by Judy Clemens
Casey dropped her chin to her chest. “I wanted…I didn’t want…”
“I know, sweetheart.” Lillian squatted, knees popping, and laid an arm over Casey’s shoulders. “We’ll see you again. And whatever your trespasses, my dear, whatever it is you’re running from, we hope you’re soon running back.”
Casey swiped the tears from her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and they came away, wet with tears and blood. She wiped them on her pants. “Tell Rosemary…”
“I’ll tell her, darling.”
Lillian stood and helped Casey back to her feet.
“The bike is there,” Lillian said, pointing to the side of the house. “It’s yours now, if you can…” She gestured at Casey’s arm.
“I can’t take your bike—”
“You can. You will. Go.”
A light flickered in the back room, and Casey jumped further into the shadows. Lillian waited quietly, but nothing else moved.
“Go, sweetheart,” she finally said.
“I never paid you.”
Lillian laughed quietly. “My dear, you’ve paid us in more ways than one. Now go.”
Casey hitched her bag onto her back, wincing as the strap scraped her shoulder, and stumbled to the bike. She swung her leg over the seat and rode quickly away from the house, not looking back, her right arm cradled against her stomach. She didn’t reach up again to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Forty
It was dark in Eric’s back yard. Dark and quiet. A neighbor’s garage stood open to the night, the car cold. She rolled her bike into the dark space, where it would sit, camouflaged among the family’s bikes, one a tiny pink two-wheeler with training wheels, streamers dangling from the handlebars. No one would notice the old Schwinn before she had a chance to take it.
Hunkered down in the garage, she gingerly pulled her shirt over her head, wincing as the material came away from her sliced shoulder. The blood had begun to clot, and the wound started bleeding again as she tore the fabric from her arm. Ripping the shirt with her teeth, she awkwardly tied a strip around her arm to staunch the bleeding.
She unzipped her bag, pulled out a dark, long-sleeved shirt, and eased it over her head. A rake hung on the wall just above her, and the nail was long enough to accommodate her pack, as well. She hefted it up, snagging the nail. The bag was inconspicuous there. Just one more thing, amidst the tools and sports equipment.
Casey looked at her bag. At her bike. She should just go. Just leave. Take off into the night. But even if she did, even if she somehow avoided the cops in Clymer, could she live with that? Could she live with letting Ellen’s death be branded a suicide? Could she let Eric wonder forever what had happened—either with Ellen or Bone and Taffy?
Besides, there was no guarantee she could avoid the cops, traveling on a bicycle.
Casey stepped carefully from the garage. There was no good hiding place for her in there. She considered Eric’s yard, with its shrubbery, but knew it would be a foolhardy spot to wait for him to come home. His house was the same. Even if she could find a way in, she would be discovered when someone—whoever it was—came to hunt her down.
But what if she didn’t find a way in.
The houses on either side were dark, and Casey could see no tell-tale signs of activity. No dogs had as yet noticed her presence, and she was hopeful none would.
She eyed the trees around Eric’s house. Not huge. But large enough. Sticking to the shadows, she made her way to the side of the house, where a mid-sized maple grew only feet from the building. With a leap, she grabbed onto a lower branch and walked her feet up the trunk until she could swing herself up to straddle the branch. She lay against the tree limb, gasping, focusing past the pain in her arms and back. She had to move. She grabbed a close branch and eased herself upward, climbing until she was level with the roof.
The branches here weren’t thick, but were at least as round as her legs. Leaning forward onto her stomach, she shimmied toward the roof of the house, the wood bending under her weight. The branch cracked with a loud pop, and dropped several inches. She froze, waiting to plummet to the ground, but the branch stopped, whether by its own strength or the support of another. When she was sure it was done moving she inched forward again, the branch bending until she was within reaching distance of the roof.
The limb cracked again, and with a lunge she grabbed onto the edge of the roof and scrabbled upward. The branch flicked back up, as if she’d never been on it.
Casey looked around the roof for a good spot, and scooted on her stomach to the opposite side, the driveway side, where she could see when Eric arrived. A chimney sat close to the peak of the roof, and she pulled herself into its shadow, where she brought her knees to her chest, fitting herself into the darkness.
It would take hours for Eric to be done with the police. By the time they finished at the scene and took his statement it would be the middle of the night. Casey settled down for a long wait, aware of the rustling leaves, the sound of faraway dogs, and the occasional car passing the house. Only when her legs began to cramp did she allow herself to move, and then just a minute amount, enough to stop the pain.
She leaned her head against the bricks of the chimney. Her kidney ached. Her lip throbbed. It had stopped bleeding, but she could feel the blood, crusty and already scabbing on her mouth.
The dead man’s blood hadn’t had a chance to begin clotting.
Casey shook her head. She couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about those eyes, blanker even in death than they’d been in life. The knife, left on the ground beside the Pontiac, holding both Bone’s prints and hers. Taffy, who would be waking up in police custody.
Lights danced across the backyard, and Casey brought her head up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. She peeked around the edge of the chimney. Not Eric’s car. A police cruiser. The doors were opening. Eric was stepping out. Eric and the chief.
“Check the yard,” Reardon said to an officer, who climbed out the driver’s side. “We’ll check the house, make sure she’s not hiding here.”
Casey eased back behind the chimney. Pulled her knees to her chest. Squeezed her eyes shut, childlike. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
Long minutes passed. A breeze blew across the roof, sending leaves past her, skidding across the roof, and she shivered.
She opened her eyes. The officer’s flashlight was coming back now. She could see the beam as it bobbed and weaved across the branches of the tree, across the roof, just beyond her toes.
A door slapped open. “Well?” Reardon.
“Nothing, sir. She’s not here.”
Silence.
“Eric said she ran, sir. She could be long gone already.”
Casey could feel the chief’s doubts. His inability to believe that she had left town so quickly, leaving no clue as to where she’d gone. “Yeah, well, Eric doesn’t know everything, does he?”
Footsteps sounded on the driveway, and the chief’s voice was louder. “You know what I want, Eric. She shows up, you tell her to come in. It will be better for her if she tells me the story herself.”
“But I told you—”
“You hear what I’m saying?”
A pause. “I hear you.”
“Good. We didn’t need this, Eric. Our town doesn’t need any more death.”
“Yes. I know.”
Casey held her breath as she listened, and soon the car doors opened, and slammed shut. One. Two. The car eased out of the driveway, the lights flickering against the house and tree. It drove away.
“They’re gone, Casey,” Eric said quietly. “If you’re out there.”
He waited for several seconds, then closed the door with a quiet snick.
Casey dropped her head to her knees. They were gone now. But when would they be coming back?
It took them about forty minutes. The car pulled into the drive, and Casey heard one door open, and footsteps up the stairs. She waited. Whoever
it was must have rung the doorbell and received no response, because he banged on the door. It opened.
“What?” Eric sounded sleepy, and irritated.
“Just checking in,” Reardon said. “To be sure she hasn’t come by.”
“She’s not here.” Was that pain in his voice? “Come in and look.”
“Oh, I don’t need to do that,” Reardon said. “I trust you.”
Eric laughed.
“Sorry,” Reardon said. “Go back to sleep.”
The door slammed, and Casey listened to Reardon’s footsteps, the car door opening and closing. In a few seconds, they were gone.
She waited an hour this time, and then five minutes more, before crab-walking down the roof. She made her way to the back of the house, where a first-story layer jutted out over the yard. Easing herself over the side, shingles scraping her stomach, she let herself down, dropping into the grass and rolling. She lay motionless for several seconds, waiting for movement in the surrounding yards, gritting her teeth and holding her shoulder. When she saw nothing, she crept to the back door. She was relieved to find the door unlocked.
She entered what looked to be a mudroom and closed the door quietly behind her. Tiptoeing her way through the space and into the kitchen, she went through the house, checking each room on the first floor. Eric was not there.
She climbed the stairs, sticking to the edges, where they were less likely to creak, and paused on the landing. Three rooms. All with wide open doors.
Eric was in the first one. He lay, fully clothed, diagonally across his bed, his mouth open, his face relaxed in sleep. She went in and placed her hand over his mouth. His eyes flew open, and he sat up, pushing her hand away.
“My God, Casey, where have you been?”
She sat on the bed, next to him, feeling the warmth of his sleep on the sheets. “I’m sorry. I just…I can’t get into this kind of thing with the police.”
“This kind of thing? Exactly what does that mean?”
She blanched.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “I’m sorry. It was self-defense. I know that. They know that.”
“Do they?”
He looked at her for a long moment before climbing out of the bed and going to the window, where he put a hand on the wall and peered out into the yard. He looked fragile in the moonlight seeping through the window. “You do realize you killed him.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“I didn’t think—”
“I didn’t mean to, Eric. He was just so strong, and coming at me so hard, and so fast.”
He turned back toward her. “I know. I told the police.”
“But Eric, you weren’t there.”
“Yes,” he said. “I was.” The look in his eyes brooked no argument.
“I can’t ask you to lie for me.”
“You didn’t. You haven’t. But I know what happened.”
“Do you?” She remembered his wild eyes, staring at her across the sidewalk. Across the bodies.
He was silent for a few moments. “I thought so.”
He came back to the bed and sat next to her. He took her hand, studying her fingers. She left her hand in his, feeling nothing from him but a childlike fascination as he ran his own fingers along hers.
“Leila knows who you are,” Eric said.
Casey froze.
“She wouldn’t let it be. She looked and looked until she found you.”
Casey pulled her hand from his. “Did she?”
“She used your first name, assuming that, at least, was true. She got the librarian to tell her the name on your driver’s license, and the issuing state.”
Oh, Stacy, you dumb man.
Eric turned toward her. “And now I know. I know, Casey Maldonado.”
Casey wrapped her arms around her stomach, hugging herself. She stood. “I have to go.”
“No!” He jumped up and got between Casey and the doorway. “You can’t run away just because I know.”
“Oh, really? And what exactly is it you know, Eric?”
“About your husband. Your…your son.”
Casey hiccupped. “You don’t…you can’t know.”
“You can’t keep running away, Casey. You’ve got to face it.”
She jabbed a finger in his chest, and he winced, holding his hands up to defend himself. “I have to face it? Do you even understand what it is I have to face? ”
“I thought—”
“They’re dead, Eric. Dead. They died in front of my eyes. Exploded into a million pieces, while I was thrown clear. Twenty feet away, into a clump of cattails. I should have been in there with them. I should have…”
She feinted toward the door, but he caught her elbow and spun her back, crushing her to him, his arms around her, pinning her own arms against her body. She fought at first, squirming, kicking, trying to take his feet out from under him, but he held fast, not allowing her leverage.
“Let me go!” she cried into his chest. “Let me go! ”
Eric lifted her off the ground and carried her, still fighting, to the bed, where he fell onto it, holding her beneath him, his height and weight enough to keep her captive, his legs on top of hers, not giving her a chance to get into a position to fight back. She screamed and cried, picturing Reuben, Omar, Ricky, her mother…Lillian and Rosemary, the woman with the bad hair…Eric, and Ellen…even the dead man she’d left on the sidewalk.
Eventually she shuddered, and stopped, her breaths coming in gasps, her face, and Eric’s, wet from tears.
Eric kept his weight on top of her, watching her face, until he dropped his forehead gently onto hers. “Can I let you go now?”
“No. No, don’t let me go.”
So he held her there, his warmth and body trapping her beneath him as she shivered and shook, until she finally, with one last shudder, tapped him on the hip with a finger, one of the few body parts she could move. “Eric.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t breathe.”
He lifted himself onto his elbows and rolled off of her, leaving her flat and deflated. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, smoothing her tear- and blood-sticky hair from her face. “I’m sorry, Casey.”
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” She could hear him breathing, could hear her own breaths matching his. She rolled onto her side, away from him, hugging her sore wrist to her chest.
“I can’t do it,” Eric said.
She opened her eyes. “Do what?”
“Leave Ellen. I can’t let her disappear. I can’t let her death be what they want us to think. Chief Reardon never even questioned it. Just believed what the forensic people said.”
She rolled back toward him. “We don’t have to let her disappear, Eric.”
“But what can we do? We have nothing, except—”
“The DVD,” they said together.
“I can’t go back to get it from your mom,” Casey said. “There are…I can’t go back.”
He nodded, not asking her to explain. “Well, then, it’s good you don’t have to.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope. Because I’ve got it right here. I brought it home after that night at their house.”
“You did?” Casey sat up.
“Yes. Come on.”
“What about the cops? They’ll probably be back. They’ll see the light downstairs.”
He stopped. “Okay. Wait here.”
He was back in less than a minute, sliding the DVD into a player on top of his dresser. “This TV isn’t nearly as good as Rosemary and Lillian’s, but it should do.”
They fast-forwarded through Eric’s visit and the minutes of Yvonne typing, until they got to Todd’s arrival. They watched his entrance and exit, and fast-forwarded again, through the remaining office footage of Yvonne’s office work, all the way to the blue screen.
“Nothing,” Eric said.
“Let’s watch again.”
They did, but saw nothing much more t
han Karl’s door and Yvonne’s desk.
“I don’t get it,” Eric said. He tossed the remote onto the quilt and yawned, rubbing his hand over his face.
Casey picked up the remote and went back to the first frame of the footage, freezing the picture. She sucked in a breath. “Eric.”
“Yeah?”
“Look at the picture.”
“I’m looking.”
“What are we looking at?”
He shrugged. “Karl’s door.”
Casey shook her head. “What is in the middle of the frame?”
He squinted at the TV. “Yvonne?”
“And?”
He sat up. “Yvonne’s computer.”
Casey started the DVD again and jumped up from the sofa, standing with her face inches from the screen. “I can’t read the typing on here. It’s too small.”
Eric went to the player and ejected the DVD. “Come on. We’ll look on my computer.”
They left the lights off as they went downstairs, Casey avoiding windows. Eric’s computer sat in a messy office, one of the four bedrooms in his house. He put in the disk, and with the media player he enlarged the screen of Yvonne’s computer so they could see the typing.
“These are just bills,” Eric said. “They look normal. Nothing unusual about paying utility bills or insurance premiums.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, but I think so.”
“Okay. Move ahead.”
They fast-forwarded, stopping frequently, moving past payroll and inter-office memos about packing up supplies, announcements telling employees to be sure to sign up for their severance packages, and production lists.
“There,” Eric said. “What’s that?”
Casey’s stomach flipped. She knew the format. She knew it all too well. “It’s a contract.”
“About what?” Eric said, bending closer to the screen.
Casey noted the names at the beginning of the document: MIKE and PATRICIA MARLOWE.
“This contract is between HomeMaker and these people,” Casey said. “The Marlowes.” She read further, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. “It says someone died from using one of HomeMaker’s appliances.” She looked at Eric. “It was a dryer.”
