The Jodi Picoult Collection #2

by Jodi Picoult

  “Ms. Wakeman?” The tires rolled to a stop beside her. Shelby didn’t lift her head at first, until she heard panting. She glanced up out of curiosity, to find the most enormous dog she’d ever seen lolling its head out the window of a black truck. A hand pushed the skull to the side, revealing the cop who had come to her house last night.

  Eli. That was his name.

  She swiped at her cheeks, trying to minimize the damage. “Uh, hello.”

  She could feel him staring at her. Was this what it felt like for Ethan in sunlight—all this incredible heat rushing to the surface of her skin? To her surprise, though, the policeman didn’t mention the obvious—that a crazy woman was sitting on the curb, bawling. He said, “Watson is on his way to get a cup of coffee.”

  “Watson?”

  Eli touched the crown of the dog’s head. “Watson.”

  Shelby felt her mouth curve into a smile as she stood. “The dog drinks coffee?”

  Covering the dog’s floppy ears, ostensibly to keep him from hearing, Eli confided, “He’s trying to stunt his growth.”

  At that, a laugh burst out of her. It hung before Shelby, obscene as a belch, and she held her hand to her chest, stunned to realize that she could produce such a sound.

  “Watson would be honored if you’d join us.”

  Shelby tentatively put her hands on the open frame of the window. “Watson should learn to speak for himself.”

  Reaching around the dog, Eli pulled the passenger door handle, so that it swung open in front of Shelby; a red carpet, a beginning. “What can I tell you,” Eli grinned. “He’s shy.”

  Ross took a long drag of his cigarette and tossed the butt into the bushes edging the porch. It turned out that being present at the moment you lost someone you loved didn’t make it any easier. It turned out that being numb on the outside didn’t keep you from bleeding internally.

  Ross no longer knew what to believe. Could he love Lia, and still love Aimee? Could Aimee have come back, as Lia had, but chosen not to? And if that was the case . . . was the connection he’d thought to be so strong between them not anything special at all?

  If he let his mind trip down this road, it negated everything he’d done for the past ten years. Ross had chased after his fiancée—first by courting his own death, later by investigating the paranormal. Yet maybe a relationship he’d chalked up to fate had only been a matter of coincidence. Maybe he’d met Aimee, had loved Aimee, had lost her—simply so that at some point later in his life he would be ghost hunting, and would meet Lia.

  But Rod van Vleet was going to get rid of Lia’s ghost. Maybe not the first time he got some hack to try—maybe not even the second—but eventually, there was a good chance that Lia, wherever she was now, would leave. After all, what did she have to stay for, now that she knew who . . . and what . . . she was?

  If finding a ghost had taken Ross several years, he imagined that locating a specific one who didn’t want to be found would take him several lifetimes.

  Why not end this one, then, and start the next?

  He stared at the cigarette burn he’d made on his flesh weeks ago. Just a few inches farther down his arm was the scar that reminded him how close he’d come, once, to dying. It wouldn’t be hard to do it again. There were pills as bright as marbles in Shelby’s bathrooms. There was a Swiss Army knife in Ethan’s nightstand drawer. He had canvassed the house weeks ago, a traveler making sure he knew the quickest path of exit in case of emergency.

  Except, Ross knew, he wouldn’t pass easily to the other side. He’d become a ghost, held to this world by the pain he’d have caused his sister, by what he didn’t do for Lia.

  Maybe he would help Eli Rochert after all. Maybe then, if Lia was somewhere where she could see him, she would have reason to stay . . . no matter what van Vleet did to make her go.

  Frustrated, he jammed his hands into his shorts, and felt his fingers brush something. From each pocket he withdrew a bright copper penny, dated 1932, so shiny it might have been minted that morning. He had a vision of himself in a coffin, these pennies on his eyes, payment for crossing the River Styx. Would Lia be waiting? Would Aimee?

  “What are those?”

  Lost in his thoughts, Ross was startled by the sound of his nephew’s voice. “What are you doing up?”

  Ethan was wrapped in clothing from head to toe, even though the porch was protected from sunlight. “I don’t know. You don’t sleep, either, do you?” Ethan approached, looking at the pennies. “Those and a dollar’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “When did kids turn so cynical?”

  “When the world started going to crap,” Ethan answered. “We’re Generation Z.”

  Ross raised his brows. “What comes after that?”

  “I guess they just start over again.” He sat down on the porch swing and set it rocking, as Ross lit another cigarette. “Can I have one?”

  “What do you think?” Ross shook his head. The very things that branded him such a failure in the eyes of society made him seem positively cool to boys Ethan’s age.

  “Mom says you shouldn’t smoke around me.”

  “Then don’t tell her.”

  “I won’t.” He grinned. “Besides, dying of lung cancer instead would be a surprise.”

  Ross leaned against the porch railing. He was exhausted; he couldn’t sleep if he tried; and now he had to make polite conversation with a nine-year-old when he really wanted to go into hibernation or stick his head in a gas oven or both.

  “I heard you and that cop talking about a ghost last night.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be listening.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I guess there really is a place you go to . . . afterward,” he said. “What do you think it’s like there?”

  A small ache winced across Ross’s breastbone at the realization that Ethan wasn’t asking out of curiosity, but preparation. He remembered the first time he’d held Ethan as an infant, how he had looked into his blue-black eyes and thought, I already know you. “I don’t know, bud. I’m not expecting harps and angels.”

  “Maybe it’s different for everyone,” Ethan suggested. “Like, I’d have a half-pipe and get to be out in the sun all the time. Enough awesome stuff so that I totally forget about what it used to be like down here. What would you want?”

  What sort of world order would let a kid like Ethan die—a kid with his whole life in front of him—yet keep Ross alive and miserable, although there was nothing left for him and never would be? This world, which he would throw away in a heartbeat, was something rare and precious to people who could not afford to take it for granted.

  Purgatory, he thought, was just a synonym for tomorrow.

  Ross sat down on the porch swing and slipped an arm around Ethan’s narrow shoulders. “What I’d want,” he said, “is to come visit.”

  Like Lia had.

  “I can’t believe it.” Shelby stood on the porch at the Gas & Grocery and watched Eli’s bloodhound lap tepid coffee from a borrowed bowl.

  “Well, this is easy. It’s when he starts getting the urge for sweetmeats and escargots that it gets to be a drag.”

  Watson seemed to have an excess of skin. It fell over his forehead in a roll that nearly obliterated his eyes. He glanced up at Shelby and poked his snout into her stomach. “Watson!” Eli scolded.

  “It’s all right.” Shelby rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “He just thinks I’m esculent.”

  “Would that be a good thing?”

  “It means edible.”

  “Smart dog,” Eli murmured, lifting his own cup of coffee to his mouth and swallowing his words.

  They were distracted by a station wagon, crunching on the gravel and rolling to a stop. A handsome man with a white streak in his hair and a woman dressed as flamboyantly as a tzigane stepped out of the car. “For the love of God,” the woman said. “Haven’t these towns ever heard of Ralph’s?”

  “Relax, Maylene. All I need is a Sterno and matches. They must stock them for
the folks who don’t have electricity yet.”

  Shelby took a combative step forward. She couldn’t stand city folk who came to Comtosook expecting archetypal Vermonters to wear overalls and go barefoot, or possess only seven teeth, or raise Holsteins in their living rooms. “Excuse me,” she began, but Eli grabbed her hand and every single word flew out of her head.

  “She wanted to say that you’ll find the Sternos on the third aisle on the right,” he finished smoothly. The couple nodded at them, surprised, no doubt, to find someone in town with an IQ in the double digits, and entered the general store. “That’s Curtis Warburton,” Eli said, the moment they were out of sight. “He hosts a paranormal cable show about hauntings.”

  “I know. My brother worked for him.” Shelby hesitated. “But that doesn’t make him any less of a moron.”

  “A famous moron, though. And one who probably came to Comtosook for a reason. Watson!” The dog raised his massive head. “Go keep tabs on them.”

  To Shelby’s amazement, Watson padded into the store. “Do I pay taxes for his salary?”

  “He comes cheap. A good steak every now and then.”

  “He can’t possibly tell you what the Warburtons do in there . . .”

  “Of course not,” Eli said. “But how else was I going to get a minute alone with you?”

  Shelby felt the blush start at her throat and spread upward. She took another sip from her coffee cup, and realized it was empty. “I should walk back home. Ethan’s there with Ross, and you, uh, probably have a lot to do with the Pike case . . .”

  “Your brother told you?” Shelby nodded. “Then you also know it’s not a priority for the department.”

  His eyes did not leave her face. Even when Shelby tried to turn away, he pulled her back, a moon beholden to gravity. “What does that mean?”

  Eli smiled slowly. “That I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  WITNESS STATEMENT

  Date: September 19, 1932

  Time: 11:36 PM

  INTERVIEW OF: John “Gray Wolf” Delacour

  INTERVIEW BY: Officer Duley Wiggs and Detective F. Olivette of the Comtosook Police Department

  LOCATION: Comtosook PD

  SUBJECT:

  1. Q. Can you state your name for the record, and your date of birth?

  A. Gray Wolf.

  2. Q. Is that your given name?

  A. John Delacour. My birthday’s December 5, 1898.

  3. Q. Where do you currently reside?

  A. I’m between places.

  4. Q. Can you tell us where you were last night?

  A. At the Rat Hole. A bar in Winooski.

  5. Q. What time did you arrive?

  A. About eight, I guess.

  6. Q. And what time did you leave?

  A. I don’t know . . . maybe midnight? One?

  7. Q. Which was it? Midnight or one?

  A. One.

  8. Q. Is there anyone who could vouch for you?

  A. The bartender. His name’s Lemuel.

  9. Q. Do you know a Mrs. Spencer Pike?

  A. [Pause] I do.

  10. Q. Why?

  A. I’ve been doing some work at her house.

  11. Q. When was the last time you saw her?

  A. Yesterday afternoon.

  12. Q. What time yesterday afternoon?

  A. About three.

  13. Q. Are you aware that Mrs. Pike was found dead this morning?

  A. She . . . she . . . oh, no. Oh, Jesus.

  14. Q. How come you killed her?

  A. I . . . God, no, I didn’t do it.

  15. Q. We know you came back yesterday, after three o’clock.

  A. I didn’t. I swear it.

  16. Q. John, John. You should know better than to lie to us.

  A. I—Jesus Christ, don’t hurt me!—I didn’t!

  17. Q. You are one lying piece of shit Gypsy.

  A. I’m not lying . . .

  18. Q. No? That’s funny, because we know you killed her. You missing some personal property lately?

  A. No.

  19. Q. Really. This photo look familiar?

  A. My . . . that’s my pipe.

  20. Q. It was at the scene of the crime. Just like you were. With your filthy hands all over a lady—

  A. I wasn’t—

  21. Q. Stop the tape, Duley. [STOPS]

  A. [TAPE RESUMES] God, please . . . I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll tell you the truth. She was . . . I would never hurt her, never.

  22. Q. Just like you didn’t hurt the last person you murdered, John?

  Taken aback, Ross stopped in front of the closed door on the second floor of the police department. The secretary had directed him upstairs to find Eli Rochert, but surely the detective wasn’t getting high on inhalants—although, for all intents and purposes, it smelled that way right now. The scent made Ross dizzy; he knocked once and then pushed open the door to find Eli bent over a box with Plexiglas windows, removing a glass with one gloved hand. “You don’t want to come in here. I’m fuming.”

  Ross ignored him, taking a step inside. “What pissed you off?”

  Eli set the glass on a work counter. “No, I’m fuming. Superglue. The stuff’s noxious, but it develops the best latent ridge impressions.”

  “No kidding?” Ross stepped over the ubiquitous hound that seemed to be the detective’s favorite accessory, and peered at the glass. “Who figured that out?”

  “Some film company over in Japan, I think. The vapor released from heating glue makes Cyanoacrylate Ester adhere to the spots where there was moisture left on the surface. For a while there, before it started costing too much, forensic detectives were putting up tents and fuming dead bodies to see if they could get fingerprints of perps.” Eli nodded at his makeshift glue chamber. “Me, I have to settle for the small stuff.”

  He took out a small jar of black powder and something that looked like the makeup brush Shelby used. As Eli swirled powder over the glass, the fumed fingerprints rose into stark relief. “Of course,” he said casually, “I couldn’t really discuss this procedure with someone who wasn’t involved in the case.” He glanced up, waiting.

  Ross sat down on a lab stool in response.

  “Spencer Pike’s drinking glass,” Eli said, setting it down again to take a photograph of the print. “Filched after an interview at the rest home. I’m getting the print off it before having it tested for DNA.”

  “Why do you need to test it, if you know it was his?”

  “The scientist I have working on the DNA evidence from the murder can compare this to the stuff she’s got from back then. And that just might incriminate the good professor in a way that wasn’t possible seventy years ago.”

  “Whatever happened to hunches?” Ross murmured.

  “We still get them,” Eli said. “But now we back them up.” He pushed an index card in Ross’s direction. “This is a print I lifted from a stone pipe before I sent it off to Frankie for DNA analysis. It’s Abenaki; my grandfather had one just like it. It was found under the porch where Cecelia Pike was hanged. Now, common sense says it belonged to Gray Wolf. But these are Gray Wolf’s prints, courtesy of the State Prison . . . and they don’t match.”

  Ross squinted at the second card, with its ten tiny boxes set like teeth, and a fingerprint in each one. He tried to liken one of these to the print that Eli had taken from the pipe, but the latter one was far less distinct, and seemed to be missing its bottom half. “How can you tell?”

  “Look at the shape of the fingerprint,” Eli suggested. “Whether it’s an arch, a loop, or a whorl, the position—which finger it’s on, the size—the ridge count of loops, for example. What you’ll notice about Gray Wolf’s prints is that they’re pretty unique—the guy’s got arches on eight of his fingers, which only five percent of the population has. The print I lifted off the pipe isn’t great, but you can still tell it’s a loop. And check out the ridge detail.”

  “Ridge detail?”

  “Right there.” Eli le
aned over Ross’s shoulder and pointed to a spot on the fingerprint where the lines forked. “A bifurcation, for example. Or a ridge that just ends suddenly. Or a dot. Finding eight similar characteristics in two different fingerprints happens about as often as tossing a rock up in the air and not having it come back down.” He took away the prison fingerprint card and set down the new print he’d taken from Spencer Pike’s glass. “The point is—even if that pipe did belong to Gray Wolf, his prints weren’t the ones on it. And I’m awfully curious to see whose were.”

  Wheels began to turn for Ross. “If Spencer Pike handled the pipe, he might have planted it.”

  “There you go.” Eli leaned forward, elbowing Ross out of the way as he scrutinized the two prints with a magnifying glass. “It starts to add up, if you look at it . . . according to the police report, Pike fired Gray Wolf and threw him off his property that afternoon. He was pissed off at the guy—maybe pissed off enough to pin a murder on him. I had the lab in Montpelier working on some of the old crime-scene photos. You can see how the window was broken in the bedroom—it was smashed from the inside.”

  Ross had gone still. “I thought her husband was beating her,” he said softly. “But she told me that he just loved her too much.”

  “You can love something to death,” Eli answered. “I see it all the time.”

  “So you think she was running away from him?”

  “I don’t know,” Eli admitted. “But I do think she fought with him that day. The autopsy report showed bruising on the wrists that happened hours before the death.”

  “Do you think . . .” Ross swallowed. “Do you think he killed her some other way and then made it look like a hanging?”

  “No. The autopsy proves it, and the photographs . . . well, anyway, the answer is no. Plus, those photos I enlarged—on the sawdust, beneath where the body was found hanging—there are two sets of footprints. One boot sole is smaller, and seems to correspond to the footwear taken off the victim’s body. The other sole is larger, presumably a man’s. Now, Pike admits to cutting down his wife’s body. But he also says that someone else hanged her. So then where are Gray Wolf’s footprints?” Swearing, Eli put down the magnifying glass and pushed away the fingerprint cards. “Shoot. Pike wasn’t the one holding the pipe.”