by R. G. Belsky
He drank some more of his beer.
I realized now why we had met here instead of his office. If I’d admitted to him up there that I lied about the story, he was the editor—and he’d have to do something about it. Down here it was just two guys talking at a bar. Just like we did after Walter Billings died.
“You got a bad break on Billings eight years ago,” Blackwood said to me now. “You wound up being the fall guy for something that probably really wasn’t your fault. I figure we owe you one. So, as far as I’m concerned, you get a free ride on Lisa Montero. Then we’re even.”
I stared at him. He knew it was Jack Rollins who had screwed up the Billings story. He probably knew it eight years ago too.
“I don’t know, Spence,” I said, shaking my head. “It just doesn’t make sense . . .”
“A lot of things don’t make sense, Joe. Hell, I’m going to have to retire soon and one of those two jackasses—Jack Rollins or Andy Kramer—is going to wind up being the editor. That sure doesn’t make sense to me. And what about Bonnie Kerns? They’ll probably make a TV movie about her, she’ll get interviewed by Diane Sawyer, and some hotshot lawyer will convince a jury she’s really not responsible for any of the murders. In a couple of years she could be out and gunning for you again.
“The whole world doesn’t make sense,” Spencer Blackwood said to me. “You want to quit that too?”
Chapter 72
In September, three months after Susan died, I talked to my son for the first time.
Sort of.
It was the first day of school, and I watched him come out the front door of the big house in Greenwich. Charles Matheson was there too. He gave Joe Jr. a big hug before he got on the school bus. I watched Matheson go back into the house. Then I followed the bus to school.
I watched as he milled around with other students in front of the school until the bell rang. It would be easy to approach him. All I had to do was climb out of the car and introduce myself. I had a million things I wanted to tell him. I didn’t say any of them.
After school was over, he went to a park and played baseball with some friends. There was a bench next to the field. I sat on it and watched the game. Lost in my thoughts. Then a batter hit a foul ball that rolled a few feet away from me.
“Hey, mister,” someone yelled.
I looked over toward the field.
It was Joey.
“Mister, can you throw me the ball?”
I leaned down and picked up the baseball. I’d always wanted to play catch with my son. Ever since he was born. Now I had the chance. I picked up the baseball. I threw it back to him on the fly.
“Wow,” he said, “you’ve got some arm.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you play baseball?”
“A long time ago. I’m a little too old now.” I smiled at him. “But my son does.”
“My dad’s taking me to see the Yankees on Saturday,” he told me.
“Your dad sounds like a great guy,” I said.
Then he went back to the ball game.
Thirty minutes later, Charles Matheson came along to pick him up and take him home. Joe, Jr. ran over and gave him another big hug. Then he started talking excitedly to him. Probably about what he’d done on the ballfield that day. Matheson beamed proudly as he listened.
Charles is a good man, Susan had told me just before she died.
He’s the only father Joe has ever known.
Take care of our son.
I felt like an outsider watching the scene. A voyeur. Just like David Galvin used to be. Looking at other people—intruding on their private world—without them ever knowing it until it was too late.
I remembered what Galvin had said to me in that final note. You and me, we’re a lot alike, Dougherty. I’d had that same feeling when I met him. I felt his passion. I felt his intensity. I somehow understood what he was looking for. It scared me. And here I was now—acting just like him.
Except I wasn’t.
I wasn’t like David Galvin at all.
We were both searching for passion in our lives. But not in the same places. Galvin liked to hurt people. He enjoyed causing pain and suffering. I’d hurt some people too, but not in the same way. And I never meant to hurt anybody. I always wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to be a good person.
That was the difference.
For whatever it’s worth, I’d never told anyone about Susan and Joe Jr. being my wife and son. Bonnie hadn’t said anything in jail either. And no one else had ever made the connection.
As far as everyone knew, Susan was simply Mrs. Charles Matheson—the last name on Galvin and Bonnie’s list of targets.
Someday someone probably will figure it out.
Someone who knew Susan—and recognizes her picture in the paper as the same woman who died in Greenwich.
Or Bonnie might spill the beans if she ever really does do that TV movie or book.
Or maybe I’ll decide to tell the story myself.
Maybe I’ll tell the whole truth to my son someday too.
But for now it would just be my secret.
I’d told too many secrets already.
I decided to let this one be.
Chapter 73
I used to pretend that I had all the answers.
I thought I knew it all.
Now I’m not sure about anything anymore.
Lisa called me one day after everything had calmed down. She said she still thought about me a lot. She suggested we get together for a drink sometime. We did. After that, we met for dinner. Eventually we started sleeping together again.
I do not know what will happen between us.
When I’m with Lisa, I still feel that same passion I felt the very first time I saw her. She excites me. She thrills me. She makes me come alive again. I feel her fire, I feel her pain, and I feel what I desperately try to convince myself is her undying love.
But then there’s other times, mostly late at night after she’s gone home again, that I’m uncertain.
I tell myself that too much has happened between us for me to have any realistic hope about our future. She lied to me. She used me. She kept secrets from me. I understand why she did it, but I can’t ever forget that it happened. I wonder if I will ever be able to trust her completely again.
I think about Susan too.
Not the Susan who died as I held her hand in a speeding ambulance. Not the one who was married to Charles Matheson. No, when I think about Susan now, she’s my wife again. We’re both young, we’re in love, and we’re filled with hope for the future. Sometimes the fantasy is so real that I feel like I can almost reach out and touch her. But then she’s gone again.
And I wonder if we only get one chance at happiness in this life.
A long time ago, I found the woman I loved. I married her. I had a son with her. Then I threw it all away. And now she’s dead. “I love you, Joe,” Susan told me at the end. “You were the one. You’ve always been the one. I’ve always loved you.”
Maybe that’s all we get. Maybe there is no second time around. Maybe what I have now with Lisa—those brief moments of excitement and exultation and ecstasy—is the best that it will ever be for me again.
And so that’s how I live my life now.
I live for the ecstasy.
I live for the thrill.
I live for the passion.
And I pretend that it will never end.
About the Author
R.G. BELSKY is a newspaper editor who lives in New York City.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PLAYING DEAD. Copyright © 1999 by R.G. Belsky. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-285262-5
Print Edition ISBN: 978–0–38–079069–2
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