Light from a Distant Star (44 page)

“But it’s wrong! They’re wrong!” Again, the same go round and round and round. Bewildering, how the most sensitive, ethical man she’d ever known could be so shortsighted, blind even.

“Nellie, everything points to his guilt. The evidence. Even Charlie didn’t know where he went that morning. He was gone for hours.”

“Because he was fishing! He told me.”

“But no one saw him fishing.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Just because no one saw him doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You said that before.”

“Nellie. Come on, hon.” He looked at her wearily. “You’re going to be late.”

“You told me. Like a star, you said. And just because we can’t prove it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, that it never existed. We still have the light. You told me that! You know you did!”

“All right, yes.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, that’s true. But you can take that same argument, Nellie, and turn it the other way. Some things just are the way they are. One person takes the facts and interprets them his way. You take the exact same facts and interpret them your way. It doesn’t mean the original act didn’t happen. Like where Max was all that morning. He had to be somewhere, that we know.”

“Yeah, he was fishing!”

He put his hand on her shoulder and took a deep breath. “All right, think of it this way: two blind men come upon this huge animal. They both walk around, touching it. Neither one knows what it is. The first fellow says, ‘Oh, okay, I get it; it’s some kind of a hose.’ But then the other keeps feeling and he says, ‘No, it’s trees, four trees.’ And for them, that’s their truth, their truth of the animal, their experience of it. They really believe that. But here’s the thing. It’s an elephant. It is what it is, the sum of all its parts. It’s real, even though the two men can’t actually see it. Do you know what I’m saying?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Same as me, that he’s innocent.”

His next words were lost in the blare of the school bell. A few stragglers ran up the steps and into the building.

“Come on, Nell, better get a move on now.”

“He’s innocent, Dad. He is, and I know he is.”

For a long moment he studied her. “Because your experience of Max tells you he’s innocent. But you’ve never experienced his guilt. You don’t know who he really is, his true morality.”

“Just like Mr. Cooper, you don’t know who he is, who he
really
is.”

“I’ve known Andy Cooper a long, long time, hon, and he may have his flaws, like any one of us, but he is
no murderer
. Believe me.”

“Knowing someone a long time, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Okay, Nellie girl,” he sighed. “That’s enough.” He set her backpack
on her lap. “What do I have to do, carry you in?” He was trying hard to smile.

“But, Dad, wait! Wait. You always say you’ll help, all I have to do is ask, so what if Max didn’t do it, and it really was Mr. Cooper, and I’m the only that knows it, what should I do?”

“You shouldn’t ruin a good man’s life, damn it, Nellie, that’s what you shouldn’t do!” he said so bitterly that she was stung, shocked into silence.

But which man did he mean?

O
NCE SHE HAD
made up her mind, she could almost see better, further, more clearly. “We’ve got to be tough to win, and we’ve got to be ruthless—tougher and more ruthless than our enemies,” urged the major’s voice, and as she walked slowly from school, resolutely, could feel herself slicing through air and time, her entire being a blade through caution and obedience. She took her time getting there. All along the way everything had changed, like her, the brightness brighter, the dark darker. Stronger, taller, older, she moved with sure and fluid grace.

“Nellie Peck,” she told the secretary, a pretty, gray-haired woman who pulled her glasses low on her nose.

“Is it about the property?” She sorted through folders on her desk. “Did your father send you?”

“No. I just need to talk to Mr. Cooper, that’s all,” she said. “If he’s not busy, that is,” she added, to be polite. She didn’t give a damn how busy he was. Just thinking the swear was exhilarating.

Smiling, his secretary glanced at her backpack. “Is this for school? Are you selling something?”

“No.” She stared back.

The woman looked down uneasily, checked her phone. “He’s on the phone right now,” she said hesitantly. “It’s probably going to be a pretty long call. So do you want to maybe come back in a little while, or—”

“I can’t.” She kept wetting her lips, her mouth was so dry. It was hard to swallow. “It’s really important.”

The secretary scribbled on a Post-it note, opened his door, and slipped inside.

“He said to wait,” she said when she returned.

Nellie sat in one of the three suede club chairs. She didn’t have to wait long. Mr. Cooper opened his door and came out, smiling.

“Well, this is my lucky day. Nellie Peck! Come on in, young lady.” He held open the door to his office. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said, then, as if just remembering something, turned back to his secretary. “You know what, Ginny, you can go. I’ll just finish up tomorrow.”

Even after he closed the door and asked her to sit down, Nellie remained on her feet. She wasn’t afraid of him, just afraid of losing her courage, which was the worst fear of all.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the opposite chair. “Go ahead, sit down. You’re making me very uncomfortable, standing there staring at me like this.” He tried to chuckle. “There, that’s better,” he said when she finally sat down. “So what’s this all about? Something about Jessica?” He sighed and shook his head. “What’s my dear daughter done now?”

“It’s about Dolly’s murder—”

“Dolly?” He frowned. “Oh yes. That’s right. I’m so sorry, the young woman in your house. Of course. Yes. What a terrible thing. Your dad said it’s just been awful, for the whole family. The trial, all that publicity and—”

“You were there that day, Mr. Cooper. I heard what happened. All the noise, and things getting knocked over, and then I saw you. You were right outside her door. You were in the bushes almost, and your face—it was scratched. And something was wrong, I knew it, I could see it, and then after you left, that’s when he came, Max Devaney with the hot-water tank, but she was already dead. And you know she was, don’t you?” Panting, breathless, talking so fast, hearing only her own voice, not his, though he was speaking, trying to,
because once closed with her enemy, she had no choice but give every ounce of effort she could muster, and victory would be hers. And Max’s
. “And all those other times—I saw you going in there, even a couple nights before, late, really late. I saw you leaving—almost running, you were in such a hurry. And she told me about that time on the boat and looking up at all the stars. And that was when she got the sunburn, the same time. And that hat you bought her—”

“Stop it!” he’d been saying. “Will you please just stop it!” he demanded.

“And I don’t know how you can let an innocent man go to jail for the rest of his life for something you did. How can you do that?”

If he thought she was crying, she wasn’t, not really, not tears of weakness and fear, only relief, seeping out of her.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to say to you, Nellie. You’ve worked yourself into quite a state here.” With gleaming gaze fixed, frozen like a blade midthrust, he paused as he spoke, the same staged calm as that day. “This is crazy … absolutely crazy. Are you listening? Do you know what I’m saying?” He reached across the desk and she jumped, which startled him. “Settle down, just settle down. All I’m gonna do is call your dad and have him come get you. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll just go call him from the other phone.” He stood up slowly, as if not to alarm her, and slipped into the outer office.

She sat perfectly straight, staring over her backpack. “Ben,” all she heard him say, the rest muffled.

“Your dad’s on his way,” he said, from the doorway. “He should be here any minute.”

“You killed her, Mr. Cooper. And I know you did.” Teeth chattering, bones trembling, an explosion, pieces falling, settling around her. All energy spent, she’d done what needed doing. Finally. The rest, now up to him.

“Nellie!” Her father took her backpack.

“I’m okay,” she kept saying as he gripped the arm of this fragile, shaken creature he was trying to lift from the chair.

“I’ll call you,” he said on their way past Mr. Cooper, who looked sad, and very ashamed, she was pleased to see.

T
HERE WERE TWENTY BAGS OF LEAVES IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE
waiting for the town’s fall pickup. Days of cold winds blowing had stripped most trees bare. November felt like midwinter. Usually youth was its own best narcotic until those awful moments when she would be seized by sudden guilt. Mostly she felt limp. Gone was the terrible urgency of needing to make every part fit sensibly together. After all, what had she been hoping for? That Mr. Cooper would suddenly confess, that science would prove the truth, that jurors would have been so impressed, so touched by her declaration of Max’s innocence that they’d doubt the only evidence they’d been given and believe a girl whose own family not only didn’t but thought she was way too tightly wound and going through some kind of adolescent, premenstrual breakdown. Still, though, they tried to be patient and loving. “Teenage girls, tell me about it,” Mr. Cooper had said, sighing, when her father tried to apologize. Andy had seen more than his share of hysterical meltdowns Claudia Cooper had assured Sandy when they met for coffee, a humiliation her mother felt compelled to endure.

At the kitchen table her parents had been waiting for her to come downstairs. Still in their pajamas, they looked exhausted, but they wanted her to know they finally understood. Everything made sense now. It had all started last summer with the stolen bikes, hadn’t it? That awful Saltonstall boy had told Jessica and she had confided in her mother, but only because they were all so concerned about Nellie, who suddenly didn’t even care that they knew. How could it matter? They were talking about something that had happened a long time ago to someone else. If anything, she was amused by the facile weave, every strand tucked into place.

They’d already spoken to Henry. At first he wouldn’t tell them much, her mother was saying (seeing how uneasy her grin was making her mother, Nellie forced a frown), but then he’d confessed everything and explained how easily taken in they’d both been by the more “experienced and sly Saltonstall boy,” her mother’s words, she knew, not Henry’s. And, of course, along with that had come Nellie’s fears about losing her only sister, Ruth, and then
everything with Dolly and the trial
, which was how it was referred to now. Murder with all its chilling violation had been reworded to a state of murkiness, a complication they were in the process of putting right by moving each piece, each fact into place, because that’s what parents did, helped you understand what had really happened, and why. Which is why they wanted her to know that they understood how her problems with Jessica along with their own financial difficulties could become so complicated and confusing that, in her mind, Mr. Cooper was to blame for everything. They were each holding one of her hands and fighting tears, especially her father.

“So I must be really messed up, huh?”
Strange to feel this giddy
.

“Oh, honey,” her mother said. “Listen, these things happen.”

They do? Really? To whom?
she wanted to scream.

“It can all seem so overwhelming sometimes,” her father said. “Especially when you’re so young. And that’s why we want you to talk to someone. A therapist. Okay?”

T
HE FIRST APPOINTMENT
had to be in the evening so that her parents could be there. Once, she would have been eager to have someone willing to hear everything she had to say about whatever was on her mind. But tonight the most she could muster was mild curiosity. Mrs. Fouquet was a tiny woman with dark, intense eyes and short brown hair fastened back by bobby pins she kept fiddling with. Under her faded denim jumper she wore a red plaid turtleneck with a pearl necklace. In Nellie’s opinion, a really bad combination, but the message was clear: her mind was on more important matters than fashion coordination. Mrs. Fouquet and her parents had been talking for at least twenty minutes. Mostly about the makeup of the family. The many secrets of Nellie’s
furtive summer: they made it sound as if she’d been running with Hells Angels. And then,
everything about Dolly and the trial
.

“That’s a great deal of pressure to put on anyone, especially a child,” Mrs. Fouquet said, and Nellie saw her mother’s head tense back.

Seeing her so nervous was puzzling. After all, Nellie was the one under the microscope, not them. Nobody thought
they
were disturbed.

“We wish we’d had her see someone right away,” her mother said. “Right after the discovery.”

The discovery
—they called it that now, not her finding Dolly dead on the littered floor, murdered, strangled, the thin red trickle from her button nose and the corner of her pretty mouth.