She followed him. “Mind telling me where you’ve been all day?”
“Out and about,” he said over his shoulder, as he headed for the kitchen.
“Out and about. Good answer. Very forthcoming. Thanks for including me so much in your plans.”
Sam dropped his keys on the counter. The kitchen smelled clean, like lemons. She’d been doing housework. He didn’t look at her when he said, “I went to Thad’s to do a little research for my writing. Then I went to the battlefield to check out some of the monuments and just…to just think. I visited my parents too.”
Molly was quiet for several seconds. When she spoke, her voice had lost its edge. “Sam, why are you pushing me away?”
He turned to face her. There were tears in her eyes. Great. The tears. He hated the tears. “Pushing you away? I’m not pushing you away. Why is it that I can’t go out and do things without feeling like I’m going to be interrogated when I come home? Do I ask you a million questions after you go shopping or running errands? I just wanted to get out of the house and do some things. Why is that such a crime all of a sudden?”
“It’s not a crime,” she said. The tears flowed freely, and she hid her face with her hand. “I feel like I don’t know you anymore. First, this new interest in writing, then the whole gun thing, now you’re running around and not telling me where you’re going or where you’ve been. Visiting your parents? When’s the last time you visited your parents on impulse?”
“I just told you where I was. Thad’s, the battlefield, my parents, in that order. And so what if I’m writing again? I would think you’d be happy about that. How ‘bout a little ‘Hey, babe, I’m really glad to see you’re writing again’?”
Molly wiped away the tears, but more came. “I am happy for you. I think it’s great. I just wish you’d include me more.”
It was no use. Arguing with Molly was like arguing with a rock. “Fine. From now on I’ll give you my itinerary every morning so you know exactly where I’ll be each minute of the day. Will that make you happy?” He knew he’d crossed the line.
She walked past him, bumping him with her shoulder. “You’re a jerk.”
A flash of anger seized him, and he grabbed her arm. “Don’t talk to me that way.”
She pulled away and stared poison at him. Tears made long tracks down her cheeks. Her lips tightened and turned white, trembling. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”
Sam turned to punch the cupboard, focusing his rage there rather than on Molly, but was stopped by a knock on the front door. He and Molly exchanged looks. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed in red, her cheeks wet.
“Don’t answer it,” he said.
The knock came again, harder this time.
A few seconds passed, then from outside: “Mr. and Mrs. Travis, it’s Officer Coleman, state police.”
Molly looked at Sam. “Get the door,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She went to the sink and wetted a paper towel.
“I’m not getting it,” Sam said. “He’ll go away.”
“Sam, it’s the police. He probably heard us arguing. He knows we’re home. Get it.”
Reluctantly Sam opened the door to the cop from the other morning. He didn’t try to hide his irritation over the unexpected visit. “Officer Coleman.”
Coleman looked past Sam into the house. “Is this an OK time to ask you a few more questions about the gunshot, Mr. Travis?”
“Uh, sure, I guess.” He leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the way into the house. “Did you find anything else out?”
“Well, unfortunately, no, but—”
“Hello, Officer Coleman.” Molly came up behind her husband.
Sam looked at her and held his breath. Her eyes, while not as red as before, were puffier than usual. It was obvious she’d been crying.
“You OK, Mrs. Travis?” Coleman said, glancing between Molly and Sam.
Sam thought he saw something condemning in the cop’s eyes, and that voice was there again in his head, telling him to get rid of the cop, nothing good would come of this little drop-in.
Molly waved off the cop’s concern. “I’m fine. Really. I was, uh, cutting onions.”
Oh, that’s great, Sam thought. He’ll buy that one for sure.
Coleman hesitated, eyeing both of them. “I, uh, I just wanted to run down the sequence of events from the other morning again, if that’s OK with you. Make sure I have everything right.”
“Sure,” Molly said. “What do you need to know?”
Coleman pulled out a steno pad and pointed a pen at Sam. “Mr. Travis, you woke up at what time?”
“‘Bout four thirty, five, somewhere in there. I had to use the bathroom, then couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“So you came downstairs.”
“And lay on the sofa. Fell back asleep.”
Coleman made some notes. “And, Mrs. Travis, did you know he was missing from bed?”
Molly shook her head. “I heard him get up but fell right back to sleep. Since his accident Sam has had trouble sleeping. He often gets out of bed during the night. I’m a light sleeper. I guess it’s a mommy thing.”
“What accident was that?”
“Six months ago,” Sam said. “I fell off a roof and landed on my head.”
“He had six contusions on his brain and a blood clot they had to do surgery to remove,” Molly said. “He was in a coma for four weeks.”
Coleman looked at Sam. “And how are you now?”
He shrugged. “Fine. I’m not back at work yet, but I’m getting there.”
More writing from Coleman. “OK, so you fell asleep on the sofa, and then what time did you wake up again?”
“Six fifteen or so, I guess. I don’t know. Just before sunrise.”
Through the window Sam saw a Ford Mustang race by and blare its horn.
Coleman seemed unfazed. “And what happened then?” he said.
“I opened the front door for some fresh air,” Sam said. “Nice morning too. Heard the gunshot, then the window shattered.”
Turning to Molly, Coleman said, “And what did you hear?”
“The glass woke me up. Eva too. At first I thought a bird had flown into the window. When I got downstairs, Sam said it was a gunshot.”
“Sam said it was a gunshot.”
Sam didn’t like the tone of Coleman’s voice.
From the upstairs bathroom Eva called for Molly.
“I better see what she needs,” Molly said. “Excuse me.” She shut the door behind her as she went back into the house.
Thirty-Eight
MOLLY FOUND EVA ON THE TOILET. “WHAT’S WRONG, BABY?” “Mommy, who’s that downstairs?”
“It’s the police officer that was here the other morning, after the window broke.”
Eva looked away and rested her elbows on her thighs.
“What is it?” Molly said. Eva obviously had something on her mind, and she normally wasn’t one to hold back.
“It’s just like Jacob said.”
Jacob again. Molly’s shoulders tensed. “What did he say?” She never wanted to discourage her daughter’s imagination, but this Jacob stuff was getting tiresome. And just weird.
“He said a policeman would come to talk to you and Daddy. He said it would upset you, and I’m supposed to make sure I tell you that I love you and that Jesus loves you too.” She paused and interlaced her fingers. “Does Daddy know Jesus loves him?”
Before the accident Sam had never been outspoken about his beliefs; his was a quiet faith, but Molly was sure it was real. The evidence was there. Lately, though, she was beginning to wonder. He was becoming more and more volatile, more and more like her father. “Of course he does, honey.” The words sounded hollow, lifeless, but she hoped her daughter hadn’t picked up on it.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know Jesus loves you?”
Molly wrapped her arms around Eva’s shoulders and hugged her tight. It was all she could do to fight back the tears.
She didn’t want to cry in front of Eva. “Yes, baby, I do. I know He loves me very much.”
“And do you know I love you?”
It was pointless. The tears came, not in any kind of barrage like they had in times past, but in a steady stream, like a morning springtime rain. “Yes.” Her voice was strained and tight. “And I love you too. Very, very much.”
Releasing Eva, she wiped her tears, kissed her daughter on the forehead, and said, “Now you finish up here and go play in your room, OK? Daddy and I need to finish talking to the policeman, and then I’ll start dinner. Maybe you can help me, all right?”
Eva reached up and dashed a stray tear on Molly’s cheek. “OK, Mommy. But I need to tell Daddy too. Jacob said.”
“I know, baby. You can when the policeman leaves.”
She left the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Downstairs Coleman said something she didn’t catch.
Sam said, “I can only tell you what I know.”
Molly detected his agitation.
“It’s just, if the gunshot and window breaking were almost simultaneous,” Coleman said, “the shot had to be close, which meant it would be loud, louder than glass breaking, and yet your wife and daughter both say they never heard it.”
Sam didn’t say anything. Molly had wondered about that too.
Coleman continued. “And then there’s the fact that we found no entry point in the house. What do you think happened to the bullet after it entered?”
“How should I know?” Sam said. “It’s gotta be there somewhere. You probably just didn’t find it.”
“Possibly.” There were a few seconds of silence. Molly could hear the toilet paper rolling in the bathroom. “Just seems odd to me. Something doesn’t fit. You’re sure it was a gunshot you heard.”
“Yes, yes, and yes again. I grew up on a farm shooting guns. I know what they sound like.”
“Well,” Coleman said, “thank you, Mr. Travis, and please thank Mrs. Travis too. Sorry for all the questions, but I need to make sure we have the story right. If there’s someone out there shooting at homes or poaching, the more information we have—the more accurate information we have—the better.”
“Right.” Sam sounded annoyed but relieved the conversation was over. “Have a good day, sir.”
Molly heard the door open and click closed. Eva came out of the bathroom, struggling with the button on her pants. “Honey,” Molly said, bending over to offer some help, “I have to ask you a question. The other morning when the window broke, did you hear a gun shoot?”
Eva shook her head. Her ponytails flipped side to side. “I already told you. No. But I heard the window break. It scared me.”
“You’re sure you didn’t hear a gun?”
“I’m sure, Mommy. I heard the window break, and it woke me up. I was having a good dream too.”
“OK, baby. Thanks. Go play for a little bit. I just need to talk to Daddy about something.”
Eva kissed her on the cheek. “OK. I’m playing ponies.”
“Good. You have fun.”
Molly went downstairs and found Sam seated on the sofa, elbows on knees, head in his hands. She sat in a plaid wingback chair and crossed her legs. “You know, I’ve been asking myself that same question. Why didn’t I hear the gunshot? Why didn’t Eva? It had to have been loud.”
Sam didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her.
“Did you lie to the cop?”
Sam’s head shot up. “What? Why would you even ask that?”
She saw his defenses rising. It was the same look she’d seen in her father’s eyes so many times, and it made her uneasy. “Did you?”
“Absolutely not. I know what I heard.”
Molly searched her husband’s eyes. She could usually tell right away when he was lying, but she found nothing to indicate he was this time.
“What do you think happened?” he said.
“I don’t know, Sam. But I do know the two other people in this house never heard a shot, and there was no entry point. No bullet. I’ve looked; believe me, I’ve combed that living room. Nothing. And with the way you’ve been acting lately, I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
She didn’t say anything. He knew what she was implying.
He stood. “This is ridiculous,” he said and stormed up the stairs.
Thirty-Nine
AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS SAM SAW THE HURT IN EVA’S EYES but brushed past her.
“Daddy—”
“Not now, Eva.” Though he heard himself say the words, it didn’t sound like him. Not to his own ears, anyway.
She followed him to his study. “But Daddy—”
He turned at the doorway. “Eva, not now, OK?”
Her gaze found the floor, and her shoulders slumped. “I—”
Sam closed the door and paced the room like the grizzly bear they’d seen last year at the zoo. Last year. Life was easier then—simpler, happier. He was whole and content. Now … now he felt shrouded in darkness, lost in a cave, hearing Molly and Eva calling to him, beckoning him home, but unable to find a way out. The harder he tried, the more lost he seemed to get.
Eva’s voice reached him again. “Daddy, I love you.”
Sam did not answer. He leaned against the wall, combed both hands through his hair and tugged on it. If Tommy didn’t claw his way back from the grave and kill Sam, doing this to his family surely would. But Sam had to do it. He had to shield them from this path he was on. He knew where it led, and it was no place for his wife and daughter. No place for his Eva.
“I love you.” She said it again. Louder. “I love you, Daddy.”
Still Sam said nothing. He pressed his eyes closed, grinding his molars.
“I love you.” She was practically shouting now, and Sam could tell she was crying too. Then she began to sing, her voice soft and broken. “Jesus loves you, this I know …”
She was right on the other side of the door.
“…for the Bible tells me so…”
Sam turned and placed his hand on the wood. He was mere inches away from Eva. Her singing, while innocent, pierced him like so many arrows.
Footsteps climbed the stairs. Molly was coming. “C’mon, baby. Let’s leave Daddy alone and go downstairs.”
“Daddy.”
Molly again. “Eva, c’mon. Help me make dinner.”
“No, Mommy. He has to know. I have to tell him. You said I could.”
“He can hear you, baby girl. Daddy knows you love him.”
Sam went to the window and gripped the molding with both hands. He contemplated throwing himself out and falling to the ground below, but doubted it would kill him. He couldn’t do this anymore. For his family’s sake he had to put a stop to it.
“He does know,” Molly said. “I promise you. He knows.”
The rifle in the closet. That would do it.
“Daddy. Please.” Eva sounded panicked now. Frantic. “Jesus loves you. Do you know that?”
“Eva Grace.” Molly put on her stern voice. “Come downstairs with me right now.”
Sam pictured Molly picking her up and Eva burying her face in her mommy’s shoulder. There was only one set of footsteps now. They approached the door and stopped. Paused. He tensed, waiting for Molly’s rebuke, but it never came. The footsteps padded down to the first floor. He was alone again.
He walked to the closet, opened the door, and retrieved the rifle.
The wood stock felt cool and smooth in his hands. Sam sat at his desk, snapped a clip into place, did the bolt action, and chambered a round. Letting the rifle rest between his legs, barrel pointing up, he sat back and tented his hands. This was something he felt he needed to do. Sure, it had briefly entered his mind from time to time, but it had always been washed away by the waters of hope.
This time there was no hope, only despair.
Was this how Tommy felt when he appeared at Sam’s door, rifle in his outstretched hand?
You’re the one, S
ammy.
Was this how Samuel Whiting felt when he admitted to being overcome with darkness?
Sam lifted the rifle now, weighing it in his hands. Downstairs a pot clanged and the range tick-tick-ticked until the flame ignited—the sounds of his wife and daughter living life without him. He could end it all right now. But instead his mind returned to that old farmhouse and the basement and the sounds of Tommy …
… tearing up the place. Nails moaned and creaked as they were pried from wood. Two-by-fours chunked off the walls and concrete floor. On the first floor Dad shouted something about blocking the basement door, but it was too late. Footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs, then Tommy crashed through the door. He howled and screamed and cursed like a demon-possessed man. His words were mostly unintelligible. Dad ordered Mom out of the house. Glass broke. A plate or a drinking glass.
Tommy wailed like a woman in labor. “TEEJ YEEW TO LUG MA WUP LOKIN DUG!” He was speaking nonsense.
“Get outta here!” Dad yelled at him. “Before I hafta kill ya.”
More glass shattered, and something heavy hit the floor. Dad grunted. Mom screamed. Tommy spit barely intelligible vulgarities like bullets. Then a cacophony of sounds: splintering wood, breaking glass, hollers, screams, curses.
Dad: “I’ll get…watch it.”
Tommy: “AW KEEL YA!”
Mom: “James … no.”
Dad grunted again, a sound of pain not effort.
Mom cursed, which meant things were serious. Mom never, ever cursed. “Oh, aw, look at his eyes, James.” Her voice was almost a shriek. “Look at his …”
Sam never knew what she saw in his brother’s eyes and never mustered the nerve to ask. Partly he didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, it was a warning of what was yet to come. And a warning, Sam thought, of what was to come for him too.
He was still holding the rifle. He thought about doing it. It would be quick and painless. Behind his ribs his heart pistoned. His palms got sweaty, chest tightened. The longer he dragged it out, the harder it would get. He needed to do it. He needed to get it over …
Without further contemplation Sam leaned back in the chair, shoved the end of the barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
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