Markowitz seems to know what I’m thinking. He puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “He’s under guard. There’s no way he could get to you.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper. But I am. A little. Even though Jarrod’s back is to me, I keep seeing his pale yellow eyes, surprised and horrified as we face each other in our backyard. And I see the gun.
Maybe I’d be more afraid if I didn’t hate Jarrod so much. Markowitz and Mrs. Latham might think I want to be here because I’m curious. They couldn’t know about the hatred that burns and hurts and makes me want Jarrod to be punished for what he did.
I can’t quite follow everything that goes on. I do hear Jarrod’s attorney claim that Jarrod has been arrested four times on charges of possession of drugs, he’s been given probation in all cases, and he has no record of violence. The attorney asks that Jarrod be released without bail. I want to jump up and yell at the attorney, but Mrs. Latham is talking to the judge, and the judge gives these little nods as if he were keeping time. I hope he’s agreeing with her.
But suddenly Jarrod flings himself up, twists, and groans. All the people in the court stare at him like openmouthed statues. He shudders and makes a horrible, retching noise, drops facedown on the floor with a loud plop, twitches, and is still.
Jarrod’s mother screams, runs to him, and kneels next to him. “What did you do to him?” she shouts.
The bailiffs have sprung to life. One of them crouches next to Jarrod. The other tries to pull his mother back. The first bailiff calls out to the judge, “He’s out cold, but he’s breathing. It’s not very regular. We’d better get an ambulance.”
The judge has stepped down from the dais and is walking toward Jarrod. “It looked like some kind of seizure.” He looks at Jarrod’s parents. Mr. Tucker has joined his wife and has an arm around her shoulders. “Does he have some kind of medical history we should know about?”
But Mrs. Tucker isn’t coherent. She cries and accuses, and a lot of what she’s saying is muffled against her husband’s chest. Mr. Tucker looks as though he were going to be the next one to pass out.
“He’s got a good pulse,” the bailiff says.
“Paramedics are on their way,” one of the clerks calls to the judge.
The judge gives a final nod at Jarrod, who lies there without moving, and strides back to the bench, his robes billowing behind him like black sails.
After he’s seated, he states, “When Mr. Tucker has recovered, we’ll set another date for a hearing. For now he’ll be taken to the Ben Taub emergency room and kept under guard.”
A jabber of noise from the hallway bursts through the door with two paramedics. They run to Jarrod and begin their work. Someone in uniform secures the door.
“Let’s go, Stacy. We’re in the way here.” Markowitz pushes out of his seat, and I follow him.
In the hallway we’re met with blinding lights from television cameras. Microphones are shoved in my face. I recognize Brandi Mayer among some other reporters with notepads and tape recorders. They surge at me, asking questions that confuse me.
“Do you still think Jarrod Tucker is the one you saw four years ago?”
“Have you had amnesia?”
“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
“How do you feel about those lost four years?”
“How do you feel about Jarrod Tucker?”
I don’t know how to answer. I just want to stand still and scream. But Markowitz fields for me, edging through the crowd, tugging me with him, answering some of the questions for me, until an elevator arrives and we can escape inside.
“There will be a lot of this,” he says. “Better get used to it.”
I lean against the back of the elevator. “In the beginning I thought you’d just arrest Jarrod, and there would be a trial, and it would be over.”
The elevator doors open, and he quickly leads me down a back hallway to the parking lot and into his car. When we’re out on the street, he finally answers. “There’s a lot more to it than that. There will be a trial, but if the verdict goes against Jarrod, his attorney will automatically appeal it, and you’ll have to testify again. I’ve seen his attorney operate before. Unfortunately he really knows how to badger witnesses. Just be prepared for him—and for the press. They’ll be interested in you and your family until all this is over.”
“My family? But Dad and Donna shouldn’t be a part of this!”
“To the media they are.”
“Why do they ask so many questions?”
“It’s their job.”
“But it’s not fair!”
“Get used to it, Stacy.”
As I climb into the car I glance back at the courthouse. None of this would be happening if Jarrod Tucker were dead. With all my heart I wish he were dead!
Soon after Markowitz has taken me home, Jeff arrives. When I open the door, he says, “Your next-door neighbor just came out on her porch. Shall we sit out on the porch or ignore her?”
Before I can answer, he says, “Let’s ignore her. It’s hot and I’d like a Coke.” He steps in and closes the door. I hear the latch click as the dead bolt turns.
Maybe I look startled, maybe a little scared because Jeff says, “Have to be careful.”
He leads the way to the kitchen, and I follow him. It occurs to me, as I put the Cokes on the kitchen table and sit opposite Jeff, that I could run over to Mrs. Cooper’s. Or I could tell Jeff what Tony said about him. I don’t do anything but watch Jeff and sip at the icy drink.
Jeff raises his head to take a long swallow from the can, and I watch the muscles work in his throat. I’d like to reach out and touch his throat. I’d like to be close to him, to feel his arms around me. I’d love to have him kiss me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I try to explore my mixed-up feelings, but they don’t make any sense.
Jeff puts down the can and tilts his chair back. “You had a rough time at the courthouse.”
Suddenly I’m cold. “How did you know what happened at the courthouse?”
“It was on the television newscast,” he answers easily.
From where I sit I can see the kitchen clock. “The first newscast won’t be on for half an hour.”
“Must have been on the radio, then,” he says. “I know I heard it someplace.”
Jeff is lying. I can tell. Why would he lie to me?
“I heard that you went to the high school this morning to talk to the head counselor,” Jeff says, quickly changing the subject. “Did you get things straightened out?”
Carefully I answer, “For the most part. Making up all that work won’t be too bad.”
“I hope you still want a tutor.”
My voice is so low I wonder if he can hear me. “Yes, I do.”
His expression changes. The smile slips, and his eyes become serious. “Tony said you had a lot of questions to ask him.”
I can’t answer. I don’t know what to say.
Jeff leans across the table and takes my left hand. I hope he can’t feel it tremble. “Stacy,” he says, “don’t believe everything Tony might have told you.” His eyes look kind of strange, almost sad, as he adds, “Don’t believe in anybody but yourself.”
Chapter Fourteen
The telephone rings, and I snatch it, grateful for the interruption. It’s Brandi. She asks if I’d mind just a couple of questions.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Not now. I—I’m sorry.”
As soon as I hang up, the phone rings again. It’s another reporter—this one calling long distance from a newsmagazine.
“No,” I say. “Not now!”
It rings again, and I just stare at it, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk to reporters,” I tell Jeff.
“You don’t have to,” Jeff says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s standing very close to me. “Don’t be afraid, Stacy,” he murmurs.
How can I tell him that he’s the one I’m afraid of?
The doorbell chimes insi
stently.
Jeff is ahead of me as I hurry to the door. He opens it, but Mrs. Cooper twists around him to thrust a steaming loaf of bread at me.
“Take the potholders too!” she exclaims. “The bread is right out of the oven, and I don’t want you to burn your fingers.”
I remember my manners. “Would you like to come in?”
Instead of answering, she smiles at Jeff and says, “I thought I’d just stop by for a visit.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m going to my friend Jan’s house for dinner. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes.”
“I’ve got to go too,” Jeff says. “Lots of homework. See you later.” As he reaches the walk he turns and adds, “Both of you.”
Mrs. Cooper seems greatly relieved. “It’s just as well. I’ve got to get home. Dinner to make, you know.” She smiles lovingly at the loaf of bread I’m holding. “It’s too bad you can’t eat that with your dinner, Stacy.”
“I’ll love it for breakfast,” I answer.
She watches Jeff drive off, then says, “Oh, yes—about that car. It’s all right.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“The car I told you I saw driving around and around this neighborhood. I’ve seen it again, but with one thing and another I just didn’t mention it to you, but there it was, and—”
I shouldn’t interrupt, but I can’t stand it. “What about the car, Mrs. Cooper?”
“It’s his,” she says, and looks pleased with herself.
It takes a moment to register. “It was Jeff’s car you saw?”
“Yes,” she says. “So it’s all right. Enjoy the bread.” She’s off on a trot to her own house.
I carry the bread to the kitchen. It’s yeasty and buttery, and I’m hungry, but I’ve got something more important to think about than a loaf of bread. Why would Jeff—I can’t put the question into words. I’m afraid of the answer.
Our telephone rings again. Automatically I pick up the receiver, and a deep voice begins telling me he’s with one of the Houston television stations, and how do I feel about testifying against Jarrod Tucker?
“What do you mean, how do I feel?” I stammer. “I want to testify!”
“You’re not afraid of him?”
“Jarrod’s in jail.”
“For how long?” the reporter asks. “Even if he goes to trial and gets a life sentence, he can be paroled in twenty years—twelve, if he gets time taken off for good behavior.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It’s true. Check it out. How does your family feel about your decision to testify?”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”
The moment I put down the receiver the telephone rings again. I won’t answer. Those reporters will have to give up sooner or later. I don’t want to talk to them. I have to think.
I curl up in Dad’s recliner with an apple, taking big, angry bites out of it as I try to sort things out. What’s happening is like a nightmare, but it’s not something that will go away when I open my eyes. And it’s not like the stories I read and the Saturday-morning cartoons I watched when I was a child. The bad guys aren’t caught and carried away so that the good guys can live happily ever after. Maybe a jury will give Jarrod the death penalty. Maybe it won’t. How long am I going to have to live with fear of this man who has already robbed so much of my life? And it’s not just me! What is all this going to do to Dad? And to Donna and Dennis and their baby?
If I had the chance, I would kill Jarrod Tucker.
At first the thought startles me, and I push it away. But it comes back, and I examine it, turning it over in my mind, testing the sharpness of its edges, feeling the hatred that makes it strong.
The phone has stopped ringing, and the silence of the house settles around my shoulders. Late shadows fade the colors of the room like a coating of dust. I should have been at Jan’s house an hour ago. I’d better hurry and get ready.
I’m suddenly uncomfortable with the silence because through it pop and creak the settling sounds that houses make. I turn on the television, not listening to words, just wanting noise to blot out the quiet.
The doorbell chimes again, but this time I don’t answer it. I peek through the curtains at the front window to see who is on the porch. Mrs. Cooper. She’s the last person I want to talk to right now.
She gives up and leaves the porch. She cuts across the lawn to her house. A marked police car cruises around the corner and slows down as it passes our house. Did Detective Markowitz arrange for this? I step back from the window, but not before I see the police car pull to a stop while Mrs. Cooper runs down her walk to talk to the officers. Does she have to know about everything that is going on? The car moves on, and Mrs. Cooper heads back to her house.
Jan is going to wonder why I’m so late. I’m in the den, on my way from the living room to the bedroom to get my handbag, when I hear a slight rattling noise close at hand. It seems to be coming from the side door that leads to the garage. I stand and listen, waiting for the sound again, but it’s the words on the television that I hear.
The announcer is saying, “In an escape while being examined in Ben Taub Hospital a short while ago. A bailiff was shot in the leg when his gun was taken by Tucker. An HPD spokesman told us that an all-points bulletin has been put out for Tucker, who is believed to have stolen a dark blue Pontiac and is thought to be heading out of state, possibly toward Louisiana.”
The noise from the hall door that leads to the garage rattles over the announcer’s words, and I see the doorknob turn.
I know who’s at that door. It has to be Jarrod. He’s inside the garage, and soon he’ll be inside our house! No one would suspect that he’d come here. He’d have to be crazy. But didn’t he warn me he always gets his own way?
For an instant I freeze, unable to move, desperately wondering what I can do. I have to pass the door leading to the garage to get to the front door. Jarrod will have that door open in a minute. I’ll run right into him. I can’t hide in the house. He’ll find me. If I can make the backyard—
As quickly and quietly as possible I move to the back door and open it carefully, wincing at the slight sounds it makes. I shut it and run into the yard. Now what?
I hear one of the Cooper children complaining about having to come in; then the Cooper back door slams. I take two steps in that direction when I realize I can’t endanger their lives. This is between Jarrod and me.
In front of me is the oak tree and the nailed board steps that lead up to the tree house. Jarrod won’t look for me there.
I scramble upward, clinging to the trunk and branches. My foot slips as one of the boards tears loose from the tree, and I skin my elbow. I’m so scared it’s hard to breathe, and my fingers feel like numb stumps as I pull myself up and drop to the floor of the tree house. Frantically I tuck my legs inside and shove myself against the back wall.
But the tree house rocks unsteadily. I hear a board from it drop to the grass. I inch to the center and sit perfectly still. Miraculously the house steadies itself. My back is against a window, but the window is on the Cooper side and shielded by a large branch. If Jarrod comes outside—and I don’t think he will—he won’t be able to see me through this window. I wait. There is nothing I can do but wait.
Forever is measured not in minutes but in heartbeats. I can hear the steady thumping pulse in my ears. Shadows are deeper, but time has dissolved into terror.
Then I hear what I’ve been dreading. The back door to my house opens and shuts. Jarrod is in the yard.
“Stacy?” He mumbles something after that, but again, as on the phone—for now I’m sure it was him—it’s as though he were talking to himself.
The voice comes from below me, as soft and shivery as the warm night breeze from the Gulf. I try not to move. Can he hear my trembling?
He chuckles, and the sound is even more fearful than his voice. “You’ve got to be up there,” he says.
Instinctively I shrink back even farther. The boards in the tree house groan loudly, and it rocks.
“I could shoot you from down here,” I hear him say. “But I don’t want to shoot you. I want you to have an accident.” He laughs to himself again.
I hear the sound of his shoes scraping the trunk of the tree as he climbs toward me. “Stacy,” he says, “I told you—I always get my own way.”
Suddenly a calm sweeps through my mind, and I stop shaking. I am not going to sit here and wait for Jarrod to have his own way. I’m a woman who’s able to think rationally, to want my own way. And I have a plan.
Slowly, careful to keep the tree house balanced, I slide upward, grasping first the rough edges of the window behind me, then reaching for the branch outside it. I have managed to pull myself out the window, with my feet resting against the lower window frame, by the time Jarrod’s arms and grinning face shove into the door to the tree house.
I stare into his yellow eyes. I see the gun.
“If I’m killed, they’ll know you did it!” I whisper.
“Not if it’s an ‘accident.’ ”
“You’re insane!”
He giggles. “Smart girl, Stacy,” he says. “I’ve set it up. That’s going to be my defense. Now, let’s talk about your ‘accident.’ My friend and I will take care of it.”
“Your friend?”
“This is my friend.” For just an instant he takes his eyes from me as he gives a little wave of the gun in his hand.
As hard as I can I kick against the side of the house, swinging into it, throwing all my weight against it.
The house, with a great groan and crash, collapses and falls, taking Jarrod with it.
I scramble down and drop from the tree, into his screams and curses. Jarrod is lying on his back. Some of the boards are under him, and the large part of the tree house covers his hips and legs.
The gun lies near my feet.
I pick it up, hold it carefully in my right hand, and slip my index finger against the trigger.
Jarrod has stopped yelling. He stares at me. I can see the back door of our house fly open. I can see the terror on Jarrod’s face, the gleam in his eyes. I can see his gun pointing at me.
The Other Side of Dark Page 14
