The River Killings

by Merry Jones

  Think, I told myself. Don’t try to figure her out rationally; clearly, she’s not rational. She’s obsessed with Nick and getting even. You’re a therapist. An expert. You’ve dealt with psychos before. psych her out. Be professional. I tried to remember what I knew, anything that might apply. My mind went instantly blank, completely void of any knowledge. I recalled not a single theory or pertinent principle. As I descended the stairs all I could think of was that, if she liked us, she wouldn’t hurt us. I might even be able to convince her that Nick was innocent. So I set about building rapport, making Heather our friend.

  “Okay, Heather.” I tried to sound warm and cordial as I said her name. Then I said ours, making us seem like people rather than objects. “How about we introduce ourselves? I’m Zoe Hayes and this is my daughter, Molly—”

  “Shut up.” She shoved the gun into my spine.

  Molly and I stumbled down the steps, Heather right behind us. At the bottom of the stairs she stepped over to the window and looked out at the rain.

  “It’s supposed to go on all night,” I tried again. “There are flood warnings.”

  “Stay right there. Don’t move.” She stepped into the kitchen, and holding the gun with one hand, poured herself a cup of coffee with the other. She opened the refrigerator, took out the milk and poured it into the mug.

  “You’re almost out of milk,” she complained. “By the way, kids shouldn’t drink skim. They need the fat. Two percent’s better. Even one percent. Not skim. Skim sucks.”

  Heather was chatting. Good. Keep it up. Make her your friend, I coached myself. “Really? That’s good to know. I’ll remember that.”

  She eyed me as if to say that I might not need to. That I might not be shopping anymore.

  Thunder rolled overhead, long and low, and the lights flickered. For a moment we stood in the hall beside my kitchen, lit only by the blue of the lightning flash. Without saying a word, Heather motioned us to the living room.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  We sat on my purple sofa, Molly a wide-eyed appendage on my hip. Heather sat in a wingback chair, gulping French roast, her eyes darting around the room.

  “So, you know who I am.” She swallowed coffee. “He told you about me?”

  I nodded.

  “Was he expecting me?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “He should have been after he stood me up the other day. We had a date. Son of a bitch didn’t show up.”

  Nick had a date with her? “Well, he probably couldn’t get there. He got shot. He was in the hospital.”

  “Bullshit, don’t make excuses for him,” she said. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t read the papers? I know he got shot, and I know when. He was supposed to meet me before that. I told him when and where. Did he show? No.”

  I didn’t know what to say, said nothing.

  “So what did he tell you about me?” She smirked, exposing her gap. “Did he say I’m crazy?” “No, of course not.”

  “Then what? That I want to kill him? I bet he told you some load of crap. Like I was coming after him because I was jealous of my sister. Or like I was in love with him but he married her, instead. Is that what he told you?”

  I shook my head. No. Nick hadn’t said anything like that.

  “Because I know his ego, I know what he thinks. He thinks I never got over my teenage crush on him. He thinks I was jealous of Annie.”

  “I don’t know. He never said that.”

  Molly whispered, “Who is she, Mom?” I squeezed her tighter, signaling her to keep still.

  Heather scoffed. “Did he tell you how Annie died? I mean the truth.”

  I didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. Molly squirmed, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

  “Answer me. Did he tell you how she died?”

  I held Molly close. “He said it was suicide.”

  “Shit. That’s the bullshit story they gave the press. I mean the truth. Did he tell you how she really died?”

  Oh, God. Was she going to say that Nick had killed her?

  “I guess not.” She laughed at that, shaking her head. “Of course not. Why would Nick tell the truth? Suicide, huh. Yeah, he would say that.”

  She lifted the coffee mug again, slurping when she drank. Molly pressed against me, whispering again. “Who is she? Who died?”

  I kissed her head, whispered, “Later.”

  “Well, trust me. It wasn’t suicide. My sister didn’t shoot herself.” Heather shook her head. “Annie liked herself way too much for that. Way too much.”

  So, if she thought it wasn’t suicide, Heather must believe that it was murder. That Nick killed her sister. Apparently she was here to take her revenge. “Heather,” I used her name again. “Nick was never even charged—”

  “Of course he wasn’t. I knew he wouldn’t be. Cops don’t get sent to jail. But, trust me, my sister didn’t kill herself. It wasn’t suicide.”

  “But how can you be sure? You weren’t there. Nick’s the only one who really knows what happened.”

  “Nick? Nick only thinks he knows.” Chugging coffee, she tilted her head and studied me, examining my face. “You look like her, you know. A lot like her.”

  I’d seen pictures of Nick’s wife. She was right; we had a resemblance.

  “Did you ever think maybe that’s why he’s with you? You ought to consider that. Because maybe he’s trying to replace her. You know, make you into her. And that would be worrisome, wouldn’t it. Because what happened to her could happen to you.”

  “What’s she talking about, Mom?” Molly squirmed.

  “Heather,” I used her name again. “Molly doesn’t know anything about this. She’s just a little girl. Why don’t we let her go upstairs—” Molly’s grip tightened on my arm.

  “What? You think I’m going to let the kid leave the room so she can dial 9-1-1? Do I look that stupid? Forget it. The kid stays here.”

  “My name’s Molly, not ‘the kid.’“

  Heather looked at her then, as if for the first time. Molly, sensing a challenge, looked directly back. Loosening her hold on me, she sat up straight, meeting Heather’s gaze. Great. Molly was taking her on, eye to eye.

  “Molls, cool it,” I whispered, but she wasn’t listening.

  “Guns suck.” Molly glared.

  Still eyeing her, Heather gulped more coffee. “Keep your kid quiet.”

  “Not ‘kid.’“ Molly corrected. “Molly.” “Shut up, you little toad.” “You. You’re the toad.”

  “Molly—” I began. What was she doing scrapping with an armed, unbalanced psycho?

  Heather stood, her shadow crossing the room ahead of her.

  I jumped to my feet, stepping between them, breaking their eye contact, ending the contest. “Molly, be quiet!” I scolded. Then I turned to Heather. “Back off, Heather. Molly’s got nothing to do with you. What do you want?”

  Her attention shifted away from Molly back to me. “What do I want? Are you kidding? I want Nick, my beloved brother-in-law. I want to be done, that’s what I want. But first I have to deal with you two.”

  Oh, God. “Heather, think about it. You really haven’t done anything wrong yet. If you leave now, we can forget all about this. You don’t want to go back to jail, do you?”

  “Jail?” She laughed, a hoarse, raspy sound. “Don’t worry. I’m not going back there.” Heather watched us while she finished her coffee; then she played with the gun, aiming at my face. “It’s creepy how much you really do look like her.”

  Heather rambled on about her sister, how I didn’t measure up to her, how Annie was much more striking. How Nick had been infatuated with her, but not really in love. Molly stayed beside me, clinging to my waist.

  We sat that way until once, as lightning flared and thunder crashed, the lights dipped and didn’t come back on. In a flash of lightning, I saw stark violet shadows and Molly’s small form dashing out of the room. In a heartbeat, I ran after her.

  EIGHT
Y-TWO

  I DIDN’T SEE HER ANYWHERE.WHICH WAY HAD SHE GONE?I FLEW through the hall toward the front of the house. Should I go after her or try to get outside for help? I had no time to decide. “Molly—” I yelled. “Hide!”

  Heather cursed, crashing through the darkness into the coffee table, and I heard the crack of breaking pottery as she dropped her coffee mug. But she kept coming. I felt her behind me, her frantic breath on my back and, expecting a gunshot to tear through me, I veered left into my studio, hoping she’d follow me and forget about Molly and Nick.

  And she did. I plunged down, ducking behind my drawing table, tossing the stool into Heather’s path. As she tripped over it, her gun went off, the bullet lodging somewhere in my hardwood floor. I crouched between the desk and the storage cabinet, trying to figure out an escape route or a place to hide, finding none. Except the window. Damn. Heather would probably blast me away before I could slide it up. But I had no choice. I tossed a pencil across the room, creating a diverting noise in the opposite corner. When Heather turned that way, I scooted around the cabinet to grab the window frame. And saw that the pane was gone. She’d taken it out again. Damn. I’d just had the thing fixed.

  Water puddled beneath the glassless window where Heather had once again broken in. Rain spattering my face, I leaned out, crawled over the sill. A gun fired and wood splinters jabbed my hindquarters; Heather had spotted me. I plunged forward, landing on my already battered head in the muddy patch of shrubs along the brownstone, curling and rolling as my legs fell and, tottering upright again, I huddled against the brick wall, hoping I was too close to the building for Heather to take aim. Bruising raindrops pummeled me, resoaking my clothes, blurring my vision as I inched my way between hedges and brick toward the street. Nick, I told myself, would be okay as long as Heather was in sight. And Molly would be hiding. She was great at hiding, an Olympian; she’d be safe long enough for me to get to the street. Crouching, peering into the darkness, I moved to the front corner of the house, ready to spring across the sidewalk into the street, stoop between parked cars, dash to Victor’s. Victor would be home; he always was home. Victor would call 911.

  I wiped rain from my eyes, ready to sprint ahead, and peeked around the corner of the house. Heather stood at the front steps, waiting for me, her gun aimed at my head.

  When she fired, it surprised me. Heather’s earlier shots had been meant to scare, not wound. But this time, she’d aimed carefully. I felt the heat of the bullet too close to my cheek, blasting through the rain. I ducked back behind the brick as her next shot flew by, and I looked out cautiously, just long enough to see her take a step forward.coming after me. I wheeled around and ran; maybe I could make it to the gate behind the house—Or leap back inside through the window, get a broom or frying pan, slam her from behind—

  A yowl pierced the night, drowning out even the storm. A soul-searing, wild cry of pain and despair, and it seemed to come from the front of my house. I froze. Heather? I looked behind me; she wasn’t there; she hadn’t pursued me. Why? What had happened? Water poured down my face, into my eyes as I rushed back to the front of the house, stuck my head out, peering around the corner.

  Molly rode Heather like a wild, bucking pony. Well, not exactly. She would never have pressed her fingers into a pony’s eyes. Or sunk her few remaining teeth deep into its neck, breaking skin.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  I FOUND THE GUN WHERE HEATHER HAD DROPPED IT IN THE mud; only then did I get Molly off her. Heather moaned, cursing, holding her wound. How bad could the bite be? I thought. Molly was six—her front teeth were all missing. Maybe Heather was faking, trying to throw me off-guard. But even in the dark I could see Molly’s lips drip, vampirish, with dark blood, and I watched it wash pink by the rain.

  “Go inside,” I told Molly. “Call the police.”

  “I can’t find the phone. I looked already.”

  Right. I’d been on the phone when I saw Heather. Heather had taken it from me. “Get a flashlight from the kitchen. Use the one in my office.”

  Molly was wiping her mouth, wincing from the taste of blood.

  “Know what? You’re the toad,” she shouted to Heather. Then she headed into the house.

  As soon as she was gone, Heather turned to face me, her neck dripping blood. She lowered her head, bent her knees. I stood alone, pointing the gun at her, aware of its awkward heaviness. I’d never held a gun before. It was cold, slippery in the rain. We stood facing each other, silent. Then Heather charged. She came running at me, head down, like a football tackle in a slow-motion replay. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t believe that Heather was actually barreling straight for me. Did she think I wouldn’t shoot her? Was she right? Go on,

  I told myself. Shoot, dammit. Pull the trigger. Heather’s head was inches away; if I fired, I couldn’t miss. And when she sprang, grabbing my arm, wrestling for the gun, I was still telling myself to shoot.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  I HELD ON TO THE GUN, STIFFENING MY MUSCLES, RESISTING HER grip. She strangled my wrist, twisted my arm, trying to point the muzzle at my head. Together, we fell to the sloshy ground in the relentless storm. Heather outsized and outweighed me, but I was in shape from rowing, and I fought back, using my body as a lever, sliding out from under her, kicking her shins, pressing my knees into her sopping stomach, all the time gripping the gun, trying to keep it turned away from my body while Heather twisted, squeezed and scratched at my arm.

  We wrestled, splashing around on cement and in mud, even as sirens began to blare, even as lights flashed over us, even as police yelled for us to drop the gun and release our holds on each other, even as Molly yelled to me from the doorstep. I didn’t dare, and Heather wouldn’t let go. My limbs burned, muscles on fire with pain, and I knew I couldn’t resist much longer. But we were caught in a death grip, each unwilling or unable to be the first to give way.

  Police yelled again, flashing lights on us, ordering us to drop the weapon.

  Panting, strength fading, I gasped, “Heather, please. Let’s stop.”

  And she answered, “Fine.” She stopped struggling, retaining only her grip on my wrist. “It’s over.”

  I believed her; I shouldn’t have, but I wanted to, needed to, couldn’t fight anymore. So I eased up, relaxing my muscles, except those holding the gun.

  “Do me a favor,” Heather panted, “tell Nick. Tell him I wish I’d let Annie kill him.” What?

  She smirked, let out a gruesome laugh. “Bastard. He never even noticed me. Not even after what I did for him. I mean, Annie was my big sister. My own sister.” She smirked then, bitterly. “Think she’s forgiven me? Well, I guess I’ll find out. . .”

  She stopped midsentence, and we lay face-to-face, nose-to-nose, her hands gripping mine. I couldn’t process what she was saying. Had Heather stopped Annie from killing Nick? How? I’d almost figured out an explanation, almost formed a thought when Heather began heaving. I winced, thought she was going to be sick.

  “Tell Nick. Tell him I’ll see him in hell,” she panted. Her smile was twisted, showing the space between her front teeth.

  And before I could react, she yanked my wrist and pressed my finger. And shot herself in the eye.

  Even in the rain, I felt the warm splash of tissue and blood. Even over the sirens I heard Molly scream, “Mom!” Her voice came to me muffled, muted by the deafening report of the gun. Images, sensations seemed to occur one by one, as if lined up in single file, and I took them in separately, each in its own time. Nothing blended or merged with the rest. Even my own cries.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  I ROLLED AWAY, TWITCHING AND KICKING. I REMEMBER THE COPS like through a scarlet haze, as thogh the rain itself had turned to blood; and I remember searching for Molly, for Nick, desperate to find my family.

  Someone held an umbrella over me, assuring me that Molly and Nick were in the house, safe and dry, away from the grisly scene. And someone else led me away from the body, took me inside, gave me a blanket to cover my
watery bloodstained clothes. The hallway glared blinding and bright; my eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and at some point while I was outside, the electricity had come back on. I blinked, squinting, searching for Molly, and she ran to me before I could find her. I grabbed her, kneeling beside her, covering her rain-soaked head with kisses.

  “I am so proud of you,” I told her. “You’re my hero.”

  She beamed proudly, then frowned. “Who was she, Mom?”

  “Somebody from Nick’s past. From an old case.” It was true, mostly.

  “She’s dead, right, Mom?”

  I nodded. “She won’t bother us anymore.” Holding her hand, I started upstairs to find Nick.

  “I bit her—eww—she was bleeding right in my mouth. My whole mouth tastes disgusting—”

  “You were brave, Molls. And smart. You stopped Heather from shooting me. And you called the police.”

  She tilted her head. “No, uh-uh. I didn’t call them. I told you. I couldn’t find the phone—”

  “But there’s one in my office.”

  “But she was shooting at you, Mom. I didn’t have time. I had to come back outside.”

  Molly hadn’t called? Then who had?

  Nick, I thought. He must have managed to untie himself and called from his cell.

  I rushed upstairs to the bedroom. Two cops were with Nick, arguing with him, trying to get him to lie down. When he saw us he relaxed, almost collapsing onto the bed. Still soaking, we ran to him and hugged him too tightly. “Thank God,” he said; it sounded like a moan.

  The police had found Nick lying on the bedroom floor. His arms and ankles tightly bound, he’d thrust himself out of bed and had been trying to roll to the steps, coming after us. Weak and depleted, he could barely speak; his skin was damp and transparent, colorless. Clearly, Nick had not been able to call for help. Not Molly, not Nick.