If the pickup is still there, I can’t see it. But I didn’t imagine that truck.
I hear the bathtub water running and dash in to shut it off before it overflows.
911. I need to dial 911. I race through the living room looking for my cell. I don’t know what I did with it. I don’t have time to look.
Heart pounding, I run to the house phone. I reach for it, and the phone rings. I jump back.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
I watch as my arm stretches down and my fingers wrap around the receiver. I lift it to my ear, but I don’t speak. I don’t breathe.
Someone’s there. There’s a rustling noise. I think I hear an engine, a car. Then he—or she—says, “I’m watching you.” The voice is calm, firm, as sexless as it is faceless.
“Who are—?”
“Quit poking around where you don’t belong. Leave … it … alone.” The line goes dead.
I stand there, receiver to my ear, until it buzzes. I drop the phone back onto the holder.
Almost instantly, it rings again. I stare at it.
Ring, ring, ring. It won’t quit.
I jerk the phone off its hook. “Stop it! Stop calling here! You leave me alone!”
“Hope? What’s wrong? Did they call again?”
It’s Chase. I burst into tears.
“Hope, is Rita there with you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right over.” There’s a click, then nothing but the scream of the dial tone.
28
I curl up on the couch, pulling the afghan blanket around me. And I wait. Pipes creak. The fridge roars. Branches scratch the roof. Each noise is louder than the one before.
Outside, I hear a car drive up. A car door slam. Footsteps running up the walk. A knock. A banging at the door. It gets louder and louder.
“Hope! It’s me! Open up!”
I fling the blanket to the floor and rush to the door. The lock won’t turn. My hands are shaking. Finally, I yank the door open and throw myself into Chase’s arms.
Without a word, he picks me up and carries me to the couch. He has to go back to the door and lock it.
“Chase?” I call.
“I’m here.” He kneels beside the couch and wraps me in the blanket. “You’re shivering.” He rubs the blanket, warming my arms and legs. “Tell me what happened.”
“The truck was outside.” I start to sit up. “It might still be there!”
He eases me back down. “It’s okay. I didn’t see it out there. Go on.”
“The phone … rang. They said to stop poking around, or something like that.” I can’t finish because that scratchy, breathless voice is in my head, telling me to let it go or leave it alone.
Chase sits on the couch and holds my head in his lap. He strokes my hair, and I wonder if this is what children feel like when their parents take care of them when they’re sick or frightened. I think it might be.
“Hope?” His voice is as soothing as his fingers on my hairline. “Talk to me. Tell me again what the caller said.”
I tell him. It’s easier now. I’m safe.
When I finish, Chase lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it during my account. “Did the person on the phone sound like a man?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. I guess it could have been a woman. It didn’t even sound human. But I thought it was a man.”
“It’s got to be the same person who’s stalking you,” Chase says, “the guy in that pickup. I wish I’d seen him.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you,” he answers quickly. “I’d just like to be able to tell my dad that I saw it too, with my own eyes.”
“I knew he didn’t believe me.”
“I’m not sure he would have believed me either, to tell the truth. I doubt if he even sent that patrol car over here to watch out for you.”
A shiver passes through me, shaking my whole body.
“You need something hot to drink.” He stands up, gently settling my head on the arm of the couch. “Do you have any tea without caffeine?”
“I don’t know.” Since the trial, I haven’t gone to the grocery store regularly. I haven’t felt much like eating. My clothes are baggy, and I haven’t even cared. I start to get up to search the cupboards for tea bags.
Chase eases me back onto the couch and tucks the blanket around me. “Stay where you are, and that’s an order.”
I listen to cupboards open and close while my mind tries to fight off the images racing through my head—blood, bats, a dark figure behind the wheel of a white pickup. The pictures won’t stop until Chase comes back into the room.
“Here. Hot chocolate.” He sets a steaming mug on the coffee table, but not before finding a coaster.
“We have hot chocolate?” I inhale the warmth. I’m so cold, even though I know it’s hot outside.
“But no marshmallows.” He helps roll me to a sitting-up position. I’m still wrapped in the blanket, swaddled. I wriggle my hands out and reach for the cup, but a stabbing pain knifes the top of my head and forces me to sit back.
“What’s the matter?” Chase asks.
“It’s okay. I think I’m getting a migraine.” This time, I’m pretty sure it’s coming. I haven’t had a real one in a couple of months, but this sure feels like the beginning of the bad.
“Can you take anything for it? Can I get you something?”
I try to smile at him. “You didn’t see any aspirin in the cupboard, did you?”
“I’ve got aspirin. Wait here.” He races out of the house and is back in seconds. “Dad always keeps some in the glove compartment.” He opens the little plastic bottle and taps two pills into my palm. Then he caps the bottle and shoves it into his pocket.
I know these won’t do any good, but they can’t hurt. Chase brings me a glass of water from the kitchen and watches me swallow the pills. Then he hands me the mug of hot chocolate and sits beside me.
I take a sip of the chocolate because he went to all that trouble, but if this is a real migraine, I shouldn’t put anything into my stomach because it will come right back up sooner or later. Still, it feels great to hold heat in my clammy hands. “Nobody has ever taken care of me like this.” Steam from the cup floats away with my breath.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He puts his arm around me. “Then that’s a shame because you deserve to be taken care of.”
We sit like this, and Chase talks to me about his dad, his mom, and his life in Boston. I listen, tuned in to the sound of his voice more than the words. I have to close my eyes because the light digs into my skull like an invisible hatchet. My hair follicles prickle. The roots are needles sticking into my scalp. And yet, I have never felt more at home in my own home than I do right now.
When I wake up, I’m on the couch, the blanket tucked around me and a pillow under my head. There’s a note on the pillow. I have to squint to read it. My eyes are still blurry from the headache.
Had to leave. Sorry. Call me if you need me.
I need him. But I don’t call. Instead, I go back to sleep and dream of him.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up to the door slamming. I sit up so fast that my head takes a minute to catch up with the rest of me.
Rita bursts through the room, a cloud of smoke floating in with her. “What are you doing up? Did you sleep out here?”
“Rita, somebody was outside.” Light filters in. It’s morning.
“What?” She drops some things in the kitchen and drifts back into the room.
I shed the blanket. “And I got another one of those phone calls. Only this time—”
“Just hang up. I told you that’s how you handle prank calls. Hang up hard.” She yawns. “I’m going to bed. Are you going to court today?”
It’s no use talking to her. She doesn’t believe me. But Chase does. And that’s all I need now. “Yeah, Rita. I’m going to court.”
&
nbsp; Raymond has good news when Chase and I get to the courthouse. He’s been granted his subpoena for Caroline Johnson to appear before the court—just like T.J. said would happen. I wish T.J. could hear it too. I text him the news. He doesn’t text me back.
It will take a couple of days to make it happen, but Caroline Johnson will have to sit in the same seat I did and answer Raymond’s questions, whether she wants to or not.
In the meantime, Raymond puts everybody who ever liked my brother on the stand to testify as character witnesses. As I listen to their accounts of Jeremy, I hope Jer is taking in all the kind words people are saying about him, from the woman at the IGA and the post office person to the first teacher Jeremy had here.
Chase and I sit through every testimony for the next three days. I can’t stop looking for T.J., expecting him to walk through the courtroom doors and take his seat with us. But he doesn’t show. It’s like he’s disappeared, like he was never there in the first place.
We still sit toward the back, surrounded by reporters. People greet Chase as if they’ve known him all their lives, but only a few speak to me.
On the day I’m sure Caroline Johnson will show up, she doesn’t, and Raymond has to call more character witnesses. He even recalls Sarah McCray, the woman who found Coach dead. Chase and I watch her take the stand, and I feel a dull thud on the side of my head. I close my eyes and touch the spot, hoping the migraine isn’t coming back.
“You okay?” Chase whispers.
“I think I’m getting a headache.”
He digs into his backpack. The security people searched it by hand before letting us come in. Chase brings out his little bottle of aspirin. “I brought it just in case,” he says. He shakes out two pills and hands them to me. “Here. Can you take them without water?”
I never have, but I toss them into my mouth and swallow. They scratch going down.
Raymond has Mrs. McCray identify herself again. After thanking her for returning to court, he begins the real questions. “Mrs. McCray, do you like Jeremy Long, the defendant?”
Mrs. McCray smiles at Jer. I watch my brother’s feet kick the floor, faster and faster. He doesn’t look at Mrs. McCray. “I’ve always liked Jeremy very much. He is such a polite, sweet boy.”
“And you let him ride your horse, Sugar, isn’t that right?” Raymond asks.
“I did.”
“You must have trusted Jeremy to allow him to handle your horse,” Raymond observes, facing the jury.
“That’s right. I don’t let just anybody ride my horses. A few of the children in town like to visit the horses and would like to ride mine. But horses are sensitive creatures. I can’t just let anybody ride.”
“And yet, you allowed Jeremy Long to ride your horse?” Raymond continues.
“Yes. I knew John would teach Jeremy what he needed to do to get along with my Sugar.”
“John, as in John Johnson, correct?”
“Yes.”
I look over at Jeremy. From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to the testimony. He’s swaying, and his fingers are playing something on the table. He could just be listening to his own music inside his head … or he could be starting to get upset about something.
I see the judge glance his way, but Jer doesn’t see it. Neither does Raymond.
“Mrs. McCray,” Raymond says, “I’m sorry to make you think back to the day of the murder, but I do have a question I need to ask.” She nods and grips the chair with both hands. “When you first saw the body and realized John Johnson had been killed, murdered, even after Jeremy had bumped into you with that bat, was your first thought that Jeremy killed Mr. Johnson?”
“No! Not at all.”
“Were you frightened? Didn’t you fear that Jeremy might come back with his bat and go after you next?” Raymond asks.
“Certainly not! That sweet boy? How could I have had such thoughts?”
I feel like running up to the witness stand and hugging Mrs. McCray. I crane my neck to get a better look at Jeremy. I want to know if he heard her. But I see right away that he didn’t. Jeremy’s arms are raised, and he’s swaying. He’s closed his eyes. It’s too bright in here for him, at least when he’s like this—more agitated than usual. There are too many sounds—buzzing in the walls, screeches from chairs, murmurs from the gallery, where people are starting to watch Jeremy instead of Mrs. McCray.
He’s getting worse. His hands twist. With his eyes shut, I know he’s imagining an empty jar in his fingers, one hand screwing the lid on tight. It’s been too long for him, too long without his jars. They calm him.
“Mr. Munroe, will you please restrain your client?” the judge asks.
Raymond turns around. His eyes double in size when he sees Jeremy jerking back and forth, arms raised, his fingers working an imaginary jar. The motion looks weirder if you don’t know that’s what he’s doing, pretending he has his jar.
Raymond rushes to Jeremy and whispers fast to him. He touches my brother’s arm, but Jeremy jerks away. He makes a tiny squeal, the sound of an animal caught in a trap.
“Mr. Munroe,” the judge says, “if you can’t get your client under control, I’ll have to ask that he be removed from the proceedings.”
Raymond can’t help my brother.
I turn to Chase. “Give me the aspirin.”
“It’s too soon, Hope.”
“Give it to me!” I’m loud enough that people around us turn to stare.
Chase gets the bottle out of his pack. “You shouldn’t—”
I yank the bottle out of his grip. “Open your hand.”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
He opens his hand, and I dump the entire bottle into his palm. Several pills fall to the floor.
Jeremy’s noise gets louder. He doesn’t speak, but there’s nothing wrong with his vocal cords.
“Mr. Munroe?” the judge demands.
I’m on my feet, bottle in hand, sliding through the rows of spectators, not stopping until I reach the defense table.
People are talking now, and the judge bangs her gavel to stop them. Or me. “Order in the court! Mr. Munroe, do you want to tell the court what’s going on at your table?”
I know any other judge in the world might have thrown me and Jeremy and even Raymond out by now. So I turn to her, picturing that Grateful Dead T-shirt under her robe. “Your Honor, I’m his … his helper?”
“His helper?” she repeats.
I elbow Raymond until he gets it. “Um … my assistant. In a manner of speaking.”
“Uh-huh.” The judge’s eyebrows arch up to her forehead.
I reach across the table to give Jeremy the bottle. I don’t know if he realizes I’m here.
“Just a minute,” the judge warns. “May I ask what it is you’re trying to pass to the defendant?”
“I object, Your Honor!” Keller stands up as if he’s been asleep and has to make up for lost time.
“To what?” the judge asks.
It takes him a second to answer. “To the disruption to the proceedings, Your Honor. This is totally out of order.”
“I’ll take care of my own court, thank you, Mr. Keller. You may sit down.” She turns to me. “Will the attorney for the defense’s assistant please approach the bench, with whatever that is you’re trying to hand over to the defendant?”
I glance at Jeremy. He’s looking at me now. He sees the bottle. His eyes are wide open. He reaches for it.
“Ms. Long?” the judge calls.
“Yes, ma’am. Your Honor.” I head for the bench. Behind me, Jeremy starts up with the animal noise. It’s louder now, filled with pain. I run the rest of the way to the judge and hand her the bottle. “Please,” I beg. “He needs to hold this bottle.” I can imagine what’s running through her mind. Is he addicted to aspirin?
Jeremy whimpers. Then from deep in his throat comes a scream. Not a regular, mouth-open scream, but a throat scream, filled with guts and stomach an
d insides. The whole courtroom goes silent, making the growl sound louder.
“Your Honor, I object,” Keller says, sounding a little bit scared, I think.
“To an empty aspirin bottle, Mr. Keller? I don’t remember anything on the books about that one.” The judge shoves the bottle back into my hand and waves me off. “Go, girl!”
I run back to the table and put the bottle into Jeremy’s hand. His eyes flick open, and the sound cuts off as clean as if somebody shut off the sound track. I hand him the cap to the bottle. He stares from the bottle to the cap. He breathes more easily as he clutches the bottle to his chest.
“It’s plastic, Jer,” I explain. “I don’t know how long they’ll let you keep it. But if they give it back to me, I’ll put it on the shelf with the rest of them. I’ll try to bring you another one too. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you one before.”
I breathe in the scent of my brother. He smells like mint toothpaste or mouthwash, and sweat. He’s back. The real Jeremy is back. The good Dr. Jekyll.
I risk glancing at the jury as I turn to go. They’re all wide awake now. What are they thinking? What are they saying about Jeremy?
I take my seat next to Chase, but my gaze is fixed on my brother. He sweeps the bottle in the air above him, and with his other hand holding the cap, he brings them together and caps the bottle, as if capturing a rainbow no one else can see. The act itself transforms my brother’s face into something angelic. I want the jurors to see this change, this face. But I don’t think they’re watching. They’re listening to the testimony that’s started up again.
I listen too. But I keep one eye on Jeremy.
I glance at the jurors, and I catch Juror Number Three looking at me. I smile, then nod at Jeremy. She doesn’t look at my brother, but she gives me a tiny smile—I’m almost sure of it.
The instant court is adjourned, I’m out of my seat and heading for my brother. Nobody stops me until I’m almost there. One of the officers of the court puts out his arm. “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t let you get closer. They’re taking him back now.”
I shout over the guard’s arm. “Jeremy! I know you didn’t do it. Everybody can see that. You could never kill anybody. I could, if I got mad enough long enough.” I can imagine an instant of hate exploding out of my hands in a black smoke of anger. “Or Rita. We’ve both seen that temper of hers. It’s not a very big leap to imagine Rita doing it.”
The Silence of Murder Page 18
