See Jane Run

by Joy Fielding

“Daniel?”

  “Yes?” A note of impatience, as if she had interrupted him at something important.

  “It’s Jane Whittaker.”

  “Jane. Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice. I was just on my way out the door. What’s up? Is anything the matter? I tried calling a few times but your housekeeper—”

  “Daniel,” she began, then stopped. What the hell, she decided, there was simply no easy way to say it. “Daniel, did we ever have an affair?”

  Jane heard a slight gasp from the doorway, and imagined that the look on Anne’s face mirrored the one on Daniel’s.

  “What?” Daniel’s voice was a laugh.

  “I’m serious, Daniel. Did we ever have an affair?”

  There was a second’s pause. “What’s going on here, Jane? Is Carole on the extension?”

  “It’s just me, Daniel, and I have to know.”

  “I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”

  “It’s too long a story to go into now. Trust me, Daniel. I’ll tell you everything another time. Right now, I need a simple yes or no. Did we have an affair?”

  “No, of course we didn’t.”

  Jane closed her eyes, cradling the phone against her ear as if it were an infant.

  “God knows I was game,” Daniel continued softly. “I think you knew that, but it was never an issue. Jane,” he said, as if he suddenly realized he shouldn’t have to be explaining any of this, “this conversation doesn’t make any sense. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Danny,” Jane began, “do you know where Emily is?”

  “Emily? No. Why?”

  “Michael has been hiding Emily from me.”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t say anything. Nothing will make any sense to you, and I don’t have time to explain right now. I have to find Emily.”

  “But, Jane—”

  “But if something goes wrong, if they find me before I find Emily, and they succeed in putting me away somewhere, please know that I’m not crazy, Daniel. Please try to help me. I’m not crazy. You know that.”

  “Jane—”

  Jane hung up the phone, turning her attention to her reluctant hostess.

  “Look,” Anne preempted before Jane could say anything, “I don’t know what’s going on here. And truth to tell, I don’t want to know. Either you’re crazy or you’re in the kind of trouble I don’t need, so I’m asking you nicely to please leave. Now.”

  Jane smiled her understanding and her gratitude, reaching over to pat the woman’s arm, but Anne recoiled, and Jane withdrew the gesture, quickly exiting through the still-open front door. Immediately, she heard it close behind her, felt Anne’s eyes on her back as she ran toward Paula’s car and climbed inside.

  She had to find Emily. Michael had her stashed away somewhere. Where? At camp? At his parents’ cottage? With friends? Where? And why? Why, for God’s sake?

  Who could she go to? Who could she ask?

  There were her friends: the Tanenbaums, Diane Brewster, Lorraine Appleby, Eve and Ross McDermott, the others whose names she knew but not their phone numbers or their addresses. It would take too long to try to track them down. She didn’t have that kind of time. Paula would force her way out of the bathroom sooner or later. She’d find some way to notify Michael. He’d get to Emily, make sure she couldn’t be found.

  There was only one person who might be able to tell her where Emily was, she realized, fighting with the car’s engine, trying to get it to turn over. And that person hated her guts. Hated her because she was convinced Jane had slept with her husband. Because that was what Michael had told her, what he wanted her to believe.

  She had to see Carole.

  “I’ll find you, Emily,” Jane muttered, twisting the key in the ignition again and sighing with relief as the engine sprung to life. “I’ll find you.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  PAULA’S car stalled once at a stop sign and once at a red light before coming to a complete standstill in the middle of Glenmore Terrace, a few blocks from her home. “No, not now. Don’t die on me now. I need you. I need you to help me find my baby.”

  But the car, like an unresponsive lover, was indifferent to her pleas. She twisted the key in the ignition until she smelled gas and knew she had flooded the engine, that there was no way that the car would restart. “Goddamn you!” She pounded her fist against the steering wheel, then abandoned the car where it stood.

  A car behind her honked in protest, but Jane didn’t look back, continuing on foot in the direction of her home. It was probably just as well that she didn’t approach her house in Paula’s car. She would be less easy to spot on foot. Assuming anyone was looking for her. Had Paula managed to break free? Had she managed to call Michael and get him out of surgery? Were they waiting, in ambush, for her now?

  Jane crossed the street in a diagonal, feeling the sun hot against her head, then rounded the corner onto Forest Street, still several blocks away from her house. She could sneak between the houses, she thought, trying to force her disparate thoughts into a coherent plan, possibly steal into Carole’s backyard without being seen. Was it possible? she wondered, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach and supporting herself against the trunk of a huge weeping willow tree as she threw up almost three mugfuls of coffee.

  Her knees turned to strings of spaghetti, and she fell into a crumpled heap on the grass beside the tree. Oh, no, she pleaded at the cloudless sky. Not now. I can’t fall apart now. I’m too close. Too close to finding my child. Too close to discovering the truth. Don’t let me collapse now.

  She imagined Michael and Paula running toward her down the street. Poor thing, she heard Michael whisper to a group of concerned onlookers. She’s crazy, you know. Mad as a hatter, she heard Paula confirm. She felt their hands on her arms, wrapping her into a waiting straitjacket, leading her into a nameless van headed nowhere. She saw her little girl disappear forever.

  With fresh resolve, Jane forced herself to her feet, ignoring the cramping in her stomach, the pinpricks in her arms and legs, the growing numbness creeping up her neck. If anyone is looking out their windows, she thought, they probably think I’m drunk. Poor Dr. Whittaker, she could hear them cluck. Such a cross he has to bear.

  Was anyone watching her? She strained to see a curious face peering through parted curtains, to catch a pair of eyes making a hasty retreat from behind a bay window. She saw no one, felt no one’s gaze upon her. I am invisible, she determined, applying a child’s logic to calm her nerves—if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, she repeated as she neared Carole’s house. She ducked behind a black car parked on the street just in case her determination failed to convince others.

  Her own house looked quiet. The front door was closed. There was no telltale stirring at any of the windows. There were no cars parked in the driveway. Everything looked peaceful, even serene.

  Two houses away from Carole’s home, Jane picked up speed. Reaching the garage, she lowered her head and ran toward Carole’s backyard, her heart racing faster than her feet, her stomach somersaulting ahead of her, her head hanging on for dear life. She attached herself to the side of the house like a clinging vine, pressing her back against the wooden slats, finally collapsing beside a trellis covered with peach-colored roses.

  And what would she say to Carole? That Michael had lied to her, lied to both of them. That she and Daniel had never had an affair. That she needed to know what had happened just before she disappeared. That she needed to know where Michael was hiding Emily.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my backyard?”

  The voice was harsh, intrusive. Jane looked up to see Carole’s father bearing down on her, his ghostly white legs sticking out from beneath a pair of pink Bermuda shorts that had probably once belonged to Carole. The shorts hung on the old man’s frail form as lifelessly as clothes on a hanger. His skin was the color of skim milk.

  “It’s me, Jane Whittaker,” she whispered, realizing that sh
e didn’t know his name. “Your neighbor?”

  “What are you doing in my rosebushes?”

  Jane slid up the side of the trellis until she was almost standing. She felt something grab hold of her and twisted her head around, expecting to see Paula or Michael, discovering instead that a thorn from one of the roses had attached itself to Michael’s shirt. She gently extricated herself from the thorn, pricking her finger nonetheless, and watched with fascination as a small drop of blood formed a neat raised circle at her fingertip.

  “You hurt yourself?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’m Fred Cobb,” he told her, as if they had been exchanging introductions. They shook hands, the old man carefully avoiding the blood on her finger, even as it made a trail toward her palm. “You here to sell me something?”

  Jane looked warily around to ascertain whether they were being watched. “No, Mr. Cobb,” she said, wondering if Carole was at home. “I’m not selling anything. I’m here to talk to Carole.”

  “What about?”

  “About my daughter. Emily?”

  “Don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “She’s seven years old. Very pretty. Long brown hair. You’ve probably seen her playing in the front yard. Your grandchildren used to baby-sit for her.”

  “What’d you say her name was?”

  “Emily.”

  “Don’t know anybody by that name,” he repeated, and Jane wondered why she was wasting her valuable time.

  “So, you wouldn’t happen to know where she is right now,” Jane stated. A long shot.

  “Oh, I know where she is.”

  “You do?”

  “She’s inside the house.”

  “The house? Emily?”

  “Emily? I don’t know any Emily. This is Carole’s house.”

  Jane released a deep breath of air. “Carole’s inside the house?”

  “Where else would she be? What are you doing here? Are you selling something?”

  “Mr. Cobb,” Jane began, moving closer to him, watching him take several steps back, “can you tell me whether anyone else is in the house? Does Carole have any visitors?”

  “Carole doesn’t have a lot of visitors since Daniel left. She was never very good at making new friends.”

  Jane nodded understanding, both at what he was saying and at her predicament. Clearly she would get no help from Fred Cobb.

  “I’m hungry,” the old man stated abruptly. “I think I’ll tell Carole to make me some lunch.” He immediately shook his head, as if he had thought better of it. “No, she’ll tell me I just had breakfast.”

  “I’d be happy to ask her for you, Mr. Cobb,” Jane told him, watching a smile extend the wrinkles at his mouth.

  “Would you do that? You’re very sweet. Carole hates for me to pester her. She gets very angry. Sometimes she threatens to have me put away.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t mean it, Mr. Cobb.”

  “I’m sure she does. But I don’t care. Let her put me away, if that’s what she wants. It’s all the same to me.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Aw, what would you young people know about being put away? You’re all convinced you’re going to live forever. And stay young doing it.” He laughed. “I wish I could be here fifty years from now, see how all you folks make out. That’d be good for a chuckle or two. Anyway, I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll ask Carole about getting you something to eat.”

  “Why don’t you let him ask me himself?” Carole’s voice cut through the warm air like a knife slicing through a layer of meringue. J.R. began barking beside her. “Quiet, J.R.”

  “Damn dog. You gonna put him away too?” Fred Cobb teased.

  “There’s a leftover cheese sandwich in the fridge, if you want it, Dad.”

  “What kind of cheese?”

  “The kind you like.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said with exaggerated politeness, and excused himself to go back into the house as Carole turned her attention to Jane.

  Jane’s back pressed against the trellis, the rose thorns pricking her flesh through Michael’s shirt. She imagined her back stained with little freckles of blood, saw the tiny red spots grow and merge until they formed a large red ball that seeped through the front of her shirt, leaving it covered with blood. “I need to know,” she told Carole calmly, “exactly what happened the day I disappeared.”

  “Why don’t you come inside?” Carole offered. “We can talk there.”

  “How are you feeling?” Carole asked, once inside her living room.

  “I’m not sure,” Jane answered honestly, carefully perusing the room, which was painted white and carpeted blue. No one was hiding behind the mismatched furniture. Only dustballs were visible beneath an old wing chair. A large crystal vase filled with mostly dead irises sat neglected in the middle of a dirt-streaked glass coffee table.

  “My cleaning lady quit,” Carole said, following Jane’s eyes. “I can’t seem to be bothered finding a replacement. Any suggestions?”

  Jane thought of Paula locked in her bathroom, wondered if Carole had somehow found out. She shook her head. “There’s so much I have to say to you, I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “I’m not sure we have anything to say to each other.”

  “I know you think that Daniel and I had an affair….”

  “And you’re going to tell me you didn’t. Spare me. Daniel’s already called.”

  “Daniel called? When?”

  “Just a little while ago. He said he had a very strange phone call from you, that you asked him whether the two of you had had an affair. Not knowing about your extremely delicate condition,” she continued sarcastically, “he was having great difficulty understanding the nature of your question. I told him that while it must certainly be a blow to his ego to realize just how forgettable his love-making really was, it would probably be better for all concerned if we could all put that sordid little detail out of our minds, the way you’ve managed to do so successfully.”

  “But Daniel and I didn’t have an affair.”

  “So he told me.”

  “But you don’t believe him?”

  “Why would I believe anything he tells me at this point?”

  “Why would you believe Michael?” Jane asked in reply.

  “What?”

  “It was Michael who told you that Daniel and I had an affair, wasn’t it?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters because it’s Michael who’s been lying.”

  “Why would Michael lie to me?”

  “He’s been lying to all of us.”

  “I repeat, why?”

  Jane shook her head, feeling dizzy and lowering herself into the faded cream-colored wing chair. “To drive a wedge between us. To keep you away from me. To keep me from finding out the truth.”

  Carole made a half turn, as if she was about to leave the room, then sat down instead on the sofa opposite Jane. “The truth about what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Something happened just before I disappeared. Something so awful that the only way I could deal with it was by forgetting it. By forgetting everything.” She looked to the ceiling. “Carole, how did my mother die?”

  “What? Hold on here, Jane. These transitions are too fast for me. I’m having a hard time keeping up.”

  “How did my mother die?”

  Carole took a deep breath and lifted her hands into the air, as if she had decided to give in and go along with whatever Jane wanted. “She was killed in a car accident last year.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Jane admonished, watching the look of shock that crossed Carole’s face.

  “I’m not the one who tells lies around here, Jane. For Christ’s sake, why would I lie about something like that?”

  “My mother was killed in a car accident?”

  “I thought Michael told you all this.”

  “He did.”
<
br />   “But you didn’t believe him?”

  “You didn’t believe Daniel,” Jane reminded her.

  “The circumstances are a little different.”

  “Where did the accident take place?”

  “Not far from here. Your mother was on her way into Boston. Some man went through a stop sign, plowed right into her. You were devastated. You’d been very close.”

  “Who else was in the car?”

  “What do you mean, who else?”

  “Who was driving my car?”

  “Your mother was driving. You were originally supposed to go with her, from what I understand, but you got called to some meeting at Emily’s school, so you had to cancel out. Something like that, I think.”

  “I wasn’t driving?”

  “I just told you, you had a meeting.”

  “Michael told me that I was driving.”

  “What? Don’t be absurd, Jane. Why would Michael tell you something like that?”

  “He told me that I was driving, and that Emily was also in the car.”

  “Emily?”

  “He told me that she was dead, that she died in my arms.”

  “Jane, this is crazy talk.”

  “But my daughter isn’t dead, is she, Carole?”

  “Of course not. Of course she isn’t dead.”

  “Where is she, Carole?”

  Carole rose to her feet. Jane noticed a new expression creep into her eyes, one she hadn’t seen before, and realized it was the same look that had transformed Anne Halloren-Gimblet’s otherwise soft features. It was fear, Jane understood, forcing herself to her feet, blocking Carole’s exit from the room.

  “Where is she, Carole?” she asked again.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Where is Michael hiding Emily?”

  “Jane, listen to yourself. Listen to what you’re saying. Does it make any sense? Daniel told me you said something about Michael hiding Emily. But why would Michael have to hide Emily anywhere? Listening to you now, looking at you, I’d have to say that if he is hiding her, it’s to protect her. It’s for her own good.”

  “No. It’s for Michael’s own good!”