No Time for Goodbye - Linwood Barclay [128]
I entered Detective Rona Wedmore’s cell phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Wedmore,” she said. Trying very hard to sound awake and alert, although it came out more like “Wed. More.”
“It’s Terry Archer,” I said.
“Mr. Archer,” she said, already sounding more focused. “What is it?” “I’m going to tell you a few things very quickly. I’m on a dying cell. You need to be on the lookout for my wife. A man named Jeremy Sloan, and his mother, Enid Sloan, are heading to Connecticut, from the Buffalo area. I think they intend to find Cynthia and kill her. Cynthia’s father is alive. I’m bringing him back with me. If you find Cynthia and Grace, hold on to them, don’t let them out of your sight until I get back.”
I had expected a “What?” or, at the very least, “Huh?” But instead, I got, “Where are you?”
“Along the New York Thruway, coming back from Youngstown. You know Vince Fleming, right? You said you did.”
“Yes.”
“I left him in a house in Youngstown, north of Buffalo. He was trying to help me. He was shot by Enid Sloan.”
“This isn’t making any sense,” Wedmore said.
“No shit. Just look for her, okay?”
“What about this Jeremy Sloan, and his mother? What are they driving?”
“A brown…”
“Impala,” Clayton whispered. “Chevy Impala.”
“A brown Chevy Impala,” I said. To Clayton, I said, “Plate?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a plate number.”
“Are you coming back here?” Wedmore asked.
“Yes. In a few hours. Just look for her. I’ve already got my principal, Rolly Carruthers, looking for her, too.”
“Tell me what—”
“Gotta go,” I said, then folded the phone shut and slipped it into my jacket. I pulled the automatic transmission back to Drive and got back onto the thruway.
“So,” I said, taking us back to where Clayton had left off before we got off the highway. “Were there moments? When you were happy?”
Clayton takes himself back again.
If there are moments of happiness, they only ever happen when he is Clayton Bigge. He loves being a father to Todd and Cynthia. As best he can tell, they love him in return, maybe even look up to him. They seem to respect him. They aren’t being taught, each and every day, that he’s worthless. Doesn’t mean they always do as they’re told, but what kids do?
Sometimes, at night in bed, Patricia will say to him, “You seem someplace else. You get this look, like you’re not here. And you look sad.”
And he takes her in his arms and he says to her, “This is the only place I want to be.” It isn’t a lie. He’s never said anything more truthful. There were times when he wants to tell her, because he doesn’t want his life with her to be a lie. He doesn’t like having that other life.
Because that’s what life with Enid and Jeremy has become. That’s the other life. Even though it’s the one he started with, even though it’s the one where he can use his real name, show his real license to a police officer if he’s pulled over, it’s the life he can’t bear to return to, week after week, month after month, year after year.
But in some strange way, he gets used to it. Used to the stories, used to the juggling, used to coming up with fanciful tales to explain why he has to be away on holidays. If he’s in Youngstown on December 25, he sneaks off to a pay phone, weighted down with change, so he can call Patricia and wish her and the kids a merry Christmas.
One time, in Youngstown, he found a private spot in the house, sat down, and let the tears come. Just a short cry, enough to ease the sadness, take the pressure off. But Enid heard him, slipped into the room, sat down next to him on the bed.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks, pulled himself together.
Enid rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be a baby,” she said.
Looking back, of course, life in Milford was not always idyllic. Todd came down with pneumonia when he was ten. Came through that okay. And Cynthia, once she was in her teens, she started to be a handful. Rebellious. Hanging out with the wrong crowd at times. Experimenting with