James Grippando - Found money

“And I made the wrong decision both times.”

“So what are you going to do now? Pack up your clinic in Purgatory Springs and move to Siberia?”

Ryan glared. “You think this is a joke?”

“No. You’re being too hard on yourself. You’re dealing in areas where there are no right answers. I take that back,” he said, raising a finger for a case in point. “There was one option that would have been clearly the wrong decision. Ten years ago, you could have blackmailed that jock after you learned he was HIV-positive.”

“That wasn’t an option,” he said, scowling.

“Your father might have considered it.”

“Go to hell, Norm.”

“Sorry. Let’s just forget I said that, okay?”

“No, let’s not forget it. If you think my old man was a scumbag, just come out and say it.”

“I’m not passing judgment. I suppose sometimes even blackmailers have their reasons.”

“But you can never justify rape.”

He could see the pain in Ryan’s face. “No, you can’t.”

“That’s why I had to tell Amy — or at least try to tell her. It seemed like the right thing at the time. Now when I see the agony this must be causing her, I’m not so sure. Maybe she was better off not knowing.”

“Do yourself a favor, Ryan. Put it behind you. Telling Amy about the rape wasn’t the hard decision anyway. You’ll get a second chance to think this through and do the right thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“We still have to meet with the FBI. The tough question is, do you tell them.”

Ryan looked away, shaking his head. “Another one, huh?”

“Another one what?”

He answered in a hollow voice. “Another situation where there’s no right answer.”

Amy called Marilyn Gaslow at her home in Denver, but her housekeeper said she was out of town through Monday. Fortunately, Amy was on the standing short list of people who could reach Marilyn anywhere in case of a true emergency. It was a privilege Amy had never invoked — until tonight.

“Miss Marilyn is staying at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington,” said her housekeeper.

Amy got the number, thanked her, and dialed the Mayflower. The hotel operator put her through to the room.

Marilyn’s seventh-floor suite was furnished with handsome early-American reproductions. The shirt-stripe wallpaper was Laura Ashley. A tasteful fox hunt photograph hung over the desk. Marilyn was alone in the king-size bed, clad in her favorite chenille robe, sitting up against the headboard with her feet propped up on a pillow. It was after midnight in Washington, but she was still awake and reading as the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Marilyn, do you have a minute?”

“Amy?” she said, the familiar voice registering.

“Is something wrong?”

“There’s something very important I have to ask you. I wanted to do it in person, but it really can’t wait. At least, I can’t wait. Is now a good time?”

Two black-binder notebooks lay on the bed beside her. Another was in her lap. “Amy, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m still preparing, and I have to get some sleep.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot you were two hours ahead of me.”

“It’s okay.” She pushed the notebook aside. “Go ahead. What do want to ask me?”

“There’s something I need to know about Mom.”

The silence was suddenly palpable. Marilyn scooted to the edge of the bed, sitting erect. “Okay. What is it?”

“I met a man for coffee tonight. I think his father knew my mother.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Ryan Duffy. His father was Frank Duffy. It’s the same Duffys I was telling you about before — the ones who gave me the money that was stolen from my apartment.”

“I told you to let that go.”

“I know. But I couldn’t. And now look what I found out.”

“Amy, please. Just listen to me, okay? Stay away from Ryan Duffy. Stay away from the whole Duffy family.”

“You know them?”

“Just stay away from them.”

Amy’s voice shook. “So… it’s true?”

“What’s true?”

“Frank Duffy raped my mother.”

“What?”

“That’s what I think Ryan was trying to tell me. His father raped my mother.”

“Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

“How do you know? Did you know Frank Duffy? Tell me if you did.”

“Yes. I knew him when I was in high school.”

“You went to high school together?”

“No. He went to Boulder High, I went to Fairview.”

“But you met him?”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? You just sat there and pretended you didn’t know him.”

“I–I just couldn’t.”

“Because he raped my mother. And Mom didn’t want me to know. That’s why.”

“Amy, I told you. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your mother and I were best friends. We told each other everything.”

“Mom never told you she was raped?”

“Never.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Amy, I know it didn’t happen.”

“How could you possibly know for sure?”

“Trust me. I know.”

“Marilyn, don’t be coy with me. If this man raped my mother, I have a right to know.”

“He didn’t.”

Her voice turned shrill, the way only family would shout at one another. “You’re lying! Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then how do you know he didn’t rape her?”

“Because…”

“Because why? ”

“Because he raped me, Amy. Frank Duffy didn’t rape your mother. He raped me.”

Amy’s hand shook as she gripped the phone. “Oh, my God. Marilyn, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I hope-”

“Forget it. Just forget all about it. It was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me. And that’s where I want it to stay. Promise me, Amy. We will never talk about this again. To anyone.”

“But-”

“Amy,” she said sternly. “ Never again. I don’t need this back in my life. Not now. Especially not now. Do you understand?”

Amy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Marilyn,” she said weakly, “I only wish I understood.”

Ryan stayed in the media room all night, studying the old yearbooks of Boulder High School. Norm had said the copies were photo quality, which didn’t say much for the quality of the original photos. Eight hundred grainy black-and-white mug shots were enough to make anyone’s eyes blurry. Even after a pot of coffee, it was difficult to stay focused. He’d never seen so many kids wearing glasses — ugly eyeglasses at that. A lot of people said television or the airplane was the greatest invention of the twentieth century. Some of these geeks made a pretty compelling case for contact lenses.

After a few hours, Ryan had developed a system. He would check the eyes first. Amy had bright, almond-shaped eyes. Then the bone structure. Amy’s face was heart-shaped, the makings of a natural beauty. From there, the task got more difficult. Most of the girls in the yearbook were smiling. It made him think of his first meeting with Amy, how pretty her smile had been. He imagined her mother’s was much the same.

Though neither Duffy had given them much to smile about.

By 5:00 A.M., Ryan had lost track of the number of times he’d been through the photographs. He’d studied so many faces he was beginning to forget what Amy actually looked like. He’d narrowed it down to about thirty possibilities, but he didn’t feel confident that any of them were actually Amy’s mother. He was about to close the book when something caught his eye. It was a name, not a face. A boy, not a girl.