“Changed a lot, hasn't it?” Mitch said.
“It has.”
“No more trees. Just in the last few years, fucking developers.
Half those places are empty, man, but they just keep building more.”
Mitch turned the radio on and heavy hip-hop beats filled the car. He turned it down quickly, reached behind the passenger seat without looking, fumbled through some cassette tapes.
“Forget it,” Johnny said. “Let's just talk.” He switched the radio off. “You ever see Frazer?”
Mitch didn't answer. Johnny watched the side of his face.
“Yeah,” Mitch said finally. “Every once in a while.”
“Where?”
“Around. I'll walk in some joint and see him there. We don't talk. Shit, sometimes I don't even think he remembers me anymore. He had some heart trouble a while backâor maybe it was his lungs, I don't know. I think it did some damage to his brain too. That and the liquor.”
“He still live at the house?”
“Far as I know. I mean, where's he gonna go?”
They were on Route 33 now, heading east toward the ocean. “I thought he'd be dead by now,” Johnny said.
“Not far from it. He was never the same after the old lady died.”
“You feel sorry for him? After what he did? Three little kids, weren't even his own?”
“I didn't say that. I hate that bastard. But you know, at least he was around most of the time.”
“Been better off for us if he hadn't been.”
When they hit Asbury Park, Mitch turned east on Lake, took them down to the boardwalk and onto Ocean Avenue. It was wide and empty, windblown trash in the streets. They drove past the crumbling Casino, its roof partially collapsed, walls covered with graffiti. The shops on the boardwalk were shuttered and dark, some burned out.
“It's a shame, isn't it?” Mitch said. “Remember what it was like here when we were kids?”
The stoplights above Ocean Avenue blinked yellow, swung in the wind. There were no other cars in sight.
“Things change,” Johnny said.
He looked out at the desolation. Even in the seven years he'd been away, things had gotten worse. The Ferris wheel and rides that once lined the boardwalk were gone. Up ahead, near the squat bulk of Convention Hall, were two cranes, and the boardwalk around the building had been torn up. Sawhorses and yellow tape blocked the way. Across the street were empty lots where buildings had once stood.
“What are they doing up there?” he said.
“Redevelopment. They finally got the go-ahead. They're going to tear all this shit down, build condos. No surprise, I guess. Took them long enough, though. Here it is.”
The Sea Vista was a six-story motel across from the boardwalk. Each room had its own terrace, a sliding glass door. But now some of the glass had been replaced by plywood, and there were letters missing from the sign on the roof.
They pulled into the gravel lot. Only three cars in it, one with flats all around.
“You sure about this, man? You can do better than here. There's a MacIntosh in Eatontown, like forty bucks a night. I'll take you there.”
Johnny shook his head, looked up at the building.
“I want to stay here,” he said. “Sentimental reasons.”
Windblown grit rattled against the car windows.
“Can I ask you something, John?”
Johnny looked at him.
“I know it's none of my business and all, but ⦠what are you going to do?”
“Right now? Sleep for a couple hours. Get some food. Maybe walk down to the Heartbreak later.”
“She ain't there, Johnny. She's long gone.”
“Might be some people there who know her, know where she is.”
“Why bother, man? People don't stay around here like they used to. And that was a long time ago.”
“I guess it was,” he said and opened the door. “She always
did want other things.” He got out, pulled the duffel after him.
“You gonna call me?” Mitch said.
“Tomorrow. I need to get my shit together. Get some things straightened out.”
“I hear you. And Johnny ⦔
Johnny stopped, his hand on the door.
“It's good to see you, man. Good to have you back home.”
Johnny shut the door, stepped back. The Firebird wheeled in the lot, exhaust billowing white in the cold, pulled back onto the empty length of Ocean Avenue.
Johnny lifted the duffel, watched him drive away. Salt wind blew hard from the ocean, flapped his jacket, swirled trash in the lot. He could hear the waves, the crash of spray on the jetty. Gray clouds scudded by overhead. He felt like he was alone on the Earth.
“Here's the truth about that,” Ray said. “Forget all that bullshit you see in the movies, read in books. Falling in love isn't always a good thing.”
He was leaning against the right front fender of the Mustang, hands buried in his overcoat pockets. Harry had the hood open, was using a wrench to tighten the spark plugs he'd just installed. Wind swept through the bare willows in the backyard.
“You speaking from experience?” Harry said. He secured the last plug, put the wrench down on the towel that protected the fender.
“I'm just saying it can be some complicated shit. And everybody's got an agenda. Everybody. Whether they admit it or not.”
Harry fit the rubber boots over the spark plugs, wiped his hands on the towel he'd slung over his shoulder. His right hand was stiff, the first two knuckles still slightly swollen.
“Why don't you pay someone to do this shit for you?” Ray said. “You've got the money.”
“It relaxes me.” He sat in the driver's seat, cranked the ignition. The engine caught, fired. He listened to the sound of it, the cylinders firing smoothly, gave it gas. The pitch of the engine rose and fell evenly. He switched it off.
He got out, shut the hood. High above, a massive V of Canada geese squawked, headed south, outlined against the gray clouds.
“Come on in,” he said. “I'll buy you a beer.”
They went in the back door and Harry washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
“I'm guessing you haven't heard from her since we talked,” Ray said.
Harry shook his head, dried his hands on a paper towel.
“She's all right, as far as you know, though, right? I mean, you have no reason to think anything's wrong out there, do you?”
Harry got two Coronas out of the refrigerator, opened them on the counter.
“I don't know.”
Ray sat at the kitchen table and Harry put a beer in front of him, took another chair.
“What's that mean?” Ray said.
Harry drank beer, shrugged.
“What? You think there's some guy involved?”
“I don't know.”
Ray watched him.
“You have any evidence?” he said.
Harry looked away. “Let's just drop it for now, okay?”
“Up to you, partner. All the more reason you should take a run out there, though, show the flag, claim what's yours.”
“Maybe it's not mine anymore. Maybe that's the problem.”
They drank beer, neither of them speaking. The thermostat on the wall clicked and they heard the furnace kick in downstairs. Outside the wind picked up, shook the windows.
“Heard from Errol?” Harry said after a while.
“Talked to him today. He's fine. Back at work.”
“And the kid, Wilkins?”
“I spoke with the hospital yesterday. He'll live. They're not guaranteeing he'll ever see again, though.”
“He was fourteen.”
“I know.”
Harry shook his head, looked away.
“Thing about Errol is, he's still a little embarrassed about the way it went down. How he ended up flat on his ass while you dealt with the situation.”
“Those were lucky shots. That kid was shaking so bad he couldn't have hit him again if he tried.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But the fact remains he didn't get hit again. You saw to that.”
“That whole situation was a fuckup from beginning to end. You said the same.”
“Not quite. I said it was the aftermath that was problematic.”
“So I'm still fired?”
“You were never fired. You're still on the payroll. I'll find something for you to do. In the meantime, you're consulting.”
“Consulting on what?”
“Consulting on how long it's going to take me to get another beer. And why does this house stay so cold with the heat on.”
“I can answer the first one right away,” Harry said, getting up. “But for the second one, who knows?”
Â
Later that night, wind rattling the house, he felt the pull. He had stopped the driving for a while, when Cristina was here, but in the last few weeks he'd drifted back to it. He'd take late-night drives in the Mustang with no destination, just an aimless run up the Turnpike or Parkway, an hour in one direction, an hour back, stopping only for gas.
He had done it constantly in the months after Melissa died, and then again after he'd recovered from the gunshot wound that retired him. He knew why he did it. It gave him a false feeling of transition, of moving forward, leaving the sad places behind, bound for something better, even if it was only a moonlit stretch of road in the middle of the night. It was motion, it was movement. It helped.
A little after eleven, he put on his leather jacket and gloves, went out to the Mustang. The night was cold and clear. A moon bow glowed above, a single star shining within it.
He started the engine, let it warm up, the heater on full blast. He tuned the radio to an all-news station, swung around in the side yard. At the end of the driveway, he turned right on 537, headed west.
He listened to the radio without hearing it, the night bright around him. He wondered if Cristina was looking up at the same moon. If she knew he was out on the road again. Alone.
Â
The next morning he slept until noon, woke with a headache. He'd taken the other half of the Percocet after he'd gotten home, washed it down with another Corona. For the first time in weeks, he'd slept straight through the night.
He showered, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. He knew he should go for a run, get his blood pumping, chase the fog from his brain. But his limbs felt like lead, his muscles ached. He made instant coffee, slumped on the couch, watched television, found himself drifting into sleep again.
The cordless phone woke him. Moving slow, he reached over, got it from the end table.
“Hey,” Ray said. “What are you up to?”
“Right now? Not a whole hell of a lot.”
“You got a couple hours for me this afternoon?”
He looked at his watch. It was a little after one.
“Sure. Why?”
“Something came up. Somebody I want you to meet. Can you be at the office by three?”
“I guess. Who am I meeting?”
“Does it matter? Trust me. And it might be the answer to our problem.”
“How's that?”
“We'll talk about it later, partner. Get your ass in gear. I'll see you at three.”
Â
Ray Washington's office was off Route 18 in East Brunswick, in a building he shared with a dentist and a computer repair shop. Harry popped two Aleve before he left the house, but the headache was still with him. The flesh around his eyes felt tight, and a vein throbbed in his right temple.
The receptionist buzzed him through into the inner office. There was a coffeemaker in the hall and Ray was filling two blue ceramic mugs that bore the yellow triangular State Police logo.
“Only fifteen minutes late,” Ray said. “That's not too bad. Couldn't find a razor today, huh?”
Harry shrugged. Ray handed him the mug.
“You look like you could use this more than me.”
“Thanks,” Harry said. Ray waved at the open door to his office.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I'll introduce you.”
Harry sipped the steaming coffee, went in.
The woman turned as they came in. She was in her early thirties, light brown hair cut short, almost raggedly. She wore a tight black turtleneck sweater, jeans. A brown leather car coat hung from the back of the chair.
“Who's this?” she said to Ray.
He handed her the second coffee.
“An associate of mine,” he said. “Harry Rane. Harry, this is Ms. Ellis.”
“I thought it would just be you,” she said.
“Harry's worked with me a long time. I want him to hear all this.”
He went to his desk, sat down.
“Money is an issue,” she said. “If there are more people involved ⦔
“Relax,” Ray said. “Like I said, this is just a consult. It won't cost you anything. If it turns into something else, we can work those terms out.”
Harry drew a chair away from the wall, sat down, sipped coffee.
“First things first,” Ray said. “I want to bring Harry up to speed on what you told me. He might have some ideas.”
Harry looked around the office. The walls were decorated with framed photos: Ray with governors, senators, civil rights leaders. On the wall behind his desk was a photo from the State Police Academy in Sea Girt, Harry and Ray standing with a group of cadets on a cold morning, halfway through their training. Harry had owned a copy of the photo once, lost it long ago.
“This is kind of unique,” Ray said to him. “I'm interested in your input.”
“Happy to give it.” He set his coffee mug on the floor.
“Stop me if I get anything wrong,” Ray said to her. “Jump in when you want.” Then to Harry: “Ms. Ellis has an estranged husband.”
“Not husband,” she said. “We were never married. I said that.”
“Sorry. Boyfriend, not husband.”
“Not even that anymore.”
“Whatever,” Ray said. He looked at Harry again. “This individual is also father of a child they had together. Up until recently, the father was incarcerated. He's just been released and Ms. Ellis fears he's going to make an attempt to locate the child, whom Ms. Ellis gave up for adoption as an infant. And she doesn't want that to happen.”
Harry looked at her.
“Was the adoption open or closed?”
“Closed,” she said.
“He knows where the child is?”
“No.”
“
You
know where the child is?”
“
You
know where the child is?”
“No.”
“Then I'm confused. What's the problem?”
She looked at Ray.
“Maybe I made a mistake in coming here,” she said.
“Easy,” Ray said. “You're here now. Let's take it one step at a time.” He looked at Harry.
“The father is apparently a multiple felon. His most recent conviction was for attempted murder. He was already in custody at the time the child was born.”
“But he knows there was an adoption?” Harry said.
She nodded.
“I told him,” she said. “In a letter. Afterward.”
“How did he take it?” Ray said.
“Not well.” She set the mug on the carpet, the coffee untouched. “He wrote me back. He said I had no right to do it, that it was his child too. That I should do whatever I could to get him back. And that if I didn't he would never forgive me. That he would hold me responsible.”
“What else?” Ray said.
“He called too. Left messages. I didn't answer him. But I guess I shouldn't have been surprised by the way he felt.”
“Why?” Harry said.
“He always wanted a child, a son. Always. His family had been ⦠troubled.”
“I can imagine,” Harry said.
“Go on,” Ray said.
“We talked about it, but I wasn't ready. It didn't feel right. When it happened it was almost an accident. We hadn't planned it. When I told him I was pregnant ⦔
She picked the coffee cup up again, didn't drink.
“Take your time,” Ray said.
“He was happy. Happier maybe than I'd ever seen him before. He started making plans. Talked about buying a house, everything. I couldn't tell him how I was feeling. Then ⦠everything fell apart. When I wrote him, told him what I'd done, I don't think he could handle it.”
“What exactly did the letter say?” Ray said. “When he wrote back.”
“Like I said. That I was making a mistake, that I had no right. That I would pay for what I did. That he'd make sure of it.”
“I guess you could safely call that a threat,” Ray said.
“How long ago was this?” Harry said.
“Almost seven years,” she said.
“People say things, write things, in the heat of the moment,” he said. “Doesn't mean they have any intention of following through. Especially after all this time.”