by Blake Pierce
Chapter 27
Hands still shaking, Riley reached into a kitchen cabinet for the bottle of vodka she’d stashed, the one she promised she would never touch again. She unscrewed the bottle cap and tried to pour it quietly into a glass, so that April wouldn’t hear. Since it looked so much like water, she hoped she could drink it openly without lying about it. She didn’t want to lie. But the bottle gurgled indiscreetly.
“What’s going on, Mom?” April asked from behind her at the kitchen table.
“Nothing,” Riley answered.
She heard April groan a little. She could tell that her daughter knew what she was doing. But there was no pouring the vodka back into the bottle. Riley wanted to throw it away, she really did. The last thing she wanted to do was drink, especially in front of April. But she had never felt so low, so shaken. She felt as if the world were conspiring against her. And she really needed a drink.
Riley slipped the bottle back into the cabinet, then went to the table and sat down with her glass. She took a long sip, and it burned her throat in a comforting way. April stared at her for a moment.
“That’s vodka, isn’t it, Mom?” she said.
Riley said nothing, guilt creeping over her. Did April deserve this? Riley had left her at home all day, calling occasionally to check up on her, and the girl had been perfectly responsible and had stayed out of trouble. Now Riley was the one being furtive and reckless.
“You got mad at me for smoking pot,” April said.
Riley still said nothing.
“Now is when you’re supposed to tell me that this is different,” April said.
“It is different,” Riley said wearily.
April glared.
“How?”
Riley sighed, knowing her daughter was right, and feeling a deepening sense of shame.
“Pot’s illegal,” she said. “This isn’t. And—”
“And you’re an adult and I’m a kid, right?”
Riley didn’t reply. Of course, that was exactly what she had been starting to say. And of course, it was hypocritical and wrong.
“I don’t want to argue,” Riley said.
“Are you really going to start into this kind of thing again?” April said. “You drank so much when you were going through all those troubles—and you never even told me what it was all about.”
Riley felt her chin clench. Was it from anger? What on earth did she have to be angry with April about, at least right now?
“There are some things I just can’t tell you,” Riley said.
April rolled her eyes.
“Jesus, Mom, why not? I mean, am I ever going to be grown up enough to learn the awful truth about what you do? It can’t be much worse that what I imagine. Believe me, I can imagine a lot.”
April got up from her chair and stomped over to the cabinet. She pulled down the vodka bottle and started to pour herself a glass.
“Please don’t do that, April,” Riley said weakly.
“How are you going to stop me?”
Riley got up and gently took the bottle away from April. Then she sat down again and poured the contents of April’s glass into her own glass.
“Just finish eating your food, okay?” Riley said.
April was tearing up now.
“Mom, I wish you could see yourself,” she said. “Maybe you’d understand how it hurts me to see you like this. And how it hurts that you never tell me anything. It just hurts so much.”
Riley tried to speak but found that she couldn’t.
“Talk to somebody, Mom,” April said, beginning to sob. “If not to me, to somebody. There must be somebody you can trust.”
April fled into her room and slammed the door behind her.
Riley buried her face in her hands. Why did she keep failing so badly with April? Why couldn’t she keep the ugly parts of her life separate from her daughter?
Her whole body heaved with sobs. Her world had spun completely out of control and she couldn’t form a single coherent thought.
She sat there until the tears stopped flowing.
Taking the bottle and the glass with her, she went into the living room and sat on the couch. She clicked on the TV and watched the first channel that came up. She had no idea what movie or TV show she’d happened upon, and she didn’t care. She just sat there staring blankly at the pictures and letting the meaningless voices wash over her.
But she couldn’t stop the images flooding through her mind. She saw the faces of the women who had been killed. She saw the blinding flame of Peterson’s torch moving toward her. And she saw Marie’s dead face—both when Riley had found her hanging and when she’d been so artfully displayed in the coffin.
A new emotion started to crawl along her nerves—an emotion that she dreaded above all others. It was fear.
She was terrified of Peterson, and she could feel his vengeful presence all around her. It didn’t much matter whether he was alive or dead. He’d taken Marie’s life, and Riley couldn’t shake the conviction that she was his next target.
She also feared, perhaps even more, the abyss that she was falling into now. Were the two really separate? Hadn’t Peterson caused this abyss? This was not the Riley she knew. Did PTSD ever have an end?
Riley lost track of time. Her whole body buzzed and ached with her multifaceted fear. She drank steadily, but the vodka wasn’t numbing her at all.
She finally went to the bathroom and combed the medicine cabinet and found what she was looking for. Finally, with shaking hands, she found it: her prescription tranquilizers. She was supposed to take one at bedtime, and to never mix it with alcohol.
With shaking hands, she took two.
Riley went back to the living room couch and stared at the TV again, waiting for the medication to take effect. But it wasn’t working.
Panic seized her in an icy grip.
The room seemed to be spinning now, making her feel nauseous. She closed her eyes and stretched out on the couch. Some of the dizziness went away, but the darkness behind her eyelids was impenetrable.
How much worse can things get? she asked herself.
She knew right away that it was a stupid question. Things were going to get worse and worse and worse for her. Things would never ever get better. The abyss was bottomless. All she could do was surrender to the fall and give herself over to cold despair.
The pitch-blackness of intoxication folded itself around her. She lost consciousness and soon began to dream.
Once again, the white flame of the propane torch cut through the darkness. She heard someone’s voice.
“Come on. Follow me.”
It wasn’t Peterson’s voice. It was familiar, though—extremely familiar. Had somebody come to her rescue? She rose to her feet and began to follow whoever was carrying the torch.
But to her horror, the torch cast its light on one corpse after another—first Margaret Geraty, then Eileen Rogers, then Reba Frye, then Cindy MacKinnon—all of them naked and horribly splayed. Finally the light fell on Marie’s body, suspended in mid-air, her face horribly contorted.
Riley heard the voice again.
“Girl, you sure as hell botched things up.”
Riley turned and looked. In the sizzling glare, she saw who was holding the torch.
It wasn’t Peterson. It was her own father. He was wearing the full dress uniform of a Marine colonel. That struck her as odd. He’d been retired for many years now. And she hadn’t seen or spoken to him in more than two years.
“I saw some bad shit in ’Nam,” he said with a shake of his head. “But this really makes me sick. Yeah, you botched it bad, Riley. Of course I learned long ago not to expect anything from you.”
He waved the torch so that it shone on one last body. It was her mother, dead and bleeding from the bullet wound.
“You might as well have shot her yourself, for all the good you did her,” her father said.
“I was just a little girl, Daddy,” Riley wailed.
&n
bsp; “I don’t want to hear any of your damn excuses,” her father barked. “You never brought a single human soul a moment of joy or happiness, you know that? You never did anybody a lick of good. Not even yourself.”
He turned the knob of the torch. The flame went out. Riley was in pitch-darkness again.
Riley opened her eyes. It was night, and the only light in the living room came from the TV. She remembered her dream clearly. Her father’s words kept ringing in her ears.
You never brought a single human soul a moment of joy or happiness.
Was it true? Had she failed everybody so miserably—even the people she loved most?
You never did anybody a lick of good. Not even yourself.
Her mind was foggy and she couldn’t think straight. Maybe she couldn’t bring anybody any real joy and happiness. Maybe there was simply no real love inside of her. Maybe she wasn’t capable of love.
On the verge of despair, reeling for a crutch, Riley recalled April’s words.
Talk to somebody. Somebody you can trust.
In her drunken haze, not thinking clearly, almost automatically Riley tapped a number on her cell phone. After a few moments, she heard Bill’s voice.
“Riley?” he asked, sounding more than half-asleep. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Riley said, slurring her words badly.
Riley heard a woman ask groggily, “Who is that, Bill?”
Bill said to his wife, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
She heard the sound of Bill’s footsteps and a door closing. She guessed that he was going somewhere to talk privately.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Bill, but—”
Riley stopped for a moment. She felt herself on the brink of saying things that she’d regret—maybe forever. But somehow she couldn’t pull herself back.
“Bill, do you think you could get away for a while?”
Bill let out a growl of confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
Riley drew a deep breath. What was she talking about? She was finding it hard to collect her thoughts. But she knew that she wanted to see Bill. It was a primal instinct, an urge she could not control.
With what little awareness she had left she knew she should say I’m sorry and hang up. But fear, loneliness, and desperation overtook her, and she plunged ahead.
“I mean…” she continued, slurring her words, trying to think coherently, “just you and me. Spend some time together.”
There was only silence on the line.
“Riley, it’s the middle of the night,” he said. “What do you mean spend time together?” he demanded, his irritation clearly rising.
“I mean…” she began, searching, wanting to stop, but unable to. “I mean…I think about you, Bill. And not just at work. Don’t you think about me, too?”
Riley felt a terrible weight crushing upon her as soon as she had said it. It was wrong, and there was no taking it back.
Bill sighed bitterly.
“You’re drunk, Riley,” he said. “I’m not going to meet you anywhere. You’re not going to drive anywhere. I’ve got a marriage I’m trying to save, and you … well, you’ve got your own problems. Pull yourself together. Try to get some sleep.”
Bill ended the call abruptly. For a moment, reality seemed to hang in a state of suspension. Then Riley was seized by a horrible clarity.
“What have I done?” she whimpered aloud.
In but a few moments, she had thrown away a ten-year professional relationship. Her best friend. Her only partner. And probably the most successful relationship of her life.
She’d been sure that the abyss she’d fallen into had no bottom. But now she knew she was wrong. She’d hit the bottom, and shattered the floor. Still, she was falling. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to get up again.
She reached for the vodka bottle on the coffee table—she didn’t know whether to drink the last of its contents or to pour it out. But her hand-eye coordination was completely shot. She couldn’t take hold of it.
The room swam around her, there came a crash, and everything went black.
