Strangers She Knows

by Christina Dodd

  Before Rae could react to that platitude, Kellen said, “That pizza smells done.” She mouthed to Max, Never let Rae get hungry.

  “Right.” He opened the oven, and the wonderful smell of basil and garlic, fresh crust and bubbling cheese wafted out.

  Great way to change the subject.

  Max cut them each a hearty piece, turned off the oven and slid the pizza inside to stay warm.

  As they seated themselves, Kellen looked around the little table and thought that they had become a family. Not a perfect family, not a family with no problems, but a bonded family that in a crisis supported each other.

  Max must have been thinking the same thing, because as he served the salad, he said, “This is nice.”

  Rae nodded, her mouth full of pizza.

  Kellen picked up her fork and dug into the salad. “What are we going to do tonight?”

  “The same thing we do every night.” Max did a great imitation of The Brain. “Try to take over the world.”

  Rae, who didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, said, “Daddy, you are so weird.”

  Kellen asked, “Are we going to read? Play cards? Play a board game?” All activities they’d enjoyed in the past. “Watch a movie?” They had a stack of DVDs that the old caretaker, Olof Humphreys, had owned: war movies, mostly, and some really gruesome horror.

  “We could read more of Ruby’s journal.” Max sounded eager.

  Kellen and Rae exchanged guilty glances.

  “Really? You read it without me?” Clearly, Max was hooked on the story.

  “It’s okay,” Kellen said soothingly. “Rae and I don’t mind. We can read it again.”

  “And more!” Rae polished off her first piece of pizza. “I’ll get it. Come on, Luna!” She bounded out the door.

  Max took advantage of their alone time to kiss Kellen, and when they heard Rae coming back down the stairs, they separated and smiled a promise to each other.

  Rae returned with Ruby’s journal in one hand and in the other, a broad red leather-bound book. “Mommy, look what I found. It’s blank. It’s a journal. Nobody’s written in it. Can I have it?”

  Kellen took it and leafed through. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the attic on the desk.”

  Kellen looked Rae up and down. “I don’t remember this.” She really didn’t, but why would Rae lie? “Has it always been there?”

  Rae shrugged. “I guess. Can I use it?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Kellen handed it back. “Writing in a journal is a great idea. I did when I was your age.”

  “I’ll be like Ruby!”

  Max said, “I sincerely hope your story is a little more upbeat.”

  Rae sat in her chair, pulled the salad close and ate all the tomatoes and cucumbers. “Can I have another slice of pizza?”

  They all had a second slice of pizza.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Max leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his beer, and said, “That storm. The typhoon. It’s one helluva big storm, and it’s aimed right at the California coast.”

  “Will we be in trouble?” Kellen asked.

  “Maybe.” Max lifted his hands to show his doubt. “Depends. On everything. Whether it stays on the same track and whether it maintains intensity. We’ve got the solar panels that feed the generators. If the storm lasts too long, we’ll lose power. Which is okay except—no water, no sewer.”

  “Do we have to go back?” Rae had been fed and sounded less eager to leave.

  Max said, “We’ll see.”

  24

  “My wife…” Dylan Conkle sat in front of the fire pit on the beach at sunset and threw driftwood into the flames. “My wife doesn’t respect me.”

  “I saw that.” Mara watched him through eyes narrowed to evil slits. Not that he noticed, or was sober enough to recognize her intentions if he did. “What’s her name again?”

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Jamie.”

  “Right. Jamie doesn’t appreciate you as she should. You’re her man. You provide for her. You handle the folks up at the big house for her.”

  “She hates them,” Dylan mumbled.

  “She doesn’t appreciate how you make her life easier.” Mara lit a joint and passed it to Dylan.

  “Where’d you get this?” He examined the weed with great interest.

  “At the university.” At the prison. “It’s dusted with something special. It’ll make you crazy.” She drew out the word to make crazy sound like fun.

  “Really?” Dylan took a long drag. “What kind of crazy?”

  “Killin’ crazy.” She dug around in her bag and found the Chivas Regal Owen had been so impressed he could afford. “Wash it down with this.”

  Dylan lifted the bottle and swallowed, then coughed up a lung, then took another swallow and sighed. “That’s good stuff.”

  Every man was at heart a measly peasant boy. “I thought you’d like it. Only the best for you, Dylan. Too bad Jamie doesn’t believe that.” Mara tossed a few twigs in the fire and watched the orange flames eat them. The night was warm; they didn’t need the fire, but she needed the atmosphere to work her magic. Respect seemed to be a thing for Dylan, so she repeated, “Jamie’s got no respect for you.”

  Dylan took another long drag. “No respect. But you do.” He flopped toward her, all loose muscles and stupid hopes. “You could be my real wife.”

  “I’d like that, but I couldn’t. Not while she’s alive.” Mara watched him process that. His mind had slowed to a crawl, making him so easy to read she wanted to laugh. But she didn’t. This was a delicate process, sending out a killer, and she needed all her concentration to make it work. “I would never come between a man and his wife.”

  The dumbshit bought it, tail, hooves and hide. “You’re a good girl.”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “You like me, don’t you?”

  She smiled at him, flushed from the drugs and sweaty from the fire. “Of course. Everyone likes you. Maybe I like you more than I should.” She reached into her bag again, into the side pocket, and found the bottle of pills the prison psychiatrist had prescribed for her. These pills were supposed to alter her moods, make the voices stop and the rage dissipate, be a frontal lobotomy so she could function in society without wanting to gruesomely murder everyone and cut off their hands.

  She never took these pills. She liked herself as she was. She offered one on the tip of her finger. “This is a good one.”

  He took it, stared at it, mouth dropped open, in the flickering light of the fire. “What does it do?”

  “It makes you think you’re a king.” With all the other shit in his system, this little white mood-alterer would turn sloppy, wimpy, worthless Dylan into death incarnate.

  “I dropped it!” Dylan scrambled around, patting his loose shorts, his skinny calves, the sand beneath his feet.

  Mara sighed, but softly, and brought out another pill. Putting it on the tip of her finger, she said, “Open wide!” and shoved it into his mouth, far enough that he couldn’t lose it.

  He gagged a little.

  She handed him the bottle of scotch again. “Swallow it! That’s a boy.” She stood up. “You need to go explain to Jamie that she needs to honor and obey you, like your marriage vows said.”

  He mumbled, “We didn’t do those—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you really vowed. That’s what marriage is, right? The man is in charge. You’re the head of the family. You shouldn’t have to do anything.”

  “She’s not all bad. Tonight she’s making me apple cake. I like apple cake.”

  “Is she making it for you? Or for the folks up at the big house?”

  Abruptly sullen, he said, “She’ll give them some of my cake, won’t she?”

  “You bet she will. She should do
all the work and whenever you want, she should go down on you and suck you until you come in her mouth, and she should like it.” Mara leaned down and put her face near his. “That’s what I would do if you were my husband.”

  As Dylan stared at her, she saw him changing. The booze and the weed and the drugs took effect. The promise of sex created a spark, and the flames kindled in his eyes. Easygoing Dylan Conkle changed into a self-important man on a mission.

  “Go.” Mara gave him a push in the direction of his cottage. “It’s time to make a change.”

  Dylan walked a straight line, all the way up from the beach to the grasslands and along the path toward the cottage he shared with Jamie.

  Backpack in hand, Mara followed.

  The drugs worked exactly as they should. He never faltered. He never lost his way. He pushed his way into the well-lit cottage, and almost at once, Jamie screamed.

  Mara stayed on the hill overlooking the cottage for a long time, until the crying stopped, and thought how much she enjoyed setting scenes in motion.

  When Dylan appeared, carrying a limp Jamie over his shoulder, she wondered briefly what he’d do with the body, then went in to scope out the scene.

  Wow. That was a lot of blood and that gray matter… Yes, he’d finished the job.

  She breathed deeply. The house smelled like brutality and spices: broken bones, cinnamon and cloves.

  Oh, look. Cupcakes on a cooling rack. Must be Dylan’s apple cake.

  She picked one up. A little bloody. But the oven was still on. She opened it, rescued a dozen slightly over-baked cupcakes, and turned them out. She picked one up, tossed it from hand to hand until it had cooled, and bit into it. Apples, nuts and spices. Good choice, Dylan. She ate that one, then tossed the rest into a paper bag, then into her backpack—all except the ones with a bloody frosting. She left those.

  Jamie had begun assembling tomorrow’s basket to be delivered to the big house. No reason to leave it for the Di Lucas to find. Once they stepped inside here, they would never eat this stuff. Mara flung the produce in with the cupcakes.

  She turned off the lights and shut the door behind her, knowing the satisfaction of a job well done.

  25

  That evening, Kellen, Max and Rae lovingly stashed the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, then cleaned the kitchen. The cleaning took longer than they thought it should. They might not have liked Olympia, but they missed her.

  Then they hustled into the library and took their places, Kellen in a small overstuffed chair with an ottoman that weighed a ton, Max in the large overstuffed chair.

  Rae sat down at the desk, picked up a pen, opened her brand-new journal—and stared at the blank page. And stared. And stared.

  To give her privacy, Kellen opened Ruby’s diary and started reading aloud what they’d read this afternoon.

  After a few moments, Max interrupted her. “What’s wrong, Rae?”

  Rae looked up, vaguely alarmed. “What should I write?”

  “I never kept a journal, but my sister did,” Max said.

  “Aunt Irene has a journal?” Rae asked.

  “She begged for a journal. She got it for Christmas, then she wrote in it for about a week and that was that.” Max rolled his eyes, all disgusted older brother.

  Kellen cleared her throat.

  Max changed his tone. “But look at Ruby! She wrote in hers for years, and she wrote about whatever was happening to her at that moment.”

  “Nothing’s happening to me!” Rae retorted.

  Kellen decided to step in. “You could write about what you did today and yesterday, what you read, what you ate.”

  “That’s boring.” Rae was looking desperate.

  “How you feel?” Max suggested.

  “I feel fine.”

  “We mean, what are your feelings are about being here on Isla Paraíso? You were pretty angry at first.” Kellen hoped the gentle reminder would not trigger any grand drama. “How do you feel now?”

  “Okay,” Rae muttered.

  “I’m asking. I’m not prying!” Maybe Kellen should stop trying to help. “That’s what the journal is for. You tell it your real feelings and thoughts, your hope and dreams. Like Ruby did.”

  “Like I tell Chloe?”

  “Right,” Max said.

  “Maybe I could pretend to write Chloe a letter?”

  “Or Grandma,” Kellen said.

  “It’s your journal. You can do whatever you like,” Max assured her.

  Rae began to write slowly, then with greater speed.

  To catch Max up, Kellen opened Ruby’s journal and read aloud the passages she and Rae had read earlier. When she got to the line, “‘I locked myself in. Now I wait to see what Father will do when he receives my letter. Rage, I imagine,’” Rae put down her pen, moved to the center of the room and reclined on the rug. Staring at the ceiling, she listened.

  Indeed, I was right. Father raged and pounded on the door. He cursed me and denounced me. He forbade anybody in the household from communicating with me or helping me, and in the afternoon, men barricaded me in. Father shouted that when I was ready to surrender and marry the beast he had obtained for me, I should wave a white flag out the window like the rest of the Japanese cowards would soon do.

  I told him, in a proud voice, that I am not Japanese, I’m American. He sneered and left.

  Am I really the enemy because my skin isn’t white and eyes are not perfectly round? I don’t think so. It is what’s in my mind and heart that matters.

  Now it’s evening, the light is dying, and I’m alone and frightened. Oh Patrick! How did it come to this?

  The funniest thing happened. Mother appeared in the attic, holding a tray with a hot meal from the kitchen. She didn’t say much, she never does, only that Father didn’t remember the secret passages the architect installed.

  Mother smiled as she watched me eat, and when I was finished and I asked her why she had done this, she said I shouldn’t marry a man like Father. Which made me think about her life and how dreadful it must have been. I looked at her and realized she’s 42. She looks much older, too thin and sad, and she was younger than me when she had Larry. I thanked her and asked if she was coping with the loss of her sons. She stood. She bowed. In Japanese, she thanked me for my concern.

  She showed no emotion, but I knew—she isn’t coping at all. Her grief is eating her alive.

  My poor mother.

  Now that the way is open, Hermione is regularly bringing me meals and letters. I am almost merry up here, except for one thing.

  I’m going to have a baby.

  “That’s not good,” Max muttered.

  Rae sat up and looked at Kellen for a clue of how she should react. “Having a baby is a happy time, isn’t it?”

  “I think this is going to make Ruby’s life even more difficult,” Kellen said.

  “I don’t want her life to be more difficult.” Rae pushed her hair off her forehead.

  Her concern made Kellen’s heart ache. “I don’t, either.”

  “I wish we knew what happened to her,” Rae said.

  Max came to his feet. “When I was on the mainland, I should have looked her up.”

  Rae caught her breath. “I wish you had!”

  “It never occurred to me,” Max sounded exasperated with himself. “I’m out of the online habit.”

  “Rae, just think, someday someone might be reading your journal and be fascinated about your life.” Kellen smiled at her daughter.

  Rae looked down at the book in her hand, and in a small voice, she asked, “Are you going to read it?”

  “Read what? Your diary?” When Kellen understood what Rae meant, what she feared, she flushed with anger. “I am not! Do you think I’m like Gerard Morgade? A sneak and a bully?”

  “Kellen!” Max put out a warning han
d.

  But he didn’t need to. Rae came to her feet and stood in front of her mother. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I just, sometimes…” Her voice trembled with the onset of tears.

  That made Kellen calm down as nothing else could. She took a few breaths—this was no time for her voice to freeze in her throat—and in a softer tone, she said, “Sometimes you think bad things about me and Daddy. I know. Sometimes I don’t like you, either. But I like you really hard the rest of the time, and I always, always love you.” She watched while Rae thought that over, and when her frown cleared, she said, “I promise I will never read your journal.”

  Rae looked down at the journal, then up at Kellen, then left and right, and her expression was worried again. “A person should always keep a promise, right?”

  Again with the promise thing. Had Rae had made a promise she regretted? To Chloe? Or to Maverick?

  “Right,” Max said. “That’s why before you make a promise, you think very hard about what it means, whether it’s a good thing, because what if the time comes when you want to break the promise? Or worse, you really should break the promise? You’re stuck.”

  “I know.” Rae sat back on the floor with her pen and her journal. “Sometimes I wish I could make time go backwards.”

  “Me, too,” Kellen agreed. “I wish that, too. Everybody does at some point.”

  Max met her gaze.

  She knew why. He blamed himself for not being fast enough to stop that killer, Ettore Fontana, from shooting her.

  And she wanted back all the years she’d missed of being with Max and Rae. Yet she couldn’t regret her time in the Army. It had made her a woman like the real Kellen, tough enough to survive and yet caring. She leaned forward and spoke to Max. “We have each other now, and always will, and that’s all that matters.” She picked up Ruby’s diary. “Do we want to read some more?”

  “Not that.” Max obviously thought they’d trod on enough precarious ground. He thrust a book into Kellen’s hand. “Read more Wonder. Auggie is brave like Ruby, but in a whole different way.”