Found money

10

Two days had passed, and Amy was still working up the nerve to phone Ryan Duffy. Just one question — the two-hundred-thousand-dollar question — had her paralyzed: Did she have the right Duffys?

She had done some serious checking. Yesterday, she’d even taken a sick day from the firm and driven all the way to Piedmont Springs, looking discreetly for obvious signs of wealth, a lifestyle befitting a family that could spare an extra two hundred thousand dollars. She found nothing of the sort. The Duffys owned a simple house in a rural middleclass town. The only car in the driveway was an older Jeep Cherokee. Ryan’s clinic had the street presence of an abandoned five-and-dime store, serving patients who looked like they might barter sheep for services. And Frank Duffy had worked for wages his entire life.

Her findings had so befuddled her that last night she’d gone back to the computer to check the remaining Jeanette Duffys on her list. No one, however, seemed more promising than the Duffys of Piedmont Springs. Amy figured that whoever had sent the money didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to do it. Something had to trigger the decision — a traumatic and life-altering event, like Frank Duffy’s illness and impending death. It couldn’t be coincidence. It had to be these Duffys. For whatever reason, they just didn’t flaunt their money.

Amy had to be cautious in her approach. It simply wouldn’t be smart to phone Frank Duffy’s son and say, “Someone in your family appears to have sent me a box full of cash for no good reason.” Greedy heirs weren’t likely to explain why she’d gotten the money. They were more likely to say, “It’s mine, give it back.”

At lunchtime Thursday, Amy grabbed a Pepsi and an orange from the employee lounge and went back to her office. She peeled the orange and broke it into wedges as she glanced at the handful of snapshots she’d taken of the Duffy house. Eight of them were spread across her desk. It had seemed wise to take pictures, just in case she ever had to go to the police. Police were always taking pictures — at least that was her experience. She remembered when she was eight, when her mother died. The police were all over the house taking photographs.

Funny, but the Duffy house resembled her old house in some ways. An old two-story frame with green shutters and a big porch out front, the kind they didn’t seem to build anymore. She wondered if Frank Duffy had died in that house, as her mother had died in theirs. She wondered who had found his body, the first to realize he was gone. The thought chilled her. There was something eerie about a house in which someone had died, which was only compounded when, as in her house, that someone had died so violently. Amy hadn’t gone back to her old house since the night of the gunshot. That is, she hadn’t physically gone back there. In her mind, she’d relived that night many times. Now, alone in the silence of her office, the photographs of the Duffy house seemed to blur, drifting out of focus. Her mind, too, began to drift. The image in the photographs looked more and more like her old house, until she could see beyond the likeness, see right into her old bedroom. She saw herself on that unforgettable night, a frightened eight-year-old girl alone in her dark bedroom, shivering with fear on a warm summer night, unsure of her next move…

Amy was sitting on the window ledge, a tight little ball with her knees drawn up to her chin. She had waited for another gunshot, but there had been only one. Not another sound. Just silence in the darkness.

She didn’t know what to do, whether to run or stay put. Someone could be out there, a burglar. Or Mom could need her help. She had to do something. It took all her courage, but slowly she lowered her feet to the floor. The wooden planks creaked beneath her feet, startling her. She took a deep breath and started toward the door. She stepped lightly, so as not to make a sound. If there was someone out there, she couldn’t let them hear her.

The knob turned slowly in her hand. She pulled the door toward her. It opened a crack, then caught on something. She tugged harder. It would open no more than a two-finger width. With her cheek pressed against the door frame, she peered out the narrow opening. She blinked, confused. A rope was tied to her bedroom doorknob. The other end was looped around the banister across the hall. With the door open just an inch, it was taut as a tightrope.

Someone on the outside had tied her inside her bedroom.

She closed the door, trembling. On impulse, she ran into the closet and shut the door. It was pitch dark inside. She was accustomed to the dark, all the nights she’d spent with her telescope. For the first time, however, she was truly afraid of it.

The flashlight, she thought.

It was in there, she knew, with her astronomy books. The third shelf. She groped in the darkness, sorting through her possessions by touch. Finally, she found it and switched it on. The brightness hurt her eyes, so she aimed it at the floor. The closet glowed. Her eyes adjusted. Shoes lay scattered on the floor. Her clothes hung on a rod directly above her head. To the side were the built-in shelves, reaching like a ladder from floor to ceiling. At the top was a panel — an entrance to the attic.

She had used it once before to make an escape, when she was playing hide-and-seek with her friends. It led to the guest room across the hall. When her mother had found out, she’d told her never to go up there again. Tonight, however, was clearly an exception.

Amy was frightened to go up alone but even more afraid to stay put. She swallowed hard for courage, then tucked the flashlight under her chin and climbed up the shelves.

…The phone rang on her desk, rousing her from her twenty-year-old memories. Just a friend calling for lunch. “Sure,” said Amy. “Meet you in the lobby at noon.”

She hung up, still distracted, connected to her past. It had taken a lot of courage for that little girl to climb out of that closet and see what lay outside her room. It was time to dig inside and find the same fortitude.

She picked up the phone and dialed Ryan Duffy at his clinic. This time, she stayed on the line when the receptionist answered, unlike yesterday when she’d lost her nerve and hung up. “May I speak to Dr. Duffy, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s with a patient.”

“Can you interrupt him, please? This will take just a minute.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“No, but-”

“If it’s not an emergency, I’ll have him call you.”

“It’s personal. Tell him it’s about his father.”

The receptionist paused, then said, “Hold one moment.”

Amy waited, reminding herself of the dos and don’ts. Tell the truth — to a point. First name only, not her last. No mention of where she lived.

“This is Dr. Duffy.”

“Hi,” she said, somewhat startled. “Thanks — thanks for coming. I mean, for answering. The phone, that is.” Jeez, she thought, cringing. Taylor could have put together a better sentence.

“Who is this?”

“You don’t know me. But I think your father must have. Or maybe it was your mother.”

“What? Is this some kind of crank?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense. Let me just start at the top, and you can decide what’s going on for yourself. You see, I got a package a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t have a return address, but I’m certain it came from either your father or your mother. I know your father passed away recently, and I didn’t want to trouble your mother.”

Ryan’s voice suddenly lost its edge. “How do you know it came from my parents?”

“That’s just something I figured out.”

“What was in the package?”

“A gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“A totally unexpected one. I don’t really want to get into it on the telephone. Could we maybe meet somewhere and talk about this?”

“I’d really like to know more about this gift.”

“And I’d be more than happy to tell you,” said Amy. “But please, not on the phone.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Just someplace public, like a restaurant or something. Not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t know you.”

“Okay. You want to meet here in Piedmont Springs? I can do it tonight, if you like.”

Amy hesitated. It was a five-hour drive from Boulder each way, and she had just made the trip yesterday. Long trips in her clunky old truck were a complete roll of the dice, especially at night. And another day off from work was pushing it. “That’s kind of far for me.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Well, tomorrow I’ll be in Denver on a personal matter. Is that any better for you?”

Amy was sure she could think of some computer-related excuse to go to the firm’s Denver office. “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. Do you know the Green Parrot? It’s a coffee shop, dessert place at Larimer Square.”

“I’m sure I can find it.”

“Great,” said Amy. “What time is good for you?”

“I have an appointment at two. Not sure how long it will last. Let’s say four o’clock, just to be safe.”

“Four it is,” she said.

“Hey,” he said, catching her before the hang-up. “How will we know each other?”

“Just give the hostess your name. I’ll ask for Dr. Duffy when I get there.”

“See you then.”

“Yes,” she said eagerly, “definitely.”