hugging himself, and his neck hung down for a moment.
He wiped at his eyes and looked up again.
“Thanks, Jason. I’m sorry, too.”
“It’s been a hard time, I know.” He put a hand on
Weston’s shoulder, squeezed. “But we’re all going to be okay,
you understand? We’re going to stick together.”
“Yeah.” Weston stared at the floor. “I know we will.”
III.
N ew facts emerged after Darcy’s
third drink. The words on the newspapers danced for her now, up and to the
right as if hoping to escape her gaze. Damned words, always running from you.
Always hiding things. She stared and stared and even with her eyes wet she
insisted on wrenching every last bit of truth from the stories before her.
Rain splashed through the window she had shattered with a highball glass.
Thunder rolled over Lake Michigan and crashed upon the city. It was midmorning
yet the skies were dark with the wrath of an afternoon storm, nature itself
confused, nothing making sense.
She had tried to call Veronica, but there was no answer. She had even used her
own telephone, which Jason had forbidden for sensitive calls. But would the
police still be monitoring her now? She had tried other numbers, dialing safe
houses and the brothers’ sundry associates, but the few people who
answered insisted they didn’t know anything. She felt that she didn’t know anything, no matter how many times she read the stories. And
something akin to fear, tainted with guilt, kept her from dialing Mrs. Fireson
in Lincoln City. How could Darcy talk to the mother of two dead sons? Would she
somehow be blamed?
On her desk were discarded copies of the Chicago Tribune , the Daily
Times , the Daily News , and the Herald-Examiner . She would
have scanned the red sheets, too, if they had written about him instead of
carping abouttheir political goals and gripes,
overlooking what was truly important. Nothing was important but him. And
they were telling her he was gone.
Two days earlier, she and Veronica had driven separately to Valparaiso, each
taking a long and circuitous route to ensure that they weren’t followed,
checking into the tiny motel under the names they’d been assigned. By
midnight the brothers were officially late. Ronny had fallen asleep at some
point—after endlessly fussing around the room, unsure what to do with
herself without her toddler, whom she had left with relatives—but Darcy
had smoked all through the night, sitting in the room’s sole chair and peering
through a crack in the blinds. Few autos passed that night, and none of them
stopped.
Surely the brothers would have called, unless something had happened. Or
perhaps they were afraid that the girls were being watched— had they been
followed after all? Did the police know about the motel? Parked cars in the lot
of a nearby filling station became suspect. Maids were shooed away. By the next
afternoon, she and Ronny had played cards and read the magazines they’d
brought along, trying to act like friends, but without the presence of the
brothers their true feelings were harder to conceal. Frayed nerves dispensed
with etiquette. By the second morning they felt still more worried, and were
getting hungry. Ronny missed her son and was anxious about leaving him too
long. The brothers must have busted a tire, Darcy had said, trying to sound
casual and unconcerned. Maybe they heard about a roadblock and needed to take a
detour. They’ll get back in touch. She had invited Ronny to Chicago with
her, but Ronny had declined the offer. She had been cold about it, Darcy
thought. As if she feared what was coming and didn’t want to be in
Darcy’s presence when it happened.
Back in Chicago later that day, Darcy had heard the cry as she approached the
first newsstand. The news was called out like a military victory, and she was
the foreigner in her own town, left to mourn what others were celebrating.
The headlines she saw from twenty paces away. Competing for the largest font
and most dramatic
He wiped at his eyes and looked up again.
“Thanks, Jason. I’m sorry, too.”
“It’s been a hard time, I know.” He put a hand on
Weston’s shoulder, squeezed. “But we’re all going to be okay,
you understand? We’re going to stick together.”
“Yeah.” Weston stared at the floor. “I know we will.”
III.
N ew facts emerged after Darcy’s
third drink. The words on the newspapers danced for her now, up and to the
right as if hoping to escape her gaze. Damned words, always running from you.
Always hiding things. She stared and stared and even with her eyes wet she
insisted on wrenching every last bit of truth from the stories before her.
Rain splashed through the window she had shattered with a highball glass.
Thunder rolled over Lake Michigan and crashed upon the city. It was midmorning
yet the skies were dark with the wrath of an afternoon storm, nature itself
confused, nothing making sense.
She had tried to call Veronica, but there was no answer. She had even used her
own telephone, which Jason had forbidden for sensitive calls. But would the
police still be monitoring her now? She had tried other numbers, dialing safe
houses and the brothers’ sundry associates, but the few people who
answered insisted they didn’t know anything. She felt that she didn’t know anything, no matter how many times she read the stories. And
something akin to fear, tainted with guilt, kept her from dialing Mrs. Fireson
in Lincoln City. How could Darcy talk to the mother of two dead sons? Would she
somehow be blamed?
On her desk were discarded copies of the Chicago Tribune , the Daily
Times , the Daily News , and the Herald-Examiner . She would
have scanned the red sheets, too, if they had written about him instead of
carping abouttheir political goals and gripes,
overlooking what was truly important. Nothing was important but him. And
they were telling her he was gone.
Two days earlier, she and Veronica had driven separately to Valparaiso, each
taking a long and circuitous route to ensure that they weren’t followed,
checking into the tiny motel under the names they’d been assigned. By
midnight the brothers were officially late. Ronny had fallen asleep at some
point—after endlessly fussing around the room, unsure what to do with
herself without her toddler, whom she had left with relatives—but Darcy
had smoked all through the night, sitting in the room’s sole chair and peering
through a crack in the blinds. Few autos passed that night, and none of them
stopped.
Surely the brothers would have called, unless something had happened. Or
perhaps they were afraid that the girls were being watched— had they been
followed after all? Did the police know about the motel? Parked cars in the lot
of a nearby filling station became suspect. Maids were shooed away. By the next
afternoon, she and Ronny had played cards and read the magazines they’d
brought along, trying to act like friends, but without the presence of the
brothers their true feelings were harder to conceal. Frayed nerves dispensed
with etiquette. By the second morning they felt still more worried, and were
getting hungry. Ronny missed her son and was anxious about leaving him too
long. The brothers must have busted a tire, Darcy had said, trying to sound
casual and unconcerned. Maybe they heard about a roadblock and needed to take a
detour. They’ll get back in touch. She had invited Ronny to Chicago with
her, but Ronny had declined the offer. She had been cold about it, Darcy
thought. As if she feared what was coming and didn’t want to be in
Darcy’s presence when it happened.
Back in Chicago later that day, Darcy had heard the cry as she approached the
first newsstand. The news was called out like a military victory, and she was
the foreigner in her own town, left to mourn what others were celebrating.
The headlines she saw from twenty paces away. Competing for the largest font
and most dramatic
Similar Books
