flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 42
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I’m on the pill, but I’d also forgotten a day or two—whatdoes it matter, I’m thirty-eight, I’ve been on the pill for almost two decades. I’m notgoing to accidentally get pregnant.I found the tests behind a locked sheet of glass. I had to track down a harried,mustached woman to unlock the case, and point out one I wanted while she waitedimpatiently.
She handed it to me with a clinical stare and said, “Good luck.”I didn’t know what would be good luck: plus sign or minus sign. I drove home andread the directions three times, and I held the stick at the right angle for the rightnumber of seconds, and then I set it on the edge of the sink and ran away like it was abomb. Three minutes, so I turned on the radio and of course it was a Tom Petty song—isthere ever a time you turn on the radio and don’t hear a Tom Petty song?—so I sangevery word to “American Girl” and then I crept back into the bathroom like the test wassomething I had to sneak up on, my heart beating more frantically than it should, and Iwas pregnant.I was suddenly running across the summer lawn and down the street, banging onNoelle’s door, and when she opened it, I burst into tears and showed her the stick andyelled, “I’m pregnant!”And then someone else besides me knew, and so I was scared.Once I got back home, I had two thoughts.One: Our anniversary is coming next week.
I will use the clues as love letters, abeautiful antique wooden cradle waiting at the end. I will convince him we belongtogether. As a family.Two: I wish I’d been able to get that gun.I get frightened now, sometimes, when my husband gets home. A few weeks ago,Nick asked me to go out on the raft with him, oat along in the current under a bluesky.
I actually wrapped my hands around our newel post when he asked me this, I clungto it. Because I had an image of him wobbling the raft—teasing at rst, laughing at mypanic, and then his face going tight, determined, and me falling into the water, thatmuddy brown water, scratchy with sticks and sand, and him on top of me, holding meunder with one strong arm, until I stopped struggling.I can’t help it. Nick married me when I was a young, rich, beautiful woman, and nowI am poor, jobless, closer to forty than thirty; I’m not just pretty anymore, I am pretty formy age. It is the truth: My value has decreased. I can tell by the way Nick looks at me.But it’s not the look of a guy who took a tumble on an honest bet. It’s the look of a manwho feels swindled.
Soon it may be the look of a man who is trapped. He might havebeen able to divorce me before the baby. But he would never do that now, not Good GuyNick. He couldn’t bear to have everyone in this family-values town believe he’s the kindof guy who’d abandon his wife and child. He’d rather stay and suffer with me. Suffer andresent and rage.I won’t have an abortion. The baby is six weeks in my belly today, the size of alentil, and is growing eyes and lungs and ears. A few hours ago, I went into the kitchenand found a snap-top container of dried beans Maureen had given me for Nick’s favoritesoup, and I pulled out a lentil and laid it on the counter.
It was smaller than my pinkienail, tiny. I couldn’t bear to leave it on the cold countertop, so I picked it up and held itin my palm and petted it with the tip-tip-tip of a nger. Now it’s in the pocket of my Tshirt, so I can keep it close.I won’t get an abortion and I won’t divorce Nick, not yet, because I can stillremember how he’d dive into the ocean on a summer day and stand on his hands, hislegs ailing out of the water, and leap back up with the best seashell just for me, and I’dlet my eyes get dazzled by the sun, and I’d shut them and see the colors blinking likeraindrops on the inside of my eyelids as Nick kissed me with salty lips and I’d think, I amso lucky, this is my husband, this man will be the father of my children.
We’ll all be so happy.But I may be wrong, I may be very wrong. Because sometimes, the way he looks atme? That sweet boy from the beach, man of my dreams, father of my child? I catch himlooking at me with those watchful eyes, the eyes of an insect, pure calculation, and Ithink: This man might kill me.So if you find this and I’m dead, well …Sorry, that’s not funny.NICK DUNNESEVEN DAYS GONEIt was time. At exactly eight A.M. Central, nine A.M.
New York time, I picked up myphone. My wife was de nitely pregnant. I was de nitely the prime—only—suspect. Iwas going to get a lawyer, today, and he was going to be the very lawyer I didn’t wantand absolutely needed.Tanner Bolt. A grim necessity. Flip around any of the legal networks, the true-crimeshows, and Tanner Bolt’s spray-tanned face would pop up, indignant and concerned onbehalf of whatever freak-show client he was representing. He became famous at thirtyfour for representing Cody Olsen, a Chicago restaurateur accused of strangling his verypregnant wife and dumping her body in a land ll.
Corpse dogs detected the scent of adead body inside the trunk of Cody’s Mercedes; a search of his laptop revealed thatsomeone had printed out a map to the nearest land ll the morning Cody’s wife wentmissing. A no-brainer. By the time Tanner Bolt was done, everyone—the policedepartment, two West Side Chicago gang members, a disgruntled club bouncer—wasimplicated except Cody Olsen, who walked out of the courtroom and bought cocktails allaround.In the decade since, Tanner Bolt had become known as the Hubby Hawk—hisspecialty was swooping down in high-pro le cases to represent men accused ofmurdering their wives.
He was successful over half the time, which wasn’t bad,considering the cases were usually damning, the accused extremely unlikable—cheaters,narcissists, sociopaths. Tanner Bolt’s other nickname was Dickhead Defender.I had a two P.M. appointment.“This is Marybeth Elliott. Please leave a message, and I will return promptly …” shesaid in a voice just like Amy’s. Amy, who would not return promptly.I was speeding to the airport to y to New York and meet with Tanner Bolt.
WhenI’d asked Boney’s permission to leave town, she seemed amused: Cops don’t really do that.That’s just on TV.“Hi, Marybeth, it’s Nick again. I’m anxious to talk to you. I wanted to tell you … uh, Itruly didn’t know about the pregnancy, I’m just as shocked as you must be … uh, also I’mhiring an attorney, just so you know. I think even Rand had suggested it. Soanyway … you know how bad I am on messages. I hope you call me back.”Tanner Bolt’s o ce was in midtown, not far from where I used to work.
The elevatorshot me up twenty- ve stories, but it was so smooth that I wasn’t sure I was movinguntil my ears popped. At the twenty-sixth oor, a tight-lipped blonde in a sleek businesssuit stepped on. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the doors to shut, thensnapped at me, “Why don’t you hit close?” I ashed her the smile I give petulantwomen, the lighten-up smile, the one Amy called the “beloved Nicky grin,” and then thewoman recognized me. “Oh,” she said. She looked as if she smelled something rancid.She seemed personally vindicated when I scuttled out on Tanner’s floor.This guy was the best, and I needed the best, but I also resented being associatedwith him in any way—this sleazebag, this showboat, this attorney to the guilty. I prehated Tanner Bolt so much that I expected his o ce to look like a Miami Vice set. ButBolt & Bolt was quite the opposite—it was digni ed, lawyerly. Behind spotless glassdoors, people in very good suits commuted busily between offices.A young, pretty man with a tie the color of tropical fruit greeted me and settled medown in the shiny glass-and-mirror reception area and grandly o ered water (declined),then went back to a gleaming desk and picked up a gleaming phone.
I sat on the sofa,watching the skyline, cranes pecking up and down like mechanical birds. Then Iunfolded Amy’s nal clue from my pocket. Five years is wood. Was that going to be theend prize of the treasure hunt? Something for the baby: a carved oak cradle, a woodenrattle? Something for our baby and for us, to start over, the Dunnes redone.Go phoned while I was still staring at the clue.“Are we okay?” she asked immediately.My sister thought I was possibly a wife killer.“We’re as okay as I think we can ever be again, considering.”“Nick.
I’m sorry. I called to say I’m sorry,” Go said. “I woke up and felt totally insane.And awful. I lost my head. It was a momentary freakout. I really, truly apologize.”I remained silent.“You got to give me this, Nick: exhaustion and stress and … I’m sorry … truly.”“Okay,” I lied.“But I’m glad, actually. It cleared the air—”“She was definitely pregnant.”My stomach turned.
Again I felt as if I had forgotten something crucial. I hadoverlooked something and would pay for it.“I’m sorry,” Go said. She waited a few seconds. “The fact of the matter is—”“I can’t talk about it. I can’t.”“Okay.”“I’m actually in New York,” I said. “I have an appointment with Tanner Bolt.”She let out a whoosh of breath.“Thank God. You were able to see him that quick?”“That’s how fucked my case is.” I’d been patched through at once to Tanner—I wason hold all of three seconds after stating my name—and when I told him about myliving-room interrogation, about the pregnancy, he ordered me to hop the next plane.“I’m kinda freaking out,” I added.“You’re doing the smart thing. Seriously.”Another pause.“His name can’t really be Tanner Bolt, can it?” I said, trying to make light.“I heard it’s an anagram for Ratner Tolb.”“Really?”“No.”I laughed, an inappropriate feeling, but good.
Then, from the far side of the room,the anagram was walking toward me—black pin-striped suit and lime-green tie, sharkygrin. He walked with his hand out, in shake-and-strike mode.“Nick Dunne, I’m Tanner Bolt. Come with me, let’s get to work.”Tanner Bolt’s o ce seemed designed to resemble the clubroom of an exclusive allmen’s golf course—comfortable leather chairs, shelves thick with legal books, a gasreplace with ames ickering in the air-conditioning. Sit down, have a cigar, complainabout the wife, tell some questionable jokes, just us guys here.Bolt deliberately chose not to sit behind his desk.
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