Along Came December
Page 7
I run to the door and find it locked. My keys are at work and I don’t have patience for the lock pick, so I hold my finger on the buzzer until the deadbolt slides back.
Robin stands there, dressed in pajamas and looking surprised to see me. His mouth drops open when I hug him fiercely.
“You shouldn’t answer the door at night,” I mumble. “It’s not safe.”
“I do not understand,” he says, his arms lifting tentatively to return the embrace. “You rang the doorbell but you did not want me to answer it?”
I let him go, nerves still humming. “No, and I don’t want you to do it again. Next time just leave me out there, or at least look through the peephole or keep the chain on or get a frying pan. Christ, Robin.”
He blinks, hurt reflecting in his soft brown eyes. I knead the tension in my scalp with my knuckles.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I just need you to be more careful.” I take a long breath, then lock the door and shrug out of my coat. “Do you know when Presley will be home?”
“He is here now,” Robin says, taking a small step away from me. “We are watching a movie.”
I whip past him around the corner and into the living room. Presley’s lounging in the chair much like yesterday, with a bowl of popcorn instead of red wine. I stare at him in disbelief. He glances at me, nods in greeting, then turns his attention back to the TV.
I lose it.
I snatch a throw pillow off the couch and hurl it at Presley’s face. It catches him full on in the side of the head and he drops his popcorn, sending it spilling all over the floor. He turns to me, stunned.
“Mordecai, what the—”
“Don’t you say it!” I shout. “Don’t you say another word! Where the hell have you been tonight, and why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Right away he’s on his feet, his hands held up in placation. “It’s okay, Mordecai, let’s talk about this. Come sit down, all right? Let’s sit down.”
I don’t want to sit down. I throw another pillow at him, but he deflects. “What’s the matter with you?! I told you not to leave this house!”
Presley looks past me to Robin.
“I had to,” he says slowly. “Just for a bit. Nothing—”
“Nothing?! He killed another one, Presley! Another Speakeasy worker is dead, and it could have been you!”
I advance on him and he backs toward the kitchen, hands still raised. My own hands find the popcorn bowl and I throw it as hard as I can. Presley ducks but it sails wide anyway, shattering against the brick wall. I hear Robin gasp. It’s getting hard to see.
I grab desperately for something else to throw but my hands come up empty. My breath turns to ragged gasps and my whole body shakes. I clutch at the couch for support, still looking for him even though my vision is blacking out. I hear his voice, loud and urgent, but I can’t understand the words. I’m screaming, screaming for him to run. My legs give out entirely.
I feel a tight grip around my waist and struggle to get free. Max is right there, right in front of me, but Paddy’s dragging me back. He clamps his hand over my eyes, tells me not to look. I wrench it free and look anyway.
The bomb explodes. Max dies.
I scream.
I’M STILL shaking when I open my eyes. Presley’s face comes into focus, eyebrows knit together and lips pressed thin. I’m not on the bridge. I’m sitting in the shower, frozen to the bone. Presley’s got the detachable head in his hand, and he lets the cold water pound against my skin. I push him away feebly and he shuts the water off. Robin hovers anxiously in the doorway. Presley says something to him and he disappears.
I’m completely soaked, right down to my shoes, and my numb fingers struggle with my shirt buttons. Presley’s hand closes over mine.
“Do you want me to?” he asks.
I shake my head. He helps me up and wraps a towel around my shoulders. Robin reappears with an armful of dry clothing. Presley takes it from him and sets it on the counter. “We’ll give you a minute.”
The bathroom door closes and I’m alone, silently screaming for Max to come back.
I CAN smell the tea when I finally emerge, an herbal blend Presley gave me when he moved in. It’s supposed to help with relaxation. The aroma alone is comforting.
There’s no more popcorn on the floor or ceramic shards against the wall. The pillows have been returned to the couch and the living room looks like it came out of a magazine again. Robin’s dusting, his eyes fixed firmly on his work. He’s never seen me like this before. I don’t know what to say to him, so I go into the kitchen without a word.
Presley is at the counter, straining tea into three cups. I come up beside him, my cheeks burning with shame. He’s seen me like this too many times.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean…”
He puts his arms around me and I bury my face in his shirt. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I thought you were dead,” I choke, and tears prick at my eyes, panic cresting like a wave. Presley hugs me tight until my breathing levels out.
“I really am sorry, Mordecai,” he says. “I should have told you I needed to go to the club.”
“Just promise me you’ll stay away until this is over. You and Robin. I mean it.” I hold his gaze until he nods.
“Okay. But you have to do something for me too.”
He presses a little bottle of pills into my hand. I straighten my fingers and the bottle tumbles to the floor. He picks it back up. “Mordecai…”
“I don’t want them,” I mutter.
“Take it. It’ll help you.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell Paddy.”
He sets the medicine on the counter and blocks my exit. Presley’s a little taller than me, but he’s slender, built like a dancer. We stare at each other as steam curls from the tea.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say at last. “I only took them so I could keep working, and I won’t be working for a while, now that the trial…”
I swallow, and Presley’s frown softens. He hugs me again, carefully, as if I might break.
“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s so hard. But you can do this. It’s going to get better.”
He hands me a cup of tea and watches me take the first few sips. He picks up the other cups. “Do you want to finish the movie with us?”
I shake my head. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Thank you, though. And thanks. For the tea.”
Presley smiles, just a little quirk of his lips. “Anytime, Mordecai. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He disappears into the living room. I lean against the counter and sip the tea, listening. Not to the movie, but to the little sounds of companionship. The clink of teacups on the coffee table. The creaking of the couch. Robin’s quiet inquiry and Presley’s patient explanation. Low laughter.
I picture Presley’s arm around Robin, Robin’s head on his shoulder. I imagine Presley twining their fingers together, a sweet kiss placed on Robin’s cheek. I can see his smile as Robin’s eyes fall shut, unable to stay awake for a whole movie but eager to spend time with Presley, to please him.
I rinse my cup and steal down the hall to my bedroom. I undress in the dark and crawl into bed, still imagining. Remembering. Max is lying next to me. His voice is in my ear, his lips on my brow. He fits his arms around me and pulls me close, warming my skin from head to toe.
But the sheets are cold and the bed is vast, and the darkness presses in and makes me small. I pull the blankets over my head, crying until there’s nothing left to hurt. Max is dead. Max is gone.
And I’m alone.
7
WHEN I wake up in the morning the pills are on my nightstand. I toss the bottle into my closet and shut the door.
There’s a note from Presley on the fridge. He went to pick up my car from the precinct and bring Robin to work. He says he’ll be back in
time to drive me to the trial but that I’ll have to take a cab to therapy.
I’m not going to therapy. Nice of him to pick up my car, though.
I drive a ’55 El Dorado, bestowed upon me by my father. My mom took him for everything else when he came back from Somalia with both his legs blown off, but he hung on to the car. It’s in mint condition and I’m careful to keep it that way. Anytime I take my dad for a ride he scours the thing, looking for scratches or dents or the beginnings of rust, but he always nods once and tells me it looks okay. He’ll give me a hard time about my shifting later, but we both know he’s kidding, given the car’s an automatic.
I sit at the counter and pour myself some cereal, watching my phone light up with calls as my therapy session comes and goes. There’s no point in therapy if I’m not working. Now all I’ve got is the trial. All I am is the grieving widow, waiting on justice.
It’s been a long wait.
I shower and dress for court, putting on dark pants and a soft grey button-down. It’s Max’s. Most days I wear his shirts.
I leave my empty holster on the dresser but hook my badge onto my belt. Since I’m not on duty it’s really just decoration, but it makes me feel a little stronger.
I hear the front door open.
“Mordecai? Are you ready?”
Presley comes into my bedroom. He’s dressed nicely too, though he pulls it off better than I do. He loops his arm around my waist. “Come on. We’d better get going.”
He slips out of the church ahead of me, and I lock up and set the alarm. When I turn Paddy’s standing on my stoop, his arms folded across his barrel chest. Presley’s retreated to wait in the car. I can’t blame him.
I move around Paddy. He blocks me. I take a step back so at least I don’t have to look up at him, but he just takes one forward and crowds me against my front door. He narrows his eyes. “You missed therapy.”
“I had a hair appointment.”
“Don’t be a wiseass.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.”
Paddy’s fingers tighten against his bicep. “Dixon’s not happy.”
“He should see someone about that,” I say. “I hear Tish has an opening.”
“Jesus, Mordecai, get your head out of your ass! You think blowing off therapy’s going to help you? You really think you can do this alone?”
“Alone is all I’ve got, Paddy, ever since that bastard murdered my husband! What the hell do you want me to do? Lie on a couch and talk about how I feel? I’m angry! I’m angry as hell and that’s not going to change until Carl’s dead too, so quit harassing me!”
I shove him hard but he doesn’t budge an inch. Tears burn in my eyes and I stuff the sobs back down my throat, clenching my jaw so tight it pops. I shoulder past him but he catches my arm.
“Do you want me to come? Because I will if you want me to.”
“No,” I say, quiet.
We both know I’m lying.
“It’s gonna be a madhouse,” he says. “At least let me drive you.”
“I’ve got a ride.”
“Mordecai…”
Paddy’s shirt is rumpled and he hasn’t shaved. I doubt he slept. Whatever keeps him out of churches also keeps him up at night, and it’s keeping him away from the trial until he has to testify. I can’t relate. The thought of the trial is what’s kept me going, and nothing on Earth could stop me from attending. Not even my partner’s last-ditch attempt to talk me out of it.
“Are you sure you wanna go?” he asks. “You sure it’s a good idea?”
I tug on my arm but he holds me fast. I barely manage a whisper.
“It’s all I’ve got.”
Paddy releases me, his face a cloudy mixture of grief and resignation. “Call me when you’re done and we’ll go for a beer. I’ll catch you up on the case.”
“Okay,” I say. Then, “Sorry.”
I turn and flee to the car.
PRESLEY GUIDES the car slowly through downtown Briar Rose, forced to a crawl by roadblocks and protesters. Thousands of people flock to the courthouse, yesterday’s mob times ten. Someone carries a burning effigy atop a pole. Others carry pizza boxes and fling their contents at the officers trying to contain the chaos. The roar of the crowd can be heard for blocks.
The street in front of the courthouse has been blocked off, barricaded by cruisers on all sides. Presley flags down an officer and identifies us, and the barricade parts to let us through. Presley pulls the car to the curb and lets the engine idle.
“I’ll drop you here,” he says, “then I’m going to move the car. Your dad would be heartbroken if anything happened to it.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, but all of a sudden going into the courthouse is the last thing I want to do, at least not by myself. I look at Presley but can’t find my voice. He turns off the engine.
“I’ll walk you in,” he says. “Then I’ll come back and move the car.”
He comes around to my side and opens the door. Half a dozen officers stand by to escort me into the building, but I don’t move a muscle until Presley takes my hand. He helps me from the car and puts his arm around my shoulder, and the officers form a circle around us and lead us to the courthouse. Even a hundred yards away the crowd is deafening. They scream my name over and over, Shirley Shirley Shirley, as if they know me. They scream worse things, too. I glance up at the roof and take a little comfort from the snipers waiting there. Just in case.
When we enter the courthouse it’s so quiet I can hear my ears ring. The trial is closed for obvious reasons, though a handful of the media’s elite were granted access to keep the masses sated. They’ve all been warned not to talk to me. I don’t have anything to say to those bastards.
I wait in the hallway while Presley goes out to move the car, keenly aware of all the eyes on me. More officers mill about, making security sweeps, keeping an eye on the press. A young cop gives me a tentative wave. Officer Beet, from the alley. I give him a vacant smile back.
The doors open beside me and Presley comes in, a woman and a man following after. I recognize the woman as Anji Patel. The man must be her lawyer. I only met Anji once, the day Old Town added two plaques to the memorial wall. She’d brought her twin boys, and all three of them had hugged me until I cried.
Today she walks right past me, pressing a tissue to her eyes. Presley catches up with me and we make our way to security.
“Is your lawyer meeting us inside?” he asks.
I strip off my belt and badge and step through the metal detector.
“I let her go,” I say.
“You just met with her a few days ago.”
“We had a difference of opinion.”
Presley removes his shoes before following me through the detector. We dress and go down the hall to the courtroom. Presley says, “She didn’t want you to be here.”
“No,” I answer quietly. “No she didn’t.”
The courtroom is vast, much too large given how few people are attending the trial. The media is relegated to the back, while police representatives cluster near the front. Presley and I choose a bench near the middle.
“How’s Robin?” I ask him.
Presley hesitates. “He’s okay. Shaken, mostly. And worried. He didn’t know what was happening last night.”
“I didn’t mean to scare him.”
“I know. You didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”
“But if I’d just go to therapy and take my meds it wouldn’t happen.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Presley sighs, draping his arm across the back of the bench. “Do I wish you’d take better care of yourself? Of course I do. But it’s your life, Mordecai. It’s your decision. I care about you no matter what, but I like you a lot better when you’re not throwing things at me.”
“Sorry.”
“I know. At least you only got me with the pillow.”
The courtroom is filling, prosecution and defense g
etting situated at the front. Robert Strum, the lead prosecutor, comes to where we’re sitting and says some things I don’t really hear. He looks at me with concern, but Presley talks to him for a while and eventually he goes back to his table.
A broad figure in a purple dress sweeps past us down the aisle. I slouch down so she doesn’t see me. Anna Shapiro’s been Old Town’s captain about as long as I’ve been a police officer, and she only hates me more as the years go by. She’s wearing heels and perfume, and she’s flipped her hair the way she always does when she’s going to be on TV. I glare at the back of her coiffed blonde head. All she cares about is the PR. She doesn’t give a shit about me, or Max.
Then quickly, unceremoniously, the door at the front of the room swings open, and I snap to attention. First comes a guard, then another. When I see prison orange I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest.
Former officer Carl Winters walks in.
I STARE at him, breathless. He’s so small, so meek, so utterly unremarkable, yet a year and a half ago he killed eleven people. Two of those people were cops. One of those cops was my husband.
Presley nudges me to standing and I realize the judge is in his seat, calling the room to order. The jury is in their box, nine women and three men. Carl’s fate rests in their hands.
My own hands are cold and white-knuckled.
We sit, and the judge goes through his instructions to the jury. Drinks are allowed in the courtroom but no food. Take lots of notes. Let him know if they can’t hear or see something. Remember the defendant is presumed innocent for the duration of the trial.
Bullshit.
He killed Max right in front of me.
I close my eyes. Today is opening statements, that’s it. A couple hours for the prosecution and a couple hours for the defense. The prosecution will lay out the facts of the case and tell the jury Carl is responsible. The defense will say yes, he did these things, but it wasn’t his fault.
He’s mentally ill, and therefore cannot be held responsible for his crimes.