“In a minute.”
He squeezes my shoulder as he walks away. Watching Paul recede, I think about Doug Wiseman. I’m not sure Paul is going to be able to help me push forward in that department. At least, not right now. He’s too hurt, it seems, too offended by Michael’s apparent deceit.
As I’m contemplating it, my phone rings. It’s Michael, as if on cue.
“I was just thinking about you,” I say.
“I think I’m remembering more.” It sounds like he’s been crying.
“Michael? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
“Dr. Lindman,” he says. “I think I’m remembering more. I think I’m remembering all of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
I know it’s wrong.
I’m finally convinced that my daughter’s fiancé has been manipulating me. Not just to save face, but for much graver purposes. Revenge, most likely.
But I’m going to play along. I’m going to play along, because that’s all I can think to do. I have to know what Michael is going to say next. What the next move is, the next overturned stone.
Only when it’s all finished, all on the table, can I make the best decision about how to proceed.
Because at this point, whatever the truth is, there’s every chance it could ruin my career, my reputation, everything I’ve built. I have no idea what the police will accept, or — in this day and age — how the media will spin it. Even if coercion by police is the ultimate conclusion, I’ll still be the hapless therapist who let it happen. My name will get out there, I’m positive.
Unless, maybe, I can get out in front of it.
I step on the gas and skirt the edges of Saranac Lake, hoping to beat the little snarls of summer traffic, knowing that despite my plan, this is the very essence of human frailty. This is the classic dilemma everyone faces at some point in their lives — to bury a darker reality or let it come to the surface.
It’s a dilemma that hounds you, pursues you. It takes shape — it’s a big, hulking truck, and it’s bearing down on me as we speak.
I’m only able to glance at it in the mirror as I drive, but it looks familiar: a gray Ford Super Duty.
A moment later, a red light starts flashing from its dash.
I slow and pull over on a side street in front of a ramshackle home with a massive porch. The street is lined with them.
I know who it is before he even steps out of the truck, puts on his aviator sunglasses, and walks up alongside my car.
I buzz down the window.
“Emily Lindman,” Starzyk says, putting his hands on my door. He looks down at me through the glasses. “How we doing, Doc?”
Of all the emotions going through me, all the possible responses, my brain seems to select one for me: “Did I do something wrong?”
“Well, not answering my calls isn’t necessarily wrong, but it sure doesn’t feel right.”
I pick up my phone. “Sorry, I had your card, but didn’t have you in my phone, so I didn’t recognize the number. There’s just been a lot happening.”
“I hear you.” After glancing up and down the street, he marks me again. “So, where you going?”
“Detective Starzyk . . . can you tell me what this is about?”
“People always want to know what they did,” he says. A car vehicle is coming the other way, a van, and Starzyk watches it pass. He tips his head to the driver and continues talking. “You know, before I was an investigator, I was a trooper. Lotta guys out of BCI started that way. They like you to have some experience as a trooper. And I got some, I was able to do a few investigations on my own. But you got to put in your time running radar, too. Catching speeders. And it’s the same thing, whether you pull someone over for speeding or knock on their door — guilty faces. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ Everybody is guilty of something. Everybody’s got an unclean conscience. That’s what I’ve seen, my whole career.”
Not knowing where this is going, I seek to be assertive. “Detective, I have to get going.”
“You going to see Michael?” His tone makes it sound like we’re all the best of friends.
“Can you please tell me why you’ve pulled me over?”
Starzyk hesitates. Then he leans down and removes his shades. His dark eyes seem to quiver in their sockets. “Lots of questions being answered with questions. Here’s mine. Why do you think I’m here, Doc? For my fucking health?”
“All right,” I say. I look away from him. My heart is beating, my hands shaking. I put them on the wheel, 10 and 2. All I have to do is grab the shifter and put the car in gear. This is unlawful. Starzyk needs to be reported.
But I don’t move.
Starzyk asks, “Have you seen her?”
“Who?” I stay looking ahead, out the windshield. Lawn after lawn, porch after porch, house after house. Each the same, each with unique character. Tucked between maples and oaks, the homes are former cure cottages, holdovers from when city people like me sought refuge in the rural north.
“Come on now,” Starzyk says. “You know who.”
I finally look at him. “You’re asking me if I’ve had any contact with Laura Bishop? No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy with my family. My son is in the hospital.”
Using one finger, Starzyk pushes his glasses back in front of his eyes. “Terrible accident, I heard. Your boy out there on the water. Michael Rand right there with him.”
We’re starting to draw attention — someone in the window of a house two doors down. Farther up the street, a kid stands astride his bicycle, gawking.
Still shaking, I swallow. It’s now or never. “Detective, if there’s something you want to tell me, something about what happened with the David Bishop case . . . with Tom Bishop . . . maybe I’m not the person to talk to about it. Maybe you need to speak to your superiors. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
“But you’ll speak to Michael about it, won’t you?” Starzyk asks. The friendliness is gone from his voice. The words are cold. “Yeah. You’ll talk to your little buddy there. Bet he’s telling you some nice stories. Just like he did fifteen years ago.”
That gets me. I take my hand off the shifter and give Starzyk my full attention. “Whatever you think I’m doing, whatever you’re afraid of . . .”
But Starzyk leans in so close that I can smell pastrami on his breath. “You’re the one who needs to be afraid.”
I can barely move. Being talked to like this, and by a police officer — I’ve never experienced anything like it. The men and women I worked with over the years were always outstanding individuals. Starzyk is a different breed. He scares me in deep places. It’s all I can do not to scream and flee.
But he pulls his head back a little. He glances up and down the street one more time. He says, “You go ahead and run along. You have your little times with Michael. See what he has to say about the whole thing. Just know that I warned you.”