He turned and strode away.
“Matt!” she shouted after him. “Matt, please wait!”
He didn’t.
When he arrived home, his mother was in the living room watching TV. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, then at him with a worried look.
“Home so soon?”
He paused, torn between the pride of privacy and wanting to unburden himself.
Pride won.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to bed.”
4
He didn’t sleep that night. He lay in the dark, suspended between rage and tears, staring at the ceiling as if it were a movie screen, playing the events of the evening over and over. He tried not to imagine what she did with him after he left her there, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he was torturing himself, but he couldn’t stop.
He dreaded the prospect of going to school on Monday—of having to face her, and him, and their smirks, and the snickers and whispers of everyone else.
Somewhere just before dawn, exhausted and emotionally spent, he decided what he would do.
He would keep his dignity. He would simply ignore her, and him—no matter what they did or said. They, and everyone else, would provoke no reaction from him at all. He would treat this as if it didn’t matter.
Even if it did . . .
He met the dawn taking pride in one small victory.
He had not cried. What she had done to him did not make him cry.
No woman would ever make him cry . . .
“Matt!”
A hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
“What?” He felt punchy, confused.
He rolled over and blinked.
His father’s face, looming above. Looking grave.
“Matt, get up and get dressed.”
“What’s happening? Is Mom okay?”
“She’s fine. We just have to talk.”
He left the room. Matt scrambled out of bed and into his clothes, then hurried downstairs. He found them both in the living room. His mother was bent forward, her face in her hands. Big Mike stood in the middle of the room, his hands jammed in his pockets. His face looked tight, as if he were trying to keep a lid on a pot about to boil over. He nodded to a chair.
Matt sat, knowing something terrible had happened, and somehow it involved him.
“We just got a call from Jennifer’s parents. She’s in the hospital.”
“What?”
“They say that you left her at the party last night. So she got a ride with some other guy. And he beat and raped her.”
He spat out both words. Each hit him like a slap.
“They want to know what the hell happened last night, Matt—and so do your mother and I. We want to know why the girl you took to a party wound up with a rapist.”
He couldn’t speak. He knew his mouth was open and moving, but no sounds came out. He felt paralyzed, dizzy.
He shook his head once, trying to clear it. Then again. Then again, and again, and again . . .
“Matthew!”
He stopped. He stared at his father’s accusing, angry face—at his mother, who would not look at him.
And then he heard Jen, from somewhere behind him, shouting, “Matt! . . . Matt, please wait!”
And then he cried out and fell from the chair, screaming and beating the floor with his fists until he felt Big Mike’s powerful arms seize him and hold him tight . . .
5
Sometime later, he didn’t know how long, he found himself huddled on the sofa, and they were sitting close beside him, on either side, and she had draped some kind of throw blanket around him, because he was still quivering and feeling cold, and he felt a big steady hand on his shoulder, and a small soft hand gently rubbing his back, and she made him sip from the hot cup of tea she placed in his hand, and it was laced with something, maybe whiskey, maybe honey, too, and she told him to sip some more, and he did.
And they sat and waited, asking no questions, until eventually he understood that they were giving him time, time to pull himself together. And when he realized that, and when he felt steady enough, he began to speak. He told them all of it: what happened from the moment he picked her up at the house, and after they got to the party, and how she had behaved in front of him, and how it made him feel, and what happened when he followed them outside, and how that felt, and why he left.
“I knew what kind of person Chris was,” he said in a stranger’s voice, empty and flat. “But by then I was too angry to care. I just left her with him. She called after me. She said, ‘Matt . . . Matt, please wait.’ But I didn’t wait. I didn’t stop.”
He stared into a blank, endless distance.
“I walked away.”
6
Later that afternoon, after he had eaten something and napped for a while, Big Mike took him for a drive.
They headed north on Route 79 from the Pittsburgh area. They did not speak. Matt stared out the window of the big Chevy pickup, looking blindly, feeling empty, not knowing where they were going, not caring.
At some point he realized that the truck had stopped. He blinked. The area was familiar. Then he saw the lake, and the surrounding forest, and recognized that they were in Moraine State Park. He and his parents had come here a lot during past summers. Big Mike would take them out on his boat, and they would fish, then return to shore where they would swim a little, cook the fish, eat the picnic his mother had packed, and walk the quiet forest trails, listening to the birds and the wind stirring the leaves.
He led Matt now from the parking area down to a picnic table under a tree overlooking the lake. A cold sun was shining, and the lake surface looked glassy and brittle, as if the touch of the slightest breeze would shatter it.
Big Mike let Matt face the water, then sat beside him. He was silent only for a moment.
“First thing I want you to know, Matt, is eventually you will forgive yourself for this. You can’t right now. You can’t even think about that. You blame yourself entirely for what happened to her. You’re thinking, If only I had come back when she called after me.
“But there’s no telling it would have made any difference. You were both upset with each other. She was trying to hurt you out there on that dance floor, and when she went off with that creep. And she succeeded. She wanted to make you jealous, to punish you for not doing everything she wanted, her way. I suspect she’s more than a little bit spoiled, and used to always getting her way. So, yeah—maybe you come back when she calls you, and you talk her into leaving with you. But then again, maybe not. Maybe she likes guys fighting over her. Maybe she was planning to dump you. We’ll never know what was on her mind, what she really planned to do. Maybe she didn’t, either.
“One thing I know for sure is you had every right to be pissed off at her. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. She hurt you deliberately, and drove you off, so she brought the situation on herself.”
He raised his head, appearing to be looking at the trees and sky, but Matt knew he was framing his thoughts.
“Which doesn’t entirely let you off the hook, though. I think you know you made a bad choice. Once she got in the car with you last night, she became your responsibility. Women don’t like to hear it, but they’re a lot more vulnerable than we are, and guided by their feelings a lot more than we are, too. That’s why we men can’t afford to let our feelings get the better of us, no matter how much we’re provoked. We have to think and take responsibility. And when we make a commitment, we have to follow through.”
He rested a big, gnarled hand on Matt’s arm.
“As a man, you have one big responsibility toward your woman. You have to protect her, Matt. It’s what a man does.”
He squeezed the arm.
“From now on, you remember that. A man protects his woman, no matter what.”
7
Jennifer Evans did not return to their private school. After she was released from the hospital, her parents put her into an outpati
ent therapy program and transferred her into another private school in Pittsburgh.
Chris Lynch never returned, either. Arrested for the rape, he was held until trial, then sentenced to eight years in state prison.
Matt Malone sold his Camaro. Then he went to the hospital that had treated Jennifer and spoke to their billing office. He told them he wished to pay her bill in full, and explained why. The office manager had to call in an administrator. The woman was astonished, but impressed and sympathetic. When, months later, Jennifer’s father inquired about the hospital bill, he was told it already had been paid by someone, anonymously.
Nobody was permitted legally to tell Matt who was providing her outpatient therapy. So he wrote to her parents. He said his failure to protect her had been unforgivable, and no apology he could offer would ever undo the harm he had allowed to happen. He asked only that they let him assume the financial burdens of any ongoing treatment she required, for as long as necessary. But he never heard back from them.
He never told Big Mike he had done these things.
He knew this was what a man does.
FORTY-TWO
“So now that he’s out of the race, obviously we’re shutting down all the anti-Helm ads and activities,” Carver concluded. “From now on, we’ll continue to say nothing but nice things about him.”
Spencer had remained unusually quiet throughout the conference call. Which concerned Trammel.
“Carl,” he ventured, probing for a response, “at the press conference, I thought you addressed his shooting with extraordinary sensitivity and grace.”
“I agree,” Carver said. “Even though you strayed off the talking points, you did a great job.”
“Well, excuse me, Lucas,” Spencer snapped, “but somehow I didn’t think America would believe I was the least bit sincere if I read your canned statement of sympathy.”
For a few seconds, everyone was shocked into silence.
“And your instincts were utterly correct, Carl,” Trammel interjected, trying to force sincerity into his tone. “It is a credit to you that you chose to place personal authenticity and simple humanity above any other considerations.”
“Well, maybe a little bit of Roger Helm must be rubbing off on me, then.”
Trammel gave the silver watch another spin on his desk. He knew this sarcasm was a seed of defiance that could not be permitted to grow. Spencer would have to be handled delicately, deferentially, with a great measure of ego-massage.
“I appreciate how upsetting this is to you, Carl,” he said soothingly. “We know this is not the way you would have wished to become the front-runner. However, in the face of this terrible tragedy, the nation is fortunate to have another man of character and compassion to turn to. Lucas, I think you always should take Carl’s judgment and feelings into consideration when developing his speeches and public statements.”
Carver immediately took the cue. “You’re absolutely right. And Carl, you are absolutely right about authenticity. After all, this is your campaign. As candidate, you have to be comfortable with the messaging. I apologize for failing to seek more input from you, and I promise to do better.”
Trammel heard a deep sigh.
“Well . . . I appreciate that. This whole campaign has been stressful for me.” Another sigh. “I never expected things would turn out like this.”
Carver and Cunningham spent the next several moments bolstering his mood by stroking his vanity. Trammel stayed out of it. For the time being, the less he made his presence felt, the better.
The conversation was winding down when he heard the intercom buzzer in the foyer. He excused himself from the call and left the study, pulling the door shut behind him. He hurried to the entrance and pressed the intercom.
“Yes?’
“Mr. Trammel?”
“It is.”
“Sir, there are two gentlemen here with the Metropolitan Police Department. They said they need to speak to you on an important matter.”
Trammel had been expecting this for over two weeks, wondering why it had taken them so long.
“To me?” he replied, feigning puzzlement. “Have they said what this is in regard to?”
“They have not, sir. They just said it’s urgent.”
“All right. Send them up.”
He stood next to the door, rehearsing his answers to their questions.
2
When he opened the door, two men stood before him in sports jackets and slacks. One was black and stocky and in his fifties, the other white and slim and possibly in his late thirties.
The older man flashed a badge.
“Sir, I’m Detective Floyd Owens and this is my partner, Detective Brian Cushing. We’re with the Metropolitan Police Department’s Criminal Investigations Division.”
“Please come in.”
He led them into the living room.
“This is very nice,” Cushing said, looking around and clearly impressed.
“Thank you,” he replied. “Please sit there on the sofa. May I have our maid get you something to drink?”
“No thanks, we’re fine, sir,” Owens replied, taking his seat. Cushing took a quick glance at the Potomac through the sliding glass doorway to the balcony, then came over and joined his partner.
“So, what brings you gentlemen here on a Sunday afternoon?” Trammel said, taking his favorite chair opposite them.
“Does your wife happen to be home, sir?” Owens asked.
“I’m not sure. She and I keep such different schedules. Let me check.”
He stood and called out.
“Julia! Are you home, dear?”
There was no answer.
“She appears to be out. If you prefer that she be present, perhaps I should call—”
There was a sound at the front entrance. They looked over.
“Ah,” Trammel said. “There she is.”
Puzzled, Julia entered the living room, unbuttoning her coat as the men seated in the room rose.
“I’m sorry, Avery. I didn’t know you had a meeting planned here.”
“No, this was unexpected for me, too, dear.” He performed the introductions. She could tell they were delighted to meet her, though they tried not to let on. But she felt unsettled when she learned who they were.
“Detectives?” she said, hanging her coat on the back of her own chair and then sitting. “What is this all about?”
“Mr. Trammel, I asked if your wife was home because this might get a bit sensitive. If you’d prefer to speak privately—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “My wife and I have no secrets between us, Detective,” he said, glancing at her with a little smile.
It was all she could do to smile in return.
Owens shrugged. “All right. Mr. Trammel, do you happen to know Emmalee Conn?”
“I do,” Avery answered, nodding. “In fact, I consider her to be a friend, as I was with her late husband, Ashton.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
He looked away, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Fairly recently. Three or four weeks ago.” He turned back to them. “She called with some questions about the facilities here, so I went down to her apartment to loan her a brochure and explain things.”
“She lives here?” Julia asked, surprised.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice and manner casual. “Since late March. I had meant to tell you about that, because I wanted to introduce the two of you.” His gaze went back to the detectives. “I encountered Mrs. Conn at the senator’s funeral. She was in a bad way, and not just from the loss of her husband. The bomb blast that took his life rendered their home uninhabitable. Also, they had experienced serious financial difficulties. So I arranged for her to move in here.”
Cushing shot a glance at his older partner, then uncrossed his lanky legs and leaned forward.
“When you say you ‘arranged’ it, what do you mean—if you don’t mind my asking?”
Avery sighed. “Gentlemen, y
ou embarrass me. You see, I prefer to keep certain of my charitable acts private. But it is probably just as well that Julia knows, now.” He swiveled his chair to face her. “Darling, because she had no place to stay and very little money, I leased the place for her.” He shrugged. “Just until she could get back on her feet.”
Even after all she knew of his betrayals, this felt like a knife in her chest. She knew Emmalee Conn’s reputation; everyone did. So the secret of his affair was a mystery no more. Once again, it was all she could do to smile and nod.
“That’s so sweet of you, Avery!” she said. “I can’t wait to meet her.” To the detectives, she added, “You may have heard that my husband is famous for his generosity.”
The pair exchanged a quick look. Owens turned to them, his face blank.
“I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you to meet Mrs. Conn, ma’am. I’m sorry to tell you that she is dead.” He waited a beat. “Murdered.”
She gasped.
“What?” Avery’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open.
The two men watched him closely, not saying anything more.
“Murdered?” He fell back in his seat, blinking, his gaze drifting off into the distance.
And suddenly she felt as if a cold hand had gripped her heart.
Avery’s normal manner, even when surprised or shocked, was tightly controlled and undemonstrative. He was the sort of man who took pride in cool mastery of his emotions. This reaction was excessive, completely out of character—the manner of someone trying to role-play the expected responses in order to convince people of their authenticity.
She was scared—because she knew he was not shocked at all.
“Yes, sir. Detective Cushing and I are with the Homicide Branch, and we’ve been assigned to this case.”
“How did . . .” Avery’s voice trailed off. He blinked some more and looked at them again. “What happened? Who killed her?”
“We don’t yet know ‘who.’ As for ‘what’: It appears she was kidnapped and assaulted. Her body was found in a stolen car, dumped near an abandoned warehouse in Maryland. She had been dead for well over a week when her body was discovered. Her purse and phone were gone. It took a while to identify her remains, and after that we’ve tried to keep it quiet for a bit while we ran down leads.”
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 41