Regrets Only (40 page)

They gathered in the grand entrance, and Jack issued instructions. The navy blue Windbreakers scattered as Lucy stood beside the maid, waiting for the translator to arrive. The small woman was visibly shaken.
“Esta bien,”
Lucy said softly, struggling for an appropriate idiom from her high school Spanish.

“No tiene remedio,”
the woman responded in despair.

Within moments Jack returned from the mudroom carrying a shopping bag marked
GOODWILL.
He reached in and pulled out a raccoon jacket. “I guess she didn’t want it to go to waste.” With that, he shoved the jacket into a clear plastic bag and marked it with an appropriate inventory control number.

A Hispanic police officer who doubled as a translator had just arrived when Ben DeForest reappeared in the entrance. He’d been initially dispatched to search the barn and surrounding fields. Although he had a three-way radio, they’d heard nothing from him in the thirty minutes they’d been at the Gladwyne property. Now back inside the main house, he leaned forward with his hands resting on his thighs. “You’ve got to see this,” he said, his voice excited but slightly out of breath.

Jack and Lucy left the maid in the custody of the translator and followed quickly on Ben’s heels. They crossed the driveway and cut left behind the house across a fieldstone patio. The trimmed lawn ended abruptly at an open expanse of field.

The large barn was constructed of painted pine. The door was open, and they stepped into a cavernous space with a hayloft above them and three stalls along the right side. Each had a brass nameplate secured to its hinged gate. An open black trunk against one wall revealed an array of tack, two well-worn rope halters, several snaffle bits, a pair of saddles, and myriad brushes. The smell of horses—hay, oats, and manure—permeated the air despite the fact that there were no longer animals in residence.

“This way,” Ben said. He slid open the door to the stall marked
JUMPSTART.
“There.” He pointed to the ground where a pile of hay had been moved aside.

Lucy took a step closer, leaned forward, and then dropped to her knees. There lay a baseball bat. The black script along one side read
LOUISVILLE SLUGGER.
The end flickered with spots of burgundy metallic paint.

“We’ve taken prints. Good prints. I e-mailed the image to Frank back at the Roundhouse. And I probably don’t need to tell you we’ve got an exact match to Avery.”

Back inside the Herberts’ home, Angelica, the maid, offered what little she could. She’d been given last Saturday night off. “Mrs. Herbert doesn’t do as much entertaining as she used to, and hardly ever goes out. I spent the night at my sister’s,” she said in Spanish. “I did notice the car had been moved in the morning, but when I realized Avery was here, I thought she’d gone to pick—” Her words fell off, but her mouth remained open and her eyes bulged in fear.

Lucy turned around. Faith Herbert stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Avery was visible behind her. The girl was tall, thin, and more beautiful in person than she’d appeared in her photograph. “Would someone please tell me what is going on here?”

“Your daughter is under arrest.” Reaching for the handcuffs in her pocket, Lucy moved past Faith and stood inches from Avery. Close-up, she thought she could see the mild flutter in Avery’s T-shirt as her heartbeat quickened. Reaching for the girl’s wrist, she felt Avery’s frigid flesh. The locking mechanism of the handcuffs seemed to echo as she secured them, and began to recite her rights. “Avery Herbert, you are under arrest for the murder of Morgan Reese.”

“There’s been a mistake.” She heard Faith’s voice behind her. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Avery was immobile. Other than a single tear running down her cheek, there was no indication that she had processed what was happening or listened to what Lucy had said. She wore a blank expression that gave her delicate features a ghoulish quality. Lucy turned her away from the kitchen, and directed her toward the door. She felt Jack beside her, but didn’t look away from the slender back walking less than a foot in front of her. The huge house was shrouded in silence.

“I murdered Dr. Reese.”

Although the words were loud and clear, Lucy wondered if she was dreaming. But Faith repeated her confession.

Avery turned back in the direction of the kitchen. “Mom, don’t do this.”

“I’m only telling the truth. My daughter is not responsible for this crime. I shot her in the chest—just exactly as my son had shot himself.”

Her red eyes now rimmed with tears, Avery looked at Lucy. “You see what she’s doing, don’t you? Don’t listen. Let her go.”

“Quiet, Avery. I forbid you to say a single word more to the police,” Faith instructed.

“Mom, stop. I need you. I need your help,” Avery implored. “What are you doing?”

“I killed her.” Faith began to open her purse, and Jack instantly drew his gun. “I have nothing here to harm anyone, Officer,” she said politely, as she extended the bag for him to see. She reached in, and then opened her palm to show him two unspent bullets. “You’ll find these are the same kind as the one I used on Dr. Reese.”

“Mom, please!” Avery cried. She started to collapse, but one of the attending officers grabbed her and held her by her armpits. “You were only trying to help.”

“Release my daughter. She’s young. She’s done nothing wrong. I’m the one you want.”

She seemed strangely composed as Jack handcuffed her and advised her of her legal rights. Avery cried quietly, still half dangling from the officer’s arms.

As Jack led Faith past Lucy and Avery, the mother smiled. “I love you, my darling girl. You’re my joy, my only joy. I wouldn’t want this any other way.”

31

Saturday, August 9th 2:14 p.m.

B
ill Herbert settled beside his daughter on the satin-covered settee. He glanced around the room, seemingly unnerved by his surroundings—a two-bedroom apartment on Lawrence Court that he’d moved into the previous March. With its minimal furniture and bare walls, the space had a transient feeling. He’d clearly never expected that his teenage daughter would reside there, too.

He’d lost weight and his cheekbones protruded dramatically. His temples looked grayer than Lucy remembered from when she’d seen him in May, and his half-glasses perched precariously on his slim nose. On a coffee table in front of him were a pitcher of lemonade, several mismatched glasses, and a pile of what looked to be shortbread cookies placed haphazardly on a plate.

Lucy and Archer perched opposite on small armchairs with mahogany frames and tight upholstery. Archer shifted uncomfortably for several moments, turning his body slightly sideways and resting on one hip with his long legs extended outward and crossed at the ankles. They’d been there for nearly ten minutes, yet the conversation hadn’t progressed beyond the barest of introductions.

Bill leaned forward and stirred the contents of the pitcher awkwardly, knocking against the glass sides repeatedly with a wooden spoon. “Lemonade?” he asked. Hospitality had been Faith Herbert’s realm, and he seemed to be struggling to figure out what to do to accommodate his guests.

Archer shook his head, declining the offer, and Bill sat back with a dejected expression.

Lucy felt sorry for both of them. “No thank you,” she added. “I had water just before we arrived.” Given the difficulties of the situation, Archer couldn’t be expected to comport himself with the best of manners. She reached over to rest her palm on top of his, wanting to demonstrate her support.

Archer had arranged this meeting with his half-sister on his own and unbeknownst to her. Only after it was scheduled did he ask Lucy to accompany him. “As my girlfriend, not in any official capacity,” he’d implored. “The investigation’s over.”

She hadn’t wanted to explain that an investigation is never fully over; there was always more information, more angles to explore. Out of necessity, cases had to be closed to move on to others. Trials happened and sentences were rendered. That was how the overburdened system managed to operate. But most detectives could recall the minute details of a case from a decade before, and would be more than willing to hear some new detail long after the defendant was serving time.

But that explanation was inappropriate. There were no professional problems standing in her way, and she’d agreed. Avery’s criminal case had been quickly resolved once it was transferred to juvenile court, where she’d entered a guilty plea to one count of reckless endangerment, a second-degree misdemeanor. In wildly swinging a baseball bat at the hood and roof of the Mercedes, she’d placed Reese in danger of serious bodily injury. Although it was a relatively minor disposition, the prosecution’s case for trial on a manslaughter charge had been extremely weak. Its own Medical Examiner would have had to testify that people recover from the type of subdural hematomas that Avery had inflicted, and he couldn’t predict the degree of permanent injury, if any. Dealing lightly with Avery also served the ultimate goal: the murder trial of Faith Herbert. The government needed Avery as a key witness. In negotiating this outcome, her defense attorney had offered her testimony.

A court-appointed psychiatrist specializing in adolescent behavioral disorders testified on behalf of Avery at the sentencing hearing. Avery suffered from an acute anxiety disorder brought on by the death of her beloved brother, and aggravated by both the separation of her parents and the sudden discovery of her biological mother. Although she had suffered from certain anxiety issues prior to the events in question, the combination of extreme emotional pain, confusion, and alcohol had made her impulsive. Her aggression was temporary. She’d lashed out in fear, destroying the car. When Dr. Reese had tried to stop her—to calm her down—she’d been hit in the head. But Avery had never intended the resulting damage.

The judge, a sympathetic elderly man who had leaned down from his bench to offer Avery his handkerchief when her emotions got the better of her as she gave her personal statement, placed her on probation. His opinion emphasized the lonely struggles of a suddenly twinless twin whose life had been turned upside down in the space of only a few months. During her probation, she would live in an environment closely supervised by her father in coordination with her court-appointed psychiatrist and would perform 250 hours of community service; when she turned eighteen, presuming she had no further problems with the criminal justice system, she would be free to resume a normal life, however that might be defined under the circumstances.

Although her case formally had been resolved, Archer had negotiated with defense counsel for the meeting. Avery’s lawyer had set strict parameters. Since Avery was still scheduled to testify in her mother’s trial, there would be no discussion of the night of May 17 and no questions about Faith Herbert. Bill was to be present and would ensure that these conditions were met unequivocally.

Sitting less than a yard away from a brother she’d never met, Avery stared at Archer. Her thin lips quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Her father put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her slightly to him, a move she appeared to resist, so he removed his arm and rested his hands in his lap.

“I guess . . . I just . . .” Archer began. He paused for a moment and looked at the floor, collecting his thoughts. “I understand now that Morgan wanted us to meet. The Sunday that . . . you know, the invitation she sent us both. The Liberty Bell.”

Avery nodded, although the movement was almost imperceptible. “We’re meeting now.”

He shrugged. “Maybe this was silly, another one of my dumb ideas. It just seemed so inconceivable that you even existed, that I had a sister, that I felt . . . well, it’s all been so disorienting.”

“It has been for Avery, too,” Bill added.

“Yes. Yes, I can imagine. And when I found out that Foster was your brother, my brother . . . I really loved his artwork. He had tremendous talent.”

Avery’s eyes filled with tears. “Nothing made him happier than that show, your show. I often wish it had never come down. Maybe everything would have turned out differently.”

“I just wish I’d known then what I know now,” Archer said.

“Me, too.” For a moment the sides of her mouth curled up, and she smiled. It was a fleeting gesture but in that second her face was transformed. The blank slate of detachment disappeared. Unconsciously, she moved her bony fingers sequentially as if playing piano scales on her forearm.

“How’s your mother?” Archer asked.

“We’re not supposed to discuss her,” Bill said.

“That’s right,” Lucy added, squeezing Archer’s hand a little tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I forgot.”

“It’s okay, though,” Avery said, looking nervously at her father. “I appreciate that you’ve asked. She’s brave, braver than I’d ever be. She tells me she’s okay, but that’s just what she’s always done: protecting me, not wanting me to worry even though I’m responsible.”

Archer nodded.

“Her trial date is set for October.” She leaned back on the settee.

Nobody spoke for several moments. The reference to Faith seemed to have stifled whatever progress the conversation was making. Lucy’s glance fluctuated between Archer and Avery. There was an uncanny resemblance in their mannerisms, as well as their physical features. No one would doubt that Morgan had strong genes.

Suddenly Archer tucked his legs beneath him and leaned forward, agitated. “This is beyond awkward, and I’m sorry. It’s incredibly stilted. Here we are sitting across from each other being monitored by your dad and the investigating cop who happens to be my girlfriend, and we’re all here because of a woman who happened to be our mother but who neither of us knew. I’m not sure what I wanted to accomplish when I set this up. I somehow thought we should meet with . . . with everything that’s happened.”

“Or maybe you wanted to follow through on her wishes,” Avery offered. “Morgan’s, that is.”

“As if what she wanted should matter.” His tone was bitter.

Avery shrugged, stood, and walked to the window. Turning the handle, she tilted the lower pane open, letting in a peal of laughter and the sounds of two children talking and giggling. “Daddy, Daddy, catch me!”