Crash & Burn (14 page)

Kevin and Wyatt helped themselves. They identified a light Windbreaker, a heavy wool jacket, a well-used ski coat, plus a designer leather jacket, the usual suspects for a middle-aged man. Shoes lined up the same. Tennis shoes, old and new, hiking boots, well-worn. Then: a brown pair of slip-on Merrells with their thick soles heavily encrusted with sand.

Kevin pulled them out with a pencil. He gave Wyatt a serious look. “We should have these tested.”

Thomas immediately held up a hand. “Wait. Tested? What do you mean?”

“This sand. Of course, I'm just a detective, not one of the lab geeks, but looks to me to be the same color, consistency, of the roadside sand near your wife's crash.”

“What? It's just sand. Traditional New England sand, dumped everywhere this time of year to help manage patches of ice. Of course I have it on my shoes. After all those days of rain, damn stuff is washed up into piles everywhere. Hell, step out on my driveway.”

Wyatt stared at him. “Sure? We test these shoes, the sand won't come back as matching that stretch of road?”

“Oh, give me a break.”

Kevin gave Wyatt a slight shrug. They were selling their story; Thomas just wasn't buying it.

“These all your husband's shoes?” Wyatt asked Nicole, who'd followed them back to the entryway.

“I think so.”

“And the jackets?”

She hesitated. “Raincoat,” she murmured. “A black-and-silver raincoat. I don't see it.”

Was it Wyatt's imagination, or did Thomas flinch again?

“Mr. Frank?”

“It was wet. I wore it back and forth to the work shed during the storm on Wednesday. Of course it became soaked.”

“Where is it now?”

No doubt about it, the man's voice was sullen. “I hung it up in the basement. In the laundry room, for it to dry.”

Wyatt glanced at Nicole. “Mind showing us to the laundry room? Then we could be all done here.”

Nicole paled. For a moment, Wyatt thought she might refuse. But then she squared her shoulders, shot her husband a look that was hard to interpret and headed once more down the hall.

Turned out, door to the basement was behind the entryway staircase, off the family room. Nicole yanked open the door with more force than was strictly necessary, snapping on a light. Wyatt made out a downward flight of rough wooden stairs, leading to a bare cement floor below.

In front of him, Nicky took a deep breath in, blew it out, then grabbed the railing and began her descent.

The stairs scared her. Wyatt noted her white-knuckle grip on the railing, the way she took each step one by one. Post-traumatic
stress? he wondered. An instinctive response to the site of her first accident? He didn't ask. Just watched her slow but determined progress.

The risers felt sturdy enough, he thought, making his own descent behind her. A little narrow and steep. Coming down them with a laundry basket wouldn't be the easiest task. Day after day . . . Perhaps some kind of fall had been inevitable.

“These days, I slide the basket down,” Nicky murmured, as if reading his mind. “It's probably what I should've done from the beginning. Just toss the clothes down, then make my way after them.”

“What about coming back up when the clothes are clean and neatly folded?”

“That's Thomas's job now. I wash the clothes; he moves them.”

“Why not have him just take over the laundry duty?”

“He ruins my delicates,” she said, and it took Wyatt a second to realize she wasn't joking.

Arriving in the middle of the basement, Wyatt discovered a surprisingly large and open space. Probably meant to be turned into a rec room, man cave, in-law suite, whatever might suit a couple best. One corner had been framed off and finished into a combination laundry room, lower-level bath.

“You guys do this?” he asked Nicky. Kevin and Thomas were still descending behind them.

“One of Thomas's first projects,” she volunteered. “I told him I didn't want to do laundry all covered in spiders. So he made me a real room. Said it was his contribution to clean clothes everywhere.”

“Nice setup,” Wyatt observed, taking in the state-of-the-art front-loading washer and dryer, topped with a long laminate countertop to serve as a folding table. Then, of course, upper cabinets to hold laundry detergents, fabric sheets, cleaning basics.

As a carpenter himself, Wyatt appreciated Thomas's attention to
detail. The room was professional grade, no doubt about it. Which made Wyatt wonder, after going through this much work to create a separate laundry facility, why the hell hadn't Thomas taken the time and effort to build a better, safer flight of stairs?

Kevin and Thomas had arrived in the basement.

“Nice work,” Wyatt told the husband, indicating the space.

He merely shrugged, but Nicky volunteered: “Thomas is good with his hands.”

“Obviously. Must have a good tool collection as well. Miter saw, pneumatic nail gun, cordless drills . . .”

Thomas met his eye. “In my workshop. I craft custom props, remember? A lot of that starts with wooden models, if not finished products.”

“Except now you're moving to plastic,” Nicky spoke up again. No doubt about it, her tone was disapproving.

Wyatt and Kevin returned their attention to Thomas. “I have a three-D printer,” the man said. “Now my clients can send me digital files of their own creations, which I can turn into three-D molds with a push of a button. I call that progress. My wife considers it risky.”

He glared at his wife. She glared back at him.

“My coat,” Thomas said now, turning away from Nicky to wave at a drying rack just off to the side of the dryer. Sure enough, a single silver-and-black raincoat hung from the wooden dowels. Kevin fingered the coat first, lifting the front folds this way and that.

“Dry now,” he murmured to Wyatt.

“Dirty,” Wyatt observed, pointing to a pale smudge marring the front, streaks of sand lining both arms.

“Of course it's dirty,” Thomas said impatiently. “I wore it to my workshop. And given that I'd already turned off the heat for the day, I left on my jacket while I worked.”

“Not afraid of snagging a sleeve in a power tool?” Wyatt asked.

Kevin was inspecting the left cuff of the jacket, which showed definite signs of wear. What were the chances they'd find a thread from the frayed edge of this coat snagged in the bumper of Nicole's car? Heaven forbid anything about this case would be that easy.

“We should take this for a match,” Kevin said, voice deliberately loud.

“Definitely. Mind if we borrow your jacket?” Wyatt asked Thomas, who was looking defensive.

“Of course I mind. It's my only rain jacket. And I already told you. It's dirty and covered in stuff from my workshop; that's all.”

“Is this more sand?” Kevin spoke up. “Like the sand on your shoes. Like the sand we found on the side of the road . . .”

“There's sand everywhere! It's New England, for God's sake, and we've already had several mornings below freezing.”

“Where are Nicky's clothes?” Wyatt asked abruptly.

“What?” Thomas blinked.

“I understand from the hospital staff you took her clothes from the night of the accident.”

“Nothing wrong with that—”

“Where are they? Muddy, bloody, soaked in scotch, sure as hell didn't put them away. So they should be here, right? The laundry room. Waiting to be washed.”

Thomas didn't answer right away. “My wife did nothing wrong,” he said abruptly.

Nicky's turn to stare at him.

“Dr. Celik showed me the tox-screen results: .06. Below the legal limit. Meaning neither of us owes you answers or explanations. It was an accident. Plain and simple. Dark, rainy night. She drove off the road. End of the story.”

“Like falling down the basement stairs?”

“You saw the stairs.”

“And stumbling off the front steps? Come on, Thomas. Just how
clumsy
can one woman be? Stairs, steps, driving a car. To hear you talk, your wife can't get anything right.”

“Go away. We're done with you now.”

“Fine. Then give us your rain jacket. And while you're at it, Nicky's clothes from that night and the tennis shoes she shouldn't have been wearing in the rain, and, oh yeah, the coat she didn't even bother to grab. Provide it all. Give us what we need to prove your
accident.
And maybe, just maybe, we'll leave you alone.”

“I want to see it,” Nicky spoke up suddenly.

The men stopped, stared at her. She was standing in the middle of the basement, arms crossed defensively over her chest. She wasn't looking at the jacket or at any of them. She was looking at a spot at the base of the stairs.

The spot where she'd landed, Wyatt knew without asking. The site of her first accident, when her headaches and memory loss all began.

Thomas frowned. “What do you want to see?”

“The scene of the crash. I want to visit it. Maybe it will help me.”

“Nicky, you have a concussion; you're under doctor's orders to take it easy—”

“I'm going.”

“You'll get another headache—”

“I don't care.”

“I do! This is exactly what they're trying to do, Nicky. Can't you see that? This whole visit, this farce . . . The police are trying to come between us. It's the only way they think they'll get answers.”

“Maybe I want those answers, too.”

“Nicky . . .” Thomas reached out a hand toward his wife.

“What are you afraid of? Tell me, Thomas. If our life is so damn perfect, why can't the police have your rain jacket?”

Thomas didn't answer. Nicky shot him one last look, then turned and stalked up the stairs.

“All I've ever wanted,” Thomas muttered, “was to keep her safe. Take the jacket, all right. Take whatever you want. Then leave us alone. We were better off without you. You have my word.”

He headed up the stairs, chasing his wife.

T
HOMAS
FOLLOWS
ME
up to my bedroom. I think he'll protest more. Maybe grab me by my shoulders, turn me roughly until I have no choice but to face him. Through sheer force of personality, he'll get his way. Do I want him to argue? Manhandle me physically? Pin me against his chest? Is this how our arguments usually end?

But he does nothing at all. Merely stands in the doorway as I pick out a pair of jeans, a heavier sweater, from the guest room closet.

Maybe he didn't come up to argue. Maybe he's simply waiting for me to hand over my stash of scotch.

I close the door in his face so I can change my clothes, finish my preparations. But when I open it two minutes later, Thomas is still waiting for me.

“Are you coming?” I ask curiously, having expected him to update his own wardrobe.

“No.”

It brings me up short. Somehow, I'd been sure he'd ride along, if only to continue his role of protective husband.

“I need to work,” he says.

“Seriously? Your job is that important?”

“This project is.”

The detectives, Wyatt and Kevin, are waiting for us downstairs. I should get moving. But when I go to push pass my husband, he touches my arm, light enough, gentle enough, to draw me up short.

“Why?” he asks quietly. “I've certainly done everything in my power to help you. And still you have a secret supply of scotch?”

I don't say anything, just feel my heart accelerate in my chest. Shame, I think. Remorse. Guilt. Something else I can't quite figure out. I can't look him in the eye. I don't dare pull away. And I still don't volunteer to hand over my stash.

“If you can't dump it,” Thomas continues, “at least tell me where it is. While you're gone, I'll take care of it.”

“No.”

“Nicky, for the love of God, I just got you out of the hospital—”

“It's all I have,” I hear myself whisper, and I understand in that moment that it's true. I don't have family. I don't have friends. I don't remember my past; I don't know if I have a future. What I have is a hoarded treasure trove of tiny little bottles. No more, no less.

“You have your quilt,” my husband says.

I frown at him, uncertain. He points to the daybed, where I notice the butter-yellow quilt has been folded neatly and placed at the end. Did he do that? Did I do that and already forget?

“You should take the quilt with you,” Thomas tells me. “Maybe it'll bring you luck.”

“I can't go on a ride along with two cops with a blanky. That's . . . ridiculous.”

“Nicky.”

The tone of his voice is serious. So serious I pause again, find myself studying him long and hard. A million images flash across my mind. Us laughing, us kissing, us racing across sandy beaches, us scaling rocky mountain cliffs. We lived. We loved. And once, it had been enough. I know all that, staring at him.

I'm sad, in a place way down deep that prior to now, I didn't even know existed. I'm going to lose him. Have known that for a while now. Perhaps even a better reason to hoard secret bottles of scotch. Because for twenty-two years, this man has been my world.
He's my sole companion, my best friend, my biggest burr of annoyance, and my largest source of solace. He's been my
everything.

Except that kind of relationship isn't healthy. For either of us.

“Take the quilt with you,” my husband murmurs. “The next few hours are going to be demanding. You might get tired, suffer another headache. The detectives will understand you having a blanket in case you need to rest.”

He's already reaching for the quilt as he speaks. He presses the solid square in my arms, where I instinctively clutch it against my chest. I feel the softness of the familiar fabric against my fingers, inhale a scent that is both comforting and lonely.

I cried when this quilt came in the mail. Now I want to cry again.

“You have a picture of Vero,” I hear myself say.

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. I found it in your closet.”

My husband smiles, but it is sad, faint. “No,” he repeats quietly. “I don't. Now, if you're really going to do this, time to go downstairs, get it done.

“Just remember,” he says, as he moves me away from him. “The problem with asking questions is that you can't control all the answers. Life is like that. Especially for you and me.”

*   *   *

T
HE
DETECTIVES
ARE
clearly surprised that Thomas isn't joining us. They exchange glances but don't immediately say anything. Nor do they comment on the blanket I'm carrying under my arm. Apparently Thomas is right: A woman with a concussion can get away with most anything.

The younger detective—Kevin, the sergeant had called him—is holding Thomas's raincoat. Apparently, my husband agreed to part with it after all. So they could test sand. Funny, I'd never thought about it before, but in New England, there's a lot of roadside sand.

Except not in our driveway or in our backyard. Thomas had lied about that.

I place the folded quilt on one of the lower steps, open the hall closet, and reach automatically for my tan, flannel-lined barn jacket. Next I find my black clogs, because in the backcountry, with mucky roads and sidewalks, clogs are my shoes of choice. Not my tennis shoes. I can't imagine Wednesday night why I grabbed tennis shoes.

Because they were sitting right there and I had to get out fast.

The phone ringing.

Hello,
I said.

And then . . .

My head hurts. I rub my temples unconsciously. I should take more Advil. Or maybe serious painkillers. But I don't want to fog myself even more. I might be the one who ordered this little jaunt, but I'm also the one fatiguing fast. Thomas hadn't been wrong. I really do need to rest.

I reach into the closet for one last thing. Peg behind the door. It isn't there. I finger the spot again, and the older detective, Wyatt, catches the motion.

“What are you looking for?”

I have to think about it. “A hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“Ball cap. Black.” With a brim I can pull low. For example, to better obscure my features when purchasing from the local liquor store.

I shake off the memory, feeling unpleasant, vaguely dirty, like I've walked through spiderwebs.

“You're sure your husband isn't coming?” the other detective, Kevin, checks.

“He has to work.”

“He works a lot,” Wyatt states.

I nod, because what can I say? According to Thomas this project is important. Except I have no idea what the project is.

The detectives escort me out of the house. They're driving one of the county's white-painted SUVs, the
NORTH
CO
UNTRY
SHERIFF
'
S
DEPA
RTMENT
emblazoned on the side. I've seen the vehicles parked enough times along the back roads. Sometimes, the uniformed officers engage in traffic stops, but Thomas once told me deputies spent most of their time transferring prisoners around the state. The vehicles I see parked here and there are actually waiting to receive or hand off inmates.

Maybe that's why I feel so uncomfortable when the detectives open the rear passenger door and gesture for me to climb in. My wrists should be cuffed, I think. This is it: the beginning of the end.

I'm surprised when Kevin goes around, gets in the other side next to me. To watch my responses, play more of the memory game? Or do they not trust me alone?

I place the quilt on my lap. The feel of it against my clasped hands helps ground me and I'm glad I brought it.

Wyatt puts the large vehicle into gear, backs out of our drive.

I have one last glimpse of my home. Thomas's dark frame silhouetted in the upstairs window.

Then my husband disappears from me.

*   *   *

W
E
DRIVE
FOR
a while in silence. There is a barrier between the backseat and the front, formed from Plexiglas maybe, something scratchy but clear. The rear seat isn't the hard plastic used in so many squad cars for easy cleaning after transporting vomiting drunks. Instead, Kevin and I share the SUV's original gray upholstered bench seat. It's comfortable enough, makes it easier to pretend we're all just friends going out for a drive.

If I look ahead, though, into the front section of the sheriff's transport, I can see the bulked-up dash, with radio, mounted laptop and all kinds of bells and whistles even my cutting-edge Audi never had. Wyatt is murmuring something into the radio, though with the divider closed it's hard to hear. Making further arrangements? Maybe I'll end the night arrested yet.

I try to look out my window, but the impression of rushing darkness makes me nauseous. I wish I were back in the upstairs bedroom, lying beneath my quilt with an ice pack on my forehead. The cool black. The icy oasis to ease the throbbing in my head.

The SUV slows, comes to a stop. Blinker is on. We make a right turn. Off my back road onto a more major thoroughfare. Five minutes pass, maybe ten; then civilization begins to appear. A small strip mall here, a gas station, grocery store, there. A New Hampshire state liquor store.

I feel my body tense. Ready to turn in. Where I buy my supply, I think without thinking. But the sheriff's vehicle keeps on driving.

“Familiar?” Kevin asks me, clearly cuing off my body language.

“I run my errands here.”

“Makes sense. Shops closest to your house.”

“The bottle of scotch I had that night. Do you know where I bought it from?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Was it there, that state liquor store?” Because in New Hampshire, you can buy beer and wine in a grocery store, but not hard liquor. That's controlled by the state.

“Not that store,” the detective says, surprising me.

The vehicle is still moving. This road is nicely paved, which is always a perk in the North Country. I find myself closing my eyes, allowing the movement to lull me. I'm tired. Very tired. That underwater feeling has returned. As if none of this is real, or even happening.

I'm floating along, weightless, senseless. If I could just stay this way, maybe I would never be hurt again.

“Mommy, mommy, look at me. I can fly.”

But it's not the flying that's the hard part. It's the landing, always the landing, that gets us in the end.

I hear myself sigh. A long and mournful sound.

Then the vehicle stops.

Kevin says, “We're here.”

*   *   *

W
HEN
I
FIRST
climb out of the sheriff's SUV, I'm confused. We're not on some darkened back road, but at another small shopping plaza. Local store/deli/gas station, what appears to be a real estate office and, yes, another New Hampshire state liquor store. I don't know this place, is my first thought. Yet I do.

I set down the folded quilt on the backseat, reaching for something instead. Hat, I realize belatedly. I'm still looking for my hat to hide my face from the store cameras. Just as I always do.

Then I feel the first pinprick of unease. Because I'm honestly not
sure: Am I trying to keep from being recognized in area liquor stores, or am I trying to keep from being recognized on local security cameras?

Both detectives are now waiting for me.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“Let's go inside,” Wyatt says, “have a look around.”

I'm in trouble. I'm not sure where or how, but this isn't what I wanted, what I expected. The police are supposed to take me to the scene of my car accident. I will walk around. I will know exactly what I was doing, thinking, that night. I will fly through the air. I will finally find Vero. She will forgive me.

Instead we are . . . here.

“I don't want to,” I stall.

“Just for a moment,” Wyatt says.

“I have a headache.”

“Bet the store sells aspirin.”

I can't move. I just stare at him. Am I begging, am I pleading, can he see it in my eyes? “I bought the bottle of scotch from this store, didn't I? That's why you brought me here. So I'll recognize exactly where I screwed up that night.”

“Let's go inside,” Wyatt repeats. “Have a look around.”

Then he and the other detective are already walking. I feel like I don't have a choice anymore. This is it. Time to confront my fate.

The squat gray building has made some attempt at New England architecture. A covered front entrance, cupola on top, a few false dormers to make it appear more like a house, less like a giant booze-filled supercenter. The automatic doors slide open at our approach. I'm relieved Wyatt and Kevin are in street clothes, because being escorted in by two uniformed officers would've been too much. Still, there's no way to disguise the way they move, assess the scene. They are more than ordinary shoppers, and everyone who
looks up seems to realize it. One woman, with a shopping cart piled high with vodka, instinctively looks away. I share her shame.

No one wants a cop in a liquor store, any more than they'd want a priest in a brothel.

I can't look up. I wander the aisles, find myself almost immediately in front of the collection of scotch. But of course. The Glenlivet is shelved at eye level to entice buyers. The store carries an impressive collection of vintages, including the higher-end eighteen-year-old vice of my choice. I can't help it. I want them all. My hands start to tremble; then my whole body shakes.

My head pounds, but I also want to vomit. They shouldn't have brought me here, I think resentfully. Taking a woman with a head injury on an unnecessary side trip. Taking a recovering drinker to a liquor store.