by John Rector
“Aren’t you fucking hilarious.” He tried to sound mad, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “I thought I’d let you know that I heard back about that girl in the photo. Still interested?”
After discovering someone had been in my apartment and that they’d stolen my gun, tracking down the girl from the photo seemed like an unnecessary risk. Still, I’d asked Charlie for a favor, and he’d come through for me. There was no harm in hearing what he found.
“Why not.” I drove past the highway, then changed lanes. The SUV moved with me. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said, and maybe you’re right. Maybe I should get out while I can.”
“What changed your mind?”
“What good is it going to do?” I asked. “She’ll either think I’m crazy or that I’m dangerous.”
“Did something happen?”
“You mean on top of everything else?”
Charlie hesitated. “What’s going on, Nick? You were set on this a few hours ago. Why the change of heart?”
He already knew the situation, and I was about to tell him what I’d found in my apartment, but then he started coughing and I didn’t get the chance. I glanced back at the SUV and listened to my father cough and struggle for breath. This time, something in me changed. The fear was gone and all I felt was anger.
I pulled to the side of the road and hit the brakes.
At first I thought the SUV was going to pull in behind me, but when it got close I heard the engine rev, then watched it speed past. I tried to get a look at the driver as he went by, but all I saw was a shadow.
I stayed there until the SUV disappeared down the road. Then I pulled back out into traffic.
On the phone, Charlie stopped coughing.
“You okay?”
“My lungs are rotting away but other than that I’m fine.” He coughed again, louder this time, and when he spoke next, his voice was strained and choked. “You want to hear what I found out or not?”
“Depends,” I said. “Anything good?”
“I’ll let you decide.” He shuffled through papers, then said, “The girl’s name is Abigail Pierce. The address on the back of the photo is hers. It’s a nice place, too, just off Jefferson Park.”
“She owns it?”
“No,” he said. “The name on the deed is Daniel Holloway, her father. I didn’t find anything on employment for her, so I’m guessing she doesn’t pay rent on the place.”
“Then she has money.”
“I don’t know about her, but her father does. Quite a lot, actually.”
“Holloway,” I said. “From the paper this morning?”
“That’s right,” Charlie said. “Daniel Holloway owns Holloway Industries. They have labs and a research and development facility on the west side, along with shipping warehouses in Carson City. As far as I can tell, they work mostly with academia, but they also have a couple good-sized government contracts.”
“Sounds big.”
“You can say that,” he said. “As it turns out, Daniel Holloway is one of the richest men in the state.”
“That still doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Here’s where it gets interesting.” Charlie cleared his throat, and when he spoke he sounded ten years younger. “I didn’t find too much on the girl, Abigail. She’s twenty, no criminal record, no real employment history. We’re tracking down her medical records. They should come back in a day or two. We know she landed in the foster care system as a teenager, but she ran out in the first year. Beyond that, nothing.”
“So, that’s it?”
“Basically, she’s a good kid with a clean record.”
“Then I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would someone want her dead?”
“That’s why I decided to look into her family,” Charlie said. “The majority of these types of cases end up leading back home, so it seemed like a good place to start. I had my contact check on her father first.”
“And?”
“Daniel Holloway had a stroke a few weeks back, a bad one. He spent a significant amount of time in intensive care over at Penrose Hospital, and he was recently released against doctor’s orders. His wife took him home.”
“I’m still not seeing your point.”
“His wife is Patricia Holloway.”
I stopped talking. “The woman in the newspaper.”
“That’s right,” he said. “She’s your blonde.”
I thought I should say something, but there were no words. In the end, all I managed was “Holy shit.”
Charlie laughed. “So there you have it.”
“The blonde is Abigail’s mother?”
“Stepmother most likely,” Charlie said. “She married Daniel fifteen years ago.”
I stopped at a red light and leaned back in my seat, letting this new information sink in.
“Why would she want her dead?”
“Who the hell knows why people do what they do?” Charlie said. “In most of these cases it usually comes down to love or money. We know the girl’s dad is loaded, and from the sound of it he’s not long for this world.”
“You think this is about money?”
“No idea, but I bet the answer is in his will.”
“Christ,” I said. “What a family.”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. I heard the quick scrape of a cigarette lighter, and then he was back, exhaling long and slow into the phone.
I kept my mouth shut.
“I think you’re doing the right thing, Nick. Your intentions are good, but this isn’t something you want to get involved in. It’s better to let it sort itself out.”
I listened, but my mind kept drifting back to the girl in the photo. I thought about her smile and the way the sunlight touched her skin. Then I thought about the blonde sitting next to me in the bar, the smell of alcohol on her breath, her eyes swollen and red.
None of it made sense.
Up ahead the light turned green, and the car behind me honked. The sound brought me back, and I sat up and pulled out into the intersection.
Charlie was still talking, but I cut him off.
“Listen, Pop, I’ve got to go.”
He stopped.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
“All right,” he said. “But do me a favor and think things through before you make any decisions. You got it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got it.”
“Let me know if you have any problems in Tucson.”
I told him I would, and then I hung up.
I drove back toward the highway, then headed south toward Tucson. I did my best to stay focused on the road ahead, but all I could think about was the girl in the yellow dress, happy and shining in the sunlight.
The road hummed beneath me.
I drove for a long time before I turned around.
9
Jefferson Park used to be a cemetery.
It’d been excavated after World War II to make room for the city’s growing population, and it hadn’t changed much since. The houses were brick, the sidewalks were stone, and the streets were quiet and lined with rows of towering oak trees.
It was 1950s perfect.
Still, as I drove along the wide, shaded streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was making a mistake. Finding the girl in the photo seemed like the right thing to do, but it was also careless, especially after everything that’d happened.
If I were smart, I’d be long gone.
The address was easy to find, but I didn’t stop. Instead, I drove by and circled the block. I still had no idea what I was going to say to her, and I had no idea how she would react when I told her. It was possible that my good intentions were about to land me in jail.
I made a long pass around the park, then cursed myself for wasting time. If I was g
oing to talk to her, then I needed to do it and get it over with.
I drove back to the house and parked a block away next to a long wall of lilac bushes. The bushes were tall, and they shielded the car from the house. That way, if she did decide to call the police, I could leave without her seeing me. It wasn’t the best escape plan, but it was better than nothing.
I opened the glove compartment and reached for the manila envelope. I held it in my lap long enough to change my mind about taking it along. I wanted this to look like a casual visit, but if I showed up carrying the envelope she’d know something was wrong.
I put the envelope back, then got out and locked the door. The bad feeling was still there, but it was quieter now.
I took that as a good sign.
From the outside, Abigail Pierce’s house looked small. It was one level, brick, with a bay window facing out toward the street. The front door was painted red, and there was a weathered metal door knocker hung in the center, just below eye level.
It was shaped like a turtle.
I reached for the door knocker, then changed my mind and rang the bell.
The house was silent.
The only sounds I heard were the wind in the trees and the thin rumble of a lawn mower in the distance. I walked to the edge of the porch and looked in the front window. I held my hand against the glass to block the glare, but it didn’t help much. All I could see was a coffee table, a red couch, and a large red and black painting hanging on the wall.
No one was home.
I felt a warm buzz at the thought, but I ignored it and told myself I couldn’t leave, at least not yet.
I went back to the door and rang the bell again.
This time when no one answered, a wave of relief rolled through me. There was a comforting voice in my head telling me I’d done what I could. I’d tried to warn her, but it didn’t work out, and now it was time to go.
I didn’t argue.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“Use the knocker.”
I looked back and saw an old man in gray slacks and a Rolling Stones T-shirt standing on the sidewalk. He was holding a leather leash attached to a tiny brown poodle.
“What?”
“She’s probably got her headphones on,” the old man said. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, then motioned toward the door. “Use the knocker. She’ll answer.”
“Thanks, but it looks pretty quiet. I’ll just come back some other time.”
“She’s in there,” he said. “She’s always in there.”
I stood, not moving.
The excitement I felt a moment ago was still strong, but it was fading fast. I turned back and reached for the turtle and knocked three times. The sound was loud, and it echoed through the neighborhood. If the old man was right and she was home, there was no way she wouldn’t hear it.
“Are you a friend of hers?” the old man asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I know her father.”
“Do you now?” The poodle at the man’s feet sniffed the ground, squatted. “Abby doesn’t talk much about her family. How is it you know—?”
I heard a bolt lock slide, and I turned around just as the door opened. Abigail Pierce stood in the doorway. She looked at me for a moment, her face young and bright and open, and when she smiled it shone in her eyes.
“Abigail?” I asked.
“Do I know you?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the old man on the sidewalk interrupted.
“He’s a friend of your father’s,” he said. “He was about to leave, but then I told him to use the knocker. Did you have your headphones on?”
Abigail gave me a knowing grin, then looked past me to the old man. “I did, thank you, Glenn.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He raised one hand, waved, and then said something to the poodle that I didn’t catch. He pulled the leash tight, and before he walked away he nodded at me and said, “Nice meeting you, friend.”
Once he was gone, I turned back to Abigail. She was wearing an oversized black T-shirt and loose-fitting black sweatpants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and held in place with a pink hair tie. She looked so much like the photo that for a moment all I could do was stare.
“So . . .” She let the word hang in the air. “How do you know Daniel?”
The question snapped me back. “What?”
“My father?” She pointed past me toward the sidewalk. “Glenn said you two know each other.”
“Right,” I said. “Actually, I know him. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea about me.”
“I see.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “So you’re one of those.”
“One of those?”
“A Holloway disciple,” she said. “You people read all of his papers and follow him around like he’s some kind of messiah. Isn’t that your thing?”
“Not my thing.”
She studied me, frowned. “Maybe not. You don’t exactly fit the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The type that looks like they masturbate to the periodic table.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and for a moment we just stood there, staring at each other. Then I laughed, held out my hand.
“Nick White,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Abigail Pierce.” She took my hand. “Abby.”
Her skin felt soft against mine, but her grip was strong and confident. I couldn’t help but like her.
“Are you here to talk to me about Daniel, or is there something else?”
“Maybe both,” I said. “Can I come in?”
Abby looked at me hard, and I could tell she was trying to decide if I was a threat. She must’ve figured I wasn’t, because she stepped back from the door and motioned me inside.
“Have a seat.” She led me to the red couch. “Do you want a drink? I have water.”
“No, thanks.”
“There’s also vodka and scotch, or I might have beer in the refrigerator.”
“Okay,” I said. “Scotch.”
Abby disappeared through a doorway into the kitchen. I heard a cabinet open, then the refrigerator, followed by the bright clink of ice in glasses.
“If you’re not one of Daniel’s followers,” she said from the kitchen, “then how do you know him?”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually met him.”
The sounds in the kitchen stopped and for a while there was only silence. When Abby reappeared in the doorway, she was carrying two half-filled glasses. She handed one to me, then sat on the other end of the couch.
“You’re not going to make me regret inviting you in, are you, Nick?”
“I hope not.”
She stared at me, then sipped her drink and said, “Maybe you should tell me what you want.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I swirled the scotch in my glass, then lifted it and downed it all. The burn hit the back of my throat and spread through my sinuses, warming me all the way through. When I reached out to set the glass on the coffee table, I noticed Abby smiling at me.
“You good?” she asked.
I cleared my throat, nodded.
Abby laughed, lifted her drink, and finished it in two swallows. She set the empty glass on the table next to mine, then eased herself into the corner of the couch, resting her elbow on the back cushion.
“Now we’re even,” she said. “So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
I didn’t know if it was the scotch or if it was the way she was looking at me, but the nervousness I’d felt before was fading. She deserved to know what’d happened, and I wanted to tell her everything. How she took the news wasn’t important.
All that mattered was the truth.
Once I started to talk I couldn’t stop.
10
Abby came back from the kitchen with new drinks, and this time the glasses were full. She held one out to me, and I noticed her hands were shaking.
“Sorry for all this,” I said. “I thought you had a right to know.”
She sat on the couch, staring at nothing, and took a drink. “I’m glad you told me.”
“If it were me, I would’ve wanted to know.”
She looked up at me. “When are you leaving town?”
“Tonight,” I said. “First Tucson and then on to Mexico. I figure the sooner I’m on the road, the better.”
“The woman who approached you,” she said. “Are you sure it was Patricia? Are you positive?”
I told her I was, then added, “She’d been drinking quite a bit before she approached me.”
“That sounds like Patricia,” Abby said. “She considers herself to be an expert on how other people should behave, but those rules rarely apply to her.”
Abby looked down at her glass, silent.
I tried to imagine how I’d react if a total stranger showed up at my door and gave me the same news I’d just given her. I wasn’t sure I’d be as calm, but people dealt with stress in different ways. Still, Abigail Pierce didn’t seem concerned. If anything, she seemed at peace.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Abby looked up, lost in thought. “What?”
“You don’t seem surprised by any of this,” I said. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” she said. “How are you supposed to act in these kinds of situations?”
“I wish I knew,” I said. “I think if I found out that someone in my family had tried to hire someone to kill me—”
“My family?” Abby laughed, quick and harsh. “That woman is not my family.”
I stopped talking. Abby must’ve seen the look on my face because when she spoke next, there was pity in her voice.
“Do you mean this entire time you thought Patricia Holloway was family?”
“But Daniel Holloway is—”
“My father.” She nodded. “And Patricia Holloway is his wife, but that’s all she is. I certainly don’t think of her as a mother. My mother’s been dead for almost six years.”