pills, television, staring at the ceiling—nothing helped. Nothing could stop the memories that sped through the screen of my imagination like a videotape gone wacky.
This had always been the trick:
Attempting to sleep with my eyes wide open. If such a thing were possible, with my Colt laid out flat on my bare chest and the radiant heat making boiling and pinging sounds that reverberated against the paper-thin walls of the motel. I fixed my eyes on a popcorned ceiling that exploded in so much red neon with every flash of the Coco’s Motor Inn. Soon enough, the events were on their way back to haunt me in their perfectly calculated nap-time brilliance.
Me, at the wheel of the Ford Bronco, inching my way out into a four-way intersection. Fran, seated in the passenger side. She screams. I hit the brake in the middle of the intersection, like my life depends upon it. And it does. Only a split second later the Buick runs the red light, rams us, dead-on. Suicide seat. Fran slams forward, her head through the windshield, the sharp edge of the glass taking her head clean off at the base, her body falling back into the bucket seat as though nothing at all has happened. As though it was all a mistake. This is what immediately registers: the battered black Buick backing up fast, the tires burning rubber against the asphalt. Then the car quickly shifts into forward, swerving around the wrecked Bronco, shooting on past, but not before I get a good look at the driver. A bald man with a hoop earring and black John Lennon sunglasses. He looks at me before he takes off .
Forever.
But then he is back. Just like that. Driving through the gates of the Albany Rural Cemetery.
The battered black Buick come back to life.
Or maybe that too, is just another dream.
I woke up like I always did: in a pool of sweat, the .45 having slid off my chest onto the bed. Outside the motel room came the stop-and-go sounds of the jets taking off and landing at the Albany International Airport and the perpetual murmur of commuter traffic growing heavier and heavier. Men and women rushing home to their private suburban hells.
I lay there on my back staring at the flashing red neon letters. Suddenly my thoughts shifted to Val. I saw her almond-shaped brown eyes and her chiseled cheekbones and her smooth, shoulder-length, sandy-brown hair. I remembered her warm smile and her low, smooth voice. I wanted to call her. But then I rolled over onto my side and I saw the folded restraining order sitting out on the bedside table and I knew it would be wrong to even try. I had to consider the consequences. Consider the fact that not only was I breaking the law but that I was breaking her heart, and mine, in more ways than one. I knew the best thing was to let it all go. For her, for me. Forget there had ever been a wedding, or an engagement, or even a proposal.
Forget there had ever been any such thing as Keeper and Val. As the sun set on Albany, I folded back the metal clasp on the manila envelope that Barnes had handed me that afternoon at Tony’s office. I flipped it upside down and spilled the entire contents out onto the bed.
There was a paperback copy of Renata’s novel, Godchild along with what looked to be a press kit that had been prepared by her New York publisher. There were also three or four newspaper clippings that Richard must have added to the mix. The press kit had been held together with a heavy black clip. It consisted of a press release announcing publication of the novel, a short Q-and-A piece, and a brief article about the book. There were also three eight-by-ten color glossies. It was these images of Renata that caught my full attention.
Her hair was vivid auburn and cropped short, with little strands hanging over her forehead. Her eyes were deep blue and her nose was small but as pronounced as her lips, which, when they came together, made the shape of a heart.
I can’t say how long I actually sat there and stared at Renata’s image.
This had always been the trick:
Attempting to sleep with my eyes wide open. If such a thing were possible, with my Colt laid out flat on my bare chest and the radiant heat making boiling and pinging sounds that reverberated against the paper-thin walls of the motel. I fixed my eyes on a popcorned ceiling that exploded in so much red neon with every flash of the Coco’s Motor Inn. Soon enough, the events were on their way back to haunt me in their perfectly calculated nap-time brilliance.
Me, at the wheel of the Ford Bronco, inching my way out into a four-way intersection. Fran, seated in the passenger side. She screams. I hit the brake in the middle of the intersection, like my life depends upon it. And it does. Only a split second later the Buick runs the red light, rams us, dead-on. Suicide seat. Fran slams forward, her head through the windshield, the sharp edge of the glass taking her head clean off at the base, her body falling back into the bucket seat as though nothing at all has happened. As though it was all a mistake. This is what immediately registers: the battered black Buick backing up fast, the tires burning rubber against the asphalt. Then the car quickly shifts into forward, swerving around the wrecked Bronco, shooting on past, but not before I get a good look at the driver. A bald man with a hoop earring and black John Lennon sunglasses. He looks at me before he takes off .
Forever.
But then he is back. Just like that. Driving through the gates of the Albany Rural Cemetery.
The battered black Buick come back to life.
Or maybe that too, is just another dream.
I woke up like I always did: in a pool of sweat, the .45 having slid off my chest onto the bed. Outside the motel room came the stop-and-go sounds of the jets taking off and landing at the Albany International Airport and the perpetual murmur of commuter traffic growing heavier and heavier. Men and women rushing home to their private suburban hells.
I lay there on my back staring at the flashing red neon letters. Suddenly my thoughts shifted to Val. I saw her almond-shaped brown eyes and her chiseled cheekbones and her smooth, shoulder-length, sandy-brown hair. I remembered her warm smile and her low, smooth voice. I wanted to call her. But then I rolled over onto my side and I saw the folded restraining order sitting out on the bedside table and I knew it would be wrong to even try. I had to consider the consequences. Consider the fact that not only was I breaking the law but that I was breaking her heart, and mine, in more ways than one. I knew the best thing was to let it all go. For her, for me. Forget there had ever been a wedding, or an engagement, or even a proposal.
Forget there had ever been any such thing as Keeper and Val. As the sun set on Albany, I folded back the metal clasp on the manila envelope that Barnes had handed me that afternoon at Tony’s office. I flipped it upside down and spilled the entire contents out onto the bed.
There was a paperback copy of Renata’s novel, Godchild along with what looked to be a press kit that had been prepared by her New York publisher. There were also three or four newspaper clippings that Richard must have added to the mix. The press kit had been held together with a heavy black clip. It consisted of a press release announcing publication of the novel, a short Q-and-A piece, and a brief article about the book. There were also three eight-by-ten color glossies. It was these images of Renata that caught my full attention.
Her hair was vivid auburn and cropped short, with little strands hanging over her forehead. Her eyes were deep blue and her nose was small but as pronounced as her lips, which, when they came together, made the shape of a heart.
I can’t say how long I actually sat there and stared at Renata’s image.
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