Laura Lippman: The Most Dangerous Thing

“What about Rick? He was there as well.”

“He died a year ago. I found his obituary online. I think this is a case where all the lucky ones are dead.”

“You can’t call Go-Go lucky.”

“No-no, that’s true.”

“I wish we could find Sean,” Gwen says. They have both tried him repeatedly, but his cell phone goes straight to voice mail, and they have been reluctant to leave any message beyond “Call me.” Gwen is actually a little hurt by Sean’s inattention.

Tim gives a laugh that’s a good imitation of the sound she made when she heard about the guitar. “I have a hunch he’ll meet us there.”

M cKey’s apartment has a security system that requires visitors to call up. But when Gwen reaches for the receiver, Tim grabs her and sweeps her up in an embrace, pressing her against the wall and pretending to kiss her, although he has his hand over her mouth. Frightened by his odd behavior, Gwen is getting ready to kick him in the shins, then stops when she realizes his intent. He is counting on the person entering the vestibule to be embarrassed and not protest when Tim grabs the open door and hustles in behind them.

“It’s not much of a security system, especially if the apartment number is next to the name,” he says. “They should use random codes, so people can’t find someone if they sneak in as we did.”

“It was a neat trick.”

“Thanks. I stole it from a movie.”

He pounds on McKey’s door even as he presses a button on his phone, sighing when he hears a distinctive ring tone from the other side, a burst of classical music.

“You have McKey’s number in your phone?” Gwen asks, mystified.

“No,” Tim says. He pounds again, speaks in a firm voice. “It’s Gwen and Tim. You have to let us in.” There is no sound on the other side of the door. Tim presses a button on his phone again, the same ring tone sounds from the other side of the door. But what does this prove, Gwen thinks. McKey clearly is not here. She just happened to leave her phone behind.

Tim speaks into the door. “I’ve got Vivian’s number in my phone, too. I’m dialing that one next.”

Vivian?

“It’s a three-one-seven number, right? Is that the cell or the home phone?”

McKey answers the door, wearing a floor-length robe, a bit of floaty lavender far too pretty to be useful. Gwen cannot begin to read the look on her face. Triumphant? Smug? Angry?

“Why did you bring Gwen? Do you think it makes you look less pathetic?”

“I don’t think I’m the pathetic one in this situation. I mean, I’m not the one who had to make up a lie about a golf date so I could cheat on my wife.” He walks over to her coffee table. Gwen sees a bottle of wine, two glasses, both with some dregs.

“I thought you were in AA,” Gwen says stupidly. It’s easier to focus on this small detail than the larger one, the buzz of words from Tim, the details that don’t track. Two glasses. Cheat. Golf date. That robe.

“I was,” McKey says. “Then I realized I’m not an alcoholic, that I was just a little unnerved by some episodes before the holidays. I can drink in moderation.”

“Yeah, two glasses is really moderate,” Tim says. “Look, let’s not drag this out. His phone is here. We heard it ring.”

“He stopped by earlier today. I didn’t realize he left it here. This is awkward. I’m entertaining.”

“I bet you are,” Tim says, holding his phone out at arm’s length. Gwen understands. He can’t read the screen close up without reading glasses. “Here’s Vivian’s number-I wonder if I can set up a conference call among our three phones.”

Sean comes into the living room, fully dressed. Gwen wants to laugh at the silliness of it, this odd little moment straight out of a bedroom farce. Sean proper and composed, as if the fact of his clothing, his combed hair, proves he’s innocent. Yet she’s sad for him, too. Oh, Sean. I wish you had told me what you were thinking. Because I would have talked you out of it. Not out of jealousy, although she admits to herself that she is jealous, that she does feel as if McKey has seized something that was hers. But mainly she’s sad because he’s done something he can never take back. And she knows he’ll want to take it back, whatever the outcome, even if there is no outcome. Her father may be right about people being too honest. But the problem with cheating is that you can never be spared that knowledge about yourself, whether you tell or not.

“We forgot our prop,” she says to Tim, not wanting to think about what’s happening here and now.

“That’s okay. We won’t need it. We might all need alcohol, though.” McKey has no intention of playing the hostess, so Gwen goes to the kitchen, finds it stocked with wine and beer and a healthy array of whiskey, although no food. She brings a selection to the table, with a choice of glasses. She herself selects bourbon. She’s not driving in any sense of the word. Let Tim take the wheel.

“Over the past twenty-four hours, Gwen and I, separately and together, have learned a lot of things that change everything about what we thought we knew about the night of the hurricane.” Tim is in his professional mode. “First-and this is going to be hard to hear, Sean-Gwen’s father says that Chicken George was probably alive when they got to him, but our father killed him, beat him to death with a flashlight. And our father told Mom as much the night he died.”

Sean shakes his head. “If that’s so, it would have been reported at the time. There weren’t so many bodies dumped in Leakin Park that such a thing would have gone overlooked.”

“It didn’t. But the body was out there for a very long time, much longer than anyone could have guessed, washed into a culvert. It was months before it was found, but it happens that there is an open case from the winter of 1980.” Tim looks at McKey. “Was it hard, going back and seeing him there, or had the stream already washed him away?”

Gwen understands that Tim is testing McKey. There’s no reason to believe that she took the guitar, but the accusation might shake something loose.

“I didn’t go back.”

“Someone did. I found the guitar in my family’s attic today. And it’s hard for me to imagine Go-Go going back by himself, to see the body of the man who allegedly molested him.”

Gwen sees Sean’s head snap up at the adverb allegedly . McKey has no reaction, and that’s reaction enough.

But all she says is: “I don’t know why Go-Go did what he did. He’s dead, so I’ll guess we’ll never know.”

“Want to know something interesting about Go-Go’s death, Mickey? A few months ago, an old priest from our parish asked Go-Go to be a character witness for him. A former student had come forward, said he had recovered memories of sexual abuse, seemed to be interested in shaking cash out of the archdiocese or even the priest himself, who comes from a well-to-do family and has pockets deep enough to be attractive to someone angling for a quickie settlement. Go-Go agreed to be his character witness. Then he abruptly backed out, wouldn’t even answer phone calls from the person trying to set up the deposition. Why would he do that?”

“Why do you keep asking me about Go-Go, what he did? He’s not my brother.”

Gwen realizes that McKey is even smarter than she ever knew, careful not to say anything. She has not made a single assertion so far, other than insisting that she didn’t take the guitar, and she may be telling the truth. But she knows Go-Go wasn’t molested by Chicken George.

“Go-Go did tell Father Andrew that he wanted to do this for him because years ago he was molested by two high school boys, but he lied and blamed it on someone else. The weird thing is, based on what he told Father Andrew, he was molested by the older kids in 1980. So what really happened the night of the hurricane? What did you see? Why was Chicken George chasing you, trying to grab you? You, Mickey, not Go-Go. He tried to grab you-and you pushed him.”