Emancipated (33 page)

Candace had Paolo all wrong, Grace was certain. There was more to Paolo than he was letting them see. Grace couldn't help but pity him, even while enduring the gnawing ache of frustration—at herself for not
being
herself in his presence and at him for taking her studied indifference at face value.

Maybe he didn't understand yet that simply by existing you could cause someone to suffer. Maybe Lucy would be the one to teach him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

VENICE BEACH, SUNDAY, MAY 24

“Hey, Grace. It's John-Michael.” He had to tell someone. Something made him choose Grace. A finger stalled over her name as it appeared in the list on his phone. When he chose to touch the screen, John-Michael didn't know why. Later on, he understood.

It was 7:40 in the morning. A nightmare had woken him an hour before. It had taken him a couple of moments to remember that it was still only Sunday. Tomorrow was Memorial Day: no school. At first, relief had washed over him. Then came the familiar weight that seemed to get denser with the passing of time instead of lighter. No school meant no distraction. Right now, he needed as much distraction as he could get.

He'd gone to the bathroom and the sight of the early-morning sunshine had instantly cheered him. He'd dressed quickly hurried outside and spun down the spiral staircase and onto the path toward the boardwalk. Here and there the soft, sandy banks near the path were still dotted with sleeping bags, their vagrant contents snuggled tight against the cool of the night. The air came straight in off the ocean, fresh and sweet. John-Michael breathed it deeply. Moments later he worked up the courage to dial.

“John-Michael?” Grace's response was predictably dozy, confused. “Where the heck are you? It's so early.”

He cradled the phone now, held it close to his mouth, spoke quietly. “I'm out on the boardwalk. I couldn't sleep, didn't want to wake you and Maya.”

He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I want to take you back to San Quentin.”

San Quentin
. Even the thought of seeing that place again was like an icicle in his chest. Yet he couldn't help it. The dread of a long night in a cell was at his back, but it cast a shadow he could only think of one way to erase.

“You should visit your guy on death row,” John-Michael said. “I've been thinking a lot about him.”

“You've been thinking about . . .
Alan
?” Grace whispered in sheer disbelief.

“A night in jail isn't like any other, Gracie. You say he's innocent. I believe you. I got some new perspective on this, okay? A tiny idea of what he might be going through. And . . . I really think you should go see him. You're all he has, right? We'll drive up there together, visit him, then chill for the rest of the day, stay over. I'll pay for the motel. Tomorrow's Memorial Day—so we don't even need to hurry back.”

Grace sounded tired. “I'd have to call ahead to get permission—you need an appointment to visit a death row prisoner. Plus I'd have to get my cousin Angela on board again.”

But with only a little more muted protest, Grace eventually agreed to make the necessary calls and to meet John-Michael on the side road where he'd parked the Benz.

When she first saw him, Grace didn't move right away to hug him. John-Michael walked over to her slowly, held out his arms at the last minute to receive her. A lot was transmitted between them in the hug that followed.

All he said was, “You hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Let's go to breakfast first. IHOP or whatever. Then we'll get started on the road north.”

She just nodded uh-huh, sticking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

“If it's okay with you I thought we'd go up on the 5. It's not as pretty as the Pacific Coast Highway. But it's a lot faster. We can come back down on the 1, so it's not just a long boring drive.”

Grace agreed. Still sleepy, she slid into the passenger seat and buckled up.

Over strawberry-banana pancakes at an International House of Pancakes, he told her what he'd been thinking. Before he spoke, he glanced around. Not the easiest place to unburden himself. The place was half full. It smelled of coffee, bacon, and Sunday-morning virtue.

But he couldn't bear to wait a minute longer.

“You think I killed my dad,” he began. “Don't you?”

She let out a little gasp, just enough for him to realize he was right. She stared at him with transparent anxiety.

“It's okay. You don't need to say anything. I heard it in your voice the minute I got back from Carlsbad.”

“I . . . John-Michael, why would you say that?”

But she wasn't a good enough actress.

“Maybe it's because I agree with you.”

She gasped again. “You did it?!”

He replied with another question. “I need to know: Do the others think I killed him, too?”

She stared. “Do they think . . . ? No.”

“So it
is
just you?” He gave a sad smile. “How did you know? The cops can't pin anything on me, but somehow they know. They just need me to say it. To say anything. A little thing would tip this thing over right now.”

“The cops don't have any evidence?”

He shook his head. Softly he said, “There's nothing to prove beyond reasonable doubt that I left LA on December first. No solid reason to doubt my dad's suicide note. No motive. Turns out the ex-girlfriend's electronic draft of the will doesn't count for much. It was created when they were dating. She could easily have used his computer to write it herself. And even if she didn't . . .”

Grace picked up her fork, thoughtful. “What counts is the will he signed?”

He was relieved to see her exuding empathy. She was the first person he'd told. The conversation could easily have gone horribly wrong. “Only what he signed,” he agreed.

They were quiet for several moments, eating their pancakes, fruit, and whipped cream, sipping their drinks; herb tea for Grace and coffee for him.

Then, “You wanna know how I did it?”

Grace turned to him with eyes that were grave but unafraid. “Did you get him the heroin?”

“When he called, I'd just finished the morning shift at this conference center where I was working. I was with Felipe. We were at the beach. We were so happy. Watching the surfers, drinking a couple of beers. Did you ever get a call that, like, from the minute you picked up the phone, you knew that everything was gonna change, like, irrevocably? Like you reached a point in the road and someone put a giant goddamn fork in the middle of it and made you choose?”

With unwavering resolve she replied, “I've never had any doubts about where I wanted to go. There's only ever been one path.”

“Then you're lucky,” he said, his eyes heavy with regret. “The road I chose, I didn't want. You understand? I knew from the outset that it would be dark. That I'd have to meet a version of myself that I didn't want to believe existed.”

Grace had no answer for this but the touch of her hand on his.

Later, after they'd returned to Venice Beach in a blaze of infamy, he would remember this moment. He'd remember his lack of a physical response when she'd tried to comfort him. He'd remember the way he felt at that moment, as though a curtain had descended. It separated the past from his future, and he needed to do the same.

Most of all, he couldn't forget what he'd told her then.

“I chose an old road, Grace. A bad, old road that lies in wait. Better hope you never find it.”

The words had stayed in his mind on their return journey all the way down the Pacific Coast Highway. Until he couldn't bear to hear them anymore.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

HIGHWAY 5, SUNDAY, MAY 24

“Why didn't you just tell him no?”

John-Michael turned down the volume on the car stereo. It had taken her until they were halfway to San Francisco before she'd dared to broach the subject once again. Grace waited, anxious. Somehow, John-Michael had guessed that she suspected he'd helped his father die. He was probably expecting sympathy. People who confessed usually did. They didn't want to hear their worst fears confirmed—that they were guilty and deserved punishment.

It wouldn't be easy to say to his face.

“My dad hardly ever asked me for anything. Prided himself on it. He had to be the big man, the provider. Near on killed him to acknowledge that when my mom died he turned to Jell-O for about a month. Maybe if I'd turned out to be more what he'd hoped? Who knows? But things being what they were—what they
are
—he wasn't about to let me help. It's why he didn't tell me until he'd already made up his mind. And then, he didn't ask, he ordered. He said—and let me try to give you his precise words—
Get your fucking queer, lazy ass down here with some heroin. Enough to kill a man
.”

John-Michael spoke very calmly, in an even, almost conversational tone. His eyes rarely strayed from the road ahead. Only occasionally, in the tension of his hands and arms, did Grace detect any sign of stress.

He continued. “And why didn't I say no? To start off, I did. Ended up hanging up on him. Ten minutes later, he calls me back. This time, whole different story. He's crying. My dad, Chuck Weller. Never saw him cry since Mom died.
Please, John-Michael. You're the only one I can ask. I can't do it alone. What if I do it wrong? I might wind up in the nuthouse. I need you, John-Michael, I've never given up hope that you'd come home. Some things are just for family
.”

“Did he tell you why?”

Grimly, John-Michael nodded. “Oh yeah. The sicko despised me too much to pass up that particular little gem.
It's gonna kill me, kid. And guess what? Chances are, it's gonna kill you too
.”

“He had a genetic disease?”

He turned to Grace, realization lighting up his eyes. “My blood test. That's how you guessed I was
involved in his death?”

“Lucy and Candace talked about it after the dinner party—Candace told me all about it. She said Lucy assumed you got tested for HIV. But later, they realized you weren't really at risk, given what you told us all about your history. Then Lucy remembered that you never mentioned HIV.”

“I wasn't sure what to tell Lucy when I went for the test,” John-Michael admitted. “I was so scared. I mean, you can hardly imagine. So when she went straight to HIV, I didn't correct her.”

“But you don't have that. Thank God. What was the test for?”

“You ever hear of Huntington's disease?”

“No.”

“My dad had known there was something wrong for years. Little things were going wrong. Neurological glitches, problems with swallowing. He thought he was just tired. And then there were the mood swings. He was always an angry, boneheaded type. But this was way worse. He'd fly into these insane rages. Like the day he threw me out. His girlfriend dumped him—later on I wondered if it was because of what the disease was doing to him. Eventually he couldn't ignore that there was something wrong. Not that he told me about any of this. No. If he was angry it was because I'm the loser, the lousy homo who didn't even want to be a ‘real man.'”

“You think all that was the disease?”

“His rampant homophobia? If only. It would make it easier. But he'd been that way about gay people since I was a little kid. I mean, I knew when I was like eight, nine. Didn't dare tell him, though. Did my best to hide it. The indie-kid thing was useful. It gave me an excuse to dress different. He called all goths and emos ‘gay.' He knew they weren't, not really.”

“This Huntington's disease—is it fatal?”

“Incurable, mostly untreatable, and fatal. And fifty-fifty that it gets passed on to your kids. As sickness goes it's pretty much up there as your worst nightmare. People who die from it wind up totally helpless, seriously depressed. There was no way Chuck Weller was going to end up like that—dependent on me to feed him and wipe his ass? No way. From the moment he knew he had it, he was planning the end.”

“Did you stay with him while he did it?”

“Did I stay with him . . . ?” John-Michael gazed at her, bewildered. “Of course I stayed with him. That's how he wanted it. He made me promise to stay to the end. To see it through.”

Grace stared into the barren scrub of their surroundings. Hills dotted with occasional pines whizzed past, wisps of grass burned yellow. Hardy desert shrubs stubbornly clustered across the terrain. The smooth gray tarmac slicing its inexorable path through California. In truth, she'd already heard enough. But she forced herself to keep listening. Now that she'd heard the awful story, she had to know how it finished.

“What was it like at the end?”

“We did the legal stuff first. There was his new will—he'd been meaning to destroy it ever since Judy left him. We burned that, rinsed the ashes down the sink, deleted all the copies on his computer. Then he hid all his medical notes. He didn't want anyone to know the real reason. His note just said:
I've had enough of this. That is all. Good luck to John-Michael, may his fate be better than mine
.

“I didn't understand that,” John-Michael said, “because he was saying it was all depression, right? And surely that's just as ‘weak' as killing yourself because you don't want to go through some horrible sickness. But I guess in the end, it's because of how my mom died. She died pretty slowly. Suffered a lot.
He was there for her the whole time. I guess he thought that if she could take a death like that, he should be able to as well. And he didn't want people to know that when it came down to it, he couldn't.”