She’d smiled and told him that was correct.
Detective Dixon came by, and Harry told him that Caitlin was being watched. It was all he really remembered.
Later, he opened his eyes, and saw Alice staring at him so intently and with so much love that he closed his eyes again, pretending to fall back asleep. He could smell her perfume in the room, and he heard a soft, deep voice in the background that sounded like John Richards. He kept his eyes closed. He’d been awkward around Alice ever since they’d had sex, the night before that terrible morning when he had discovered the dead body of Grace McGowan. After that long, surreal day, after being questioned repeatedly by the police, both local and state police detectives, Harry said to Alice, “About what happened . . . last night.”
She’d looked at him with a tired, blank stare. He noticed, not for the first time, that the surfaces of her eyes, from some angles, appeared almost flat. It gave her a distant gaze even when she was looking right at him.
“You want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she said.
A little bit startled by the accuracy of her statement, Harry said, “No, yes. I just think it shouldn’t happen again is all.”
“Sure, it never happened.” She half smiled.
That was all they had talked about it, and Alice had not returned to Harry’s bed, even though Harry, in the moments between sleep and wakefulness, found himself replaying the memories of Alice’s naked body, the way she had controlled him, her voice in his ear. Those images fought with the constant image of Grace, dead on the hallway floor, one side of her face collapsed and ruined, the other looking just like she’d looked in real life. And he’d begun to obsess over every moment they had spent together, every word they had said during the short time they had known one another. What he kept coming back to was that Grace had come to Maine for one reason; she had come because she believed that Alice was responsible for his father’s death. She’d been convinced of it. And now she was dead, and Harry couldn’t help but think that it meant she’d been right.
The days and nights following Grace’s death seemed interminable as Harry waited to hear about an arrest. He tried to talk more to Alice about Annie and Lou Callahan, but all she would say was that she was sure they were involved, and that she didn’t want to talk about it. He also badgered Detective Dixon into repeated meetings; he felt better talking, again and again, about the events that had transpired over the last few days. And it was after one of those fruitless conversations that he’d met Grace’s sister at the police station. Caitlin looked so much like Grace that when he first saw her he thought he’d seen a ghost. Her hair was a little different, as was the way she held her body, but her mouth, her eyes, they were Grace’s eyes, and Harry, knowing it was insane, felt as though she was in Maine just so he could have a second chance, that she was there for him.
Harry, in his hospital bed, the lights now dim and the room empty, tried to focus on the man he’d seen outside of Caitlin’s motel, but the focus kept slipping away from him, like two magnets that repel one another. Every time he felt like he could see the man hiding in the dark, the image would push itself away. All that remained was the terrible fear he’d felt. Someone was watching Caitlin. She needed to leave Maine.
The pressure in his head increased, and he opened his eyes. He knew Alice was close, probably out in the waiting room. He’d seen her earlier, hadn’t he? Then he remembered that he’d also heard John’s voice in the background. Why was John there, at the hospital? It wasn’t totally surprising, but it was a little odd. It was so late at night. Had she gone to get him after she’d heard word that Harry was in the hospital? Why hadn’t she called Chrissie Herrick instead?
He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the hospital, the undercurrent of humming machines, the distant chatter from the nurses’ station. Then he heard rushed footsteps along the linoleum floor, a progressive clack-clack-clack, some nurse in clogs hurrying toward a patient in need.
His eyes suddenly opened on their own, the sound of the footsteps bringing back the woolly memory of the man running away the night before. Something had been strange about it. What had it been? Then Harry remembered. The man he’d chased had looked like he’d been flapping his wings, and there was something else . . . Yes, it was the flat slaps of dress shoes hitting the asphalt. The man must have been in a suit, unbuttoned, and it was the suit jacket that was flapping as he ran. A too-big suit jacket. And he’d been wearing dress shoes, as well.
And Harry suddenly was sure that the man watching Caitlin’s motel had been John. He knew it. And it wasn’t just the suit, John’s constant uniform, it was also the size of him, the slope of one shoulder in the dim light. There was no doubt.
But why? If John was the one watching Caitlin, then he was the one who’d killed Grace, and also maybe his own father. It didn’t make sense. John was an old man. Would he have been strong enough to overcome Bill, and also Grace, a young woman? If he’d had a weapon, sure. Harry, in and out of fuzzy consciousness, kept imagining John’s strong hands and wiry frame, his body concealed by the loose-fitting suits.
A nurse came in to check on him. “Awake, I see?” he said.
“On and off.”
“How’s the head?”
“A little fuzzy, but getting better.”
“You’ll be glad to know your mother’s still here. We told her to go home, but she insisted.”
“My stepmother,” Harry said.
“Oh, right. She’s very concerned.”
“She’s awake?”
“No, she’s sleeping now. There’s a couch in the waiting room.”
When the nurse left, Harry dozed for a few minutes then woke again, still thinking of John. What did he know about him? Not much, except that he was local, having spent many years in southern Maine. He lived on Kennewick Beach, in one of the dated condos up near Buxton Point. Bill had pointed it out to Harry once during a walk; this was right after his father had brought John in full-time at the store. “What’s his deal?” Harry had asked Bill.
“He’s just one of those guys who needs to be working, I guess. But I like having him around. He’s harmless.”
Harry’s temples throbbed, and he closed his eyes. Bright splotches of color spread and contracted under his eyelids. He was exhausted again, despite the rising anxiety, and he fell into a thin, disturbed sleep.
When he woke, Alice was over him, her face registering the same overly concerned look from before. “Hi, Alice,” he said, the words clicking a little because his mouth was so dry. How long had he slept?
“Hi, sleepyhead,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Okay. Thirsty.”
Alice brought him a cup of lukewarm water.
“Dr. Roy’s coming soon. She said she thinks you can leave this morning.”
“Oh, good,” Harry said. He remembered being convinced that it had been John outside of Caitlin’s motel, and said, “Is Detective Dixon here?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“What about John? Was he here last night? I remember hearing him.”
“He was here, but he’s back home now. Want me to call him for you, have him come back?” Alice pushed a lock of Harry’s hair off his forehead, and the touch of her fingertips on his skin caused a ripple to race down his spine.
“No, I just . . . How long have you known John, Alice?”
Alice blinked. “Years, I guess. Since I was a teenager.”
“You knew him when you were a teenager?” Harry asked.
Alice sat back on her chair. “He was married briefly to my mother. You knew that, didn’t you, Harry?”
Harry didn’t say anything right away. Was he still confused from the concussion? Had he somehow forgotten that Alice and John had been related?
“I didn’t know that, did I?” he said. “He was your stepfather?”
Alice laughed. “I never thought of him that way. No, he was just someone who married my mother. I didn’t know him well at all.”
“And my father knew this, too?”
“Knew what? That John had been married to my mother? Sure, I suppose it came up when he first volunteered at the store, but I don’t even remember talking about it.”
“What was he like back then?” Harry asked. “Did you live with him?”
“Just for a little while. He was the same. He loved to work, was friendly to everyone. Why are you asking all these questions?”
Harry rubbed at one of his eyes where a nerve had been fluttering. A few hours ago he’d known for a fact that it had been John standing out in front of the motel room, keeping an eye on Caitlin. Now he wasn’t so sure. He opened his mouth to ask another question, then stopped. Suddenly, he didn’t want Alice to know about his suspicions. Why had he even had them? The flapping suit jacket? It wasn’t enough.
“No reason,” Harry said.
“You don’t think he—” Alice began, just as Dr. Roy entered the room.
“Good morning,” the doctor said, as Alice stood. “How are you feeling this morning, Harry? Better?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I’ll just step outside,” Alice said, and moved quickly to the door.
Dr. Roy perched on one of the plastic chairs next to Harry’s bed and asked him how he had slept.
“Except for being woken up every hour, fine.”
“Are you sleepy now?”
“No. I’m just ready to get out of here.”
“Yes, I totally understand.” She pushed a dark strand of hair back behind an ear, and looked down at the clipboard in her lap. “I need to ask you some questions first, okay? Then you’re free to go.”
Harry nodded.
“I’m going to give you four words and I want you to repeat them back to me in the same order as I say them, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Car, telephone, apple, and shoe.”
Harry repeated the words.
“Good. Now, can you tell me the months of the year, but backward?”
He did that as well, as Dr. Roy scribbled onto a sheet.
“Very good,” she said. “Now tell me about how your head feels. Last night you complained of a headache—do you remember that?—and said that the pain was a six out of ten. Do you still have a headache this morning?”
“No, not really,” Harry said, even though his temples still felt pinched by a dull, throbbing pain.
“Not at all?”
“Maybe a slight headache.”
“And how would you characterize the pain of that headache, on a scale of one to ten?”
“A one,” Harry said.
She asked him a few more questions about how he was feeling, then used an instrument with a light to track the movement of his eyes.
“You seem good, Harry,” she said, her fingers gently touching the area around his scalp where he’d received the blow. “I have one more question. Can you tell me the four words I said to you when I first came in here?”
For a brief moment, Harry blanked, but then it came back to him, and he quickly said: “Car, telephone, apple, shoe.”
“Good.” She smiled, then looked at her watch. “I’ll send the nurse ’round with your discharge papers. Who’s taking you home, do you know?”
“My stepmother, I guess.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
After the doctor left, Harry kept his eyes on the door, waiting either for his discharge or for Alice to return. He was eager to leave, frantic almost, anxious to check in with Caitlin, make sure she was okay. He’d tell her that he felt sure he knew who the man watching her had been. He hadn’t decided yet whether to tell Detective Dixon. What if he was wrong? What would John think then?
He must have dozed off, because he woke to the sound of the nurse’s voice as he came into the room holding a clipboard.
After being discharged by the nurse, Harry dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before, and went to look for Alice. She wasn’t in the waiting room, and a nurse told him she’d gone home to change, and that she’d be back soon. He walked outside to the emergency room entrance and stood under the awning. He tried both Alice’s cell phone and the landline at the house, but she didn’t pick up. He tried Caitlin, as well, and got no answer. He tried to figure out what to do next. It was too far to walk. He could call a cab, he told himself, have it take him back to the house, or he could call Detective Dixon, tell him he needed a ride. Before he decided, a rust-pocked yellow cab pulled up to the curb, and a wiry driver in a jean jacket leapt out to open the door for an obese passenger, a woman carrying her own oxygen tank who needed help getting through the hospital’s sliding doors. When the driver returned, Harry asked him for a ride.
“I have another fare in ten minutes. How far you need to go?”
Harry gave him the address of Grey Lady and the driver agreed.
The car was stuffy, smelling of permanent body odor and the distant memory of cigarette smoke. Harry cracked the window as the driver barreled through the quiet backstreets of Kennewick. The day was overcast but warm. The driver dropped Harry off at the top of the driveway, speeding off as soon as Harry paid. Harry squinted toward the house, wishing he had sunglasses. It was the type of overcast sky that was still bright, a harsh whiteness suffusing everything. He pressed his fingers to his closed eyelids, and bright red spots swam in his vision.
When he felt better, he walked to the front door, checking his jacket pocket, happy to find his keys there. Alice’s car wasn’t in the driveway. It was strange; if she’d been heading back to the hospital, he would’ve passed her in the taxi. Where else could she be? Maybe she’d gone to see John? Clearly, they were much closer than he’d ever realized. He was still shocked by the revelation that John had been Alice’s stepfather.
He entered the house, shouted “Hello” into its interior just to make sure he was alone, then walked to the kitchen, hoping to find coffee. He was desperate for caffeine. There was a quarter of a pot left, and he poured it over ice and took a long, bitter swallow. He thought some more about Alice and John. What if they were still close? What if John had killed Bill and Grace as a favor for Alice, as revenge for their affair? It was ludicrous, but possible. Both Bill and Grace were dead, and the only one with a solid motive to kill them was Alice, the spurned wife. Alice had acted as though John and she weren’t close at all, but what if they were?
Harry remembered a few days earlier when he’d been looking through Alice’s desk and found the old photograph in her passport, a photograph of her and an older man. He put down his coffee and walked to Alice’s office. He found the photograph again in Alice’s desk drawer. A young Alice with an older man, his arm around her. Harry studied the man. It definitely could have been John, even though the man in the photograph had a full head of hair and was clean shaven. But he had the same strong, slim build, the same slope of the shoulders. It was impossible to tell for sure. Harry riffled through the papers in the desk drawer, looking for another photograph. He didn’t find anything, but he did find a Post-it note stuck to the wooden bottom of the drawer. Handwritten on the note was the phrase missmossypants. No caps, words all strung together. It had to be Alice’s password. Harry flipped open the laptop on the desk, and hit the power button, then, while it was booting up, he had another idea. He opened the Phone Finder app on his phone. It allowed you to find out where someone was based on the GPS location of their cell phone, but you needed their password to do it. He punched Alice’s phone number into the app, then entered her password. A map appeared, and an icon of a phone. She was near Kennewick Beach, just off Micmac Road on Scituate Avenue. Harry could picture the address, a three-story condo development, the same one his father had pointed out to him.
Chapter 31
Now
Alice hadn’t been to Jake’s condo on Kennewick Beach for over a decade. She’d passed it many times, of course, in the car, or while walking along Kennewick Beach, but since she’d been married to Bill she barely even noticed it anymore. It was a r
elic from the past, in the way her mother was long gone, and in the way that Jake, as she used to know him, was also gone.
But while she’d been waiting at the hospital she’d gotten a text from Jake asking her to come right away. She had a bad feeling, especially since Harry had been asking all those questions. Had it been Jake that Harry had seen in front of the motel? Nothing would shock her right now.
And now he wanted her to come to his condo, something he’d never asked. It could only be bad news.
Alice had thought it possible, after hearing that her husband had died, that Jake had been responsible. They’d had that conversation about Bill and the girl down in New York, and she’d seen something in Jake’s eyes, that loyalty he’d always had, that told her he might do something about it. If he had done it, he’d done a good job of making it look like an accident. But then, Jake had probably gone and killed Bill’s girlfriend who’d come up from New York for the funeral. That was a stupid move, drawing more attention to Bill’s death, and probably drawing attention away from Annie and Lou Callahan. And then she’d gotten the call late last night about Harry, and she’d wondered if Jake had something to do with that as well. He was spinning out of control. She’d immediately called him, left him a message telling him to meet her at the hospital, and he had, though she’d yet to be able to truly talk with him. But she’d seen him. He looked terrible when she spotted him in the entranceway, like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, and he even smelled bad, like something had gone rotten inside of him.
She pulled in front of his unit in the condo parking lot and stared up at the faded grey wood of the four-unit development, and the flat, white sky above it. This is where my mother died, she thought, surprising herself. Usually, when she thought of the condo, she thought of the beautiful years she had lived here with Jake. It had been one of the happiest times of her life, even though a part of her now knew that it had all been lies, like so much else in her life.
All the Beautiful Lies Page 23
