“Tell me about that. Close your eyes if you have to.”
“I can see it like it was yesterday. That card was everything to me that summer; I couldn’t put it down. We were in the car, going down the West Side. The sun was down, and it was getting dark. I had it in my hand, and Robbie swiped it. It was a kid thing—he was messing with me, holding it out the window, letting it flap in the breeze. Then something happened, and he let it go. I think that was the moment the lights went out. I started screaming; Lois pulled over. I jumped out and went running up the side of the road for it.”
“What?”
“Crazy, I know. It was a miracle that I found it. There was no wind to blow it away, though. There was nothing but heat. Once it landed, it just lay there in a pile of road trash. I ran back with it, and Lois took it from me. By that time, we could tell the lights were out.”
“And you’re certain,” Aideen said, each word deliberate, “that you never saw the card again before she left?”
“Yes. I’m certain it disappeared that night. Just like Lois.”
“Right, and just like Lois, it ended up here again. So maybe she brought it with her, and it got taken from her. Then it got handed back to you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Joe? What if she planned to give it to you herself but got stopped? And by stopped, I mean murdered?”
“I guess it’s possible. Or maybe Lois gave it to someone else, like someone whose job it was to drive me crazy. Someone who hoped I’d see it and think I was being haunted by it. Someone who wanted me to see her as a ghost, as something I’d feel compelled to get rid of.”
“In a way she was a ghost,” Aideen said. “I don’t think it was her doing the haunting, though. Stay with me. We’re getting somewhere.”
CHAPTER 53
Wednesday, July 13, 1977
La Quenelle Restaurant
Upper West Side, Manhattan
11:19 p.m.
Twenty minutes after being hailed inside, Joe and Robbie were perched at the bar drinking watery Coca-Cola and tearing through the most delicious hamburgers they had ever tasted. There were french fries too, big baskets of them, and two salads neither boy was interested in. The tastes were decidedly different from McDonald’s or Burger Chef; the fries were peppery, and the cheese was sharper. It was all mouthwatering.
The curvy woman’s name was Geneviève, they learned, and the man behind the bar, running in and out of the kitchen, was her husband, René. René had a dark mustache, was thick and barrel chested, and drank endlessly from bottles of red wine. Geneviève’s face gleamed a little with sweat, but it was more like she glowed. The revelers at the bar had a few bottles between them and seemed to go back and forth in conversation, speaking a mixture of a slippery-sounding language and English.
French, Joe guessed. He was good with languages.
“This was really nice of you,” Joe said to Geneviève, concealing a burp. He was smiling for the first time he could remember. It was remarkable, he’d think much later, what food and light could do to keep fear and despair at bay. Like wolves from a fire.
“We gotta go, though,” Robbie said. Geneviève was on a barstool beside them, another cigarette and a wine glass in her hand. Her elbow was on the bar, and her head rested against her fist.
“What are you two doing out here?” she asked with a tired smile. It sounded languid, like it really didn’t matter. Neither boy was used to adults speaking to them that way, casually, like they were equals. “You’re not neighborhood kids; I would know.”
“We’re trying to find our mom,” Robbie said. He hesitated and then said, “We got, like, separated.” Joe frowned at this. The disquiet was creeping back in, the protective fire dying.
“You have a phone number for her? You call her?”
“She wouldn’t be at home,” Robbie said. “We’re supposed to go to my uncle’s.”
“Where’s does he live?”
“Staten Island.”
“Whew!” she said, the sleepy eyes widening. “That’s like . . . New Jersey. So you can call him? It’s not a good night for boys to be out. We hear crazy things.”
“We don’t have money for the phone,” Joe said.
“Money, again with money! René!”
“What?” he called from the kitchen.
“Apporte-moi le telephone.” They both caught the last word. René emerged, gleaming with sweat. He fished out a heavy black dial phone and set it with a clang on the bar.