by John Hart
“I need her to be here.”
“Why, for God’s sake? None of this was her fault, either.”
I felt disconnected from his suffering. “Tell her that I’d like to talk about Florida.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Just do it.”
CHAPTER 34
Grantham came an hour later, and I gave my statement. He pushed for details on the shooting and I told him that my father had had no choice. That was no favor to the old man, just simple truth.
Grace or Miriam.
Hard, brutal choice.
He also wanted to talk more about the death of Zebulon Faith. He wanted to know why I had a shotgun in the trunk of my car. But that was another county. Not even his case. I told him to leave me alone, and he had no choice but to comply. I was not Danny’s killer. Nor was I Zebulon Faith’s. He knew that now.
When he left, I thought I might go for the morphine after all, push the button before I did what I had to do. I was in such agony that, at times, it made me shake. I almost folded, but Robin called and the sound of her voice helped. “It’s been over three hours,” she said.
“Patience,” I told her, and tried to will it on myself.
They showed up two hours later.
My father.
My stepmother.
She looked worse, if possible, than he did. Her lids drooped and one hand clutched at air as if she saw something to hold on to where the rest of us did not. Uneven lipstick, hair in disarray. It looked like he’d pulled her straight out of bed. But when she sat and faced me, I saw the fear in her, and knew, then, that I was right.
“Close the door,” I said to my father. He closed it and sat. I faced Janice. I wanted to be angry, and part of me was. The rest, however, was overcome by melancholy.
She was a mother first, and she had her reasons.
“Let’s talk about the night that Gray Wilson was killed.”
Janice started to rise, then stopped. She sank back down. “I don’t understand. . . .”
“Miriam was covered in his blood. She brought it into the house after she killed him. That’s why you said it was me. That’s why you testified against me. To protect Miriam.”
“What?” Her eyes went wide and white. Hands clawed into the fabric of her skirt.
“If you said it was somebody else, and the cops found blood in the house, then the story would collapse. It could not be a stranger. It had to be someone with access to the house. Upstairs, especially. It couldn’t be Jamie or my father. It had to be me. I was the only one you weren’t close to.”
My father finally stirred, but I raised a hand before he could speak. “I always thought you believed it. I thought you saw someone that you honestly mistook for me.” I paused. “But that’s not it. You had to testify against me. Just in case.”
My father spoke. “Are you insane?”
“No. I’m not.”
Janice put her hands on the chair and pushed herself up. “I refuse to listen to this,” she said. “Jacob, I’d like to go home.”
I pulled the postcard from beneath the sheet, held it up so that she could see it. One hand settled at her throat, the other reached for the chair. “Sit down,” I said. And she did.
“What’s that?” my father asked.
“Gray Wilson, unfortunately, is ancient history. Dead and buried. I can’t prove a thing. But this”—I waved the card—“this is a different matter.”
“Jacob . . .” She reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist. My father repeated the question. “What is that?”
“This is choice,” I said to him. “Your choice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whatever demons pursued Miriam, they’d been after her for a long time, and Janice knew all about them. Why she hid them, I can’t pretend to understand. But Miriam was sick. She killed Gray Wilson because she thought she loved him and because he didn’t want anything to do with her. Same thing with Danny Faith.” I paused. “The knob is hard to get to. You’d need a truck for the body, and Danny was a large man.”
“What are you talking about?” my father asked.
“Miriam couldn’t get Danny into that hole all by herself.”
“No,” he said. But he knew. I saw it in his face.
“I don’t think Miriam mailed this card, either.” I flipped the card so he could read the back. Having a blast, it said. “It was mailed after Danny died.”
“This is ridiculous,” Janice said.
“Janice took Miriam to Colorado within a day or two of Danny’s death. You can route through Florida on your way to Denver. I made some phone calls this morning. An hour and forty minutes to change planes. Plenty of time to drop a postcard in the mail. The police can verify the travel itinerary. The dates will match.” I held my father’s eyes. “I doubt that this card has Miriam’s prints on it.”
My father was silent for a long time. “It’s not true,” Janice said. “Jacob . . .”
He did not look at her. “What does any of this have to do with choice?”
“Whoever mailed this card was trying to conceal the fact that Danny was dead. The police will want to speak with the person that mailed this card.”
He came to his feet, voice loud, and Janice twitched when he spoke.
“What choice, goddamn it?”
The moment drew out, and I took no pleasure in it. But it had to be done. Too many wrongs littered the road behind us: betrayal and lies; murder and complicity. A mountain of grief.
I placed the card on the edge of the bed.
“I’m giving it to you,” I said. “Burn it. Hand it over to the police. Give it to her.” I pointed to Janice and she shrank away. “Your choice.”
They both stared at the card. Nobody touched it.
“You made other phone calls?” he asked. “What other calls?”
“Janice and Miriam flew back from Colorado the night before Grace was attacked. They stayed the night in a hotel in downtown Charlotte. George drove in the next morning and spent the day with Janice—”
“He took me shopping,” Janice interrupted.
“And Miriam stayed behind.”
“At the hotel,” Janice said.
I shook my head. “She rented a car two hours before Grace was attacked. A green Taurus. License plate ZXF-839. The police know about that, too.”
“What are you saying?” my father asked.
“I’m saying that she was still angry about Danny. She’d had eighteen days to think about Grace and Danny together, about how Danny dumped her for Grace. I’m saying she was still angry about that.”
“I don’t . . .” He was lost, so I drove the point home.
“Two hours after Miriam rented that car, someone stepped from behind a tree and beat Grace with a club.”
He looked at the card, looked at me. Janice squeezed his arm so hard I thought she might draw blood. “But what about Danny’s ring? The note . . .?”
“She probably kept the ring when she killed Danny. She may have left it with Grace as some kind of strange message. Or maybe, like the note, she was covering her tracks, hiding the true nature of Grace’s assault. The ring implied that Danny was involved in the attack, even that he was still alive. If people didn’t buy that, or if Danny’s body was found, then the note would steer them to people with a stake on the river. I think it was simple misdirection. Something she learned from watching her mother.”
My father looked at his wife.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He picked up the card and our eyes met. He tried to speak, but gave up when nothing came. Janice pulled herself up by my father’s sleeve. He looked at her one last time, then turned like a very old man, and left. Janice bent her head and trailed in his wake.
I waited until their footsteps died away, then reached for the morphine trigger. I pushed the button and warmth gushed into me. I kept my thumb on the trigger, even after the morphine ceased to flow.
My eyes glazed.
<
br /> The button clicked in the empty room.
Robin returned as the sun fell through the earth. She kissed me and asked how it went. I told her everything and she was silent for a long time. She opened her phone and made some calls. “He hasn’t called,” she said. “Not Salisbury P.D. Not the sheriff’s office.”
“He may not.”
“You okay with that?”
“I don’t know anymore. I hate what Janice did to me, but Miriam was her daughter. She did what she felt she had to do.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’ve never had a child, so I can only imagine, but I’d lie for Grace. I’d lie for you. I’d do worse, if necessary.”
“Sweet talker.” She stretched out on the bed with me, put her head on the pillow next to mine.
“About New York,” I said.
“Don’t ask me about that yet.”
“I thought you’d made your choice.”
“I did. But that doesn’t mean that you get to make every decision for the rest of our lives.” She was trying to keep it light.
“I really can’t stay here,” I said.
Her head turned on the pillow. “Ask me about Dolf.”
“Tell me.”
“The D.A. is close to dropping the charges. Most people think he has no choice. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Soon?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
I thought of Dolf, pictured the way he’d turn his face to the sun when he walked out.
“Have you seen Grace yet?” she asked.
“She’s still in ICU and they’re limiting visitation. But that’s okay. I’m not ready.”
“You’ll confront your father and Janice, but you’re hesitant to talk to Grace? I don’t understand.”
“She’ll need time to get her head around this. Besides, it’s hard.”
“Why?”
“I have something to lose with Grace. I had nothing left to lose with my father.” She stiffened beside me. “What?” I asked.
“Not very long ago, I’d have said the same thing about you.”
“That’s different.”
She rolled onto her side. “Life is short, Adam. We don’t get many people that truly matter. We should do whatever it takes to hang onto the ones we have.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that we all make mistakes.”
We lay in the darkened room and at one point I drifted. Her voice startled me. “Why did Miriam agree to marry George Tallman?”
“I talked to him this morning. He was pretty messed up. I asked him how it happened. He’d been in love with her for years. They went out, but she would never say yes. She called him on the day before she left for Colorado. She told him to ask her again, and she said yes, just like that. He already had the ring.
“It was Janice’s idea, I think. If the body did turn up, few would suspect a cop’s fiancée. She didn’t plan to go through with it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The first thing she did when she got back was send him shopping with her mother so she could sneak back here and beat the hell out of Grace. He was cover. That’s all he would ever be.”
“It’s sad,” Robin said.
“I know.”
Robin closed her eyes, pushed closer. She slipped her hand under my shirt. Her palm lay cool on my chest. “Tell me about New York,” she said.
CHAPTER 35
I got out of the hospital on the same day that Dolf got out of jail. He picked me up and drove us to the edge of the quarry outside of town. The granite was gray in the shade, pink where the light touched it. Crutches dug into my arms as I stood and looked down on clear water in the bottom of the quarry. Dolf closed his eyes and held his face to the sun. “This is what I thought about while I was inside,” he said. “Not the farm or the river. This place, and I’ve not been here for decades.”
“No memories here,” I said. “No ghosts.”
“And it’s pretty.”
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I said, and looked at him. “That’s the real reason you brought me here. Isn’t it? So you could do his dirty work for him.”
Dolf leaned against the truck. “I would do anything for your father. Would you like to know why?”
I turned and started limping down the hill. “I’m not going to listen to this.”
“It’s a long way back to town.”
“I’ll make it.”
“Damn it, Adam.” Dolf caught my arm. “He’s human. He messed up. It was a long time ago.” I pulled my arm away, but he kept talking. “Sarah Yates was young and beautiful and willing. He made a mistake.”
“Some mistakes you have to pay for,” I said.
“I asked if you’d like to know why. Well, I’m going to tell you. It’s because he’s the best man I’ve ever known. Being his friend has been a privilege, a goddamn honor. You’re blind if you don’t see that.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“Do you know what he sees when he looks at Grace? He sees a grown woman and a lifetime of memories, an amazing human being that would not be here without the mistake you’re so ready to damn him for. He sees the hand of God.”
“And I see the death of the finest woman I ever knew.”
“Things happen for a reason, Adam. The hand of God is everywhere. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
I turned, started walking, and knew that he was right about one thing. It was a long way back to town.
I spent the next four days at Robin’s place. We ordered in. We drank wine. We did not talk about death or forgiveness or the future. I told her all that I could about New York City.
We read the papers together.
The shooting was big news, and articles ran across the state. Red Water Farm was described as a North Carolina landmark. Three bodies in five years. Six towers. Billions at stake. It did not take long for the wire services to pick it up. One enterprising reporter wrapped the story into a larger piece about nuclear power, rural desecration, and the price of unstoppable growth. Others spoke of obstructionism. Editorials ran hot in all of the major papers. People clamored for my father to sell. Environmentalists protested. The situation escalated.
On the fourth day, the power company announced that it had settled on a secondary site in South Carolina. Better water supply, they claimed. Just as convenient. But I had my own suspicions. Too much controversy. Too much heat.
In the wake of the announcement, a stunned silence rippled across the county. I felt the pop of vacuum as imaginary wealth was sucked back into the ether. That was the day I called Parks. The day I decided to put the problems aside and do what I could to help. We met for coffee at a restaurant ten miles down the interstate. After a few cautious words, he asked me to get to the point.
“How deep is my father’s debt?” That was my question.
He looked at me for a long time, trying to figure me out. I knew that he and my father had spoken. He’d told me as much.
“Why do you want to know?”
“The farm has been in my family for two centuries. Much of the vineyard has burned. My father is in debt. If the farm is at risk, I want to help.”
“You should be talking to your father,” Parks said. “Not going through an intermediary.”
“I’m not ready to do that.”
He drummed long fingers on the table. “What do you propose?”
“He bought me out for three million. I’ll buy back in for the same price. It should be enough to see him through.”
“You have that much left?”
“I made good investments. If he needs more, I have it.”
The lawyer rubbed his face, thought about it. He looked at his watch. “Are you in a rush?” he asked.
“No.”
“Wait here.”
I watched him through the window. He stood in the parking lot, cell phone to his ear, and argued with my father. His face still held the heat when he
came back to the table. “He said no.”
“Did he say why?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“But he gave you a reason?”
The lawyer nodded. “A pretty good one.”
“And you won’t tell me what it is.”
He spread his hands and shook his head.
It was Dolf who finally explained it to me. He showed up at Robin’s the next morning. We spoke in the shade of the building, at the edge of the parking lot. “Your father wants to make things right. He wants you to come home, but not because you have a financial interest. Not to protect your investment.”
“What about the money he owes?”
“He’ll refinance, leverage more acreage. Whatever it takes.”
“Can he do it?”
“I trust your father,” he said, and the statement had layers of meaning.
I walked with Dolf to his truck. He spoke to me through the open window. “Nobody’s seen Jamie,” he said. “He hasn’t been home.” We both knew why. Miriam was his twin, and our father had shot her down. Worry filled Dolf’s eyes. “Look for him, will you?”
I called my broker in New York and arranged to transfer funds to a local branch. When I went looking for Jamie, I had a cashier’s check for three hundred thousand dollars in my pocket. I found him at one of the local sports bars. He sat in a booth in the back corner. Empties stretched from one end of the table to the other. As far as I could tell, he had neither shaved nor bathed in days. I limped to the table, slipped in across from him, and propped the crutches against the wall. He looked destroyed.
“You okay?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“Everybody’s looking for you.”
When he spoke, he slurred, and I saw in him the kind of anger that had all but destroyed me. “She was my sister,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I did. As different as they had been, they were still twins.
“I was there,” I said. “He had no choice.”
Jamie slammed a bottle on the table. Beer shot out and spattered my sleeve. People stared, but Jamie was oblivious. “There’s always a choice.”