The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “Where were you last night around three?”

  I feel badly about Mother, in a way, but I’m not coming to the funeral, so please, don’t try to talk me into it. I would have called but knew I’d get a guilt trip about why I should show up.

  Kelly’s curt e-mail message was waiting for Caitlyn when she got back from the hospital. It had been grueling, talking to the police when they were treating her like a suspect, then battling late-afternoon traffic that had been stalled for an accident. She’d had the sunroof open and the air-conditioning on and still baked, only to arrive home to this. Great. So much for mending fences. Didn’t Kelly get it? Mother was dead. As in forever. Everything else seemed small in comparison. Gone. Forever. Caitlyn’s heart twisted, and she blinked back tears. She’d made it through the damned interview with Reed, hadn’t broken down, had maintained her cool, but now driving home, she was beginning to fall apart again. She had never been her mother’s favorite child, but there had been times, happy childhood times, that couldn’t be forgotten.

  She needed to get out. To do something. To find a way to keep the grief at bay. Though she’d never been as close to her mother as some daughters were, she still felt a loss, a tremendous hole in her life. She’d go for a run. If she could manage to dodge the media. Shuddering, she remembered how they’d gathered at the hospital. Bloodsuckers. First the police and then the reporters. It had been an onslaught. Sometimes she thought she should come clean with Detective Reed about the night Josh was killed, tell him about waking up in her room and finding all the blood. Just let the damned chips fall where they may.

  Are you crazy? She could almost hear her twin’s reaction to that idea.

  And the truth was, she didn’t know. Every day she seemed to slip a little deeper into the dark abyss. “Get over it, Caitlyn. Pull yourself together.” Until tomorrow. Then she’d meet with Marvin Wilder, the attorney Amanda had set her up with. He’d advise her on what her best course of action should be. She sat in her desk chair and clicked off the computer. “I didn’t do it—I didn’t kill Josh,” she said aloud, but her confidence was crumbling fast and she couldn’t help but wonder, was it possible? Could she have killed her husband, attempted to kill her sister and then when that didn’t work, murdered her own mother? Her hands were shaking, her breathing shallow and rapid. She gripped the side of the desk. Help me, she silently prayed, please help me.

  God helps those who help themselves.

  Where the hell did that come from? Some old sermon she’d heard as a kid? Or had it been her father’s advice coming to the surface after all these years, after his wife’s murder? She closed her eyes for a second. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not ever again.

  What you could use is a positively wicked martini.

  This time it was Kelly’s advice she heard.

  “Not just a plain martini?” she said aloud and, of course, there was no response. If Kelly had been there, she would have grinned impishly, her eyes lighting as she replied:

  No, Caitie-Did ... it definitely has to be wicked.

  “Of course it does,” she said to the empty room. “Is there any other kind?” The suggestion sounded so full of possibilities that she clicked on the computer and answered Kelly’s e-mail by asking her over for a drink. Maybe she could talk her into going to the funeral. Stranger things had happened.

  Yeah, all the time, and always to you!

  She almost crumbled into a million pieces again as she thought of Jamie, Josh and her mother . . . no, she couldn’t let herself be destroyed. She had to pull herself together. Quickly, she composed the e-mail and sent it off to cyberspace before changing into running clothes. There were still a couple of hours before dark and she needed to work out a lot of things. Get her mind straight. Not be confused. Things had changed forever. She was in a new phase. Life without her mother. Her heart ached painfully at the thought, for although she and Berneda had never seen eye to eye, she’d loved the older woman, cared for her even though years before, Berneda had refused to believe her when Caitlyn, haltingly and embarrassed, had told her about the things that had happened to her . . . how Charles had come to her room late at night, how Nana had touched her....

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, as a flash of memory tore through her brain. Her throat tightened and she bit her lip. Shadows, dark and murky, flitted through her mind, but they were impossible to catch hold of, sifting through her mind as quickly as cold sand through her fingers. Charles. He’d come to her room, she remembered that, but not much of what happened once he’d slipped through the doorway and crept silently to her bed. “No. Don’t . . .” Caitlyn’s throat tightened. Her voice sounded weird, distant, as if it hadn’t come from inside her. Her lungs barely moved and she couldn’t so much as draw a breath. She leaned hard against the door to her room.

  Call Adam. Let him help you.

  She wanted to. Oh, God, she wanted to, but she couldn’t lean on him at every turn, not until she sorted some things out for herself. Later . . . then she’d call.

  And why would you do that, Caitie-Did? You kissed him last time and you liked it, didn’t you? You’re hoping for more. You want to kiss him, hard. See if he’ll respond. Feel his touch.

  No. This would be a professional appointment, she told herself as she forced herself down the stairs.

  Oh, sure. Then why is your heart pumping in anticipation? Hmmm?

  She could almost hear her twin’s accusations as she snapped on Oscar’s leash and took off jogging south, tried to run from the accusations burning through her mind. She stayed on the sidewalk, avoiding pedestrians, strollers, dogs and bicyclists. It was late afternoon, the sunlight losing ground to thick purple clouds that were rolling inland, chasing after her, just as her painful thoughts ran through her mind.

  “Hey! Watch out!”

  Caitlyn nearly stepped in front of a rickshaw pulled by a bicycle, but pulled back onto the curb just in time, jogging in place until there was a break in the traffic. A kaleidoscope of images spun ahead of her, graphic mental pictures of Josh at his desk, her mother lying dead in the hospital bed, Jamie gasping in her arms, the arrow in Charles’s chest, bedsprings bouncing in tempo to Copper Biscayne’s moans . . . Faster and faster she ran, trying to outrun the painful pictures, Oscar panting as he raced to keep pace with her. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. Faster. Her blood thundered through her veins. Her lungs burned. Her calves ached. Still she ran, her feet slapping the pavement. But no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun the images; they caught up with her. She remembered kissing Adam, vamping with him and desperately wanting to rely on him; she recalled in vivid, nightmarish hues her bedroom on the morning after Josh had been killed and she’d woken up to all the blood.

  A horn blasted and she realized she’d lost track of traffic.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled from his pickup. “Next time you might not be so lucky!”

  She jerked out of the way, pulling on Oscar’s leash, nearly stumbling against the curb. Her lungs were on fire and she doubled over, gasping, her hands on her knees as she dragged in long drafts of air. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the dog and, finding a couple of crumpled bills in her pocket, tied him to a parking meter and went into a corner quick mart, where she bought a bottle of water.

  What’re you running from, Caitie-Did? Is it what happened to you or is it that you can’t face who you really are, what you’ve done?

  “No,” she whispered. Outside again, she opened the bottle, took a long swallow and knelt near her pet. “Here ya go,” she said, helping him drink by holding some of the water in her cupped hand. “It’s not every mutt who gets—let’s see”—she checked the label—“oh, the finest natural spring water from the mountains of France.” She laughed and Oscar wagged his tail. “Come on, let’s hike on back. No running,” she said as a breath of wind tickled the back of her neck, chilling the beads of sweat.

  She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see
someone. There were other pedestrians bustling along the sidewalk, two old men in hats eyeing the sky warily as they talked, a group of people with shopping bags waiting for a bus and a woman jogging while pushing a stroller, but no sinister pair of eyes looking at her. Taking note of her surroundings, she realized she’d run much farther than she’d intended, angling through the streets without much thought. She knew where she was, but it was a long way back. “I think we’d better get going,” she said to the dog and headed toward the house. By the time she got there, maybe Kelly would have called or e-mailed back.

  “Come on,” she said to Oscar and noticed how dark the sky had become. The temperature hadn’t dropped, but the air had become more dense. Traffic had picked up as commuters drove out of the city and more pedestrians filled the streets. She sensed she was being followed, but told herself that she was just being paranoid. Again. It seemed to be her new way of life . . . well, not new, but certainly more permanent. Ever since Josh’s death she’d had the skin-prickling sensation that she was being watched. Maybe even stalked.

  A surreptitious glance over her shoulder and she saw no one other than bustling pedestrians heading home. No one following her. The first drops of rain fell, splashing on the pavement and sliding down her neck. The wind picked up, shimmering through the branches overhead, and pedestrians ducked inside or sprung umbrellas.

  Which she didn’t have.

  What she did have was nearly a mile to go. Before she got drenched. Oscar was trotting along beside her and despite her promise to him, she picked up the pace. Started jogging. The little dog was right on her heels. Faster she ran, though her legs burned. Through puddles, around curbs, the rubber soles of her running shoes slapping the pavement. She concentrated on her breathing as she ducked through alleys and under trees. As she ran by a storefront window, she thought she saw Kelly inside, but she broke stride and blinked and Kelly was gone . . . had evaporated . . . it was just her imagination. She ran on, ignoring her thundering heart and lungs that felt as if they were aflame. Sweat mingled with rainwater and ran down her face.

  Through the back alleys she raced until she spied her house. Finally. She felt as if she might collapse as she rounded the corner, pushed open the gate and flew up the stairs. Picking up her wet dog, she walked inside. She found a towel in the continental bath downstairs and dried Oscar with it before giving him fresh water; then she looked in her liquor cabinet and found the makings for martinis and left them on the counter.

  Dashing up the stairs, she began peeling off her clothes and headed for the shower with its still-shattered glass. She’d managed to place tape over the hole in the glass and along the cracks, but it wouldn’t last forever even though she was careful not to let the force of the spray hit it. Gratefully she stepped under the hot spray, letting the water run down her face and back. Closing her eyes, she let the hot water pulse into her muscles and refused to think how eerie it was to shower here, to sleep in her bedroom, to live in this house that had been so violated. Without the aid of sleeping pills, she doubted she would be able to rest knowing that something very, very wrong had happened here, something that she was a part of.

  Somehow, some way, she had to figure out what happened. She couldn’t rely on others. Not the police. Not Kelly. Not Adam. No . . . she had to figure it out for herself. She had to unlock her memory . . . maybe hypnosis . . . Rebecca had once used hypnosis on her, and though Caitlyn hadn’t remembered what had transpired when she was under, Dr. Wade had assured her that it had been very good progress.

  “I think you’ll be pleased,” Rebecca had said with a smile as Caitlyn had climbed step by step out from her hypnotic state.

  “Will I?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  Rebecca had looked at her watch. “Let’s just say it’s a breakthrough. I’m not sure what it all means yet. Let me do some research, but rest assured, I think you’re going to feel much better.”

  There had been several more sessions of hypnosis, more evasive answers, and had Caitlyn not felt so refreshed, so much better about herself, she might have been angrier about the doctor’s reticence.

  “Sounds like hogwash to me,” Kelly had told her when Caitlyn confided in her sister. “What reputable shrink hypnotizes someone and then doesn’t divulge what happens while she’s out? For all you know she could have you hopping around like a chicken with your head cut off.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know, okay? If I was doing something really weird, I’d feel it. As it is, I just feel refreshed.”

  “For the record, I think it’s mumbo jumbo. Freaky stuff, Caitie-Did. Freaky stuff.”

  Had it been? Now, as Caitlyn picked up a bottle of shampoo, she wondered. And why had Dr. Wade left so suddenly without a word? Yes, she’d said she was leaving for a while to organize her notes on the book she was writing, and she’d promised Caitlyn she’d return and when she did they would resume their sessions, but she needed to do some research.

  But Dr. Wade had left early. Suddenly.

  Or so Caitlyn had assumed.

  Now she was getting a bad feeling about it. Real bad.

  What if something had happened to the psychologist? But that was foolish. Adam had said he was in touch with her. All she had to do was demand Rebecca Wade’s phone number. That was it and then . . . and then . . . whether she wanted to face it or not, she had to go to the police.

  The police? Are you nuts? For crying out loud, Caitie-Did, they’ll lock you away! Don’t do anything crazy! Wait. Just wait one more day. For God’s sake, just chill.

  But no matter how she tried to slow her racing heart, she couldn’t. She went through the motions of shampooing her hair and lathering her body, but her mind was racing as quickly as her heartbeat, spinning round and round. She felt the urge to pass out. She had to support herself against the wall as she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. Her knees felt like rubber.

  The phone shrilled.

  She shouldn’t answer it; it was probably the reporters again.

  But it could be Kelly.

  Or Adam.

  She squeezed the excess water from her hair.

  The phone jangled again.

  Dripping, wrapping the towel around her middle, she forced her legs to support her as she ran across the bedroom and scooped up the phone. “Hello?” she said breathlessly, her heart still hammering as she tried to keep her towel from falling onto the carpet.

  “Mommy?” a child’s voice called. It was soft. Muted . . . as if coming from a long distance.

  Caitlyn nearly collapsed. “Jamie?” she whispered. Her heart jackhammered in her chest as she slowly lowered herself onto the mattress and tried to think.

  “Mommy? Where are you?” So faint. So blurry.

  “Jamie!” No, that wasn’t possible. Jamie was dead. Dead! Snatched away when she was barely three. Her jaw started to chatter. “Who is this?” she forced out. “Why are you doing this to me, you bastard?”

  “Mommy?” the little voice called again. Softer this time. Confused.

  Caitlyn’s heart wrenched. Her free hand clenched into a fist, fingers curling into her quilt. “Jamie!” It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. And yet. If only . . . “Honey?” she whispered, her mind spinning wildly as she lost track of time and space. “Jamie, are . . . are you there?”

  Silence . . . just a hum . . . the sound of a television?

  Oh, God. Caitlyn felt split in two. She swallowed against a suddenly arid throat and forced words past her chattering teeth. “Honey? Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here—”

  Click!

  The line went dead.

  “No!” she cried desperately. “Don’t hang up! Jamie! Baby!” She was panicked, but she knew better. The voice on the other end couldn’t have been her precious child. Her daughter was dead. Along with all the others. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her bedroom swam in her vision and she thought she might pass out.
The call had been a ghastly, cruel trick made by someone who wanted to push her over the edge.

  Blindly, Caitlyn struggled to hang up the phone, slapping at the bedside table. The receiver rocked in its cradle.

  Rock-a-bye baby

  In the tree top

  When the wind blows

  The cradle will—

  “No!” She sat bolt upright, the towel falling away, her damp skin exposed to the air. This was all just a bad, macabre joke. Shaking, she tried to get to her feet. Couldn’t. The room seemed darker, and she remembered the bloodstains that had smeared the walls that Saturday morning . . . the handprints on the door casings. The smears on the curtains. The sticky pool on the floor.

  Her head pounded. Her heart raced.

  When the bough breaks

  The cradle will fall

  Down will come baby

  Cradle and all.

  Tears rained from her eyes. She couldn’t move as the blackness came and above it all, in the faintest of childish whispers, she heard her daughter’s voice.

  “Mommy? Mommy? Where are you?”

  Twenty-Five

  In his office, a cold, congealed cup of coffee sitting on a stack of unread policies and procedures just handed down from the brass, Reed studied his list of suspects in the Joshua Bandeaux murder. Not suicide. Murder.

  The list was long enough. More than long enough. He scanned the now-familiar names. All the Montgomerys were included along with the Biscaynes, Naomi Crisman, Maude Havenbrooke Bandeaux Springer, Gil Havenbrooke, Lucille Vasquez, Flynn Donahue, Bandeaux’s clients, his ex-partner, Al Fitzgerald, Morrisette’s friend Millie Torme . . .