Two Days Gone Read online

  Fourteen

  DeMarco was still in his office at six that evening, still trying to piece together the disparate shards of Thomas Huston’s life. He thought of all the times he had seen the Hustons together at public events—the summer carnival, the Pumpkin Parade, a spaghetti dinner fund-raiser for a local girl with leukemia. In every case, they had appeared the epitome of a happy family, smiles on all their faces, Claire and Thomas holding hands, the kids laughing, little Davy all eyes and sloppy grin. They could have been poster models for the traditional family unit.

  He knew how easy it is to mask the darker emotions from most people, to hide sorrow, anger, a glowering hostility in the shadows of the heart. Most people have no desire to peer into those shadows. Who needs the extra weight of other people’s burdens? But some people, the unlucky few, are wired to see the shadows first. DeMarco considered it a kind of handicap, like color blindness or extreme myopia. And on those occasions when he had seen Thomas Huston in public, DeMarco had sensed that the man’s happiness was genuine, the joy he took from his family. But there had been shadows too. They lurked in the corners of Huston’s eyes. They pulled at the corner of his mouth when he smiled.

  And Huston noticed the same in me, DeMarco told himself. That sadness in your eyes, he'd written.

  Because Huston had his demons too. He had been very good at keeping them caged, of channeling them into his fictions, at least until this past weekend. Then, for some reason, the beasts had escaped. But where had they taken him after the slaughter? And where would they lead him next?

  A knock on the doorframe interrupted his thoughts. DeMarco looked up from the lined white pad on which he had been scribbling notes. Trooper Carmichael stood in the doorway, a plastic jewel case in hand.

  “The Outlook Express files,” Carmichael said. He strode forward and laid the case atop DeMarco’s notepad. A small man with a tight mop of curly, black hair, Carmichael had a wide-eyed, nervous look that always reminded DeMarco of a Chihuahua his mother had had when he was a boy. The dog’s name was Tippy, a frenetic, little creature full of useless energy. It had had a passion for digging holes in the yard, then running from one to the next like a frenzied treasure hunter, shoving its muzzle in deep. Carmichael was like that with computers. He was happiest with his nose close to a keyboard, his fingers scrabbling to claw treasure from computer code.

  “I’m still working on the deleted files and a few password-protected documents. Should have those for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  DeMarco eyed the jewel case with the shiny disk inside. “Anything interesting?”

  “I don’t read them, Sergeant. I just pull ’em.”

  “Thanks,” DeMarco said. “Now take a break, okay? I don’t want you working through the night again.”

  Carmichael grinned. “I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “They involve a woman, I hope.”

  The trooper blushed. “My buddy and I are writing a program that sends spiders out through the entire Internet.”

  “Spiders?”

  “Little pieces of program. They scour the Internet and grab whatever type of information they’re programmed to grab. In our case, they’re looking for juvenile offenders, anybody between the ages of six and eighteen who’s ever been picked up for anything from fighting at school to committing an actual crime. Within whatever radius we want to establish. Plus any kid who’s blogged or sent email with any kind of inflammatory language in it, whether it’s directed at an individual or a group or whatever.”

  “Sounds ambitious,” DeMarco said. “And its purpose?”

  “To compile a database. Of every juvenile in the county predisposed to become an adult offender.”

  “Predisposed?” DeMarco said.

  “Anything happens in a particular city or town, the program will tell us precisely who to pick up based on the nature of the crime. Think of the guesswork it will eliminate!”

  “No more detective work.”

  “Not only that but, and here’s the exciting part, we’ll be able to see them coming.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  “Remember that movie with Tom Cruise? Where they can see a crime coming before it happens? We’re almost there. We can almost really do that. Our program will build a profile of intent based on past history. It’s not only informative but deductive. Removes all possibility of human error.”

  “Christ,” DeMarco said.

  “I know! Homeland Security has their own version already. Problem is, they don’t like to share. I don’t really care though, because we’re having so much fun just putting this thing together.”

  Sometimes DeMarco felt that the world had come to a standstill. At other times, and this was one of them, he felt that the world was spinning so fast he was in danger of being flung into the void.

  He laid a hand on the jewel case. “Well, in the meantime…”

  Carmichael winked. “I’ll have the rest of it by tomorrow noon.”

  “Good,” DeMarco said. “Unfortunately, I just thought of something else. You have time to monitor social media for any chatter about the case? Not just the usual kind of talk about it, but anything implying, you know, insider knowledge. Any one individual taking an inordinate amount of interest in what’s transpiring. You got time for that?”

  “If you need it, I’ll find the time.”

  “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  Carmichael’s brisk exit seemed to suck the air from the room. DeMarco sagged in his chair, rubbed both hands over his face, and felt the world spinning like a centrifuge.

  He got up, still feeling wobbly, and headed to the restroom to wash his hands.

  Fifteen

  For dinner that evening, DeMarco opened a can of white albacore tuna and dumped it onto a plate. He sliced tomatoes, onions, and mozzarella for a quick caprese salad, sprinkled it with dried basil, drizzled Italian dressing over everything. He carried this and half a water glass full of Jack Daniels to the dining room, where his computer sat on the table amidst an ever-growing accumulation of file folders and miscellaneous papers.

  On the CD Carmichael had made, there were sixty-seven emails to or from eight different sources, most from the inbox, none more than six weeks old. Apparently, Huston was not an email pack rat and kept his files cleaned out. Carmichael had organized the messages into separate folders labeled with the names of the correspondents.

  The first folder contained messages between Huston and his literary agent. The agent’s tone brimmed with optimism about the buzz The Desperate Summer had generated. He reported that inquiries about film rights were coming in daily, that he was negotiating audio rights and, through his subagents, foreign language rights in nine countries. A large print edition was scheduled for release in February, the mass market paperback the following May. In one of the emails, he predicted a half-million dollar advance for Huston’s next novel. “So for Chrissakes, Tom, get fifty pages or so to me along with an outline,” he wrote. “We’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot, man, and the fire is fucking blazing right now. Plus, I recently met a woman who’s working in Spamalot, drop-dead sexy brunette with legs that go all the way to the most exquisite ass I’ve ever drooled over. Promised I’d take her to Ibiza if she’ll sleep with me, so I need that fucking commission!”

  Huston’s replies showed a more literary concern. “I plan to take my time with this one, Harry. For one thing, the plot is a lot more convoluted. Plus the research isn’t easy. I have to watch my step. Maybe that brunette would settle for Roosevelt Island instead of Ibiza? Tell her there will be fewer terrorists.”

  In another email, he complained about his reputation. “My problem is I succeeded too well with my goal of bridging the gap between serious and commercial fiction. I made the plots too strong. The books have sold too many copies. So now according to the Washington Post I’m a ‘veteran mystery writer.’ And not o
ne of my books is a true mystery.”

  In another: “Did you notice that every fucking review so far has started off by announcing that I got a 200k advance for Summer? Is that how everybody judges a book these days, Harry?”

  DeMarco sipped his whiskey. “So he does have a few bugs up his ass,” he said. “Not a happy camper at all.”

  But Huston wore a different face in the emails to his students. Most were filled with encouragement and practical advice: “Don’t even worry about publication for now. You’re a strong writer, Nicole, and will get even stronger. So concentrate on that. Publication will come when you’re ready for it.”

  “It’s all in the execution, Ben. Learn when to dramatize and when to summarize. You do too much of the latter and not enough of the former.”

  All told, there were emails to or from nineteen different students. Huston signed all of his emails TH. In all of his remarks there was a kind but insistent honesty that DeMarco had to admire. “Not a man for blowing smoke up your ass,” DeMarco said.

  Most students had received only one or two emails from Huston, but a student named Nathan Briessen had rated at least one each week for the past five weeks. All were responses to messages sent by Briessen with questions about structure, first- or third-person voice, amount of backstory to include. What struck DeMarco as interesting, though, was that three of Huston’s responses, though each started out with practical advice and encouragement, ended with some small variation on the same statement and question: Research this week. Care to join me? Even more intriguing was the most recent message, eight days old: I need to talk to Annabel again. Want to come along?

  “Annabel?” DeMarco said. “Who the fuck is Annabel?”

  He wrote Nathan Briessen on the tablet beside the keyboard, and beneath that name he wrote Annabel?

  Two files contained correspondence between Huston and the dean of humanities, Huston, and the provost. Congratulations from the administrators, invitations to lunch, effusive glad-handing and backslapping, polite thank-yous from Huston. The only interesting message from the inbox had come from the dean, who wrote, Just wanted you to know that I’ve received a cc of Professor Conescu’s diatribe. Be assured that my response to it will be the usual one. Still, we must tread lightly here. Litigation can be messy, whether justified or not.

  “Hmmm,” said DeMarco, tilting up his glass, which was empty. He considered refilling it but was too eager to open the file labeled Conescu. The first message was a two-page, single-spaced, and sometimes barely comprehensible denunciation of Huston. Its salutation was ominous. Sieg Heil, mein Chairman! The letter then went on to blame Huston and some other individual—“you and your sycophant henchman both”—for the department’s recent decision to deny Conescu’s application for tenure. Conescu promised a lawsuit charging “ethnic discrimination.” The letter was punctuated with pejoratives, most of them in all caps or bold type: villainous, despicable, contemptible, sadistic. He called Huston a “yuppie neo-Nazi,” a panderer, a harlot, an asswipe. He wished him “a cancerous life full of pustules and misery.”

  DeMarco wrote Conescu on the tablet.

  Seriously pissed.

  Huston’s response to the message was more measured:

  I understand your anger, Valya, but I am only one of nine colleagues who voted against tenure. And I assure you that I have nothing against you personally and not a single negative feeling toward Romanians in general. You know my concerns; I’ve made them very clear in the department meetings. As the chair of the tenure committee, it is my responsibility to do so, and I take that responsibility seriously. But, for the record, here they are again: I consider it improper that you charge your students $60 each for a textbook you wrote and paid to have published. Had the book been brought out by a reputable trade publisher, it would have been better edited. As you will recall, I made a photocopy of the first two pages for you and marked 19 spelling, grammatical, and typographical errors in those pages alone. And this is a composition text for beginning writers. How can we justify its use as such? It is one thing to self-publish for your own pleasure but another thing to force your students to purchase a book that is otherwise unmarketable and, unfortunately, riddled with the kind of errors we hope to teach these students to avoid. I consider it an abuse of our academic freedom that the administration has allowed this practice to continue for the past three years. That is why I cast my vote against awarding you tenure.

  DeMarco reached for his tablet. He put an exclamation point after Conescu’s name.

  The remaining file also contained three messages, two from Huston’s colleague, the poet Robert Denton, and the other from Huston to Denton. In the first, Denton stated that he too had been cc’d a copy of Conescu’s angry letter, and added:

  I want to see that slimy, slinking bastard’s balls cut off and nailed to the wall. But chickenshit you know who is quaking in his Guccis over the possibility of a lawsuit.

  Huston, in his response, cautioned restraint.

  The vote was 9–3 against him. Is he going to sue all of us? It’s all bluff, you know that. He blows off steam in these letters, then he sits in the department meetings and never makes a peep.

  Denton’s follow-up message was dated the Friday before the murders.

  Why don’t you write something for the Chronicle of Higher Ed, maybe even the NY Times? Talk about how all these academics who couldn’t write a fucking greeting card are turning to self-publishing and then patting each other on the back for getting “published.” About how the poor fucking kids who have to use those books don’t know any better. Talk about what a damn fraud the whole business of self-publishing is in academia. You’ve got the rep, man. You could pull it off. You’re the wine master. I’m just a lowly grape picker.

  The folder contained no response from Huston. Had he responded in person or not at all? On the tablet DeMarco wrote Robert Denton.

  It was nearly eleven p.m. when DeMarco finished reading the emails. His back ached and his eyes stung, but he now had a list of four individuals he could consider persons of interest. Huston was still the primary suspect, but it was now clear that his life had not been as idyllic as it had seemed. DeMarco took no pleasure in that discovery.

  Sixteen

  I have my wallet, Thomas Huston told himself. I have my debit and credit cards. I have ninety-three dollars in cash. I have my wedding band. My wristwatch… Where is my wristwatch?

  It was not on either wrist nor in any of his pockets. A Concord Saratoga chronograph, silver-and-black face set in a brushed stainless steel case, black rubber band, a birthday gift from Claire and the kids. All of his nice things were gifts from Claire and the kids. But where was it now? He was wearing it yesterday, wasn’t he? And the day before?

  He remembered climbing into bed with Claire on Saturday night. Removed his clothing, looked at the watch, decided to leave it on because he planned to do a little work that night, didn’t want to let himself get carried away and remain at his desk all night, and there was no clock in his office, just the computer. But he preferred to consult his watch every now and then; he saw not just the time but his family’s love in it, carried that love on his wrist.

  So he had been wearing the watch when he and Claire made love, then he held her until she fell asleep, then he slipped out of bed and quietly dressed again. He was worried that the garbage had not been taken out, and he had some thoughts in his head that he wanted to get down before they slipped away from him, but they were still rough edged and awkward so he let them tumble over and over, repeating and colliding and polishing themselves while, after taking care of the garbage, he took a slow, short stroll through the night, stood and breathed in the air, then returned to his office and wrote in his journal for a while.

  What was the last thing you wrote? he asked himself, and tried to remember. You wrote, “He knew what he had to do,” didn't you? That scene, those opening lines? And then you wrot
e about Claire, right?

  The sentences had been forming ever since he had lain in bed and watched Claire undressing, had kept working in his head all through the lovemaking. She is a dark-haired woman, green eyed and dusky with secrets. Her mouth is sensuous but sad, limbs long and elegant, every movement languid. Even her smile is slow with sorrow.

  And now a flush of panic, a writer’s terror. You got that down, didn’t you? Yes, he was sure he had. He had written that and more, a long descriptive passage that he planned to break up later, a brushstroke here and there. And then he would—

  No, he told himself, stop it. Keep your mind here and now. The watch is gone, it doesn’t matter where or when or how. Everything is gone. The past is history, pages torn from a book. Be here now. Right here.

  You’ve got some money and your useless credit and debit cards. You can buy food. Where are you going to buy some food?

  From within the line of trees that began just ten yards off North Street, he surveyed the possibilities. Across the street and to his right, maybe thirty paces away, the Country Fair, an all-night gas station and convenience store. Beside it sat Basic Kneads, a sandwich shop that specialized in homemade breads and croissants. But the sandwich shop was dark, as was the Giant Eagle a block and a half east. So it’s at least nine o’clock, he told himself. Probably an hour later, maybe two judging from the lightness of traffic.

  He turned his attention to the convenience store again. Two cars at the pumps. One man pumping gas, the other car empty. Passengers in the store. He waited and watched. Soon the first car drove off. Several minutes later, a teenaged boy and girl came out of the store laughing, each carrying a large plastic cup, sipping from straws. She climbed in behind the wheel, the boy on the other side. Engine noise, headlights, little blue car moving away and down the street, happy lives continuing.