Eclipse

by Hilary Norman

  And last, in the Google history on his PC: How to build a funeral pyre.

  June 7

  Thomas Chauvin was home alone in Strasbourg.

  Alone, yet not alone.

  Having his photographs to keep him warm.

  Until recently, it had always been the other Grace who had filled his walls. Gorgeous big black and whites in every room, smaller, more intimate color shots in frames on side tables. Every book published about her on his shelves, along with all the available movies and TV shows she’d ever appeared in. Albums filled with clippings, all with pictures.

  None of them his photographs.

  All that had changed now.

  He had started work on his shots of Catherine, had downloaded all the old news stories about her personal tragedy and later dramas, was anticipating more from his cuttings agency, had great plans for utilizing some of his own shots of her, and with Adobe’s help and his own talent and flair . . .

  One of his early efforts already filled the wall opposite his bed.

  An inspiration that had gone off like a flashgun in his mind in her apartment.

  Rear Window reborn. Little black dress with sheer shoulders. Triple strand of pearls. Not the Kelly look of shock, but certainly of consternation, almost of anger, taken in Catherine’s living room while she had been listening to her voicemail, and she’d been a little mad at him because she’d asked him to stop . . .

  So sexy.

  He lay back on his bed now, and looked at it.

  At her.

  Mica’s voice singing from speakers threaded through his apartment.

  ‘Je prends les poses de Grace Kelly . . .’

  Life was good.

  Full of promise.

  Would, one day, be even better.

  Chauvin was sure of that.

  June 10

  Sam had known, right away, after he received the request, that he would go.

  Martinez was against it, and just the thought of spending time, however short, with Toni Petit, gave Sam chills. But the killer had been hospitalized with severe stomach pains, was undergoing tests, and had put in a request for a visit from Sam.

  Not as a detective, but as a man whose trust she had abused.

  She wanted to apologize.

  He was going, he thought, for himself. Because though he had never really believed in ‘closure’, it still troubled the hell out of him – as a man, not just as a detective – that he had spent snatches of time with this monster over several years, and had never suspected that anything was wrong with her.

  ‘It isn’t me you need to apologize to.’

  The first thing he said when he went, on the second Friday in June.

  She was in a locked ward, one of her ankles shackled to the bed.

  She looked sick.

  She wanted to write letters, she told him, to the families of the victims.

  ‘Your lawyer tell you to do this?’ Sam asked. ‘To show remorse?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t really listen to him, but no, this isn’t about sentencing, Sam. It’s something I feel I need to do.’

  ‘So do it,’ Sam said.

  ‘But what if my letters open up their wounds?’

  ‘You think those wounds are even halfway closed?’ It was a relief to let out a little anger. ‘You think getting a letter from you is going to make any of those poor people feel better?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I just want to try to express . . .’ She shook her head. ‘There’s no word that describes it. Remorse. Regret.’ She struck herself on the chest with her right hand. ‘Mea culpa.’

  ‘Are you Catholic?’

  ‘I have no faith,’ she said. ‘So no acts of contrition for me, and certainly no hope of forgiveness. Death Row and the fire is where I’m going and what I deserve.’

  ‘So what do you want from me, Toni?’

  He had used her first name unintentionally, was angry with himself for it, his thoughts with the victims and Felicia Delgado and Billie.

  He wanted to leave.

  ‘I’ve written a first letter,’ she said. ‘To Arlene Silver’s family. I’d be very grateful if you would look it over, and then I could sign it and ask to have it mailed.’

  ‘You should probably ask your lawyer to do that,’ Sam said.

  ‘I trust you more than any lawyer, Sam,’ Toni said.

  He noticed the sheet of paper to her left.

  ‘Please.’ She picked it up, held it out to him.

  ‘I’m not reading it,’ Sam said. ‘You wrote it, you sign it, get it mailed, or throw it in the trash. It’s all the same to me.’

  He began to rise.

  ‘Please, Sam.’ Petit’s voice rose in a plea. ‘At least give me your pen so I can sign it – at least that’ll be a start.’

  He responded out of impatience, his desire to be done with her.

  He took out a pen. Just an ordinary Bic ballpoint.

  He handed it to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it.

  And then she turned it around and stabbed the point hard into her left eye.

  ‘Jesus!’ Sam yelled as blood and vitreous gel splattered and she screamed.

  He made a grab for the pen, but Petit hung onto it, and her fingers were strong, and two guards were running toward them, but Sam knew she was going to do it again, and no way was he letting her do that.

  ‘No!’ she screamed, twisted her arm, and dug the pen into the side of his neck.

  ‘What the hell?!’ he yelled and leapt back.

  The guards were on her, restraining her, and Sam yanked out the pen – knew as he did it that it was the wrong thing to do – but though blood was flowing, it was not arterial, and he wasn’t sure if he was madder at her or with himself for coming here, for being fool enough to give her the goddamned pen.

  ‘My eye for her eye,’ Petit cried out. ‘Why did you have to stop me?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Sam said again, as a nurse began to steer him away to safety.

  Even now, it was still about Kate, her lost eye.

  Not really about the victims at all.

  Not about penitence.

  Black Hole still not finished.

  Not until they lethally injected her, or she found a way to terminate herself or some other inmate did it for her.

  July 11

  The decision had been made to postpone the S-BOP production of Carmen until the next gap in their theater’s schedule. There was no way, Linda had insisted, that Billie would be deprived of the lead after all she’d been through.

  Cast and crew standing by.

  Except, of course, for one.

  Petit’s costumes had been the only bone of contention.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ La Morrison had said at a meeting in her condo.

  A pragmatic, thrifty woman.

  ‘I won’t put anything that maniac touched next to my skin,’ Carla had said.

  Not the only one to feel that way.

  ‘Too much time and money spent.’ Linda had been adamant. ‘And Toni’s costumes are too beautiful to throw away.’

  Sam fingered the new scar on his neck, understanding both viewpoints, personally just glad to know that they were all alive and well and would sing again.

  Billie most of all.

  They were rehearsing for the first time since the night that had culminated in Toni’s arrest and Billie’s rescue.

  In Tyler Allen’s backyard, as in the past, pitchers of water stood on the long table, the fragrance from the flower beds sweetening the night air.

  Almost as if none of the ugliness had ever happened.

  Billie’s voice seemed to Sam lovelier than ever. Her defiance close to the end of the final act filled with fire. Carmen would never give in, she declared. She was born, and would die, free.

  Sam let his thoughts wander for just another moment to the woman who had been part of this production; who had, perhaps, in her saner, more decent moments, regarded this company as a
refuge, but who would now, almost certainly, spend her own final days on Death Row.

  And then he left all thoughts of Toni Petit behind.

  And gave himself back up to the music.