J Mark Bertrand

by Back on Murder (v5)

  “Across from ikea,” she adds.

  “Yeah, thanks. Listen. I’m sorry for leaving you to go it alone on the task force.”

  “What are you talking about? We have enough dead weight as it is.”

  “So you didn’t take a sick day when you heard the news?”

  “Sick with relief, you mean?” She gazes into the distance. “It’s just this case catching up with me. You heard the Fontaine kid’s parents got a lawyer? They’re talking about suing the city now, which means the da wants to put a charge on the boy after all. If they would just let it drop, they’d be home free. But you can’t expect people to skip a potential payday anymore, even if their kid’s slinging.”

  I could point out my misgivings about the way Fontaine was treated, but that would only get her wound up. And besides, I see her point.

  “How’s Donna Mayhew holding up?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Doing a lot of media now. You saw her on cable last night?”

  “I didn’t even know she was on.”

  “Now she’s expressing concerns about the way the case has been handled. I think she’s mad they’re dragging Hannah’s name through the mud. That stuff about the drugs, the restraining order.” She slaps her laminated menu shut. “I’d be mad, too – but it’s not our fault.”

  She goes on like this for a while, venting about task force woes. With the media pressure intensifying, more effort at the top seems to be going into damage control than finding Hannah Mayhew. The rumors are getting out of control, too.

  “The team’s so porous,” she says. “Whatever you put into it leaks out by the end of the day.”

  In the latest gaffe, some bored detectives who’d seen a documentary about forced prostitution started jawing on the topic of white slavery. By that afternoon the news wires were running a story, anonymously sourced, suggesting the task force was looking at this as a probable theory. Blindsided by the question during his cable call-in debut, the chief had responded that “every avenue was being investigated,” which had the unintended consequence of validating the rumor.

  “So now, in spite of the fact that there’s absolutely no evidence, we have half our team suddenly playing catch-up on the white slavery angle. It’s ridiculous. I told Wanda I’m sick of playing this game.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She told me to go to lunch.”

  I crack a smile. “It sounds to me like you took off sick and ended up watching the news coverage all day.”

  She nods. “And reading the Hannah blogs.”

  The Hannah blogs? I don’t even want to ask. The life this circus has taken on makes my head spin. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to a case like this.”

  “A missing persons case,” she asks, “or a media blender?”

  “The blender. I worked Missing Persons awhile, remember?”

  “The Fauk case,” she says. “That was pretty big at the time.”

  I shake my head. “Not like this.”

  The waitress, looking clean and wholesome, stuns us both with her high-wattage smile, then jots our selections down with a satisfied nod, like they reveal something deeply good in our respective characters. As soon as she’s gone, I roll my eyes, but Cavallo doesn’t respond. She’s glancing out the window at the lovely view of the parking lot and Highway 249, a lot of concrete washed in searing sunlight.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer at first. Her gaze has a soft and sightless quality, as if her eyes were the back of a silvered mirror. When she responds, it’s not with words. She digs in her purse and puts her warped copy of The Kingwood Killing on the table between us. The cover curls upward toward the ceiling. She’s not as conscientious with her books as Joe Thomson was.

  “I finished,” she says.

  What does she expect, congratulations? My collar tightens up all the sudden. That book to me is like a crucifix to a vampire. I can’t seem to look at it without a cringe.

  “You should have told me,” she says, her tone pure grief counselor, her eyes piercingly sincere. If my hand was on the table, she’d no doubt give it a compassionate squeeze. “It makes sense now, your obsession with the case. Trying to make all the pieces fit. I’m sorry I wasn’t more understanding, March. You should have said something.”

  I pick up the book, flipping the pages with disdain, then slide it back across the table.

  “It must have been so terrible,” she says.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know,” she says. “About your girl.”

  A twitch under the skin of my cheek, an involuntary tic I try smoothing away. She sees it and leans over the table with a pained smile on her lips. I glance away, ignoring her words.

  But she won’t stop. The woman just won’t stop.

  “This may sound strange, but now that I know, I feel like I get you. Before, I’ll be honest, you always seemed a little cold to me. I knew from Wanda you had a reputation, you used to be an up-and-comer, and I just thought, you know, your whole demeanor, it was bitterness. Angry at life. And that thing you said about God, wanting to kick him . . . now I understand.”

  You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly. You sit there with that book at your elbow and you think that because of those words, you somehow know me, that there’s a bond running deeper now between us than anything we could have established through mere contact. You think my soul is in there, my key, the pattern hidden underneath the seeming randomness of my actions. But you know nothing at all. Nothing. And if you would just stop speaking –

  “I’ll be honest,” she says. “It really broke my heart when I realized. Hannah, what she means for you, what they all must mean for you . . .” Her bottom lip swells. “And that girl tied to the bed, the missing body.”

  I’m going to say something, Theresa, if you don’t shut your mouth. You won’t like it, the words hitting you like a slap in the face.

  “I thought, when they pulled you off, you’d be relieved to get back to Homicide. But now I see what you must be going through – ”

  My mouth opens, the words lined up like the staggered cartridges in Thomson’s magazine, but before I let them off, before I give Cavallo what the drunk in the Paragon parking lot got, my hand snatches the book off the table and flings it, pages fluttering, across the glossy floor. She jumps. The guy in the opposite booth, reading the Chronicle in solitude, glances down at the book near his feet, then adjusts the paper so he doesn’t have to witness what’s developing next door.

  Cavallo’s eyes flare. “What the – ”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “Don’t smother me in this cheap psychobabble of yours, telling me what Hannah Mayhew represents for a person like me. Don’t even talk about . . .” I can’t even form it on my lips, the feminine pronoun. “Don’t even. That book,” I say, “what’s in there,” I say, “the whole stinking,” I say, “you can’t . . . I don’t even . . .”

  Now her hand reaches for mine, pulls it halfway across the table, and even though she has to know what’s at risk, she leans closer.

  “I know it’s hard,” she says.

  “You don’t know – ”

  “March, listen to me. You lost your daughter. I get that. But the way you’re reacting, it’s not right. What it’s done to you, it’s not right.”

  “I lost . . . ?” I still can’t say it. “Lost isn’t the word. Lost is really not what happened. I didn’t lose anything. Taken, that’s what you should say. ‘I know what was taken from you.’ ”

  “And that’s why you’re angry at the world,” she says, stroking my hand. “Angry at God.”

  “God? I’m not angry at God, Theresa. What does God have to do with anything? I’m angry with the guy who decided to open the Paragon early that day, and I’m angry with all the people who decided to get drunk watching the national tragedy unfold on TV, and I’m really angry – I’m furious – at the woman they let leave there, they l
et get behind the wheel, and she wasn’t even paying attention when she hit them, and there wasn’t a scratch on her, Theresa – can you believe that? Nothing but bruises from the air bags. She walked away. I’d kill her now if I could, but – ”

  “March,” she says.

  “I’d kill her now, I really would. But she already saved me the trouble. With pills. Now you know what I’ve always wondered? If she was gonna do that, why’d she have to wait until after, huh? She could have done it the day before and saved us all a lot of trouble. And saved us all. A lot . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize how painful this would be for you, or I wouldn’t have said a word.”

  Not good enough, Theresa. You opened this can of worms. “And you think because you read about it in a book – ”

  “The book has nothing to do with it,” she says. “I just didn’t know. The book is just how I found out.”

  “Wanda never told you?”

  She shrugs. “It’s been six years.”

  “So what, I shouldn’t be so upset about it? I shouldn’t be struggling still, or having such a hard time?”

  “That’s not what I said, March. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “And it’s seven. Seven years as of next week, remember? The big anniversary.”

  Cavallo falls silent, gives me a look of pity. My forehead’s clammy. The small of my back, too. The people around us are making a point of not paying attention, which is good of them really. Indulgent. I start to wilt a little with embarrassment. Better to say nothing than to pour out all this raw, unedited self-revelation, especially in front of Cavallo, who doesn’t deserve it, and who still has to be convinced to do me an after-hours favor.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “I’m sorry. The thing is, it’s not something I like to talk about.

  There’s no point dwelling on things. And this time of year . . .” Across the table she’s nodding encouragingly, and I know something more is owed to her, some compensating confession. I’ve told her off, and to make up for that, I have to trust her with some confidence.

  “March,” she says, “I completely understand.”

  “The hardest part . . .”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Yes?”

  “It was Charlotte driving,” I say, my voice distant, “and she was injured, too. In the crash. The car, it hit them like this.” I form a T with my hands, like a coach calling a time-out from the sidelines. “So the passenger side . . .” My twitch comes back. I can’t say more about that. “But Charlotte, her head hit the window hard, and there had to be surgery, you know? I wasn’t there. I was still somewhere in Louisiana. They grounded all the planes, you remember, and so me and Wilcox arranged with this detective there, Fontenot, to get a car we could drive back to Houston. We put Fauk in the back in cuffs, then hit the road.”

  She nods the whole time, the details fresh on her mind from Templeton’s account.

  “What’s not in the book is this . . .”

  The doctor had offered to tell her for me, but this was my job, the one I took on without realizing the moment we married, the moment our daughter was born. Charlotte’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. She blinked at the gathered onlookers, family and friends from the four corners of Houston, bewildered by their presence. Then the surroundings dawned on her. She glanced anxiously at the tubes running into her arm, at the blinking, hissing machines over each shoulder. Finally, with a hint of panic in her eyes, she noticed me sitting at the foot of the bed. Her intubated arm reached forward.

  “Roland?”

  I didn’t tell the others to leave. I didn’t have to. At the sound of her voice they began to file out, all except her sister, Ann, who lingered at the doorway, thinking she might be needed, until Bridger urged her out into the corridor. She disappeared with a suppressed sob.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked. “What am I doing in here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  She bit her lip, eyes darting toward the door. “How long have I been like this?”

  “A few hours,” I said, checking my watch. “About eight.”

  “Eight? What happened to me?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to start, but lost my grasp of vocabulary. All the words in my head suddenly gone.

  “Roland,” she says, “am I . . . sick?”

  “You were in an accident. You really don’t remember?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “If I remembered, I wouldn’t have to ask. Why did everyone just leave? What’s wrong, Roland? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

  I nodded my head, unable to do more.

  She gazed around the room in frustration, casting back in her mind. Putting the pieces together, I suspected. Working out what must have occurred. Exhaling, her body grew small under the covers, her chin trembling.

  “Why wasn’t Jessica here? I didn’t see her. Where is she?”

  “She’s . . .” I willed myself to say it, but still nothing came. “She’s –”

  “Is she all right? Is Jessica all right? Roland, did something happen to her? You have to look at me and tell me. Tell me what happened.”

  I tried, but couldn’t even bring myself to look at her, or even imagine the expression on her face. Begging me, imploring me to do the most terrible thing, to wound her in the deepest way I could. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be the one.

  “Baby, she’s . . .” But no. I couldn’t.

  “There was an accident.” Her voice matter-of-fact. “Was she in it? Was she hurt in the accident?”

  I nodded.

  Charlotte sucked in her breath, and the tethered hand went to her mouth. I glanced up to see her eyes welling with shock.

  “A car came,” I said. “The driver ran the light. A drunk driver. She ran into you, into your car.” My throat tightened. I began to cough. “She hit . . . She hit the passenger side.”

  “I was driving?” she asked. “I was behind the wheel? Who was the passenger? Was it Jessica?”

  I nodded again.

  Her breathing took on a voice, each gasp an unknown word sighed into the air, a glossolalia of grief.

  “She’s all right, though,” Charlotte said. “She’s all right.” She imbued the pronouncement with a confidence she surely couldn’t feel. The intervals between each sentence, each word, punctuated by the strange sibilance of her breathing. She’s all right, the words said. No she’s not, the breath answered. “Tell me, Roland. Tell me she’s all right.”

  My head shook.

  “She’s . . . hurt?”

  My head shook again.

  Charlotte’s lip trembled. “She’s – ?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, choking on the syllables.

  Her face opened utterly, the eyes wide, the mouth a twisted gash, even the tear ducts began to burst and stream, as if a prophet had struck a rock. The moaning breath came quicker and quicker, hyperventilating, and her arms thrashed at the bedclothes, twisting the plastic tubing against her skin. I moved up the bed, my arms circling, holding her down, squeezing gently.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I did it.”

  “No, it’s not your fault.”

  The door opened and I turned to find Ann there, hands over her mouth. I waved her back and she retreated, letting the wood slam against the doorframe.

  Charlotte shrank in my arms, emptied herself out. The sigh from her lips was like a soul departing. Her eyes fluttered again, then closed. She rested her head against the pillow, going slack.

  I stood, feeling so drained, so completely flayed open and raw. But it was done. The unthinkable deed. I shrank back, edging alongside the bed, resuming my seat near the footboard. The room grew quiet apart from the occasional beep and hiss of the monitors. I felt my own eyes closing, though there was no relief.

  “Roland?” she said.

  “I’m here.”

&nbs
p; I opened my eyes and she was sitting up in bed, examining the tubes in her forearm. She smiled wanly, preternaturally calm, glancing around the room in mild dismay.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “What am I doing here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She bit her lip. “How long have I been like this?”

  “Charlotte, I already told you this. It’s been eight hours – ”

  “Eight?”

  “I told you – ”

  “What happened, Roland? Tell me what happened?”

  My fist closed around the blanket. “Are you serious?”

  “Am I . . . sick?”

  “You were in an accident, remember?”

  “An accident?” Her hand went to her mouth again, tugging the tubes taut. “What’s wrong, Roland? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t remember?” I heard myself saying. “You don’t remember what I just told you? About Jessica?”

  “She’s all right, isn’t she? Tell me she’s all right.”

  Her hand reached toward me, eyes pleading, the bruises on her cheek glowing with lividity, and I . . . I recoiled, retreated into my chair, glancing to the floor in confusion, the gears of my mind seizing up and grinding.

  “She’s hurt, isn’t she?”

  I choked back a sob.

  “But she’s not – ?”

  “She is,” I said.

  Again, the strange breathing, the primal keening grief, as fresh as the first time. Her cheeks flowed with tears, her mouth gaped, and then her arms, so recently still, flailed with renewed violence, slapping the intravenous cable against its pole. I forced myself forward, wrapping her again in my arms.

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “It’s okay.” Not even listening to what I said, the words running contrary to all reality and sense.

  But they calmed her. Just like before, she subsided. The tide of pain went out, leaving her adrift, her head lolling on the pillow. I got up again, weary and disoriented and a little freaked out. The chair was just a few steps away, but I barely reached it before sinking down.