"Why, Jack," her mother said. "Hello."
She didn't look particularly angry with him, just uncomfortable, and he momentarily considered whether to go to her, to give her the customary hug and kiss on the cheek. But the stern look on Harley's face made him think better of it.
"Hi." He could think of nothing more to say. "Merry Christmas" or even "How are you?" just didn't seem appropriate.
"What is he doing here?" Harley asked, speaking to Claire as if Jack weren't standing there.
"I'm here to see Claire and my children," he answered before Claire had the chance. Harley had every right to be angry at him—he knew he'd feel the same if it had been his daughter—but this was still his home, his family, his problem, and he couldn't help but be defensive. "And I'd like some privacy."
Harley ignored him, looked to Claire for guidance. She nodded.
"We'll be in the family room, then," Harley said, as if his daughter might need rescuing.
When they left the foyer, Jack stood silent, watching Claire and waiting for her to look at him. When she finally did, he said, "What I said about your hair . . . I didn't mean it like that." He took a step toward her. She put her hand out.
"Don't touch me, Jack. I cringe at the thought of you touching me."
"Claire . . . I just meant it's easy to change how you look. That's all." She crossed her arms again and looked away. "Can we talk before I leave?"
"No."
"Claire . . ."
"What, Jack? What do you want from me?" Tears began to form in her eyes.
That was the question, wasn't it? There were a lot of things he wanted, but he knew she couldn't give them to him. He wanted to go back to the night in the garage, back to April, and tell Jenny no when she asked him to dance. No, he wanted to go back even further than that. He wanted to go back to the banquet, to go home right when he'd first planned. Or maybe just a bit more, to before Earl said he was resigning. That's what he really wanted. He simply wanted his old life back.
But he knew this wasn't the answer she was looking for. He thought that maybe she was giving him an opening, cracking the door just a bit to let him back in. It was a test, only he hadn't studied for it. All he could do now was wing it. All he could do now was pick one little thing, one small desire that might enable him just a glimpse inside. And it had to be honest. It had to be true.
"I just want to hold you again."
She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her cardigan and dabbed her eyes. "Well, I've got a news flash for you. Jack Hilliard doesn't get everything he wants." She crossed in front of him to the stairs. "I'm going up to the bathroom so the kids don't have to see me cry again. You can let Michael know you're here yourself."
"What's wrong with them seeing that their mom's sad?" he asked.
She stopped abruptly in the middle of the steps. The house had seemed cold before, but now it was as if every window had been left open. Her jaw tensed; her hand gripped the railing as if she were trying to draw strength from it. He knew something bad was about to happen. It was like those minutes in the courtroom before the jury announces the verdict, but not one juror has looked at him, not one has smiled. The only difference was that now, he was the one on trial.
She screamed. It was not a loud, high-pitched scream, but a low, rumbling growl of frustration from her deep in her chest.
"God! How can you be so smart but so dense?" she yelled. And then, as if struck by inspiration, she wheeled around and grabbed a ceramic vase resting on the shelf of a small, rectangular alcove. She hurled it over the railing. He ducked, and it shattered on the wooden floor behind him. "There! Does that look like sadness to you?" She ran the rest of the way up the stairs, but before turning the corner into their bedroom, she added, "And I wasn't aiming for you this time. If I was, I wouldn't have missed."
He retreated to Mark's "country" house, about five hours southwest of the city in the middle of the Missouri Ozarks. It was a few miles outside a little spit of a town known as Cape Fair, which Jack had always called Cape Fear to irk his brother. It hovered at the top of a large hill overlooking one of the skinny fingers of Table Rock Lake. It was a large barnlike structure built into the slope of the hill, and the only livable space was the small, dank apartment on the bottom level, which was cut into the ground.
Mark had bought the place for a few thousand dollars with dreams of someday renovating it and turning the barn into the main living area. But Jack didn't see much to renovate; Mark would probably have to tear it down and start over. Pieces of the barn were missing, exposing the interior to the elements, and what remained was rotted and hanging precariously from rusting nails.
In the meantime, Mark used the place for parties—big, wild, drunken beer bashes he staged for his friends and clients. He'd invite them all down for the weekend, hire a local bluegrass band, and make sure the food and alcohol flowed into the wee hours of the night.
But those parties had been in the summer, when the grass was green and the trees exploded with leaves. It was now January; winter had settled on the house and the surrounding hillside, and, at Mark's suggestion, Jack had gone there to seek refuge—to "get his shit together," as Mark was so fond of saying. But it hadn't turned out the way Mark had expected, or the way Jack had hoped. He'd originally planned to stay for a long weekend, maybe a week at the most. But the place began to grow on him. He began to enjoy his desolate isolation, the way the wind howled up from the valley and over the hill, rattling the weak slats of the barn and threatening to implode the whole massive structure on top of him as he tried to sleep at night. He'd lost track of how long he'd been there, but he suspected it was approaching a couple of weeks. Long enough, at least, to stretch the limits of his leave.
Within fifteen minutes of his arrival on New Year's Day, he'd moved a plastic Adirondack chair to a spot at the edge of the yard, just in front of a short, crumbling stone wall that blocked the steep embankment on the other side. Each morning he made instant coffee and went to the chair, where he remained for the length of the day with his feet propped on the wall, looking out over the dead valley. Sometimes he closed his eyes, but more often he stared straight ahead, for he found it was easier not to think with them open, at least not to think about things he didn't want to think about. With his eyes open he could think instead about the landscape in front of him, the brown gnarly trunks and branches of the trees that he couldn't identify without their leaves. He could wonder why his brother had bought this place and then let it go to ruin.
Most days were gray, and he had trouble getting his bearings, knowing which way was north, which way was south, east or west. It was on one of those gray days that Jack noticed the sound of a slowly approaching car on the long gravel drive leading to the house. He'd spent the morning shooting at empty beer cans with a shotgun he'd discovered in a closet.
There were a lot of people he could imagine coming down there, if he bothered to think about it. His brother, or Claire, maybe, if only to serve him with divorce papers. He could believe she'd want to accompany the process server herself, for the satisfaction of it. Even Jenny, possibly, if he stayed there long enough, to chew him out for something or other. But when Earl stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, Jack was surprised. It wasn't that Earl seemed out of place. To the contrary, he fit right in; he had always been more Fort Leonard Wood sergeant than St. Louis District Attorney. But Jack had long ago decided that Earl had given up on him. The surprise was the first emotion Jack remembered feeling for a while.
As Earl's stocky figure closed in on him, Jack turned back to the valley. He wondered what they could possibly have to say to each other.
"Christ, you look like you're about to waste away," Earl said when he reached him. When Jack didn't acknowledge him, he added, "Have you eaten anything since you've been here?"
"Enough."
Earl picked up the coffee cup from the armrest of the chair and tossed what little bit of coffee was left into the grass.
"What are
you doing here?" Jack asked.
"Claire told me where I could find you."
"I've got a phone, you know."
"She says you never answer it."
Well, that was true. But he'd never thought it might be her. Had she tried to call?
"Is this how you spend your time down here? Sitting in this chair? What about your children, Jack? Your responsibilities?"
He didn't answer. He watched a blue jay alight on a tree in the distance. He sneezed.
"You're going to catch pneumonia." Earl noticed the shotgun and picked it up. "What's this for?" He held it high and aimed.
"Earl, what are you doing here? Making sure I pay my child support? Or did you come to offer me a job?" Jack was surprised by the bitterness in his own voice. "You're about a year too late."
"No, I think you're a long way from being ready for that offer."
Jack closed his eyes. He wasn't up to the verbal sparing, but out it tumbled. "Yeah, well, it seems I wasn't ready for the other one you made me either, was I?"
Earl picked up the cup again, walked over and set it near the end of the wall, and then came back near Jack. He lifted the gun again, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The cup burst, shattering into pieces on the wall and in the grass below it.
"Hey!" Jack said.
Earl sat on the wall just in front of him. "You been down here feeling sorry for yourself, Jack?" he asked quietly.
Jack stared at Earl. He seemed older, but he couldn't figure out what was different. Maybe the sadness permeating his pale eyes was more than a mere reflection of Jack's own. Looking at him, Jack realized that they'd both aged in the last few months.
"No. I know I have only myself to blame. I'm just trying to figure out what to do next."
Earl nodded. "Mind if I look around?"
Jack waved—an "it's all yours" gesture. Earl's footsteps crunched through the dry grass as he neared the house. Jack heard the door to the little underground apartment open, and then he heard it slam shut.
"Your brother owns this shack, huh?" Earl was right behind him; Jack hadn't heard him come back out. He sat in the matching chair he'd dragged over.
"What's up, Earl? I don't believe you drove five hours to talk about my brother's real estate holdings." God, he was doing it again. Why couldn't he ask a simple question without the sarcastic tone?
"Listen, you have to remember that you're still a father, even if you don't feel like a husband anymore. When's the last time you saw your kids?"
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Claire send you here?"
"Would you have liked that?"
Jack looked at the hard ground between his legs. "Of course," he said quietly.
"Look, no matter what happens with you and Claire—"
"You talk like there's still more to come. What happens with me and Claire has already happened."
"Well, I didn't get that feeling when I talked to her."
Jack felt something flip in his stomach and turned to Earl. "Why's that?"
Earl looked out into the valley, focusing as if he saw something in particular. "Nothing I can put my finger on. Just a feeling I got from her. She obviously misses you."
"No, she misses who she thought I was. She hates who I am."
"She knows neither of you can go back. I think you should give her more credit."
Jack sighed. The longing he felt for her overwhelmed him.
Earl turned to him. "You said you were trying to figure out what to do next. What do you want? Do you want her back?"
"Of course." He nodded his head fervently. "That's all I want. That's all I care about." He looked right at Earl as if his old boss had the power to grant his wish. "Did she ask you to come here, to ask me that?"
"No, Jack, she didn't ask me to come here. She doesn't have any idea why I'm here. I made up a work-related excuse. I just asked the question because your answer is important, something you need to figure out before you can decide what to do next." He paused. "A marriage can survive infidelity. It just has to be for the right reasons." His eyes drilled into Jack's. "What about Jenny?"
"How do you know?" Jack asked, ignoring his mention of Jenny.
"How do I know what?"
He knew that Earl understood what he was talking about. "That a marriage can survive infidelity." Earl stood, took a step to the wall, and put one foot up on it. He leaned down and retied the lace on his shoe. Jack had never seen him so fidgety. "Earl?"
"Because mine did." Earl turned around and sat down again on the wall, facing Jack. "You didn't answer me." He ignored the look of shock on Jack's face. "What about Jenny?"
"I don't know." He couldn't think past what Earl had just revealed to him.
"Dammit, you'd better know! It's important that you know."
"I know, I know, I mean I do know." Jack dropped his head again. "I do." The weight of his despair crushed him. He'd kept it at bay until now, but Earl's appearance had caused him to surrender to it, to allow it to break through his resistance. "Something Claire said to me, that I've thought about a lot while I've been here. She said, 'Jack Hilliard doesn't get everything he wants.' And now I understand, I know she's right."
He was suddenly gripped by an urgent need to make Earl understand. He lifted his head.
"Listen to me," he implored. "You know that old question? You know, the one where you're asked, 'If your wife and your mother were both drowning and you could save only one, who would you save?' Or some variation of that. You know what I'm talking about?"
Earl nodded sadly, and Jack scooted to the edge of his chair, closer to him.
"I've been here a long time, and I've been thinking a lot about that question. If it were Claire and Jenny who were drowning, who would I save? What would I do?"
Two months ago he would have felt like a fool, spilling his emotions like this to his old boss. Now he didn't give a shit. "It took me so long. I tried to exclude certain factors in Claire's favor, you know, like her being the mother of our kids. I tried to isolate it, just the two of them. But I couldn't choose. I couldn't do that to either of them. But I kept telling myself, you have to choose. That's what Claire was saying. I can't have everything. I have to choose. I'm forced to choose or they both drown, you know? We all drown.
"Well, I chose. I don't want everything anymore. I just want Claire." He closed his eyes tightly. "I'd let her drown, Earl. If I had to, I'd let Jenny drown."
The next day, Jack resumed his vigil in the chair out by the stone wall. The air was cold but damp with the scent of snow. Gray, thick clouds hung heavily in the sky, and he wanted to be outside when the tiny flakes began to fall. Earl sat with him, bringing him hot coffee and soup from a can that he heated on the stove. Sometimes Jack drank the coffee, but the soup got cold and Earl ended up returning to the house with it. After a morning of silence, Earl finally spoke.
"You're needed back in St. Louis," he said bluntly, without preface.
Jack looked over at him and shook his head. He assumed Earl referred to his job, and he hadn't thought about whether he'd fight for it.
"Jeff and Frank are trying Alex Turner for Maxine Shepard's murder. The trial starts in a few weeks."
Jack stared at him in surprise. "Alex?" What happened to Mendelsohn?
"Yes, Alex." Earl smiled slightly, pleased that he'd managed to pique Jack's interest. "They ruled Mendelsohn out pretty quickly. He's being charged with fraud and embezzlement, but he's not a murderer. They ran all the prints found on the gun against the prints on file for anyone who knew Jenny. As you know, because Alex is an attorney, his fingerprints are on file. They matched."
"Why would Alex murder Maxine Shepard?" Jack asked calmly, not wanting Earl to see the fear growing inside him.
"Seems Mr. Turner has a few screws loose. Once they tied his prints to the prints on the gun, they searched his house. They found a journal that revealed—well, let's just say he was a little obsessed with Jenny. He thought that if he could get rid of Maxine, he could win her back."
; Jack's head swirled with emotions: disbelief, anger, and, even though he didn't want to admit it, a sort of understanding. Jack knew well Jenny's power to inspire obsessions.
Earl continued. "I guess she shared her Maxine troubles with Alex one too many times. He thought he'd be saving the day—you know, knocking off her nemesis, I guess."
"What about Jenny?" Jack asked.
"There's nothing in the journal to suggest she knew anything about Alex's strange scheme. In fact, there's not even anything that would constitute an outright admission by Alex, and therein lies the problem. He's denying it and pointing the finger at Jenny. And since she's gone—"
"What do you mean, she's gone?" The coffee in his stomach suddenly felt like acid.
"She skipped town," he added before Jack misunderstood.
"She ran?" Jack couldn't believe it. It was impossible.
"She ran, not long after the charges were dropped. And that doesn't look good for her."
"But what about the lie detect—"
"Alex's attorney knows it's inadmissible, Jack. And he knows he doesn't have to prove she did do it. He simply has to put the reasonable doubt in the jurors' heads that perhaps Alex didn't."
Jack suddenly knew why he was needed in St. Louis. Earl must have seen the realization on his face. "He's counting on you not to show up," he said.
"I can't do it," he said. "I can't get on the stand and testify about it. I can barely think about it."
"It wouldn't be any different from what you told the examiner on the lie detector test. Jeff merely needs to establish that you were with her."
"It would. It would be very different. It'd be in front of a courtroom full of people, and I'd be subject to cross-examination. A defense attorney would have a field day with my testimony."
"True, but Alex would have a field day without it," Earl replied.
Jack shook his head. "I'm already the laughingstock of the city. And Claire—"
"You'd be surprised how much public support you still command. They've taken the story and managed to romanticize the whole thing, to the dismay of Steve Schafer and his camp."
Tell No Lies Page 33