The Dead Man

Chapter Sixty-nine

Dear Daddy, I'm so sorry for everything. You and mom tried so hard and you did your best. I used to think I did my best too. Maybe I was just kidding myself or maybe my best just wasn't good enough. I don't know why things turned out this way. You warned me and I wish I had listened. I thought the money would take care of everything but I don't even have that so I guess the joke is on me. Hah, hah. I wish I could come home but I can't. They would send me to jail and that scares me too much to even think about it. Hold onto Monkey Girl. All that's left of me belongs to her. I love you.

Wendy.

I sat on the bed in Maggie Brennan's bedroom, reading and rereading Wendy's letter, holding the page to my face, hoping to catch a scent of her. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure her, summon her, or feel her. I didn't shake but I did ache. When I opened my eyes, Lucy was there. She clasped one corner of the letter between two fingers, read it, and put it with the other souvenirs.

"At least you know," she said.

"Yeah, and I'll tell you something. Knowing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes, dreaming and hoping is better. Where's Goodell?"

"Standing guard over Maggie's body."

"He must feel pretty good, knowing he was right."

"Unless he's crying for joy, I don't think so."

"He's crying?"

"Buckets. Says it's all his fault she got away with it for so long."

"Getting it wrong or being too late are every cop's nightmares."

"That's more weight than any of us should have to carry. We do our job the best we can with the evidence we've got and let the chips fall."

"The weight comes with the job. If you can't carry it, you should get out. And you and I are out of it."

"The public side, maybe. But that's not all there is."

"You want to go private? Chase deadbeat dads and cheating wives?"

"There's more to it than that and you know it. Simon has enough work to keep both of us busy. He's only sent a little of it to you but there's more. Plus, Milo Harper and Sherry Fritzshall are connected to everyone in town. After the way we cracked this case, people will be standing in line to hire us."

"Look around, kiddo. This doesn't exactly qualify for the victory column."

"Wait till you see what I found in the barn."

"More souvenirs?"

"And lab journals. It was like she was conducting some grand experiment. Some excuse, huh?"

"Scientists don't make excuses."

"Think about it," she said. "That's all I'm saying. We didn't deal these cards but that doesn't mean we can't play them."

I got up, walked onto the balcony, looked at the rocky ground where Maggie's body lay. Lucy stood alongside me. The moon broke through the clouds as Tom Goodell raised his head toward us, moonbeams catching his tears. He ducked his head and turned away.

"Deal me out."

Sirens wailed in the near distance, flashing lights bobbing along the county road visible in the dark from the balcony. Quincy Carter, the Johnson County Sheriff's Department, and the FBI descended on the Brennan farm, not letting us go until close to dawn. I was unconscious the moment my head hit the pillow.

Kevin and Wendy play on the beach, white winged gulls swooping and dipping and dancing overhead. Joy and I watch from the deck of the beach house, the waves breaking in the distance, rolling lazily onto shore, the kids squealing, splashing, and kicking the water. The sun rides across the horizon, red, then yellow and orange, the sky changing from pink to blue to ink, day passing; stars twinkling, planets shining, and the moon sharing and shading its face as a cool wind blows and fireflies christen the night in a phosphorescent shower. Wendy lays her stuffed animal at my feet. Hold on to Monkey Girl, she says. All that's left of me belongs to you. She links arms with Kevin and the wind scours the sand, sweeping them away.

I sat up in bed, glancing at my watch. It was almost eleven. I'd been asleep five hours, not enough to clear the brain fog. I rubbed the dressings on my chest and thigh, feeling the stitches that a paramedic had used to close the wounds.

I tried to untangle Wendy's letter from my dream. Her letter said hold on to Monkey Girl; all that's left of me belongs to her. In my dream, she said all that's left of me belongs to you, the pronoun making the difference, giving new meaning to her letter.

Monkey Girl occupied its familiar perch on the shelf in my closet. I took it down, kneading its synthetic fur, probing until my finger slipped into a fold along the inseam of one leg, rubbing against an implanted narrow strip of Velcro. I ran my finger along the inside length of the leg, then squeezed and shook the toy without finding whatever had been attached to the Velcro. There were no other hidden pockets.

I was certain that Wendy had left something for me inside the stuffed animal, her letter and my dream the clues. Whatever she had hidden, it had to lead to the stolen money. There would have been no other reason for her cryptic message. My dream had parsed the letter for me.

I sat on my bed, my gut sick at the realization that Lucy had also read Wendy's letter and may have understood its meaning. I was sleeping so soundly I would not have heard her had she taken Monkey Girl, removed whatever Wendy had hidden, and put the stuffed animal back.

I had asked Wendy what she would do the next time she was tempted by an easy, big score and she had asked me what I would do with the money if I found it. They were the same question but our answers were different. I knew what I would do and she was scared of the choice she might make.

I pulled on my clothes and went looking for her. The house was empty and my car was gone. If the dogs knew where she was, they weren't talking. I started to call her cell phone when the doorbell rang. It was Kent and Dolan. I'd forgotten that my forty-eight hours were up.