by Dan Noble
She said Dr. Pinocchio was missing, but he was the second source who called in to say he found out something about this case. He said Emily had been murdered; he said it was JFK, that with Millie’s psychological profile she would never hurt anyone. She used to barricade her mother in her own room because she thought she’d hurt her, that’s the kind of extremes she’d go to in order to prevent herself from being violent. She just doesn’t have that kind of makeup. She thinks she’s terrible, but she’s not. It’s all in her head. All this storybook stuff makes it difficult to know what to believe. You start reading meaning into everything.”
“But she was wearing the mother’s ring. In the old case files, that was one of the distinguishing characteristics. She never went anywhere without it. But Millie was wearing it. Could she have had a copy made? But that would be so sad to look at every day, wouldn’t it?”
“Got me, Lou.”
There’s a call through the radio. “Hey Boss, your paperwork just came through.”
Caroline and I take one look at each other and don’t need to say a word to know what each other is thinking. In minutes, we’re about to crack this case wide open.
43
MILLIE
I need to chop apples for Rose’s breakfast. I need to call Officer Lou back. He’s rung my cell phone incessantly. But when I open my eyes, my head is pounding. And when I go to rub at it, I can’t because my hands are restrained.
I look up from the bed and see my hands are tied to the sideboard. I feel around my hand with my thumb. Mother’s ring is gone. My breath quickens. I’m too late. Kennedy, what have you done now?
“Good morning, Millie.” Kennedy kisses the side of my neck from behind, where I lay, my wrists and arms completely covered in blankets. Rose is trailing behind him, her book under her arm. I secured her in her room. But now here she is and I don’t like the idea of her here. I tell myself we all have rage, we can control it. Look how long he’s controlled it so far.
“Run downstairs, Rose. Daddy’s going to make you an omelet that reeks.”
She laughs, comes over to breath in my face, eyeball to eyeball, and then give me a loud, pucker kiss. I muster a smile for her benefit. My daughter must be protected. We both watch her trail from the room, listen to her light steps down the stairs.
“You’re mentally ill, Millie. Nobody will question your death. Suicide would be understandable. You’ve had a hard life. It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far. But, with your husband sick, losing your pregnancy, finding your mother’s body. It was all too much.”
“But what about Rose?”
“She will be fine. At least once you’re gone. You’ve been scaring her, Millie, locking her in her room. She’s frightened of you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
She didn’t look frightened just now. “What about you? All the things you said? How much you love me. How can you do this to me?”
“Once I’ve made up my mind, Millie, that’s it. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed that about me.”
“But Kennedy, you said you did all this for me, for how much you love me, surely, that hasn’t changed so quickly!”
Just then, the bell rings.
Quiet as I can, I let out a quavery breath of relief.
Kennedy walks to the window to see.
“Why are the police here, Millie?”
I shrug. The look he shoots me answers my question: however much he loved me before, that’s how much he’s dedicated to the idea of killing me.
“You pretend like everything’s normal.”
44
OFFICER LOU
“Tea?” Millie Kennedy is beautiful. I seem to have been thinking about this all this time because seeing her feels like a return to something.
“Sure. Milk, no sugar.”
She busies herself with the preparation and I look around the vast kitchen. It’s got that old farmhouse thing going on, but in a modern way, like it all came together perfectly, by accident. If I ever marry and have a family, this is where I would want them to live. It’s so inviting here, something about, I don’t know, Millie Kennedy’s spirit that makes me feel like instead of visiting, I’m simulating the experience of living here. Like I know her.
The husband is probably lurking right outside the other side of the kitchen door. He didn’t look too happy when I asked him to give us a minute. I need to be conscious of what I say if my theory holds up.
She places a dainty china cup in front of each of us. The tea tastes better in this cup. In fact, it makes me want to start drinking it all the time. Here.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?”
I barely recall. I see myself behind her at that sink, dragging her hair away from her neck so I can kiss her. I shake it off. I can see Caroline’s head shaking over my shoulder. I know she’s questioning how long I’m taking to get to the search, but we’ve got to build up to that, do it right. I’ve waited so long. This is no ordinary case.
I pull out the old file from inside my jacket. There are photographs of documents, so small I’ve brought the loop I need to read them. They are of hundreds of long, slender hand-written papers. Atop each one is printed in a beautiful cursive gilt, Quelque Chose, which I Googled, to find it means “something.” I have been researching and reading through the entries on this list for so many years, I feel like I know this woman better than anyone. “Any idea what these are?”
She is a special woman. That much I know. I am going to protect her.
I can see the tears instantly rush to her eyes. But she takes a moment, calms herself, clears her throat. Not a single one falls. This is a strong woman. “They were—are—a coping mechanism for me. They help me to find meaning in things that are often difficult or too painful to deal with on their face value.” It seems to cost her to admit this.
It’s my turn to compose myself. No wonder it all felt so personal, like I’d been getting to know her all these years.
“But it turns out I have leaned too heavily on them, imagined, sometimes, that there was a more powerful element, a more magical, if you will, element, that gave these painful life experiences some meaning.”
I could tell how difficult it was for her to say these things. “Doesn’t seem too different from what we all do from time to time. Some might say that’s the entire role of both art and religion. And if you ask me, there must be a reason people are drawn so fiercely to those two. There’s something in us that needs for it to all mean something.”
This time she can’t stop the tears. She gets up, grabs a tissue. Stands at the window with her back to me.
When she moves from the window, I can see something she’s fingered into the condensation. Words. He killed Mother and he’s going to kill me NOW.
I knew it. I fucking knew it.
She tries to cover up the abrupt change in the room’s energy with a forced smile.
I dip my chin and meet her eyes as reassuringly as I can so she understands I’ve got everything. All these years of learning her lists, her world, her mother’s world, and maintaining my connection to her and the case, and now this vital moment. How can it not mean something? She sits quickly, her sleeves ride up. She doesn’t try to pull them down. I see something there—marks. He must be restraining her.
It’s time to move. I want to kill the man who did that to her. My mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to keep an eye on the entry points of the room, to think of all the possible things that could go wrong. What about the daughter?
She starts to recite something.
“‘The ideal is not the vague thing, that boring and intangible dream which swims on the ceilings of academies; an ideal is the individual taken up by the individual, reconstructed and returned by brush or scissors to the brilliant truth of its native harmony.’”
The words have a spellbinding affect on me: the individual, taken up by the individual…returned to the truth of its native harmony. We’re not allowed to say these words. We’re not allowed to stand f
or truth and beauty these days. Those are old fashioned terms, certainly not the domain of men. And yet, it rings truer than any thought I’ve ever had in my head.
I write down in my notepad: Baudelaire’s Ideal. Hearing her say them after reading, learning, memorizing, making them my own all these years, is quite stunning. My hand starts to tremble, and I make a fist, tighten it between my knees. Dare I believe it to be true: that there is something more to this life?
“In Les Fleurs du Mal, Baudelaire said there were more to words than the ordinary ways in which we use them. He spoke of their subcurrents and the spaces between them. It has been said that he can ‘loosen the links that tied words to their ordinary meanings.’ And in doing so, writers like him have been able to teach us how to experience the full potential of words, the stories created with them.”
She goes quiet.
“Why are we talking about all this now?” I bring myself to say, though I don’t want to stop the conversation, stop this feeling. I think I understand why she’s talking about this, when her life’s in danger, but I need to get it on the record.
“Like I said, it’s my coping mechanism. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was true. My life is just as insignificant as everyone else’s.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’ve certainly had an effect on me. And what about your daughter?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, so I’ll tell you. My daughter is afraid of me. When I black out from my anxiety, I cannot account for the time. And so I fear for what I will do. And to protect my daughter, I barricade her in her room. And she is frightened of me because I lock her in there for hours.” She shrugs. “She’s probably right to be afraid.”
“No,” I say again. “It is clear you are a good person, who’s had some incredibly terrible experiences. You’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to protect her.” And you’ve been taken advantage of by a psychopath who understands and manipulates you.
“Why are you looking at those documents?” she says, looking down at the same photo we’d been talking about this whole time. It’s like she doesn’t remember. “People don’t talk about these things! You don’t understand. You either know or you don’t. That’s part of it. You have to learn for yourself. It’s different for everyone. We build it based on our own memories, experiences, interactions with the texts.” She’s quite agitated. Is she about to have one of her episodes?
The door bursts open. My hand’s already on my gun. And I lift and point when Kennedy appears. Amazingly, he doesn’t put his hands up. It’s the first time on this job that has ever happened to me.
“You’ve clearly distressed my wife. I think it’s best you leave now,” he says.
“I’m sorry. Is there something we can do to help her?”
“It’s just time. She’ll snap out of it. She always does.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
I leave my card and head out to the car. My hand’s on my gun the whole time. I’ll leave this kitchen, but I’m not going anywhere.
45
MILLIE
I watch, horrified, as the squad car pulls out of the driveway.
“Excellent job, Millie. Using all that rubbishy obtuse language Emily goes for. He’ll have no idea what you were talking about. Didn’t suspect a thing, I don’t think.” Kennedy walks to the window, waits as Officer Lou’s car takes a three-point turn and trails down the driveway, most likely taking my hope of getting out of this alive with him. Still, I have to trust my instinct. He saw my wrist, he saw my words on the window. He saw Mother’s body and now knows I’m in danger, too. I believe he has a plan, that somehow, after I showed him the body, he is monitoring the situation here, closing in on an arrest.
“I was worried about that cop showing up, I’ll admit. But you know what, Millie. You played it perfectly. Now it’s on the record how delusional you are. And of course, I knew you were faking one of your episodes, because you’re never that lucid. Jibberish is what you normally spew out. It’s quite funny actually. But Officer Lou doesn’t know that, so thank you for putting on that show. You made my job so easy. Thank you. And you see, now I can raise Rose and give her a beautiful life. You’ve done well.”
“What job?”
“Killing you. Did you think I wasn’t serious earlier?”
I slump into a chair, I want more than anything to just give in. But I won’t let him know that.
He stands, tips his head. He always makes that same gesture, I realize. Psychopaths memorize normal behaviors, to fit in. How many of his actions I took for love were all a show? I can’t bear to think about it.
“You understand, don’t you? You’re the only one who knows the truth. So you have to go.”
“But what if we just . . . forget it?” I say. “I know you did it for me. And even though it wasn’t true, I was grateful for all that time I believed you covered for me, when I thought I was the one who killed her.”
46
OFFICER LOU
“Look, Caroline, you find out what the fuck is taking that backup so long. And when they get here, have them hide out until my go-ahead. The more clear evidence we get here, the better chance they’ll have of nailing him in court. I’m going to sneak back and hang out up there, beneath the windows, behind that rhododendron.”
It’s kind of amazing, knowing that’s called a rhododendron, from studying the case files, the pictures of Millie’s quelque chose lists. I can feel in every nerve ending that all that work is about to pay off. The husband is definitely harming, or most likely, planning to kill her, as she wrote on that window. But I’m here now. I won’t let anything happen to her under my watch.
But what’s this? Did Caroline misunderstand me? Are the squad cars coming right up to the house? No. It’s a nice black Lexus. I squat down. I recognize the woman coming out. She’s aged some, but that’s Angie James. She was the best friend, played a minor role in the disappearance case. I should stop her, but I convince myself it’s better to see how it plays out. I watch her go in. There’s a significant amount of time before she’s out of the car. Does she see me? My radio crackles and I decide to show myself.
“Angie James,” I whisper scream.
She turns, and when I’m sure she’s seen me, I hold my finger up to my lips. She understands, tiptoes over. It will be good to have help on the inside. We can use her.
“Wow, a flash from the past. Officer Lou,” she whispers when she’s close enough. “Funny seeing you here.”
She reaches out to grab my hand and then smashes me on the back of the head with a rock. The last thing I hear are her footsteps as she runs toward the house.
47
MILLIE
Kennedy doesn’t even look the same, like an actor who’s just removed hours of makeup and prosthetic. Chills run down my back. I’m in trouble.
“No Millie, I’m afraid we can’t forget it. It’s too late for that now. You’ve gone and ruined everything.”
I look down at Rose who’s come downstairs and just now emerging through the doorway. I grab for her. Kennedy pulls her, not exactly gently, by the back of her tee shirt.
“Who was that, Mum?”
I close the space between us, reach out for her. Mum. I’ll never hear that again, will I? I can’t recall why it irritated me so much. I feel her strong little fingers grip a couple of mine. I love this girl. She loves me.
“That’s enough now,” Kennedy says. He looks Rose in the eye and says, “Nap time, dear.”
She runs into my arms and hugs me tightly. I breathe her in, rub my face in her hair. It’s the ending. This is what the ending feels like. I should know. “I love you,” I say. She puts her nose against mine and says, “Kickles!”
I do as told and tell my tears to hold off until she’s out of the room. Rose giggles deliciously. Did I appreciate this so much before I was about to lose it?
She eyes me before she turns to go.
“You run up and use the toilet, Rose, and I’ll be right there,” Kennedy says
.
“Yes! Because I’m a big girl!” And then she’s off.
Kennedy pulls out two zip ties and secures my hands to the chair arms.
“Can’t have you running off,” he says.
In the kitchen by myself, I look to the window, where I had fingered in the condensation my plea for help. I assure myself Officer Lou saw it. But it’s still there and that is going to anger Kennedy if he sees it.
The bell rings.
“Where’s Millie!” It’s Angie.
“Nice to see you, too,” Kennedy says. Their voices are muffled, but I can make out the words.
“Act normal,” I hear him whisper to her. But why? Has he told her that I’ve killed Mother? Has he said I’m not doing well and to expect my behavior to be strange?
“She must have completely forgotten you were coming!” he says loudly after that. It sounds so candid, so natural. It’s terrifying, his abilities.
“Really? Are you sure? She’s the one I call to keep track of my own appointments.” Angie, on the other hand isn’t such a great actress.
Do not cry. I am careful to measure my breaths. When that doesn’t work, I bite my shirt. Because if Angie finds outs, what’s to stop Kennedy from killing her, too?