REMEMBERING SARAH DELETED SCENES Chapter 6 This scene takes place at a restaurant where Mike and Wild Bill talk about Mike's therapy session. Chapter 10 A deleted chapter between Mike and Wild Bill's daughter, Grace. Chapter 11 A deleted scene between Mike and Wild Bill's daughter, Paula. It didn't fit with the book. Chapter 13 A deleted scene where Mike is suspected at trying to kill Francis Jonah. Chapter 15 A deleted chapter where Mike wonders if he should have killed Jonah. Chapter 16 A funny scene with Wild Bill and his daughters. Chapter 25 This chapter, where Lou Sullivan reveals the truth about Mike's mother, has a different and completely shocking ending. As much as I loved it, I decided it complicated the book. You be the judge. Chapter 37 A scene where Mike remembers a time with Sarah. Chapter 6—Deleted Scene Every Friday morning at 8:30, Mike met Bill for breakfast at the Main Street Diner, one of the few remaining handful of locally owned businesses left in downtown Belham. At 9:15 a.m. Mike walked through the front door of the diner and sifted his way through a packed crowd of people waiting to be seated for breakfast. Wild Bill was seated in a corner booth on the far left, next to a bank of windows facing the street, Bill’s thick, wide body showing off a new Patriots Super Bowl leather jacket. "Sorry I’m late," Mike said as he slid inside the seat across from Bill. "The Smurf called and I had to turn around." "No problem. I was enjoying the peace and quiet. What did the Smurf want?" "Standard pee and breathe. You look like you had another rough night. What’d the twins do this time?" Bill rubbed the sleep out of his face and refocused his eyes, the skin underneath them puffy. "Emma and Grace were coloring—at two in the morning, okay? Patty and I wake up to shrieking. Grace wanted to use the red crayon, so Emma jammed it up her nose so far we had to take her to the ER. I’m thinking of putting those monitoring bracelets around their ankles—you know, the kind they use for prisoners, make sure the police know where they are at all times. Talk to the Smurf for me, see if you can cut me a deal." "I’ll see what I can do," Mike said, picking up a menu. "How are you doing?" "I’m glad this therapy bullshit is done." "So the ice bitch cleared you." "That the way it looks." From beyond the window, above the noisy chatter inside the diner, came the grind of the diesel engine belonging to the bulldozer across the street. The Strand, the old movie house, was going to be torn down. Up until this past February, four bucks still bought you a ticket to a second run movie. The Strand had been where he had first seen Star Wars and The Godfather, where he had taken Sarah to see E.T. Mike put down his menu and looked out the window. Even now, in the most complimentary sun, downtown Belham had that grimly feel of the forgotten. High TV, the electronics store where Mr. Dempson used to repair VCRs and TVs, was boarded up, just one of the many victims of the disposable mall mentality; why fix it when you can pitch it and buy it newer and cheaper and faster? Kingworld Shoes couldn’t offer the same low mall prices and was forced to close. Two years ago, a fire had gutted the hockey rink and the empty store next to it, Cusiack Fabrics (World Famous Since 1912 the sign had once read). The only building that had survived was the public library. Lou, if he had been in a generous mood, would drive them to the library, Mike sitting on the front steps with him, listening to Lou blabber about how if he could have back the half of his life he spent waiting for women he’d live to be well over a hundred. Mike jerked his thumb at The Strand. "What are they going to put over there?" "Starbucks and a Gap." "When’s the Pottery Barn coming?" "Wouldn’t surprise me. The yuppies have already taken over the north side." It was true. The north side of the city was practically overflowing with Volvos and BMWs, the landscape of Belham already having a Burger King and a McDonalds, the city morphing into one big McHappy nation where life was one big Gap ad with pretty people with pretty teeth and perfect bodies sipping cappuccinos and singing about how people all over the world should start a love train, everyone join in. Bill said, "Me and Patty took the kids out last night to the Border Café up on Route One. There was a wait, so I went up the bar to grab a beer and notice every guy’s got their bone tuned to the broad in a black suit and glasses kicking back a beer and reading The Sporting News. You’ll never guess who it was." "Your idol, Howard Stern?" "Better." "Better than Stern? I got it. Tootie from the Facts of Life." "Samantha Ellis." Her name brought up one of the best periods in Mike’s life, that summer after Jess’s freshman year at UNH, the time when Jess decided that it would be best if they saw other people for a bit, you know, see if what they had between them was something real and permanent and not just two high school sweethearts hanging on because they were afraid of change. "She moved back here a year, year and a half ago," Bill said. "She’s working at a law firm in downtown Boston—one of those places with six names that when you’re done saying it gives you a headache. Harrington, Dole, something and something. Middle age is treating her real well. Got this nice J. Lo thing going on. You seen her new video?" "I haven’t watched MTV since Joan Jett was the big thing." "You should. With the rap videos, station’s like soft-core porn now. Paula has these sleepovers where I got something like ten girls camped out in my living room watching these boy bands. Sully, you should see these guys. They barely got a hair on their nut sack and they’re dancing and prancing around in leather pants and driving Ferrari’s and banging the kind of chicks we used to rub one off to in Playboy." Mike nodded, wondering if Sarah, only a few months away from twelve, would find boys cute or still gross. Thelma Rhodes, the waitress and co-owner, swung by the table with a weary smile. She was past sixty and in Mike’s mind had always looked that way. Her hair was gray as far back as he could remember, and her face still had that haggard, exhausted look of a woman who was running on fumes. She placed a thick white mug in front of Mike and started filling it with coffee. "Sorry about the wait, boys," Thelma puffed. "I’m shorthanded today." "No problem, beautiful," Bill said and winked. "How’s it going?" "It’s going. Eight hours from now and I’ll be on a plane, on my way to Vegas." "Going to try your luck at pulling some slots?" "That’s about all I’m pulling." "Good looking broad like you? Come on." "You sure know the way to a girl’s heart, Bill. What’cha having?" "Lumberjack special with a side stack of blueberry pancakes, side of sausage." Mike said, "Glad to see you’re watching your cholesterol." "You try eating rice cakes and that Kashi cereal. It’s like eating packing foam. Any day now and I’m going to shit a Styrofoam cooler." "Billy, you haven’t changed one bit," Thelma said. "What about you, Sully?" "You know what? Give me the same. Our arteries will get clogged together." Thelma finished writing on her pad and said, "Your dad’s looking good. Got himself a nice tan and everything." "Wait. You saw him? When?" "This morning. He was in here for breakfast, dressed to the nines." Mike and Bill exchanged glances as Thelma scooped up the menus. "You know, I remember when you used to be this wee thing, he’d come in here with you and bounce you on his knee as he read the paper," she said. "He loved reading you the sports page." "Yeah, those sure were the days," Bill said, grinning. Mike said, "He say when he moved back?" "Didn’t know he moved away. Anyone ever tell you you’re a spitting image of him? Got those blue Irish eyes and that smile girls die for." Thelma winked and then walked behind the front counter. "Well that was a sure nice way to greet the day," Bill said. "You want some Rolaids? I got a pack in the truck." Mike drank some of his coffee. Right before Sarah disappeared, Joey Boots, a big-time button man for the Irish mob, was arrested by the FBI. The murder charges were weak; Joey Boots posted bail. Three weeks later, police found his body parts stuffed in a truck of a car parked at Logan airport. By the time the police and FBI came around with their questions, Lou had disappeared. That was over four years ago. Now Lou was back in Belham. Why? "Let me ask you something," Mike said. "You read that article in People, right?" "Sex secrets of the stars? You bet." "I’m talking about the interview with Lou." "Oh," Bill said, chuckling. "That." "What did you make of it?" "I thought it was pretty fucking funny." "The ice queen thinks Lou’s going to reach out. You know, try and patch things up." Bill stared at him for a moment. "You serious?" "She was," Mike said and picked up a menu. "You should have told her about Cadillac Jack." "Funny you should mention that." "And?" "Not even a dent." "You should arrange a get together. She spends a minute talking with him, I guarantee you she’ll walk away feeling like she’s got bite marks all over her skin." Or he’d kill her, Mike thought. Bury her someplace where nobody will ever find her again. "I got an extra ticket tonight to Grace and Emma’s play," Bill said. "You should come. Trust me, it will be a comedy show." "Dotty Conasta called again. She has a couple of questions she wants answered before she signs. I was thinking of swinging by." Bill grinned. "You haven’t met her yet, have you?" "No. Why?" "I was over there two nights ago, about to go over the plans for the addition when she tells me to wait. She wants her husband to listen in." "What’s the problem with that?" "Her husband’s in an urn. That job’s got Excedrin written all over it." Thelma came over with their food, slid their plates on the table and then hurried off. Mike picked up his fork and for some reason his thoughts turned to Jonah, Mike thinking about the picture he had seen on the front page of this morning’s Globe and wondering how much time Jonah had left. "Sully?" "Yeah." "Tonight, if you feel like drinking—" "I’m not going to drink." "Promise me you’ll stay away from Jonah." "Not a problem," Mike said, his mind filling with an image of Sarah, her vision terribly blurred without her glasses, crying out for help as she swatted away the strange hands eager to touch her. Chapter 10—Deleted Scene Mike woke up to pink—pink stripped wallpaper, pink sheets and pillows and— oh boy—on the wall at the end of the bed, a black-and-white poster signed by some guy named Chet, Chet’s expression very serious, bordering on unpleasant. Mike wondered what bothered Chet more: the fact that he had been asked to stand knee-high in the ocean, his unbuttoned white shirt soaking wet and stuck to his deeply tanned skin; or the fact that his jeans were two-sizes too big and riding down his waist, exposing his underwear. Or maybe Chet was simply pissed off that his name sounded too much like a breakfast cereal. The door slid open against the beige carpet and five year old Grace O’Malley shuffled into Paula’s bedroom. Grace was dressed in her Blues Clues pajamas, her brown hair styled by static electricity, her round brown eyes filled with purpose. "Your dog smells like cheesy feet," she said. "I see," Mike said. "And what, exactly, is cheesy feet?" "Dogs smell." "That they do," Mike said, remembering that Grace had become what Bill called The Megaphone Master of the Obvious. She announced to the world whatever came into mind—like last week when Grace said to her preschool teacher, "Your teeth are yellow." "Your dog needs a bath." "Agreed," Mike said. "Would you like to help me give him a bath today?" Grace was already bored by the conversation. She was pointing at the poster, at Chet. "That boy looks cold." Mike slid out of bed and grabbed his jeans. "Where’s Dad?" "Downstairs watching the cameras." "What cameras?" "Come on, Uncle Michael, I’ll show you." Grace extended her hand. Mike slid into her jeans, buttoned them, and then took her hand, Grace escorting him across the hall into the hurricane-filled mess that was the bedroom she shared with her twin sister Emma. They stepped over the toys as Grace walked up to the window, Mike following. "See," she said in an I-told-you-so voice. Photographers, newspaper and TV reporters and the same talking-heads he saw every night on the Boston news were huddled in small groups on Bill’s front lawn and driveway. There was a small army camped out there, all of them holding microphones, cameras and tape recorders, waiting for him to emerge and make a statement. Shit. By coming here, Mike had hoped to avoid this. Grace banged on the glass. "Up here! I’m up here!" Mike picked her up, cradling him in his arms, and stepped back from the window. "What’s wrong, Uncle Michael? Don’t you want your picture taken?" "Not now, sweets," he said, his voice shaky. He forced a smile. "Paula doesn’t want her picture. She’s downstairs crying." It’s not your fault. He had told Paula that countless times—especially during that first year, Mike saying it over and over again, wanting to drill away that sick, apologetic look that hung in her eyes. Paula listened, nodded politely and then always made up an excuse to leave the room. Now she had to confront it all over again. "Are all these people here to see Paula?" Grace asked. Answer the question being asked. That parenting tip came from Jess, Mike instantly recalling a Sunday morning breakfast when Sarah asked how babies got inside a mommy’s tummy. Jess didn’t flinch when it came to tackling questions. "Daddies put them there," Jess said, and that explanation had been enough. Sarah nodded and then dove back into her eggs. Only Jess wasn’t here. By now she was walking the streets of Italy with her new boyfriend, oblivious to what was going in Belham, maybe even avoiding it. She hadn’t called him back. Mike had called her a little after two in the morning and had left a message. It was possible she didn’t get it. He wanted to get in touch with her. He just had no idea where she was—or when she would be coming back. It was possible she would head straight to her new life in New York. "Is Paula having a party, Uncle Michael? Is that why those people are here? To take her picture?" He’d have to wing it. "They’re not here to see, Paula," Mike said. "They’re here to see me." "Why?" "They want me to answer questions." "And to take pictures." "Yes." "Can I be in a picture with you?" "Absolutely." "But not Fang. He smells like cheese." "Okay." "I want to watch." Mike sat on her bed and placed her on his knee, turning her around so she could watch all the commotion. He wrapped his arms around her body, feeling her smallness pressed up against him, and kissed the top of her head, the sleep and lingering traces of baby shampoo in her hair filling his nostrils. By now Sarah’s jacket was at the lab. Latex-covered hands were readying their microscopes and slides, ready to pry the jacket of its secrets. # When you use the media, they end up using you. Rose Giroux had drilled this fact into his head early on. What they are after, Michael, are your tears. They want you to cry for them, to scream or swear—they want to have a breakdown on camera, and they only way they can do that is by asking you the same dumb questions over and over again. Their job is to sell newspapers and airtime—as the saying goes, if it bleeds, it leads. Your job is to find your daughter. Always, always keep that in your mind. There are going to be so many times when some jerky reporter is going to ask you some question that’s going to tick you off, and you’re going to want to strangle them, tell them where to shove that microphone. Don’t feed into it. The second you do, the focus becomes you instead of your daughter. Always remember that behind every dumb question is a camera or microphone or tape recorder that will run Sarah’s story and Sarah’s picture. The longer you keep Sarah out there, the higher a chance that someone might come forward with information. You stand there and be as nice as pie to them because there may come a time where you need them. For five days, no matter where Mike was or what mood he was in, he would drop whatever he was doing and in a pleasant tone would answer the same goddamn mind-numbing questions over and over again. Yes, it was Sarah’s jacket on top of the hill. No, I can’t explain why Jonah called 911 and reported finding the jacket. No, I don’t know what’s going on with the jacket. No, I don’t know why the police haven’t arrested Jonah yet. I don’t know anything. You’d have to talk to the police. Go to the police. Speak with the police. Merrick held two press conferences, smoke and mirror shows of "We’re working on several leads" and "No comment." Merrick was holding his cards close to his chest; he wasn’t going to give away any information. When the cameras and microphones were gone and it was just the two of them, alone in a room, he treated Mike to the same lip service. Be patient. We’re making progress. Merrick, stubborn prick that he was, would never elaborate on exactly what that progress was. Wednesday afternoon, Anthony Testa popped by the job site for another pee and breathe screen. He left in a huff, pissed off that his briefcase was soaked with urine. Mike had forgotten to cap the sample, had accidentally dropped it. By the end of the work week Mike still didn’t know what was going on with Sarah’s jacket. Merrick hadn’t returned Mike’s phone calls (neither had Jess). With nothing fresh to feast on, the media went into a temporary state of hibernation. They were lingering around Belham, mostly around Jonah’s house, hoping to catch a picture of the dying recluse. Friday evening after work, Mike and Bill pulled into Bill’s driveway, both of them relieved to find it free of reporters. Mike had been staying here for the past week; he didn’t want to be alone in his house, near Sarah’s room. Tonight, Grace and Emma were in a snit. It seemed that Grace had taken Emma’s Bug’s Bunny stuffed animal and had tried to flush it down the toilet. The twins sat across from each other, lobbing barbs across the kitchen table: You’re such a poopeyhead. No, you’re the poopeyhead. Oh yeah? Well you’re a mega-supreme ding dong noodle head. Bill and Patty took turns playing referee. Mike missed the insane commotion that accompanied parenting—raising three girls, a pair of them twins, it almost was a guarantee. What he missed the most, more than anything, was the simple act of sitting down and having a meal together. Paula O’Malley sat at the end of the table, near her father, Paula’s face haggard as she quietly ate her dinner. Sammy Pinkerton, the major eyewitness to Sarah’s abduction, had moved out of Belham over two years ago. That left Paula O’Malley. A handful of reporters had waited for her every morning in the driveway as she left for school, had waited for her again when she left the school. No thirteen-year-old kid should have to deal with that, especially a shy, polite thirteen year old who just wanted nothing more than to hang out with her friends, an activity that had been cancelled because of this week’s media storm. But she didn’t complain. She was quiet, maybe a bit too quiet at times—or at least she appeared that way when he was around. She studied hard, got good grades at the Catholic high school over in Peabody, Bishop Fenwick, and loved to spend her free time playing tennis, reading, following the latest boy bands on MTV and in Seventeen magazine. Emma called Grace a wheedle bug—whatever that meant—but it was enough to spark Grace’s anger. She picked up a fistful of mashed potatoes and flung them across the table at Emma. By the time Bill got out of his chair, a minor food fight had ensued. Bill grabbed Grace and Patty grabbed Emma and dragged the screaming twins upstairs. Doors slammed shut and then the kitchen was quiet, Mike sitting at one end of the table, Paula at the other, staring at her food as Fang went to work licking the mashed potatoes off the wall and floor. She was growing into a remarkable young woman, Mike thought. Paula was really into clothes, all Polo ("Ah, duh, Dad. It’s like what everyone wears.") and, much to Bill’s horror, was dating, hanging around—whatever the term for it was nowadays—with a boy named Charles (not Charlie or Chuck; Charles), a twig of a guy popping with pimples. Charles didn’t like football. Charles didn’t like sports at all. He liked to read and write poetry. "You sure Chucky—I’m mean, Charles likes girls?" Bill had asked. Fang came over to Paula, nudged his snout against her waist. Paula handed Fang half a roll. The dog gingerly took it out of Paula’s fingers and took it over to the corner and slumped against the floor, drooling as he chewed. Paula saw Mike watching the dog. "We ran out of dog food this morning," she said, sounding apologetic. "I’ll bring some more over. Thanks for taking such great care of Fang this week. I really appreciate it." "You’re welcome." "You know, I was thinking of heading down to Dunnigan’s Ice Cream. You remember when you and Sarah would split—what was it called? Mud something." She cleared her throat again, eyes on her plate. "Big Jack’s Roadkill Mud Pie." Mike snapped his fingers. "That’s it. Course, when me and your dad were growing up, all old man Dunnigan had were, like, six flavors and a banana split. Simpler times, I guess. I was thinking of trying one. I can’t eat one of those things myself, so I was wondering if you’d like to join me. My way of saying thanks for taking care of Fang." "That’s okay. You don’t have to." "I’d like to." Mike could feel the no coming. Not an outright no—Paula was too soft-spoken and too thoughtful—but more like the polite exit, something like, "I’m sorry, but I really want to see my friends tonight." That was fine. If she didn’t want to go, he wasn’t going to push it. "Okay," she said. After they cleaned up the mess and the dishes, they headed out the door, Paula under strict orders from her father to sneak back a hot fudge sundae and leave it in the mini-fridge in the garage "And please, Paula, whatever you do, don’t tell your mother." Paula wanted to take Fang with them. The dog sat in the back seat of the truck, his head out the window. It was almost six and a lot of people were outside walking, alone or in groups, out walking their dogs. Some even hung out on their porches, drinking coffee or beer. Light was hanging around the evening a little bit longer each day, and the air, while still cool enough to require a jacket, had lost its sharp bite. Three more weeks and it would be April. Mike said, "While we’re out, you mind if I swing by my house first and pick up some more dog food?" "You think reporters will be there?" "I hope not. If they are, we can turn around." Paula nodded. She looked relieved. "Your dad told me some reporter shoved a microphone inside your mom’s car." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paula stiffen. "I’m sorry about everything that’s been happening this week," Mike said. "You shouldn’t have to deal with that." "Mom left real quick. I didn’t talk to the reporter—I haven’t talked to any of them." "Your friends giving you a hard time about everything that’s going on?" "Sort of. I guess." Mike nodded. "I know I’ve said this to you before, but I need to say it again. What happened to Sarah wasn’t your fault. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me." Paula’s eyes dropped to her lap. "And," Mike said, "if you ever need to talk about it, it’s okay. I mean, I’m okay with it. You can ask me questions. Anything you want. Remember that, okay?" When Paula didn’t say anything, he decided to leave it. The words he had wanted to tell her were out there now, he was satisfied with that. Mike banged a left onto Durgan Road. At the far end of the street he saw a bunch of kids playing stickball. A few blocks over was Praton Street, which would take him right past Jonah’s house. Mike wondered if reporters were still camped out or if they had given up. Word around town was that Jonah hired bodyguards. Two nights ago, someone had thrown a brick through Jonah’s windows. A cruiser had stopped by Mike’s house at two in the morning to ask questions. Paula said, "Sister Tracy, my homeroom teacher? She told me that God has a plan for all of us." She turned his face up to his. "Do you think it’s that true?" Ladies and gentleman, Paula O’Malley has cranked one out into left field and changed the course of this game. "Well," he said, stumbling for an answer. "My mother always told me it was important to have faith." "So do you believe that’s true?" Paula asked. "That God has a plan for all of us?" Getting into a theological discussion wasn’t part of tonight’s plan. He had just wanted to make sure his goddaughter was doing okay, let her know that if she needed to talk, he was here for her, that he loved her. Hey, you were the one who said it was okay to ask anything. Mike said, "What brought this on?" "Tony Stanton’s Dad," Paula said. "Tony’s in my class. He’s really nice, and his dad’s really nice too. About three months ago, he had this really bad heart attack that almost killed him. But it didn’t. He pulled through it. Sister Tracy said it was a miracle—one of God’s many miracles." Mike nodded, recalling the same rhetoric from his own Catholic school days. "Last week Tony’s dad’s car broke down on 495. It was a flat tire. He stepped out of the car and after he changed the tire, a truck smashed into his car and killed him." "I’m sorry, Paula." "That’s all anyone can say. I want to know why, and everyone, they just, like, I don’t know, they just shrug. I asked Sister Tracy why God would do such a thing—I mean, he helped Tony’s dad out once, right, so why wouldn’t God help him again? Sister Tracy got mad, said that you should never question God. That it’s a sin. You believe that?" There it was, right on the table. Paula looked at him, waiting for an answer. Mike had never been good at spinning the truth or sugarcoating it, so he decided to share with what he had always believed to be true. "John Kennedy," he said. "You know who he is, right?" "Sure. We studied him in history class last month. He was assassinated. We watched a videotape on it in Mr. Davis’s history class." "What else you know about him? About his family, I mean?" "I know his brother was also assassinated. And President Kennedy’s son died in a plane crash not that long ago." "What I think, Paula, is that some families are just cursed. Doesn’t matter how often they go to church, how much good they do, how good they are as people. Sometimes life just picks people and, you know . . ." "Shits all over them?" Mike laughed. "I couldn’t have said it better myself." Chapter 11—Deleted Scene The last of the sunlight had pretty much died by the time Mike pulled into his driveway. He hit the button on the garage door opener hanging on the visor above his head. Once Fang heard the garage door grinding open, he started barking. Paula said, "He does that every time the doorbell rings. Or when he sees a vacuum." "Or a broom." "I know. Dogs can be so weird." The sensor lights kicked on when Mike stepped out of the truck. He pushed the seat forward to let Fang out, and instead of running straight to the front lawn to sniff out the perfect spot to relieve himself, the dog barreled down the driveway, his barking loud and deep—the warning bark. Another reporter? Mike hadn’t seen anyone when he pulled in. He fished out his house key, handed it to Paula. "Fang’s food is in the pantry across from the kitchen island table," he said. "Go ahead and pack it up. There should be some empty boxes in the garage." "Get back you goddamn mutt!" It was the voice that made his mother try and hide behind furniture and doors. Hearing it now still made the muscles in Mike’s back and shoulders automatically clenched up, made him form fists. Mike said to Paula, "I’ll be up in a minute." Fang was growling now: Come any closer and I’ll remove your face. Mike walked down the driveway, reminding himself that he didn’t have to talk—he didn’t have to do anything except grab the dog and turn around. The fur along Fang’s spine was raised up, as straight as needles, his teeth bared at the thin man in the jean jacket and gray buzz cut. "Call off your attack dog," Lou said, his face pale, his voice quivering. "Call him off or I swear to Christ I’ll kick him." Thing was, Lou meant it. He had done it before, to a pit-bull terrier named Sergeant Major, Lou nearly kicking the dog to death after it had run across the street and bit him. For a reason Mike never understood, Lou was afraid of dogs, the big ones as well as the small ones—the cat yappers, he called them. "All right, Fang, let’s get you inside," Mike said. "I wouldn’t want you to bite the man and get sick." Mike reached down, grabbed a handful of melting snow and after forming a snowball, waved the snowball back and forth in front of Fang’s face. The barking stopped. Mike turned around and tossed the snowball high into the air, toward the front lawn. Fang tore after it. "You’re goddamn lucky you came when you did," Lou said, swallowing as he worked out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jean jacket. "What are you doing here?" Lou fitted his lips around a Marlboro and pulled it out of the back, his eyes on the front lawn, tracking the dog. "I remember when Dr. Stephens used to live here," Lou said. "Decent enough guy. Had a bad gambling problem though." "Right. He forgot to pay the vig and you broke both his kneecaps." Lou nodded at the house. "That Bill’s oldest?" Mike turned around and saw Paula holding the storm door open, squinting in his direction. "Bring Fang inside," Mike called to her. "I’ll be up in a minute." "You’ve done real good for yourself, Michael. You look good too. Lean and mean." The same could be said of Lou. He was lean, always had been, the meanness and hair-trigger rage that had coursed through him all those years somehow preserving him. His hair was more white than gray, his tanned face weathered from all those years of baking in the sun and drinking, but there was no question that Lou still possessed the confident, youthful swagger of his former self, a successful street fighter who knew where to hit you so you couldn’t stand for weeks. Mike said, "What are you doing here?" "What’s with the tone? I can’t stop by and say hi?" "Police know you’re back in town?" "No, and I’d appreciate you keeping it quiet. You still buddy-buddy with that there, the one who looks like the white Mike Tyson, what’s his name? Zertoski?" "Zukowski." "That’s him. His mother was a mental patient. She shaved her oldest kid’s head, doped him up on sleeping pills and paraded him around, told everyone he had leukemia and asked for donations. That’s a gene pool that shouldn’t reproduce." Lou lit his cigarette with the gold lighter with the Marine emblem on the front, the lighter a fixture in the house as long as Mike could remember. The flame jumped across Lou’s face, then disappeared. "I need to talk to you about Jonah." "What about him?" "Let’s talk inside. Just make sure you lock up that goddamn dog in another room." "We’ll talk out here." "You know, the polite thing to do is to invite me up. It’s getting chilly out." "Then you better talk quick." The skin along Lou’s face tightened at the insult, his eyes hardening with that gaze that made men twice his size cross the street. His free hand formed a fist. Lou flexed it, Mike watching, thinking, Go ahead and try. I’m in that kind of mood. "Swear to Christ I don’t get you," Lou said, his eyes moving back and forth across Mike’s face. "All this time, your circumstances, I thought it might have made you a bit more forgiving. Isn’t that what they preach to you at church?" "I look like St. Stephens to you?" "What is then? You still carrying a hard-on about your wedding?" "Course not. Every son should be so lucky to have his father crash his wedding reception and get into a fistfight." "It was wrong of you not to invite me." "You were told to stay away." "You had no business marrying her. I tried to tell you that, and look where it got you. Going gets tough and they pack up and leave. Then again, they’re all like that." "Yeah, mom left a regular paradise." Lou shifted his gaze away and looked down the street, his eyes glazed over with that faraway, almost dreamy look he got whenever her name came up. Classic. It always amazed Mike how his old man could carry on like he was the victim— like he held no responsibility for her sudden exit. (and sudden death) Mike felt a sharp pain constrict against his stomach lining. "You ever hear me bitch about my situation? Whining about I went through over there? About losing my brother and spending over a year in a POW camp?" Lou’s voice remained level, but Mike heard a tightly coiled tension heating the words. "Your generation, you hoard every little hurt life throws at you and then spend all your time whining about it. It’s no wonder we got so many faggots running around these days." "It’s been a pleasure, as always. Have a nice life." Mike turned around and started back toward the driveway. "Jonah’s dying." Mike kept walking. "Glad to hear you’re up on your reading skills." "His nightstand and kitchen table are full of all kinds of medicine. Morphine, Demerol, Prozac, you name it. It’s amazing he can still walk." How did Lou know about what medicine— Mike stopped walking. Lou knew about the medicine because he had been inside Jonah’s house. Mike turned around. "Lot of weird shit going on in there," Lou said. "He’s got Christmas decorations and lights hung around his bedroom, his living room—he’s got all these toys all over the place. Phil told me that—" "Phil who?" "One of Jonah’s bodyguards. They work in shifts. I bumped into him at a bar in Southie. Good shit. He asked Terry Russell—that’s Jonah’s nurse—about the Christmas decorations and toys. She said it’s all normal. Guy’s dying, so he goes back to a happier time in his life. Regression, she called it." Mike walked back up to Lou. "Why is the bodyguard talking to you?" "Guys like Phil care about one thing, and that’s how much green you’re going to stuff into their envelope. And you can wipe that look off your face. The nurse won’t talk with you. She’s under strict orders from Merrick and friends not to say a word to you. She’s one of those holy rolling, goody-two-shoe types." Like you mother, Lou seemed like he wanted to say. "Jonah’s terrified of dying in jail," Lou said. "He wants to die in his house, in his bed." Merrick had mentioned that. "He’s talking a lot in his sleep. I haven’t been able to make out to much, but he’s said Sarah’s name a few times." Mike swallowed against a bitter taste in his throat. "How do you know that?" Lou’s face had a rock-solid stillness, the way he got when he talked business. He looked away, down the end of the dark street, and smoked. "That night I bumped into you at McCarthy’s," Lou said. "I woke up the next morning and found out you put Jonah in a coma. Why didn’t you come to me?" "What happened that night was an accident. I didn’t plan it." "That what you tell yourself when you look in the mirror?" "It’s the truth." "So why’d you drop by Jonah’s last Friday?" Mike didn’t answer him. "I’m not asking you to get involved," Lou said. "But I’ll need an alibi when the police come by and start asking questions." Not once had Mike crossed that line into Lou’s other life. Growing up, if Mike had been home and Cadillac Jack or any of the lowlifes came by to play cards or talk business, Mike would leave for Bill’s or, if that wasn’t an option, he’d close his bedroom door and turn up the volume on the black-and-white TV or the piece-of-shit Sounddesign stereo. If you cross that line now, you’re inviting Lou back into his life on a full-time basis. That what you want? "Let the police handle this," Mike said. "That what you want?" "They know what they’re doing." "Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe that?" Lou took a final drag off his cigarette, then flicked it into the air. "Next time you see your buddy Zukowski, you might want to ask him why the cop who was supposed to be watching Jonah keeps falling asleep. Stay out of trouble, Michael." Lou turned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked down the street. By the time Mike walked back up the driveway and into the house, a sick knot was twisting its way through his stomach. He felt greasy, in need of a shower. "Who were you talking to down there?" Paula asked. "Nobody important." # The only man in a house of five women, Bill had built the equivalent of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude in his basement. It was a men’s only area, totally off-limits to Patty and the three girls, the space large enough to hold a projection TV and Bill’s collection of yard sale furniture: two leather couches mended with duct tape, a wicker coffee table, and a nicely-sized oak desk that looked like the victim of a paintball fight. Bill’s wife Patty liked the space because it gave Bill a place to listen to, as she put it, his shit-kicking music: country tunes by the likes of Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks and Bill’s all-time favorite, Conway Twitty. Bill wasn’t playing any shit-kicking music tonight. The TV was on, tuned to MTV, and on the big screen a waif of a girl with curly blonde hair and dressed in black leather riding chaps and a black leather bikini top sang and danced in the kind of shower you’d find in a men’s prison. The guys groping her looked like they had done hard time. White guys, black, Asian, Hispanic, you name it, all of them shirtless, their heads shaved and their ripped muscles decorated with tattoos, rubbed their hands across every inch of her bare skin. The singer rubbed her hands through the mass of sweaty blond curls and then turned around and spread her legs, the words "Bad Girl" printed across the rear of her red panties. "Shake your ass, watch yourself," Bill said. "You get any closer to the TV and you’ll catch a venereal disease," Mike said. He sat on the floor with his back to the couch, a multi-colored mountain of envelopes piled on the floor between him and Bill. After doing the People interview, Mike had put a hold on his mail. Sarah’s anniversary date always drew out the crazies; now, with the discovery of Sarah’s jacket being talked about all over the papers and TV, Mike’s mailbox had been flooded. He had swung by the post office yesterday after work. "Not to worry, I’m already covered in latex." Bill held up his gloved hands, shaking them before picking up another envelope. "So when did the Spice Channel buy out MTV?" Mike tore open another envelope. So far, none of the letters were from crazies claiming that they had planted Sarah’s jacket on the cross or that they knew where she was or who was holding her or who did what or what happened; those letters were put in a special pile for Merrick. "Beautiful, isn’t it? The rap videos are the best. Music all sounds the same—like shit—but every one of them has bikinis and guys getting laid and throwing around lots of money, you know, all that mad bling-bling. Oh, and shitting on the man. They all love to shit on the man." "Bling-bling," Mike repeated. "Flashy stuff. The gold, the cars, the womens. You need to keep up with this stuff, Sully. Chicks like to talk about music on dates." "I’ll be sure and keep that in mind next time I’m dating a twelve year old." "Oh contraire mon frere. A lot of the thirty plus crowd’s into this music. Nadine, for example, totally digs this stuff." Mike went to work fishing out the bills and started thinking about Sarah’s jacket, started analyzing again why Jonah had decided to reveal the jacket after all this time—and why he had hung it from a cross? Mike couldn’t make sense of it. Of course, that didn’t stop the profilers from getting face-time on TV. A local big-shot criminal psychiatrist who specialized in serial killers had been quoted in one of the papers as saying that Jonah was—and Mike was paraphrasing here—Jonah was, in his own perverted, psychopathic way, telling the police he was ready to talk. He knew he was dying and felt he should confess, but see, he just couldn’t pick up the phone and confess. No, Jonah had to be forced to confess, so he planted the evidence and now it was the police’s turn to play their part. It didn’t take a PhD from Harvard to know that people, even the crazies, did specific things for specific reasons. Merrick though? All he was doing was a lot of nodding, regurgitating the same tired lines: You need to be patient, Mike. You need to trust us, Mike. We’re doing our job, Mike. We’re working on a lot of things, Mike. Working and working and yet Jonah was still at home, still going to sleep every night in his own bed, his cancer spreading, tick-tock, tick-tock, what the fuck Merrick? "Check this one out," Bill said, holding up a glossy piece of paper. Madame Dora, International psychic. A color picture was embedded in the far right corner, right about her internet address and pricing plans. "Jesus," Mike said. "She looks like you with a blond wig and a mumu." "She has twenty-three cats that she uses to channel people who have crossed over to the other side. She’s just like that douche bag John Edwards, only not as good-looking." "That’s why he has a TV show. The rest of these psychics look like shut-ins." Mike swiped his pack of cigarettes and lighter off the coffee table. He took one out and lit it, his eyes lingering on Bill’s Sam Adams beer. "Guess who stopped by the house tonight?" "Please tell me it was Publishers Clearing House with a big fat check." "Lou." "Ah. So the shrink was right." Bill tore open another envelope, read the card, tossed it in the trash. "And, pray tell, what did good ole Lou want? Kiss and make up?" "Lou’s been inside Jonah’s house." Bill cocked his head up. "You’re shitting me," he said. "I shit you not, William. Not only that, he’s paying off one of the bodyguards." Mike tipped his ash in a distorted white bowl made of hardened Play-Doh, one of Paula’s early pottery experiments. "Lou wants to make a move on Jonah, but needs me to be his alibi." "Because all his goomba friends are dead or in jail." Mike nodded "And you said no." "Would you want Lou back in your life full-time?" "True. But you were tempted to say yes." "I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t." "I’ll say one thing about the son of a bitch," Bill said. "All those jobs he did, he was smart enough never to get caught. He’s doesn’t leave any evidence. He knows how to make problems disappear." Mike scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb, thought about his mother. On the TV a bunch of white cops crashed into a house with their guns drawn, the rappers having already left in their Ferraris and Hum-Vees. Bill said, "What’s Jess’s address in Rowley?" "17 Ocean Pond Drive. Why?" Bill handed Mike a thick envelope with three cancelled stamps and Jess’s return address printed in the upper left-hand corner. Mike tore it open, saw the single sheet with Jess’s handwriting and decided to read that one first. Dear Michael, I’m sitting here in Sarah’s room as I write this letter. Right up until my mother died, she kept Sarah’s room the same. Same toys, same clothes hanging in the closet. I once told my mother that she should get rid of everything, that if by some miracle of God Sarah did come home, she would be too old and too big for everything in this room. Of course, my mother told me to mind my business. Like you, she refused to give up hope. She clung to it, believing that the sheer will of her faith would change her life back to the way she wanted it. No, that’s not true. She demanded it. It never did change, and she lived those last two years of her life bitter and angry. My mother’s gone, and so is Sarah. As much as I wish and pray, that’s not going to change. I know that sounds cold, maybe even cruel to some degree, but I’m tired of living through ghosts. I’m tired of looking at the jungle gym or picking up one of Sarah’s toys and feeling that dull, piercing ache. I’m tired of walking into a store and having a woman recognize me only to shoot me one of those awful poor, poor woman looks of pity. At night, I dream of walking the streets of Italy and Paris and New York, not a soul knowing me or caring, and I feel free. Maybe wanting that sort of relief make me a rotten person. Or maybe that voice that has been gently pushing me to move all these years—maybe it’s a gift from God. Maybe that’s how God works through you, these voices inside you gently pointing you in a new direction, one of healing and, hopefully, peace. Or maybe at this late stage of the game, I finally realize that I’m the only one in charge of my life. I know I don’t want to live whatever time I have left stuck in a place where all I can do is wish that things had turned out different. You’re a wonderful man, Michael. Don’t let all that’s good die within you. Love, Jess Behind the letter was a collection of stapled sheets, eleven in total. The divorce papers. He had read through them once before, knew what they spelled out, eleven pages and four thousand dollars to say that Jess wanted nothing. Mike flipped to the last sheet and saw Jess’s signature. So there it was. Sign his name and it would officially be over. He tossed the papers on top of his stack of bills and leaned back against the chair. Another video was on, same bubble-gum crap only this one had three good-looking guys with perfectly styled hair and perfectly sculpted physiques all shirtless prancing around in the water. This kind of music had been around forever, he supposed, going all the way back to New Kids on the Block and Michael Jackson, before Michael became the scariest looking white woman in America. But the music that had defined the good part of his life was pretty much extinct. Billy had retired; Springsteen popped up every few years or so, but his music had lost its "Born to Run" energy, the Boss’s music more serious now, more of a downer. The Police broke up years ago and now Sting wrote songs used in car commercials. His mother had loved The Beatles. Back then there were no desk stereo systems or boom boxes, just these big, bulky units that doubled as furniture. Lou brought one of these units home, this long, bulky walnut cabinet unit with a record player and an eight track. Mike remembered his mother had tried to get Lou to dance to "Hard Days Night" but Lou wanted nothing to do with it. Mike saw his mother standing alone at the sink, washing the dishes and signing along quietly to songs like "Blackbird" and "Tomorrow Never Knows." Mike said, "Remember when Billy used to be on MTV?" "Hell yeah." "Where’s Bill now?" "Try the radio, oldies one-oh-three. And if Billy ever makes another album, don’t expect to see it on MTV—not unless Billy suddenly develops six-pack abs, grows back his hair and gets a bunch of models groping at him like they want to take turns blowing him. Welcome to middle age, Sully." Chapter 13—Deleted Scene Merrick didn’t handle the questioning. That job was left to another detective, "Big Frank" Coccoluto, the guy cut from the same humorless mold as Merrick, but unlike Merrick, Coccoluto gave off a serious "Don’t Fuck With Me" vibe. Coccoluto rolled out each questions in a bored, almost mechanical manner. Mike said he couldn’t sleep. He had been having trouble sleeping ever since the night the jacket was found (definitely true). So last night, he had driven to his house to pick up some dog food (true) and then headed back to Bill O’Malley’s house. Mike came home around 1:15, a time that could be verified by Bill. He was up, watching ESPN, when Mike came home. Coccoluto looked over Mike’s shoulder at the door, nodded, then slid the pad across the table. "Write down your statement," he said and then stood up, grunting as he hoisted himself out of the chair. Twenty minutes later Coccoluto came back inside the interrogation room, Mike noticing that Coccoluto’s face had changed, looked more animated, tense. Mike handed the detective his signed statement and then pulled out his pack of cigarettes. "You always smoked Marlboros?" "Since high school," Mike said, and offered the pack to the detective. "Can’t smoke in here." The last time Mike had sat in this room, the interrogation room, had been the morning after his arrest. Merrick had brought him in here and Mike had sat in this same chair, his body shaking and feeling nauseous as he smoked up a storm and answered question after question, a grey cloud hanging around the ceiling by the time they brought him back to the holding cell. Coccoluto said, "You being good? Staying away from the sauce?" "What do you want? Breath or urine sample? Just point the way." "How’s your old man doing these days?" "Couldn’t tell you." "You haven’t seen him?" Mike hadn’t made the connection until now. He hadn’t thought about it because hiding in the shadows and throwing a Molotov cocktail was too sloppy— definitely not Lou’s style. If Lou made a move on Jonah, there wouldn’t be a body. Coccoluto was fishing, and by the look on his face, he thought he had something caught on his hook. "He stopped by a couple of weeks ago," Mike said. "What did he want?" "He stopped by to say hi." "That’s it?" "That’s the sum of it, yeah." "So you two are on speaking terms now." "I wouldn’t go that far." "Well what would you call it?" "Lou stopped by, out of the blue, and he and I exchanged a few words and then he left. That’s what I call it. You want to know why he stopped by, find him and ask him." For the first time Coccoluto grinned. "I’m planning on it." "Good for you. Hey, while I have you here, what’s the status of my daughter’s jacket?" "I haven’t heard anything yet." "But if you knew something, you’d tell me, right?" "I’m going to set up a polygraph." "For what?" "Clear you as a suspect. You’ve been through it before and came back aces, remember?" "This is bullshit." "You’ve got nothing to worry about—that is, unless you’ve done something wrong. You’ve done something wrong? Something you want to get off your chest?" Coccoluto was smiling now. "Because if you do, now’s the time to do it. We can make it easier for you down the road." "Cut the crap, Coccoluto. You know I had nothing to do with what happened to the bodyguard." "Then you won’t mind getting a poly, get it out of the way so we can shift our focus to the real murderer." Mike frowned. Murderer? What was Coccoluto talking about? "That bodyguard who got flambayed? He died about half an hour ago. We’re dealing with a homicide now." Chapter 15—Deleted Scene John "Bam Bam" Bamford was one of the top salesmen for a company that sold computer routers. Mike could never remember the name of the company, and despite Bam’s long and detailed explanations, Mike still had no idea what a router was or what it did. What he did know was that Bam sold a shitload of them—a talent that gave him tickets to the company’s box seats at Foxborough. Today, Sunday, a welcoming party was being thrown at Gillette Stadium for the companies that had purchased the lucrative executive suites. Bam’s company was one of them, and he had four tickets to the event. Bam had only two conditions: one, they had to wear a clean suit, Bam emphasizing the word clean to Bill ("And don’t you dare wear that old ratty Pats jacket, Bill."); two, and more importantly, they had to go easy on Bam’s two work buddies, Rick and Reggie, two cigar smoking chubbos with bleached white teeth who thought they were living la-vida-loca because they owned Corvettes and raced cigarette boats. The reception was held in one of the convention centers inside the stadium. Two bars were set up in opposite corners of the room. Bartenders dressed in tuxedoes poured mixed drinks into glasses and pulled bottled beer from tubs of ice. Waiters worked the room, holding trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres, Bill pissed because none of them were his favorite, the cocktail weenie. Almost of the Patriot players were in attendance, graciously signing autographs and posing for pictures. Bam’s girlfriend Nadine had come wearing the kind of silky black dress normally seen next to a stripper’s pole. She had read Lawyer Malloy’s palm and offered to a free Tarot card reading for Bob Kraft. And there was something comical, even boyish, about watching Bill lumbering around the room in his suit, his big, meaty fist wrapped around another Sam Adams while his free hand constantly tugged at his buttoned collar. It should have been an amazing afternoon—and by all accounts, it was. Mike hadn’t told either Bam or Bill of his encounter with Jonah. Mike sipped his Coke, crunching the ice between his molars, and moved about the room with Bam and Bill, pretending to be interested in conversations. He asked questions; he smiled and acted gracious; he laughed at the appropriate times and at the inappropriate jokes, trying to lose himself in the warm, good-hearted alcoholic glow that had infused the room, trying to feel normal, if only for a few hours while in the back of his head, behind the combined din from all the voices and the WBCN rock music playing over the ceiling speakers, he could hear Jonah crying. Maybe Jonah’s near death experience from this morning had forced him to confront that his demise was an event that was days, possibly even hours away. Maybe getting back his life, whatever was left of it, maybe it had forced to dip into whatever small chunk of humanity he had left and had caused him to cry. I shouldn’t have turned around, Mike thought. I should have waited longer. He would have told me something and I blew it. A few more minutes wouldn’t have mattered. I should have turned around and tried— Tried what? Using the cane on his kneecaps? Mike didn’t know what terrified him the more: the calm willingness he had shown at watching Jonah struggle for air, or the almost yawning ease in which he had slipped back into the shadow of his former self, the one he was convinced, at least until this morning, could only be accessed by booze. The rage was always there, he realized, on the skin instead of being buried underneath it, the booze the lame excuse he used to ignite it. He looked at the wall clock. It was after three. Maybe Merrick knew something. Mike took out his cell phone, moved to a quiet corner of the room and dialed the number for the Belham Police. Merrick wasn’t in the office. Mike tried the detective’s cell phone. Ring. Jonah’s going to die. Ring. It’s going to happen—and soon. Ring. You can’t change it. Ring. But you’re going to have to face it. Merrick’s voice mail clicked on. Mike left a message, asking him to call immediately. He snapped his cell phone shut. His heart was beating faster than it should, his face shiny with perspiration. Sarah’s not coming home. A flood of voices rose up to protest, and then he remembered the blood in the hood of her jacket and the protest died in his throat. Sarah wasn’t coming home. Jess knew that. Everyone knew that, and he supposed on some level he had known that. But knowing and accepting it were two different things. Let her go. That last morning, he had walked into the bedroom just before five and had kissed her on the head, the same ritual he performed every morning, and it always amazed him that this small person who was a part of him and yet not a part of him or like anyone else in the world could, just by the very sight of her, fill him up with so much love that he thought he could drown in it. It never went away. Parents told him about that kind of love but until you had one of your own, until you changed diapers and walked around with them during the night and lay next to them when they were sick—until they looked into your eyes for the first time and smiled, you couldn’t understand how rare that kind of love was, how it changed you. That morning he had looked at her sleeping and knew that this was enough. If this was all he had in life, then he would be happy. And he had meant it. That life is gone. You can’t have it back. It’s not fair. She was born premature and had survived all the odds and had grown into this wonderfully, beautifully stubborn little girl who— You’ve got to grieve and move on. Move on to what? You’ll figure it out. I don’t want to figure it out. I want Sarah. It was coming to an end. Jonah was going to die. He was going to take his secrets to the grave. Time would pass, the seasons changing over his grave, and Mike knew that the only thing that Jonah would leave was his voice. It would live forever in Mike’s mind, forced to share the same rooms with his daughter. Mike went to take a drink and found his glass bone dry. Numb, he navigated his way to the bar for a refill. The bartender recognized Mike’s face. "Coke lots of ice." "With Jack," Mike said. "Make it a double if you can." Chapter 16—Deleted Scene Mike jolted awake with his heart twisting inside his chest. He rolled onto his side, saw Bill’s big screen TV turned to ESPN, Mike vaguely remembering being escorted into the parking lot by Bill and Bam but not having a clue was to how he wound up here. His cell phone rang, vibrating against the top of the coffee table. Mike leaned forward and picked the phone up, hoping it was Merrick calling with news on Jonah. It was Samantha Ellis. "Good, Sully, you’re there. I just left a message for you at home." "What’s up?" "Did I wake you?" "No, I just dozed off," Mike said, his eyes shifting to the digital clock on Bill’s desk. 8:22 p.m. Sunday night? Yes, Sunday. It was still Sunday. "I asked the private investigator we use to do a little digging and, well, I’ve managed to get a copy of the lab report on your daughter’s jacket. Can you stop by my office around nine?" "Tonight?" "Tonight. I know it’s short notice, but—" "I’ll be there in half an hour." "Okay. See you then." Mike got to his feet. The Jack was still in his system. His head still gripped with that light, swimming feeling as he stood up and then stumbled his way through the basement and up the stairs to the kitchen. Bill was in the family room, leaning back in the couch and working the remote with one hand. His other hand was in Emma’s lap. Emma painted her father’s nail with lipstick while Grace combed Bill’s blond wig with the big brush Bill’s mother had used, the same one she used to pick up when she threatened to give one of her kids a lickin’. Fang lay asleep in the corner, snoring. "We’re playing Mrs. Potato Head," Emma said, beaming. "No we’re not," Grace said. "We’re giving Daddy a makeover." Bill flipped a channel. "How’s your noodle?" "Still swimming. Sam just called. She needs to me to go over to her office. It’s about—" Mike stopped, remembering how Grace and Emma soaked up every word, then added, "It’s lab stuff. Can you give me a lift to the T?" "Patty’s not going to be back from her sister’s until ten or so. What time you need to be there?" "Nine." "You think there’s an ice cream joint open in town?" "Chocolate with extra sprinkles!" Grace screamed so loud Mike jumped. "I want nutter cup!" Emma screamed back. "There’s no such thing as a nutter cup, doo-doo head." Bill put up a hand, his fingernails a bright red. "Any more lip and no ice cream." The twins stopped their bickering but shot each other dirty looks as they walked out of the room. Bill grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. His lips were painted the same bright color red as his fingernails. Mike said, "You might want to, ah, clean yourself up." Bill checked his reflection in the window, then fixed Mike with that stare that made other people pause, reconsider their choice of words and tone. "What, you trying to tell me red ain’t my color?" Chapter 25—Deleted Scene Mike had been expecting someone along the lines of the male version of Sam: a tall, conservatively dressed guy with a thin body shaped by early morning runs and afternoon squash matches, a guy who liked to kick back on the weekends with his buddies Preston and Ashton on his sailboat docked near his summer home in Hyannis. Martin Weinstein looked every inch the bada-bing type. He had olive skin and thinning black hair that he combed straight back, and the black suit he wore was plucked from the closet of the godfather himself, complete with a big gold Rolex and a pinkie ring. "Let me guess. You’re wondering how a Jewish guy ended up looking like Tony Soprano, am I right?" Weinstein said with a broad smile. His weight clocked somewhere in the neighborhood of three bills, his body thick with hard fat. "Mother’s a hundred percent Italian, my old man’s a hundred percent Jewish. Me and my two younger brothers came out looking like her and got our father’s smarts. I marry an Italian woman and my two kids are as pale as an Irishman. The miracle of genetics, I tell you." "Here’s the money you wanted," Mike said and tossed the cash envelope to Weinstein. "I want to meet him alone." The lawyer smiled. He had small white teeth. "No BS, just like your old man," he said. "Come on. I’ll bring you to him." Two guards—old, grizzled hands with beer guts and serious "Don’t Fuck With Me" vibes—told Mike to empty the contents of his jean pockets into a plastic bowl. "And your belt and shoelaces," the guard said. Weinstein said, "Potential weapons." After Mike handed everything over, the guard worked him over with a metal-detection wand, then asked him to take off his boots, examining the heels and insides thoroughly before handing them back. "Don’t worry, everything will be waiting for you right here when you come back," the guard said. A buzzer sounded and the gate slid back, clank-clank-clank-clank. "Go on through." A series of corridors and locked gates followed, locks releasing and then bolting home, Weinstein leading the way and Mike reviewing again how he was going to approach Lou. Best just to keep hitting him with questions, Mike thought. Otherwise, Lou would eat away the time making up some BS stories. Weinstein stepped up to a door with a glass panel. The prison guard saw Weinstein, nodded, and then took out his keys to unlock the door. Through the glass panel Mike could see Lou leaning forward in a chair, dressed in his prison orange jumpsuit, his head bowed. "Fifteen minutes," Weinstein said. He leaned in closer with the peppermint reek of his breath mint, and whispered, "And be gentle, okay? Your father was up all night throwing up, the chills, the shakes—I’m talking the whole nine yards. They had to call in a doctor. Looks like a bad strain of the flu." Not the flu. The correct diagnosis is claustrophobia coupled with drying out. Lou hasn’t had a drink in four days. Weinstein opened the door and Mike stepped inside, Lou keeping his head down, studying the handcuffs secured around his wrists, the chain wrapped around his waist. "He give you the money, Martin?" Lou asked. "We’re good," Weinstein said, and before he shut the door, said again, "Fifteen minutes. That’s all I could get. Lou, you need anything, I’ll be standing just outside the door." The room smelled of soap and shaving cream and contained a desk and two chairs. Mike slid out the chair and sat down, his eyes automatically going to Lou’s hands. Old habit. Anytime Lou sat next to him, Mike would watch those hands just like he had when he was a kid, watching for the second those scarred hands started to flex—the warning to run and hide. "Start talking," Mike said, and felt a hot, wired energy surge across his skin. The way he figured it, those pictures meant his mother was alive. Lou wouldn’t reveal information that would incriminate him. "About Jess or about the pictures you found inside the safe? You did find them, right?" "You know I did. I also found the pictures of Sarah." Mike had found three rolls of pictures in a shoebox in one of the downstairs cabinets in the basement. Lou’s eyes tightened at the mention of the Sarah. Mike said, "Who’s the guy in the pictures?" "So what did Jess say when you asked her about I said? What line of bullshit she feed you?" "I’m here to talk about my mother." A hot, sly grin appeared on Lou’s face. "Didn’t have the balls to ask her, did you?" "We’re going to talk about Mary, and you’re going to start by telling me how you found out where she was hiding." Lou eased back in his chair. In the fluorescent lighting, he looked withered, the skin under his eyes bruised from lack of sleep, his thin lips dry, bloodless. Drops of perspiration ran down his forehead. "Hiding," Lou repeated. "Are you seriously that retarded?" "I swear to Christ, if you try and back out of—" "You know what I think, Michael? I think you don’t want to know the truth. I think what you want is for me to verify your version of it. Is that it? Or do you want to know the truth?" What had happened to Sarah had been forced on him. He hadn’t been given a choice in that, but here Lou was giving him a clear choice: back out or go forward. It’s all up to you. Just tell me how far you want to go, but don’t turn around and get pissed at me if I take you to the end and you get hurt. Because that was what the truth often did. It had to mangle you before it healed. That’s if he decides to tell the truth, a voice countered. "Go home, Michael." "Tell me. Now." "Okay then," Lou said, and grinned. "Arnold Mackey." "Who’s that?" "The O’Malley’s postman. Mackey was a regular at McCarthy’s every Friday night. One night he comes in and asks me why your mail is getting delivered to the O’Malley house. Then he asks me if you were doing one of those foreign-exchange things over in France. He sees I’m totally confused and then tells me about the package you got from Paris. We get to talking, I buy him a few beers, and I ask him to keep an eye out for any more mail with your name on it, tell him that if he hand delivers it to me instead, I got two one hundred dollar bills with his name on it." "So she sent a second package." "More like a note. It was written on one of those heavy note cards that smelled like perfume and money. Then again, your mother always valued expensive things." "What did this letter say?" "I don’t remember her exact words, but it was something along the lines of how much she missed you, that she carried you in her thoughts—you know, all that happy horseshit." "That’s it? That’s all she said?" "You mean did she say when she was coming home to get you?" Lou shook his head. "For some strange reason, she left that part out. And she didn’t include a phone number. Don’t you find that odd?" Lou’s tone was calm—way too calm, Mike thought. "Forgive me for saying this," Mike said, "but I think you’re full of shit." "I still have the note." Mike felt his pulse quicken. Why would Lou have kept the letter? It doesn’t matter right now. Keep the conversation going. You don’t have a whole lot of time left. "Downstairs in the basement," Lou said. "Top drawer of the Gerstner. See for yourself." The Gerstner was a solid oak tool chest made by H. Gerstner and Sons. It was where Lou kept all his precision tools. Mike said, "So in this second letter, she included a return address. That’s how you found her." Lou winked. "You got it." "And once you had her address, you just hopped on a plane to Paris." "Correct." "Only you hate to fly because you’re claustrophobic." "I don’t fly because I don’t trust planes." "Then why didn’t you call her? Why hop on a plane?" Lou’s grin stretched a bit wider now. "Boy needs his mother," he said. Mike could feel the heat in Lou’s voice, the words coming together, forming a fist. "And this was a matter that was best discussed face-to-face," Lou said. "Right. I forgot, you can’t hit someone over the phone." Lou held up his hands in concession, his chains rattling. "Yes. We got into it." "And then what?" "Your mother left." "Bullshit. You wouldn’t let her walk away." "I thought you came here for the truth." Careful, a voice warned. He’s baiting you. "Your problem is that you only want to see you mother as a saint and me as the sinner. Call your buddy Father Jack and ask who paid for your tuition after your mother split." "You wouldn’t let her go. People who step on your ego have a nasty habit of disappearing." "You believe whatever you want, Michael." "It’s what I know. Talk to your best friend Cadillac Jack recently?" "I didn’t hurt her." "Bullshit. There was blood on her scarf." "We got into it. I lost my temper and accidentally broke her nose." No apology, no remorse in ether his face or tone, Mike remembering the way his mother’s arms flew up to protect her face, her small, bony arms as useless as twigs against Lou’s blows. "I mean, accidents happen, right? Like that night you went over to Jonah’s. I’m sure you didn’t go over there with the intention of beating the living shit out of him, but you were so fucking angry and so fucking hurt, you heard him lie to you and you just couldn’t contain yourself—or do I have it all wrong?" "So why did you take the scarf?" Lou folded his hands on his flat stomach, his tongue wetting his lips. That goddamn grin wouldn’t leave his face. "Where did she say that scarf came from?" Why was Lou acting so confident? "It didn’t come from her father, if that’s what she told you," Lou said. "Mary’s father was a waiter who could barely afford the groceries. Her mother died when Mary was nine." Mike searched his memory for stories his mother told him about her parents, something to verify it against Lou was saying, prove he was lying. "Let me help you," Lou said. "The scarf was given to her by her friend in the picture. Jean Paul Latiere." Surprise bloomed on Mike’s face before he could hold it back. "Yes, I know who he is," Lou said. "They grew up together. They were very, very close those two—thick as thieves you might say. Jean Paul and your mother were quite an item when they were young—inseparable from what I hear. When your mother moved to the states, she was fifteen and felt devastated. They kept in touch by mail, by phone—only Jean Paul had to do the majority of the calling since your mother’s father—your grandfather—would have blown a nut if he had to pay for phone calls to France. As Jean Paul got older, nineteen or so, he’d fly here and meet your mother. He could afford to do it. He was working at his father’s paper mill business when your mother left, you know, being groomed to take over the family business. Latiere Paper. Big company over there. And Jean Paul, he just loved to shower your mother with expensive gifts. Like that scarf. Those expensive gifts that popped up from time to time—they were from him." Unconsciously Mike rubbed his forehead, found it slick and greasy. "What’s wrong, Michael? You having a hard time believing your perfect saint of a mother could possibly be involved in something so seedy?" "If she was having an affair, I don’t blame her for it." "An affair? She was in love with him the day we met." "Then why would she settle for a prize like you?" "Jean Paul’s family was very successful, very rich. Prestigious background, lots of inventors and politicians—you know, all that pedigree nonsense that gets some panties wet. Jean Paul’s old man wasn’t going to let him get involved with common variety trash, even if that trash was someone was beautiful as your mother. Got to think of the bloodlines, you know. Your mother though? She kept holding out hope, even after Jean Paul married—even after we married. I knew those pictures were bullshit." "What pictures?" "Your mother kept this photo album of pictures of Jean Paul’s family. Didn’t she show them to you?" The photo albums she hid in boxes in the basement—the ones she packed up and took with her—Mike remembered how she would sit down alone in the basement and go through him, the few times he caught here there crying and she would bring him over, go through all the pictures with him and narrate the story of her family. Her family. "No," Mike said. "She didn’t." "You ever meet him?" "No." "He was around Belham a lot when I was . . . away during the war. Even after I came home, Jean Paul came to Boston a lot. All those secret missions you two shared surely you must have met him." As Lou talked, Mike had searched his memories for the man he had seen in those pictures. The Frenchman’s face didn’t ring any bells. It was a long time ago. "I never met him." "Huh. Now I wonder why that is. Any ideas?" Lou wore his prizefighter’s smile, that lustful look of satisfaction when he knew he had you cornered. "So you knew about the affair?" Mike’s voice felt tight, as if the words were stones lodged in his throat. "I had my suspicions. Fresh flowers every now and then—she said she bought them at the florist. Nice item like a silver picture frame or a nice pair of shoes pops up, a nice dress, your mother says she found them at Goodwill or some place like that. Your mother could be very persuasive with that soft gentle voice of hers—you know that better than anyone. Smoothest liar I ever met, your mother. Did you know she kept a post office box downtown? That’s where Jean Paul sent the gifts and money. He wanted her to look nice for when they got together in Boston. Four Seasons and all that jazz." Mike tried picturing her getting dressed and made up and driving into Boston to meet this guy, this Jean Paul, at a place like the Four Seasons; but Mike couldn’t picture her beyond her frumpy clothing, her penny-pinching ways and dime-store makeup she used to cover her bruises. That image was fixed in his mind because it was true—and here was Lou trying to destroy it with his bullshit stories. To believe Lou would ever come clean about anything had been both stupid and foolish. Lou lied for a living, and he was lying now. "What’s with the puss, Michael? You look like you’re going to choke." "Let’s be real clear on something: you and I are through. The next time you see me will be when I’m on the witness stand, telling everyone about that night you came by and told me about how you’d been inside Jonah’s house." Lou’s eyes had taken on a heated, watery glow. "You’re never going to see daylight again," Mike said. "That’s a promise." "The problem was that Jean Paul loved your mother but he didn’t love children. So he gave her a choice: choose a new life in Paris or go back to her old one in Belham. Which one you think she chose, Michael?" Red-black clouds of color exploded behind Mike’s eyes. "Hey, don’t get mad at me," Lou said. "Get mad at your father. He’s the one who didn’t want kids." Chapter 37—Deleted Scene Every Halloween, after Sarah went trick-or-treating with Paula and Paula’s friends, she would trade the highly prized candy—the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, the Snickers—for Skittles, the only candy Sarah liked. Jess bought them by the bagful and dumped them in a crystal bowl set up on the island counter. Problem was, Sarah only liked some of the Skittles: strawberry, orange, and grape. The lemon and the lime Skittles she had no use for—"They always make my eyes go watery," she would say—but every now and then she would try them again to see if the flavor had changed; after all, she loved lemonade and she loved the fresh lemon and lime juice Jess dribbled on her chicken. Sarah always ate the Skittles in a particular order. To eat them any other way was, in Sarah’s words, gross. She sat in the tall chair at the island table and picked Skittles out of the bowl and lined them up by color in small, neat rows. First came the strawberry, then the orange and followed by the grape— "Grape has the biggest flavor, Daddy." "What are we going to do with those?" Mike asked, pointing to the crystal bowl bursting with the lemon and the lime rejects. "You and Mommy can eat them. But not Fang. Fang spits them out." "You know, maybe they’d taste better if we ate them together. Like a Sprite or something." "You think?" "Won’t know until we try. You go first." Sarah picked a lemon and a lime Skittle, dropped the two candies in her mouth, chewed. Split second later her lips puckered, her eyes squinted, grew watery, and for a reason he never understood, Sarah brought her arms up and started flapping them as if she were trying to fly away from the taste. "Yuck," she said. "Now you try one." "You just said they were yucky." "You said, Daddy, you said." He tried them. Good God they were bitter. "You’re making the wrong face," Sarah said. "The wrong face?" "You’re making the boo-boo face—not the squinty face. But that’s okay. You got boo-boos all over your face and head. But don’t worry, Daddy. You’ll be okay. You’ll see." Mike’s eyes fluttered open, his head still full of the dream, convinced he would see Sarah sitting at the island table. What he saw instead was a white wall and a wall-mounted TV playing an old episode of The Simpsons. For some reason Homer’s ass was on fire; he ran around, screaming, trying to find a spot to put out the flames. Mike heard a soft, deep chuckle and his eyes cut sideways. Sitting in the corner chair was Wild Bill, his face turned up to the TV. Mike didn’t know why Bill was here—he didn’t, in fact, know where he was. (Terry) (who?) Mike moved a hand to his face and when he touched his forehead (Terry is Jonah’s nurse) he felt gauze bandaging along on the right side of his head. How had— (the laptop, the woods—the car, remember what happened in the car) Then it started to trickle into his consciousness: getting inside the Volvo; Terry freaking out; his head hitting the windshield—that was the reason why he was here, in a hospital; Terry in the woods, her lips on the gun; calling 911. "Sarah," Mike croaked. Bill looked over, saw that Mike was awake, nearly tripped as he stood up. "No, Sully, don’t move your head." Too late. Mike had moved his head up from the pillow and—oh shit, not a good idea, not a good idea at all, the headache banging around his head sending him back against the pillow. This headache was of the same order of one he had acquired from a particularly nasty bender from years ago, a summer weekend down the Cape where he and Bill and Bam had done too many shots and drank too many beers over a two day stretch and oh sweet merciful Jesus, the hangover had been so bad that he hadn’t touched a drop for two months. "That’s it, just lie back and relax," Bill said. "Now what’s my name?" Mike stared at Bill stupidly, Bill with his dumb question and wearing a Patriots baseball cap backwards—a thirty-five year old dressing like he was a teenager, acting all street. "My name, Sully, what’s my name?" "Right now it’s asshole." Bill grinned slightly. "Okay, good, your sense of humor’s intact. Now give me your dog’s name." "Will you cut the—" "Doctor’s going to run through the same questions. Now tell me your dog’s name." "Fang. Your name is Bill. You have three girls and you are happily married—" "Shit, you are brain damaged." "—and right now the only thing I care about is talking to the police. Sarah’s alive. Terry Russell knows—" "Slow down, Sully."