Page 40 of Mean Streak

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R ebecca Watson, undaunted by the downpour, walked straight to the driver’s side of Jack’s rental car and rapped on the window.

Lowering it required starting the motor, which took all of five or six seconds, but the delay seemed to make her even angrier. The window came down. Rain blew in. She practically hissed at him.

“Special Agent Connell.”

“I didn’t know if you would remember me.”

Her glower dismissed that statement as ludicrous. “If you had come to notify me that my brother is dead, you would have been straightforward and rung the front doorbell. You wouldn’t have been hunkered down here half the night or spent all day spying on me. So what brings you here?”

The fact that she knew about his surveillance told him that she kept vigil herself. She watched for people watching her. He said, “Can we talk?”

“Fuck off.”

“Good. You’re willing to cooperate.”

She gave him a drop dead look.

“I’ve come all this way. Please?”

She remained unmoved.

He glanced in the direction of the house. “Is he living with you?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Is he in this region? Residing nearby? On the next block?”

She didn’t say anything.

“If he’s not around, then what’s the risk in talking to me?”

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, and she didn’t tell him to fuck off again, so when she turned and walked away, he cut the car engine, got out, and followed her back to the house.

She didn’t offer to share her umbrella. He covered his head with his jacket again. When they reached the porch, he shook off what rain he could. She went in ahead of him, but not before getting her mail out of the box.

“There’s nothing here for you to get excited about, but knock yourself out.” She thrust the handful of mail at him. He caught it against his wet jacket. Without looking at any of it, he neatly stacked it on the foyer table.

She folded her arms across her midriff. “Okay, you’re here. What did you come all this way for?”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

She studied him for a moment, as though trying to figure out whether or not he was joking. Deciding he wasn’t, she said, “Sure,” and motioned for him to follow her down a central hallway to a tiny powder room tucked beneath the staircase.

Going in ahead of him, she lifted the lid off the toilet tank. “See? Nothing in there but the balls and cock, or whatever they’re called.”

“Ballcock. One word.”

She replaced the lid with a clatter of porcelain and pointed to the framed mirror above the basin. “No medicine cabinet for you to inspect. You’re free to tear out the plumbing underneath the sink, but if you do, you’ll have to put it back together or reimburse me for a plumber.”

“You’ve made your point, Rebecca.”

“Be sure to wash your hands.” As she went out, she pulled the door closed with a bang.

He not only washed his hands, but after drying them he used the hand towel to blot rainwater off his face and neck. He straightened his tie and finger-combed his wet hair.

A few minutes later, bladder relieved and feeling presentable, he walked into her living room.

She’d switched on the table lamps and was sitting in the corner of the sofa, feet tucked under her.

The black, high-heeled pumps she’d kicked off lay beneath the coffee table.

Ungraciously, she pointed him toward a chair that looked far less cozy and comfy than the sofa.

They faced off. He was the first to speak. “I like the new hairdo.”

“Pink copied it.”

“She knows her stuff.”

“Enough with the flattery bullshit. How did you find me?”

“Your friend Eleanor.”

“Oh.” That took her aback. A sadness crept into her expression. “How is she?”

“Good. Expecting her first child in a few months.”

“So she married Tim?”

“Last name Gaskin?”

She nodded, and when he confirmed that was Eleanor’s married name, she said, “When I last saw her, they were getting serious. Is she happy?”

“Glowing. The baby is a girl.” He told her about his visit to the brownstone and described it to her. “Eleanor called me after spotting you in the national news story about the protest in Olympia.”

She drew a deep breath. “I saw it, too. I never would have participated in the march if I’d thought I’d be caught on camera.”

“You stood out.”

She touched her cropped hair. “I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.”

“Eleanor did. She was certain it was you. I wasn’t. Not until yesterday when I saw you come out and get your mail.”

“After all these years, you’re still looking.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t found him yet. You’re my only link.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’m not so bad.”

She said nothing to that.

He looked around the pleasant room. He didn’t know anything about home interiors, what was quality, what was junk, what was current.

His apartment was functional, and that was its only boast. But to his unpracticed eye, this room looked tastefully done.

Despite Wes Greer’s description of the things sold in her shop, the room wasn’t cluttered.

Neither was she. She wore a simple black sweater and slender black pants. Jewelry consisted of a wristwatch with a black leather strap and a long single strand of pearls. They were the same color as her hair. On her, the stark contrast worked. The only spot of color, her eyes.

He said, “Your daughter, Sarah, has grown up a lot.”

“She’s in the school orchestra.”

“What instrument?”

“Cello. She’s at rehearsal. Another parent is driving car pool today. She’ll be home by six fifteen.” She looked at her sensible wristwatch. “I want you out of here before then.”

“Does she remember Westboro?”

“Of course.”

“Does she talk about him?”

“All the time.”

“What does she say?”

“That she misses her uncle.”

“What do you say back to her?”

“That I miss him, too.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then said, “Rebecca—”

“It’s Grace now.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Why Grace Kent?”

“It was suggested by the forger who made all my false documents. I didn’t have another name picked, so I went with his choice.”

In spite of her confession to a federal crime, he smiled. “I thought maybe you’d remarried a guy named Kent.”

“I don’t want another husband.”

“After the one you had, I can’t say that I blame you.”

“Did you tell him where we are?”

Jack was already shaking his head. “And I don’t plan to. I’m not here to cause you any grief. Although I could have you arrested for living under an assumed name.”

“Some big, bad FBI agent you are,” she scoffed. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Oh, I’m busy. I’m presently following up on a strange incident that occurred in Utah. Before that, I looked into a curious happening in Wichita Falls, Texas, that to this day, after two years, remains unexplained. First one that captured my interest took place in Kentucky.”

Her face became a mask.

“What do you know about a soccer coach in Salt Lake?” he asked.

“That chances are good he’s Mormon?”

“He’s not. He moved there from Virginia.”

“They don’t have Mormons in Virginia?”

“The night before a championship game, what would possess a soccer coach to take a baseball bat to his femur and smash it all to hell? At least he claims the breaks were self-inflicted.”

He let that resonate. Rebecca said nothing.

“What’s also strange,” Jack continued, “you’d think his team of thirteen-year-olds, their parents, and members of the community would be appalled by this tragedy.

But nobody who knows him regrets his forced retirement.

He had a winning record, but many questioned the methods he used to motivate his players.

“It’s rumored he instilled fear. Any kid who made a mistake was humiliated. I say rumored because the kids themselves were tight-lipped about what took place during practices and after a losing game. One of the dads told me it was like his son was afraid to tattle.

“On the night of the incident, the coach told the emergency responders, his wife, the police, his priest, every-damn-body that he did that to himself. Then he clammed. No details. No reason why. No nothing. As recently as yesterday, he still refused to talk about what went down that night.” He gave her a meaningful look. “You see the irony here?”

“How could I possibly miss it? You practically spelled it out in capital letters on the wall. And it’s quite a story. However, how it relates to me, I don’t have a clue.”

“Want me to spell that out, too?”

“If you think I’m guilty of something, then why don’t you arrest me?”

“I don’t want to arrest you.”

“Then what excuse do you have for hiding in the bushes last night and all day today, keeping track of my every move?”

“I don’t enjoy spying on you.”

“Then stop.”

“I will. Tell me where he is and—”

“I don’t know.”

“Rebecca—”

“ Grace .”

“Whatever,” he said, raising his voice to match hers. “Do you expect me to believe that you haven’t had any contact with him in four years?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I don’t know where he is, and I don’t.”

“So you do have some contact with him. How often? Once a year, every other month, twice a week? How does he get in touch?”

She stuck out her hands, palms down. “Get out your bamboo shoots. Or does waterboarding work better?”

Frustrated, Jack got up and rounded his chair, placing his hands on the back of it as he leaned into it. He stared her down, or tried. She had the same ability to look through a person that her brother did. Turning away, he muttered, “Goddamn family trait.”

“What?”

“Your eyes.”

“You’re not the first to remark on that. When we were kids—” She bit off what she was going to say.

Jack stepped around the chair and sat down again. “When you were kids, what?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. Tell me something I don’t know. One grain of information.”

“Mom made pot roast every Sunday.”

“Everybody’s mom makes pot roast on Sunday. Tell me something about him.”

“You already know everything.”

“Surprise me with something.”

“He actually likes squash. Or did. I suppose he still does.”

Jack watched as, in spite of herself, her thoughts turned to times past. Happier times.

In a poignant tone of voice, she said, “He was always protective of me. I’m two years younger, and he took the big brother role seriously.

For as far back as I can remember, he watched out for me. He wouldn’t let anyone pick on me.”

“With him as your bodyguard, it would take a real dumb bully to mess with you.”

“I stood up for myself, too.”

He grinned. “I bet you did. How exactly?”

“I told all the bullies to fuck off.”

He’d walked right into that one, and he supposed that to some extent he had it coming. Grin dissolving, he turned his head toward the window; it was like looking through a waterfall. He watched rivulets of rainwater charting their inevitable course down the glass.

Coming back to her, he said quietly, “I’m not trying to bully you, Rebecca. I would if I thought it would do any good, but I don’t think even bamboo shoots would get out of you where he is.”

“They wouldn’t, because I don’t know.”

“Think of the victims’ loved ones.” This was hitting below the belt, but he would use any device he could. “They stay in touch with me, you know. E-mails. Phone calls. Heart-wrenching shit, and I know you’re not flinching because of the expletive. You know those people want and deserve—”

“Stop!”

She was off the sofa like a flash, streaking with the swift grace of a black cat out of the room.

He knew she’d opened the front door because he felt a gust of damp air.

Reluctantly, he got up and followed her into the foyer.

She was holding the front door open, staring down at the floor between her bare feet, her posture rigid.

When he reached her, she raised her head, glaring with those crystalline eyes. “I’ve made a good life for Sarah and me here. But I would abandon it all in a flash. I would disappear again. Keep pestering me, and I will. You know I can.”

“And you know that I’ll keep looking for him until I find him.”

“Waste of time. He’ll never let himself be found.”

“Are you sure? Have you ever thought that it might be a relief to him?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Come now. Next you’ll be telling me that it would be the best thing for him.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

She didn’t maintain her defiant gaze for long before turning her head aside.

Seeing a tiny chink in her armor, he took advantage of it.

“You know it would be best for him, Rebecca. It would be a hell of a lot better for you, too. You could stop worrying about me spying. You could use your legal name. Wouldn’t that be better for everybody?

” He took a step closer to her and spoke with urgency.

“Help yourself by helping me. Give me a hint, put me on a trail.”

“You’re asking me to betray my brother.”

“He’ll never know the information came from you. I swear that.” She was listening, so he pressed on. “You don’t want to abandon your pretty house here, leave your charming shop. And, even if you did, what about Sarah?”

She shot a look up at him, and he thought, Aha! A score.

“She was a child when you left New York, too young to understand the implications. Running away with Mommy in the dead of night was a big adventure. It wouldn’t be like that now. She would balk. She wouldn’t want to leave her friends. She would resent you for making her.”

“It’s almost time for her to get home. You have to go.”

“Will you tell her that I’ve been here?”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Then how will you explain being so upset?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jack. You don’t have the ability to upset me.”

“That you called me by my first name indicates just how upset you are. Furthermore, you’re lying. I think it upsets you a lot to keep your daughter living a shadow life.”

He could tell she wanted to kill him for saying that. She was bristling. “Leave.”

Their standoff lasted for several moments, neither giving an inch, then he swore under his breath. “All right, I’ll go. For now.”

“And don’t come back.”

“No promises of that.” He stepped out onto the porch. “Thanks for the use of your bathroom.” He pulled his jacket up over his head.

“Special Agent Connell?”

He turned.

“If you go anywhere near Sarah with the idea of weaseling information out of her, I’ll run you down with my car and then I’ll castrate you.”