Crimson Rain

by Meg O'Brien

  Over the years she and Paul had learned a lot about RAD, however, and one of the things that had remained uppermost in Gina’s mind was that children with RAD could be either outgoing and charming, as Angela was, or quiet and shy, like Rachel. The same symptoms of nonattachment could affect either one.

  She remembered now that she had wondered about this when Rachel had returned from camp that summer when she was sixteen. She had been terribly depressed and withdrawn, but Gina had explained it away as the result of a summer crush on a boy she wouldn’t be seeing again. Everything seemed all right after a while, and then, by the time Rachel left for college last year, she had seemed fine.

  They had Vicky to thank for that, Gina thought. Vicky seemed to have a knack for reaching Rachel, for making her believe she was liked, even loved. Rachel had formed a bond with Vicky.

  In a way, Gina thought now with a pang, she and Paul had turned their daughter over to the psychiatrist, whom they’d come to think of as a family friend. Had their actions been similar to the way they’d relinquished Angela? Rejected Rachel, much the same way they’d rejected her twin?

  Gina had never thought of it that way before. She had honestly felt she was doing the best thing for Rachel. Now, looking back, she simply didn’t know.

  Holding back tears, she said, “Rachel, I have always loved you. I’m so sorry if you didn’t know that, and if I didn’t show it. You were all I had, after Angela—”

  “All you had!” Rachel made a scornful sound. “You didn’t love me because of me, but as a bad substitute for Angela. Daddy, too. He always loved her best.”

  “No, that’s not true—” Gina began, but Rachel whirled back on her, the anger on her face contorting the lovely lines.

  “Of course it’s true! If it wasn’t, he wouldn’t still get so withdrawn every year when Christmas rolls around. He’d think of us, and have a good time with us instead!”

  Gina couldn’t restrain herself any longer. She was beginning to feel like a punching bag. “Rachel, I cannot do this with you anymore. Dammit, it’s time you grew up!”

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Mother. I’ve grown up a lot this time home. More than you’ll ever know.”

  Rachel left, stomping up the stairs, and Gina covered her face with her hands and sat that way for a long moment. Then she looked down at her wedding ring, twisting and turning it on her finger.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, she thought, all those years ago when they’d laid out their Life Plan on paper. And it wasn’t Rachel’s fault the way things were now, though she did have to bear part of the blame for being such a spoiler. Couldn’t she ever just lay down those arms and armor, and give up the fight?

  What was it she was fighting for, anyway? Herself? Or some long-lost childhood dream of a perfect family, like the ones she’d seen as a child on TV? The kind that lived together, loved together, and never had a bad day in their lives?

  Of course, her attitude since arriving home last night wasn’t entirely unexpected. She was cold, tired, and she’d been dragged home. She never would have admitted she’d actually been saved, and by a cop. No one would be happy under those circumstances.

  The incident with the mouse had, temporarily, returned some of the humor to the house. It reminded Gina of when Rachel was a preteen, times when the three of them laughed and played like that together. When and why had things changed, so that a silly scene like last night, with the mouse, was now something unusual, to be appreciated as a gift from on high? Still, it was gravy on the real gift—her daughter’s safe return.

  Her prayers had been answered, and Gina understood that she had been blessed. She understood, too, from her childhood years in Catholic school, that some kind of thanks was required. A simple prayer of gratitude for something as huge as Rachel’s return would not suffice. It required a great deal more. A sacrifice.

  She sat and thought for a long time. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Julian’s number on Camano Island. God, let him be there. And help me do the right thing.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice softening when he heard hers. “What’s up?”

  Gina fought back the smile that automatically came to her lips every time she heard that voice. “I need to see you,” she said.

  “Sure. Is something wrong? Do you want me to come down there?”

  “No. I’ll be at the Camano house tonight, around five. Could you come over?”

  “Of course I can. Gina, what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t talk about it over the phone,” she said.

  “Okay.” His tone turned to one of bewilderment. “I’ll see you tonight, then. Around five.”

  Gina lay down the phone and pressed her fingers against her eyes. “God,” she whispered, “I know I’ve asked for a lot lately, and you’ve answered my prayers and then some. I haven’t any right to ask for more, but it’s not for me—it’s for them. Let me do this in a way that Paul never has to know. That’s all I ask. Don’t let Paul or Rachel ever find out what I’ve done.”

  18

  Rachel didn’t come down for lunch, and Gina had no appetite. She forced herself to eat a banana and two saltines, washing the crumbs down at the sink with the cold dregs of her morning coffee. She had a couple of hours before she’d have to leave for Camano, and she decided to spend that time catching up on work in her upstairs office.

  On her way up the stairs she checked on Rachel, to see if there was any way she could possibly patch things up. She found her in her bedroom, lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were red, and Gina knew she’d been crying. On a better day she might have commented on that and tried to soothe her daughter’s feelings. But something in the air told her that ignorance, this time, might be called for.

  “Hi,” she said. “I missed you at lunch.”

  No answer.

  “I just want you to know I have to go to Camano later on.”

  “Of course you do, Mom.”

  Gina bit back a testy retort. “I’m only going so I can finish something up, Rachel. Something really important. That way I can be home and not have any work at all to do until you go back to school. I thought you’d like that. We can spend more time together. In fact, I’ve been wondering if you’d like to transfer to U-Dub and not go back to California at all.”

  “Whatever,” Rachel replied.

  Gina gritted her teeth. “Did your father call when I was in the shower before lunch?”

  “No.”

  “I tried to reach him at Soleil, to let him know I won’t be home for dinner. I thought it might be nice if he took you out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, I left a message for him to call home.”

  No answer.

  “Rachel…please try to meet me halfway, at least.”

  Rachel turned on her side, leaving her back to her mother.

  “All right, then,” Gina said tiredly. “I’ll be in my office working till I have to leave. If you need me, though, don’t feel as if you’re interrupting. Okay?”

  A muffled, “Okay.”

  “I won’t be gone long tonight. In fact, I should finish up there by six and be home by seven.”

  Gina closed the door quietly and walked down the hall to her office. Never had the hallway seemed so long, or the two rooms so distant from each other.

  Rachel managed to nap in shorts spurts as she waited for her mother to leave the house. Every so often she woke up feeling that knife against her throat. Angela’s eyes were always only inches from hers, and they were cold and full of hate. Now and then she would think Angela was in the room with her, only to wake to the murmur of her mother’s voice on the phone in the other room. She knew from the familiar clipped cadence that Gina was on a business call.

  Finally she heard her mother open her door quietly. She kept her eyes closed and didn’t move, but her mother had always known when she was awake. “I’m leaving now,” Gina said softly. “I have to do a few things before I go up to
Camano.”

  When Rachel didn’t answer, Gina closed the door again. Rachel listened as the sound of her footsteps faded down the stairs. She looked at the clock on her bedside table: five after three.

  As soon as she heard the Crown Vic pull out of the driveway, she got up and went to the bathroom, rinsing her face with cold water. She looked at herself in the mirror. I don’t seem any older, she thought. How can that be? I feel a hundred.

  She went down the hall to her mother’s office and looked for the address of the house on Camano. It was in Gina’s black appointment book, the one she always left at home. Rachel copied it down onto a slip of paper.

  Back in her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and called her father at Soleil. She was so nervous her hands shook, and her voice was husky, as if she had a cold.

  “Hi, Rach. Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Where have you been?” she asked. “Mom was trying to reach you.”

  “I just got in from a long lunch meeting with a client,” he said. “I haven’t had time to call her back. What’s up?”

  “Mom wants to know if you’ll meet her tonight at that house on Camano Island she’s been working on.”

  “She does?” He sounded surprised. “Did she say why?”

  “She says her windshield wipers aren’t working. It’s supposed to rain tonight, and if it does, she won’t be able to drive her car home.”

  “Oh, okay,” Paul said. “Come to think of it, I need to make a trip up there, anyway, to check on measurements for a new sideboard I just found for the Albrights.”

  “You have the address, then?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes, I’ve got it right here. Where is your Mom now?”

  “She just left, but she said she won’t be there till five, and she plans to be ready to leave around six.”

  “Okay. Would you like to ride along with me, Rach? You and your mom and I could stop for dinner on the way home together.”

  “I…I’ve got something I have to do, Dad. But thanks.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone, your second night back.”

  “No, I’m sure. I’ve got plenty to do,” she said.

  And that’s no lie, she added, but only to herself. Her stomach was so upset she thought she might throw up, and her head felt as if someone had run a meat cleaver through it.

  But she’d be okay. She had to be. She would do what she had to do.

  Picking up the phone again, she dialed the private cell phone number Angela had given her. “Nobody in the world has this number,” Angela had said. “Do not give it out to anyone—and I mean anyone.”

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Okay,” Rachel said. “Here’s the deal. Mom has to go up to this house on Camano Island to do some work. It’s an empty house—the owners are away. I called Dad and made sure he’d be there, too. I told him between five and six. Mom says she’ll be leaving there at six.”

  She gave Angela the address.

  Angela chuckled softly. “You’ve done well, little sis. Keep this up and I may even forgive you for stealing my life.”

  “I need my car back,” Rachel said. “You said you’d drop it off here.”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well do that while Gina was home, now, could I? How would she think it got there?”

  “She’s not home now,” Rachel said firmly. “I want my car!”

  “Okay, okay. Golly Molly, Rach, relax! I have to go out anyway. I’ll drop it off in a little while.”

  “I need it now, Angela. With Mom and Dad gone, I don’t have a car to use, and I told a friend I’d be at her house by five.”

  “My, oh my…cold little fish, aren’t we? Going off to play, while…” Angela’s voice hardened. “I’ll drive by the house in twenty minutes. Look for the car at the end of the block.”

  She hung up, leaving Rachel to sit with her arms around herself, trying to get warm. When that didn’t work, she went downstairs and paced back and forth in the living room, watching through the front window for the Mustang to go by. She wasn’t able to relax until she saw it pass the house. Running to the hall closet, she took out her black coat and a warm knitted hat and gloves. She had already changed into a black sweater and black pants, and though her hat and gloves were pink, they would have to do. The night was supposed to be bitter cold.

  On a hook next to the closet was her extra set of keys, including those for the Mustang. Rachel grabbed them and took off running down the street.

  19

  Al Duarte entered his apartment at approximately four o’clock that same day. It was already getting dark, which depressed him. He couldn’t wait for summer to come again, and the nights when it stayed light until ten-thirty, eleven. Summers were the best time of the year in the Northwest, if for no other reason than that the days were so long. He hung his winter jacket carefully on the clothes tree in the corner of the hall, where the rain would drip onto the square of tile and not hurt the carpet.

  Funny, he thought, how hard old habits die. Laura had kept after him about being neat when they were married, and even now, after all these years of living alone in this drab little apartment, he was still hearing her voice in his head: Pick it up, Al. It’s no harder to do that than dropping it on the floor. Take it to the wash, Al. Don’t leave it for me to do.

  Not that Laura was a nag. The truth was, he had needed some shaping up. When they first got married, he honestly thought wives were supposed to pick up after their husbands. After all, that was the way his mother had raised him.

  Laura had opened his eyes about that in short order—opened them real wide. He was thankful for that, now. If he hadn’t learned to take care of himself, if he’d continued to expect her to do it, he’d be knee-deep in rubble by now. Probably wouldn’t even be able to find the floor.

  Al chuckled. God, I miss that woman. They had seemed such a great match. Made in heaven, some said.

  So what had gone wrong? It wasn’t another woman for him, not like Paul Bradley. And he was pretty sure Laura never wanted another man. According to Laura, they had just married too young. As the years went by, they began to think less alike, see the world and their place in it in different ways. It happened to everyone who married young, Laura said. At least, everyone she knew. It was time to move on. Create new lives for themselves.

  Laura had done pretty good with that, too. Last year she had married a man she met on a cruise. The guy was an accountant for a big corporation, as different as she could get from marrying a cop. Al had been suspicious of him at first. But then, he had gotten to know the guy, and he seemed like a nice enough fellow.

  As for himself, Al didn’t have much energy for creating a new life. His job took just about all of it. His job, and Lazybones, his cat.

  He wondered why old Lazybones hadn’t been at the door waiting for him. Poor thing, she really was getting old. There were days when she didn’t even move from the couch.

  With a yawn, Al made his way down the short hall into the kitchen. It was a small apartment, befitting, he thought, a man alone. Not too much upkeep, and not too much walking back and forth. That was a blessing, given that his knees were almost shot. He didn’t like to let anyone in the department know about that, because they might think he was ready to be put out to pasture. In this small space, however, he admitted to himself that his days of being a cop on active duty were probably growing short.

  Which might be the best for all concerned. He’d already passed the usual retirement age, and more and more he enjoyed—if that was the right word—helping people out on a personal basis. Like the Bradleys. And that poor kid, Rachel. Maybe he’d hang out a shingle and become a private investigator. And then again, maybe he wouldn’t, given that part of him would just as soon sit in the sun a while. It was something to think about, though.

  In the kitchen, Al made himself a cup of instant coffee, dark and hot, the way he liked it. He thought about cooking a chop or a burger, but instead he opened a bottle of whi
skey and dropped a hefty amount into the coffee. Taking a sip, he felt his muscles begin to grow warm and relax. Duarte was not a heavy drinker, and it didn’t take long to cross into a space where everything was grand and nothing at all mattered except a warm drink and his cat.

  Speaking of which, he looked down at Lazybones’s food dish, and saw that she hadn’t eaten much today. He made a noise with his tongue, calling her out from the bedroom or whatever tiny space she’d been sleeping in. “Hey, Lazy! Where are you?” He whistled softly, but she didn’t come.

  It crossed his mind that she might be sick. Damn! One more thing to do, if he had to take old Lazy to the vet tomorrow.

  Not that he really minded. She was his child, his companion, the only one he’d had for a long time now. He figured one time around the marriage block was enough; he’d had his chance and he’d blown it. Now the best he could do was try to help out people who were in some sort of crisis. He wondered if the Bradleys would get back together when all this was over.

  It didn’t look good. Yesterday afternoon, before he’d gotten the call from Spokane, he’d interviewed Lacey Allison, the woman Paul Bradley was seeing. She was bright, sharp, and had a good sense of humor. Duarte could understand what Paul saw in her.

  Gina Bradley, on the other hand, was carrying a heavier burden than just the disappearance of her daughter—as if that weren’t enough. She was involved in something secret; he would swear to it.

  But did it have anything to do with Rachel? Was she in any way to blame for Rachel’s disappearance?

  Duarte dropped down into his old, cushy reclining chair and stared at the blank TV screen. He hadn’t bought much furniture since Laura left and took most of what they had with her. There never seemed to be enough time to shop. All he really needed was this one great chair, anyway.

  It would be nice, he supposed, to watch the news on CNN. But he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and this drink was really starting to floor him. It was too much of a stretch to even reach for the television’s remote.