Trust Your Eyes Read online

  Allison jumps from Web page to Web page, finding more information about how much money Sawchuck has. Millions, for sure, if not billions.

  It’s enough to make one’s head spin.

  Looks like she might be able to get what she needs to pay back Courtney, and buy herself a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, too. Girl always needs new shoes.

  SHE paces the apartment for the better part of an hour, practicing what she’s going to say. She doesn’t want it to sound like out-and-out blackmail. What she’s really looking for is a loan. Except, unlike most loans, this would be one she gets to pay back on the installment plan. Payments stretched out over, say, the next couple of thousand years. So, okay, maybe it’s more like a gift she’s seeking. But is that such a big deal? All that money, how big a deal can it be to throw a few thousand her way? And Allison can return the favor. No doubt about it. Allison knows just the right way to show gratitude. And not by putting her mouth in some special place to make someone happy.

  She can show gratitude by keeping that mouth shut. That’s her way of saying thank you.

  She can decide not to go to the Daily News or the Times or the Post. Or one of those TV shows, like Dateline.

  Won’t that be a nice thing not to do?

  Because something like this, coming out, well, that’s not going to help Mr. I-Want-to-Be-Governor one little bit.

  Maybe she’s not even going to have to get to that point. She won’t have to mention the newspapers or the TV shows. Maybe she’ll have a check in her hands seconds after she says the words “I know who you are.”

  Allison picks up her cell, starts to enter in the number she was given, then stops. Her heart is pounding. Making up stories to get money out of her mother, that’s one thing.

  This is something else again.

  This is what happens when a girl leaves Dayton for the big city.

  “HELLO?”

  “It’s me. It’s Allison.”

  “What—Allison?”

  “Yeah, Allison. Remember me?”

  “Of course I—look, I really can’t talk now.”

  “We need to get together.”

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “I saw you on the news.”

  “You—what?”

  “I had no idea. No idea at all who you are. How’d you forget to mention something like that? First, that you’re married, and second, that—”

  “Look, Allison, I’ll try to give you a call in a week or two. There’s a lot going on right now. If you saw the news, you know things are starting to heat up in the campaign and…and…there are other problems. A possible investigation of—”

  “You remember where we first hooked up?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Be there at three. Before it gets busy, and you can still make it to Lincoln Center or Broadway or whatever thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner you have to go to tonight.”

  “I can’t meet with you. We can’t—I’m really sorry but we can’t be seen together.”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Jesus, what the hell is this about?”

  “Well, I can put your mind at ease about one thing. I’m not pregnant.”

  BY half past two, Allison’s at a Gramercy Park bar, around the corner from that place where O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi.” Manages to get the same booth they shared on their first date. Date? Was it really a date? Doesn’t “date” imply some kind of adherence to social convention? “Clandestine meeting,” maybe? What’s that old-fashioned word, again? “Tryst?”

  She orders herself a gin and tonic, keeps an eye on the door. She’s still rehearsing what she’s going to say, although she wonders why she’s bothering. Despite all the time she spent practicing her lines before making the call to set up this meeting, once the ringing stopped and the cell was answered, she started saying the first thing that came into her head. Winging it. Including that line about being pregnant, which, she has to admit, was pretty goddamn funny.

  At three o’clock, right on the dot, someone walks through the door, sees Allison in the booth.

  It’s not Morris Sawchuck.

  It’s his wife, Bridget.

  She doesn’t look like the Bridget Sawchuck Allison saw on the news. She has her hair wrapped up in a red and black scarf Allison is guessing is Hermès. She’s wearing sunglasses that cover up half her face.

  But it’s her, all right. The attorney general’s hot little wife. Strutting in on her three-inch heels, hands tucked into the pockets of her trench. Turning a few heads as she walks past the bar. But not getting recognized. She’d turn heads whether you recognized her or not.

  Bridget Sawchuck walks straight to the booth where Allison’s sitting, slides onto the leather seat across from her.

  “You look like a freaking spy,” Allison says, grinning.

  “I only have a few minutes,” Bridget Sawchuck says. “Why the urgent meeting?”

  “Like I said to you on the phone, we’ve got some things to talk about.”

  TEN

  “I don’t want you think I’m the sort of person who gets caught up in titles, but what will mine be?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know. I must admit, I haven’t really put my mind to it. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Assistant director. Not of the entire agency. But of the division I work for.”

  “What about Assistant Director, Mapology.”

  “Mapology?”

  “That was just off the top of my head. I’ll come up with something better. And we need to talk about an office.”

  “I won’t need an office, Mr. President. I’ll work from home. I like working from home. My brother is living with me now, and my computer is here.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget, once the catastrophe hits, you may be reduced to paper and pencil, or pen. This virus, or whatever it is, will render computers obsolete. You’re going to need lots of big tables, lots of flat space to lay out the maps you draw for us.”

  “I could put them on the kitchen table, and the living room floor.”

  “Is your brother going to be okay with that?”

  “I hope so. He’s like our father. Always trying to get me to do things I don’t want to do. My dad, he made me very angry sometimes. Have I mentioned that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I feel bad about what happened to him.”

  “He never understood the importance of your work. What about your brother? Is he getting in the way of your progress?”

  “No. I told my doctor about him, and she gave him some pills. I told the doctor she could tell him about what I was doing.”

  “Do you think that was wise?”

  “He’s my brother. I’d told my father, too. And besides, if you need me for an emergency, like, right away, he’s going to have to know what I’m doing. There could be another earthquake, or a tsunami.”

  “If you think it’s okay to tell him, then fine.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t mind my communicating with you directly? I’ve always admired you. At first I was dealing with CIA director Goldsmith, but then he had to resign after all that trouble, and then, as of course you know, he killed himself, and so I thought it just made sense to talk to you.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  “That’s good, B—. Oh, you know what I almost did? I almost called you Bill.”

  “Hell, that’s okay. That’s what everybody calls me. We’re becoming good friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. Yes, we are. I’ll send you another e-mail report later today. Take care.”

  ELEVEN

  DAD didn’t worry about leaving Thomas on his own, and neither did I. While my brother had a number of odd notions and peculiar habits, there was nothing to suggest he was a threat to anyone, or himself. He’d never exhibited any suicidal tendencies, nor had he ever attacked anyone. My father would leave Thomas when he drove into Promise Falls to buy groceries or run other errands. And, as Harry had pointed out, to sit in the diner, or
der a cup of coffee, and stare out the window.

  I’d left Thomas home during Dad’s funeral when he refused to attend. While that had really pissed me off, I wasn’t worried that he’d get into any trouble while I was gone. The one apparent benefit of spending all his time in his room, going on his virtual tours, was that he didn’t get into any mischief. What could happen to him staring at those screens all day, with the possible exceptions of eyestrain or repetitive stress injury to his mouse-clicking wrist?

  So I didn’t have any qualms, later that afternoon, telling Thomas I was going to be out for a while. “I’ll bring back dinner.”

  “KFC,” he said, his back to me as he advanced up some street in Bolivia or Belgium or who knew the hell where.

  “I can’t eat that stuff,” I said. “I was thinking I’d grab a couple of subs.”

  “No black olives,” he said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  I had the Audi parked in the Promise Falls Standard lot fifteen minutes later, a couple of minutes after four. I was afraid I’d be keeping Julie McGill waiting in the lobby, but she wasn’t there when I went in. I’d have asked the person at reception to let her know I was there if there’d been anyone at reception, but there was only a phone on the desk inviting me to dial an extension, a list of them taped to the desk beside it.

  I was looking up her name when I heard a series of speedy clicks on a set of nearby stairs.

  “Hey,” Julie said. “I see you’ve met the receptionist.”

  She said the closest place to grab a beer was Grundy’s, a place that was new since I’d left for Burlington. Which still meant it could be more than a decade and a half old. She was dressed in black boots, jeans, a men’s white dress shirt with button-down collar, and a well-worn black leather jacket. An oversized black purse that looked like it could hold little more than a jackhammer and half a dozen cinder blocks was hanging from one shoulder, making her walk slightly lopsided. Her black hair had half a dozen gray streaks that did not appear to have been put there on purpose.

  We grabbed a booth and Julie’s purse made a thunking sound as she dropped it next to her.

  “I carry around a lot of shit,” she said. She held up a hand to the waitress, caught her eye, and smiled. “Hey, Bee, my usual and something for the lady.”

  Bee looked at me. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I said.

  As the waitress walked away Julie said, “Again, sorry about your dad. But it’s good to see you. Long time.” She smiled.

  “Yeah,” I said. There was something in Julie’s voice that suggested we had some kind of history.

  Her face broke into a grin. “You don’t remember.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I smiled and said, “I was going to try to bluff my way through something but thought better of it. You look like someone who’d be hard to put one over on.”

  “Sadie Hawkins dance. You were six months from graduating. I was a year behind you. You got asked by Ann Paltrow, had been drinking before the dance, were pretty hammered by the time you got there. She got mad and ditched you, at which point you started putting the moves on me. Turns out I’d downed a few Buds myself and before you knew it we’re in the back of your dad’s car making out for an hour. Tell me you’ve forgotten that.”

  I smiled, swallowed. “I have forgotten that.”

  “Then I guess you’ve also forgotten that I left town a few months after that, and nine and a half months later—”

  “Jesus.”

  She smiled, patted my hand. “I’m just messing with you. About the last part, anyway. I mean, I did leave town, but I just had to get out of this place. I never felt like I fit in around here. You always seemed a bit out of place, too, but you got along okay because—hope you don’t mind my saying this—you were kind of a Goody Two-shoes.”

  “I suppose,” I conceded. “And you…not so much.”

  She smiled. “I had my moments.”

  “There was a while there, I remember, during exams, someone kept calling the fire department, saying the school was on fire, or there was a bomb. Word was, that was you.”

  She went stone-faced. “I have no idea who would do such a thing. That’s totally irresponsible.” She paused. “But I can certainly understand how someone who wasn’t fully prepared to take a difficult test might feel she had no choice but to resort to extreme measures.” Another pause. “And it was only twice.”

  “Shit, so it was you.”

  “Fifth,” Julie said. “But it was one more reason to get out of town.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t hang in all that much longer.”

  “And now we’re both back,” she said as the waitress delivered two Coronas. “At least you’ve got an excuse. A death in the family.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “I traveled around, got jobs at several small-town papers. No one cared all that much back then whether you had a journalism degree, which I did not. By the time I applied for a job at the Los Angeles Times I had plenty of experience. And then they started downsizing, and I was out of a job. Every other paper was cutting back, too, but as it turned out, tough as times are, the Standard newsroom had openings. One woman got herself fired, and there was this other guy, Harwood—God, the problems that guy had—left town to start his life over again someplace else, good luck with that. So I came back. The paper has no money, it’s a real shit show run by a bunch of fuckheads, but it pays a tenth of the bills till I find something else. And believe me, I’m looking.”

  I laughed.

  “What?”

  “Your word for the folks you work for. Thomas says that’s what you called the Landry brothers.”

  Now it was her turn to try to remember. “God, those two. Dumber than shoes. I called them fuckheads?”

  “When they were picking on Thomas. You stepped in, chased them off. I know it’s probably a little late to say thank you, but thank you.”

  “God, I’d forgotten about that.” She grabbed the Corona by the neck and took a very long drink, rested her back against the seat. “You know they’re both dead?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Both drunk, pulled over to the side of the road in a pickup. One was around back, dropping something over the tailgate. Other one backed over him, not knowing he was there, heard the bump, got out to see what was wrong but forgot to put the truck in park, started running after it, tripped and got caught under the back wheel. I’m just sorry it happened before I got here. Would love to have written the story.” She looked at me and made an apologetic face. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking there. You wanted to talk to me because of the story I wrote about your dad.”

  I shook my head, warding off her apology. “That’s okay. I read the story. I wondered if there was anything more you knew about it.”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you know whether there was any kind of investigation afterward?”

  “Yup. The usual. Death-by-misadventure kind of thing. The facts were pretty straightforward. There was no inquest. I wrote a short follow-up piece but it didn’t have any surprises so it never even made the paper. I know, when it’s something that happens to you, it’s a big deal, the details matter. But for the Standard, it was a one-day story, and only about two inches at that. It kind of jumped out at me on the day’s police logs because I knew who Adam Kilbride was, that he was Thomas’s and your dad.”

  “I shouldn’t have troubled you with this.”

  “It’s okay,” Julie said. “These things, I mean, you know, they’re hard. Look, is there anything I can do for you, for Thomas?”

  “No, it’s—yeah, I mean, drop in sometime. I know Thomas would be happy to see you. He’s—I guess you know he’s kind of different.”

  “He always was,” Julie said.

  “I think now he’s even more so,” I said.

  Julie smiled. “He always had this thing about maps. He still into those?”

  “Yes.”

  I worked on my Corona. Julie had nearly fi
nished hers. “You were a bit weird yourself, you know. Always drawing things. You weren’t exactly a jock.”

  “I threw the javelin,” I said defensively. It was true. It was about the only sport, if it can be called that, I ever went out for. And I was damn good at it. That, and playing darts in our basement rec room.

  “The javelin,” Julie said. “Really. One of the big full-body-contact events. I see the drawing thing paid off for you, though. Your illustrations made the L.A. Times every now and then. They’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You get married along the way?”

  “No. Came close a couple of times. You?”

  “Lived a few months with a guy who does that relaxation music, you know, like they play when you’re getting a massage? With birds chirping and brooks babbling in the background? Mellows you out? He had that effect on me. I nearly slipped into a coma half a dozen times with him. Then there was a thing with an NBA coach, a reality TV producer, and a guy who raised iguanas.” She paused reflectively. “I’ve had a knack for attracting people outside the boundaries of normalcy. But hey, that’s California. Maybe it’s good to be back here.”

  Out of nowhere, I had a flashback.

  “Purple,” I said.

  “What?”

  I pointed my index finger at her, waved it about in a general way. “Your underwear. It was purple.”

  Julie smiled. “I was hurt there for a bit, thinking I failed to make an impression.”

  TWELVE

  THE next day, at breakfast, I said to Thomas, “I liked Dr. Grigorin.”

  “She’s okay,” he said, grabbing a banana from the bowl. “What kind of pills did she give you?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows what the hell all these drugs are called.”

  He peeled the banana down to the halfway point. “Did she tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “What I’m doing. I told her you could know about it.”

  “She told me.”