Safe Keeping

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  Rounding the corner of the junior high, she saw the boys on the practice field, and she drew in a small, sharp breath, thinking, Perfect. Thinking, I can do this.

  She didn’t go right up to the fence behind home plate as she might have. Instead, she pulled the truck near the screen of a small wooded thicket. Parents did this sometimes when they wanted to check out their sons’ performance without being obvious.

  Lissa put down her window and propped her elbow on the ledge. She could see Darren in the batter’s box, hitting fly balls into the outfield. Above the infield chatter, she heard him shouting encouragement. She heard the bat crack against the leather of the ball, too, and she was oddly comforted by the sound. Her memories of Darren weren’t all bad. When she was a kid, she’d come out here to practice with him and Tucker and her dad. She’d brought out the equipment, fetched water, shagged balls. Sometimes Courtney had come, too, but only if she was bored.

  Summers, when Tucker took off for baseball camp, her dad had sometimes brought her out here by herself and they’d knocked the ball around. Once, he’d taught her about pitching. She can still remember the feel of his hands on hers when he’d worked to position her fingers around the ball: two stretched along the seam made it curve, knuckles curled under and thumb just so, you had a fast break. She remembered the summer wind and the smell of their sweat, the earthier smells of sun-warmed grass, glove leather and dust.

  But there was no way back to that simpler time or place, she thought.

  She looked through the windshield at Darren Coe, watching him, the easy rise of his bat, his effortless swing. He had all the moves. He was a ballplayer, all right. A natural born athlete, her father said. It was true. Anyone could see it, but it had been wrong for her dad to compare them, to so thoroughly favor Darren and so constantly find fault with Tucker.

  Tucker hated their dad for it.

  Lissa hated Darren.

  She got out of her truck now, not quite closing the door, and walked up to the backstop fence. She hooked her fingers into the wire mesh. A couple of the outfielders looked at her and then at Darren. He tapped a dribbler down the third base line that the baseman scooped out of the dust and tossed to first. The pitcher snagged a second hit, a high pop-up fly. Lissa had the feeling Darren knew she was there, that he’d known it from the moment she drove under the trees, but when he finally turned around, he widened his eyes as if she were the last person he expected to see.

  “Lissa Lebay. What brings you here?” he asked. His smile was rote.

  She’d forgotten how good-looking he was, and it annoyed her. “It’s DiCapua,” she said for the second time that day. “It has been for nine years. Can we talk?”

  He lifted his cap, wiped his brow and resettled it, a gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Tucker. Lissa’s heart fisted.

  “Hey, Jordie?” Darren hollered at a guy near the dugout. The assistant coach, Lissa thought. “Can you take over for a few minutes? I need to talk to this—” he hesitated, locking his gaze with hers. “Lady,” he said finally.

  Bitch, that’s what he was thinking. Lissa saw it on his face. She let go of the fence, telling herself to settle down, to breathe. But he knew she was nervous. She saw that on his face, too.

  Jordie said it was fine, giving Lissa a considering look, one that made her think he knew who she was, the sister of Tucker Lebay, the guy who’d been arrested for murder.

  She tucked the cold tips of her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans, and when Darren joined her, they walked a little way off in the direction of her truck. Her pulse was loud in her ears. What is your plan now? asked some desperate inner voice. She didn’t have an answer.

  “I’m amazed you’d come out here, that you’d risk being this close to me,” he said. His tone, his demeanor, were casual, too casual, and raised the fine hairs on the back of Lissa’s neck.

  He flashed that fake smile again, as if they’d been discussing the weather not murder. Gooseflesh rashed her skin.

  “It’s not that I mind that you came. It’s just I’d like to know why. Maybe you want to pick up where we left off, is that it?”

  “I came because you knew Miranda Quick, Darren. You assaulted her and threatened her and then you killed her. Now you’ve murdered Jessica Sweet.”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, Liss, but it’s dead wrong.”

  “You knew both those women, Darren. You dated them. You cheated on your wife with them.”

  “So? Who’s telling you all this? Tucker?”

  “Your friend Revel,” Lissa said, lying bald-faced, watching his expression.

  “That bitch? Are you kidding me? I thought you were smarter than to believe what some whore says.” He walked a few steps away, walked back. “What the hell do you want from me, anyway?”

  “I want you to man up and tell the truth.”

  He stared at her like he couldn’t believe what she’d said. His mouth twitched, and she wondered if he was going to laugh. She glanced past him at the ball field. No one was looking in their direction. They’d been forgotten. She doubted anyone would pay attention if she were to scream.

  “You want me to man up.” Darren repeated her words, and his voice was low and soft, a caress. He touched her cheek, traced a path to the corner of her mouth. “Are you giving me permission now? You think you’re ready for a real man?”

  She stepped sharply back. Panic gripped her shoulders, tracked her spine. “I wish I’d reported you, you bastard!”

  He grinned and as suddenly sobered. “I’m not saying those bitches didn’t deserve what they got. They were like you, a couple of prick teasers.” He stepped toward her again as he spoke, ran his hand around the shell of her ear, managed to whisk the pad of his thumb across her lower lip before she got out of his reach.

  She wiped her mouth. “Miranda filed charges on you, Darren. The police know you threatened her. There’s a report. I also know the police found your DNA on Jessica’s body. I’m going over to the station now and tell Detective Garza what you did to me. I’ll get in touch with Holly McPherson, too. Between us, we can make the police listen. They’ll investigate, they’ll find others. You’re going to be arrested.”

  He guffawed and, lifting his hands, said, “Ooooh, I’m so scared,” in a high, breathy falsetto. “Give me a fucking break. Like the cops are going to pay attention to some hanky-panky that went on twenty years ago. Are you kidding me?” He looked over his shoulder, asking, “Is she kidding me?” as if they had an audience, as if he’d never heard anything so stupid.

  It was pure impulse that drove Lissa toward him, a consuming need to hurt him, to claw his eyes out. If she could she would grind him into dust under her heel. A moment sooner, and she might have caught him off balance, when he was addressing his imaginary audience, but as it was, he caught her wrists, and yanking her close, he bent his mouth to her ear. “I knew you liked it rough. I knew it that night in Galveston. What do you say we finish what we started, hmm?”

  She writhed in his grip, panicked and furious, and it was a moment before the small, defiant noises in her throat finally found shape. “Let go of me!” She spit the words through her clenched teeth.

  He obeyed, releasing her so suddenly she staggered, and nearly fell.

  They stood, gazes locked, he eyeing her sardonically, she breathing in ragged, enraged gulps.

  Suddenly, he raised his arms and lunged at her, calling out, “Boo!” and he laughed again when she backpedaled, this time losing her balance and sitting down hard.

  She bit her lip, tasting blood. The threat of tears was more from panic and humiliation than anything else, but she’d be damned if she’d cry. “Bastard.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my wife says.” He walked off a few steps, as if he intended to leave her alone, and she started to feel relieved, to get up, but then he ca
me back. “You know, I’d be a lot more pissed off at you if I didn’t know why you’re doing this.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re just like Courtney, always running your damn interference, thinking you know best, thinking you know how to help. Courtney thinks a person can change. Like that.” Darren snapped his fingers. “I keep telling her it’s not that easy. Some stuff can’t be changed, and some people can’t be helped.” His stare was penetrating.

  Lissa kept still, weighing the odds of escape. Could she get to her feet and run fast enough? It seemed unlikely. As clear as her plan had appeared to her before, now she couldn’t imagine what she’d been thinking, coming here, confronting him alone. Had she expected he would simply acquiesce when she accused him? That he would accept her offer to drive him to the police station, where he could turn himself in and write out his confession?

  Bending, he scooped a pinecone off the ground and tossed it hand to hand, looking down at her. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “I’m with you. I don’t believe Tuck killed those fucking sluts, either.”

  Darren’s defense of Tucker caught Lissa off guard; the ensuing rush of gratitude, of vindication, confused her, but she thought it was meant to. She thought it was the effect he wanted.

  “Bitches played us. It’s how they got their kicks. We weren’t the only ones they screwed over, either, so I’m thinking one of their other chumps took them out. Like they messed around with the wrong guy, some really sick bastard who wouldn’t take their shit.”

  Lissa got to her feet, not taking her eyes off Darren.

  He tossed the pinecone toward the playing field. “All I’ve got to say is my hat’s off to the murdering fucker. Damn sluts. The only thing they were ever into was each other. Now they’re dead.” He put out his hand as if he meant to brush Lissa off or straighten her shirt.

  She flinched from his touch.

  “Have it your way,” he said. “You Lebays, bunch of freaks,” he muttered, and he started back to the ball field.

  “One thing, Darren?”

  He met her gaze.

  “You may think you’ve gotten away with this, that you’ve hidden all the evidence, but that’s wrong, and we both know it.” She waited for him to laugh at her, to mock her again, but he didn’t.

  He said, “You know, this might have been funny before, but I’m not seeing the humor in it anymore.”

  “I never did.” Lissa didn’t know where the bravado came from to stand her ground, but she was glad for it.

  He took a half step back in her direction. “Listen up, little girl. If I hear you’re talking to the cops about me or anyone in my family, I’ll shut you down. Do you understand? No one is going to pay attention to you, much less believe anything you say, but I don’t like it. You can’t go around accusing people of shit like murder. It’ll get you into trouble, trust me.” He grinned abruptly, as if it were all a joke. It was unnerving. He was still smiling, still alarmingly affable, when in his next breath he reminded her that he knew where she lived; he knew who she loved, including Evan.

  She backed away, carefully, keeping him in her sight.

  Anyone watching them would have thought they were friends. They would have seen Darren wave, would have heard him tell her it was good seeing her.

  She reached her truck, got in and drove away so fast the rear end fishtailed. At the last moment, she looked into her rearview mirror half expecting to see him, to find that he had followed her, but he was nowhere in her view, and somehow she found that even more frightening.

  21

  HE COULDN'T AFFORD for her, or anyone, to think he was scared; he couldn’t so much as be seen breaking a sweat. He thought he was doing pretty good, but now he was worried about the goddamned box, the one that contained the evidence. He kept hearing that word; she had said it, and it could only mean one thing, that it had been found. Was it possible? Or was he just being paranoid? He had to check. The only way he’d relax was if he went to the house and looked, if only to reassure himself it was there. He hung a right, took the feeder road onto the I-45 interstate, thinking about the box, picturing it in the place where he’d left it with the items he’d collected stowed inside. He told himself there was no way, no fucking way, anyone could have found it there.

  It was small, handmade from walnut, and inside, the lining was emerald velvet, tufted with tiny amber beads. He liked the fact that the box was handmade. It was probably the main reason he’d chosen it to house his mementos, the silken locks of their hair, their plastic laminated driver’s licenses, a lipstick, a dangly turquoise earring, the souvenirs he’d kept to remember them by—the evidence.

  He should toss it, but every time he tried, he couldn’t go through with it. He knew it was sick, that he had to be one sick bastard for wanting to hang on to the shit. You’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know it was sick, but still he kept it. Sometimes, he looked at the stuff, and he remembered. Their smell, mainly some amalgam of dirt, sweat and fear. Their eyes, white in their heads. The flash of teeth, polished, glistening, clenched tight enough to break bone. He’d sat beside them awhile afterward, too shocked by what he’d done to move, but somehow satisfied, too, knowing they belonged to him, only to him.

  He parked now and made his way into the house, quietly at first, uncertain if anyone was here, excuse ready on his tongue if they were. But the place was deserted. He’d gotten lucky, but really it was because they were so dumb. He stepped inside the room where the box was hidden, taking a moment to look around, to study whether anything appeared out of place, but if there were anomalies, he couldn’t pick them out. The room looked the same to him, static, untouched.

  People could be such fools. They could think you were good. Good to your core. They could see you as their fucking hero. They were too stupid or ignorant to figure it out, that it wasn’t you they were looking at; it was an image.

  On his knees now, he lifted the floorboard, and on seeing the box, that it was still there, untouched, undiscovered, he felt the glow of satisfaction and of relief.

  22

  LISSA WAS STILL rattled from her encounter with Darren an hour later when Evan got home. But there was all the other business between them, too, the harsh feelings that were left from when they’d parted earlier. Evan’s eyes when they met hers were ragged with that history, dark with the burden of it, of carrying it all day. Lissa wanted to go to him, to burrow into his arms, to give comfort and take it. But it wasn’t that simple anymore, and she was too unhinged.

  “I saw Darren,” she said, and she blurted out the details, all of them, except the part about where it had gotten physical. She said, “He threatened me—us, my entire family. Can you believe it? Should I call Sergeant Garza, do you think? I’m not sure I trust her, but—”

  “What I think is you were crazy for going there, Liss. What the hell is the matter with you? You promised not to interfere!” Evan yanked off his jacket, flung it over a chair. “If half of what you believe about the guy is true, why would you want to mess with him? Get him stirred up? Good God!”

  “I don’t know. It was stupid. I see that now.”

  “Jesus. You lied to me yesterday about going to the Merrills’ and lied to me today—you said you were going to the grocery store, then coming to the site. I called and called. I left messages. I was worried you’d passed out again at the wheel or something.” He passed a hand over his head, and Lissa realized how shaken he was.

  Tears rose in her throat. “I’m sorry I lied, sorry I scared you. I am, Ev, it’s just— What are we going to do? We’re the only ones who know the truth.”

  “We don’t know, Liss. We suspect.”

  “I know,” she insisted, and then she stopped, and with her eyes, she implored him.

  “What?”

  “Sonny Cade, the security guard at the club, the
one Tucker knows—”

  “No! Say you didn’t go see him, too.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “He thinks Darren could be guilty, Evan.”

  “He probably is, but—”

  “If you could have seen him today, if you’d heard how he sounded. It was scary.”

  “That’s my point, Lissa. You have got to stop putting yourself in danger. Let the system work.”

  “No!” She walked in a circle, hands clapped over her ears. “I don’t trust it. What if it fails? Innocent men go to prison all the time.”

  Evan didn’t answer.

  “I saw the Camry again,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “When I left Sonny’s office, it followed me. A woman was driving. I think it was Revel.”

  “Revel? What the hell?”

  “Mom saw it, too, and a woman was driving.”

  Evan pulled out his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The cops.”