In The Falling Light (13 page)

The country had certainly changed over the
years, but Thomas was sure it was all for the better. America was
prosperous and peaceful, they had a leader they could trust and
respect, and they didn’t take shit from anyone. Crime, though still
present, was terrifically low compared to the past. And with the
way citizens were encouraged to take part in the justice system,
everything from reporting crimes to preventing or actively stopping
them (“Vigilante” was no longer a four-letter word), crime would
continue to decline while quality of life for upstanding Americans
continued to improve. Sacrifices would have to be made of course,
like blowing up a plane and killing two-hundred-sixteen civilians
just to get at two terrorists, but that was all part of progress,
and at least the message was clear to anyone who intended harm.

Thomas saw the silhouette of an old barn in
a field on the right, a landmark that told him he was almost there.
Only a few more miles and they would be at the cabin. Now even
Bianca was asleep, and only the occasional bob of a flashlight in
his mirror told Thomas that Edwin was still awake.

The Navigator rounded a gentle curve, and
well up ahead the headlights picked out the reflectors at the end
of the long gravel drive which led to the Kirkland’s summer home.
Thomas saw a man in shabby clothes and a backpack walking on the
shoulder about fifty yards beyond the curve. He turned at the sound
of the approaching vehicle and stuck his thumb out. In the wash of
headlights, it was clear he hadn’t had a decent meal – or a bath –
in some time. Thomas started to ease the Navigator to the left, so
as not to pass too close to the hitchhiker, when he heard the
penlight click off behind him. He glanced in his mirror and saw
Edwin leaning intently over the seat, staring back into his eyes.
Edwin had enjoyed turning in those two criminals, and seeing they
got their punishment. And he was happy about his citizenship award
and his bright future as an upstanding American. Very happy.
Howard’s son was probably just as happy about turning in his own
father.

Thomas jerked the wheel right and hit the
gas. The headlights seared the hitchhiker with their glare, and he
threw his arms up over his face. A second later the heavy bumper
and grill slammed into him, flinging his limp form into the trees
to smack against a pine, killing him instantly. The
THUD
awakened the family, and Bianca looked over at
her husband, who guided the big Lincoln back into the center of the
lane and slowed for the approaching gravel road.

“What was that?” she asked, her voice heavy
with sleep.

“Nothing, hon.” He switched on the washers,
and the wipers cleared the windshield of red.

“Are we there yet?” mumbled Angela.

“Couple more minutes.” Thomas guided the
Navigator up the long driveway, thinking that he would have the
mechanic in the nearby town take a look at the Lincoln in the
morning, confident that the damage would be minimal. He glanced
into the mirror and saw Edwin smiling at him. He suffered a brief
chill, then forced himself to grin back and wink.

Hitchhiking was illegal.

But so was tolerating it, and he knew the
penalty for that.

Everyone said she was crazy to marry Dean.
The newspapers called her Cooper IV. Her mother, for whom marrying
money was the greatest achievement a woman could hope for,
expressed her fears and reservations. Her girlfriends told her she
was not only crazy, but stupid. Even that detective from the
District Attorney’s office tried to warn her off. Monica held her
ground, professing her love and standing them off. It cost her
those friendships, and gave her no one to whom she could turn when
the papers got really ugly and hurtful. It left her isolated, and
the last thing Samantha, her closest friend since childhood, said
was, “That’s exactly what he wants, Monica. For you to be all by
yourself.”

That friendship ended bitterly.

After four years she proved them wrong. Dean
was a loving and faithful husband. He had his serious moments, of
course, and liked things the way he liked them. A forceful
personality was the best way to describe it. But then a man didn’t
reach the pinnacle of wealth and power in the New York real estate
market by being timid. It was one of the things which attracted her
to him in the first place.

“NAIVE,” the Post had said. “BLINDED BY
LOVE,” the Daily News shouted. “FATAL BEAUTY,” said The Times. The
tabloids were far more unkind. Monica didn’t care, and Dean was
patient with her, explaining how a man in his position, who had
experienced so much tragedy in his life, was an easy target for the
media. He was there to calm her down after that TMZ reporter
accosted her on 5
^th
Ave, shouting, “Monica, how long do
you think before he strikes again?” And Dean’s lawyer, Saul
Kessler, took the time to walk Monica through each case, explaining
all the details and answering every question she had.

Yes, Dean Cooper, real estate billionaire
and New York mover and shaker, had been married three times
previously. Yes, his first wife Darla had run off and never been
seen or heard from again. Yes, so had his second wife Piper. And
yes, Antoinette had been jumped in the dark and murdered during a
robbery in the parking lot of a club. Her assailant took her
jewels, and used some kind of cutting tool to snip off her left
ring finger, stealing the massive diamond and taking the finger
with him.

Dean Cooper was investigated in every case,
and more intensively each subsequent time. No evidence of his
involvement could ever be found, and he had never been charged. The
police didn’t buy it, and Dean told her they would never stop
trying to make their case. But, as he explained, an innocent man
had nothing to fear.

Monica sat on the couch in the living room,
their extravagant apartment soaring around her. From the other room
Dean called, “Honey? Do you want a drink?

Dean was a particular man, and very
particular about Monica’s appearance. She had undergone a facelift
and had her nose thinned, gotten the implants, and hit the gym five
days a week; yoga, Pilates, spin classes. Dean was forever in the
media, and a man of his status had a certain image to maintain. The
lady in his life had to be stunning. Monica did it all willingly,
wanting to please him, wanting to be that stunning woman he wanted,
and she was. At twenty-eight, she was the center of attention at
parties, blonde and long-legged, her chiseled and enhanced figure
turning heads, and her photos frequently appeared in the society
pages.

After almost two years of marriage they had
Ethan, but Monica was determined not to let the baby impact her
looks any more than he had to, and she doubled her efforts,
trimming back down in record time. Ethan was nearly three now, and
despite their financial prowess, Dean wouldn’t hear of a nanny,
except on a part time basis or during vacations. But like their
maids, not a live-in. He believed a mother should raise her own
children, which Monica came to realize suited her fine. Once all
she thought about was shopping and fashion, jewelry and parties and
exotic travel. But she found there was something with a much more
powerful pull than all that. Her heart ached for their little boy,
and she loved being a full-time mommy.

A perfect life, and the kind of money to
make all her dreams come true and more. After a while even the
media left them alone, the scent of some other, more salacious
scandal drawing off the hounds. Dean was sweet and thoughtful, and
although at times he used what she called his “stern voice” with
her, usually when she was being extra blonde as Dean put it, he had
never once raised a hand to her.

But then Monica found the box, and
confronted him.

Dean smiled, and punched her in the face so
hard it fractured her nose and knocked out a tooth.

The rattle of ice in a glass announced her
husband’s return to the living room. He was dressed in jeans and
loafers, wearing an expensive blue button up spattered with drops
of blood. Monica’s blood.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” He smiled
that billion dollar smile.

On the couch, where she had fallen after
being hit, Monica could only stare at him, her vision still blurry
and the thick taste of blood in her mouth. When she’d come storming
into the living room with her accusation, it hadn’t occurred to her
that Dean was just standing there in front of the couch, as if he
had been waiting. She also hadn’t noticed that the couch was
covered in plastic, that
lots
of the living room was covered
in plastic. Monica tried to stand, found out she couldn’t. Dean
walked to her with a look of concern on his face, setting his drink
on the coffee table.

“Does it hurt, sweetheart?” he asked. Then
he hit her again, three fast blows, one to each eye and another to
her already lumpy nose. Monica gurgled and blacked out.

In the darkness, her mind saw the little
cherry wood box, something a young woman might keep her precious
keepsakes in. There it was, sitting on her vanity in the master
bath. Not there by accident. Dean had decided that tonight was the
night, and knew she would open it, that she would come demanding an
answer. He knew her so very well, which was probably why he chose
her to be Mrs. Cooper number four.

A series of slaps brought her back to the
living room, and she wheezed against her freshly re-broken nose,
trying not to gag on the blood and a little hard object which had
to be another tooth. Her eyes were swelling to slits. Dean was
perched on the coffee table before her, leaning forward relaxed,
elbows on his knees, still wearing that smile the TV loved so much.
Another man sat in a chair a few feet away, looking at her with his
head cocked, as if she was a curious zoo animal. Richie.

“It’s been a nice four years, hasn’t it,
honey?”

Monica tried to shake her head, but knew if
she did she would throw up and pass out again. If that happened,
she knew she’d never wake up.

“But people change, they get too
comfortable, and then things get dull.”

Monica gurgled something.

“What’s that?” He leaned forward. “You have
to speak up, sweetie.”

She forced herself to lift her head. It
helped her breathe better. “Evidence,” she said, her voice thick.
“They’ll catch…you.”

The billion dollar smile returned. “Oh,
Monica, no they won’t.” He held up three fingers. “They never have.
You’ll be no different.”

She choked down a clot of blood, swallowing
the tooth, and put her hands out to steady herself so she didn’t
slump over on the plastic sheeting. “Evidence,” she repeated.

Dean frowned and nodded, as if seriously
considering it. Then his bright smile came back, bigger than ever.
“Richie will see to that, like always.” Richie D’Agostino was
ex-NYPD, a man who served as Dean’s driver and bodyguard. They had
been together for years. Monica knew he was a former cop. She
didn’t know he had spent half his career in crime scene
investigation, and was a man who knew just what they would look
for, and how to make it go away.

“He did a perfect job with Darla and Piper.
He’s got a wood chipper upstate.” Dean nodded to the man in the
chair, and Richie tilted his head at the compliment. “Antoinette
was even better, a tragic, unsolved street crime. What is this city
turning into?” He sipped his drink. “Sure, I’ll take some serious
heat, you being number four and all, but eventually it will all go
away, just like the others.” He patted the cherry wood box, now
resting beside where he sat on the coffee table.

Panic was overtaking her, and Monica
struggled to sit up, opening her mouth and letting out what should
have been a scream, but was little more than a loud,
“Gaaaaaah!”

Dean and Richie laughed. “C’mon, you can do
better than that!” Dean patted her knee. “Really let it rip.”

She swayed, gripping her knees to keep from
falling back.

“Go ahead,” Dean said softly, the good humor
suddenly gone from his voice and his eyes. “Scream. Scream like
you’re about to be murdered. You know no one will hear you.”

It was true. Their penthouse, occupying the
entire uppermost level of their building, was sixty-nine floors
above Manhattan’s streets. Dean owned the floor below them as well,
and kept it empty. “For privacy,” he had said. Now she knew what he
meant.

“Nope, no one will hear you.” He raised an
eyebrow. “Except maybe Ethan.”

She went motionless at the mention of her
toddler’s name, and it cleared her mind a little.

“Oh yeah, wake him up with a scream. He can
come out in his jammies, holding his bear, and get to watch what
Daddy does to Mommy.”

Despite being swollen, Monica’s eyes widened
and she bared her teeth. “Don’t you…”

Dean slapped her then, hard, rocking her
head to the side. “Don’t ever tell me what to do, bitch.” Then he
sat back, his relaxed demeanor falling instantly into place, his
blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. He opened the cherry wood box
with one hand, and reached for something in a hip pocket with the
other.

“Want to hear the best part of all
this?”

She couldn’t help but look again at the
three slender fingers lying in the box, each in varying degrees of
decay, each with a perfectly manicured and painted nail, and
wearing an enormous diamond ring. She saw him pull out the big
electrician’s snips.

“The best part is that when we all get to
hell, you have to serve me as slaves. Like a harem. Isn’t that
great?”

Monica saw the madness in his eyes, and
suddenly wondered how he could have concealed it from everyone,
from her, all this time.
“Blinded by Love,”
the Daily News
said. Right. Dean leaned forward and reached for her left hand.
Monica pulled it away and tucked it under her armpit. Her husband
smiled patiently and reached for it again, but she squirmed and
started to twist.