6

The name Darby McCormick would forever remind him of lazy days spent on the beach, where the only cares you had were making sure your beer was cold and whether or not you liked the music pumping from the speakers. Mickey and Darby had gone to the same high school, but he hadn’t really known her then, beyond bumping into her at some school thing or the occasional house party where they’d exchanged a few words, all surface stuff, nothing in the way of an actual meaningful conversation. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her – he did: Darby was seriously pretty and smart, not to mention confident and tough, man, she didn’t take a lick of shit from anyone, what wasn’t there to like? Thing was, she was a bit of a loner, and when he was around her she always seemed distant, sometimes cold, and she had this really intense ‘Don’t fuck with me’ glare. A lot of guys – women too – thought she was stuck up, but they had it all wrong.

Darby was the type who preferred to keep her own counsel. She didn’t suffer fools lightly, or gladly, or whatever the expression was, and she had erected a lot of walls to keep herself safe – and, really, who could blame her? First her cop father had been shot, and then she and her mother had been forced to make the God-awful decision to remove him from life support. Then, when she was fifteen, some crazy psycho had broken into her house and tried to kill her.

So of course Darby was aloof. Of course she had walls. How could that shit not affect you?

Mickey, though, admired her stubborn architecture. He had painstakingly built the same walls to protect himself, what with everyone in town knowing his old man was a contract killer for the Irish mob. Mickey could relate to the stares, people talking behind his back, all of it.

Mickey got to know her, really know her, by chance, the summer after high school graduation, when Heather’s best friend Samantha and her parents moved to Newport, Rhode Island. Heather was going to spend the summer with them, working as a waitress at some fancy seafood restaurant, and the week before she left Heather told him she wanted to see other people, find out if what they had between them was real and meant to be and not the mutually shared neediness of two teenagers afraid of adjusting to life after high school.

In a weird way, Mickey had felt relieved. He had been with Heather all through their junior and senior years, and he and Big Jim had accepted a summer job up north, in Durham, New Hampshire, painting houses with a friend of theirs who had just finished his freshman year at UNH. Every Saturday morning, he, Big Jim and all the other painters who were sharing the house together on the college campus would drag their hangovers over to Hampton Beach and spend the day (and sometimes the night) partying with girls with teased hair and tats who wore lots of gold – chains, bracelets, anklets, rings, you name it – and liked to rock out to the king of the hair bands, Bon Jovi.

Except Darby, who also just happened to be working on the UNH campus that summer. Darby wore her auburn hair straight across the shoulders, like she did in high school, or tied back in a ponytail; and, unlike the other girls from Hampton Beach, she didn’t feel the need to show off every inch of her skin. She read books by Hemingway and Faulkner and drank bourbon straight up while her friends read Cosmo and did body shots with drink names like Titty Twister and Screaming Orgasm.

On the last Saturday in July, a storm swept through and roughed up the waves. Mickey went bodysurfing, and an hour later stumbled back to his blanket and saw that everyone had gone off to play volleyball – except Darby. She sat in a beach chair, wearing shorts and a bikini top, and, as she drank a beer, alternating her attention between the sunset and the volleyball game, she seemed perfectly content.

Mickey plopped himself beside her, on the towels laid out over the sand, and saw Big Jim yank down his swimsuit and moon one of the girls. She screamed and ran away, giggling.

‘You might want to tell him to use some Clearasil on his rear end,’ Darby said, bringing the can to her lips. ‘It’ll clear those pimples right up.’

‘I don’t think he cares.’

‘And that’s what I love about him.’

‘You got a thing for Big Jim Kelly?’

Darby laughed. It was one of those contagious laughs, and Mickey loved the way it rippled through him, made him feel lighter, almost hopeful of the world and his place in it.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘me and you went to high school for four years, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh.’

‘That’s your fault, for not giving me the time of day.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Every time I tried to strike up a conversation, all you’d do was nod or grunt. This right here?’ She pointed back and forth. ‘This is the longest you’ve ever talked to me.’

Mickey didn’t know what to say. When he looked back at her, she had turned her attention back to the sunset. Man, she looked good. No, she looked great.

A thought flooded his mind and turned his mouth dry, made his heart beat a little faster.

No way, a voice warned. Not in a million years.

But it was summer, he was having fun, and, hey, the mood felt right. Why not go for it?

‘Sunset’s better down by the shore,’ he said. ‘Want to go for a walk?’

‘Sure.’

The one thing he knew about himself was that he wasn’t good at pretending. When she asked him about community college – he was to attend Bunker Hill come September – he told her he was going to drop out and start a contracting business with Big Jim. Mickey liked working with his hands. It was a skill that had provided Big Jim’s father, a guy with no college education, with a good house, his pick of trucks and enough money to cover his bar tabs. What was the point in taking out loans to attend classes that, when you got right down to it, added up to nothing more than a long, teasing and expensive hand job that left you feeling unsatisfied and ripped off?

‘Congratulations,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘For knowing who you are and what you want and having the balls to go after it. Most people spend their whole lives checking off the boxes for the things they believe they’re supposed to want instead of going after what they want. You should feel relieved.’

They slept together three weeks later. Years would pass, and Mickey would always be able to recall the vulnerable way Darby looked as she took off her clothes, the curtains swelling around her; the cool air filled with the smell of fried seafood wafting up from the restaurant below; the way his skin quivered when she first touched him; the way she stared into his eyes during that final, heart-twisting moment, Mickey knowing she was sharing something more precious and sacred than just her body.

It should never have ended but it did, during the last week of summer. Heather had come home from Newport in tears, telling him she had made a terrible mistake. She didn’t want to see other people. She missed him and she loved him and she wanted to get back together. He said yes.

He waited until Darby went off to college before he told her it was over. He did it over the phone, and when she’d asked why, he said he was getting back together with Heather. Darby didn’t buy it. When she kept pressing him, he started to dodge her phone calls because he could barely acknowledge the truth, let alone express it: his shared history with Heather was familiar and comfortable and as predictable as the tides.

Besides, how realistic was it to hope that someone like Darby would stick around for the long haul with a blue-collar guy without a college degree? He was going back to life in Belham, and Darby, well, she could go anywhere she wanted.

On an early Sunday morning, right before six, Mickey woke up to Darby banging on the front door of his house. He begged Sean not to open it.

‘It’s a big fucking deal when someone hands over a piece of their heart,’ Darby said, loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. ‘I know you’re in there, Mickey. If you’re going to shit all over me, then at least have the balls to look me in the eye and tell me why.’

Sean sat in a kitchen chair, smoking his cigarettes and grinning, delighted by the sound of Darby’s fists pounding on the front door, her words. When she finally jumped back in her car and drove off, tyres peeling across the pavement and Mickey sitting on the foot of the stairs with his face buried in his hands and wondering if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, Sean flicked his cigarette into the sink and said, ‘She must’ve been one hell of a ride in the sack. The crazy ones usually are.’

The first thing Mickey noticed now was the confident way she carried herself. She had been confident back when he knew her, but this was something different – something that reminded him of a soldier who had endured a lot of battles and suffered many losses and used her experiences to make herself not only smarter but, perhaps, also purposeful and stronger. Seeing her, after all these years, he realized that was what had both attracted and frightened him the most: her unwavering sense of resolve and the force of her personality.

But her eyes told the real story. When she looked at you, the way she was looking at him right now, you saw someone who was not only devoted to helping you solve your problems but also someone who actually gave a shit about you, your pain. Someone who would go to hell and back to help you ease your suffering.

Darby offered her hand. ‘Nice to see you, Mickey.’

‘You too. What brings you back to town?’

‘Consulting work.’

‘As in my daughter’s case,’ Mickey saying it as a statement of fact, not as a question.

Darby smiled warily. Her face looked lean and chiselled, but not from stress. She had the healthy glow that reminded him of the younger generation who took an almost militant approach to their physical and mental wellbeing.

‘You got a minute? If not, I can come back after you kick off work.’

‘Now’s fine,’ Mickey said. ‘How’d you know I was here?’

‘I spoke to your PO.’

Of course, Mickey thought, feeling a spike of anger at how his constant whereabouts at every given moment of the day had to be accounted for, while Byrne could do whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever he wanted.

They stood near the back of his truck, the November sun warm on his face and clothes. Mickey slipped his hands into his jeans pockets, waited.

‘It’s about Byrne,’ she said.

He felt his heart jump in his chest. His expression must have changed, because she said, ‘I don’t know anything new. That’s not why I came here.’

‘But you’re working on my daughter’s case.’

‘I’ve been asked to look at it. Reason I wanted to see you is to get some … context, I guess.’

‘Context,’ Mickey said.

‘How many times have you spoken to Byrne?’

‘You mean one-on-one?’

‘I mean any conversations you had with him – or tried to have with him outside of that one … incident.’

‘It was just that one time.’

‘Run me through it.’

Mickey stared off at the house and started with how he’d been drinking at home, alone. How he’d gone to Byrne’s house late at night and banged on the door with his fist, the finger of his other hand pumping the doorbell button, until the front door swung open and there was Byrne, dressed in a wrinkled pair of khakis and a yellowed undershirt, his grey hair tousled from sleep and sticking up at odd angles as he blinked himself awake.

I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter, Mr Flynn.

Where is she? Where did you bury her?

I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent.

Innocent? Your name was on that list of priests who molested kids. You molested little girls. The only reason you’re not in jail is because they were too terrified to testify against you. You’re a piece of –

You’re drunk, Mr Flynn. You need to go home.

Byrne went to shut the door. Mickey put out his hand and stopped it.

You’re going to tell me what happened to Claire.

Only God knows what is true.

What? What did you say?

I can’t give you what I don’t have, sir. I can’t give you back your daughter, and I can’t take away the guilt you’re still carrying for letting your little girl walk up the Hill all by herself.

It was true, what Byrne had said. He had let Claire walk up that hill with Big Jim’s daughter, Ericka, but the crushing guilt he felt had more to do with the fact that, earlier that afternoon, Heather had forbidden him to take Claire to the Hill. After Heather left, Mickey took Claire sledding.

But how had Byrne known that? That information wasn’t in any of the papers, and Heather hadn’t told him – hadn’t told anyone, as far as Mickey knew.

Byrne straightened a bit, and Mickey was sure as shit the guy was suppressing a grin as he said, Maybe if you had listened to your wife that night and put down the bottle, your daughter would still be alive.

When Mickey snapped out of it, two uniform cops had him pinned to the foyer floor of Byrne’s house. The former priest lay a few feet away, moaning. His body was deathly still, his face unrecognizable. As for how Byrne had got that way, Mickey was at a loss – still was. He had no idea what had happened, and he didn’t find out until later that Byrne carried a panic button with him that could summon the police.

‘You blacked out,’ Darby said. ‘From the booze.’

‘And the anger. At least that was what I was told.’

‘You’ve blacked out from anger before?’

‘Once, I think. Maybe a couple of times,’ he said. ‘But I’d been drinking. Why’d they bring you into this?’

‘I told you, to consult on –’

‘But why now, eleven years later – and on the anniversary of my daughter’s abduction?’

‘They wanted me to take a look at the evidence, see if there’s anything new.’

‘And?’

‘I can’t find anything. But I’m going to talk to Byrne.’

‘They’ve all tried talking to him, and he won’t say shit. Why do they think you’ll get something different out of him?’

‘I’ve had a lot of experience dealing with his type over the years.’

‘And what is he?’

‘The clinical definition? My guess is he’s a psychopath – a very clever one. Is there anything else that you can tell me about him?’

‘He’s dying.’

‘Yeah,’ Darby sighed. ‘I know.’

‘You think you can get him to talk?’

‘I’m going to try, Mickey.’

‘Better do it soon.’

She held his gaze for a moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ Darby said. ‘For everything you’ve gone through – for everything you’re still going through.’

He sensed she really meant it, that she wasn’t paying him lip service like all the other cops. The anger and frustration he’d been carrying with him since his meeting with his PO – it didn’t go away but it receded a bit.

‘I heard about you and Heather,’ Darby said.

‘Happens a lot, I’m told. You know, couples who lose a kid. They often don’t make it.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘That we’ve been divorced?’ He shrugged. ‘Three years or so.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t bother talking to her. She doesn’t talk about it any more. To anyone. Not even me.’ He saw the question in her face and said, ‘Heather has decided to … She’s let it go or made peace with it, I dunno.’

‘The parents of the other two girls,’ Darby said. ‘Are you still in touch with them?’

‘I’ve talked a lot with Judith – that’s Elizabeth’s mother – over the years. She’s from New Hampshire. Nashua.’

‘What about her husband?’

‘Never met him. As for Mary Hamilton’s parents – well, I should say parent. Nancy was a single mother, lives in New Bedford. At least I think she still does. Nancy was –’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but what about the father? My case notes said he abandoned the family when Mary was two years old.’

‘He did. He died, Christ, six, maybe eight years ago of a heroin overdose. I only met Nancy Hamilton once, at a press conference the police held shortly after they had focused on Byrne as the prime suspect. You know, one of those public pleas to see if anyone had any information about Byrne. Nothing came of it.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Nancy was … I don’t want to say a cold fish. Maybe stand-offish. Like she really didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to talk to me about anything. I got the feeling she was, you know, in a lot of pain. She developed an addiction to Xanax, I heard, had to go into treatment. What’s with all the questions? Not that I mind, I’m just curious.’

‘I was hoping you could do me a favour and get in touch with them, let them know I’ll be calling.’

‘Why? You think they won’t speak to you?’

‘I think they’re wary of speaking to anyone who works as a consultant or a private investigator – and rightfully so.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because some people will try to take advantage of them, ask them for money to look into their case. Not all, but some. I don’t want them to think I’m doing that here. And if you call them and let them know who I am, they’ll be more willing to pick up when I call. Oh, and when you give them my name and phone number, tell them that I’m working with the Belham police.’

‘Okay. Sure. I’ll do that today. Anything else?’

‘Not at the moment.’ Darby reached into her back pocket, came up with a card and handed it to him. ‘My cell is written on the back. If you remember anything else or if you just need to, you know, talk, don’t hesitate to call me.’

‘You staying in town?’

‘Yeah. The Budget Lodge on Route 6.’

‘Well if you’ve never had an STD before, you’re sure to get one now.’

Darby laughed a little, and, just like that day on the beach when he’d first heard it, the sound lifted something in him, made him feel lighter.

Mickey was staring at the card, at the doctor title in front of her name, the Ph.D. at the end and the term FORENSIC CONSULTANT, when she reached out and hugged him – a real hug full of genuine emotion and warmth, not the awkward embrace he got from some women who acted like the abduction and murder of his daughter was an infection that could be spread through physical contact. She kissed his cheek, and, as she walked back to her car, he found himself thinking about his mother for some reason, Mickey wondering if she had come into his bedroom early on the day she’d decided to leave without him and maybe kissed him goodbye.