Neverworld Wake(61)

“Excuse me, ma’am? I’m hoping you might help me. I need a change of clothes—”

She picked up her dog with a horrified look and climbed into her car.

I ended up going into every store at the shopping center, striding brazenly through Employees Only swinging doors into back storerooms, janitors’ closets, and cargo unloading areas, to see if I could find some kind of spare uniform. I managed to steal a pair of khakis from Man’s Best Friend, a hoodie from a manager’s closet inside the Stop & Shop. I asked an old man pulling a pint of Ben & Jerry’s out of the freezer if I could have his baseball cap. There must have been something totally desperate, or strange, or otherworldly on my face, because he handed it to me without a word and quickly wheeled his cart away.

I hurried into a Chinese restaurant, Fu Mao Noodle, and changed in the bathroom, grabbing a handful of fortune cookies by the register as I left. I sat eating them on a bench outside the pet store facing the parking lot, a feeling of dread in my chest. Small opportunities are the beginnings of great enterprises. You are the architect of your fortune. Big journeys begin with a single step. I had to change benches three times, because every one I sat on, the wood began to splinter and crack under me. One even collapsed in half.

The longer I waited, the more afraid I was that I’d been right to track Jim here, that he’d actually appear. Was he meeting some other girl? What had preoccupied him, been so shameful that he couldn’t tell me about it? What had he been so afraid of?

At five minutes after eight a beat-up red Nissan pulled into the parking lot, a For Sale sign in the back window. It slinked up to Honey Love Fried Chicken and the passenger door opened. Jim climbed out. Black T-shirt. Jeans.

I could see Vida behind the wheel. Jim entered the restaurant. Vida waited a moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t coming back. Then she drove off, exactly as she’d said.

I waited another minute. Then I darted along the covered walkway, ignoring the fact that every column was spotted with black mold.

I peered through the glass door. Jim was standing at the counter, his back to me.

I quickly slipped inside and took a seat at an empty table by the window.

“Call him again,” I heard Jim say. He sounded angry.

The woman he was speaking with—the one who’d shaken me awake—was mystified.

“I just did. He said he’d be right out—”

“Call him again.”

Frightened, she grabbed the phone, dialing.

“He says he’ll be right out.”

Seconds later, a Hispanic man with a thick mustache appeared from a back room. He was slight, midforties, a kind face.

“Jim. It’s been too long. How are you?”

“We need to talk.”

“I’m about to jump on a conference call. Why don’t you come back after closing?”

“We’re going to talk now.”

Disconcerted, the man beckoned Jim to follow him. I slid to my feet, watching them disappear through the back door. I waited another minute and headed after them, pausing to hear another door slam before I darted inside. The kitchen was in front of me. Beyond that, there appeared to be a back office. The door was closed, but it looked thin, and hurrying up to it, I could make out the voices easily enough.

“I’LL ASK YOU ONE MORE TIME. WHO IS ESTELLA ORNATO?”

“What are you talking about?”

“ESTELLA ORNATO!”

“She—well, yes, she’s my daughter—”

“And?”

“And?”

“Four years old. She died last year. That jog your memory?”

“Jim, please, let’s not do this here—”

“DO NOT PICK UP THAT PHONE OR I SWEAR—”

“Jim—”

“FOR ONCE WOULD SOMEONE TELL ME THE TRUTH?”

“Who told you? Where is this coming from?”

“Your brother wrote me a letter. ESTELLA DID NOT DIE IN A CAR ACCIDENT—”

“Jim. Jim. Now, hear me out—”

The voices quieted. Abruptly something large smashed against the door.

“TELL ME THE TRUTH OR I SWEAR TO GOD—”

“Excuse me,” said a woman. “You’re not authorized to be here.”

I turned. It was the redhead. She was indignant, hands on her hips.

“I have an interview with your manager,” I blurted.

She squinted at me, puzzled. A second deafening crash from inside the office was disturbing enough that she quickly forgot me and went hurrying back to the kitchen to confer, wide-eyed, with the teenager behind the cash register.

“DID MY FATHER PAY FOR THIS? AND THIS? AND THIS?”

There was a high-pitched cry, followed by a moan. Alarmed, I pushed open the door, barging in to see Jim throwing a bag of golf clubs on Mr. Ornato, now cowering on the floor in a fetal position. Jim started kicking him in the stomach.

“Jim,” I said.

He turned, startled. The redhead barged past me into the office. “Oh, my God. Mr. Ornato. Are you okay? I’m going to call the police.”

“No, no, it’s all right.” Gasping, he rolled upright, his face sweaty, his hair standing on end. “There’s no need. It’s just a misunderstanding. Let’s get back to work.”