No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(13)

McNeal pulled up the gravel driveway, taking in the colonial house overlooking Compo Beach, with its For Sale sign outside. The rain fell hard, trickling down the windows. The house had sat empty for over a week.

He locked the door behind him, stepped over the pile of mail on the welcome mat, and slumped on the sofa in the living room of his beautiful house. A house his wife had bought the moment she had set eyes on it. He could never abide the commute from Westport. But they had both loved the home. The town. He loved it for the sense of calm, away from the intensity of Manhattan and his work in Internal Affairs.

The place where his wife had returned on Friday evenings after her working week in Washington. The place where he had sat and waited for her to come back from her trips abroad. And eventually, the home to which she had never returned.

He sat in silence as the rain lashed Long Island Sound. He gazed at pictures of Caroline and him on their honeymoon in Hawaii, photos of them before seeing a show on Broadway. Photos taken on a European vacation to Sorrento. Photos from their wedding day—Caroline looked into his eyes, her smile dazzling. Photos of them with her colleagues from the Post. Reminders of their past together.

One of his favorite pictures was of Caroline and Patrick stacking rocks on Compo Beach. She said it was meditative. Patrick spent hours balancing rocks as they watched him in rapt amazement. Their only child. The only son.

McNeal’s mind flashed back to a time before Patrick was born. A peaceful vacation down in the Lower Keys. Little Duck Key. Sugarloaf Key. The sound of birds flapping their wings against the water. The stillness. The almighty stillness and quiet. He lay on tiny, deserted beaches with Caroline, alone with his thoughts, at peace with the world.

Stopping for beers in little shacks by the road. Lying on more deserted beaches. Clouds hanging low, like you could touch them.

McNeal was cocooned in warm memories. He turned on the TV and watched an old video. The footage of Caroline and Patrick on Compo Beach. She cradled him in her arms as he slept, rocking him back and forth. She began to sing softly, soothing him. More footage of Patrick’s fifth birthday party. She carried a cake, candles on top.

He watched, heart breaking into a million pieces.

The two people he loved more than any others. He felt a terrible emptiness opening up inside him. A chasm. His mood was darkening. He felt tears on his face. “I’m so sorry.”

McNeal’s head reeled. He needed fresh air. He turned off the TV. He put on a Berghaus overcoat and headed out into the driving rain. He walked down to the wet sand of Compo Beach. The smell of salt water in the air. Clean air. He walked down to the water’s edge and gazed out over the gray waters of Long Island Sound. They were as murky as the whole bizarre series of events engulfing him.

The questions mounted in his head. What had happened? Had she taken her own life? Was he responsible in some way because he hadn’t wanted to visit her since their separation?

The more he thought about it all, the crazier he felt. Nothing made sense. Caroline was not the sort of person who would kill herself. Never. Perhaps it was an accident. Was that it? Why were electronic devices missing from her house in Georgetown? Was that a coincidence? Was it connected to her death? Maybe she had an apartment he didn’t know about. Had she taken all her stuff to a friend’s house?

The questions kept piling up. Pressing down on him, like tons of concrete blocks ready to crush him.

He was still a person of interest. The Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security had said as much. They had confiscated his passport. They told him their investigation was well underway. And they were following a definite line of inquiry. At least that’s what they told him.

His interest was piqued upon hearing that there had been a prowler around his wife’s house. His experience as a cop told him that the perpetrator was usually someone who knew the victim. Maybe she had started dating. The guy was crazy. A psychopath obsessed with Caroline. Who would want to harm his wife?

Around and around, he tortured himself with all the permutations. Lines of inquiry that he, as a detective, would pursue. He needed to know more, a lot more, about the circumstances of her death. He couldn’t rest until he knew for sure what happened and why. She was still his wife. Death might have parted them, but his love for her endured. That would only die when he had shuffled off his mortal coil. When he finally turned to dust.

He closed his eyes as the rain lashed his face.

Caroline had wanted to be buried in Westport. McNeal had contacted the funeral home on the journey up to Connecticut. They had the details. And they expected the funeral to be next week. He never imagined he would have to bury his wife.

McNeal couldn’t imagine a future without her. Estranged or not, he missed her. There would be no more children. He wanted children. They had lost a child. But McNeal didn’t want to think about that. The agony of their loss five years earlier had torn them apart.

That had been the main bone of contention between them. He had wanted them to try for another child after Patrick’s death. He couldn’t imagine not having children. Caroline said she was too old. But the truth was, events from five years earlier had destroyed her hopes, then his.

As a detective he had seen his fair share of hellish scenes. Murders. Stabbings. Mutilations. Twisted, bloodied corpses of jumpers from high buildings. In his role at Internal Affairs, he had investigated a catalogue of criminality, both minor and serious, committed by bad cops. Wives beaten to a pulp. Children locking themselves in bathrooms to hide from their crazy cop fathers. Kickbacks. Mob links. On and on. But his wife’s death had resurrected the only feelings he truly wanted to forget. A heartache torn open five years earlier. The two people he loved more than anything in the world were dead.