosting the space between us.
I apologized, but the inadequate phrases floated away like chaff in the air while the substantial facts of what had happened and what might yet happen fell like threshed grain and remained. I poured us both a scotch and sat in silent vigil with my father.
I opened the door for Ryan when he came but heard nothing of what he said because it wasn’t news of my mother. There was no news of my mother. Ryan sat with us for hours, holding my hand, bringing my father and me hot drinks, making toast and insisting we eat it. When Ryan left at midnight, my father had shaken his head at my pleas for him to go to bed, and I’d trudged upstairs alone. To my old room, my old habit.
Now I stared at the thin ribbons of skin laid out on the tissue beside me and, rearranging my legs so that the rough heel of my left foot was now uppermost, began peeling again, welcoming the pain.
My mother is gone. The Button Man got away.
– 44 –
Saturday, May 5
Dawn broke, oblivious to my misery, which craved the comfort of darkness. Birds sang, and the sun hauled itself over the horizon for the millionth time. Somewhere, a dog barked, a newspaper landed on a garden path, and flowers turned their faces to the light. I was holed up in bed, fighting a hangover and bracing myself for bad news. I’d spent the night wrestling with my duvet, punching my pillows and beating myself up.