Nothing but trouble, you ask me.” Russ seemed calmer now and was slapping his heels against the chair legs.
“The kids are okay. It’s just they’re teenagers, and teenagers are different today. More independent.” Bert glanced over at me and I could see him sizing up the purple streak in my hair and my black leather jacket. I wondered if he might say something else, but he just shrugged.
“A certain amount of anger is—”
“You bet I’m angry. Police didn’t even try to find Debbie’s killer.” Russ sat back and drummed on the photo with his fingers. “But I’ll get the bitch. Believe you me.”
“I don’t think—”
“I can see her right here.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “And I got a pretty good idea where to find her.”
He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket and held the pack out to me. I shook my head, and he leaned closer.
“She better watch her step, eh?” And then, I swear to God, he giggled.
Helen stood up. “I think we could take a short break now. Top up your coffee or juice. The bathrooms are just down the hall, and you can smoke outside on the front steps. See you back here at 8:15.”
Russ must have left during break, because when I got back from trying to scrub the mascara off my cheeks, the discussion was starting again, and his seat was empty. We talked about a lot of things in the second half. We talked about the shock of not having the person around any more, and I said that even though my mom was sick for so long, I felt real empty when she was finally gone. And I told them how worried I was about my dad, who just played computer games all evening. Without Russ there to hog all the conversation, everybody else had a chance to talk, and I recognized a lot of my own feelings in what they were saying.
Nine-thirty came before I knew it. Helen did a final check on how we were doing so far, then said she hoped we’d all be back next week. I waited while the others got their stuff together and Helen was gathering up coffee cups and juice bottles.
“I know you’ve already spoken to my dad, but do you think you could try talking to him again about coming next week? He’s driving me nuts. He never talks about his feelings, just tries to be cheerful all the time. I asked him to come tonight, but I think it would be better coming from someone his own age.”
She laughed at that, and I realized I’d jumped to conclusions. It was hard to tell, but I thought she might be in her early forties. She had a nice smile, and I decided she might be just the one to get my dad away from solitaire.
“It would be better if you could make him see how important it is to you.”
We agreed we’d both try to talk to him. As I was leaving the room, I noticed the snapshot of Debbie Simpson sitting on the arm of Russ’s chair. I picked it up to have another look at it.
Helen frowned. “I hope Russ didn’t upset you, Jill.”
I shook my head and studied the snapshot. I sure liked the way the photographer had angled the light on her cheekbones.
Helen held out her hand. “Here. I’ll give it to him next week”
“Could I borrow it? It’s got good composition. I’d like to show it to Mr. Jones in my photography club.”
Helen looked a little unsure, but then her briefcase started ringing, so I stuffed the photo in my backpack and left her rummaging around for her phone.
I showed the photo to Dad the next morning, pointing out the lighting and how the camera had captured her bone structure. I could tell he wasn’t really listening, and that didn’t surprise me. He’d been pretty spacey ever since Mom died.
What did surprise me was when he looked over and said, “How did you get a picture of her?”
“What do you mean? Have you seen her before?”
“I think so. I don’t know her name, but she’s often at the gym, and she takes part in most of the charity runs.”
I guess my mouth was hanging open, because he tapped it shut with his finger and laughed, “What’s this about, Jill?”
I told him about Russ Simpson and his dead wife.
He held the photo up to the light by the window and shook his head. “She looks older now, but I’m pretty sure it’s her.”
“But this woman is dead.” My head was spinning.
He was looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late for work.” He picked up his briefcase and keys and opened the door. “I’ve registered for the 10K race on Saturday. Why not come along and see if she’s there.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pick out the woman in the photo from a whole field of runners, and I realized Dad would see even less from inside the pack, so I called Helen to see if she’d go with me. I was pretty sure she’d been seriously spooked by Russ and would be curious to see the woman Dad thought resembled the one in the snapshot.
I stuffed my camera and tripod and some high-speed film into my backpack ready for Helen to pick me up at eight-thirty the next morning. Barriers were already up along the Parkway, so we left the car near the university and walked back through campus. We found the registration tent and grabbed a printout of runners’ names and registration numbers. Then we pushed our way through the crowd to the starting line. There were already several hundred spectators on the sidelines and twice that number dressed in shorts and stringy tops with numbers pinned to them, stretching and jogging in place, waiting for the starter’s pistol.
I looked for Dad and pointed him out to Helen. Then I scanned the front-seeded women. I looked at the photo again and stopped short on Number 36. She had short gray hair and her face was tanned and lined, but other than that, she was a ringer for the woman in the snapshot. I nudged Helen and she nodded, then ran her finger down the list and said: “Number 36. Amber Thompson.”
I was studying the woman’s profile when I heard Helen gasp.
“Look!” She was pointing at a man climbing up a grassy slope near the bicycle path that runs alongside the Parkway. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain suit, rubber boots and work gloves and he was holding a glass mason jar out in front of him.
It was Russ Simpson. He lifted his head, and I saw the weirdest look on his face. I turned to see what he was staring at and sure enough, there was Amber Thompson, right in the cross hairs.
I dropped my backpack to the ground, scooped the tripod out of it and took off running as fast as I could, trying to cover the distance between Russ and me before he got to the top of the hill. The grass was still slick with dew, and I almost slipped, but I got to him just before he made it to the road. I came up on his right side, crouched down and thrust the tripod in front of his ankle. It snared the plastic pant leg, and he went down with the whooshing sound of air going out of a tire.
He twisted around and kicked out furiously, his boot catching me square on the nose. The bottle fell from his hand and bounced, splashing its contents over him and the grass. I got a couple of drops on my hand and they burned like mad, but that was nothing to what the stuff seemed to be doing to him.
I could hear him screaming as the fluid burned into his scalp and face.
