But, no. No, no, no, that big sister’s voice whispered in her ear. He stayed behind to drink. He stayed behind to collect his thoughts before an hour’s drive. And if that weren’t enough, whatever game he and Brian were playing, they had set it in motion a long time ago.
She looked at him now. For a full minute.
“You’re not my fault.” The tears fell and she wiped at them. “But I’ll miss you,” she said and walked out of the apartment.
28
PLUNGING
She gassed up Caleb’s Audi and then got breakfast at the Paramount on Charles Street once it occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten in about twenty-four hours. She didn’t feel hungry, but she ate like it. She drove back over into Copley Square and parked at a meter on Stuart Street and walked the small side street that ran between the Copley Plaza Hotel and the Hancock Tower. She passed the loading dock and the rear door where she’d seen Brian exit in the rain and climb into the black Suburban. She walked around the building, walked along St. James, and at one point she saw a dozen Rachels reflected and re-reflected in the panes. They formed a disjointed ribbon, like a chain of Rachel dolls cut from construction paper. When she rounded the corner, they all took flight. And she never saw them again.
It was almost nine and the streets were filled with morning commuters. She reached the entrance to the skyscraper and followed the stream heading in through the revolving doors. She found the directory to the right of the security desk. She went through the As and saw no Alden Minerals. Went through the Bs and saw nothing she’d consider germane to her quest. But in the Cs, there it was—Cotter-McCann, the venture capital firm Glen O’Donnell had mentioned. It wasn’t a guarantee, but it was certainly a fair assumption that Brian had come here that day to meet with representatives of Cotter-McCann and sell off a part of his mining interest.
She exited the building and walked back a block to the central branch of the Boston Public Library. She passed through the McKim building into the Johnson building where the computers were and set to researching Cotter-McCann’s acquisition of an interest in Alden Minerals. There wasn’t anything on it save one tiny item in the business digest section of the Globe, which must have been the source of Glen’s information because it told her nothing new.
She clicked off and looked up Baker Lake, worked her way to a satellite map, click-click-clicked the zoom icon until she could discern the only abodes in the area, eight roofs in the northeast corner of the lake along the Canadian border, three more she almost missed peeking out a bit to the west of the eight. She printed several images of the region, zooming out a little bit more each time, until she was satisfied she had a reasonable representation of the area. She retrieved the pages from the printer tray, quit all applications, cleared her history, and left the library.
Just before Haiti, Rachel had done a story for Little Six on the tax breaks the Commonwealth was offering to lure Hollywood film production to Massachusetts. In order to assess the economic effect of the tax breaks on the local economy, she’d interviewed Hollywood studio execs and statehouse reps on Ways and Means as well as local actors, location scouts, and one casting director. Her name was Felicia Ming. She was a jaded gossip, as Rachel recalled. She and Rachel had met for drinks a few times in the months before Rachel left the country for Port-au-Prince. They’d fallen out of touch after that, but Felicia had sent her a few kind e-mails after the meltdown and Rachel still had her contact info in her phone.
She called her standing outside the library and asked her how she’d track down an actor starring in a local production.
“Why are you trying to find him?”
Rachel tried a version not far from the truth. “He got into a drunken tiff with my husband in a bar the other night.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“I just feel bad. He got the worst of it, and I want to apologize to the guy.”
“Was this fight over you, honey?”
Rachel hoped her instinct was right on this one. “It was, I’m afraid, yeah.”
“Somebody’s making a comeback,” Felicia Ming said. “You return to this world with us, honey, and you make them crawl to you.”
Rachel forced a chuckle. “That’s the plan.”
“What company is he working with right now?” Felicia asked.
“The Lyric Stage.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andrew Gattis.”
“Give me a sec.”
While Rachel waited, a homeless guy walked by with his dog. Rachel recalled the night Brian forfeited his coat to a needier soul in the park. She gave the dog a pat and the homeless guy ten bucks and Felicia came back on the line.
“He’s at the Demange. It’s corporate housing in Bay Village.” She gave Rachel the address. “Want to grab a drink soon? Now that you’ve rejoined the living?”
Rachel actually felt bad about lying. “I’d love to.”
Twenty minutes later, she stood on a sidewalk in Bay Village and rang his doorbell.
When his voice came through the intercom it was groggy. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Gattis, it’s Rachel Delacroix.”
“Who?”
“Brian’s wife.” The pause that followed was so lengthy she finally said, “Mr. Gattis, you there?”
“I’d like you to go away.”
“I won’t.” The calm force in her voice surprised her. “I’ll wait down here until you have to come out. And if you slip out the back, I’ll come to your performance tonight and cause a scene in the middle of it. So, let’s—”
The door buzzed and she grabbed the handle and entered the building. It smelled of Lysol and linoleum in the lobby, Indian food as she climbed to the second-floor landing. A woman passed her leading a huffing French bulldog on a leash, the dog reminding Rachel of something you’d get if a pug impregnated a wombat.
Gattis was waiting in the doorway of 24, his stringy gray hair yellowed by nicotine. He tied it back into a bun as he led her into the apartment. It was a simple layout—kitchen and living room to the right, bedroom and bathroom back to the left. The window at the back of the living room opened onto a fire escape.
“Coffee?” he said.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She took a seat at a small round table by the window and he brought them each a cup of coffee, put a carton of creamer and a bowl of sugar between them. In the morning light, he looked even worse than the drunk she’d met Saturday night. His skin was scaly and pink and blue veins had erupted along the sides of his nose like electric bolts. His eyes swam.
“I have rehearsal in an hour and I have to shower, so we’re going to have to move this along.”
She sipped her coffee. “You and Brian were actors together.”
“Caleb too.” He nodded. “Brian had more raw talent than I’ve ever seen before or since. We all knew he’d be a star as long as he didn’t find a way to fuck it up.”
“What happened?”