“She’s a fighter, like you.” He patted her arm. “Go on home now, get some rest. Detective Bowen here is going to keep an eye on you. I’ll give a shout if we hear anything about where Jester is. Until then, keep your doors locked, okay?”
“She’ll be fine with me,” Carl said, and Gilly let him take her arm.
“Oh,” Gilly said, turning back to the captain at the door. “I thought when I was at the gas station earlier, when Liz came up to me—I thought I saw Mark Riley. Was he there? Do you know?”
“No. When an officer with the DPS caught up with him, he was just west of Houston, too far from Wyatt to have been here during the time you were at the Quick-Serv.”
It had been a product of her fear, her imagination working overtime, Gilly thought, and she was relieved.
“You let me or Detective Bowen know if you hear from him again.”
Gilly told the captain she would. She let Carl steer her to his car. It took a brief heated argument, but when she insisted, Carl took her to get her car at the gas station, then followed her home and checked every room of her house before leaving to pick up hamburgers for dinner.
Bailey was ecstatic to see her and relieved to get outside. Once she brought him in and fed him, she called the hospital to ask about Zoe. The nurse who answered recognized Gilly’s name. “You’re the psychic. You found her.”
Gilly cringed at the awe in the woman’s voice. “How is she?”
“Doing wonderfully. We’re keeping her, but it’s erring on the side of caution, you know? She’s been asking for you.”
Gilly’s heart rose. But no. It would only confuse things if she were to visit Zoe. She didn’t know what things, or in what way—just something in her head warned her to stay away. It was a feeling similar to the one she had about Carl. He and Zoe, and Jake, too—they were better off without her.
“Can I tell her you’re coming?” the nurse asked.
“No,” Gilly said. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She thought for a moment. “Tell her sweet dreams.”
The nurse was disappointed, her goodbye clipped.
Bailey was curled at Gilly’s feet, and setting the phone on the kitchen table, she dropped down beside him and buried her face in his fur, breathing in his earthy, doggy smell. She thought of Liz, how sad it was that she’d carried her sorrow over losing Cassie for so many years, how it had festered and flickered back to life when she’d found the locket. Gilly couldn’t let it happen. She couldn’t hold on to her memory of Brian and Sophie, letting it chew her up from the inside until she had nothing left of herself. She wouldn’t ever forget them, but she had to let her grief, the debilitating sadness, go. She had to move on. Hot tears seared the undersides of her eyelids, but she held them in. She didn’t want Carl to catch her crying.
“Jester’s got no record,” Carl said.
They were sitting at the table. Carl was wolfing down his burger.
Gilly hadn’t done more than cut hers in half. She cut the half into quarters. Stop playing with your food. Her mother would say that if she were here.
“We’re pretty sure he’s responsible for a string of armed robberies that were committed in your old neighborhood around the same time. The guys in the bar down the street from the convenience store—”
“The witnesses you told me about?”
“Yeah. They ID’d Jester from a photo lineup. Said he came into the bar a couple months after Brian was killed, looking to trade a gun he had for another one that was clean. They said he was shook up, talking a blue streak.” Carl wiped his mouth, set his napkin back in his lap. “We would have got him without his confession to his sister, but it damn sure doesn’t hurt.” He looked up at her. “You realize he’s not going to let this—let you—go? You do understand that? He’s got too much to lose.”
“He was a family man,” Gilly said. “A fireman. He told me it was all he ever wanted to do.”
“So?”
“So what happened to turn him into a robber, a killer?”
Carl shrugged. “Human nature being what it is, even the most ordinary person in the street is capable of murder under the right circumstances. Give them a gun, put them in a desperate situation and—boom.” He wiped his mouth.
Gilly dipped a french fry in ketchup, thinking about it. That afternoon, when she’d served Warren his coffee, when they’d chatted, she’d seen something in his expression that had unsettled her, but her mind had been on Zoe, the idea that she might find the child. Gilly hadn’t really given Warren, or his demeanor, much attention. Even now, looking back, she realized he hadn’t made her uncomfortable in a way that worried or frightened her. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“You’re having doubts now? You said you remembered his face. He’s wearing the same Rockets cap. You saw the gun.” Carl’s look was contemplative, possibly dismayed.
Gilly toyed with her iced tea glass, turning it in a circle. She had told Carl how it had come back to her, Warren’s image—that she had seen it vividly in the moment when Karen had aimed the gun at her. People in near-death experiences often said they saw their lives pass before their eyes. That was how the vision of Warren, that moment of utter desperation and terror they’d shared, had come back to her. There wasn’t a doubt of his identity in her mind, and yet . . .
“What if I’m wrong?”
“He’s confessed, for Christ’s sake.”
Gilly allowed the tight pause.
In a softer voice, Carl said, “The guy is on the loose. There’s no telling what’s going on in his head.”
She folded her napkin, ran her fingertip down the crease.
“You’re a threat to him, Gilly.”
“But there’s no sign of him since he left Cricket’s this afternoon. If he’s been in touch with his sister, he has to know there’s a BOLO out. He wouldn’t stick around now, would he? Take that chance just to—what? Is he going to kill me?”
“Not as long as I’m here. Not as long as every cop in this state is looking for him.”
“But you can’t stay with me forever.”
Carl locked her gaze. “I could, and you know it.”
“You would leave Houston.” She sat back. They were talking about something else now, a future she couldn’t conceive of. She knew, anyway, that he would never leave the city, his job there, his brothers in blue, or however they referred to themselves.
“You’re not meant for this,” he said.
“What this?”
“Life in a burg like Wyatt, a job as a waitress. You’re an architect, Gilly—a damn fine one, from what I’ve seen of your work.”
“It wasn’t only my work, it was Brian’s, too.” They had been two halves of the same whole. “I’m not even sure I can or want to design buildings on my own.”
Carl left the silence alone. What could he say? She felt it, too, that she was still as married today as she had been when Brian was alive.
“I like it in Wyatt.” It surprised her, hearing it aloud, feeling the truth of it. “Waitressing is fine for now. If I even have a job anymore.” Gilly still hadn’t spoken to Cricket.
“You’ve been here six months and haven’t unpacked.” Carl’s gesture included a stack of boxes against the kitchen wall. “I could rent a truck. Wouldn’t be anything, hauling your stuff back to Houston.”
Gilly imagined it. She wouldn’t have to move in with her mom. She could find her own place. There must be plenty of waitressing jobs in a city the size of Houston.
“I know you think the times we were together, making love, it was a mistake, but you felt something, Gilly.” Carl pressed his cause, encouraged by her silence. “We both did. You can’t deny—”
She shook her head, not in denial of their attraction. That had been—was—real enough. But she couldn’t allow herself to lean on him, to use him as a crutch. If she went to him again, it would be because she was whole.
“If you aren’t ready, that’s okay. I can wait.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever
be ready,” Gilly said, and she had to look away from the lance of disappointment that flashed through his eyes.
Gilly had said as much to Julia when she had called her sponsor earlier, badly in need of guidance. She hadn’t willingly sought to be injected with morphine, but still she had needed to confess—had badly needed Julia to hear that the thing inside her, the monster of her addiction, that monkey, bless him—had been ecstatic at the opportunity to get high, yapping how simple it was to forget it all. Sobriety was too hard, he’d said. Just let it go, he’d begged. Oh yeah, she had miles to go on this journey before she’d feel safe from that animal. Maybe it would never happen.
Carl stood and gathered his dishes. “You going to eat that?” he asked.
He slept on her couch that night and left the next morning for Houston. There had been a break in another murder case he was working, a triple homicide in a quiet, well-to-do neighborhood, and everyone from the governor on down was pressuring for a resolution, justice for the family.
“I wish you’d get a gun,” Carl told her when she walked him out.
“I’d only shoot myself, or Bailey,” she said.
“Not if you’d let me teach you.”
They shared a moment.
He said, “I can be here in no time.”
“Thank you.”
“If you need me, just call.” He slid his palm down her bare arm, took her hand in his, and bending swiftly, he kissed her, the tip of her nose, her lips, the inside of her wrist.
She started to speak, but he placed his fingertip against her mouth, and then he left her, got into his car and drove away. He didn’t look back, although she stayed there in her drive waiting until he turned the corner and disappeared.
It was the third Wednesday, eighteen days since Zoe had been rescued, and Gilly went early to the café again. Much earlier than necessary. It was barely light outside when she arrived. The alley where she would ordinarily have parked was being resurfaced, so she parked in the next block and walked back, letting herself in the café’s front door. She didn’t flip on any lights in the dining area. It was a full hour until they opened. Stowing her purse in the office, she tied on an apron and got out the ingredients for pancakes. She’d gone through the same preparations the last two Wednesdays in anticipation of making Zoe her “g’raffe” with blueberry eyes and a chocolate chip nose, but Jake and Zoe hadn’t come for breakfast.
They hadn’t resumed their usual routine. Gilly tried not to mind, to ignore how it deflated her. She tried not to remember the way Zoe had felt in her arms, how reluctant she had been to relinquish her to Jake. She had thought she would hear from him. She realized she wanted this, a connection, and her wanting disheartened her.
She thought she would never learn.
She might have worried about them, Jake and Zoe, had she not known from the town talk they were okay.
Working through it, Cricket said.
“I saw them at the grocery store, and they both looked great,” April said.
At least Gilly still had her job. Cricket had been amazed.
Do you still have a job? Cricket had repeated when Gilly called to ask her. Of course you do, she’d said. You’re a hero in this town. Don’t you know it?
The customers had echoed Cricket’s praise. Gilly had been embarrassed. She’d insisted she hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t happening so much now—the accolades, the impromptu hugging, the sidelong looks. Regular life was carrying folks forward, thank heaven. The Little Acorn Academy had resumed its regular schedule. Marley, the assistant who had allowed Zoe to go with Karen, had been given back her job. Gilly had heard Jake was the one who’d put in a word for her. Cricket had said he felt bad for how hard he’d been on her and on Kenna. Gilly admired him for it, that he seemed to be putting the whole ordeal behind him.
Folks were still asking her about her so-called skill, though. No matter how often she said, “It doesn’t work that way,” people acted as though it was a faucet she could turn off and on. On a recent visit to the café, Captain Mackie had mentioned that he wished he could call on her sixth sense, or intuition, or whatever it was, to solve other crimes. He had a boatload of cold cases, he’d said. Maybe you could take a look one day, see if you’d get anything. Have one of your visions, he’d meant. She didn’t think he was joking.
When Gilly had asked, he’d told her it was unlikely that Karen would see the light of day as a free woman again. Kidnapping was a felony offense, one that carried the possibility of a life sentence. He’d said she’d waived her right to a trial and would likely be remanded to Mountain View, a prison near Waco that housed women who’d committed more serious offenses. Female Texas death row inmates were incarcerated there. It had given Gilly chills. But she agreed with everyone else in town that it was the right thing. No matter how experienced Karen was as a nurse, she might have killed Zoe, shooting her up with morphine. It was no better, no different than giving someone heroin. In fact the only difference Gilly knew was that morphine was legal to use under medical supervision.
But what good did it do, locking someone up who was as obviously disturbed as Karen? Gilly could be her; she could have gone the same way as Karen. Their stories, their wounds, weren’t identical, but they were similar enough. She and Karen had both self-medicated. They had entertained delusions, been unable to tell the real from the imagined.
They’d both taken someone else’s child.
Gilly didn’t know why she’d wakened out of the hell into which she had disappeared. But it was the horror she had felt looking down at little Anne Clementine Riley lying in Sophie’s crib that had brought her out of that hell. It was that same image that kept her from slipping back. Kept her going to meetings, kept her looking forward.
She made a well of the dry ingredients in her bowl and poured in the combined milk and eggs. She would make a few practice giraffes. Maybe she would try a monkey, make him, and eat him up. Consume her own monster. Maybe then he would shut up—
“Anyone here?”
Gilly froze at the sound of the man’s voice. Setting the handle of the whisk against the side of the bowl, she turned, wiping her hands on her apron. Her heart had fallen almost silent. She could not feel her breath. She knew who it was before she opened the swinging door and saw him.
Warren Jester was standing a step or two inside the café’s entrance. The light behind him cast his face in shadow, but she would know him anywhere. She realized she’d been waiting for him.
“It was unlocked,” he said, hooking a thumb toward the door.
“I must have forgotten. I don’t ordinarily come in that way.” Gilly smoothed her apron.
He swiped the red Rockets cap off his head, and held it in front of him in both hands. It was a peculiar gesture, somehow abashed.
Gilly felt a stab of something like pity. For the man who murdered your husband? Really?
“I know you aren’t open yet, but could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?”
“It’ll take a minute to brew.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got nothing but time these days. Mind if I sit?”
“Help yourself.” Gilly went behind the counter.
Warren slid onto a stool.
She filled a carafe with water.
“You must wonder why I’m here.”
She glanced at him, said nothing.
“I told you before I was a fireman, into search and rescue. Helping folks was my life. I had everything—a great wife, two kids, the works. We couldn’t have been happier. We weren’t rich or famous. We didn’t live in a McMansion, but you don’t need that crap to be happy. You know what I mean?”
Gilly measured grounds into the basket. She flipped on the machine. She didn’t answer Warren, didn’t turn to him when she finished. She watched the coffee begin to drip, and for several moments, its sighs were the only sound she heard over the paced and heavy hammer fall of her pulse.
“Maggie and me—she’s my wife—we didn’t care for stuff. We raised our k
ids to know what was important. They didn’t whine because they didn’t have a PlayStation, or whatever, or a TV in their room. It was good, a good, solid life.”
Gilly turned now to see that Warren was shredding a napkin. “What happened?”
He looked up at her, and his eyes were dark with loss, the kind she recognized. “Maggie got sick,” he said. “Uterine cancer. She suffered so, was in agony. We tried everything. Went to Europe, then Mexico, a hospital across the border from Yuma. Insurance doesn’t cover alternative treatments. Then I was taking time off to be with her, to travel with her. The kids didn’t agree with what we were doing. They’re in their twenties, think they know everything—know what it’s like watching the love of your life—” Warren stopped.
Gilly dropped her glance. She knew where his story was going.
“We were losing the house. Where would we stay? A shelter? Maggie was end-stage. No shelter was going to take her.”
“So your answer was to rob people to make your mortgage payment?”
“Stores. I robbed stores, not people.”
Gilly laughed, an ugly sound.
“I was desperate, and I know it was stupid. It was fucked up, but so was I. I wasn’t thinking straight. Don’t you think I know that?”
“I can’t listen to any more—”
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to. God knows I’ve done enough damage—”
“What do you want? Are you going to kill me, too? Is that it?” Gilly was shaking and crossed her arms. She thought how even as little as six weeks ago she might have wished for it—to be not so much dead as not here. Gone. But she didn’t feel that way now, and it confused her. She didn’t know what had changed, or when.
“I’m not here to kill you,” Warren said. “I need a favor.”
She stared at him, incredulous.
“Will you call the police? I would do it myself, but I don’t have a phone, or you could let me borrow the phone here, if you prefer, and I’ll call them myself.”
“You want me to call the police.” Was this for real? Was she dreaming? She glanced toward the front of the café. Outside, the new day was oncoming. The large plate-glass window framed light that was translucent, shimmering.
What Lies Below: A Novel Page 29
