The Girl with a Clock for a Heart: A Novel

by Peter Swanson

  “We think that when Liana decided to leave town, she knew that her father would be at the mercy of the men he owed money to. She probably did what she did because she knew he was doomed.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was killed in his house, by a knife wound to the throat.”

  Chalfant did not provide more details. He reminded George, once again, that if Liana contacted him, it was his legal responsibility to alert the authorities. George promised to call if Liana made an appearance.

  Later that year, during one of George’s compulsive visits to the periodical section of Mather’s library, he found a long article on the case that had been published in the magazine section of a major Florida newspaper. It was highly speculative, mainly based on an interview with Officer Robert Wilson, who apparently was no longer working for the Sweetgum Police Department.

  George read the article so many times that he felt as though he’d memorized it.

  The body of Kurt Decter had been discovered in the living room of the house on Eighth Street. “It was the ugliest house on a street of ugly houses,” Wilson said. Both detectives, Chalfant and Wilson, had come to the house together to issue their warrant for the arrest of Liana Decter. They had known that they were at a crime scene even before they pushed open the door and the pungent smell reached them. Folks in Chinkapin didn’t leave their houses unlocked in the middle of the morning.

  It had taken a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark interior. The body was upright on a faded brown couch in the middle of the living room. Head fallen forward, chin on chest. Baggy cargo shorts, legs spread, hands resting almost casually by the thighs. At first they thought that Decter was wearing a black tank top, but then it became clear, from the shoulder straps, that the shirt had been white and the front was stained dark brown from spilled blood. Black flies battered and buzzed around the corpse.

  There had been no need to check for a pulse. Decter’s throat had been slit, deep and wide enough that the skin flapped open on either side of his jaw. The blood had not only soaked his shirt but pooled in his lap. An arterial spray had crossed the glass-topped coffee table and spattered the beige shag on the other side of it.

  Neither Chalfant nor Wilson had known what Kurt Decter looked like, but based on the skinny, liver-spotted arms and the sun-damaged bald patch, they judged the dead man to be about seventy years old. The remote control was tucked by his hip, and his feet were bare. The coffee table was littered with empty cans of Coors. A large ceramic ashtray, made to look like a curled-up alligator, was filled with cigarette butts and the stubby ends of several joints. Next to the ashtray was a small open baggy containing a few buds of pot.

  A kitchen knife had been laid flat on the back cushion of the couch, its dark brown handle blending in with the plaid fabric. Both detectives had circled and stood behind the couch, careful to not touch anything before scene-of-the-crime officers arrived. Wilson told the reporter that the sight of the knife carefully laid next to the victim, like a knife left on a cutting board next to a chopped carrot, had somehow been more horrifying to him than Kurt Decter’s slit throat.

  Chalfant had searched the other rooms while Wilson stood behind the body and took in more of the scene. The massive boxy television was turned off, but it was still pulled out from the cheap-looking entertainment center, tilted toward Decter’s eye-line. A dusty-looking golf bag leaned up against the wall. On the floor was a bowl of water and, next to it, a pile of dry cat food that had been poured into an empty TV dinner tray. A line of ants ran between the food and a deep crack at the base of the wall. There was a dirty plate on the table, the remains of a T-bone steak still on it, the plate smeared with bright red juices. A fat black fly gracefully arced from the dead man’s lap to land on a piece of gristle.

  Wilson remembered thinking that Kurt Decter, high and drunk, his stomach filled with an expensive cut of steak, had died a happy man.

  George understood, intellectually, why Liana had killed her father. It was punishment, of course, for being who he was: a weak-willed degenerate willing to pimp out his daughter in order to erase his debts. But it was also a mercy killing. Liana was prepared to leave town forever, to never see her father again. She knew her father would continue to gamble and continue to lose, and without Liana there to protect him, Dale would keep calling. Kurt Decter was a dead man walking, and he was going to check out painfully. Liana was just speeding up the process, taking him out with one swift cut of a knife.

  But understanding what had happened the night Audrey died was a different story. The article stated that there was definitive proof that Liana had been in the car with Audrey. George imagined that they had fought at the bar. He believed what Liana had told him—that Audrey wanted to end the arrangement, that she wanted her life and name back. He also believed that Audrey had probably gotten completely incapacitated at Palm’s Lounge. Liana drove them back to the Beck house, where her own car was waiting. When Audrey’s car was nestled back inside its closed garage—the engine still idling, Audrey passed out next to her—Liana must have made the decision to leave Audrey in the car to die from asphyxiation. Had she thought that letting Audrey die would allow her to go on living Audrey’s life? She couldn’t have. It made no sense. Maybe she had thought that, with Audrey dead, she would have a fresh start, that the clock she had instead of a heart would fully stop and she would never have to confront the life she had left behind and the lies she had told. It would be a clean break.

  George had wrecked that plan by showing up for a funeral.

  Chapter 25

  George brought Irene her coffee, placing it carefully on the table in front of her. Nora, also on the table, sniffed at the brew, then twitched her head back in disapproval. She gracefully leapt onto the floor, strutting toward the kitchen to survey her food bowl.

  “Thanks,” Irene said. “We could’ve gone out for coffee, you know.”

  “Nice try,” George said.

  “You can go out for coffee, you know,” she said with a kind of mock exaggeration that was grating in its transparency. “You’re not a total shut-in yet, are you?”

  “I go out,” he said.

  It was technically true. In the ten days since he’d shot Bernie MacDonald, George had occasionally left his apartment, most often on forays to the corner grocery store or the liquor store conveniently located right next to it. He had also visited several police departments at their request. He was not becoming an agoraphobic, at least he told himself he wasn’t, it was just that the sight of normal people behaving normally—or worse, enjoying themselves—filled him with a sense of unease that bordered on horror. He had come to accept that in his current state his mind was a movie screen that would play only one movie, a movie of that Tuesday afternoon in New Essex on the boat with Bernie. He didn’t wake up in cold sweats, or scream in his sleep, or cower at unfamiliar sounds, but he couldn’t stop seeing again and again what had happened. He was reminded of a period during his junior year of college when he had become hopelessly addicted to Tetris on his computer, to the point where those six colored shapes floated constantly in his mind’s eye, even infiltrating his dreams.

  “We’ll go out for coffee sometime,” Irene said and pressed her lips together in a sympathetic frown.

  “That expression on your face is not helping,” he said. “Besides, I never liked going out for coffee. You know that.”

  “I wouldn’t pester you like this if you’d agree to see someone.” Irene cupped her hands around her coffee mug as though it were winter. August had ended, but the city was still trapped in a combustible heat, and George’s apartment, cooled only by his window air conditioner, was in the high seventies. The someone she was referring to was the therapist she wanted George to see. She’d done research and found a man she thought was perfect. George had agreed with her in theory, but not yet in practice.

  “I will,” he said. “When I’m ready. It’s only been two weeks. You took longer than that to get over Silence of th
e Lambs.”

  She smiled, put her coffee back down on the table, then stretched out along his couch. She wore black capris and a sleeveless polka-dot shirt. The bruise that had been left by Bernie MacDonald’s fist had almost completely healed. George could detect a faint yellow sheen, but maybe he was only imagining it. “Fine. You win today because I’m too tired to argue with you. How would you like to hear about my puny problems?”

  “I’d love to,” he said.

  She told him about the disastrous date she’d agreed to with the divorced editor, how he had taken her to a microbrewery and lectured her on the pleasures of barley wine, then had gotten drunk and sobbed in his car on the way home. George listened and made sarcastic remarks, but as was always the case these days, his mind was still on that blank expanse of death, the images turning and falling like Tetris pieces.

  After shooting Bernie, he had turned his attention to slicing through the rope around his ankles. His hands had begun to shake violently, like someone trying to raise a plastic cup to his lips on an airplane being tossed around in turbulence. He somehow managed, keeping his head down, eyes on the task. When his feet were finally free, he pushed himself backward and leaned against the stern. Bernie hadn’t moved, was still sitting in the gently swiveling pilot’s chair, his chin on his chest as though he were asleep, except that his chest was painted with his blood, now darkening from a bright red to a muddy brown. A large fly of some sort buzzed around Bernie’s lowered head. How had it gotten here so fast, in the middle of nowhere? George had a sudden fear that it had taken him hours to unshackle his feet instead of just minutes. He stared at the sun, trying to imagine the hour of the day. How soon would night come, and would he still be bobbing on the ocean with a corpse?

  It was that thought that propelled him into action. He stood on numb legs and attempted to walk toward the bow, but his trembling muscles forced him down on his knees, and he crawled toward Bernie. Reaching the body, George prodded the shin with a finger and cowered back, still afraid that Bernie might be alive. When nothing happened, he managed to stand, pushed Bernie off the chair, and took his place. The body landed with a heavy thud and the horrific sound of gas escaping. George didn’t look, but smelled the sharp odor of shit mixed in with the brine and blood.

  He stared out at the empty sea. It was a calm day, but the surface rippled here and there, white breakers shimmering in the sun. He looked in all directions. Everything was the same, the ocean dropping away along the curve of the earth. The thought occurred to him that he would never find land, that he would die in the middle of this nothingness. The sun, high up in the sky, neither rising nor sinking, seemed to mock him with its own lack of meaning. He looked at the controls on the boat, and there, attached to the console, was a compass, an instrument he probably hadn’t laid eyes on since his failed year as a Cub Scout. It was covered with saltwater; when he wiped it clean, its arrow told him that the boat was pointed north. All he knew was that he needed to go west, back toward land. Just getting within view of other boats would be enough. In the land of the living, he might be arrested for murder, but that would also mean that they would take him off this boat, away from the nauseating pitch of the sea. And away from Bernie, lying in his own blood and excrement.

  He found the ignition key, attached by a coiled cord to a piece of marlin-shaped foam. He turned the key. Nothing happened, and his chest constricted with fear. Then he fiddled with the throttle, securing it in neutral, and tried again. The motor coughed into life. George had never steered a boat in his life, but he managed to move the throttle to get the boat moving at a speed he was happy with. Then, after turning the wheel till the compass told him he was moving westward, he held steady.

  After about ten minutes George spotted what looked like a decent-size craft to the north of his position. He considered keeping the boat pointed toward land, but he didn’t know how much gas was left and thought he would rather take the first opportunity to get himself clear of Bernie’s dead body. He whipped the wheel around too fast, and the boat seemed to skip on the flat water, bucking and sending a sheet of spray that rainbowed in the sun.

  As he approached the other vessel he was relieved to see that it was immobile in the water. It gleamed impossibly white, a large sport fishing boat with what looked like a satellite system attached to its cabin roof. He could see two figures standing on its deck, tall fishing poles in front of them. At about fifty yards away, he watched both men turn in his direction and saw two women rise from chairs to see what was approaching. George slowed the boat and waved both arms in what he hoped looked like a combination of “I need help” and “I am harmless.” He suddenly wished he had covered Bernie’s corpse with the tarp.

  As he got closer he could see that the men were both middle-aged, with deep leathery tans. Each held a can of beer in a cozy. Both women, equally brown, were rapidly pulling on bikini tops; they had been sunbathing topless.

  George edged up close to the boat, toggling the throttle to avoid ramming them. He cut the engine when he was about ten yards away, and the boat drifted, thunking into their side. One of the men, who had a gut the size of a medicine ball, said, “Jesus Christ, asshole.”

  George held up his arms again, said, “Sorry. I need help.”

  One of the women, her bikini black and gold, peered over the edge of the fishing boat, saw Bernie’s body, and let out a weird keening scream. “There’s been an accident,” he said, which was as close to the truth as he was willing to get. “Can you call the Coast Guard, please?”

  “Is that man dead?” said the second woman, who had come to the rail as well. She appeared to be younger than anyone else in the party by at least twenty years and had just lit a fresh cigarette. The smell drifted down to George, a heavenly smell, briefly masking the stench of blood and salt in the air.

  “He’s dead,” George said. “I can explain after you call the Coast Guard. Can I come aboard?”

  The man with the protruding gut had moved toward the helm, and George watched him lift a radio transmitter from its complex console. The other three looked at one another as though silently deciding whether to allow what was clearly a crazed murderer aboard their boat. George watched their eyes survey his deck and saw the younger woman spot the revolver George had discarded. “I’m not armed,” he said and held his palms face out. “I was abducted by this man. If you don’t want to let me on the boat, then please, can I have some water?”

  Till he asked for a drink he hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was. His mouth tasted of metal and blood. The younger woman, who wore a bright yellow bikini, turned to the other man, who hadn’t spoken yet. “He can come up, can’t he?” she asked.

  He turned back to his fellow fisherman, still fiddling with the transmitter, then turned back toward George. “I guess so. Let me get the drop-ladder.”

  The Coast Guard arrived within fifteen minutes of George’s boarding the Reel Time. While waiting, he’d accepted a deck chair, chugged water, and rubbed at his wrists and ankles, till he realized that he was making it worse, ripping at the loosened skin and causing fresh blood to spring up and spatter to the deck of the boat. The men kept their distance, but the younger woman, who introduced herself as Melanie, asked him what had happened. He tried to speak, but he began to shake so badly that he had to put the water bottle down. Suddenly cold, a distant voice, his own, told him that he was going into shock. When the Coast Guard vessel arrived and took him on board, he was given a blanket. That small act of kindness led him into a fit of crying.

  In the days that followed George told his story countless times to countless law enforcement agents. He could sense in the different attitudes and the leading questions that there was a dispute over whether to arrest him or not. He had shot a man in the neck, and he had been directly linked to the deaths of four other people. He had also been directly linked to an enormous theft, and it was increasingly clear from the questions aimed at him that the diamonds taken from MacLean’s safe were still missing. He came
to believe that Detective Roberta James was the one who was protecting him, the one who believed every word of his story. Certainly, she was the only detective who routinely provided him with information, letting him know that no bodies had been recovered from the depths of the Atlantic, volunteering the information that MacLean’s wife had finally died and that, as far as the detective knew, she had never been told about her husband’s murder.

  In retrospect, George hadn’t minded the constant interrogations. Telling his story again and again seemed to make it manageable. It was only after one whole day passed when the police did not contact him, a day when he never left his apartment, that he began to feel the enormity of what had happened. Certain images—Bernie slouched on the pilot’s chair, Karin Boyd turning gray in Katie Aller’s house, the look on Liana’s face as she was tipped over into the sea—never left his mind. Reading did not help, and neither did television. When he left his apartment, the world that had always seemed relatively benign looked to him like a disaster waiting to happen. Buildings teetered as though they were about to fall, cars careened dangerously around corners, and violent strangers eyed him as though they could read the terrible thoughts in his head. Any thought of the ocean filled him with an empty dread.

  He had spoken to the human resources department at the magazine and had conditionally been granted a “family care and crisis” leave. All they needed was for his personal doctor to fill out a form and fax it to them. Every day he thought about calling his doctor and arranging an appointment. And every day he didn’t call. His office sent him emails he didn’t answer.

  Irene’s visits didn’t particularly help, but they didn’t hurt either. They filled time during the day, although getting through the day was not his biggest problem. Getting through the endless hours of the night was.

  “I thought he hated his wife?”

  “Oh, you were listening,” Irene said, sitting up to drink the remains of her coffee. “So he says.” She shrugged.