by Meg O'Brien
With a frown, he wondered why he still hadn’t seen Lazybones. Where the hell was she? Again he whistled for her. His lap felt empty without his old friend on it. What was wrong with her, anyway?
Sighing, he set his drink down on the end table and heaved himself out of the chair. He would find her, he was pretty sure, underneath his bed. Or sleeping on his pillow. She would stretch and yawn when he woke her, and he’d feel so glad she was okay, he’d probably just fall into bed himself, rather than disturb her any more. Like the Bradleys, when they got Rachel back.
Damn, he just couldn’t get them out of his mind. Did Gina Bradley even have a clue about what her husband was up to when he didn’t come home till late at night? And Paul Bradley. How long did he think he could keep his affair with the Allison woman quiet, before it all came to light and the shit hit the fan?
She would be pretty hard to give up, of course. Pretty as a picture, and with a strong urge to please. The kind he himself might have gone for when he was a callow youth, just graduating from the academy. He wasn’t bad looking himself, then. But thirty-odd years of police work had taken their toll. He’d seen too much, and the things he’d seen had left him with deep furrows on his brow and crow’s feet like the canals on Mars around his eyes.
Entering his bedroom, he still didn’t see Lazybones. There was nothing on his bed but a mound of clothes. Had he left his room like this? Damn that drink. He couldn’t remember. Still, he was certain he hadn’t left things in such a mess.
A cold draft of fear touched the back of his neck, making his hair rise. Someone’s been here. Someone’s been in my room.
But why would they take clothes out of the closet? Stepping closer, he saw that the sliding door was half-open. He always closed it to keep Lazybones out of there. She left behind hairs on his shoes and the open crates that held his sweaters. Also, it was hard to reach the corners to clean in there.
Duarte’s instincts—to get out of the apartment and call for backup, in the event an intruder was still in the apartment—took a back seat to his curiosity.
He reached for the closet door. But before he could open it farther, the all too familiar sound of a gun with a silencer on it reached his ears—a soft pow, pow. Though he didn’t feel anything, Al knew that he must have been hit when he spun halfway around and fell sideways over his bed. Spots of blood bloomed on the green and white comforter. For a long moment Al lay with his head on the comforter, staring at those spots. He was going down, and he knew it. But he had to at least try. Using every bit of strength he could muster, Al pushed himself up with his hands and tried to stand, tried to see his attacker. His limbs failed him, though, and all he could do was stumble into the open closet. He tried to catch himself on the clothes. Hangers rained down around his head—hangers, shirts, pants…
As he hit the floor he felt his life oozing away, and thought, Oh, God, not now. Not now! He struggled to get up, but couldn’t move in any direction. Even his vision was fading.
The last thing Al saw was a feather in a corner of the closet, red and bright. Flashy. It was lying on the still, white body of Lazybones, his cat.
20
Before leaving Soleil, Paul told Daniel that he was leaving early to drive up to Camano.
“Gina asked me to give her a ride home,” he said, “in case it rains. Her wipers aren’t working.”
“You’re going to the Albright house?” Daniel asked. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” Paul answered. “Why? Is there a problem here?”
“No…no, I guess not,” Daniel said.
“I’d like to take another look at the house anyway,” Paul told him. “Gina’s work is nearly finished, and I want to make sure the pieces I’ve picked out for the Albrights still fit.”
He looked up from his desk, studying the young man’s face. Daniel seemed tired and drawn.
“Is everything all right?” he asked. “You’re sure you don’t need me here?”
“No…no, go ahead. As soon as we get the chance, though, I really need to talk to you about some things.”
An odd young man, Paul thought later as he pointed the rental car north on I-5. Quiet, almost to the point of being secretive. But nice. Dependable, too. He hoped Daniel wasn’t going to tell him he was quitting.
As a classical CD started to play, he began to remember the way it used to be with Gina, the good times they’d had working together. He really wished he’d been more forceful about telling Lacey he couldn’t see her anymore. Leaving it up in the air the way he had meant he would have to go back again, try to find the words all over again.
He had already hurt so many people. He didn’t want to hurt Lacey, too—not when she’d been nothing but good to him. But he had to focus on Gina now. And Rachel. He would do whatever was necessary to convince Gina that they needed to go back, remember how they had begun, the hopes and dreams they’d had.
Surely they could find that again. For Rachel’s sake, if no other. They hadn’t had much to go on in recent years, and that was mostly his fault, he knew. The important thing was that Gina had stuck with him. That had to mean something. It had to mean she still cared.
Slowing down along the dark road, he looked for the house he remembered from his one time here before. He and Gina had come together then, consulting with each other about the kinds of antiques the Albrights would like, and what would work best with Gina’s ideas for them. That had been months ago, and he expected he would find a lot of changes since then, given all the trips Gina had made up here.
The house was where he remembered, and there were lights on. He saw Gina’s Crown Vic in the driveway. He saw another car, too, but didn’t think anything of it. Gina had told him she often met with other people who were working on the house up here; that was why she could never be sure what time she’d get home.
He parked his car in the driveway and went up the three flagstone steps to the front door. Finding it unlocked, he let himself in, in case Gina was in a far corner of the house and didn’t hear his knock. He smiled, remembering how much she appreciated little things like that. Anything that would save her a moment, a step, an unnecessary trip when she was tired.
He couldn’t be all that bad if he remembered those kinds of things about her, could he? The kinds of intimate things that only husbands and wives learned about each other, that came with years of being together and caring for each other?
Rachel shivered on the back terrace of the Camano house. She had parked the Mustang blocks away, so that no one would know she was here. Now that her plan had become a reality, however, she was beginning to think she was crazy to have tried this.
“I want to talk to them,” Angela had said. “I have a lot of questions for them, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”
“Why don’t you just come to the house?” Rachel had countered.
“No. They’ve got some police detective hanging around, looking for me. Arrange a meeting someplace away from there. Work it out, Rachel!”
When Rachel had refused, Angela had threatened her, first with that knife—and then with something worse. “You owe me, little sis. Either you do this, or I’ll tell them you were the one who tried to kill me that Christmas Eve. I’ll tell them about Dr. Chase, too. You think they’ll want anything to do with you after that?”
Rachel wanted to argue that they would still want her, that Angela was wrong. Even so, she couldn’t take that chance. If her parents found out the truth about her, they would have her locked up. It wouldn’t matter how much they said they really loved her. They had loved Angela more from the first, and look what had happened to her.
So Rachel had agreed, thinking that somehow Angela might show her true colors in front of her parents. And as soon as they saw how mean and vengeful she was now, they wouldn’t love her anymore. It was the ghost of her they’d loved all these years, anyway, not the real Angela. Angela was the one who had stayed a child forever in their minds, a child they felt they’d abandoned.
How could I
ever fight that? I can’t. Unless they see it for themselves, I’ll always be second best.
She just hadn’t expected this all to come together so fast. When her mother had decided to come up here to Camano Island tonight, it had seemed the perfect opportunity. An empty house, away from the city where telephones rang and people like Detective Duarte might drop in without any notice.
She was shaking now, though. Maybe she should have told Al that Angela had kidnapped her, and what she wanted her to do. There had been plenty of time during the drive home from Spokane, and she was sure he knew she wasn’t telling the truth about visiting a friend there, anyway. If she had told him, he could have gone after Angela, and she could be in jail for kidnapping by now.
But he wouldn’t have believed her. No one would believe her, against someone as pretty and sure of herself as Angela. She just would have said that her sister had lied, and that Rachel was a killer.
It always came back to that.
Al had given her his cell phone number on the way home from Spokane that night. “Just in case you need to reach me in a hurry sometime,” he had said. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time. She could still call him, though. It wasn’t too late for that.
Rachel began to panic. After what Angela had done to her, she never should have believed that all her sister wanted was to talk to her parents. She was planning something bad, Rachel was sure of it.
Angela was right about me. I’m stupid. I should have taken more time to think about what I was doing. I just thought I was smart, getting this over with so I wouldn’t have to bother with her ever again. That’s me, all right. Stupid.
She felt dizzy, sick. Her mind wasn’t working right, and it hadn’t been all day. There were times when she had wanted to tell her mother she loved her and was sorry for causing so much trouble. But there were times, too, when she felt as if she were falling, as if the sky were pressing down and might crush her. Nothing made sense when that happened. She barely even remembered who she was.
Now and then, though, her mind would clear. Like now. She knew what she had to do.
Rachel felt for her cell phone. It had been on the seat of the Mustang, and she’d stuck it into her jacket pocket earlier, out of habit. What was that number Al had given her? Something easy, like four numbers the same. Or, no—3-4-5-0. That was it. But what was the prefix?
She remembered it, she thought, but then the balloon drifted away. That was the way she remembered numbers; she put them on bright red balloons. But the Duarte balloon kept floating in front of her, then bobbing away. Each time it came close she would see one number. Then another. But where were the rest? Where the hell were they?
Suddenly, the string on the balloon was in her hand, and the numbers were there—all three. Rachel opened the cell phone and turned it on. No one was here yet; her mother hadn’t even arrived. There was still time.
She crept across the terrace and down the five steps to the strip of grass between the house and water. If anyone came, they wouldn’t hear her or know she was there.
Punching in the number, she waited as the phone rang. Her stomach clutched. C’mon, Al! Where are you?
Or did she have the number wrong, after all?
Just as she was about to give up, Al’s answering machine clicked in. Rachel wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or afraid when she heard his voice. What could he do, anyway? By the time he got her message and got up here, her mom and dad would be gone. Angela, too. And she, Rachel, would have been even more stupid for telling him anything.
But what if she kept it vague? Something she could always brush off later with some kind of explanation?
With a voice that shook, she said quickly, “Detective Duarte? It’s me—Rachel. You said I could call. I…I’m on Camano Island, and my mom and dad are supposed to be here soon.” She remembered to give the address, and the time of her call. “We’ll only be here about an hour, and I know you might not get this message in time. I…I just think they might need some help.”
Jabbing the end button, she stood there, shaking. The phone felt like a snake in her hand. Had she done the right thing? The sky came down on her again. This time she pushed it back, cussing at it silently. Dammit, leave me alone! Leave me alone!
It seemed to take all of her strength to think straight again.
A light went on in the house. Rachel watched as more lights came on from room to room. Some of it fell onto the terrace and strip of lawn, just next to where she stood. It illuminated the grass and the edge of the Sound.
She could see now that the room closest to the terrace was a living room, and she realized that the back of the house, facing the water, was really the front. Her mother had told her once that most beach houses were made this way, to take advantage of the view.
In the fringes of that beam of light, she made her way back up onto the terrace, making sure to stay in shadows. The living room seemed empty, and Rachel stood at a corner of the terrace that allowed her a view of both the living room and the driveway. On either side of her were tall evergreen trees in barrel-sized pots, which she did her best to use as cover.
Rachel jumped, startled, when her mother came into the living room. She walked straight toward the big window as if she could see Rachel. But then she stopped, looking out, and Rachel could see she was weeping. Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks, and Rachel’s hand went up as if to soothe her mother, though there was still much more than a whole plate glass window between them. What’s wrong? Rachel wondered. What is it?
Moments later another car swept up the driveway, one she didn’t recognize. A man got out and let himself into the house without knocking, as if he belonged there.
Had the owner come home early? Or was it one of the carpenters or other workmen her mother consulted with?
Rachel hadn’t counted on anyone else being here. This could wreck everything. Her stomach was in knots, and her teeth chattered so much she was afraid her mother would hear them.
She watched as the man entered the room. When he came into the light, she thought, I know him. But from where?
He said something she couldn’t hear, and her mother turned and spoke to him. He didn’t look like anyone who’d come here tonight to work. He wore jeans and an expensive-looking sweater, and had blond hair just tinged with gray.
Like the man in the coffee shop, who’d been staring at her mother before Christmas.
No, not like him. He was the man from the coffee shop.
Rachel stood, fascinated, as the man walked toward her mother and took her into his arms. He reached into his back jeans pocket for a handkerchief and wiped her tears away. Then he kissed her—long and hard. Her mother’s arms wrapped around the man’s neck as he pressed her close.
Rachel felt as if she were watching a movie, with no one in it that she knew.
But then her mother pulled away, shaking her head and pushing the man back. “I can’t,” Rachel barely heard through the roaring in her head and the lapping of water on the shore. “I can’t do this anymore.”
With those words she was Rachel’s mother again, and questions that had been thankfully held back out of shock tumbled around in Rachel’s mind like a thousand gnats.
Who is this man? Is my mother having an affair with him? Oh, God! Does my father know? Is this why Daddy’s never home anymore? Because he can’t stand to live with an unfaithful wife?
The man began to argue with her mother. “It’ll be all right,” Rachel heard him say. “We’ll work it out.”
“No! It will never be all right!” Gina answered. “It never has been, and it never will be.”
He murmured something to her and took her into his arms again. Her mother stood motionless this time, her head against his chest. Rachel could hear her sobbing.
She didn’t notice the other car that pulled into the driveway, so involved was she in the scene before her. She only saw, suddenly, the figure of her father in the doorway to the living room. He stopped in his tracks, then stumble
d into the room, his face pale. He looked as if he’d been slapped.
Paul had been feeling good as he passed through the large center hall and glanced into the living room. Nothing, therefore, could have prepared him for finding his wife in the arms of another man. If he had been able to form words in his head, he might have stolen a phrase and said that his heart stood still.
It wasn’t possible to formulate words, however, with a mind and heart that had all but gone dead. He could only make a sound deep in his throat, a sound of despair mixed with absolute shock.
His wife heard him. She stepped back from the man quickly, her face paling. He could tell that she had been crying.
Was this someone she worked with, after all? Had the man merely been comforting her about something? Rachel, perhaps, and all that had been happening the past few days? That made more sense than—
“Gina,” he began, gathering his wits about him. “I—”
“What are you doing here!” Gina interrupted in a tone that was part accusation, part horror. “Paul? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I…Rachel…” Paul’s tone was unsure. “Rachel told me you wanted me to…to pick you up in case…I, uh…she said your wipers weren’t working.”
By this time, he knew from the look on the other man’s face and the way he put an arm around Gina that this was no co-worker comforting his wife.
How could you do this? were the first words that sprang to his mind. Yet he couldn’t say them. He knew the answer all too well, and if there were ever words he had no right to speak, those were the ones.
His legs went weak, and he grabbed the door frame to steady himself. This is a nightmare. A monstrous nightmare. Any minute now it will end.
But it didn’t. The nightmare only grew, as a tall blond woman in a long black coat strode through a door at the other side of the room and crossed it to stand between him and Gina.
The woman laughed. “Oh, this is perfect!” she said, whipping off her leopard-print scarf. The coat fell open, revealing a gold necklace with the letter A at her chest.
