The Devil's Wire

by Rogers, Deborah

  *

  Oh God. It's over. She was going to prison, McKenzie was going into foster care. The game was up. Jennifer turns and faces the wall, rests her forehead against the cool brick, tries to get some air into her lungs. What a screw up. Of course someone would notice he was gone. No human being lived in a vacuum. She'd been stupid not to think of it before now, not to be ready with a plan. Soon there'd be more than just this Patrick guy to deal with, like Hank's brother from San Diego who had the habit of phoning up out of the blue and saying "Hey guys, I'm in town and on my way over," or Hank's old college friends who liked to catch up every once in a while for beer and football or a guys' night out.

  Jennifer tells herself to calm down. She lights a cigarette and stares at the pond, which at this time of year is green and gelatinous. It was Hank's job to put the cover on for winter but with everything that had happened, she'd forgotten to do it. Now two dead sparrows drift across the surface.

  The chill of the night settles her some and she flicks the spent cigarette into the brackish water and returns to the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. She stays there all night, listening to the wind circle outside and whisper through the gaps. The night grows impossibly dark.

  Somewhere along the line it clicks into place and daylight happens and the kitchen turns grey then blue then white. There's no other choice. It's risky, but the only plan she's got. So at precisely 7:30am Jennifer gets to her feet and picks up the phone.

  40

  He tells her his name is Detective Ethan North and shakes her hand briefly. When he does so, his eyes are not on Jennifer but elsewhere, just left of her shoulder, like he's practicing a public speaking technique to focus on some midpoint above the heads of the audience. He isn't much older than her and seems shy or distracted, she can't tell which. There's a continuous, serious frown too, as if he's sleep deprived or has too much on his plate, which makes sense given the splodge of baby food on his crumpled lapel. Jennifer notes too, the dark hair spilling over his shirt collar and thinks that someone ought to tell Detective North he needs a haircut and shave.

  The night before, she'd rehearsed the meeting over and over in her mind because there was no room for error. She had visualized letting the police in, offering coffee, beginning with the story she had developed, affecting just the right amount of concern and indifference.

  But things don't happen that way.

  For one thing, Detective North turns down the coffee and barely looks at her, choosing instead to scribble in that little black book of his.

  "When was the last time you saw your husband?"

  When he speaks it's almost a mumble, which draws attention to his mouth and the faint, silken scar of a hare lip that ran, at an angle, from the bottom left side of his nose to the outer edge of his top lip.

  "Two or three weeks ago," she says. "We were meant to make arrangements about the house, that sort of thing."

  Jennifer tries to remain calm and hopes the blotchy red neck won't give her away.

  "And where was that?" he asks without looking up.

  "Sorry?"

  'Where did you see him?"

  "Here."

  "This house?"

  "Yes."

  And he writes that down, holding the pen so tightly, Jennifer thinks it might snap in two.

  "You're divorced, is that correct?"

  "Not yet. Separated, I suppose."

  Detective North stops writing and looks at the daisy frame photograph on the fridge.

  "That him?"

  She nods.

  "Who's the girl with him?"

  "My daughter, McKenzie."

  "How old is she?"

  "Twelve." She tries for her best smile. "Do you have kids, Detective?"

  He shakes his head and turns back to the notebook. "Never had the pleasure. He been in contact with her?"

  Jennifer glances at the stain on his jacket and concludes it must be his own doing and begins to wonder whether he might be one of those dedicated, dogged, workaholic types married to the job, which would most definitely not be a good thing in the circumstances.

  "Isn't it unusual for a detective to be involved so early in the process?"

  He pauses and his frown grows deeper. "The county takes all missing persons seriously."

  She catches it then, a hook of resentment in his voice.

  "Still, you must have more serious matters to investigate."

  He ignores her and turns back to his notebook and repeats the previous question. "Has your husband had any contact with your daughter?"

  "None that I believe."

  He points a knuckle at the photo. "Can I have it?'

  "Go ahead, if it helps."

  He slips the photograph into his folder.

  "And your full name," he asks, pen poised over his notebook.

  "Jennifer Marie Blake."

  "And his?"

  "Hank Andrew Blake."

  "His date of birth?"

  "12 November 1972."

  There's a beep and Detective North digs into his pocket for his phone with his free hand and thumbs in a password. His eyes narrow as he reads a text message. He returns the phone to his pocket and closes his notebook and lifts his eyes to look at Jennifer, but even then she can't be sure he isn't really glancing past her shoulder, off to the side.

  "There's something else," she says.

  "Okay."

  "He was abusing my daughter."

  His eyes finally land on her face.

  "I went to police to lay a complaint," Jennifer continues. "I'm sure you'll find it when you run your checks. They said I needed more evidence. He wanted to work things out. Of course I said no."

  Detective North opens his notebook again.

  "He seem depressed to you?"

  She paused.

  "He threatened to kill himself but I didn't take it seriously. My primary concern at the time was for my daughter."

  "What about in the past – he ever show any signs of depression?"

  "He had a bad patch. He's a building contractor and the market's been tough. He was on Prozac for a while. Look, I don't know if it means anything, but he mentioned Seattle. Suicide may not be the only possibility."

  "You think he might be in Seattle?" says Detective North, writing it all down.

  "I'm just saying he mentioned it."

  "What are his doctor's details?"

  "His doctor?"

  "Yes."

  "Dr. Little over on Corbett Street."

  He closes the notebook.

  "I'll be in touch," he says.

  He circles around looking for the way out.

  "This way," says Jennifer.

  He follows her down the hallway and Jennifer opens the front door. A rush of crisp, wet air hits them. He looks out into the street and over at the woods, seems to forget she's there.

  "It's pretty," he says and she can't be sure he isn't speaking to himself.

  Then he turns and walks down the path toward his unmarked patrol car. He looks back at Jennifer.

  "Oh, and I'll need to speak to your daughter."

  A fist materializes in her throat. "I didn't want to her involve in this. It will just upset her."

  He scratches the inside of his ear and stares at a rose bush.

  "Procedure," he says.

  Then he gets into his dirty, dented car and drives away.

  41

  The next day Jennifer gets to the clinic early to beat Rosemary and opens up herself. She has trouble remembering the alarm code and nearly sets it off, but then recalls it's the same date she first opened for business. After stepping inside, she allows herself a moment in the stillness. This clinic had been her greatest accomplishment. It had signaled the transformation from ordinary working stiff to business owner. At the time, the sense of pride she had felt was enormous. They had celebrated with a cake in the shape of eyeballs – one green, one blue – the David Bowie cake Hank had called it.

  It all seemed to mean nothing now. That person
no longer exists. That life too, gone.

  She leaves off the lights and walks through to her office and searches through the top drawer of her desk. Among the bull dog clips and boxes of staples she finds the black leather business card holder. She flips through the plastic sleeves until she locates the one she's looking for.

  Amy Stein.

  It had been three years since Jennifer last spoke to her old college friend. They had bumped into each other at the National Optometric conference in St Louis and spent the night in the hotel bar laughing about frat parties, caffeine-fuelled all nighters and the sense of freedom they missed. Funny, beautiful, smart Amy Stein who graduated and moved South to pursue a great career and had done exactly that, eventually creating her own successful eyewear manufacturing business. Amy Stein who slipped Jennifer her business card at the end of the night and said if you ever want a change of scene, I can always use an outstanding woman like yourself.

  Jennifer had saved the card never giving it a second thought. Now that offer seemed like a life line. She picks up the phone and dials the number and hears the spritely hello.

  "Amy?" she says. "It's Jennifer."

  *

  "But we don't know anything about Florida."

  "We can learn."

  "What about school?"

  "There are schools in Florida."

  McKenzie's tears fall freely down her cheeks and onto the knife and fork she had so diligently cleaned with the antiseptic wipes she had taken to carrying around in the front pouch of her black hoodie.

  "Come on, hon, don't cry."

  A waitress hovers nearby, wiping circles on a table, shooting them glances. Jennifer leans forward and lowers her voice. "Everything's going to be okay. You need to trust me on this one."

  "What about Lenise? She's my friend. We can't just leave her behind, she'll be lonely, and Dad? He won't know where to find us."

  "I know this is a big change but think of it as a fresh start. The offer's just too good to pass up."

  And it was – chief operating officer of the new Miami branch, a salary $20,000 higher than she was earning now.

  "But I don't want to go."

  Then McKenzie begins to sob, big chest-heaving numbers, sucking in breath like she's been running a race. The few customers there were begin to stare. A heavy-set woman in a snug navy polo looks pointedly over the rim of her glasses.

  "The boy okay?" she says to Jennifer.

  "She's not a boy," snaps Jennifer.

  "I'm just saying the child don't look fine to me."

  McKenzie regains her composure and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

  "I'm okay," she says.

  Satisfied, the woman turns back to her meal.

  "Please don't make me go."

  "It'll be good for us. I promise," says Jennifer.

  McKenzie looks at her through watery eyes. "When?"

  "A few weeks."

  "That soon?"

  "Amy needs me on the ground before December."

  McKenzie blinks in a daze at the plastic gingham table cloth.

  "There's one other thing," says Jennifer. "Let's keep this to ourselves for now."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Lenise – she might take it badly and I want to pick the right time to tell her."

  McKenzie doesn't say anything.

  "McKenzie, it's important."

  "I heard."

  42

  Jennifer runs across the road to seek cover under the striped awning of Dewberry's Deli. She hasn't thought to bring a jacket or umbrella, and her blouse clings to her skin like a wet suit. Perfect. Any other point in history and she would have probably laughed. But being stuck here wasn't going to help with her ever-increasing to do list. There were books to prepare for the accountant, real estate agents to select, movers to contact, accommodation to arrange, schools to speak to.

  Rain pounds the canvas and others squeeze in, shaking droplets from their coats.

  "Jesus must be angry today," says a woman with a toddler.

  "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus is a friend of mind," sing-songs the little boy, holding out his hand to catch the rain drops.

  This morning the singing and the smell of Polish sausage is a nauseating combination and Jennifer's stomach rolls. She focuses on a jar of green chilies in the shop window and wills the weather to ease. And it does, enough for her to duck away from the growing menagerie outside the deli and make it back to the clinic before another torrent comes down.

  She stops short of the door when she sees Ethan North at reception. He looks up so there's no avoiding him.

  "It's bad out there," he says.

  He still hasn't shaved but at least his lapel is clean.

  "It is," she says, feeling wet hair lick her chin.

  Rosemary hands her a paper towel. "Your mascara has run."

  "Brilliant." Jennifer turns to Detective North. "Come through."

  When they get inside he says, "I called. Left messages."

  Three of them. Listened to and not returned.

  "I know. Sorry." She doesn't offer further explanation.

  He falls silent and glances around the office, taking in the equipment.

  "Have you heard something?" she says, aiming for neutral.

  "No."

  He says nothing more and walks over to the phoroptor and stares at it, keeping his hands in his pockets.

  "I don't know what else I can help you with," she says.

  "Your receptionist mentioned bruises," he says, without looking back.

  Jennifer feels a stab of betrayal. "Did she?"

  "She's just looking out for you," he says.

  "A run in with a car door."

  "Okay."

  Jennifer looks at the floor. A puddle has formed at her feet.

  "I need to get changed," she says.

  His phone rings and he looks at the screen, swipes it to divert.

  "I would like to talk to your daughter," he says, turning around.

  "That's not going to happen."

  "I know you're scared, but I can help."

  Her heart hammers in her chest.

  "I'm not scared," she says.

  "It might not be as bad as you think. Tell me what's on your mind and we'll go from there."

  His phone rings again and he tries to ignore it but it keeps going.

  "Excuse me," he says.

  He answers and looks out the window while he listens. Jennifer can't hear what's being said but the voice on the other end is loud and male.

  "I can't now," says Detective North. "Where's Leah? Pop, I said I can't. Listen, I'll be home soon."

  He rings off and turns around. There's that frown again.

  "Don't let me keep you," says Jennifer.

  "McKenzie," he says.

  She sighs and drops into her chair.

  "She's too fragile," she says. "She never wanted me to go the police. She somehow thinks it's her fault."

  "This is hard on you too I bet."

  "Yes."

  "But we still need to locate Hank."

  "Maybe he doesn't want to be found."

  He nods. "That can and does happen."

  "I just want to put this behind us."

  He turns to her. "I still need to talk to her."

  "You don't believe me," says Jennifer.

  He walks to the door and opens it. "Don't get up," he says.

  She watches him through the rain-streaked window. He pauses to look at the sky and mumbles something, pulls up his collar and walks away.

  43

  It has been four days since the gallery incident and Lenise is still waiting for an apology. All those hurtful, malicious things. Words stung just as much as a fist, if not more. She didn't deserve such a tirade, not after everything she had done to help.

  And now Jenny was punishing her with silence. Such pettiness. She was acting worse than a child. Oh, she was all smiles when she wanted something, but a cold fish when she didn't. Well next time Jennifer reached out, Lenise was goin
g to have to exercise a tough love approach and not give in – Jenny needed to learn her manners.

  There's a knock on the front door and Lenise has to laugh because, well, four days wasn't that long to hold out. But it's not Jennifer.

  "Hey," says McKenzie.

  "Does your mother know you're here?"

  "I don't care what she thinks," says McKenzie, shooting an angry look back at her house. "Can I come in?"

  "Of course."

  McKenzie drops her backpack to the floor and follows Lenise to the kitchen.

  "I wished I knew where he was," she says.

  "Who? Your father?"

  "Mom never tells me anything. But I know she knows where he is."

  Lenise leans on the counter and crosses her arms.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I can tell. Sometimes she looks at me like she's about to say something important but then just turns away. She thinks I'm a kid and can't handle stuff."

  "Well, I wouldn't worry about your father, he can look after himself."

  McKenzie stares into her drink. "I don't want him to think I hate him."

  Lenise pauses. Even after he hurt her.

  "It's time to put yourself first now, girl."

  McKenzie gets to her feet. "I better go before she comes home from work. She'll have a bitch fit if she knows I'm here. She's been really psycho lately."

  "I noticed."

  McKenzie picks up her bag.

  "Wait there a minute, would you," says Lenise.

  Lenise dashes upstairs, returns a minute later.

  "Here." She holds out a necklace – a peach-colored heart stone on a black string. "It's from South Africa. It's called a Morbue stone."

  McKenzie's face lights up. "That's cool."

  "Put it on."

  McKenzie loops it around her neck.

  "Perfect," says Lenise. "Listen, girl, I don't know what your mother's got against me at the moment but any time you want to come over, you can. I won't say a word. Now off you go before the witch of Pine Ridge Road turns you into a toad."

  McKenzie doesn't move.

  "What is it?" says Lenise.

  "Do you really think Dad's okay?"

  Lenise studies McKenzie's face and thinks about telling the child the son of a bitch got exactly what he deserved. "Yes, girl, I do."

  McKenzie seems satisfied then, "There's something else."