by Ellen Hart
“They both love drama, or, as Cordelia puts it, the parry and thrust of a well-reasoned argument.”
“Uh-huh. Think I’ll go hide.”
“I’m sorry if we’re being bad house guests.”
“No, no. It’s more me than her. My dinner with Scott was a disaster. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“But you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m home and I’m safe. And I’m exhausted.”
Jane said a quick goodnight and then continued on down into the living room, where Cordelia was pacing in front of the fire, phone to her ear.
Seeing Jane, Cordelia mouthed, “Almost done.”
While Cordelia continued to argue the fine points of “hue,” Jane tossed another log on the fire and then went to find the brandy. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well enjoy the wee morning hours. When she returned, Cordelia was draped across one of the matching Chesterfield sofas, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Jane asked how Berengaria was.
“Captivating, as always. Intellectually rigorous. And tactless, infuriating, adorable. Shall I go on?”
“No, I get the picture.” She sat down on the opposite sofa.
“Why are you up so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Jane knew she’d never have a better moment to talk to Cordelia about Julia than this. They’d been in town for three full days. It was time she fessed up. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” She swallowed some of the brandy, shifted her position.
“You seem a tad trepidatious, Janey.”
“It’s something I should have told you long before this.”
Cordelia sat up. “I know that look. Julia.”
Jane hated it when Cordelia was able to read her so easily. She needed to work harder at being inscrutable. “It was a big deal at the time, but I’ve made peace with it. Sort of.”
Cordelia sat across from her, impassive, waiting.
“Um, well, here it is. It happened after the funeral reception at my house. After everyone had left.”
“A phone call.”
“No, the doorbell rang.” Downing half her drink, Jane forged on. “There was a young man outside. Brown hair. Glasses. Exceptionally well-dressed. I’d noticed him at the cemetery, but had no idea who he was. Then again, I didn’t know half the people who came. He introduced himself as Ben Abourgal. From Chicago. He waited for a response, but when I just stood there, he said his father was Lavi Abourgal.”
Cordelia lifted her chin. “Are we talking Lavi Abourgal, the world-famous violinist?”
“Yes, exactly. He said he wasn’t sure it was a good time, but he was only going to be in town for one night and he wanted to meet me.”
“Because?”
“He’s Julia’s son.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Like you, I was completely blindsided. He was a little flustered because I think he thought I knew. As we talked, it came out that Julia was still married to his father. They had a home in Lincoln Park, and, obviously, an unorthodox relationship. Ben was raised all over the world because of his father’s profession, but always went to school in Chicago. He knew about me. Knew his mother was a lesbian. But he said his father, who was very ill and couldn’t come to the funeral, had always been deeply in love with Julia, though he himself identified as gay and had several longtime lovers over the years.”
“Heavens,” said Cordelia, a hand pressed to her chest. “Even from the grave, that witch continues to lie to you.”
Jane looked down. “I know. It’s why I couldn’t talk about it. I was embarrassed. I still am. What’s wrong with me, Cordelia? I mean, the whole thing makes me feel like I can’t trust my own judgment. That’s an awful way to see yourself, especially for someone who relies on her ability to parse human motives. How could I have not known, or guessed, that she was keeping something from me? Am I that big a sucker?”
“When it came to Julia, yes. You were.”
The comment felt like a blow. Cordelia was right. Jane had wanted to be convinced. She’d allowed Julia back into her life knowing she played fast and loose with the truth, so why should she be surprised to find out that, to the very end and beyond, she continued to be a treasure trove of secrets? “I had kind of a meltdown over it. It’s why I went up to the cabin on Blackberry Lake.”
“I assumed it was something like that. I hate to say I told you so, but I did. Over and over. For years. But Janey, you can’t be so hard on yourself. Julia had a PhD in manipulation. I think you caught on to a lot of it, but never all.”
“I’ve worked my way through the worst of my angst. I just can’t dwell on it anymore. What’s done is done, and I’m moving on.”
“Glad to hear it. But what about the kid?”
“He wasn’t in town just for the funeral, but because he’s going to take over the reins of Julia’s foundation. He has a master’s in public administration. He’s been working for a foundation in Chicago for the last eight years.”
“How old is this kid?”
“He’s not a kid. He’s thirty-one. He said he’d be moving to the Twin Cities in the next couple of months and hoped we could stay in touch.”
“And you said?”
“I liked him. I said that I hoped so, too. He didn’t have much time that day to talk, and I have a million questions. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”
Cordelia looked as if she was steeling herself for another one of Julia’s whoppers.
“No, this is good. I was contacted by the trustee of Julia’s estate last Friday morning. It seems she left me something. I told her I didn’t want any of her money, but as it turns out, her condo is now mine.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “How much is it worth?”
“I asked him to find out. He texted me this morning. A million two.”
Both eyebrows shot up. “My stars and garters. That woman finally did you right.”
“I’m sorry I kept all this to myself for so long.”
“I understand, dearheart. If I’d been as credulously idiotic as you, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to announce it either.”
Jane couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Leave it to Cordelia to put an undiplomatic and yet bluntly accurate frame on it. “Well said. Now we should try to get some sleep.”
As they made their way up the stairs, Cordelia draped an arm over Jane’s shoulders. “I better get to know this Leslie Harrow while I’m here so I can tell you what to think of her.”
“What a … wonderful idea.”
“Tut. Think nothing of it.”
SAM
September 11, 1999
As he made his way across the field in front of Corey Lang’s house, talking with Kurt about how surprised he was at the size of the crowd, Sam heard his name shouted above the din of music blaring from a loudspeaker set in one of the windows.
“Hey Romilly,” yelled Todd Ott.
Sam turned to face him, walking backward. “What?”
“I need you on my team, man,” he shouted. “We’re setting up a volleyball net. Corey says he’s got one in the basement.”
“Maybe,” Sam yelled back.
“No maybes, bro. You’ve got five minutes and then I want you front and center.”
Sam smiled and gave him the finger.
“Might be fun,” said Kurt.
“This will be more fun,” said Sam, offering him a sly smile.
They made their way to a lone car parked just off the county road, a good forty yards from the house. The sun had set a couple hours before, so this far away from the lights, Sam felt confident nobody could see them.
“I wonder who parked his car way out here,” said Kurt, sitting down with his back against the passenger’s door.
They were facing the road and not the party. Sam sat down next to him. “It belongs to Darius Pollard. It’s his baby. I doubt he wanted some drunk asshole putting a dent in it.” He looked up at the half moon, not enough to give too much light, which
was exactly what he’d hoped for. He leaned in to give Kurt a kiss.
“You think we can chance, you know … more here?”
Sam looked around. He didn’t see a soul. “I want to, but … it’s not worth the risk.” For the past week, they’d been meeting up in the evenings. Kurt would hop on the back of Sam’s motorcycle and they’d roar out of town to find a quiet back road. He still couldn’t believe he’d met Kurt. It seemed like he was walking around in a dream.
“I hate all this sneaking around,” said Kurt.
“Once we get out of Castle Lake, it won’t be like this. We can make a life for ourselves.”
“You’re set on leaving?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?”
Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest. “Can I ask you something? It’s nothing we’ve ever talked about.”
“Like what?”
“You said you’d been with other guys.”
“Yeah.”
“Lots of guys?”
Sam picked up a rock. “No. Just three. The second and third guys were hookups. I didn’t know them, and I never saw them again.”
“Local guys?”
“No, both times I was in Minneapolis.”
“And the first?”
Sam had been dreading this conversation. He could lie, of course, but he didn’t want to. He figured it was something Kurt needed to know, even though it was still hard for him to talk about. “He was a friend of my dad’s. Had a cabin on Round Lake and invited my family for the weekend. The first night, he asked me to go for a walk with him. He wanted to show me his hidden fishing hole. My dad didn’t fish, but I hoped this guy would teach me.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen. It happened so fast that—” Again, he cleared his throat. Even this long after, Sam still felt an itchy, crushed feeling inside when he thought about it. “He raped me. I should have fought him, but he was older and stronger and … I couldn’t believe it was happening. When it was over, he acted like we’d had a little secret fun—something we should keep ‘just between us guys.’”
“Oh, God,” whispered Kurt. “I’m sorry. Did you tell your dad?”
“Hell, no. He already thought I was gay.”
“He did?”
“Ever since I can remember, he called me a pansy ass. Light in the loafers. Crap like that. At first, I just thought he hated me on general principles. I’m not sure when I first knew I was gay. But my dad? It was like he could smell it on me, even before I’d named it myself.”
“What happened to the guy who attacked you? Is he still around?”
Sam shook his head. “He worked at the bank. Left a few years later. I’ve often wondered where he went.”
“If there is a God, he’s in prison being pinned down regularly by a three-hundred-pound Nazi skinhead.”
Sam laughed. “I guess, in the end, it was a lesson. I was more careful after that. It also made me more sensitive to boundaries. When I kissed you that first time, I knew I’d crossed a line.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“If you’d had a different reaction, you might not think that.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He cupped a hand around Sam’s arm, then released it when they heard boots crunching against gravel.
“Hey,” said Sam, reaching up and slapping Darius’s hand. “My man. What’s up?”
“Got sick of the revelry.” He sat down cross-legged in front of them. “I’m beat.”
“Late night last night?”
“Yeah, that, and an early morning at the garage.”
“I should probably go see what Vicki’s up to,” said Kurt.
“She’s dancing out in the yard,” said Darius. “Looked pretty happy to me.”
“She loves to dance. Me, not so much.”
“I’m a kick-ass dancer,” said Darius, “but I doubt any of the girls here would dance with me.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Sam.
“Yeah, but nothing I can do about it. Hey, if you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna kick back for a few minutes and close my eyes. Keep talking, it won’t bother me one bit.”
Sam elbowed Kurt in the ribs and grinned. “What shall we talk about?”
Before long, Darius was snoring away, stirring only once to bat a mosquito away from his face.
They spoke quietly for a while, steering clear of the subject they had been discussing.
As Kurt was about to get up to head back, he said, “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“It sounded like an animal. Like it’s in pain.”
A second later, Sam heard it, too. It seemed more like muffled sobs to him, and appeared to be coming from a thicket of red pine a few dozen yards away. In a flash, he was up, running toward it. It was hard to see, but the moonlight was just enough to allow him to locate the source of the sound. Two people were lying on the ground, one on top of the other. Sam could hear the man grunting as the woman struggled to get away. Sam dove at the guy, grabbing him around his midsection and ripping him off. A moment later, he heard Kurt say, “What the hell’s going on?”
The young woman was hysterical, crawling away on her hands and knees. Her skirt seemed to be tangled in brambles. The more she tugged, the louder her cries grew. “It’s okay,” Sam called to her. Whirling around, he squinted and realized that the attacker’s pants were down around his ankles. As he tried to pull them up, Sam ran at him, knocking him back down on the ground. And then he kicked him hard in the crotch. The guy howled in pain, grabbing himself and rolling around in the pine needles and scrub. The smell of alcohol came off him in waves.
“I should kill you,” shouted Sam. He positioned himself for another kick.
“Don’t,” called Kurt.
Sam felt strong arms pull him backward. Hearing more cries come from the girl, he broke free and rushed over, this time, getting a good look at her face. It was Becca Hill, a young woman in his class. She seemed pretty drunk. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Keep him away from me,” she cried, scooting backward across the ground.
“He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” said Sam. “Are you okay? Can you get up?”
She seemed pretty out of it. “Yeah,” she whispered.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
He walked her slowly out of the trees and back toward the car. When they reached Darius, Sam bent over him and shook him awake. “Hey, buddy, can you do me a favor?” He explained what he needed.
Sam helped Becca into the backseat. He spoke to her quietly, calmly, telling her that Darius would take her back to her house. He found a black marker in his pocket and wrote his number on her arm. “Call me, day or night, if you need anything. I’m here for you, Becca.”
She looked up at him, her eyes only marginally less terrified. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Drive careful,” he said to Darius, slapping the car’s roof. He waited until they’d pulled back onto the highway, and then returned to the scene of the crime, ready to beat the living crap out of Dave Tamborsky.
25
The call came in on Wednesday morning at 7:26. After working his standard Tuesday day shift, Dave had received a call-out last night to a multiple car crash. He hadn’t returned home until well after two in the morning. Since he was scheduled for the second shift today, he figured he’d be able to sleep late, but no such luck.
“Hello,” he muttered groggily into his phone, noting the time on the nightstand alarm clock.
“We found Carli Gilbert’s car.”
Dave had assigned two patrol officers to handle the search.
“Where?” He pulled over his notebook and jotted down the info. “Call it in and get the crime scene people there ASAP.”
County Road 19 ran through a heavily wooded section northeast of Castle Lake. Not many people lived in the area, though there were a few trailer homes close to the road. Dave pulled his cruiser to a stop along the shoulder behind two other patrol cars. With thr
ee cop cars, all lights flashing, nobody was going to miss seeing them.
Just as he pushed out of the front seat, a Ford Focus eased in behind him, and the driver’s window came down. “What’s going on?” asked an older man.
“Police business,” said Dave. “Keep moving.”
The guy seemed annoyed, but the window rolled back up and he drove on.
Crossing through deep grass, Dave found Steve Biggs, the senior patrolman at the scene, on the phone. He waited until the call was finished and then said, “Where’s the crime-scene unit?”
“They’re coming,” said Biggs, brushing mosquitoes away from his face.
Dave wished he’d remembered to spray himself down with insect repellant.
Biggs led Dave through a weedy area to a section of woods. “We figure our perp drove onto a service road half a mile up. He turned off and threaded his way in until he felt the car was basically invisible. It might have been, too, if it hadn’t been red.”
Dave knew they’d been lucky to find it. It could have been months, or even years, before anyone noticed it rusting away in the middle of nowhere. By then, nobody would be looking for it anymore, or talking about Carli Gilbert’s murder, and it would have simply been considered another piece of junk dumped in the woods.
Removing a flashlight from his belt, he approached the Cobalt cautiously. It might be morning, and the sun might be shining, but deep in the woods, the light was dim. “Is it locked?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t touched it.”
“Don’t suppose the keys are there.”
“I didn’t see any.”
“But you’ve examined the interior?”
“Yes, sir. Briefly, with my flashlight.”
“Any thoughts?” he asked as he pointed his flashlight into the front seat. He never understood why some people used their cars as garbage dumps. This one was a total pit, with pop cans, food wrappers, and other assorted crap tossed aside and forgotten. Switching off the light and returning it to his belt, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. When he opened the front driver’s-side door, he noticed that the seat was pushed all the way back. “Whoever drove it in here sure didn’t care if he damaged the car,” said Biggs. “Not much to learn from that, I suppose. There are scratches all over the paint and the front grill is broken and crammed with leaves and weeds.”