Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [82]
It’s like being forcibly undressed—my life recited in a pithy paragraph. The fact that I’m astute enough to understand what he’s doing is of only marginal help. I affect an unimpressed smirk, even though he’s picked at the wound that is my brother’s death.
“All public record,” I say. “A few minutes with a search engine.”
“Your parents are John and Madeline. Your father is dead and your mother lives alone in your family home on Denton Street. She spends her time volunteering at Athens Presbyterian and sitting on the board of the Fitzgerald Art Museum.” He stops, fixes me with a look of pure malevolence, then says, “On Tuesdays and Thursdays she leaves her home at precisely 3:30 in the afternoon, arriving at the museum between 3:50 and 3:55, depending on traffic at Broadmore.”
Even with my knowing the reaction he wants to elicit from me—even this doesn’t insulate me against what’s been revealed. Without putting a voice to it, he’s just levied a threat against both me and my family. As I try to formulate a response, the chief thought in my head is that Manheim is something more than a second-rate political hopeful. And he’s just demonstrated resources enough to make good on his threat. That in itself should be enough to force me to gather up my toys and go home—to promise to never again stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, and return to teaching uninspired youth. The urge is magnified when Esperanza places a cautioning hand on my arm, a gesture that barely cuts through the red haze starting to cloud my vision.
Manheim nods. “I see you understand.”
I understand that I want to beat this man until his face is an unrecognizable pulp beneath my fists. But that would accomplish only the assuagement of a personal need. If this man is more than bluff—and his past actions force me to believe he is—then there’s more at stake than my own satisfaction.
With the stakes raised, and made personal, the need to know is accentuated. It’s like a slow burn in my blood—a lingering of hot sauce on the tongue hours after the meal. “What was in KV65?” I ask.
I think the man sitting across from me understands my need, because the question causes a slight break in his façade. For a brief instant I see something—not quite empathy but maybe an acknowledgment from one who can understand this desire to fill in the gaps. But the look is gone before it can solidify, and it does nothing to make me hate him any less.
The silence in the room grows heavy, absolute. If I were sweating, I would hear each drop strike the floor. When Manheim leans forward, a strange energy passes between us. I can feel it crisscross my skin, run beneath Esperanza’s hand that still rests on my arm. And when he speaks, I can almost hear the words before they leave his lips.
“Dr. Hawthorne, there are some things that were never meant to be discovered.”
CHAPTER 17
I sense more than see Espy beside me. I sense her through the worried anger that threatens to upset the rhythm of my feet, the sun full in my eyes as I hit the white stone steps, dodging a pair of elderly women in matching sweaters, embroidered Scottish terriers wearing green hats. Because of urgency, I’ve reverted back to my old phone. I come close to a snarl as I will Duckey to answer, as I imagine him in the throes of some holiday ritual while his phone emits an impotent ringtone in an empty room. It’s never felt less like Christmas than it does right now. I’m detached from all the familiar things I associate with the holiday season. I’m on the outside of it, and I find that I’m resentful—of Duckey, of his family, of whatever it is that’s keeping him from answering his phone.
By the time I reach the bottom step, the phone is on its eighth ring and I’m about to jam my thumb onto the disconnect button when I hear a click and then my friend’s voice.
“Jack?”
“Do you still have a friend in the Bangor police department?”
There’s no hesitation in his voice, as if he can hear something in my