Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  Rosa gave her a weary look. ‘And will you tell the police, then? Send me to prison and traumatize Elena? For what – Richardo Arias?’

  Terri shook her head. ‘For Carlo, and especially for Chris. For the rest of his life, people will think him a murderer.’

  Rosa’s face went from fatigue to fatalism. ‘Ask him, then. Let Christopher Paget do justice.’

  Slowly, Terri released her mother.

  Gazing calmly into her face, Rosa said, ‘There’s more, I think. You called Ricardo twice, didn’t you? That’s why you believed Chris guilty, and why you feel so guilty now.’

  Terri did not answer. Looking at her, Rosa nodded at what she saw. ‘At the trial, Teresa, you told them you had called Ricardo around eight-thirty, and that he told you he had an appointment. But you never told them you’d called a second time, much later, and that Ricardo hadn’t answered.

  ‘That was why, in Italy, you were so worried when you could not find Ricardo. It’s why you concealed from the police that you’d called him again. Because you were certain that Ricardo had died between your first and second calls.’ Rosa paused. ‘You thought that Chris had erased your message. That was what you could never speak of. Especially to Chris.’

  Chapter 5

  Chris answered the door in a white sweater and blue jeans. It was two o’clock.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ Terri said.

  He looked into her face. ‘It’s okay. I was waiting up for you.’

  They walked through the silent house to the library, the room where Chris came to think. It was dark; by the glow of a dying fire, Terri saw a snifter of cognac on the table.

  He flicked on a small lamp and sat on the couch, looking up at her in the half-light with an expression of inquiry, intent but not unkind. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said softly.

  Terri did not sit. ‘You didn’t kill Richie,’ she said.

  There was the barest trace of humor in his eyes. ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Chris, it was my mother.’

  His expression changed but slightly, a narrowing of his eyes, and then he nodded.

  She watching him take this in. ‘You knew.’

  ‘I suspected. Knowing is something very different.’ Chris seemed momentarily to withdraw deep within himself, and then he looked up. Something in her face kept him from going to her. Quietly, he asked, ‘Do you want to talk about Rosa?’

  If he said or did anything more, Terri thought, she would lose control. ‘Yes, and no,’ she said at last.

  The fire spat, embers dying. ‘Tell me how she did it, then,’ Chris said. ‘I already know the why.’

  It started her. ‘You knew about Elena?’

  His face changed, becoming watchful. ‘I know that Carlo didn’t abuse her.’

  Terri felt shame overtake her. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘Richie did.’

  ‘Richie?’ For the first time, Chris looked surprised. ‘Your mother knew that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood abruptly, staring into Tern’s face. ‘Then she let Carlo hang there.’

  Terri did not flinch. ‘She let you hang there.’

  ‘I’m not sixteen.’ Chris’s voice was quieter yet; it was as if he felt too much for anger. ‘You’d better tell me everything.’

  The sense of his self-control, maintained at a cost, made the moment that much more terrible. Looking into his face, she told him all she knew, without emphasis or inflection. His expression never changed. His body was unnaturally still.

  When she had finished, Terri felt exhausted.

  Softly, Chris said, ‘Does your mother understand what she did?’

  ‘No.’ Terri’s voice fell. ‘I want you to clear yourself, Chris.’

  A first ironic smile. ‘I thought I had.’

  ‘You know better.’ Terri paused, and then made herself finish. ‘I was afraid that you’d killed him.’

  He looked into her face. ‘What about Carlo?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’ With so much lost, there was no sparing the truth. ‘That’s why you should do it, Chris. At least you’ll salvage Carlo.’

  ‘You’re right. As far as that goes.’ He tilted his head. ‘But you’re leaving out Elena.’

  Terri felt herself draw breath. ‘If my mother had told me about Richie, we could have confronted him. I would have gotten Elena, and Richie’s charges against Carlo would have vanished.’

  ‘All true. It has a certain irony, if you enjoy the ancient Greeks.’ Paget paused, as if to check his anger, and then shrugged. ‘But your mother didn’t do that. So here we all are.’

  Terri went to him, looking up into his face. ‘There’s no “we” anymore. It’s time for you and Carlo to bail out and let me pick up the pieces of my family. As best I can.’

  Chris stared down at her. ‘One of the pieces is Elena. If it were up to you, this would never come out.’

  ‘No. But that’s not the point.’

  ‘Isn’t it? The only thing your mother got right is that this would devastate Elena. That’s not a decision I’m prepared to make by myself.’ He paused, finishing quietly, ‘Nor, in the end, is it my decision. Or yours.’

  Terri stared at him. ‘You’d involve Carlo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Through her exhaustion, Terri felt a flash of anger. ‘You can’t do that to him.’

  ‘Your fucking mother did it to them both.’ Chris stopped himself, and then said more calmly, ‘Carlo’s sixteen, Terri. Elena’s only six.’

  Terri shook her head. ‘I can’t permit that. Even if there weren’t also you.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Me? I deserve whatever I get. If only for my own stupidity.’

  Terri looked into his face. ‘For what? Loving me?’

  ‘No,’ Paget answered softly. ‘For being at Richie’s that night.’

  Ricardo Arias opened the door.

  Paget looked at him – the hint of a smile, the thin, clever face, the bright eyes that seemed to Paget somehow feral, as if Richie saw without feeling. In the car, Paget had wondered how the reality of Richie would seem to him: this man had once lived with Terri; slandered Paget; used Carlo in a despicable way. But the first thing he felt was distaste and unease, as if he was entering the presence of someone too troubled, and too lacking in conscience, to be dismissed.

  ‘Come on in.’ Richie’s voice was oddly pleasant, that of a new neighbor or a helpful salesperson. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  Silent, Paget stepped into the living room. Though the apartment was new, Richie’s things made it seedy – a worn desk; a lamp with its shade askew; a cheap coffee table; dated posters on the wall, faded with time. Pieces of the life that Terri once had shared with him.

  Richie closed the door behind them.

  Paget turned to face him. Paget had worn a suit: wearing jeans was how one called on a friend. This, at best, was business.

  ‘You told me what you had,’ Paget said. ‘I want to see it.’

  There was a certain pleasure on Richie’s face, as if Paget had confirmed the importance of the moment, and of Richie himself. ‘I have copies,’ Richie said. ‘So don’t even think about doing anything crazy.’

  ‘Show it to me,’ Paget demanded.

  Richie walked to the coffee table. On the table was a redbound journal, its spine cracked with use. Richie picked it up and gave it to Paget. ‘Read the last entry. It’s all you’ll need to know.’

  The journal felt heavy in Paget’s hand. When he opened to the first page, there was the faint smell of mildew.

  The writing was feminine, careful and precise, recording the events in the order they occurred. That the language was flat, without emotion, made the entries worse.

  Richie waited anxiously. ‘That’s not the good stuff,’ he said.

  In that moment, Paget wondered if it was possible to hate another man this much. He did not look up, kept reading at his own pace. Richie’s silence was like a caught breath.

  Paget reached the final e
ntry. When he stopped abruptly, staring at the page, he could feel Richie’s eyes.

  Paget finished the entry and then read the words again, trying to distance himself from their impact.

  ‘Well?’ Richie said.

  Slowly, Paget looked up at him. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘I copied a set of Terri’s keys.’ Richie’s voice held no apology. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Of you?’

  Richie’s eyes glinted. ‘It’s not too good for her, do you think? Makes you wonder what kind of mother she’d make.’ His smile held a certain pleasure. ‘If I were still sleeping with her, I’d sleep with one eye open. Although I did teach her how to give good head.’

  Paget placed the diary back in Richie’s hand. Softly, he said, ‘She was fourteen.’

  Richie’s smile faded. ‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ he said. ‘Cash.’

  Paget did not trust himself to speak.

  Richie seemed to misread this. ‘If she’s not worth it to you, maybe we can negotiate some sort of global arrangement. Covering all our outstanding issues.’

  Paget stopped to consider just how he would respond. Knees bracing, he felt himself relax.

  ‘Your choice,’ Richie said. ‘Maybe we –’

  With all the force he had, Paget swung.

  His fist crashed into Richie’s face.

  The shock ran through Paget’s arm. Richie clasped both hands to his face, moaning, and fell half-sitting on the rug.

  Gazing down at him, Paget felt his right hand throbbing. Softly, he said, ‘Carlo.’

  Richie’s hand still covered his face. Between his fingers, Paget saw a trickle of blood.

  The diary lay at Paget’s feet. He kicked it toward Richie. ‘Hand that up to me.’

  Slowly, Richie looked up. His nose was swollen and bloody. ‘Pick it up,’ Paget repeated.

  Staring at Paget, Richie looked dazed and nauseated. He bent forward, crawling mutely to the diary, then he thrust it toward Paget.

  As he took the diary, Paget sent the back of his hand cracking across Richie’s face.

  With a short cry, Richie fell sideways, one arm upraised to protect himself. Paget flinched at the pain in his hand. It felt tender, perhaps broken; blood from Richie’s nose speckled the arm of his suit coat.

  ‘I suppose I should stop,’ Paget said softly. ‘I’m getting you all over me.’

  Richie’s eyes had begun to water. Only now, remembering, did Paget seem to recall turning from him and then, as he walked toward the door, facing Richie again, resting his damaged hand on the answering machine on top of Richie’s desk.

  There had been something more to say.

  ‘If I let you do this,’ Paget told him, ‘you’d be in our lives forever. So you may wonder what I’ll do to you if you ever try to use this diary, or to ruin my son’s life, or Terri’s. The truth is, I have no idea. Because, whatever it is, it will be something I’ve never considered doing to anyone.’

  Richie stared up at him, balanced on his hands and knees. Only his eyes moved.

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ Paget said. ‘You just stay there. From all that I can gather, it really is your best position.’

  Turning, he opened the door and left.

  Terri studied his face.

  ‘Why were you there?’ she finally asked.

  He shrugged. ‘To talk to him, just as you wanted to. Perhaps to see whether we could make some end to this. It was foolish, of course.’

  Terri shook her head. ‘No more lies, Chris. This isn’t the night for it.’

  Paget did not answer.

  She clutched the front of his sweater; as she did, it struck her that she had done this to Rosa. ‘I just found out that my mother is a murderer and that my husband molested our daughter. So don’t bullshit me about whatever this is.’ She stared into his face. ‘You thought you knew why she killed him. But you didn’t know about Elena.’

  Chris’s gaze was steady. But the look he gave her was one she had seen before, on the night she had lost Elena. More softly, she said, ‘I want her to hear everything. Just like you did.’

  For a long time, Chris simply looked at her. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. ‘He tried to sell me information.’

  She nodded. ‘Some sort of journal – the one Georgina Keller saw.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  For the first time, Chris turned from her. He stared into the fireplace, darkened now, and then walked to the mantel. ‘It’s here.’

  ‘Where? The police turned the house inside out.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Chris knelt, pushing the brick backing of the fireplace; a line of bricks turned sideways, exposing a square compartment. ‘The man who built this place was paranoid,’ he said quietly. ‘And the cop who searched it very young. I managed to distract him.’

  Terri felt herself tense. ‘Why?’

  Reaching into the square, Paget withdrew a journal. He stood holding it in both hands, as if still deciding what to do. And then, hesitantly, he gave the journal to Terri.

  She walked to the sofa, sitting beneath the light. Chris stayed by the fire.

  Terri opened the journal. The handwriting was her mother’s. The first entry was dated shortly after Tern’s birth.

  ‘Last night,’ her mother had written, ‘Ramon beat me until my cries awakened Teresa.

  ‘It seemed to stop him. When he let me go, I went to the bathroom to clean my face, and then tried to comfort Teresa. After a time, she stopped fussing.

  ‘It was dark, and she is only an infant. She could not see me.’

  Tears stung Tern’s eyes. Suddenly she wanted to reach across the years, to the woman Rosa had been. To the nineteen-year-old girl who had written this.

  Terri turned the page, and then the next. She felt Chris only in his silence.

  Day by day, for fourteen years, her mother recorded what Ramon Peralta had done to her.

  The words were flat, emotionless. But it was only here, Terri realized, that Rosa could tell her story. There had been no one else to tell it to.

  Some of the entries stirred Terri’s memory. Most did not. Only rarely did her mother’s words raise a sudden image, vivid as a welt. When Terri reached that night in the living room, Ramon beating her mother, she set the book aside.

  How could she have lived? Terri wondered bleakly. But part of her knew the answer: She lived for us. She lived for me.

  Chris came toward her. ‘No,’ Terri said. ‘Let me finish.’

  He stayed there. She resumed reading the march of words, one after another, as relentless as Ramon Peralta’s hands and fists.

  Before she reached it, Terri knew that date of the final entry.

  She felt a tremor running through her. She breathed in once, and then out again. But when she began reading, she heard her own soft cry.

  ‘I cannot be certain,’ her mother had written, ‘that the shadow was Teresa. Or, if it was, what she chooses to remember.’

  There was someone in the house. Half asleep, Terri could hear this, a whisper in the silence. Just as she knew that the sound was not made by her sisters, too frightened of the dark and of her father.

  Perhaps it was Ramon Peralta, returning filled with whiskey and the poison of his own rage. But Terri knew his sounds – the stumbling irregular footsteps, the shallow breathing as he climbed the stairs. This sound was like a parting of a curtain, the footsteps of a cat.

  Perhaps it was a dream. But the crawl of fear across her skin drew her into the hallway, to seek her mother. Or, pehaps, to know that Rosa was safe.

  Her parents’ door was ajar. Her mother was not there.

  Terri was frightened now. Part of her wished to believe this a dream, to return to her bed, where dreams belonged. It felt like a dream: an empty house, sounds she did not know. And then, again, the whisper.

  She would not abandon her mother, Terri decided. Not after all that she had seen. She must know that Rosa was safe.


  Slowly, feeling her way along the wall, Terri crept down the stairs. As if in a dream, her feet made no sound.

  The living room was empty.

  Terri stood there, listening. Felt, rather than heard, someone else.

  A creak, somehow familiar.

  It made Terri shiver, even before she could place it. And then, gazing into the dining room, she saw something. A difference in the quality of the darkness.

  It was the back door to the kitchen. That would be the creak; the door opening, to admit light.

  Terri stood there, afraid to move forward, yet fearing to return upstairs. And then, remembering Rosa, she crept through the dining room.

  Her goal was merely to reach the alcove between the dining room and the kitchen. To peer around the corner, at her fears.

  Softly, she skirted the dining table, so that she could not be seen. Then crept along the wall. Until, heart racing, she reached the alcove and gazed into the kitchen.

  A crack of light. A shadow, standing in the doorway.

  The shadow faced the porch. But Terri knew it, slim and still. And then her mother turned a fraction, and the porch light caught her face.

  She was staring down, through the doorway. Terri followed her gaze.

  Ramon Peralta stared up at her. There was a trickle of blood on his face; his eyes were stunned, beseeching, like an animal’s. ‘Please,’ she saw him whisper. Less with his lips than his eyes.

  Silent, Rosa gazed down at him. Terri saw the blood beneath his head now, black in the half-light.

  Rosa seemed to consider him. Then she straightened, closing the screen door. A whisper.

  The latch clicked shut. In the light, Terri saw her father’s hand, clawing at the door. His nails scraped the screen.

  The image froze there: her father’s hand, her mother staring through the wire. And then, it seemed quite calmly, Rosa Peralta switched off the light.

  Terri felt herself gasp.

  The shadow spun, facing the darkness where Terri stood. It was less movement than sound; without light, Terri could hardly see.

  With blackness between them, Terri and her mother faced each other. Terri could not be sure if Rosa saw her; without the light, her mother’s shadow was a lingering image on the retina, vanishing quickly.