by Andrew Gross
I left the car and walked up the short walkway leading to the house and onto the porch, trying to calm my heart, which was beating fast.
Anxiously I rang the bell.
I heard footsteps inside, and a middle-aged woman with flecks of gray in her short, curly hair came to the door.
“Hello,” she said, and when she didn’t recognize me, she asked in a pleasant drawl, “Can I help you?”
“Hi.” I stepped forward. “Is Mr. Barrow at home?”
“Mr. Barrow . . . ?” The woman hesitated with a slight look of surprise. “May I ask why?”
I stepped forward. “I was sent by his insurance company. To take a look at his car.”
“His car . . . ?”
“A 2004 Buick Marquis? Plate number ADJ-496 . . . It was in an accident, I was told.”
The woman looked at me curiously and shook her head. “There must be some mistake. There hasn’t been any accident . . .”
“You’re sure?” I asked her again. “Maybe if Mr. Barrow is at home . . . ?” Here in the Deep South people were generally polite and unsuspicious. If I were in South Florida, she’d already be asking to see my ID.
“I’m afraid my father isn’t here. He’s . . . He’s been ill. He’s been living in a nursing home in Ladson for the past six months.”
“Oh.” I stared back, suddenly feeling foolish and intrusive. “I’m very sorry. Is it here? Mr. Barrow’s car. Any chance I could just take a look at it? I don’t understand the confusion. Just to be sure . . .”
The plates could always have been stolen.
She thought about it for only a second, then stepped out and led me around the side of the porch. “It’s in the garage. But I assure you, it hasn’t been in any accident.” She went down another set of steps that led to the garage, pushed a button, and the garage door started to go up.
There was a white Buick in one of the two bays. With a South Carolina plate. ADJ-4967.
“You’re right. Clearly, it hasn’t been in any accident,” I said, shrugging.
“I can assure you, it hasn’t been out of the garage in the past six months,” the woman said. “Since my father left. For the life of me, I can’t see how anyone could have thought . . .”
“No, probably our error,” I said. This clearly wasn’t the car I was looking for. “I’m sorry to bother you. I hope your father gets well.”
“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I don’t know. He’s eighty-six. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
I went straight back to my car, before it occurred to her to ask for some ID or for the name of the insurance company I represented. There was also the fear that she might call the police, especially after I noticed her looking at my car.
I drove away, out of town the way I had come, and when I thought I was safe, I pulled into a gas station, my heart still pounding.
You’re no Harrison Ford, Henry . . .
One down.
ADJ-4653. That was next. A town named Martinsville.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Daddy? Daddy?”
I’d heard the ring and grabbed one of the phones from the passenger seat, and saw the call was from Hallie!
I didn’t know if I was alerting half the police in Florida, and I didn’t care! Over the past twenty-four hours I must’ve tried her cell a dozen times.
I pulled to the side of the road. “Hallie? Hi, baby, how are you doing?” My heart beat joyously. “I’m so glad to hear your voice! I’m—”
“Daddy, he just said I could tell you that I was all right, that’s all. And I am. But he said he has something to say to you. And whatever it is, Daddy, please do it. He’s—”
“Hallie, just hang in there!” Tears sprang up in my eyes and I cradled the phone in both hands. “Your mother and I both love you very much, you know that, honey, and we’re going to get you out of there. I promise, honey, you just be brave—”
“Aw, that’s sweet, Doc, really it is,” a man’s voice replied. Everything in my body turned to ice. “I did plan on filling you in on things just a tad more, but truth is, I’m really kind of enjoying thinking of how it is for you out there. Can’t go back, can’t go forward. How does that feel? You have to admit, that gun show thing was a pretty good piece of work, huh? So tell me, how’s it been for you these past few days?”
The ice now turned to fire. “What is it you want? Just tell me.” I felt myself gripping the phone like it was a weapon. “I’ll give it to you. Please . . . Just let my daughter go. She’s got nothing to do with anything.”
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Doc,” the man replied calmly. “She’s got everything to do with everything. She’s part of you! But don’t you be too worried about her. It’s you I’d be focused on. Hopefully the police aren’t checking out where you are right now.”
“I told you before, you harm one hair on her head, you sonovabitch, and I’ll—”
“So how’s it feel, Doc?” He cut me right off. “How’s it feel to have your life taken from you. How’s it feel to lose everything you hold dear?”
My chest tightened. I couldn’t believe the hatred this animal seemed to hold for me. The blame. I was about to say, Why? What have I done to you? Why are you doing this?
But before I could get the words out, I heard him say, “More to come. More to come for sure, Doc.”
Another click and he was gone.
“Hallie!” I shouted, knowing I was talking only to a machine. “Hallie . . .”
I started to cry.
That old bromide came to mind: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And what was stronger than a father’s will to save his child? Nothing. It coursed through me like a river overflowing its banks, stronger than the urge to have my life back or the will to clear my name. It was everything.
But now I didn’t know how I felt. Closer to her or farther away? I didn’t know where she was. All I had was this stupid list of cars, and I didn’t even know if they would lead me to her. Or to nowhere. The clock was ticking.
And I couldn’t even let the people who might find her help me.
I called Liz. She answered on the third ring, expectantly. “Yes . . .”
All I could say was, “I spoke with her, Liz.” I felt so alone and helpless. I didn’t even tell her I had spoken with him. “She’s okay. For now.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“’Manda . . . ?”
It took a moment for her to reply. And when she did it was clearly with hesitation. She didn’t seem so happy to hear from him. “Hello, Daddy . . .”
It felt good to Vance to hear her voice. Like he was back home, and on a Sunday, and she came out to ask what he was working on, in the wood closet, and things hadn’t happened as they did. “How they treatin’ you there, honey?”
“Okay. I guess. I’m learning. My cell mate scares me, though. She’s in here for hitting her husband with a pipe and cracking open his head. She makes me nervous, the way she stares at me. I don’t belong here, Daddy. You know, I don’t—”
“I’m sorry to hear all that, ’Manda.” He was sitting at the desk in his shabby hotel room, looking out at cars shooting by on the highway.
“I just don’t. But I’ve been reading. They got a lot of books here. I’m reading this one about a handsome lawyer from a small town in Alabama named Atticus, who’s defending this black man, who the whole town thinks is guilty of rape, but he’s not. It’s written from the point of view of his little daughter, named Scout. I know he’s going to get him off. It makes me feel good.”
Vance thought the man in the book sounded like a lot better father than he had been; that Amanda kind of wished he was her dad. It made him feel diminished, jealous of a character in a book he didn’t even know. “That’s good to hear, honey. I’m glad.”
“And I wrote this letter . . . To the husband of the woman I killed. He’s in Afghanistan. I told him I don’t know why things happen, but that they do, and I wasn’t old enough
at first to understand my blame in all this, but now I do and how sorry I was. That if I could make it up to him, I would . . . How I would gladly change places with his wife if I could. That it was clear she deserved to live and have a family more than I did. And her baby . . .” Amanda began to sob.
“You don’t have to do that, ’Manda. There are others as guilty as you. That’s why I’m calling . . .”
“Yes, I have to do it, Daddy! I do. It made me feel good. To see myself for what I am. I know he won’t ever answer, and it don’t matter, but the counselor here says I have to face up to it. To what I did. To make amends—”
“I understand the concept of amends, honey. That’s why I’m calling you. I’ve—”
“So where you been anyway? I spoke to Aunt Linda and she said you haven’t been around here at all.”
“I’ve been working on your situation, ’Manda. How to make it right.”
“And ol’ Wayne, now there’s a fellow for ya. He’s suddenly not around here either. Just up and split. No one can find a trace of his ass.” She laughed bitterly. “I’m sure you don’t mind that none.”
“Wayne’s where he deserves to be, Amanda. For what he did.”
“Huh, Daddy . . . ?” Her voice focused in more. “What d’you mean?”
“Nothing, honey. I don’t mean anything by it. ’Cept he deserves to be gone for what he did to you.”
“It wasn’t Wayne, Daddy. I understand that now. It was me!”
Vance didn’t answer her. She just didn’t see things clearly, didn’t understand about matters of personal responsibility and right and wrong. She still had the point of view of a child, he thought, and it was probably for the best.
All he wanted to tell her anyway was that he loved her.
“You know, I know I wasn’t always the best dad, Amanda . . . Like that person in the book.”
“You were all right, Daddy. You did what you could.”
“I remember I once went to visit you at school. On one of those father-daughter class days. You were maybe eight or nine . . .”
“Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing you at school, Daddy. Even once.”
“It was back in Florida. I was late. I couldn’t get off shift. But I went this one time. I got there, but everyone had left. Someone already drove you home. But this teacher let me go in. To your classroom. All by myself. And I saw this drawing you made. They had it on the wall. I think it was of me. It was a man in a uniform . . . with a blue cap. And he was chasing someone. With a gun. The teacher said it was part of some exercise your class was doing. How you were supposed to draw the person you admired most.”
“I remember that, Daddy. It was you. Before . . . Anyway, I don’t recall you ever telling me about it. You probably went straight to the bar afterward and got yourself drunk. You probably told all them about it.”
“I probably did.” That sounded about right, as Vance recalled. “But it made me realize, thinking about it, that there was a time where you did think of me in that way. As someone you admired some. Who stood up for the right things. Like that character in your book, Atticus . . .”
It took her a while to answer. “I suppose.”
“And I was hoping you might think of me like that again. Because that’s what I’m doing, Amanda. I’m making it all right again. For you. As much as I can.”
Vance had this thought that probably there was a time in all of our lives when we are all of us innocent. When we love our fathers and mothers. Because, what else did we know? When we all want to stand out and be someone good. And do good things. Before the world sets us on our paths and we become who we are.
Even his ’Manda had that inside.
John Schmeltzer too, no doubt.
“So, Amanda . . .” Vance cleared his throat. “I may not be seeing you for a while . . .”
She chuckled darkly. “You drunk, Daddy? You sure are sounding it.”
He was about to say no, and the silence grew deep before he could answer. And while it lasted, Vance wished he could say a lot of things to her. Like how he did love her. How he just wasn’t able to show it for a long time. Like how he was actually taking care of her now, as he knew he should have taken care of her back then. Making things right.
But instead, a smile crossed his lips, in his dingy motel room in South Florida. A drop of liquor hadn’t touched his lips in weeks, but all he said was, “Yeah, honey, I’m drunk.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
On the morning he was sure his life would come to an end, Vance stepped through the door into the offices of the fancy medical building near Palm Beach.
A metal plaque on the wall read, Dr. Henry Steadman, Cosmetic Surgery.
He looked around and took a calming breath. The place was decorated to the hilt. Why would that surprise anyone? He stepped up to the counter. There was an attractive woman there, in regular street clothes. And a bunch of other women behind her, some in green nurses’ clothing; others on the phone, or doing paperwork. He felt for the gun under his jacket tucked into the back of his belt.
“Dr. Steadman,” he said. “I have an appointment.”
“Mr. Hofer, correct?” the woman behind the counter greeted him pleasantly.
Vance nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. There’s a bunch of forms for you to fill out. You know how it is.” She handed him a clipboard with several papers attached. “Dr. Steadman won’t be very long. Just bring these back up when you’re ready. And let me know if I can help you with anything.”
He tried to smile, and took it all back to a chair. That woman didn’t have to die. She hadn’t done anything. None of these people had. He was pleased to find no one else in the waiting room.
No, only Steadman had to die.
He filled out the forms as best he could, and went over what he would say when he saw the doctor. In truth, he hadn’t practiced anything. Other than, You are the man responsible for my little Amanda’s ruination. Do you understand that? Do you understand your responsibility? He’d written it all down, why he was doing this, tried to make his thoughts clear. He had this note on him. He’d hoped people might look at him as a kind of a hero—how’d he’d stood up. For his daughter. Found the source. And rubbed it out.
If not as a hero, at least as someone with the will to separate right from wrong.
Yes, that was enough, he decided.
He filled out the forms, writing down his real address for once, back in Acropolis, and gave them back to the pleasant gal at the desk.
“Great,” she said. “Why don’t you come through the door, and we’ll bring you into another room and the doctor will see you soon.”
His heartbeat picked up. “Okay.”
The woman led him down a hall through a maze of medical workstations and examining rooms, into a smaller waiting area where he was told to take a seat. There were magazines and newspapers spread on the table. Vance picked up a USA Today. “Egyptian Unrest Continues for Second Week. Mubarek Refuses to Go.”
He wondered for a moment how God would look at him. Whether there was a heaven or hell. He hoped there was. He thought he deserved heaven somehow. Maybe he had caused pain in his life, but life was a balance, right? A balance of good deeds and bad. And he hoped that God would find that he’d done good too. Just like that wave over there in Japan. Or this guy in Egypt. God does bad things too. And—
“Mr. Hofer, my name is Maryanne,” another woman said, interrupting his thoughts. Vance looked up. “I’m Dr. Steadman’s assistant. He can see you now.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The doctor’s assistant led him down the hall, gesturing him into a corner office.
“Mr. Hofer . . .” The man from the TV, about six feet, longish brown hair, a friendly smile, got up from behind his desk. “Come sit over here. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. What can we do for you today?”
The office was modern and bright, with picture windows that looked out over the Intercoastal. It had a large, built-in bookshel
f against one wall, a polished conference table with six chairs, bronze sculptures, what looked, to Vance, like African masks, and a handful of framed diplomas and awards on the walls. One of them was a magazine cover. Everything about the place was expensive, dizzying. Why not? It was paid for with people’s blood, right?
“Get you anything?” Steadman asked. “Coffee? A Coke? Water?”
“I’m fine.” Vance shook his head.
“Okay, then.” The doctor glanced at his assistant. “Thanks, Maryanne. We’re good. So please, sit down.”
There was a credenza behind him with a bunch of photographs and awards on top. Vance tried not to be taken in by the size and the fancy setting. His eye caught a framed magazine cover—“South Florida’s Best Doctors . . .”—on the wall. Steadman’s picture on it.
“You advertise enough, no telling what they’ll give you,” Steadman said with a grin, noticing Vance fix on it.
Vance saw why people might be drawn to him.
“So I have your paperwork here,” Steadman said. “I see you live up in Georgia.” He crossed his legs, palms pressed together. “So what brings you here, Mr. Hofer?”
Maybe this was the time, Vance thought, staring back at him. Why dance around with a bunch of meaningless questions and answers? Just tell him. Tell him why you’re here! Does he know what he has caused? Is he prepared to assume responsibility? Vance felt the gun digging into his back. Inside, his blood was racing.
Just do it now.
Instead he said, “I’ve got this thing.” He touched his collar. “On my neck. These wrinkles here . . . It’s always bothered me.”
It was true. His neck had always been prematurely wrinkled. He’d always tried to hide it, always worn shirts with high collars to cover it up. Whenever his photo was taken, he felt ashamed.
Steadman stood up and came around. “Do you mind if I take a look . . . ?” He stepped next to Vance and gently pulled his shirt collar open. “Yeah, I see . . .” He touched his neck. Vance felt a shiver run down his spine and his heartbeat picked up. Maybe he ought to simply pull out his gun and shoot the man dead right now. Why drag this out? He’d waited for this moment so long . . . He wanted to see Steadman’s shock and watch him beg when he told him just why he was here.