What Strange Creatures (23 page)

The traffic began to crawl a bit. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, then fought and swore through the traffic knot. When I got to downtown a half hour later, I had trouble finding a parking space and didn’t bother to feed the meter.

As I raced up the courthouse steps, I heard someone shout my name.

It was my mother—headed toward me, the heels of her pumps clicking on the concrete.

“I stayed here to meet you. Ned and your father were eager to work out some of the details. But I knew you were on your way.” She shivered and rubbed her upper arms. “Where have you been?”

“I got stuck in traffic. There was an accident, and they had only one lane open.”

“Jeff got bail, but it’s high.” She did a little hop to warm herself.

“How high?”

“Two hundred thousand. We have to come up with twenty thousand of that. Gary Norris has already put your father in touch with a bondsman. I think we can have him out tomorrow. Maybe the next day. It depends on how fast we can all get the money organized.”

“How’re we going to come up with that?”

“Ned’s helping me. And your father is putting up five thou he says he can take out of his retirement, but it takes twenty-four hours to process the withdrawal. If you can throw in a couple thousand, it’d help. Then we’ll work out the details later. We’ll get most of it back. Except for the fee.”

“Whatever it takes,” I said. “I have about twice that in the bank at the moment.”

My mother nodded stiffly, distracted. She hadn’t really heard what I’d said. Part of her mind would probably be held captive as long as her son was.

“Whatever it takes,” I repeated.

This time I said it for myself. Saying it made me feel better about last night. I couldn’t give my brother as much money as my parents could. But I had other resources—other plans.

My mother reached out and grabbed me by the arm, clutching at my elbow till it hurt.

“Is Jeff happy that he was granted bail?” I asked.

“Happy? No, Theresa.”

“I mean, did he seem relieved to you?”

“I didn’t get to talk to him yet today. There was just the hearing, and then they took him back in. It was short. Gary did a good job.”

“Two hundred thousand? That’s a good job?”

“There’s only so much he can control, under the circumstances.”

My mother’s grasp moved up my arm. “You’re skinny these days,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

She finally removed her hand. I wanted, then, to apologize to her for mentioning Marge’s penis visions the other day. But she’d asked that I not mention Marge at all. I decided the best way to apologize, for now, was to respect that.

I dropped my mother at her hotel, then went home to check on the animals.

Boober greeted me at the door, yipping wildly. Just as I stepped inside, he peed on the floor.

“That’s the right idea, sweetie,” I said. “Hold it till I get home.”

I found his and Wayne’s leashes and brought both dogs outside.

Boober ran circles around my legs while I checked e-mail on my phone. Zach had written back early in the morning:

I answered, asking him to suggest a time. Aside from taking a couple thousand bucks out of the bank for bail, my day was wide open.

The teacher Sharon Silverstein had written back as well, saying she had a free period in which she could call me if I wanted. I untangled Boober from around my ankles and typed back that I’d be waiting for her call.

After that I switched to texting and wrote back to Trenton Halliday,
DUSTIN IS A FRIEND OF A FRIEND. I HAVE HIS PHONE NUMBER, BUT HE’S NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS.
I typed in the number I had for Dustin and asked Trenton to confirm it.

“We’re going to see about this Dustin Halliday,” I said to the dogs.

Wayne snuffled his approval, then barked at a leaf skittering across my driveway.

I lost a few hours doing laundry, filling dog bowls, eating pickles out of a jar in the fridge. When Sharon Silverstein called, I found myself ironing a pillowcase.

As I began to ask her about Dustin, I turned off the iron and wandered into the living room.

“No, I haven’t kept in touch with Dustin since he finished his time,” Sharon told me. “Zach’s right that he confided in me a lot. But once he got out, that was it. The kids don’t tend to want to drop in at the detention center to reminisce.”

“Right,” I said, feeling stupid. Of course they didn’t.

“Oddly enough, though, I’ve heard through a different kid that Dustin’s been living in downtown Marist Park with one of his old buddies from detention. Troy Richardson. I ran into Troy at Shaw’s supermarket a couple of months ago. He was working there.”

“Troy Richardson.” I circled the living room, dusting the tabletops with my pillowcase. “A friend of Dustin’s?”

“Yeah. They seemed pretty close.”

“Was he one of the kids Zach Wagner profiled in the book? The one he named ‘Anthony’?”

As I asked these questions, I watched Geraldine march into the middle of the living-room carpet. She does this for only one reason.

“Troy? No. Troy wasn’t in the book, I don’t think. I didn’t know all the kids in the book.”

“Oh. Okay. So this is a different friend? Not the Anthony kid?”

Glurp. Glurp. GLURP.
Geraldine’s stomach heaved up and down in that painful way that cats have. I’m always surprised they don’t turn themselves inside out.

“I’m pretty sure,” Sharon answered. “Although I read the book several years ago, so it’s hard to remember.”

“And Dustin is living downtown with Troy?”

There was another big
GLURP
and then a gag as I slipped out of the room.

“Probably. I mean, this was a few months ago I was hearing about it. But they were roommates, with one or two other young men. College-age kids. Troy’s taking some community-college courses, he told me. That made me really happy to hear.”

“And Dustin?”

Sharon Silverstein paused. “I don’t know about that. Dustin actually struggled with reading. I think maybe Zach Wagner didn’t stress that too much in the book. I’d be surprised if he went to college. It would be nice if he were, but . . .”

“Okay,” I said. “So you didn’t have that Anthony kid as your student, too?”

“Remind me who that is?”

“The kid in the book who was friends with Dustin,” I said. “He was in for his part in the beating death of another boy.”

“No, I don’t think I had him,” Sharon said. “But I didn’t always know the kids’ . . . offenses. If I didn’t need to. It often wasn’t necessary. And often I didn’t
want
to know.”

“Of course,” I said. “Well, thanks so much for your time.”

After I’d hung up, I stepped back into the living room. Geraldine was now sitting sphinxlike on the arm of the sofa, staring down at her own hair ball as if some other slob had deposited it.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” I told her.

As I headed to the kitchen for some paper towels, my phone vibrated again. Trenton Halliday had returned my text, saying,
I DON’T KNOW HIS
#.
WE DON’T TALK.

Interesting. It seemed odd to me he’d have so little information about his brother. At the time of Zach’s book, there had been tension between the brothers, but Trenton had at least visited Dustin in juvenile detention. I wondered why their relationship had deteriorated. Had Dustin maybe fallen deeper into criminal life?

I sat and considered my next move. I could head up to Marist Park to Shaw’s and hope to hit Troy Richardson’s working hours. But Jeff was getting out tomorrow, if all went well, and then I’d go back to work on Monday. Colleen Shipley—Donald Wallace’s old assistant—was likely more important than Troy Richardson, and today was the last day I could surprise her during business hours—unless I took another day off.

I refreshed the cats’ kibble and left each dog with a scoop of wet food. When I got into my car, I set my GPS for Colleen Shipley’s real-estate office.

Raymond Realty was one of those sad little offices with worn beige carpeting and a gumball machine full of ancient Chiclets at the entrance. As I stepped inside, I noticed an overwhelming buttered-popcorn smell—delicious on first whiff, then disgusting thereafter.

At the front desk, there was a bald man holding an open microwave-popcorn bag. As I walked in, he leaned closer to the bag and made a sputtering sound into it. For a second I thought he was using it as a barf bag.

“You caught me.” He grinned. “I was sucking on the old maids.”

I never know what to do with people who are this forthcoming.

“It’s no problem,” I said. “I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have an appointment with someone? Richard or Colleen?”

“Colleen, in fact. Well, I don’t have an appointment with her, but—”

“Here for me, Greg?” someone called from the cubicle behind him.

“Yeah,” Greg said.

A pair of pale knuckles appeared from behind the cubicle, followed by a woman of early middle age. Her light greenish eyes and whitish blond hair gave her a gossamer sort of presence.

“Have we met?” she asked, peering at me. “Oh! Are you the one who called about the Volker property?”

“Um . . . no. I’m wondering if we could speak privately?”

“I’m sorry. . . . What is this about?”

“I was hoping to talk to you about Kim Graber.”

“Oh. And are you . . . ? Who are you? You’re not Missy, are you?”

“No.” I hesitated, startled. “I’m a friend of Kim’s. Not Missy.”

“I didn’t think so. I just . . . your hair has a little red in it, and I remember . . .”

“Oh. Right. No, just a friend.”

Damn it. Maybe I could’ve posed as Missy. I’d never have thought of that, and now it was too late.

“Why don’t we talk outside?” Colleen suggested, grabbing a beige trench coat off the wall of her cubicle.

I agreed, and we left Greg to his old maids.

“Do you know what happened to her?” I asked, once the door was closed.

“What happened to Kim? In 1992?”

“No . . . uh . . . I mean, she was killed. A couple of weeks ago.”

“What?” Colleen’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” I wasn’t anticipating this—having to share this piece of news. Why had I assumed that the whole world knew about Kim? “I wasn’t sure if you would have heard.”

Colleen put her hand against the storefront window to steady herself.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “What happened?”

“They’re not sure yet,” I said. Reluctantly I added, “They’ve arrested someone.”

“Oh my God,” Colleen said again. She raised her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “Someone? What happened?”

“As I said, they’re still not sure. But they’ve arrested her boyfriend.”

Colleen tapped her palm against her forehead. I hesitated, unsure if I should say anything while she was processing this tragic information. Was it possible that she was closer to Kim than Missy had known or let on?

“That poor girl. Are you a close friend? When did this happen?”

“They found her about a week ago.”

“Found her where?”

“Outside Rowington. Near a rural road.”

“What’s this about her boyfriend? Did he beat her? What?”

“I’m not sure. I just know he was arrested.”

Colleen put her hand down. “I’m sorry, dear. Did you know him, too?”

“Not really,” I said.

Colleen reached her hands into her deep pockets and produced a napkin with the Subway logo on it. “What’s your name, now?”

“Margery.”

“Margery. Okay.” Colleen blew her nose with the napkin, crumpled it, and returned it to her pocket. “Kim must’ve mentioned me, then?”

“Yes. And . . . um . . . She showed me the footage you gave her.”

“The footage?”

“Of herself as a kid. Her interview.”

“I see.” Colleen pulled her coat tight around her chest. “Now, why did she show
you
?”

“We were good friends.”

Colleen gazed at me. “I imagine you’re grieving. I imagine this is very difficult. But why are you here now, hon?”

“I know Kim wanted some questions answered. I know this thing she had about Donald Wallace was important to her.”

“Yes. It seemed to be.” Colleen’s face tightened. “But what can I do for . . . you?”

I paused. “Can you tell me why you gave it to her?”

Colleen studied me for a moment more, then gave a resigned shrug. “Kim struck me as very confused. I thought that it might help her to sort things out.”

“Why did you have that stuff, though?” I struggled to keep my tone curious, matter-of-fact. “Shouldn’t that have been filed at the D.A.’s office or the police department or something?”

“It wasn’t.” Colleen folded her arms. “It was in my garage.”

“And now it’s . . . where?”

“I gave it to Kim. I don’t know what she did with it.”

“You don’t have a copy?”

“No. It was just something I had in a box in my garage. I’d have no reason to make another copy.”

“What did you expect Kim to do with it?”

Colleen shook her head and gave me a pitying look. “I don’t know if I’m the right one for you to be asking these questions. Are you sure you don’t need a few more days to process what’s happened before—”

“I’ve had quite a few days. Please.
Please.
”

The desperation in my voice was real, even if the ostensible reason for it was not.

Colleen unfolded her arms and rubbed her forearms. “Hon, I expected her to watch it. That’s all.”

“You know she was looking to make a sort of video about Donald Wallace, right?”

“Yeah.” Colleen wrinkled her nose. “That seemed like a funny idea to me, frankly. I thought the old footage might help her find a little peace. She was only ten years old back then. She was a pawn in that case. She didn’t do anything wrong. I think seeing herself back then, and the way she was asked those questions, would help her forgive herself for her role in that case. Because it seemed to me—and maybe I’m being presumptuous here, since you probably knew her better than I did—it seemed to me that was the real issue. That she didn’t really care if Donald Wallace won or lost.”