by J. M. Barlog
“Detective Walker,” Jenny said, acknowledging him without the slightest trace of a smile.
“Have you remembered anything regarding the accident?” Rick hoped she would answer positively.
His case still resembled a sieve and Rick knew in his heart he’d never be able to fill enough holes to get the case before a grand jury.
“Kate Matheson, my business partner, came by to see me earlier.”
Rick sat down. He expected this.
“Why was she questioned about attempted murder? Namely mine?”
“Jenny, we know now someone tried to kill you. Our evidence is strong enough to stand up in court. We just don't know who yet.”
“I've heard this tune before. Can you just give it to me straight for a change?”
“You want it straight? All right. We know for a fact that your car was tampered with on the night of September fifteenth. Someone wanted you dead, Jenny. Someone very close to you.”
“And you thought Kate would try to kill me?”
“We uncovered Kate's embezzlement and cocaine habit. Do you think she had a change of heart and wanted to confess to you? Killing you would have greatly uncomplicated her life.”
“How could anyone have tampered with my car?”
“Jenny, I'm not at liberty to divulge anymore. But I desperately need your help.”
Jenny said nothing. The words rose into her throat, but she couldn’t spit them into the room.
“Jenny, now it's my turn.”
Rick stopped himself. If he said what he was thinking at that moment, it might compromise his investigation.
“There is only one other person close enough to try to kill me,” Jenny said.
“I know.”
“So you suspect Warren?”
“Did Warren have access to your car that Friday? Before you went to the restaurant?”
“I don't know. I can't remember.”
“Please, think very hard. Someone had to have access to your car in order to tamper with the bolt and cause your accident. Did Warren use your car?”
Jenny narrowed her eyes, concentrating on that one solitary question with all her power. Why couldn’t she force her memory to work again? What was wrong with her?
“Yes! Warren used my car. He had a meeting and his car was in the shop.”
Jenny experienced soaring elation one moment for remembering it, terror the next for what it implied. It was a small piece. But a piece. Something from that black void had surfaced. Now she needed more.
“When?”
“I'm not sure. I needed the car that day also.”
“Why Jenny? Why did you need it?”
“Having lunch with someone...dog food?”
Rick reached into his desk, pulling out Jenny's calendar from her office.
“That's my calendar?” Jenny asked, staring at it while Rick flipped through the pages.
“Wednesday, September thirteenth. You penciled in a lunch with an Alvin Welmont.”
“Yes. I was supposed to meet him for lunch to discuss an ad campaign for his company’s new gourmet dog food. I had to cab it because Warren used my car.”
Jenny stopped, closing her eyes.
“Jenny, talk to me. Help me.”
“Warren used my car two days before the accident.”
30
Jenny sat sullen and silent on the sofa. Dying sunlight streamed in through the living room windows to warm her face and cast long narrow blocks of light across the Persian rug which consumed most of the open floor. So much had happened in the past week that thinking clearly began to feel like something out of her reach. How could she go on? More importantly, how could she deal with her problem? Suicide was a concept that had never even entered her head before a few days ago. Now it seemed like she must consider it. The torment of something beyond comprehension and the realization that nothing short of death could free her of it cast her into a dark depression. How could she possibly broach the subject with Warren? How could he understand what she was feeling?
Warren finished his newspaper, folded it neatly in half, then set it beside his chair and left the room. He seemed so restive these last few days. Something was wrong, but he refused to confide in Jenny. Something had been occupying his mind.
The house seemed lifeless and vacant without Chips. Jenny felt his absence in every room she entered. He used to lie at her feet and chuff, forcing his eyes closed in a light sleep, and stretching his back legs rearward in what certainly appeared to be an uncomfortable position for a canine. Whenever Jenny moved from one room to another, Chips dutifully followed right behind. Now there was nobody and she felt no craving to replace her companion of six years.
A few minutes later, Warren returned from the kitchen and withdrew a cigarette from his pocket. He studied the flame as he lit the cigarette, returning to his chair and browsing through an Investor’s Business Daily. Watching him, it seemed he intentionally avoided Jenny’s eyes. He mumbled on occasion, flipping back and forth between the pages. She knew by the way he focused on anything but her that something had grown between them. Something Jenny felt responsible for.
It had been twenty-four hours since Dwight's last call, and Jenny began to feel like Dwight was also suddenly avoiding them. He had said little regarding his investigation and had brought no other colleagues into the house to investigate the evidence he had gleaned. Perhaps even his colleagues scoffed at his evidence? Perhaps he, himself, now refuted what had happened in her bedroom. Could he be too afraid to come back?
“You up to going out?” Warren asked, finally lowering the wall of newsprint he had raised between them.
“No, I think I just want to sit here.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I'm okay.”
It was a lie. Jenny wanted to cry, scream, yell and tear apart anything within reach. Her once neat and orderly life had become an unmanageable chaos. Warren barely spoke to her; he never touched her. She was scarred and ugly. But those were insignificant matters compared to...
She feared going to sleep at night, for in the darkness, the voices came. She awoke each morning terrified—terrified that this day the ghost would succeed in killing her.
Was death the only way to escape this torment? Thoughts of suicide again crept into her mind. No person on earth could end the pain in her life. Yet she had to find the strength to go on—to hope.
Jenny held it all in—knew if she let even a sliver of it out, if she tried to voice what she felt, she would end up strapped to a bed in a New York hospital psychiatric ward. From where she sat on the sofa, Jenny noticed a black sedan roll to a stop before the house. She said nothing when she saw who stepped out of the car. Somehow she had expected this.
“How about pizza for dinner?” Warren asked behind the lazy drifting smoke from another cigarette. He had chain-smoked three in the last fifteen minutes.
“I don't know, maybe...” she said, preoccupied now with the scene unfolding out her window.
Jenny glanced across the room at the clock upon the mantle. It was nearly dusk outside and dinner had to be dealt with. Or did it?
“Whatever...” Warren’s voice trailed off.
The doorbell brought Jenny around. Her heart beat frantically. She sensed what was about to happen. Yet, there was no way she could alter or stop it. It was out of her hands now.
Jenny rose unsteadily, but Warren waved her off as he pressed his cigarette out and sauntered to the door.
“Detective Walker,” Warren said with obvious surprise.
Jenny had said nothing as she watched him come up the drive. Somehow she knew why he had come. Maybe it was the stone face Rick brought with him or the determination in his eyes.
Rick asked to come in. Two uniforms followed in his wake.
Warren waited until the three entered the foyer, then he closed the door against a brisk north wind that tousled his hair. Though he tried to hide it, his face had turned ashen. He forced a weak smile.
When Rick and the two off
icers entered the living room Jenny was steadying herself at the sofa.
“Mrs. Garrett, you're looking well this evening. It is really great to see you getting around more.”
“To what do we owe this honor, Detective?” Warren asked once they were all gathered in the living room. Instead of moving to be at Jenny's side, Warren just stood there and fumbled with another cigarette.
“More questions, I presume?”
The officers took up retral positions, standing like uniform-store mannequins just at the edge of the foyer.
“Mr. Warren Lawrence Garrett,” Rick said in a suddenly official tone.
“Yes?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”
While Rick continued reciting Warren's rights, a uniform stepped forward with handcuffs.
Warren's eyes turned white in disbelief. His stammer bore his surprise to what was happening.
“Why? What's the charge?” Warren demanded.
“The attempted murder of your wife, Jennifer R. Garrett.”
Jenny fell back, grabbing for the sofa arm. The second uniform reached her in time to help her down onto the cushions.
“Warren?” she pleaded with both voice and eyes. He had to say something. He had to say this was all a mistake.
Instead, Warren shook his head.
“This is crazy. You are fucking out of your mind, Walker. I'd never try to kill Jenny.”
“What is...Detective?” Jenny stammered.
“Mrs. Garrett, we have firm reason to believe your husband tampered with your car, thereby causing you to lose control after you exited Diamante's restaurant on the night of September the fifteenth.”
“I don't believe...” Jenny muttered.
“We're booking your husband. He’ll be arraigned in district court within forty-eight hours. The judge will decide if he’ll remain in custody or be released on bail.”
“Jenny, I'd never do something like that. I love you, Jenny. I could never want to kill you.”
Rick moved Warren to the front door. He wanted Warren to struggle, to fight his authority, to give him a reason to bash his face in. Rick knew better than to let a case ‘become personal, but he didn’t care. Warren resisted at first, then succumbed when the uniform delivered a commanding tug on the handcuffs.
“Call Whitmauer. Wait, damnit, we can't leave Jenny alone in the house.”
At the door, Warren suddenly fought free of the uniform's grip. He turned back to face his wife; his words had turned Jenny's face to parchment.
Instinctively, Jenny glanced up the stairs into the darkness.
“Detective, I'm frightened of being alone. I...I”
“It's all right, Mrs. Garrett. Nothing's going to happen to you now. We're taking care of it.”
“You don’t understand…”
“Jenny, call Mackenzie,” Warren said, jerking his arm free of the uniform so he could remain turned toward her for a second longer. He wanted to kiss her—to assure her this was all a mistake—but he was too far away and Jenny made no move to come toward him.
“Jenny, don't stay here alone.”
“Mrs. Garrett, is there someone you can call, if you're afraid to be alone?”
“Call Mackenzie!” Warren shouted again as the two uniforms moved him out the door and down the stairs.
Jenny's heart leapt into her throat at the thought of being alone in the house. She snatched up the telephone the moment the door closed. What if the ghost appeared? What if it tried to kill her?
Trembling, she dialed. No answer after three rings. Had she misdialed? After the fourth ring, she listened to an unfamiliar answering machine announcement.
“Please Dwight...”
She left a frantic message. She was alone in the house and frightened. Could he come over right away?
Then Jenny started to dial Kate's number. By the third digit, she remembered that Kate had checked herself into a drug rehab program in an upstate New York hospital.
Her fingers misdialed the next number twice; each time Jenny had to cut off the line before the first ring.
“Come on, Jenny, hold on,” she commanded herself with a faltering voice.
Bridget's voice chimed in wonderful beyond words. Sure she could come right over. She would be there in less than thirty minutes. From Jenny's trembling voice, Bridget must have deduced the grave importance of Jenny’s need.
Jenny checked the clock. Thirty minutes. She had to hold on for thirty minutes alone in the house. Before leaving the phone, she dialed their attorney’s number, reached his service and left a brief message asking him to call.
She could make it. She told herself again and again—she could make it.
Not a sound could be heard, save for her own terrified breathing and her frantically pounding heart. Jenny moved through the first floor rooms quickly and efficiently, switching on every light. She refused to attempt the stairs to the second floor, terrified of what she might find if she did.
Leave, her inner voice commanded. Get out of this house now. But Dwight had said the ghost was part of her. There was no place to run from it; no safe place where the ghost could never reach her.
Jenny curled herself into a ball on the sofa, forced her back into the corner, wrapped her arms tightly around her doubled-up legs and found comfort from the sofa’s hard stiff frame.
She must remain calm.
As she subdued her fears one by one, she focused every ounce of her energy inward. It was then that her head began to fill. It filled with images as if someone had opened her up and was now pouring in her memory. At first, they came all jumbled, flashing across her mind chaotically. Then she began to see them in the chronology in which they had occurred in her life.
Warren was late that Friday night for dinner. Where was he? Could he have been tampering with her car in the parking lot?
Wait, there was something else. It took everything Jenny had to hold in her excitement. She was pregnant! They were going to have a baby. It was to be a surprise for Warren during dinner.
That's why she had made the reservations for Diamante's. They were celebrating. But Warren seemed worried, almost frightened at the prospect when she broke the news to him. He complained his business was slipping. He was plunging deeper and deeper into the red. They needed Jenny's income from the agency to handle the month-to-month living expenses. How could they afford to have a baby now?
Why had Warren kept her pregnancy from her after the accident? Why wouldn't he tell her she had lost the one thing she wanted most in her life?
The champagne that night was to be Jenny's only alcoholic drink until after the baby was born. She had only had that one glass of champagne. She couldn't have been drunk. She nursed the one glass throughout their dinner.
She relived the toast Warren made to their marriage, their love, and their baby. He had accepted it, welcomed the joy it would have brought them. Both pledged to love each other forever. Hearing those words again inside her head sent shivers up her spine. My God, could Warren have told her he loved her when he knew she was about to die?
Jenny checked the clock.
Sixteen minutes had elapsed. Bridget would be crossing the halfway point by now.
Jenny thought she heard noises emanating from Warren's den. Fourteen more minutes, she told herself, just hold on fourteen minutes more.
Was there something upstairs? Was her spirit beckoning her into the darkness?
Jenny had to get up, had to move. She went to the staircase, flicking the light on over the stairs. It still left deep chasms of darkness on the second floor.
“Please, Bridget, please hurry,” Jenny cried for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. “Dwight, where are you!”
Twenty minutes had passed. Ten more minutes.
Jenny paced, reassembling those lost hours and days in her life. But all the while, her eyes kept watch over the stairs, and her ears remained perked for any sound that might drift down from up there.
A jolt of fiery pain shot up her side. Walking started to hurt. She curled into a fetal ball on the floor in the corner of the living room, tucking her arms before her chest for protection.
It was up there. It was creating noise to torment her. It was waiting for her—waiting for the right moment to appear and kill her.
Jenny remembered now. They were about to leave the restaurant. She was so excited she would have made love to Warren in the back seat of the car if they could have fit. She desperately wanted to hold Warren and feel him inside her. The excitement was on the verge of exploding within her. It was a glorious time for her. Everything seemed perfect that night.
Jenny recalled now that she had actually left the restaurant alone. For some reason, Warren had paused at the door. He said he had to make a call.
Five more minutes. Please Bridget don't be late.
Jenny saw herself pull out of the parking lot, accelerate around a turn and start down the winding road that led to the bottom of the hill. But there were car lights behind her; insistent lights that filled her rearview mirror and shone into her eyes. Lights that roared into her wake like an angry beast.
The car in her wake bumped her hard on the left rear just as she began a sharp right turn. Jenny remembered hearing a loud metal-against-metal thump. The noise came not from the rear, but rather from under her hood. Something had snapped, she had thought at the time.
The car in her wake receded, but then roared up again.
At the next bend, she started to turn the wheel, but the car lurched in the direction opposite the direction of her turn. She slammed her foot on the brake. The back end came around on her. As her car spun wildly, Jenny saw the headlights coming straight at her.
Jenny's heart hammered as headlights blinded her. She again felt the ton of steel careening out of control just like it did that night. As hard as she tried, she could do nothing to avoid the oncoming car.
Headlights splashed in through the living room windows. Jenny screamed. She saw nothing, felt nothing.
Gasping, her face dripping in sweat, Jenny raced to the window, but the car continued past her house, turning at the corner.
“Bridget, where are you?”
The house was coming alive around her. A low rumbling arose out of the kitchen, as if someone were beating fists on a table. Jenny curled further into her corner and slumped lower onto the floor. It was here, making those incessant sounds, taunting her.