Stay Close Page 9

  "What are you thinking about?" he asked her.

  "The playlist."

  He wasn't surprised. Barbie was such a perfectionist. "What about it?"

  "Please be open-minded," she said.

  "I will."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise."

  Barbie sighed, and again she retied the ponytail. "I think we should open the show with 'Let the River Flow' and then move into 'What Color Is God's Skin?'"

  Ken thought about it. "When do we go into 'Freedom Isn't Free'?"

  "Right before the closer."

  "That's awfully late."

  "I think it will work."

  "It will only work," he said, "if we use jazz hands in the choreography."

  Barbie frowned. "You know how I feel about jazz hands."

  Ken and Barbie were both counselors at Camp SonLit. The T at the end was in the shape of a cross. That was where they met and first... connected. Oh, but not like that. It was all very appropriate. They had both, in fact, taken a chastity pledge, something Ken believed gave them discipline and helped them focus their energy.

  Ken had been something of a celebrity at the camp, and so Barbie made it a point to meet and befriend him. The year before, Ken had been a featured singer with the ultraexclusive Up with People, performing around the world with the famed "leadership" organization. It wasn't love at first sight, but there was an immediate draw, something deep inside that drew them to each other. They both felt it. Neither knew what it was--until another counselor named Doug Waites crossed their path.

  Waites was a senior counselor, in charge of the boys ages ten to twelve. One night, after the campers had been put to bed and night prayers were over, Barbie had come to Ken for help. Waites would not leave her alone, Barbie told him. Waites asked her out repeatedly. He looked down her shirt whenever there was an opportunity. He spoke to her in an inappropriate way and treated her in a manner she found disrespectful.

  Ken's hands had tightened into fists as he heard all this.

  When Barbie finished telling him about Waites's transgressions, Ken made a suggestion. He told her that next time Waites asked her out, she should tell him to meet her in a secluded spot in the woods at an hour of their choosing. Barbie's eyes fired up in a way Ken would grow to love.

  Two nights later, after bedtime prayers and all the campers were sound asleep, Doug Waites made his way to that spot deep in the woods for his alleged rendezvous with Barbie. Ken took over from there. Barbie watched, mesmerized, fascinated. She had always been drawn to pain. During a teen tour to Florence, Italy, she remembered visiting the famed Duomo cathedral in the center of the city. On the ceiling of the dome were frescos depicting the most gruesome scenes of hell. Here, in a sacred church where you were not allowed to wear shorts or sleeveless dresses, there were naked people--sinners--having hot pokers inserted into their rectums and private parts. Clear as day. Easy for any tourist to see. Most of the teens had been repulsed. But some, like Barbie, couldn't turn away. The agony on the faces of those sinners drew her, captivated her, made her tingle.

  When Ken finally untied Doug Waites, he left him with a simple warning: "If you ever speak of this, I will come back and it will be worse for you."

  For the next two days, Doug Waites did not speak at all. He was taken away on the third day. Neither Ken nor Barbie ever heard from Waites again.

  They continued as counselors, occasionally disciplining others when the need arose. There was the nasty boy who mercilessly bullied others. There was another counselor who sneaked alcohol into the camp and gave it to the young campers. Both were taken to that same spot in the woods.

  At one point, Ken and Barbie made what some might consider a mistake. They had tortured a filthy young man--he had sneaked into a girl's cabin and defiled someone's brassiere--but they didn't realize that the filthy young man's father was a leading mobster from New York City. When his father learned what happened--tormenting his son until he spilled the beans--he sent his two best soldiers to "take care" of Ken and Barbie. But Ken and Barbie were no slack amateurs anymore. When the two mobsters came for them, Ken and Barbie were ready. They turned the tables on them. Ken killed one of them with his bare hands. The other had been captured and taken into the woods. Barbie took her time with him. She was more thorough than ever. Eventually they had let the other soldier live, though in his case, it probably would have been kinder to have put him down.

  When word got back to the father-mobster who had put out the original hit, he had been duly impressed--and maybe scared. Instead of sending out more soldiers, he offered them both peace and work. Ken and Barbie agreed. These were, they realized, bad guys hurting other bad guys. It felt to them like destiny. When camp ended, they left their respective families, telling their loved ones that they would be traveling missionaries, which, in some sense, was true.

  The cell phone rang. Ken picked it up and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Goldberg!"

  When he finished the call, Barbie moved toward him. "We have another lead?"

  "We do."

  "Tell me."

  "An attorney named Harry Sutton. He represents whores."

  Barbie nodded.

  They both knelt down next to Tawny. Tawny began to cry.

  "You get it now," Ken said to her. "How wrong this life is for you."

  Tawny continued to cry.

  "We will give you a chance," Barbie said, her smile beatific. She reached into her handbag and pulled something out. "This is a bus ticket out of here."

  "You'll use it?" Ken asked.

  Tawny nodded vigorously.

  "When you first saw us," Barbie said, "you thought we were angels sent to save you."

  "Maybe," Ken added, "you were right."

  MEGAN HAD PLANNED TO GO STRAIGHT HOME.

  That would have been the prudent course to take. She had done her bit--or as much of it as she could--and now it was time to slip back into her safe cocoon.

  Instead she headed over to La Creme.

  She sat now at the bar, the one in the far back dark corner. Her old friend Lorraine was working it. When she first entered, Lorraine had said, "Am I supposed to be surprised?"

  "I guess not."

  "What can I get you?"

  Megan pointed at the bottle behind Lorraine. "Grey Goose on the rocks with four limes."

  Lorraine frowned. "Instead of Grey Goose, how about Brand X watered down and poured from a Grey Goose bottle?"

  "Even better."

  While Megan, like most adults, bemoaned e-mails and texting, here was where it came in handy: She'd texted Dave that she'd be home late tonight, knowing, of course, that he wouldn't be able to hear the lie in her tone or follow up with too many questions.

  She nursed the drink and told Lorraine about her visit with Broome.

  "Do you remember him?" Megan asked.

  "Broome? Sure. I still see him on occasion. Good guy. I threw him a one-timer, what, nine, ten years ago."

  "You're kidding."

  "Love me for my generosity of heart." Lorraine cleaned a glass with an old rag and offered up that smile. "Actually I liked him."

  "You like everybody."

  "Generosity of heart."

  "Not to mention body."

  Lorraine spread her arms. "Be a shame to let this go to waste."

  "Truer words."

  "So," Lorraine said, stretching out the word, "did you tell Broome about my maybe seeing Stewart Green?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I didn't know if you'd want me to."

  "Could be important," Lorraine said.

  "Could be."

  Lorraine kept cleaning the same glass. Then: "It probably wasn't Stewart I saw."

  Megan said nothing.

  "I mean, it probably just looked like him. Now that I hear your story, I mean, you saw him dead, right?"

  "Maybe."

  "So if you saw him dead, then I couldn't have seen him alive." Lorraine shook her head. "Man, did I just say that? I
need a drink. Either way, I was probably wrong."

  "Hell of a thing to be wrong about," Megan said.

  "Yeah, well." Lorraine put the glass down. "But for the sake of argument, let's say I did see Stewart Green."

  "Okay."

  "Where has he been for the past seventeen years? What's he been doing all that time?"

  "And," Megan added, "why come back now?"

  "Exactly," Lorraine said.

  "Maybe we should tell Broome."

  Lorraine thought about it. "Maybe."

  "I mean, if he's back..."

  "Yeah, tell him," Lorraine said, snapping the rag across the bar. "But don't tell him who you heard it from, okay?"

  "You will remain uninvolved."

  "The way I like it."

  "Despite your generosity of heart."

  Lorraine was cleaning a glass with too much intensity. "So now what, sweetheart?"

  Megan shrugged. "I go home."

  "Just like that?"

  "If Stewart Green really is back..." The thought made her shudder.

  "You'd be in serious danger," Lorraine said.

  "Right."

  Lorraine leaned on the bar. Her perfume smelled of jasmine. "Did Broome ask why you came back?"

  "Yep."

  "And you gave him all that talk about needing to find the truth."

  "Talk?"

  "Yeah," Lorraine said, "talk. You've been gone for seventeen years. All of a sudden you need to find the truth?"

  "Whoa, what are you talking about? You came to me, remember?"

  "That's not what I mean," Lorraine said. Her voice grew gentle. "You were coming down here already, right?"

  Megan shifted on the barstool. "One time."

  "Fine, one time. Why?"

  A patron came over and placed an order. Lorraine served up a drink and a double entendre. The patron laughed and took his drink back to his table.

  "Lorraine?"

  "What, sugar?"

  "What's the secret of happiness?"

  "The little things."

  "Like?"

  "Change the drapes. You won't believe how far that goes."

  Megan looked doubtful.

  "Oh, honey, I'm as messed up as the rest. I just learned not to care so much. You know? We fight wars for freedom, right, and then what do we do with that freedom? We tie ourselves down with possessions and debt and, well, other people. If I seem happy, it's because I do what I want when I want."

  Megan finished the drink and signaled for another. "I'm happy," Megan said. "I'm just feeling antsy."

  "That's normal. I mean, who doesn't? You got good kids, right?"

  "The best," Megan said, feeling herself light up despite herself. "I love them so much it hurts."

  "See? That's great, but it wouldn't be for me."

  Megan eyed the drink, enjoying the warmth of it. "You know what sucks about being a mother?"

  "Diapers?"

  "Well, yes. But I mean now. Now that they are older and more or less real human beings."

  "What?"

  "You live for their smile."

  Lorraine waited for her to say more. When she didn't, Lorraine said, "Care to elaborate?"

  "When something goes well for them--like with Kaylie, if she scores in her soccer game--I mean, when your child smiles, you well up. You are so damned happy, but then, well, see, when they don't..."

  "You're unhappy," Lorraine said.

  "It's a little more complicated, but yes. That's what I hate: My happiness is totally dependent on their smiles. And I'm not one of those parents who live vicariously through their kids' accomplishments. I just want them happy. But I used to be a functioning adult with my own emotions. Now, as a mother, my happiness seems solely dependent on their smiles. They know it too."

  "Interesting," Lorraine said. "You know what it sounds like?"

  "What?"

  "An abusive relationship. Like with my ex. You start to live to please them. They manipulate you with their moods."

  "That's a little harsh."

  "Yeah, probably," Lorraine said, clearly not buying it but not in the mood to argue the point. "So you still haven't told me why you really came back down here. I mean, before my visit."

  The simple answer: Megan had missed it. She was about to tell Lorraine that, but Lorraine was staring off to her right. Megan followed her gaze. She frowned when she saw where Lorraine was looking.

  "Ray's table," Megan said.

  "Yep."

  The table was empty now, but that had been his table--the corner where Ray used to sit. She had blocked on him. Man oh man, how she had blocked on him. Now, for just a second, she let Ray back in. Over the years, she had turned their relationship into something of a crush, a deep, hard summer romance that could never have survived the light of reality. But now, for a brief moment, she let herself remember the intense way Ray used to look at her, the electricity in his kiss, the late nights holding on to him for dear life, nearly out of breath with passion.

  Lorraine was smiling now.

  "Subtle," Megan said to her.

  "Yeah."

  "Do you know what happened to him?"

  The smile fled. "You really want to know?"

  "You opened this door."

  "No, sweetheart, you did. I'm just trying to help you close it."

  She had a point. "So help me. Is he okay?"

  Lorraine again made herself busy with the glass cleaning.

  "Lorraine?"

  "For a while--I mean, after you ran off--he came in here every night. He sat at that table and drank. During the day he'd hang out at your place. This went on for, I don't know, a couple of months, I guess. Maybe a year. He just waited for you to come back."

  Megan said nothing.

  "It got bad. Eventually he stopped coming in. He left Atlantic City. Moved to California, I think. Drank some more. Came back." She shrugged.

  Megan sat there, let it sink in. She had owed him better. She had been young and maybe stupid, but then again what were the alternatives? Lorraine was looking at her now. She wouldn't ask but Megan could see the question in her eyes: Why didn't you at least call him? She looked away so her eyes wouldn't give away the answer: Because I wasn't sure that he wasn't a murderer.

  Only now, of course, reality had shifted. Stewart Green might not be dead at all. And if Stewart Green wasn't dead...

  Lorraine had an odd look on her face.

  "What?" Megan said.

  "Nothing."

  "So where is Ray now?" Megan asked.

  "He's around, I guess."

  "You guess? Come on, Lorraine. Tell me what he's doing. Is he still working as a photographer?"

  Lorraine winced. "In a manner of speaking."

  "What? Oh, wait, he's not into porn, is he?"

  "No, honey, porn is way classier than what Ray's doing."

  "What's that supposed to mean? What's he doing?"

  "Look," Lorraine said, "who am I to judge? You want to screw up your little life, fine, here." She headed for the drawer and pulled out a long metal box. Megan almost smiled, remembering. Lorraine's magic business-card file of contacts.

  "You still keep that?" Megan asked.

  "Of course. I even keep them in preference order. Let me see.... Ah, here it is." She took out a card, turned it over, and scratched something on the back. Megan took the card. The logo was what looked like a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame with a camera in the middle. It read:

  Celeb Experience: Paparazzi for Hire.

  Oh man.

  She turned the card over. Lorraine had written: Weak Signal Bar and Grill

  "Is this where Ray hangs out?" Megan asked.

  "No, but Fester does."

  "Who?"

  "Guy who Ray works for. Fester. Used to be a bouncer back at that old club down the street, you don't remember him?"

  "Should I?"

  "Not really. Anyway, I've known Fester for years. Got him filed under 'Chubby Chaser.' The one benefit of age--I got crossover ap
peal now. I'm fat enough for the chubby chasers. I'm old enough for the cougar chasers or the MILF lovers, whatever. I'm like the complete package here."

  Megan stared at the card.

  "Do you want my advice?" Lorraine asked.

  "Go home and change my drapes?"

  "Pretty much, yeah."

  12

  BROOME PULLED HIS CAR INTO the driveway of a split-level with brick and aluminum siding. He parked in front of the two-car garage below the bedroom window and started up the concrete steps. A tricycle was on its side, blocking the path to the door. This oh-so-ordinary dwelling was where ACPD Detective Erin Anderson, the only woman Broome would ever love, lived with her husband, a CPA named Sean.