All Is Not Forgotten(79)

Sullivan’s cleared. I thought you should know. Whatever led you to believe that he might have been involved, well, it’s a mistake.

“Really? What happened?”

I can’t disclose the details. But I can tell you that he gave us an alibi. It ain’t pretty, but it checks out.

Parsons met with Fran Sullivan and the lawyer. She did not play the tape for him, but rather told him what was on it and encouraged him to speak with the young woman. Of course, Parsons wound up at her parents’ house. They were told about the incident only after forcing their daughter to explain the presence of the police at their door. Their longtime friend, the father’s weekend golf buddy, f*cking their daughter for over a year. The father was so distraught, it took Parsons an hour to calm him down. I would learn all of this later.

“I see. Well, that must be a relief,” I said to Parsons.

I guess. But let’s just say this is one messed-up world.

“So where does that leave you?”

Well … it leaves me where I was before. With Tom Kramer crawling up my ass, no answers, no suspects. Just one blue sweatshirt and one photo from a yearbook. Oh—but there was one thing.…

“What’s that?” I have to admit that I was not truly listening at this point. Time was running out on the Bob Sullivan ruse, and without a media frenzy, lawsuits, and the other goodies that would have made everyone close up shop and go home. I was not looking forward to plan B.

There is a case from Oregon—one of those phone calls my guys have been making, you know, to the local precincts around the country? Well, this old-timer remembered a report about a kid with the same kind of scratch on his back. A straight line, deep carving right above the pelvis. It was a long time back, but he said he would try to find the file in storage. Doesn’t remember any rape involved, but it might be something.

“I see. Well, it sounds like a stretch, doesn’t it? I mean, this was a rape primarily. Not an assault with the rape as some sort of incidental. And it’s the other side of the country. Don’t you agree?”

Alan, I’m gonna finish every last lead on this case.

Yes, well. We shall see about that.





Chapter Thirty-three

This is what happened the night of the collision. The night the roller coaster came screaming down the hill. The night the cotton candy was almost complete. There will still be a few strands left to wind after I tell you.

This is what happened the night Bob Sullivan died.

Charlotte had lied to me. I know why and it is not important. She was not able to go home and sit with her pain after she quit Bob. She had his words in her head. “Fuck you.” She had the strong suspicion that he had raped her daughter in her head. That was my doing, but also a consequence of the shock that comes when you learn the truth about your lover. When “I love you” becomes “f*ck you,” the mind mitigates the pain by casting the lover as the most despicable villain. None of this could be swallowed down. That pill had been too bitter, and she’d found herself choking on it that night.

She cannot claim innocence. Just like me with my box of matches, Charlotte knew Tom was at the end of his wits about finding Jenny’s rapist. She knew that he did not sleep. She knew that he could barely manage to eat. That he had stopped doing anything enjoyable, of feeling anything joyous. Even with Lucas and Jenny. It was all an act, a ruse. His halfhearted cheers at a lacrosse game. His smiles when he greeted them in the morning. He was in a state of acute discomfort.

It had been my plan for him that if he could survive this discomfort, he could come out the other side a changed man. A man accepting of the demons that lived inside him. That is the process. That is the road to being well. It was the same road for Charlotte, now that she had given up Bob. But Charlotte had revenge at her fingertips, and she had chosen to employ it.

She left my office and went home that day. This was before she knew Bob was innocent. Before Fran Sullivan sat in her car and played those foul tapes for her. She was angry at Bob and, more important, had been wondering if he had raped Jenny. She waited until the kids went to bed. And then she told him.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That Bob Sullivan, my boss, a friend to my family all these years, was a suspect in my daughter’s rape. You had put the idea about a new suspect in my head, Alan. It made sense that a new suspect was the reason they weren’t interested in the photograph from the yearbook. I tried to find out from Parsons, but he wouldn’t tell me. But Charlotte did. She told me about the girl years ago. And about his missing alibi, his lie to the police. But it was the part about Jenny hearing his voice—that’s what made me believe. I could have killed him that night. I sat in bed fantasizing about killing him. About taking a baseball bat from the garage and crushing his skull.

I went to Jenny’s room after she was asleep. I went on her phone and I read her messages, texts to and from that soldier she’s been friends with. The one from the group who had this dreadful treatment in Iraq. And I saw it. The words. “I think it was him … I hear his voice in my head.” There are dozens of texts from the past two weeks. No one told me. I guess now I know why. Still, everyone knew except me, didn’t they? You, Jenny, Parsons, Charlotte. Everyone but me.

Tom sat with his anger the whole next day. But that was all he could take.

I knew he would be at the Jag showroom that night with a client. I ate dinner with the family. I ate my entire plate. Steak. Potatoes. Green beans. I ate everything, and I was hungry for more. It was the first time I’d had an appetite since my daughter was violated. I told them I had to finish some paperwork at the showroom. I kissed my wife on the lips, a long kiss. Long enough to surprise her. I kissed my children on their heads. I hugged them tight. I knew it was the last time I would see them like this, in our home. I walked down the stairs, as clearheaded as I’ve ever been. I got the bat. I put it in my car. And I drove.