Second Chance (6 page)

I'd just hung up when the phone rang again. This time
it was Art Heldman.

"I've talked to Jay," he said in a
guilty-sounding voice.

"
What did he have to say?"

"He repeated the story that he told you—about
Ethan, Kirsty's brother." He cleared his throat dramatically.
"However, when I . . . pressured him, he admitted that hadn't
been the only focus of the conversation. He and Kirsty did talk about
their own relationship as well. Apparently Kirsty wanted to start
seeing Jay again—romantically."

"What did Stein say to that?"

"He claims he didn't commit himself either way.
He told her that he cared for her and that they would talk again
after the holidays. He's fully aware that Kirsten is still in love
with him, and he's determined to ease her out of the infatuation
slowly and gently."

"Like he did last year?" I said acidly.

"Jays knows he behaved badly last spring. He
simply panicked. Kirsten can be demanding. Her needs are so great."

"That's the way it is with nineteen-year-old
women, Professor, especially when you abandon them."

Heldman didn't say anything.

"Did Stein give you any sense of how Kirsten
reacted to his spiel?"

"He thought he'd talked her into putting
everything on hold—the renewed romance and the visit to Ethan. He
thought she was going back to Cincinnati, as she originally planned
to do. I thought she was, too, Stoner. That was definitely the
impression I got."

I sighed. "Well, something must have changed her
mind."

"I did leam one more thing that may be of
interest. Jay didn't tell you because he didn't trust you—possibly
because you're working for Kirsten's father, and Kirsty has made it
clear to any number of people that her dad isn't to be told anything
about her life here in Chicago. Dr. Pearson may be a well-meaning
man, but he can also be an overbearing one. At times of crisis he
seems to overreact. It's almost as if he's afraid that Kirsty's
emotional problems will reflect badly on him."

"I have that feeling too," I admitted.

"That's why Jay left out part of the
conversation."

"Which part?"

"The part about where Kirsty's brother, Ethan,
is staying."

"Stein had an address?"

"Not an address—a name. Kirsty mentioned a
motel in Evanston. The University Inn. I looked up the address
myself. It's on Lake Shore, south of the campus. According to the
desk clerk, Ethan Pearson is still registered there."

"Good work. I'll get a cab immediately?

"I'd like to come along," Heldman said. "I
mean I have a car. And I know Kirsty. If she is in a bad way, perhaps
I can help."

"All right," I said. "Let's do it."

7
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Heldman picked me up outside the brownstone a little
before ten.

It took us about thirty minutes to drive up to
Evanston, and another fifteen to find The University Inn on the south
side of town—a run-down, fifties-style motor court with a small
office building in front and Quonset like motel rooms stretching in
parallel rows behind it. The ice-shagged neon sign on the highway
berm said "Vacancies." And always would.

Heldman pulled up by the office. Through the steamy
picture window I could see a night clerk, resting his elbows on a
countertop.

"
You want to go in?" Heldman asked. "Or
should I?"

"I'll handle it, Professor."

"We're not going to do anything rash, are we? I
mean we're not going to use force, right?"

He laughed nervously, but his eyes were dead serious.
He was beginning to have second thoughts about intervening in
Kirsten's life—second thoughts about me.

I said, "Let's see if Kirsten is here before we
decide what we're going to do."

Heldman didn't look reassured. "I don't know. I
don't know about this."

I got out of the car and walked into the motel
office. A middle-aged clerk in a striped shirt and black gaberdine
pants was reading a comic book spread out on the counter. He looked
up at me balefully, as if his instincts told him I wasn't a paying
customer.

"Can I do for you?" he said, flapping the
comic book shut.

He had a slight cast in his left eye that gave him a
queasy, distracting stare.

I tried to smile at him pleasantly. "You can
tell me what room Ethan Pearson is in. I'm supposed to meet him here
around eleven, but I forgot the damn room number."

"That'd be fourteen. Down there on your right."

"Great." I turned toward the door, then
looked back at him. "You don't know if Kirsten's here yet, do
you? Dark-haired girl, blue eyes, about nineteen?"

"Ain't seen nobody but his wife and kid,"
he said, flipping the comic book open and bending over it again.

I went back outside and got into Heldman's Audi.

"Room fourteen," I said to him. "On
the right."

The professor wheeled the car slowly around the
office and down a driveway that ran between the two rows of motel
buildings. There were numbered parking slots on either side of the
drive—most of them filled with frozen slush. But the one in front
of room 14 had a car in it, a yellow VW Bug.

"Christ, I think that's Kirsty's car,"
Heldman said excitedly.

"It is her car. Pull over on the other side of
the drive."

Heldman parked the Audi on the right hand berm,
flipped off the lights, and turned in his seat to look back through
the rear window at number 14. For a moment we both sat there, looking
over our shoulders at the lighted motel room window.

"What do we do now?" Heldman asked.

"Talk to her, if she's there."

"And if she isn't?"

I didn't answer him. What I had to say wasn't what he
wanted to hear.

As I started to get out of the car, Heldman grabbed
my coat sleeve. Without thinking, I jerked away—hard. The professor
looked shocked, then frightened.

"I won't be a party to coercion," he said,
trying to make his voice resolute.

"I'm going to do my job," I said, feeling
sorry that he'd come along. "If that bothers you, stay in the
car."

"No, I'm coming with you," he said, as if
I'd challenged him.

I got out of the car and Heldman got out too. Side by
side we walked across the icy driveway to number 14. I stopped by the
VW for a moment—to take a quick look. The doors were locked and the
windows were solid ice. There was thick ice on the hood and roof, as
well. Clearly the car hadn't been used all day—perhaps not for
several days.

A short cement walk led from the parking area up to
the motel door. I automatically slowed my pace as I neared the door,
and Heldman almost ran up my back.

"Sorry," he whispered, and dropped a step
behind me.

The curtain in the window was too thick to see
through, but I could hear a television going inside the room. I gave
Heldman a g1ance—to make sure he was out of the way—raised my
fist, and knocked.

The television went off abruptly, as if a hand had
been clapped to its mouth. There was a moment of dead silence, in
which I had the sure feeling that someone inside the room was
straining to listen. Then the door opened slowly, and a stocky young
woman with a badly bruised face peered out the crack.

Even in the dim porch light I could tell that the
bruises had come from a recent beating. She'd tried to hide the black
eyes with makeup, but there was nothing she could do about the
swollen nose or the fat, twisted bottom lip. She touched at the lip
involuntarily, when she saw that my eyes were drawn to it. Then she
covered her whole mouth with her right hand, as if that would divert
me.

"Yes?" she said behind her hand. Her voice
sounded hoarse and weak, as if she'd used it up earlier that
day—screaming. "What is it?"

"My name is Stoner. I'm looking for Kirsten
Pearson."

"She's not here," the woman said. "She's
gone. They're both gone."

The woman dropped her head
like a prisoner being sentenced. "They've gone and left us here
alone."

* * *

A young boy with the solemn, big-eyed face of a
refugee was sitting on one of the double beds inside the motel room.
He couldn't have been more than three or four, dressed in pajamas and
furry slippers. He hopped up and ran over to the woman as we came
through the door, hiding his face in her robe. She hugged him to her
and sank down on the bed.

"Maybe we should call an ambulance?"
Heldman said, staring aghast at the woman's battered face.

She looked up quickly. "No. There's no need. I'm
all right." Her voice was queerly placid.

"You don't look all right," Heldman said.

"Nevertheless, I am." She wiped her eyes
with the back of her hands. "Who did you say you were?"

"My name is Harry Stoner. This is Professor
Arthur Heldman. We're looking for Kirsten Pearson. She's been missing
for several days."

The woman nodded as if she already knew that Kirsten
was missing. "She's been here with Ethan. Since Thursday, I
think. They left this afternoon. Left me here with David."

"You're Ethan's wife?"

The woman nodded again. "Hedda Pearson."
She laughed suddenly. "I guess I'm still his wife."

"
He did this to you?" I asked.

Hedda Pearson didn't answer me. She sat on the edge
of the bed and stared at her frightened son. "Are you po1ice?"

"No. I'm a private investigator. I was hired by
Kirsten's father—Ethan's father—to find Kirsty."

"I've never met Ethan's father," the woman
said matter-of-factly. "Ethan's told me about him, but we've
never met."

The woman stopped talking for a moment. I took that
moment to look quickly around the room. There was a lamp table to the
right of the door, with a manila folder on it. The folder was open,
and I could see a pile of newspaper clippings inside. There were more
loose clippings on a bureau across from the beds. And a handful of
bloody Kleenex.

"What am I going to do?" Hedda Pearson
asked, calmly stroking the boy's head. "Ethan took all our
money, the credit cards, the car."

"I can get you money," I told her.

The woman reacted angrily. "I couldn't leave
here if I wanted to. I can't go anywhere. Where would I go?"

"Don't you have relatives? Parents?"

"We don't talk since I married."

From where I was sitting I could see why. But the
woman obviously didn't.

"I'll simply wait here until he comes back."

"From where?"

"From where he went of course. From the
searching . . .from the hunting." The woman shook her head
suddenly, a violently. Her voice rose to a near—hysterical pitch:
"Madness!"

The little boy began to moan softly, as if he'd been
infected by his mother's hysteria. The woman glanced down at him
guiltily, and her face slowly resumed its queer look of resignation.

I glanced at Heldman, who was standing just inside
the door. "Maybe you could get some coffee?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Do you want some coffee, something to eat?"
I said to the woman.

"Some milk for David, please," she said
softly. "He hasn't had anything since this morning."

I had the feeling that neither one of them had eaten
in hours.

"I'll get the food," Heldman said, and
turned to the door eagerly, as if he were only too glad to escape the
scene in the bedroom.

He went out, leaving me alone with the woman and her
son. The boy, David, stopped crying and crawled up on the bed beside
his mother. Frightened or not, he was sleepy and his eyelids kept
drooping down over his solemn brown eyes. He didn't look as if he'd
been hurt, but I couldn't be sure.

"Is the boy all right?"

"Of course he's all right!" the woman said
with outrage.

"Ethan would never hurt David."

"What caused the fight?"

"The same thing that always causes our lights,"
Hedda Pearson said wearily. "He'll read something in the paper.
See some anonymous two-inch column, and it starts up again."

"
What starts up?"

But Hedda Pearson didn't hear me. "I didn't know
about it when I first met him. If I had, I'm not sure what I would
have done. Probably the same things. Just like he does." She
stared sadly at the sleeping boy. "Only this time . . . I'm
frightened for him. I'm frightened he won't come back."

"Why are you afraid for him, Mrs. Pearson? Where
have Ethan and Kirsty gone?"

"To look for him—the man in the newspaper. "
Her eyes got very large, as if she'd suddenly remembered something
terrifying. "You've got to find them!"