Chapter Two: (Dan's POV)
After seeing my nearly naked, recently fucked wife at Menard's place I couldn't bear to go back to my empty apartment. I drove for ninety minutes to the coast, walked, wept and considered swimming out to sea until I couldn't swim back. Instead I stood alone on a rocky promontory and screamed out my pain and rage which only served to alarm a few gulls.
That night I hit the whisky again and drank myself to sleep. Saturday passed in a sickly blur of hangover and depression. Sunday I somehow dragged myself to church. I arrived late, sat near the back and left early so I wouldn't have to talk with anyone. I wasn't sure whether to beg for God's help or curse him for what had happened. The familiar words and rhythms of the liturgy were soothing and I actually felt a little better afterward.
In the afternoon I made some phone calls.
I rang mom, telling her a censored version of what had happened. She was shocked and saddened. Tina's oldest brother Alejandro was extremely apologetic as if Tina's behavior was all his fault and Sarah (Tina's lawyer friend) reacted strongly and angrily.
"The stupid, stupid bitch. She must have gone completely mad... ditching a great guy like you for that criminal scumbag Menard. She's going to lose her husband and her job if she doesn't come back to work very soon. Talk about flushing your life down the toilet."
Each time I told my story it hurt a little less and I felt closer to accepting what had happened. After a snack for supper, I called Ben. When I first met him, eleven years ago, he was a keen young African American detective whose face was in bloody ribbons. He'd been jumped by two gangsters. Ben had taken down one but the other attacked him from behind. Ben suffered several serious stab wounds in his back; then the bastard concentrated on his face, not trying to kill him but rather leaving him permanently disfigured.
Miraculously Ben wasn't blinded but his ruined face presented me with one of the toughest challenges of my career. I spent a lot of my own time with Ben before and after the operation, reassuring him and his family. When his bandages were first coming off I warned him.
"Ben, brace yourself, brother. Your face is going to look like a Halloween mask made from chopped liver but it's only the start, believe me. The swelling will go down, the scars will eventually fade. We'll have to do a few more surgeries but I promise you, given time, and it will take time, you'll be back to fending off the ladies with your nightstick."
Ben was a very brave man. When he first saw himself he laughed, although there were tears creeping out of his eyes. I performed three more surgeries on Ben, my best work to date. He'd never look quite normal, with a network of fine scars across his face but except up close, they were hardly noticeable. Ben used his recuperation time to study and gain extra qualifications which accelerated his climb up the ladder to his present position.
Ben and I became great friends and would frequently go fishing, bowling or just chat over a quiet beer. He was horrified to hear what had happened, especially when I told him who Tina was with.
"That fucking asshole! You know I was investigating Menard just before I was mugged. Had a thick file on him. He was a small-time crook in Marseilles. Started out as a tour guide but kept on adding extra, illicit services for his clients. I got his record from the French police but it was full of holes. He must have been paying out a fortune in bribes.
Bobby-boy started getting a bit too big for his Gucci loaders and the local gangsters decided to stamp him out so he grabbed his money and ran off to the land of opportunity; gracing our fair city with his slimy presence.
He took out a massive loan to buy the club and fund his playboy lifestyle. The club wasn't earning enough so he went back to selling drugs and hookers. He was very cunning at hiding his illegal activities but I knew he was into all sorts of shit and I was getting close to proving it.
Then as you know I was taken out by two guys, a big one wearing a ski mask and the one behind me I didn't even see. He was fast. I've always suspected that it was Menard but I couldn't prove anything... and by the time you had patched me up and I was back on the job, the case was closed.
Then he murdered William Hurst... I was rapt that he would finally get what he deserved."
"So you're sure Menard committed the murder?"
"Absolutely. It had his sneaking, backstabbing signature written all over it...especially the way he left the body. It wasn't enough to kill the man he had to humiliate him as well with all that BDSM shit. Menard always has to prove he's superior to everyone else."
"And Tina got him off."
"Yeah, but she had a lot of help. Somehow Menard got to the witnesses and the whole case conveniently fell apart. Now she's with him and she's still getting him off. Sorry... that was bad... but it seems like a hell of a coincidence."
"Ben you know Tina... you know she wouldn't have anything to do with subverting a case..."
"That's what I would have said, before she cheated on you. But whatever happened I'm going to get that French fuck. I've got enough influence now to bring down some real heat on Monsieur Menard."
"So what can I do?"
"There's nothing you can do brother. Hang in there. From what you've told me we've got no grounds to go charging in. She seems to be there of her own free will. She's clearly in a sexual relationship and doesn't want to go home with you. You didn't see any definite evidence of drug use or compulsion. If we tried to grab her we'd be guilty of trespass and kidnapping. Unless she changes her mind, Dan, our hands are tied. All I can do is try to keep eyes on her. Our informants should be able to give us some intel. And I promise you this my friend, sooner or later Menard is going down."
While I was talking to Ben an email arrived from Katie.
"Hey Dr. Dan... I'm not sure why, but I feel concerned for you. You were obviously worried about not hearing from Tina. I do hope everything is OK. If you want to talk, Skype me. KtOlsson"
Although it was late after Dan left, I called. Skype played its little routine and there was Katie's beautiful face on screen. As I told her my tale of woe there was a quality to her listening that communicated real sympathy.
Embarrassingly I burst into tears and sobbed my heart out for several minutes. Again I could feel she was there for me.
"I'm sorry Katie. You must think I'm a total wuss."
"Yeah too right mate. Harden the fuck up." This was a line that our friend John Taylor, the anesthetist, used frequently and Katie delivered it in a broad Aussie accent. For the first time since coming home, I laughed.
Before saying goodnight Katie made me promise I'd call her the next night. While I was still miserable I felt less desperate and managed to sleep without the help of excessive alcoholic self-medication.
Monday I was back at the hospital and that helped as well, seeing all my friends/colleagues, getting back into the swing of things. Fortunately, I didn't have any surgeries scheduled for a couple of days by which time I was feeling steady enough to do a decent job.
And so the weeks went by. I threw myself into my work, spending long hours at the hospital, helping out in the emergency ward as well as taking on more surgeries than usual.
I started hitting the gym more frequently and added boxing classes to my workout schedule. Pounding those bags provided great relief from tension, especially when I imaged it was Menard's gloating face that I was slamming with all my strength.
As weeks turned to months the tidal waves of pain and panic became less frequent and less powerful but I still often found myself, especially at night, on the edge of a black void, a bottomless pit of depression and despair. It seemed unbelievable that someone who was such a huge part of my life, my soul mate, my best friend, my beloved wife was now completely gone. In some ways, if she'd died it would have been easier. Knowing she was not that far away but with another man was excruciating.
Ben was a good friend over this time. He had me round to his house for family meals and fed me bits of information which he had gleaned from his sources. Tina lived in Robert's villa for three months then moved to a small apartment near his club where she was now working as a "hostess", whatever that meant. Her position at the law firm was long gone.
Of course part of me wanted to race over to her apartment to rescue her, or burst into the club and bring her home, but her humiliating rejection prevented me from taking any action. What if I tried to save her and she once again turned down my pathetic pleas? I couldn't cope with that again. If Tina wanted to come back she had my number, she knew where I lived. All she had to do was call, but she never did.
My church family helped especially my wise old priest.
"Danny boy" he always called me that "When you're going through a bereavement which you are, the grief is like garden rubbish. If you let it just pile up on you it'll rot, go sour, become toxic. But if you open it up to the air, work it around, process it, then it'll become good compost and it'll help you to grow."
But what helped me most, more than work, exercise or folksy advice was talking with Katie. She continued to call me almost every day, usually just before going to bed as that was my loneliest time.
We soon moved on from talking about my wrecked marriage to talking about everything else. We shared the news of our day, our childhood stories, our favorite books, music and movies. We discussed religion, argued about politics and joked about sex. Our friendship flourished.
Katie came out to the coast for a holiday and stayed with relatives but they didn't see much of her. She was too busy sightseeing with me; enjoying beach walks, movies, dinners and all the city had to offer.
I had a long weekend with her on the farm where she took me horse riding, line dancing and of course introduced me to her extended family. That was a revelation. My parents had married late and after Dad died it was just my mom and me. She never remarried. But Katie had three brothers, two sisters, two down to earth, hard-working, loving parents, three grandparents and as for her nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles and assorted other relatives I couldn't possibly keep track.
They held a big family barbecue on Saturday night where I met what seemed like hundreds of the Olsson clan and then more on Sunday at church. They were devout Lutherans. It could have been overwhelming but somehow it wasn't. There was so much love, laughter and good-natured ribbing that I found myself more relaxed and happier than I'd felt for nearly eight months. The food was abundant and superb.
On Monday morning Katie's father took me for a walk across the farm, ostensibly to show me his favorite look-out but in fact to give me the father/boyfriend talk.
When we reached the top of the hill he looked out with obvious satisfaction over the rolling acres of his farm, lush with young green growth.
"Dan, you seem like a good man but I've got to ask you this. What are your intentions for my daughter? I know that's an old-fashioned sort of question but I'm an old-fashioned sort of guy."
"Well Mr Olsson..."
"I told you to call me Karl."
