by John Moralee
Lisa walked towards the cars, leaving me with just Grace, the kids, Wayne and my father at the graveside. Vernon had disappeared again and Sarah, too.
I looked around at the dark stones, remembering the times I had come to visit my mother’s grave and my brother’s grave. They were buried in the Quinn family plot that was across the cemetery.
And there, lurking under the eaves of a tree, his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes, Sheriff Tom ‘Wife-Beater’ Boone watched the proceedings with his cold, cold eyes.
In the weak light he looked like a stone statue that belonged in a sepulchre. Rain dripped off his hat and ran down his windbreaker in rivulets. He acknowledged me with a slight nod.
Was that a smile?
I could feel the fury building, boiling. I stomped towards him, keeping a fixed expression. When I was a few strides away, he said, “I’m –”
That was all he said.
Because I hit him with a steel-hard jab.
He flinched backwards as the blow struck, which saved his nose from breaking. My knuckles cut his upper lip. A string of blood hung from the side of his mouth as he absorbed the pain. He did not have time to think about it, though. I waded into him with jabs and hooks. His arms blocked the blows, then – sneering – he swung a punch at my chest. It missed, but I slipped on the mud and fell.
I was getting up when he pulled out his gun and aimed it two-handed.
“Don’t move,” he yelled, spitting out blood and saliva. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Shoot, why don’t you. That’s what you want. Kill me.”
I could see he was tempted. But he looked at the people only a few hundred yards away. Maybe they couldn’t see what was happening exactly, but a gunshot would be heard. They would become witnesses. Boone calmed down and sucked the blood in.
“Why’d you hit me?”
“You know.”
“For attending the funeral? It’s standard procedure when looking for a murderer.”
“Not that,” I snarled. “For Abby.”
“For Abby? What’s she …?”
He looked puzzled; then bemused; then condescending. “Ah. She told you I abused her. That’s why the hostility? You’re doing the knight in shining armour routine. You are so naïve, Quinn. You see everything in black and white, but life’s not one of your dumb movies. Life is complicated and every story has two sides. You only heard her side.”
“You’re saying she deserved it?”
He shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand. And I’m not going to stand here in the rain catching pneumonia just so I can explain reality to a screwed-up dreamer like you. So I’m warning you. This –” He touched his bloody lip. “- was as far as you get with me. You try anything else, I’ll handcuff you and put you in jail with the winos and junkies and let you rot there. Knowing your history, you’d probably get along fine. Today, we bury some decent folk, so go comfort the grieving. See you later.”
He walked off into the rain.
“Wait!” I called out.
But he’d gone.
Chapter 34
The wake was a quiet and unpleasant experience where everyone stood around not knowing how to behave. Wayne grumbled and drank too much. I also wanted to drink away my feelings, like I would have done in the past, but I resolved myself to sobriety. Besides, I didn’t want to drink with Sarah present. Over an hour, I watched Wayne drink. It wasn’t doing Wayne any good; he staggered outside and did not return.
“What did you say to Vernon?” I asked Sarah.
“I was trying to get Vernon to listen to me. I know a grief counsellor and I thought I could help him. He told me he blames himself for Scott’s death. That’s why he’s been drinking and losing his temper. It’s a real waste of his mind to be living the way he does when he could be doing so much more. If he could get well, I was thinking I could get my university to give him an interview for a teaching position.”
“He could do that?”
“Vernon has a PhD in Philosophy. He would be a good lecturer, I think. What he needs is something to believe in. He was interested, but then he just ran off. That poor man is tormented by guilt.”
“Speaking of guilt, I punched the sheriff at the funeral.”
“What?”
I told her what I did. She sympathised. Sarah stayed for a couple of hours, but then she had to get back to her home. I promised I’d call her later, but right now I had to stay at the wake. It was a good thing I did, too, for Fiona’s publisher tried to please Grace by telling her the royalties from Fiona’s books would mean the children would never be short of money. It was an ugly situation. I guided the publisher out before he lost some teeth, and Dad calmed Grace down in a corner.
Dyler was paying his respect with several lawyers from his firm. David Freeman was there with his girlfriend. Alex and Melanie were present, too. Alex’s wife Yasmine was by her husband’s side. Melanie did not look happy. She was at the buffet, eating anything with chocolate. Dyler spoke to Grace before he approached me, saying he was sorry about Scott. “He was a damn fine lawyer. I don’t know why he would want to ruin it with drugs. He could have been a partner, eventually.” Dyler wandered off to the buffet. A few minutes later I heard him talking business.
Lisa had spoken about Sandra telling her Scott may have been having an affair. I wanted to speak with Sandra. Earlier, I’d seen Dyler with her, but she wasn’t with him now. I located Sandra by the windows. She was watching the rain.
“Sandra, can I ask you a question?”
“It’s not a legal thing?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
“I heard a rumour about Scott. Is there any reason for thinking he was seeing another woman?”
“One afternoon I saw him with a red mark on his next.”
“A red mark on his neck.”
“Yes,” she said, giving me a meaningful look. “Red. On his neck. You know? Lipstick.”
“Lipstick. Ah. I see now. What did you say?”
“When I pointed it out, he acted flustered. He wiped it off quickly and didn’t look happy about it. That was when I knew it must have been lipstick like I thought.”
“Are you sure?”
“I guess. He wiped it off fast. I know men like to have affairs.” She looked in Dyler’s direction. “And some just like to think about it because they can’t do it any longer.”
“So – let me get this right - you assumed Scott was having an affair from just seeing a red mark on his neck?”
She nodded.
“Could it have been a cut from a razor?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I thought it looked like lipstick. I didn’t think about it being anything else.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“Just a few girls in the office. Why? I’m not going to get into trouble for this, am I?”
“Not off me. Did you tell the sheriff this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody asked me.”
“Did you hear other rumours?” Rumours you didn’t start, I thought. “Like about drugs?”
“No. Nothing like that. I can’t imagine Scott doing drugs.”
Dyler was looking at us. His eyes were narrow. As I saw him staring at us, he turned away. Sandra moved away from me.
At least I knew how the rumour started. A red mark on his neck. Probably a razor cut. I knew how often that happened. Every time I started with a new blade my throat looked like a plucked chicken. Sandra had passed her interpretation as fact – malicious office gossip, creating an affair of nothing. It was the kind of rumour that had spread in high school about Billy. Billy, dead, could not defend himself. Just like Scott. But what if it was lipstick? Was that evidence of an affair? Maybe it had been innocent kiss from a female friend? If Scott had been having an affair, whoever the woman was would not want it known now. It didn’t matter now, I guessed. He was dead. The red mark could have been cranberry sauce or tomato k
etchup for all I knew. But it made me feel a little sick inside.
What about the drugs found in his autopsy? How did Scott get started on them? What was his connection with Van Morgan?
The questions were giving me a migraine.
Most people stayed until after the food in the buffet was gone. Only close friends and family stayed later.
Grace put the children to bed, even though it was very early. They had been through so much they fell asleep the instant their heads touched their pillows. Then she sat in a corner of the living room being comforted by her friends. My dad held her hand. She cried into his shoulder, loud, guttural sobs. I didn’t feel as if I was supposed to be present. I had done enough damage by coming home. My father suggested I go home. He would stay for a few more hours just to make sure Grace was all right.
I drove home through the icy rain. The sky was murky, grey and black, the clouds pressing down on the island like a cold, wet blanket. The sun was nowhere to be seen.
The house was under a dark layer of cloud.
When I was parking, I saw someone on the porch, hiding from the rain.
Vernon?
No.
It was a woman.
Abby.
She was slumped on the porch, curled up and shivering. Her cotton dress was soaked through. I hurried to her, bending down to see if she was okay. There was no colour to her face. How long she had lain there, I didn’t know, but it long enough for her skin to feel as cold as ice when I touched her face. She barely reacted. Please don’t let her die too. I unlocked the door. I lifted her up and carried her inside. Her eyes half opened and she murmured something.
“What?” I said.
She gathered her strength, rasping, “N-no. H-h-hos-pital. Promise.”
“I promise.”
She needed warming up rapidly, so I climbed the stairs to the bathroom. I switched on the shower, turning the dial to hot. I stripped off her wet dress, pumps and ankle socks, leaving her just in her bra and panties. I was appalled by the bruises and cuts on her chest and back and legs and arms. Some were fresh. I hoped the hot water wouldn’t aggravate them. Abby was more conscious now. She said my name. I told her what to do with her legs, and she walked into the shower. The hot water made her scream. Moments later, she calmed down as she grew used to it. The water streamed over her head and down her body. Her body tensed where it was tender. She stepped out after a minute, still shivering but no longer pale. She accepted two warm towels and a bathrobe. I went out of the bathroom while she removed her wet underwear and dried herself. She came out wearing the bathrobe, rubbing her hair dry. She looked a lot better. She attempted a smile, but it turned to tears. I hugged her.
“Tom came home … with blood on his lips. He said you did it. He blamed me for telling you about him. He got mad ... hit me. I ran … came here. Couldn’t get in so … so I waited two … three hours. Freezing, freezing cold.”
“It’s okay now,” I said. “You’re safe. No need to talk. Just relax.”
“Mike,” she said, suddenly grasping my wrist with incredible strength. “Mike, I love you.”
I love you, I thought. But I’m with Sarah now.
She sobbed. “No one else cares about me like you do. I wish I’d married you. I wish I’d married you …”
I put her on the couch and got her a drink. “It’ll warm you up.”
She accepted it, but spilled most and started apologising, her sorry-sorry-sorries like a pressure in my head, like a screaming.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll get you another.”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m such a wreck, Mike. Sometimes I wish I’d never been born.”
“Don’t think like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise.”
“I do, though. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. I’m too weak to stand up to him.”
“ABBY!”
The shout came from outside. It was Boone. Abby froze; then hyperventilated.
“Stay here,” I said.
“It’s him. He knows I’m here. I have to go out to him.”
“He knows nothing,” I said. “And he can’t come in.”
“ABBY!”
I approached the door. Outside, it was ashen, the wind churning the grass and trees. Boone was on the street in front of his police vehicle. He was holding onto his hat. The spinning red and blue lights swept over the lawn and lit up the windows. He was a silhouette with a huge black shadow.
I opened the door. I had to hold it to prevent the wind ripping it off its hinges.
“What do you want, Sheriff?”
“I want my wife back,” he shouted.
“She’s not here.”
“Don’t play games. She’s not at home. Bring her out.”
“She’s not here.”
He walked towards the house, becoming bigger and bigger. His face was half shadow, half painted with red/blue flashes.
“Then you won’t mind if I look?”
“Got a warrant?”
“What?”
“You heard.”
He stopped. He sneered.
“Don’t be fooled by her poor little me act, Quinn.”
“What do you mean?”
“I bet she never told you she was in a mental hospital.”
“What?”
“She had a nervous breakdown. That’s a mental breakdown, you hear?”
“I hear, but I don’t believe you.”
“She was totally nuts, Quinn. She would get depressed and hurt herself. She would bruise herself deliberately, sometimes cut herself with razors. I couldn’t stop her. It was like she was a different person. Finally, she tried to kill herself with pills. Afterwards, she was so deluded she thought I’d done it. She couldn’t accept that she’d done it because that would mean she was crazy.” He said this with spittle flying from his lips. “But I love her, you understand? I’m the only person who can look after her. I love her. She needs me, not you. I can help her. I’ve helped her before. She doesn’t need you. Don’t let her fool you. She’ll use you, Quinn. She’ll use you then she’ll coming running back to me, you understand? DO YOU UNDERSTAND? SHE NEEDS ME!”
I said nothing.
Boone had worked himself up into a state where his face was crimson. He shook his head sadly and walked away and for a moment I felt sorry for him. But then I thought of Abby’s bruises and couldn’t imagine she could do that to herself, that Boone was just manipulating me into letting him have her back. I closed the door. I waited for Boone to drive off. But he didn’t – not for minutes. He just sat in his car like a statue, his shoulders slumped, staring straight ahead. Then he straightened up, shaking off whatever darkness was in his soul, and accelerated away without a glance sideways.
“He’s gone?” Abby said, quietly.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you’d had a breakdown.”
She did not deny it. She grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut and made a noise like a suppressed scream. “I did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She flinched at my raised voice. “I couldn’t. I don’t like thinking about then. It was a bad time. A really bad time. It all started because we were trying for a baby, but it wasn’t working. We had the tests and everything. It turned out he has a low sperm count. He thought it reflected badly on his manhood, so he got frustrated. He got angry. He blamed me. Like if I loved him more his sperm count would go up or something. For two years we tried to have a baby and all of the time he just got angrier and angrier. That was when he started the other stuff.”
“The violence?”
“The violence. It began with slaps for being wrong. Then punches. He said I made him do it. I started believing him, thinking I was to blame. I could see no way out, Michael. It was like I’d gone to hell. He was so cruel and relentless. So hateful. He’s got ways of putting me down you wouldn’t believe. Not just
hurting me physically. You know what it’s like to have someone tell you you’re worthless twenty-four hours a day for year on year? You start believing it. Accepting it. Wanting the punishment because you are so bad, so bad you deserve everything you get. It was no longer making love we did; it was rape. I had to stop it, Michael. Had to. So that’s why I did it.”
“Did what?”
She opened her eyes. “I drank a half pint of whisky and whole bottle of aspirins. Unfortunately, he found me before it was too late. I was in hospital for six months – one month in the normal hospital, five in the psychiatric wing. You know what’s the funny thing? When they evaluated me as recovered, I wanted to stay longer. I screamed and shouted for them to let me stay. I didn’t want to go back in that house with him. But he visited me every day, and he was like a different person. Loving, remorseful, caring. He promised things would be better. And I believed him. Dear God, I believed him. I must have been crazy after all.”
“You should have told someone.”
“I did – at first. I told the doctors. But they just thought I was hallucinating. He convinced them I was like that, you see. The crazy girl. I didn’t dare tell anyone later because I knew what he’d do to my parents if I ran away.”
“What would he have done?”
“Killed them, Michael. He knows how to make it look like an accident. He’s practised on me enough times.”
“He said you made it all up. That you hit yourself.”
“What do you believe?”
I hesitated.
Abby closed her eyes. “My god, you’re starting to believe him …”
“No …”
“I think … I think I should leave.” She stood up stiffly and slowly walked towards the door. Her resigned face was reflected in the glass.
“Abby,” I said, “you can’t leave. You must stay here.”
“Really?” she said. The hope in her voice was disturbing.
“Really. You can use my room. I’ll sleep in my brother’s.”
