by A. R. Torre
Mike signs for the package, takes the box, and rolls back. Sets it on the kitchen counter, his hand hefting the weight and approving its bulk. He cracks open the lid and glances in. Leaves the box there and returns to his room. Logs back online and works.
Five and a half hours later, the engine of a lawn mower begins, and he straightens at the keyboard. Moves to the rear of the house, through a door he never uses, and flips the lock, rolls the knob, wheels down the ramp.
It takes ten minutes of sitting in his chair at the edge of his driveway, his hand raising in occasional attention-grabbing gestures, to get the man to see him. When he does, the lawn mower rolling to a stop, a slow click off, lazy dismount, and hesitant wander over, Mike is sweating, unaccustomed to the heat, the moisture in the air, the feel of sun against his T-shirt. No wonder Jamie is always pushing him to sit outside. He’s becoming a vampire.
“Can I help you?” The man turns out to be a boy. Seventeen or eighteen, his baseball cap pushing up high enough to reveal a baby face, a pitiful attempt at a mustache, and a healthy scattering of acne. The boy’s eyes avoid Mike’s, avoid the chair, avoid the situation.
“I need a hole dug, then filled. When you’re done here, could I pay you to do that?”
The kid scratches the back of his neck. “Where?”
“In my backyard.” He twists his body and points, under the tree, in a shady spot that would make a suitable grave.
The kid nods. Slowly. As if great thought is occurring. “How deep?”
“I’ll let you know when you come over. Forty bucks?”
The thought process stops, a smile spreading over the kid’s face. Forty must have been too much. “Sure. I’ll do it now.” He starts toward his truck, a faded red dually with a landscaping trailer attached. “Gonna grab a shovel.”
“I’ll meet you in the back.”
Easy. Not as easy as having the legs and doing it himself, but easy. Mike rolls back, forward, right, forward, and heads inside.
Thirty minutes later, he passes Deanna’s box with great solemnity to the boy, who places it in the ground, fills in the hole, and lifts the headstone carefully out of the box, setting it atop the grave.
Rest in peace. Mike reaches out and shakes the hand the kid held out.
“I’m sorry about your cat. I had a cat once.”
Mike nods somberly. “Thanks for your help.”
“I’m gonna go back next door and finish up.”
Mike reaches down and pulls two worn bills from his chair’s side pocket and holds them out. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Turning to leave, there is an awkward moment when the kid feels the need to pat his shoulder. He waits, settled into the chair, and listens to him leave. Closes his eyes against the sun and hears the catch of the lawn mower’s engine as it fires back up.
The headstone had been simple, its fictional message still carefully thought out.
ALLEYGIRL
You will be missed.
Rest in Peace.
The faceplate of the headstone was metal set on a granite stone. The plate would take the blame for any readings from a metal detector. And below the plate, below the stone, past three feet of soil, lay Deanna’s box. Hopefully no one showed up for it. But if they did, if they tore apart his house, they wouldn’t find it.
He raised his head off the rest and rolled backward, turning a rough path on the dead grass, his return to the house bumpy and uncoordinated. He had a lot of work to do.
His phone next to him, he taps out a furious rhythm on the keys. She’ll call. Soon. As soon as she gets the ability to make a call. And he’ll be ready. Informed. He’s already gotten into the Tulsa Police Department’s internal site, pulled up the evidence log and the detectives’ reports. Twenty-two documents so far associated with the investigation into Deanna Madden. While in their system, a new file posts from the lead detective, one Brenda Boles. He clicks on it, his eyes skimming over the fields. Prestwick Place. This is bad. He downloads the report and opens a new window. Dedicates it to the life and dirt of Brenda Boles. Then he renames the report, inverting a few of the numbers on the file and sending it into a corner of the department where it will never be found. Check.
There are seven members of the Tulsa Police Department who have a hand in Deanna’s well-being. He opens a new window for each of them, each with a collection of tabs. Finances. History. Family members. Web history. A hundred places for skeletons, weak places, and pressure points. There will be an opening for each of them.
It’s work he hasn’t done in years, and never for a personal reason, always for a paycheck. One hand lifts from the keyboard, his other hand rapid-fire in its strokes, covering the full range of keys in the time it takes to scratch at his forehead, a smile crossing over his face. Because, despite the dire circumstances, despite the hurdles ahead, this is going to be fun. So, so much fun.
There is a moment of pause, right before the complete invasion into seven lives begins. A moment when he rolls right and hesitates, his hand slow as it reaches for the mouse and clicks. Clicks again. A string of keystrokes. Another three clicks. Refresh. The hospital records have gone online in the six months since Jeremy Pacer was last admitted. And that almost sucks, because it delivers the bad news so much quicker.
His status stares, unwavering, from the screen. CRITICAL. Patient unresponsive. No AD.
AD. Advance directive. Jeremy didn’t plan ahead for this situation. Dating a girl like Deanna, he probably should have.
There have been a hundred times in the last year when he’s wished to be Jeremy. Or wished for Jeremy to be gone. But now, with the man’s life hovering above the dark precipice of death, he wishes fervently that he’ll make it. Pull through. Open his eyes. Especially since, from all appearances, Deanna was responsible for his demise.
He closes the window and returns to the fun. Checks his phone for the twentieth time. She’ll call. As soon as she gets the chance.
CHAPTER 68
Present
PRESTWICK PLACE HAUNTS Brenda. So does the girl’s face, outside that apartment, when she put her under arrest. Utter surprise, then panic. Concern. The damn girl had had a party of emotions, all jostling for prime facial real estate. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong. Yet… everything is right, all i’s dotted, t’s crossed. It makes no freaking sense.
“Drop it.” David speaks from the passenger seat, his hands busy with a piece of gum. He offers her the pack of Doublemint; she shakes her head.
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. That triple homicide on Forty-Second. Sage’s birthday party this Saturday. My irresistible good looks and the constant temptation. All things you could focus on instead of a closed case.”
“The neighbor did the triple kill on Forty-Second.”
“And Madden did Pacer.”
“Maybe.” She chews on her bottom lip. Tastes blood and stops.
He snaps his gum. “She confessed. What more do you want?”
She yanks the wheel hard left, the blare of a horn eliciting a curse from David, his hand gripping the center console as the patrol car whips around. She reaches forward and grabs at her cell, her eyes dropping down as she dials a number. “I want the truth.”
CHAPTER 69
Present
MY LITTLE STUNT with Derek got me back in solitary. Just me and my boring breaths. But hell, that is better than staring at his face. Seeing the judgment, hearing the questions, feeling the lies of my past crawling over my skin. You are good, Deanna.
I still need my phone call. I don’t understand the phone call rules. Either making calls is my right or it’s not. Whether or not I had a bout of crazy shouldn’t affect anything. After a hundred years in the room, I move from the bed to the floor. Lie on my back in front of the door and rest my shoes on the metal. Lift a foot and let it drop, the resulting noise a satisfying clang. Lift my other foot and let it drop. Clang. From the next cell, a man yells at me to shut up. I smile. Lift, drop. Lift, drop. I count
, one number per foot. Twelve. Twenty-seven. Thirty-eight. At fifty-two, my door opens and Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor looks down at me. “What.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “I’d like to make a phone call, please.”
She sighs. Looks back over her shoulder for a beat, then looks back down at me. “Okay. Don’t pull any shit.”
I smile and hop to my feet, bouncing lightly on my toes. “I won’t. Promise.”
She points her finger to the ceiling and spins it. I obey, holding my hands behind my back and waiting out the cuffing process.
“You’ll have to hold the phone against your shoulder and have me dial the number.”
“Okay.”
“Try to hit me and I’ll lay your skinny white ass flat on the ground.”
I smile. “Okay.”
“I will.”
“I believe it.”
She huffs in response and swings me around, her hand settling on my shoulder and pushing me forward. We step as two, past three cells, and stop at a pay phone mounted in the wall. Twelve steps, maybe thirteen. I’ve been that close the entire time. I suddenly realize how small this complex is. Less than a dozen cells. Men and women grouped in close proximity. The same dozen officers keeping tabs on us. The jail will be very different. In jail, my outbursts would most likely carry heavier punishments, my requests ignored. In jail, I’ll be one of thousands. In jail, NascarGuy44 will probably look angelic. I feel, waiting next to the phone, my first bit of trepidation. She looks at me. “The call will be collect.”
“That’s fine.”
“Number?”
I tell her Mike’s number, wondering—as I speak it—what call log this will go on, what attention will be brought as a result of this call. No matter, we won’t discuss anything incriminating, but still. In my world with few friends, I like to protect the ones I have.
She finishes dialing and places the phone gently against my ear. I hold it with my shoulder and nod at her. Thank you, I mouth. She looks at me like I’m mental, then pats my back. “The call is recorded,” she says. I nod and watch her step away, her large girth settling into the closest chair.
Mike’s voice comes on quickly, and accepts the charges without hesitation.
“Hey, Dee.”
“Hey, babe.” I smile. Everything changes, everything stays the same.
“What’s up?” God, I love him, giving me normal right now. I turn and try to settle against the wall, a position difficult when my hands are cuffed at the small of my back.
“Jeremy… he—”
“I know. Want an update?”
I close my eyes in gratitude. “Yeah.”
“It’s not good. He’s on a ventilator.”
“But he could wake up?”
“He has a subdural hematoma. It’s a fifty-fifty thing. But if he does wake up, he could slip back under. The hematoma… it’s blood built up around the brain.”
I don’t ask how he knows this. Or how he knew to check on him. I listen to his words and wish I hadn’t asked. Fifty-fifty. “Thanks, Mike.”
“No worries, babe. Just let me know how I can help.”
“Just keep me updated. Also, I need you to keep up Jessica.” Jessica Riley. My online alter ego. Five days ago, she was an Internet sex superstar, yet the Internet is fickle. A few more days, or weeks, or months? She will fade into the black hole of obscurity and be gone forever. And without Jessica, there is just Deanna. Crazy, I’ll-kill-you-before-I-hug-you Deanna.
“You mean status updates, Facebook, that type of thing?”
“And messages on the camsites and in my e-mail. Put an auto-response on. Tell them I have a sick relative and will be away to take care of them.”
“Grandmother, sister… what?”
“Mom. Tell them my mom’s sick.” There is humor in that statement. Ha. Ha. Ha.
“Done. Want me to pull some old files and run some nude shows occasionally?”
“Umm… not now. But I might have you do that later. I’ll let you know.”
“Anything else?”
“That was really it.” I scratch the inside of my wrist. Try to think of something else, a reason to extend this conversation.
“Need bail?”
I smile. “I pled guilty.”
“Yeah, I found that interesting.” I didn’t say anything, just rested the back of my head against the wall. “You don’t belong there, Dee.”
“I did it, Mike.”
He hisses through the line. “This is recorded, Dee.”
“I know. And I’ll tell you the same thing I said in my statement.”
“You don’t have to.” Oh, of course. He’s probably read my statement. Probably has video footage of my questioning. Probably is watching a live feed of me, right now, on the phone with him. I reach down and pick out an imaginary wedgie just to keep him entertained.
“Then you know I belong here. It’s a good thing. I mean…” I falter. “Not about Jeremy. But I need a new place. One more secure than my apartment.”
“No you don’t. You just need a roommate. Or friend.” Or me. I hear it through the empty line. I sigh. “My shrink already preached to me today, Mike. Please don’t pretend I’m something I’m not. I can’t take that from you.”
“I won’t preach at you. But give me one question, then I’ll drop the whole thing.”
I wait. Push on a crack in the tile beneath my feet.
“Think about the possibility, for one minute, that you didn’t do it. That someone else pushed Jeremy out of your window. That someone else stabbed him, then hid his body. Then think of that person walking free. While you are babysat in prison for the next decade.”
I lift my eyes off the tile. “But I did it.” There is an invisible question mark at the end of the sentence.
When he responds, there are thoughtful lines in his voice. “No, I don’t think you did.”
I say nothing.
“Just think about it.”
“Not much else to do here.” The woman makes a hurry it up gesture. “Please stay on top of Jeremy’s progress.”
“I will. And that NASCAR thing… I’ll take care of that.”
I should have known my invisible angel would find out about that. “Thank you.”
“Find the girl I know. Jeremy needs her.”
I watch the woman stand, her wheeze of effort as she straightens her back. Speak quickly, before my voice betrays itself and shakes. “Oh, Mike. You know she never goes far.” I hang up the phone and can feel his smile.
But I did it. Didn’t I?
I wonder, on the walk back to my solitary cell. I wait patiently while my cuffs are undone, then step forward and listen to the door clang shut. Then I lie down, close my eyes, and try my damnedest to remember more, but all I feel is the fight of my mind.
CHAPTER 70
Present
I DECIDE, ONCE returned to my cell, my back on the mattress, fingertips drumming against my sweatshirt, that Mike may be right. No blood was on me when I woke up. There was whatever instance caused my broken nose. Maybe Jeremy didn’t break it. Maybe someone else did. My mind really snags on the thought of me pushing him out the window, then traveling down six flights of stairs and still having the bloodlust to stab him. Me hiding his body and leaving it for dead. I killed individuals who deserved it. Not the guy who fixed me bacon that morning and looked at my face like I was something. I wasn’t that girl, I can’t be that girl. I am, in a thousand irreparable ways, broken, but I am not that.
And if, as Mike so obviously pointed out, I didn’t hurt Jeremy, then someone else did. Someone who I, in my prison of solitude, can’t punish. I lie there, stare at dark corners of the ceiling above me, and think. Dr. Pat had told me that I might have a concussion. That any additional head trauma in the future would make another much more likely. I tilt my head back, pushing it into the thin mattress, and feel the twinge of pain. I am actually ready for Derek to return. I have too many thoughts, too many fears. For once, I need his guidance
, his questions. And besides all that, I am BORED. I am bored and hoping he will return. There is nothing to do in this space, I have no idea how I will handle five or ten or twenty years of it, and I am ready to deal with his disapproving faces and condescending sounds and even the whole “You are good, Deanna” bullshit. I’ll deal with all of it and ask for seconds. Because if I have to listen to any more silence, I think I’ll explode.
It’s been lifetimes since my call to Mike. Long enough for the night to pass, the lights flickering on a few hours ago. I slept a couple of times, quick snatches of oblivion in between long periods of waiting, thinking, trying to remember. This shift’s warden has walked by my door fourteen times since my phone call to Mike. Before this guy, Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor passed four times. I sat there and waited each time for them to pause, their boots to stop at this cell, their hands to slide open the window and for them to say something. But they haven’t. I’ve lain and waited and listened to the outside and none of it has had anything to do with me.
Another clop of steps, and I perk up. Roll the curve of my body up and move to the door, my ear to the cool metal. Clip, clip, clip, clip. They actually stop and I hold my breath. The slide moves, a harsh, metallic sound, and I scramble away. “Madden. Visitor.”
Be nice, be nice, be nice, be nice. I chant the words as I follow the guard. The nicer I am, the longer the visit. The longer the visit, the longer the distraction. “How long can a visit last?”
The man in front of me doesn’t respond. The one at my back leans forward slightly. “Thirty minutes, max.”
Thirty minutes. Too short, but I’ll take it. It must be Derek, and our entire relationship has been thirty-minute chats so we have it down. We turn right and stop outside the same door as before. “Will I have to wait long?”
One shakes his head. “If it’s his second visit, it’ll be shorter.” He opens the door and I am ushered in. Locked in like before, feet shackled to chair legs, wrists secured to the back of the chair. I guess my twenty-four hours of behavior hasn’t impressed anyone yet. I don’t blame them. I’m inches away from misbehaving just for personal entertainment.
