by Merry Jones
She didn’t want to picture Paul’s reaction.
She parked her car in front of Dave’s, jumped out, and hurried up the long, winding path through banks of firs and Chinese maples. She smeared rain off her face, heard fat drops splattering the greenery, the slate walkway. Where was Dave now? Was he okay? Heart clanging, Nora tried not to slip on slick wet slate. Reminded herself to breathe. Told herself that when Paul answered the door, she’d simply say that she’d seen Dave’s car out front and needed to talk with him. She wouldn’t need to explain. Paul would probably be relieved—
A sharp crack pierced the air. Nora froze, spun around. A squirrel darted up a nearby tree trunk. It must have snapped a twig. No big deal.
Except that the lawn, the foliage, every twig on the trees was soaked. And wet sticks wouldn’t crack.
Nora hurried to the house, ran up the steps to the front door. And stopped. The door hung open. Paul would never have left his door open. No, it was open because of Dave. Oh God. What was he doing in there? What had he already done? She listened, but heard no heated voices, no struggle, just the soft, steady splat of raindrops.
Cautiously, Nora stepped into the foyer. She stood there, dripping onto the marble floor, deciding what to do. Should she call out to Paul? To Dave? No, better to stay quiet and take a look around. She started toward the living room but stopped, startled by another sharp, sudden crack.
This time, she knew it wasn’t a twig.
Saturday, October 31, 1993
H
er lip was swelling. She should probably put ice on it, but why bother. Who cared if her lip ballooned like a sausage or if it got infected with Craig’s germs and killed her? She flopped onto her bed. At this very minute, Annie was wrapped in Bobby Baxter’s arms, engulfed in a cloud of Old Spice, kissing his sweet, soft lips. Nora covered her face and groaned.
How could Annie betray her so deeply? Taking Bobby Baxter just to punish Nora. And, as if that weren’t punishment enough, she’d turned Craig the beast loose on her? Nora still felt Craig’s teeth pecking at her. She shivered and curled onto her side, hugging her knees to her chest. Why was Annie being so evil? Was it just because of Tommy’s stupid photographs?
Maybe it was that simple. Maybe Annie was so pissed and afraid that her parents might see the pictures that she didn’t know what to do except make Nora’s life hell. If that were the case, and if Nora gave her the photos, then Annie would relax and be her best friend again, and everything would go back to the way it was.
Right. And maybe Tommy would be class president.
Still, it was a possibility. Nora’s only hope of getting Annie to ease up was to produce the pictures and negatives—and soon.
Nora knew what she had to do, just not how to do it. Her tongue played with the cut on her lip until the sting became too intense to bear. Then she sat up, frustrated, figuring out what to do. She’d heard Tommy moving around in his room, so she couldn’t look there.
Then again, if he was in his room, then he wasn’t upstairs in his dark room, which meant she could look there. Probably, he wouldn’t have left them anywhere so obvious, but it was worth a try. Searching was better than lying in bed picturing her best friend making out with Bobby Baxter, kissing him the way she’d taught Nora, with her lips parted just a little, her head turned ever so slightly so her nose wouldn’t bump his, letting him press his hands against her backside. Shit. Shit. Shit. Nora’s heart crackled and burned. Their seven minutes must be up by now. After making out with Annie, Bobby Baxter must be back in the party room. Did he even notice that Nora was gone? Nora sniffed, refusing to cry anymore. But tears welled anyway, blurring her vision. The party games and Bobby Baxter would go on without her.
This was all Tommy’s fault. God, she hated him. Why why why did she have such a shithead for a brother? Life isn’t fair. Make the most of what you’ve got. When you get lemons, make lemonade. Nora wanted to rip Marla’s face off, pull out her hair. What kind of mother was she? How could she dismiss Nora’s whole life with her asinine clichés? Why couldn’t Nora have a normal family?
Nora raged. Her chest boiled. She was on her own, without allies, and she would do what she had to in order to survive, which meant she’d find the pictures that night, whatever it took. She tiptoed down the hall to Tommy’s room, listened. Cracked open the door, his mustiness smacking her in the nose. His desk lamp was on, spotlighting a newly-mounted moth, it wings spread akimbo on foam board. Tommy was sprawled on his bed, sleeping on top of his blankets, still in his clothes. His face was relaxed, without a care. She wanted to clobber him. Instead, she snapped her fingers, testing to see if the sound would wake him up. When it didn’t, she raced up the steps, assured that the sounds of her footsteps in the attic wouldn’t wake him up either.
Monday, August 20, 2018, 8:15 a.m.
T
he bang had come either from above or from the rear of the house. Or someplace to her right? The domed ceiling played tricks, rolling sounds around, confusing Nora’s sense of direction. But somewhere close by, someone had fired a gun. She was sure of it. Not that Nora was familiar with the sound of gunfire. She’d heard it only on television. But the sound was unmistakable, couldn’t have been anything else. Her body reacted, heart rate speeding, adrenaline pumping, brain struggling to comprehend. Someone was shooting at someone.
“Dave?” His name burst from her like a roar, not just once, but again and again as she ran from room to room, searching for him, passing an upended wingback chair, a table lying on its side. A brass sculpture knocked off its base.
Nora grabbed a thin-necked porcelain vase off a table and carried it like a club. It was better than nothing. She could throw it. Or bash Paul’s head again, hit the same spot as last time, reopening the wound. Was he really shooting at Dave? Maybe she could sneak up behind Paul, slam him with the vase while Dave—while Dave what? Stood there, watching? Lay on the floor, shot and bleeding? Oh God. What if Dave was already dead?
No. He wasn’t. She would find him, and he’d be fine and happy to see her. He’d kiss her and lead her out the door and together, they’d go home, away from this nightmare. She chewed her bottom lip, tasted blood. Crossed the hall and, vase in hand, passed through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Saw shards of broken dishes scattered on the floor. God, what had happened there? She stepped over crumbled stoneware to a knife block on the marble counters and exchanged her floral vase for a heavy, solid, carving knife. And then, clutching it, ready to swing, Nora crept back into the hallway and proceeded to the rear of the house.
No one was in the family room with the bar, pool table, cushiony modular sofa and theater-sized television screen. Nora stood still, uncertain where to go next. Upstairs? The sound might have come from there. She started for the steps, but stopped when, faintly, she heard a laugh.
From a man.
But where was it coming from? She hurried to the sliding glass doors and looked out at the rainy deck, the layered gardens, the pool. Saw no one.
Another laugh, louder this time—mocking and hostile. The kind of laughter that Tommy used to inspire. Don’t get distracted. This laughter had nothing to do with Tommy.
Somewhere, a man spouted words too faint, too muffled to understand. The voice seemed to come from Nora’s right, but couldn’t have. To her right was the outer wall of the house. Were they outside? She yanked open the sliding doors and stepped out onto the rain-soaked deck. Saw a grill, an outdoor bar, potted plants, but no Dave. No Paul. No one.
Back inside, she eyed the interior wall. The voice had definitely come from its direction. She stepped over to it, touched it, put her head against it, and listened. Waited. Her fingers ached from clutching the knife. Her body was rigid, flooded with adrenaline. Dave was here and alive. She knew it. She sensed him. Her ears ached from listening. Her skin prickled. Wait, what just touched her neck? She swung her arms, whirling around as she slapped at an unseen attacker. What was that shadow? Was something moving behi
nd the sofa? Nora spun in circles, mouth dry, heart galloping.
Call the police. Tell them you heard gunshots.
Oh. That idea actually made sense. The police would certainly be more help to Dave than she would, even with her knife. But, damn, her phone was in her bag, and in her frantic rush, she’d left the bag in her car. She should go back for it. And she no doubt would have if a man hadn’t begun talking again.
His voice was definitely coming through the wall. Was it Paul? Yes. Definitely Paul. And however improbably, his voice was coming from inside the wall. She strained to make out what he was saying but couldn’t. Listened to hear Dave, but didn’t. She searched for an entrance to a hidden room, tracing the walls inch by inch, top to bottom, from the corner near the deck doors to the bookshelves beyond the fireplace. Even on her second try, she almost missed the small button on the side of the mantle. Almost overlooked the faint, unsealed seams stretching floor to ceiling behind the easy chair.
But she didn’t. Her fingers found thread-like breaks in the wall paneling, and when she looked closely, she saw one segment that was almost invisibly out of alignment with the others. A door? She pressed her ear to the miniscule gap, straining to hear voices.
“You’re not…” Paul said something else she couldn’t make out. Something about a “man”? He was speaking fast, maybe nervous. Maybe out of breath.
“No?”
Nora’s eyes filled at the sound of Dave’s voice. Dave was alive, talking. So he hadn’t been shot. At least, not fatally.
“But I bet you’ve never even fired a gun…”
Nora almost didn’t recognize Dave’s laugh. It sounded harsh like a bark. “You’re right.”
Clutching the knife, Nora edged closer to the mantelpiece and examined the button. Maybe it would open the door.
Paul was talking again. “Why not be a gentleman and call the police? Go ahead. Have me arrested.”
Dave didn’t answer.
Paul’s voice got louder, more urgent. “Look, we both know you’re not going to kill me. We’re civilized men, not the sort to shoot one another. When I fired before, my intent was merely to scare you off. Obviously, I didn’t intend to hit you. If I had, you’d be dead.”
Oh God. Had Dave been hit? Nora should run for her phone. Call for an ambulance. She looked into the hall that led to the front door.
Paul kept talking. “Why don’t we resolve this situation? Tell me, Dave. What exactly has got your panties into such a knot? Surely not my misguided attentions to your wife? I’ll admit that I was out of line, and I’ve apologized to Nora. But really, what I did was nothing compared to what was going on between you and Barbara.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Oh. So, this isn’t about Nora? What then? Barbara?” A pause. “What about her? Let me guess. You doubt that she killed herself. In fact, you’re convinced that I killed her. Your wife believes that, too, by the way. Well, let me point out that neither of you has an ounce of proof. The idea is preposterous—”
A gunshot interrupted him.
Instantly, Nora pushed the button. The wall beside the fireplace slid away, revealed a tiny bunker-like room with metallic walls. At first glance she took in bunkbeds, mini-fridge, desk, computer. No windows. No door. Nora had heard of rooms like this. Secret spaces for rich people to escape burglars or hitmen—survival rooms? Panic rooms? Something.
Paul huddled in the middle of the floor, his hand-tailored shirt bloodied, his chiseled features battered. Dave faced away from her. He held a gun.
“Dave?”
At her voice, Dave turned, and Paul jumped, grabbing for the gun.
Nora leapt at Paul, tackled him and hung on, still holding the knife, kicking and punching to knock him down. But even with Nora clinging to his waist, Paul kept launching himself at Dave.
The bang was explosive. It rattled Nora’s bones, hammered her skull, bounced off the steel walls of the tiny room so that even the air reverberated.
Paul staggered backward and collapsed onto the area rug, his body splayed over Nora.
Nora pushed Paul off her legs and stumbled to her feet. A crimson stain was spreading on his shirt. She looked at Dave, at the gun he still held, at Paul who wasn’t moving. Still clutching the knife, she hugged herself and rocked back and forth, staring at the blood.
I told you. I told you. I told you not to look for trouble.
Dave came and took the knife, prying her fingers from the handle, checking that the blood on her face, clothes, and arms wasn’t hers.
His lip was swollen and split. His cheek was red, his knuckles raw. His arms enclosed her. Dave clung to her, silently buried his face in her hair. Again, she heard the gunshot crack, felt the shudder of air and the thud of Paul hitting the rug. Oh God. Again and again, the sequence repeated. Crack, shudder, thud. Crack, shudder, thud. The walls swayed. Nora leaned against Dave, who leaned against her. Crack, shudder, thud.
Paul lay still and silent, and Dave began talking, his mouth making sounds Nora couldn’t hear. The walls sped up their whirling, the floor melted away, and for a moment, just an eye blink, Nora couldn’t hang on and felt herself drop away. Crack. Shudder. Thud.
Monday, August 20, 2018, 9:10 a.m.
Y
ou made your bed, now lie in it. Haste makes waste. Her mother was chattering, spurting clichés. No use crying over spilt milk. What goes around comes around. What’s done is done. If you get a lemon—
“Enough!” Nora’s ears were ringing. She covered them, but the shrill clanging didn’t stop, sounded like it came from inside her head. But that wasn’t possible. She lay still, gradually aware of other senses. The hard surface beneath her. And smells—Old Spice? And something else, metallic and coppery. Something like blood. She opened her eyes, remembering. Dave stood over her, his eyes hollow, his face gray. When she looked at him, he took a step back, arms limp at his sides, gun dangling from his hand.
What had happened to her? Had she passed out? She stared at the gun, trying to remember, and even as the ringing persisted in her ears, she made herself sit up. Dave stood by uselessly, not moving to help.
“Dave?” She grabbed his hand, tugging on it as she pulled herself to her feet. “Talk to me. Say something.”
“You told me I’d already said enough.”
She had? She thought back, recalled hearing her mother nagging. Yelling at her to stop. “No, I didn’t mean you.” She moved closer.
Dave stared at Paul, said nothing.
“You okay?”
For a long moment, Dave remained silent. Finally, he sank onto the bottom bunk, set the gun beside him and hung his head. He didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.
Finally, he said, “I fucking killed him.”
Nora looked down at the body. Paul’s nose was twisted and bloodied, probably broken. The flesh around his eyes was swollen almost shut, his stitched-up wound had reopened. She closed her eyes, counted to clear her mind.
“You had no choice,” she said.
Dave faced her. She didn’t recognize him. The ballooning, torn lip, the lopsided jaw, the puffy bruise darkening his cheek bone, the desolation flooding his eyes. His gaze drifted. Was he in shock?
“Dave, tell me what happened?”
“I was telling you until you yelled, ‘enough’.”
“I’m listening now.”
Dave stared at the dead man on the floor. Nora took his hand, held it, and waited.
“Like I said, I came here to confront him. It got out of hand. Fast.”
Apparently. The candidate’s face was a mess; he’d sustained a lot more damage than Dave.
“For God’s sake, Dave. What did you think you’d
accomplish?”
“Maybe a broken jaw. A few knocked out teeth. Son of a bitch had it coming. He killed Barbara and was getting away with it. I had to do something.”
Nora had nothing
to say. She couldn’t stop staring at the swollen lids of Paul’s dead blue eyes.
“Damned if he didn’t admit it, too. When he had the gun, he openly bragged about making it look like suicide. He flat out told me he drugged her with pills and put her in her car. Then he drove to the river, positioned her in the driver’s seat, and pressed her foot on the gas, jumping away and slamming the door as it went into the water.”
An icy shiver snaked along Nora’s spine. Paul had described that very scenario to her, but not as a confession. As a sarcastic denial. A way to ridicule Nora’s suspicions and make murder sound preposterous. Nora heard the splash and gulp of the river, the water swallowing the car and its passenger. Paul lay still, his face rearranged but indifferent.
“What about his kids, Nora? I made them orphans.”
The children. Nora hadn’t thought about them. Would Colin and Harry come home from camp and find Paul’s body?
“Dave, the kids’ll be home—”
“No, I asked about them before I punched him. They’re at the shore. Grandparents took them with the nanny after the funeral.”
Thank God.
“I sat up all night, thinking about settling up with that sick fuck. But I never thought I’d kill him.” Dave didn’t look at her. He was trembling. Dave—her gentle Dave, who was never violent, who’d been furious with her for killing even a spider—how had that same Dave gotten into a brutally physical bare-knuckle fight for the sake of “settling up”?
“I tell you what though,” Dave nodded in Paul’s direction. “That guy might have been rich, might even have won the election, but shit. He had no timing, no technique. No fight. His fists fluttered at my face a few times, but I decked him in a minute, tops. He hit the floor so hard I thought he was out cold. But when I went to check, he sucker-punched me and ran like a cat on fire to get into this room.”
