Gavin Chambers was at the window of his office high-rise in midtown, looking down at the “protestors” — a ragtag group of aging grunge-ola that probably numbered no more than twenty — mulling inside the building’s courtyard. The chant — “Release the tapes!” — was hardly catching fire. The quasi-vagrants held up signs for every left-wing cause. Two of the women donned faded pink knit caps. According to the various signs, they wanted to Free Palestine, Resist, Abolish ICE — but their hearts didn’t seem to be in it today. The march looked to Gavin more like a languid sway.
Delia joined him at the window. “Isn’t that—?”
“Saul Strauss,” Gavin said with a nod. His old war buddy wasn’t hard to spot, Saul being close to six six and sporting the long gray ponytail that was so on point it could only be there to be on point.
Dash finished up a phone call and moved next to his wife. There was an ease between Dash and Delia, always, a flow, and while Gavin had had plenty of great relationships in his life, he envied these two. People can fool you — they fool you every day — but Gavin had been hanging around the Maynards long enough to recognize that Dash and Delia were the real deal, the kind of love that makes yours, no matter how good, seem somewhat inadequate. It wasn’t just what they said. It wasn’t just how they looked at each other or casually touched. There was an intangible here, that mix of great friendship and physical attraction, and maybe that was something Gavin was projecting on them, but when they talk about a soulmate, one person in this world that is perfect for you and almost impossible to find, Dash and Delia seemed to have done just that.
“What do the protestors want?” Delia asked.
“You can hear them,” Gavin said. “They want the tapes.”
“There are no tapes,” Delia replied.
“They don’t believe that.”
“Do you, Gavin?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’ll protect you either way.”
Dash finally spoke. “That’s not what she asked.”
Gavin looked at Dash, then back at Delia. “Of course there are tapes,” Gavin said. “Are they as damaging to Rusty as our hemp-adorned friends below would like to believe? Not for me to say.”
Dash moved back toward his office desk. “You understand the situation then.”
Gavin didn’t bother with a response.
“We aren’t safe,” Delia said, moving with her husband. “If Crash could be approached like that in his very school—”
“That won’t happen again.”
Dash put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. Again Gavin couldn’t help but notice the ease, the naturalness, the tenderness, in this everyday move. “Not good enough.”
“Who was that man?” Delia asked.
“Crash didn’t tell you?”
Delia shook her head. “He said he kept asking about Naomi Pine.”
“They call him Wilde.”
“Wait, he’s that weird mountain guy they found in the woods?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it. What does he have to do with Naomi Pine?”
“He is something of a surrogate parent for Matthew Crimstein. For some reason, Matthew and his family are interested in Naomi’s whereabouts.”
“Crimstein,” Dash repeated. “As in Hester?”
“Yes.”
No one liked that.
“Crash swears he doesn’t know anything about Naomi,” Delia said. When Gavin didn’t respond, she asked, “Do you think he does?”
“Crash has been in touch with her. Naomi Pine, I mean. As you probably know, she disappeared a week or so ago playing a game called Challenge.”
“Some of the mothers were talking about that.”
“Crash... encouraged her to do it.”
“Are you saying he forced her?”
“No, but peer pressure was a major factor.”
“You don’t think Crash did something bad to this girl, do you?”
“Very doubtful,” Gavin said. “He’s too monitored.”
They both were visibly relieved.
“But that doesn’t mean he knows nothing about it.”
“So what do we do? I don’t like this.” Delia looked down at the courtyard again. Saul Strauss was staring straight up, almost as though he could see them through the one-way windows. “I don’t like any of this.”
“I would suggest the family take a bit of a break from this town. Maybe travel overseas.”
“Why?”
“People perceive Rusty Eggers as an existential threat.”
Gavin Chambers waited for one of them to argue this point. Neither did.
Delia said, “Gavin?”
“Yes.”
“We are safe, right? You won’t let anything happen to our son.”
“You’re safe,” Gavin said. “He’s safe.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Matthew made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sat alone at the kitchen table, ate it, still felt hungry, made a second, and was eating when there was a knock on his back door.
He looked out the window and was surprised — closer to shocked — to see Crash Maynard. Prepared for anything, Matthew carefully opened the door halfway.
“Hey,” Crash said.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in a second?”
Matthew didn’t move or open the door any wider. “What’s up?”
“I just...” Crash used his sleeve to wipe his eyes. He looked out at the yard. “Remember when we used to play kickball out here?”
“In fifth grade.”
“We sat next to each other in Mr. Richardson’s class,” Crash said. “He was out there, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“But he was also kinda awesome.”
“He was,” Matthew agreed.
“We were tight then, remember?”
“Yeah,” Matthew said. “I guess.”
“It was easier.”
“What was?”
“Everything. No one really cared about who had the big house or what other people thought. We just... we cared about kickball.”
Matthew knew this wasn’t exactly true. It may have been a more innocent time, but it wasn’t that innocent.
“What do you want, Crash?”
“To say I’m sorry.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks. His voice was more a sob now.
“I’m so damn sorry.”
Matthew stepped back. “Why don’t you come in?”
But Crash didn’t move. “There is so much shit going down around my house right now. I know that’s no excuse, but it’s like I’m living on top of a volcano and I’m waiting for it to erupt.”
Gone was the high-school-hallway confidence, the swagger, the sneer. Matthew wasn’t sure what to make of this, but something felt very wrong. “Come on in,” he tried again. “We used to drink Yoo-hoo, right? I think my mom still has some in the fridge.”
Crash shook his head. “I can’t. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Who?”
“I just wanted you to know, okay? I’m really sorry I hurt you. And Naomi. What I did...”
“Crash, just come in—”
But Crash was already running away.
Wilde didn’t feel like going back to his Ecocapsule yet.
His regular hangout — as much as one could say he had such a thing — was a bar located in the atrium lobby of the glass-towered Sheraton hotel on Route 17 in Mahwah, New Jersey. The hotel advertised itself as “unfussy yet upscale,” which seemed pretty close to the truth. This was a hotel for businesspeople, here for one night, maybe two, and that worked for both the guests and Wilde.
The Sheraton’s bar had a nice open feel, being in a glass atrium. The bartenders, like Nicole McCrystal who gave him a welcoming smile as he entered, stayed the same, while the clientele, mostly young executives blowing off a little steam, constantly changed. Wilde liked hotel bars for that latter reason — the transient nature, the openness, the rooms and beds being conveniently located only an elevator ride away should they be needed.