by Allan Retzky
No one stands in front of the doors. He’s late. The clock on the dash reads twenty past, yet she should be there. Should have already dropped the rental off. He leaves the car and steps a few feet inside the small terminal, which is nearly empty, but doesn’t see her. Back in his car, he reaches for his cell phone to call, but a message is waiting. Sara called. Why didn’t he hear the ring? Yet the reason is immediately obvious when he sees that the call came in earlier during that time when he was busy agonizing and then acting on a plan to remove the body. The message is harsh, almost cruel, as if she had spit the words out.
I’m not coming out tonight, or any time soon. And don’t come back to town. I need some space. We need some separate time away from each other. Don’t call. I’ll be in touch when I think it’s time to talk.
That’s it. Just a few lousy sentences. The words at first have the effect of instant paralysis. His throat tightens and his hands shake in uncontrolled frenzy. He sits without moving while the engine idles and he feels the heat in her voice. He plays the message over. Then again. One part of him might even have expected something like this after the way things were going, but not today. God, not today. He doesn’t want to go back to the house, but he has to. He can’t follow her back into the city much as he’d like to. He’ll have to wait till she’s ready. And maybe he’s forgotten to clean up something back at the house. He drives back in a state of semishock, yet calms down enough to rationalize that it’s better this way, isn’t it? What would he say to her if she was here? If he told her the truth, she wouldn’t believe him in a million years, not after all her recent suspicions. No, it’s better this way. Just as long as it doesn’t last, but he can’t worry about that now.
Three hours earlier, Amos had driven east to a scenic overlook parking area nearly three miles past the village of Montauk, a right-hand turnoff on the road to Montauk Point State Park. The overlook had views of the water and dunes, but at seven o’clock on an early May evening, dusk had begun to settle. A stand of pine trees at one end of the parking area had already morphed the asphalt into dark shadows when Posner pulled his car into the area.
The lot was empty. He drove to the darkened end where the car was largely hidden from the main road. He shut off the engine and rolled down the window. A few stray birds hooted into the dusk, but otherwise everything was quiet. This was the last moment he had to decide. He could still change his mind, but he had already thought everything through. There was no turning back.
He chose a level site more than a hundred feet away from the lot amidst a dense thicket of woods. The ground was covered with pine needles and other forest debris. This was why he brought the rake as well as the shovel. He worked quickly, as there was always the odd chance that his car mightbe spotted. He raked an area clean and then began to dig. The ground was soft from spring rains and he surprised himself when he managed to excavate to a depth of nearly three feet in only a half hour. His clothes were covered with soil and sweat stains by the time he walked back to the parking area. He almost expected to see a police cruiser waiting alongside his car, and slowly peered around a set of pine trees at the edge of the lot, but the area was quiet. Darkness had already fallen heavily across the overlook.
He opened the trunk and stared at the silver plastic package. That’s all there is now, he told himself, just a package to be disposed of. The form was much heavier, much more rigid than when he first moved it to the car. He needed to partially squat to prop the body on his back. At first he staggered under the unbalanced load. He teetered backward three steps before he somehow switched his weight forward and stumbled ahead until he bumped into the open trunk. He steadied himself and cautiously shifted the weight across his right shoulder until he felt secure. He closed the trunk and began to walk into the woods, but his gait was uncertain. He wobbled as if drunk, barely able to control his motion until he realized that he could manage his movements far better by going from tree to tree.
He stopped after ten feet, leaned against a tree, and pulled the flashlight from his left-hand pocket to check on the location. The woods were dark now, although a faint twilight glow was still visible through the trees when he looked up. He was nearly back to the spot where he dug when he stumbled over a surface tree root. He fell forward and the body pitched to the ground as his arm lost its grip. The flashlight flew from his left hand. He heard a crack as it landed against a rock and everything turned black. He was engulfed in darkness.
He scrambled about in a panic. The bag was still there, just to his right, but he needed light to finish what he started. He had to finish. He couldn’t just stop. He had to protect himself. There was no other way. He crawled to the left and stretched his hand in an arc that swept up branches, pebbles, twigs and pine needles. He kept on with his search. The flashlight couldn’t have fallen too far. A tightness rose in his throat. He was about to stop and cry when his fingers touched a cylinder. He pulled it forward and sat up. He did the first thing he thought of. He shook the flashlight. Nothing except a rattle. Loose, he thought. Something was loose. He slid his right hand to the lens cover and slowly tried to turn the end that emitted the light. It moved. Nearly two turns later the light jumped out at him. He saw everything, the silver bag that rested on the ground, and only a few yards away, a mound of dirt that surrounded a trench.
He stood, but was so dizzy with relief he stumbled over the dark bag. When he rose again he began to drag the bag forward with one hand. There was no other way. He didn’t have the energy to lift her anymore. He was nearly at the hole when the bag snagged on a root. He heard a rip and focused the light downward. He saw a patch of pink that surrounded the partially torn-off white heel of a shoe.
He propped the light on the top of a log and slid the bag into the hole as gently as possible. There was no time for ceremony, but he would say something for her every day as long as he lived. He filled the hole and raked the ground over with pine needles and twigs, gathered his tools and made his way back to the parking area. As he closed the trunk over the shovel and rake, he saw a crescent moon rise above the trees to the east.
As soon as he entered the car, the rearview mirror glared back at him with a red slash across his cheek. His face and arms were covered with soil. Bits of twigs and damp leaves clung to his shirt and pants. He checked his watch. There was barely enough time to get home to shower and change before he needed to meet Sara. He was already moving westward, toward his home, every mile confirming his innocence, when he stretched his right arm forward and opened the glove compartment to replace the flashlight. That’s when he saw the phone. Heidi’s cell phone was still there, a small gray oval he had yet to eliminate. He rechecked his watch. There wasn’t time to dispose of it the way he wanted. He laid it on the seat next to him. There would be time to do it properly tomorrow morning. There was no need to rush.
He opened the window and swallowed cool air. He started to relax as he neared the street where he needed to turn to reach his house. That’s when the cell phone began to ring.
CHAPTER 3
He stays in Amagansett and waits for the police to investigate. He has only had a few brief conversations with Sara and has not yet been back to the city, but she’s indicated that his banishment may only be temporary. All he can do is wait, yet the Heidi episode weighs him down so heavily that he barely thinks of anything else.
The police visit isn’t a surprise. Posner has thought about the possibility since it all happened. At one point, however, some four weeks after the accident, for that is what he had come to call Heidi’s death in his own mind, without waver or compromise, he almost believes that there will be no investigation. He has mentally willed himself into anonymity with the same absurdity that one buys a lottery ticket and believes, during the trip home that they will be the big winner.
His other self, the more rational corporate analyst, has decided within days after the accident that he will likely be contacted. There were probably no more than twenty people on the bus on that morning. The bus
line keeps a computer record of all passengers for each trip. Someone will report her absence. Perhaps hospital staff would have already raised an alarm when she failed to arrive for her shift the next day. Perhaps she even had a date with Henry that night and he might have personally checked her apartment. A missing person’s whereabouts would be followed up. The authorities would discover her planned trip to East Hampton. They would endeavor to speak to anyone who might have had contact with her. Then there also was the conversation on the bus just before she exited. That might have also been observed, and it likely was.
And so, one part of his brain, had begun his defense, that of anonymity, and he imagined, even prerehearsed what he might tell the police.
“Yes, I vaguely remember her. I think she wanted to know if the beach was near the bus stop. I told her it was too far to walk, and she should take a taxi, although that day, if I recall, was a bit chilly for the beach.”
“No, I can’t really remember what we spoke about. I think she said she was from somewhere in Europe and worked at some hospital.”
“I’m sorry I can’t recall any more. Didn’t you say it was about a month ago? Hell, sometimes I can’t recall who we elected to Congress.”
“I’ve lived here over twenty years, but my wife works most days in Manhattan, and I’m back and forth.”
And so it might go on. The only issue Posner hasn’t considered is whether Heidi and he were seen at the outdoor table after he picked up lunch, but that whole encounter hadn’t taken more than a minute. Moreover, he was grateful that the parking spaces in front of the store were actually taken, so that the sight of her entering his car in the rear lot would stand less likelihood of observation.
In fact, there is no telephone call from the police. A business card that introduces a Detective Wisdom is left in the crack of his door on a Tuesday morning while he swims in the indoor pool at Gurney’s Inn Resort. Neat block lettering asks him to call at his convenience. Nothing else.
Two days later, the appointment arranged, Detective Peter Wisdom appears at Posner’s door, and is invited upstairs. He seems to be in his late thirties, tall and slim with short light brown hair. He’s dressed in a blazer, light-blue button-down shirt, a dark tie, and khaki chinos. Detective Wisdom acts like a neighbor and freely announces he has fifteen years service in the East Hampton Police Department. He even offers that he is married with a young son and lives in Sag Harbor, one of the small hamlets that are part of the town of East Hampton. As a local resident as well as a police officer, he seems to know the subtle nuances of life in the town. Posner feels an initial unease, yet Wisdom appears completely calm as the conversation moves forward. He steers the discussion as if they were new acquaintances at the local VFW hall.
“We’ve had this fax from the NYPD,” he says, after several minutes of small talk. He pulls a few pages from his jacket pocket. “A missing person report. A woman went to East Hampton almost four weeks ago and then vanished. Her boyfriend filed the report. We know she was on the same bus as you on that day. That’s from the bus records. They keep a computer record of all passengers, so we’re checking on anyone who might have seen her. Strictly routine.”
Wisdom holds out the papers. Posner reaches for them tentatively, as if they might scorch his fingers, but he takes them and pretends to read the diminished print. There is nothing in the text he does not already know, but he consciously takes his time. The second page has a grainy photo. Heidi is standing on a balcony with a man, although most of his body and face have been cropped. Probably Henry, Posner thinks. Her face on the copy appears faded, as if she has already died; yet Posner manages to examine the documents without an obvious tremor invading his fingers.
“So this woman is a doctor,” he says after a few minutes, somewhat proud of himself for his control. “We could always use more doctors out here.”
Wisdom smiles and nods agreeably. “But only if we can find them.”
This last comment alerts Posner. Some small bell rings in his head. Detective Wisdom has done his homework. Posner feels wariness, as if there is the possibility of some trap out there. Wisdom knows Posner was on the same bus, and also that Heidi had spoken to him, probably from the driver. The questions that follow, however, were less intrusive than what Posner had imagined.
He says he vaguely remembers the woman because she asked him how to get to the beach from the bus stop and is unaware of any other conversations she had. He feels he has covered himself with a veneer of truth. In five minutes it is all over. Wisdom writes down Posner’s New York City phone number as well the one in Sara’s office.
“It’s useful to know how we can reach potential witnesses,” Wisdom says, strictly methodical, like an accountant doing an audit. The comment makes Posner wonder whether Wisdom knows he has pending issues with the Justice Department, but the idea seems farfetched.
“Well, thanks for your help,” Wisdom says as they walk down the stairs.
Posner opens the front door, yet finds it impossible to ignore the presence of Wisdom standing on the very tiles where Heidi’s head split open. He wills himself into calm, yet feels the tremor of nausea rising in his throat.
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he says as he pushes the door farther open.
“It’s part of the process,” answers Wisdom. “We’ll call you again if we have any more questions. Thanks for your time. We know you’ve lived here for a number of years, so we won’t bother you again if we don’t have to.”
Posner shakes the offered hand and immediately worries that his fingers were too damp or even trembling, but if so, Wisdom seems to take little notice. As soon as the door closes, Posner races to the nearest bathroom, gagging uncontrollably, but it was not until three hours later that he’d wondered whether Wisdom might have heard his spasmodic retching from the driveway.
Posner realizes that innocence maybe a state of mind long before it becomes a legal issue. An observer may only glimpse a part of the truth, yet all sorts of preconceived views stir the pot of judgment. A day after Wisdom left, Posner remembers a vacation he and Sara had taken some ten years before to Israel. They stayed at a hotel on the Sea of Galilee. On the Friday morning they arrived, the hotel was already busy with Israelis away for the weekend, but by late Saturday afternoon most of the locals were gone, as Sunday was a workday.
He and Sara lounged on adjoining chaises. At five in the afternoon, the lake shimmered in dwindling sunlight. The large pool, so filled just a day before with vacationers, was empty. A small tote bag stuffed with their wallets, credit cards, passports, and plane tickets rested under his chaise.
They had treated themselves to a bottle of a decent local white wine, and by the second glass they had both eased into languid drowsiness, that never-never land barely a breath or two above sleep, impervious to all the traditional worries that flood daily life.
And they both knew, without a word, that later, after raising themselves from drowsiness, there would be sex in the large bedroom with a view of the lake. And after showers there would be a quiet dinner of salad and St. Peter’s fish on the restaurant terrace, alone except for a few other random visitors and the odd waiter.
He was on the edge of a dream when the shouts roused him. The words were in English, so there is no mistake in their purpose. A security guard on the far end of the pool shouted, “Stop him. Stop the thief.”
Posner sat up, followed the guard’s pointed arm and looked to the far end of the grounds. A boy was running away, no more than a flash of thin dark arms in the twilight, but there was enough light to see that the boy clutched Posner’s recognizable beige bag in one hand as he sprinted across a long stretch of small jagged boulders that bordered the hotel grounds. At first Posner stared in some awe as the boy glided effortlessly across the stones, an animal species that levitated above the sharpest edges, and then he raised himself upright and began to scream.
“Catch him! Catch him!”
Only then did he spring from the chaise and begin
to run after the boy. Another guard at the edge of vision moved into a slow trot, at best barely a performance gesture, and without energy.
Posner ran after the boy and quickly became the lead pursuer. The boy had somehow approached the chaise and snatched his bag. Posner could not allow such a theft without some action. The boy turned once to check his pursuers. There was a brief flash of dark arms and hair before he ducked behind a rock outcropping.
Posner continued to run, but he was barefoot and the sharp rocks cut flesh from his instep. He had been violated, and the pain from the rocks soon slowed his pace and a security guard easily passed him. He finally pulled to a stop and bent over. He felt his legs wobble as if in spasm. Just as he straightened up, he saw his bag between two large rocks no more than ten feet away. The thief had dropped it while making his escape. He checked the contents. Everything was there. He turned back toward the hotel and saw Sara standing near where the rocky boundary began. He waved to her as he held the tote above his head and jammed his thumb in the air.
A noise from behind caused him to turn back. The security guard was standing next to a boy. The guard began to slap him again and again. The boy soon fell to the ground and the guard then kicked him repeatedly. There was a scream and then silence. It was all over in seconds. The guard turned and looked back to where Posner stood. Posner held the bag in the air and the guard offered a weak smile and began to walk toward him.
“Why were you hitting him, and why didn’t you call the police?” asked Posner.
“They’re all the same. Fucking Arab thieves. We couldn’t prove anything so this is the best way to treat them,” was all the guard said.
As they walked back together, Posner looked over his shoulder and saw the boy stand and walk toward a group of similar age. He watched the guard peel away back to his post on the far side of the pool while he massaged his right hand with his left.