Caity’s body jerked, and he knew she didn’t want to keep going. This time he didn’t prompt her. It was her decision whether to continue. A long time passed, minutes maybe, then her shoulders relaxed, and she began again.
“As I think about the coeds, and what I will do to them, how I will make them grateful for the lessons I teach them, I give my wife’s hand a comforting squeeze. She smiles at me in full performance mode. Sometimes she gives such a good performance, I even believe in the charade. I smooth a hand over my silk shirt. I’m dressed up, but not for the museum. It’s because we’ve just come from church. The minister likes to talk, and I like to use that time to fantasize.
“His long sermons give me plenty of time to think of all the things I want to do to the coeds. I laugh to myself about how hard church makes me. I look at my bulging crotch, knowing my wife sees it, too. Then I check out my shoes. They’ve gotten dusty from the walk up the pathway to the museum. I’ll have to polish them before class tomorrow and adjust the mirror. I have a tiny mirror in my loafers that looks like a penny. It lets me see up the skirts of the girls in my classes. I’ve been doing that for years. Long before I ever got bold enough to do what I really wanted to them.” One of her hands balled into a fist. “I love giving them my attention, and I love letting them see how smart I am. They look up to me, as they should, and I inhale their worship like oxygen. I am their teacher. I am the Man in the Maze.”
The wind picked up, and a plastic cup blew across the cobblestones, making a clunking noise. He worried it would draw her out, but she continued, barely missing a beat.
“My wife leads me to a large bowl in a glass case at the museum. I see the decorative labyrinth, and I think how much I’d like to be the man at the center of that maze. In the dark, dead center of the labyrinth, I alone would hold the power. I would teach my ways to my little minions, and they would go out into the world and do the things I’d taught them. Afterward, I would make them prove their loyalty by producing a tribute.
“Isn’t the Man in the Maze remarkable? my wife asks.
“Yes, I answer. I love this idea. It’s taking hold of me. I can feel the fingers of it digging into my flesh like talons. The coeds aren’t enough for me anymore. That look of fear in their eyes seems just an appetizer. Each time I relive the moment of their death, it loses its potency. I need something to hold me over between my conquests, and that’s when I decide. I will be the Man in the Maze. I’ll find willing pupils, and we can share the excitement of our kills with one another. Then I will have the pleasure of their work, as well as my own.”
Caitlin’s hands clamped around the arms of her chair. Her body shook, as if she might cry, but the spasms passed without tears. She opened her eyes, and her gaze found Spense. “Let’s get back to the apartment,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I need to look at the autopsy photos and ME reports again. I think I just might be onto something.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sunday, September 15
Blue Hawk Trails
Phoenix, Arizona
SPENSE POINTED OUT the house, and Caitlin pulled her Mustang to the curb. He’d insisted they had another errand to do before returning to Rutherford Towers. As anxious as she was to get back and study the Ferragamo reports, the exercise at the museum had taken its toll. She’d been stunned at the way her mind had opened, and she’d had an insight that might very well break the case wide open. But she was too excited and too fearful she might be mistaken to discuss it with Spense yet. This was one of those times where she’d seen too much. On her own, she would’ve stopped by a church. She needed time to clear her head before looking at the autopsy photos. This errand of Spense’s gave her that chance.
It was good to be driving again. Her doctors had given her the thumbs-up for three weeks out, and tomorrow would be three weeks. Taking the liberty of shaving a day off that time empowered her and made her feel as if things were getting back to normal although, of course, they really weren’t. But she’d take her normalcy in whatever small doses she could get it. For now, all she wanted was to feel like herself again and reclaim at least some of her independence. Driving her own car helped. It was a small thing, and yet it’d been important to her. Baskin had been by her apartment and brought her things to Spense’s before she’d been released, so she hadn’t even been home since the hospital.
She’d promised Spense if they took her car to the museum, in the future she wouldn’t argue about riding in his unmarked vehicle, and after checking her car for tracking devices, he’d agreed. He must’ve understood how miserable it felt, going from the hospital, where her nurse did just about everything for her, straight to his apartment, where she was under his constant watchful eye. And taking the chance to literally be in the driver’s seat, even for a day, had actually worked. She was practically giddy from the joy of punching the accelerator and honking the horn, and so now didn’t protest when Spense announced they had one more stop to make—his mother’s place.
He’d directed to her to a cul-de-sac in a well-kept gated community, Blue Hawk Trails. The homes were uniform, modest, and conveniently located. His mom’s house had a little more personality than the others on the street, thanks to a striped awning that must’ve been hell to get past the homeowners’ association. Maybe his mother was sleeping with someone on the board. Caitlin grinned at the thought. “I didn’t realize your mom lived in Phoenix.”
“After my father died, she relocated here to be near her sister. You also didn’t know the name of my aftershave, and there’s no reason you should. But, if you want to know something about me, Caity, all you have to do is ask.”
Right. Which is why he’d gone all mystery man on her back in the hospital when she’d asked him something as innocuous as how he’d learned to solve a Rubik’s cube.
“But we’re here now, and this is my mother, so maybe we can pick this up later.”
She found it rather charming that Spense had been so anxious to get over here to help his mom. She suspected all that killer’s clock business earlier had really been him worrying that his mother would climb a stepladder and pull that box down from her closet herself if they didn’t get to her place on time.
He opened his door. “Mom’s probably looking out the blinds right this minute. She’s probably already boiling the kettle to make us some hot cinnamon tea.”
Caitlin looked up at the house. Two eyes and a nose were currently peeking out from behind the blinds. How adorable. “I’m looking forward to meeting your mother.” She shoved out of the car, then allowed Spense to escort her up the sidewalk.
As soon as they stepped inside, she could hear the bright whistle of a kettle. Mrs. Spenser was indeed brewing something up . . . likely the cinnamon tea Spense had promised. Just the idea made her mouth water. Sure it was summer and hotter than blazes outside, but that’s what air conditioners are for—so you can drink hot tea on a hundred-degree day.
Spense gave his mom a bear hug, made introductions, and bolted up the stairs. His mother wanted her memento box from the top shelf in the closet. Caitlin understood that Spense didn’t want his sixty-eight-year-old mother to risk a fall, and she wondered what his mother normally did in these situations. After all, Spense’s official residence was back in Quantico, Virginia. That had to be hard on her. Hopefully, she had a neighbor to help out.
Mrs. Spenser smiled after her son, then beamed at Caitlin like he’d just brought home his best girl. “Would you like some tea, dear? I can steep some in a matter of minutes. I’ve got this new licorice variety I’ve been wanting to try.”
“Not cinnamon?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got that, too. Atticus enrolled me in a tea-of-the-month club years ago, and I got hooked. You might say it’s my biggest vice, but I don’t plan to quit it anytime soon.”
Caitlin warmed inside, imagining what the world would be like if everyone’s biggest vice were not b
eing able to quit the tea-of-the-month club. “I’ll try the licorice, if that’s what you’re having.”
“Good. I’ll brew up the cinnamon for Atticus. That way if you don’t like your licorice, you can switch.” A wrinkle in the space between her eyebrows deepened. “If you don’t mind drinking after him, I mean.”
Caitlin had a feeling this was her coy way of ascertaining if she and Spense had maybe swapped the occasional spit. “I don’t mind.”
Her eyes crinkled into a happy smile. “Be right back.” And off she trotted into the kitchen. Soon Caitlin heard the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, and the rattling of spoons against dishes. She hoped Mrs. Spenser wasn’t getting out the good china on her account. While she waited, she wandered about the living room, taking in colorful throw rugs that brightened up dark wood floors and breathing in the scent of potpourri. In the corner, an upright piano stood with sheet music opened and the keyboard cover up. As if someone had recently been playing. Her heartstrings tugged as she remembered her own—then happy—family, gathered around the fire, her father strumming his guitar, her mother singing her favorite song—“Molly Malone.”
She glanced back at Mrs. Spenser, busy in the kitchen, then resumed her prowl. To the right of the piano, an open door led to a study, she presumed, given the big maple desk inside. And on the desk, center stage, she saw something that quite interested her—an oversized Rubik’s cube. “Mrs. Spenser? If you don’t mind, I’m just going to take a look . . .” Her voice drifted off as she entered the study, and curiosity overtook her manners.
The walls were covered in photos of Spense as a kid, most of them taken with a very handsome man whom she assumed was his father. There was one of the two of them fishing, and Spense had the teensiest fish dangling from his line and the biggest grin decorating his face. His dad was wearing one of those old fishing caps with the lures pinned to it.
In photo after photo, she saw father and son. Spense as a baby. Spense as a toddler. Spense as a grade-schooler. Always with Dad, and always smiling. And then . . . the photos changed to Spense alone, his smile one of those pasted-on-for-the-camera jobs. Her hand went to her heart. That made one more thing she hadn’t known about Spense. His father must’ve died when Spense was still in grade school. She hadn’t realized he’d lost his father so young. Suddenly, she wanted to know more about him—much more. Why hadn’t she asked him more personal questions? They were sharing the same apartment, and he’d saved her life, for goodness’ sake. Regret at her own standoffishness swelled in her chest. Why was it so hard for her to make a real friend? His words came back to her, making her cringe.
You should try smiling more often—you never know what might come of it.
She went to the desk and reached for the big Rubik’s cube.
“That was his father’s. But you can handle it if you like.”
She drew her hand back. “Oh, no. I-I wouldn’t want to scramble it up. I’m sure I couldn’t put it right again.”
“Wouldn’t be any problem if you couldn’t. Atticus can fix it in 26.3 seconds.”
Caitlin arched one eyebrow. Spense’s mother was a darling, but Caitlin didn’t find such an exact number credible.
“I suppose that does sound like a fib, but it’s the honest truth. We’ve clocked him, you know. As a kid, he made me get out the stopwatch and time him over and over while he tried for a personal best.”
Laughing, Caitlin moved to the bookshelves, where a vintage copy of To Kill a Mockingbird had caught her eye. The binding was cracked with use, and it was obvious, for more reasons than one, the novel had been well loved. Caitlin loved it, too. She and Mrs. Spenser had that in common.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m an awful mother to burden my son with a name like Atticus.” Mrs. Spenser’s tone said she’d been asked to explain herself on this count in the past.
“After Atticus Finch, the hero in To Kill a Mockingbird, right? I suspected that was where his name came from. I mean, it’s not all that common.”
“No. It certainly isn’t. And yes, he’s named after Mr. Atticus Finch. His dad had a conniption when I said I wanted to name our boy Atticus, and he fought me right up until the delivery. But when they put that baby boy in my arms, and I looked into my son’s eyes, I knew he should have a name to live up to. I wanted him to grow up to be a man of integrity—like Atticus Finch. So I didn’t back down. After weighing what I’d just been through to give him a son, Mr. Spenser relented.”
“It’s a fine name.”
“Well, he doesn’t go by it though, so I guess his daddy lost the battle but won the war. Atticus always took his father’s side in everything. They were very close. Inseparable, really.”
Caitlin nodded. That much was apparent from the photos. She could just picture the two of them. Spense tagging after his father everywhere. Maybe sitting on the counter and watching him shave. The Old Spice Spense wore suddenly seemed like the sweetest smell on earth: A man’s tribute to his father. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She wished she could wear her father’s aftershave. What a lovely thing that would be, to splash on the scent of happy memories every morning. And she had so many happy memories of her family, but somehow she’d let her life become all about the bad ones.
The murder.
The trial.
The execution.
Caitlin sighed and moved back to the desk, her gaze arrowing straight to the Rubik’s cube. “So then, this cube. You said it belonged to your husband.”
“That’s right. My late husband, Jack, died of a heart attack at forty-five. Atticus was only eight years old at the time.”
Her throat tightened with emotion, and not just sympathy, there was something else—a flash of fear. His father had had a heart attack at forty-five—only ten years older than Spense was now. A family history like that was a giant red flag. But . . . heredity wasn’t everything. Lifestyle counted, and Spense took care of himself. That much she did know, and maybe now she understood why. She’d wondered, but again, never asked. Her breath released, and her shoulders relaxed. Her heart opened with the realization: Life is short. And sometimes it’s cut even shorter. Reaching out, she took the cube in her hands. “Mrs. Spenser, I hope you don’t mind my coming into the study on my own. It’s just this cube caught my eye. You know Spense is such a whiz, and I don’t know, I suppose I’m curious about all those puzzles of his.”
“Oh, dear me. I don’t mind a bit. I expect you would be curious about Atticus and his cube—the way he scrambles the one on his keychain every time his mind goes wandering.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’ve noticed. Every time he’s tired or distracted, he pulls out his keychain and works the cube.”
“There’s a story behind that.” Mrs. Spenser retrieved a Kleenex from her apron pocket and dabbed her eyes before they brimmed over.
Regret washed over Catlin. Spense hadn’t wanted to talk about the subject, and obviously there was a reason—a painful one. “Please, you don’t need to explain. I’ve already overstepped—”
“It was the day of Jack’s funeral.” Mrs. Spenser’s eyes focused somewhere out the window. “Beautiful, clear day like today. And my Jack was a fine man. Deacon in the Baptist church. He had . . . so many friends. Seemed like every one of those friends packed our house after the service. Singing hymns at the piano. Loading the kitchen counters with casseroles and cakes.” She shook her head. “It was standing room only all through the house for a long while. And when the guests were finally gone, Spense let out a yelp. I came running and found him in his father’s study. I’ve tried to keep a study for Jack in every house we’ve had since . . . but I’m getting off track. The point is, someone had scrambled Jack’s cube and Spense was fighting mad. Jack was so proud of solving the puzzle, and he’d kept it right on his desk, where everyone could admire it.”
Rapt, Caitlin hardly noticed when Mrs. Spenser reached out and took the cube in her hands.
“So long story short . . .” She chuckled. “Folks always say that when there’s plenty more to come. Have I bored you to the bone yet?”
She shook her head. “Please, go on.”
“Where was I?” Mrs. Spenser glanced about the room, seeming a bit disoriented. “Oh, yes. Spense was fighting mad. And he dropped down in the middle of the floor and swore he wasn’t going to get up until he’d put the cube right again.” She dabbed her eye. “Now that may not seem like such a big thing to you, but the truth is my son has a learning problem. I don’t like to call it a disability because Atticus is about as able as they come. Most of the doctors thought it was ADD, and we tried different medicines, but not one of them helped. He not only couldn’t work a puzzle, he was already eight and could barely write his name, and he couldn’t read a lick. But there he was, refusing to get up off the floor until he did what I knew would be impossible.”
An image of a young Spense, struggling to put right his father’s legacy, made her heart squeeze a little harder in her chest. “So what happened?”
“Well, I thought it best to let him be. I called him to dinner later on, but he’d have none of it. So I took a sedative and went to lie down, just for a bit. But I was worn down, and when I woke up it was already three in the morning, and I could see the light in the study was still on. I rushed in and found Spense, just about to click the last piece of the puzzle in place. He looked up at me with pride in his eyes. In spite of everything, in that moment he was happy. Caitlin, I hope you never know what’s it’s like to lose a husband, or to watch your child struggle with his self-confidence. But if you ever do, I’m here to tell you there’s a way to get through.” She blew her nose, making a delicate ladylike sound into the tissue.
Caitlin dug her nails into the palms of her hands and held her emotion in check.
“I will never know how Atticus managed to solve that Rubik’s cube, but to me, it was an answered prayer. You see, whatever he did to work that cube, he figured out how to apply it to his schoolwork. He found a way to cope with his problem. He learned to read, and his math scores went way up. At night, he’d practice with the cube, working it over and over until finally it was no challenge for him at all. The school psychologist said she thought he might be forming new neural pathways. That’s a fancy way of saying he retrained his brain, but I guess you know that.”
Judgment Page 13
