Gibson ignored my question. He seemed to gather himself, and said, “It was me.”
Oh, crud. “What was you?”
“I did it. I killer her—Trinnie. It was me.”
“Reverend—”
“I have to go.” He stood abruptly.
I rose, too. “Reverend, wait. I can’t let you just—”
“Don’t worry. I plan to turn myself in. I promise. I just… I need some time to get things in order. And remember: you can’t say anything.”
He shot out of the office, leaving me alone with swirling thoughts, and a bad, bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
In between client sessions I combed through my old college ethics texts. Caleb’s session clearly fell under the umbrella of confidentiality, but his father had seen me in the context of a parental consult. His belief that our meeting was covered caused a problem, though. Whether he truly believed it or was just, as I believed, trying to tie my hands wasn’t the point. Even a half-assed lawyer could make a nice, meaty meal out of me and my license. And even if revealing Gibson’s confession wasn’t a breach of ethics, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without divulging elements of Caleb’s session.
According to Gibson, I didn’t have to worry about revealing his confession, anyway. Not if he was serious about turning himself in. After all… he’d promised.
But I didn’t believe Reverend Gibson killed Trinnie.
I believed he was a pig, a serial cheater who used his charm to lure needy women in to his pastoral clutches, but not a killer. Caleb, on the other hand? I knew what my gut told me, but icky feelings and misaligned facial expressions weren’t exactly proof.
How could I let him go through with it? How could I stop him?
I was halfway home when my cell phone buzzed. The number displayed was vaguely familiar: Kris. She was crying. Echoes from the past swirled in my head, the same sounds I used to hear shuddering in the stuffy darkness of the coat closet where we hid to get out of Daddy’s way. I pulled over, ignoring the hysterical beeps from the car I’d cut off.
“Kris? Come on, Punky, calm down. What’s going on?”
I could barely understand her. Eventually, I was able to decipher a few words from the wave of sobs. Apparently Tyler, pissed because Shelly knew about the affair, was either on his way over to Kris’s or was never going to see her again. She either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, clarify. When I pressed, she just screamed “get over here.”
I had no choice. It was the first time in a very long time since she’d reached out to anybody. To me. I had to get to her before she reached for a bottle… or a pipe.
Fourteen minutes later, I was across town at Kris’s door, ready to hit the replay button on the Whittaker Family Drama.
FORTY SIX
Her place was dark, dirty, and ominously silent. The drawn curtains and blinds created a dim, musk-smelling cave. Like Trinnie’s, the front door was unlocked. I stood just inside, listening, although I couldn’t hear anything over the dull thudding of my heart in my chest and ears. Deja vu triggered the onset of my first panic attack. Unfortunately, all the coping skills I knew of dealt with fear caused by irrational thought patterns, not with the possibility of actual murderers lurking in the shadows.
“Kris?”
The sound of my own voice, thin and quivery, made it worse. Pulling my cell phone out, I briefly debated calling Eli. Instead, I punched in 9-1-1 and held my thumb over the Send button. At least the police would be notified of where to find my dead, cold body.
I moved slowly, careful not to trip over anything in the cluttered room. As I crept past the coffee table, I took note of several lighters and a glass meth pipe. Oh, Punky. It confirmed my worst fears, but something puzzled me at the same time. It didn’t make sense. If Kris was tweaking, she’d be bouncing off the walls. Meth agitates. It makes a person jittery, often violent, but definitely not quiet. Meth doesn’t make a person pass out, either; not until the sleep-coma collapse after many days of binging. If Kris was being quiet, it wasn’t on purpose. Had he gotten here before me? Even if Kris and I were alone in the apartment, she would have had enough time to hurt herself… and she was volatile enough to do it, too.
The door to the kitchen had been removed at some point, and as I leaned around the door jam, one of the painted-over hinges jabbed me in the side. I peeked around the corner, recognizing the 1950s kitchenette set where I’d eaten my Cheerios every morning for just shy of twenty years. One of the chairs was missing, and the others bore evidence of duct-taped repairs. Although smaller than today’s furniture, it filled the tiny room. A few cupboards hung open, displaying a couple cans of soup and boxes of generic mac-and-cheese. Unless the killer had folded himself up like an origami sculpture and tucked himself behind the overflowing garbage can, the kitchen was safe.
Which left the bathroom or bedroom. Been there. Done that.
I fought with myself for several agonizing moments. My feet stayed stuck, and I had body-shakes so bad my joints ached. Finally, I forced myself down the short hall, pushing the bathroom door open, prepared to see my sister lying in the tub or on the floor. Like drunks, suicides like bathrooms. Easier clean-up. Bedrooms run a close second, and I headed there next.
It seemed empty. The closet door was off its sliding track, canted inward, balanced against the few hanging clothes. A bare mattress had been shoved against the wall, a tangle of sheets and a dingy comforter wadded on top. Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I dropped next to the pile of linen and dragged the sheets back to make sure Kris wasn’t curled up underneath. As thin as she was, she’d hardly make a bump.
Nothing.
I stood up, scanned the room again. Pity and anger for my little sister churned my stomach into acid soup. Down the hall, the front door banged, making me jump.
“Kris!”
Striding back to the living room, I labored to keep the anger out of my voice. As I stormed into the room, I realized I was mistaken. Just one of a series as it turned out.
Caleb stood facing me at an angle, his left hand, the closest to me, resting on his hip. His other hand pressed against the side of his thigh. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it held something. A weapon?
A strange smile flickered on his face, and he gave off a feral aura. He stood between me and the door.
“Where’s Kris?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s doin’ just fine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I didn’t hurt her. Unless you count her driving around all geeked up. Of course, that’s as stupid as it gets, but I’ve been taught to respect my elders, so I won’t go there.”
Getting past him would be difficult, but I’d never escape out the back of the apartment. There weren’t any exits, unless I tried to slither through a window. The only way out was if I could get around the little shit.
I took care to move slowly, fearing sudden movement might set him off. He looked high right now. Or crazy. Both. I had to keep him calm. If I could convince him that I believed his story…
“It’s going to be all right, Caleb. Your dad confessed. And, um, he’s planning on going to the police,” I said.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Of course not. I think you’re very brave. You’ve been holding on to the truth, protecting your father. It takes a strong person to carry that kind of burden.” It felt like petting a rattlesnake.
“You really do think I’m stupid,” Caleb said. “You think I don’t know my dad came to see you? I heard them talking. She found my shoes.”
“She… Your what?”
“My gym shoes. I didn’t want to throw them away. I cleaned them up, but…”
“You didn’t want to throw them away.” Such was the stupidity that I felt honor bound to repeat it.
“They’re Under Amour. D’you know how much these things cost?” He glanced down at his shoes. They were neon blue and lime green. Quite the ugliest things I’d ever seen, and hopefully dest
ined to be Exhibit One in Trinnie’s murder trial.
And all because of a father’s poor impulse control.
“Look, I know Trinnie hurt you,” I said. “Messing around with your dad in front of the whole church.” He smirked, and I realized I was heading in the wrong direction.
I thought about Caleb showing up at the bar, his connection to Tyler and to Kris. And Trinnie. Tyler had claimed he couldn’t stand Trinnie, that she was self-righteous and not his type. Trinnie wasn’t hanging around Tyler; she was hanging around Caleb, trying to get him to go straight. Like she wanted to. Caleb was the common denominator. I glanced down at the meth paraphernalia, and finally understood. “You’re the dealer, not Tyler. Trinnie was going to ruin it for you, wasn’t she? Was she going to turn you in? Tell your father?”
“She thought she was. She was wrong.” He laughed. “She really was stupid. She bought into the whole thing. ‘Repent and ye shall be forgiven.’ That’s such bullshit.”
“She felt guilty,” I said. “But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? I bet when you started getting into trouble she blamed herself even more. Did you use that somehow? Work it to your advantage?”
His smile sickened me. “I’m so sick of you. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to mind your own business?” He shook his head in mock ruefulness. “Here I thought I did such a good job convincing you this afternoon that I was just a poor, little misunderstood kid. I really did. And then you go and call my dad in. What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t call your dad; he called me. I already told you. He confessed. All of this,” I waved my hand around the scummy apartment. “Totally unnecessary.”
Confusion floated across his features, then he laughed. “Yeah, right. He didn’t even know Mom was bringing me in to see you.”
“She must have told him. Maybe after she found Trinnie’s blood on your shoes she realized you needed more help than she could give you.”
“Shut up. I’m not the one needs help.” A smile slicked his lips. “You think you’re so smart, getting my mom to make me talk to you just so you could act like such hot shit. Or maybe you just wanted a little younger man action, huh?” He pumped his hips. “Trinnie did.”
My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt swollen. “Caleb, listen to me. I didn’t get anyone to do anything. Your mom brought you in because she was worried about you. And your dad came in for the same reason.”
Rage filled his face. “Shut. Up. You don’t know shit. You think he cares about me? Or Mom? We’re not even on his radar, lady. But I bet you are.” His eyes, dilated and glassy, crawled over my body, lingering on my chest. “I bet he’s going to give you one of his “special” counseling sessions. He’s really helpful that way. Especially with the ladies.”
“He confessed to killing Trinnie. He did that for you. Why, Caleb? If he doesn’t care about you, why would he do that? Your parents want to help you. Even now.”
Stunned, he fell silent for several heart beats. Then, he laughed. “God, do you never stop? You’re, like, relentless. Which, actually, is kind of a problem, you know?”
The whole time we’d talked, he hadn’t moved from his original position. I was more certain than ever that he had some sort of weapon. Whatever it was, he kept it concealed at his side.
As the clock ticked, the air grew thick with tension. He shifted slightly, but kept his body angled. His eyes narrowed and his biceps bunched. Suddenly regretting all of the martial arts classes I never took, I prepared myself as best I could for the attack. He seemed to sense my response, and smiled with amusement. I wanted to slap him, but the whole killer-with-a-weapon thing had me stumped.
Outside, a car roared by. Startled, Caleb glanced outside, and I went for the phone in my back pocket. If I could just press the Send button…
As far as plans go, this could have been a good one. Not great, mind you. But good. As they say, “the devil is in the details,” however. Instead of Send, I hit the volume button causing my butt to jingle in an ascending ring tone. Caleb moved like a junior ninja, and I finally discovered his weapon of choice.
Tazor. How did he get one of those?
Those things aren’t supposed to knock you out. Read the brochures. Cracking your head on the coffee table as the shock convulses you senselessly to the floor will do the trick though. Definitely.
FORTY SEVEN
None of what I saw when I came to made sense. I was propped in the driver’s seat of my own car, seat belt secured like a good citizen, clutching a whiskey bottle like a bad one. Must have spilled, too because I was sitting in a pool of amber liquid. There were two things seriously wrong about this situation. First of all, I hate whiskey, always have. Second, the car was moving—forward and fast.
Scrub trees and weeds snapped and cracked at the side of the car as it gained speed, careening down a slope. Exactly one second too late, I stiff-armed the steering wheel and stomped with both feet on the brakes as the world disappeared from under the wheels of the car. Brakes don’t hold well when a car is air-born.
The front end of my little Focus slammed down onto a surface of water, the air bags exploded, and for a nano-second the car balanced on its nose, perpendicular to the earth. It felt like a flashback to the Zipper ride at the carnival. Momentum carried the car over onto the roof, and I was trapped, suspended upside down as the car sunk. I clawed at the seat belt latch for an eternity as water streamed in through cracks, filling the car faster than I could think. When the belt finally released, I nearly broke my neck as gravity dropped me with a splash to the roof. What used to be up was now down, and my mind couldn’t make sense of the water floating on the roof. An optical illusion made worse by the creeping darkness as the car sank lower and lower.
I scrabbled at the door handle, pulling at the latch. An irrational idea that it wouldn’t work upside down flooded waves of panic through my mind and body. A tiny voice, barely heard inside, fought against the tsunami of fear, telling me that it would open. It would.
Except it didn’t. The latch worked, but the force of the water was too strong, the rush of it pouring in too wild.
The car lurched, continuing its last journey. It hadn’t hit bottom yet, but even as I scrambled wildly in the tight space between the headrests and the dash, I could sense the relentless descent.
“Oh, God—oh, God—oh, God!”
Pleading and screaming, I tried kicking the side window out. I’d lost one of my sandals; it bobbed back and forth in the ever-rising water. I kicked and kicked, bare foot against glass. The window didn’t even crack. Water poured in. Time ran out. It rose to my neck, leaving only small pockets of air. Small, diminishing pockets of air.
I twisted around and cracked the rearview mirror off with my ankle. My adrenalin was so high, the pain didn’t register. The glove box popped open. Its contents, along with the rest of the junk in my car, floated uselessly around my chin.
There had to be something…
Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes against the gritty water, I went under, scrabbling blindly, searching for something solid, something heavy enough to shatter glass.
When I came up, my face broke into a six inch layer of air that was disappearing fast. I screamed, swallowing pond filth, choked it out, and managed one last breath before water covered my world.
For a brief, still moment, peace descended. The world grayed out; silt and darkness throwing a shroud over the chamber. Silent, except for soft gurgles and the beat of my heart in my ears. I hung suspended, weightless, hair floating like a wraith, soft and swirling.
Of its own volition, my hand reached out, drifting gently, to the door handle. Pushed. The door moved slightly.
Pushed harder. It opened about two feet, then wedged against the bottom. I pulled myself through, the pressure in my lungs building. Kicking off the undercarriage, I shot up through the murky, gray layers of scum and gritty weeds. My head broke free into the blessed air, and I traded the soft, gentle stillness for the hard victory of life.
<
br /> I didn’t swim so much as convulse my way to shore, body continuing the fight for survival long after my feet touched the gravel bottom. Rocks tore open my knees and hands, scraping flesh in razored slices, as I flailed about, not trusting the solidness beneath me.
I landed in high weeds, and flung myself violently forward, forcing air into my lungs in great, hoarse, out-of-control rasps. I threw up a gush of water, spit, and choked some more until my breathing switched from inefficient, manually-operated heaving back into automatic.
Better.
Rolling to my side, I sat up. With a rush, the world came back into Technicolor, 3-D focus, almost hallucinogenic in quality. Birds chirped, the sun shone, all the colors bright and twinkling. The whole sorry mess shockingly ignorant of nearly losing me.
I lurched to my feet, fueled with rage. Where was that little bastard?
I scanned the area. Before me, the cliff rose twenty feet, a swath of broken saplings and brush running along the top edge where my car had launched. I half-expected to see Caleb standing a-top the hill, watching the show, maybe cackling with murderous glee.
Where was the bastard?
He could be anywhere. He could have heard me fight my way to the shore; I certainly hadn’t been in stealth mode. Of course, he was here. He had to be here. Sick son-of-a-bitch like that wouldn’t take the time to shove someone off a cliff into a retaining pond without waiting for a sign. Bubbles or something.
So, where?
The good news was there was no way he could make it down the cliff directly in front of me. The sheer face of granite held too few hand or foot holds, which explained why he hadn’t been waiting to bash me on the head when I crawled out of the water.
Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t climb it, either. Worse, it rose at such an angle I couldn’t see anything, except brush along the top. No way to even know which direction Caleb was coming from. If I went along the bank one way or the other, I stood a fifty-fifty chance of running into him. Killer odds, you might say.
Turning, I stared at the water from which I’d just been resurrected. About the size of two football fields and deep, as I well knew. Probably filled with leaches and other nasty, buggy things.
Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep Page 24
