Palindrome (26 page)

My phone vibrates against my leg. I jerk it out frantically. Helen Langdon. I answer after one ring.

“Helen.”

“Frank. Get a pen and sit down.”

I
'VE GOT HER
on speaker up in the room so Courtney can hear. My chest is like a strong hand crushing the soda can that is my heart.

“Frank, I have to report this and go after her right away. This is deep.”

“Tell me what you have,” I say.

“She's not Greta Kanter,” Helen says. “At least, not the sister of the girl who was killed.”

I'm surprised to find that I was expecting this once I saw her name on that visitation log. Judging by Courtney's grim nod, he did as well.

“The sister of Savannah is married and changed her last name to Green. Greta Green. She also moved—­along with her husband and child—­to California a year after the murder.”

“Christ.” I rub my temples. Think about that beautiful woman who sat across from me in my apartment. Never took her gloves off. The woman I think I may have dreamed about again last night but can't quite recall. Think about that woman keeping Sadie tied up in some shed behind the house. “So who is she?”

“I'm not sure. I combed through all the basic stuff, and I swear, at first, just like a few days ago, everything looked totally normal. Social Security number is linked to her name, ditto credit rating. And no criminal record. It was only after a few hours of digging that I found a hole: This was her first driver's license. Got it three years ago. No license before that. Red flag. So I keep looking, and she also had no credit card activity before three years ago.”

“Identity theft?” I ask.

“No,” Helen replies. “Not theft.
Creation
. She made Greta Kanter up. She might have even legally changed her name and bought a Social from an immigrant.
This
Greta Kanter has only existed for three years. And I've tried, but there's no way to find what her name was before. Point is, whoever this woman is, she knows what she's doing. This is not some kind of side act gone awry. This is her life. How exactly did you say you got involved with this woman again?”

“I didn't,” I reply. “But basically, she wants us to find something for her.”

“What?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Frank. Listen carefully to me. I assumed we were dealing with some low-­level nut, that's why I figured forty-­eight hours would be plenty for me to find her. But this woman is some kind of professional. She's created an almost flawless identity cover, so she'll have also made herself nearly impossible to find. And every hour we wait to move on this, the less likely it is we'll get your daughter back safely. You have to turn this over to me and let me do my thing.”

I exchange a look with Courtney, ask with my eyes if he agrees. He deliberates for a moment, then puts palms to the sky like he doesn't know. I keep pushing images of Sadie out of my head, try to concentrate, think clearly, objectively.

“Listen, Helen. You said it yourself. Impossible to find. This woman is obsessed. The only way out of this is for me to get her what she wants. Let's stick with Thursday night. If I don't have anything by then, I'll tell you everything, fly back to NYC, and we can figure out how to . . . I don't know . . . negotiate with her or something. But I already know there will be no deal. It's either get her what she wants, or nothing. I swear. Every cell in my body is telling me that.”

I picture Helen on the other end, massaging her temples and chewing on her pen.

“Thursday.”

“Thursday night.”

“You know we want the same thing here, Frank.”

“I know.”

“This woman is a real nutter. This is not an isolated incident. She's probably kidnapped before, or worse.”

“Or worse, probably. Just . . . Thursday night. Midnight.”

“Your call.”

“I really can't thank you enough.”

“Don't mention it. Really, don't. I could lose my job.”

“I, um—­” I shoot Courtney a look, like
get outta here
. He reluctantly saunters into the bathroom and closes the door. I take the phone off speaker. “I just, I wanted to tell you, also . . . I still think about you sometimes.”

Silence.

“I'd like to take you out to dinner to thank you for your help. After I get my daughter back. She'll come along. You'll love her.”

She's probably destroying a pen on the other end.

“I'll talk to you Thursday night, Frank. I hope you find what you're looking for.”

I
SLEEP MAYBE
two hours that night.

I'm awakened around four by doubt. Sit up in bed, then toss my feet onto the carpet. Grope my way to the bathroom and flip the light on, shut the door. Splash my face with cold water, let it drip down my stubbly chin. Reflected in the circular mirror over the sink is a portrait of weariness: puffy blue bags under my eyes, complexion only a few shades north of corpse. Gaunt cheeks. I've aged five years in a week.

I turn on the valve for hot water, but it never gets past tepid.

I glare at myself again. Doubt.

I can't do this, even with Courtney's help. There's not enough time, we're not smart enough. Or maybe it's impossible. Maybe the Beulah Twelve and the tape are just simply
gone,
vanished off the face of the earth. I think about the destruction and pain that this tape has left in its wake. First Savannah. Then the man at Orange's—­“Egnaro”—­and Silas, Candy, Paula, Todd, Linda. And now me and Sadie. That's what happens. The tape comes into your life and tears it apart.

I stare deeper into my own brown eyes.

“Please,” I whisper to my own reflection. “Don't punish Sadie. She's done nothing. Punish me, or punish Courtney, I guess. Anyone but her. If Greta lays a hand on her, I won't be able to live with myself. I mean that. I won't be able to live knowing what I've done.”

I notice a corner of the shrink-­wrapped Bible from the airplane nun poking out of my dopp kit, which is resting on the sink. I don't remember putting it in there. I pull it out with a hand trembling from exhaustion. I think,
Just like Lincoln, the night he invited over Walter.

I pull off the shrink wrapping and sit down on the edge of the tub. Open it up, realize I don't know the first thing about the Bible. Do you just start at the beginning? First ­couple pages are vaguely familiar. The Lord makes light, darkness, birds, bees . . . A hundred pages later Joseph is in Egypt. Toward the second half there's stuff about Jesus and his disciples. That's right. Old Testament and New Testament. I'm not a complete ignoramus.

I flip backwards, and the Bible falls open somewhere in the middle. I read.

And Elijah came unto all the ­people, and said, How long halt ye between two opinions? if the L
ORD
[be] God, follow him: but if Baal, [then] follow him. And the ­people answered him not a word. Then said Elijah unto the ­people, Only I remain a prophet of the L
ORD
; but Baal's prophets [are] four hundred and fifty men. Let them therefore give us two bullocks; and let them choose one bullock for themselves, and cut it in pieces, and lay [it] on wood, and put no fire [under:] and I will dress the other bullock, and lay [it] on wood, and put no fire [under:] And call ye on the name of your gods, and I will call on the name of the L
ORD
: and the God that answereth by fire, let him be God. And all the ­people answered and said, It is well spoken. And Elijah said unto the prophets of Baal, Choose you one bullock for yourselves, and dress [it] first; for ye [are] many; and call on the name of your gods, but put no fire [under.] And they took the bullock which was given them, and they dressed [it,] and called on the name of Baal from morning even until noon, saying, O Baal, hear us. But [there was] no voice, nor any that answered. And they leaped upon the altar which was made. {18:27} And it came to pass at noon, that Elijah mocked them, and said, Cry aloud: for he [is] a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, [or] peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked. {18:28} And they cried aloud, and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets until the blood gushed out upon them.

I smirk sadly. Proof. Guess wanting some proof is nothing new. I close the book and walk out of the bathroom. Flip on the lights. Courtney's eyes are already open.

“Let's go,” I say.

W
E
DON'T STOP
for seventeen hours. Five in the morning through ten at night. Begging ­people to talk to us about the Beulah Twelve. Most slam the doors on us. A few have heard that Ms. Anderson and Linda opened up to us and therefore feel obligated to do the same.

We sit beside Candy for an hour in a light snow, gently asking again and again what happened to the tape. Nothing but an occasional empty stare.

We decide to show Ms. Anderson the loose brick in the room and the diaries and letters. Ask if we can show them to her niece, see if they muster some sort of visceral reaction. This she agrees to, but it's for naught. The diaries mean as little to Candy as our questions do.

Back at the Ritz, Courtney reads his collection of articles on the Beulah Twelve for the twentieth time while I pace up and down Main Street like a caged tiger, waiting for the proverbial lightbulb to flick on.

Tammy Feinsod calls, asks if Sadie's doing alright at her aunt's. I say yes, thanks for thinking of us. I wander aimlessly, ending up in the Beulah General Store, where I walk the aisles, not at all hungry, finally buying some beef jerky on pure autopilot.

Outside, I sit down on a wet lunch table and chew on a piece of dried meat. I can't stop thinking about the woman who calls herself Greta Kanter. My rage for her seems to intensify with every passing hour. I have visions of hurting her, humiliating her, punishing her for doing—­

Makes me sick to wonder where Sadie is right now. What's happening to her.

My body is proving to have an endless supply of adrenaline and cortisol; it's been locked in a whole-­body flinch all day. I half hope some punk will walk up to me here at the bench and give me a reason to beat his ass to a pulp. My eyes are twitching, and there's a cold buried beneath my jacket that has nothing to do with the dry winter air.

Part of my anger becomes directed at this Midwestern shantytown. Who could live in a place like this? Two restaurants, one general store that also serves as a post office and pharmacy and that's
it
. You want to buy a book? See a doctor? Buy
gas
? Gotta drive forty-­five minutes into Pueblo. If there's a blizzard here, forget it. No wonder those guys wanted to get the hell out of here.

I throw away the jerky and walk up the short driveway back to Main Street. Stare in the direction opposite where Courtney and I arrived, follow it as far as I can with my eyes until it snakes around a tight corner, is lost behind pine trees. And then turn to face the direction from where we came. No real turnoffs on the highway before Pueblo. Which direction did those twelve guys go? Were they fleeing the scene of the crime? Just trying to escape the law? That seems unlikely, somehow. I imagine these guys—­like Silas, like Greta—­didn't really care what happened to them. They had some sort of deeper purpose in mind, crazy though it might have been. But they already
had
the tape. They weren't looking for anything. Why did they go to Chicago and max out their credit cards?

I wander back to the Ritz. Mercifully, nobody tries to talk to me as I clomp through the dining room, past the black-­and-­white photos and stupid stuffed animal heads hanging on the walls, up the carpeted stairs to the third floor.

Our room is unlocked. Courtney is on the floor of our room on all fours—­wearing a flannel I'm pretty sure he's had on since we flew into Denver—­combing through a carpet of papers.

“Where did they shop in Chicago?” I ask him. “Does anyone know? They say they maxed out their credit cards there.”

“Yeah,” Courtney says without looking up. “They made two stops. One at a warehouse that sells industrial kitchen equipment, then they went to a place that sells wholesale materials to construction companies.”

“What did they buy precisely though?”

“Umm . . .” Courtney isn't really listening to me.

“Hey.” I wave a hand in front of his eyes, summoning him from his trance. “What did they buy?”

“Oh, um, I don't know. I know the places. We might be able to go there and go deep into their records, or get them from the formal police report, but we don't have time for either.”

“Well, isn't that probably relevant—­”

“Of
course
!” Courtney groans. “Of course it's relevant. But we don't have time, so it doesn't matter.”

I sit down on the floor next to him. “And they combed Chicago, right?”

“Yeah. Feds were ordered to stop any vehicles fitting the description of the seven trucks within two hundred miles of downtown Chicago. Nothing. But of course, they didn't find the credit card activity until a few days after the fact, so it's no surprise they didn't find them driving around, really.”

“They kill a kid here, send a girl to the hospital,” I muse to myself, “then book it to
Chicago
,
buy a bunch of some kind of industrial equipment there, then are never seen again.”

“Yes, yes.” Courtney nods impatiently.

“You know what the hardest part of that whole thing to explain is?
Chicago
. So they're nuts, and they need all this equipment or whatever. Why not just go to Denver?”

Courtney shakes his head. “I don't know.
I don't know
.”

I leave him to his research, pad down to the dining room. For a moment I have a horrible vision of Sadie in a cage, her little hands handcuffed behind her back, tape over her mouth . . . But how do I know she's even still alive? I push it from my mind. If I go down that rabbit hole, I'll have no chance of getting anything done.