The Bullet Page 12

  By the time I had completed a full circle around the Perimeter—two hours in the late-afternoon traffic—my mind began to clear. I decided I’d had enough. Enough with chasing phantoms. I could try to find this Tank, confront him, demand to know what had happened that day back in 1979. But what good would it do? It wouldn’t bring back Boone and Sadie Rawson. What had happened to them—what had happened to me—was unspeakable. It would be a long time before I got over the shock of seeing Sadie Rawson’s face in that photograph. But you can feel only so much sorrow for a person whom you physically resemble, but can’t actually remember. Enough. It was time to go home.

  Dusk was falling. I had nearly finished another loop around the city. The car needed gas and I needed a drink.

  Out of habit, I headed back to the St. Regis. I had handed in my room key this morning, to discover that Ethan Sinclare had picked up the tab for my entire stay. Three nights, plus (I cringed to think of him seeing this) the gargantuan bill for my room-service cheeseburger frenzy. He must have circled back and handed the manager his credit card after we’d finished breakfast together this morning. He had left a handwritten note at the front desk:

  Caroline—

  Such a pleasure to meet you. Hope you don’t mind my doing this. Betsy and I would love to take you to dinner if you ever find yourself in Atlanta again. I like to think that somehow, Boone is watching over you, and that he knows his friends are looking after his baby girl.

  Yours truly,

  Ethan

  What a nice man. No wonder Boone had liked him. And thanks to his thoughtfulness, this trip had now cost me a fraction of what I had budgeted. I could afford to stay put tonight, catch my breath, and fly back to Washington first thing tomorrow.

  Soon I was stepping out of the Mazda and onto the stone driveway of the hotel. The elegant lobby was hushed, only a few people milling around, a piano tinkling somewhere out of sight. A familiar-looking bellhop scurried over to take my suitcase. I was headed toward the front desk when I froze. Did a double take. Felt my heart skip.

  Standing there, beside the elevators, was Will Zartman.

  • • •

  WE STARED AT each other for a long moment.

  Then Will held up a hand and waved.

  I crossed the lobby to where he stood. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Caroline. Nice to see you, too.” He smiled, waited.

  But I wasn’t in the mood for routine pleasantries. “What are you doing here?” I demanded again.

  “I was worried. You sounded awful on the phone.”

  “Did I? Well, it’s been a hell of a day. I didn’t think—you didn’t sound very interested when I called.”

  “I was interested.” His voice was both determined and a little shy. “I was starting to think the only way to get you back to Washington was if I came down and dragged you back myself.”

  “If you came down and dragged me back? And so—so you just went and jumped on a plane this afternoon?”

  “You need to keep your appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, Caroline. Either that, or let me connect you with one down here.”

  I stared at him, trying to take this in. “How did you find me?”

  “You told me where you were staying. Remember? And I did try to reach you this afternoon, to tell you I was coming. As you would know if you ever, just once in a while, answered your phone.”

  “But I checked out of the St. Regis this morning. How did you know I would come back here? I didn’t decide myself until a few minutes ago.”

  He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Where else would you go?”

  “Well. This is—it’s incredibly sweet of you. But don’t you have, like, a job? Patients you’re supposed to be seeing?”

  “Look, if you want me to turn around and go home, just say the word.” Will sounded offended.

  “It’s not that, I just—”

  “And actually, caring for patients is my job,” he continued huffily. “Although you’d be amazed how helpful it is when they do what I tell them. To take a wild example, when I’ve wrangled an appointment with one of the most respected surgeons in Washington, it’s helpful when my patients bother to show up. As opposed to, say, embarrassing me, ignoring my medical advice, and carrying on in a way that is, frankly, reckless.”

  I held up my hands. “Touché.”

  “To answer your original question, I don’t see patients on Fridays. It’s my writing day. I don’t see patients after lunch on Thursdays, either. But thanks for your concern about my practice.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

  He stepped back, crossed his arms on his chest, and regarded me with an expression that was half-angry, half-sheepish. “Another thing I don’t usually do is fly around the country chasing down disobedient patients. But you . . . you sounded like you were in trouble. I feel responsible.”

  “Responsible? Why? What does all this—”

  “I screwed up. I told you to slap on a wrist brace and you’d be fine. I should have taken your wrist pain more seriously, should have ordered an MRI months ago. I wouldn’t blame you if you sued me for mal­practice. But I’m trying to put things right, so here I am.”

  “So here you are.”

  We stood facing each other awkwardly. Did he expect me to thank him? To reach out and shake his hand? Lean in for an embrace? This encounter was clearly beyond the remit of the typical doctor-patient relationship. But what otherwise was our relationship? Unspoken words hung in the air.

  “Hungry?”

  “God, yes,” I said, grateful to have the silence broken. And I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since Ethan Sinclare had bought me breakfast this morning. “I could do with a drink, too.”

  He glanced around. “Where’s the bar?”

  “I’m not actually sure. There’s a restaurant upstairs, but . . . you know, I don’t think I’ve eaten anywhere besides this hotel in three days. I keep ordering room service. Would you mind if we went out?”

  It didn’t take long for the concierge to size us up. He recommended two places nearby; one was high-end sushi and the other, a steak house. He probably got a cut for every reservation he steered their way. When I insisted we didn’t need fancy, that my primary concern was an icy pitcher of margaritas, he relented and directed us to a place called the Georgia Grille.

  “Order the jalapeño poppers,” he said. “Trust me on this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, it seemed that trusting him might have been a mistake.

  The Georgia Grille was one of the least inviting restaurants I’d ever seen. Set in the back corner of a bland strip mall, it was squashed between a dry cleaner’s and the parking lot. Neon letters spelled out the name across a grimy stucco wall. You couldn’t see inside; there were no windows. No way to tell if the place was even open.

  “This can’t be right,” I said, checking the piece of paper where the concierge had scribbled the name. “What was he thinking? It looks awful.”

  “It does,” agreed Will. “If it’s as bad inside as out here, let’s maybe try that steak house after all.”

  He held open the door; we stood squinting on the threshold. Once our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, we decided to stay. The place was packed. An old wormwood bar slouched across one wall. The walls were painted tawny butterscotch, and candles glowed on every surface. The scents of roasted pork and fresh tortillas hung in the air. It was hard to imagine a starker contrast with the dingy exterior.

  We slid onto two seats at the bar. I peeled off my jacket and looked around.

  “Y’all look like you wouldn’t say no to a couple of margaritas.” The bartender peered at us.

  “You read my mind.”

  “Y’all plannin’ to eat, too? Want to look at a menu or just let me tell you what’s good?” He salted the rims of two glasses. “Lobster enchilada’s the best thing on the
menu.”

  “Sold,” said Will.

  “I should clarify. It’s the best thing on the menu unless it’s a Thursday night. Which I believe you’ll find it is. In which case, what you want is the cowboy shrimp special.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not a big shrimp eater.”

  “Fat, juicy babies grilled up on a bed of grits, with bacon and white beans and spinach—”

  “I take it back. You had me at bacon.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “Oh, and the jalapeño—what was it we’re supposed to ask for?” I looked at Will. “The fritters?”

  “The poppers.” The bartender set down our drinks. “That went without saying.”

  I was beginning to feel better. Funny how a large margarita and the prospect of a good meal can do that. I downed my drink in two long swallows and signaled for another.

  Will raised his eyebrows. “I guess you needed that.”

  “Like I said. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “Just so long as you stay away from the rye. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy having to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home.”

  I pretended to scowl. Will was tall and broad-shouldered; he would have no trouble slinging me over his shoulder and carting me off. Tonight he looked annoyingly good. He wore a camel-colored cashmere sweater and boot-cut Levi’s.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” I asked.

  “Uh, sure. Shoot.”

  “Have you ever owned a pair of black, skinny jeans?”

  “Skinny jeans? You mean like mall-rat teenage girls wear?”

  I laughed. “I guess so.”

  “Umm, no. I’m afraid that’s a glaring omission from my wardrobe. Why?”

  The tequila was hitting my bloodstream. I smiled at him. “No reason.”

  He gave me a quizzical look, then cleared his throat. “Look, Caroline. At the risk of embarrassing myself, can I say something? I meant what I said before. If you want me to walk away tonight and never bother you again, I will. Okay? The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable, especially with everything else you’re dealing with. And Lord knows my own life doesn’t need any more complications. But I—I really like you. I do. I have for a while.” His eyes held mine. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

  I felt something soften inside me.

  “I’d like that, too. And I . . . I’m glad you flew down.” The words spilled out before I had time to think. I was surprised to realize they were true. My cheeks burned, and I busied myself tracing my finger around the rim of my glass and licking off the salt.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Am not.”

  He swiped his hand across his mouth to hide a grin. “Fine. Change of subject then. Want to tell me about your day from hell?”

  “Oh, it’s been the longest day ever.” I sighed. “The phone started ringing before I even got out of bed. First this guy who used to play tennis with my dad. With Boone Smith, I mean. And then this cop called—”

  “Hang on, hang on. Why were these people calling you? How do they even—”

  “Because of the newspaper story.”

  Will looked blank.

  “The Journal-Constitution wrote a profile, about me coming back to Atlanta. It’s on the front page today.”

  “You’re on the front page of today’s paper? Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus. I must have walked right past it at the airport.”

  “Well, every single other person in Atlanta seemed to see it.” I described for Will how I’d met Beamer Beasley in the newsroom, and what he’d told me about the day of the murders. Eventually, I arrived at what Beasley had told me about the bullet itself.

  Will went pale and touched my hand. “That must have been awful to hear.”

  “Yes. I—I wanted to claw it out right there. I still do.” I shuddered.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  We were both still. Then, suddenly, Will sucked in his breath. “Tell me again what exactly the cop wanted to know about the bullet? When he asked whether you could feel it in your neck?”

  “That was pretty much it, I think.” My forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Beasley was walking me downstairs, and he asked whether the bullet hurt. Whether I’d ever explored getting it surgically removed.”

  Will threw me a sharp look. “You see why he was asking that? It sounds like your case preyed on him, all these years. He never solved it. No wonder he wanted to meet with you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He told you there was no physical evidence, right? Don’t you think the police would have liked to get their hands on the bullets? Then they might have figured out what type of gun was used. Maybe they could even have identified the actual murder weapon; I’m not sure how these things work. But Beasley said the bullet that hit your father disappeared, right? And the other one was off-limits to police, because it was sewn up inside a hurt little girl. Inside you, Caroline. You’re walking around with the evidence in your neck.”

  • • •

  SOMEHOW THIS PRECISE point had not occurred to me. I’d been so caught up with the horror of that bullet having traveled through Sadie Rawson’s flesh that I hadn’t stopped to consider its potential utility as forensic evidence.

  “Do you think that’s why Beasley wanted to see me?” I asked Will. “To find out if there was any chance of extracting it?”

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know. But imagine if you were him, and you unfolded your morning paper to find a case that had haunted you your whole career, plastered across the front page? He must have choked on his coffee. Of course he’d want to question you. Does the article mention that the bullet is still intact and in your neck?”

  I shrank down. “Yes. They ran the image of the X-ray.”

  “That was in the newspaper ?” Will looked aghast.

  “They wanted proof that I wasn’t making all this up!”

  “Okay, okay.” He took a deep breath. “To speak to your question, I have no idea whether Atlanta police would have the resources, or indeed the interest, in reopening a case that’s sat cold for thirtysomething years. But Beasley wouldn’t be much of a cop if he hadn’t asked, would he?”

  “He also asked whether coming back here had jogged any memories.”

  “Yeah. That would be the other thing I would want to know, if I were in his shoes.”

  “I told him it hadn’t.”

  “Nothing at all? Even going back to visit your old house?”

  I shook my head. “There was a moment—I thought I remembered where a light switch should be, and there it was. On the stairs leading up to the attic. But no, nothing about my family, or how they died.”

  “I’m glad, actually. Glad you don’t have to relive that day.” My right arm had been resting on the bar, and now he laid his arm against it. We were barely touching, but where his skin brushed mine, the hairs stood up, instantly electric.

  “How’s your wrist?”

  “The same,” I managed.

  “I’ve seen you drawing circles, like this. Does that help?” His finger traced a slow circle on the white skin inside my wrist.

  I nodded. Closed my eyes. The room tilted.

  His finger circled again, more firmly now.

  I was finding it hard to breathe. “You’re not my type.”

  “That’s a shame.” Another circle. “For what it’s worth, you’re not my type either.”

  My eyelids fluttered open. “I’m not? Why?”

  “Well, for starters, I usually steer clear of women who set off metal detectors even when fully undressed.”

  I smiled.

  He smiled.

  Then he stretched out his leg until it pressed against mine. Hip against hip, knee against kn
ee. You could feel hard muscle outlined beneath his Levi’s, could feel the heat rising off his skin.

  Later, in a dark corner of the parking lot, he leaned me back against a doorway. With one hand he gently braced my neck. With the other, he traced the same, slow circle over my blouse, around the tips of my breasts. He took his time. Slow, then slower still. His fingers circled and curved and teased until I was dizzy, until I heard myself moan. Until—for the first time in days—the throbbing in my body was nowhere near my neck.

  Twenty

  * * *

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2013

  Good morning, madam.”

  My usual waiter greeted us at breakfast. He eyed Will and me with an uneasy expression, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with us. I checked my watch; it was barely seven o’clock. Perhaps the restaurant wasn’t yet open for business? Will had dragged me out of bed half an hour ago, adamant that we needed to get to the airport and talk our way onto an early flight home. I had agreed on the condition that we grab a decent breakfast first.

  The waiter eventually turned, beckoned us to follow, and showed us to a secluded table behind a gigantic, potted plant. He presented the menus with a flourish. “Now then. The kitchen’s just getting going. Fresh orange juice? Are you leaning towards the yogurt, or the sweet-­potato pancakes today?”

  I smiled. The man had memorized my breakfast preferences while I hadn’t even learned his name. I made a mental note to leave a big tip. “The pancakes again. You have an astonishing memory.”

  “Thank you. I also recall that you prefer the pancakes with a side of sausage?”

  Make that a really big tip. “You recall correctly, thanks.”

  “Very good. How about for your—err—friend?” The uneasy look again.

  “Just coffee and toast. Whole wheat, please,” Will told him.

  The waiter nodded, glanced at me again, hesitated. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself: “And will any of your other friends be joining you for breakfast?”