“So, what?” he said. “You’re going to shoot me? From there? You’re just a kid, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck do you know about a gun?”
Beth cocked her head at him.
They were his last words.
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER
GRINDSTONE NECK, MAINE
September
From the third-story balcony off the master bedroom, Camille Miller sat in an Adirondack chair looking out at the Maine ocean and stared into the depths of all its complexities. She was lost to them.
It was afternoon, it was overcast, the salty air had a bone-chilling bite to it, and some of the trees were starting to sway in the rising breeze. Forecasters were predicting storms to hit later that night, which Camille didn’t doubt. She felt them coming. She could see them on the darkening horizon.
Below her, the ocean was writhing and intense, as gray as gun metal and just as lethal. Nothing about it was calm. Looking at it swell and plunge, roil and rise, she felt at one with it and, for a moment, almost thought she understood it.
That’s where she stopped. That’s where she knew better and corrected herself.
Nothing here could be understood. That was the thing about Maine. As beautiful as its infamous coastline was, the undercurrents didn’t end here. They actually began here and stretched inland, touching the roots of a complicated state one would be a fool to trust for a wealth of reasons few could put into words.
Maine was about what you sensed, not about what you saw. It was about what you overheard, not what you were told. It was deceptive, perhaps as cutthroat and as misleading as any state or country in which Camille had spent a significant amount of time, and for that reason, its mystery was likely why she enjoyed coming here. It appealed to her.
It was the end of summer and, for two months, she’d been at her family’s estate, which now belonged to her. She’d been sitting here for an hour, thinking about her father, thinking about Emma, thinking about Sam, thinking about her brothers and sisters.
Too much thinking.
But the ghosts weren’t done with her. They wouldn’t leave.
She reached for the pack of Gitanes cigarettes on the table beside her, lit one and decided it was time to let the ghosts in. She’d pushed them away long enough. She’d be paralyzed here if she didn’t face them. Time to go forward. Paris wanted her back and it was time to go back to Paris. But going back meant going back, which her nightmares had been happy to do, but which she herself hadn’t done on her own.
Emma lived for eight days before she died in her private room at New York Presbyterian. Seven of those days were spent in a coma, but Camille did have one day with her daughter before she went to sleep. Emma was weak, but she also was restless. She wanted answers. She was determined to have them before she let go. She knew she was dying, she was aware of the infection they were unable to control, but there were questions she wanted answers to before she went.
She wanted to know about Rotterdam. She wanted to know about the forty-three orphans who were burned alive along with their abuser, Willem Lassooy. She wanted to know if her mother had anything to do with it. She needed to know before she was gone. “Tell me,” she said. “And please tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me now. I need to know.”
Camille told her the truth. An unidentified group of men and women hired her and Sam to take out Lassooy. But before they could act, someone else stepped in. News reports suggested that one of Lassooy’s former charges, likely an adult at that point, burned down the orphanage out of rage. Camille and Sam were prepared to take out Lassooy when they cornered him alone, but they didn’t have the chance. The night before they planned to kill him, someone started a fire that destroyed the orphanage and everyone in it, from the children to Lassooy.
“Did you think I’d do that?” Camille asked.
“My aunts and uncles thought so.”
Of course, they did. “But did you?”
“No. I knew you didn’t do it. I told them so. But I wanted to hear you say that you didn’t do it. I needed to hear that. I hope you understand.”
“I understand.”
“One more question.”
“Your eyes are getting sleepy, Emma. You need to rest.”
“Is Sam my father?”
Camille hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded.
“Why did you leave him?”
“In a way, he left us, Emma.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Tell me.”
“When you’re well, I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”
She closed her eyes. “But he’s back now.”
“So, he is.”
For a moment, Camille thought Emma had gone to sleep, but she hadn’t. Her eyes were closed, but her mind was working. She reached out for her mother’s hand and held it. “Does that mean anything to you? That he’s here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I wish I had a father.” She started to drift. Her grip on her mother’s hand started to weaken. “I do. I wish I had one. I think he’d like Paris. Has Sam ever been to Paris? Paris is beautiful. I miss Paris. I miss my friends.”
Camille wasn’t expecting to cry because she never cried. But she did that day. She cried more than she thought she was capable of crying. It came from her gut, from her heart and from the knowledge that her little girl was failing. The idea of it overwhelmed her to the point that she couldn’t talk. What could she do? She had all the money in the world to help her daughter. The hospital knew that. She’d pay any amount to save Emma, so why wasn’t the treatment working? It was just an infection. Surely, they could contain it and eradicate it.
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re very brave, Emma.”
“I did bad things.”
“No, you didn’t. You can’t think that way.”
“I know what I did.” A silence passed. Her breathing became deeper. Camille squeezed her daughter’s hand and was surprised when Emma’s eyes parted. “I did what you did,” she said. “I was just like you.”
“Emma—”
“I don’t regret it. They deserved it. I was just like you. Think about that. I was just like you. That makes me happy.”
When they cremated Emma, Camille and Sam sprinkled her ashes over Kenneth Miller’s grave. It’s where she’d want to be. Not in Paris, but with the grandfather who meant everything to her. They put Emma’s favorite flower—yellow roses—around the plot, sprinkled the ashes and because neither was religious, they decided it was best just to remember Emma as she was. Fearless, intelligent, shrewd and determined. She was kind and—not unlike them—she also was deadly.
That was nearly two months ago. The police released Camille as a suspect when Laura’s plot was exposed by the microphone Sam Ireland used to capture her conversation with her brother, Tyler. Instead of going back to Paris, Camille came here. She needed to get her head on straight. She needed solitude. She needed to be someplace remote and this was as remote as it got. She was able to avoid the press, the tabloids, television. She knew the murders had created a frenzy, but she didn’t have to listen to it or be part of it. As usual, nobody knew where she was.
For weeks, Sam called daily, but she never answered. What was the point? How could they move forward now? Eventually, the calls dwindled. They came a couple of times a week. Then once a week. Then he got the point and they stopped. She was surprised he kept at it as long as he did. Maybe he did love her. Or at least the memory of her.
Time passed. She thought of him and wondered what could have been. Then, she decided it didn’t matter.
She looked out at the ocean as the first drops of water started to fall from the sky. She looked at the lawn below her and at the dock that stretched out into the ocean. More than anything, she wanted to walk down that dock, plunge herself into the cold deep and sink to the bottom of it. She wanted to suck in that water, fill her lungs with it and be done with it.
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But she wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t do that to her daughter’s memory. That was the easy way out. Her hell would be going forward without Emma, growing old without the chance to celebrate Emma’s marriage or the opportunity to have grandchildren to love and to spoil. It’s what she deserved. Camille believed in karma. This was hers. She created it herself when she went to Paris all those years ago and met an idealistic young man by the name of Sam Ireland, who possessed a set of beliefs that made sense to her.
She stubbed out the cigarette, stood and went into her bedroom. She closed the glass doors behind her and looked across the room to her bed, on which sat an open suitcase filled with clothes.
Tomorrow, she’d return to Paris. She had no idea what she’d do, but she knew she’d miss Maine. On whatever level, being here helped her, likely because it allowed her to think, but also because when she was growing up, her father often took her here. She remembered those days when it was just the two of them. They’d take a plane from New York to Bangor, rent a car and drive here for the weekend while the others stayed behind in New York. She savored those memories. They were good memories. He understood her in ways that most didn’t. He had every reason to judge her, but for some reason he didn’t. He just accepted her.
She looked at the suitcase and then checked the time. She had no interest in eating, but she had to eat. She’d make dinner. She’d figure out what to do with her life when she arrived in Paris.
* * *
NEW YORK
Even now, two months after the fact, Marty Spellman still saw things in his dreams that no one should see. Before Jennifer urged him to go to a doctor, each night, he watched his family being slaughtered.
He watched them get shot. He watched them get stabbed. He saw them being abducted. He saw them being beheaded. The men in the trees returned. As often as he shot them, they wouldn’t die. They just hung there. And when they were ready, they killed his family in front of him. Over and over again. The cycle spun out and it wouldn’t cease.
He dreaded sleep. He stayed up late to avoid it. He had a couple of drinks before he went to bed in hopes that he could nullify what was to come, but it didn’t. Eventually, he’d wake in a panic. Jennifer would try to calm him. The dreams grew increasingly intense to the point that for several weeks, he just shut down.
That’s when Jennifer intervened.
The doctor helped. Talking helped. Ambien helped. He was told he had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He believed it. He was in treatment for it.
Life went on.
And eventually, life got better.
* * *
Now, it was time to celebrate.
Marty got out of the cab, came around to Jennifer’s side of the car and opened the door for her. A red shoe stretched out, then the bottom half of a steel-colored dress stirred in the air. There was the glimmer of a jeweled bodice and then Jennifer herself fully appeared, her blonde hair hanging over her bare shoulders in loose waves. It was just warm enough outside for her to be comfortable without a jacket. He moved behind her as they stepped to the sidewalk.
“You look terrific,” he said.
“It’s Marchesa.”
“Come again?”
“The dress. It’s Marchesa Couture. You paid plenty for it.”
“What does Marchesa Couture cost?”
“Doesn’t matter. Look at me. It’s doing everything I couldn’t do on my own. It lifts, it tucks, it sucks, it gives me a butt. It’s my wearable plastic surgeon. I look twenty-nine again.”
“I won’t argue there.”
“That’s good,” she said, taking his hand. “Because the dress cost ten grand.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Later tonight, I’ll show you just how grateful I am that you bought it for me without your knowledge.”
What he loved and admired about her was that through it all, she treated him no differently than she ever had. Her attitude was that they would get through this together. They needed to live and behave normally. Period. Their conversations always had a rhythm to them and she was determined to retain that rhythm. So was he, and so they worked at it. It was starting to sound natural again.
“I did a bit more shopping,” she said.
“You don’t say.”
“I did. I also bought new running shoes, a kick-ass black running suit, a water bottle that ties around my waist, Spanx, reflective tape, a few new clips to hold back my hair. Oh, and a watch with a timer on it so we know exactly how well we’re doing when we start our nightly runs tomorrow.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I was serious the first day you mentioned it. When you were having that ridiculous day in which you thought you were fat. I’m a runner.”
“At best, you’re a jogger.”
“I’m so going to kick your ass.”
“In Spanx? Really? You won’t even be able to breathe properly.”
“It’s all about the look.”
“You’re so going to be humiliated.”
“Bring it on, babe. My type A is in overdrive. It’s out of the cage like a lion. Hear it roar.”
They walked down the sidewalk to the gallery, which was in SoHo on Spring Street. Here, the city was alive in ways that it never was on the Upper East Side. The restaurants and bars were full. Outside, on the sidewalks, people were smoking in groups. Cabs lurched down the street. The night had an air of promise and excitement to it.
“So, tonight’s a big night,” she said. “I’m glad everyone is ready to celebrate.”
“Beth’s fifteenth.”
“I know she’s been fifteen for a couple of months, but I still can’t believe it.”
“Try being me.”
“Your arthritis must be acting up.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I have to say, it was nice of Jack to have the party at the gallery. Actually, the space is perfect for it.”
“Agreed.”
“Maybe I’ll buy one of Gloria’s paintings.”
“I’m sure they’ll be everywhere.”
“How much do they cost?”
“As much as that Marchesa.”
“Where would we put it?”
“Is that even a question? Obviously, we’d mount it on the ceiling over our bed.”
“Why does that turn me on?”
They looked at each other with a smile as he opened the door for her. Inside, there must have been two hundred people of all ages milling around the bright white space. Family and friends, as well as dozens of Beth’s friends and a few of Katie’s. Marty scanned the room for Beth, found her on the stairs talking to a young man around her age and felt his gut sink. They had “the talk” two years ago. Looking at her now, glowing in ways that he’d never seen her glow before, he decided they probably should have another.
Gloria was across the room, also watching Beth. She looked appropriately horrified, which was a relief. At least they hadn’t lost their similar concerns and fears for their children. He checked to see if Barbara Moore had arrived but as far as he could tell, she hadn’t. Since Brian Moore’s death, their friendship had waned. Neither he nor Gloria saw much of her anymore and they missed her.
“I just need time,” she said several weeks ago, when he and Jennifer invited Jack, Gloria and Barbara out to dinner. “Don’t worry. I’ll call. With Brian gone, there’s still much to do.”
But she hadn’t called back and he felt terrible about it.
Gloria spotted them, reached around for Jack, who was behind her, and they started to walk toward them.
“She’s wearing Marchesa,” Jennifer said with a smile.
“How can you tell? It looks nothing like yours.”
“Women know.”
“Yours is prettier.”
“Hers is more expensive.”
“Which would you rather have?”
“The one that makes me look twenty-nine.”
She held out her hands, which Jack took. They kissed and talked while Gloria and
Marty did the same. Each couple switched. More kissing, more talking. But none of it was fake or manufactured. At this point, there was genuine affection between them. Jennifer said something to Jack about this being the perfect space while Marty said something to Gloria about Beth. They all heard it and as such, all heads turned to look up at the staircase, where Beth was laughing with another young man. Only this time, her hand was on his shoulder.
“Who the hell is he?” Marty asked.
“He’s just one of the many young men we’ll have to deal with as she grows up,” Gloria said. “But who can blame any of them for trying? Look at her. She’s a knockout.”
“Fifteen…”
“It still hasn’t sunk in yet.”
“Look at her in that blue dress,” Jennifer said. “And I love that her hair is up and that her make-up is so natural. She’s going to need security.”
Marty and Gloria looked at each other and for the first time in a long time, they cracked a smile. “At this point, I think we all can agree that Beth can take care of herself,” Marty said.
His cell rang. He thought he’d turned it off. He made apologies, dipped his hand into his pants pocket, retrieved the phone, looked down at the number, saw that it was private and stepped outside.
“Marty Spellman,” he said.
Silence.
Marty turned his head in hopes of getting better reception. “This is Marty Spellman.”
“Are you enjoying the party, Mr. Spellman? You look as if you are. Black jacket and tie. Nice shoes. Even your hair looks freshly cut.”
Marty instinctively took a step back into shadow in spite of the fact that they already had a make on him. He scanned the area around him, but this neighborhood was teeming with people. It was impossible to know who was making the call.
“You think it’s over, don’t you?”
The man had an Eastern-European accent. Czech? It sounded Czech. “I think what’s over?”
“Your relationship with Camille Miller.”
A Rush to Violence (A Spellman Thriller) Page 28