truths of justice: That the presumption of innocence must protect the guilty. That when police and prosecutors break the rules, sometimes an evil person must go free. That it was Caroline’s job to enforce these rules at whatever cost. Sometimes this had haunted her: police without rules were an injustice waiting to happen, but where was the justice in freeing an incorrigible criminal—a murderer, a rapist, a molester—to harm yet another victim? The fact that she might also have protected the innocent was, on certain nights, too theoretical to allow for easy sleep. But she had always obeyed the rules as she understood them. Just as, she insisted, the police should. Closing her eyes, she imagined Brett’s life. This was far too easy for her now. Caroline knew Brett’s daily routine—loneliness, too little exercise, reading until the words swam in front of her, writing in a diary she must censor to protect her deepest thoughts. And then, in her mind, Caroline followed her through the twenty-year sentence that Jackson Watts, with the prosecutor’s pitiless sense of duty, demanded as the minimum. Knew the terrible apartness, yet the loss of all her privacy. Felt the absence of friends or lovers or children, the withering of sexuality as twenty-two became thirty-two, and then forty-two. Saw the pallor as Brett at last left prison, her face lined from the passage of empty years, the richness of her youth behind her. All because of a single witness and the darkness of a single night. All at once, a memory came to Caroline. She was young again, a lawyer for perhaps a year. A client, out on bail, had come to her office. He did not deny his guilt, hoped merely for a lighter sentence. He was scruffy and slight, and wore a slightly aggrieved expression. “They made it so easy,” he complained—like so many of her clients, Caroline realized, he blamed a nameless “they” for the actions he had taken. And then, to prove his point, he closed the door to her office, produced a thin plastic credit card, and slid it through the slit near the door handle.
The door seemed to spring open in his hand. “See,” he said in an accusatory voice. “No dead bolt.”
“Yes,” Caroline had answered dryly. “What else can they’ expect?” What they could expect, Caroline thought now, was that a judge would honor the law. At whatever cost. Caroline gazed at the distant town. When she was done, whatever happened, she would ask them to withdraw her nomination.
CHAPTER TEN
Caroline sat in her car, a half block down the twilit street. Her watch read 7:50. Edgy, she scanned the rearview mirror. No one passed through the front door of the apartment building. Perhaps, Caroline thought, Megan would not work tonight. She waited, poised between tension and relief. In the mirror, the door to the building opened. Caroline did not turn. There was a flash of reflected movement; in the dusk, the figure of a woman was a tiny shadow in a piece of glass. Caroline could not tell who she was. The passenger window was cracked open. Caroline waited, utterly still, listening for footsteps on the other side of the street. Hoping that twilight and the shade of trees hid her inside the car. The sound of wooden heels on cement came faintly through the window. Still Caroline did not turn. Only after another moment did she see the tall, stiff carriage of Megan Race as she passed beneath a tree. A streetlight came on. Caroline last saw Megan as a shadow, moving from light to darkness, heedless of anything. Looking about her, Caroline stepped into the silent street. It was tree-shrouded, empty. Dressed in a light jacket and jeans, Caroline crossed the street. Her running shoes made no sound.
The half block to the apartment seemed vague, unreal. She reached the door with a sense of disbelief. The building was a sterile rectangle with four floors. Megan was on the fourth, Caroline knew, which increased the difficulty of entrance or escape. She stood there, irresolute. This was no good—someone might see her. She fought her imagination: the thing to do was to go one step at a time. Knowing that these moments, however fatal to her spirit, could pass without detection. Stiffly, Caroline pushed all ten buttons for the second floor. Silence. Caroline breathed in, waiting. Then some trusting soul above her pushed the door buzzer, and she was inside. She stood in a bare lobby—an elevator, a stairwell with a green neon exit sign. Caroline opened the door to the stairwell and then closed it behind her. The stairs were dark. Soon apartment doors would open on the second floor and tenants would peer into the hall, wondering who had buzzed them. Caroline hurried up the stairs. At the second floor, she whirled, saw a lone woman in the hallway through the glass window of the exit door. It was only as she reached the fourth floor that she realized this reminded her of Brett, and prison. Breathing rapidly, Caroline peered through the window. The corridor was empty; there was no sense of the disturbance two floors down. Once in Megan’s apartment, Caroline could disappear. With an air of calm she did not feel, Caroline stepped into the corridor. It was not long, just five doors on each side. Megan’s apartment was on the left. Don’t think, Caroline told herself. Just do. She went to Megan’s door. In the pocket of her jacket was a handkerchief and the thin plastic card that Caroline used to enter her office
building after hours. It was the one card that did not bear her name. Looking over her shoulder, she saw no one. The hollow sound of voices on a television came through the door next to Megan’s. Caroline slipped out the card and placed the handkerchief on the metal doorknob. Her forehead felt damp. No longer would anyone mistake what she was doing; suddenly, she regretted again that wearing gloves would make her conspicuous, that buying them would make her memorable. She slid the card through the crack— It slipped from her fingers. Caroline caught her breath. The card hit the tile with a slap and lay at her feet, glistening in the light. Taut, Caroline knew that she could have lost it through the crack. Quickly, she picked it up. With every hesitation, the inevitable moment when the next person entered the hallway was that much closer—perhaps the manager, following up the unexplained ringing. Caroline’s watch read 8:17. Slowly, she reinserted the card, eyes narrow. Slipped it above the latch, then at an angle, to catch the indentation of the lock. Breath held, Caroline slid the card between the lock and the door and pulled gently on the door. There was a soft click. The knob had moved in her hand. Opening the door, she slid into Megan’s apartment and softly shut the door. It was pitch dark. It took Caroline a moment of blind fumbling, handkerchief covering her fingertips, to find the switch on the wall. She stood there, blinking in the light. The apartment was simple—a living room with a kitchen to one side and, next to that, the door to what must be Megan’s bedroom. As Caroline stood there, irresolute, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
She froze. The footsteps were heavy, a man’s. They came closer; for an instant, Caroline imagined that they had stopped at Megan’s door. Then the next footstep fell, and another. After a moment, she could not hear them. For a time, Caroline told herself, she was safe. Caroline looked around again. She had expected color, vivid posters, perhaps pictures of Megan herself. But the apartment was bland, impersonal—the furniture looked institutional, the walls were bare cinder block. There was little sense that anyone lived here, Caroline thought—young or old, man or woman. She went to the bedroom, handkerchief still draped across the fingers of her left hand. Inside, on the door to Megan’s closet, was a full-length mirror. Just as Larry had described it, the mirror faced the foot of Megan’s bed. All at once, Caroline was certain that Larry had told the truth. Her watch read 8:25. Swiftly, Caroline went through the drawers of Megan’s dresser. She found nothing but slacks, Tshirts, bras, and underpants—all thrown together in a chaotic mess. Wiping clean the drawer handles, she went to the closet. It was generous in size, with sliding wood doors. One door was off its tracks; arduously, Caroline pushed it to the side and then peered into the closet. There were dresses, a parka, boots and shoes. But what stopped Caroline abruptly was a large open box. On top of the box was a Polaroid camera. Caroline knelt, carefully putting the camera aside. Beneath was a spiral notebook. Written on the cover was the name of Larry’s course. Caroline opened the notebook. The notes she read were detailed, less the practical jottings of a college student than something almost reverent, as
literal a rendering of lecture upon lecture as the hurried scrawl could make it. But nothing more.
And then Caroline saw the calendar. It was from the year before. The months of October through November, the time of their affair, had been ripped out as if in rage. Wedged to the side was a map of the White Mountains. Caroline opened it. Toward the bottom, circled in pen, was the campsite that Larry had described to her. For a moment, Caroline was still. She was right, Caroline now knew—at least about what Megan was,-as well as who she had been to Larry. But none of what she had found so far would prove anything in a court of law. Even if she could leave with it. Carefully, Caroline placed each item back in the box and closed the closet door. It was 8:43. Caroline turned, facing the bedroom. The sole piece of distinctive furniture was a light oak rolltop desk. There were a few books on its shelf. All dealt with psychology, Caroline saw: the family, dysfunctional or not; only children; the relationship between fathers and daughters. But there were no clues—here or anywhere—to Megan’s real family. Caroline slid open the desk drawer. Inside were two expensive pens and a red leather-bound journal with a green ribbon coming from between its pages. The journal fell open in her hands. The entries were dated from the beginning of Megan’s sophomore year. Hurriedly, Caroline began reading. The first pages were an unsettling jumble—vague spiritual yearnings, descriptions of sex acts without names or faces, a paradoxical hostility to men as a group. The entries seemed to gain in extravagance, or vehemence, as Caroline worked toward the middle. And then Caroline turned a page and found the ragged remnant of a ripped-out entry. The months of September through December were missing.
Without much hope, Caroline resumed in February. The handwriting seemed jagged now, the sprawl of emotion on the page. But Caroline saw no mention of Larry. She turned another page and then stopped abruptly. She read the page, read it again. With trembling fingers, she scanned the entries, until she got to May. Caroline stopped again, staring at the page. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud.
Caroline read again, more carefully, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She could feel her heart race. When she had finished, she sat with the journal in her lap, trying to collect her thoughts. Her watch read 9:15. There was no way to copy these pages, return the journal to its drawer as if she had never been here. The only conceivable place to Xerox was the library at Chase College, and there were too many traps: that she would be seen there; that she might not be able to reenter the building or Megan’s apartment; that she would be caught if she tried; that Megan herself could find her. Caroline stared at the journal in her lap. Whatever the consequences, she could not leave without it. The time was 9:22. Fighting her nerves, Caroline systematically reviewed where she had been. Then she put down the journal, went to the living room with her handkerchief in hand, and began to retrace her steps. At every point—the light switch, the inside knob, the door to Megan’s room—Caroline wiped the surface clean of fingerprints. Sometimes she leaves work early, Lemieux had said. Hurriedly glancing at her watch, Caroline saw that it was 9:31. There was still much to do.
She went to the bedroom, wiping the dresser drawer handles and then the sliding door to Megan’s closet. The biggest problem, she realized, was the box. Pulling it from the closet, Caroline wiped all that she could remember touching: the camera; the cover of the notebook; its edges; the corners of the map; the box itself. As she did this, she listened for sounds. But all she could hear was the faint sound of the television in the apartment next door. It was 9:51 when Caroline shoved the box back inside with the toe of her shoe. Turning, she gazed at the journal on the floor. It was the moment of decision, she knew, the final chance to return the journal to its drawer and leave. She could feel her own hesitancy, the premonition of ill consequence. Caroline walked across the bedroom and wiped away the final fingerprints on the rolltop desk. It was 9:54. Within fifteen minutes, Megan would return. There was no more time to decide. Caroline went to the center of the room, picked up the journal, and turned to leave. There was a sudden sound, the rattle of keys outside the door. For an instant, Caroline froze. She did not know what saving instinct told her, just before the door opened, to scramble to the wall and switch off the bedroom light. As Caroline faced the darkened room, Megan closed the door behind her. Caroline sensed, but could not see, the door to the closet. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Quickly, Caroline moved forward, hoping not to trip on something. She found the crevice of the closet door as Megan’s footsteps crossed the living room, coming closer. Pushing with one palm, Caroline forced open the reluctant door. As she stepped inside, the door softly squealed, then slid into place. With crabbed steps, Caroline turned. Megan’s footsteps entered the bedroom. The light switched on. Megan stood there, peering about. In profile, she looked wary and unhappy, consumed by secret thoughts. If she faced the closet, Caroline knew, Megan would see her. Caroline was utterly still. Walking to the middle of the room, Megan pulled off her sweatshirt. With a kind of fascination, Caroline watched—afraid, as Megan slipped off her blue jeans, that she would hang them in the closet. Megan left them in a heap. When she was naked, Megan turned to the mirror. She studied herself intently, critically. And then she tilted her head, eyes opening wider, as if imploring the mirror for compassion. One finger grazed her nipple; she stood there like a statue, caught in her aloneness. Caroline held her breath. Megan turned from the mirror. For a moment, she gazed at the floor, pensive. Caroline could see her full face now; all that Megan needed was to look up, and her eyes would meet those of the woman who watched her. Slowly, Megan turned from the closet and moved toward the dresser, slipping from Caroline’s view. There were only sounds now—a drawer sliding open, hands sifting clothes. And then Megan, wearing a T-shirt, crossed the bedroom and disappeared again. Caroline hesitated. If she stayed here, Megan would surely find her; even if she did not, Caroline could not chance crossing the bedroom later in the hope that Megan slept. Megan’s footsteps grew lighter.
Please, Caroline begged her, go to the kitchen. Caroline slid from the closet and stole across the bedroom, holding the journal. Her feet made no sound. At the bedroom door, she peered into the living room. No one. As Caroline stepped into the living room, she heard the rattling of silverware. Caroline tried to remember the layout of the kitchen. The sink and cabinets, she recalled, were on the wall; to use them, Megan could not face the living room. Caroline took a deep breath and headed, swiftly and silently, for the door. A few feet farther on, Megan would be able to see her. Caroline reached the space. As she swiftly turned, half expecting to hear a cry, she saw Megan bend over the sink, a tea bag in her hand. Soundless, Caroline crossed the living room. She paused at the door, hearing Megan stir a spoon inside a cup, and took the handkerchief from her pocket. Fingers draped on the handkerchief, Caroline turned the knob. The door groaned slightly. Abruptly, the sounds from the kitchen stopped. Panicky, Caroline peered into the hallway, saw no one. She slid quickly through the door. It shut behind her, of its own weight, with a soft click. Caroline hurried for the stairwell. She did not care about noise now. Heart racing, she pushed open the door, jerking it closed behind her. Through the glass window, she saw Megan peer into the hallway. Caroline ran down the stairs, through the alcove, and into the cool night.
The drive was surreal. The mundane became the mirror of Caroline’s fears—headlights were police cars; the old man sitting on the porch of the inn had peered at the journal in her hand. She hurried to her room.
She sat on the end of the bed. Now you know, she told herself, how it feels to commit a crime. There was nowhere, Caroline knew, that she could hide the journal. In her briefcase was a flat manila envelope. As the idea took form, Caroline saw that there was no choice: by now, quite possibly, Megan had called the police. From the briefcase, Caroline took the Magic Marker she used to red-line pleadings. On the face of the envelope, she printed her own name. Beneath that she wrote to Betty Allen,” the address of Masters Hill, and the words “personal and confidential.” Her painstaking block letters were
not Caroline’s own but those of a child. She took a roll of stamps from her purse and applied six stamps to the envelope. For a last moment, she looked at the diary. Then she placed it inside the envelope, licked the flap, and sealed it tight. When she left her room, descending the stairs, the man no longer sat on the porch. The main street of Resolve was dark and empty. Alone, Caroline wandered the streets of her childhood. In the quiet, a flash of memory came: Caroline and Jackson Watts in a convertible he had borrowed, careening through the streets on a warm summer night, a six-pack of beer in the back. In that moment, the years vanished, and her life was new again. But now only Bret’s life was new. There was no sound but crickets, the soft fall of each footstep on asphalt. At the bend in the street was the old general store. As Caroline approached it, she could make out the dark shape of a blue postal box. Caroline opened the metal lid. For a last minute, she considered her choices. Then she dropped the envelope down the chute, consigning Bret’s future, and perhaps her own, to the mercies of the U.S. mail.
Dark Lady Page 23