Tessa Leoni: Crash And Burn Part 21

She glanced at him, appearing genuinely puzzled. "What park?"

Ah yes, composed Nicky versus crazed Nicky. One clammed up; the other couldn't stop talking. The question was, which of them was actually telling them the truth? Or, perhaps more accurately, which one of them was living in the present? Because Wyatt was growing suspicious that one of the mixed-up elements in Nicole Frank's head was time line. Today, yesterday and a long time ago were playing out with equal intensity. Meaning maybe it wasn't so much what she was talking about, but when she was talking about that mattered.

"What do you see when you stand here?" he asked now.

She shook her head lightly. "It should be raining."

"Like it was Wednesday night."

"The rain was pouring down. Inside my car. On my cheeks, soaking my clothes. I could smell the rain, the mud, dug-up dirt."

"What did you do?"

"I had to get out of the car. I had to find Vero."

"When did she go missing?"

A pause. Aha, Wyatt thought, now they were getting somewhere.

"Vero is six years old," Nicky whispers. "Then she's gone. It's a terrible thing, Sergeant, when a child disappears."

"When did this happen, Nicky? Last year? Five years ago? When you were young?"

"A long time ago."

Bingo, Wyatt thought. And abruptly, he felt goose b.u.mps. A detective on a precipice. This had started with an auto accident. But he suspected it was about to get much, much worse.

"Nicole," he prodded gently, "I want you to take a moment. Focus. Think. Do you know what happened to six-year-old Vero?"

"Vero wants to fly," she murmured. "And then, one night she did."

HE GAVE HER a few minutes. Watched as Nicky's breathing continued to ease, her face regained some color, her eyes some focus. Relax, Wyatt thought. Let it all go. He wanted his witness to slow down, absorb, process. Then they'd talk.

Beside him, Kevin thrust his hands in his pockets and practiced his patience. Kevin was the Brain, absolutely the guy you wanted for stats or technical questions. But Wyatt was their resident people person. That's what made him a good cop.

"Nicky," he spoke up finally. "I want you to go back to Wednesday night. You're at home. Your head hurts. You're resting on the couch. Your phone rings."

"I have to leave," she says immediately.

Wyatt and Kevin nodded, having heard this part before. Kevin gestured to a fallen tree. They moved over, had Nicky take a seat. As comfortable as one could get in a muddy ravine, Wyatt figured. Anything to keep the suspect talking.

"You step outside. It smells like rain," Wyatt continued levelly. He tried to remember her phrase. "It smells like dug-up dirt."

Scent was one of the biggest triggers of memory, and in Nicky's own words, Wednesday night had smelled like a grave.

"Yes," she whispered.

"You feel the rain on your face."

"I hurry to get in my car. I don't want to get too wet."

"Where is Thomas?"

"Out back, working."

"Do you tell him where you're going?"

"No. He didn't want me to start asking questions. It was so long ago, he keeps telling me. Isn't our life good enough? Can't we just be happy? But of course, it's November."

"What happens in November?" Wyatt asked curiously.

"It's the saddest month of the year."

Wyatt and Kevin exchanged glances. While Wyatt was doing the talking, Kevin was doing the note taking. And no doubt already formulating search criteria. For example, any six-year-old girls that went missing and/or were murdered in the month of November. Question was, going back how many years?

Wyatt took a shot in the dark: "So you contacted Northledge Investigations with your questions. To help you learn what happened . . . in November, so many years ago."

Nicky didn't say yes, but she didn't dismiss his statement either.

"The investigator called you back, right? Wednesday night, you're at home, resting on the sofa, and the phone rings. What did you learn, Nicky? What was so important you had to leave right away?"

"She gave me an address. Employment records list a state liquor store, but I've never been there before."

"Who is she? The investigator from Northledge?"

"I have to leave. Go there quickly. Before I lose my courage."

Interesting, Wyatt thought. Because up to this point, they'd a.s.sumed the urgency behind Nicky's sudden exit Wednesday night had to do with getting away from her husband. But now it would appear there was a different spin on the evening. Nicky had been contacted with information regarding someone who worked at the state liquor store. And she had to find that person before she lost her courage.

"Who are you meeting?" Wyatt tried again.

"I have to go."

"Who did you pay Northledge to track down? Is it Vero?"

"I have to save her. I never save her. Every time I fail in the end." Nicky's voice picked up, growing agitated again. Wyatt took the hint and dialed things back down.

"You put your Audi into drive," he prompted.

"The night is dark. No moon, no stars, just the thick storm clouds. I should turn around, head back home, but I can't. G.o.d, my head hurts."

"What do you do, Nicky?"

"I drive. I just keep going. What choice do I have? I see her everywhere; I hear her everywhere. Vero is having tea. Vero is braiding my hair. Vero is standing before me, maggots pouring out of her skull."

Wyatt paused, sparing a glance for Kevin, who'd gone positively wide-eyed. The detective quickly scrawled another note. While Nicky's breathing quickened once more.

"But Vero's not with you right now," Wyatt offered gently. "You're alone in your car. You're out of the rain, driving for the state liquor store."

"My hands are shaking. I think I could use a drink. But I've been doing so well. My headaches, you know. Thomas tells me alcohol is no good. I need to get healthy again. Then maybe we could be happy again. We were happy once. G.o.d, I loved him so."

"So you're driving to the liquor store. Do you make any turns, any stops, before you get there?"

"No, I must get there. Before I change my mind."

"Okay. You arrive. The parking lot is huge. Filled with burning overhead lights."

Nicky immediately shook her head, shuttering her eyes. "I don't like them. They make my headache worse. I thought I'd just park. I don't know. Maybe hang out. But there's no place to put the car where I won't be seen. And the lights, they're killing me."

"What do you do?"

"I park in the back. As far away from the store as I can get. Then I step out into the rain."

Nicky paused. Her eyes were open but had that glazed look again. Wyatt was about to bring her back, refocus her attention, when she started on her own: "I shouldn't go in. I have to go in. I should just let it go. Thomas is right. What good will come of this? Oh my G.o.d, I think I'm going to barf. No, I can do this. Because it's November and even the sky is crying and if I'm ever going to be happy . . . Thomas says I'm strong. He says he believes in me, he's always believed in me. I was sad from the very beginning, you know. He said he just wanted to be the man who finally made me smile . . .

"I get out of the car. I'm trembling. I don't feel good. Maybe I will throw up. But I like the rain. It drips from my hat brim, dances across my cheeks.

"I go inside the store," Nicky murmured. She wasn't looking at them, but staring straight ahead. "I'll just look around. She might not even be working tonight. I never asked that question. Plus I might not recognize her. It's been so long, decades, people change, you know. But then . . . What if she recognizes me? I hadn't even thought of that. Or maybe I have, because I have my cap pulled low. Why bring the hat, if I hadn't already known I'd want to hide my face?

"I can do this. I walk by the cash registers. The store is very busy. Three lanes open, crowded with people. One cas.h.i.+er is tall, a man. I can see him. The others . . .

"It's too crowded. I shouldn't have come. This was stupid. Better to let it be. But I can't leave. I'm this close. So close. The closest I've been in G.o.d knows. Then . . . I can't see her, but I feel her. I know she's here."

"Who's there, Nicky?" Wyatt asked. "Who are you looking for?"

But she shook her head, agitated again. "I'm going to throw up. I think my head is on fire. Oh G.o.d, I gotta get out of here. I make it to the bathroom. I turn off the light, close the door. I stand in the pitch-black until finally I can breathe again. I like the dark. I used to hate it once, but since the headaches . . . I find the sink, turn on the cold water. It feels nice against my wrists. I wish I had my quilt. Then I would curl up on the floor. I would stay here.

"Knocking. Someone else wants in. It takes me a moment, but I pull myself together. I open the door. A guy is waiting. He doesn't say anything. Just moves in as I move out.

"Now what? I don't want to go home, but I can't just stand here. I wander. Up and down the aisles. I pretend I'm looking at wine or flavored vodkas, but really, I'm trying to check out the store clerks. Then from the back, I see her."

"See who, Nicky?"

"That's her. I know it. I'm staring at the back of her head and even that's too much. I can't breathe. I can't move. If she turns around . . . I panic. I march into the scotch aisle, grab a bottle. You don't understand; I need it. f.u.c.k the concussion and my stupid headaches. I need this.

"I go straight to the nearest checkout line. It's her line, but I refuse to think about that. This is normal, nothing special. I'm a customer; she's a cas.h.i.+er; end of story. Nothing to see here. Then it's my turn. She's busy, barely even glances at me. Is it better this way? Do I want her to truly look at me? Do I think . . . Do I think she'd really know?

"She rings up one bottle of Glenlivet. I swipe my card.

"We're done. Just like that. Thirty seconds or less, and now she's moved on to the next person. I'm shaking so hard I'm afraid I'll drop my bottle. I clutch it against my chest like a baby. Then I leave the store. I walk into the parking lot. I climb into my car. And I . . .

"I should call Thomas . . . ," Nicky whispered. "Tell him what I have done. He'll be angry but he'll help me. Poor Thomas, still trying to save me after all these years. I should dump out the scotch, drive home. So many things I should do. Things I know I should do. But I open the bottle instead. The smell. My G.o.d, it's like a long-lost friend. And the second I smell it, of course, I have to take a sip. I don't understand, I've never understood, how something so evil can taste so good.

"I'm bad. I'm weak. But then, I already knew that."

"What do you do next, Nicky?"

"I sit. I wait. I drink. Eventually, by the time the store empties out and the lights turn off, my limbs are loose, my face is rubbery. I'm not nervous. I'm not shaking. I'm not scared. I'm happy. Is this really the only time I'm happy?

"She comes out. Just like I knew she would. It's still storming. I can't see her that well, raincoat pulled over her head. But I recognize her, even though she hadn't recognized me. No, she'd stood three feet from me, not a flicker of realization on her face. Not even a sense of dej vu, hey, haven't I seen you once before? Nothing. Nada. Nope.

"That p.i.s.ses me off! She should know, dammit! I never forgot her. How dare she forget me!

"Her car. It's pulling out of the parking s.p.a.ce, headed for the road. I don't know what I'm going to do; I just do it. Jerk my own car into gear, head out after her. I'm not driving great. The night is very dark. My headlights bounce off the raindrops, which makes me dizzy. It's hard to find the road.

"At least there are no other cars around. I follow her taillights. I don't know where I'm going or what I will do once I get there, but I can't stop either. I can't . . . turn away. I drive. I grip the wheel, I force my eyes to focus and I stay behind her.

"Around and around we go. Along this road, then there. And here, and there and everywhere. A dark and stormy chase. We drive through one town, then another. Then she turns off the main road and now we're bouncing and heaving along some little side street. It needs to be repaved. I keep hitting the potholes and my stomach heaves.

"Brake lights. She's slowing before a house, probably going to turn into the driveway. I don't know what to do. There is no place for me to go, no place for me to hide. I can't just stop in the middle of the road. I can't turn in after her; that would be too much. So I . . . hit the gas, pa.s.s her right on by, just another driver with places to go and people to see. But then, when I'm far enough way . . . I hit the brakes, loop around.

"I backtrack down the road. The second I see the right house, I kill my lights. The night goes pitch-black. Out this remote, there are no streetlights, not even porch lights glowing from surrounding homes. No, I'm in back-of-the-closet dark. Don't-make-a-sound dark. One-false-move-and-the-monsters-will-get-you dark.

"But I don't care."

"Nicky, where are you?" Wyatt asked carefully. Nicole's eyes were unfocused again. Staring not at him, but at things only she could see.

"Shhh," she murmured to him. "I don't want her to hear; I don't want her to know. I pull over. Get out of my car. Immediately, I'm soaked. But it's okay. I creep carefully forward toward the little house. It's nothing fancy, but I like the color; she's painted it yellow with white trim. I always liked that shade of yellow. I wonder if she's happy here. It makes my chest feel funny. I want her to be happy. Right? But maybe it's not that simple. Maybe I'm jealous. I'm almost at the side window now. Step, step, step."

"Where are you, Nicky?"

"Vero is learning to fly."

"Who are you trying to find?"

"Six years old. She is gone. November is the saddest month of the year."

"Nicky, stay with me, honey. It's Wednesday night. You've been drinking. You followed a woman home from the liquor store. Now you're standing in the rain outside her home. What do you see?"

"I see the impossible. Vero. All grown up. Sitting on a couch in the family room. I see Vero, back from the dead."

Chapter 20.

WHAT IS HAPPINESS? I feel like I've been chasing it my entire adult life. I study it in commercials, watch it on other people's faces. When Thomas and I first married, he took me on vacation to Mexico. We tried on fake names, invented wilder and wilder character histories. He was a runaway circus clown, I was a burned-out Vegas showgirl. We laughed hard, we drank too much. Then we woke up and did it all over again. I remember lying on a warm, sandy beach after one particularly crazy night, feeling the sun on my closed eyelids and thinking, this must be happiness. I can do this.

Except I woke up screaming, night after night after night. Regardless of the rum. Regardless of my new and improved backstory. Regardless of Thomas's strong arms around my waist.

Happiness, it turns out, is an acquired skill, and I've had problems learning it.