The King of Lies (22 page)

I stroked the hair from her face and talked to her. My words had no meaning beyond apology; they blurred, ran into the minutes that stretched away like hours, and later I could never recall them, although I might have begged her to please not leave me alone.

Then there was noise around me, the clatter of a gurney and calm, efficient voices. Hands were upon me and I did not know them, but they led me away and steadied me so that I could see. Jean was surrounded by men in white, and they moved over her, binding her wrists, slipping a needle into her arm, and covering her so that the last of her warmth should not escape. Someone asked me if the tourniquets were mine and I nodded. “Probably saved her life,” the man told me. “A close thing.”

I covered my face with my hands and dared to trust that she would live. When I looked up, Alex was there. She met my eyes over the stillness of her lover, and her old pride was back, her anger and her strength, but in that moment we shared the same thought: If Jean lived, it would be because of me, and Alex acknowledged that fact with her eyes and with fingers that fluttered before her mouth, as if to stop words that she could not take back. But I nodded nonetheless and she nodded back.

Then Jean was on the gurney and it took her from this place she’d chosen. For a moment, I was alone with Alex, and she came to where I sat slumped against the wall. Her jaw moved beneath sealed lips and her hands were fists, beating the tops of her thighs as she sought for words.

“Will you go to the hospital?” she finally asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Of course.”

I nodded, looked down, and noticed that her feet were bare. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” she asked.

I thought about the question. “I think she’ll live,” I said. “The paramedics think so.” I paused, studied her face, saw that she’d been crying. “Do you think she’ll be okay? I mean . . . well, you know what I mean.”

“She’s strong,” Alex said. “Strong enough, I thought. But now I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know anything. I always thought . . . We always said . . .”

Her voice trailed away and she wiped at her nose. I thought of something she’d said back at Jean’s house, and I understood, but the understanding left me chilled.

“You always said you’d go together? Is that it?”

Alex stepped back as if struck, and I saw that she’d left a bloody footprint on the hardwood floor, a perfect little foot. I could even see the lines.

I told her what was on my mind. “ ‘Not without me.’ That’s what you said.”

“What?” Her voice was loud, and I knew that I was right.

“‘She wouldn’t do that. . . . Not without me.’ Those were your words. I want to know what they mean.”

I climbed to my feet, growing angry. “Did you talk about this? Doing it together? Is that what you meant?”

“No.” Another step back.

“Is that the kind of help you’ve been giving her? Is it?” A shout. “Then it’s a miracle she’s alive at all, and no damn wonder that she called me instead of you.”

Alex stopped moving, and there was a sudden resoluteness in the way she stood and in the tone of her voice. She was no longer defensive, but upset herself, pissed-off—the Alex I knew so well.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said.

“It was a call for help, Alex, and she called me. Why did she do that? Why not you?”

“You couldn’t possibly know how it was, and you could never understand. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re all the same.”

“Who?” I demanded. “Men? Heterosexuals?”

“Pickens men,” Alex replied. “All men. Take your pick. But mostly you and your damn father.”

“Try me,” I said. “Explain it to me.”

“You have no right to judge us.”

My voice rose and I let it. I was furious. I was scared. And I could not bear the comparison she’d made. I pointed at the empty door, toward the hall through which they’d rolled my sister to the ambulance.

“I do have the right,” I shouted. “Goddamn you, Alex. I do. She just gave it to me, and you can’t change that. If Jean lives—and you should pray that she does—then we’ll see who has the right. Because if so, I’m going to have her committed, so that she can get the help she needs.”

“If you’re around,” Alex said, and her eyes glittered with insect intensity.

“Are you threatening me?” I asked.

Alex shrugged, and her features dropped. “I’m just saying it seems like you’ve got other worries, other things to occupy your mind.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating the obvious. Now, if you’re finished with your tirade, I’m going to the hospital to be with Jean. But remember this.” She stepped closer. “You have never had power over me, never, and as long as I’m around, you’ll never have power over Jean, either.”

I looked at Alex, at her bottled rage, and felt my own fall away. How had we come to this?

“She said that she loves me, Alex. In spite of everything, she still loves her big brother. So, you see, I don’t need power over her. I don’t want it. She called me and I saved her life. Just like I did before she met you. Think on that. Then let’s figure out what we can do to help this person we both love so much.”

If I’d expected Alex to back down, I should have known better.

“That’s not what I meant, Work, and you know it. Stop being such a fucking lawyer.”

She turned and left, her bare feet soundless as she fled the truth. I heard the door slam, the muffled sound of her car, and then I was truly alone in the great house I’d known for so long. I looked at the rug spread beneath the stairs, the lake of blood that filled the space with its own peculiar scent. Footprints led away from it, and tracks from the gurney, growing lighter, transparent, and then disappearing altogether. I saw Jean’s cell phone and picked it up. I held it, studied the dried blood on it, and then placed it on the small table by the door.

I told myself I should go to the hospital, but I knew from bitter experience that Jean would live or die whether I was there or not; and I was so tired, so unable to deal with Alex again. I thought of the big bed upstairs, pictured myself on its snowy sheets; I wanted to roll into them, touch their cleanness, and pretend that I was a child again and had no worries. But I could not; I was not that person anymore, not a child and not a deceiver. So I lay down on the carpet, next to the drying wasteland of my sister’s life.

CHAPTER 22

A
t the hospital, they told me that she would live. If I’d been a minute later, she would not have. That’s how thin the margin was, around seventy heartbeats. They would allow only one visitor at a time, so I had the nurse ask Alex for five minutes. We passed each other in the hall outside Jean’s room and both of us tried to be nice. It was awkward, and we looked like victims in the bright, clean light.

“How is she?” I asked.

“They say she’ll make it.”

“Brain damage?”

Alex shook her head, pushed her hands farther into the pockets of her grubby jeans. I saw where Jean’s blood had dried between her toes. “They don’t think so, but they won’t swear to it.”

“They sound like lawyers,” I said, but Alex did not smile.

“Yeah.”

“Has she regained consciousness?”

“No.”

“Listen, Alex. When Jean wakes up, she’ll need to see people who care about her, not people who hate each other. I’d like to give her that.”

“You mean fake it.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it for Jean, but the line’s been drawn for us. Don’t let my act fool you. You’re bad for her, even if she doesn’t see it that way.”

“All I care about is getting her better, and I want her to know that people love her.”

Alex looked down the hall, away from Jean and from me. “I’m going for coffee. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She took two steps and turned. “I wouldn’t have shot you,” she said.

Her statement surprised me. Until then, I’d forgotten all about the gun in her hand and how steady it had seemed. “Thank you,” I said.

“I just wanted you to know that.”

Jean’s hospital room was exactly like every other one in which she’d awakened after a failed suicide attempt. The bed was narrow and mean, with steel rails, stiff sheets, and a bright spread that somehow appeared colorless. Tubes snaked into her body, green in the light of her monitors, and the curtains were drawn. I walked around her bed and opened them. The morning light was warm, and in it Jean looked like a wax figure, pallid and incomplete. I wanted to mold her into something else, a survivor; but I lacked that qualification, and could still feel the barrel under my own chin. Only then did it occur to me how close we both had come, and standing above her, I tried to make sense of it all. I knew only that we lived, an immense but lonely truth. I sat and took her hand. When I looked at her face, I found her eyes open and watching me. Her lips moved, and I leaned closer.

“Am I alive?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” I answered in a cracked voice. “You are.” I bit down on my lip. She was so weak. “It was a close thing.”

She turned her head away from me, but not before I saw tears slip from beneath her tightly shut eyes. When Alex returned, she was asleep again, and I left without saying a word about it. Maybe I was selfish. I didn’t care.

I leaned against the wall in the corridor for what felt like a long time. Before I left, I looked into the room, through the small window with wire in the glass. The curtains were pulled again, and Alex sat where I had, holding Jean’s hand. Jean had not moved; she faced the wall, and I wondered if she was still asleep. Would she turn from Alex as she had from me? Or was Alex truly her life, whereas I was welcome only at the ending of it?

I almost left, but I saw Jean move; she turned, saw Alex, and covered her face with her hands. Alex said something and Jean began to tremble, the tubes dancing beneath her forearms. Then Alex was on her feet, leaning over her; she pressed her face to Jean’s and they both grew still. So I left, an unwelcome member of our sad little family.

I had the elevator to myself, but when it opened into the lobby, I saw Detective Mills standing by the exit. She was looking out the window, but I knew she was waiting for me. I walked toward her and saw a marked patrol car idling at the curb. A uniformed officer leaned on the hood, his hand on the butt of his pistol. He was young and looked eager.

“Are you here for me?” I asked. Mills turned at the sound of my voice and studied me. I was bloodstained and filthy. Next to me, she looked every inch the instrument of justice; her shoes shone and I could still see the crease in her pants. When she spoke, I smelled her mouthwash.

“I am,” she said.

“What about him?” I gestured at the young cop outside. Mills shrugged but did not respond.

“Cheap theatrics,” I said. “There’s no need.”

Outside, the cop got into his cruiser and left. He did not look at Mills or at me. Mills watched him drive away before she turned back to me.

“A little jumpy, aren’t you, Work?”

“Whatever.”

She smiled. “I never said he was with me.”

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“I heard about your sister,” she said. “I figured you’d be here.”

“Thanks for your consideration.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“Your sarcasm isn’t necessary.”

“I’m not in the mood for you, Detective. Not this morning. Not in this hospital. So if you’ll excuse me.”

I stepped around her, walked through the exit and into the parking lot. The morning had warmed and the sky was clear and blue. Traffic was loud from the road beyond the manicured hedge, and people moved around me, but I felt Mills behind me. She wore heels, and her footsteps were loud and fast. I knew she wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily, so I spun around to confront her.

“What do you want, Detective?”

She stopped a few feet away from me, a safe distance, and I saw the pistol butt hanging from beneath her jacket. She gave me the same cold smile.

“I hoped we might have a chance to talk. There are some things I need to discuss. Maybe there are some things you’d like to say. Either way, I’ve got nothing better to do right now.”

“I do,” I said, and turned.

“What happened to your face?” Mills asked.

“What?” I turned back.

“Your face. It’s cut.”

My fingers moved to my face as if guilty of some sin. “Scratches,” I said. “Just scratches.”

“How’d you get ‘em?” Mills asked lightly.

“I went for a walk in the woods.”

She looked away and nodded. “Is that where you got so muddy?” she asked.

“Is there some point to this?”

“Why were you in the woods?”

“I was burying bodies.”

“More sarcasm,” Mills noted disapprovingly.

This time, I shrugged.

“Maybe we should have this discussion at the station.”

“The station,” I repeated flatly.

Mills looked around the parking lot and up at the scrubbed blue sky as if she found it all slightly distasteful. When her eyes settled back on me, the expression remained.

“It might be more productive,” she said.

“Do you have an arrest warrant?” I asked. Mills shook her head. “Then the answer is no.”

“So you claim you’ve never seen your father’s will?”

The sudden question threw me; it was unexpected, and a veil dropped over her face as she posed it. I sensed danger. “Why do you ask?”

Mills shrugged. “It’s what you told me before. I just want to make sure that all my facts are straight. You said that you’d never seen the will, knew nothing of its contents. Is that about right?”

I knew what she wanted. Knowledge of the will meant motive, and alarm bells started ringing in the back of my head. Cops were like lawyers. The best questions were the ones to which they already knew the answers.

“I’m not prepared to discuss this. My sister just tried to kill herself. I’m still covered in her blood. Does this make sense to you?”

“I just want the truth, Work. Like everybody else.”

“I know what you want, Detective.”

She ignored my hostility. “Is that right?”

“If you want the truth, then why don’t you look into the mall foreclosure? There were millions at stake there, too—angry investors, and my father in the middle of it. For Christ’s sake, he was killed in the damn mall. Or is that not relevant to you?”

Mills frowned. “I didn’t know that you were aware of that.”

“There may be other things of which you’re unaware. Are you looking into it or not? Do you even know who the investors are?”

“I’ll run this investigation as I see fit.”

“Obviously.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Work. It’s not worth it.”

“Then take your blinders off and do your job!”

Her voice dropped. “Your father was just the messenger. Killing him wouldn’t stop the foreclosure. You’re a lawyer. You know that.”

“Murder is rarely cold-blooded; people kill in emotional states. Hate, anger, revenge, lust. If you don’t know the players, how can you rule it out? There could be a thousand other reasons out there.”

“You forgot one,” Mills said.

“What?”

“Greed,” Mills said.

“Are we done?” I demanded.

“Yeah. For now.”

“Good,” I said. “I need a bath.” I turned away.

“Don’t leave town,” Mills called after me. I spun on my heels and stalked back to her.

“Don’t play your little power games with me, Detective. I know the system, too. Arrest me or don’t, but until you do, I’ll come and go as I please.”

Something glinted in her eyes, but she said nothing; so I walked to my truck and slammed the door against Mills and all she represented. The small space stank of mud, gasoline, and blood, yet the smell of her sickly sweet mouthwash overrode it all. I cranked the engine and drove out of the parking lot. I turned toward home, not realizing until I was almost there that Mills was behind me. I got her point: I could come and go as I pleased, but the last word was hers.

I parked at the top of my driveway and climbed out. Mills had stopped on the street, next to my mailbox. She honked twice and pulled away, but she didn’t leave; she drove around the block and parked on the side street next to the lake. I saw her and she saw me, and that’s how it was until I went inside.

In the kitchen, I gripped the counter until my arms shook, and anger made the room tremble. When I let go, the last of my strength had fled. In my body I was dead, yet my mind had resolved on a single purpose. Right or wrong, good or bad, I knew what I needed.

The phone was warm against my ear and for an instant I felt her beating heart, as if my head were on her chest. I sat on the floor and dialed her number. It rang, and I could hear it, as if I were there instead of in my own home—shrill in the kitchen, soft in the hall. I pictured her rushing to answer it, across the front porch, screen door banging, the smell of turned earth and the soap she used. I saw the curve of her lips as they crafted my name. But she never came, just her voice on the machine, and it was not the same. Not even close. I could not bring myself to leave a message.

So I replaced the phone on its cradle and climbed wearily up from the floor. I spent half an hour in the shower but could not get warm. When I ran out of hot water, I toweled off and climbed into bed. I thought I was too scared to sleep. I was wrong.

I dreamed in black and white, of shadows on the floor that stretched like bars across bare feet. My toes were dark with blood; I was running, in pain, and the shadows spun across me as if a giant fan stood between the sun and me. Light, then dark, faster and faster, and then there was only dark. I stopped running. I was blind. I was deaf. But still I felt it. Something approached.

“Hello, Barbara,” I said without turning over.

“It’s three o’clock,” she said.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” I told her.

“I know,” Barbara said.

Reluctantly, I turned. She was wearing a pink Chanel suit with a pillbox hat. Her face was perfect, but the diagonal light cut tiny shadows at the corners of her mouth.

“How do you know?” I asked.

She put her purse on the dresser and began switching on lights. She moved as she spoke, as if she did not want me to see her face.

“When you didn’t pick up the phone, I came over. At about four o’clock, I should say. I was worried. I felt bad that I was not here for you.” She turned on the last light and stood uncertainly, smoothing her skirt as if it were wrinkled. She still could not look at me. “You can’t imagine how surprised I was to find an empty house.”

“Barbara,” I began, not knowing what to say.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Work. I couldn’t bear the insult. I can accept that you went to her because I was not here for you; in that regard, I share some of the blame. But I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want you to lie to me about it. You’re not that good a liar.”

I propped myself against the headboard. “Sit down, Barbara.” I patted the bed beside me.

“Just because I’m talking to you doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you. I’m here to tell you how things are going to be, so that we can get through this as an intact family unit. First, I don’t think you killed your father.”

I interrupted. “Well, thank you for that.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic. Please let me finish.”

“Okay, Barbara. Go ahead.”

“You will not see this Vanessa person again, and I will stay here and help you get through this. Whatever has to be faced, we will face together. I will swear with my dying breath that you were with me when they say Ezra was killed.” She finally looked at me. A strange light burned in her eyes, and her voice, when she continued, was as brittle and hard as shale. “We will smile at our neighbors. We will not hide as if in shame. When people ask how we are, we shall tell them. Splendid. We are splendid. I will cook for you and eventually I will sleep with you. All this will pass, and when it does, we will still have to live in this town.”

Her voice had not changed, an unshakable monotone, and I watched her in disbelief as she continued to outline the way it was going to be.

“We’ll stay in for the most part, but occasionally we’ll go out, for appearances’ sake. Everything will be as it always was. Glena has made some calls. Things are bad, but they’ll get better. Once this blows over, we’ll be okay.”

“Barbara,” I said.

“No,” she shouted. “You do not interrupt me. Not now. Not after this.” She pulled herself together, looked down on me, and painted a smile onto her face. “I am offering you a chance, Work. Once this is over, we can go back.”