The Man From Primrose Lane Part 10

Her cheeks pushed back in a grin. "It's going to feel like dying. Do you understand?"

He didn't say anything.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said.

"Me, too."

David cheated.

He took Tanner in the middle of the night, dressed in footie pajamas and wrapped inside the blue blanket that he used to sleep with in the crib. He didn't want to explain to Tanner, who could not yet grasp the concept of time enough to consider the pa.s.sage of a week, that he was going to be away longer than he'd ever been gone before. It's better for him this way, he told himself. He'll miss me less if he doesn't see me leave.

David wondered how he'd feel when he saw his son again, unfiltered by the drug. He knew he loved the boy more than he ever believed was possible. What would that be like without anything blocking that bond? It was something else he looked forward to. I could be a better dad. A dad who would know better than to go off like this in the middle of the night.

David's father carried Tanner to the bedroom on the second floor of his large country home in Franklin Mills, a little town in the hills of eastern Ohio. He followed with a bag full of clothes, sippy cups, Yogo Bites, Tinkertoys.

It was past eleven and his father's third wife, a tender woman he'd met five years ago at a Christian singles dance, was asleep and the house was silent but for the tick-tocking of the clock above the kitchen sink. They crept quietly back downstairs to the dining room table, a slab of driftwood oak that Berlin Lake had given up one Sat.u.r.day afternoon. This was not the house David had grown up in. There were no memories here for him in the walls. To him, it had the feel of a vacation home or a place for convalescence, a cabin in the woods, a Walden Pond tuckaway. David's father pushed a pie tin at him. Inside was apple betty and a runcible spoon.

"Thanks," he said.

"How long will you be gone?" His father's voice was deep and husky and it filled up the room to its last hidden nook, even in whisper.

"A few days. Maybe longer. Not more than a week."

"I thought you were done with writing."

"Me too."

"What's the story?"

"Mistaken ident.i.ty. I guess you could call it an unsolved suicide. This old hermit was shot once in the stomach and then it appears he chopped off his own fingers and fed them into a blender. He bled out instead of calling an ambulance for help."

"The Man from Primrose Lane?"

"You've heard the story?"

"On the weener radio," he said. WNIR was the talk-radio station based out of Ravenna, a bastion of local gossip and prognostication. "They said the man was probably an old mafioso who snitched. They're saying that the coroner might change her ruling."

"I know. The bullet missed everything. In, out. He would have survived if he hadn't cut off his own fingers."

"How do you know the guy that shot him didn't put the gun to his head and make him cut off his fingers?"

David shrugged. "The CSI people seem to think the way the fingers were severed suggests he did it."

"That's disturbing," his father said, shaking off a shiver. "What about you? Are you doing okay?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know. Where's your head at?"

"I'm fine," he answered. "I'm going off the drugs."

"Your doctor know?"

"Yeah. She's cool with it." His father looked at him over the table, that certain long look of study he'd perfected as a father over the last thirty-four years. You can fool some of the people all of the time, he used to say. And you can fool all of the people some of the time, but you ...

"But you can't fool Dad," his father finished. Reading minds, another mostly useless trait parents pick up without meaning to.

"She's not cool with it, no," he said.

For a moment, his father didn't say anything. The gears inside turned and turned, processing an appropriate response. He knew his son was, generally, a responsible person. He'd picked himself up after the death of his wife, had raised his son and asked for little help. He was allowed the occasional bad idea. An odd kid, his own mother had warned him. Always wants to touch the stove to see if it's still hot. "Well," he said, finally, "I kicked cocaine cold turkey. You'll get through it."

There was a message on his cell phone when he returned to the Bug. It was from Detective Sackett.

"David, sorry about the late call. If you could, please stop by the station tomorrow morning. I'm in at eight."

You stupid poser! Who the f.u.c.k is this?

It was a little past two in the morning. He was in his office rediscovering his Facebook profile. He was touched to see that he had over twenty-five hundred friends now, even if he didn't know most of them. Several of his high school cla.s.smates were on there. Even Brian Pence-the football hero who'd once knocked him into a locker so hard he'd pa.s.sed out. The instant message popped up next to a picture of Count Chocula, Katy's avatar.

It's me, Kate. I repatriated my profile. Long story.

Why r u up so late, old man?

It's hard to sleep the night before a trip.

Where r u going? Can I come?

Bellefonte, PA. I'm going to try to track down someone who knew the MFPL.

Kool. Thanks for the shrooms and beer the other night.

Welcome. Why are you still up?

I'm 22. I'm just getting in.

Right.

How's your toolbox bf?

If we're going to have a "thing" you can't ask about him.

Are we having a "thing"? Did something happen that I don't remember?

I mean, if you want to.

Could you define "thing"?

It's ineffable.

I should hope not.

? Oh. OK, maybe a little eff-able. ROFL. Seriously, can I come on your little trip? I don't have to work again until Wednesday. ;) Man. Man oh man. As much as I hate to say no, I think I need to do this part alone.

You sure?

Not really.

Well let me know if you change your mind.

Will do.

Sleep tight, professor.

You too.

Was that a b.u.t.terfly fluttering inside his stomach? He wasn't sure. It had been, after all, a very long time. But he thought it might be. And he thought that lone b.u.t.terfly might be joined by friends as the medicine wore off. He hoped, anyway.

Our greatest moments of truth take place near toilets. The final purge of an alcoholic at rock bottom; the recognition of an eating disorder; a child's first introduction to death, as his mother flushes the goldfish; and, here, David's first step to reclaiming his mind.

Maybe this isn't such a hot idea, he thought. Why can't I just be happy with Tanner and the life we've made? Why do I have to go back to this dark stuff?

Because you love it, said a stronger voice-his true shadowed soul.

Still, if it had just been crime writing he missed, he could have sacrificed that and stayed on the meds.

I want to fall in love again.

She's not Elizabeth. You'll never get her back.

That's true. But maybe it could still be something good.

Three weeks' worth of Rivertin plopped into the water. He looked at the pills for a moment. He felt nothing.

Sackett made David wait twenty minutes before he opened the reinforced door and led him toward the detectives' office. "We're in here today," Sackett said, ushering David into a small room to his right.

The room was cliche. Square. Plain. Drab. The only furnishings a steel table and three chairs. On the wall to their left was what appeared to be a large mirror, but which David knew must have been one of those see-through kinds they use in cop shows.

"Cool," said David. "This is a real interrogation room, isn't it?"

"It is," said Sackett. The detective motioned for David to sit in the single chair on the opposite end of the table.

As David sat, a second man entered the room and closed the door. He was a husky dude with a thick white handlebar mustache. He was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt snug around his biceps. A large gun with a bone-colored grip sat in a holster under his left arm.

"This is exSpecial Agent Dan Larkey," said Sackett. "He's working the Joseph King case with me, a consultant with the Bureau."

"What's up?" said Larkey, shaking his hand. The man's voice was gravelly, his handshake firm and brief.

"Nice to meet you," said David.

Sackett took a chair. Larkey remained standing, slowly rubbing his hands together as if he were warming them.

"Has there been a development in the case?" asked David.

"You could say there's been a significant development," said Larkey.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We identified the fingerprint the FBI pulled from the bed board," said Sackett.

"Wow. That's ... that's awesome," said David. "Who is it?"

"Guess," Larkey said with a smile.

"Hmmm," said David. "Was it the Beachum kid?"

"No," said Larkey.

"Hang on a second. I gotta check this out," said David, standing up and walking over to the two-way mirror. "They really use these, huh? I thought everything would be video by now."

"We're still behind the curve," said Sackett.

David cupped his hands to filter out the light and peered into the gla.s.s. He could make out a row of chairs and a desk and ...

"s.h.i.t!" yelled David. "Christ, that scared me."

"What?" asked Sackett.

"There's someone in there," said David.

"No s.h.i.t," said Larkey.

Suddenly David's face flushed. His heart raced, speeding up his metabolism, pushing the last of the Rivertin through his system. He turned to face the men in the room. They stared back at him.

"Whose fingerprint was it?" asked David.

"The fingerprint belonged to your wife," said Larkey.

David's mind was a blank. His ears suddenly throbbed as if they were infected.