Dark Lady

by Richard North Patterson

  “And one is, after all, only as good as one’s mother.” He did not flinch. “You can be cruel, Caroline. But I never felt that. Not then, and not now.” His hand fell to the side, and then his voice gentled in entreaty. “You will help her, won’t you?” Caroline gazed at him. “By staying,” she finally answered, “or by leaving.”

  “Stay, Caroline. Please. I’m asking you for peace. Only for a time, and not for me—or Betty. But for her.” He stood straight again. “I know my granddaughter, in a way you never can now. Most of all, I know she’s innocent.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  At the door of the house, Caroline paused, picturing the young woman inside. Silent, Channing Masters opened the door, and Caroline entered her father’s house. She stopped in the living room, hands jammed in her pockets, looking about. All was as she remembered—the antique furniture, the Chinese carpets, even the smell of things from another time. In the foyer was the grandfather clock, made in the 1850s. Oil paintings of ancestors hung in the living room, portrayed in the heroic convention—a general, a senator, a lumber magnate, a clergyman with beetling eyebrows. Her father’s books remained in his library: the original Kipling and Poe, complete editions of Dickens and Henry James, Pliny’s letters. It was where he had always read to her. What was she doing here … ? Slowly, Caroline walked to the dining room. Her family had eaten every meal at this same polished mahogany table, on china drawn from the beveled-glass cabinet. After Betty had left for Smith, and then Caroline’s mother had died, for a few months there had been only the two of them—Channing and his youngest daughter, dining alone, discussing his work or her studies or the news of the day. It was more than conversation, Caroline remembered. It was a tutorial in politics and human nature and how they intersected, with lessons drawn from a scale as large as history—Jefferson, the economics of slavery——or as small as the village of Resolve, the foibles of its affairs and its citizens laid bare by Channing’.s discerning but not uncharitable eye. Caroline had basked in it. All that she had wanted then was to settle here as a lawyer, to follow her father’s path as far as she could. On the eve of her departure to boarding school, at Dana Hall, Caroline could feel his loneliness, read the sadness in her father’s eyes. Grasping his sleeve, Caroline asked him again if she could stay. He shook his head. “They will attend to your education now,” he said. “Better than I or any school nearby. Children do not always live to please their parents, or parents to please themselves …. ” It was that, more than anything, that had made her wish to please him. He was standing next to her, Caroline realized. The house felt empty. Softly, Caroline asked, “Where is she?”

  “Her room’s upstairs.” Caroline did not turn. “Which one?”

  “Yours.” Alone, Caroline walked to the staircase, still feeling her father’s gaze. She paused, hand on the rail. Turning her head, Caroline faced the music room, imagined her mother, sitting at a piano that was no longer there. Even then, before Caroline knew how it would end, her mother had seemed miscast—febrile, high-spirited, too mutable and vivid for this place. Caroline remembered her mother planning trips they somehow never took, until she simply stopped; recalled how her parents began to argue over politics. Nicole had conceived an unreasoning passion for Adlai Stevenson and then John Kennedy, both anathema to her Republican husband. Barely an adolescent, Caroline had sensed this conflict as a metaphor for a conflict too deep to be spoken easily: her mother’s desire to leave a life that never quite seemed hers. She had begun to notice nights when her father grew remote. When her mother, retreating to the music room and

  the lacquered grand piano, sang Edith Piaf in the breathy French she had never bothered to teach Caroline, that no one in their home could speak or understand. But even this language, Caroline came to know, was not quite her mother’s own. History had left her without family or country, or any home but this. Even her mother’s “La Vie en Rose,” Caroline remembered, had the sound of irony. Dark head poised, eyes nearly shut, Nicole Dessaliers Masters would sing with a faint half smile …. Turning from the music room, Caroline slowly climbed the stairs, to Bret’s room.

  Brett sat facing the window. At first, Caroline could see only her back—the first impression of slimness, brown curls. And then she turned, a quick twist of her body, startled from thought. Caroline gazed at her for what felt uncomfortably long, though it could only have been seconds. Saw a delicate chin, full, even mouth, slender face and high forehead. Saw that Brett was more than pretty. Saw the smudges above her cheekbones, the hours without sleep. But the green eyes—startlingly alive—gazed at Caroline with uncanny direcmess. “You’re Caroline, aren’t you. My aunt.” Her voice was soft, yet clear. For an instant, Caroline replayed the sound of it. “I’m Caroline, yes.” Closing the door, she forced herself to stop looking at Brett, to glance around the room at the mishmash of early womanhood—a red pantsuit slung over a chair; some CDs by the singer Tori Amos; Susan Faludi’s Backlash on top of a stack of paperbacks. After a moment, she managed to say, “This isn’t quite how I remember it.”

  “This was your roon, wasn’t it.” From birth, Caroline thought, until the day she had left. Every night of her childhood, her father would climb the stairs and kiss her on the forehead. And then there were those much rarer nights, surprising and priceless, when

  Nicole Masters would read to her, a faint smell of claret on her breath, her lively French-accented English lending each story a touch of the exotic. Turning out the lights, Nicole bent her face to Caroline’s …. Caroline found herself staring at Brett. “What is it.”?” Brett asked. Caroline composed an answer. “Nothing, really. Just a foolish memory—my first childhood act of defiance. At night, I used to listen to Red Sox games. After my mother or father would turn off the lights and my radio, I’d sneak a transistor under the covers and keep listening, rapturous to be getting away with it.” Caroline smiled faintly. “Looking back, I’m sure he knew. Perhaps was even pleased.” Brett’s eyes showed the faint glint of kinship. “Grandfather used to take me to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox.” A quick sideways glance. “Did he take you?” Caroline nodded. And then remembered, so suddenly that her forgetfulness shocked her, why she had come. Crossing the room, Caroline sat two feet from Brett. What happened next surprised her. For close to half her life, Caroline had sat this close to clients accused of rape, or child abuse, or murder by torture or mutilation. The serial killer whom Caroline had described to her father—a pockmarked man with ferret’s eyes—would have raped and killed her for the pleasure of it had there not been Plexiglas between them. So that Caroline had learned to stifle certain images. But as Brett gazed back at her, eyes filling with hope and fear, Caroline imagined the blood on her fingertips. She touched her eyes. “Forgive me if I seem more like a lawyer than an aunt. But we’ve quite a lot to cover.” Suddenly, Brett looked tense, deflated. Caroline fought back sympathy: she knew too well that the most intense emotions—anguished innocence or the horror of guilt—mimed each other on the faces of her clients. “Actually,” Caroline said, “I’m most interested in whatever you told the police. That’s what you have to live with.”

  Brett sat back. Her voice was taut. “I told them the truth. Just like I’m telling you now.” Brett, Caroline realized, had suddenly perceived the working premises of Caroline Masters the defense lawyer. That Brett was guilty. That she would lie. That Caroline’s job was not to learn the truth but to keep it from the prosecution. “The truth is often useful,” Caroline said gently. “But what you told the police is unavoidable. And they do seem to have questions.” Brett swallowed. Gazing back at her, Caroline suddenly imagined a child beneath the woman, frightened and alone. And then Brett Allen reached slowly across Caroline’s silence and touched her hand. “Just believe in me,” she said. “Please.” Caroline looked down at Brett’s fingers, white against the tan of her own skin. She felt the lightness of Brett’s fingertips. By impulse, in the face of years of training, Caroline nodded. “All right,” she said. “Tell me everything.”


  It was dusk when Brett had finished; the quiet room seemed twilit, a filtered gray that soon would fade to darkness. Caroline felt exhausted. Softly, she asked, “Did anyone know you’d be at the lake?”

  “No one.” Brett still seemed lost in memory; her response was slow in coming. “It was a last-minute thing. So we could talk in private.”

  “Because you were worried about being overheard?” A short nod. “I thought I heard someone picking up another phone. Maybe I just imagined it.”

  “Someone?” Brett’s voice was toneless. “My mother.” Caroline watched her face. “Not your father? Or your grandfather?” Brett shook her head. “My dad wasn’t home. And

  Grandfather has his own phone line to his room. That’s not something he’d ever do.” Caroline was quiet for a moment. “But your mother would.”

  “Because of James.” Brett turned to the window, added in a lower voice, “My mother hated him. She knew he was dealing.”

  “You told her.”?”

  “Of course not. But my dad heard rumors, from the campus police.” She looked at Caroline again, paused. “You know he teaches there.” Of course, Caroline thought. That was how he lured them back here—a .job for a struggling graduate student, a home for his family, a granddaughter to fill the void. And all that Larry had to lose was himself. “Then your father,” Caroline said, “must have had some feelings about James.”

  “Not like my mom.” Anger crossed Brett’s face, and vanished, as if she was too weary to sustain it. She finished in a tired monotone. “Mom wanted to give me a perfect world, as if that were even possible. So she was afraid of anyone who threatened that. Even now …” Caroline sat back. In a few concise words, this girl had described the Betty she had known. There was a quick, bitter memory—two decades old—and then Caroline repressed it. She could deal with her private Betty on her own time; Caroline the lawyer had more practical reasons for drawing Brett’s attention from her mother. “This drug dealer,” she said. “The one who threatened James. Do you know who he is, or where to find him?” Brett shook her head. “James knew I hated what he was doing.” There was another change in Brett’s expression, to stubborn loyalty. “He said he was getting out of it. That he only did it because he had nothing. God knows I wanted to believe it. To believe in him.” Silent, Caroline sorted through her thoughts. The way Brett spoke of James did not suggest murder. Unless, of course, she was a gifted actress. “Did James have roommates.”?” Caroline asked. “Or friends who might know this dealer’?.” “No roommates. Except for me, James pretty much liked being alone.” “Any neighbors?” Brett hesitated. “I met a guy named Daniel Suarez,” she said at length. “He seemed like a good person. But I don’t think he and James were close.”

  “What about women?” Brett looked startled, then defensive. With an edge, she answered, “We were together.” Pausing, Caroline wondered what had unsettled her: doubts; some problem with James; the need to sanctify a dead lover; or anger that Caroline might question a relationship that had been so sullied by his death that the police might think she murdered him. “No girlfriends,” Caroline repeated. “Just as you told the cops?”

  “Not that I know about.” Brett folded her arms. “You have to understand how beautiful James was. I don’t know what he did before I met him. Or who might have been attracted to him whether or not he cared.” Caroline raised her head, one finger to her lips, contemplating Brett. Softly, she asked, “Is there anything—anything at all—that might lead the police to believe that you had a reason to kill him?” Brett rose slowly from her chair, wide-eyed. Her voice trembled with sudden anger and emotion. “Do you know, Aunt Caroline, what James looked like when I found him? Because I remember it too clearly now.” Tears welled in her eyes. “They’d cut his throat. He was choking on his own blood—when I reached for him, his head fell away from his neck, and his blood spattered my face …. “For an instant, Brett stopped, and then she stared down at Caroline. “Despite his faults, I loved him. If you can’t believe that, or respect that, I don’t want you here.” Caroline made herself be still. “What I asked you,” she

  said coolly, “is whether the police might have a reason to believe you killed him.” Brett stood there, alone in her anger. Caroline simply waited. Anything she said or did now might drive Brett away: with an intensity that surprised her, Caroline did not want this. Brett raised her head. “There is no reason.”

  “Then sit down, please.” After a moment, Brett sat. Through her exhaustion, she gazed at Caroline with fresh resolve. Caroline’s temples throbbed. “There are things I’ll say or ask,” she said, “that I won’t like and you won’t like. Starting with my next question.” Brett squared her shoulders. Something in the gesture made Caroline’s heart go out to her. Even as she wondered how much of this girl’s volatility—the shifts in mood, the sudden flashes of temper—came from guilt, how much from merely stress and sleeplessness. “This spurt of blood,” Caroline asked softly, “how would you describe it.”?” Once more, Brett’s eyes widened; but for that, her expression did not change. “It wasn’t a spurt.”

  “But when they photographed you, there was blood on your face and neck and torso.” Still no expression. “Flecks of blood.” Caroline leaned back. “So the spurt—or spray—wasn’t heavy.”

  “No.” Caroline expected Brett to ask why it mattered. But the girl’s anger seemed to have depleted her. Even her eyes held no curiosity. Caroline stood, reaching for the light switch, and turned on the lamp on a nearby end table. Night was falling fast now. As if awakened by Caroline’s movement, Brett turned, gazing through the window at the coming darkness. “That night,” Caroline asked, “how much wine did you drink?” A small shrug. “We shared the bottle.”

  “Before you smoked the joint?”

  Brett still did not turn from the window. “Yes.”

  “How many times, roughly, had you smoked before that night?”

  “In my life?”

  “Yes.”

  “Five or six.” Caroline gave a small smile. “How could you listen to music.”?” Another shrug. Her profile in the light-and-shade, Brett seemed distant now, enclosed in glass. After a time, she said, “It made my throat raw, and I felt out of control. I didn’t like that.”

  “Can you describe how it affected you that night?” Brett seemed to look inward, into some pool of self-doubt. “It’s hard to describe,” she began, and then her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Have you ever seen a silent movie.”? It was like that—flickering images, with black spaces in between. I can’t remember sound …. “

  “What do you remember about the cop arresting you’?”

  Brett’s eyes closed. “The knife.

  “Where was it.”?”

  “On the seat.”

  “Where le could see it.”?”

  Caroline leaned forward. “Did the cop who arrested you give you any warnings—right to counsel, the right to remain silent, that any statements would be used against you?” Brett’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so …. All that I remember was staring at the knife. Nothing seemed to go together.”

  “Later, why did you tell them to look for James at the lake’?.”

  “It was the way I just described it—the guy who picked me up said someone might be out there, hurt, and it was like I saw James dying. I was still so confused.” Brett looked pale now. “I know how that sounds …. “

  “Did he give you the warnings then’?.” Brett’s throat worked; Caroline was not certain that she had heard the question. Then Brett softly answered, “I don’t remember warnings then. Later, I do-with the two of them and the tape recorder.” Caroline fell quiet, thoughtful. Brett turned to her, as if awakened by the silence. “Why does any of this matter?” She sounded less curious than tired. It was as if Brett had lost her bearings, so that no event had more weight to her than any other. For a moment, Caroline wondered how much to tell her. But Brett was bright and, beneath the whipsaw of emotions, Caroline sensed her resilience.
“It’s a matter of police procedure,” Caroline answered. “The first cop probably should have given you the warnings before you told him where to look for James. Which means that a decent lawyer may be able to keep your entire statement out of evidence—” Brett stood abruptly. “But I want to say what happened—”

  “How,” Caroline cut in, “do you really know what happened.”?” Brett looked startled. “What do you mean?”

  “That drugs and alcohol do funny things to memory. What happens is that there are blanks, which you may never fill in. So people end up confusing primary memory—what really happened—with secondary memory. Which is what they wish to remember, or hope they did. Or simply believe is logical.” In the gloom of the bedroom, Brett began pacing. “It almost sounds like you don’t want me to remember.”

  “What it sounds like,” Caroline answered with cool emphasis, “is a warning. Not to remember, with the best of intentions, things that never happened. Because they may hang you for it.” Brett spun on her. “How?” Caroline stood, walked over to Brett until they were

  face-to-face, and gently grasped her shoulders. She felt so fragile, Caroline thought. Brett looked up at her in weary surprise; something in Caroline’s face seemed to keep her there. “Brett,” Caroline said softly, “you don’t know me at all. But I want you to listen to me, please, for a few more minutes, however hard it may be. Because I’ve been doing things like this since you were a little girl. And whoever handles this case—if there is a case—will need you to think clearly.” Brett gazed up at her. “You won’t do it?”

  “I really shouldn’t.” The look on Bret’s face, fearful and abandoned, made Caroline grasp her tightly. “We’re related. I think that makes this harder than we realized. For both of US.” Brett turned away. Gently, Caroline guided her back to the chair. When she sat across from her again, Brett was silent, fighting for composure. Damn him, Caroline thought. Damn him. Her headache had turned to nausea. Since her father had called, she realized, she had not eaten. “Let me explain,” she said slowly, “what the police case is. Because I already know. “There are two cases, actually. The first is premeditated murder. In that case, you decided to kill James well in advance. But he was much larger and stronger. So you took him to an isolated place—a lake at night—which you knew and he didn’t. You brought the knife and told him it was for the bread and cheese. You encouraged him to drink wine and then smoke dope, knowing that it made him sluggish. And it was you, when making love, who got on top of him …” Brett’s mouth was half open; she looked stricken. Caroline forced herself to continue. “You never heard the sound of an intruder. The dope dealer story is preposterous. You never went swimming.” Caroline paused, took a breath, and finished. “What you did do, before he could reach climax, was cut your lover’s throat …. “