Dark Lady

by Richard North Patterson

  “Did you hear me, Caroline?”

  “Yes.” Caroline paused, steeling herself. “Now you hear me. If you insist on this, I quit.”

  Brett stared at her, lips parted. She was suddenly pale. “Then quit. I’m sick of not controlling my own life.”

  “This is a poor time to decide that,” Caroline snapped. “You’ll know you’ve grown up when your first decision isn’t quite so stupid.” She caught herself. “Don’t make the wrong choice for the sake of making one. Please.” Brett’s gaze seemed to waver, then her mouth set in a stubborn line. “You can leave now. Grandfather will find me someone else.” With what money? Caroline wanted to say. But the girl she saw stopped her for a moment—vulnerable, with pride and fear fighting for control of her face. “I’ll leave,” she said at last. “Though not before we do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Sit down,” Caroline said curtly. I’ll be Jackson, and you be you. Just like in that glorious scene in court you so vividly imagine without my interference, a mere eight days from now. And don’t forget to write.” Pale, resolute, Brett sat stiffly. Caroline stood, watching her. “The rules are simple. I ask the questions, you answer within ten seconds. So that your audience can see how forthright you are.” Brett stared at her, defiant. “Not quite so hostile,” Caroline said in an advisory tone. “Remember that I’m Jackson and that the truth is the truth.” Brett flushed. “Will you start’?”

  “All right.” Pausing, Caroline could feel her own pulse. “You’ve described the murder, your own shock and horror, and everyone watching is incredibly sympathetic. Now you’re in the police car—all you have to do is explain what you did next.” Caroline saw a first glimmer of uncertainty, perhaps self-doubt. “When the policeman stopped,” Caroline began, “you were naked, correct?” Mute, Brett nodded. “You have to speak up for the record. I’d recommend a clear, steady voice.”

  “Yes.” Brett’s tone was flinty. “I was naked.”

  “And covered in blood.” Brett hesitated. “There was blood on me, yes—”

  “Eye contact, please—you’ll make a bad impression.” At once, Caroline slipped back into her role. “Where did you think James was?” Brett’s eyes narrowed, as if straining for memory. “I was stoned.”

  “But you weren’t ‘stoned,’ were you, when you picked him up’?” Brett squared her shoulders. “No.”

  “Couldn’t you remember that?”

  “I think so. Yes.” Caroline placed her hands on her hips. “Then did you also ‘think’ that James had simply vanished?”

  “I didn’t know.” Brett closed her eyes. “I had flashes, like a nightmare.”

  “There was a bloody wallet in the car, wasn’t there?” Brett’s eyes shut. “Yes.”

  “Did you think that was a nightmare?” Slowly, Brett shook her head. “All I had was fragments. I didn’t want to believe them.”

  “Oh, it’s not quite all you had. There was also a bloody knife on the passenger seat, was there not?” Brett’s face was haunted now. “Yes.”

  “And did you think that had arrived from a dream?”

  “No.” Brett looked up in silent appeal, as if seeing Caroline and not her tormentor. “You have to understand. Nothing seemed more real to me than any other thing. I couldn’t remember what happened.” Silent, Caroline sat across from her. She said, softly, “You mean you can’t remember whether or not you killed him?”

  “No.” Brett’s body went rigid. “I couldn’t have.” Caroline paused; the pit of her stomach felt hollow now. Quite calmly, she said, “‘Couldn’t have’? I thought you couldn’t remember.”

  “I did.” Bret’s eyes fell. “But later on.”

  “Eight hours later?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever it was that my head began to clear.”

  “Before that, where did you imagine all the blood on you had come from?” Wearily, Brett shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

  “So that, two hours later, you were only able to recall that James ‘might’ be at the lake.”

  “Yes.” Brett’s voice was husky. “I thought he might be.” Caroline leaned forward. “And why did you ,think that?”

  “Because I remembered taking him there.”

  “But you always remembered, didn’t you—just like you remembered picking him up. Because you weren’t stoned then.”

  “I don’t know.” Bret’s voice rose. “Maybe it was the knife in the car.” Slowly, carOline shook her head. “No, Brett. Because you knew all of this—James, the blood, the knife, the wallet—two hours before, when you were still in your car.” Her voice became quiet. “When you told the patrolman absolutely nothing.” Brett touched her eyes. “I didn’t remember.” CarOline placed a finger to her lips, contemplating the girl. “Tell me,” she said in a tone of mild curiosity, “does your memory always work like that? Where it only comes back to you after hours, or even days.” Brett stared at the table. “It was the drugs. What I wasn’t stoned for, I can remember.” Caroline composed herself. “Such as the night you found James in bed?” A lethal pause. “With a naked girl named Megan Race?” Brett’s head fell slightly. “Megan …” she began, and stopped. Caroline leaned forward. With terrible quiet, she asked, “Were you stoned then, Brett?”

  “No.”

  “But when the police asked you about girlfriends, you somehow didn’t mention that.”

  “No.” Caroline saw a throbbing in Brett’s temple. “I didn’t want to think of it. Or remember it.”

  “I understand.” Caroline’s voice was gentle now. “Just like you don’t want to remember killing James.” A tremor ran through Brett’s body. When, at last, Brett raised her head, tears ran down her face. Her silent gaze at Caroline was her last, tenuous show of defiance. Caroline wanted to comfort her. But all that she said, voice matter-of-fact, was, “Your lines need work.” Brett swallowed, still silent. Caroline waited until she was certain the girl would not be sick, and then went on. “Of course, that was off the top of my head. Jackson will be much better.” Her voice was level now. “Unless, of course, I can keep your statements out of evidence—something I mean to set up through the probable cause hearing. In which case, Jackson will never get to ask any of those questions.” Brett could not seem to move or speak; it was as if, Caroline thought, she was staring into the abyss of her own doubt. Caroline reached for the girl’s hand. “Listen to me, Brett.” Her voice was soft again, her own. “The only thing I can promise is that you’ll get the best that I can give you. And that I won’t let anything or anyone—even you-ever get in my way.” She paused for a final moment. “Please, let me do this.” Brett looked down at their hands. After a time, she asked, “Can I go now?”

  “Of course.” Through the glass window, Caroline watched her leave. Brett’s movements were weary, dragged. She did not look back. Outside, Caroline sat in her car, alone. It was a while before she felt like going anywhere. Arriving at the inn, she went to her room and called Joe

  Lemieux. When he answered, she asked her question without preface. “The girl,” she demanded. “Do you have her schedule yet?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From the edge of the quadrangle, Caroline watched the young blond woman leave her job at the student union and start across the campus with purposeful strides. Unaware, she walked toward Caroline. There were few people there—a trickle of summer students and their teachers, a group of shirtless boys near Caroline, playing Frisbee in the noonday sun—and the lone figure of the woman somehow seemed apart from them. As she approached, too deep in thought to notice her, Caroline saw that she was pretty—a strong jaw, a snub nose, even features—and that the blond came from a bottle. Her eyes were on the ground in front of her. Fighting back her tension, Caroline stepped forward. “Megan?” The woman stopped, eyes flying open, a wary blue-gray. Her gaze narrowed as if she was trying to place the tall woman in front of her on some sliding scale of risk. Comprehension crossed her face; the slight smile that followed, less welcoming than a warning, did not
change the guarded look. “You’re Brett’s lawyer. The woman who called me.”

  “Yes.” Caroline made her tone mild, unthreatening. “Actually, I’m her aunt.” All expression seemed to leave Megan’s face. “Who told you to come here? Her father’?” Caroline shook her head. “I asked around, and came on my own—”

  “This is like harassment. I already told you, Mr. Watts 22O

  said not to talk with anyone.” Megan placed both hands on her hips. “Look, if you think this has been easy for me…” Caroline held up both hands in front of her, a plea for understanding. “No, I’m sure it’s been quite awful for you. Losing someone is bad enough without having to relive it all in court.” Megan stared at Caroline, then folded her arms and looked at the ground again. She pressed her lips together; her eyes closed, and then she slowly shook her head. “It’s like she ripped my heart out but my body still keeps moving …. ” Megan’s voice trailed off. She frowned at the stone path in front of her. “Really,” she said in a dubious tone. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “But I need to talk to you.” Caroline paused. “Megan, part of what I need help with is deciding whether Brett should even go to trial. It would be less than honest not to admit that you’re the biggest part of that decision.” Megan seemed to stand a little taller; her natural posture, Caroline realized, was straight-backed, athletic. “And you think I can help you.” Beneath the doubt, Caroline sensed a lessening of resistance. “If there’s no trial,” she said quietly, “wouldn’t that be best for everyone?” Megan’s eyes narrowed. “Let me think about it. I’ll call Mr. Watts.”

  “Oh,” Caroline said, “you already know what he’ll say. If not, I know Jackson, and he loves to try cases—for prosecutors, it’s really not the same.” She softened her tone again. “While you think about it, there’s no harm in not talking with me over coffee, is there? I’ve been waiting here for a long time, and I wouldn’t mind just sitting.” Megan thought a minute and then shrugged. “I guess not.” Together, they started back to the student union. The campus of Chase College was a classic piece of New England—sylvan and quiet, with old brick buildings at its heart. They crossed the white wooden bridge that spanned

  the brook, lazy with its summer ebb. “Have you liked it here?” Caroline asked. “At least until now?”

  “Before James’? I don’t know. People here are pretty unaware.” She gave a sardonic smile. “You know—let’s go skiing and drink a lot of beer. Most of them don’t know Gunter Grass from Kurt Vonnegut.” Her smile vanished abruptly, and her voice became almost fierce. “James did.” She had a certain manner, Caroline thought, that suggested they were peers. Instinctively, she decided to pursue it. “It’s so hard,” Caroline observed, “to really find someone. So many times I feel like what passes for conversation is .just making noise, and I end up listening to myself like I were someone else, chattering at a bad cocktail party. It’s tough to live on autopilot.” Megan peered at her sideways, as if deciding whether to accord trust. “It’s worse at my age,” she said finally. “I believe in serious friendships, really intense, with no thoughts held back. But how can you be that way with people who are scared to think’?”

  “Do you think it gets better,” Caroline asked, “just because they’re older?”

  “I hope so. I mean, I can’t stand the idea of dating if all it means is a lot of traffic.” Megan stopped, speaking in a lower voice. “At least older men have had a chance to grow up, face a few things about themselves. But James changed all that.” For a time, Caroline chose silence. They got to the door of the student union, a cement Bauhaus structure badly out of keeping with its surroundings. With respectful curiosity, Caroline asked quietly, “Did you ever try that—older guys?” Megan glanced at her sharply, then nodded. “Except for the sex part, it was better. That was where James had it all.” It was said with a stubborn pride, as if to remind Caroline that James belonged to her and she did not care who heard her; from a nearby table, a boy in glasses looked up

  from his newspaper. Megan led Caroline to a table at the center of the room. It was sterile and cavernous, with glass on all sides. Caroline looked around them. “Who was the architect?” she asked in tones of wonder. Megan waved dismissively. “Awful, isn’t it? Like Le Corbusier done by a computer.” They sat, facing each other. Megan flicked back her straight blond bangs, crossed her legs, and sat upright in her chair, looking fixedly at Caroline. “I think architecture is like politics. The nineties aren’t about anything, except maybe pushing women back down where they ‘belong.” And neither is this building.” She gazed about her with a vaguely scornful look. “To me it says two things ‘engineer’ and ‘penis.” There’s nothing spiritual about it.” Caroline nodded her understanding, careful not to study Megan too closely; beneath her new animation, Caroline sensed, a warier, second Megan watched her. “Of course,” Caroline said, “it’s not a spiritual age. The things we used to believe in, we don’t anymore, and nothing has taken their place. Not even kindness.” She softened her voice. “This meeting is very hard for me, Megan. Because I’m deeply sorry about what happened to James, and to you.” Megan looked down; furrows appeared in her high forehead, and her mouth seemed to quiver. “We were a couple,” she murmured, “and then we weren’t. Because of her.” Caroline folded her hands. “I don’t really know Brett,” she admitted. “I’m not close to any of them, actually, and now I have to make sense of this …. ” “It makes no sense.” Megan’s voice was angry now. “Unless you understand what Brett Allen is really like.” Caroline shook her head. “I’m not sure that I do yet, and there isn’t much time.” Megan looked up. “Jackson said something about a hearing.” The use of “Jackson,” Caroline thought, was the assertion of some new intimacy—adult talking to adult. “In

  seven days,” Caroline said. “But I’m still deciding whether I want one.” She paused, as if reluctant, then added, “Brett keeps saying she’s innocent—”

  “Wouldn’t you”—Megan’s voice was etched with scorn—“if you’d cut someone’s throat?”

  “But that’s what I have a hard time believing. Even with all the evidence.”

  “You don’t have all the evidence.” Megan leaned forward, looking intently at Caroline. “She used to threaten us, follow us. She’s sick—sick and obsessive.” Caroline inhaled audibly. “It may well be, Megan. But you’re the only one who knows that.”

  “Only because James is dead.” Megan grasped Caroline’s sleeve. “Don’t you sense it by now—there’s something fetal about her. I see those green eyes in my dreams.” Sudden tears appeared. “That’s what’s so awful—already, I can see her face more clearly than his. Like I’ll live with her for the rest of my life.” Caroline lowered her eyes. “This is none of my business,” she said softly, “but you have to keep him alive somehow. Have some part of it that stays a part of you.” Megan shook her head. “What can you do when you were with someone so much, looking toward a future, and suddenly all you’ve got are mental images—the same ones, running over and over, with all the surprises stolen from them?” Her voice caught. “I remember him acting scenes for me, from his play …. ” Caroline touched her arm. ‘I’m sorry …”

  “We made love all the time, he wanted me all the time. Would ask me to undress for him, to turn around just to see how beautiful I was.” She looked at Caroline with sudden vividness. “It wasn’t exploitative—just intense, like everything we did. Every moment was so conscious.” Caroline looked puzzled. “But what about Brett? Where did she figure in?” Megan seemed to bristle. “Oh, she was still there. you know she threatened to kill herself if he ever left her?”

  Her voice filled with anger. “I wish she had. Instead, she killed James. I guess that was the only part she meant.”

  “But weren’t you afraid?”

  “Anyone would be. To have your lover inside you, and then he’s suddenly standing at the end of the bed, naked, wrestling with a woman who’s trying to scratch your face.” Megan shook her head.
“After that, we both were careful—it was almost like we went into hiding. Maybe, in a strange way, James was keeping his options open by treating me more like a mistress than a commitment.” A faint note of scorn entered her voice—for whom, Caroline was not sure—and then vanished. “But we had what we had. In the end, James decided to be with me.” Megan was bright-eyed now; Caroline felt a sudden warning on her nerve ends. In a tone of bemusement, she asked, “Then why was he with Brett the night he died?” Megan gave a haunting smile of bitterness and triumph. “Because we’d decided to leave her and this place behind, to go to California. That was the night he was going to tell her.” Suddenly, her voice grew quiet. “And when I found out that she’d killed him, I knew that he had.” For a long time, Caroline simply stared at her. She could think of nothing to ask. It seemed to bring Megan back from anger. “I don’t know how you make these decisions,” she said evenly. “But whatever you do, don’t put these people through a trial. Because their daughter is a murderer.” She paused, studying Caroline until compassion seemed to enter her face; lightly, her fingers touched Caroline’s wrist, and her voice became almost confiding. “I know that she’s your niece, Caroline, and how hard this must be for you to face. But you’ll come to see what James did—that beneath that china-doll look is a selfish and demented woman.” She paused, finishing quietly, “And to see the one thing James never saw: that, if he left, she’d kill him.”