Joel Goldman: Shakedown

It was, he said, one of the nervous system’s unexplained defects, for which there was no known cause or cure. Though he assured me it would neither threaten nor shorten my life, he also conceded it was unlikely to disappear.

When the medications he prescribed didn’t work and made me goofy, he told me I had to retire or face worsening symptoms. Take it easy, he said. Do less and take more time doing it.

It sounded like death in slow motion. If living meant shaking, I chose shaking. The Bureau chose retirement and declared me disabled in record time.

Troy kept the case open, pursuing the possibility that Wendy was not only alive but was also the sole survivor of the drug ring. The offshore accounts they had used had been emptied, the money never recovered. Troy suspected that Wendy had made off with the money and was living the high life while her parents mourned her presumed death, a possibility I publicly rejected and privately prayed for.

I didn’t want her to be a criminal. I just wanted her to be alive and safe. If she had been involved, she’d be reluctant to contact us. I understood that, trading the nightmares about what had happened to her for the hope she was okay.

Ammara told me all about Troy’s theory over coffee, apologizing and saying that she’d asked to be transferred to another squad, adding that Joy and I were being watched in case we received a phone call or e-mail from Wendy or in case the balance in our bank accounts suddenly ballooned.

It was shameful, insulting, and inevitable, but I couldn’t criticize Troy. Even now, I couldn’t separate the truth from the lies. Each version was layered with shades of guilt, from Colby’s confession exonerating Wendy, to his implied indictment of her on the playground, to Grisnik’s insistence that she was the biggest thief among the thieves. The version that was missing was her own. Until I knew that, I wouldn’t pass judgment.

Either she was dead, her body lost, or she was alive and had left us behind. Whichever was the case, I had failed her.

Three months later I was having coffee at Beanology, one of my favorite haunts not far from my house, laptop on my lap, surfing the web. It was one of those rare winter days when the temperature soared for no apparent reason into the upper sixties. I was sitting on the outdoor patio, the sun at a blinding, sharp angle, Ruby curled on the chair next to me.

A message popped up in my inbox telling me that someone had sent me an electronic greeting card. I clicked on the link and an image materialized on the screen. It was a monkey with an ear-to-ear grin. The caption read Happy Birthday! Love, Monkey Girl.

It was my birthday. I’d forgotten, but Wendy hadn’t.