Daniels replaced the phone in its cradle, took an envelope and five sheets of blank paper from the desk drawer. Folding the paper, his fingers shook. He sealed the envelope, found a pen, began addressing the envelope. The pen magnified the trembling of his hand. Slowly, as awkwardly as he must have written when he was a child, he began forming the two words: Jacquelaine Miller. As he wrote, it seemed that he could hear a prosecutor addressing the jury. The prosecutor would hold up the envelope, for the jury’s inspection.
“You’ll notice, ladies and gentlemen, how utterly different this childish scrawl is from the defendant’s normal handwriting. The cause of this difference, we will show, is acute anxiety resulting from extreme guilt.”
10:20 P.M., EDT
AS THE MUSIC HIT her she let her body go with it. Manhattan to Carter’s Landing to Tim’s Place, the last of it, the best of it.
Behind the bar, Polly coolly nodded, then let her eyes wander toward the far wall. Yes, Jeff was there. He was holding a beer bottle, his body moving with the music. He hadn’t seen her. Others were looking, though: the townies, looking over the tourist, then looking away. Everywhere on the Cape it was the same: the tourists looking through the townies, the townies spitting behind the tourists’ backs. Meaning that money made the difference. Manhattan, Caen, Rodeo Drive, the Cape—it was all the same: the beautiful people posing for each other while the peasants looked on. Last week, at the Barnstable airport, she’d seen Teddy Kennedy. He’d looked chubby and old and angry.
Jeff was sitting at a small round table with two other men and a woman. As she watched, one of the men saw her. He touched Jeff’s arm, said something. Quickly, Jeff turned toward her. He was surprised: his standard slow-smiling, lazy-lidded look of sensuous surprise, Elvis without the sideburns.
Carrying the bottle of beer, Jeff rose, said something to the others at the table, walked toward her. Smiling. Strutting.
“Surprise …” He raised the bottle, an invitation. “Have you got that ID?”
“I’ve got better than that, in the car. A lot better.”
He moved closer, put his free hand on her waist, drew her close. He could feel her body pulsing, throbbing. An engine, revving up. Tonight, Diane was ready for anything—everything.
But she’d only left the Cape last Thursday, flying back to New York in her stepfather’s plane. And now she was back. Would he have gotten involved, if he’d known she would come up so often? How far did she think a bottle of booze and a handful of pills and some New York grass could go? Didn’t she ever look in the mirror?
“Okay, gotcha.” Taking his time, he finished the beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, put the empty bottle on the bar. “Let’s go.” He turned her toward the door. As she went through, he turned back, winked. The message: score one more tourist.
10:25 P.M., EDT
DANIELS DEPRESSED THE BUTTON that drew the drapes covering the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows. Because beyond the window, they waited. All of them.
There were only three elements: Carolyn’s body, himself, and the rest of them. The body was the problem. The world was the threat. And he was the fulcrum, the focus. Move the fulcrum, and the equation failed. In prep-school algebra, the illustration had been a teeter-totter, always in balance.
Until now—until this hour—always in balance.
An hour ago his mind had gone numb, leaving him helpless.
Now, an hour later, his mind was racing. But it was a cacophony of confusion: a once-efficient machine gone wild. When he’d been a boy, his father had given him a steam engine, red-painted, with gilt letters and brass piping. The engine’s governor, his father explained, was essential. Otherwise, the machine would fly apart.
A smooth, efficient machine. The phrase, he knew, described his mind. The proof was in the statistics, the balance sheet. The proof was in the Forbes biography, the cover story.
The slate slab that had been fashioned into a coffee table was further proof. The table had cost more than most men made in a year. It had taken six straining, sweating workmen to carry the slab into the house from a flatbed truck and set it on its base. The base was a section of bristlecone pine, thousands of years old, absurdly rare and therefore valuable. The table was placed in the approximate center of the museum-quality Persian rug that covered most of the oak-planked floor.
And the rug was stained with Carolyn’s blood.
10:30 P.M., EDT
“WHAT’RE THESE?” JEFF LOOKED down at the two capsules she’d given him.
“Xanax. ’Ludes.”
“You think you should do booze and ’ludes and still drive?”
“It’s just out to their place.” She looked at him, that look she thought was so sexy.
Except that Diane wasn’t sexy.
She was rich, and she was wild, and she was willing. But she wasn’t sexy.
Whatever it was, Diane didn’t have it.
Did she think she had it? Was that why they were there, parked in her BMW, beginning to touch each other, letting it slowly begin, letting the booze and the pills and the grass carry them along?
“Your folks’ place, you mean?”
“I mean my stepfather’s place. Preston Daniels, tycoon.” She spoke with bitterly exaggerated precision.
“We can’t go there, though.”
“We can most certainly go there.” Now the bitterness was bleary, blurred by the backwash of whatever she’d taken. But, still, she spoke like the rest of them. He could clearly hear the sound of the private schools, and hired servants. The voices never changed. Neither did the cars, or the houses, or the clothes—or the airplanes.
Private schools and hired servants …
Servants like him, paid to clean up their messes.
He swallowed one of the capsules, swallowed a mouthful of beer. With three other cars—tourists—they were parked in a view area overlooking Nantucket Sound. On the beach below, two figures walked hand in hand along the water’s edge. Two dogs, barking, bounding, circled the figures, a man and a woman. Across the dunes, toward town, a forbidden campfire glowed behind the dunes.
Dropping the second capsule in the pocket of his shirt, Jeff touched her bare forearm, let his hand linger. At the touch, she leaned toward him, sighed, rested her head on his shoulder. Whenever he was ready, she was ready.
He moved closer, used his right forefinger to trace her profile, forehead to chin, then down the curve of her jaw to the top of her blouse.
“Hmmm …” Languorously, she let her head fall back against the crook of his arm. Her blouse was cut wide and deep. With the little finger of his right hand, he felt the first swell of her breasts.
Summertime at Carter’s Landing …
Tight jeans and scoop-necked blouses and a BMW that still smelled new. The last time they’d done it, started like this, he’d smelled her musk mingled with the BMW’s musk, a turn-on that had made him smile. When she’d asked him about the smile, he’d—
A bright white light suddenly caught them: a cop with his goddamn spotlight, cruising. Joe Farnsworth, fat old Joe, getting his kicks. If Cindy Jensen, thirteen years old, had decided to testify against him, Joe would be on the other side of the badge now.
Slowly, the police car cruised by as the spotlight switched off. But Joe would be back. On a quiet Sunday night in July, with the weekenders gone, Joe would have plenty of time for them.
“Fucking pervert,” Diane muttered. “He’s played grab-ass with about every girl in town.”
“Tell me about it.” He popped open a fresh can of beer, drank, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Give somebody a gun and a badge, and then watch out.” As she spoke, she drew away from him, reached for the ignition key.
“Where’re we going?”
“We’re going to Daniels’s place. I already told you that.”
“But someone’s there.”
“No one’s there. Believe me, no one’s there.” She started the car, put it in gear, began t
o drive. She drove slowly, carefully.
“Two or three hours ago, I was making a delivery out there. I saw a light at your place. And their Cherokee was in the carport.”
“Bullshit. He’s in Atlanta this weekend. Business. And my mother’s in New York. I just left her there.”
“Okay. See for yourself.” Leaning back in the seat, feeling the soft, easy warmth of the Quaaludes begin to flow, he was aware of his own cool, controlled power: the man with the right words, the right moves, everything covered.
“How long were you in Europe?” he asked. “A month?” Yes, his timing was perfect: low-down and lazy, Bogey on the late show, so calm, so cool.
“A month. Right. Give or take.”
“Yeah, well, the reason I asked, your dad—your stepfather, excuse me very much—he’s got a girlfriend. Did you know that he’s got a girlfriend?”
Bitterly, she laughed. “That’s new? Christ, just read the gossip columns, why don’t you? Read the fucking National Enquirer.”
“But this girlfriend isn’t in the National Enquirer. This girlfriend is out at your place.” Still watching her, he let the words hang there, power plus power, old Bogey, bringing them along. Then, easy and slow and soft: “I’d bet fifty dollars she’s at your place. Right now. Right this minute. I bet fifty dollars she and your dad—your stepfather, excuse me very much—I bet they came in Saturday night, in his airplane. And I bet—”
“Jesus—” Suddenly smiling at him, the heat turned up high, she pressed down on the accelerator, sent the car surging ahead.
“Now what?”
“Now what?” It was a hot, tight question. Her smile was wide, her eyes suddenly wild. “Now it’s trick-or-treat time, that’s what. It’s Halloween in July.”
He smiled, settled back, let himself go slack. Diane could hit the high spots, no question. Drunk or sober, up or down, there wasn’t anything Diane wouldn’t do, even before someone dared her.
11:45 P.M., EDT
SUDDENLY DIZZY, NAUSEATED, THE bile rising in his throat, Daniels dropped to his knees beside the body, lowered his head, closed his eyes. He must breathe deeply, mind over matter. Because if he lost control, everything ended. Here, now, he was alone: himself struggling to master himself, his only hope.
Please God, himself the master of himself.
Born alone, destined to die alone, those were the givens. But if that was the game, then where was the justice? Because the Forbes biography made him more vulnerable, not less. Everyone yearned to see the mighty fall.
So fate had stalked him, finally cornered him here in this empty house. Forced him to kneel beside her body, the penitent to his own terror.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes, raised his head.
Could he do it?
Could he touch that cold flesh again? Could he roll her onto the blanket, cover her carefully, then truss the bundle up with the rope he’d found in the carport, an unexpected boon?
Yes, he could do it. If he could raise his head, clear his throat, blink his eyes back into focus, then he could do it.
Soon it would be midnight. Almost three hours since he’d placed the envelope with the check inside on the arm of the sofa. It was a scene he’d often played before; he’d had no doubt of the outcome. Angry words, a few tears, a brave show of anger before the envelope disappeared into her purse and the exit lines began.
Cautiously, fearful that he might gag, he cleared his throat. Yes, the nausea had passed. Signifying that he could begin.
11:50 P.M., EDT
AHEAD, SHE RECOGNIZED THE turn of the road that would reveal the beach house, see and be seen.
No, not see and be seen. Just see. I spy, a game for children.
Meaning that, I spy, she must pull off the narrow blacktop road, switch off the headlights, switch off the engine, make sure the transmission was in gear.
All done. To think through it was to do it unconsciously, her mind in control, leaving her body to soar.
I spy time.
Had she said it, or only thought it?
“Why’re we parking here?” he asked.
Meaning that she hadn’t said it, hadn’t said the words aloud. Meaning that she must turn to him, smile, reach across him for the door latch while she said, “It’s I spy time. All out.” She swung the door open. “Alley-oop.”
Alley-oop. It was another phrase from childhood. When her dad lifted her off her feet, swung her high above his head, he always said Alley-oop. Laughing. Always laughing.
I spy. Alley-oop. Leftovers from childhood. Were there more? Was life one big leftover?
“I spy,” Jeff repeated, mumbling the words. Laughing. Eyes empty. Stoned.
“Come on.” She swung her legs out of the car, stumbled, recovered, pushed the door shut. “I spy.”
Just ahead, through the knee-high cut grass, a sandy footpath led from the road down to the beach. As she descended, her feet sank into the sand, another childhood memory. But not this sand, not Cape Cod sand. California sand, the beach at San Francisco. She and her father, Alley-oop. And her mother, too. Even her mother, then. They’d—
From behind her, Jeff swore softly. Had he stumbled? Was Jeff surefooted? His father was gone, too. Long gone, killed in a motorcycle accident. Alley-oop.
On the beach now, walking in deeper sand, she watched the ridge of low dunes to her left. From beyond that ridge, she could see the beach house. Preston Daniels’s beach house. All glass and natural cypress and stone, once featured in Architectural Digest, a big spread. Yes, now she could see the whole house. Part of it was cantilevered out toward the ocean, built on concrete piers. In the living room, light glowed golden behind drawn drapes. And in the carport, she saw the outline of the Jeep Cherokee. The BMW and the Cherokee were the two cars she most liked to drive.
She was standing motionless in the sand, looking at the house. With a can of beer in each hand, Jeff was standing beside her.
“Here.” He handed her a beer. Then: “See, he’s in there, just like I said. With his girlfriend, sure as hell.”
Still staring at the house, she sipped the beer. Should she go back to the car, pop a Xanax? Should she have locked the car, if the Xanax was in there? Insurance would take care of the BMW. But who would take care of the Xanax?
Trick or treat.
I spy.
Which game were they playing? Why? What was the penalty, what was the prize?
Preston Daniels, surprised. The thought was the prize. I spy.
She was walking up toward the house. Opening on the flagstone patio, the front door was on the left side of the house, with the carport beyond. The cantilevered deck faced the ocean. When she reached the patio, she could see into the living area. She could—
The front door was opening. Wearing jeans and a sweater, Daniels was framed in the pale oblong of light. Mr. Perfection: tall, wide shoulders, narrow waist, a movie star’s profile. Slowly, cautiously, she dropped to her knees in the sand. Beside her, Jeff was kneeling, too. Could they be seen, silhouetted against the phosphorescence of the surf? There was no moon. Meaning that—
Warily, as if something had alerted him to danger, Daniels was closing the door behind himself. He was standing motionless on the patio, his whole body tense.
Preston Daniels, frightened.
Jeff shifted irritably. “What’re we—?”
“Shhh,” she hissed.
Daniels was striding across the patio to the carport. Now he disappeared, cut off by the corner of the house.
“Why don’t we—”
“Shhh. Shut the fuck up, will you? I want to—”
Suddenly Daniels reappeared. Striding quickly, he was carrying a gardening tool—a shovel. With the shovel in his left hand, he went to the tailgate of the Cherokee. He unlocked the tailgate, raised it. The courtesy light came on, revealing the interior of the station wagon, the rear seat folded down. With the handle of the shovel, Daniels struck up at the Jeep’s headliner. One blow. Two. With the third blow, the interior went d
ark. Faintly, metal clanged against metal as Daniels slid the shovel inside the car.
“He broke out the light.”
“Shhh. Wait.”
Moving erratically now, as if he’d suddenly lost his arrogance, Daniels was striding from the carport to the front door. He opened the door, stepped quickly inside the house. His shadow crossed the curtains drawn across the entryway windows. The shadow moved toward the living room.
“So now what?” About to rise, Jeff gathered himself. “What’d you—”
“Wait. Get down.” Urgently, she pulled on his forearm. “He—he’s acting weird.”
“Weird, huh?” Grunting, Jeff sank down beside her, sat on the sand with his back to the beach house, drank from his can of beer. He’d lost interest.
12:01 A.M., EDT
ON BOTH KNEES, DANIELS pushed on Carolyn’s limp, sickeningly floppy corpse until she lay facedown on the Persian rug. Breathing hard, he felt for her waist.
Her waist?
Or its waist?
She’d been dead for almost three hours. When did a dead body become an object, no longer a person?
He locked his hands together beneath her waist, heaved, managed to lift the jackknifed body almost to his shoulder level as he knelt. But her head and her feet still touched the floor; he hadn’t the leverage to lift her clear of the floor. Panting now, he shifted his grip, tried again. It was worse, not better. And the rope was slipping, allowing one of her hands to escape the blanket. He lowered the bundle to the floor again, straightened, felt for her head inside the blanket, felt for her shoulders, then her armpits. He crouched, heaved, began pulling her toward the entryway.
Even as a child, he’d never been strong in the upper body. His legs had been strong; in prep school he’d run the fifty-yard dash. But he’d never been able to chin himself more than a few times, and push-ups had always been a problem.
Except for the Bones Page 2