Play Dead

by Anne Frasier

The plane landed, jolting David back to the present.

  He was met by his lawyer, Ira Cummings, a serious and sad man. A good man.

  Ira drove like he did everything else, with rapid efficiency. Within forty-five minutes of David's plane landing, they were pulling into the parking lot of Sussex I Prison, a maximum-security, high-level prison that housed Virginia's death row population.

  They were expected, so it was a matter of signing in; then a guard led them through a series of computerized sliding metal doors with locks until they reached the meeting room. The guard took her place near the door, while cameras watched from every corner.

  The long rectangular table was bolted to the floor, and the chairs were attached by chains. A man in a suit sat at one end; a woman faced the door. It took a moment for David to recognize the woman as Beth.

  She was fat.

  Not yet obese, but she'd probably put on forty pounds. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, she sat staring at the surface of the table, her hair hanging limply on either side of her face.

  He and his lawyer took seats across from her.

  She slowly raised her head until she was staring into his eyes, hatred and a smug cockiness radiating from her, a smirk on her lips.

  She'd won. Even though she was in prison, she'd won.

  You bitch. You evil, evil bitch.

  She must have read his mind, because her smile got a little bigger.

  It had been his weekend to get Christian. She didn't like David to come to her apartment, so they usually met someplace neutral like McDonald's. That way Christian could get a Happy Meal. That way it could seem like a friendly little outing.

  She was late. Not unusual. For her to be on time would have been a bigger surprise.

  David ordered a soda and waited, staring out the window into the parking lot while kids played and shrieked behind him in the indoor playground. Fifteen minutes later, he called her apartment. No answer.

  Must be on her way.

  He waited another fifteen. And another.

  He tossed his cup, got in the car, and headed for her place.

  Traffic was heavy, and it took him almost half an hour. When he arrived, her car wasn't in the lot.

  He knocked on the door. Nobody answered.

  He tried the knob.

  Unlocked.

  The door swung open as if the place had been expecting him.

  His heart began to thud in his chest.

  "Beth?"

  He listened for an answer. When he didn't get one, he followed with his son's name.

  The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

  His gaze shot around the kitchen and living room; then he was running up the carpeted steps.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Coming from the bathroom.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  A leaking faucet.

  He moved down the narrow, carpeted hallway, following the sound.

  The bathroom door was ajar. He slowly pushed it open. Slowly stepped inside.

  Lying facedown in a tub of water, blond hair spread around his head, was his son.

  “No!” David pulled him from the tub, turning the child in his arms, water gushing around him. He attempted CPR, but it was too late.

  Christian's skin was blue. His lips were almost black.

  He'd been dead a long time.

  David let out a cry of anguish and hugged the dead child to him, out of his mind with grief.

  A sound made him look up.

  Beth stood in the doorway, her eyes red and swollen from tears, clutching the cat, Isobel.

  "Wh-what happened? What happened?" David asked, unconsciously rocking his dead child, unable to comprehend.

  "He told me if I got rid of the kid, he'd marry me."

  She stroked the cat, cuddled the cat, tilting her head toward it.

  "Wh-what? Wh-what are you talking about?"

  "Franklin. He said if I got rid of Christian, he'd marry me. So I did. Then I called him to come and get me, but he refused. He hung up on me."

  "Y-you did this? Y-you murdered our child?"

  The tone of his voice frightened the cat. It squirmed and jumped from Beth's arms, disappearing from the room.

  "I had no choice," Beth said.

  He had no memory of the next few seconds.

  He didn't know exactly how he got from the floor to her, but suddenly he had her by the throat, pressing his thumbs into her trachea, shutting off the murdering bitch's air.

  He would have killed her if the police hadn't come. Her boyfriend had called them, saying he thought his girlfriend may have murdered her child. One more minute and David would have been in prison too.

  Killing her would have been worth prison.

  "I'm not sure I'm going to sign those," Beth said from her chair across the table.

  The lawyers looked at each other.

  Her lawyer cleared his throat. "Come on, Beth. Sign."

  David wouldn't have even had to come, but he'd thought doing it in person would give him the closure that had been eluding him for so long.

  She signed. Paper after paper. When she was done, she tossed the pen down. It slid across the table and hit the floor. Her lawyer had to retrieve it, examining it with concern.

  David signed, and they were done.

  "You creep! It's all your fault," Beth shouted, her face contorted with rage and hatred. "All your fault! Look what you've done to me! I could have been somebody! I could have been a model. An actress."

  She stuck out her chin, displaying a plump and ravaged face. "Look at me now! LOOK AT ME!"

  He turned and walked from the room, his shoulders sagging with an incredible weight, while she continued to scream after him.

  Chapter 17

  Somebody was knocking on his apartment door.

  David had gotten home from Virginia a few hours earlier. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he'd made a beeline for the liquor store and was now fairly fucked-up.

  Didn't help.

  Maybe made it worse.

  He couldn't get his head to shut off. Replay after replay.

  Flashes.

  Beth. Fat. In an orange jumpsuit. A slimmer Beth, at the door, holding Isobel.

  Christian.

  David could feel the dead weight of his son in his arms.

  He let out a sob. He bit the back of his hand, smothering the sound.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  It's over now, he tried to tell himself, rocking back and forth on the floor.

  Over, over, over.

  Christian. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Another sob was wrenched from deep inside him.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  "David?"

  Voice at the door. Woman's voice. Who? Beth?

  "David, are you in there?"

  Not Beth.

  He shoved himself up from the floor. How had he gotten there?

  Barefoot, he shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole. Somebody with long, dark hair. Who?

  He undid the chain, unlocked the door, and opened it.

  Oh. Her. Flora.

  "Hi," she said.

  It was dark in the hallway. It was dark behind him.

  "I went to the SCAD art fair in Forsyth Park," she said, lifting something in a frame. "I picked this up for your apartment." She swung it around.

  Lots of color. Bright reds. Bright blues. Was that a cat? He liked cats. Swirly, spinning cats.

  "Howdy," he said, stepping backward. The room slanted and he had to grab the kitchen counter for support. "Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes and resting his heavy forehead against the cool Formica.

  Flora closed the door, leaned the framed print against the wall, pulled her purse strap from her shoulder, and dropped the bag on the floor. "What are you doing to yourself?"

  She'd seen a lot of wasted guys in her life, but the man she'd been fantasizing about for the last several days was about as wasted as a person could
get while still remaining conscious.

  He was dressed in a pair of black pants that matched a jacket slung over the back of a nearby chair. Along with the jacket was a leather holster and gun. His shirt and tie had been removed, leaving him in a white, V-necked T-shirt.

  "Oh, no, you don't," she said when she saw him lifting a fifth of something to his mouth. She snatched it away and read the label. "Gin. No wonder you smell like a Christmas tree." She walked to the sink and dumped the rest down the drain.

  He frowned and regarded her as only a drunk person could, through his eyelashes, chin down. "Was I expecting you?"

  "I just stopped by. Guess it's a good thing because you seem to be in need of a baby-sitter."

  She didn't know what was going on in his life, but he was hurting. Bad. She should have had Strata Luna put together an unfuck-my-life spell for him.

  He continued to stare, and she wondered if he even recognized her.

  "I like you," he finally said.

  "That's nice. I'm sure you'll feel the same way tomorrow," she said dryly.

  He let go of the counter and moved toward her, reaching and fumbling for the buttons of her blouse. "Let's just make you more comfortable."

  She brushed his hands away. "No "

  "Why not?"

  She slid his metal watch from his wrist. "You're the one who is going to get more comfortable." She undid his belt buckle and slipped it from his pants. "Follow me." Walking backward, she pulled him toward her, moving in the direction of the bedroom.

  He minded as best he could.

  When they reached the bed, he fell across the mattress, pulling Flora with him. And immediately passed out.

  How much had he had to drink? she wondered. More than the amount missing from the fifth?

  She gave him a little slap on the cheek. No response. She slapped him again. Nothing.

  Her plan had been to undress him before putting him in the shower. That wasn't going to work. "David! David, come on. You have to get up."

  He groaned.

  "Come on." She pulled him by the arms. "Stand up."

  Amazingly, he managed to get himself upright. With his arm draped over her shoulder, she walked him to the bathroom and stuck him in the shower, his back to the tiled wall. Somehow he stayed there, even though his eyes were closed and his mouth was slack.

  Everybody in the world was a mess. Doctors. Priests. Prostitutes, and cops. Didn't matter who you were, what you did, or how much money you made. Living was tough.

  She turned the cold faucet.

  At first, David didn't even respond as icy water poured over his head, soaking his clothes. He finally let out a loud, shocked gasp. His eyes flew open and his arms flailed.

  "Jesus!" he shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

  Mercilessly, she let the water continue to pour over him. "You're doing a good job of that by yourself."

  Chapter 18

  "He's cute." Audrey stared into the distance as she sucked sweet tea through a straw.

  "Our waiter?" Elise asked, following the direction of her daughter's gaze.

  "Yeah. Think he goes to SCAD?"

  "Most of the people who work here go to SCAD."

  They were sitting in wooden schoolroom chairs at a marble-topped table in the front window of the Gryphon Tea Room, overlooking Madison Square. The Gryphon was one of the many buildings owned and renovated by SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design. The renovation had involved retaining most of the original features, from the pharmacist cabinets and apothecary tile to the mahogany walls and Tiffany glass. Audrey loved the place, and Elise tried to take her there several times a year for a mother-and-daughter tea.

  "Here he comes again," Audrey whispered, leaning forward.

  Audrey was the age when moods changed so rapidly it almost seemed like sleight of hand. Now you see it; now you don't. At the moment she was up, almost euphoric—a direct combination of the tearoom, caffeine, and their waiter. Elise was smart enough to know she herself didn't even register in the equation.

  The waiter breezed past with a tray of decadent-looking desserts, bound for another table. Elise found herself much more interested in what the young man was carrying than in the young man himself.

  "Don't you think he's cute?" Audrey asked once he was out of earshot.

  Audrey was wearing makeup now. Fairly conservative if you discounted the powder blue eye shadow that matched her long-sleeved T-shirt. Her normally curly hair was parted in the middle and had been tamed with some kind of straightening tool. Her face still held baby fat, her cheeks soft and slightly rounded. Her short nails had been carefully painted with silver, glittery polish.

  Would she be tall? Elise wondered. Thomas was fairly tall. And what about her grandfather? Because more and more Elise found herself believing that she was the daughter of Jackson Sweet. She'd read that Jackson Sweet had been over six feet. Very few pictures had been taken of him, but Elise had once come across two blurry photos at the Historical Society. Brooding, with a long, thin face. He'd been wearing the glasses Strata Luna had given her.

  Elise reached for the teapot. "Not my type, I guess," she replied in answer to Audrey's question about the waiter.

  Audrey took one of the bite-size sandwiches from the tiny three-tiered tray. She examined it carefully, pulling back the bread to make sure the filling didn't contain something she would consider gross. Which could be almost anything, because Audrey's definition of gross changed with her mood. "Was Dad your type?" The question was presented in a sneaky, casual way.

  Elise poured tea and put the pot back on the tray. "At one time."

  "But not anymore."

  "Well... no."

  Elise knew Audrey blamed her for the divorce. Maybe she was to blame, more than anybody knew. It was a question that had haunted her since she and Thomas had married.

  "Is David Gould your type?" Audrey asked with a sly smile.

  "Gould?" Elise made a face and picked a red grape from the top tier of the serving tray. "David Gould?"

  "Yeah. He's about your age, isn't he?"

  "I guess." She popped the grape in her mouth.

  "And single."

  "Divorced, I think he told me."

  "See. You're divorced; he's divorced."

  Elise laughed and shook her head. "Audrey, we are nothing alike."

  "You're both cops. Both detectives. You told me once that the reason you and Dad broke up was because you were too different. So you need a guy with the same lifestyle."

  Elise thought it in poor taste to mention that her partner had a drinking problem, and that beyond work their lives were nothing alike. But then, she knew how a young girl's thoughts could take off, and she didn't want Audrey to start thinking she and Gould could ever be anything. As it stood, they were barely even partners. "It's not going to happen," Elise said. "So get that out of your head."

  "But you married Dad thinking you were so right for each other. Then you found out you weren't. Maybe you need to find somebody who seems wrong for you. Maybe then it would work."

  Teenage logic. "Not all women need a man," Elise told her.

  A couple of patrolling Guardian Angels walked past the window dressed in red berets and vests.

  "How old do you have to be to be a Guardian Angel?" Audrey asked.

  "Sixteen," Elise said. "Do you have an interest in being one?"

  Audrey suddenly looked confused, then embarrassed, as if her own curiosity had caught her unaware. "No way," she stated, once again the annoyed, bored teen. "Why would I wanna do that?" And of course she wouldn't want to show interest in a profession that remotely resembled her mother's.

  Elise had brought Audrey to the tea room hoping to talk to her about Jackson Sweet, but suddenly the timing didn't seem right. When Audrey was up, you didn't want to risk bringing her crashing down. Why spoil the afternoon?

  Their tea finished, Elise paid and left the waiter a nice tip. Then she and Audrey walked up Bull Street, through Madison and Chippewa Squares i
n the direction of the police station, where Thomas was scheduled to pick up his daughter.

  The temperature was perfect. Not too hot or too humid. A white horse-drawn carriage moved lazily past, the Morgan's huge, shaggy feet clumping slowly and rhythmically against the brick street. Azaleas were blooming, and for a few short moments Elise could almost believe everything in their lives would be fine.

  They were preparing to cross the street when Audrey halted abruptly. "Look!"

  Turning the corner was a black car, its back windows tinted so people couldn’t see inside. The charming Enrique was at the wheel.

  "Strata Luna," Audrey whispered in awe, her eyes glued to the long vehicle, her mouth hanging open. "They say she killed her daughters. That she drowned one and strangled the other. That is so creepy."

  Elbows at her sides, Audrey rapidly waved her hands as if she might flutter off. "Oh-my-God," she gasped. "She's coming this way!" She pinched the sleeve of Elise's jacket and tugged. "Hurry! We have to run!"

  The car pulled to a stop and the blackened electric window glided down. In the darkness of the backseat, Elise could make out the vague shape of a hat and veil.

  "Elise." Strata Luna's melodic voice came from the murky interior. "Is this the daughter you were telling me about?"

  Audrey stiffened. Elise could sense her shock, maybe even her disapproval.

  Elise introduced her naive, innocent daughter to the woman who had feasted on her own mother's heart and ran a whorehouse. A nice wrap for a mother-daughter outing.

  They were caught in the middle of a no-win situation. If Audrey chose to keep the encounter from her dad, then she'd be hiding things; if she chose to tell him, he'd be extremely upset.

  "Are you skilled, child?" Strata Luna asked, choosing to keep her face hidden by the black veil.

  "S-skilled?"

  "Has your mother taught you anything? Passed on her root knowledge?"

  "N-no."

  "Elise, it's your duty to pass the mantle," Strata Luna said.

  Audrey glanced at her mother. "That's okay. I don't want to know any of that root stuff."

  "Then what do you do, child? What keeps your mind and body busy?"

  "I play ball. Softball."

  "Are you good?"

  "Pretty good."