Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Nick stacked the old newspapers in the garage. Every other month or so he called somebody to come and collect them. Till then he kept them stacked by paper, filed by date. He said he kept them that way in case he ever wanted to go back and check a story, but Maggie knew it was because he was an obsessive organizer.

That Virgil had said something about her being in the paper. Maggie felt as if she were back in the frozen foods section. Goosebumps shivered up her arms.

The garage seemed huge without cars. Nick still had her Mustang. The newspapers were stacked up against the wall that butted up to the house. Maggie skipped over the Times. She read it faithfully. If what she was looking for was there, she’d have seen it. But she never even glanced at the Long Beach Press Telegram. Nick hardly did either. Still, it was a newspaper and as such, Nick felt he should subscribe. He was a newsman, after all.

She took the top paper off the stack, leafed through it, leaving it in a pile on the cement floor when she was finished. To heck with Nick. Thirty papers followed. She gasped when she opened the thirty-first, because the girl staring out at her from the second page had her face.

She’d half expected it. Had been hoping for it most of her life, but had given up thinking about it after she’d married Nick.

She read the caption under the photo,

This time Huntington Beach resident Margo Kenyon struck out in her petition attempt to keep convicted child molester and murderer Frankie Fujimori behind bars. Ms. Kenyon declares, Fujimori is sure to kill again.

She devoured the article, learning that Margo’s ex-husband, attorney Bruce Kenyon, had defended Fujimori seven years earlier. A month after an innocent verdict, Fujimori had raped and murdered a four-year-old child. Fujimori was declared mentally incompetent. Two years ago Margo had started a petition campaign, which gathered over a hundred thousand signatures and convinced the parole board Fujimori wasn’t ready for society. However, on his next attempt at parole, the board ignored Margo’s petition and released him.

“Margo,” Maggie whispered.

She closed her eyes and pictured her birth certificate. Box number 5. Twin, born second. She had an older sister. Dead just days after her birth, lost to the deep when the small plane her mother had supposedly taken her on had crashed into the ocean halfway between San Diego and Los Angeles. But somehow, like Maggie, her twin hadn’t been on that plane.

She sighed and flashed on the Sunday before high school graduation. She’d gone down to Huntington Beach with a bunch of friends to celebrate. They’d been playing in the sand and the surf since noon, but her fun had been dampened because she’d been worried about her best friend’s blouse. She’d borrowed it, washed it with her red sweatshirt, turning the once white blouse pink. She’d been waiting all day to tell her and just as she was about to a hunk had come up to her, kissed her on the cheek and said, “Nice suit, Margo.” Then, “See you at the dance tonight.” He took off before she’d had a chance to say anything, running down the beach with a football and a gaggle of friends.

That chance meeting was like something out of a science fiction novel, because Margo was the name of her twin sister and she was buried at the bottom of the Pacific in that plane with her mother and those Marines, somewhere between Catalina and the coast.

She’d wondered about it off and on for years. Such a strange coincidence, a boy she didn’t know calling her that. Sometimes, late at night, when she was caught in that world between sleep and not sleep, she’d imagine Margo was alive. But then she’d put it out of her mind, because it hurt so much to feel so incomplete, a sailboat set adrift with no sails, no rudder.

She wanted to cry, she was so happy. Margo was real and now. Maggie was looking at her picture and Margo had her face. She was alive. A kind of pleasure rippled through her. Maggie felt good all over.

She got up from the cool cement floor and went into the house. Straight to the living room and the phone books. She picked up the Orange County edition and found an address on Pacific Coast Highway, 913, #1310. And a phone number. Maggie picked up the phone, put it down and went for the door. Nick had her car, but she knew how the busses worked.

Still in Levi’s and sweatshirt, she caught the bus in front of the Safeway, rode it to Seal Beach, where she changed and took the Orange County Bus to a stop only a block past the Sand and Sea Condos.

She stepped off the bus to a cool morning breeze. It was 9:00 and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was going to be another hot day. But it was chilly now. She held her breath against the diesel fumes as the bus pulled away. The place where Margo Kenyon lived was so close. Maggie’s heart thudded as she let the breath out. She walked slowly toward the condo entrance.

“Didn’t see you go out, Ms. Kenyon,” an elderly guard said.

Maggie ignored him as she followed a sidewalk that wound between the condos and the beach. There were several buildings, each with four units in them, two upstairs and two down. The smaller buildings were clustered about a larger one that was home to several units. Maggie was checking the numbers on the doors when she heard a child scream out.

“Mom!”

Maggie turned to see a little girl scramble down the steps from the main building. She stood, frozen in place as the child jumped the last two.

“Margo!”

Maggie spun around and saw a big man moving toward her, not running, but walking fast.

“Mom!” The child charged across the green lawn. Instinctively Maggie went to her knees, arms open. In an instant, the girl wrapped Maggie in a strong hug. “Don’t let him take me.”

The man was getting closer. He would have been handsome if he didn’t have the acne scars. Not what you’d call a pockmarked face, but close.

“Promise you won’t ever leave me again,” the girl said.

Maggie turned back to the man. He looked determined.

“Promise!” the child said again.

“I promise,” Maggie said.

“I was worried, Margo,” the man said.” You went away without telling the cops. They took it out on me.” Maggie recognized him from television. Bruce Kenyon the lawyer, Margo’s husband, the defender of Frankie Fujimori.

“Really?” Maggie said for time.

“Arrested me. Assholes. I was out before they had a chance to book me. They’re going to regret it.”

Bruce Kenyon had the prettiest blue eyes and shocking blond hair, but neither was able to soften his look. He was a man consumed. Maggie didn’t want to get on his wrong side. She was about to tell them who she was, but the child’s grip was tight. The girl was afraid of him, so Maggie held her tongue.

“Are you alright, Jasmine?” Bruce Kenyon said.

“You can’t take me. Mom’s here now.” The girl squeezed Maggie even tighter.

“No one’s taking anybody,” Maggie said. Was he really here to try and take the girl?

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Not now.” Maggie knew the way to deal with lawyers was not to talk to them.

“I came all the way out here.”

“It’s Sunday. It’ll keep.” You had to be firm, otherwise they walked all over you.

“What happened to your head?”

She touched her forehead, winced when she touched the bruise. “Bumped it.”

“Come on, Mom.” The child eased out of the hug, pulled on her arm.

“Margo?” Bruce Kenyon implored.

“Tomorrow!” Maggie turned and let the child lead her away from the man.

“Fuck it.” He sounded disgusted. “I’ll call you.” Apparently there wasn’t any love left between Margo and Bruce Kenyon.

Maggie followed Jasmine to a condo that faced the beach. The door was marked 1310. Margo’s house. Jasmine opened the door and Maggie followed her inside.