The Ex

50

Molly sat in a chair in the room at the Wharman Hotel that night and stared out the window, though her attention never reached beyond the reflecting pane that held her indistinct image, a woman mostly faded away, never changing expression and idly twining a strand of hair around her forefinger. She wished she could exist in that flat, opaque world that had no dimension or agony, that would disappear with the dawn.

After the police had taken her statement, then David’s, they talked to Chumley again. And they listened again to Deirdre’s message on the answering machine, then confiscated the cassette and slid it into a yellow evidence envelope. Another detective, who seemed to outrank Salter and Marrivale, arrived and was given the photograph of Michael that Molly had taken that summer in Riverside Park. He stared intently at it, then handed it back to Salter, who left to talk to Julia at Small Business.

Then they’d instructed Molly and David. At least one of them was to remain in their room at the Wharman. The police would be watching the apartment building. A policeman would be stationed inside their apartment, in case Deirdre returned there. He would also be monitoring and recording all phone conversations; any calls would be patched through, without the caller’s knowledge, to the room in the Wharman. Molly and David were told to agree to any demands and terms for ransom money, and to ask to talk to Michael.

So after packing two more suitcases, they’d returned to the hotel room, which seemed to become smaller and more confining with every hour.

There was a ghost in the flat, reflecting window, pacing behind Molly. David, four paces one way, four the other, back to his starting point. She saw his reflection stand still and slam a fist into its palm, heard the impact of flesh on flesh behind her.

David resumed pacing.

“She’ll know the police are watching the apartment building,” Molly said in a flat, exhausted monotone. “She won’t go back there. She’s too smart. She was smarter all along than any of us thought. Scheming and smart and evil.”

“The cops will find her,” David said with more assurance than he could possibly feel. “They’ll find Michael. If she calls the apartment, the cop there will listen in. They’re ready for a phone call. They might be able to trace it.”

“She won’t phone,” Molly said.

“She might demand ransom.”

Molly laughed sadly, a broken expression of hopelessness. “Ransom! You still don’t understand. It isn’t ransom that she wants.”

“What, then?” David asked.

“Didn’t you read those newspaper clippings, David? Didn’t you listen to Chumley? She’s insane. She’s dangerous. She’s homicidal. And she has our son!”

David stopped pacing and stood in the center of the room. He appeared to try returning the gaze of her reflection in the dark windowpane, but there wasn’t enough substance there and he turned away.

“Even insane people have their own kind of unique logic,” he said. “It’s only a matter of figuring out how she thinks.”

“She thinks like an animal. A cunning, predatory animal that concentrates all of itself on getting what it wants.”

“And you think she wants Michael?”

“He’s only part of it,” Molly said. “She wants you, David. She wants to become me. In some psychotic way, she wants to live my life.”

He said nothing. Instead he walked over and stood behind her, then began massaging her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, he bent over and kissed her cheek. She still didn’t respond, watching the scene in the windowpane as if it were theater and didn’t involve her.

He stopped massaging, lowered his arms to his sides, and sighed. “You’re trembling, Mol. It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten. You need something to keep your strength up.”

She shook her head no. Dread filled her; she wasn’t remotely hungry.

“You should at least have something to drink,” he insisted. “I’m going to get some ice and try to find a soda machine. What do you want me to bring you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got to have something, Mol. Soda. A bag of pretzels or potato chips from a machine. Anything”

When she didn’t answer, he went to the dresser, picked up the plastic ice bucket, and walked to the door.

She saw his reflection turn to face her.

“The door will lock behind me, Mol. I’ll let myself back in with my key. I won’t knock. If anyone knocks, don’t go to the door. Promise me.”

She remained silent. She simply had nothing to say to him, though she knew he was frustrated, near losing his temper.

“Dammit, Mol! This isn’t helping Michael. Isn’t helping you. Or me. We need you. Haven’t you figured that out? We need you!”

She found herself standing up despite her great weariness. She looked at him, smiled feebly, and nodded.

He smiled back, looking immensely relieved. “Better, Mol. Much better.”

Still carrying the ice bucket, he came to her and held her close. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and he kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool and dry as death.

“Gonna be okay here alone?” he asked.

She nodded, near tears. He was right. He did need her. Michael needed her. “Sure,” she said. “Don’t worry. Go ahead.”

She watched him walk to the door, look back at her, then leave. He pulled the door tightly closed behind him so that the lock clicking metallically into place was loud and definite.

Molly stood still for a moment, then went to the dresser and studied her image in the mirror.

She shook her head in dismay. Her complexion was chalky, as if she’d suffered a long illness. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was in wild disarray.

She attempted to rearrange her hair with her fingers, but it was futile. It simply sprang back up where she tried to smooth it down, and lay lank and lifeless where she tried to fluff it up. She opened the top dresser drawer, got out her cosmetic kit, and felt around inside it for a comb.

There was none. She and David had packed too hurriedly to remember everything they’d need. She wished now she’d asked him to go down to the lobby and see if he could borrow a comb from the desk. They probably kept a supply of courtesy toiletries for forgetful guests. If they had none, he might have gone to the drugstore down the street to buy a comb.

She glanced over at their empty suitcases stacked on a folding stand. It was possible that there was a comb in one of them from a previous trip. When they traveled, they were always buying things they’d forgotten, sometimes tucking them away in pockets or zippered compartments for the return trip then not remembering to unpack them.

She went to the stack of softsided luggage and checked inside the top suitcase. Found nothing.

Then she unzipped an outer compartment on the stiff fabric side of the second suitcase and reached inside.

Her groping fingers felt plastic, but it wasn’t a comb.