by Nancy Geary
“May I introduce myself?”
His voice had the resonance of a radio announcer. She turned to see the curly-haired man with glasses whom she’d noticed earlier with the artist. He had a rectangular face, deep blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. “Archer. I’m Archer Haverill,” he said, extending a hand.
She shook it as she introduced herself. His palm was large and warm, and her small fingers seemed to disappear in its grasp.
“My pleasure.” He bowed his head slightly. “I won’t ask if you come here often since I know you do. I’ve seen you at several of the readings recently.”
She nodded. “I enjoy them.”
“I’m glad. Truly. Because I constantly wonder when I’m reading work and picking someone to come speak whether anyone who listens will share my excitement. It’s so hard to gauge reactions.”
“You choose?”
He gave her a quizzical look and then commented, “This is my bar. Archer. The Arch. Get it?”
Lucy felt herself blush. “Sorry. I didn’t put two and two together.”
“So I guess that means even though I’m here virtually every night, I haven’t made much of an impression.” He clasped his hands together. “Maybe I should dye my hair, too. I obviously need a gimmick.”
“Or work the bar. That helps,” she said, wondering whether she should confess that he did look familiar or that she’d been watching him earlier. No, she decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. She couldn’t tell whether his humility was entirely genuine, and she didn’t feel like fanning the fire of male arrogance if it wasn’t. But there was something besides his good looks, something in his manner that was appealing, and she didn’t want the conversation to end. “Do you pick the art, too?” she asked.
“Yeah. What do you think of these self-portraits?”
“Painful. They’ll stay with me,” she responded. “I’m not much of an art critic but I think they’re good. It’s amazing what someone can do with a piece of charcoal.”
“He’d sent me slides but they didn’t do it justice. My impression changed completely when he brought the drawings in. He’s a great kid with a lot of talent though I wonder about him. The title was his idea. Of course I’d already agreed to hang the show before I realized I might have problems because he’s underage—only sixteen if you can believe it—but he’s practically lived here the last couple of days and so far not had a drop of alcohol. I think I’m safe.”
“I won’t report you.”
Archer smiled. “I appreciate that.” He paused, looked at her as if to gauge her reaction, and then asked in a voice that actually sounded timid, “Can I offer you a drink?”
Lucy was about to respond when she felt a vibration in her pocket. Her beeper. She must have forgotten to turn it off when she’d left the precinct. Her shift had ended, but her squad was short-staffed around the holidays. Lieutenant Sage must have decided to call back some of his off-duty detectives. Although she wished she could ignore it, she pulled the BlackBerry from her pocket and checked the text file. Nineteen-year-old black male. Multiple stab wounds. Gang related? DOA at Thomas Jefferson Hospital.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. Perhaps another time,” she added before she could stop herself. Lucy O’Malley, she heard her mother chastise. How dare you be suggestive? She could still envision Mrs. O’Malley with a checkered apron tied tight around her waist, shaking a finger in her face. A proper girl waits for a proper invitation. Even at a ninth-grade Sadie Hawkins, her mother had drilled it into her brain that she couldn’t be the one to ask a boy to dance.
“A patient calls?” Archer said.
“No. I’m not a doctor.”
“What do you do?” He sounded disappointed.
“I’m a cop. Homicide Unit.” Her new assignment sounded strange. The novelty was still hard to believe.
“You?” He laughed. “Now that’s a first. With looks like yours, why in the world would you ever do that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She felt a surge of rage. How many times had she heard derogatory comments about being a police officer? The litany of insults—the suggestion that she was a public servant punching the clock as she waited for a retirement pension, the constant innuendos of corruption, as if she couldn’t own a cashmere sweater on a law enforcement salary, the snide remarks that she simply was trying to meet some hunk for a husband—made her see red. Her thighs didn’t rub together from too many doughnuts; her only criminal activity was jaywalking; and she logged longer, more intense hours than almost everyone she’d ever met. That she came from a legacy of honest, good cops was a source of tremendous pride. What did this yuppie bar owner know anyway?
“You just . . . you don’t strike me . . .” Archer stammered. He eyed her up and down. “You just don’t look like the type.”
She was about to explain that being five-three and ninety-nine pounds had nothing to do with her ability to investigate and apprehend drug dealers, rapists, and now killers, but stopped. Any explanation sounded defensive, something she certainly was not. “Apparently for the same reason a person like you is drawn to the hospitality industry,” she said instead, relieved that she hadn’t confessed to anything remotely suggestive of attraction. “Going against character.”
With that she hopped off the stool, shoved the BlackBerry back in her pocket, and buttoned her overcoat. As she walked away, she thought she heard him call out, “There’s a wonderful poet coming Tuesday night. Eight o’clock. Maybe you’d take the drink then.”
But she wasn’t really listening.
2
Saturday, January 11th 9:17 p.m.
Foster hated the putrid smell of his own sweat. It was one thing to perspire from physical performance—he’d been on the lacrosse team and still occasionally lifted weights. There was a cleansing sensation to that, a purging by osmosis. But he felt entirely different tonight as he sat behind the barn. Despite the freezing wind, his shirt stuck to the clammy skin of his underarms and back. Beads of moisture congregated on his forehead, his upper lip, and behind his knees. Even his toes slipped in his Adidas sneakers. Anxiety and fear made his synapses fire too rapidly, leaving him drenched in sweat. He needed to peel off his damp flesh and escape, abandoning the body that tortured him and the soul that tormented him. Fortunately that was exactly what he was about to do.
He adjusted his position and felt a jagged rock dig into his coccyx, causing a shooting pain up his spine. Quick shallow breaths helped dissipate his agony, but he still felt a throbbing sensation. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back against the red-painted building.
Inside he could hear the horses, Fern and Jumpstart, as they snorted, stomped, and rearranged themselves in their stalls, settling down for the night. The dressage horse was black with white socks; the other—a chestnut brown—had retired years ago but remained a family pet. They were majestic, loyal animals that had eaten carrots from his hand for as long as he could remember. Although never an equestrian himself, he’d always liked the feeling of their soft lips flapping against his extended palm. He hoped his shot wouldn’t startle them.
He stared up at the waning crescent moon, illuminating a scattering of cirrus clouds in the dark sky. Aside from the stir of the horses, and the rustle of small animals, the night was still. He ran his fingers along the chamber of the .38 caliber gun, then cupped its steel snub nose in one palm while he gripped the wooden handle in the other. He’d gone to great lengths to procure this $500 weapon for which he’d paid more than a thousand. It had taken considerable coaxing and a substantial bribe, but eventually the bearded shop owner in his Orvis fishing vest had acquiesced, overlooking the birth date on his license and falsifying the age on the permit application. For an envelope of cash, he’d gone from sixteen to twenty-six with the flick of a ballpoint pen. So much for gun control in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
He squeezed the trigger, hearing nothing but a loud snap in the empty chamber. He’d yet to load his bullet of choice, the 158-grain l
ead semiwadcutter, which, according to the article he’d read, was designed to ensure maximum penetration. Given the location of his shot, he could sacrifice expansion. He shivered and then squeezed again. Snap.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his breathing and felt his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time he wondered who would find him. At least it wouldn’t be Avery, his twin sister. Protecting her was the only thing that mattered to him, but he needn’t worry. She’d returned to boarding school the day before. Her Christmas break was over and he and his mother had driven her back to Garrison Forest last Sunday in time to make the 7:00 p.m. check-in.
So the discovery of his body would undoubtedly be made by one of his parents, if he could call them that, and that might not happen until the light of morning. They’d left shortly before seven for a dinner party in the neighboring town of Villanova. His mother had worn a gray gabardine pantsuit and a fur jacket, a Christmas gift from her husband. From his bedroom window, he’d watched his father open the passenger-side door for her, lighting the leather interior of the Lexus. Before settling in her seat and affixing her seat belt, she pulled down the visor to check herself in the mirror and apply just a touch more Garnet Shimmer to her thin lips. Foster had stared at the car lights until the dark green sedan disappeared around the bend in the long driveway.
By now they would be embroiled in the festivities at the home of Bonnie and Hugh Pepper, their close friends. Although he’d never been to one of what his mother termed their “casual” dinners, he imagined that Mrs. Pepper didn’t really know the meaning of that word. Just look at the Christmas party she’d thrown less than a month before for the best that Main Line society had to offer and their teenage offspring. The big stone house had bowed wreaths hanging in every lighted window. An enormous blue spruce adorned with electric candles and Victorian ornaments filled the entryway. His family—yes, he could say that now, now that the relationship was about to end—had wandered through room after welcoming room, engaging in snippets of jovial conversation, admiring the many roaring fireplaces, eating scallops wrapped in bacon and celery with foie gras. In front of the ebony Steinway his mother had stood arm in arm with his father singing Christmas carols. Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel. Standing back from the crowd, Avery had put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s Christmas. I’m home for three whole weeks. Your opening is next week. Can’t you be happy?”
“Can’t you?” he’d asked instead of answering.
“My problems are nothing compared to yours.” She’d smiled, playfully tousled his hair, and then returned to the song just in time for the “Rejoice” chorus.
The Peppers’ dinner party tonight was certain to be seated, to go late into the evening, and to include several different bottles of wine, plus champagne with dessert. Nonetheless, when his parents returned home, his father would insist on a nightcap. They wouldn’t think to check his room, wouldn’t realize he wasn’t asleep in bed or watching television in the den. They’d wake up the next morning, stumble into the kitchen for coffee and buttered toast, and begin their search only when he didn’t appear dressed and ready for church by ten o’clock.
He reached into his pocket and removed the bullets.
Foster fingered the metal casings, imagining the potential damage. The bullets were cool in his hand, and he rolled them over one another as if they were lucky dice. His big gamble would be a success.
It seemed as though he’d planned for this moment his entire life. Each morning that he’d spent with the covers drawn over his head and his mind thick with images of long steel blades slicing his face or ripping the flesh of his belly, each day that he could barely concentrate, each afternoon spent paralyzed in his room wondering if he could get his body to cooperate enough to stumble to the bathroom, each evening he’d thrashed on his mattress knowing it was still hours before the gift of sleep might be his, had led inexorably to now. His fifty-minute, three-times-per-week sessions with Dr. Ellery made matters worse. And the antidepressants prescribed for him made life worse still. Tricyclic antidepressants, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, norepinephrine reuptake blockers, benzodiazepines—he’d tried everything in varying dosages and combinations only to add dry mouth, jitteriness, and impotence to the list of tortures that plagued him. His parents had spent thousands of dollars on unreimbursable experiments that left him feeling more freakish and isolated than he had before. What sixteen-year-old American male didn’t at least get the joy, the release, of masturbating?
The thought made him laugh again, louder this time. But he didn’t have to worry. Aside from the housekeeper, he was alone on more than six acres of countryside. And she was no doubt watching television, still wishing Jay Leno were Johnny Carson. That and a blue moon were at least some things to hope for.
He loaded three bullets and stared at the open chamber now half full. A three-eyed Titan, who today would forge the thunderbolt for him instead of Zeus, looked back at him. He spun the chamber and clicked it shut. He might fail once, but three bullets had to be enough.
“Do you remember when you first began to experience depression?” He’d been asked that question so many times he’d lost track. He’d never had an answer. There wasn’t a time, a life, before or without.
“Is there any activity that gives you any respite? Anything that can even distract you?” Dr. Ellery had asked during his initial interview. He’d thought lacrosse might save him, but he’d had to quit the team after only three weeks. He was too unreliable; he missed games altogether or suited up but found himself unable to play, to follow the rules, even to recognize his teammates. That left only painting. And he’d demonstrated his lack of success in that field. His only show came down at the end of December. The one sale—no doubt a pity purchase by the affluent bar owner—generated $400, hardly enough to cover the framing costs.
He gripped the .38 in his right hand and raised it to his chest. Because of its size, his wrist was at an odd angle and he hoped the kick of firing wouldn’t throw off the bullet’s trajectory. If so, he’d have to shoot again, a prospect he didn’t relish. He knew he had the strength and the ammunition but doubted he had the skill to get off a clean shot if he were already injured.
“Avery.” He said his sister’s name aloud, as he pictured her the week before—her tall, thin body in tight blue jeans, a bright red turtleneck sweater, and a green down vest, her long hair loose about her shoulders. Why had she ever decided to go to boarding school? Why hadn’t she stayed home with him? He’d been unable to stop crying at the thought of her pending departure. Although he’d been desperate to talk to her, to tell her everything he was thinking and feeling, he couldn’t speak. Sensing this, she’d linked her fingers in his and led him out into this field, their boots cracking the frozen twigs and small patches of ice. She’d stopped to pry open a dried milkweed pod with her fingernail, peeling back the rough skin and exposing what was left of the soft white down inside. “We’ll pretend it’s spring in January,” she’d said. Then she’d blown gently, launching the shrunken cluster of seeds into the air. “Make a wish!”
He’d wished she wouldn’t leave. And since that was an impossible dream, he’d wished that where he was going, there would be no capacity to feel loss. She would be the only thing he missed.
With the strength and power of a spiritual mantra, he believed firmly in the special bond of twins. Their entire lives they’d had the rare capacity to experience each other’s emotions, to feel connected in a way that required no explanation. He’d known when Avery had her period for the first time before she’d ever mentioned it. She didn’t need to blush at the mention of Andrew Witherspoon’s name for him to sense she had a crush on the captain of the debate team. He alone could anticipate her rages. And she’d asked him about his drowning nightmares before he’d admitted to anyone that he had them.
Now he wondered about how she would survive without him. He couldn’t have gone on without her. But then again, he couldn’t
go on. Period. Would she be his mythological Pollux, willing to sacrifice her life in order to have the two of them remain together? He would gladly pay the price that Pollux had in order to stay with his dead twin brother Castor forever—to spend half of each year in Hades. Six months in Hell seemed worth it to be united for eternity. But at the same time, he wanted Avery to go on, to be happy, to make a life, to make a real family of her own.
He shook his head. Better not to think of her right now. It was too painful, too distracting. He’d written down everything he needed to say and posted the letter earlier in the day. She’d receive it Monday, Tuesday at the latest. By then she’d know of his death. And when she read his words, she’d know why.
As he tightened his grasp on his gun, he realized that his hand trembled. With his left wrist he wiped the moisture from his forehead. His skin felt clammy. The muscles in his face tensed as he squinted in anticipation. It seemed appropriate to recite the Lord’s Prayer, something simultaneously formalistic and spiritual, but the words he’d been forced to memorize in Sunday school and had recited every week since then as part of the Episcopal service suddenly escaped him.
Why had his parents kept him in the dark about his identity? Why hadn’t they told him all along he was adopted? Maybe then he would have understood why his life, his family didn’t feel right. Maybe he could have accepted himself. Maybe he would have taken comfort in Dr. Ellery’s explanation that depression was genetic, chemical, that he was plagued by traits beyond his control. But how could he understand when the Herbert family seemed the bastion of mental health? How could he not feel like a freak when he spent days unable to leave his room? His father never missed an hour at the office, let alone a business trip or client conference, because he wasn’t up for it. His mother never declined a tennis match, never forgot a garden club meeting, and never slept through a parent- teacher conference or a school play. She’d been at the bus stop at precisely the right time to meet him every single day of his entire childhood. That was stability.
