Poison

by Galt Niederhoffer

  Dale nods at Cass now, signaling the time has come for their departure. And several hugs later, Cass’s children are walking away, rolling their little blue and pink backpacks toward the door of the muggy airport, stopping to look back once, twice, three more times before disappearing into the sunlight.

  And then they are gone, and the relief of knowing they are now safe is met with the sickening premonition that it will be lifetimes before she next sees them.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Time passes in fits and starts as they wait for takeoff. White light saturates the plane as it reaches cruising altitude. Sam sleeps in Cass’s arms. She strokes his hair and clutches him, listens to his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. A risk. And a reward. Ryan reads a magazine tucked into the seat ahead, a compilation of advertisements disguised as reading material. The airplane smells faintly like lotion. The flight back to Portland is tense but uneventful. Cass is consumed by thoughts of Alice and Pete, Pete’s health, Alice’s spirits, her mother’s energy level—it has been years since she cared for children—and the task before her. But there is no room for fear. Only a winning performance. She must play the contrite wife, the rebuked hysteric, the broken woman. And so she rests her head on her husband’s shoulder and burrows into the crook of his arm as though she is the disease and he is the medicine.

  They land in Portland in late afternoon. Sam has reached the limit of his patience. It is a relief to be back on the planet, welcomed by the gray clouds of Portland. They make their way toward their luggage, and Cass falls behind to call to her mother.

  “How is he?” she asks.

  “He’s fine,” says Dale. “A little tired. Slightly nauseous. I have to tell you, Cass. This seems like a whole lot of nothing.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” she says. “I’m glad he’s feeling better.” There is no time to engage in debate. She is relieved to hear that Pete is recovering and that he is no longer in an acute situation. She shares a few quick instructions on favorite meals and bedtime rituals, asks her mother to deliver hugs and kisses, and hurries to the baggage area to find her loving husband.

  On her way, she texts her student, Jean, to make plans for the following day. “Back from vacation early,” she writes. “Any chance you can watch Sam for a couple of hours in the morning?”

  * * *

  Because of their early return, Cass has one more week of vacation. Ryan leaves the house the following morning, dressed and preened, as though it’s any other Monday, any other day in the life of the Connor family, except today his mossy eyes are offset by a sunburn. Cass stands, holding Sam, on the porch, in her same-old silk nightgown. She waves at Ryan as he pulls out of the driveway, raises Sam’s hand in his own farewell. She is the picture of a loving wife, a doting mother. She watches as Ryan’s car climbs up the hill until the car disappears over the horizon, and then she rushes inside to prepare for the day, rapidly dressing herself and Sam as though for an evacuation. She puts Sam in a clean white shirt, blue corduroy pants, and a warm green sweater. For her, jeans, a collared oxford, and a clean gray sweater will have to suffice for propriety. She greets Jean at the door with Sam, issues a flurry of instructions, whispers endearments and kisses to Sam, then all but runs out the door, slips into her car, and turns the ignition.

  Once again, Cass sits with Matthew in the PPD detectives’ office. At first it is a shock to find that they are attentive. The reception now is different from when she visited in November. The evidence is still scant and mostly circumstantial, but it has three things in its favor: Cass’s knowledge of the weapon, her understanding of the method, and her clear and consistent testimony, also known as “prompt outcry.” This should meet the criteria of probable cause for an arrest. But probable cause, Cass is learning, is a somewhat subjective concept, subject to interpretation by whichever cop happens to sit in the precinct when a crime is reported.

  Another hour, then several pass in the police precinct. Cass gives her complete report to a new detective, an older man with rubbery skin and a carefully groomed moustache. Having met with dismissal for so long, she is utterly unprepared for his response: total credulity, except with a new object of suspicion.

  “Did you say your husband was cheating?” the detective asks.

  “Yes,” says Cass.

  “How do you know this?”

  “The usual ways,” says Cass. “Emails, hotel bills. Women’s panties. Hair in the shower.”

  He nods in a knowing way, nursing a new notion. “Did that make you angry?”

  “I’m sorry,” Cass says. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “What I’m asking is if you had motive yourself. Motive for revenge. Motive for lying. How do I know you weren’t trying to kill him? How do I know you didn’t put it in there? Maybe you were angry because you found him cheating and you put it there to frame him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cass says, shaking her head. “That is just … outrageous.”

  “Lucky for both of you,” the detective says, “I have no more reason to believe him or you.”

  “But it’s in my body.” she says. She is seething, coursing with frustration.

  “Yeah, and I’m sorry about that,” he says. “But I still don’t know how it got there—if you put it there to incriminate him, if you put it there to harm yourself, or if you put it there to harm him. If any of those things are true, you could be arrested.”

  Outrage pools in Cass’s chest.

  “Why do you want him arrested so badly?” the detective asks now.

  “To protect myself and my children.” And then, to prevent herself from screaming in rage, she repeats, “To protect myself and my children.”

  But these comments should not surprise her. Attacks on her motives, her morals, her credibility, and her common sense. They are merely pages in a playbook written by a culture that prefers to believe a man’s testimony over a woman’s. Incredibly, this was not part of the plan Ryan first envisioned—just a happy accident that immunizes him from any future charges. Four ways to discredit a woman. Delusion. Fabrication. Inculpation. Criminalization. Four fail-proof ways to destroy the testimony of a victim—when the victim is a woman.

  “Well,” he says with a patronizing shrug. “We could keep you here for questioning and see where the questions lead us.”

  Cass opens her mouth to speak, to yell, but Matthew grabs her forearm.

  “There’s absolutely no basis,” says Matthew. “Unless you want a wrongful arrest suit on your desk on Monday.”

  The meeting ends in the same place that it started, a standstill created by the face-off between the evidence and the Fourth Amendment. The detective promises he will speak to Legal and look further into “the precedent” for a crime of this nature. Defeated, Cass puts on her coat and gathers her belongings. She had expected action, finality. Instead, she was met with more of the same. Doubt, delay, dismissal.

  But Cass has stopped listening even before the detective explains the details. What do you do when the institutions designed to protect you, when all of these let you down, when all of them fail you? You have only one option: to use your own devices to protect yourself and your children.

  * * *

  It’s a cautious and curious calm tonight in the Connor household, two friends, turned foes, feigning love. A portrait of a marriage. They run through the bedtime ritual as though everything is normal. All is calm. All is quiet. Laundry circles in the wash. The dishwasher murmurs. Something delicious simmers on the stove. Until a circuit breaks and the machine ceases to function.

  Cass lies in bed, trying to focus on a novel. Ryan scrolls through his phone, feeding his unrepentant addiction. The only sound in the house is Sam’s breathing in the next room and the sporadic moans of Ryan’s favorite zombies. It is routine and ritual both, so sweet as to be deceiving. Cass steels herself with a simple reminder: the damage of doubt is here eclipsed by the danger of denial.

  * * *

  It is late, and they are falling asleep.
It will be their last night together. Cass knows this. It is vile to be so close to him, to share air with this sadist, this stranger. She stares at the objects in their room, the cat curled up on the edge of the bed, her gray cardigan sweater, the sheets with the brown medallions. The poison has labored her breathing, and she listens to this faint wheezing. In. Out. In. Out. An attempt. And a failure. An escape. And an obstruction. A trial. And an error. An attempt, and another. A completed act of murder. Can you be a little bit poisoned, or does it effectively taint your system like a drop of red dye in a glass of water? Is an act of homicide called homicide when it happens to a woman? Uxoricide? Matricide? A woman killed for the crime of witnessing her own failed murder? What is the word for the systematic attempt to erase a mother?

  She is awakened by the pressure of his cock inside her. His hips grind against her hips. His hands clench around her head, for balance, for power. There is no gagging now, no choking. That would be too primitive, too banal a form of torture. Why leave scrapes and bruises? Why leave evidence of his touch when he can leave no trace whatsoever? Instead, he wraps his hands around her neck, thumbs touching at the center, fingers stretched behind her ears, making tight circles. Just like this, he works his way through her. Thrusting. Convulsing. As though it is a nightly act of conjugation. In. Out. In. Out. A demand. And a rejection. A snake delivering his venom. For a moment, she nearly forgets and her body almost feels pleasure until that pleasure is replaced by a surge of hatred so violent it threatens to erupt within her. The conversion of sex to violence. A haven into a hell. A vital life into silence. The daily rotations of domestic life deliver poison. Her vision starts to cloud with the slow fade of a dimmer. Just before she loses grasp, a burst of rage fuels her and she shoves him off her.

  Ryan rolls back to his side as though she has rudely rebuked an act of passion, then closes his eyes and feigns sleep like a man roused by a nightmare.

  Cass sits on the edge of the bed, sucking air, regaining focus. She stands and stumbles to the bathroom. She braces herself on the sink, stares at her face as though to affirm she is still the same person. One pupil is larger than the other, nearly obscuring the blue of her eye. The other changes in size when she leans backward and forward. She runs through her memory of ninth-grade bio for possible causes: aneurysm, blood clot, stroke. She leans in and studies her eyes again. One pupil expands and contracts. The other is unresponsive. It looks instead like a large black sun, setting behind her eyelid. Panic surges in her chest, but panic is a luxury now. Breathing deeply, she opens the bathroom door and runs to the closest refuge.

  When she arrives, the door is open.

  “How did you know I was coming?” She is breathless, frantic.

  “I saw you running,” says Aaron.

  “You saw me coming?” Cass says.

  “I heard your door slam. What happened to you? Here, have a Xanax.”

  “No,” she says. “I’ve got enough shit in my system.”

  He looks at her, assesses her state, plants her on his sofa. He walks to the kitchen. She hears water running. She looks out his window at her own house. He said he heard her door slam, but her door is wide open.

  He returns with a blanket and a glass of water.

  “Drink this,” he says. “Water will help.”

  “No,” she says. “No, thank you.”

  He holds the cup in front of her mouth. “Drink it. Don’t be stubborn.”

  Ten minutes later, she is falling asleep on the floor of Aaron’s living room. She is overwhelmed by drowsiness, as though her eyes are weighted. The house has the same sour smell. A radiator clatters. The last thing she remembers is Aaron’s hands on her back, rubbing gently, followed by pressure on her neck, just beneath her ears, in tight circular motions. It might seem innocuous were it not the first time he has touched her and the very same way Ryan delivered the toxin. The jugular vein travels directly from the head to the heart, the fastest way to deliver a medicine—or poison.

  She wakes two hours later, groggy and incoherent with a distinct lag in perception. Drink it. Don’t be stubborn. Did he put something in her water? Terrified, she scans the room for her belongings—her coat, her phone, and her shoes, but all of them are missing. Did she forget them at home, or did Aaron move them? Frantic, she tiptoes across the dark room, looking for the lost items. The house is quiet, another home with its own working system. A mother and child sleep upstairs. Books line the shelves. Pots and pans fill the cabinets. She lived in a home like this only a few months prior.

  She finds her phone in an outlet in the downstairs bathroom. The bathroom is painted yellow and has the same rank smell as the living room. At the sink, she splashes her face with cold water, tries to regain composure. Now she opens the medicine cabinet and surveys the contents. The shelves hold a store of typical supplies, random creams and bottles, and behind them, an atypically large selection of amber vials. A veritable pharmacopeia in her neighbor’s bathroom. Each label has a single letter and the name of a “prescribing doctor.” She extracts one and reads the name—Dr. Lugner. It is the same doctor listed on Ryan’s meds. The doctor suggested by Aaron. To cure her of “stress and other negative fixations.” Violence disguised as kindness. Not a friend, but an accomplice.

  Through her intoxicated haze, she comes to a harrowing realization. Understanding happens in a series of revisions. Aaron is not her friend. Aaron wants to harm her. Aaron is a dealer. Aaron sells to Ryan. Aaron is not her ally. Aaron is Ryan’s accomplice. Aaron is the source of the toxin.

  She reviews the events of the last few weeks with new and blinding insight. The more she communicated with Aaron, the worse things grew with her husband. Her reports of Ryan’s acts to Aaron were directly followed by Ryan’s acceleration. When she told Aaron her plans to go to the cops, Aaron and Ryan shared a problem. All these things were connected—her mounting investigation, her disclosures to Aaron, and Ryan’s heightened efforts to deliver the poison. She even recalls an instance when Aaron tried to issue a “warning,” encouraging her to leave her husband, to break off a “dangerous relationship.” A final act of mercy in the hopes that she would leave him? Or the first of many attempts to divert her investigation? Instead, she burrowed deeper. And so her loving husband and trusted confidant redoubled their efforts. Her clone of Ryan’s phone now seems a paltry diversion. No need for a cloned phone when victim, killer, and accomplice all have the same information.

  She thinks back now with disgust at her blindness and his pretense: his sudden interest in friendship, his convenient appearance, his apparent knowledge of her whereabouts. His encouragement, followed by his dissuasion. First, he plumbed her for information to assess her knowledge. Then, as she gained clarity of the crime and shared her plans to report it, he tried to disavow her of her beliefs and expedited the plan to harm her. All the evidence she shared with him—every secret, every deduction—was promptly shared with Ryan. She may as well have told her husband herself while lying in bed, unwinding. She wonders now if Ryan would have acted differently had Aaron not been reporting her progress, but there is no time for such questions now. For any more denial. Necessity and her trusting nature elevated Aaron from eccentric neighbor to trusted friend. Bad luck caused her to run from a murderer into the arms of his accomplice.

  “Then I go back to the cops,” she had told him. “And I stay there until they listen.”

  “I don’t think you should do that,” he’d said.

  She reviews the chronology once again as she gains her bearings. Aaron offered her help while engaged in a plan to harm her, like a wolf dressed up as a granny, licking his chops before dinner. He filled a prescription more potent than drugs and likely promised testimony to invalidate her forever. She checks the theory against the dates, reviews the timing of his appearance, the pace of his help and reversals. His own disclosures. Aaron is a dealer. He told her on the playground. He laid bread crumbs like all liars. He sells controlled substances. Apparently with access to a garden variety. Ry
an asked Aaron to fill a special order, not pot, nor pills, not opiates, nor expensive designer synthetic—an old-school upper with a steep curve to toxic. The crime reaches further than even Cass considered, from a staid Portland neighborhood to a trailer park in rural West Virginia, to the biggest of Big Pharma.

  “Santos,” he’d told her, “is the laboratory where it all started.”

  Aaron was never sincere in his efforts to help her, but rather pressed to dissuade, to silence, to discredit, and eventually to destroy her.

  It occurs to her now that Aaron has been involved from the onset, guaranteed a cut of the house had Ryan completed the murder. Foolishly, she entrusted him with her heart and her house keys, asking her own attacker to set up a security camera. No matter. He already had access. He had already been in her home, contaminating her clothes, her sheets, the washer and dryer. This is why he infiltrated Cass’s life, pursued an intimate friendship, and then reversed so suddenly, not because he was rebuked, not because he feared for her safety, but because Cass’s growing knowledge made her a threat to his freedom. She grew steadily closer to the truth, all the while confiding her conclusions, sending him her results, her findings until he had no choice but flip from encouraging friend to vehement denier. When that failed, he took action.

  “Confirmation bias,” he wrote. “You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

  Except in this case, the opposite was true. She was smarter than she realized and far more foolish. The opposite of paranoid: dangerously trusting. How could she have made this mistake, running from the arms of one psychopath into another, chiding herself for doubting too much, believing to the bitter end. She will not make this mistake again: talking herself out of what she knows, censoring her instincts, inviting the enemy into her home, as though he is an honored guest as opposed to an assassin.

  In the darkness, Cass searches for her most crucial belongings. Her shoes are nowhere to be found. Her wallet is under the sofa. Now a rustle of blankets and footsteps emerge from an upstairs bedroom. Frantic, she abandons the search and races out the front door. Without a coat or shoes, she does not look like herself. She looks unhinged, unraveled. She has played into their prophecy, at least, in appearance: a woman running, barefoot, across an empty residential street, wind and rain swirling, every bit the madwoman Ryan has described to others.