Crying Wolf (29 page)

“Freedy?” Nat said.

“Sure. Crossing state lines.”

“Who's Freedy?” Nat said.

“Think I'm stupid? Not sayin' another word till I speak to my lawyer. That's my right, and no one ever accused Ronnie Medeiros of not sticking up for his rights.”

“We're not from the FBI,” Nat said, “not police at all.”

“Expect me to believe that?”

“Whose jacket is this?” Nat said.

Ronnie clamped his mouth shut, sucked both lips into his mouth like a child, raising the little growth of hair under his lower lip into prominence. Izzie made a disgusted sound and left the room.

“Is it yours?” Nat said.

Ronnie, mouth still clamped shut, shook his head.

“How do you spell
million?
” Nat said.

Ronnie looked interested. His mouth relaxed. “Million?” he said.

“Spell it.”

“M-i-l-l-i-o-n.”

“Are you sure?”

“ 'Course I'm sure. I graduated high school. And
billion
's the same, just with a
b
.”

Izzie came back. She had a laptop in her hands. “The laptop,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“It's not working, but . . .” Izzie flipped open the protective flap at the back. Nat read the label inside:
Property of Zorn Telecommunications
.

She stood over Ronnie, about to do almost anything. “Where did you get this?”

“Don't,” he said.

“Don't what?”

“I already been clobbered with that thing once.”

“By who?” Nat said.

Ronnie looked at him, at Izzie, at the laptop. He licked his lips. “I'm ready to make a deal,” he said.

“Let's hear it,” Nat said; he felt Izzie's glance.

“First I want immunity. Not the bullshit kind, the other one.”

“You got it,” Nat said.

“Guaranteed?”

“Guaranteed.”

Ronnie nodded. “The thing you gotta understand, I didn't have nothin' to do with any stealing. All I did was tell Freedy about my Uncle Saul. Whatever happened after that was all them.”

“What happened after that?”

“The stuff Freedy . . . acquired, must have got bought by Uncle Saul.”

“So Uncle Saul is a fence and Freedy's a thief.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“Describe Freedy.”

“Describe him?”

“What he looks like.”

“He's a fuckin' animal.” Ronnie Medeiros glanced around the room. “Big, like. Buff. Works out like you wouldn't believe. Has this scary smile.” He shrugged. “That's about it.”

“You left out the ponytail,” Nat said.

Ronnie gazed at him. “For a minute there I thought maybe you looked a bit too young to be FBI. Just goes to show.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Freedy.”

“Haven't got a clue.”

“Where does he live?”

“That I can tell you,” said Ronnie.

The true Nietzschean teacher values his own worth only in relation to his students. True or false?

—True/false section, final exam, Philosophy 322

F
reshmen couldn't have cars. Following Ronnie Medeiros's directions, Nat and Izzie walked the mile to the house where Freedy lived. A plow passed them, spraying sand out the sides, sand covered almost at once by blowing snow; the streetlights came on, triggered by the growing darkness although it was still long before night. Nat thought of a poem, not a poem he had read, but for the first time a poem he might write. Why now? Almost shameful, when all his resources should have been devoted to getting Grace back, to undoing what they'd done, but there it was, a poem about clocks, all the clocks in life, everything a clock, measuring time in different ways: the stars moving across the sky, the spinning earth, the tilting earth, light and dark, snakes shedding their skin, Izzie's heart beating beside him, his own heart.

Izzie took his arm. “I'm changing my mind about you,” she said.

“In what way?”

“A good way. You were great back there, with that sleazeball. I never knew you were so strong inside.” He felt her gaze. “We're a good match, don't you think?” she said.

Nat, who'd thought she already liked him, didn't understand in what way she'd changed her mind. He looked at her in confusion. She misinterpreted the expression on his face.

“Is everything going to be all right?” she said.

“We'll find her.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Nat didn't understand that either, but there was no time to go into it. They were at the house where Freedy lived. A woman answered their knock.

Nat recognized her at once: the woman he'd seen through the grate in the lobby of Goodrich Hall, taking a hundred-dollar bill from Professor Uzig. She wasn't wearing her Birkenstocks now: her feet were bare and she had on a striped Moroccan robe. There were a few drops of what looked like blood, not quite dried, on the front, although she didn't seem to be bleeding. Her eyes were open much too wide.

“We're looking for Freedy,” Nat said.

“He's not here.”

Over her shoulder, Nat could see the kitchen. Another wrecked room: even the fridge was tipped over, spilling food over the floor, and smashed pottery lay everywhere. A ceramic shard that might have been a cup handle was lodged in her frizzy graying hair. Nat thought:
Grace is here.
He even felt her presence, the kind of paranormal thing that wasn't him at all. He pushed his way past the woman, inside.

“Grace?” he called. “Grace?”

He went through the kitchen, jerked open a closet door, then into a hall, another bedroom, wrecked, and another one, also wrecked. This last bedroom had strange wall paintings of mushrooms, elves, rainbows; a deformed lion held up a poem on a scroll, an inept, unpleasant poem called “Little Boy.”

“Grace? Grace?”

Not under the beds, not in the closets, not behind the upside-down chairs and couches; but still he felt her presence. He strode back into the kitchen.

“You're Freedy's mother,” he said to the woman.

“Yes.”

“Where is Grace?”

“Grace?”

Maybe there was no reaction because Freedy's mother hadn't heard the name. “Her twin,” he said, indicating Izzie, “but with lighter hair. Where is she?”

Freedy's mother looked at Izzie. Nat saw no sign of recognition, and knew in that moment that Grace wasn't there, that this woman had never seen her. He knew that, but the paranormal feeling lingered.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Freedy's mother said.

“He may have given you some other name for her,” Izzie said.

“Who?” said Freedy's mother. “I'm not getting any of this.”

Izzie grabbed her robe, right at the throat. “Where is she, you stupid cow?”

Nat reached out to pull Izzie's hand away, but before he could, Freedy's mother started crying, a horrible cawing cry with tears and snot, her face all cubist. Izzie let go, backed away. Freedy's mother's legs folded under her; she sat on the floor, hard. “Are you going to rape me too?” she said.

“Someone raped you?” Nat said.

She covered her face with her hands, red hands with cracked knuckles and bitten nails.

“Did this just happen?” Nat said.

Freedy's mother nodded, face still hidden.

“Who did it?”

She made another cawing sound. “They came looking for Freedy.” And another. “Just like you.”

“Who did?”

“I'm so afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That Freedy's done something terrible.”

Izzie stood over her. “To my sister?”

Freedy's mother shook her head. “I don't know anything about anyone's sister.”

“Then what terrible thing did he do?” Nat said.

She lowered her hands. “What if he hurt one of them, very badly?”

“One of who?”

“S-S—”

“Who?”

“S-Saul M-M-Medeiros's people.”

“That's who came here?”

She nodded.

“And they raped you?”

She shook her head.

“What's going on?” Izzie said. “Does this have anything do with us?”

“One of them raped you, is that it?” Nat said.

She nodded. “S-Saul Medeiros raped me. His—his nose was all squashed up. He bled all over my face.” She cried out again, and covered it, covered where Saul Medeiros had bled, with her hands. Her bare feet were turned inward and the toes curled under, like twins, Nat thought, in the fetal position. His mind paused right there, on the verge of something. Was it the answer to whatever was bothering him about the first line of the ransom note, or something else? Whatever it was didn't come.

A photograph lay on the floor, a framed picture, the glass cracked, of a kid in a muddy football uniform, posing unsmilingly after a game, helmet in hand. He picked it up. “Freedy?” he said.

Freedy's mother peered through her fingers, nodded.

“The ponytail came later?”

“Yes.” She reached out for the picture. Nat handed it to her. She gazed at it, composed herself a little. “I used to love this town.”

Silence. It went on until Nat said, “But?”

She shook her head. Nat went to the sink, full of smashed things, found an unbroken glass with the stub of a joint in it. He washed the glass, poured water, brought it to Freedy's mom, helped her to her feet. She took the glass in both hands—still it shook—and drank a mouthful. Not drank, exactly; but filled her mouth, went to the sink, and spat it all out, with force. Then she swallowed the rest of the water. Izzie glanced at her watch.

“Thank you,” said Freedy's mother. She must have felt the cup handle in her hair at that moment. She plucked it out, regarded it uncomprehendingly.

“You used to love the town,” Nat prompted her.

“A long time ago,” she said. “Back when the Glass Onion was still open.”

“The boarded-up place at the bottom of the Hill?”

“Everyone met there—townies, college kids, even some professors. It was a very positive space. Positive things happened to me there. I thought they were positive.”

“Like what?”

“Personal growth experiences.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Izzie said. “What about Freedy?”

“He should never have come back from California,” Freedy's mother said.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Look what's happening. But I suppose there was no choice. Something bad happened out there, too.”

“What?” Nat said.

“I don't know what. No one actually died. And the truth is it's not the whole reason he came back. I see that now.”

“What's the rest of it?”

“Do we have time for this?” Izzie said.

Freedy's mother looked at Izzie. “I'm still not sure who you people are, or what you want.”

“We told you already,” Izzie said, her voice rising. “My—”

Nat cut her off. “If your son is a kidnapper—”

“He couldn't be.”

“You're wrong,” Nat said. “Shouldn't you help us stop it now, before anyone else gets hurt? Before the police are involved?”

“I guess so,” said Freedy's mother; her eyes, still open much too wide, looked confused. “But I've never heard of any kidnapping.”

“Just tell us where he is,” said Izzie.

“I don't know.”

“You're lying,” Izzie said. “You'll end up in jail with him.”

“Could that happen?” Freedy's mother's voice had gone soft and high-pitched, like a little girl's. “I'm a good person. Freedy's basically a good person, too. He went out to California to make something of himself.”

“And did he?”

“I think so.”

“In what way?”

“He's ambitious now.”

“What does he do?”

She thought. “Did he tell me the details?”

“We're getting nowhere,” Izzie said.

“What did he do when he was here?”

“Went to the high school. Played on the football team. I didn't watch—too violent.”

“What else did he do?”

“Hung out, I guess. Like a teenager.”

“Did he have a job?”

“Oh, yes.” She brightened. “He was always very hardworking. He worked for the college every summer.”

“Doing what?”

“In the maintenance department.”

Nat glanced at Izzie. She was quiet now, watching him.

“And the other reason he came home, the reason you see now?” Nat said.

“That would be a private thing,” said Freedy's mother. “More of a personal quest.”

“Look around you,” Nat said. Freedy's mother obeyed. “This has gone beyond a private thing.”

She nodded. He took her glass, refilled it, handed it back. “He got interested in his father,” she said; water trembled in the glass. “Why did I think that wouldn't happen?”

“Who's his father?” Nat said.

“That's just the point,” said Freedy's mother. “It was only a one-night . . . experience. I shouldn't say only, because it had its own validity. But it was part of another world that had nothing to do with Freedy. That explanation used to satisfy him.”

“But not anymore.”

“No.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No. But he might have found out anyway, I don't know how.”

“Who is he?” Nat said.

“I can't tell you,” said Freedy's mother. “It's a private—” She stopped herself. “I'm sworn to secrecy.”

“Or is it that you're being paid?” Nat said.

She stared at him. “Who are you, again?”

“Who's paying her?” said Izzie.

“The father,” Nat said, watching Freedy's mother. “Someone she met a long time ago, down at the Glass Onion.”

Freedy's mother didn't deny it; her lips parted slightly, gripped by the narrative, as though hearing her life turned into a story by someone who knew how.

“So he's hiding her at his father's,” said Izzie. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes,” said Nat.

“Then we have to know who he is, and that's that,” said Izzie. Freedy's mother backed up against the counter. “Who's the father?”

She looked up at Izzie, started crying again. Was there something false in her crying now? Nat thought it was possible.

“It doesn't matter,” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Izzie.

“We already know.”

They left Freedy's mother like that, crying in her blood-spotted Moroccan robe. There was no time to do anything about her; and not much desire, either.

 

T
he nurse answered the Uzigs' door. “The professor's not in,” she told them.

“Where is he?”

“You'll have to speak to Mrs. Uzig about that. Right now she's sleeping.”

“We have to talk to her,” Nat said.

“I'm sorry,” the nurse said, closing the door; but they were already inside.

Helen Uzig wasn't sleeping; she was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, watching the snow fall. She smiled at them.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Where's Leo?” said Izzie.

“You missed him, I'm afraid. He was called to a sudden conference. Some Nietzschean emergency—perhaps they've discovered a long-lost retraction of the whole thing.”

“Where is the conference?” Nat said.

Helen noticed the nurse. “Stop hovering.” The nurse left the room. “Milan, I believe. Leo is probably on the connecting flight out of Albany at this moment, unless the airport is closed.”

“Did he go alone?”

“Alone? What is the implication of that, floozy-wise?”

“Was he with a big, ponytailed man?”

“Do you mean Freedy?”

“Yes.”

“How interesting you should know him. No, he wasn't with Freedy. Why would he be?”

“Is Freedy here now?”

“Here?”

“In the house.”

“Of course not. I don't expect him till spring.”

“Why?”

“He can't very well do his excavating in frozen ground, can he?”

“Excavating?” Nat, in his winter clothes, felt cold.

“For the new pool. Malibu, Mediterranean, and the other one escapes me. An enterprising man—just think of that crow—although I wouldn't describe him as bushy-tailed.” She lowered her voice. “And between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a serious drug problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

“His perceptions get a bit wobbly. At one point he thought I was his grandmother. Although it could have been because I fixed him a slap-up breakfast, just like the nicest granny in the world. You young people aren't hungry too, by any chance?”