Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(65)

Was it as simple as that? The facade, as thin and brittle as all facades are, had shattered? Huston had snapped?

DeMarco sipped his drink and wondered how it must feel to let everything go. Was Huston now deliriously happy in his insanity? Completely weightless and free? No shame, no remorse, no obligations, no sin?

DeMarco could not imagine such a state of being. Not in this world or any other.





Forty-Four


At first light, after three hours of restless sleep, he returned to Huston’s journal. He told himself that he was looking for the madness that would explain everything and solve the equation. He read each entry aloud, hoping to hear some vague insinuation he had missed on previous readings.

DeMarco now understood that much of a novelist’s life can show up in his fiction, thinly disguised as somebody else’s life. Portions of the journal were total fiction, but others were not. Discerning the difference would be the hard part.

If Annabel was a composite character, part Danni and part Bonnie, probably even part Claire, maybe Huston’s nameless narrator was a composite too. More than likely, some of that composite was Huston. Were that character’s desires actually Huston’s desires brought to the surface?

It wasn’t long before certain entries seemed to leap out at DeMarco as they had not during earlier readings. He had wanted it to happen while studying the names on the whiteboard, but it had failed him then. Now it happened in Huston’s journal. Not once, but three times.

Earlier, DeMarco had read the entries while assuming they were statements made by Huston’s protagonist. But if viewed as expressions more accurately ascribed to the author… The hairs on DeMarco’s arms bristled as he read them again:

I am reminded of Nabokov’s contention that there are always two plots at work in a story. The first is the plot of the story, but above it, hovering ominously like a fat, black-bellied cloud, is the writer’s consciousness, which is the real plot of everything he writes. If a book is filled with love, it is because the writer longs for love. If the book drips violence, it is because the writer burns to levy justice, to decimate his enemies. The writer composes such books as a means of survival. Otherwise, his psyche would unravel. And the unraveling, depending upon its form, can be either pitiful or disastrous.

The next entry was even more chilling:

But doesn’t every guilty man hide his deeds behind his words and hide his thoughts behind his smile? Or behind other deeds? Doesn’t the pedophile hide behind the Little League team he coaches or the school bus he drives or the Masses he conducts? And doesn’t the wife beater hide behind the sidewalks he cleans for the old lady next door, and behind his punctuality and efficiency at work? The pornographer, the rapist, the serial killer—the predatory stockbroker, the ambulance chaser, the Medicare-bilking physician—the congressman, the senator, the president—don’t they all cloak their evil behind silk ties and thousand-dollar suits?

Why would you expect any less from me?

The last troubling entry had been made some time on the Saturday immediately following Bonnie’s abortion in Cleveland. Suddenly the two short paragraphs assumed new meaning:

I keep wondering how long it will be before I can become reconciled to what I have done. What right did I have to do such a thing? Though it is true that I was merely an assistant, a facilitator, does this absolve me of all guilt? What we did goes against the grain of all I believe. Then why did I do it? Because she asked. She had no one else to help her.

I see both of us now in a wholly different light. Her complete absence of regret, her relief that the thing is done, is abhorrent to me. But maybe this feeling is the result of a simple case of transference. It is not Annabel I should hold in contempt but myself. I feel certain that the other man would agree.

“The other man?” DeMarco said aloud. A shiver rattled his spine. He read the passage again, slowly. And again.

“The other man? What other man?”

And then it dawned on him. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “She lied again.”





Forty-Five


At 7:59 that morning, DeMarco strode up to Trooper Morgan as he stirred powdered creamer into his coffee in the break room. DeMarco shoved a sheet of folded paper between two buttons on the trooper’s shirt. “Run these through the DMV ASAP. Get me copies of all the photo IDs.”

“Okay if I take a sip of coffee first?”

DeMarco was already on his way out the door. “No,” he said.

In his office, DeMarco went online, typed in the website he needed, found the phone number and office hours. The female who answered with a question on the third ring sounded sleepy and young, as if her first cup of chai tea had not kicked in yet. “Cleveland Women’s Center?” she said. “How can I help you?”

“This is Sergeant Ryan DeMarco of the Pennsylvania State Police,” he told her. “I’m investigating a multiple homicide here in Mercer County, and I have reason to believe that a recent patient of yours is involved.”

“My gosh,” she said.

“Here’s what I need. Do you have a pen to write this down?”

“Oh,” she said. He heard a desk drawer being pulled open, a hand rummaging inside, the rustle of paper. Then, “Okay, ready.”

“Her name is Bonnie Marie Harris, but she probably registered under a false name, possibly Bonnie Jean Burns. Possibly with the first name of Annabel. She’s five foot nine, forty-one years old, weighs approximately 145, brown hair, green eyes. She would have been very early in her pregnancy, no more than six weeks probably, and she would have paid for the procedure with cash. What I need to know is if it’s your practice there to ascertain the blood type of the fetus, and if you did, what that blood type is. And I need that information ASAP. This is a matter of some urgency.”