by Ellis Quinn
“Pete, I don’t think this is what we should be doing. There’s got to be a better way.”
“There’s no other way, Bette. Please . . . don’t think about the gun. Yes, I have a gun, I’m just showing you I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Maybe because of all the police movies she’d watched in her life, now with the sudden revelation that this man carried a pistol and was instructing her on her next action, she raised her palms up to show him she meant no harm. “Okay,” she said, “just take it easy, all right?” Her only chance now was to drag this out as long as possible, make Pete take his time, give Marcus a chance to come to her.
“Please,” Pete urged again, nudging his head to the right, indicating for her to slip through the brush.
There was no pathway to follow, no beaten track that she could see, and no opening in the brush. It was like she was passing through a green leafy curtain into the unknown beyond. Hunched over, she worked her way under the low hanging canopy, pine needles tickling across her arms and face. Eventually, she could stand again, and they were in a dense thicket of young maples, paper birch, and very tall spruce. “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”
“Just walk ahead, straight from where we are,” Pete said.
Still with her hands up, Pete behind her, she walked straight ahead, her pace slow and plodding. Checking each step before she put a sneaker foot down.
“Talk this out with me, Pete,” she said over her shoulder.
He didn’t say anything, and she shivered with the imagination of him behind her now with the pistol pulled out, the muzzle pointed between her shoulder blades. What if she cried out? Well, that would be stupid. That would be the end of it right there. Pop, pop. Marcus would come running to save her, only to find her face down already. And what if she brought Marcus to harm? What if relying on Marcus in the first place to come save her only brought harm to her . . . What was he?
A profound twist worked through her. All the wasted time. All the monkeying around, being coy with Marcus. Pretending there was nothing between them, acting like there wasn’t, yet realizing every time he came by, every time he called or texted, every time she ran into him, her heart skipped a beat. But she’d been dancing around what she wanted, dancing around the fact that for twenty-five years she pushed thoughts of Marcus Seabolt out of her head because they were painful. She’d made a mistake twenty-five years ago. She’d like to blame herself, but Bette Whaley at nineteen was not the Bette Whaley she knew now. Bette Whaley at forty-two had wisdom—or at least she thought she did. Because in the end, she was being marched to what could be her final moments. And left unsaid to Marcus were apologies, and breathless requests for a second chance.
The line of her lower teeth sawed back and forth over her upper lip. She said, “Pete?”
No answer. She kept walking, going slow still, said over her shoulder, “Pete, I think I know what’s happening . . .”
Finally, he answered. “I don’t think you do.” His footsteps weren’t close. No chance to wheel around and hit him with the back of her fist. Talk about wasted time. In the last twenty-five years she could’ve taken kickboxing classes, karate, jiu-jitsu, maybe judo. . . . Krav Maga, Jeet Kune Do . . . Wouldn’t it be great now to act weak, then spin around with athleticism and flexibility like she used to have when she was eight years old? Wheel around, catch Pete in his gun hand with a spinning back kick. Follow it up with some kind of butterfly kick. All she would do if she tried right now was pull a muscle and then get shot.
She said, “Pete . . . I know about your brother, Brian.”
Behind her, Pete’s footsteps faltered, then slowed. She kept walking, but slowed further. “Pete . . .?”
“What do you know about him?”
Over her shoulder, hands still up, she said, “You’re covering for him, aren’t you?”
They began walking again, and she could hear a metallic clinking sound that assured her the pistol had now been drawn from his pants and scraped across his belt buckle.
She said, “Your brother, Brian, he came back to town, didn’t he? He thought Julie wouldn’t be home because she said she was going to be away. He came home and found her. He works with . . . I don’t know, international engineering projects, probably really sensitive. Right? Did Julie learn something she shouldn’t have? Did Julie know something she shouldn’t?”
Pete’s footsteps slowed again, and it was hard to resist the urge to turn around and look at him. Look him in the eye, show him she meant no harm, show him she was human. That she could be trusted. But she’d done everything she could already for Pete. And yet here he was with a gun at her back.
She said now, “Or maybe Brian left? Maybe when Brian saw that Julie was home, he had to take off. Someone was after Brian, they came to his house, maybe they trailed him there? They found Julie and tried to force her to tell him where he was. But she didn’t know. She didn’t know, and they ended up killing her. Or maybe she did know and she wouldn’t give Brian up. I know how much she loved him.”
The footsteps faltered again, but this time he said, “Keep going.” His voice was broken up like he fought back crying.
She stopped and said, “Then they found out you were in town, and—”
“Keep going.”
She half-turned her head. “I am keeping going.”
“Keep walking, Bette.”
“Sor-ry,” she said sarcastically, unable to hide a certain venom in her voice. “You said keep going, and I thought you meant about what my story was.”
“Just keep walking, Bette.”
There was a grim sound in his tone she didn’t like, and her fingers went cold. She resumed walking.
“I’m sorry, Pete. I don’t want to upset you. . . . They found out you were in town and they wanted to find out where Brian was, they went to you, but you weren’t there and they did to Miranda what they did to Julie . . .”
No answer. Shoot, now he was mad. She’d angered him. It was that darn temper of hers, getting her in trouble. She walked a while without saying anything, weaving through the dense thicket of tree trunks, and now she could see ahead what looked like it could be a clearing, like the thicket they were in emptied onto a piece of the property that had been cleared.
She said, “You have a gun to protect your son, right? Is that it? . . . Is Drew in danger? I can help you, Pete, I swear.”
Pete said nothing.
“Your brother’s probably safe, Pete. He scrubbed his existence from his and Julie’s house. There’s not even a sign of him there. If he’s on the run, we can get him help.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“I mean, okay, stop here.”
She stopped and stood still, her ears attuned to every little sound behind her. He moved around a little, and she heard the sound of fabric on fabric. Then Pete was coming up to the stand beside her. She looked and saw that his gun had been shoved in his waistband again, the butt sticking out in front of his polo shirt. She was not the kind of person who’d be able to quickly grab it, turn it around and point it at him. And what if he was some kind of CIA contractor, too, just like his brother? The engineering was just a cover. What if she somehow managed to pull the gun free and point it at him, and the safety was on or some dumb thing like that, and then it was Pete whipping up some kind of crescent kick, knocking the gun from her hand, then he karate chops her in the neck . . .
“Follow me,” he said.
There was a chance here, she thought as he stepped ahead of her, walking uphill toward the clearing. She could turn and run, dart through the thicket . . . his shots would ring out, but there was a chance he would miss. Maybe Pete wasn’t a good shot. Maybe the gun wasn’t loaded. There were so many trees, even if he got a good bead on her, he might blast a chunk of tree. Or he might hit her.
She followed behind. She watched his butt up ahead of her, watched his brown leather Top-Siders skid on the cushiony bed of dropped pine needles, watched as he pulled
himself up by tree branches and trunks, and she followed behind doing the same until they emerged in a grassy clearing.
“Over there,” Pete said, and she looked to her left.
At the far end of the small clearing stood a two-story shed, raised up off the uneven forest floor, maybe only fifteen-feet square, but an intricate replica of a little girl’s Victorian dollhouse. A mansard roof with fish scale shingles, gingerbread scrollwork on a little deck that extended off the front side.
The front door was open, and she worried what would be inside.
A MINUTE LATER
Pete stepped up on the dollhouse’s deck ahead of her, stood and waited, the intimidating gun grip clearly in her view. She mounted the two short steps and joined him on the front porch. The deck was sturdy thick cedar, the dollhouse well built. The siding had been painted a deep green color, the door in burgundy. A balcony above protected them from too much sun, or rain if there was any. The structure was asymmetrical, two overlapping boxes, the turret on the end.
Pete opened the front door and made her go ahead of him. The inside was a single room. Though it looked like the miniature of a two-story house from the outside, the inside was a tall, squarish room. The turret rose above them like a cathedral, two windows at the front, lower and upper, windows on the side, the back wall in stone with a narrow bump out of river rock that formed a small fireplace and low hearth. The floor was wide maple planks, mostly hidden by throw rugs. The space was incredibly cozy; floral fabrics on the loveseat, thick bedding in rich colors, tapestries hung around all the windows, and curtains with valences. And festooned on the walls, finally, were the pictures of Julie and Brian. It was like this shed—no, a love shack—was the only place Julie and Brian were allowed to acknowledge their relationship. A double bed sat on a raised dais on the right side, built into the window well, and in front of the fireplace a low table in front of a cushioned loveseat for two. On the table sat two champagne glasses, in between them a round wet ring, like a bottle had sat there with condensation. The commemorative custom anniversary bottle now broken in the main house’s front room.
“There,” Pete grunted, and she followed his gesturing finger to the loveseat. She went to it and sat down, her fingers wringing together nervously.
She said, “This place certainly has Julie’s touch,” and looked around, taking in this beautiful, intimate, and very cozy space.
Pete nodded, then hung his head and rubbed his brow. “It does,” he said, and moved to the fireplace mantle, a hefty timber beam built into the river rock, and atop it a wedding picture of them. Across the timber mantle, smaller pictures in frames of happy times they’d spent together.
It was clear now who Brian was in these pictures. It looked an awful lot like Pete.
He pulled the pistol from his waistband in a quick gesture, and she gulped. But he set it down on the mantle and removed one of the pictures of him and Julie. Admiring the picture, running his fingers around it as if to clean any dust from this precious object, he said to her, “My brother, Brian, died four years ago, Bette.”
It all became very clear. Julie’s relationship with the real Brian was impossible.
He sat down heavily on the fireplace’s hearth, butt on the low edge, knees poking up, and held the picture in two hands, looking at it. He said, “When my brother died, he left his estate to me. Brian hadn’t married, our parents were dead. Jamie was dead. I was the only one left. We’d been a family of five, and within five years that number had been reduced to one. Me. Pete. Pete Headley.”
A woolly illness tickled down her back, and she swallowed back bile. She shifted forward on the loveseat, and rested her forearms on her knees, hung her head low, and regarded this sad, terrible man. She said, “You’re one and the same. Pete and Brian. At least for the last few years.”
“For four years, Bette. I was myself—I was Pete—and I was Brian.”
“How could you do that to Julie?”
“Brian and I were both engineers. We went to college together. We had the same jobs, we were best friends. I looked up to my older brother so much. Everything I told Julie about Brian—about me—was true. I was pretending to be him, but in a way I am the same person. I’m Brian, only a few years younger. I know that sounds crazy, I can’t explain it. I was devastated when my brother died. My parents were gone. Cancer and heart attack. And my poor Jamie . . . Sam got drunk and killed her.”
She opened her mouth to object, but knew it was a bad idea before any words emerged. She closed her mouth with a quiet pop.
“And when Brian was gone, that was it. The end. My family kaput.” He sighed, set the picture of him and Julie down next to him on the hearth, tried to sit straighter, putting his hands on the hearth and shifting his butt back toward the vacant fireplace, charred logs sitting black on a steel cradle. “After Brian died, I went almost crazy. I was stricken with this anger that was so profound, so bad.” His hands formed shaking fists, then he opened them again and regarded his palms. “I wanted to be Brian. I missed him so much it was like if I was him, then he was still here. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s how it all started, Bette, I’m serious. I took a road trip before Drew was born, Miranda was at home. She loved Brian, too. I drove around to my brother’s favorite haunts, and that was when I met Julie. Everything in that trip was about Brian, and when I met her at this little art festival in a park outside Bethany Beach. I told her my name was Brian. And it was like I was two people. It was like I could be Brian when I was with Julie. I loved Julie. I loved her so much, and the more I loved her, the more I felt Brian was with me. I treated Julie like Brian would if he’d met her. I treated her like the princess she was. Gosh, Bette, she was amazing. I used Brian’s money to buy her this house in Chesapeake Cove.” He looked up at the dollhouse ceiling above him, the empty turret above with the light filtering in. “We built this love nest. This was our special place. I designed it and had it built for her. When I told her about my work, I was telling her about Pete’s work. Brian’s work was Pete’s work. I know it sounds so crazy.” He leaned forward and wove his fingers through his hair, gripped it tight, little spiky tufts squeezed between his fingers. He made a short sobbing sound that made her flinch, sharing his momentary pain.
She said, “Why would you bring them together in the same place? Why would you bring Miranda and Julie together in Chesapeake Cove?”
He groaned and then laughed a painful, mournful sound. He drew in a long breath and stretched, arching his back, tears streaming down his face. “Because, Bette, she wasn’t supposed to be here. It was Miranda. Miranda wanted to come here. Miranda wanted to come to Chesapeake Cove, and my heart froze when she asked me. But I knew Julie would be away. Julie was supposed to be away, Bette,” he said firmly, making eye contact.
She showed him as much compassion as she could muster, trying to protect her own life.
“Julie was supposed to be in Seattle. I thought it would be fun to bring Drew to Chesapeake Cove, show him around all the places here that I love. Miranda would like it, too, and if Julie was gone . . .” He shrugged. His eyebrows tented, and he looked at her again, his eyes lost and watery. “But she didn’t go,” he said coldly. “I walked into that café that day—the day I met you there with your dog—I walked in with Miranda at my side, and there was Julie standing right there. Right there! But you know what’s crazy?”
You? “What?”
Quieter again, he said, “In that moment, Brian died. Brian couldn’t exist.”
“I get it,” she said.
“Do you?”
“I think I do, Brian . . . Pete.”
“Later in the day, I came to the house here. Julie planned to surprise me with a custom bottle of champagne. Our favorite little love shack was all nested, ready for a surprise weekend. She was so happy to see me, and all I could think was she had just killed Brian. I was mad. Mad even though I loved her. In my panic, I mean literally on the verge of a panic attack, Bette, I urged her to leave.”
“To leave the Cove?”
“Just for the weekend. I told her she had to go.”
“How could you tell her that? It was your anniversary.”
“I know. She went crazy. All of a sudden this Julie I love, love as Brian, was mad at me. Mad at me saying that I was cheating on her. But that was like she was accusing my brother . . .”
She raised her eyebrows, tried to comprehend this man’s fractured mind. The pain he felt was real, and it was provoked by real events. She couldn’t deny that the source of his pain was an enormous tragedy. He needed help. He needed help, but she he was a murderer.
“And then . . . Then she told me she was pregnant.”
He crumpled, his head down between his knees, his arms folding over his head like wings. He grabbed the back of his shirt, pulled, and he growled.
A dread seized her. Pete was losing it. He could dart up now, grab the gun and shoot her . . .
And he did. He jumped up away from the pain, trying to escape, lurching forward and pacing like Sam had done alongside the grounded boat in the Maritime Museum’s seaport. But turned then and snatched the pistol from the mantle, didn’t point it at her, but held it down at the side of his thigh. “I killed her, Bette. I killed her, and she was pregnant. Everything was coming apart. Brian was leaving me. Brian’s reality was fading like fog lifting. He was going away . . .”
She went to speak, but her voice cracked. She cleared her throat then and said, “You brought me up here to tell me all this?”
“I did,” he said, leaning a forearm on the mantle, sagging against it, resting his forehead on his wrist. The gun hung down at his side still.
“Why?”
He said, “I want someone to know the truth before I die . . .”
A MINUTE LATER
