Fall Guy

Debbie Does Dallas at the Jane Street Theater, people who wouldn't ordinarily be in the neighborhood, hanging on to each other for dear life. I switched legs and waited some more. An old black man came out, walked slowly down the stairs and sat in a little niche to the right, taking in the cool evening air. A woman with a small teddy bear sticking out of her backpack came down next, heading toward Washington Street, sipping out of a bottle that she kept in a paper bag. A golden retriever, a bottle of Poland Spring water in his mouth, passed, his owner glancing at me, then looking away quickly, as if I might be one of the hookers who hung out on street corners two blocks north of where I stood. I waited some more, not knowing if this would get me anything, wanting answers and not knowing what else to do.
    The people coming from Washington Street were in a big hurry. I checked my watch. It was nearly show time. And when I looked back at the hotel, there he was at the top of the stairs. Like nearly everyone else who had exited the hotel, he stopped partway down the steps and looked around. He stood in the light, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets. I didn't think he'd recognize me, especially without Dashiell. I was just someone he'd passed on the stairs one day. Andy was looking down, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
    I pushed off the fence, crossed the street and joined the latecomers, as if I, too, were going into the theater. When I got to where he was standing, I stopped and fished around in my pockets, as if I were looking for my ticket, so that I could get a better look. And that I did. A cigarette was dangling from his mouth now. He struck the match, holding it to the cigarette, cupping the flame with his other hand.
    The hands gave him up, raw and shiny like Maggie's legs, even after all these years. As he shook the match, he glanced over at me, and for just a moment, I saw his eyes. The fire Maggie had described was long gone. His eyes, now that he was a grown man, were as cold and black and uncaring as the swimming hole that had swallowed his closest friend, the swimming hole that had become the beginning of the end for all of them. Standing on the steps, latecomers brushing by, I didn't have a doubt in the world that I was a foot away from Francis Connor, a foot away from the man who had killed Timothy O'Fallon, Elizabeth Bowles and Dennis O'Fallon. And knowing who, I knew why.

CHAPTER 30
    I didn't know if Francis Connor had recognized me. The first time I'd seen him, he'd never looked up. But I wasn't about to take a chance. Instead of turning around and heading home, which is what I would have liked to do, I kept on walking, following the crowd. That way, even if he realized he'd seen me before, he might assume seeing me now was mere coincidence, that, like everyone else coming up the stairs, I was going to the play. Besides, there was safety in numbers. Once inside, I looked around, found the nearest ladies' room, pulled out my cell phone and called Maggie, listening to the ringing, wondering where she was.
    Monk, my ass, I thought, leaning against the inside of the bathroom door. Why had I thought that only the children were lying, making up acceptable stories to cover homely, painful truths? Where had the children learned it from?
    And where had Francis really been all these years? Reform school? Jail? A psychiatric hospital? Or had he been with the circus? Who would notice one more freak?
    Maggie still hadn't picked up. I was about to give up when she answered. „Did I wake you?“
    „Rachel?“
    „Yes, it's me.“
    „No. I slept a little when I got home, but now I'm up. I had to feed Dashiell and take him for a walk. Rachel?“
    „Yes?“
    „I feel so safe with him here. I can't begin to thank you. I know you must miss him terribly.“
    I didn't want to think about that, about how it felt not to have Dashiell with me or waiting for me at home. But now, with what I had just seen, it wouldn't be long. If I acted quickly, if I had just a little bit of luck, it was possible I could get him back in the morning. But if I was going to tell my story to Brody, I wanted all the answers, and there was a piece missing I thought Maggie could help me with.
    „I hope I can get back to sleep. I'm really tired. But I can't stop thinking.“
    „Me, neither.“
    „What are you thinking about?“
    „Your father,“ I said. „About that last day, locked up in his study.“
    „I wish