“What if he still refuses?”
“Then I’ll make my recording public. And whatever ends up happening with my predicament, and with John, and—I don’t know—jail, or death, for him that’ll be beside the point, because his life will be completely ruined.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t threaten—”
“You won’t need to.”
“This is extortion. You understand that, right? When people talk about the crime of extortion, this is exactly what they’re talking about. This is what you’re asking me to do.”
“You’re just a messenger.”
“Do you think the police will agree?”
“You know it’s never going to come to that. He’ll never risk the public disclosure. You know why, and I know why, and he knows why, and unless he wants everyone to know it too—which he cannot afford—then he’ll take my call.”
Ariel is not surprised at Bucky’s resistance. No one would exactly jump at this opportunity. But she’s confident that Bucky will give in, eventually. Ariel can extort him too, if she needs to.
“I’m really not comfortable with this.”
Of course not. If Bucky were comfortable confronting this man, their lives would be very different.
“Neither am I, Bucky. Comfort is not a luxury I have.”
*
There’s nothing to do now except wait. But Ariel can no longer bear to just sit here in her hotel room, staring at nothing, so she turns on the television, navigates through the cable system to the American news network.
“—hearings are due to begin in just five days. The administration is hoping to conclude these hearings, and to confirm the nominee, before the start of the August recess, just weeks away.”
Ariel goes to the kitchenette, pours a glass of ice water, returns to the TV.
“—into the nominee’s business dealings, of course, but also into his personal life—”
Does she really want to watch this?
“—accusations in the past, although never any indictments.”
“So what are we likely to learn about these accusations during the confirmation hearings?”
“In all likelihood? Nothing.”
She changes the channel.
CHAPTER 18
DAY 1. 10:03 P.M.
Ariel checks her cell, and the burner: still nothing. She confirms that her door is locked, an instinctive gesture in the vague direction of self-preservation. She should check on her son, her mom. She wonders which friend Elaine would’ve called, and realizes—
Damn.
She opens the device-tracking app, which locates George’s phone at an unfamiliar spot, halfway between Ariel’s house and the city, in an exurb that Ariel doesn’t recognize for anything.
“Mom? Where are you?”
“At my cousin Rhoda’s house.”
“Rhoda?” Ariel thought Rhoda had died years ago.
“Well, Rhoda passed. But you remember her husband, Bud?”
Bud? “Um …”
“That’s where we are. Any developments?”
“No, not really. But listen, Mom, I have to ask you to deactivate your cell. George’s too.”
Elaine sighs, but doesn’t say anything.
“With GPS locators, and cellular signals, triangulating the towers … honestly I don’t understand the technology. But looking at my phone, I could see exactly where you are. I could even see the kidney-shaped pool in Rhoda’s backyard. Bud’s.”
“Well isn’t that good? Don’t you want that?”
“But Mom, the problem is that if I can locate you, then someone else could too.”
“Who? What is it you’re worried about?”
“And I mean not just putting the phones to sleep. Power them all the way off, and leave them that way, all the time. Give me Bud’s phone number, I’ll call when I can.”
“You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“Mom. Please.”
“Don’t treat me like a child. I’m your mother.”
Ariel takes a deep breath. “How’s George? Is he okay?”
Elaine too takes a second before answering. “He said his stomach felt knotty.”
Damn. “Did he take his pill this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. My Lord.”
“Okay, can you please put him on? And then after we hang up, please remember about the phones. Do you know my number by heart?”
“Are you kidding me? I barely know my own.”
“Well, write it down on a piece of paper before you power down. Then if you need to call me, do it from someone else’s phone. Or from a pay phone.”
“Seriously? When’s the last time you saw a pay phone?”
Ariel doesn’t say anything.
“Are you really not going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I told you, Mom.”
“But what does John being kidnapped in Portugal have to do with anyone triangulating my cell phone location on Long Island? What are you afraid of? Who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Can’t you just believe me, Mom?” They’re yelling at each other. Escalation happens quickly with them. “Can’t you just trust me? Why do I have to prove every goddamn thing to you, as if we’re in court and you’re the judge?”
They fall into the relative silence of heavy breathing, like boxers sitting in their corners between rounds, nursing wounds, gathering strength. The round that just ended was not the first.
*
“I don’t see how you can live like this.” Elaine said this within five minutes of arriving at Ariel’s house on Friday afternoon, barely a half-hour before Ariel needed to leave for the airport. “I really don’t.”
Ariel’s mom expresses some variation of this sentiment every time she visits, looking around the yard, the house, there’s always something being torn up, something replaced or rebuilt—the downstairs washroom with an open patch of floor to access a burst pipe, the side porch with a half-built banister, the old maple pulled down next to the driveway and chain-sawed into large chunks but not yet into manageable firewood. There’s always a large category of noncritical projects that can persist for long periods in the nonspecific future, awaiting attention. Ariel accepts this permanent state of demi-disrepair, but her mother adheres to the opposite operating principle: everything must be perfect, all the time. Or at least appear that way. Which is really the only sort of perfection: the apparent sort.
“It looks like a hurricane just tore through.” Elaine watched Fletcher trot across the yard, as if the goat suddenly realized he was late for an important meeting. Fletcher is supposed to live in the barn with the other farm animals, but often manages to make his way across the lawn and up to the back porch, sometimes walking right through the kitchen door to devour whatever’s accessible. The goat can eat a dozen apples in a minute, unabashed, staring at you as he chews, almost as if he’s smiling, jaw moving side to side.
“It always looks that way,” Elaine said, dripping with disappointment and disapproval.