Her mother grabbed her arm and started to stand. “I’m going up there with Randy. Don’t move.”
Whitney faced forward, her hands at her sides. Her mother moved out of the row, pushing Randy in front of her. When she reached the end of it, she looked back and pointed at Whitney. Whitney still didn’t move, but she noticed people staring at her. When her mother turned her back, Whitney put her hands under her legs and smiled shyly. She heard someone laugh.
Then it was really quiet and everyone was watching Randy. It got really boring while Randy was explaining. There was a man sitting up by the judge and translating for him, but she could barely see him. And she couldn’t see Randy or the translator from where she was sitting. And she couldn’t move. The only part she understood was when Randy pointed to the man sitting behind the table up front. He was the killer. Whitney stood and crept to the aisle to get a good look at him. She was about to go even closer when she caught sight of her mother. She had those big lines between her eyes, which meant she was real mad, and she was pointing at the chair. Whitney went back to her chair and sat down.
The guy at the table wasn’t even really a man. He looked like her cousin, Alex. Alex was eighteen. She thought that was old, but her stepdad said it was real young. He also said you don’t know your head from your zipper at eighteen. She didn’t know what that meant because she already knew her head from her zipper. Her stepdad sometimes said weird stuff like that.
When Randy was done, an old man sat in his chair. Before the old man said anything, a man gave him a book and he put one hand on the book and the other in the air and said something. Whitney wondered if Randy had gotten to touch the book too. She hadn’t seen him do it. Boy, she wished she’d been the one to see the killer. Ever since Randy got home, everyone was talking about what a hero he was. But it was Whitney that told them what Randy saw. She sighed deeply. A man in front of her turned around and gave her a stare and she snapped her mouth shut and looked back at the man who was talking. He kept talking about the ’ceased. Whitney didn’t know what that meant, but she knew the ’ceased wasn’t there, because they kept showing her picture.
The man in the special chair said he saw the boy Randy saw too, but he saw him by a lady named Eva’s house, and then he ran down the street. Whitney didn’t think that sounded bad, but the man in the robe looked like it was. Then the man in the gray suit asked questions, and the old man pointed to the guy Randy had seen.
Whitney thought the man in the robe should have been asking the questions, but maybe he decided to let someone else do it. From what she could figure out, he was sort of like Santa Claus, only you didn’t sit on his lap. Instead, you sat in a chair next to him and told him your story. Then, if you did it right, he let you go. The man in the robe had dark hair that was almost all gone on the top of his head, and he didn’t look at all like Santa Claus.
Whitney’s mother whispered to her from the aisle, and Whitney shook her head. She wanted to stay and listen. But her mother came over and yanked her off her chair. It hurt but she didn’t yell. People were looking at her again, but she stared at her shoes as she and her mother and Randy left the room. As soon as they were in the hall, her mother turned to Randy and started telling him how great he was. Whitney stood behind her and rolled her eyes. When he looked at her, she made a gagging face. She wished she’d never opened her mouth about her dumb brother being outside that day.
She spun around in her dress while her mother talked to Randy. She pictured a whole group of people watching her dance and applauding. Then she would be the famous one.
“Whitney.”
Whitney saw her mother and Randy down the hall.
“Come on,” her mother ordered.
Whitney ran to catch up, her patent-leather shoes slapping against the fancy floor.
Chapter Forty-four
The backseat was cold, and he shivered in his T-shirt, trying to stay warm. His father had his window rolled down, and the cold air blasted against him. He pulled his arms inside the shirt and held them against his chest. Next to him, the baby slept. And next to her, his brother. Neither of them looked cold. Maybe only he was cold.
His father was grumbling to himself, but the wind and the metal ticking sound of the car made it impossible to understand the words. He pulled his knees up to his chest and dropped his head to his lap. They would be home within an hour. He could survive another hour. It wasn’t that cold. Shivering again, he raised his head and looked around the backseat for something to cover himself with, but the baby’s blanket was the only thing back there except his dad’s cooler.
His father reached back, his hand feeling for the top of the cooler and lifting it to reach for another beer. He brought it forward, dripping, and handed it to his mom to open. She crossed her arms and shook her head.
“Open it,” he snapped.
She looked at him and started to shake her head again when something stopped her. From the backseat, he couldn’t see his father’s face, but he could visualize the stare. Eyes narrowed, thick nose flared. It was alook that warned everyone in the house not to screw with him.
He shivered again, harder this time. It was probably already too late. His dad had already had too much to drink. Nine beers since they got on the road. Once his dad got that look, he was already wound up and mean.
When they got home, they were in for a beating. Mom first because she had started it. Then him next. Once or twice, he’d been last. By then, his dad was always tired and too drunk to hit as hard. That was if he was lucky. But his dad never missed anyone. Luck didn’t last that long in his house.
Usually he was first. His brother was smaller. And the baby was only little. She wasn’t really a baby anymore, but that’s what everyone called her. Not that it mattered to his dad. He’d been beating them up since he was four. His dad even hit his sister from time to time when she cried too much. She barely cried at all, but even that was too much to his dad.
When it was over and his father had passed out, he always took care of his mother. He got the rubbing alcohol from the bathroom and cleaned the wounds and put bandages on. He wrapped her wrist the time it got broken. And when his father had taken her hand and punched it through the window, he had picked out the slivers of glass with a pair of tweezers.
His brother mostly hid. He’d even gotten out of a few beatings that way. But it meant his dad got him and his mother even worse. His mother looked at his brother in a weird way he didn’t understand. Like she was real sad or something.
His father’s head bobbed slightly, and he could see his mother grip her seat. She didn’t say anything. He tucked his head back in his shirt and squeezed his eyes closed.
“You cold, honey?” she turned around to ask him.
He glanced at the back of his father’s head, shook his head quickly, and tucked his head back down.
“Shut your window,” she told his father. “The kids are cold.”
His father mumbled something that he didn’t hear. He wasn’t watching, but he heard a quick smack and the sound of his mother gasping. He shut his eyes tight, trying to block it out.
“We’ll be home soon,” his mother whispered. He didn’t need to see her to know she had tears in her eyes. He wanted to cry too.
He wished they could speak some secret language. If they could, he would tell her not to worry. He would tell her it was going to be okay. His mom started to sing, low and soft. Even his dad loved his mother’s singing. She had the voice of an angel, he’d heard his dad say once.
She did sound like an angel. He loved her voice. He closed his eyes and listened to her, letting all the bad thoughts out.
His father growled something.
His mother kept singing.
He looked up and watched her. He wanted to tell her not to fight with him. But he knew she was trying to be strong, trying to stand up to him.
Just then, his father’s hand shot out. He grabbed his mother by the neck and banged her head against the window.
; “No,” he screamed, jumping forward. He pounded on his dad’s shoulders, fists flying.
His dad slapped back at him, and he fell against the door. His head smacked hard against the handle of the door, but he didn’t make a sound. He tasted blood on his lip.
“I’ll deal with you when we get home,” his dad said. “Don’t you make me have to pull this car over.”
His mother was crying softly in the front seat, holding her head.
“Shut your yapping,” his father said.
His mother stopped.
He looked over at his brother. You okay? his brother asked him without speaking. He nodded and tucked his sore head back into his shirt, blowing hot air to keep himself warm.
The car grew silent. He could hear the clink of his dad’s beer can as he tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel.
He curled up in a ball, resting his head against the baby’s seat and trying to sleep. No one else moved. Even the baby knew enough to pretend nothing was happening.
He wished it was just the kids and his mom. He wished his dad would die. He wished his dad would get drunk and drive himself into a tree like old Mr. Potter did last winter. Or maybe fall in a pool and drown. Or go hunting with Sam and Lowell and get shot. How come his dad drank so much and always ended up okay?
He’d heard his father and Sam and Lowell talking about hunting accidents when they were sitting on the porch drinking. His room was right there, and he could hear everything. Some guy had aimed at a buck and took the head off another hunter. How come nobody did that to his dad?
He had to think of something. He had to get them away. The car swerved and his father snorted. His mother gasped but kept her silence. Just then, he got an idea.
He caught his brother’s eye. He tugged on his seatbelt and pointed to his brother. He nodded and pulled the belt away from his chest to show it was on. He pointed to his mom. His brother peered between her seat and the door and then looked back, nodding. He checked the baby’s seatbelt. Everyone was belted in but his dad. He had learned about seatbelts in school. They’d watched a video with two dummies. One had worn a seatbelt and one had not. The one without the seatbelt was all messed up, springs coming loose and his head almost falling off. But the one who wore the seatbelt was fine. The seatbelt would keep everyone safe. And then they could live happily, without his dad. He smiled at his idea.
His brother looked at him and frowned, but he shook his head. He couldn’t explain or his dad would wonderwhat was going on. Pretending to sleep, he rested his head against the baby’s seat and closed his eyes.
He counted to twenty-five and then opened one eye. His father’s head bobbed once and then twice and then popped back up. He reached his foot forward, resting it on the emergency brake just out of his dad’s sight. He waited, the muscle in his leg tense, until he saw his father’s head bob again. Then he kicked as hard as he could, pushing his father’s hand into the gearshift.
His father cursed and the car careened to the left. His father jerked it back, and he felt his head slam against the window.
Through the windshield he looked for the road, but it was out of focus. Grabbing hold of the baby’s seat, he heard his mother scream as the car hit the guardrail and broke through.
Rob woke in a sweat and wiped his face with his jacket. He stood up and tried to shake the images out of his mind. He couldn’t make them go away. He rubbed his head. He hated the dreams the most. Waking, he always felt like he was right there. He wanted to cry.
He paced the little room like a caged animal. Sweat poured down his back and pooled at the elastic waistband of his shorts. He’d long since shed his sweatshirt. Everything had gone crazy since Nick had awakened him that morning. Without any explanation—at least none that made sense to him—they brought him here and people started pointing at him like a killer. They’d taken his photo and his fingerprints, made him fill out forms.
Then they’d been in a courtroom and two people had I.D.’d him. Him. They’d said he was the killer. He put his hands in his hair and pulled. Tears caught in his throat, and he couldn’t hold them back. Please, God. What was going on? How could these people have seen him do something he didn’t do?
He was being punished. God was punishing him for what he’d done all those years ago. Jesus. He tugged at his hair, the spiky pain making tears run down his cheeks. He hadn’t meant it. He felt his knees shake at the memory of that day. Poor Becky. He’d never meant to hurt her. She was just a baby.
He leaned up against one wall and sank to the floor, crying. “I’m so sorry, Becky. I’m so so sorry.” He dropped his head onto his folded arms and let the quake of tears loose. The salty river was cathartic, draining his fear from him.
When the tears subsided, he was left with exhaustion, pure and simple. He swept his dirty shirtsleeve across his face and waited—waited for whatever was next. He had hoped the release would ease his anxiety, but every minute that passed built it back up until it threatened to overflow again. He stood and began pacing, trying not to think about anything. Just move, he told himself. But every time he paused, the word “killer” flashed through his head and brought with it the sharp, cold stab of terror.
By the time the door opened and Nick came in, Rob nearly sprang on him. “Oh, thank God, man! Thank God you’re here! What the hell’s going on? What were those people saying? I didn’t do this, Nick. I didn’t do anything. I swear. It’s some mistake.”
Nick nodded and put his hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Calm down, buddy. Calm down.”
He pulled a chair out and motioned for Rob to sit.
“I can’t. You don’t know what it’s like in here. I feel like I’m in prison.” His mouth fell open. “That’s what it’s going to be like, isn’t it? Oh, God. Prison.”
Nick took him by the shoulders and pushed him into the chair. Then he pulled another chair up and sat in it. “I’m as shocked about this as you are, believe me. You’re not going to prison. I’m sorry you had to wait in here, but I had to talk to some people. I’ll get you out as soon as I can. But you’ve got to help me answer some questions. Can you help me do that?”
“Yeah. I’ll do anything. Where’s Aunt Sam?”
“She had to go to the courthouse and talk to the judge to make sure you can go home tonight, and then she had to find your brother. She told me to tell you she loves you and everything’s going to be fine. She’ll be here soon.”
Unable to control himself, Rob started to cry again. Sob was more like it. His shoulders shook, tears tracked down his face, and he could taste their sweaty flavor when they hit his lips. He’d thought they were all gone, but a new batch had stored up that quickly.
Nick put his hands on Rob’s shoulders. “I swear, Rob. It’s going to work just like that.” He leaned forward. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Rob swiped clumsily at his tears and nodded. “Sorry,” he sniffled, trying to gather his composure.
“No problem. In the meantime, you and I need to work to answer some questions, okay?”
Rob nodded. “I didn’t do it. I swear, I didn’t kill those ladies,” he said.
Nick narrowed his eyes and watched him, nodding slowly. “I know.”
“What do we do now?”
“It’s like I said, Rob,” Nick said, meeting his eyes squarely. “We just need to answer some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“You’ve heard of a polygraph test?”
Rob shrugged. Every time he tried to clear his brain, a rush of panic blew clouds over it again. He couldn’t think of what anything meant.
“It’s a lie detector test,” Nick explained. “They want you to take one of those for them.”
He bolted from his chair. “A lie detector test? No way. I’ve seen them fake those things on TV. Hook me up to some wires and then make it look like I did something I didn’t do.”
Nick stood in front of him, their eyes almost exactly level. “Sit down,” he said, pulling on Rob’s arm. “It�
��s not going to be like that. No one’s tricking you into anything. A lie detector test is going to prove you didn’t do it.” Nick’s eyes met Rob’s as he made his point, and then he looked away.
“You think I did it,” Rob charged. “My God! You think I could have killed someone.”
“Of course not. But imagine how they’re seeing it for a second. These people—not just one but two of them—came forward and identified you. The deaf kid from that street, the man who said he saw you by Eva Larson’s house. How could that be?”
Rob’s breath came in fast, wheezy waves. “I don’t know. I have no idea.” But he did.
He thought about the other person in this world who looked just like him. Derek wouldn’t do this to him. He wouldn’t let Rob hang. He wouldn’t kill. Why would he have killed those women?
But an image kept coming back to him. Rob remembered the way Derek had responded to their father, the fear in his face whenever their father got close. Rob bit his tongue. It couldn’t be Derek. He shut the door on those thoughts and studied the hope in Nick’s eyes. “I’ll take the test, if that’s what they want.”
Nick nodded and stepped away from him, sitting on the edge of the table. He was silent for a minute. “Rob, what about Derek?” he asked, finally.
Rob stared at the floor. “What about him?”
“Could he ride your motorcycle?”
“No way,” Rob said, suddenly angry. “Leave Derek out of this. He can hardly walk. He’s been through enough.” Rob knew what Nick was thinking. The man who said he had seen Rob run down the street. Run. Rob could run. He was a good runner. But Derek wasn’t. Derek could hardly walk without a limp. How could he possibly have run down the street or ridden his motorcycle? Rob didn’t want to think about it. Derek couldn’t walk. He rubbed his face. He would know if his brother could walk.
(2002) Chasing Darkness Page 30