He looked at Lily, his dark eyes full of anger, but in their depths, fear was rising. “What happened? What did you do to her? Tell me what went on here right now, damn it.”
“Shana, Daddy and I are going in the other room and talk,” Lily said gently. “You’ll hear us talking and know we are here. We’ll only be a few feet away.” She got up and motioned for John to follow.
The Valium had calmed her somewhat and Lily told John about the attack. It was an emotionless recitation of facts. If she allowed one tear to fall, the floodgates would open. They were sitting on her newly purchased sofa with the amber light from a Tiffany lamp creating an almost surreal atmosphere. He leaned up close and touched the small cuts at the side of her mouth, but it wasn’t a gesture of concern or affection. It was more like a reflex, confirmation of the reality of what she was saying. His eyes clearly said she was responsible, no matter what reason predicated. She should have found the strength to stop him. That’s the way he saw her, Lily thought: invincible.
Then he sobbed, his masculine body wracked with pain, that unfamiliar and awful sound that signified a grown man crying like a child. He didn’t scream or yell or threaten revenge. He was quite simply heartbroken.
“Well, do you want me to call the police? You’re her father and I can’t make this decision without you.” Lily felt as if her blood had turned to iron. She had been raped as well. “It’s not irreversible. We can always file a report later if we change our minds.”
“No, I agree with you. It would only make things worse for her,” he finally replied. Tears were still streaming down his face, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. “Would they catch the bastard if we reported it?”
“How do I know, John? No one knows. We don’t have a vehicle description.” She cursed herself for not running after him, for staying with Shana. “Maybe we’re doing the wrong thing. I just don’t know. I don’t know.” Her mind was too muddled, full of barely suppressed rage. Something inside her was diving, twisting. She had to stop it. She had to rewind the tape and erase it. John’s voice sounded distant. She stared at him and tried to focus.
“I want to take Shana home, away from this place.” His voice was a choked whisper. “I don’t care about anything else, understand? I just want to take care of my child.”
“I know,” she shouted, and then lowered her voice so Shana wouldn’t hear. “And she’s our child, not yours. Don’t you think I want to take care of her? I don’t want her to suffer. I couldn’t stop this.” She paused, then said, “I—I gave her a sedative. Let’s just bundle her up and take her home. I’ll pack a bag and follow you.”
He stood and then stopped, staring at her. A look of utter horror shot from his ravaged eyes. He hadn’t combed his hair over his bald spot, and a long strand dangled over by his temple. He looked so old, so haggard. “Could she get pregnant? My baby, my little baby.”
Lily started to say something but found herself disgusted by his weakness. This was why she had lost respect for him over the years. As she had forced herself to confront the violence of the world they lived in, he had lived in a world that didn’t exist. The strong, loving man she had married had started to disappear around the time Lily passed the bar. John had cut back his hours at work, content to let her carry the financial burden of the family. But in time, he’d begun to despise her, jealous of her success. Why couldn’t he make the decisions that had to be made just once? Her love affair with Richard Fowler passed through her mind, and she wished he was there instead of John. For the first time she had reached for happiness, touched the soft edge of pleasure. Pleasure, she thought. The rapist had found pleasure in her terror, in Shana’s terror.
“He didn’t ejaculate,” Lily told him. “The sirens scared him away. We can take her to the doctor tomorrow, and they’ll check her for possible diseases. There’s a slim chance she could get pregnant from pre-emission sperm. We’ll just have to pray.”
“Will she ever get over this, Lily? Will our little girl ever be the same?”
“With you and me beside her and all the love and help we can give her, I know she will. I pray to God she will.” As she said the stock, comforting words she had said to dozens of victims, their worthlessness struck home. Shana was strong. Lily had made her strong, refusing to baby and shelter her as John did. And if they didn’t drag it on with the authorities, perhaps it would someday become like a bad dream. The only alternative was to become an emotional cripple, and no child of hers would fall into this abyss. She would not allow it.
After they wrapped Shana in a comforter, John led her to the door. She turned and looked at Lily, and their eye contact locked and lingered. Lily had wanted to be her friend and confidante, to guide her without her father’s intervention. Instead they had witnessed hell together, forming a bond, but one forged in terror.
“You go home and go to sleep. Daddy will sleep on the floor next to you.” Lily embraced her. “I’ll be there in the morning when you wake up.”
“Will he come back, Mom?”
The words sliced through Lily’s heart. “No, Shana, he’ll never come back. I’ll move out of this house tomorrow. We’ll never come back here again. Soon we’ll both forget this night ever happened.” She knew this was a lie.
Once they had gone, Lily hurriedly started throwing things in a small duffel bag. The house was dead quiet again, that ominous stillness like before, and she was shaking. The memory of the attacker’s face when he had passed through the light coming from the bathroom kept flashing in her mind, and each time, she dropped what she was doing and stood there, frozen in thought, trying to put her finger on what it was she associated with his face. Suddenly the face appeared, but not as she remembered it. It appeared in a mug shot photo.
She ran to the living room, tripping and falling on the edge of her robe, soggy and reeking of Shana’s vomit. From her position on the floor, she saw her briefcase and crawled the rest of the way on her hands and knees. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the combination lock. On the third try it clicked open. She threw all the files out and frantically searched for the one she knew contained the photo. Papers went flying across the carpet.
Suddenly it was in her hands. He was the same man who had assaulted the prostitute, Clinton Silverstein’s case that had been dismissed today. He was even wearing the same red sweatshirt. He had been arrested and photographed in it, photographed with that smug smile. They must have released him about the time she’d left the courthouse, giving him back his original clothes with the rest of his property. Someone either picked him up or dropped off his car. He must have followed her from the complex.
There was no doubt in her mind as she studied the hated image. No doubt at all. It was him.
Her breath was coming faster now, catching and rattling in her throat. Whatever effects the Valium had were gone. Adrenaline was pumping through her veins. She rapidly sorted through the pages of the file to the police report. His home was listed as 24 South 155th Street. Lily tore off the section with his address on it and placed it in the pocket of her robe. She went to the bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, transferring the address to the jeans. Digging in the back of the closet, she found her fur-lined winter hiking boots. John had insisted that she remove every single item that belonged to her when they’d separated, as if he wanted to erase her from his life. In the same box was a blue knit ski cap. She placed it on her head and stuffed her hair inside it.
She headed for the garage. Back in the corner, behind three or four boxes, was her father’s shotgun, one of the curious items her mother had given her after his death.
In the stillness of the garage, as her hands touched the barrel of the gun, Lily felt his presence beside her. Her father had wanted a son and made his daughter spend Saturday afternoons shooting tin cans. She no longer dreamed of frilly dresses and bows for her hair. She adored her father and would do anything to please him.
Spotting the small box containing the green shells containing slugs
, she loaded them into the chamber and crammed several more into the tight pocket of her jeans. She didn’t falter for a moment, her father’s voice guiding her, pushing her on.
As she left the garage, shotgun muzzle down in her arms, her footsteps echoed even when she’d left the concrete floor and was walking on carpet. She felt heavy, rooted to the ground with resolve, no longer alone in her body. The phone rang like a shrill bell, invasive, unwelcome, but a signal, a signal to begin. It was John.
“Shana’s asleep. I’m worried about you. Are you coming over?”
“I’ll be there in a few hours. Don’t worry. I can’t sleep now anyway. I want to calm down and take a bath. He’s not coming back here tonight. Just take care of Shana.” Do what you do best, she thought without contempt, accepting her role, and I’ll do what has to be done.
She crouched at the rear of her car and began marking the license plate. The plate read FPO322. With a black marker, she altered it to read EBO822. She threw the shotgun in the backseat, thought of covering it, and then decided it didn’t matter. The rage was an unseen inferno, burning all around her, blinding her, engulfing her. She kept seeing him over Shana, his body heaving on top of her precious child.
She rolled down the window in her car and let the night air blow in her face. As she passed the farming area on the outskirts of Ventura, the smell of fertilizer reminded her of his rancid odor. She tasted his vile penis in her mouth and spat out the window.
Slowly she drove the dark streets, passing from one streetlight to another, going past one stop sign then through a traffic signal changing from red to green to yellow. In her mind they were runway lights, illuminating her descent into hell.
She was trying to formulate a plan. It didn’t take her long to find the house. It was one in a row of tiny stucco residences. Across the street was a vacant lot. The yard was overgrown with weeds. On the front porch was an old refrigerator with a heavy link chain and padlock. He had probably been cited by the police before purchasing the lock. In the assault on the prostitute, he had driven a van and there was no van, just a dusty black older-model Chevy. The van could have been stolen and subsequently abandoned. The screen on the front door hung haphazardly on its hinges. One window was boarded up with glass.
Like a burglar, she cased the area, noting the nearest streetlight was a block away on the corner. She knew she couldn’t enter his house to shoot him. That would be suicide. And she had no way of confirming he was inside. There was only one way: wait for him to come out. What if it was daylight and dozens of people were milling about on the street? Some of these houses had two or three families living together. She glanced at the cars parked on the streets she prowled.
Turning back toward a field she had passed earlier, she steered the car onto a dirt road. The car had been washed only a few days before. The exterior was absorbing the dust she was churning up with her tires. She parked by the road. Taking the shotgun from the backseat, she pointed it into the field and fired. The blast shattered the stillness of the night, and the butt of the gun slammed into her shoulder. Her father had been dead for ten years. She wanted to make certain her weapon of death performed. Placing it in the front seat, she spun out and headed back onto the main road.
She had to go to the bathroom but refused to stop. She willed the urge to go away and it did. As she pulled up to a stoplight and glanced in the rearview mirror, she caught sight of her image. Her face was ashen, her eyes bloodshot. She looked old and tired in the blue knit cap pulled low on her forehead. As she realized the stench of him still clung to her body and had now grotesquely blended with her own developing body order, a wave of nausea assaulted her. She bit down on the inside of her mouth, tasting her own salty blood.
As she turned down his street again, she saw a dark green van parked at the curb, its rear doors open. Her eyes turned to the shotgun propped up on the seat beside her, while her pulse raced and her stomach churned. When a dog barked somewhere, she jumped and took her foot off the brake. The car jerked forward. Pulling to the curb five houses away from his, hands locked and sweating on the cool steering wheel, she let go long enough to wipe her hands on her denim-clad thighs.
Dawn burst through the darkness.
After staring so hard at the house that her vision had blurred, she saw a distinct flash of red. She floored the car and covered the distance between the houses in seconds, until she was directly across from him. Slamming both feet on the brake, she threw the gearshift into park without thinking and grabbed the shotgun, getting out and racking the slide. He was exiting the house, halfway down the curb, headed toward the van. He saw her and stopped abruptly, planting both his feet firmly on the ground. On his face was a look of shock and confusion.
Inside that second, reason flickered behind the eyes she lowered to the sight, coursed inside the finger on the trigger, a pinpoint of light before blindness. Her body moved back inches, but the light was gone, the sight a framed portrait of red fabric pulsating with the beat of his heart. Her nostrils burned with his disgusting odor. Shana’s cries echoed inside her head.
She fired.
The impact knocked him off his feet. His hands and legs flew into the air. The green shell ejected onto the street. The explosion reverberated inside her head. A gaping hole appeared in the center of the red sweatshirt, spewing forth blood: Shana’s blood, virginal blood, sacrificial blood. Her throat constricted, mucus dripped from her nose, and once again the alien, detached finger squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit near his shoulder, severing his arm.
Her knees buckled beneath her. The shotgun fell butt-first to the ground. The muzzle came to rest on the soft area beneath her chin, stopping her. Moving her head, she vomited chunks of chicken onto the black asphalt, seeing pieces of flesh boiling. She pulled herself through the open door of the car, her arms locked around the shotgun. Everything was moving, shaking, bleeding, screaming. She saw objects flying through the air, trapping her inside the core of horror.
Move, she ordered her body, still frozen. Move. She grabbed the steering wheel, releasing the shotgun. Don’t look. Drive. Her foot responded and the car surged forward. The intersection was there in a second. Turn. Breathe. Turn. Drive. She had not killed a human being. Turn. Drive. Turn. The sun was shining, but all she saw was a dark tunnel in front of her. She knew she was in hell and there was no way out. “Please, God,” she prayed. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, show me the way out.”
SEVEN
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27
VENTURA, CALIFORNIA
“Judge Forrester,” the clerk said, tapping Lily on the shoulder. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”
Lily surfaced from the past, feeling light-headed and confused, memories from that awful day still whirling around her. “Coffee,” she said, clearing her throat. “Where were we?”
“We’re just beginning,” Susie Martin whispered, handing her Burkell’s file.
Lily tried to read, but all she saw was a blur. She felt as if she were attempting to adjust the lens on a microscope. She’d already read the contents of the file the night before. Both of the attorneys were scanning through their paperwork. When the clerk returned with her coffee, she took a sip and then looked up, turning on her microphone and moving it closer to her mouth. Only a few minutes had passed, but a few minutes in hell were an eternity. “I’m pleased that you could make it, Ms. McBride. If you’re late one more time, rest assured there will be a price to pay. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Your Honor,” she answered, making no attempt to explain.
“Are we ready to go on record, Counselors?”
Clinton Silverstein pushed himself to a half-standing position. “The people are ready.”
“We’re ready, Your Honor,” Judith McBride said.
Lily began speaking. “This is case number A345982, State of California versus Floyd Burkell, two counts of murder as per section 187 of the California Penal Code.”
Her sojourn to
the past had no doubt been initiated by her meeting with Hennessey, but seeing Clinton Silverstein had also been to blame. She had been Silverstein’s supervisor in the sex crimes unit at the DA’s office when she and Shana had been assaulted. Silverstein was a competent prosecutor, but his views on victims were occasionally distorted. In the attempted rape of the prostitute, Silverstein had not wanted to prosecute. Lily had reminded him that even prostitutes could be raped. The victim had also weighed over two hundred pounds, a fact Silverstein and some of the other male district attorneys had laughed about. As it turned out, the prostitute had failed to appear in court because she had been murdered.
But all that was before, back in the days when life was normal. The place she was at now was so strange and intense, she sometimes had to feel her pulse to make certain she was breathing. Focus, she told herself. Hold on to the present. She tried to relax her jaw until words finally came out of her mouth. “Have you had a chance to review the psychological evaluation on the defendant, Mr. Silverstein?”
The Cheater Page 6
