Mean Streak(73)
They faced off. He was the first to speak. “I like the new hairdo.”
“Pink copied it.”
“She knows her stuff.”
“Enough with the flattery bullshit. How did you find me?”
“Your friend Eleanor.”
“Oh.” That took her aback. A sadness crept into her expression. “How is she?”
“Good. Expecting her first child in a few months.”
“So she married Tim?”
“Last name Gaskin?”
She nodded, and when he confirmed that was Eleanor’s married name, she said, “When I last saw her, they were getting serious. Is she happy?”
“Glowing. The baby is a girl.” He told her about his visit to the brownstone and described it to her. “Eleanor called me after spotting you in the national news story about the protest in Olympia.”
She drew a deep breath. “I saw it, too. I never would have participated in the march if I’d thought I’d be caught on camera.”
“You stood out.”
She touched her cropped hair. “I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.”
“Eleanor did. She was certain it was you. I wasn’t. Not until yesterday when I saw you come out and get your mail.”
“After all these years, you’re still looking.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t found him yet. You’re my only link.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’m not so bad.”
She said nothing to that.
He looked around the pleasant room. He didn’t know anything about home interiors, what was quality, what was junk, what was current. His apartment was functional, and that was its only boast. But to his unpracticed eye, this room looked tastefully done. Despite Wes Greer’s description of the things sold in her shop, the room wasn’t cluttered.
Neither was she. She wore a simple black sweater and slender black pants. Jewelry consisted of a wristwatch with a black leather strap and a long single strand of pearls. They were the same color as her hair. On her, the stark contrast worked. The only spot of color, her eyes.
He said, “Your daughter, Sarah, has grown up a lot.”
“She’s in the school orchestra.”
“What instrument?”
“Cello. She’s at rehearsal. Another parent is driving car pool today. She’ll be home by six fifteen.” She looked at her sensible wristwatch. “I want you out of here before then.”
“Does she remember Westboro?”
“Of course.”
“Does she talk about him?”
“All the time.”
“What does she say?”
“That she misses her uncle.”
“What do you say back to her?”
“That I miss him, too.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then said, “Rebecca—”
“It’s Grace now.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Why Grace Kent?”
“It was suggested by the forger who made all my false documents. I didn’t have another name picked, so I went with his choice.”
In spite of her confession to a federal crime, he smiled. “I thought maybe you’d remarried a guy named Kent.”
“I don’t want another husband.”
“After the one you had, I can’t say that I blame you.”
“Did you tell him where we are?”
Jack was already shaking his head. “And I don’t plan to. I’m not here to cause you any grief. Although I could have you arrested for living under an assumed name.”
“Some big, bad FBI agent you are,” she scoffed. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Oh, I’m busy. I’m presently following up on a strange incident that occurred in Utah. Before that, I looked into a curious happening in Wichita Falls, Texas, that to this day, after two years, remains unexplained. First one that captured my interest took place in Kentucky.”
Her face became a mask.
“What do you know about a soccer coach in Salt Lake?” he asked.
“That chances are good he’s Mormon?”
“He’s not. He moved there from Virginia.”
“They don’t have Mormons in Virginia?”
“The night before a championship game, what would possess a soccer coach to take a baseball bat to his femur and smash it all to hell? At least he claims the breaks were self-inflicted.”
He let that resonate. Rebecca said nothing.
“What’s also strange,” Jack continued, “you’d think his team of thirteen-year-olds, their parents, and members of the community would be appalled by this tragedy. But nobody who knows him regrets his forced retirement. He had a winning record, but many questioned the methods he used to motivate his players.
“It’s rumored he instilled fear. Any kid who made a mistake was humiliated. I say rumored because the kids themselves were tight-lipped about what took place during practices and after a losing game. One of the dads told me it was like his son was afraid to tattle.
“On the night of the incident, the coach told the emergency responders, his wife, the police, his priest, every-damn-body that he did that to himself. Then he clammed. No details. No reason why. No nothing. As recently as yesterday, he still refused to talk about what went down that night.” He gave her a meaningful look. “You see the irony here?”