Red Leaves

by Thomas H. Cook

  "I didn't have any pictures," he said with surprising firmness. "And nobody brought me home that night."

  I felt nearly drunk with exasperation, dazed and staggering. "Keith, you have to tell me the truth."

  Without the slightest warning, a wrenching sob broke from him. It seemed to come from an unexpected depth, a sob that all but gutted him. "Fuck me," he cried. He dropped his head forward then brought it back against the wall so hard that the force rattled the shelf that hung above him. "Fuck me!"

  "Jesus, Keith, can't you see I'm trying to help you?"

  "Fuck me," Keith cried. He jerked forward, then, like a body caught in a seizure, he slammed his head back against the wall.

  I shot out of my chair and jerked the black cloth from the wire. "No more fucking lies! "I screamed.

  Keith thrust forward, then slammed back again, his head pounding violently against the wall. He seemed caught in an uncontrollable spasm, his body moving like a puppet in the hands of a murderous puppeteer,

  I grabbed his shoulders and drew him tightly into my arms. "Stop it, Keith," I pleaded. "Stop it!"

  He began to cry again, and I held him while he cried, held him until he finally stopped crying and slumped down on the bed, where he wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands, then looked up and started to speak. That for a moment I thought he'd decided to come clean, admit what there was to admit about the pictures, the car that had brought him home that night. Even at its worst, I thought, it would be a relief to have it out, done with, known. It was the suspense that was killing us, slowly, hour by hour, like a long drawn-out strangulation.

  "Keith, please tell me," I said softly.

  His lips sealed immediately, and his eyes were dry now. "I didn't do anything," he said softly. He closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again. "I didn't do anything," he repeated. He slithered out of my arms and sat bolt upright on the bed, no longer broken. I felt him harden before my eyes. "May I please be alone now?" he asked stiffly. "I'd really like to be alone."

  I knew there was no point in challenging him further. The moment had come and gone. This had been my chance, and his, but nothing had come of it, and it was over.

  I walked out of the room and down the stairs to where Meredith now sat in the living room.

  "Nothing," I said. "He denied everything."

  Her eyes took on a kind of animal panic. "He has to tell you the truth, Eric."

  "The truth, yes," I said.

  I glanced at the outline of her cell phone in the shallow pocket of her robe and considered all that now demanded to be truly known, things my father had told me, things Warren had told me, things Keith had told me, all of them now in doubt. In my mind I saw them posed together, Meredith and Keith, along with my other family, the living and the dead, Warren and my father, my mother, Jenny. They stood on the steps of the lost house, shoulder to shoulder, as in a family photograph.

  None of them was smiling.

  PART IV

  A figure appears beyond the diner's rain-streaked window, and for a moment you think it is the one you're waiting for. You recall it in photographs, but so much time has passed that you can no longer be sure that you would recognize the eyes, the mouth, the hair. Features sharpen then blur as they mature, and time has a downward pull, creating folds where none existed when the photographs were taken. And so you scan the onrushing faces, preparing your own, hoping that time has not ravaged your features so mercilessly that you will go unrecognized as well.

  You notice a little girl, her hand tucked inside her mother's, and it strikes you that everyone was young back then. You were young. So were Meredith and Warren. Keith was young and Amy was young. Vincent and Karen Giordano were young. Peak was no more than fifty; Kraus no more than forty-five. Even Leo Brock seems young to you now, or at least not as old as he seemed then.

  The figure who first called your attention vanishes, but you continue to stare out the window. An autumn wind is lashing the trees across the way, showering the wet ground with falling leaves. You think of the Japanese maple at the end of the walkway and recall the last time you saw it. It was fall then, too. You remember your last glance at the house, how your gaze settled on the grill. How desolate it looked beside the empty house, its elaborate and sturdy brickwork awash in sodden leaves. You wonder if you should have taken a picture of the cold grill, the unlit house, something to replace the stacks of family photographs you burned in the fireplace on your last day there. In a movie, a character like you would have fed them one by one into the flames, but you tossed whole stacks of them in at once. You even tried not to look at the faces in the photographs as the fire engulfed them, turning every life to ash.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Over a week passed after my confrontation with Keith. Day after day, as I worked at the shop, I waited for the call from Leo, the one that would tell me that Keith was going to be arrested, that I should go home, wait for Peak and Kraus to arrive, warrants in hand, and read my son his rights, then, one man at each arm, lead him away.

  But when it came, the phone call from Leo brought just the opposite news.

  "It's looking good, Eric," he said happily. "They're running tests on those cigarettes they found outside Amy's window, but even if it turns out they can prove Keith smoked them, so what? There's no law against a kid going out for a smoke."

  "But he lied, Leo," I said. "He said he didn't leave the house."

  "Well, contrary to popular belief," Leo said, "lying to the police is not technically a crime. And as for those pictures on his computer? Same answer. They were completely harmless."

  Pictures of nude little girls didn't strike me as harmless, but I let it go.

  "So, what happens then, if they can't arrest him?" I asked.

  "Nothing happens," Leo answered lightly.

  "It can't just go away, Leo," I said. "A little girl is missing and—"

  "And Keith had nothing to do with it," Leo interrupted. He spoke his next words at a measured pace. "Nothing to do with it, right?"

  I didn't answer fast enough, so Leo said, "Right, Eric?"

  "Right," I muttered.

  "So like I said, it's good news all around," Leo repeated cautiously. "You should take it as good news."

  "I know."

  "So, is there a reason you're not?"

  "It's just that this whole experience, it's dredged up a lot of things," I told him. "Not just about Keith. Other things."

  "Things between you and Meredith?"

  It seemed an odd question. I'd never discussed the state of my marriage with Leo, yet something "between you and Meredith" was the first thing that had entered his mind. "Why would you think it's something between me and Meredith?" I asked.

  "No reason," Leo said. "Except that a case like this, it can create a certain strain." He quickly moved on to another subject. "Everything else okay?"

  "Sure."

  "No harm to your business, right?"

  "Just the usual off-season lull."

  There was a pause and I sensed that something bad was coming.

  "One thing, Eric," Leo said. "Evidently Vince Giordano's pretty upset."

  "Of course, he is," I said. "His daughter is missing."

  "Not just that," Leo said. "Upset with the way the case is going."

  "You mean, about Keith?"

  "That's right," Leo said. "My people tell me he went ballistic at headquarters yesterday. Demanded that Keith be arrested, that sort of thing."

  "He thinks Keith did it," I said. "There's nothing I can do about that."

  "You can stay clear of him," Leo said in that paternal way of his. "And make sure Keith does, too."

  "All right," I said.

  "Warren, too."

  "Warren?" I asked, surprised. "Why would he have anything against Warren?"

  "Because Keith doesn't have a car," Leo told me. "So Vince figures it had to be the two of them."

  "Why would he think that?"

  "We're not dealing with reason here, Eric," Leo remin
ded me. "We're talking about a distraught father. So just tell everyone in your family to stay clear of Vince. And if any of you happen to run into him, like at the post office, something like that, just keep to yourself, and get out of sight as soon as possible."

  There was a brief pause, then Leo spoke again, his voice now unexpectedly gentle. "Are you all right, Eric?"

  A wave of deep melancholy washed over me; my life, my once-comfortable life, was fraught with danger and confusion, along with a terrible mixture of anger and pain. "How could I be all right, Leo?" I asked. "Everyone in town thinks Keith killed Amy Giordano. Some anonymous caller tells the cops that there's something wrong' with me or Meredith or Keith. And now I hear Vince has gone nuts and that none of us can go anywhere without fear of running into him. It's a prison, Leo. That's where we all are right now. We're in prison."

  Again there was a pause, after which, Leo said, "Eric, I want you to listen very carefully to me. In all likelihood, Keith is not going to be arrested. That's good news, and you should be happy about it. And if some nut calls the hotline? Big deal. And as far as Vince Giordano is concerned, all you have to do is stay away from him."

  "Okay," I muttered. What was the point of saying more?

  "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Thanks for calling Leo."

  Leo was clearly reluctant to hang up. "Good news, remember?" he said, addressing a schoolboy in need of a change of attitude.

  "Good news, yes," I said, though only because I knew it was what he wanted to hear. "Good news," I repeated, then smiled as if for a hidden camera in my shop, planted by Leo, so that even at that moment he could see my face, appreciate the smile.

  My working day came to an end a few hours later, but I didn't want to go home. Meredith had told me that she'd be working late at the college, and I knew that Keith would be secreted in his room. And so I called Warren, hoping he could join me for a beer, but there was no answer.

  That left only my father, and so I went to him.

  He was sitting inside, by the fire, curled in a wheelchair, his emaciated frame wrapped in a dark red blanket. In his youth, he'd gone all winter without once putting on an overcoat, but now even a slight late-September touch of fall chilled him.

  "It's not Thursday," he said as I came up the stairs.

  I sat down in the wicker chair beside him. "I just felt like dropping in," I told him.

  He stared into the flames. "Warren talk to you?"

  "Yeah."

  "That why you're here?"

  I shook my head.

  "I figured he'd go whining to you, try to get me to change my mind, let him come over again."

  "No, he didn't do that," I said. "He told me you had an argument, that you said you didn't want to see him again, but he wasn't whining about it."

  My father's eyes narrowed hatefully. "Should have done it long ago," he said coldly. "Worthless."

  "Worthless," I repeated. "That's what you said about Mom."

  He peered about absently, like a man in a museum full of artifacts he had no interest in.

  "Speaking of which," I said. "You lied to me, Dad."

  He closed his eyes wearily, clearly preparing himself for yet another series of false accusations.

  "You said you didn't take out an insurance policy on Mom," I continued. "I found it in your papers. It was for two hundred thousand dollars." When this had no visible effect on my father, I added, "Why did you lie to me about this, Dad?"

  His gaze slid over to me. "I didn't."

  A wave of anger swept over me, fueled by exasperation. My father was doing the same thing Keith had done a week before.

  "Dad, I found an application for a life insurance policy," I snapped.

  "An application is not a policy, Eric," my father scoffed. "You should know that."

  "Are you denying there was ever such a policy?" I demanded. "Is that what you're doing?"

  A dry laugh broke from him. "Eric, you asked me if I took out a policy on your mother. I said I didn't. Which is the truth."

  "Once again, Dad, are you saying there was no life insurance policy on Mom's life?"

  "As a matter of fact, Eric, I'm not saying that at all."

  "So there was one?"

  "Yes."

  "For two hundred thousand dollars?"

  "That was the amount," my father said. "But does that mean I took the policy out?"

  "Who else would?"

  "Your mother, Eric," my father said flatly. "Your mother took it out."

  "On herself?"

  "Yes." His eyes glistened slightly, though I couldn't be sure if the glistening came from some well of lost emotion, or if it were only an illusion, merely a play of light. "She took it out without telling me," he added. "She had a ... friend. He helped her do it."

  "A friend?"

  "Yes," my father answered. "You met him. A family friend." His smile was more a sneer. "Good friend of your mother. Always coming around the house. Glad to be of help, that was Jason."

  "Jason," I said. "Benefield?"

  "So, you've heard about him?"

  "Warren mentioned him," I explained.

  "Of course," my father said with an odd, downward jerk at the corners of his mouth. "Anyway, he's still alive. You can ask him. He'll tell you I had nothing to do with that policy. And for your added information, I wasn't the beneficiary of it, either."

  I couldn't tell if this was a bluff, but I suspected that it was, and moved to expose it. "Where did the money go?" I asked.

  "What money?"

  "The money that was due after Mom died."

  "There was never any money, Eric," my father said. "Not a penny."

  "Why not?"

  He hesitated, and in that interval, I imagined all the worthless get-rich-quick schemes into which he had probably poured the money, a bottomless pit of failed businesses and bad investments.

  "The company denied the claim," he said finally.

  He squirmed uncomfortably, and I knew he was trying to get off the hook. So I bore in.

  "Why did the company deny the claim?" I asked.

  "Ask them yourself," my father shot back.

  "I'm asking you," I said hotly.

  My father turned away from me.

  "Tell me, goddamn it!"

  His eyes shot over to me. "Insurance companies don't pay," he said, "when it's a suicide."

  "Suicide?" I whispered unbelievingly. "You're telling me that Mom intended to run off that bridge? That's ridiculous."

  My father's glare was pure challenge. "Then why wasn't she wearing a seat belt, Eric? She always insisted on wearing one, remember? She made all of you wear them. So why, on that particular day, when she went off that bridge, did she not have hers on?"

  He read the look in my eyes.

  "You don't believe me, do you?" he asked.

  "No, I don't."

  "Then look at the police report. It was all right there—the whole story: How fast she was going. The way the car went straight into the guardrail—everything. Including the fact that she wasn't wearing a seat belt." He shook his head. "There were witnesses, too. People who saw what she did." A contemptuous laugh broke from him. "Couldn't even pull off a simple suicide scheme without fucking it up."

  "Don't lie to me, Dad," I warned. "Not about this."

  "Go look at the fucking report, if you don't believe me," my father snarled. "There's a copy in my files. You've been digging around in them anyway, right? Dig some more."

  I couldn't let him go unchallenged. "Speaking of your files," I said. "I found a letter from Aunt Emma. She blames Mom for spending you into bankruptcy."

  My father waved his hand. "Who cares what my nutty sister writes?"

  "It's what you wrote that bothered me."

  "Which was?"

  "A line you scrawled in the margin of Aunt Emma's letter."

  "I repeat, 'Which was?'"

  '"Now let her get me out of it.'"

  My father laughed. "Jesus, Eric
."

  "What did you mean by that?"

  "That Emma should get me out of it," my father said. "She's the 'her' in that note."

  "How could Aunt Emma get you out of it?"

  "Because her goddamn husband left her a fortune," my father said. "But true to form, she never spent a dime of it. And she wouldn't have given me a penny, either. When she died, she still had every dollar that old bastard left her. Close to a million dollars. You know where it went? To a fucking animal shelter!"

  He laughed again, but bitterly, as if all he had ever known of life amounted to little more than a cruel joke.

  I waited until his laughter faded, then, because I couldn't stop myself, I asked the final question. "Did Mom have an affair? Warren said she did. With that man you mentioned, Benefield. He said Aunt Emma told you about it."

  For a moment, my father seemed unable to deal with this latest assault. "What is this all about, Eric? All this business about insurance policies, affairs. What have you been thinking?" He saw the answer in my eyes. "You thought I killed her, didn't you? Either for money or because I thought she was fucking around. One or the other, right?" He released a scoffing chuckle. "Does it matter which one it is, Eric?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "This is all about Keith, isn't it?" he asked. "You can't bear to think that he may be a liar and a murderer, so you've decided to think it about me." He remained silent for a few seconds. I could see his mind working behind his darting eyes, reasoning something through, coming to a grave conclusion. Then he looked at me. "Well, if you're so fucking eager to find the truth about this, Eric, here's a truth you might wish you hadn't heard." His grin was pure triumph. "I wasn't the beneficiary of your mother's insurance policy. You were."

  I stared at him, thunderstruck. "Me? Why would she...?"

  "She knew how much you wanted to go to college," my father interrupted. He shrugged with a curious sense of acceptance. "It was the only way she could make sure you had the money you needed."

  I didn't believe him, and yet at the same time what he said made sense. In the grips of that dire uncertainty, I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could be sure of. I saw the car's yellow beams sweep through the undergrowth and thought of Keith's lie. And here was my father telling me that my mother had driven the family station wagon off a thirty-foot bridge, a story that could just as easily be used to shift my own suspicions concerning my mother's death safely away from him.