Nick nodded. “All right. I’ll call to see which room you’re in.”
I grabbed the bag of alcohol, walked into the office, and secured a room. I opened the motel room door for Nick when he returned twenty minutes later. He tossed me my own bag of food then threw his car keys onto the small table where I had spread out a map. A bottle of tequila and a glass half full held it in place.
“I found Maguire’s street,” I informed him as I swallowed the contents of the glass, immediately pouring myself another. “It’s only about five or six miles from here. Think I’ll drive up and take a look.”
Nick looked me over then focused on the glass in my hand. “Ty, you really need to slow down on that stuff and get some rest. We’ve been up twenty-four hours straight. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. ” He yawned and stretched, emphasizing his point.
“Nick, come on—”
“No, Ty, you come on. I’m dead tired and need some shut-eye.”
I looked at him closely, noting the dark circles under his eyes. “Right. Okay, well, maybe just a few hours.”
I reached out and pushed him backwards, and he plopped into the middle of the closest bed. It squeaked in protest and bounced under his weight. He pulled out his fast-food breakfast from the bag still clutched in his hand, wolfing it down as he studied me.
“Ty, you look like shit,” he mumbled with his mouth full of food. “Your eyes are all bloodshot. Why don’t you go take a shower? And shave while you’re at it. You look like a goddamn bum.”
I ran my hand over my jaw and chin. I had remained unshaven for nearly two weeks, the grey in my beard a reminder that, as I grew older, Jillian did not, a motivating factor that helped keep my mind on task. I grunted a reply and turned back to study the map and eat my lukewarm meal.
Satisfied and weary, Nick folded a thin pillow up under his head and sighed. He was asleep in no time, snoring quietly. I had always envied how easy it was for him to fall asleep. After Jillian died, I craved sleep. It was the only place where I could see her, talk to her, and hold her in my arms. I could almost feel her there and breathe in her scent. But as time wore on and I drank more, I grew restless, and though I wanted to sleep more than almost anything in this world, it eluded me most days. Now was no exception.
I moved to sit on the edge of the other bed and stared at my brother lying opposite me. He was oblivious to the turmoil that raged inside me. I would keep it from him if I could. This was, after all, my battle, my demons that drove me foolishly into danger. As Nick slept, his jacket fell open at his side, exposing a gun strapped securely in a holster. I was shocked to see him carrying a weapon. I glanced back at his face, serene and youthful in sleep. I stood up and, leaning over him, pulled the gun from its sheath, watching his face for any sign of detection.
Sitting back down at the table, I held the gun in my hand and checked it for ammunition. It was fully loaded with the safety off. I looked down the barrel and along the sights before placing it on the table. It made me uncomfortable just having it in front of me, but at the same time it inspired a sense of confidence that had otherwise been absent, though anxiety continued to twitter restlessly in my stomach. I poured myself another glass of courage and turned my attention back to the map, noting the best route to Maguire’s house.
As Nick lay sleeping, I hammered the rest of the tequila and started in on a six-pack of beer to wash away the sour taste. My head began to spin as I contemplated the table cluttered with the remains of my binge. It disgusted me, the way I drank, but it was the best company I had to ease my loneliness, and the bitterness I felt because of it. It was also the only buttress strong enough to bolster my resolve. I ignored the feeling of uncertainty and refocused on my goal. As I turned to Nick and studied his sleeping form, I made my decision to drive to Maguire’s house, alone and without his knowledge. It would be better if he didn’t know what I was planning. I stuffed the gun into my jacket pocket, grabbed Nick’s car keys and the map, and quietly left the room.
My hands trembled as I climbed behind the wheel of Nick’s Jeep. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, but it did no good. I threw open the door and puked onto the pavement of the parking lot, though whether it was from anxiety or the excessive amount of tequila, I couldn’t be sure. I washed out my mouth with some bottled water then laid my head back, breathing slowly and evenly. Though my vision still danced about at times, my mind grew calm as I focused once again on the reason I was there. I started the car and drove off.
Maguire lived up in an area called The Plateau, a tall, narrow hill which rose steeply above Issaquah and the sparkling Lake Sammamish below. The forest was thick and impenetrable around the narrow, two-lane roads I traveled. Schools, lakes, and parks dotted the landscape, and deer foraged unbothered on the lush vegetation along the roadside. This was a community full of large, well-manicured homes. Expensive cars sat idle in the driveways while professional landscapers pruned the already neatly groomed trees and mowed the large parcels of plush, green lawn surrounding them.
As a young mother pushed a baby carriage along the sidewalk, I recalled Jillian asking for a jogging stroller, the one I destroyed in a fit of rage. I stared at the woman. Her face blurred, and Jillian’s focused clearly in its place. Anger welled-up inside me again, burgeoning against the confines of my flesh. I looked around me, noting the level of affluence, and remembered the modest home we had tried to buy and the child we were supposed to have. All of it stolen from me through the careless disregard of a greedy woman who, in all likelihood, already had more than I could ever hope for. Tears stung my eyes, but I shook my head and tempered the anger down. I had a mission, and I vowed not to let my drunkenness or the rawness of my emotions turn me from it.
I found Maguire’s house nestled in a large expanse of verdant, manicured lawn. A long aggregate driveway, edged with brick and lined with flowering trees and shrubs, snaked through it, while tall pines leaned over the elegant, custom-built home, expensively faced with real stone all the way to the roofline. I passed the house, turned around, and parked a short distance away in front of a pond rimmed with narrow evergreen bushes. From there, I could watch the house and not attract attention.
The only people about were a few landscapers, mowing and trimming for the wealthy homeowners, even in the dismal rain. They didn’t seem to notice me skulking in Nick’s Grand Cherokee. My head was pounding from the tequila I had downed, something which had been happening more often of late. From my jacket pocket, I pulled out the bottle of Nick’s OxyContin I’d lifted from him weeks ago. I only took them now and then when the pain in my head was too much to bear. After waiting twenty minutes for the incessant throbbing to ease, I climbed out of the Jeep in search of the best and least detectable way onto Maguire’s property. Luckily, there were no fences, which made it easy to meander from one property to the next. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me.
The rain showered down in pale grey sheets and soaked me through in minutes. My wet clothes were heavy and uncomfortable, a dead weight that hung from my shoulders. I suddenly felt the endless hours I’d been awake added to the tequila and the pill I’d just taken. My head was spinning much more than I was used to, irritating me further as I walked through the pouring rain, hiding within the bushes and behind trees.
I watched Maguire’s house for anyone inside but saw no one. Peering through the draperied windows, it appeared dark and empty. A security system control panel was mounted on the wall near the front entry, unarmed, its single green light holding steady. I walked all around the rear and sides of the house, keeping from the front so as not to be seen by the neighbors. I contemplated breaking in, as much to get out of the rain as to search around for information on Erin’s whereabouts, but then a car turned into the long driveway and crept up toward the garage. The wide carriage door opened automatically, and a black, sporty convertible pulled in with Erin behind the wheel.
At the sight of her, months of rage and bitter loneliness blazed t
o fiery life inside me. It roared in my ears and pushed from behind my eyes, blinding me to everything else but her. I fumed, rooted nervously to the ground in panic as the garage door closed again, cutting me off from her. Blood pumped furiously through my energized body, rushing through my head with the sound of a fighter jet taking off. Adrenaline nauseated my gut as my brain swam with the dizzying effects of the booze and drugs.
This was it, my chance to claim vengeance for everything that had been stolen from me, for everything that ever gave me reason to live. Flashes of Jillian flickered in my head, memories of the day we met, our wedding, the night she told me she was pregnant. They passed through me so quickly, it left me breathless and disoriented. I sucked in large gulps of air in an attempt to still the temblor erupting from within me.
I recalled the last time Jill and I spoke, the fight we had that night, the words she screamed at me: “You said everything would be okay, but it’s not. You told me you wanted a wife, a child, a home. Well, this is part of that, and that woman has taken it away, but you won’t even stand up and defend it. You won’t defend us.”
Then I saw Jillian on the narrow table, her blood soaked through the sheet pulled over her battered body, and the tube still stuck in her throat. And, in my alcohol-fueled rage, I steeled my resolve, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hannah
The house was a melancholy place, devoid of all souls save my own. I had already dropped Conner off at Beck’s new apartment for his first overnight visit. He was staying with his father for the long Memorial Day weekend. I knew this day would be difficult, but I was still surprised by the intensity of it.
Since our separation two weeks prior, Conner had stayed solely with me. Beck had immediately filed papers to regain partial custody, and two days ago won limited visitation until the divorce was worked out in court later in the year. As much as I had come to resent my husband, he was Conner’s father, and I had no place coming between them, so I allowed Beck to take him for the holiday.
I’d been crying off and on since watching Conner wave goodbye from the front entrance of Beck’s tony apartment building. When I walked into the house, it felt so empty, so lifeless. It was difficult adjusting to Beck’s absence. I thought I would be used to it, considering how often he was gone, but back then I always knew he would return. Now, on top of being lonely, I was alone.
I considered getting myself a cat, or better yet, a large dog to keep me company and make me feel safe, probably not very practical since I took Beck’s beloved sports car away from him. I had the convertible BMW M6, a virtual two-seater, and Beck got the SUV, a more sensible choice since he was now living in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood. He caved, admitting the Beemer was too flashy for his new digs. I couldn’t care less about the stupid car, one was as good as any other as far as I was concerned, but I enjoyed the fact that Beck was annoyed with me for pressing the issue with the lawyers. To be honest, I relished taking his favorite toy from him, at least temporarily, if for no other reason than spite. I tried to be an adult, even gave clemency great effort. I knew I should move forward with my life, but I wasn’t quite there. Close, but not yet.
I turned on the TV to keep me company in the quiet, empty house. The rain snapped loudly against the windows in an irregular staccato as the wind picked up, blowing debris against the rear siding and making the tall trees sway and roar. The lights flickered indecisively but remained on. I wiped fresh tears from my face then jumped at the sudden peal of the doorbell. It was surprising since very few people ever traveled the long drive up to the house. The bell chimed again, and I called out, my voice shrill over the din of the storm outside.
“Just a minute!”
I walked to the front door, rested my hand on the lever, and looked through the peephole out of habit. I gasped when I caught sight of the strange man standing a few steps from the door. He was soaked through, even his heavy leather jacket. With both hands stuffed into his pockets, he shifted from one foot to the other, an angry scowl on his haggard face.
I didn’t know him, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have opened the door. He looked mean and quite incensed with his mouth pressed together in a thin line and his hawkish brow drawn down low over his eyes.
Alarmed, I pulled my hand away, jiggling the handle as I retreated. I backed a couple paces away from the door just as it exploded inward. The jamb splintered, and the door swung open, crashing violently into the wall. It ricocheted off the doorstop with a loud crack and bounced back toward the stranger who held out his hand to stop it.
I screeched in panic and jumped backwards, tripping on the steps directly behind me. The intruder pushed through the open doorway and pursued me to the foot of the stairs. Terrified, I scrambled to run, but he grabbed me from behind and yanked me back by my hair. I collided into his hard chest, crying out in pain. His mouth slid to my ear, his breathing labored and ragged. I smelled the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath. It was tequila, reminiscent of the nights Beck had come home late from business trips.
“Shut up,” the man growled as he gave me a vicious shake.
Cold metal slid along the side of my face, and the barrel of a gun dimpled my cheek. I struggled against him. I kicked back at his legs and reached wildly for his arms as his fingers tangled in my hair. Fear crushed me. I screamed again.
“Shut the fuck up!” he roared.
But my fear was too intense. I continued to wail and fight against him.
A sudden pain and bright flash of light exploded through my head as he smashed my temple with the gun. Dazed, I slumped to the floor, his fingers tugging against my scalp before releasing their hold. Waves of nausea rolled through me as I crawled across the foyer. With the waterlogged sound of his footfalls behind me, I turned around and pushed my back against the wall. Warm blood trickled down the side of my head and dripped onto the wood floor. My bare feet smeared through it, sliding ineffectively as they sought purchase. I cringed against the wall with no visible path of escape.
The man reached down and wrapped his cold, wet fingers around my throat. He pulled me up along the wall. The length of his body pressed against me. His face lingered mere inches from mine. I stared at the cold anger that festered in his eyes. They were a startling shade of clear blue, made even more intense by the redness surrounding them. They bored into me with acute hatred of something familiar yet despised, confusing and terrifying me at once.
I opened my mouth to scream then flinched as he raised his hand. A loud snap cracked off the walls as he slapped me across the face. I fell back down to the floor, my blood splattering in abstract patterns across the gleaming hardwood beneath me. I clawed toward the door, an inch at a time, until the man pushed my backside with his booted foot. I sprawled face down. The tip of my nose grazed the small puddle of blood pooling beneath me.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he warned, “so don’t even try. You’ll only piss me off more than I already am.”
I struggled onto my side and stared up at him. “Please, I haven’t done anything. You have no reason to be angry with me.”
He leaned down, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me to my feet. He was calm and quiet as he whispered close to my ear. “I told you to shut up. I won’t tell you again. Now, close that fucking door.” He shoved me away.
I wiped the blood from my nose with my sleeve, turned for the door, and, with a trembling hand, pushed it shut, as commanded. The man walked up from behind and thrust me face first into the closed door, leaning into me with one knee pressed between my legs. His hand banded around my throat. He shook me hard once and murmured softly in my ear, his tone menacing in its warning.
“Consider this is a reckoning for everything you’ve stolen from me.”
Though his voice was barely a whisper, I recognized a soft burr, an accent I couldn’t quite place. It alarmed me and sent chills down my spine. I cried and raised my hands to my face. Warm, sticky blood congealed in my knotted hair
, matting it against my head.
“Oh God,” I cried.
The man laughed in my ear, jagged and harsh.
“You’re calling on God?” he asked in disbelief. Then he snickered. “Forget it. There’s no fucking way God can help you now.”
With his hand still at my throat, he stepped back. He spun me around to face him and pushed me at arm’s length. My back was pressed against the door. His brow was drawn into deep furrows as he peered at me with his fierce eyes, evaluating me somehow. Between the hostility and hatred, I could have sworn I saw a flash of uncertainty, a moment of doubt that clouded his focus. It was brief, and when I blinked it was gone. I shook my head. My tears and blood mingled and fell to the floor.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice cracking under the pressure of his hand.
He snorted with a brittle smirk that pulled up at the corner of his mouth.
“What does it matter? You can’t give back what you’ve already destroyed.” His voice was quiet, but it seethed in a feral anger.
“I…I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What have I destroyed? I…I don’t even know you! Please—”
My words were cut off as his hold tightened around my throat. I reached both my hands up and grabbed hold of his wrist, trying with all my strength to break his grip. I looked into the man’s eyes and saw a change, like something within him had broken, and the light that blazed in anger burned out. It turned into something else altogether. But it was too late for me to decipher what that was. My eyes fluttered shut. Blackness began to close in from all around, as if I were falling in slow motion down into a deep well. I believed it to be the moment of my death. I thought of Conner and what it would do to him if he were to find me, my body beaten and blood smeared across the floor and walls.
Just as my hands fell from his wrists and my knees began to buckle, the man released his grip on my throat. He grabbed my arm and pulled me with him as he surged toward the stairs. His gun nudged sharply against my ribs. I clutched at my throat, gasping for breath as pinpricks of light exploded behind my eyelids. I shook my head to clear my vision while he dragged me up the steps, stumbling, a trail of bloody footprints in our wake. His blows left me stunned, and my lungs labored to recover. I hadn’t the strength to fight him as he forced me up the stairs then down the hallway.
The Mistaken Page 14