flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 34
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You want me to come over?”“No, I can watch it alone, thanks.”We both hovered on the line. Waiting for the other to apologize.“Okay, let’s talk after,” Go said.Ellen Abbott Live was a cable show specializing in missing, murdered women, starringthe permanently furious Ellen Abbott, a former prosecutor and victims’ rights advocate.The show opened with Ellen, blow-dried and lip-glossed, glaring at the camera. “Ashocking story to report today: a beautiful, young woman who was the inspiration forthe Amazing Amy book series. Missing. House torn apart. Hubby is Lance Nicholas Dunne,a n unemployed writer who now owns a bar he bought with his wife’s money. Want toknow how worried he is? These are photos taken since his wife, Amy Elliott Dunne,went missing July fifth—their five-year anniversary.”Cut to the photo of me at the press conference, the jackass grin.
Another of mewaving and smiling like a pageant queen as I got out of my car (I was waving back toMarybeth; I was smiling because I smile when I wave).Then up came the cell-phone photo of me and Shawna Kelly, Frito-pie baker. Thetwo of us cheek to cheek, beaming pearly whites. Then the real Shawna appeared onscreen, tanned and sculpted and somber as Ellen introduced her to America. Pinpricks ofsweat erupted all over me.ELLEN: So, Lance Nicholas Dunne—can you describe his demeanor for us,Shawna? You meet him as everyone is out searching for his missing wife, andLance Nicholas Dunne is … what?SHAWNA: He was very calm, very friendly.ELLEN: Excuse me, excuse me.
He was friendly and calm? His wife ismissing, Shawna. What kind of man is friendly and calm?The grotesque photo appeared on-screen again. We somehow looked even morecheerful.SHAWNA: He was actually a little flirty …You should have been nicer to her, Nick. You should have eaten the fucking pie.ELLEN: Flirty? While his wife is God knows where and Lance Dunneis … well, I’m sorry, Shawna, but this photo is just … I don’t know a better wordthan disgusting. This is not how an innocent man looks …The rest of the segment was basically Ellen Abbott, professional hatemonger,obsessing over my lack of alibi: “Why doesn’t Lance Nicholas Dunne have an alibi untilnoon? Where was he that morning?” she drawled in her Texas sheri ’s accent.
Her panelof guests agreed that it didn’t look good.I phoned Go and she said, “Well, you made it almost a week without them turning onyou,” and we cursed for a while. Fucking Shawna crazy bitch whore.“Do something really, really useful today, active,” Go advised. “People will bewatching now.”“I couldn’t sit still if I wanted to.”I drove to St. Louis in a near rage, replaying the TV segment in my head, answeringall of Ellen’s questions, shutting her up. Today, Ellen Abbott, you fucking cunt, I trackeddown one of Amy’s stalkers.
Desi Collings. I tracked him down to get the truth. Me, the herohusband. If I had soaring theme music, I would have played it. Me, the nice workingclass guy, taking on the spoiled rich kid. The media would have to bite at that: Obsessivestalkers are more intriguing than run-of-the-mill wife killers. The Elliotts, at least, wouldappreciate it. I dialed Marybeth, but just got voice mail.
Onward.As I rolled into his neighborhood, I had to change my Desi vision from rich toextremely, sickly wealthy. The guy lived in a mansion in Ladue that probably cost atleast $5 million. Whitewashed brick, black lacquer shutters, gaslight, and ivy. I’d dressedfor the meeting, a decent suit and tie, but I realized as I rang his doorbell that a fourhundred-dollar suit in this neighborhood was more poignant than if I’d shown up injeans. I could hear a clattering of dress shoes coming from the back of the house to thefront, and the door opened with a desuctioning sound, like a refrigerator. Cold air rolledout toward me.Desi looked the way I had always wanted to look: like a very handsome, very decentfellow.
Something in the eyes, or the jaw. He had deep-set almond eyes, teddy-beareyes, and dimples in both cheeks. If you saw the two of us together, you’d assume hewas the good guy.“Oh,” Desi said, studying my face. “You’re Nick. Nick Dunne. Good God, I’m so sorryabout Amy. Come in, come in.”He ushered me into a severe living room, manliness as envisioned by a decorator.Lots of dark, uncomfortable leather. He pointed me toward an armchair with aparticularly rigid back; I tried to make myself comfortable, as urged, but found the onlyposture the chair allowed was that of a chastised student: Pay attention and sit up.Desi didn’t ask me why I was in his living room.
Or explain how he’d immediatelyrecognized me. Although they were becoming more common, the double takes andcupped whispers.“May I get you a drink?” Desi asked, pressing two hands together: business first.“I’m fine.”He sat down opposite me. He was dressed in impeccable shades of navy and cream;even his shoelaces looked pressed. He carried it all o , though. He wasn’t the dismissiblefop I’d been hoping for. Desi seemed the de nition of a gentleman: a guy who couldquote a great poet, order a rare Scotch, and buy a woman the right piece of vintagejewelry. He seemed, in fact, a man who knew inherently what women wanted—acrossfrom him, I felt my suit wilt, my manner go clumsy.
I had a swelling urge to discussfootball and fart. These were the kinds of guys who always got to me.“Amy. Any leads?” Desi asked.He looked like someone familiar, an actor, maybe.“No good ones.”“She was taken … from the home. Is that correct?”“From our home, yes.”Then I knew who he was: He was the guy who’d shown up alone the rst day ofsearches, the guy who kept sneaking looks at Amy’s photo.“You were at the volunteer center, weren’t you? The first day.”“I was,” Desi said, reasonable. “I was about to say that.
I wish I’d been able to meetyou that day, express my condolences.”“Long way to come.”“I could say the same to you.” He smiled. “Look, I’m really fond of Amy. Hearingwhat had happened, well, I had to do something. I just—It’s terrible to say this, Nick, butwhen I saw it on the news, I just thought, Of course.”“Of course?”“Of course someone would … want her,” he said. He had a deep voice, a residevoice. “You know, she always had that way. Of making people want her.
Always. Youknow that old cliché: Men want her, and women want to be her. With Amy, that wastrue.”Desi folded large hands across his trousers. Not pants, trousers. I couldn’t decide if hewas fucking with me. I told myself to tread lightly. It’s the rule of all potentially pricklyinterviews: Don’t go on the o ense until you have to, rst see if they’ll hang themselvesall on their own.“You had a very intense relationship with Amy, right?” I asked.“It wasn’t only her looks,” Desi said.
He leaned on a knee, his eyes distant. “I’vethought about this a lot, of course. First love. I’ve de nitely thought about it. The navelgazer in me. Too much philosophy.” He cracked a self-e acing grin. The dimplespopped. “See, when Amy likes you, when she’s interested in you, her attention is sowarm and reassuring and entirely enveloping. Like a warm bath.”I raised my eyebrows.“Bear with me,” he said. “You feel good about yourself. Completely good, for maybethe rst time. And then she sees your aws, she realizes you’re just another regularperson she has to deal with—you are, in actuality, Able Andy, and in real life, Able Andywould never make it with Amazing Amy.
So her interest fades, and you stop feelinggood, you can feel that old coldness again, like you’re naked on the bathroom oor, andall you want is to get back in the bath.”I knew that feeling—I’d been on the bathroom oor for about three years—and I felta rush of disgust for sharing this emotion with this other man.“I’m sure you know what I mean,” Desi said, and smiled winkily at me.What an odd man, I thought. Who compares another man’s wife to a bath he wants to sinkinto? Another man’s missing wife?Behind Desi was a long, polished end table bearing several silver-framed photos.
Inthe center was an oversize one of Desi and Amy back in high school, in tennis whites—the two so preposterously stylish, so monied-lush they could have been a frame from aHitchcock movie. I pictured Desi, teenage Desi, slipping into Amy’s dorm room,dropping his clothes to the oor, settling onto the cold sheets, swallowing plastic-coatedpills. Waiting to be found. It was a form of punishment, of rage, but not the kind thatoccurred in my house. I could see why the police weren’t that interested. Desi trailed myglance.“Oh, well, you can’t blame me for that.” He smiled.
“I mean, would you throw away aphoto that perfect?”“Of a girl I hadn’t known for twenty years?” I said before I could stop. I realized mytone sounded more aggressive than was wise.“I know Amy,” Desi snapped. He took a breath. “I knew her. I knew her very well.There aren’t any leads? I have to ask … Her father, is he … there?”“Of course he is.”“I don’t suppose … He was definitely in New York when it happened?”“He was in New York. Why?”Desi shrugged: Just curious, no reason. We sat in silence for a half minute, playing agame of eye-contact chicken.
Neither of us blinked.“I actually came here, Desi, to see what you could tell me.”I tried again to picture Desi making o with Amy. Did he have a lake housesomewhere nearby? All these types did. Would it be believable, this re ned,sophisticated man keeping Amy in some preppy basement rec room, Amy pacing thecarpet, sleeping on a dusty sofa in some bright, clubby ’60s color, lemon yellow or coral.I wished Boney and Gilpin were here, had witnessed the proprietary tone of Desi’s voice:I know Amy.“Me?” Desi laughed. He laughed richly. The perfect phrase to describe the sound.
“Ican’t tell you anything. Like you said, I don’t know her.”“But you just said you did.”“I certainly don’t know her like you know her.”“You stalked her in high school.”“I stalked her? Nick. She was my girlfriend.”“Until she wasn’t,” I said. “And you wouldn’t go away.”“Oh, I probably did pine for her. But nothing out of the ordinary.”“You call trying to kill yourself in her dorm room ordinary?”He jerked his head, squinted his eyes.
He opened his mouth to speak, then stareddown at his hands. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Nick,” he finally said.“I’m talking about you stalking my wife. In high school. Now.”“That’s really what this is about?” He laughed again. “Good God, I thought you wereraising money for a reward fund or something. Which I’m happy to cover, by the way.Like I said, I’ve never stopped wanting the best for Amy. Do I love her? No. I don’t knowher anymore, not really.
We exchange the occasional letter. But it is interesting, youcoming here. You confusing the issue. Because I have to tell you, Nick, on TV, hell, here,now, you don’t seem to be a grieving, worried husband. You seem … smug. The police,by the way, already talked with me, thanks, I guess to you. Or Amy’s parents. Strangeyou didn’t know—you’d think they’d tell the husband everything if he were in the clear.”My stomach clenched. “I’m here because I wanted to see for myself your face whenyou talked about Amy,” I said.
“I gotta tell you, it worries me. You get a little … moony.”“One of us has to,” Desi said, again reasonably.“Sweetheart?” A voice came from the back of the house, and another set of expensiveshoes clattered toward the living room. “What was the name of that book—”The woman was a blurry vision of Amy, Amy in a steam-fogged mirror—exactcoloring, extremely similar features, but a quarter century older, the esh, the features,all let out a bit like a ne fabric.
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