“What are you talking about?” My voice is shaking a little, from anger or from grief or both, I don’t know.
“I just—I needed to get Kayla,” Bridges says, “take her somewhere she could get help. Try to get her away from Donny.”
Kayla. The girl with the silver sandal. The girl Bridges demanded come out of our house. “Donny?” I say, staring at him. “What does Donny have to do with—”
“She started screaming,” Bridges says—he hasn’t heard me, has started his story and can’t stop. “I just—I wanted to tell her it was okay, I’d help her, I wasn’t going to hurt her. Then your dad … he swung at me. I don’t blame him; I was storming into his house. We started fighting …”
Frankie’s face looks pale, even a little green.
Dom Michael raises a hand to place it on Bridges’s shoulder. “Samuel, you don’t—”
“Then you came down the hall,” Bridges says to me. “You fired that pistol, and it scared the hell out of me, out of both of us. I remember thinking you looked too young to be holding a gun. And then Donny came in …”
Ponytail. Jesus. Donny was Ponytail. I close my eyes. The fuck? One gunshot and my arm goes numb, and then a roar of shots, so loud in the front hall of my home, the burnt acrid smell of gunpowder, the blood—
“Ethan,” I hear, and Frankie is next to me. “Sit down, güero.”
“I don’t want to sit down,” I say. I open my eyes and see Bridges is sitting on his bench, his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes are wet.
“Don’t you fucking cry!” I say. My heart is pounding and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed, and I can’t even register where I am on the emotional map anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” Bridges says, tears running down his cheeks. “I told this to your girlfriend; I thought it would be easier. I’m sorry.”
“What did she say?” I demand. “Marisa. What did she say? Did she tell you anything?”
“She said you hated me,” Bridges says, his voice breaking. “That you wanted me dead and you hoped I went to hell.” He’s openly weeping now, trying not to sob. “I told her that I didn’t know Donny had a gun, that I made him call nine-one-one. Marisa said—she knew it didn’t matter, that she knew what I’d done, how I’d run back here after I got out of prison because I was a coward, that she knew all about me and Donny. When I saw you, I thought maybe—maybe it was another chance, that I could tell you I was sorry and you …” He slips off the bench onto his knees, his head hanging down. “I’m sorry,” he sobs.
“You’re sorry?” I say. I’m astonished at the anger coursing through me like a bright-yellow river. I want to punch Bridges in the face and then keep hitting him until there’s nothing left that looks like a face. “You’re sorry? You come into my house and attack my father, and then your friend comes in with a gun”—Bridges’s face twists into a knot of pain—“and shoots my entire family, and my parents are dead and you’re sorry? You think that makes it all better? You’re sorry and it’s all better because you’ve … I don’t know, joined the holy fucking men’s club?”
Frankie has taken a step back, his eyes wide. Dom Michael stands frozen, cell phone forgotten in his hand. Bridges looks shattered and continues to sob on his knees. I stare at him, considering whether I should kick him in the face. Then I turn and stalk off, leaving them all behind.
* * *
I DON’T KNOW how long I stand outside the monastery by the pond, watching the geese, waiting for my blood to cool. Presently I hear footsteps in the grass, and then Frankie stands next to me. He says nothing for a few moments. “You okay?” he asks finally.
“No,” I say.
We stand there, looking at the water. One goose starts honking and raising its wings at another goose, and they flap and honk at each other, splashing and disturbing the surface of the pond.
“That’s a metaphor for something,” I say.
Frankie glances at me. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says.
“Neither do I,” I say.
After a few more moments of silence, Frankie says, “Dom Michael didn’t call the police. But he will if we don’t leave.”
“Okay.”
Frankie waits a beat. “Bridges says he doesn’t know anything else about Marisa.”
“So this was a complete waste of time,” I say.
“We know who this Donny guy is,” Frankie says. “That’s a start.”
“Great. So now I know Ponytail’s real name. I’ll send him a fucking Christmas card.” I pick up a rock and try to skim it off the pond. It skips the surface twice before sinking with a plonk. Then I turn and walk to the car, Frankie at my side.
“Bridges said Marisa knew all about him and Donny,” Frankie says. “Or she told him she did, anyway.”
“Yeah, well, Marisa was a pretty good liar.”
“Okay, but how did she know about Bridges in the first place? She knew where to find him. She knew about Jay Gardner being in jail. How?”
I stop and shout, “I don’t fucking know!” I’m loud enough to disturb the geese—they start splashing and honking again. I run my hand over my head, then rub my neck. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just frustrated. What the hell do we do?”
Frankie shrugs. “We find Donny, maybe we get some answers.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day after my visit to the monastery, Susannah is released on schedule from Birchwood, and I go to pick her up and take her home.
She’s pale but smiling, even if the smile is as thin as the T-shirt she’s wearing. Her mood is placid, a mountain lake unruffled by breezes or waterfalls or jumping trout. Clearly her meds have been adjusted. She hugs me, weakly, but not like she’s fragile and would crumble in my arms if I tried to hold her. So I hold her for a few moments, rocking slightly in the lobby with the glossy magazines and maybe-faux birch furniture.
“What are you trying to do, dance with me?” she murmurs into my shoulder.
“I’m giving you a hug.”
“Seriously, it’s like the worst foxtrot ever.”
I lean back and hold her at arm’s length. “That’s my sister.”
“Are you crying?”
“It’s spring. I’m allergic to pollen.” I take the discharge papers from the nurse and thank her, then steer Susannah toward the front door. Outside, Susannah shades her eyes with her hand from the bright sunlight. She folds herself into my car and we drive away, me resisting an urge to flip off Birchwood in the rearview mirror.
“You were going to flip off the hospital,” Susannah says. She’s gazing out the passenger window, letting the passing scenery wash over her.
“I wasn’t.”
She turns her head to look at me. “It’s spring,” she says. “Spring break. You should be on vacation somewhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods and leans back in her seat, closing her eyes. In a reasonable imitation of Forrest Gump’s drawl, she says, “ ‘Sorry I had a fight in the middle of your Black Panther party.’ ”
“ ‘You—are—a—toy!’ ” I say back.
“ ‘Mama always said life is like a box of chocolates.’ ”
“You have to quote a different Tom Hanks movie,” I tell her. “You can’t do Forrest Gump twice in a row.”
“I just got out of the psych hospital,” she says, eyes still closed. “You can cut me some slack.”
* * *
WILSON IS FRANTIC with joy when Susannah steps into my house, leaping and barking and his tail wagging so fast it looks like a propeller. “Hi, doggy,” Susannah manages, petting Wilson. “Good boy.” She heads for the couch and sinks down onto it. “I’m going to lie down here for about a week, ’kay?”
“Good choice,” I say. When she raises a quizzical eyebrow, I put my hand on top of my TV. “I downloaded every Tom Hanks movie ever made.”
She raises up on her elbows. “Seriously?”
“Even Joe Versus the Volcano.”
Susannah
sighs. “You know how to make a girl feel special, Ethan.”
We watch Dragnet because Susannah wants something funny, and then, after ordering pizza, we start Apollo 13. Yesterday I threw out all my beer and liquor, not wanting to tempt Susannah as alcohol and antidepressants are a terrible combination, but she doesn’t even ask for a drink except for a Diet Coke. We gorge on Hawaiian pizza, Susannah’s favorite, and call out favorite lines as we watch Tom Hanks on the screen.
The money quote for Apollo 13 is coming up, as Kevin Bacon’s character has just turned on the stirring fans for the spacecraft’s oxygen tanks, one of which explodes. Susannah and I are leaning forward, eager to say the line aloud. What I don’t expect to hear is the deep male voice behind us.
“ ‘Houston, we have a problem.’ ”
I jump off the couch and spin around, TV remote in my hand, while Susannah turns, stifling a cry. Caesar is standing in my living room behind the couch, hands in the pockets of his leather coat.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell.
Belatedly, Wilson starts to bark an alarm from his bed across the room.
“Might want to put the remote down before you hurt someone,” Caesar says.
I glance at the remote in my hand, poised as if I’m going to throw it. I use it to pause the movie and then drop it on the couch. “The hell are you doing here?”
“Checking on you,” Caesar says.
“How’d you get in?”
“Back door.”
I glare at Susannah, who shrugs and holds up her hands in a who, me? gesture. “The best locks money can buy,” I say to her acidly.
“Door was unlocked,” Caesar says.
I open my mouth, then close it. Wilson takes this opportunity to scamper over, growling, and then rolls over shamelessly onto his back at Caesar’s feet. Caesar crouches to rub Wilson’s belly.
Meanwhile, Susannah is looking Caesar over. She turns to me and says, “So who’s Shaft?”
I stare at her. “You did not just call him Shaft.”
She tilts her head, considering. “No, he’s more of a Hawk. From Spenser: For Hire? Avery Brooks played him?”
Blessedly, a knock on the front door interrupts her.
“That would be Frankie,” Caesar says. His expression is unreadable.
I head for the door, but not without overhearing Caesar say, “Avery Brooks is all right. But I liked him better in Star Trek.”
“Oh my God, I know, right?” Susannah says, her voice pitching toward fangirl excitement.
Caesar’s got a new best friend, I think. I open the door to find Frankie midknock.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Go inside,” he says.
I stand in the doorway. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Frankie?” I hear Susannah say, and then she’s beside me. “Hi.”
Frankie stares at her. “Hey,” he says. “How you doing?” His eyes flick to me, then back to her.
Susannah smiles, showing her teeth. “Fantastic. Just got out of the loony bin. Your friend Caesar likes Star Trek, which is amazing. We’re watching Tom Hanks movies. Can I get a hug here, or what?”
Frankie chuckles and bends to hug Susannah, but over her shoulder he gives me a warning look. “You don’t check your phone?” he says to me.
I silenced my phone and left it plugged up in my bedroom while Susannah and I watched movies. “I was taking a break,” I say. “Catch me up.”
“Suzie,” Frankie says, one arm around Susannah’s shoulders, “do you mind if I borrow your brother for a minute?”
Caesar is walking around my living room, glancing out the windows. Wilson trots behind him, head cocked in observation, his tail wagging.
“What are you doing?” I ask him. “Inspecting my house?”
“Something like that,” Caesar says.
Wordlessly I turn to Frankie and hold my hands up, baffled.
“Guys, I want to watch Tom Hanks and eat pizza,” Susannah says.
Frankie looks past me at Susannah, then back to me. “Caesar,” he says, “did you know Ethan’s sister is a huge Trekkie?”
Caesar is heading down the hall to my bedroom, Wilson at his heels, and his voice comes floating back. “I had an inkling. Girl has taste.”
“What is he doing?” I ask.
“Probably checking your windows.”
After a few moments Caesar reappears along with Wilson. “Looks good. As long as Ethan remembers to lock the doors.”
I turn and look at the front door, then step over and turn the dead bolt. I can’t be sure, but I think Caesar’s mouth twitches.
“Suzie,” Frankie says, “why don’t you and Caesar hang out for a minute while I talk with Ethan?”
Susannah looks at Caesar, who raises an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Spock.
“Deep Space Nine or Voyager?” she asks quickly.
Caesar grunts. “DS Nine, no question.”
Grinning, Susannah takes him by the hand and leads him to the couch. “Go on, boys,” she says. “Caesar and I have loads to talk about.”
Frankie walks down the hall, and I follow him into my room. “What is going on, Frankie?” I ask.
Frankie glances at the bedroom doorway, then turns his gaze on me. “Sam Bridges is dead,” he says.
“He … what?”
“One of the monks found him this morning, floating in that pond outside the monastery.” Frankie is gauging me, seeing if I’m going to freak out. “He’d been stabbed. A lot.”
I sit down on my bed. “Oh my God,” I say.
“It’s on the news,” Frankie continues. “That’s why I called. When you didn’t answer, we came right over.”
My mind is whirling. Sam Bridges, dead. Marisa, dead. I look up at Frankie. “Why did you come?” I ask. Then I’m struck absolutely still. Frankie sees the understanding in my face and nods grimly. “Someone killed him,” I continue, “and you think that means I might be in danger.”
“Just being careful,” Frankie says. “But yeah. Caesar insisted.”
Caesar insisted? It’s a night of surprises. “God,” I say. “Oh God, Frankie. What if it’s my fault?”
“Easy, güero,” Frankie says. “This isn’t your fault.”
“We go see him and ask about Marisa, and the next day someone sticks a knife in him? That’s not a coincidence.” I run my hands through my hair. Bridges tried to apologize for how he had ended up in my house that one horrible night. And I rejected him, essentially spat in his face. And now he’s dead.
“It’s not your fault,” Frankie says again.
“So who would’ve killed him?” I ask. “Same person who killed Marisa?”
Frankie gives me a look like he’s waiting for me to realize something.
“What?” I ask. “Do you know who—” I stop. There’s one obvious choice. “Damn. You think it was Donny?”
“Makes sense,” Frankie says. “He has the motive—get rid of any witnesses to what he did to your family. Plus Bridges probably had loads of shit on him.”
I slowly nod my head. “Marisa starts asking questions and stirs things up,” I say. “And we still don’t know all that she knew, or how she—”
On my dresser, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Frankie and I exchange a look. On the second buzz, I stand and walk over to the phone to look at the caller ID. I look at Frankie. “You told my uncle?” I say.
“Hell yes, I told your uncle. This is serious shit, Ethan. You need all the help you can get.”
The phone continues to buzz, vibrating on the top of my dresser.
“You should answer that,” Frankie says.
I level a dark look at him, then pick up the phone. “Hello?” I say reluctantly.
“Are Frankie and Caesar there?” Uncle Gavin asks.
“Yeah,” I say, still looking at Frankie. “They’re here. Susannah and I are fine.”
“You’ve an interview with the Atlanta police tomorrow,” my uncle says. “At one o
’clock, downtown. Johnny Shaw will meet you there.”
I stand there, trying to absorb what my uncle is saying. “Why?” I manage to say.
“They want to talk to you about the man you spoke with at the monastery. And they’re trying to get a court order for your DNA.”
There’s a specific camera shot in film called a dolly zoom where the camera lens zooms out at the same time that the camera moves forward. Spielberg uses it in Jaws, when the chief is sitting on the beach and the shark strikes. The camera moves or dollies forward at the same time the camera lens zooms out, so you feel like you are both rushing toward and away from the screen at the same time. It’s disorienting as hell, and it’s exactly the way I feel now, talking on the phone to my uncle about meeting with the police.
“You are not being arrested,” Uncle Gavin says. “It’s an interview. So far Shaw’s been able to gum up the works about your DNA, told a judge about the problems with the police lab. You go in and cooperate with the interview, that helps. Shaw has an independent lab to run the test, if it comes to that.”
I nod and wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. “At the monastery,” I begin, about to tell him what we learned, but I stop because Frankie is vigorously shaking his head no and waving his arms in a cut-off gesture.
“Call Johnny Shaw, Ethan,” Uncle Gavin says. “He’ll walk you through it all. It will be fine.”
I let out a laugh that could easily be a bark or a sob. “Fine,” I say. “Sure.”
“Call Shaw,” my uncle says, and then he hangs up.
I look at my phone for a few seconds, then lower it to the dresser. I’d like to lower myself to the floor, maybe lie there on the hardwood, but I have just enough dignity to walk over to my bed, where I sit down again.
“Why’d you wave me off?” I ask Frankie.
Frankie sits down next to me, carefully, like I’m a deer he’s afraid he might spook. “You never know who might be listening to a phone call,” he says.
I turn to stare at him. He looks back at me, calm but with a hint of worry in his eyes. “Are you saying I might be bugged?” I say. “My phone might be wiretapped or something?”
Never Turn Back Page 22
