If the Witness Lied (19 page)

Jack folds Tris into a damp little package on his chest. However minor it is—transporting a toddler without a car seat—it would be evidence Cheryl could give a judge; that Jack, Madison and Smithy cannot be trusted with Tris. Maybe they won’t be noticed, but the main job of a TV crew is to notice. Diana is driving very slowly, hoping to avoid police attention. In Jack’s opinion, she’s driving so slowly that she will
attract
police attention.

He doesn’t want this confrontation with Cheryl. He’s afraid of himself, not her. His anger is swelling and bloating. His hands don’t want to pat Tris; they want to strangle Cheryl.

He reminds himself that everything so far is a guess. They don’t know anything for sure and they’re never going to. Cheryl won’t admit anything. There’s a faint hope that Dad wrote something down on paper and it’s in the briefcase, or electronically and it’s on the laptop.

Doubtful. If Dad, for example, e-mailed Mr. Wade about how awkward Cheryl had become, Mr. Wade probably reacted like Mr. Murray and thought how lucky it was that when the accident happened, Cheryl was still around.

Going through that fat, stuffed leather satchel and checking every file in the laptop will be a lengthy task. There is certainly no time tonight. Jack has the passing thought that at least it’s Friday. What if he were juggling school tomorrow and homework?

*   *   *

Madison has no faith in the plan.

And even if the plan works—which it won’t—then what? Four kids on their own? Are they going to take on grocery shopping and laundry and banking and changing the oil in the car and measuring Tris’s feet for new shoes? Even if they try, the Murrays and the Emmers will figure it out before the weekend is over. No matter what Jack wants, some sort of authority will be brought in. No matter what these authorities decide—whether it’s charging Cheryl with murder or scolding the children for being dramatic liars and attention-seekers—the media will be there. Angus will be there. Gwen. The crew.

In fact, whether Cheryl gets away with murder or she doesn’t, she’ll still get the publicity she wants.

Next to her, Smithy bounces, eager to get started. Madison feels a thousand years old.

*   *   *

Diana turns onto Chesmore, an unlikely locale for a lurking police car. She whips out her cell phone. “Mom, do me a favor?”

“You do me one. Where are you? You said you’d be home in a minute and you never showed up.”

“Did you go over to the Fountains’ to look for me?”

“No. Why would I do that? I’m just working away and waiting for you.”

Her mother didn’t even notice that Diana was stating names, time and place in case of a major crime. So much for protection through cell phones. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve been babysitting for Tris. We’ll be home in a while. Mom, would you look out the front window and see if there’s any action at the Fountains’ house?”

“What kind of action?”

“Oh, you know. Police, fire trucks, TV crews. The usual.”

“Diana, you can be so annoying.”

“I know. But do it. Please?”

“Fine. I’m walking over to the upstairs window. There are no lights on in the Fountain house. No cars in the driveway. No sirens, no crowds, no picketers.”

No lights. This is outstanding news. Cheryl not only turns on
every light in every room, she often doesn’t turn them off at night.

Diana shivers. Cheryl, who is darkness: is she also afraid of darkness? Because evil knows evil?

“Have you given any thought to explaining what’s going on?”

“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. The best stuff is going on. Smithy and Madison are both home! We’re having a reunion. I’ll tell you everything later.”

“Oh, that’s such lovely news! Hug the girls for me. Maybe everybody can come over for lunch tomorrow. Tell Jack I’ll make his favorite ham and cheese.”

“That sounds great. I’ll ask. Bye, Mom.” Diana passes the Fountain house. “No car in your driveway,” she reports to Jack, whose view is limited to the interior car roof. “Everything is dark. I’m going to park at my house.” She bumps over the slight gap between the driveway and the road, and heads up the slope of the driveway, less steep than the Fountains’ but longer.

Tris doesn’t wake up when Diana turns off the engine. The interior car lights come on automatically, but Jack is ready and has his hand over Tris’s eyes. Diana cuts the lights.

Madison pulls up next to them. There is no motion sensor attached to the outdoor lights at the Murray house. As soon as they’ve doused the headlights, the drive is dark. In the shadows between the cars, Jack uncurls and manages to get out without waking Tris.

This is Olympic-level brothering. This is the gold medal.

Diana wonders if Madison and Smithy have any idea what Jack has sacrificed for his brother.

Their street has something called Neighborhood Watch, which is supposed to cut down on crime. There isn’t much around here, but not because the neighbors are watching. If a single neighbor has seen a single thing, they haven’t said so. All these treks around the house, in the woods, through other people’s yards? Nobody sees a thing. They’re at work, they’re watching TV, their blinds are pulled, they don’t have their contact lenses in. Who knows?

Madison, Smithy and Jack with Tris in his arms wait while Diana walks down the street to the Fountain house. She goes straight up to the front door and rings the bell. Nobody comes. She uses her own key and steps into the front hall. The house is unlit and silent. Cheryl would never sit home alone in the dark without the TV on. She isn’t crouching behind a sofa, ready to pounce. Nevertheless, Diana tiptoes into the kitchen. She’s intellectually certain that the house is empty, but the kitchen seems full, as if the shadows have weight. She moves through the glass porch and opens the door into the garage.

The folding stair has been folded back up. Cheryl’s car is parked beneath it.

Diana leaps backward, shutting the garage door and bolting it.

What am I doing? I looked into Cheryl’s eyes. I do believe she could kill. And I’m alone in the dark looking for her?

Diana comes to her senses. It’s early for dinner, but just right for happy hour, especially on a Friday. If the TV guy is taking Cheryl out, they went in
his
car. Diana doesn’t turn on the lights, which would signal the others to come.

Cheryl could be in her bedroom, which is in back. Its lights wouldn’t show from the street.

Upstairs, Diana smells Cheryl’s perfume, as if the woman is wafting by. The five closed doors of the bedrooms seem to contain things; awful things, listening things.

The ring of her own cell phone drills her heart.

“What’s taking so long?” demands Jack.

“Sorry. There’s nobody here.”

“We’re on our way. Tris is awake,” Jack adds glumly.

Diana is at the top of the stairs. Let them go into the bedrooms. She looks down. Jack and his sisters come in the front door. Jack glances up. He is the ghost of his father.

T
RIS WHIRLS AROUND THE HOUSE, SLAMMING INTO STUFF
, falling down and laughing wildly. He had had a ton of sugar, hardly any nap and lots of fresh air, excitement and surprises. He is going to have a meltdown.

When Cheryl gets back, they do not want her to realize that they’re inside. They move into the kitchen, where they put on only the stovetop light. They pull the shades and drapes and shut the door from the kitchen to the front hall.

“Tris, you have to hush,” says Jack, putting his finger to his lips.

“Hu-u-u-u-shhhh!” screams Tris, loud enough to peel off the wallpaper. He ricochets from one side of the kitchen to the other, loses his balance and falls forehead-first against the rounded wood corner of a chair. He’s not cut, but the last remnant of his self-control is gone. Sobbing and screaming, Tris writhes on the floor. “I want lunch!” he shrieks.

Smithy, who wants both lunch and dinner, tries to pick him up. Tris screams and rolls under the table and out of reach.

Madison doesn’t even try to deal with Tris. Neither does Jack. He hasn’t had anything to eat, either, and if they’re going to have something hot and good, he has to fix it. He cannot do one more thing.

Diana squats down, grips Tris’s ankle and hauls him out. “You and I are going to fill the tub with water.” She lifts him against his will. He kicks. Diana immobilizes his feet as if he’s a dog at the vet’s and heads for the stairs. “You can have three tub toys. I pick the tugboat, the mommy duck and the measuring cup.”

“No! I want the beach pail! And the whole duck family!” Tris sounds like the last person you’d want to live with.

Jack summons a molecule of energy. “This is good,” he tells his sisters. “We can’t be dealing with Tris. We have to deal with Cheryl. Tris is fine with Diana.”

“He should be fine with us,” says Smithy.

“You made choices,” snaps Jack. “They can’t be undone.”

*   *   *

Madison has lost her momentary status as older sister. She is close to hating Diana and even hating Tris, because Diana has no right to be here, and Tris is not lovable right now. Once again Madison has to follow Jack’s example. She’s sick of how he’s always the good guy doing the right thing.

On the counter is an untouched loaf of bakery bread in a paper wrapper. “I’m making toast for everybody,” says Madison. “Grab a piece as you go by. Don’t worry about getting butter on Cheryl’s clothes.”

One time the whole family—back when they were a whole family; back before Tris—went to London for a week. They didn’t stay in a hotel for Americans but in a hotel occupied largely by Brits. Afternoon tea came in a shiny brown china pot, accompanied by stacks of buttered toast and thick jams in little glass tubs. For a long time afterward, the Fountains went on toast binges.

Madison catches her last thought—
back when they were a whole family; back before Tris
—and prays: Dear God, this
is
my whole family. Let me cherish them. Please let me be the good one for a change.

The fury seeps away. Because the bathroom is over the kitchen, she can hear water running in the tub. Thank you, Diana, she says silently. She doesn’t mean it, but maybe someday she will.

Even the interior of the refrigerator is Cheryl’s. There’s no real butter. Mom’s cookies were so good because of real butter. Madison gets out the plastic tub of fake butter. She makes perfect toast—golden brown all over—and slathers it on. They are starving and would eat anything anyway.

The three of them lean over the kitchen bar, munching toast, wasting what little time they have. Madison doesn’t point this out. She just makes more toast. No matter what they do tonight, they cannot achieve an ending. They can only set up a continuation. If Madison wants this nightmare to end, she has to acquire a grown-up on the team. But who? Who will believe them implicitly, without an argument, without letting Cheryl get a lawyer and a TV station?

Church comes to mind. Mom spent so much time volunteering
and loved her church family so. But the church friends, constantly there when Mom was sick, vanished over time. Once Dad died, they were invisible.

A new thought creases her mind. The edge of this thought is sharp enough to cut her heart. Madison actually whimpers. Jack and Smithy quit buttering toast and wait for an explanation. She shakes her head back and forth, as if to make this new thought splash over the edge and out of her brain. She looks up the minister’s phone number.

Smithy and Jack stand close enough to hear.

“Madison!” says Reverend Phillips. They remember his voice. He has two of them: a large forward-motion voice for sermons—even though the church has a fine sound system—and a warm conversation voice, always half laughing, as if the minister has the inside track to a good mood. “I’m so glad to hear from you. The youth group was heartbroken when you left town, but we respected your wish not to contact you. Tell me how you’re doing.”

“I didn’t have a wish like that. Who—um—who told you that?” Her voice is cracking. It was one of the terrible hurts of this year. Why didn’t those fifteen kids, with whom she’d spent her Sunday evenings, ever call?

“Why, your aunt, of course. She said the counselors and your other relatives and your godparents decided you would be better off with a fresh start. Mrs. Rand asked me to see to it that—” The minister breaks off. He’s not young; he’s dealt with human nature for a lot of years. “That isn’t true?”

“No.” The lump in Madison’s throat is so large she cannot say more. Forgetting her plan to acquire an adult, she hangs up.

“It’s good that you drive, Madison,” says Smithy. “You can run back and forth over Cheryl till she’s as flat as roadkill.”

Madison vaguely recalls hanging up on somebody else today. This must be what shock does to you; you lose the edges of proper behavior.

Cheryl doesn’t lose just the edge of proper behavior, she loses the sides and the center. How incredibly angry she must have been to turn Dad into roadkill. Angry enough to make his little son pay as well. Angry enough to wreak havoc in Madison’s life, and no doubt in Smithy’s. As for Jack, how has he stuck it out?

She stares at her brother in admiration, but what she sees chills her.