Chapter 9.

9.

Errol Gardner looked like the men you see in TV commercials for Viagra: tall and tan and broad-shouldered, with a full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. I knew from my research that he was fifty-seven years old; I’d read that he started every morning with an hour on the treadmill, fifty push-ups, a hundred crunches, and a sixteen-ounce wheatgrass smoothie. And I knew he wore variations of the same signature outfit nearly every day: a brown blazer, a white button-down shirt, and blue jeans. When asked by GQ about his personal style, Errol said it was “smart enough for Boston boardrooms, tough enough for factory floors, and good enough for drinks after work.”

“Frank Szatowski!” He pronounced my last name like a kind of punch line, as if the sound of it was inherently amusing. “It’s great to finally meet you. How was the drive?”

“Piece of cake.”

“Good, good, good. That’s what we like to hear. And your cottage? Is it comfortable?” He turned to his son. “Where did you put them?”

Aidan said, “Blackbird,” and Errol nodded with approval.

“Great choice. Fabulous views. I can’t believe you’re finally here, Frank. I’ve waited months for this. Come inside, please!”

Osprey Lodge was enormous, and Aidan had hurried me upstairs to the second floor, so I didn’t have much of a chance to look around. Errol Gardner’s office was ringed with natural woodwork and timber, as if the space had been carved from a giant tree. His desk was larger than your average dining room table, and the mahogany finish was inlaid with all kinds of decorative embellishments: birds, trees, flowers, and forest animals. Beside the desk was a matching pedestal displaying a narrow metal cylinder about the size of a small thermos. Errol called it an ultra-compact fuel cell: “The miracle in the Miracle Battery,” he explained. “You’re welcome to handle it, if you like.”

I was already holding a bottle of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon, which I presented to Errol as a gift. “I read your profile in New England Living . You said this was your favorite.”

He accepted the bottle with a terrific smile. “Oh, Frank, I hated that interview! The writer got everything wrong—except the bourbon! It’s the only honest thing she wrote about me!” He looked past me, over my shoulder. “Have you tried it, Gerry?”

I realized the three of us weren’t alone. There was a fourth man near the window, perched on the edge of a sofa and dressed in a trim gray suit with a maroon bow tie. “I’ve not had the pleasure,” he said.

“My best friend, Gerry Levinson,” Errol said.

The man rose and crossed the room to welcome me. Gerry was a full generation older than Errol Gardner—old enough to pass as Aidan’s grandfather. His face was lined with wrinkles and he walked with a slight limp, but his handshake was surprisingly firm. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Frank. Margaret’s told us so much about you.”

Errol opened a cabinet in the wall that revealed a kind of hidden minibar. He uncorked the bottle of Blanton’s and filled four glass tumblers with bourbon. Then he proposed a toast to the bride and groom and we all clinked glasses. The whiskey was excellent. Just one sip and I felt the edge coming off. I’d been nervous about meeting the Gardners all day, ever since leaving my house at six o’clock in the morning. But now that introductions were underway, I already felt myself relaxing. I took another sip and Errol laughed. “It’s good, right?”

“Incredible,” I said. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

The four of us gathered around a coffee table with our drinks, and Errol proceeded to sing Maggie’s praises. He called her smart and ambitious and hardworking, a “rare kind of talent,” and he said Aidan was lucky to have found her. “You and your wife did an amazing job of raising her. My only regret for this weekend is that Mrs. Szatowski can’t be here to join us.”

I was touched by this remark. I thought it was very kind of him to acknowledge her. “Colleen would have loved this camp. She was very outdoorsy. She loved nature. We used to go hiking when we were younger. Poconos, Catskills, Finger Lakes. But never any place as nice as this.”

Once I get started on Colleen, it’s hard for me to stop talking. I told them how we were classmates in elementary school and friendly in high school, but we didn’t fall in love until after I joined the army. I spent six months in the Middle East around the time of Operation Desert Storm, and Colleen would write to me twice a week. She’d send long, detailed letters (this was right before email took off) chronicling everything happening back home. So when our local Blockbuster Video went out of business, or when the rector of our church was arrested for embezzling funds, or when any of our mutual friends got pregnant or arrested or whatever, Colleen would send me an update. I still have every single letter she sent me. If you’ve ever been deployed yourself, you know how important these messages from home can be. And over six months, her letters became more and more personal. She insisted that all the other guys in Stroudsburg were idiots, that I was the only one with half a brain, and she was mad at me for going away. She implored me to be very careful, to watch my back and get home safe. And by the time I got out of the army, I was already mad for her.

The whiskey must have really loosened me up because I hadn’t meant to share all that. I apologized for talking too much. “Here I am, running off at the mouth, and I haven’t even asked about your wife. How’s Catherine feeling?”

Errol’s perfect composure faltered, like I’d found a chink in his armor. “I’m sorry to say she won’t be joining us tonight. She’s been under attack since Tuesday, so we’re hoping she’ll be postdrome by tomorrow.” He must have gleaned from my expression that I had no idea what this meant, so he proceeded to explain. He said that most of Catherine’s migraine headaches were followed by a “postdrome phase,” also known as a migraine hangover, that could last up to twenty-four hours. The hangover typically left her groggy and weak, but she was determined to power through it and join Errol in walking their son down the aisle.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize her condition was quite so bad.” I reminded Errol that when we spoke back in May, he’d suggested that Catherine was making a nice recovery.

“I suppose that shows the depths of my ignorance, Frank. Migraine is a terrible disease—a brutal, debilitating scourge, and all the best doctors in Boston don’t know a damned way to treat it. We’ve seen a dozen specialists and they’ve recommended a dozen different treatment plans. But as of two-thirty this afternoon, my wife is still in bed with her shades drawn, unable to move.”

The topic seemed too painful for Aidan to discuss. Instead of participating in the conversation, he just clasped his hands around his glass and stared into his whiskey. Seated beside his father, he seemed smaller than I remembered, an inch or two shorter and several pounds lighter.

Gerry was the one who broke the silence. “There’s a promising new medication with the FDA—”

“And it will be the sixth promising new medication she’s tried,” Errol said. “At this point, I’ve given up on the pharmaceutical companies. I’m ready to fund my own lab and research my own treatments. I figure I can’t do any worse than the rest of the industry.”

“There are ways to make that happen,” Gerry promised. “But first we have a wedding to celebrate. Something to feel good about. Let’s look for silver linings, shall we?”

Errol nodded good-naturedly and made a toast to silver linings, and we all clinked glasses again.

“Is Catherine here now?” I asked. “At the lodge?”

Aidan nodded. “Upstairs. Third floor.”

“Would it be okay, do you think, if I said a quick hello? Just to introduce myself?”

Gerry’s face clouded over, and Errol shook his head. “She’d be mortified, Frank. She’s very ashamed of her appearance. The poor woman’s simply exhausted. Planning this wedding took a lot out of her. And then you add the extra stress of this Dawn Taggart nonsense, all the verbal and emotional harassment, and she’s been completely overwhelmed.”

The name Dawn Taggart brought another abrupt halt to the conversation, and I was grateful for my glass of bourbon. After an awkward moment of silence, Gerry cleared his throat and continued in a soft, quiet voice: “Margaret told us you received something in the mail. We’d love to take a look, if that’s okay with you.”

I reached inside the pocket of my sports coat and found the plastic bag containing the envelope. I turned it over to Gerry and he inspected it carefully, studying the envelope through the plastic, as if searching for clues.

“Postmarked July seventeenth,” he said. “Right here in Hopps Ferry.”

“Nothing discreet about these people,” Errol said. “Let’s open it up. I want to see this thing.”

Gerry reached inside his briefcase for a pair of latex gloves, then carefully stretched them over his long, spindly fingers. Then he removed the sheet of paper and unfolded it on the table where everyone could see it. Aidan took one glance at the photo and immediately shot out of his chair.

“That’s a fake! I never brought her here.”

“Of course it’s a fake,” Errol said.

Gerry nodded. “Dawn’s mother must have found a picture of Aidan online, and then photoshopped her daughter into it.”

Then the three of them looked at me, to see if I’d reached the same conclusion. “I don’t know anything about Photoshop,” I said, “but it looks pretty real to me.”

“That’s the idea,” Gerry explained. “It’s supposed to look real, Frank. In the right hands, this software can be very powerful. But once you’ve seen a lot of manipulated images, as I have, then you start to recognize the signs of digital tinkering. No court would ever admit this image as evidence.” Using his finger, he directed my attention to the sandy beach at Dawn’s feet. “Her shadow here, for example. Completely unnatural.”

Errol agreed. “And look at the edges of Dawn’s hair. Do you see how they look kind of jagged and pixelated? That’s a bad cut-and-paste.”

I leaned so close my nose practically touched the paper, but I couldn’t see any jagged edges. I thought it looked like a perfectly normal photo.

Gerry took away the picture and resealed it in the plastic bag, as if the matter was settled. But Errol seemed to recognize that I wasn’t satisfied. “Frank, I’m sure you have lots of questions, so let’s just put everything on the table. How much has Margaret told you?”

“Not much. Just that Aidan wasn’t involved.”

Errol laughed. “Well, we can’t take her word for it, right? She’s a young woman in love! She has an unfair bias. You need to hear all the details so you can decide for yourself.” Then he looked at Aidan, encouraging him to proceed.

“Right, okay,” Aidan said, swallowing hard. He’d already finished his second bourbon and looked like he might appreciate a third, but Errol seemed to be holding the bottle at a distance. I could tell Aidan took no satisfaction in telling the story. He looked like a kid dragged in front of a classroom, unprepared to give an oral report. “The first thing you need to understand is that I never go into town anymore. Because everyone knows my dad, everyone knows who we are, and I’ll have total strangers saying we should invest in their pizza shop. Or they’ll pick a fight with me about electric cars. They want to argue about politics or tax subsidies, like I invented the Miracle Battery myself. So anytime I come to Osprey Cove, I always take back roads, to avoid driving through town.”

Then one Friday morning—about a year earlier, in July of the previous year—Aidan was cruising along the back roads and punctured a tire. The spare in his trunk was also flat, and he’d found himself stranded in a forest without cellular coverage. There were no homes nearby, nothing but trees, and Aidan was contemplating a very long walk to town when a driver in a Toyota Corolla pulled up behind him. Dawn Taggart got out of her car and asked if he needed help. She had just finished her shift at Dollar General and was still wearing her sales vest and name tag. Aidan explained that he didn’t have a spare tire and Dawn suggested they try hers, just to see if it fit. Aidan was then forced to admit that he didn’t actually know how to change a tire—so Dawn got out her jack and lug wrench and knelt down in the gravel and showed him how to do it. “When she finished, I tried to give her some money. I had eighty bucks in my wallet but she wouldn’t take it. She said I just needed to return the spare and buy her dinner. And after she’d been kind enough to stop and help me, I couldn’t say no.”

The next night, Aidan met Dawn at Millie’s Bar and Grill, the only real restaurant in a county full of fast food and pizza shops. “Of course the whole place is full of busybodies. All the guys are staring daggers at me, like I’ve come to steal one of their women. I’m pretty sure they’re going to follow me to the parking lot and beat the shit out of me. But the worst part of the dinner is Dawn Taggart. I mean, don’t get me wrong: She’s a very attractive woman. Very pretty. And I hope she’s okay, wherever she is. But we didn’t connect on anything. We had zero in common. All she could talk about was TikTok. Who she follows, who follows her, who she thinks I would like. She actually took out her phone during dinner and insisted on showing me her favorites. But she was nice enough to stop and change my tire, so I pretended to be interested. Then I paid the bill, drove her home, and I swear to you, Frank: That was the last time I ever saw her. Four months before she went missing.”

All this sounded perfectly reasonable if I was willing to ignore the most obvious question: “If that’s what really happened, why is her family blaming you?”

Aidan threw up his hands, suggesting that my guess was as good as anyone’s. At which point Errol was happy to retake the floor. “Gerry has a couple ideas on that point,” he said. “In addition to being my best friend, he’s also our family attorney. One of the best litigators in New England. And he thinks he knows what they’re after.”

“Money, in a word,” Gerry explained. “We think they’ll threaten to file a civil suit. Do you remember the O. J. Simpson trials?”

I nodded, because everyone of my generation still remembered the O. J. Simpson trials. The criminal courts found him not guilty of murdering Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman, so he never served any prison time. But the victims’ families sued him in civil court, where the burden of proof was much lower, and they were eventually awarded $33 million.

“The Taggarts’ lawyers will threaten to try the case locally,” Gerry continued, “with jurors biased against wealthy out-of-town families. It’s pretty easy to find twelve people in this county with a little class resentment. So the lawyer files the paperwork and hopes we come back with a settlement, to keep the story out of the media. Long story short, we pay them to go away. A hundred grand? Maybe two-fifty?”

“Not one fucking dime,” Errol said. “Paying them is an admission of guilt, and my son didn’t do anything. I’d rather go to trial.”

“This is never going to trial,” Gerry said softly. “They can’t afford it, and their case is too weak.”

“Not weak, Gerry. Nonexistent! The weekend Dawn disappeared, Aidan was in Boston! Two hundred miles away! With Margaret!”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard this last part correctly. “Did you say Margaret?”

“We were at her apartment,” Aidan explained. “The studio on Talmadge Street. Have you ever been there?”

Of course I’d been there. I helped her move in. It was the basement studio in the Victorian brownstone, the apartment with all the silverfish. The place that Maggie couldn’t stand. I remember worrying it wasn’t a safe place for a young woman to live alone, because Maggie had to walk ten steps down a dark and narrow alley to reach the basement door. But my daughter said it was worth all the risk and inconvenience just to have a swanky address in Back Bay.

“Margaret invited me there for dinner on a Friday night. This would have been November second. The night before Dawn Taggart disappeared. She made us some food, and then we watched a movie, and then—” Aidan stumbled over the best way to describe what happened next. “It turned into a long weekend.”

“Aidan, don’t mince words,” Errol said. “When you get evasive, you sound guilty.”

Gerry agreed. “Frank needs to hear the truth. We’re all grown-ups.”

Aidan interlaced his fingers, flexed his hands, and tried again. “When we woke up Saturday morning, Margaret didn’t have anyplace she needed to be. And neither did I, so we just, you know, hung out.”

“In her apartment?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until Sunday.”

“You stayed in her apartment all weekend?”

“Yes.”

“It’s three hundred square feet, Aidan. I wouldn’t keep a dog in that space. What were you doing all weekend?”

I realized the answer as soon as the question left my mouth, and Aidan’s flushed expression confirmed my suspicions.

“Young love,” Errol said wistfully. “When you meet the right person, it’s like the rest of the world just disappears.”

Gerry nodded. “We’ve all been there.”

And I wished they would stop talking, because I needed a moment to process what I was hearing: “So the day Dawn disappeared, you were inside Maggie’s apartment?”

“Yes.”

“The whole day? You never left?”

“Exactly.”

“Did anyone see you there?”

“No, we didn’t want any company,” Aidan explained. “We were happy being alone together. Just the two of us. But that’s why Margaret believes me. Because she was with me the whole time.”