Colette and he had been strolling the Toliver’s Point shoreline when the first rumblings of a summer thunderstorm intruded on their reverie. Colette clutched Driscoll’s hands and dragged him from the beach as luminous clouds began to billow. They headed for home. As soon as they reached the bungalow, Colette rushed to the bedroom, where she sought shelter under a comforter.
After the squall passed, she opened her eyes and found herself wrapped in Driscoll’s arms.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Just tell me.”
“You already know.”
An impish smile crept across Colette’s face.
“What?” he frowned.
“It’s time for some sweetness.”
Driscoll rummaged through his pockets and produced a roll of butterscotch Life Savers.
“Silly man,” she said.
“Some gals are never happy.”
“Just tell me.”
“Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Are you happy now?”
“‘Je t’aime a la folie,’ you’re supposed to say. That means you love me madly.”
“That’s right. I do love you madly.”
“And I…you,” she said.
“Then we’d better do something about it.”
“Let’s get married,” she gushed, her face looking like that of a schoolgirl.
“But we’re already married.”
“Let’s do it again! We can have a second honeymoon!”
“Okay. Where would you like to go?”
“You pick.”
“I have a place in mind,” he said. “You’ll love it.”
“Tahiti?”
“Arles.”
“Why there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to see what Van Gogh saw?”
“What a fabulous idea! I can pack up my easel and off we’ll go. When are we going?”
“You pick the date.”
“How about…my birthday?”
“Perfect.”
“Is this for real?”
“Sure it is.”
All talk ceased. Eyes danced. Hands intertwined. Driscoll leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her neck.
“What say we start the honeymoon now?” she murmured.
“Splendid idea,” he whispered.
Chapter 11
Margaret Aligante had put her calls in to Crime Scene and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. She was sure the forensic boys would do their part but had gotten a “not in our neck of the woods” response from a John Nashota at the BIA. She was fatigued. She had spent the better part of the past twelve hours trying to locate Phyllis Newburger. If truth be known, she hadn’t spent much time in the labyrinth that was the NYPD database. This Italian American cop was superstitious, and looking for her childhood psychotherapist in the official archives made her feel as though she’d be inviting someone to take a peek over her shoulder. Margaret, the resourceful woman that she was, chose to cloak herself in the anonymity of the Internet.
Anxiety lay behind her search. And for this tough cop, anxiety took on but one form: men. More precisely, the prospect of a romantic relationship with one. Sure she carried a gun, was proficient in the martial arts of aikido and tae kwon do, and took nonsense from no one. Still, none of these attributes protected her from the pure dread she felt at the mere notion of getting serious with a man. And despite her ever glowing internal red light, Margaret knew she was headed for such a relationship with John Driscoll, once again her boss. They were sure to pick up where they had left off. But now the man was single. Jesus H. Christ! Single! Panic attacks, which she thought she had outgrown, were burgeoning. She knew her only remedy was to seek professional help. But the only psychotherapeutic help she had ever received was provided to her as an adolescent by Phyllis Newburger, who helped her face her childhood demons and withstand their threat. Margaret knew some of those same demons had been awakened, prompting her current feeling of angst. She needed to see the Newburger woman. In her mind, at least, there was no one else to turn to.
Using Google, she happened upon Newburger’s name in affiliation with a Saint Finbar’s Foundling, in New Rochelle. The Web site indicated that she was the director of placement services, but the article, which extolled and praised the foundling’s humanitarian efforts, was eight years old. And so, when she called Saint Finbar’s, she was disappointed but not surprised to hear that Newburger had moved on. Where, they didn’t know or weren’t saying. She thanked the staff member for her kindness and continued her Web search, seeking out associations that might have an address for the woman.
One such organization was the New York chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. A local number was featured, but when she called, a clerk explained that she had gotten a no-hit when searching for any Phyllis Newburger in their database. Good God! thought Margaret. It had been over twenty years. Could the woman be dead?
Margaret ventured on. Her search at Anywho. com produced a long list of Phyllis and P. Newburgers, with both local and long-distance phone numbers. She printed a copy of the listings and put it aside. She would cold-call only as a last resort.
As daylight faded in her small study, the translucent surface of her desktop’s monitor grew brighter and soon became the only light in the room. Margaret pushed her roll-away chair back from the desk and rubbed her eyes. It was then, in the twilight, always in the twilight, that her past caught up with her.
Dusk was imminent. Time to get out of sight; make herself disappear. Go to that place. That place of safe harbor, if only in her mind. But as twelve-year-old Margaret rolled herself into a ball and squeezed herself into the narrow cubbyhole, she could still hear the footfalls outside her bedroom door. She prayed to Saint Rita he’d pass.
Some nights he did. Some nights he didn’t.
And on those nights. On those Godforsaken nights, when the Lord was asleep and the saints were at play, the door would creak open and in he’d walk.
“Margaret?”
His tone was always the same. One of expectancy.
The ritual that followed was played out in darkness.
“You’ll do it to show how much you love me,” he’d say. “C’mon, a little faster. Hold it a little tighter. That’s it! Just like I showed you.”
Margaret followed his instructions carefully. The goal was not to upset the man. God forbid that happened. It only made him drink more and Margaret knew what that meant. The alcohol would dull his senses and interfere with his concentration. Even so young, Margaret realized, perhaps not on a conscious level, but realized nonetheless, that sex was, indeed, ninety percent mental. And if he drank enough, fast enough, she’d have to do it all over again. But this time with her mouth.
“You’re Daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” he’d stammer. “You love your Daddy, don’t you? Now, slow it down. Just use your palm on the tip. That’s it! Oh, yeah! Slower, now. A little slower. That’s it! Ohhh…”
The sound of the phone ringing shattered the nightmare.
“Hello,” she managed.
The voice was familiar but she couldn’t place it; part of her was still under the influence of the terrifying memory
“This is Claire. Claire Bartlett. From the foundling? You called our office. Left this number?”
“Oh? Oh, yeah. Thank you. Have you come up with something?” Margaret’s heart began to race.
“Yes, we have. One of our resident therapists knows what became of Miss Newburger.”
“That’s good news. Tell me.”
“I’m afraid she’s dead, Miss Aligante. She died close to three years ago. At an assisted-living facility in Nanuet.”
Margaret tried to respond but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” said the caller and after a moment of silence hung up.
As Margaret placed the receiver on its cradle, she was certain she heard the sound of footfalls making their way toward her door.