No Second Chance Read online

  The fresh air tickled my lungs. The sun shone as if it were the first day, mocking my gloom. I tilted my face toward the warmth and let it soothe me. Monica used to like to do that. She claimed that it "de stressed" her. The lines in her face would disappear as if the rays were gentle masseurs. I kept my eyes closed. Lenny waited in silence, giving me the time.

  I have always thought of myself as an overly sensitive man. I cry too easily at dumb movies. My emotions are easily manipulated. But with my father, I never cried. And now, with this terrible blow, I felt--I don't know--beyond tears. A classic defense mechanism, I assumed. I had to push forward. It's not so different from my business: When cracks appear, I patch them up before they become full-fledged fissures.

  Lenny was still fuming from the phone call. "Any idea what that old bastard wants?"

  "Not a one."

  He was quiet a moment. I know what he was thinking. Lenny blamed Edgar for his father's death. His old man had been a middle manager at ProNess Foods, one of Edgar's holdings. He had slaved for the company twenty-six years and had just turned fifty-two years old when Edgar orchestrated a major merger. Lenny's father lost his job. I remember seeing Mr. Marcus sitting slump shouldered at the kitchen table, meticulously stuffing his resume into envelopes. He never found work and died two years later of a heart attack. Nothing could convince Lenny that the two events were unrelated.

  He said, "You sure you don't want me to come?"

  "Nah, I'll be all right."

  "Got your cell?"

  I showed it to him.

  "Call me if you need anything."

  I thanked him and let him walk away. The driver opened the door. I winced my way in. The drive was not far. Kasselton, New Jersey. My hometown. We passed the split-levels of the sixties, the expanded ranches of the seventies, the aluminum sidings of the eighties, the McMansions of the nineties. Eventually the trees grew denser. The houses sat farther back from the road, protected by the lush, away from the great unwashed who might happen by. We were nearing old wealth now, that exclusive land that always smelled of autumn and woodsmoke.

  The Portman family had first settled in this thicket immediately following the Civil War. Like most of suburban Jersey, this had been farmland. Great-great-grandfather Portman slowly sold off acreage and made a fortune. They still had sixteen acres, making their lot one of the largest in the area. As we climbed the drive, my eyes drifted left-- toward the family burial plot.

  I could see a small mound of fresh dirt.

  "Stop the car," I said.

  "Sorry, Dr. Seidman," the driver replied, "but I was told to bring you right up to the main house."

  I was about to protest but thought better of it. I waited until the car stopped by the front door. I got out and headed back down the drive. I heard the driver say, "Dr. Seidman?" I kept going. He called after me again. I ignored him. Despite the lack of rain, the grass was a green usually reserved for rain forests. The rose garden was in full bloom, an explosion of color.

  I tried to hurry on, but my skin still felt as if it might rip. I slowed. This was only my third visit inside the Portman family estate--I had seen it from the outside dozens of times in my youth--and I had never visited the family plot. In fact, like most rational people, I did my best to avoid it. The idea of burying your kin in your backyard like a family pet ... it was one of those things that rich people do that we regular folk could never quite grasp. Or would want to.

  The fence around the plot was maybe two feet high and blindingly white. I wondered if it'd been freshly painted for the occasion. I stepped over the superfluous gate and walked past the modest gravestones, keeping my eye on the dirt mound. When I reached the spot, a shudder tore through me. I looked down.

  Yep, a recently dug grave. No stone yet. The marker on it, printed up in wedding-invitation calligraphy, read simply: OUR MONICA.

  I stood there and blinked. Monica. My wild-eyed beauty. Our relationship had been turbulent--a classic case of too much passion in the beginning and not enough near the end. I don't know why that happens. Monica was different, no question. At first that crackle, that excitement, had been a draw. Later, the mood swings simply made me weary. I didn't have the patience to dig deeper.

  As I looked down at the pile of dirt, a painful memory jabbed at me. Two nights before the attack, Monica had been crying when I came to the bedroom. It was not the first time. Not even close. Playing my part in the stage show that was our lives, I asked her what was wrong, but my heart was not in it. I used to ask with more concern. Monica never replied. I would try to hold her. She would go rigid. After a while the nonresponsiveness got tiresome, taking on a boy-who-cried-wolf aspect that eventually frosts the heart. Living with a depressive is like that. You can't care all the time. At some point, you have to start to resent.

  At least, that was what I told myself.

  But this time, there was something different: Monica did indeed reply to me. Not a long reply. One line, actually. "You don't love me," she said. That was it. There was no pity in her voice. "You don't love me." And while I managed to utter the necessary protestations, I wondered if maybe she was right.

  I closed my eyes and let it all wash over me. Things had been bad, but for the past six months anyway, there had been an escape for us, a calm and warm center in our daughter. I glanced at the sky now, blinked again, and then looked back down at the dirt that covered my volatile wife. "Monica," I said out loud. And then I made my wife one last vow.

  I swore on her grave that I would find Tara.

  A servant or butler or associate or whatever the current term was led me down the corridor and into the library. The decor was understated though unequivocally rich--finished dark floors with simple oriental carpets, old-Americana furniture that was solid rather than ornate. Despite his wealth and large plot of land Edgar was not one for show wealth. The term nouveau riche was to him profane, unspeakable.

  Dressed in a blue cashmere blazer, Edgar rose from behind his expansive oak desk. There was a feather quill pen on the top--his greatgrandfather's, if I recall--and two bronze busts, one of Washington and one of Jefferson. I was surprised to see Uncle Carson sitting there too. When he'd visited me in the hospital, I had been too frail to embrace. Carson made up for that now. He pulled me close. I held on to him in silence. He, too, smelled of autumn and woodsmoke.

  There were no photographs in the room--no family-vacation snapshots, no school portraits, no shot of the man and his missus decked out at a charity formal. In fact, I do not think I had ever seen a photograph anywhere in the house.

  Carson said, "How are you feeling, Marc?"

  I told him that I was as well as could be expected and turned toward my father-in-law. Edgar did not come around the desk. We did not embrace. We did not, in fact, even shake hands. He gestured toward the chair in front of the desk.

  I did not know Edgar very well. We had only met three times. I do not know how much money he has, but even out of these dwellings, even on a city street or at a bus depot, hell, even naked, you could tel l that the Portmans were from money. Monica had the bearing too, the one ingrained over generations, the one that cannot be taught, the one that may literally be genetic. Monica's choice to live in our relatively modest dwelling was probably a form of rebellion.

  She had hated her father.

  I was not a big fan of his either, probably because I had met his type before. Edgar thinks himself a pull-up-by-the-bootstraps sort, but he himself earned his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. I don't know many superwealthy people, but I noticed that the more things were handed to you on a silver platter, the more you complain about welfare mothers and government handouts. It is bizarre. Edgar belongs to that unique class of the entitled who have deluded themselves into believing that they somehow earned their status through hard work. We all live with self-justification, of course, and if you have never fended for yourself, if you live in luxury and have done nothing to deserve it, well, that is going to compound your insecuri
ties, I guess. But it shouldn't make you such a prig, to boot.

  I sat. Edgar followed suit. Carson remained standing. I stared at Edgar. He had the plump of the well fed. His face was all soft edges. The normal ruddy on his cheeks, so far from anything rawbone, was gone now. He laced his fingers and rested them on his paunch. He looked, I was somewhat surprised to see, devastated, drawn, and sapless.

  I say surprised, because Edgar always struck me as pure id; a person whose own pain and pleasure trumped all others', who believed those who inhabited the space around him were little more than window dressing for his own bemusement. Edgar had now lost two children. His son, Eddie the Fourth, had died while speeding under the influence ten years ago. According to Monica, Eddie veered across the double yellow line and plowed into the semi on purpose. For some reason, she blamed her father. She blamed him for a lot of things.

  There is also Monica's mother. She "rests" a lot. She takes "extended vacations." In short, she is in and out of institutions. Both times we met, my mother-in-law was propped up for some social affair, well dressed and powdered, lovely and too pale, a vacancy in her eyes, a slur in her speech, a sway in her stance.

  Except for Uncle Carson, Monica had been estranged from her family. As you might imagine, I hardly minded.

  "You wanted to see me?" I said.

  "Yes, Marc. Yes, I did."

  I waited.

  Edgar put his hands on his desk. "Did you love my daughter?"

  I was caught off guard, but I still said, "Very much," with no hesitation.

  He seemed to see the lie. I worked hard to keep my gaze steady. "She still wasn't happy, you know."

  "I'm not sure you can blame me for that," I said.

  He nodded slowly. "Fair point."

  But my own pass-the-buck defense didn't really work on me. Edgar's words were a fresh body blow. The guilt came roaring back.

  "Did you know that she was seeing a psychiatrist?" Edgar asked.

  I turned toward Carson first, then back to Edgar. "No."

  "She didn't want anyone to know."

  "How did you find out?"

  Edgar did not reply. He stared down at his hands. Then he said: "I want to show you something."

  I sneaked another look at Uncle Carson. His jaw was set. I thought I saw a tremble. I turned back to Edgar. "Okay."

  Edgar opened his desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out a plastic bag. He raised it into view, gripping the bag at the corner between his forefinger and thumb. It took a moment, but'when I realized what I was looking at, my eyes went wide.

  Edgar saw my reaction. "You recognize it then?"

  I couldn't speak at first. I glanced over at Carson. His eyes were red. I looked back at Edgar and nodded numbly. Inside the plastic bag was a small swatch of clothing, maybe three inches by three inches. The pattern was one I had seen two weeks ago, moments before being shot.

  Pink with black penguins.

  My voice was barely a hush. "Where did you get this?"

  Edgar handed me a large brown envelope, the kind with bubble wrap on the inside. This too, was protected in plastic. I turned it around. Edgar's name and address had been printed on a white label. There was no return address. The postmark read New York City.

  "It came in today's mail," Edgar said. He gestured to the swatch. "Is it Tara's?"

  I think I said yes.

  "There's more," Edgar said. He reached into the drawer again. "I took the liberty of putting everything in plastic bags. In case the authorities need to test it."

  Again he handed me what looked like a Ziploc bag. Smaller this time. There were hairs inside. Little wisps of hair. With mounting dread, I realized what I was looking at. My breath stopped.

  Baby hair.

  From far away, I heard Edgar ask, "Are they hers?"

  I closed my eyes and tried to picture Tara in the crib. The image of my daughter, I was horrified to realize, was already fading in the mind's eye. How could that be? I could no longer tell if I was seeing memory or something I conjured up to replace what I was already forgetting. Damn it. Tears pressed against my eyelids. I tried to bring back the feel of my daughter's soft scalp, the way my finger would trace the top.

  "Marc?"

  "They could be," I said, opening my eyes. "There's no way for me to know for sure."

  "Something else," Edgar said. He handed me another plastic bag. Gingerly, I put down the bag with her hair on the desk. I took the new bag. There was a sheet of white paper in it. A note from some kind of laser printer.

  If you contact the authorities, we disappear. You will never know what happened to her. We will be watching. We will know. We have a man on the inside. Your calls are being monitored. Do not discuss this over the phone. We know that you, Grandpa, are rich. We want two million dollars. We want you, Daddy, to deliver the ransom. You, Grandpa, will get the money ready. We are enclosing a cell phone. It is untraceable. But if you dial out or use it in any way, we will know. We will disappear and you will never see the child again. Get the money ready. Give it to Daddy. Daddy, keep the money and phone near you. Go home and wait. We will call and tell you what to do. Deviate from what we ask, and you will never see your daughter again. There will be .

  The syntax was odd, to put it mildly. I read the note three times and then I looked up at Edgar and Carson. A funny calm spread over me. Yes, this was terrifying, but receiving this note ... it was also a relief. Something had finally happened. We could act now. We could get Tara back. There was hope.

  Edgar stood and headed toward the corner of the room. He opened a closet door and pulled out a gym bag with a Nike logo on it. Without preamble, he said, "It's all here."

  He dropped the bag onto my lap. I stared down at it. "Two million dollars?"

  "The bills are not sequential, but we have a list of all the serial numbers, just in case."

  I looked at Carson and then back at Edgar. "You don't think we should contact the FBI?"

  "Not really, no." Edgar perched himself on the lid of the desk, folding his arms across his chest. He smelled of barbershop bay rum, but I could sense something more primitive, more rancid, that lay just beneath. Up close, his eyes had the dark rings of exhaustion. "It's your decision, Marc. You're the father. We'll respect whatever you do. But as you know, I have had some dealings with the federal authorities. Perhaps my views are colored by my own sense of their incompetence, or perhaps I am biased because I've witnessed the degree to which they are ruled by personal agendas. If it were my daughter, I'd rather trust my own judgment than theirs."

  I was not sure what to say or do. Edgar took care of that. He clapped his hands once and then gestured toward the door.

  "The note says that you should go home and wait. I think it's best if we obey."

  Chapter 3

  The Same driver was there. I slid into the backseat, the Nike bag pressed against my chest. My emotions rocketed between abject fear and the strangest tinge of elation. I could get my daughter back. I could blow it all.

  But first things first: Should I tell the police?

  I tried to calm myself, to look at it coldly, at a distance, weigh the pros and cons. That was impossible, of course. I am a doctor. I have made life-altering decisions before. I know that the best way to do that is to remove the baggage, the ardent excess, from the equation. But my daughter's life was at stake. My own daughter. To echo what I said in the beginning: my world.

  The house Monica and I bought is literally around the corner from the house I grew up in and where my parents still reside. I am ambivalent about that. I really don't like living so close to my parents, but I dislike the guilt of abandoning them even more. My compromise: Live near them and then travel a lot.

  Lenny and Cheryl live four blocks away, near the Kasselton Mall, in the house where Cheryl's parents had raised her. Cheryl's parents moved to Florida six years ago. They keep a condo up here in neighboring Roseland so they can visit their grandchildren and escape the molten lava summers of the Sunshine State.

>   I don't particularly like living in Kasselton. The town has changed very little over the past thirty years. In our youth, we scoffed at our parents, their materialism, their seemingly aimless values. Now we are our parents. We have simply replaced them, pushed Mom and Dad into whatever retirement village would have them. And our children have replaced us. But Maury's Luncheonette is still on Kasselton Avenue. The fire department is still mostly volunteer. The Little League still plays at Northland Field. The high-tension wires are still too close to my old elementary school. The woods behind the Brenners' house on Rockmont Terrace is still a place where kids hang out and smoke. The high school still gets between five and eight national merit finalists a year, though when I was younger the list was more Jewish while today it tilts toward the Asian community.

  We turned right on Monroe Avenue and drove past the split-level where I was raised. With its white paint and black shutters, with its kitchen, living room, and dining room up three steps on the left and its den and garage entrance two steps down on the right, our house, though a bit more threadbare than most, was pretty much indistinguishable from the other cookie-cutters on the block. What did make it stand out, the only thing really, was the wheelchair ramp. We put it in after my dad's third stroke when I was twelve years old. My friends and I liked to skateboard down it. We built a jump out of plywood and cinder blocks and put it at the bottom.

  The nurse's car was in the driveway. She comes in during the days. We don't have someone full time. My father has been confined to a wheelchair for more than two decades now. He cannot speak. His mouth has an ugly down-hook curve on the left side of it. Half his body is totally paralyzed and the other half is not that much better.

  When the driver made the turn at Darby Terrace, I saw that my house--our house--looked the same as it had a few weeks before. I didn't know what I'd expected. Yellow crime-scene tape maybe. Or a big bloodstain. But there was nothing hinting at what had occurred two weeks earlier.