Authors: ROBERT H. LIEBERMAN
Molly didn’t even tackle that one.
While the crew was packing, the producer turned to her and said,“This is going to get you national attention.”
“Great,” said Molly, finally yielding to her impulses. “Now my kid can be a star on milk cartons.”
At least two or three times a day, Molly talked to Tripoli.“We’re still working on it,” he said, but she could detect in his voice, even see in his face when he came by, that they were losing hope. Molly clung to her hope, although with each passing day it grew progressively harder. She spent every single day searching the town and surrounding areas, handing out pictures of Danny, tacking up posters. She checked in with the police constantly, hounding them for any leads and racing off to investigate them on her own. A farmer had found a boy's sneaker in a pasture, size one. One of the little girls from Kute Kids just remembered Danny saying something about
going on a trip. Sometimes she worked alongside Tripoli, and was surprised and grateful that he never made her feel like she was in the way. At nights, although she was exhausted, sleep did not come easy as her mind raced, trying to find an answer.
Late one night, two weeks after Danny went missing, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside the wind had picked up again. She could hear the dry leaves being tossed and scattered around the trailer, the rumble of a distant truck on the nearby highway. Around one in the morning, the Dolphs’ dog started its compulsive barking at the night.
Molly took a hot shower, washed her hair, and got into a fresh nightgown. Sleep would never come, she told herself as she crawled back into bed. But when she closed her eyes, she immediately fell into a deep and dreamless oblivion.
Then, out of the blackness, came the jarring ring of her phone. In the stillness of the night, it seemed unusually loud and harsh.
“Oh!” she groaned aloud, bolting upright in her bed. It took her a couple of extra rings to figure out where she was and what was happening.
Barefoot, she dashed for the phone in the living room, her mind struggling to break out of its haze. The phone was not in the living room, but had been left on the kitchen counter. Groping her way around in the darkness, she finally took the receiver into her hands.
“We’ve got your boy,” said a gritty male voice.
“
What?
”
“You heard me.”
Standing in the unlit trailer, feet bare on the cold linoleum, Molly's senses were suddenly alert.“Who is—?”
“If you wan’ him back, it's gonna cost you.”
Molly's chest tightened.
“What do you want?”
“First, don’t talk to the police.”
“Okay by me. That's no problem.” Something about the voice bothered her.“Just tell me what you want?”
“Money.”
“Fine. How much? Where?”
There was a brief pause, as if the man seemed to be taken aback by Molly's quick agreement.
“A hun’red thousand,” he said. There was the whoosh of a passing car in the background, then silence. He was probably standing outside in a phone booth.
“No problem,” said Molly without a flinch in her voice. Now she knew what it was about the guy that struck her.“Tell me where you want it delivered and it's all yours, mister.”
Silence. “Okay…” he said, stalling.
“Just one thing,” Molly added.“Tell me what he's got on.”
“Huh?”
“Describe what he's wearing. You want to make an exchange. No problem. I got your money. And you got my kid, right?”
“Not right here.”
“But you’ve seen him, right?”
“My partner—”
“Your partner nothing. What's Danny wearing?”
“Clothes,” said the guy.
“Mister, either you’re full of shit or your memory's shot. Which is it?” Molly was now getting angry.
“You want the kid, don’t you? You give me a lot of bullshit, and—”
“You want the money, don’t you?”
“What the fuck is this?” shouted the guy.“I’m gonna hang up if you keep giving me any more of this crap.”
“Hey, be my guest,” said Molly, “But the next time you call, you’d better have a better description.” And
she
hung up.
Molly turned on the lights. She found her pocketbook, rifled
through the jumble of Kleenex and keys and stray lipstick, and pulled out a yellow slip of paper. On it, in Tripoli's awkward scrawl, was the number to his cellular phone.
He answered almost immediately.“Oh, Molly. Yeah…listen, hang on a second, can you?”
She could hear him talking in the background. It sounded like a one-sided conversation. Apparently, he was on another phone.
Then, a minute later, he was back. “Okay, sorry about that,” he said yawning loudly.
“I just got a call from some creep who says he has Danny.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“
Know?
”
“We’ve got a tap on your line. I’m glad you kept him talking.”
“You got him?”
“Got the asshole. Soon he’ll be sitting and staring at a wall of steel bars.”
“So who was it?”
“Just your run-of-the-mill lowlife. Don’t worry about it.”
Molly was thinking about the phone tap.“That means you
knew
Edna called me.”
Silence.
“Well, did you or didn’t you?”
Silence.
“Well, yeah, I knew. Sure.”
“And you—”
“Give me a break, Molly, will you?”
“You’ve got to stop bullshitting me.”
“And you’ve got to trust me a little bit, too. I’m running an investigation. I can’t tell you every little thing that I’m doing.”
“Well I’m glad you had a tap on the line,” Molly confessed. “I was thinking, damn, maybe that jerk really did have Danny and here I was blowing him off.”
“Is that an apology?”
“Don’t get carried away, Trip,” she said.
“
Trip?
” he echoed.
“I’m running my own investigation on you.”
Molly wanted to continue, say something witty, but the only things that kept coming to mind were ragged images: the narrow little suspension bridge dangling over the deep gorge where every year a couple of University students leap to their deaths. The thundering falls down at the high school, its drenching spray coating the slimy sidewalls of the ravine with ice. The crevasses and fissures of the Ithaca landscape that could swallow a child whole. There was comfort in Tripoli's voice, a confident, reassuring tone; as long as they were talking, the horrors seemed held at bay. She knew he was tired, but selfishly craved to keep him on the line.
“Hey, Trip—all right if I call you that?”
“You can call me whatever you want—as long as it's clean.” He tried to joke.
“I’m sorry to ruin your sleep.”
“Nah, no problem. I gotta get up anyhow. What time is it?”
Molly went over to the clock.“4:30.”
“Oh,” he groaned,“I thought it was like six or something. Well, doesn’t much matter. Once I’m up, I’m up.”
“You don’t sleep much, do you?”
“I do. But I’m like a camel. I’ve learned how to store it. Goes with the territory.”
From what Molly could hear, he was now apparently in the kitchen rummaging around dishes, she judged, making coffee.
“What kind of place do you live in?”
“It's an old Greek Revival.”
“Sounds nice.
“It was Kim's idea. My ex. Trouble is, I never got it quite revived.”
Molly laughed softly.
“I redid the kitchen but, well, it's a little rough to say the least. It was this romantic idea we had. You know. Find a nice old house in the country with some land and a barn and fix it up. Trouble is, when the romance went out of the marriage it also deserted the project. And here I am, alone with my insulation and wallboard.”
“You want to come over here?” asked Molly, surprising herself with the audacity of her suggestion.
Silence.
“I’m up for the duration, too,” she quickly added. “I just thought…” Molly was so tired, she didn’t know what she thought. Just knew that if he was near, she’d somehow feel more secure.“You might as well have coffee over here—hey, where do you live, anyhow?”
“Newfield…”
He was clearly debating with himself.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I can come over for a little. But let me just check in at the command post first, okay?”
“Whatever,” she said. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere right now.”
Tripoli got to Molly's place more than an hour later. Camel or not, he looked thoroughly washed out.
“We questioned the idiot who called you. A real A-number-one dirtball,” he said crossing the threshold to her door.“He didn’t know anything.”
“Coffee?” she asked. Molly was dressed in a robe over a pinkish nightgown whose frills peeked out at the neck. Her hair was tousled.
“Huh? Yeah. Sure.” He was so tired he couldn’t think.
She brought him a cup.
“I gotta sit down. I’m a little more blitzed than I thought,” he admitted.
“You want to put your feet up?”
“Well…” he looked at her dubiously. “Yeah. Okay. Mind if I borrow your couch for a minute?”
“Sure.”
Tripoli kicked off his shoes and lay back, the cup balanced on his chest.“Yeah, now this is an improvement,” he sighed. He took a sip of coffee and felt a lot better. “You can’t sleep, either, huh?”
“Sleep? I’m afraid to even close my eyes.”
“I can certainly understand how you feel.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Hey, it doesn’t take much imagination.”
“It's like there's a piece of me that's missing. And not just an arm or leg. More like a chunk carved right out of my insides,” she grasped her chest.“Something vital. I keep thinking…well, what if we don’t
ever
find Danny. One way or another. If you never know, if—”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. I think maybe we should take things as they happen.”
There were tears in her eyes.
Tripoli's face contorted.
“Hey, I’m not going to cry again, don’t worry.”
He motioned for her, and she came over to the sofa and sat down on the floor beside him.
Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand.
She placed her other hand on top of his and let it rest there for a moment.
“A cop's hand,” she muttered, taking it and turning it over to study the inside. It was massive and muscular, the fingers stubby. “They say you can tell a lot about a man by his hands.”
He didn’t say anything, just turned to watch her with his green eyes.
Molly looked at him.“You ever kill anybody, Mr. Cop?”
“No,” he smiled,“though there are some real lowlifes I’d love to see moved to another planet.”
“Ever shoot anybody?”
“Yeah, once. Some idiot who came at me with a knife. I got him in the leg. I’m not particularly proud of it.”
She moved nearer to him. He reached out and tentatively stroked her hair. Tripoli could feel himself losing control. It was nuts, he told himself, but he couldn’t help it. She seemed to be melting under his touch, and his exhausted brain was split in two, the hemispheres debating loudly. The rational half was being drowned out by the thumping and churning on the other side. “Hmmm,” he said with muffled voice, bringing his nose close, “I love the smell of a woman's hair.”
Molly turned her face up to his in an unmistakable offer.
He bolted upright, spilling the last dregs of coffee on his shirt. “Shit!” he said, wiping it off as best he could. “Hey, look,” he said, gathering himself,“This is totally crazy.”
“Sure,” she said. “But I’m crazy already, so what the hell's the difference.”
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.” His hands were shaking.“You’re vulnerable.”
She looked at him.
“And, yeah,” he admitted, “I happen to be kind of vulnerable right now myself.”
He kept talking. She let him talk. Didn’t quite hear his words. Just looked at his face, open and exposed. There was pain written all over it. In that instant, she saw that he needed her almost as much as she needed him.
“Oh…” he uttered when he ran out of words. Molly's cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and she was breathing heavily. The look on her face ignited him, silencing all the competing voices.
Their eyes were locked. Tripoli's face was florid, and she could feel his excitement under her touch. A vein on the side of his neck was throbbing.
Molly felt giddy, drunk with exhaustion as he took her face in his hands. She could feel his breath on her cheek. Then their lips met and Molly was surprised. Not by the kiss, but by its sheer gentleness. She closed her eyes and kissed him, then moved her cheek against the coarseness of his stubble; the hint of a weary sigh bubbling up from deep within him.
They clung to one another, held each other tight.
“This way,” she uttered hoarsely, took him by the hand and led him towards the rear of the trailer, the two of them moving in a trance.
He was disturbed to see the little boy's cot there in the bedroom and his toys just as he had seen them earlier. She took off her robe, pulled back the covers, and then everything was swept away by the wonder of her. Her nightgown was sheer and he could make out her breasts, the darkness of her nipples, the shape of her hips and legs.
“You going to just stand there?” she whispered.
“’Course not.” he said, feeling clumsy, then slipped off his shirt and pants, and slid in next to her.
Molly pressed her face into his chest and clung to him, her grasp so tight it hurt. He could feel his bare chest becoming wet. She was crying, silently weeping.
He moved her slightly away and wiped her tears with his fingers.
“Come,” she said, lifted her nightgown and offered herself to him.
She felt smooth and slippery, and in an instant all his thoughts were banished. He began moving with a tenderness and grace that Molly had never expected from him. She pressed herself upwards, towards him, wishing that she could absorb him completely, deeply, have him enter her and fill the agonizing void. Then she thought about Danny—couldn’t stop herself—and burst into sobs.
He stopped abruptly, pulling back with his arms extended and looked worriedly down at her.
“No, don’t stop,” she pleaded in an urgent whisper. “Go. Go!” she cried, feeling herself being catapulted away. And a moment later,
every worry and thought, every pang of guilt and anger and fear fell by the wayside as Molly felt herself being flung ever higher, the focus of her mind narrowing to a tight beam concentrated at her core. She cried in his ear, mutterings that made no earthly sense but spoke to levels deep within his mind. Now he was gasping for breath, and she could feel his whole body throbbing. If only I could stay here forever, she thought in the recesses of her mind, but then felt herself leveling off.