“What’s wrong, Katie?” Bix asked.
“It’s Caitlin,” Josh snapped, “and can you give us a little space?”
Josh put a gentle hand on Caitlin’s shoulder. She thought about shrugging it off, but it actually felt nice. It almost made her feel like she wasn’t alone in this, though she had begun to realize just how alone she was . . . or should be, at least. She knew now that she shouldn’t have dragged anyone else into this, not even her husband. And not Bix, her . . . whatever he was.
Finally, she said quietly, “I think I . . . killed someone.”
After a brief silence, Bix said, “I definitely didn’t see that coming. What the hell are you talking about, Katie?”
Josh ignored him. “Don’t be ridiculous, honey. I keep telling you, you couldn’t kill anyone.”
Caitlin wasn’t so sure about that. There was the blood on her clothes when she returned home last night. And a gun in a bag. And fake hands, though she couldn’t begin to imagine what those were all about. And she had regained her senses outside a warehouse, the same warehouse she’d just seen on TV, the one where a man had been found shot to death.
She was tired suddenly. Very tired. She had slept only a few restless hours last night. And she’d grappled all morning with the uncertainty of her life over the past seven months, then spent the hours since then riding an emotionally exhausting mental Tilt-A-Whirl, with every new revelation about her life in Smithfield, with Bix, sending her mind spinning faster and faster. It was all catching up with her. She just wanted to go home, go to sleep, and not think about any of this. But she couldn’t do that. Home was in New Hampshire, and the answers she sought were here in Smithfield. Still, she was tired. She really needed to close her eyes.
“Look at you, hon,” Josh said. “You need some rest. Let’s get out of here.”
“But what about—”
“We’ll go there tomorrow,” Josh said.
Caitlin nodded. Their next planned stop was the pub where Caitlin had worked. But the mere thought of going there now and coming face-to-face with all new people she’d see and meet, people who would all know her and whom she’d have to pretend to recognize, was exhausting. She knew she wouldn’t be able to pull it off tonight, so she nodded and stood. As they headed across the restaurant, the bartender called, “See you tomorrow, guys.” Then they passed Candace, who said brightly, “Good night, guys.” When they were halfway to the door, the little old man from the booth in the back wobbled up to them slowly, a fedora that had been brand-new back in the 1950s in his hands. Caitlin thought he looked close to ninety years old.
“Hey, little cutie,” he said in a paper-thin voice.
Caitlin mustered a smile, which wasn’t easy for her just then. “Hi, there,” she said.
“I thought you were going to sneak off without saying hello to me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The man smiled, exposing dentures too big for his mouth. “I didn’t think so.” A second later, his smile faltered.
“Are you okay, cutie?” he asked as the creases multiplied on his already wrinkled brow.
She smiled again. “I’m fine. Just tired, is all. Thanks for asking . . .”
A brief but uncomfortable pause followed before Bix jumped in. “Sam, we’ve got to get home. Katie’s being a tough guy here, but the truth is, she’s not feeling great. One beer too many, maybe.”
Sam nodded. “Well, wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, winking at her. “Guess I’ve seen her a few times after a beer too many in her, right?”
He smiled, exposing those big teeth again. Bix returned the smile and Caitlin did her best, too. Josh didn’t smile at all.
“Well, good night, then,” Sam said, nodding to the men. “Feel better, cutie pie,” he said to Caitlin, then slowly toddled off and out the door. Before the door even closed, a couple of guys came in with pool cue cases in their hands.
“Hey, Bix, Katie,” one of them said as they passed.
Caitlin no more recognized them than she had anyone else she’d seen or met in this town. She walked out the door with Josh and Bix right behind her.
Chops stepped out of his coveralls, balled them up, and stuffed them into a plastic bag to dispose of later, along with the long, plastic-wrapped bundle lying on his workroom floor. The bundle was exactly two feet shorter than Benny had been when Chops had brought him here four days ago—not two feet as in twenty-four inches, but two feet as in the kind that usually had toes attached to them, unless someone removed those toes.
Chops turned to his workbench. Wearing latex gloves, he used plastic sandwich bags for the smaller pieces and gallon-size plastic Ziploc bags for the larger ones. These he placed inside various-size boxes. When he was finished, he had eleven packages sealed tightly with packing tape to put in the mail today. Given the six other packages he’d mailed just yesterday, he’d gotten a lot of use lately from the postal meter and scale he kept in his office. This way, he could just drop the boxes into a mailbox and never let a postal worker see his face.
He had just started washing his hands when his cell phone rang. He dried off quickly and answered.
“Yeah?”
He listened for a moment, then said, “I told you to wait till dinnertime to call me back if you haven’t heard from him by then . . . Well, I meant dinner where I am, not where you are. It’s barely even dark out here . . . Okay, whatever. Look, I’ll call him again. If I don’t reach him, I’ll leave a message. He doesn’t call me back tonight, I’ll fly out there in the morning. Good enough? . . . Well, it’ll have to be. I can’t go tonight . . . Look, relax, like I said, he’s probably just sleeping off a bender. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”
Chops ended the call, gathered up his packages, and left his workroom, locking the door behind him as always.
In the kitchen of their house, Rachel was sitting at the table eating an apple while little Julia ate cantaloupe cut into tiny cubes. Chops stacked the packages on the table, then grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge.
“What’s all that?” Rachel asked.
“I sold a few small tools on eBay,” Chops said, “ones I’ve replaced or just don’t use anymore. I want to get them into a mailbox so they go out first thing in the morning. You need anything while I’m out?”
“You won’t be gone long, right? Everyone’s coming in two hours.”
“No problem.”
Rachel had invited two couples over for dinner followed by after-dinner board games—Pictionary, maybe. Chops didn’t mind these people. They were among the small number who thought of him as George, who didn’t truly know him, though they probably considered him a close friend. Chops needed people like that in his life, both to keep up appearances and to help him remember that there were people in the world, in addition to his wife and daughter, who didn’t need to be intimidated, hurt, or killed, or who didn’t want to hire him for his particular set of skills. People like the Braddocks and the Haydens were just decent folks.
“Okay, as long as you’re back before they get here,” Rachel said. “Your daughter has maybe two diapers left, so we could use a box.”
“Pampers, right? The ones with the contoured fit?”
Rachel nodded, impressed. “Well done. And can you pick up two bottles of pinot grigio for tonight?”
“Will do. They probably don’t have that at Babies ‘R’ Us, do they?”
Rachel smiled. She had a great smile. Chops bent down, kissed the top of his daughter’s head, and snatched a little cube of cantaloupe from her plate.
“Daddy!” Julia said.
“Sorry, pumpkin,” Chops said. Then he stole another cube and grinned at her.
“Shouldn’t eat with dirty hands, Daddy,” Julia scolded.
Chops looked down and saw flecks of dried blood on the knuckles of his right hand. “You’re right, Jules,” he said, stepping over to the sink. After washing his hands thoroughly, he scooped up the packages from th
e table. He wished he also had the time to dump the big bundle still in his workroom, but he couldn’t do it before their company arrived in two hours. It would have to wait until morning, because he knew the evening would go late and he’d be drinking, and the last thing Chops needed was to get pulled over for weaving and have a cop decide to search his truck and find what was left of Benny in the false bottom of the big tool chest that spanned the width of the truck’s bed.
Chops stooped a little and kissed his wife on the cheek, then headed for the garage. On the road a few minutes later, the packages stacked on the passenger seat and floor of his Dodge pickup, Chops pulled out his cell phone and dialed. When voice mail eventually answered, Chops began to leave his message. “Where the hell are you, Mike? Call me back as soon as you get this, because if I don’t hear from you by morning, I have to fly out there. Don’t make me do that. I’ll be pissed off about it and I’ll want to take it out on someone. And you know how I can be when I’m pissed off. So call me back.”
He hung up and hoped he didn’t have to fly to Massachusetts in the morning. If he did, he’d probably miss the circus tomorrow night. It was only in town for a week, and they had center-ring, front-row seats. He and Rachel doubted that Julia was old enough to appreciate the skill, the humor, or the acrobatic athleticism of the performers, but they knew she’d get a big kick out of the animals and all the bright colors, and Chops wanted to be there to see her face. Plus, Rachel would be upset if she had to go without him. So the sonofabitch better call back before morning.
Bix was behind the wheel of his Ford Explorer. Josh sat in back with Caitlin, where he had directed her when they left the restaurant. Bix felt like a chauffeur, though this was better than the drive to dinner a few hours ago, when Caitlin was in the passenger seat and Josh was in the backseat but spent the entire ride leaning forward with his head almost right between Bix’s and Caitlin’s.
After a few minutes of driving in silence, Bix said, “So what’s this about Katie killing someone?”
“She didn’t kill anyone,” Josh said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, seeing as I’d be aiding and abetting if you’re wrong and Katie’s right, it seems like I have a right to know what the hell she’s talking about.”
“Your friends are all crooks and suddenly a little crime makes you nervous?”
“Murder isn’t a ‘little crime,’ ” Bix said. “And for the record, I don’t think she could do anything like that, either. But I have a right to know.”
“Listen, just take us back to our car and we’ll get out of your life forever.”
Caitlin spoke up. “He’s right, Josh. I wish it weren’t the case, but we brought him into this. I’m sorry we got you involved, Bix, but Josh is right. Maybe we should just get out of your hair. I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
“Look,” Bix said, “like it or not, you got me involved seven months ago. You may not remember me, but up until a few hours ago, we were planning on heading to the altar in a couple of days. So if there’s something going on here, like I said, I have the right to know.”
After a moment, Caitlin said, “He’s right again, Josh.”
Josh grunted. “Hon, we don’t know if this guy—”
“We have to fill him in.”
Josh grunted again, then Caitlin recounted for Bix how she’d woken up—if it could be called that—at a warehouse last night, with blood on her clothes and a bag with a gun and half a dozen fake hands inside.
“Fake hands?”
Caitlin shrugged.
Bix seemed to consider that a moment. “And you don’t remember anything before that?”
“Only . . . my life before Smithfield, including almost everything that happened in the days before I . . . disappeared, I guess.”
Bix already knew that she didn’t remember any of her life with him, but hearing it again stung nonetheless. “Nothing of the warehouse, though?” he asked. “Or how you got the gun? Or where the blood came from, or . . . the fake hands?”
She shook her head. “So what do you think?”
“Kind of sounds like you shot somebody.”
“Sounds that way to me, too,” Caitlin said in a quiet voice. Bix looked into the rearview mirror. Caitlin was gazing blankly out the side window at the passing storefronts, all of them dark at this late hour.
“But hey,” Bix said, “if you did shoot someone, I’m sure you had a good reason. Self-defense or something like that.”
Caitlin met his eyes in the mirror. “So you think I should turn myself in? Let the police investigate?”
“What?” he said. “God, no. Why the hell would you do that?”
“If I’m innocent,” she said, “or if what I did was at least justified, they’d figure that out, right?”
“Katie, despite what Josh here probably thinks, I don’t have anything against cops personally. I’m sure most of them do damn fine work. But on the off chance your case landed on the desk of one of the less dedicated or even less trustworthy officers of the law, the kind more interested in closing cases than in getting the right bad guy, I’d rather you not waltz into a police station and tell them you probably shot that guy in the warehouse but, gosh darn it, you just can’t remember doing it.”
“But—”
Bix shook his head. “This case would be a dream for them. They’d have a suspect, and physical evidence, and you’d give them the murder weapon, I’m sure. And not only don’t you have an alibi, but you think you actually might have pulled the trigger. So how hard do you think they’d work to prove that it was self-defense? And with you not remembering anything and the dead guy dead, who’s gonna tell the cops it wasn’t your fault?”
After a moment, Caitlin said, “So what do we do?”
Bix looked into the mirror again. Caitlin was looking back at him. She looked so tired. Tired and scared. But mostly tired.
“For now, we go back to my place,” he said. “You get some sleep. In the morning, we’ll decide what to do next.”
“Thanks, but we can find a motel,” Josh said.
Bix nodded. “Sure you can. Is that what you want to do, Katie?”
After a moment, she said, “It’s late. If Bix will let us stay there, I think we should. Besides, spending the night where I lived for seven months, surrounded by things that were once familiar to me . . . well, who knows? Maybe it will help me remember something.”
Bix thought he could hear Josh’s teeth grinding.
Bix dropped a blanket, two pillows, and a set of sheets on the sleep sofa in the second bedroom. “You sure you don’t want to sleep in your own bed, Katie?” he asked, smiling. “More comfortable than this pullout.”
Caitlin thought for sure that Josh would rise up and take the bait, but he let her answer, and his restraint surprised and impressed her. “No thanks, Bix,” she said. To make Josh feel better—which Caitlin thought he deserved, given how hard this all must have been for him—she added, “Josh and I will be fine here.”
“Well, I’m right across the hall if you need me for anything during the night,” he added, looking at Caitlin with what was probably his most devilish smile.
“Thanks,” Josh said with a smile of his own. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I need anything.”
Bix chuckled and closed the door behind him as he left.
“He’s a dick,” Josh said as he removed the cushions from the sofa and pulled out the bed. The mattress was thin, and the top and bottom rose a few inches from the frame as it tried to relax after God knew how long folded and crammed into the sofa.
“He’s probably hurting a little,” Caitlin said. “Or maybe he just feels like a fool. He may act like a tough guy, but this can’t be any fun for him, either.” She began putting the fitted sheet on the mattress. “And even though this is a lousy situation for him, he’s helping us.” She spread the top sheet over the fitted sheet, smoothed it out, and tucked it in at the bottom.
“He’s helping you, not me,”
Josh said. “And he’s still a dick.”
Caitlin didn’t have any other counterarguments, so she let it go. Josh took the other side of the blanket, and together they laid it on top of their bed. They each stuffed a pillow into a pillowcase, then finished getting ready for bed before sliding under the covers. Josh reached over to a wall switch and turned off the overhead light. Caitlin could see him in the dim moonlight leaking into the room between the slats of a venetian blind. He was lying on his back, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“You okay?” she asked softly. She was on her side, facing him.
He turned his head toward her and frowned. “Stop worrying about me, okay? You shouldn’t have to worry about anyone but yourself right now.”
“Hey,” she said, “this is affecting you, too.”
“I know, but I don’t want you worrying about me.” After a moment, he added, “It’s just that guy . . .”
“I know,” she said.
“But I’m okay, hon,” he said. “Really.” He took his arm from behind his head, reached over, and rested his hand on her upper thigh. She liked the contact, so she scooted closer to him and laid her hand on his stomach. She heard a small intake of breath from him and realized that, while it seemed to her like just two days ago that they had slept in the same bed, shared this kind of physical intimacy, for Josh it was more than seven months. She considered sliding her hand lower on his belly, and lower still—he probably wanted her to, and she wouldn’t blame him—but she was so very tired. Still, she loved him. She tried to imagine him spending all those nights alone in their bed. She looked into his eyes and moved her hand down past his belly button.
He kept one hand on her leg but reached down with his other and placed it over Caitlin’s hand, stopping its movement. He held it tight.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said, smiling. “You get an A-plus for effort, but you’re exhausted and we have the rest of our lives.”
The Prettiest One: A Thriller Page 10
