CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I HAVE TO talk to you.”
She knew that voice. Clare’s hand, frozen over the key slot, dropped slowly to her side. The thumping against her ribs eased enough for her to catch her breath.
“Mr. Wolochuk,” she said, turning around. “What are you doing here?”
“I have to talk to you,” he repeated. “Please.”
She didn’t want Stan Wolochuk in her room. “Not here,” she said. “We can go down to the lobby and talk.” She met his gaze without flinching, her calm belying the quaking in her legs.
“It’s not private enough. Please, Clare. I mean no harm. It’s important.”
Something in his drawn, pale face told her he meant what he said. He was Mr. Wolochuk after all, her old chemistry teacher. She dropped the card into the slot and turned the door handle. He followed her inside, flicking on the light switch next to the door.
The room was cool, because Clare had turned the heat off when she’d left that morning, and it smelled faintly of room freshener. Clare moved hastily to switch on all of the table lamps.
“I’ve never been inside a room here at the Falls View,” he said.
Clare frowned. Had he been drinking? “What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Wolochuk?”
He sagged into one of the chairs in the seating corner of the room, next to the window, forking his fingers through limp strands of hair that hadn’t seen a drop of shampoo in several days. “My life is unraveling,” he moaned. “And it wasn’t much of a life to start with,” he added. “Not much to unravel.”
She didn’t think he was expecting a reply, and remained silent.
“First, I got a phone call from that sheriff—Davis—just before noon. He told me what Jason did last night—” He paused, waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said, “At least, what you accused Jason of doing.”
“I saw him. He pushed me to the ground and ran away.”
He shook his head, as if denying her claim. “I can’t see him doing that. Anyway, the sheriff was concerned but he seemed satisfied when I told him I’d speak to Jason. I even offered to have Jason move in with me until you left Twin Falls.”
“You came all the way here to tell me that?”
Another shake of head. “No. Later, in the afternoon, I had a personal visit. This time from the deputy sheriff. Carelli, I think his name is. Used to go to Twin Falls High.”
That got her attention. Carelli was starting to take her complaints about Jason seriously. “What did he say?”
Wolochuk straightened in his chair. “Say? What a joke. The man threatened me. Said if my no-good troublemaker of a son didn’t leave you alone, he’d have to make a few phone calls. Maybe have Social Services check out my disability payments, or Helen’s welfare supplement.”
Clare sat on the edge of the bed, shocked by what she was hearing. No wonder the man was upset. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t know why Vince Carelli would do something like that.”
“Because he’s a cop, and they can do whatever they want.”
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “I still don’t understand why this has anything to do with me.”
“But it does, doesn’t it? You kept complaining about Jason and finally, the sheriff and his henchman Carelli got fed up.”
She stood up, about to ask him to leave, when the telephone rang. They both jumped. “Don’t answer that!” he cried as she leaned toward the phone. “I won’t be interrupted,” he shouted. “I want my say.”
For the first time, actual fear pumped through her. The telephone rang until the voice mail came on. In the silence that followed, Clare stared at the flashing red light on the phone. It was Gil, she thought. Calling to find out why she hadn’t telephoned him as promised.
The break in tension moved Wolochuk into action. He leaped to his feet and began to pace the room. “It was your book that started all of this,” he said.
Clare eased back onto the bed, recalling Gil’s assertion earlier in the evening.
“Everyone in town was talking about it and there were a few articles in the newspaper when it first came out, but the talk died down a bit after. Until you decided to come here for the book signing.”
“You were in Hartford,” Clare said. “What did it matter?”
“But Helen was here. In the days before you arrived, she kept calling me at all hours. She wouldn’t leave me alone. Screaming over the phone that it was all going to come out in the open again. That it was all my fault and what was I going to do about it. That’s what Jason overheard. Why he got so worked up himself.”
Now she was confused. “What was going to come out in the open?”
“The murder. Rina Thomas’s murder. What else?” He stopped pacing to look at her.
“What did you have to do with Rina Thomas’s murder?” The pulse at her temples accelerated.
“When you and Harper came to see me, you asked me about an argument I had with Rina,” he reminded her.
Clare tensed, hoping her face didn’t reveal what she was thinking. “And you denied it,” she said.
“Of course I did. What did you expect?” His voice rose. “Rina came to see me about her marks. She’d been pestering me for days. But there was nothing more I could do. I’d done enough for her. I told her that was it—no more.”
Clare waited for him to continue. She eyed the flashing message light on the telephone and wondered what he’d do if she picked up the receiver. Best to wait. He was already on edge.
He slumped into the chair again, his anger deflated. “I couldn’t handle any more of her. She was too much. I wanted out.”
Clare could scarcely breathe. What was he saying?
“That’s when the other Rina emerged. She was no typical seventeen-year-old kid, believe me.” He gave a visible shudder. “She said if I wanted it to be over, then it would be. But if I didn’t give her the grade she needed for college, then she’d tell everyone about us.”
Clare stiffened, her eyes riveted on Wolochuk, his head lowered as he talked. She waited impatiently for him to go on, fearing a prompt would either shut him up or send him into another tirade.
“I still feel so ashamed. How could I have gotten myself into that situation? That’s what I’ve been torturing myself with all these years. I can’t remember where or how it started, but once I’d had Rina in my arms, I couldn’t get enough of her. She was like a drug. My addiction.”
He looked across the room at Clare. His thin smile begged for understanding. But Clare had only one thought in her mind. Stan Wolochuk was the father of Rina’s baby.
WHEN THE VOICE MESSAGE came on, Gil hung up. His internal debate lasted no more than a few seconds. She’d promised to call and hadn’t. So he called her and there was no answer. The fact that she might have been in the bathroom made him pause only briefly. He picked up the phone again and called back, this time connecting to the reception desk. The clerk seemed surprised at Gil’s impatience but assured him he had no idea if Miss Morgan was in her room. He hadn’t seen her come into the hotel that evening, but he’d been working in the office. Mr. Harper should call her room again.
Frustrated, Gil restrained himself from slamming the receiver down. Far easier and quicker, he decided, to damn well drive over there. Which is what he did, in an eerie replay of last night’s race. He drove slower tonight, telling himself that there was no emergency. She was in the shower. Something like that.
The lobby was empty with no sign of a clerk. In the office? He jabbed at the elevator button and jumped on the instant the doors opened. The only thing that slowed him down as he reached Clare’s room was the deep baritone of a man’s voice.
Gil hesitated. If he left now, he might save himself from a humiliating situation. Or, he thought, he could trust his instincts about Clare and go on in. He chose the latter, rapping twice on the door and turning the handle. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked.
He figured he was gaping, standing in the doo
rway and witnessing the frozen tableau of Clare, perched rigidly on the edge of the bed, and Stan Wolochuk, hunched in a corner chair. No one spoke for at least thirty seconds and then Gil muttered, “What the hell?”
“Did you call him?” Wolochuk glared at Clare.
“I called here—what’s going on?” He saw the red flashing light, then put it altogether. “What have you done to Clare?” Gil took a long stride toward the corner chair.
Behind him, he heard Clare clearing her throat. “Nothing, Gil. Mr. Wolochuk—Stan—came to talk about Rina Thomas.”
Gil spun around. Stan? Rina Thomas? Her pinched face calmed him down. She wasn’t hurt, but she sure as hell was frightened. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to grab Wolochuk by the collar.
“He—he’s been telling me that he and Rina had an affair.”
Gil tugged at his earlobe. “Say again?”
Her eyes met his and he thought he detected a warning. He looked at Wolochuk, still huddled in the chair but his head raised almost defiantly. Daring me to express my disgust, Gil wondered? “Oh, yeah?” he said, his voice as even as he could make it.
“And he was also the father of Rina’s child.”
The lights in the room seemed to spin for a second. Gil closed, then opened his eyes. Of course. It made perfect sense. The identity of the father was the one thing Rina had refused to reveal to him.
“Did you follow her that day? After I left her at the footbridge?” Gil suddenly asked.
Wolochuk’s face was wary.
“Clare said she saw someone riding a bicycle across the field when she left the building,” Gil continued.
Wolochuk’s expression altered ever so slightly. He had to have been the rider, Gil thought. He pushed the point, gradually closing in on where Wolochuk was sitting. “Clare saw someone on a bike following Rina and me as we walked toward the ravine path.” He paused, studying the man’s face as he inched toward the chair. “And when she ran through the parking lot seconds later, she noticed that your bike wasn’t in the rack.” He stopped about a foot away from Wolochuk. “Was that you on the bicycle?”
Wolochuk almost cowered in his chair. “No, no, no. It wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it?” Gil held the man’s frightened eyes. “If it wasn’t you, who was it, Mr. Wolochuk?”
He jumped to his feet. “You can say whatever you want, but you can’t intimidate me. I’ve gone beyond that.” Wolochuk’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Hell is no longer a scary place when you’ve been living in it for seventeen years.” He started to move toward the door, but Gil held up a hand.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Gil demanded.
“Home. You can’t keep me here. I’ve done nothing to you.” He turned toward Clare. “I’m sorry about Jason. And I’m sorry if I frightened you tonight. I—I was over-wrought. I’m not myself anymore.” He brushed past Gil, but stopped at the door to say, “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. And that wasn’t me on the bike. I—I don’t know who it was. I took my car that day.” He opened the door.
“Clare?” Gil asked. “Do you want me to stop him? Do you want to call the police?” He saw at once that she didn’t. In fact, her eyes filled with alarm.
She shook her head and whispered, “No, let him go, Gil.”
Gil watched helplessly as Stan Wolochuk walked out the door. Then he turned around to Clare, still on the bed.
“Sure you don’t want me to call the sheriff?”
“No, not now. I have a feeling we’ll be talking to the police soon enough. I couldn’t stand the thought of any more questioning tonight.”
Gil closed the door behind Wolochuk and went over to Clare. He took hold of her hand. “You’re freezing,” he said. “Where’s the thermostat, anyway? Maybe you should have a hot bath before getting into bed.”
“Bed?” She struggled with a smile. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink tonight. Not after that unexpected visit. My head is spinning.”
“How did he get in here, anyway?” Gil sat beside her. “Tell me what happened from the start.”
He held her hand while she talked, telling him about Wolochuk coming up behind her in the hall. Her voice rose a notch then. Gil brushed the loose strands of hair away from her forehead, trying to calm her. Or trying to calm himself, he figured. Listening to her account of Wolochuk’s ranting, Gil broke into a cold sweat thinking about how the evening might have gone. The man was definitely unhinged. Worse, and the realization sickened him, he could be Rina’s killer.
But Clare didn’t believe that, when he expressed his doubts about Wolochuk’s denial. “Of course he’s going to deny it,” Gil said. “The man’s not going to confess to murder. Why would he?”
“I know that, but it was just the look in his face. Not guilt, but something else.” She thought for a minute. “I don’t believe he did it, but he knows something he’s not telling us.”
“I think tomorrow we definitely go to the sheriff.”
“After I’m finished baby-sitting,” she said.
“God, Clare. You can’t go on as if nothing’s happened here tonight.”
“He admitted to the affair and fathering Rina’s child. I can’t explain why I feel the way I do. But there was something in his eyes. Something deep and sad, as if he’d been paying for his act all these years.”
“Well, I think you’re more trusting than I am. He had one hell of a motive.”
Her eyes, huge in her pale face, locked with his. “Will you stay with me tonight, Gil. Please?”
“You didn’t need to ask,” he replied. “I decided I was going to right after Wolochuk walked out the door.”
THE MUTED SOUNDS of voices in the hall roused Clare from a sleep deeper than she’d had in the past week. She felt disoriented and had to blink a few times before registering the hotel room. But it was the unfamiliar sensation of extra weight on the bed that caused her to turn over. Gil was lying next to her, fast asleep.
The first thing she noticed was that he slept on his side with one arm raised up over his head, as if to ward off a blow. The second, that he had a disconcertingly satisfied expression in his face. Clare’s mind raced back to last night. They’d sat and talked for almost an hour, after delving into the minibar for a nightcap. Then Gil had run a hot bath for her.
His low-key approach to caring for her was exactly what she needed. She let him lead her along as if she were a child, grateful that someone was there to divert her thoughts from Stan Wolochuk’s disturbing revelations. And when she’d emerged from the bathroom after a long soak, clad in robe and nightie, she found Gil sitting in one of the chairs. The bed had been turned down and all the lights in the room, except for the lamp at her side, had been extinguished.
“You can’t spend the night in a chair,” she said, knowing her comment suggested only one other option.
He gave an awkward shrug. “May be better, though.”
“It’s a king-size bed, Gil. I think we can handle the situation.” That had elicited a smile from a face that looked drawn and tired.
Now, awakening beside him, Clare realized this was another first. Seventeen years ago there had been one passionate yet inexperienced episode of lovemaking in Gil’s narrow bed. There had also been plenty of experimental foreplay, but she’d never actually spent a night with him.
His eyes suddenly fluttered open. “Am I dreaming?” His voice was languid with sleep.
“No,” she said, resisting a giggle. “But if anything happened last night, I assure you it was only in your dreams.”
He mocked disappointment, then rolled onto his back and rubbed at his face. “What time is it?”
Clare craned round to the clock radio next to her. “Nine. I better get moving.” But she lingered, basking not merely in the warmth of the bed, but in the heart-pumping novelty of lying next to Gil Harper. It was a feeling eons away from ten days ago, when she could scarcely bear to be in the same room with him.
He tu
rned her way again, propping himself on an elbow, and extended his other hand to brush away some hair clinging to her cheek. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this scene,” he whispered. “Waking up next to you. Gazing at your lovely face, flushed with sleep, and your hair spilling across a snowy-white pillow.”
Clare caught her breath at the longing in his eyes. She was afraid to speak, of jeopardizing a moment that she sensed was going to be a turning point. But her smile said what her heart feared to.
He pulled her toward him, gently tucking her into the crook of his arm and shifting onto his back, holding her close. Her cheek pressed against his cotton T-shirt and although she was on his right side, she felt the echoing beat of his heart against his chest. If she could have, she’d have spent the entire day without moving from that spot.
The rising voices in the hall indicated the maids were making their rounds and Laura was expecting her. “I should get up,” she whispered.
His chest heaved in a loud sigh. “I know. The cold light of day and all that.” He shifted, propping himself above her. “Something happened last night, Clare. No—” he grinned at the look in her wide eyes “—not that. Unfortunately. Maybe I shouldn’t say that just yet, but…I’m hoping that we’ve crossed a line. That from now on maybe we can—”
“Be friends?”
He sobered and shook his head. “I think I want more than that now. Don’t you?”
She nodded. Not afraid of speaking this time, but of crying.
CLARE DUCKED HER HEAD to kiss Emma’s brow. She was hoping to avoid Laura’s penetrating scrutiny as she asked Clare about her dinner with Gil last night. Laura’s internal radar, Clare mused, was acute enough to detect even a hint of new information regarding the ongoing saga of Gil Harper.
“Dinner was great. He’s a wonderful cook, which was a complete surprise.” She continued to focus her attention on Emma, squirming happily in her arms.
Past, Present and a Future (Going Back) Page 23
