by Kathryn Shay
“I never had a father.”
“That’s why you’re such a loner, I think. I worry about you all the time.”
Drawing back, Brenda played with her fork. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“You and Kelsey are my best friends. I’m entitled to worry about both of you.”
A good change of subject and back to the matter that most intrigued her now. “How is Miss America?” Brenda liked the young teacher, but often teased her about her pageant-worthy looks.
Suzanna scowled. “Hobbling around on crutches. She’s coming back to school on Wednesday. I can’t get her to stay out longer.”
“Not to worry. The young Agent Ludzecky will carry her books for her, I’m sure.”
Suzanna fidgeted in her seat. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s obvious he has a major crush on her. And you said he almost blew the operation when that punk assaulted her.”
Suzanna shook her head; skeins of hair swirled around her shoulders. “Joe’s right, I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
Feigning umbrage, Brenda got up and poured them more wine. “Yeah, right, like I’m going to do something with it.”
“No, it’s just that Joe’s such a stickler for rules.”
And Brenda knew why.
The adults figured they could rid their kids of their sexual hang-ups at an early age...they initiated both the boys and girls ASAP...he was ten...she was six.
“Brend? What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Suzanna stared at her a minute, then started when her cell phone rang. “I’ve got to get that. It might be Josh.”
“Always the mommy.”
Suzanna fished in her purse, found the phone, and clicked it on. “Hello.” Pause. “Oh, hi.” A longer pause. “Yes. I won’t be alone. I’m going with Brenda.” She stood and covered the mouthpiece. “I’ll take this in there.”
Ah, more secrets. Must be the hunky Secret Service agent was worried about Suzanna’s safety. “Go, I’ll clean up.”
As Suzanna stood, she knocked her purse to the floor.
“I’ll get it. Go.” Rounding up the contents of Suzanna’s purse, which had spilled out onto the tile, Brenda glanced at the stuff. Suzanna’s wallet had fallen open. A few receipts escaped from it. Brenda scooped those up along with a brush, lipstick and a bunch of pens. As she was stuffing the assorted paraphernalia back into Suzanna’s purse, a yellow charge slip caught her eye. For some reason, Brenda opened it and read it. A diner bill. For lunch yesterday. In Concord, Connecticut.
Concord, Connecticut.
Where had Brenda seen the name of the town before? She glanced up. Suzanna was in the living room, which was visible from the eating nook. She spoke softly into the phone. Laughed easily. Paced. Once again, Brenda remembered her friend in college. Suzanna was flirting.
With Joe Stonehouse.
Things clicked into focus then, like the lens of a camera zeroing in on its subject. Brenda had run across Concord, Connecticut, in the Internet report of the school shooting three years ago in that state.
It was the town where Stonehouse’s sister lived.
o0o
The next afternoon, Brenda slid her notebook out of her purse and set it on the surface of the diner’s table. Hidden from view by other booths and some strategically placed plants, Brenda uncapped a Mont Blanc pen Conrad had given her for graduation from college and wrote:
Callahans’ house in the middle of nowhere...hid car in trees until got a glimpse of her...looks dramatically like brother...left house...met husband at diner for lunch.
Brenda glanced at the couple. As she stared at the Callahans, watching them enjoy their lunch, a pang of longing shot through her. Brenda remembered a passed-up opportunity. Peter from grad school had wanted to marry her. But Brenda had had stars in her eyes and bright lights in her future. Sometimes she wished she’d chosen the other path, had a husband to meet in town for lunch. Instead, Brenda had the dubious honor of spying on the scene to write about it.
Just like her whole life: on the outside looking in.
To distract herself from that grim thought, Brenda drew out of her notebook a picture of the Callahans’ dead daughter, Josie. The photo was from a newspaper and had probably been her senior picture. Familiar green eyes peered out of a trusting, smiling face. She looked like her uncle, was named after him. In the book—and it was going to be a book, now—Brenda would milk the namesake and physical similarities.
A burst of laughter came from Ruth. Seated on the same side of the booth like teenagers, the Callahans cuddled close. Al ruffled his wife’s hair, then leaned down to kiss her on the nose.
Brenda wrote, Does Al know his wife’s sordid past?
If he did know, he didn’t seem to care. Brenda wondered what that kind of unconditional love felt like. Then she was hit by an unpleasant thought. If Al Callahan didn’t know about the early sexual history of his wife, what would finding out do to the way he felt about her?
What would their kids think of their mother when they read the book? Brenda’s conscience prickled at that thought. It wasn’t just Joe and Ruth and Al who would be affected by her exposé. How would the younger Callahans be able to hold their heads up in school when their mother’s sexual experience as a young child was broadcast for all to see?
Tough shit, Brenda wrote in her notebook. Had anyone cared about her when they let her live with an abusive, alcoholic mother? Had anybody cared about her when Conrad died?
Suzanna had. She’d taken Brenda home with her for vacations in college when Brenda couldn’t bear to be with her mother again. She missed days of work to spend with Brenda during Conrad’s wake and funeral.
Suddenly, Brenda couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of here. She’d gotten what she came for—confirmation that the Callahans still lived in Connecticut, a quick check of the diner where Suzanna had gone for lunch; proof that Suzanna had come up here with Stonehouse last weekend.
As a bonus, she got a real-life glimpse of the people tragedy had struck; seeing them, hearing them laugh, would make her prose come alive when she wrote about them.
And gave Brenda concrete images of the people who would be affected if she did this book.
Standing, she stuffed her belongings in her purse, threw some bills on the table, and hurried from the diner.
Outside, she could breathe better.
o0o
The roads were slippery with wet drizzle from Connecticut to Queens, but in for a penny, in for a pound. As long as Brenda was playing spy, she might as well finish the job. She reached the Ludzecky house, a big three-story on a nondescript street, at about five on Tuesday afternoon and had to wait only an hour until three people exited.
Hell, even if the investigator hadn’t included Ludzecky’s address in the report, she’d know these girls anywhere. They were female versions of Luke. And one was more gorgeous than the next. The two with the long bouncy hair down to their waists were identical. The other, with chin-length hair the exact same shade as the duo, looked younger. Brenda checked her notes. The twins were Paulina and Antonia. The youngest was Elizabeita. They sounded like the goddamn von Trapp Family Singers.
The girls piled into a battered Blazer and took off down the street. Brenda followed at a discreet distance. They swerved to park at a local diner, The Ham and Egg, jumped out of the car, and disappeared inside. After a decent amount of time, Brenda followed. Luck was with her; she snagged an empty booth right behind Luke’s sisters.
She didn’t know exactly what she was after here—what spin she’d take on Ludzecky for the book. But she’d been restless after she’d left Concord, and had the documentation on Luke with her, so what the hell? It was only another three-hour drive. As she sat down and removed her coat, she figured this little exposure to his family life might give her a tack to take on the young agent.
Not daring to make notes, she drew a book out of her purse and pretended to read. The Ludzecky w
omen were oblivious to her presence. They made small talk about college and high school stuff. They ordered meals, as did Brenda. She’d just been served her salad when something came up at the next booth.
“Matka will kill us, Lizzie,” one of the twins said, picking up a fork.
“You guys are wimps. If Lukasz was here, he’d do it with me.”
Mental note #1: family calls him Lukasz.
“I wonder what’s going on with him,” the other twin mused, around a bite of hamburger. “Two visits in a few weeks.”
“He seemed sad to me.” Elizabeita frowned. It marred the perfection of her face.
“I know.” A twin. “Girl-sad.”
“Yeah.” The other twin.
“Wish we could help.”
“He told us last time if we interfere in his love life one more time, he’ll call up all our boyfriends and terrorize them.”
Mental note #2: sisters meddle in love life (how cute!).
Elizabeita, definitely the most chatty of the three, went on, “I think he’s getting tired of—”
“Shh.” Both twins admonished her at the same time. One said, “Don’t say anything. We shouldn’t even be talking about him.”
“Okay, he’s getting tired of being a you-know-what.” Elizabeita’s eyes danced at her cleverness.
“Probably.”
“Think he’ll ever get married?”
“Not until he proves to himself he wasn’t what Papa thought he was. That’s why he joined that stupid Sec--place to begin with.”
“Cat says Papa was crazy about Lukasz. That Luke only thought he was disappointed. But he wasn’t.”
Mental note #3: son trying to live up to father’s expectations. Maybe that was the angle for Brenda. How could she get more information on Luke’s relationship with his father? Was there a way to connect Luke’s father complex to Stonehouse? The two agents always seemed at each other’s throats.
“I wish he’d quit that...job so we could see him more.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Mental note #4: sisters worry about him.
He was so lucky. Brenda would bet that his whole family loved him like these three. Again she was assaulted by guilt. What would her best-seller do to these girls when their identities and their hero worship were displayed for the world to see? Along with—if she could find more on this somehow—Lukasz’s zeal to prove something to his dead father?
Upset by the thought, Brenda choked on the salad she was chewing. The lettuce wouldn’t dislodge. She coughed, calling attention to herself. Shit!
Before she knew it, there was someone behind her, patting her back, saying calmly, “Put your arms up. It’ll help.”
Oh, just great. She was gonna get CPR from one of the Ludzeckys. The little one.
When the coughing abated, Elizabeita cocked her head at Brenda. “Hi, I’m Lizzie. You new around here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
Brenda almost groaned. Fine Lois Lane you make, she chided herself as she tried to explain her presence at this little neighborhood diner in Queens.
Chapter Seventeen
Luke pounded up the steps to the Smurfellas’ porch, carrying the kid’s assignments in his backpack. He’d volunteered to bring Smurf’s homework—it would be a perfect opening to get into his personal life. After he left here, Luke was off to Max’s to play on the computer, maybe get into that website Duchamp boasted about. When Stonehouse first heard about these plans, he’d been pleased that Luke was making progress in diagnosing which kids were dangerous. Then yesterday happened. God knew what Joe would do after Suzanna’s information about Kelsey’s confession. A confession, if Luke was honest with himself, he savored sweetly in his heart. God, he wanted to tell her who he really was.
The wind picked up, and Luke raised the collar of his bomber jacket against the chill. Ringing the doorbell, he let thoughts of Kelsey’s sleeping face and delicious body warm him. His hand flexed as he recalled touching her. Geez, he had to stop thinking about this. He had to get a grip if he was to finish this operation and get away unscathed.
Once again, he pushed on the doorbell and concentrated on Smurf. The house was huge, a brick Colonial in an exclusive area at the edge of town. Smurf’s father was a VP at the local IBM plant, and they were definitely upper crust.
An older woman wearing a chic dress and enough gold to set off a metal detector answered the door. “Hello. Luke, is it?”
“Yeah, I got Smur—Jimmy’s homework.”
“Please, come in.” A vein-lined hand fluttered to her neck. “I’m Mrs. Smurfella.”
So this was Smurf’s mother. Luke thought about his own down-to-earth Matka, always dressed in plain cotton house dresses and sensible shoes, smelling like vanilla.
“He’s got cabin fever from being cooped up here,” Mrs. Smurfella said. “He’d like to see a friend.”
Once again, Luke felt sorry for Smurf, the guy everybody picked on. Nobody, except maybe Franzi, wanted to spend time with him.
“I’m sorry you had to come way out here,” the woman continued. “My daughter was supposed to get his work, but she kept forgetting.”
Mrs. Smurfella’s face reddened. Her daughter was a first-class snob who ignored Smurf’s existence. Though Luke’s own sisters interfered in his love life all the time and were a general pain in the butt, the thought of them treating him like Ms. Valedictorian treated Smurf made Luke wince inwardly.
“He’s not contagious.” Mrs. Smurfella led Luke around a corner to a wing of the house. “He had the flu, but he’s over it. The doctor said he can go back to school soon.” She frowned. “He doesn’t seem particularly anxious to return, though.”
“Hmm” was all Luke said, but he was thinking, Why? Because of the bullying? They made their way through winding corridors, over thick carpet, under a gazillion skylights. Smurf’s door was locked when his mother knocked and tried to open it.
On the second knock, Smurf pulled it open. “Damn it, Ma, could you—” The boy’s face lit when he saw his mother had company. “Hey, Luke, how ya doing?”
“Great.” Luke held up his backpack. “Don’t look so happy to see me. I got your work.”
Behind the thick glasses, Smurf’s eyes flicked with something—suspicion, maybe? “It’s okay. I wanted it.”
“I’ll leave you two boys alone. Would you like something to drink, Luke?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Well, stay a while. Jimmy could use the company.”
Luke smiled warmly. It turned into a gape when he stepped inside Smurf’s room. “Holy shit, Smurf, this is a goddamn palace.” The area was really a suite; the bedroom itself had to be twenty feet square. Skylights dotted the high, slanted ceiling and there were several windows. A whole row of closets took up one wall. Off to the side was a hallway, and Luke could see a bathroom through the open doorway. A king-size bed with a fan-shaped headboard faced the biggest entertainment center Luke had ever seen. It held every gadget imaginable. He wandered over to it. “You got a lot of hardware here, buddy.
Smurf shrugged.
Luke studied the lower half. “This a fridge?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That is cool.”
“My new machine’s the best.” He nodded to the far end of the room. Really, it was a little alcove by itself. About five by eight, it sported the same skylights and windows, and held a computer system that could have come from a science fiction movie.
Luke crossed to it, Smurf following him. “That’s an understatement.”
“This baby can do everything. Sit,” Smurf said, indicating the real leather chair in front of it.
“A man after my own heart, Smurfy boy. I love these things.”
Luke dropped down, and Smurf pulled up another chair. “You like music; I got some sites bookmarked.”
“Great.” For a half-hour they played on the Internet. It was fun, and distracted Luke, at least momentarily, from what Kelsey had told Suzanna about her fe
elings for him.
When Smurf went to get them something to eat, Luke seized the opportunity to check things out. The closets were full of clothes. The hallway off the main area led to a huge bathroom that even had a damned Jacuzzi. There was another door to the left—it was locked. Hmm. At the end of the hallway was a private entrance. Luke had just come back into the main room when the chime for an instant message pinged from the computer screen. He crossed to the machine.
The message was from a sender called Cassius. It read, “PBBs beware. Caesar’s army is out in droves. Bury your site and don’t visit the Coliseum until you hear from me.”
Luke stared at the message, wondering what kind of game Smurf was into. There were armies of weirdos online, and some of them were dangerous.
“What’s that?” Smurf asked from behind.
“An instant message.” Luke tried to look bored. “I got no idea what it means.”
Smurf’s eyes turned cold after he read it. “Means nothing.” He flicked a few keys and the message was gone.
All traces of it.
Luke’s Secret Service instincts surfaced. What the hell were PBBs?
o0o
Thinking he was too old for this kind of thing, Luke once again hid behind a tree; this time he was at Max Duchamp’s, dodging Rush Webster. The punk exited the house through the walkout basement door in the back. His shoulders were stooped, and a day-old beard shadowed his face. Though he wanted to tackle Webster and beat the shit out of him for what the guy had done to Kelsey, Luke let him go.
Try to control your behavior, will you? Stonehouse had said. So he was trying. He let Webster get in his battered van and drive away, scot-free. Luke waited some, then headed to the private entrance and knocked on the heavy metal door.
“Yo, enter,” Max called out.
As Luke walked in, Max looked up from his bed.
The girl next to him in the tangled camouflage sheets peered over her shoulder and tried to focus. “What, another one?”