by Cate Quinn
“I think you need to brush up on the law,” says Carlson with a throaty laugh. “We’re not here to play games, Miss Keidis. Mrs. Nelson here has her legal counsel. Your services are not required.”
Tina pulls up a chair next to me, close enough that I get a waft of the dime-store shampoo she insisted Blake buy for her. I see Carlson’s eyes drop automatically to her cleavage, then pull themselves back up again.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been arrested, Detective?” Tina demands.
He doesn’t reply.
“Forty-three,” she tells him. “So I know a thing or two about the law. More than some lawyers even. An’ certainly more than your boy here. You think I don’t know how you old-style cops work? You see someone new to the system and make goddamn sure their representation is Ol’ Plea-Bargain Steve over here?” She jerks her thumb in the direction of my mousy lawyer. “Yeah, I read your file, buddy,” she adds contemptuously. “Four cases to your name, and each last one of ’em you talked into makin’ some half-baked deal with the cops. What sort of defense attorney is that? I sure hope Boss Hogg here fronts you more than a beer and pretzel for your trouble.”
To my surprise, Carlson isn’t mad or insulted. He’s sorta got a half smile, like Ya got me.
“I don’t drink,” says Steven. “And I resent the implication…”
“You need to shut your damn mouth,” says Tina. “The grown-ups are talking.”
She glares at Carlson, whose expression has shifted, as though adjusting to dealing with an equal.
“Watch your language, please,” he says. “This is a police station, not a bar.”
“Forty-three times,” says Tina, waving fingers, “so I know there’s no law against cuss words in here. I can speak how I like.” She flashes him a grin that shows her dental work at the back.
Tina turns to me. “Looks like Carlson here was one of the officers who pulled over the Homestead,” she says. “He’s compromised, see? It’s on record that he had trauma counseling ’cause of the raid, I got it out of one of the cops out there. Which means we can get your interrogation written off,” she says. “Not valid.”
There’s a look of defeat on Carlson’s face, tinged with begrudging admiration. I feel a slight smile lift the corners of my mouth and push it back down.
“That’s not a good idea,” interjects Steven, shooting a fearful look at Carlson. “You don’t want to rile anyone up at this stage and make yourself look bad. They’re offering you a good deal.”
Carlson and Tina completely ignore him. Their eyes are locked on each other, like a battle of wills.
“Your client has to agree to be represented by you,” says Carlson. “Mrs. Nelson, you do understand that if you accept Miss Keidis as your counsel, you won’t be able to control what she sees in this room?” He gives me a long look. “You strike me as a reserved sort of person,” he continues. “I’m about to present some very sensitive information about your past. You sure you want your sister wife here to see it?”
I glance at Tina. Swallow. All my prior feelings of triumph melt away. There’s no way I can let her see my private things. My therapy notes.
I’m standing by an open grave at night. Holding a shovel. One of the girls from the white bedroom is in the grave. She’s touching herself, moaning in pleasure. I toss earth onto her face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Tina kinda shrinks in her chair. The look of disappointment on her face is worse than if she yelled or screamed. But she rallies and starts talking fast.
“Rachel.” She leans in. “We went out to Waynard’s Creek. Lots of people have been looking for maps of the Homestead. Tryin’ to buy it. I think there’s something goin’ on,” she concludes. “Somethin’ bigger than all of us. Somethin’ that mighta just got Blake killed.”
For a moment, I picture believing her. Imagining that our husband was murdered by some cops-and-robbers plot and not by one of his own wives. But I know that’s not the truth. Real life isn’t like that. In real life, the worst and most unthinkable things happen to good people.
“Please…” I can’t call the right words to mind. The ones that make the bad thoughts go away.
“I think we should take a break,” says Tina. “Let Rachel have a think over.”
Before Carlson can answer, the door opens. We all look up. A policeman I don’t recognize is there, frantically waving a plastic bag at Carlson. It’s the one with Blake’s phone inside. The cell I never knew about. Carlson stands, looking annoyed at the interruption, and walks to the door.
I’m wondering what this could mean. What they’ve found from the phone. That’s when I look across to Tina. Her mouth is wide open in shock. She rises halfway to her feet as though she wants to run across the room and snatch the phone back. Then sits back down, face stricken.
She’s seen the phone before. She knows something about it.
“What is it?” demands Carlson. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“Tech results back,” says the officer, glancing over to us.
“And?”
The officer leans in close, so I don’t hear what he’s saying.
Carlson swings around, a triumphant grin on his face.
“Oh, Miss Keidis.” He grins. “You’ve been holding out on us.” He nods to the phone. “Guess you recognize that?”
When Tina doesn’t answer, Carlson removes the handcuffs at his hip.
“What, no wise cracks? No bad language?”
Tina turns to me. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?” I demand.
Tina is white as a sheet.
Carlson is heading toward her, handcuffs outstretched. It feels like a dream.
“Miss Keidis,” he says. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Blake Nelson.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Tina, Sister-Wife
Detective Carlson has made some excuse to duck out of the interview. Which means he and Brewer have some good cop–bad cop schtick goin’ on. ’Cause here I am with Brewer, and she’s not even askin’ me anything important.
She’s put a pack of cigarettes on the table and told me I’m allowed to smoke if I want. Like I can’t see through a smile and twenty Luckies. It’s a shame, ’cause I kinda like Detective Carlson. He’s sorta cute in a swaggery cop way. Broad-shouldered and dependable looking, but not all health and fitness like a lotta the guys in Vegas. You get the impression Detective Carlson works out at the gym and then has a burger and a few beers afterward. Plus he doesn’t judge like you can tell Brewer does.
“You’re wastin’ time,” I say, frustrated. “There’s a killer out there, and you’re lettin’ ’em get away.”
I’ve already used my one phone call. Left a message for Emily, since she’s not picking up the phone. Brewer is shifting papers. I wonder idly if you get glowing skin like hers from good living or if you’re just born with it.
Brewer opens a file, frowning at where some other cop has marked it with a greasy fingerprint.
Right away, I see my old Nevada headshot. The picture they took when I was on twenty wraps of meth a day. I wasn’t workin’ over casinos anymore. Didn’t have the brainpower for it. ’Stead I was on the streets, hustling guys.
“Mind telling us how you and Mr. Nelson met?” asks Brewer. “You don’t seem his regular type.”
I guess she’s referring to Rachel and Emily. Fair-haired butter-wouldn’t-melt girls the pair of them. Godly from the toes up. Men like Blake might go looking for a little fun with a ten-dollar Vegas hooker. They don’t wind up marrying her.
I narrow my eyes at her. “We met when I was in rehab, and he saved my soul.”
“How did his other wives feel about that?”
I laugh, and it comes out like a snort. “How d’ya think?”
“Your pol
ice record suggests you were something of a career criminal in the casinos,” observes Brewer.
“I never got caught for that.” I give her my best shit-eatin’ smile.
“No.” She closes the file. “But you did get caught by vice.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes.
I rub at my wrist where Carlson took the cuffs off. “Like I say,” I tell her, not looking up. “I did my time.”
Brewer’s mouth twists. “Over forty arrests, all in all.”
“Yeah, so? I did my time. I was an addict back then. I’m a different person now. I been baptized.” I give her a grin wide enough to reveal my gold tooth at the back.
Brewer doesn’t return the smile.
“Tina, I’m going to show you some pictures.”
She slides some images across the table. At first, I think they’re showing me some snuff movie stills or somethin’.
There’s a dead guy, eyes bulging, a belt wrapped tight around his neck. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a picture of Blake.
“You fucking sick bitch.” I shove the pictures back at her so fast they scatter onto the floor. And I can’t help but see them a second time. My Blake. Red-faced with his tongue lolling three times the size from his mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I’m kinda hyperventilating.
Guess Brewer was the bad cop after all.
“I dug a little deeper, read some of your old police transcripts,” says Brewer. “Of those forty-plus arrests, over half involved a particular fetish.”
Okay, I’m screwed.
“A few things earned more cash,” I admit. I reach across for the cigarettes and shake one out.
“Strangulation,” says Brewer. “Erotic asphyxiation if we’re using the correct medical term. You choked guys with their own belts, right? For money.”
I find myself wishing Detective Carlson was here. I understand cops like him. They play the tough guy, but they’re alright underneath. Carlson’s the kinda man who’d bend the rules to getcha another blanket or phone call or whatever.
Brewer slides the phone toward me. The screen is unlocked, a frozen still of a man on a bed in view.
My heart skips. Blake.
“Would you mind giving me your account of what is happening in the video?” she asks.
I let out a breath. Light the cigarette. Suck in smoke.
“Blake liked to be dominated,” I say. “It was”—I spread my hands—“his thing. He liked…” I wipe eyeliner from the corners of my eyes. “He liked for me to tell him how bad he was. That he was a sinner. That he needed to be punished.”
Brewer watches me steadily.
“Um. He got off on havin’ a belt around his neck,” I say. “I’d adjust it so there was some pressure there. Enough to, uh, raise the skin around it but not to restrict the airflow.”
“Not enough to suffocate him?”
“No. He liked me to do that personally. While he was, um…while I was jerkin’ him off.”
Brewer’s face looks pained.
“So you’d have one hand on his throat. Another…on his groin?”
“Um.” I frown, looking down. “Yeah.” I fiddle with the cigarette.
“And you’d be choking him?”
“Yeah.” I’ve morphed back into that other Tina. The one I had to become to survive it all. The other Tina sorta sees things happening from a long way off. Detached, removed.
“Until he passed out?”
“No. We had a safe word. But he never needed to use it. I was practiced. Knew the signs.” I shoot her a half smile. “You don’t build a business from killing your clients, right?”
Brewer lets out a breath. “You’d be on top of him?”
I nod. “I’d kinda straddle him.”
“One hand on his throat. Choking him. At what point would you know to stop?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Officer.” I draw in smoke furiously. The cigarette is tasting better.
Brewer looks less embarrassed than I might have imagined. “Right. You’d choke him until he ejaculated?”
“Got it in one.” I wink.
“So as far as you’re concerned, the sex was consensual. In fact, it was requested by Mr. Nelson?”
I nod, inhaling more smoke.
“For the tape, please,” says Brewer.
“Yeah.”
“You see, Miss Keidis,” says Brewer, “we assumed someone hit your husband from behind. Knocked him out, then strangled him. But I checked with forensics, and they can’t be specific about the order in which those things occurred.”
“That so?” The cigarette is down to the butt now. I can feel the heat in my fingers.
“There was never a point”—Brewer is speaking very carefully now, considered—“never a time in your sexual encounters when you used undue force? When things went wrong?”
I suck the last from the cigarette, causing the butt to crackle, then pull a fresh one from the pack and light it from the last.
“No,” I say. “No, Officer. There was not.”
But I can see from her face she doesn’t believe me.
Chapter Forty-Three
Rachel, First Wife
When Brewer comes back into the room, she looks flushed, as though she’s just had a difficult conversation. There’s a file in her hand. The kind I remember all too well. Lotta those files around when the Homestead was raided. One for each of us kids.
“You arrested Tina,” I say, feeling hot. “Aren’t you going to let me go?”
“You’re still a suspect.” Brewer seats herself opposite me, places the folder carefully on the table. “Hmm,” she says. Her tanned forehead is tight in a frown again. I guess no one taught her the way to avoid wrinkles is to keep sweet thoughts in your head.
“Mrs. Nelson”—she sits back slightly—“I’ve been on the phone with your therapist.”
I feel myself sitting straighter.
“She’s refusing to share all the choice details until we have a warrant. But she was at liberty to offer her own opinions and a little more insight into these bad dreams of yours.”
Brewer leafs through some handwritten notes, though I get the impression she isn’t reading them.
“Madeline Overbacht,” she says, “seems to think your upbringing at the Homestead might have had an effect on your memory.”
This brings me up with a start. “She never told me that.”
“Apparently, it’s common in cults,” says Brewer, glancing down at the pages, “when members take part in a prolonged meditation or prayer. It changes the brain.” She taps her head.
I have a memory of us girls on the Homestead, how every hour, a bell rang, and we would join hands, kneel, and pray to the Prophet. Even now when a bell rings, I have to chase away the urge to hold hands with the nearest woman.
“Constant prayer releases chemicals,” continues Brewer. “It’s a reason why victims stay in cults for so long. They become addicted. A little like drug addicts.”
I glare at her, insulted. She’s comparing me to Tina.
“Same as drug addicts,” she continues, “there are side effects. Withdrawal, if you will. When you regularly flush the human brain with unnaturally large quantities of chemicals, it takes time to rebalance. Sometimes the rebalancing is never quite complete. You bend the receptors.” She mimes with her fingers.
“What has this got to do with Blake?”
Brewer raises a hand. “I’m coming to that, Mrs. Nelson. Bear with me.” She gives me a little smile.
“Let me read here for you.” She frowns at the words again. “Some former members who have used these prayer techniques for several years report a wide variety of deleterious side effects,” she says, “including severe headaches, involuntary muscle spasms, poor sleep, and diminution of cognitive faculties
like memory, concentration, and decision-making ability.” She glances up. “Sound familiar?”
I don’t reply.
“You get bad headaches, right?”
“Migraines. Yes, I do.”
“Any other symptoms?” she suggests.
I shake my head.
“What about poor sleep?”
I feel myself flush.
“Only…you told us the nightmares were about an old clinic. But you told your therapist about a new reoccurring dream, ’bout a room with white beds. You’ve only been having this particular image the past year or so. Miss Overbacht let that detail slip by accident.” Brewer flashes me a smile.
Blake’s hand is behind the girl’s head as she lies on the bed, sighing in pleasure.
“Does it feel good?” he whispers, moving rhythmically. “Can you feel the heavenly fire?”
“Yes!” she moans. “Yes! It feels good!”
Brewer is looking at me. A hard stare.
“So is this graveyard dream a new one, or did you think you shouldn’t mention it to your therapist?”
My heart is pounding. “I don’t know. I barely even remember the sessions…”
Brewer taps her pen on the table. “Ms. Overbacht was surprised to hear you were still having nightmares. She told me she urged you to seek some extra counseling for that particular aspect of your recovery. Even made the appointment herself. I checked it out. You never showed.”
“I didn’t…I don’t hold with that dream-analysis stuff,” I say. “There’s no reason dreams need to mean anything at all. I wanted to move on.”
Brewer tilts her head.
“And did you, Mrs. Nelson? Move on, I mean?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Emily, Sister-Wife
My foot doesn’t hurt much now. The police officers wrapped it up in a bandage and helped me out to the car. They drive me through the streets of Salt Lake City, passing by the strip malls with their boxy parking lots and concrete tower signs. There’s a Little Caesar’s Pizza, a Taco Bell, and a pink-fronted nail salon, alongside a store selling discount ladies’ clothing. I bought my wedding dress in a place that looked a lot like that, without Momma even knowing.
