Читать книгу When Angels Fail To Fly - John Schlarbaum - Страница 8

After speaking with Wayne, I decided to wait a little longer before reaching out to Maria. If I called acting like my life was peachy and she then learned about Linda, I’d look like the dolt I was. I figured it was better to talk after the news hit Delta. That way it would be her decision to discuss the “Max Feldberg” situation with me or not.

Instead of staying cooped up, I took a tour to the lake where I found myself alone in the parking lot off our small beach. Although it was a bit cooler than the previous week, I was surprised there were no rollerbladers, bicyclists or moms with strollers on the boardwalk. Even the waves couldn’t muster much energy, with the water lazily lapping the edge of the shoreline instead of cresting, then crashing, as was the case most days.

Relocating my body and thoughts here turned out to be another bonehead idea. When Linda was debating if she should move to the big bad city, I’d brought her to this very beach, built a fire, poured some wine and tried to convince her evenings like this could be repeated nightly—if only she’d move in with me. “It is nice at night,” she’d said, “but what about during the day?” I remember looking her straight in the eye and saying, “Like paradise,” and then kissing her, as the fire softly popped and crackled nearby. For the remainder of her three–day visit we practically lived at this beach—swimming, sun tanning and participating in impromptu volleyball games with the local teenagers and college kids. At dusk, I would build another fire and we’d talk, snuggle and make out when the coast was clear.

As I vacantly watched the calm water stretched out in front of me, an attractive couple in their early 20s walked past my van. The girl casually glanced in my direction and for a millisecond I saw that new-in-love sparkle in her eye. I prayed it would never diminish for her but knew it would eventually. It always does. Being new-in-love meant you felt giddy all the time. When you’ve decided you’re actually in love however, giddy is replaced by a higher level of comfort and trust with your partner. In time though, even these feelings change.

I know now Linda and I never truly crossed the threshold between new-in-love to being in love. Maybe that’s why I hooked up with Samantha; she was my new-in-love conquest (or was I hers)? Not that it matters anymore. Both are gone because of my involvement with them.

It dawned on me what a shame it was that self-pity was so useless, as it is one of the few things at which I excel in this life.

As I started the van’s engine, I noticed the two cute lovebirds searching the beach for dry pieces of wood to build a fire.

Enjoy it while you can, kids, I thought wistfully.

I returned to my house pleasantly surprised to find it quiet. No SWAT teams. No TV trucks. The answering machine had a few new messages from persistent reporters and there were a couple of hang-ups. Maria hadn’t called or if she had, she hadn’t left a message. I punched the erase button at the same time the phone rang, which gave me a bit of a start.

“Hello,” I said.

“Go outside and check your garbage can.”

CLICK.

I stared at the phone for a second. I couldn’t determine if the caller had been a man or a woman, as the voice sounded like it had been electronically altered. Seven words isn’t a lot to go on in the first place. Figuring I wasn’t in any physical danger— believing someone could have easily offed me at the beach—I went into my backyard and retrieved a sealed manila envelope. Inside I could feel the unmistakable outline of a VHS tape.

“What’s this?” I wondered aloud.

I went back to the living room ripping the package open, finding a video and nothing else. Maybe my mysterious courier would show himself or herself on the tape. I popped it into my VCR, sat in my recliner and pushed PLAY on the remote.

“On with the show,” I commanded.

I honestly didn’t know what to expect but the sight of Samantha and I checking into The Loser’s Love Den on that fateful afternoon, sent a blistering shiver down my spine. There was Samantha, full of life and vitality and myself getting out of the van and walking to the office. Then we were both laughing and smiling like honeymooners, as we made our way to our room without a care in the world. Next were the kisses—I had forgotten about them: one as we strolled across the lot hand in hand and a second longer sweeter one as we crossed the threshold of Room 215.

This wonderful scene however, was just a mirage.

The TV screen’s image switched to a night shot, with the camera operator zooming out from our room’s door to a close-up of Linda’s stoic face. I didn’t recognize the dark-coloured sedan in which she was seated. It was then I realized the footage had been shot from yet another vehicle, far away from Linda’s car in the Tecumseh Motel parking lot.

Did she know about this other vehicle?

Were they working together?

And if not, how did the camera operator know Linda?

As I continued to watch that evening’s events play out like some dramatic film flashback, I felt ill. Moments later, I was again brutally slammed back to reality as I watched Linda’s tears cascade down her cheeks. Her facial expression was a combination of grief, anger and resignation.

What had I done?

I sat transfixed as I saw the bewildered Plymouth plumber exit the room and give Samantha a kiss on the cheek. There were shots of me following the taxi off the lot, only to return a short time later to enter the second level room. Next was a shot of me looking out toward the parking lot, as I placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door handle. Again, Linda’s sobbing face was full frame. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach.

“Please stop,” I yelled at the television.

But it wouldn’t.

Soon came footage of me exiting the room, freshly showered, with a huge smile plastered on my face, departing the area on a banana split run.

Aside from Linda’s attendance, to this point the video had documented the inauspicious events in a faithful manner. I vividly remembered everything. Yet, as any good filmmaker will attest, the best part of shooting real people in real situations is that something happens—a plot twist—that changes the viewer’s perception. In this case, I assumed the next footage would be of plumber-boy returning to Samantha’s room, then the arrival of the police and finally the shoot-out. This would be followed by my return from the ice cream stand.

Instead, I watched Linda make her way to the second floor of the motel and head to Room 215. My heart was now pounding wildly.

She was coming to confront us. Catch us in the act.

Linda was three doors away from The Loser’s Love Den when she was startled and abruptly stopped in her tracks. An expression of terror could be seen clearly on her face as she jerked her head to the left to look over the balcony railing. It was then the video operator zoomed out and panned the camera to catch the arrival of a dark green Saturn in the parking lot.

The plumber had returned to exact his revenge.

Without warning, the screen went black and I was left stupefied, unsure of what I had viewed. I felt as though I had watched a snuff film, knowing what took place following the plumber’s arrival. Yet I really knew nothing of what happened next; all of my information had come from the police. Watching the tape, however, I now knew the cops’ facts were not only inaccurate—they were possibly completely wrong. There were no reports of a woman near the victim’s door prior to the alleged argument, yet Linda had been there. Had she called 911 about the argument in Room 215 after I left? Had the person in the surveillance vehicle called? Had they been in on it together?

My mind whirled relentlessly. The tape had produced more questions than answers, which I presumed was the sender’s intention.

The ringing of my telephone temporarily put a stop to my confusion.

“Hello!” I snapped, believing my Secret Santa was making a follow-up call.

“Steven? Is that you? Are you all right?”

The genuine concern in Maria’s voice instantly melted away my fear, anguish and anger. She was the one person I’d tried to avoid thinking about today and the only one I wanted—or needed—to talk to now.

“Yes, Maria, it’s me,” I replied apologetically. “Sorry about that, I was expecting another call.” A long pause followed.

“I can call later,” Maria offered hesitantly.

“You don’t have to do that. I’ve been thinking of calling you about the message you got from Max.”

Another long agonizing pause, during which I wondered if Maria had picked up on my little white lie.

“I heard about what happened.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I finally said.

“Not as much as I was.”

“What can I say? As I told Wayne, I screwed up. There is nothing more I can offer. I can’t find Linda to apologize and Samantha . . . well . . .”

“I don’t remember asking for an apology,” Maria said, cutting me off.

“Not yet, but in time you would have. Linda was your friend and I broke her heart because I’m a self absorbed a-hole.”

“Even though I wholeheartedly agree with your self-diagnoses, you should know by now I’m not the ‘I-told-you-so’ type.” She paused, then added, “For which you should be eternally grateful. As for you and Linda, I’m probably one of the few people who knew things weren’t working out the way you hoped it would.”

“Did she tell you or was that just your womanly intuition?”

“We had a few telephone conversations over the past several weeks.”

“I didn’t know you two had become so close—especially with our past.”

“You mean that little high school, puppy-love, crush thingy we shared fourteen long years ago?”

I could picture the wide smirk on Maria’s face and laughed. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.”

“In all honesty, I think aside from books, you were the common denominator between us. I loved you then, she loved you now and thankfully she didn’t feel threatened talking to me about you.”

“I’m sure you had a lot of nice things to say about me, didn’t you?” She didn’t reply to my sarcasm. “I guess I’m fortunate she didn’t bond with Trudy.”

“You’d be in real trouble there,” Maria chuckled.

“But seriously, Maria, did Linda suspect I was fooling around? If you don’t want to tell me I’ll understand.”

Without hesitation she replied, “She never came right out and said so but I think phrases like, ‘He works long hours’ and ‘He’s often out of town,’ were her code words for ‘That rat bastard is cheating on me with his slutty assistant.’”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted angrily, “Samantha wasn’t a slut. Not that anyone cares, now that she’s dead and all.”

“Steven, I didn’t mean to . . . I never met her . . .” Maria started.

“Stop, Maria. I know you didn’t mean anything by that.” I glanced over at the blank TV screen. “I’ve got a lot going on right now. A set of new problems I’m trying to figure out. I didn’t mean to shout like that.” I took a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t call to get yelled at by a low-life like me.”

“I called to see how you were doing,” Maria replied. “That’s all. No hidden agenda. When I heard about what happened, I didn’t know if I should be furious with you or sad for you.”

“So you took the pity route over the pissed-off route?”

“Neither,” she said defiantly. “I went the concerned route! I was worried about you and thought you might need someone to talk to—besides news reporters and homicide investigators. And even though Linda is a friend and didn’t deserve any of this stupidity, I don’t have a history with her like I do with you.” She stopped, maybe waiting for me to say something. Getting no response, she added, “And if you don’t think I’m emotionally conflicted, you’re wrong.”

“Maria—”

“Maybe calling you was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t a—”

“Right now it feels like it is, so I’m going to hang up and get some dinner.”

“What about Max’s phone call?” I asked, trying desperately to keep her on the line.

“I’ll call him tomorrow. Good night, Steve.”

The line went dead.

In my notorious past, I might have ripped the phone out of the wall and smashed it into a hundred pieces on the floor. Not today. As I unclenched the receiver and placed it in its cradle, I asked myself the question that had been echoing through my brain for the past two days: Why bother?

I grabbed my coat and walked out the front door, leaving the TV on and my frozen dinner in the microwave. As I proceeded to the nearby Sunsetter Pub & Eatery (a little watering hole I hadn’t frequented in months), I was hoping an alien life form would notice me, decide I was the best human specimen on Earth and beam me up—never to be seen again by friend or foe. Without a doubt, the news stories of my disappearance would focus on the TV and my uneaten meal. What a story they all would tell. I imagined columnist Jeremy Atkins writing that after destroying so many lives, I had ended my own in order to stop the madness once and for all.

On the other hand, like me, Mr. Atkins and his ilk might discuss my plight at the morning pitch meeting and collectively say, “Why bother?”

Unable to interest any extraterrestrials in my intergalactic kidnapping scheme, I entered the nearly empty pub and barricaded myself in a corner booth. An attractive new waitress was soon standing before me asking if I’d like a drink. When I looked up I saw she was staring at me. This can’t be good, I worried.

“I know you from somewhere,” she said, tilting her head a bit to the side.

I met her quizzical gaze and also felt a sense of familiarity. She was in her early 20s, with a petite curvy frame and dark curly brown hair, which bounced on her shoulders as she walked. “I live in the neighbourhood,” I answered, hoping she wasn’t a news junkie.

Her face quickly lit up. “I know—you were sitting in a van down at the lake today, right?”

Her joyful smile and little laugh transported me back to the beach. “That’s right. I was down there.”

“We didn’t talk or anything. I’m just good with faces.”

“I’m sure that comes in handy working here,” I said. “You don’t want to give the wrong order to the wrong customer.”

“I never thought about it that way but it makes sense, I guess.” She pondered this revelation as she took her order pad out of her pocket. “So, do you go to the beach often?” she asked in a tone that was slower and softer than before.

At this moment I didn’t know if I should be surprised, confused, or flattered that my “new-in-love-sparkle” girl was flirting with me, right here, right now.

“Every once in awhile,” I offered. “What about you? Do you and your boyfriend hang out there much?”

“No, he hates the beach.”

“What about this afternoon? What made him change his mind?”

The sunny expression on my waitresses’ face dimmed a couple of watts and was slyly replaced by a devilish expression.

“Like I said, my boyfriend hates the beach.”

Our eyes met again in an I won’t tell if you won’t tell conspiratorial way.

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.

This time when she smiled, I realized she still possessed that elusive sparkle which I had so envied earlier in the day. We have more in common than you would ever know, I mused to myself. Her walk on the beach with her boy-toy was a mirror image of Samantha and I walking across the parking lot at the Tecumseh Motel. We were both just selfish horndogs, with no sense of decency or respect for others.

“By the way, my name is Dawn.”

“I’m Steve.”

“Well, Steve, would you like a drink tonight?”

In my fragile state, I knew if I started to drink I wouldn’t be able to stop. That scared me. Alcohol is a depressant and I didn’t think I needed to be more depressed right now.

Why bother? the rational side of my brain asked.

“Why not?” I said to Dawn the waitress. “What do I have to lose?”

After taking my order, I watched Dawn saunter toward the bar. I knew I was in the midst of making a huge mistake but was unable to stop myself. I had long ago lost the phone number of my AA sponsor and didn’t think Wayne or Maria would want to hear from me again today.

When Dawn returned, she placed two cardboard drink coasters on the table and put my beer on one of them. I looked at the second coaster. “Is someone going to join me for a drink?”

“Maybe,” she laughed as she turned away. “That’s a commemorative coaster. Make sure you don’t lose it.”

I picked the coaster up and noted Dawn had graciously written her cell number on it. I watched her take an order at another table and wondered how many souvenirs she handed out each night; how many different collectors had taken a moonlit walk on the beach with her. Probably more than her boyfriend at home would care to know about.

I took a large swig of beer and placed the personalized coaster in my jacket pocket.

This is going to be a long night, I thought.

***

“Steven, he wants to talk to you.”

It was almost noon the next morning and my brain—now embalmed with beer and tequila shots—understandably took several seconds to kick into gear. When it did however, panic soon followed.

The voice coming from the next room was definitely female but what did she mean by he wants to talk to you? Dawn’s boyfriend? Her father? A Sex Crimes Investigator? I forced myself upright and took in my surroundings. I was fully clothed on my own bed and there were no signs I’d had any company the previous evening.

Then who was in the living room?

“Steven, pick up. This is important.”

Realizing the voice was coming from the answering machine, I sprawled across the duvet and grabbed the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked.

“Thank goodness you’re home,” the woman’s voice replied. “I already left you two messages and was getting worried.”

“Maria?”

“Of course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

“I’m not exactly in the thinking mood yet.”

I knew her brief silence was an indictment of sorts; she was too classy to pursue the issue.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know, right?” she finally asked.

“Right.”

“Anyway,” she started with a disapproving sigh, “I called the penitentiary and spoke with Max.”

“And how did that go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning the person he really wanted to speak to was you.”

I adjusted the pillow under my now throbbing head. “Then why call you?”

“Because he figured I was the one person from high school who might know your current whereabouts.”

“They don’t get newspapers or cable in the big house?”

“Apparently not.”

“Did he say why he was looking for me, because when felons want to get together it’s not usually for a surprise party.”

“He said he needed your help but couldn’t go into detail over the phone.”

“Did you get the impression this was a personal matter or a professional one?”

“All he said was it had to do with his case.”

“Did you tell him I was a P.I.—or at least used to be?”

“I was going to, when the operator came on. She said we only had sixty seconds left before the phone would automatically cut us off. Max then asked if I could get hold of you and have you call him.”

I mulled this over a moment. “Don’t you find it odd that after all this time he wouldn’t try to contact me directly? What if you had married and changed your surname? Then what? Even getting hold of Doogie would be easier—he’s at least listed in the Delta phone book.”

“That is strange,” Maria said slowly. “I wonder how he got my number? It’s been unlisted for years.”

It was my turn to reassure Maria. “There are plenty of ways you can get an unlisted phone number—most of them legally. Companies sell customer lists to one another all the time. A magazine subscription or charity you’ve donated to in the past might have your home number on file.”

“Still . . . like you said, tracking down Wayne would have been simpler, don’t you think?”

“For all we know Max gave his lawyer a list of names from the old days and yours was the first and only one he checked.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll ask him when we talk, okay?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Anything for you, Maria. You know that,” I said.

I hoped she knew I was being sincere but I’d understand if her trust level was not very high. She gave me the phone number and explained the procedures she’d had to go through to talk with Max.

“Did Max ask you about anyone else from our class?”

“Not really. He wondered what I was doing and if I was happy still living in Delta,” Maria replied. “We didn’t really get into why he was calling from a federal penitentiary. All he said was he hadn’t made the best post-secondary choices and I didn’t ask.”

Classy, classy, classy, I thought.

“Have you heard from Linda?” Maria inquired, changing the subject.

“Not yet. Truth be told, I don’t think I’d be on her people to call list,” I said. “I take it she hasn’t contacted you either?”

“No and that’s got me worried.”

The silence that passed through the line was accompanied by a dose of bitterness. Although I wanted Maria to yell, ‘Why did you do this?’ I knew she wouldn’t—it wasn’t her style. Still, I wished she would, just this once. I needed someone to put me in my place.

“I have to go,” Maria said. “If you hear from Linda, please tell her to call me.”

“I’ll do that.” I wanted to add some sort of apology for the hurt I’d caused, only she hung up before I had the chance.

I staggered out of bed and checked the answering machine, which had Maria’s two previous messages on it. I was about to erase them but stopped myself. It might have been the alcohol still flowing through my brain, but all I could think was, That might have been the last conversation you’ll ever have with her. The last time you’ll hear her voice. You don’t want to erase her voice, do you? An optimist would have quickly deleted the messages. Being a seasoned pessimist, I saved both calls.

By mid-afternoon I started to feel better—the coffee, sandwich and a refreshing shower had helped immensely. Figuring there was no time like the present, I dialed the penitentiary’s number and waded through the many automated options, until the operator came on the line.

“Which inmate are you calling?” the woman asked curtly.

“His name is Max Feldberg. I don’t know where—”

“And your name is?”

“Steven. Steven Cassidy. I used to go to high school—”

“Can you be reached at this number?” She then rattled off my phone number.

“Yes.”

“Is this number registered in your name?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Will you be at this number between 3:00 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. today?”

“I can, I guess.”

“Very well. An attempt to contact you will be made later today between 3:00 p.m. and 3:15 p.m. If there is no response, a second attempt will be made tomorrow and if necessary, the following day, during the same time period. If we are unable to contact you on the third attempt, you will be deemed unresponsive and your name will be permanently removed from Mr. Feldberg’s call list. Is that clear, Mr. Cassidy?”

“Yes,” I stammered, trying to digest everything she’d said.

“Thank you for calling The Farmington Penitentiary.”

Like my previous day’s mystery caller, I was so emotionally unbalanced upon hanging up, I had doubts I’d just spoken to a living, breathing human being.

With nothing but time on my hands, I plopped down on my well-worn couch and looked around for the TV remote. It was then I remembered how I had left for the pub with the television and lights still on. Now however, I realized both were off. I turned on the TV and VCR expecting to see images of the Tecumseh Motel massacre but the screen remained blank. I crawled across the floor to the entertainment unit, where I pressed the Eject button on the VCR. Again, nothing happened.

Where was the tape? I was sure I hadn’t taken it out of the machine. Then who had? I wondered.

I went to the phone and called the pub.

“Hello.”

“Dawn, it’s me—Steve, from the bar last night.”

“So you survived to see another day?” she asked playfully. “I was worried you might pull a Keith Moon or a Bon Scott—you know—the rock stars who choked on their vomit and died in the ‘70’s.”

“Yes, I got the reference,” I admitted, somewhat baffled how a girl so young would know such classic rock folklore. Before I could ask, she was telling me.

“I figured an old guy like you would remember them. A friend of mine is this huge music fan and he’s always telling me these morbid tales about bands my parents used to listen to.”

“Is this your boyfriend?”

“No, he hates music,” came the reply.

“So, this is the guy from the beach?” I ventured.

“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “He only likes techno music. No, this friend is much older.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know—thirty–five, thirty–six. You know—your age.”

“Ouch.”

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she offered softly.

“I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is to find out if you knew how I got home last night. Did someone call me a cab?”

There was a brief silence.

“You really don’t remember?”

“Wisdom usually comes with age, but from time to time alcohol kind of wrecks that notion.”

“I hope that’s the case because usually when I go home with a guy he remembers me in the morning.”

“You brought me home?”

“I didn’t trust the cabbie who showed up and didn’t think he would tuck you into bed like I could.”

It was my turn to pause.

“I’m pretty sure we didn’t,” I finally said, “but we didn’t . . .”

“What—get it on?” Dawn laughed. “I was lucky to get you through the front door and onto your bed. I’m not sure if you noticed or not but all your clothes were on when I left this morning.”

I was understandably confused. “Don’t you mean last night?”

“No, this morning. I had to work the day shift and figured I might as well crash at your place. I would have asked if it was okay but you were . . . well, not in a talkative mood, if you know what I mean.”

“I regret being such lousy company,” I said.

“That’s all right,” Dawn replied casually. “It was sort of fun playing mother hen for one night. Usually I’m the one passing out and being carried to bed. Unfortunately, I usually wake up naked.”

“Well, I also apologize for all the creeps who have taken advantage of you in the past.”

“You’re not mad that I didn’t take advantage of you, are you?”

“I’m furious,” I said sarcastically.

“Because that was a one-time thing. Next time, I’ll show you no mercy.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a next time.”

“Oh.”

I believed I heard dejection in Dawn’s voice. “What I meant was I don’t plan on drinking so much in the future.”

“Oh,” she said more enthusiastically. “So were you calling to ask me out or to see if I still respected you?”

“Neither, actually,” I said. “I’m trying to fill in a few blanks and apparently you’re the one person who can help me out.”

“You have to be quick. A bunch of businessmen are walking in for a late lunch.”

“Okay, here goes. How did you get into my house last night?”

“The front door.”

“Was it open?”

“No, it was locked. It took me five minutes to get the keys out of your pocket, because every time I tried you’d turn and say something funny like, ‘Hey, I’m not that kind of guy,’ or ‘You better stop before my neighbours call the police.’”

“Sounds like something I might say while inebriated,” I laughed. “So, when we stumbled into the house, do you remember if the lights were on or the TV was going?”

“No, everything was dark,” Dawn said immediately. “I fumbled for the switch inside the door and went from there.”

“But you’re sure the TV wasn’t on?”

“Positive. Now I’ve really got to go, Steve.”

“One last thing. After you put me to bed, did you watch any TV or put on a video?”

“You’re not asking me all these questions because you woke up and your TV was gone, are you? I didn’t steal it—I left everything just the way I found it.”

“The television is still here and I’m not accusing you of anything, I swear.”

“Good, because after you passed out, I was so tired I crashed in the spare room. I left for work this morning at seven,” she protested. “I even locked the front door when I left.”

There was nothing in her voice that made me think she was lying. I looked into the guest room and saw the outline of a petite body on the comforter. On the nightstand, I saw a gold watch.

“Do you want me to drop your watch off at the pub or would you rather pick it up here?” I asked.

“I knew I left it there. I feel lost without it,” Dawn admitted. “I get off at 3:30. Will you still be there?”

“I’m waiting for a long distance call from a high school friend I haven’t talked to since graduation. He’s supposed to call between 3:00 and 3:15, so drop by when you’re finished.”

“Are you sure? What if they call later and you start talking about your pimply-faced glory days? I wouldn’t want to interrupt you or anything.”

“This guy is very punctual and his present landlord is very strict about his phone privileges.”

“Then I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Great,” I replied. “Before you go, Dawn, I’m sure you hear this all the time from your boyfriends . . . but thanks for last night. You were wonderful.”

There was a brief moment of dead air before Dawn said, “To be truthful, Steve, you’re the first one who actually sounded like he meant it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now get to table six and see what those loser businessmen want, but no souvenir coasters, okay?”

“Okay.”

I put down the phone and stood in the middle of my living room, taking in my surroundings as if for the first time. My eyes took in the furniture, the entertainment unit, the prints on the wall, the lights on the end tables, the track lighting, the light switches, the smoke alarm—anything that could give me some clue as to what had taken place the previous evening. Someone had entered this space, taken the mysterious video, then shut off the lights and locked the front door behind them.

Who would do such a thing and why? Even more perplexing was how did they get in?

The video’s contents were also very disturbing, as it proved Linda had been at the motel on that terrible night. I just couldn’t quite figure out how this tantalizing fact could be used against me. The police and I both concluded Linda found out about the affair, had decided enough was enough, packed her things and left the house that evening. The end.

For me, the most troubling thing was the third party involved here—the guy with the camera. He had obviously been following us and passed the information on to Linda. I remembered how her head snapped around as she approached The Loser’s Love Den. It was apparent the accomplice had honked his horn to alert her of the plumber’s return.

My mind was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Linda and this other individual had been working together, when a more disturbing notion popped up: what if they knew the plumber and the three of them had plotted against Samantha and me? Was that possible?

I frantically tried to erase the idea from my head. There was no way Linda would knowingly be part of some twisted murder-for-hire plot. I’ve known several women in my disastrous romantic past who had possessed all of the traits needed for such a plan, yet I was certain Linda was not one of them.

“No way,” I shouted at the empty room. She had been set up. There were no two ways about it.

That she hadn’t returned my call was no surprise, but the fact Maria hadn’t heard from her either was worrisome. Linda had confided in her about our problems in the past, so why not now? To be perfectly honest, during the past few weeks we’d had some nasty, dirty fights that were the beginning of the end of our engagement. We both knew it, yet couldn’t bring ourselves to actually do anything about it.

I was now ambivalent about her so-called disappearance. On one hand, it was a fitting conclusion to our turbulent relationship; a dramatic statement, if she’d left voluntarily, as I believed she had. On the other hand, I began to feel queasy when I envisioned the person who’d shot the video taking her against her will for some unknown reason.

My mind tried to close down this avenue of thinking. She’ll call, I kept telling myself. Sooner or later, she’ll have to return to work, I tried to convince myself. She is angry with life, with me and this city.

She’s fine. She has to be.