by William Baer
“What happened?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
I waited.
We were good friends. Close friends.
She decided to confide.
We sat on the back of the car, and she told me that she’d married my Billy.
Yes, married!
I was stunned and could do little but listen.
She told me how they’d fallen in love, how they gotten her worthless Piney mother to sign the consent form, how they ferried over to Lewes, and all the rest of it.
“Did you make love?”
The question seemed to take her by surprise, and she laughed.
“Not yet.”
I slid off the back of the car as she thought it over. As if she’d somehow forgotten to do something that was perfectly obvious. Perfectly reasonable. I bent down and picked up a sizable flagstone from the edge of the front yard. Then I smashed her in the back of the head with all my might.
She tumbled off the back of the Mustang onto the driveway. Like a doll. Like a dead Barbie doll.
I got her keys, opened the trunk, and somehow managed to get her inside. I was never athletic like the twins, but I was strong for a girl my size. Then I got into her driver’s seat, backed the car out of the driveway, and started driving south on Beach Avenue. Slowly. I’d only done a little practice driving before. After all, I was the youngest of all my friends, being only fifteen. So I drove along slowly, having no idea where I was going or what I was planning to do. Somewhere near the south end of the beaches, I remembered the Army Corps’ mat-road near the jetty, and I drove the car across the beach, over the jetty, into the ocean.
As the car began to sink, rather slowly, I lowered the window and climbed out. Then I swam to the jetty rocks and watched the pretty yellow car sink into the black ocean. Then I thought of the one I loved, and I called out to the girl in the trunk of the sinking car.
“Where is he?”
There was no response, just the wind and the crashing waves. I stood up, numb and soaked, walked home, and collapsed into bed.
The next day, Billy was gone.
So there.
That’s the Nikki killing.
As well as I can remember it.
[Drinks again, licking her lips.]
While I’m sitting here, waiting to kill her twin sister, let me have my final say before Miss Rikki arrives:
About love.
Love is something that everybody wants. Which some people have had in their past. Some in their present.
Some version of it. Some variant.
I understand that.
I really do.
There are all kinds of love, and I wish I could find a way to describe the love that I’ve had in my heart for the past fifteen years.
I must admit I’m quite fond of the word “transcendent.”
I also like “stupendous.”
I also like “something that none of you could even conceive of. Something that’s far far beyond your grasp. Far beyond your limited capacity to comprehend.”
To apprehend.
It’s an all-life-consuming love and passion, every single minute of every single day. Which began with a single look. When a little lonely ten-year-old girl looked at a young thirteen-year-old boy.
Leading to:
Five years of meticulous obsessive preparation.
The murder of an unanticipated rival.
A three-year search.
A stupendous Canadian romance.
Betrayal.
More and more searching.
The murder of one’s treacherous mother.
More and more searching.
Then begging:
When I learned that Billy was back in Cape May, using the colossally stupid name “Colt,” after the kid that he’d once admired as a little boy playing football, I went to his house on Benton Avenue, and I begged him to take me back. I swore that I’d had nothing to do with my mother’s disappearance, and I swore that I’d never hurt Nikki O’Brien. I begged him. Over and over. I humiliated myself. I actually got down on my knees, and when he said “No, I’m sorry, Rita,” I went out to my car, thought about it for seven hours, and when he came back from his dinner date, I took the Beretta from my glove compartment, went around the back of the house, discovered him naked, rising from his swimming pool, and shot my love, who didn’t love me anymore, in the forehead.
Then I went into his little house, saw the letters on his desk, and discovered that he’d had a recent lover in Pennsylvania.
Leading to:
The murder of some stupid woman in a place called Harrisburg.
Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but maybe it’ll give you some indication of the depthless intensity of my love, but I very much enjoyed the idea of mutilating their pretty faces in some way: whether it was water bloat, or acid, or fire, or the knife. The faces of those who’d had the temerity to kiss the face of the one I loved.
Leading to:
Planting the gun in Nikki’s drawer.
Still thinking, absurdly, foolishly, that I might be able to survive in a world without Billy Kelly.
Learning, at the Sussex Courthouse, exactly who was sitting across the table at the diner date that night.
Learning it, oddly enough, from the twin of the twin.
Learning also that her protector, the full-of-himself Jack Colt, was determined to talk to frizzy Izzy later that same night.
Aware, but, of course, not telling, where the skanky hair stylist was working down in AC.
Then purchasing two gas cans, filling them with Exxon, driving to the Borgata, driving around the ugly parking lot, endlessly, for over six hours, searching for the black Ford Explorer.
Setting it on fire, then watching the Paterson goon yank her out of the back of the car.
But, guess what?, I never give up.
Never.
Isn’t it perfectly clear just how determined I am?
Then duping the dupe Tommy.
Then duping the dupe Ronnie, who’s now duct-taped inside the trunk of the car.
And now, the coup de gras.
[Holds up a large knife.]
Now it all ends.
Judge me as you will, but know that I loved with a love that was more than even the poet’s love, with all the latent powers of the cosmos. With a depth that’s perfectly inconceivable to the likes of you.
Yes, you.
All you loveless saps and suckers.
[Reaches forward. The frame goes black.]
46
Memorial
Friday, April 9th
48°
I watched from a distance.
I didn’t want any pats on the back, but I felt I should be there.
If you love, or might love, the one, then you might also have loved the other one.
The dead twin.
If you love Rikki in some way, however that might be, then logically, inevitably, you also love Nikki.
It was eleven days since I’d shot Rikki and Rita, not that far from the memorial’s temporary platform, and ten days since the ethylene glycol had killed Rita Rockingham Sehorn, with an excess of self-inflicted hematuria, convulsions, hyperventilations, and excruciating abdominal pains. By now, I’d read, numerous times, the transcript of the tape that she’d self-recorded in her room at the Queen Victoria on the night before I shot her, which was, naturally, the exact same room where Billy had stayed ten years ago, while Nikki was being murdered. I’d also watched, endlessly, the companion video that Rita had recorded, sitting in her rented car, contentedly drinking her antifreeze, before she tried to stab Rikki to death.
By now, everyone on the planet had read the transcript and seen the video, since she’d sent them electronically—her “apologia,” lacking
, of course, any remorse or apology—to acquaintances, old friends, reporters, news stations, websites, the Cape May Police Department, the New Jersey State Troopers, and the FBI.
Needless to say, it went “beyond” viral, and, once again, as a result, I was getting hyper-over-publicized. So much so, that I left Paterson and spent a few days in isolation at Beach Haven.
The local priest opened the memorial. His voice carried well over the various outdoor speakers, speaking to the large crowd in front of the temporary podium erected in front of the Sunset Pavilion.
Speaking, as well, to all the news cameras.
Speaking, as well, to me, hiding in my XTS, strategically parked on Beach Avenue, with the windows open, with a clear view of the distant proceedings.
I’ve never learned how to make accurate crowd assessments, but I’d put the afternoon crowd somewhere over two thousand.
When the priest was finished, Richard O’Brien spoke lovingly about his daughter. He broke down a couple of times, and, each time, Rikki stepped forward and put her arm around his shoulder.
I’m glad I wasn’t in the room when the father had to explain to the daughter about the affair he’d had with Deborah Rockingham, twenty-six years ago, after his young wife had run off, back to her home in the Pines. However long their affair might have lasted, Deborah definitely ended up pregnant, and her postmaster husband apparently believed that his little baby girl, whom the mother named Rita, was his own child.
Did he ever know any differently?
I have no idea.
He died five years later of a heart attack. Maybe, hopefully, blissfully ignorant.
So the judge had to tell his daughter, which she already knew, given what I’d yelled out on the beach that night, trying to prevent Rita from driving a knife into her back. So maybe the two of them, the father and the daughter, sat down in their comfortable living room, and the father told her that, yes, one of her best childhood friends was actually her half-sister, and that the same half-sister had killed her twin sister, and that she also killed her brother-in-law (Billy/Casey/Edward), and then tried to kill her.
The father would also explain, I’m sure, as a kind of defense of his defenseless behavior, that he’d sent his former mistress, the mother of his daughter, her sister, monetary payments every month for the rest of her life.
Which probably explained why Deborah Rockingham was the only person in the entire town of Cape May who actively disliked the twins.
Who must have resented them.
Who was, here it comes again, jealous.
It was a conversation that I was glad to miss, but I was certain that Rikki was a lot tougher than she looked. She was also forgiving and understanding, and now, as they stood together on the platform, I felt certain that she’d already forgiven everything that the father had ever done.
After all, it was a good day for forgiveness.
A good day for remembrance of a beloved sister/daughter, but also for moving on.
It was exactly ten years since Nikki had been drowned and murdered off the rocky jetty that extended into the ocean behind the Sunset Pavilion, submerged in the trunk of her pretty “screaming yellow” Mustang.
Then Rikki spoke in what, I would have to say, was a most beautiful tribute to her missing sister, but, I would also have to admit, that everything that she said about Nikki sounded like she was talking about herself.
Describing Nikki as:
Sweet, funny, kind, mischievous, hardworking, goal oriented, etc.
Rikki’s burn bandages were long gone, but maybe her left thigh was still bandaged beneath her lovely white dress. Maybe not. I did my best to miss the bones, which I did, and the gunshot was basically an in-and-out flesh wound.
Rikki stood on the wooden platform, the picture of equanimity and beauty, and I remembered that she’d kissed me thirteen days ago.
Then Ronnie spoke, then Izzy spoke, both in their own lovely ways, both in their own lovely white dresses. Even Izzy. Even Miss Powderkeg had somehow depressed her sexual thermometer for the memorial.
But let’s face it, fifty-five percent of a bombshell is still a bombshell.
At one point, when Ronnie broke down and cried, the girls held hands, with Rikki in the middle, and it seem to make everything worthwhile.
The once-pretty silly teenage beach girls, now all pretty young women, no longer had to wonder what had happened to the friend they all loved so much.
There was, quite appropriately, no mention of Rita, or of any of her “doings.”
As for me, I’d asked the judge to keep me out of it, but I still got mentioned several times as the person who’d “unraveled” the truth about the terrible tragedy.
For which I was grateful.
Over the past ten days, almost all the web reports and newspaper accounts invariably used the word “unraveled,” and I had no problem with that.
When it was finally time for the mayor to “say a few words,” I backed my Caddie out of its parking space and got the hell out of there.
Apparently, there was going to be some kind of scholarship in Nikki’s name, and I was fine with that, but I had no interest in the bureaucratic details.
As I was driving up Beach Avenue, alongside the beach, alongside the ocean, my cell vibrated.
I wondered if I should ignore it, but I pulled over to the curb.
It was Roxs, the other beach girl.
I’ve applied for my old job at LAPD, listing you as a reference. Thanks.
I wondered how many dumped boyfriends end up giving glowing recommendations for the one who’s left them behind. For a job three thousand miles away.
I texted back my two-sentence-limit:
Prepare for the worst recommendation in the history of the world. Colt.
I could hear her in Hermosa, reading my text, smiling, and saying, “Ha, ha.”
Like a teenager.
47
The Fudge Kitchen
Friday, April 9th
48°
My uncle, who was the font of all wisdom, once said:
The only reason to leave the city limits of Paterson, New Jersey, is to drive to Cape May and visit the Fudge Kitchen.
He was right.
As always.
I was currently standing at the Kitchen counter picking out my favorites:
Chocolate (3)
Chocolate Marshmallow (2)
Chocolate Chip (2)
For health reasons:
Bing Cherry Vanilla
Since variety is the spice of life:
Vanilla Marshmallow
The pretty girl behind the counter packed it up and wished me a “lovely day.”
Let’s face it, how could the day be anything else with nine sizable chunks of Fudge Kitchen fudge?
Who on planet Earth doesn’t love sugar, butter, and milk, all magically blended and texturized?
I walked out the brick front of the store, beneath the blue awning, and saw her sitting on a bench waiting for me, still wearing her pretty white dress with a light blue trim.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Health store run?”
I ignored her, and she answered my unasked question.
“The reception doesn’t start until five o’clock, so I snuck away. To catch you sneaking away.”
I’d received an invitation to the post-memorial reception tonight at Congress Hall, but I expected to be back in Paterson long before it started.
When I didn’t respond, we strolled up then down the Washington Street Mall, which was always packed tight in the summers, but was now sparsely populated in the coolness of April. It was still remarkably pleasant beneath the warming sun, and it’s always remarkably pleasant walking along in the company of a lovely young woman.
“I knew you’d come,” s
he said. “And I knew you’d hide yourself.”
“I told you I’d come.”
“You did.”
It was the last thing I’d said to her ten days ago when my business in Cape May was finished.
We were standing in the hospital corridor. She had a bandage on her thigh, and she was limping a bit with a useless cane.
“What were you planning to do with that thing?” I wondered.
Meaning the gun.
Meaning the one she’d taken from her father’s briefcase before she slipped out of the police station that night.
“I have no idea.”
“Have you ever fired one?”
“No.”
“Did you even know where the safety is?”
“No.”
“Beautiful.”
“All I knew was that she had Ronnie in the trunk of her car, and that I was going to get her back.”
“Would you have shot her?”
“Definitely. If need be. If I could figure out how to do it.”
It was time to go.
We both knew it.
“Will I see you again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I’ll be back for the memorial. As long as I’m not part of it.”
“Fine.”
She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.
“Just the cheek?”
“Maybe there’ll be more after Nikki’s memorial.”
I left the hospital, and now I was trying to leave her again.
We walked to my car.
“What happens now?” she wondered.
“I have no idea.”
I wasn’t too good at this kind of stuff. Ask the girl in California.
“You’re a mess, Jack Colt.”
“Yeah, a ninety-eight-year-old priest said the same thing eleven days ago.”
She laughed.
“So who’s your problem?”
“You want her name?”
“Yeah.”
“Roxanne.”
“Where is she?”