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THE SCENT OF warm pizza, the attack in the woods, the “Urgent” text message from Chelsea, and the dilemma about Susan and Jack conspired to stall my mind like an airplane headed into a nosedive.
Yet sometimes your brain surprises you and gets the job done.
I guided George back to the picnic-table bench, urged him to sit, then looked him in the eye.
“I misled you a moment ago,” I confessed. “I did speak to the Bowler, Minnnesota, police, but I was waiting to see a doctor and balked at giving them the address until after I got home.”
“Have you been home?”
“No.”
George didn’t seem to comprehend the favor I was doing for him and Susan, because he said, “I’m sure they have ways of getting it themselves.”
“Probably,” I agreed, “but Mike goes to pretty great lengths not to be found. Out-of-state area codes on their cells, for instance, and no landline. A rented house. It wouldn’t surprise me if he cut a private deal with the property owner just to stay off the grid.”
“I don’t get it. You balk at having Mike arrested, but you don’t want me to alert Susan.”
“What will they do if you tell her Mike stole Jack from his mother?”
“They’ll run.”
“Yep. Like the wind. You may never see Jack or Susan again.”
I’ve never seen a face go red so fast. I thought George might choke on his own blood. “Then what...why...?” Words deserted him.
To calm myself I glanced toward the road traffic, imagined the drivers delivering furniture, shopping for socks, not one of them aware of a life-changing conversation happening a head-turn away.
When I felt composed enough, I said, “It’s always bothered me that adopting Jack seemed like a one-sided decision. I kept watching Susan for some sign that I was wrong.”
George was too dumbstruck to comment, so I plowed ahead.
“All I saw was a young woman struggling to work out who she was. Nothing out of the ordinary; we all have to do it.”
George’s lips compressed into a tight line as if he were struggling not to fly apart.
“I also got the feeling she’s been manipulated, probably even used.”
George’s chest heaved, but he managed to say, “You still haven’t told me why you withheld the address.”
“I haven’t? I thought I did.” I shrugged. “When this is over, I want Susan free to be whoever she decides to be.”
“Exactly how do you plan to arrange that?” White patches had appeared on his cheeks. He kneaded his thighs with stiff fingers without looking at me. Without looking at anything.
I told him, “I’m not. You and Susan are.”
“Dammit, woman...”
“You’re going to hire a really good lawyer, somebody capable of negotiating with the Bowler District Attorney on your daughter’s behalf—her freedom for Mike’s location. When that’s arranged—before the end of the day probably would be best—Susan will call the Minnesota police herself and turn Mike in.”
George’s bouncing knee had a mind of its own. He gazed toward the restaurant’s dumpster or Hawaii, hard to tell which.
“It’ll end their marriage.” He twisted his head to give me a sly look that appeared to contain pleasure.
“It sure will,” I agreed.
That elicited a snort and a chuckle that dispelled some of the tension.
“You busy tomorrow?” I inquired, which netted one of those head-shaking eye rolls I get every now and then.
“Why?”
“Because Jack’s babysitter is going to call in sick.”
“Oh.”
I stood. George needed to get cracking on his attorney assignment; and if I didn’t call Chelsea back in the next thirty seconds, I was going to develop hives.
George rose and shook my hand. With his longer legs he was back at his car before I could count to five.
“Hey! You forgot your pizza,” I called after him.
No response.
I dialed my daughter.