“That’s not quite true,” Terry countered. “José Calvo heard Joe D’Abruzzo say to Kate, ‘I saw him.’ Flynn means to keep digging until he finds out who Joe meant. If it turns out to be Brian, I can work with that. But I’d rather know right now than have your brother crucified at a court-martial.”
Chin resting against a cupped hand, Meg suddenly looked wistful and too young for this ordeal. “You were right,” she said softly. “This is about our family.”
“Meaning?”
Meg gazed at him directly. “Give me time to talk to Brian. Together, we can figure out what’s right for him to do.”
“I’d rather surprise him. I don’t want to give Brian time to think before he talks to me.”
Vehemently, Meg shook her head, “You’ve seen how Brian is. Please, let me do this. Brian may be your client, but he’s my brother. When you’re in Europe or New York, I’ll still be trying to help him deal with everything that’s happened.”
Perhaps it was a pleading note that he had never heard from her—for herself and for the brother who, in some recess of her mind, must still be the boy she had protected on the day she found her mother dead. Knowing that Meg would bear this burden without him, Terry could not insist on his prerogatives as a lawyer.
“All right,” he said. “I can stall Flynn for a day.”
At once Meg stood. She stopped beside him, touching his wrist without looking into his face. Then she squared her shoulders and left.
That night he barely slept. As hours passed, he tried to imagine the dynamics between brother and sister.
It was noon before she called him, and she sounded unspeakably tired. “I talked to Brian.” She hesitated. “Then I talked to Kate.”
Terry was surprised at this. “And?”
“I’d like to bring Kate to your apartment. I think it’s better that you hear this from her first.”
TERRY HAD NOT SEEN Kate D’Abruzzo in nearly two weeks. His first thought was how startlingly she resembled her mother. His second was to consider how desirable she might appear to a man made heartsick by war, yet who could trust her as he did few others. An affair with Brian had more logic the more one knew about the McCarrans and the Gallaghers.
Though Kate sat beside Meg, he sensed the same coolness between them. Kate met his gaze, her expression desolate. But her voice was emotionless and stilted. “You should know that I’m not a murderer, Captain Terry. Neither is Brian. But as you already assumed, I am an adulterer.”
Silent, Terry waited for her lover’s name. When Kate said nothing, he asked softly, “Who did your husband see with you?”
Pale and still, Meg watched Kate closely. At length Kate said, “Brian and I both lied to you. That day at the hotel, Joe found out what was going on.”
Though Terry was prepared for this, her admission colored everything that she and Brian had asked him to believe. “How long was your affair?” he asked.
“Three months.”
Quite deliberately, Terry remained as emotionless as she. “Walk me through this from the beginning.”
Kate sat straighter, as though fighting off her own humiliation. “Everything I said about my marriage was true—Joe’s withdrawal, the verbal and physical abuse, the total absence of affection. I was so miserable that I went to his apartment and poured my heart out to him.” She gazed past Terry, her voice quieter. “I started crying, so he held me. Suddenly I could feel our bodies discovering what we wanted.”
Meg, Terry thought, looked as mortified as Kate. She turned away, as though wishing not to look at the woman beside her. “And after that?” Terry asked.
“We saw each other every week. I couldn’t risk going to his apartment. So I always went to the hotel and waited for him in the room.” Her throat twitched. “It lasted until Joe followed me.”
“How did he know?” Terry asked. “Phone records?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But it couldn’t have been that. I was careful not to use any phone where Joe saw records of who I called.” A trace of shame surfaced in her voice. “We had a regular day and time—Wednesday at noon. It made things simpler. We only needed to talk if someone had to cancel.”
Terry thought of Lauren Scott describing Kate’s desperation at her daughter’s sudden illness. “So when Brian took the gun,” he said, “Joe already knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go over that again, Kate. This time include the context.”
“You mean my affair,” Kate retorted in a brittle voice. “Otherwise, I told you the truth. Except that my complaints about his drinking and ignoring the kids also served as my excuse.”
“You also said Joe held a gun to your head because he thought you were telling people about him. That’s not quite true, is it?”
Kate closed her eyes. “Not that part, no. He was afraid that other people might know about me.”
“Tell me about it. Everything.”
As Kate began, Terry envisioned the new version, searching for inconsistencies, comparing its details with what she had said before.
SHE WAS DRYING HER hair in front of the mirror when his face appeared behind her. With ominous quiet, he said, “Turn off the hair dryer.”
Kate complied, frozen where she stood. He placed the tumbler of whiskey on the sink, roughly grabbing her shoulders to spin her around. In a low, tight voice, he demanded, “Who knows about you and McCarran?”
Bracing herself, she felt her bottled shame and anger become defiance. “No one. But everyone knows about you. Don’t you know how different you are? Are you so far gone you’ve stopped seeing yourself? If you don’t believe me, look in the mirror. Look at us.”
Joe’s eyes flickered toward his reflection. More evenly, Kate said, “I’m ashamed of what I’ve done, Joe. But together we can face this.”
Without speaking, he turned and left.
Shaken, Kate reached for the hair dryer. Then Joe reappeared in the mirror. She saw, then felt the gun he held to her temple.
In a taut voice, he said, “It’s not our marriage you care about. You’re trying to protect him.”
Kate’s stomach felt hollow. “No.”
Numbly, she wondered if this stranger, her husband, would put a bullet through her brain. Silently, their images in the mirror watched each other. Kate saw his hand move, relieving the metallic pressure on her temple. He turned, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care.
The click of the door latch broke her spell. Tears running down her face, Kate knelt beside the toilet and vomited.
“That was when I called Brian,” she told Terry. “He took the gun out of fear that Joe would kill me.”
“And the night of the shooting?”
Kate hesitated. “We were going to dinner,” she said softly. “Just as I told you before.”
Once again, Terry listened, imaging the scene as she described it, even as he wondered at its truth.
AS BEFORE, THE CHILDREN were gone, and Joe had started drinking. For once, her affair did not appear to taint his thoughts. He sat on the edge of their bed, watching Kate put her earrings on. “Just the two of us,” he said. “Remember how we were before?”
The reference to her transgression, once unthinkable to her, filled Kate with unspeakable sadness. “Yes,” she answered. “I remember how safe I felt.”
Something in her tone seemed to transform his thoughts. His face changed, as though a veil had fallen, leaving his eyes distant and suspicious. Then he stood, sliding open the drawer of the nightstand.
She watched him stare at the empty drawer. Quietly, he asked, “Where is it?”
She should have prepared an answer, Kate knew. “It’s gone, Joe.”
He turned slowly, heavily. The rage in Joe’s eyes made her shrink from him.
With swift catlike movements, he threw her on the bed. Panicked, she felt his hands around her throat, both thumbs pressing her Adam’s apple. She began to gag, her windpipe narrowing. His face was inches from hers. “Where?” he inquired with lethal softne
ss.
He would kill her, Kate thought. With the last reserves of air, she croaked, “Brian took it.”
The stench of liquor filled her nostrils. “Brian McCarran?” Joe demanded.
All she could do was nod, until he lessened the pressure. “It’s not Brian’s fault—”
“No,” he spat. “It’s always my fault, isn’t it?”
Suddenly he stood. Lying on the bed, Kate felt violated. Her throat was raw and tender.
Turning, Joe headed for the door. Afraid, she asked, “Where are you going?”
“To get back what’s mine. It’s time that this fucking family remembers whose wife you are.”
He stalked from the room. Weak with fear, Kate heard the front door close behind him.
She made herself stand. Dazed, she could not remember Brian’s phone number. Then she started dialing, the numbers coming back to her.
His phone kept ringing, and then she heard a click. In the hollow tone of a recording, he answered, “This is Brian McCarran—”
Interrupting Kate’s narrative, Terry turned to Meg, “I need to see him. Now.”
Meg still looked crestfallen. “Brian’s at work,” she answered slowly. “I’ll go get him. We could be here around five.”
HE SAT ON THE couch in his crisp khaki uniform, Meg beside him. His cool blue-gray eyes regarded Terry without defensiveness or anger. Then he gave a fatalistic shrug. “Game’s up, I guess.”
“That’s a way of putting it,” Terry said tersely. “Another is that you fucked with me.”
“Sorry,” Brian answered mildly. “But I know Meg feels worse.”
Meg looked down. “Yeah,” Terry said. “Lying to Meg must have been tough on you.”
“Know what’s tough about this?” Brian countered softly. “Kate’s kids.”
“That’s why you lied?”
“Kate’s all they’ve got, Captain. I remember how that is. I didn’t want them to feel ashamed of her. I still don’t.”
Terry wondered if, like Meg, Brian suspected that Tony McCarran and Kate’s mother had been lovers before his own mother killed herself. But Meg watched Terry with the same willful impassivity, as if more focused on his emotions than her own. What seemed unmistakable was the sadness in Brian’s voice. “That’s why I took the gun,” he said. “I didn’t want those kids to lose their mother.”
As with Kate, Terry parsed Brian’s story for changes.
KATE OPENED THE DOOR of the town house before he could knock. Her face was frozen, her eyes stunned.
Pushing past her, Brian looked swiftly from side to side. “Where is he?”
“At the Officers’ Club,” Kate said quickly. “He’s already been drinking.”
Crossing the living room, Brian searched the hallway. “And the kids?”
“With my mom.”
He joined her in the living room, his tone softer but still urgent. “Did he hit you again?”
She sat on the couch, awkwardly and abruptly, as though the adrenaline that propelled her had evanesced. “He threatened me with a gun. I can’t go on like this.”
“Then stop him.” Brian sat down beside her, covering Kate’s hand with his. “Get help, Kate. You have to go to his battalion commander.”
Kate slowly shook her head, a gesture of despair. “You know why I can’t.”
“What if he kills you? Where would the kids be then?” Brian made himself speak slowly and firmly. “We don’t have a choice. No matter what comes out.”
She put her hands to her face, saying in a muffled voice, “Can you imagine what would happen? I can’t do that, Brian.”
“Then I’ll talk to Joe myself.” He paused, then asked in the same insistent tone, “Where’s the gun?”
With seeming effort, Kate stood, walking toward the bedroom like an automaton. Following, Brian saw her open the drawer of the nightstand, drawing back from what she saw. Brian withdrew the gun, then snapped it open to scrutinize the magazine. “This is loaded, Kate.”
Pale, she sat on the edge of the bed. Brian found the box of cartridges on the top shelf of the closet, next to the cap of Joe’s dress uniform. He stuffed the box in his pocket and the gun in his waistband. “What are you doing?” Kate asked.
“Taking it with me.”
“Please, Brian—ever since he followed me, he’s been on the edge. If he loses control, he’ll kill you.”
Brian kissed her forehead. “Get help,” he repeated softly. “No one matters more than you—”
“BUT SHE DIDN’T GET help,” Brian told Terry now. “Because of the affair, she felt as if she couldn’t. So Joe came looking for me.”
BRIAN HEARD THE SHRILL bleat from the building’s outside door, the signal to admit a caller. Getting off the phone with Kate, he removed the handgun from his dresser drawer and walked to the living room. Quickly, he concealed the gun beneath the pillow on his overstuffed chair. Then he buzzed Joe in, opening the door to his apartment.
Thudding footsteps echoed in the stairwell; then Joe D’Abruzzo filled the door frame. His face was flushed, his forehead shiny with sweat, his eyes darting and unfocused. The living room felt claustrophobic. Hand outstretched, Joe said, “I’ve had enough, you fucking weasel. Give me the gun.”
To Brian’s ear, his own reply sounded faint. “You threatened Kate—”
“So you had rights?” Joe’s broad face was a mask of anger, his dark eyes wild with unreason. “I can shatter your windpipe or gouge your fucking eyes out.”
He took another step forward. Without thinking, Brian reached for the gun.
It was aimed at Joe before he knew it. “Straighten yourself out,” Brian said quickly. “Or I’ll protect her any way I can. No matter what.”
In a split second, Joe spun sideways, hands raised to attack. Brian’s finger twitched, the gun jumping in his hand.
The next thing he knew, Joe was lying against the wall in a pool of blood.
AFTER BRIAN LEFT, TERRY drifted to his window, watching his client walk away from the apartment building, a solitary figure with the tread of an automaton. Terry felt Meg behind him.
“Never believe anyone,” he said. “Especially someone facing a charge of murder. I did believe him, though. He’s a pretty good liar—or was. I wonder what else one or both of them are lying about.”
“That’s not fair.” Meg’s voice was tight and anxious. “He was protecting Kate and her children.”
When Terry turned, her eyes were sad but watchful. “Maybe so,” he answered. “But now Flynn has his motive. Not only was Brian screwing D’Abruzzo’s wife, but Joe could have ruined Brian’s career. On the brighter side, the affair gave D’Abruzzo a motive to tear your brother limb from limb. Either way, Brian’s future in the army is looking pretty grim.”
Dully, Meg said, “I guess you’re going back to Flynn.”
Watching her, Terry forced himself to recall that, like him, she was also Brian’s lawyer and that they had a job to do. Slowly, he nodded. “Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I can mislead him. We’ll have to see whether he really thinks that lying about sex is tantamount to murder.”
six
TWO HOURS BEFORE MEETING MIKE FLYNN, PAUL TERRY DRANK coffee at his kitchen table, conjuring visions of a long ago sunrise in Mexico.
He had been in college at Ohio Wesleyan. Some friends with resources had taken a house in Cabo San Lucas over winter break and invited him for the price of airfare, earned in a summer of working construction. He had never before traveled outside the United States. Accustomed to rising early, Paul would drink coffee on the porch while his friends slept, watching fishing boats ply the Pacific as spreading dawn turned gray waters to a deepening blue. Letting his subconscious glide from thought to thought, Paul pondered his future without, for once, trying to form a plan.
It was before seven; Paul knew he would not see his friends, slumberous from beer and tequila, for several hours. Without begrudging them their good fortune, Paul accepted that he was different; the rare luxu
ry of feeling time slip through his fingers was worth awakening for. On the beach, a two-minute walk downhill, two slender girls appeared between the palms that lined the sand, heedless of the white fishing boats that sliced the water in their wake. Paul had never seen a place so beautiful.
Someday, he promised himself, he would do this anytime life permitted.
It would not be soon. He had years of work ahead, divided into days and weeks, exams and quarters, the dogged steps through which he maintained his current scholarship in order to secure the next one. He went to class and to work, wasting no time in between, driven by his own desire to excel—or, when that flagged, his fear of failing like his father, his hope of pleasing the mother for whom he signified that her life still had meaning. When next he returned here, it would not be as someone’s guest.
He thought all of this without trying to think at all. On the surface of his mind, he merely watched the fishing boats. By the end of his final cup of coffee, he had chosen a career in law.
He had never watched the fishing boats again. But often he imagined them, letting his subconscious summon what it would. After an hour of this, he was prepared to confront Flynn.
SITTING BEHIND HIS DESK, Flynn seemed to have been waiting there for hours. In the manner of someone driving their preset agenda, he said, “I assume you met with your client.”
That Terry chose not to answer was answer enough. “Let’s stay with your suspicion about Kate and Brian,” he said instead. “Whose motive does that buy you? If D’Abruzzo was a human hand grenade, Brian had good reason to fear for his own life.”
Flynn placed both elbows on the desk, inspecting Terry with the chill look of a priest confronting a sinner. “You’re awfully blithe about one officer sleeping with another’s wife. Especially when it provides so many reasons for Brian to kill D’Abruzzo—covering up an affair; freeing Kate from an inconvenient marriage; and smearing the victim as a misogynistic brute.”
Terry smiled without humor. “And look at how well that worked,” he retorted. “You assume too much. Supposition isn’t evidence, and adultery isn’t murder. It still comes down to what happened in that room, and Brian’s the only witness—”
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