They needed time apart. He could see that. The cracks were starting to show. They would always be somehow connected—not in the way he had been with Cassandra, not even close. But there was something there, some draw that brought them back time and time again. It probably started out as some sort of payback, gratitude for rescuing her in that awful place, but in the end, maybe she hadn’t wanted to be saved. Maybe his rescuing her had been a curse and now he was her obligation rather than vice versa.
Pietra looked out the window. “Nash?”
“Yes?”
She put her hand up to her neck. “Those soldiers who slaughtered my family. All of those unspeakable things they did to them. To me . . .”
She stopped.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Do you think those soldiers were all killers and rapists and tor- turers—and even if there was no war, they would have done things like that?”
Nash said nothing.
“The one we found was a baker,” she said. “We used to go to his store. My whole family. He smiled. He gave out lollipops.”
“What’s your point?”
“If there was no war,” Pietra said, “they would have just lived their lives. They would have been bakers or blacksmiths or carpenters. They would not have been killers.”
“And do you think that’s true of you too?” he asked. “That you would have just gone on being an actress?”
“I’m not asking about me,” Pietra said. “I’m asking about those soldiers.”
“Okay, fine. If I follow your logic, you think the pressures of war explain their behavior.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t.”
Her head slowly swiveled in his direction. “Why not?”
“Your argument is that the war forced them to act in a way that was not in their nature.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe it is just the opposite,” he said. “Maybe the war freed them to be their true selves. Maybe it is society, not war, that forces man to act in a way that’s not in his true nature.”
Pietra opened the door and got out. He watched her disappear into the building. He put the car in drive and started for his next destination. Thirty minutes later, he parked on a side street between two houses that appeared empty. He didn’t want the van to be seen in the parking lot.
Nash put on the fake mustache and a baseball cap. He walked three blocks to the large brick building. It appeared abandoned. The front door, Nash was sure, would be locked. But one side door had a matchbook jammed into the opening. He pulled it open and started down the stairs.
The corridor was covered with children’s artwork, paintings mostly. A bulletin board had essays hung up. Nash stopped and read a few. They were by third graders, and all the stories were about them. That was how kids were taught nowadays. Think only “me.” You are fascinating. You are unique and special and no one but no one is ordinary, which, when you think about it, makes everyone ordinary.
He turned into the classroom on the lower level. Joe Lewiston sat cross-legged on the floor. He had papers in his hands and tears in his eyes. He looked up when Nash entered.
“It’s not working,” Joe Lewiston said. “She’s still sending the e-mails.”
32
MUSE questioned Marianne Gillespie’s daughter carefully, but Yasmin knew nothing.
Yasmin hadn’t seen her mother. She hadn’t even known she was back in town.
“I thought she was in L.A.,” Yasmin said.
“Did she tell you that?” Muse asked.
“Yes.” Then: “Well, she sent me an e-mail.”
Muse remembered Guy Novak saying the same thing. “Do you still have it?”
“I can look. Is Marianne okay?”
“You call your mother by her first name?”
Yasmin shrugged. “She really didn’t want to be a mother. I figure, why remind her? So I call her Marianne.”
They grow up fast, Muse thought. She asked again, “Do you still have the e-mail?”
“I guess so. It’s probably on my computer.”
“I would like you to print out a copy for me.”
Yasmin frowned. “But you won’t tell me what this is about.” It wasn’t a question.
“Nothing to worry about yet.”
“I see. You don’t want to worry the little kid. If it was your mother and you were my age, would you want to know?”
“Fair point. But again we don’t know anything yet. Your dad will be back soon. I would really like to see that e-mail.”
Yasmin headed up the stairs. Her friend stayed in the room. Normally Muse would have wanted to question Yasmin alone, but the friend seemed to calm her.
“What’s your name again?” Muse asked.
“Jill Baye.”
“Jill, have you ever met Yasmin’s mom?”
“A couple of times, yeah.”
“You look worried.”
Jill made a face. “You’re a policewoman asking about my friend’s mother. Shouldn’t I be?”
Kids.
Yasmin trotted back down the stairs with a piece of paper in her hand. “Here it is.”
Muse read:Hi! I’m going to Los Angeles for a few weeks. I will be in touch when I get back.
This explained so much. Muse had wondered why no one had reported Jane Doe missing. Simple. She lived alone in Florida. Between her lifestyle and this e-mail, well, it could have been months, if not longer, before anyone figured out that she’d met up with foul play.
“Does that help?” Yasmin asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Tears filled Yasmin’s eyes. “She’s still my mom, you know.”
“I know.”
“She loves me.” Yasmin started to cry. Muse stepped toward her, but the girl put her hand up to stop her. “She just doesn’t know how to be a mom. She tries. She just doesn’t get it.”
“It’s okay. I’m not judging her or anything.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong. Please?”
Muse said, “I can’t.”
“But it’s bad, right? You can tell me that much. Is it bad?”
Muse wanted to be honest with the girl, but this was not the time or place.
“Your father will be here soon. I need to get back to work.”
NASH said, “Calm down.”
Joe Lewiston stood from his cross-legged position in one fluid movement. Teachers, Nash figured, must get used to that movement. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”