From what Doyle said, it seems likely the police will be unable to do anything about Proust, but that no longer matters. He has done all the damage he can to this family.
She feels sorry for Doyle. She meant it when she said he was a good man. He tried and he failed. Things went badly for him, but at least he had the guts to go with his convictions. She knows she will never see him again. She hopes it works out for him.
When an eternity has passed, she gets up from the sofa and goes into the kitchen. She doesn’t know what’s drawing her there, but then her eyes lock immediately on the door leading to the garage, to the place where she had the huge argument with Steve. She hasn’t been back there since then.
She opens the door. Slowly pushes it wide. Snaps on the light switch and enters.
It’s a sight to behold.
Not all of the shelves are up, and so the work table and various tools still occupy the center of the garage floor. But that’s not what grabs her attention.
She steps closer. It’s directly opposite the door, so she can’t miss it.
A whole section of shelving, filled with wondrous things. Megan’s things. All taken out of the cardboard boxes and arranged neatly on display. Her old school notebooks. Certificates. Trophies. Photographs.
And there, right in the center of the middle shelf, a gift. Still wrapped. It was the present that Megan bought for Nicole’s birthday. The one Nicole refused to let Steve give to her.
She picks it up. Strokes the paper. Megan wrapped this herself. Lovingly.
Nicole brings the gift to her nose and breathes deep. She convinces herself that the smell of Megan still lingers there.
She turns it over. Carefully peels the tape away. She doesn’t want to rip the paper.
She opens it up. It contains a book:
Springboard and Platform Diving for Beginners.
Nicole smiles. Clutches the book to her chest.
I’ll do it, she thinks. I’ll do the best dive ever. Just for you. You’ll see.
THIRTY-TWO
It’s after five o’clock when he gets back to the apartment, and still no sign of Rachel and Amy. Now he’s starting to worry. Starting to get the uncomfortable feeling he should check the bedroom closet for empty hangers.
He takes out his cellphone and speed-dials her number. It rings several times before being answered.
‘Yes?’
A single word, but caked in a hard frost.
‘Rachel, where are you? I haven’t seen you all day.’
‘And why would that be? I wonder. Could it be because you disappeared last night and didn’t even bother to come home again until God knows when?’
‘I’ve been home a coupla times.’
‘You weren’t there a half-hour ago when we called in.’
‘No. I had to go out again.’
‘I see. That’s a busy schedule you’ve got there, Cal.’
‘It gets like that sometimes. You know it does. We’re still working the Hamlyn homicide and—’
‘Don’t, Cal. Don’t even go there, okay?’
‘Go where? What do you mean?’
‘I’m talking about the lies. Don’t compound it, all right? Isn’t it bad enough as it is without you making it worse?’
‘Rach—’
‘No! I know, okay? I know you were suspended from duty. Something like that, word gets around. You’re not working a homicide. You’re not working anything right now. You had other reasons for disappearing last night. Reasons you don’t want to tell me about. Well, fine. Now it’s my turn. I’m not coming home tonight, Cal. In fact, I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll consider it when we can start trusting each other again.’
‘Rach—’ he says again, but the line has already gone dead.
Crap!
Crap, crap, crap!
Doyle, if you were to make a list of the worst days of your life, this has to be someplace near the top, right?
How are you gonna fix this? Is it even possible to fix this? There are too many people wanting different things. Conflicting things. Proust, Bartok, Nicole, Rachel. How can you keep them all sweet without screwing up your own life? You’ve got one night to sort it all out. One night before Proust throws you to the lions. What are you gonna do?
The answer comes to him forty minutes later. After he has downed two beers and opened up a third. It comes to him in a phone call.
It’s Rachel’s number.
He jabs the call-answer button, and as he raises the phone to his ear he thinks, She’s thought better of it. She wants to come home.
There’s a smile of relief on his face as he speaks: ‘Rachel?’
Silence for a second. Then some fumbling noises. And then:
‘Hi, Daddy.’
Amy always sounds so different on the phone. Her voice more squeaky. She sounds so small and fragile.
‘Hi, sweetie. Whatcha doin’?’
‘I . . . I just wanted to talk to you. Mommy said I could.’
Not a total pariah, then. At least that’s something.
‘Cool. I’m real glad you called. It’s not the same here without you.’
‘It’s not the same for me too. I want to be home, with you. I don’t want to be here.’
‘You mean at Grandma’s?’
‘Yes. No. I mean . . . I’m not supposed to say where I am. Mommy said—’
‘That’s okay, hon. I won’t tell anyone.’
It was a shot in the dark, but it was always a pretty good bet that Rachel would go to her parents’ place. And oh, how they’ll love that. They’ll be lapping it up. They’ve always despised Doyle, and now they’ve got their opportunity to congratulate themselves on being right about him all along, and to crow at Rachel about how they always knew he was a good-for-nothing scoundrel.
Calling Rachel’s mother Grandma was Doyle’s subtle way of taking a shot back at her. She detests being called Grandma. Says it makes her feel ancient. The decrepit old bat.
‘Daddy, why is Mommy angry? She says she isn’t, but I can tell. She keeps yelling about things. And she keeps crying too.’
Doyle feels an ache in his chest. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Amy. It’s just some stuff we have to deal with at the moment.’
And then Amy says, ‘It’s cuz of me, isn’t it? It’s because you think I stole stuff.’
Doyle feels as though his heart has been clenched by steel fingers. ‘Honey, no! Absolutely not. It has nothing to do with that. I promise you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘Stick a needle in my eye.’
‘Cuz I didn’t do it, Daddy. I didn’t take those things. I wouldn’t do that. It’s naughty. You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘I believe you one hundred percent, Amy.’
‘A hunnerd cents? That’s a lot of money.’
‘Yes, it is. And that’s how much I trust you. So stop worrying about it, okay? Me and your mom are gonna fix this problem we got, and then you can both come home again. All right? We cool?’
‘We cool . . . Oh, Mommy says I have to come off the phone now.’
‘Okay, sweetie. Do as Mommy says. I’ll see you soon, all right?’
‘Yeah. Bye, Daddy. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Amy.’
And then she’s gone, and the line goes dead, and Doyle’s world is suddenly light years away. And all he can do now is sit and reflect.
But he knows. He has his answers. There are tears in his eyes as he recognizes them for what they are.
See, it’s all about trust and belief and faith. It’s about doing what’s right. It’s about going with the heart rather than the head.
I don’t know much, he thinks, but I know this: Amy didn’t steal that stationery. All the evidence says she did, but she says she didn’t. And that’s enough for me. I don’t know what the explanation is, but I do know that my Amy didn’t take those things.
&
nbsp; That’s faith. That’s what keeps us together.
I believe Amy, but I didn’t believe Proust. I followed my instincts in both cases, even though they took me in different directions. Proust proved me right. Amy will prove me right.
Like Paulson said and like Nicole said, I have to continue doing what I think is right. Otherwise, I have nothing. I am nothing.
So that’s what I do about Proust . . .
Nothing.
Let him go to the cops, if he has the balls. Let him tell his story. Let him try to take me down. I can’t create an alibi for him. I can’t help him cheat justice.
Whatever that means for me, I can take it. And tomorrow, when Rachel comes home, I will tell her everything.
And in the meantime . . .
. . . I’ll drink my beer and wait.
Stanley Proust has a huge stupid grin on his face as he works. It won’t go away. Sometimes it turns into a little chuckle of amusement.
He’s proud of himself, of what he’s managed to achieve. It took some planning, but it’s really paid off. Tomorrow morning, all suspicion will be removed from him. He will be free. Doyle, on the other hand, will be shackled. He will be under Lucas Bartok’s control for the rest of his life.
What a stupid bastard Doyle is. Why didn’t he leave well alone? Why didn’t he just do his job properly, instead of getting all zealous like that? Where did that come from?
Who gives a shit? You met your match here, boy. You thought I was scum, but look who’s crawling in the dirt now.
All’s right in the world.
It’s as if others have sensed it too. The customers are drifting back. Proust is working on his third one of the day. Number three, and on a Sunday too! He had that construction worker in here earlier, then the guy with the hairy back, and now this chick with the fishnet stockings who’s heavily into S&M. He’s thinking he might even hit on her a little when he’s finished up. Find out just how much pain she can really endure.
Pain. It’s all about pain. He has seen what pain does to others, and now he’s explored it more fully himself. He’s been on a true voyage of discovery in the past few days.
But pain isn’t only physical. It can be mental too. The kind of pain that Doyle is going through now is worse than anything Proust has experienced. Physical pain is easily mastered, as Proust himself has proved. But your mental torture, Doyle – well, I don’t envy you that one, my friend. You’ll be lucky to come through this with all your marbles still present.
Ain’t life a bitch?
One of his chuckles escapes as he thinks this, and the chick under his fingers flashes her false lashes at him and asks what the joke is.
‘The joke? A guy I know, is all. He’s the joke.’
He finishes the tattoo. It’s high on her arm. No opportunity to stick needles in her snatch, but hey, maybe she’ll be game for a little of that too.
He tidies her up. Tells her again how she should keep it clean. Too many people, they don’t look after their tats properly and they get infected.
There’s almost a swagger in his walk as he goes around the counter to the cash register. If his battered body would allow it, he’d be moonwalking now.
The chick picks up her heavy-looking gym bag from the floor and follows him over. She has glossy black hair and bright-red lipstick and fuck-me heels, and her own walk is like that of a gyroscope – a multitude of curves rotating hypnotically about a fixed point of reference.
He tells her how much she owes, and she lifts the bag onto the counter, unzips it, and starts rummaging around inside.
He folds his arms on the counter and leans forward, then chin-points at the ornate lettering he’s just put on her arm. Three characters: ‘S&M’. Intertwined and flowing into each other. Looks pretty good, if he says so himself.
‘So. You’re into that kinda thing, huh?’
She gives him a smile that could harden jello. ‘Oh yeah. Next time I come in, I want one of those . . .’
She points to the photographs on the wall behind him. He turns.
The smack to his neck is a big surprise.
‘Jesus!’ he yells, jumping out of her reach. ‘What the fuck?’
She’s walking backwards. Why is she backing off? Why that look of fear in her eyes?
And then he feels the stab of pain in his neck. He reaches up his hand. Touches the hard object lodged there. He grabs it, yanks it out, looks at it.
A hypodermic needle. Its plunger has been depressed. It’s empty now. Whatever it contained is now in his bloodstream.
He turns to her again. ‘What did you do to me? What the hell did you . . .’
But then her edges soften. The room melts. Consciousness dissolves.
His chin strikes the edge of the counter on the way down.
THIRTY-THREE
She wastes no time.
She locks up the shop and draws the blinds. She kicks off the high-heeled shoes, then takes off the black wig and tosses it. The shoes, the wig, the fishnets, the make-up, the sexy walk – all part of the look. All designed to make her appear to be what she’s not. Like a single woman who could be taken to be in her twenties and into kinky sex. Instead of what she really is. A woman who is not far short of forty. A loving wife. A devoted mother.
Proust had no idea.
And he has no idea of what’s to come.
Nicole sets to work.
The cameras first. She got a good look around when she was lying on the chair. She saw the cameras, and then her eyes traced the wires to the point where they disappeared behind the counter. She continues to follow their route now. Finds they end up going through a hole in a small door at floor level. The door is locked, but the key is in it. She unlocks the door. There’s a black box of tricks here, plugged into a socket in the wall. She yanks out the plug. The box’s lights go out and its whirring dies. She goes back around the counter and checks the cameras. Their tiny red lights have gone out too.
She returns her attention to Proust.
She drags across a heavy floor-standing lamp. Switches it on and angles it directly over Proust. Then she finds the main light switches for the shop and turns them all out.
She grabs her gym bag and places it on the floor. Kneels down next to it and unties Proust’s sneakers. Slips them off, then removes his malodorous socks. Then she reaches into her gym bag and takes out a pair of scissors. They’re large and heavy. Dressmaking scissors. She lifts the bottom of Proust’s red T-shirt and starts to cut. Slices it through from hem to neckline. When she parts the material she sees the tattoo on his chest. The self-portrait of the anguished Proust trying to escape his own body.
‘There’s no escape,’ she tells the unconscious figure. ‘Not this time.’
She continues cutting. Cutting and cutting until he is naked.
When she is done, she stands for a while, looking down at him. She sees how scrawny he is, how pathetic. She wonders how it is possible for such power over the lives of others to be contained in such insubstantial flesh and bone.
He has cuts and bruises all over his body, and she wonders why. Not from Steve, surely? From Doyle, then? Is this what he meant about getting too involved?
Not to worry. She’ll find out soon enough.
Proust stirs. His mouth opens and closes, and a line of saliva escapes his lips and dribbles down his chin.
Not yet. There is still work to be done.
She takes another hypodermic syringe from her bag. Propofol is fast-acting, but its effects don’t last very long. She finds a vein in his arm, jabs the needle in, squirts the milky-white liquid into his blood. His eyelids flicker and then go still.
She knew what they were all thinking in the hospital: How can she come back to work so soon after the deaths of her loved ones? She told them she needed to take her mind off things, and that she would go home again if she couldn’t cope. She walked out an hour later, but only after stealing the drugs she needed.
She tidies away the scraps of Proust’s clothing. The
n she takes hold of one of his arms and drags him over to the wall. Despite his puny appearance, it takes some effort to position him where she wants him, with his head and shoulders propped up against the wall. So he can look down. So he can see.
She moves the lamp so that it is once again over his body. Then she brings her bag across and takes out what she needs.
The drill, plus its attachments.
The screws.
The strips of thick, tough leather, obtained by cutting up Steve’s belts.
She practiced at home, in the garage, but it still takes her a while to get it right now. She has to administer another dose of anesthetic to keep him under. But finally she gets it done, and she stands and surveys her handiwork.
Four leather bonds, pulled tight over Proust’s wrists and ankles, and screwed firmly into the floor.
You’re not going anywhere, she thinks. You’re mine.
She brings across a low stool and sits on it.
Then she waits.
His head moves first. He rolls it around, then mutters something incomprehensible. His eyelids flutter open. He blinks against the light. He’s awake. Another good thing about propofol: the rapid recovery when it wears off.
He realizes she’s sitting there watching him, and his eyes register confusion. Then he looks at his nakedness, and his eyes register fear.
He tries to move an arm. Realizes he can’t. He tries his other arm, his legs. He can do nothing. She can see how his fear is escalating.
Good.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he asks. ‘Who are you?’
‘You should know,’ she says. ‘You invited me here.’
‘What are you talking about? Let me up. I don’t know you.’
She leans forward into the cone of light from the lamp. Touches a finger to the tattoo on her upper arm.
‘S&M,’ she says. ‘Steve and Megan. My husband and my daughter.’
Understanding crosses his features. He tries to mask it, but it’s too late. He’s betrayed himself.
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 29