“So you didn’t mind my being around when you needed to get off,” Kate said at one point, “but you don’t want me there when the going gets tough?”
And now she was on the phone as I stood here in my kitchen, the floor littered with debris after my explosion, still unable to think of anything but my daughter’s car, bloodstains on the door and steering wheel.
“Hey, you there?” Kate asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Long day.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
The truth was, I felt very, very alone.
“I know you’ve got a lot on your mind,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
I had to think. Hadn’t I just been staring into the fridge? That must have meant I’d not had dinner.
“No.”
“I’ll bring something over. Chinese. And I’ve got some new DVDs.”
I thought a moment, and said, “Okay.” I was hungry. I was exhausted. And I felt very alone.
I said, “Can you give me an hour? No. An hour and a half?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
I hung up without saying goodbye, stared out the kitchen window. There was still an hour or more of good light left.
I locked the house, got in the car, checked Susanne’s empty house again, then drove up to Derby. Cruised through plazas, drove slowly through the parking lots of fast-food joints, always looking, scanning, searching for anyone who might be Sydney.
No luck.
I knew, in my heart, what a futile hope this was, that somehow, by chance, I was going to spot my daughter walking down the street. How likely was it she’d be taking an evening stroll or sitting by the window of a McDonald’s as I happened to drive by?
But I had to do something.
I was heading back south when a street sign caught my eye.
Coulter Drive.
I hit the brakes and hung a right before I’d even had a chance to think about the decision. I pulled the car over to the shoulder and reached down into my pocket for the sheet of paper I’d taken from the dealership.
I unfolded it, studied the photocopy of Richard Fletcher’s driver’s license. He lived at 72 Coulter. I glanced at the closest house, which was 22. The next one down was 24. I took my foot off the brake and moved slowly down the street.
Fletcher’s house was set back from the street, shrouded in trees. It was a simple two-story house, four windows, a door dead center. The front lawn was spotty and full of weeds. Used tires, several rusted bicycles, an old lawn mower, and other bits of assorted junk were crowded up against a separate one-car garage. In the drive were the yellow Pinto Fletcher had used to make his escape earlier today, as well as a Ford pickup that had seen better days. The hood was propped open, and I could just make out someone leaning over the front to examine the engine.
Richard Fletcher, I guessed. The son of a bitch.
I came to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway. Any other time, I might have had the sense to drive on. So the guy pulled a fast one. Took a truck out for a spin, used it to pick up some manure. Next time you’ll know better, you won’t let a guy test-drive a truck without tagging along. Fletcher got lucky with me today. Not next time. Live and learn.
I was too on edge to be that rational.
I got out of the car and started striding up the driveway. A dog I’d not seen before started loping up the lane toward me. But this was no guard dog. He was a mutt of undetermined heritage, limping, gray in the snout. His frame had the same sag in it as the Fletcher house roof. His weary tail wagged like a sideways metronome at the slowest beat.
I walked on past the dog. As I came up around the truck, I saw that it was, indeed, Richard Fletcher staring into the engine well. He had his elbow on the rad, and his head was resting on his hand. He held no tools, wasn’t actually repairing anything. He was looking at the engine the way a washed-up fortune-teller might gaze into the bottom of a teacup. Trying to come up with answers, not having much luck.
“Hey,” I said, an edge in my voice.
He looked over at me. His eyes narrowed. He was trying to place me.
“Next time you take a truck for a test drive, you mind cleaning out all the shit before you bring it back?”
Now he knew.
Fletcher straightened up, ran his hand back over his head, and looked at me, not saying anything.
“You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that?” I said. “Who the fuck do you think you are? I got a bulletin for you. We’re not a fucking truck-rental agency.”
He moved his mouth around, like he was trying to think of what to say to me but couldn’t find the words.
The front door of the house popped open, squeaking on its hinges. Fletcher turned his head around. A young girl poked her head out and said, “I’ve got dinner ready, Dad.”
She was maybe ten, twelve years old. I couldn’t see that much of her. Just enough to see that she was on some kind of metal braces.