My hand is firm on the shaft of the lamp. I am holding it so tightly I can feel my nails pierce the fleshy part of my hand. When I bring my arm up, it is with the confidence of someone who understands how much force will be required to hit her mark in order to make any damage at all.
I aim for his face. It is possible that, after I break the bulb on his face or head, I will also be able to electrocute him. I don’t know the mechanics of that, but it seems to me that electrocution is a possibility, and it is certainly my fondest hope.
I don’t think about what it means if my gambit works: chained to the bed in this abandoned house with my assailant dead at my feet. It’s a problem I long to deal with as I bring the lamp down on his head with my full force. I’m gratified to see the bulb pop as it breaks; to see a spark of bright light that I hope is electricity entering his body. Then more satisfaction when I note a trickle of blood run down his forehead.
He reels back, more surprised than injured. I feel my disappointment all the way down to my feet. It has been something. It has hurt him. But I can see right away that it is not enough.
“You bitch,” he says. He pulls his arm back to strike me and I brace myself for the fist he is making, preparing myself for an onslaught that might potentially kill me.
But a movement at the corner of my eyes pulls my attention, and I see it when Curtis launches himself at Atwater out of the shadows. Has he been waiting for his moment? I think so. And maybe he has decided to make this his moment because he feels if he doesn’t act now, Atwater might kill me.
Curtis is smaller than Atwater—not shorter but lighter—but he has the element of surprise on his side and, briefly anyway, it works. Atwater is toppled over. They grapple. It’s happening so quickly; I don’t have time to assess or determine. It’s all animal reaction. I want Curtis to prevail for so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that, despite my best efforts, I’m still chained to a bed with my best card played.
There is a moment when Curtis rides Atwater like a pony. I even see his legs dig into Atwater’s flanks, for grip, for control, I can’t decide which. Maybe both. It’s not a good play, and I see it before it happens: Atwater stands, with Curtis clinging to his back like a monkey.
“Gonna crush you like a flea,” Atwater grunts, smashing his back against the wall, and I don’t hear Curtis’s bones breaking, but a part of me can feel it. I know that if I can’t manage to stop it somehow, Atwater will kill the reporter. And it won’t take long.
I cast around for something—anything—to do and my hand connects with the cord of the lamp. I know right away that it’s a shot. The only one I have.
Curtis sees me, straining at the end of my tether, my weapon again in my hand. They are just out of my reach. Curtis manages to maneuver the two of them closer. I hold myself back, so as not to blow what is likely to be my only chance, then chop again towards his head when I feel he may be close enough and will, additionally, momentarily be farther away.
I swing and basically miss. The broken bulb grazes his back and I see a trail of blood rise up, but it does not slow him down. He registers the pain, though. His attention is briefly diverted from Curtis. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. Curtis gets free. He is able to grab one of the antique chairs, swing it up, and crash it over Atwater’s head. Atwater goes down and stays down. From the force of the blow, and from this distance, I can’t even tell if he’s alive.
Curtis doesn’t check. He rushes to my side, his fingers going to the leg irons as he futilely searches for how to unlock them.
“Fuck,” he says. “It takes a key.”
“Check his pockets.”
“Ugh,” he says, but he’s moving towards him. Bending over him.
“Careful,” I hiss from the bed. “He’s a pro at this.” I don’t add that Curtis, of course, is not.
I’m watching Atwater carefully while Curtis bends over him, but so far so good.
“Where’s the team?” I ask while he searches. This all would have gone so much more easily with the team in play.
“They’re down at the waterfront. There’s a house there. Near the pier. We got a tip.” He’s talking between clenched teeth, while he searches through Atwater’s pockets, a disgusted look on his face. I recognize the look. I’d been in that position before.
“Got it!” I recognize the triumph in his voice, too.
“How come you’re here?” I ask.
“We got another tip. Some kid at a gas station called it in. It felt right.”
It seems to me Atwater is beginning to stir. Not dead, after all. I feel relief and despair, all in one gulp.
“He’s moving! Hit him,” I hiss. Curtis looks a bit squeamish at this and I mime a hit theatrically. “Seriously. Grab the chair again. Bop him one. Now.”
“I might kill him.”
“Good,” I hiss.
Curtis looks at me with wide eyes, but Atwater is truly stirring now.
“Do it!”
And, finally—luckily before my head explodes—Curtis leans over and picks up the chair again, then hesitates.
“Right on the noggin. It’s okay. You can do it! I know you can.”
And this last bit of encouragement seems to do the trick, because Curtis grabs the chair even more firmly, hauls back a bit like he’s playing softball, closes his eyes, and brings it down on Atwater’s brow.
“Yes!”
For just a second, Curtis looks back at me like a kid who just got praised.
“Gosh, that was hard,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
I can see even from my position on the bed that the blow was not as hard as it looked. The chair was heavy enough to pulverize Atwater’s head. But I can see the rise and fall of his chest. Not pulverized.
Not dead yet.
Curtis has turned his attention to getting me out of the leg irons. Until they slide off, I have this awful feeling that it won’t work. That I’ll be stuck in them forever, even though that makes no sense.
“Ohmigawd,” I breathe when I’m free. “Thank you. You saved me. You’re my hero!”
Curtis laughs. I’m relieved to hear the sound.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “We saved each other.”
I bring my legs in front of me, rubbing the circulation back into them, feeling an echo of when I’d freed Emma—could it be?—just a few hours earlier.
“Now what?” Curtis says.
I’m saved from answering by the arrival of the team. We hear the van; hear the three of them clattering into the front hall. The shift in energy excites the dog. He pulls himself out from where he’s been hiding, gives a “woof” that sounds more like greeting than alarm, then skitters downstairs to meet the visitors.
I glance at Atwater, but it’s clear he’s still out cold, possibly worse. There have been a lot of hits on the noggin in the last while, I muse. I fully expect that, after what he’s been through, he might not ever rise again.
Downstairs, I am surprised at how good it is to clap eyes on this team again. The girl—whose name I’ve discovered is Juliet—looks so relieved to see us unhurt it’s almost comical.
I’m pleased by their arrival, but curious. “Why were you worried?” Of course she’d had reason to be, but she also had no way of knowing that.
“Just a feeling,” she says. “I can’t explain it. As we were driving up here, I just suddenly got the sense that he was here. And then here you both are. Somewhere in there, I just started fearing the worst.”
Curtis and I exchange a glance.
“Come upstairs,” Curtis instructs the team. “There’s something we have to show you.”
The two guys look mystified; Juliet just appears a little more apprehensive. As we go up the stairs, I even see her nibbling on her nails.
We troop up there together. Curtis and I in the lead. Juliet behind us with the two guys right behind her, shielding her back as I suspect they often do; tacitly. The dog brings up the rear, following us, his nails making s
oft clicking sounds on the wooden stairs.
In the bedroom at the end of the hall, Curtis and I stop so short the others nearly careen into us.
“What?” This is Rocky. But neither Curtis nor I say anything at first. There is nothing to say. Less than nothing.
William Atwater is gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I AM REELING. Of all the things I had been expecting, it was not this. I am without speech. Curtis is not.
“I can’t believe it.” He’s actually shaking his head. “Well, he can’t have gotten far.”
“What makes you think that?” Juliet asks.
“I thought he was dead.”
I still don’t say anything, even though I don’t think what he’s said is quite true. We never thought he was dead. Dead and as good as dead aren’t the same thing. The empty spot on the floor drives that home.
Curtis gives the team an abbreviated version of what happened, then they fan out to look for Atwater in a manner that is so efficient, if you hadn’t known they’d worked together on many occasions, you would now.
It’s Juliet who discovers how he managed to disappear: a back staircase. I am astonished. I had not considered that a house might have two staircases to the second floor. The back staircase is smaller and narrower than the one that leads up from the foyer. Dimmer and darker, too.
“Service staircase,” Curtis says, and I realize that makes sense: a path for the servants to take so the lords of the manor wouldn’t have to see them or interact.
So that explained how he could have gotten past us, but not where he’s gone, and I am aware of a sinking feeling. Like water through fingers. He’s slipped away again.
“Ideas?” Curtis asks.
“Don’t look at me. Look how often I’ve lost him.” And I can’t help it, but I know it sounds like I’m spitting up grapes that are sour.
“Maybe,” Curtis says. “But you also keep finding him. So, there’s that.”
It’s meant to be a comfort, but it does not comfort me. All of this energy. All of this focus. All this loss. Suddenly, all I feel is tired.
“I’m out of ideas,” I say. “I’m going home.” Curtis has no way of knowing that “home” is a more than six-hour drive, and he lets me go, totally immersed in his story and his team. What of all of this can be told? I hear them plotting their newscast as I call the dog to me and head outside.
My keys, my bag, and my phone have disappeared. I have to assume Atwater has taken them, but I’m not without resources. I’d long ago equipped my car with one of those little plastic magnetic key keepers that old men keep stuck to the underside of their bumpers. I’m pleased with myself now to reach under my car and pull it out, open it, and retrieve the key I’d stashed there. The whole series of actions restores some of my self-esteem. I have taken precautions; risen to the occasion. The puppy seems to be able to feel it somehow. He sits nearby watching me, occasionally thumping his tail in what seems like gentle encouragement.
I open the door and indicate that he should load himself into the car, and he does with his usual alacrity. Dogs and cars again. What’s the deal?
I am about to take off when there is a shout.
“Hey, hey!” Curtis. “Rocky spotted him. Heading down the cliff. C’mon! Let’s go!”
I actually hang my head for a second. It’s an odd feeling. Malaise? Ennui? It’s like everything has gone out of me. It’s like I don’t have anything more to put in.
If Curtis sees any of this, he gives no sign. He gets in the car, and it’s like I am carried along by the spirit of his enthusiasm. I don’t even feel like continuing the chase, yet I put the key in the ignition and head out after the van.
And then we’re bumping back down the long road. I imagine a time when the road was smooth and new and carriages came this way. Maybe fancy ladies wearing gloves. They flutter their lashes at men in bowler hats. Everything is beautiful, but that was a long time ago. Not much traffic comes here now.
The clock in my car says it’s noon, but that clock is always wrong so I know it is more like eleven. Still, the sun is reaching for the highest point in the sky, though without my phone, I’m not even sure what day it is.
The van negotiates the bumpy road faster than my car, and I soon lose sight of it. I’m not worried about it. I have absolutely no confidence that this chase will result in what I most desire. He has been so slippery, so elusive. He has been like a cat, with oh so many lives.
And then we round a corner and come out of the forest into a clearing and the van is in front of us, at the edge of an overlook that gives this incredible view of Morning Bay and the sea. It looks like a fairy-tale town and fluffy white clouds float above it, punctuating a perfect blue sky. Beyond the van, the team is heading along a ridge that follows the view, but takes them back into the forest.
“C’mon,” Curtis urges, and I can see he is anxious to be away.
“You go,” I say. “I’ll be right along.”
Curtis looks at me questioningly, but I urge him with a flutter of my hand. “Go. Go. Honest. I’ll be there. I just have something to do.” He hesitates another few seconds, torn. And then he’s off.
I go to the hidden compartment in my trunk, where the darker twin of my Bersa is waiting. I load the gun, put the safety on, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans. Carrying the gun that way feels ludicrous. I miss my purse, but it’s what I’ve got. With the gun available, I feel a little bolder. I feel infinitely better equipped.
I am about to head out after Curtis and the team when a pale flash catches my eye. A man. At the edge of the forest and the ridge, in the opposite direction from where the team has run. I know who it is before I get close enough to determine. Who else could it be? And I know—I know—it can’t be that he is waiting for me, and yet, I feel it all the same.
He is standing with his back to me, facing Morning Bay. Facing the sea. And it’s like he is contemplating the view. Or maybe praying, though I can’t imagine that could be the case. He is not at the edge of the cliff, but the edge isn’t far. He couldn’t hop there, but he could walk.
I move towards him carefully. Ready to shoot if he turns. And he doesn’t. Even though I know he can hear me. I don’t know why I’m holding back. I don’t know why I don’t just kill him. And then I figure it out.
“Renee Garcia,” I say when I’m close enough that he can hear.
“What?” He makes the word a question, but I feel sure he has recognized the name.
“She is the only one not accounted for.” My voice seems distant even to me. Detached. I can’t decide if that’s good. Or not. “The police are now thinking maybe you had nothing to do with her death. I guess you know that. They couldn’t find her body in your garden. And her name didn’t come up in the lists you shared. Was she … was she …” I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m sure he knows.
He is silent long enough that I think maybe he isn’t going to answer. Or maybe he actually doesn’t know anything about Renee. Maybe her disappearance could be attributed to somebody or something else. When he finally speaks, he lays my hope to rest.
“Yes,” he says after a while. “I remember her.” Still without turning around, he pulls his shirtsleeve back and offers a scar in my direction. I have to get closer to see what he is trying to show me. And then I do. It is old and white, but the composition is clear: the perfect reflection of a small set of teeth.
“That was Renee,” he says.
“She bit you?”
“Like a dog,” he says.
“Wait. You’re saying she got away?” I feel this odd little surge of hope. A bird in my breast. It dies at his next words.
“I killed her like the bad dog she was.”
“You hit her—like you hit me.” I suddenly have a clear picture. A fist connecting in retaliation. A tiny jaw, shattering, like so much precious glass.
He grunts ascent. I close my eyes. Just for a second. But I can’t speak. And then I can.
“Why
did no one ever find the body?”
“We were on the road. I popped her into a dumpster.” He says it casually, and it takes a minute or two for his meaning to become clear. And when it does, I can’t make the picture go away. He had thrown her away, like so much trash. And just like that, the trail had died.
I had seen Renee’s parents on television at some point through all of this. Their grief was oldest and so their expectations were not high. The stoop in their shoulders had come from an old and grinding weight, not like the newly grieved who have been hit by a recent storm and for whom walking fully upright and erect is beyond possibility. Oddly, though, I’d noted that there was a little hope alive in each parent, even after all this time. Nothing more than a spark, really. A dull flame, ready to be ignited at the smallest hint of warm wind. And to hear him declare, so casually, what had become of Renee, with all of the caring one might have given a broken toaster, something in that chilled my blood. All over again.
“But that was a long time ago,” he says.
“A long time,” I repeat. My voice is so quiet, I can barely hear the words myself. “So why do you do it?” I hadn’t known I was going to ask the question. And now here it is.
“Do you believe that no one has ever asked me that before?”
“Really?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “But it should be true, don’t you think?”
I don’t have an answer for that. And we both stand there, silently for the moment. Almost companionably. There is the sound of a light wind in the trees. Occasional hits of the music of children’s laughter, wafting up from the beach. The sound is chilling in the circumstance.
The Bersa is trained at the base of his skull. I am ready to kill him at any moment. And yet. I don’t. At first, I’m not sure why. I grapple with it. And then I don’t grapple. We are different, him and I. I am not better. Because who can say they are better than anyone else? But also? We are not the same.
Endings Page 23
