Authors: James Grippando
On Thursday morning, Ryan was ready to call home. His father wouldn’t answer.
That was a fact Ryan had not yet gotten used to. His father had always been the one to answer. Mom hated talking on the phone. Frank Duffy used to love it. You could hear it in his voice, the way he would answer. Not a lazy “Hello.” It was a distinctive and energetic “
Hay
-low,” a genuine greeting to anyone who did him the favor of dialing his number. It had been somewhat of a joke among friends, the way people would call for Ryan, Sarah, or their mother and end up speaking to Frank. He always wanted to hear what was going on.
Ryan wondered if he was listening now.
Last night had been tough. He’d spent most of it thinking how best to tell his mother what he’d learned, especially about the rape. There was no easy way. Face-to-face was probably best, but with the FBI on his tail he at least had to bring her into the loop.
At the first sign of daylight, he placed the call from Norm’s spare bedroom. It hadn’t occurred to him that his mom would be anything but wide awake and dressed for the day—and it wasn’t just because of the neighbor’s blasted roosters that rattled the Duffy homestead with every sunrise. Jeanette Duffy wasn’t a Duffy at all. She was a
Greene, part of a pioneer family that more than a century ago had planted roots on the plains with two mules and a sod house. She had always been an early riser, as if genetically programmed to get up before dawn to milk the cows and feed the chickens, even if they didn’t own any cows or chickens. Since the funeral, she’d been rising even earlier than usual. The big house was empty without Frank and his booming voice. Lying around in bed could only make it seem emptier. The image saddened Ryan. The loss had siphoned her frontier spirit. She looked older to him now, even in his mind’s eye. He envisioned her sitting at the kitchen table with the phone to her ear, watching her morning toast and coffee get cold as Ryan tried to tell her the truth about the man she had married.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said again, firmly.
It was a worn-out refrain, repeated like a mantra throughout their conversation. Ryan couldn’t give her any details. She wouldn’t allow it, threatened to hang up. It was as if she had fulfilled her promise to Frank by telling Ryan about the safe deposit box, and now she was done with it. It had been Ryan’s decision to open the box. Now he had to deal with the consequences. Not her.
“Mom, at least let me say this much. It’s possible the FBI will contact you.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t get nervous. I said it’s possible, not definite. Yesterday, Norm notified the assistant U.S. attorney that he is the legal counsel for the entire Duffy family. They shouldn’t contact any of us directly now that we have a lawyer.”
“What do I say if they do call me?”
“Tell them they should call me or Norman Klus
mire. Period. Don’t try to be polite and helpful. You need to be firm on this.”
“All right.”
“Sarah needs to hear this, too. I’ve been trying to call her since late last night. Nobody answers at her house. Is she okay?”
“As far as I know, yes. She’s okay.”
“If you see her, tell her exactly what I told you. And have her call me as soon as possible. I’ll be at Norm’s house or at his office the rest of the day. We need to talk about Brent.”
“Brent came back yesterday.”
“So you heard what he did in Denver?”
“Uh—when are you coming home, Ryan?”
He paused. She obviously didn’t want to talk about Brent. She didn’t seem to want to talk about anything. “Maybe tomorrow. I have a few things to take care of here in the city.”
“What are you doing about the clinic, son?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m referring my patients to Dr. Weber in Lamar.”
“Oh, he’s a fine doctor. And his receptionist is just lovely. Sweet and very pretty. Maybe you can give her a call once you and Liz are legally—”
“
Mom
,” he groaned. His mother seemed to focus on the goofiest things in times of crisis. “Goodbye, Mom. I love you. Just remember, none of us has anything to be ashamed of. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Yes,” she said in a voice that quaked. “I’ll try and remember that.”
Sarah waited for the click on the other end of the line, then hung up the phone. She’d heard it all, without Ryan’s knowledge.
Yesterday’s attempt to confront Brent about the
attack had proved disastrous. She’d spent the night at Mom’s, giving her hotheaded husband some time to cool off. She and her mother had spent most of the night talking about Ryan. Sarah was suspicious. Partly it was because of things Brent had said, but not entirely. It seemed Ryan was keeping her in the dark, maybe for his own purposes. Jeanette had let her eavesdrop on this morning’s phone call to ease her concerns.
Her slippers shuffled along the floor as she moved from the living room to the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and glared at her mother. She was accusatory, not quizzical. “Why didn’t you let him talk?”
Jeanette sipped her coffee, then grimaced. It was cold. “What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t let him tell you what he found out.”
“I didn’t want to know.”
“Well,
I
want to know.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
Sarah groaned, exasperated. “That was the whole point of letting me listen in on the phone call, Mom. To see if he would tell you things he wouldn’t tell me.”
Jeanette refilled her coffee cup and returned to her chair. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to get involved in this just to eliminate your crazy suspicions about your own brother.”
“It’s not crazy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you with him on this?”
She stopped in mid-sip. “What?”
“Neither one of you wants me to know what’s going on.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You two are together on this. As soon as I walk
out that door, you’ll call him right back and get all the information. You’re leaving me out of the loop.”
“Sarah, get hold of yourself. This is your family you’re talking about.”
“Mom, I was on the phone. I heard, okay? All he had to do was mention Brent’s name and you start talking about some silly receptionist in Lamar. Is that the problem? You’re afraid of Brent? Or do you not trust
me
, either?”
“Of course I trust you, Sarah. And your brother does, too.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me about that woman named Amy?”
“What woman?”
“The woman who Dad sent some money to in a box. She went to see Ryan, and he never told me. Then she came to see me.”
Jeanette shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want to know about that. I’m sure Ryan had his reasons.”
Sarah came to the table and sat across from her. It was clear her mother didn’t want to discuss it, but she wouldn’t let it go. “She came here to Piedmont Springs. I talked to her. Says Dad sent her a thousand dollars in a box. I got bad vibes from that woman. Real nervy-like. I didn’t like her. Didn’t like her at all.”
Jeanette said nothing.
Sarah said, “She had an attitude. Came on too strong for my taste. Like she was entitled to something. Like she was part of the family or something.”
Jeanette stared down into her coffee cup. Her hands were shaking, as if she were bracing herself for the worst.
“Mom, I need to ask you something. Was Dad ever unfaithful to you?”
Silence fell between them. Sarah tried to catch her eye, but her mother wouldn’t look up. Finally, she answered in a voice that was almost inaudible. “That’s a very personal question.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“A man can’t have an illegitimate Amy, unless he was unfaithful.”
She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Now that you put it that way, I’ll answer as best I can.”
Sarah watched her mother struggle for words, then put her question more firmly. “Well, was he?”
Jeanette looked her daughter in the eye. “I think he could have been.”
At 7:35
A.M
. Amy was on her way to the office. Morning traffic was heavy on Arapahoe, but she was traveling on automatic pilot, deep in thought.
She had been up all night. The drive home from Coors Field had seemed like a blur. It wasn’t until 3:00
A.M
., hours after she’d put Taylor to bed, that she’d even stopped shaking. She couldn’t talk about it, didn’t even tell Gram. Four different times throughout the night she’d picked up the telephone to call the police. Each time she’d hung up before she’d finished dialing, the words of her attacker echoing in her ear.
You ever talk to the police again, it’s your daughter who pays.
She wondered who the man was, if he had children of his own. Could one parent actually utter such words to another? Of course. That was how children grew up to be creeps like this. They were everywhere, she knew, people who could hurt
children. No one had ever threatened
her
child, however, at least not directly. She remembered how horrified she’d felt when another pretty little girl had been murdered in Boulder. It had happened miles from their apartment when Taylor was just a baby. As a mother in the same city, she had felt threatened, even violated. This morning, she felt terrified.
But she had to do something.
She stopped at the traffic light. A restaurant marquee across the street advertised a Friday fish fry. Tomorrow
was
Friday—one week after her meeting with Ryan Duffy. The deadline was up. He was supposed to explain the money. Maybe he could explain who had jumped her in the parking lot.
And to think she had initially hoped to get to know him better.
Fool
.
She steered into the corner filling station and stopped at the pay phones by the vending machines. She checked her Filofax for the number and dialed it. On the fourth ring, she got an answering machine.
She thought before speaking. She wanted to get her point across, but she had to be vague in case a secretary or someone other than Ryan retrieved the message.
“Dr. Duffy,” she said in a businesslike tone. “It’s time for our follow-up appointment. Meet me at the Half-way Café in Denver. Tonight at eight o’clock. I’m sorry this can’t wait until tomorrow. It’s important.”
She hung up and drew a deep breath.
Very important
.
Amy arrived in Denver a few minutes early. Traffic out of Boulder wasn’t as bad as she had expected, and, unlike most days at the office, no one had snagged her on the way to the elevator with some end-of-the-day crisis.
The Half-way Café was a trendy downtown restaurant-bar off Larimer Square. It had started as a popular lunch spot for the office crowd, which explained the name. “Meet me at the Half-way” was a cutesy play on “meet me halfway,” a saying often heard in business. The owners, however, soon found that the “halfway” theme offered endless possibilities. Half-priced dinners. Half-priced drinks. It all contributed to a booming business. Amy had picked it for tonight’s meeting only because it was a well-known place, easy to find. In hindsight, she worried that Ryan might read something into her selection of the Half-way, like the makings of a deal—or a relationship.
Amy reached the restaurant at 7:50. She considered leaving her name with the hostess, but Ryan already knew what she looked like. He could find her easily enough. She walked past the lively restaurant section to the bar and took the last available booth in the back. She waited alone, surrounded by oxblood leather. The music was a little too upbeat for her mood. At the table beside her, a
foursome was laughing over salty popcorn and draft pilsners from the microbrewery. Two other guys were making fools of themselves arguing over a game of electronic darts. Behind the century-old oak bar was a big-screen television. The baseball game was playing. Amy looked away, harrowed by the reminder of last night’s attack in the parking lot. She checked the blackboard menu without interest. She was suddenly too nervous to read, let alone eat.
The waitress arrived in less than half a minute—another hallmark of the Half-way Café. “Just one tonight?”
Amy started, then relaxed. “No, I’m waiting on someone.”
“Can I bring you something to drink in the meantime?”
“I’ll just have coffee, please.”
“Half-cup or full cup?”
She gave a funny look. “Full, of course.”
“One double coffee,” the waitress mumbled as she scribbled in her pad.
“No, not a double. Just one regular-size cup.”
“A double is one cup.”
“That’s confusing.”
“Not if you’re at the Half-way Café.”
“Ah,” said Amy. “So a half-cup would actually be a quarter-cup?”
“No. A half-cup would be a half-cup.”
“But you just said a double cup is a single cup.”
“No. A double
coffee
is a single cup. A double
cup
is two cups. A single coffee is a half-cup and—”
“I think I got it,” Amy interrupted. “Why don’t you just bring me the pot?”
“Half-pot or—”
“Never mind.”
Amy rolled her eyes discreetly as the waitress walked away.
Should have called this place the Half-
brain
Café.
“May I join you?”
Amy turned at the sound of his voice. It was Ryan.
“Please,” she said.
He slid into the booth and sat directly across from her, nearly banging his head on the low-hanging Tiffany-style lamp. Amy took a good look at him, studying his features more intently this time. If ever she were required to describe him, she wanted to do an ample job. A general “handsome” wouldn’t do.
Ryan caught her stare. “I feel like I’m in a police lineup,” he said, making light.
“Should you be?”
“Whoa. Not exactly picking up where we left off last week, are we?”
“Here we are…” The cheery waitress brought Amy her coffee, then glanced at Ryan. “Something for you, sir?”
Amy jumped in, averting another go-round with Half-Brain. “He’ll have what I’m having. Not half of what I’m having. Not double what I’m having.
Exactly
the same thing.”
“
Sor-ree
.” The waitress backed away, then disappeared.
Ryan asked, “What was that all about?”
“My apologies,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ve had a pretty tough week. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I honestly don’t have any idea how your week was.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
She watched his expression, searching for signs of deception. The fact that he had even shown up, she realized, said much about that. Why would he have even bothered to come if he’d known her apartment had been ransacked and the money stolen?
She tried another tack. “Your sister is definitely an interesting person.”
“My sister?”
“You two seem very different.”
“You…talked to my sister?”
She checked his eyes this time. He seemed genuinely unaware. “We talked while you were away on your business trip. At least your mother said it was a business trip.”
“You talked to my mother, too?”
“Just on the phone. I tricked her, actually. She didn’t know who I was.”
“So you met Sarah separately?”
“Yeah. I went down to see her. Don’t you Duffys talk to each other?”
“Evidently not.”
The waitress brought Ryan his coffee, gave Amy a half-smile, then disappeared.
Amy asked, “So, how was your so-called business trip?”
“Interesting.”
“What a word. Interesting. Sex is interesting. The Holocaust is interesting.” She glanced at the game on the television set. “Baseball is interesting. In fact, the walk back to your car after the game can be
very
interesting.”
“What in the world are you talking about now?”
She searched again. Either he really knew nothing, or he was an extremely talented actor. “Nothing,” she said. “I assume your business trip had
something to do with our talk last Friday. Can you prove to me that the money came from a legitimate source?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“We agreed that if you couldn’t prove it was legitimate, I’d go to the police.”
“That’s not in either of our interests.”
Amy leaned forward, bluffing. “I’m not fooling around, Ryan. If you can’t prove to me that it’s legitimate, I have to turn this money over to the police.”
“I believe you. I swear I do.”
She played it cool.
He really doesn’t know I no longer have the money.
“I hope you aren’t just stalling.”
“I’m not. What I’m trying to do here isn’t easy. And to be honest, I’m sensing a lot of hostility from you that wasn’t there last week, and it isn’t making this any easier.”
“Okay,” she said, backing off a bit. “What is it you’re trying to say?”
He lowered his eyes, unable to meet hers. “I have a feeling this whole thing is leading to something that is very personal to both of us.”
She withdrew, confused. She had come here expecting a confrontation. Instead, he was soft-spoken, considerate, seemingly honest. The circumstances were horrible, but maybe the nice guy she remembered from the Green Parrot was the real Ryan after all.
He’s definitely cute
. “Personal?” she said, flustered.
“Yes.”
It sounded as if he was about to ask her on a date. “You mean—you and me?”
He looked lost, then embarrassed. “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting—you know.”
“No, of course not. That would be…inappropriate. Don’t you think?”
“Highly.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
They shared an anxious glance. Amy seemed troubled by the way that exchange had just gone. Ryan seemed troubled by what he was about to say.
“What is it?” asked Amy.
“I hate to go into this, but I have to.”
Her anxiety only heightened. “Go on.”
“Maybe it’s just my nature, but I can’t help but ask,
why
did this money bring you and me together?”
What was he getting at—destiny?
“I don’t know.”
“From my standpoint, the more I look into the money, the more I learn about my father. So I’m just wondering if you might learn something, too. About somebody in your own family. Maybe there’s a relative you have always wondered about. Somebody you’d like to know more about.”
Her thoughts immediately turned toward her mother. “Maybe.”
“This might be your chance. That’s all I’m saying.”
Her eyes narrowed. This was suddenly headed in a direction she had never anticipated. Ryan had hit her most sensitive nerve. “If you know something about my mother, say it.”
“So, there is something you’d like to know about your mother?”
“Please, don’t taunt me.”
He hesitated, unsure of how far to take this.
“Before I say anything more, Amy, I’d like to know something. Just answer this one question, okay? My dad was sixty-two years old when he died. How old is your mother?”
“My mother is dead.”
“I’m sorry. How old would she have been if she were alive today?”
She thought for a split second. “Sixty-one.”
“When did she die?”
“You said you had just one question.”
“Sorry. This could be important for both of us. Just tell me, when did she die?”
“Long time ago. When I was eight.”
“Did she ever live in Boulder?”
That was way too close to home. “What’s going on here? What does all this suddenly have to do with my mother?”
Ryan blinked nervously.
Her eyes turned soulful. She wasn’t sure what he knew—or if he was just pushing her buttons. But after twenty years of wondering, she couldn’t let an opportunity pass. “If you know something about my mother, I have a right to know.”
His voice dropped. “Was your mother ever involved in a rape?”
“How do you mean, ‘involved’?”
“I mean, was she ever the victim?”
Stunned silence. “Are you saying my mother was raped?”
His throat tightened. “It’s possible. A long time ago. When she was a teenager.”
“That far back? How would you know about it?”
He said nothing. Amy’s tone sharpened. “How would you
know
?”
Ryan was struggling. “It’s like I said. We’re both learning some things here.”
Her hands began to tremble. Her voice quaked. “Are you telling me that your father raped my mother? That’s why he sent me the money?”
“I—” He couldn’t say it. He could hardly think
it, sitting right across from the daughter.
Her face reddened. A flood of emotions took over—rage toward the Duffys, disgust with the way she had earlier flirted with Ryan. “Oh, my God.”
“Look, Amy.”
“
Don’t
even say my name.” She slid out of the booth.
“Where are you going?”
“Away. Far away from you and your whole godforsaken family.” She hurried from the table, nearly running from the bar.
“Wait, please!”
She heard his pleas but just kept going. A tear ran down her cheek as she burst through the double entrance doors. She turned at the sidewalk and headed the wrong way, any way at all, just to get away. More tears followed. Tears for her mother.
Great tears of sorrow for a rape that may have led to suicide.