The King of Lies

by John Hart

  Her eyes were lightless, and when she blinked, her body seemed to tilt. She looked drugged, and may well have been. I didn’t know her. I never had.

  “Too late for what?” I asked, but she ignored me. She pulled at her ear with one hand and kept the other hand behind her back. I knew then that I’d been wrong about a great many things.

  “It was you that night,” I said. “You pushed the chair down the stairs.”

  I looked around the office. There was only one way out.

  “Yes,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry about that. But I guess it was bound to happen, sooner or later. I’ve been up here so many times.” She shrugged, and the gun appeared. It was in her left hand, and she acted as if it weren’t there. I froze at the sight of it. It was small and silver, an automatic of some kind. She used the barrel to scratch at her cheek.

  “What’s the gun for, Barbara?” I tried to make my voice as nonthreatening as possible. She shrugged again and looked at the gun. She tilted it this way and that, as if fascinated by the play of light along its glittering edge. Her face was slack. She was clearly not herself, and I thought she had to be stoned or mentally adrift.

  “Something I’ve had for awhile,” she said. “This town is getting so dangerous these days, especially for a woman alone at night.”

  I knew that I was in danger, but I didn’t care.

  “Why did you kill him, Barbara?”

  Suddenly, she was on her feet, jabbing the gun in my direction, and the vacuous calm of her eyes disappeared, replaced by something entirely different. I flinched, expecting the bullet.

  “I did that for you!” she screamed. “For you! How dare you question me? I did it all for you, you ungrateful bastard.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m sorry. Try to calm down.”

  “You calm down!” She took three uneven steps toward me, holding the gun as if she meant to use it. When she stopped, she didn’t lower the gun. “That son of a bitch was going to change the will. I fucked him for six months before he agreed to do it right in the first place.” She laughed, the sound like fingers on a chalkboard. “That’s what it took, but I did it, and I did it for us. I made that happen. But he was going to undo all of that, put it back the way it was. I couldn’t allow that. So don’t you pretend that I never did anything for you.”

  “That’s why you slept with my father? For money?”

  “Not for money. Money is a thousand dollars or ten thousand. He’d never trust you with fifteen million dollars. He was going to leave you three.” She laughed bitterly. “Just three. Can you believe it? Rich as he was. But I convinced him. He changed it to fifteen. I did that for you.”

  “You didn’t do it for me, Barbara.”

  The gun began to shake in her hand, and I saw her fingers whiten where she gripped it. “You don’t know me. Don’t pretend that you know me. Or what I’ve been through. Knowing that the tapes were here. Knowing what it would mean if somebody else found them.”

  “Can you put the gun down, Barbara? It’s not necessary.”

  She didn’t respond, but the barrel drifted lower, until it pointed at the floor. Barbara’s eyes followed it and she seemed to slump. For an instant, I dared to breathe, but when her face came up, her eyes sparkled.

  “But then you started seeing that country whore again.”

  “Vanessa didn’t have anything to do with us,” I said.

  The gun came up, and Barbara screamed, “That bitch was trying to steal my money!”

  I had a horrible revelation. “What did you do to her?”

  “You were going to leave me. You said so yourself.”

  “But that had nothing to do with her, Barbara. That was about us.”

  “She was the problem with us.”

  “Where is she, Barbara?”

  “She’s gone. That’s all that matters.”

  Inside, I felt something tear. Vanessa was the only reason I had left for living. So I said what was on my mind.

  “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you’re faking.” This time, I stepped toward her. My life was over. I had nothing. This woman had taken everything and I let my anger build. I gestured at the blank screen, but in my mind I still saw her, and the way she screamed. “You loved it. You loved fucking him. Was he that good? Or did you just like the idea of hurting me?”

  Barbara laughed, and the gun came up. “Oh. Now you’re a man. Now you’re a tough guy. Well, let me tell you. Yes, I loved it. Ezra knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. He had power. I don’t mean strength. I mean power. Fucking him was the biggest rush I ever had.” Her top lip curled. “Coming home to you was a joke.”

  I saw something in her face, and had another revelation. “He dumped you,” I said. “He liked having sex with you because of the power he held. He controlled you, manipulated you; but then he realized that you liked it, and once that happened, he got bored. So he dumped you. That’s why you shot him.”

  I was right. I knew that I was. I saw it in her eyes, and in the way her lips twitched. For a moment, I felt a fierce joy, but it didn’t last.

  I saw her pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER 34

  I dreamed again of contentment, of green fields, the laughter of a small girl, and Vanessa’s cheek pressed softly against my own; but dreams are fickle deceivers, and they never last. I caught a final fleeting glimpse of cornflower eyes and heard a voice so faint, it must have crossed oceans; and then the pain hit with such ferocity that I knew I was in hell. Fingers peeled back my eyelids, and red light was everywhere, beating at the world. Hands ripped at my clothes, and I felt metal against my skin. I struggled, but bone-white fingers forced me down and bound me. Blank faces flickered in and out; they floated, spoke a language I couldn’t understand, and then were gone, only to return again. And the pain was ever constant; it pulsed like blood, it channeled through me, and then there were more hands upon me and I tried to scream.

  Then there was motion and a white metal sky that rocked as if I were at sea. I saw a face I’d come to loathe, but Mills did not torment me further. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t answer; I didn’t understand. Then she left, just as I understood, and so I called out. I had the answer. But bloody hands forced her back, until she pushed them away, found the place above me, and leaned into my words. I had to shout, because I was in a deep well and falling fast. So I did. I screamed, but her face fell forever into the white sky and I crashed into the powdered ink that filled the bottom of the well. And my last thought as darkness settled around me was to wonder at a white sky in hell.

  But even in that blackness, time seemed to pass, and on occasion there was light. The pain rose and fell like the tides, and when it was weak, I imagined faces and voices. I heard Hank Robins arguing with Detective Mills, who, I sensed, wanted to ask more questions; but that didn’t make sense. Then Dr. Stokes, looking old with worry. He held a clipboard and was talking to a strange man in a white coat. And once Jean was there, and she wept with such force that it killed me to see it. She told me she understood, that Hank had told her everything—about the jail and my willing sacrifice. She said that she loved me but knew that she could never spend life in prison for me. She said that made me better than her, but that didn’t make sense, either. I was in hell, but it was hell of my own making. I tried to explain that to her, but my throat wouldn’t open. So I watched in silence and waited for the well to pull me back in.

  Once, I thought I saw Vanessa, but that was hell’s cruelest joke, and I did not rise to it. I closed my eyes and wept for the loss of her, and when I looked up, she was gone. I was alone, cold in the dark. The cold seemed to last forever, but eventually the heat found me, so that I remembered. I was in hell. Hell was hot, not cold. And hell was pain, so that when I woke and found it all but gone, I thought the dream had returned. I opened my eyes, but there was no child, no field, and no Vanessa. Perhaps the torments of this place were more than purely physical.

  When finally I woke, I blinked in the cool air and he
ard the rustle of movement; so that when a face appeared above me, I was prepared for it. It was blurry at first, but I blinked it into focus. It was Jean’s.

  “Relax,” she said. “Everything’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”

  A stranger appeared beside her, the man in the white coat. He had dark features and a beard that glistened as if oiled. “My name is Dr. Yuseph,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.” A dry croak. “Weak.” I could not lift my head.

  The doctor turned to Jean. “He can have an ice chip, but only one. Then another in ten minutes or so.”

  I heard the clink of a spoon, and Jean leaned over me. She slipped an ice chip into my mouth. “Thanks,” I whispered. She smiled, but there was pain in it.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Four days,” the doctor replied. “In and out. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Four days.

  He patted me on the arm. “You’ll recover; it’ll hurt, but you’ll get there. We’ll put you on solid foods as soon as you feel up for it. Once your strength returns, you’ll start physical therapy. It won’t be long before you’re out of here.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Baptist Hospital. Winston-Salem.”

  “What about Barbara?” I asked.

  “Your sister can tell you anything you want to know. Just take it easy. I’ll be back in an hour.” He turned to Jean. “Don’t tire him. He’ll be weak for some time yet.”

  Jean reappeared at the bedside. Her face was swollen, the flesh around her eyes as dark as wine. “You look tired,” I said.

  She smiled wanly. “So do you.”

  “It’s been a tough year,” I said, and she laughed, then turned away. When she looked back, she was crying.

  “I’m so sorry, Work.” Her words broke, and the edges seemed to cut her. Her face reddened and her eyes collapsed. The tears devolved into sobs.

  “For what?”

  “For everything,” she said, and the words, I knew, were a plea for forgiveness. “For hating you.” Her head bowed, and with terrible effort I reached for her. I found her hand and tried to squeeze it.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I whispered. I wanted to say more, but my throat closed again, and for a long time we shared a bittersweet silence. She held my hand with both of hers and I stared at the top of her head. We couldn’t go back to the way it had been for us; that place was a garden overgrown. But looking at her, I felt as close to our childhood as I ever had. And she felt it, too, as if we’d reached back to a time when apologies mattered and do-overs were a simple word away. I saw it in her eyes when she looked up.

  “Did you see all your flowers?” she asked with a timid, brittle smile.

  I looked past Jean and saw the room for the first time. Flowers were everywhere, dozens of vases with cards.

  “Here’s a card from the local bar—every lawyer in the county signed it.” She handed me an oversized card, but I didn’t want it. I still saw the way they’d looked at me in court, the ready condemnation in their eyes.

  “What about Barbara?” I asked, and Jean put the card, unopened and unread, back on the table. Her eyes moved over the room, and I was about to repeat the question.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to talk about this?” she asked.

  “I have to,” I said.

  “She’s been arrested.”

  I exhaled a mixture of relief and despair; part of me hoped that her betrayal had been the dream. “How?” I asked.

  “Mills found you. You’d been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the head.” Her eyes drifted upward, and I touched my head. It was bandaged. “The one in your chest went through a lung. The head shot just grazed you. At first, she thought you were dead. You almost were. She called the paramedics and they transported you to Rowan Regional. Eventually, you were brought here.”

  “But what about Barbara?”

  “You were conscious in the ambulance. You managed to tell Mills who’d shot you. She arrested Barbara two hours later.”

  Jean’s voice trailed off and she looked away.

  “What?” I asked. I knew there was more.

  “She was having a late lunch at the country club, as if nothing had happened.” Her hand settled onto mine. “I’m sorry, Work.”

  “What else?” I had to move on. I could see her so clearly, sipping white wine, a fake smile plastered to her face. Lunch with the girls.

  “They found the gun at your house, hidden in the basement, along with a lot of money and Mother’s jewelry.”

  “I’m surprised Mills doesn’t think I put them there and shot myself.” I could not keep the bitterness from my voice.

  “She feels terrible, Work. She’s been here a lot, and she’s not afraid to admit her mistake. She wanted me to tell you she was sorry.”

  “Mills said that?”

  “And she left something for you.” Jean got up and walked across the room. When she came back, she held a stack of newspapers. “Most are local. Some are from Charlotte. You look good in print. Mills even made a public apology.” She picked the top copy off the stack. I saw a picture of Barbara being led from a police cruiser. She was cuffed, trying to hide her face from the cameras.

  “Put it down,” I said.

  “Okay.” She dropped the papers onto the floor by the bed and I closed my eyes. The picture of Barbara brought it all back, the pain and betrayal. For a moment, I could not speak. When I finally looked at Jean, her eyes were veiled, and I wondered what she was seeing.

  “Do you know?” I asked.

  “About Barbara and Daddy?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, I know. And don’t you dare apologize.”

  I closed my mouth; nothing I could say would make it go away. It was a part of us now, as much his legacy as the color of my hair.

  “He was a horrible man, Jean.”

  “But now he’s gone, so let that be an end to it.”

  I agreed, even though I knew there would never be an end to it. His presence among us lingered, like the smell of something dead but unburied.

  “Would you like some more ice?” Jean asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  She fed me the ice, and as she hovered there, I saw the fresh scars on her wrists. They were tight and pink, as if the skin had stretched too tightly over the veins. To better protect them, perhaps. I didn’t know. With Jean, I never did; but I hoped, and I thought that maybe it was not too late to pray.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and I realized that I’d been staring.

  “Are you really?”

  She smiled and sat back down. “You keep saving my life,” she said. “There must be some value in it.”

  “Don’t joke, Jean. Not about this.”

  She sighed, leaned back, and for a moment I feared I had pushed too hard. The line between us had grown vague, and I didn’t want to step over it. But when she spoke, there was no resentment, and I realized that she was taking her time and wanted me to understand.

  “I feel like I’ve come through a long, dark tunnel,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt to stand straight anymore, like something’s let go inside of me.” She clenched her hands in front of her stomach and then opened them, a ten-petaled rose. “It’s hard to explain,” she said, but I thought I understood. Ezra was gone; maybe that brought closure. Maybe not. But it was not my place to fix Jean. That was a truth I’d come to understand. She had to do that herself, and looking at her smile, I thought she had it in her.

  “And Alex?” I asked.

  “We’re leaving Salisbury,” she said. “We need to find a place of our own.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Jean’s eyes were expressive and very real. “We have issues, like everybody, but we’re dealing with them.”

  “I don’t want to lose you,” I said.

  “I feel like we just found each other, Work. Alex understands that. It’s one of the things we’ve been dealing with; and while she’ll alwa
ys have issues with men, she swears that she’ll make an exception for you.”

  “Can she forgive me for dredging up her past?”

  “She knows why you did it. She respects your reasons, but don’t ever mention it to her.”

  “So we’re okay?” I asked.

  “Wherever we go, you’ll always be welcome there.”

  “Thank you, Jean.”

  “Have some more ice.”

  “Okay.”

  She fed me the ice and I felt my eyes grow heavy. Suddenly, I was exhausted, and I closed my eyes as Jean moved around the room. I was almost gone when she spoke.

  “There’s one card you might like to read. It’s more of a letter, actually.” I cracked my eyes. Jean was holding an envelope. “It’s from Vanessa,” she said.

  “What?”

  “She was here for awhile, but said she couldn’t stay. She wanted you to have this, though.” She handed me the envelope, which was thin and light. “She thought you would understand.”

  “But, I thought . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Hank found her at the hospital in Davidson County. She’d gone to the feed store in Lexington and was crossing the street, when somebody hit her.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows. All she remembers is a black Mercedes that came out of nowhere.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Broken ribs and bruises all over, but she’ll survive. They kept her at the hospital overnight. She was pretty doped up on painkillers.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “Well, she’s not, and she was pretty broken up to see you like this.”

  Suddenly, I couldn’t see. The letter in my hand was hope for the future, something I thought I’d lost. I wanted to read her words, to see the letters made by her hands. But my fingers were clumsy.

  Jean took the envelope from my hands. “Let me,” she said.

  She tore it open, removed the folded page, and put it back in my hand. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” she said, and I heard the door close behind her. I blinked, and when my vision cleared, I looked at the note Vanessa had left for me. It was short.