Hold Tight (2008) Page 17

  Dolly Lewiston made a face. "Are you for real?"

  "I'm not letting this go."

  She took a step toward him. This time he did not back up. Their faces were maybe a foot apart, no more. Her voice became a whisper. "Do you really think being called a name is the worst that can happen to her?"

  He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  "You're going after my family, Mr. Novak. My family. The people I love. My husband made a mistake. He apologized. But you still want to attack us. And if that's the case, we will defend ourselves."

  "If you're talking about a lawsuit--"

  She chuckled. "Oh, no," she said, still in that whisper. "I'm not talking about courts."

  "Then what?"

  Dolly Lewiston tilted her head to the right. "Have you ever been physically assaulted, Mr. Novak?"

  "Is that a threat?"

  "It's a question. You said that what my husband did was worse than a physical assault. Let me assure you, Mr. Novak. It is not. I know people. I give them the word--I just hint that someone is trying to hurt me--they'll come by here one night when you're sleeping. When your daughter is sleeping."

  Guy's mouth felt dry. He tried to stop his knees from turning to rubber.

  "That definitely sounds like a threat, Mrs. Lewiston."

  "It isn't. It's a fact. If you want to go after us, we aren't going to sit on our hands and let you. I will go after you with everything I have. Do you understand?"

  He didn't reply.

  "Do yourself a favor, Mr. Novak. Worry about taking care of your daughter, not my husband. Let it go."

  "I won't."

  "Then the suffering has just begun."

  Dolly Lewiston turned around and left without another word. Guy Novak felt the quake in his legs. He stayed and watched her get in her car and drive away. She did not look back but he could see a smile on her face.

  She's nuts, Guy thought.

  But did that mean he should back down? Hadn't he backed down his whole damn life? Wasn't that the problem from the get-go here-- that he was a man you walked all over?

  He opened the front door and headed inside.

  "Everything okay?"

  It was Beth, his latest girlfriend. She tried too hard to please. They all did. There was such a shortage of men in this age group and so they all tried so hard to both please and not appear desperate and none of them could quite pull it off. Desperation was like that. You could try to mask it, but the smell permeates all covers.

  Guy wished that he could get past that. He wished that the women could get past it too, so that they would see him. But that was how it was and so all these relationships stayed on a superficial level. The women would want more. They would try not to pressure and that just felt like pressure. Women were nesters. They wanted to get closer. He wouldn't. But they would stay anyway until he broke it off with them.

  "Everything is fine," Guy said to her. "Sorry if I took too long."

  "Not at all."

  "The girls okay?"

  "Yes. Jill's mom came by and picked her up. Yasmin is up in her room."

  "Okay, great."

  "Are you hungry, Guy? Would you like me to fix you something to eat?"

  "Only if you'll join me."

  Beth beamed a little, and for some reason that made him feel guilty. The women he dated made him feel both worthless and superior at the same time. Feelings of self-loathing consumed him once again.

  She came over and kissed his cheek. "You go relax and I'll start making lunch."

  "Great, I'm just going to quickly check my e-mail."

  But when Guy checked his computer, there was only one new e-mail. It came from an anonymous Hotmail account and the short message chilled Guy's blood.

  Please listen to me. You need to hide your gun better.

  TIA almost wished that she'd taken up Hester Crimstein's offer. She sat in her house and wondered if she had ever felt more useless in her entire life. She called Adam's friends, but no one knew anything. Fear built in her head. Jill, no dummy when it came to her parents' moods, knew something was seriously off.

  "Where's Adam, Mommy?"

  "We don't know, honey."

  "I called his cell," Jill said. "He didn't answer."

  "I know. We're trying to find him."

  She looked at her daughter's face. So adult. The second kid grows up so much differently from the first. You so overprotect your first. You watch his every step. You think his every breath is somehow God's divine plan. The earth, moon, stars, sun--they all revolve around a firstborn.

  Tia thought about secrets, about inner thoughts and fears, and how she'd been trying to find her son's. She wondered if this disappearance confirmed that she'd been right to do it or wrong. We all have our problems, she knew. Tia had anxiety issues. She religiously made the kids wear headgear when playing any sort of sport-- eyewear too when it was called for. She stayed at the bus stop until they got in, even now, even when Adam was far too old for such treatment and would never stand it, so she hid and watched. She didn't like them crossing busy streets or heading to the center of town on their bikes. She didn't like carpooling because that other mother might not be as careful a driver. She listened to every story about every child tragedy--every car accident, every pool drowning, every abduction, every plane crash, anything. She listened and then she came home and looked it up online and read every article on it and while Mike would sigh and try to calm her down by talking about the long-shot odds, prove to her that her anxiety was unfounded, it would do no good.

  Long odds still happened to someone. And now it was happening to her.

  Had these been anxiety issues--or had Tia been right all along?

  Once again Tia's cell jangled and once again she grabbed it fast, hoping with everything she had that it was Adam. It wasn't. The number was blocked.

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Baye? This is Detective Schlich."

  The tall woman cop from the hospital. The fear struck yet again. You think that you can't keep feeling fresh waves, but the stabs never make you numb. "Yes?"

  "Your son's phone was found in a trash can not far from where your husband got jumped."

  "So he was there?"

  "Well, yes, we assumed that already."

  "And someone must have stolen his phone."

  "That's another question. The most likely reason for tossing the phone was that someone--probably your son--saw your husband there and realized how he'd been tracked down."

  "But you don't know that."

  "No, Mrs. Baye, I don't know that."

  "Will this development make you take the case more seriously?"

  "We were always taking it seriously," Schlich said.

  "You know what I meant."

  "I do. Look, we call this street Vampire Row because there is no one here during the day. No one. So tonight, when the clubs and bars open again, yes, we will go out and ask questions."

  Hours yet. Nightfall.

  "If anything else develops, I will let you know."

  "Thank you."

  Tia was hanging up the phone when she saw the car pull into her driveway. She moved toward the window and watched as Betsy Hill, Spencer's mother, stepped out of the vehicle and started toward her door.

  ILENE Goldfarb woke up early in the morning and flicked on the coffee maker. She slipped into her robe and slippers and padded down her driveway to grab the paper. Her husband, Herschel, was still in bed. Her son, Hal, had been out late last night, as befits a teenager in his last year of high school. Hal had already been accepted at Princeton, her alma mater. He had worked hard to get there. Now he blew off steam, and she was fine with that.

  The morning sun warmed the kitchen. Ilene sat in her favorite chair and curled her legs under her. She pushed away the medical journals. There were a lot of them. Not only was she a renowned transplant surgeon but her husband was considered the top cardiac man in northern New Jersey, practicing out of Valley Hospital in Ridgewood.

  Ile
ne sipped the coffee. She read the paper. She thought about the simple pleasures of life and how rarely she indulged them. She thought about Herschel, upstairs, how handsome he was when they met in medical school, how they had survived the insane hours and rigors of medical school, of internship, of residency, of surgical fellowships, of work. She thought about her feelings for him, how they had mellowed over the years into something she found comforting, how Herschel had recently sat her down and suggested a "trial separation" now that Hal was about to leave the nest.

  "What's left?" Herschel had asked her, spreading his hands. "When you really think about us as a couple, what's left, Ilene?"

  Sitting alone in the kitchen, scant feet from where her husband of twenty-four years had asked that question, she could still hear his words echo.

  Ilene had pushed herself and worked so hard, gone for it all, and she had gotten it: the incredible career, the wonderful family, the big house, respect of peers and friends. Now her husband wondered what was left. What indeed. The mellow had been such a slow slide, so gradual, that she had never really seen it. Or cared to see it. Or wanted more. Who the hell knew?

  She looked toward the stairs. She was tempted to go back up right this very moment and crawl into bed with Herschel and make love to him for hours, like they used to too many years ago, boink those "what's left" doubts right out of his head. But she couldn't make herself get up. She just couldn't. So she read the paper and sipped her coffee and wiped her eyes.

  "Hey, Mom."

  Hal opened the refrigerator and drank straight from the container of orange juice. There was a time she'd correct him on this--she'd tried for years--but really, Hal was the only one who drank orange juice and too many hours get wasted on stuff like that. He was going off to college now. Their time together was running out. Why fill it with nonsense like that?

  "Hey, sweetheart. Out late?"

  He drank some more, shrugged. He wore shorts and a gray T-shirt. There was a basketball cropped under his arm.

  "Are you playing at the high school gym?" she asked.

  "No, Heritage." Then he took one more swig and said to her, "You okay?"

  "Me? Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Your eyes look red."

  "I'm fine."

  "And I saw those guys come by."

  He meant the FBI agents. They had come and asked questions about her practice, about Mike, about stuff that simply made no sense to her. Normally she would have talked to Herschel about it, but he seemed more concerned with preparing for the rest of his life without her.

  "I thought you'd gone out," she said.

  "I stopped to pick up Ricky and doubled back down the street. They looked like cops or something."

  Ilene Goldfarb said nothing.

  "Were they?"

  "It's not important. Don't worry about it."

  He let it go, bounced the ball and himself out the door. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. She glanced at the clock. Eight A.M. At this hour it had to be the service, though she wasn't on call. The operators often made mistakes and routed the messages to the wrong doctor.

  She checked the caller ID and saw the name LORIMAN.

  Ilene picked up and said hello.

  "It's Susan Loriman," the voice said.

  "Yes, good morning."

  "I don't want to talk to Mike about this"--Susan Loriman stopped as if searching for the right word--"this situation. About finding Lucas a donor."

  "I understand," she said. "I have office hours on Tuesday, if you want--"

  "Could you meet me today?"

  Ilene was about to protest. The last thing right now she wanted to do was protect or even help a woman who had gotten herself into this kind of trouble. But this wasn't about Susan Loriman, she reminded herself. It was about her son and Ilene's patient, Lucas.

  "I guess so, yes."

  Chapter 23.

  TIA opened the door before Betsy Hill had a chance to knock and asked without preamble: "Do you know where Adam is?"

  The question startled Betsy Hill. Her eyes widened and she stopped. She saw Tia's face and quickly shook her head. "No," she said, "I have no idea."

  "Then why are you here?"

  Betsy Hill shook her head. "Adam is missing?"

  "Yes."

  Betsy's face lost color. Tia could only imagine what horrible memory this was conjuring up. Hadn't Tia thought before about how similar this whole thing was to what happened to Spencer?

  "Tia?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you check the high school roof?"

  Where Spencer was found.

  There was no argument, no more discussion. Tia called out to Jill that she'd be right back--Jill would soon be old enough to leave alone for brief spells and it couldn't be helped--and then both women ran toward Betsy Hill's car.

  Betsy drove. Tia sat frozen in the front passenger seat. They had driven two blocks when Betsy said, "I talked to Adam yesterday."

  Tia heard the words, but they didn't fully reach her. "What?"

  "Do you know about the memorial they did for Spencer on MySpace?"

  Tia tried to swim through the haze, pay attention. The memorial site on MySpace. She remembered hearing about it a few months ago.

  "Yes."

  "There was a new picture on it."

  "I don't understand."

  "It was taken right before Spencer died."

  "I thought he was alone the night he died," Tia said.

  "So did I."

  "I'm still not following."

  "I think," Betsy Hill said, "that Adam was with Spencer that night."

  Tia turned to face her. Betsy Hill had her eyes on the road. "And you talked to him about this yesterday?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "In the lot after school."

  Tia remembered the instant messages with CeeJay8115:

  What's wrong?

  His mother approached me after school.

  Tia asked, "Why didn't you come to me?"

  "Because I didn't want to hear your explanation, Tia," Betsy said. There was an edge in her voice now. "I wanted to hear Adam's."

  The high school, a sprawling edifice of numbing brick, loomed in the distance. Betsy had barely come to a stop when Tia was already out the door and sprinting toward the brick building. Spencer's body, she remembered, had been found on one of the lower roofs, a well-known smoking hangout from way back when. There was a ledge by a window. The kids would hop up there and scale a gutter.

  "Wait," Betsy Hill called out.

  But Tia was almost there. It was Saturday, but there were still plenty of cars in the lots. All SUVs and minivans. There were kids' baseball games and soccer clinics. Parents stood on the sidelines clutching Starbucks cups, gabbing on cell phones, snapping photos with long-range lenses, fiddling with BlackBerrys. Tia had never liked going to Adam's sporting events because as much as she didn't want to, she ended up caring too much. She loathed those pushy parents who lived and breathed their child's athletic prowess-- found them both petty and pitiful--and wanted to be nothing like them. But when she watched her own son compete, she felt so much, worried so about Adam's happiness, that his highs and lows wore her down.

  Tia blinked away the tears and kept running. When she reached the ledge, she stopped short.

  The ledge was gone.

  "They destroyed it after Spencer was found," Betsy said, coming up behind her. "They wanted to make sure that the kids couldn't get up there anymore. I'm sorry. I forgot about that."

  Tia looked up. "Kids can always find a new way," she said.

  "I know."

  Tia and Betsy quickly searched for a new approach, couldn't find any. They sprinted around to the front entrance. The door was locked, so they banged on it until a custodian with KARL stenciled onto his uniform appeared.

  "We're closed," Karl said through the door's glass window.

  "We need to get to the roof," Tia shouted.

  "The roof?" He frowned. "What on earth for
?"

  "Please," Tia said. "You have to let us in."

  The custodian's gaze slid to the right and when he spotted Betsy Hill, a jolt tore through him. No doubt. He had recognized her. Without another word, he grabbed his keys and threw open the doors.

  "This way," he said.

  They all ran. Tia's heart pounded so hard that she was sure it would burst through her rib cage. Tears were still filling her eyes. Karl opened a door and pointed to the corner. There was a ladder attached to a wall, the kind of thing you normally associate with a submarine. Tia did not hesitate. She sprinted for it and began to climb. Betsy Hill was right behind her.

  They reached the roof, but they were on the opposite side from where they needed to be. Tia sprinted over the tar and gravel with Betsy right behind her. The roofs were uneven. One time they had to jump down almost a full story. They both did it without hesitation.

  "Around this corner," Betsy called out.

  They made the turn onto the right roof and pulled up.

  There was no body.

  That was the key thing. Adam was not up here. But someone had been.

  There were broken beer bottles. There were cigarette butts and what looked like the remains of pot. What had they called those butts? Roaches. But that wasn't what made Tia stay very still.

  There were candles.

  Dozens of them. Most were burnt down to a waxy mess. Tia went over and touched them. The residue had hardened on most, but one or two were still malleable, as if they had just been burnt down recently.

  Tia turned. Betsy Hill stood there. She didn't move. She didn't cry. She just stood there and stared at the candles.

  "Betsy?"

  "That's where they found Spencer's body," she said.

  Tia squatted down, looked at the candles, knew that they looked familiar.

  "Right where those candles are. That exact spot. I came up here before they moved Spencer. I insisted. They wanted to take him down, but I said no. I wanted to see him first. I wanted to see where my boy died."

  Betsy took a step closer. Tia did not move.

  "I used the ledge, the one they knocked off. One of the police of- ficers tried to give me a boost. I told him to leave me the hell alone. I made them all move back. Ron thought I was crazy. He tried to talk me out of it. But I climbed up. And Spencer was right there. Right where you are now. He lay on his side. His legs were curled up in a fetal position. That was how he slept too. In a fetal position. Until he was ten he still sucked his thumb when he slept. Do you ever watch your children sleep, Tia?"