Cuts Like Glass

by Dana Feldman

  “Whoa, keep your eyes on the road,” he warns as a passing car honks angrily at us. It appears that I’ve slightly veered into the right lane. I’m admittedly not altogether with the program here. I’m distracted. And I’m very tired.

  “Shit,” I say loudly, weaving back to the left. “My bad.”

  “I had asked you what you do for work,” he repeats, a tinge of nervous laughter in his voice. “I realized that we’ve never discussed your career. You seem like a driven woman.”

  “You mean Type A?” I tease, though I know this to be true about myself.

  “I wasn’t saying that,” he replies, smiling.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first. I was an interior designer, mostly for offices, some residential,” I answer.

  “Was?”

  “Yes, I had a company, did quite well for myself. But, well, after my husband was gone, I gave it all up.” I omit the fact that most of my clients were friends of Gabe and the rest were referrals from those. I was a pariah after that night. No one would hire me. I lost everything.

  “And why would you do that?” he asks, suddenly very serious.

  “To be honest,” and this part is true, “I really didn’t want to do it anymore. It brought back too many memories. I was just done.”

  “So now what?”

  “Well, I’ve spent the better part of the last year thinking about that…”

  “And?”

  “I have a few ideas,” I say, wondering if I should even bother telling him. It might prompt questions from him that I’m not ready to answer.

  “Care to share any of them?”

  “Hmm,” I say, thinking for a moment.

  “You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable,” he says, a slight disappointment in his tone. I realize how much of himself that he’s shared with me and realize how I’m coming across.

  “It’s just that I haven’t told anyone, that’s all,” I say, trying to explain my ambivalence away as shyness and nothing else.

  “Understood. These things can be personal,” he says.

  He hit the nail on the head, but I decide to go ahead and trust.

  “I haven’t told anyone because I’m not sure if I’m going to do it or not; but I’d like to start a safe place, a shelter of sorts, for battered women and children. I’ve been doing the research, and the statistics into domestic abuse are frightening. I’d like to do something to help.”

  Once I say this, I hope that he doesn’t ask me any questions in regards to my past. I am willing to discuss how I met my husband, even the night he disappeared, that sort of thing. Anything beyond that is strictly off limits to anyone. Even Dr. Bryer.

  “Well, I for one hope that you do it,” he says. I realize that we’ve both been affected by abuse, ironically by the same man. “I don’t see you as Type A at all. I just think you’re strong and driven.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m afraid that I’ll break down if I do. No one has ever seen me the way Peter does. I think that I came across the way I did with Gabe because I was so often left frustrated, feeling like he never understood me. But Peter seems to, and this I’m afraid of.

  “I think you should do it,” he says matter-of-factly, after a few moments of silence.

  “Thank you,” I say. I wish that I’d met you instead, I think to myself.

  I don’t bother fighting the smile now crossing my face. I wonder what it would be like to have a normal life with Peter. I had a taste of normalcy with Gabe, for that first year anyway. That year was the best of my life, and I crave finding that again with someone. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to truly have that secure feeling again, or if my life will always have that stain on it from him. Would I ruin it by constantly wondering if I’d lose it or could I actually let go and enjoy it? I hope to have the opportunity to find out. I look at Peter again and imagine what a normal day with him would look like. I’m not sure that either of us is cut out for an ordinary life, a typical way of being. I crave healthy. I crave real.

  “So, my friend, Chris, the one who owns the boat store in the marina, he has an opening if you’re still interested. I just supposed that you’d like that kind of work, for now anyway.” I say, changing the subject.

  I leave out the fact that Bob’s research into Peter led me in this direction. I knew that Peter had loved to work on cars and motorcycles. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t allude to knowing any of this. But I figured that he would probably enjoy working on boats, as well.

  “I am,” he said. “When can I start?”

  “As soon as you like. Monday?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says, and though I don’t dare take my eyes off the road again, I can see through my periphery, him looking at me, smiling. This is so easy with him. Things were never easy with Gabe after that first year. Never. Not even when they were good and passionate. There were always so many obstacles and issues.

  “Great, I’ll let him know. I’ll give you his number too. Maybe you should call him before you start. Just to introduce yourself to him. Only if you want to, I mean.”

  “Sounds great. And I will.”

  “I think that the two of you will get along well,” I say, thinking about how I met Chris, years ago, around the marina. He’d just returned from a tour in Iraq, was having some of the same difficulties adjusting to civilian life as Peter is now. I noticed that he was struggling, and I offered him friendship. I believe that I was the one person that he really confided in about things.

  He was the one who maintained our boat and since Gabe was always working, I was the one who would call him when we needed his services. Over the years he and I became good friends. Gabe never approved. He never approved of any of my friendships with men.

  And Chris was the one person who noticed the change in the way Gabe treated me, and he made sure to tell me that it wasn’t ok. He began to sort of look after me in his own way. He never said anything to anyone, not even to Gabe, but I always knew that he would be there for me if I ever needed him.

  “I hope so. I love fixing anything broken, making it whole again. I’m looking forward to getting started. I just want to live a normal life again.”

  Can you fix me? I think, knowing full well that I’m the only one who can do that. We hit a traffic snarl just as we close in on Los Angeles. We slow down and join the mass of cars all seemingly heading in the same direction.

  “Welcome back to Los Angeles,” I tease. He gives me a knowing smile. “So, other than the Marines, what type of work have you done?”

  “I went in straight after I graduated college. I’d studied Art History, wanted to be an artist.”

  “What kind?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Painting and sculpting are my favorites. Maybe one of these days I’ll become a teacher.”

  I think about just how extraordinary both of our life circumstances have been, and yet we each strive to lead such normal lives. The simple things, I think, are the best things.

  “I think that you’d be a wonderful teacher,” I say and wonder about that normal life again.

  By the time we get to the marina, I’m both hungry and tired. I’d been to the market earlier and fully stocked up on food.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “Starving.”

  “Great. Let’s head straight home, and I’ll make us some lunch.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he says, eyeing the boats bobbing in the water. He takes in a deep breath of the salty ocean air. As we stop at a red light, I look over at him. He looks happy. If I’m to be honest, I’m happy too.

  “I live in that building just up there on the left,” I say, pointing. “My patio faces the boats.”

  I check my rearview mirror and wonder if that black Land Rover a few cars back is the same one that I saw on the freeway an hour or so ago. Can’t be. I’m just being paranoid. There are a lot of them around here.

  This is absurd, truly crazy. Even if Gabe is still alive, well I know that he is, he’d know to s
tay away. I remind myself how insane I would sound to anyone right now if I were to say these things out loud. It’s considered an obvious reality, one that I’m unwilling to accept, that my husband is dead. But I saw that look in his eyes that night, and I knew that he’d been planning his escape for a very long time. It was simply a matter of opportunity. If I’m right, he’ll be very careful to remain in the background. If he’s spotted, then what I believe to be his plan is ruined.

  “Something wrong?” Peter asks, watching me as I scan the road behind us.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I just wanted to show you something.”

  I pass my apartment complex. I know these streets like the back of my hand. If I am being followed, I’ll know it soon enough.

  A few turns later I pull up to where many of the boat docks are located. I don’t pull into a parking spot. That would leave us trapped and vulnerable should the car pull up behind us, blocking us in. Instead I pull just to the side where I can easily pull away if need be.

  “Look over there,” I say, pointing out a family of sea lions sunning themselves on the docks beside the boats. As Peter looks in the direction I’m pointing, I quickly check the rearview mirror again. I watch as the black SUV drives past us, slowing down a bit. The windows are tinted. It could be anyone. Or it could be Gabe. I waited for a year knowing full well that eventually he’d come out of hiding.

  Why now, Gabe? Why the hell now?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DEAD MEN DON’T TALK

  This last week has found me pretending that life is normal, that Peter and I are not being watched or followed. I don’t want to tell him about Gabe, not until I’m absolutely certain that it’s him following us. I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want him to leave.

  Truth is, he’s acclimating well here. The last thing that I want to do is to cause him any problems while adjusting to civilian life. I’m afraid of what telling him too soon, or at the wrong time, might do.

  It’s inevitable that he’ll be angry with me for withholding things from him. My hope is that he’ll at least give me a chance to explain why I didn’t tell him the truth from the beginning. Perhaps even understand why, and stay.

  This week with Peter here has been good. Easy. Normal. Peter has been working with Chris, and from what I hear, he’s doing a great job so far. I also know that the two have had many of the same life experiences, and if anyone can help him, it’s Chris.

  I’ve been seeing Dr. Bryer regularly, which I have to concede, has been helpful. I’m now on my way to meet with Evelyn. This time we’re meeting in Manhattan Beach. A bit closer to L.A. than usual, but this is where she’d asked to meet. I figure, if she’s ok with meeting this close, then who am I to argue?

  I pull into the parking lot just outside of the café she’d suggested. Not too busy. Good. Too many people make me nervous. It’s too hard to monitor everything going on in a crowd.

  I walk into the quaint beachside restaurant. I count twelve visible customers. Some could be using the restroom. Scanning the place, I can also see two cooks through an opening behind a counter, a busboy, four waitresses and a hostess.

  I’ve learned to do this as of late. Scan faces for anyone who looks suspicious. Scan roadways for black Land Rovers. I know that Evelyn is already here. I spotted her car parked out front.

  I immediately see her in a back corner booth, her back to the wall. I only feel safe facing the wall, leaving myself exposed, when I’m with her. She has my back, this I know. I slide into the seat opposite her and sink into the cushion. The red leather is peeling off and the wood table is chipped beyond repair. People have even carved their initials into it. I run my fingers over the indentations.

  “You made it,” she says, her blue eyes peering over the laminate menu.

  “Yes,” I say, just as our waitress brings over two steaming cups of coffee, cream and sweetener. Evelyn immediately picks hers up and takes a hearty gulp.

  I carefully add my cream and sweetener just so, getting it to the right shade of tan.

  “You’re probably wondering why I asked you to meet me here so last minute,” she starts.

  These meetings are usually planned at least a day in advance. I was surprised and slightly concerned when I got her text this morning asking me to meet with her; that it was very important. I have to see you today, it read in part.

  “Yes, I have to admit that your text threw me off a bit.”

  “I know. But I’ve been doing a bit of research, and there are a few things that I’d like to discuss with you. About Gabe,” she adds, as if I wouldn’t put things together. I love Evelyn. She’s been a true friend. But sometimes it feels like she’s protecting me to a point where I worry for her safety. She puts a lot on the line for me, and it makes me feel guilty sometimes.

  “Ok,” I say, fearing what will come next, but readying myself for whatever it might be.

  “When Gabe went missing we dusted his office, your home, his car and the boat for prints. We got no match to anyone on record. Other than your prints, that is.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Those prints don’t match Gabe anywhere in the system. His name doesn’t appear anywhere in Interpol. Your husband was, or is, a virtual ghost as far as Interpol is concerned. However, the fingerprints used on his CA driver license and passport, belong to a man named Alfred ‘Freddie’ White. Does this name ring any bells?”

  I think for a moment and shake my head. “I’ve never heard of him,” I say finally, nervously. I do not like where this is headed. “Who is he?”

  She pulls a thick green file from her purse and slaps it down on the table between us, facing me. She opens it and thumbs through the pages as she explains who this guy is, or was, as I’m quick to find out.

  “He went missing in 2008. He was found in a shallow grave about six months later. The animals had gotten to him. He was scattered bones and shredded clothing. We didn’t know who he was at first. He was just another John Doe found by some hikers in Nevada.”

  “And?” I ask, my heart beating rapidly, the room around me spinning. I can hear the chatter of other diners, even laughter. The whole world isn’t falling apart, just the part I live in.

  “Well, the medical examiner was backed up at the time. When he finally got to his remains, he was able to make a positive match via DNA. And the name Alfred White came up.”

  “What were you able to find out about him?”

  “He was a transient for the most part. The last known address we have for him was in Bakersfield in 2001. Kept a low profile. Had only one run-in with the law when he was a juvenile. The record had been expunged, which makes it very difficult to find, but we were able to dig it up,” she explains. Now I understand Bob’s difficulty finding the ID on the prints on record for Gabe.

  “White’s prints were in the Interpol database. We knew very little about him until recently. After Gabe went missing, and we were searching for him: fingerprints, etc., White’s name came up, linking us to a case the FBI has been working on for years,” she says, pausing, allowing me to absorb everything she’s telling me.

  “There’s evidence that White was involved in organized crime,” she says. Her eyes watch me over the rim of her coffee cup as she takes another long gulp.

  “Organized crime?” I ask, wondering how this will tie into Gabe. He’s a lunatic, yes, but he was a financial advisor and possessive husband. Oh, and yes, a liar, not a career criminal.

  “We have reason to believe that White had some connection to a group of professional ‘problem solvers’ more commonly known as hit men. These are the best of the best in their underground world, the absolute top dogs.”

  “Hired guns?” I ask, still wondering what in the hell any of this has to do with Gabe, but knowing that her story will somehow link back to him, to me. It always does. Gabe, I’m coming to learn, is like an onion. With every layer that you peel back there are many more to get through. And with every layer the stench makes your eyes water more and more.


  “Yes, and White had eluded law enforcement for decades, through various aliases, that sort of thing. He was quite a brilliant chameleon known for completely reinventing himself when need be. White had become an informant. The Feds had him by the balls on an embezzlement charge, and rather than go to prison, he agreed to talk. He was the first in decades of this particular group that they’d been able to get their hands on. And someone went to extremes not to leave a calling card. In this case, Mr. White was so badly decomposed it was hard to find anything. At first, that is.”

  I anxiously lean forward in my seat. Just then the waitress comes up to us and refills our coffees. As she walks away, I prod Evelyn to continue.

  “The Medical Examiner was able to confirm that his throat had been slashed almost to the bone. There was just enough DNA for the ME to work with. As I said, there wasn’t much left of White by the time they found him. This was a professional job, and these people rarely leave any bodies around for law enforcement. But when they do, there’s usually very little to work with.”

  “So, this time you got lucky?”

  “Mr. White,” she begins, stopping to once again scan the room ensuring that no one looks suspicious, “he wanted out. He talked with the Feds, begged for a plea deal, tried to help them take down the people he was working with. They obviously found out that he’d been talking.”

  My head is throbbing.

  “They were always one step ahead of law enforcement. No matter what, we could never catch up. Anyone who betrayed them would be killed. They’d always find out if we were closing in, if we had any of them in our pockets. This time they were sloppy, in a rush perhaps.”

  “And you’re saying that Gabe was using this man’s fingerprints on his identification?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Dead men don’t talk. Yet he was still useful to them. We have reason to believe that this isn’t the first time they’ve killed and then used the prints from one of their victims.”

  “I don’t understand. Who are they? And why would Gabe be so sloppy as to use White’s prints?”