All the Beautiful Lies

by Peter Swanson

  She stepped out onto the parking lot, smoothed her skirt down along her thighs, and locked the car behind her.

  She walked across the asphalt, gritty with sand, then up the exterior stairway to Jake’s door. She rang the bell, and listened to the familiar bong from inside the condo.

  The door opened. Jake was standing there, his suit jacket rumpled, his eyes puffy. His mouth looked slack, hanging open slightly, and the white hairs of his mustache had grown over his upper lip.

  “Jake?” she said.

  “I screwed up,” he said. “I screwed up everything.”

  She stepped inside the condo, and Jake shut the door behind her. She walked into the living room, dark because the curtains were closed, but what she could see looked grimy and unkempt. And it was too warm, the windows yet to be opened since winter.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  Jake scratched at his scalp. The sides of his lips were crusted in white, like he needed to drink a glass of water. “Did he see me?”

  “Did who see you?” Alice asked. She decided if Jake was suddenly going to confess everything to her, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “Did Harry see me last night, outside of the motel?”

  “I think he did, Jake. What were you doing there?”

  “I went to her motel room to keep an eye on her. I still thought—”

  “Who, Jake?”

  “Grace’s sister. She’d come to identify the body.”

  “So what?”

  “Because she must have known about Bill and his affair with her sister.”

  “So what?” Alice said again.

  “I just wanted to keep an eye on her, Alice. I haven’t been able to sleep for days.”

  “You killed Bill’s girlfriend?”

  “She was talking with Harry, Alice. She knew something. I know she did.” He sat down on the recliner. Alice’s eyes had adjusted to the dark living room, and she saw dust particles rising in the light from the kitchen as Jake settled his weight onto the chair. “I’m tired, Alice.”

  “Were you going to kill her, too?”

  Jake sighed through his nose. “Who, Caitlin? She was after Harry, as well, as it turned out. I was watching her motel, and he showed up there. I took off running, but, Jesus, I don’t know . . .”

  “Relax, Jake. Maybe you need to tell me everything you’ve done.”

  “If he saw me, then he’s probably already told the police. They could be on their way here right now.”

  “He didn’t tell the police anything.”

  “He told Caitlin about me. He’ll tell the police.”

  “What do you mean? Did you go see Caitlin?”

  “She was scared of me, Alice. She knew. And if she knew, then the police know.”

  “What did you do to her?” Alice asked.

  “I took care of it. She’s in the trunk of my car in the garage.”

  “Jesus. Jake, you need—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s all taken care of.”

  “It’s not all taken care of. You’re right, the police are going to come after you. You need to either leave town, or—”

  “Shhh, I know what needs to be done. That’s why I asked you here. For your help. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to do this. I don’t think I can do it myself.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Yes, you do. I’m old and I don’t want to go to prison. All you need to tell them is that I invited you here, and when I attacked you, you defended yourself. You can tell them I’d stopped being able to sleep, and that I did it all for you. Or just tell them you have no idea what went wrong with me, and they’ll come up with their own ideas.”

  “It’s too warm in here, Jake,” Alice said, standing and going to look at the thermostat on the wall.

  “Do you remember when we first met? Right down there on the beach. You were in a green bathing suit and I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.”

  “You were with my mother.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It was just the two of us.”

  Alice turned from the thermostat to look at Jake. He was wrong about how they’d met, but she did remember meeting him, how strong he looked, how sure of himself he was. He’d lost all that now.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Alice said.

  “Yes?”

  “How . . . exactly?” Alice walked to the nearest window, the one that looked out over the parking lot. She twisted the lock, noticing the grime that had accumulated on the sill, and cracked the window. The smell of salt air came into the condo almost immediately.

  “There’s a knife in the kitchen,” Jake said. “I’d get it for you but I think you should be the one who pulls it from its block. I’ll hit you once, very lightly, with the cosh, and then you stab me. There won’t be any suspicion, and even if there is, they’ll never prove you weren’t protecting yourself.”

  Alice watched as a familiar car—it looked like Harry’s green Honda—turned from Scituate into the condo’s parking lot, pulling into an empty spot next to Alice’s Volvo.

  “Harry’s here,” she said, still watching the car.

  “What?”

  “I’m pretty sure Harry’s here,” she said, then watched as the driver’s side door opened, and it was Harry who stepped out, turning and looking up at the condo building. Alice moved back from the window. “It’s him. He’s here.”

  “Then it has to be done right now.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Alice said. “Where?” And suddenly she did want to kill Jake, not as a favor to him, but because she was angry.

  “In the kitchen.” Jake picked up the sock filled with quarters from the coffee table, and Alice followed him into the alcove. “Tell them we were talking in here. I wasn’t making any sense, and I threatened you. You pulled out the knife and protected yourself.”

  “You have to hit me.”

  “I’ll hit you lightly. It won’t matter.” Jake pointed at the knife block. “Take that one there, top right, it’s the sharpest.”

  The kitchen swam in her vision as Alice walked and gripped the knife’s wooden handle, pulling it free from its block. She turned to Jake.

  There was the loud, echoey bong of the doorbell ringing.

  “Just do it,” Jake said. “There’s no time now.”

  “Hit me first.”

  Jake nodded, and feebly swung the sock with the quarters, glancing them off of Alice’s shoulders.

  “It’s got to be harder,” she said.

  He swung again, clipping her left ear. It hurt more than she thought it would. She blinked rapidly.

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  She punched the knife into his chest, where she thought his heart was, but the knife only went about an inch in, and Jake staggered backward a step, dropping the cosh on the floor. She looked into his eyes, trying to remember the man who had once lifted her into his arms and carried her like a bride into this very home. Now all she saw in his eyes was confusion, and a little bit of panic. He lifted a hand up, his fingers spread, and Alice took hold of his wrist, pressed his hand up against the side of her face, bringing him in closer to her. His fingers gripped her neck, his nails ripping at her skin. They were both breathing heavily, Jake’s lips apart but his stained teeth clenched together. He squeezed harder at Alice’s neck, and she felt a trickle of blood run down into her collarbone. She stabbed him again harder, and this time, when she pulled the knife out, blood began to soak his shirt. He dropped to his knees and then to the ground. Jake put his hand on his chest, and the blood pumped out between his fingers, pooling in the folds of his shirt.

  The doorbell rang again. Alice watched Jake, just to make sure he’d stopped breathing. She dropped the knife to the floor, where it skittered away, leaving a trail of blood. She touched her fingers to her neck, puffy where the welts were already rising up.

  He nearly killed me, she thought. Then: I had to do it. I had to do it, the words running through her head as
she moved, trancelike, to the front door.

  Chapter 32

  Now

  Alice’s car was outside in the parking lot, so Harry knew she was in the condo. He pressed the doorbell, telling himself that if no one answered maybe he should just inform the police of what he thought he’d seen. Still, it would be better if he could get one more look at John, just so he could know for sure if he was the one he’d seen in front of the motel. And with Alice here, he had an excuse—he was concerned, looking for his stepmother.

  He rang the bell again, hoping he had the correct door; he’d picked the unit closest to where Alice’s car was parked. An exterior stairway led up to the entryway, above a garage. It was low tide, and the air was filled with the smell of rot. Harry pulled his phone out just as the door swung inward.

  “Harry,” Alice said. Her neck was smeared with blood. “Harry,” she said again. “Call the police.”

  He stared at the phone in his hand. How had it gotten there? Then he dialed 911 for the second time in a week. He gave the dispatcher the address, but wasn’t able to tell her what had happened. She kept insisting he find out, but he hung up, and stepped into the dim condo. Alice had retreated, and was now sitting on a white leather sofa, holding her hands out to either side. She looked like she was meditating.

  “Where’s John?” Harry asked.

  “He’s in the kitchen, Harry.”

  Harry took another tentative step into the living room. His eyes began to adjust; to his left was a lit alcove kitchen. Harry took another step and looked toward it. He could see the upturned feet of a body lying on the linoleum.

  “What happened?”

  “He was crazy, Harry. He asked me to come here, and I came, and he wasn’t making any sense. He kept telling me how he had to kill all the people who were threatening him, and then he tried to . . . I had to protect myself. Is he dead, do you think?”

  Harry forced himself to take two more steps toward the alcove. Recessed fluorescents in the ceiling lit the scene. John was on his back, one hand sprawled in the spreading pool of blood, the other resting gently on his chest. The smell of the blood—like tidal mud—reached Harry’s nostrils, and he took three quick steps back out the condo’s door and vomited over the railing. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens.

  “Is he dead, Harry?” Alice’s voice was closer, and Harry’s body jerked, involuntarily, the way it sometimes did when he was falling asleep and thought he was actually falling.

  He turned back, wiping at his mouth. Alice was in the doorway, her hands still held out from her body, her palms up.

  “He looks dead.”

  “He killed Bill, you know. He killed your father. He just told me.”

  “Why did he do it?” Harry asked.

  “He didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was about me. He was protecting me, I think, and that’s why he killed the two girls as well.”

  “What two girls?”

  “He said their names. Grace, the girl who was murdered, and then he mentioned another girl. Her sister.”

  “Caitlin’s her sister. Where is she? What did he say?”

  “I can’t—”

  “What did he say about Caitlin?”

  “Don’t yell at me, Harry. He said she was in the trunk of his car.”

  The sirens were louder.

  “Where’s his car?” Harry asked.

  “Harry, let the police—”

  “Where is it?”

  “Downstairs, I think, in the garage. Harry, don’t leave me.”

  But he was going down the steps. He reached the garage, and pulled up the unlocked door just as the first police cruiser slanted into the parking lot and came to a halt. John’s red Audi, nose in, was parked in the dark garage. It looked far too ordinary to contain a body, to contain Caitlin’s body. It wasn’t possible, Harry thought.

  “Did you call 911?” an officer was asking him.

  Harry turned. “There’s a body up the stairs from here. In the kitchen. He’s dead.”

  Another uniformed officer was already making her way up the wooden steps.

  “Is this your car?” The officer again. He was young, with sleepy-looking slanted eyes.

  “It’s . . . it’s not. I think there might be someone in the trunk.” Then Harry turned and said, in a slightly louder tone than his usual talking voice, “Caitlin? You in there?”

  If I don’t open it, he thought, then it’s not happening.

  “Sir,” the officer said, but didn’t add anything. His radio squawked, then Harry heard a few muffled words, the policewoman asking him to come upstairs.

  “Stay right here, sir, okay? I’ll be right back.” The policeman looked frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do.

  Harry nodded and said, “I won’t leave.”

  The policeman made a decision and moved toward the stairs. There was another siren in the distance.

  Harry pulled the driver’s side door, and it swung open. He fumbled along the floor near the bucket seat, finding a lever and pulling it. The trunk made a popping sound, but the lid stayed down. There was no other sound as Harry went back to the rear of the car, grasped the lid in his hand, and lifted it, praying silently to himself.

  The body was on its side, in the fetal position, facing in. The sharp smell of urine stung at Harry’s nose, and he was hit by a wave of dizziness, dark nothingness pinching at his vision. Then he thought he saw the body twitch, shoulders contracting in as though she was cold.

  “Caitlin,” he said, and shook her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. The bottom half of her face was coated in dried blood.

  She stared up at him with what looked like lifeless eyes, and then she blinked.

  Chapter 33

  Now

  They’d driven through the night, and the sun was now coming up behind them as they glided through flat Canadian farmlands in Paul Roman’s Prius. The sky, streaked in pink and orange, was like an enormous bowl. They’d crossed into Canada at Buffalo, skirting north of Lake Erie, the fastest route to get to Ann Arbor, Michigan.

  “You okay to keep driving?” Harry asked Paul, who was lighting up another cigarette.

  “You’re awake?”

  “I’ve been awake. I haven’t slept.”

  Paul turned up the music—an Alanis Morissette album (“just while we’re in Canada”)—and told Harry that he’d be able to drive the rest of the way.

  They reached the outskirts of Ann Arbor by midmorning, the sky a deep metallic blue, and picked the first motel that didn’t look like it was owned by Norman Bates. They each stood by the car for a few moments after getting out, Paul doing jumping jacks while Harry stretched out his legs. The air was cool and smelled of nothing.

  They rented a room with two double beds. The woman at the front desk, her sparse white hair combed over a bald pate, suggested they go to the Nichols Arboretum if they wanted a nice activity for later in the day. Paul told her they were attending a funeral Mass, and Harry watched as her eyes flicked from Paul’s face to his, then quickly back down to the computer. The murders in Kennewick, Maine, were national news, and Harry was sure that they were much bigger news in Ann Arbor, where Grace McGowan’s memorial was being held at three that afternoon.

  They each ate an enormous breakfast at a Shoney’s, then went back to the motel room to sleep.

  Paul crawled under his covers fully dressed, and said, “I don’t have to go to the service, if you don’t want me there. I’ll be happy to tour Ann Arbor’s bar scene instead.”

  “Oh no, you’re coming,” Harry said.

  Paul didn’t answer. He was asleep already.

  Harry tried to sleep, but found himself alternately staring at the ceiling and then his phone, hoping to get a text from Caitlin, who knew he was arriving that morning. He hadn’t planned on texting her himself—it was the day of her sister’s funeral, after all—but he was secretly hoping she might reach out to him, just to acknowledge his arrival, to tell him it was okay he was there, although
she’d already given him that blessing.

  It was five days since he’d opened the trunk of Jake Richter’s car and thought he was looking at her dead body. The returning policeman had helped Harry lift her from the trunk as an ambulance arrived. She’d started to shiver once his arms touched her, and called his name, her voice barely audible. When she was on the gurney and about to be rolled into the ambulance, she lifted her hand and beckoned to Harry. He came close to her, placing his ear down by her mouth.

  “It was John Richards,” she whispered.

  “I know,” Harry said. “He’s dead now.”

  Caitlin was initially brought to Kennewick Hospital, but was moved that evening to Portland and kept under observation for two days. Detective Dixon told Harry that her physical issues were comparatively mild—a broken nose, a contused neck—but that she was now under psychiatric care. Harry didn’t get a chance to see her before she returned to Michigan; he’d asked, several times, if he could see her, but was always told that she wasn’t seeing any visitors.

  And then he was informed she was back in Michigan with her family.

  During those bizarre days after Jake Richter’s death, Alice, hounded by the throng of journalists that had arrived in Kennewick Village, had moved into a spare bedroom at her friend Chrissie Herrick’s house. Paul Roman had immediately arrived in Kennewick, found an Airbnb near the harbor, and Harry had moved in with him, bringing Lew the cat from the store. He got far more information from Chrissie than he did from Alice, who’d barely spoken since being attacked by Jake in his condominium. Harry tried to elicit more information from Detective Dixon, but he was tight-lipped because of the ongoing investigation. Harry also wondered if Dixon was somehow ashamed at not having arrested Jake earlier. According to the articles that Harry read online, Jake had been a person of interest in the investigation into the murders of Bill Ackerson and Grace McGowan, but the police were convinced that the perpetrators were Lou and Annie Callahan, neither of whom had solid alibis for either murder.