Cindy stood there with her hands in her pockets. The few inches of skin where her legs were bare felt raw. She had the beach, the city, and the night to herself. There was something hypnotic about the noise of the wind and the waves. She thought about everything. Her mind was a grasshopper, jumping this way and that.
She thought about Jonny. She could still feel him inside her, could still feel his hands on her body afterward. They had such a familiarity with each other. He was still a little repressed about sex after all these years, but to her, it was as natural as breathing or crying. She could remember all the way back to their first time, on a summer night by a small lake in a city park. The two of them, teenagers, naked in the water. And then making love with sand on their bodies and mosquitoes biting at their skin. Magic.
That was so long ago. Funny how you took each day and put it on top of the one before, and before you even knew it, you had a lifetime.
She thought about her family. Hardly a family. Her mother, who died young, leaving them alone. Laura, taken from her that same summer night she fell in love with Jonny. Her father, a sanctimonious old hypocrite, who used God as an excuse for his meanness to everyone who was close to him. It was hard to say she didn’t miss him, but she didn’t.
She thought about Janine. They’d known each other for five years. Her friend could not take a gun and shoot her husband. She didn’t believe it. And yet Jonny always said you could never really know another person. Every individual was unfathomable, living inside their own soul, sharing it with no one else. She would never have said it aloud, but she wondered if she was being naive.
Was she wrong about Janine?
She put those doubts out of her mind. She had strength of will, which was something that her faith had given her. You could choose to be happy or unhappy. It was up to you. Jonny didn’t share her devotion to religion, but she didn’t need him for that. Her beliefs were for her and her alone.
Cindy thought about better things. Golf. It was winter now, but soon enough, she would be on an emerald-green fairway, three-wood in hand. She reflected on her clients and their problems and what she could do next to help them with their rehabilitation. There were always other things to try. She thought about country music and Jonny’s cute little crush on singer Sara Evans. She thought about her Outback, which needed a wash. She thought about Sammy’s sausage pizza. They were all the little things that meant nothing and made up a life.
And then, from nowhere, the pain came.
This was not pain. She’d experienced pain before.
This was a spike catapulted upward between her legs, lifting her off the ground, sucking a cry from her chest, driving her to the snow. If she could have died right then to obliterate the agony splitting apart her insides, she would have picked death. She had no warning as it hit. It was simply there, and then it was gone, leaving no memory, as if it had been a phantom. She found herself on her knees, sweating, trying to understand what had just happened to her.
The strange thing was, she knew.
Deep in her closet of terrors, she knew.
10
Howard Marlowe heard glass breaking.
It came from upstairs in the front of the house. It wasn’t a small noise, like a wine glass breaking in the sink. Something shattered, something big. He bolted to his feet from behind his desk, and he felt scared and ridiculous, wearing nothing but his white underwear. Goosebumps rose on his arms.
The empty eyes of the Easter Island statues stared at him from the poster on the wall. Do something, they told him.
Howard crept on tiptoes on the green shag carpet, as if he needed to be quiet in his own house. At the doorway, the basement hallway was cold and damp. The lights were off. He told himself that maybe he’d imagined the noise, but he could hear more glass breaking now, like rain. He reached behind the office door and grabbed a softball bat made of red aluminum. With the bat cocked over his shoulder, he stutter-stepped down the carpeted hallway to the stairway leading to the main level of the house. The wooden steps were unfinished, and the wall was unpainted plasterboard. He climbed two steps and listened.
Someone was overhead, moving around in their living room.
‘Hey!’ he shouted as loud as he could, in the deepest voice he could summon. ‘Hey, get the hell out! The police are coming! I’ve called 911!’
Which he hadn’t. He had no phone in the basement, and his cell phone was in their bedroom. He gripped the rubber handle of the bat with sweaty hands and took two more steps toward the closed door above him.
‘Did you hear me? Get out!’
Carol screamed from upstairs. His wife’s voice was gutted with fear. ‘Oh, my God, Howard! What’s going on? Where are you?’
He reached the top step and grabbed the handle of the plywood door. He found he couldn’t summon the courage to twist the knob. He listened and heard footsteps, barely six feet away on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood. Voices, too. More than one. The footsteps thumped, and he heard his front door open and felt the house seize with the change in air pressure. Icy drafts blew under the door and chilled his legs.
‘Howard! Howard!’
Other than the half-finished basement, their house was on one level. A hallway off the living room led to three bedrooms. Carol was trapped in one of those bedrooms, steps away from the people who had invaded his house. His six-year-old daughter was in another bedroom.
‘The police are almost here!’ he shouted. ‘You better get out!’
The noises had stopped. There were no more voices, nothing but the rush of air from the front door. He pushed an ear to the door, and when a minute of silence passed, he twisted the door knob and inched the basement door open. The lights were off, but the glow of the streetlight revealed a shower of glass on the hardwood floor like diamonds. He didn’t see anyone, but he could smell the sweaty odor that strangers had left behind. His finger flicked the light switch, and he squinted. The intruders had fled. The front door was wide open, letting in snow and wind. He took tentative steps into the middle of the room, twisting his head to check in every direction, and feeling ripples of cold and fright down his back.
Carol’s laptop was missing from the dining room table. She’d been using it there before they went to bed. The three drawers of his grandmother’s oval accent table had been pulled out and dumped. He kept almost one hundred dollars in cash there for pizza deliveries, and the money was gone. Next to the living room sofa, two of their tall casement windows had been kicked inward, leaving shards around the frames.
‘They’re gone,’ he called to his wife. ‘It’s okay.’
He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. When he hung up the phone, he realized that Carol hadn’t come out of their bedroom. He went to check on her, but the bedroom was empty. The sheets were rumpled. A flicker of concern flashed in his heart. He rushed to the closed door of the next bedroom, which belonged to Annie, and flung it open. The nightlight was on. Carol was in a rocking chair, and Annie was asleep in her arms, utterly undisturbed.
His wife’s face was a mask of tears. Her eyes were wide open and red. Mucus dripped from both nostrils. Her lower lip trembled, and she clutched their daughter so tightly that Howard was afraid she would suffocate her. He knew Carol, and he understood. The bubble had popped. The wolf had come. Carol cherished their ordinary, predictable life, and now its sanctity had been violated. Certain things, when they were taken away, never returned.
‘They’re gone,’ he repeated.
She opened her mouth and closed it. She wiped her nose on her wrist. ‘You weren’t in bed. You weren’t there.’
‘Sorry, I was working in my office. I couldn’t sleep.’
Carol leaned her cheek against Annie’s hair. ‘They could have murdered us.’
‘Carol, they were probably just kids,’ Howard told her. ‘They took your laptop.’
‘That’s what you’re
concerned about? A laptop? I could have been raped! Killed! They could have taken Annie!’
‘I know. The police will be here soon. I’m going to check if anything else is missing.’
Howard left Annie’s bedroom. He returned to the icy living room and realized he would need to board up the broken windows tonight. The temperature was around zero. He went to the front door, which was still open. Looking out through the storm door, he saw footprints running across their yard in the snow. Kids, he told himself.
He closed the door.
Howard returned to his empty bedroom and slipped on sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He checked the other rooms and made sure nothing else had been taken. Just the computer and the cash. His shouts had interrupted them before they made their way deeper into the house.
Just kids.
I could have been killed.
Howard heard his wife’s voice in his head as he stood in front of the broken windows and waited for the police lights to appear on the street. He thought to himself: And what if she had been killed? What if he’d gone into the bedroom and found his wife’s body there?
Shot. Or strangled. Or stabbed.
Howard thought about Janine Snow.
That was her story, too. She took a shower, and when she came out of the bathroom, she found her husband dead on the living room floor. An intruder had come and gone. Murdered Jay Ferris. Taken jewelry from their bedroom. So she said.
It was such a long way from Howard’s little house to that mansion on the hill. He had nothing in common with a woman like Janine Snow. Except now he did. A burglary could happen to anyone. He thought about her photograph, her blond hair, her put-together look, her arrogant beauty that was so intoxicating. And then he imagined her standing over her husband’s murdered body.
No one believed her.
Howard thought: Would anyone believe him?
What if those kids had killed his wife? You’re living your life, and suddenly a random act of violence changes everything. People start tearing apart your whole world. The police. The media. Pretty soon, they find out your secrets. Things that make you look guilty, even when you’re not. Everybody had things like that. You could take anybody’s ordinary life and turn it into something dark and criminal.
Look at Howard Marlowe. He murdered his wife.
Look at Janine Snow. She murdered her husband.
He heard movement behind him. Carol stood there, arms folded across her chest. She looked like someone who’d opened a closet door and seen the devil hiding inside.
‘I want to get a gun,’ she said.
Howard cocked his head. His wife hated guns. She’d told him over and over that if you brought a gun into the house, sooner or later, it got used, and someone got killed. Accidents happen. Arguments happen. Kids play games.
No guns.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Howard asked. ‘I thought that you—’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Carol screamed at him. He barely recognized her. ‘I’m never going through something like that again! Get me a gun, Howard! I want a gun!’
11
The North Shore home of Esther and Ira Rose had a For Sale sign in the snow. A moving van was parked in the driveway, and Stride saw two men struggling to relocate an oak china cabinet from the house to the interior of the truck. As he headed for the front door, he saw moving boxes through the picture window.
The Roses had a perfect location on the North Shore highway. Their large yard sloped toward the scenic drive, and the entire house looked out on the blue expanse of Lake Superior. Every day offered a sunrise on the water. However, Esther Rose had obviously decided to move on with her life somewhere else, after her husband died under Janine Snow’s hands on the operating table.
Esther met Stride at the door. She didn’t look like a murderer, but she also didn’t look like a woman who would send a threatening letter in exquisite penmanship – which is what she’d done. You stood there and watched Ira die. You killed him. I hope you can feel something in that cold, cold heart of yours. I hope you suffer the same fate someday – standing helpless over the dead body of someone you love.
She was in her sixties. It was mid-morning, but she could have been dressed for a country club dinner, in silk blouse, skirt and heels. She was small in stature, almost birdlike. She had no gray hair; it was well-colored to an attractive auburn and stylishly bobbed. She wore makeup and knew how to use it. The diamond ring on her finger was large and gaudy, and her earrings sparkled.
‘I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me in the midst of your move,’ Stride said.
Esther’s expression wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t unfriendly. ‘Yes, well, I know why you’re here.’
‘Do you?’
She waved him into the house. With a small gesture of her hand, she directed the moving men outside to have a cigarette in the sun. Stride followed her into the living room that overlooked the lake, and despite the scattered boxes, there were chairs in which to sit. Esther took the end of a yellow sofa that was positioned to take full advantage of the view. A rose-colored china cup sat on an end table next to her. Her knees were pressed together, and she sat with a rigid posture.
‘I assume you found my note,’ she said, looking embarrassed.
‘Yes, we did.’
Esther stared at the water. White ice hugged the shore, and the sun-dappled water beyond it was so blue that it was almost black. ‘Obviously, I regret what I said to Dr. Snow after the surgery. It was foolish to give in to my emotions that way. However, I understand your concerns, Lieutenant. I talked about wishing that she would experience the pain that I did in losing my husband. And now she has. It raises questions.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened,’ Stride said.
She glanced around the house with a look of sad nostalgia. Every surface had memories. ‘This was supposed to be our summer retirement home. Ira and I love – loved – Duluth. My children wish I would keep it. They still see it as a place for the family to gather. And my grandchildren love coming up here. But no. I’ll be living permanently in our condo in downtown Minneapolis now. There’s an energy and excitement to the city that helps me. I don’t need a reclusive lake getaway anymore. Being alone, with time to think – well, that’s the last thing I want now.’
‘I understand.’ Stride glanced at the mantle over the stone fireplace and saw that one photograph hadn’t been packed yet. He saw a man in a tuxedo, with curly graying hair, a leathery lined face, and jutting nose and chin. The man’s smile was white and broad. He looked happy. ‘Is that Ira?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Esther got up and retrieved the photo, and she had a hard time looking away. ‘Ira needed heart valve replacement surgery. As you might guess, resources were not an issue for us. We could have gone to the Mayo or any of the finest hospitals in the country. But we had friends up here who expressed the highest vote of confidence in Dr. Snow. We put our trust in her. Tragically, that trust was misplaced.’
Stride was silent. He’d seen people place blame many times. For crimes. For accidents. He said softly: ‘There are risks in any surgery, aren’t there? Especially something as complex as cardiac surgery.’
‘Of course. We both knew that. But this was negligence. The surgery itself seemed to go well, but there was evidence of post-operative bleeding. The nurses saw it. Dr. Snow didn’t take it seriously. She delayed taking action. When it was clear there was a serious problem, she finally opened him up again, but by then, it was too late. Ira didn’t survive the second surgery.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
Esther placed the photograph face-down in her lap. ‘I was angry. Bitter. This woman stole our future. The surgery should have been a new beginning for Ira, and instead, it was the end. I admit, I didn’t deal with it well. I said things – I wrote things – that were inappropriate. By July, I’d calmed down. Now I let my
lawyer do my talking for me.’
‘You’re suing Dr. Snow?’ Stride asked.
‘Of course. It’s not a question of money. I don’t need money. It’s about justice. It’s about making sure that no one else suffers the way Ira and I did.’ Esther stared at the lake, and then she turned back to Stride. ‘Believe me, I feel bad for Dr. Snow and what happened to her husband. No one should lose a spouse like that. Are you married, Lieutenant?’
‘I am.’
‘And is she the light of your life?’
Stride smiled. ‘She is.’
‘That’s as it should be. Ira and I were very much in love and had been for decades. Long before we had a dime to call our own. Of course, if you believe what you read in the newspaper, Dr. Snow and her husband had a much more troubled relationship. That’s a shame.’
‘Did Dr. Snow talk to you about her marriage?’ Stride asked.
Esther shook her head firmly. ‘Oh, no. Our relationship wasn’t personal. It was strictly professional. To be very candid with you, both Ira and I felt that Dr. Snow was an unusually cold woman. She had no bedside manner. If our goal had been to find someone who had a caring way about them, we certainly would have gone elsewhere. However, we choose surgeons for their hands, not their warm, fuzzy side, don’t we? We believed that she was the best.’
‘When did the surgery take place?’ Stride asked.
‘Last May. I’ve been coming to terms with it ever since. I only recently made the decision to sell this place.’
‘And how did you hear about the death of Dr. Snow’s husband?’
‘The morning news, like everyone else.’
‘Were you in Duluth?’ Stride asked.
Esther allowed herself a small smile. ‘You know, Lieutenant, you don’t need to be coy. You could come right out and ask me if I shot him. But really, do I look like a woman who would be traipsing through the streets of Duluth at night with a gun?’
‘No.’
Goodbye to the Dead (Jonathan Stride Book 7) Page 8