by Joslyn Chase
I curled in a ball, head tucked in, arms and legs shielding vital organs, determined to outlast him, but he pulled back much sooner than I expected and I looked up to see him standing over me, an icy contempt creeping into his eyes.
“You made me a fool, Adalet. I dislike being made a fool of.”
I needed him hot, anything of use always came when he was hot. I rallied, and spoke in a shaking, tearful voice. “Paul, baby, I’m sorry. You put so much pressure on me. I just wanted you to be happy.”
He stood over me, frozen, and I watched for any tiny thaw. His jaw unclenched and he dropped heavily onto the couch beside me. “I was happy, Adalet. For a lousy couple of weeks, I was really happy.”
A tremor shot through me—half relief, half dismay. The image he had of himself, of us, was so distorted that he’d swallowed my abysmal act without hesitation. I found the very ease of it unsettling, but pressed on.
“I wanted it to be true,” I told him. “We can still make it true, Paul. But you need to stop pushing me so hard. Tension doesn’t help.”
I swallowed the rise in my throat and reached a hand to caress his face, smooth his hair.
“We could take a cruise. A romantic, relaxing cruise, and just let things happen. Not because we’re lazy or stupid, but because some things just can’t be forced.”
“A cruise.” His eyes turned thoughtful and he took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I think Uncle Gary might support that.”
~~~~
Sunday. Hiking day.
On one of our first dates, Paul had taken me hiking in the Silverwood Forest. He’d led me on a fairly rugged trek and laid me down on a mat of pine needles at the base of a freestanding rock which rose over us like an obelisk. This rock was on the cover of the coffee table book. I’d missed the significance before, but now instinct told me this was the place.
I’d done a dry run on Friday, during Paul’s shift at the hospital. I made sure I remembered how to reach the place. I’d only been there once before and it’s a bit off the beaten path, but after a few false starts, I’d figured it out. I’d also packed a bag of useful items into the trunk of my car, found a concealed spot to park near the trailhead, and scouted out a good hiding place overlooking the relevant site.
Sunday morning, I was up before Paul. I gave him a hasty kiss through a bite of toast, and murmured something about a sale and his upcoming birthday before rushing out the door. I knew Paul would hike Silverwood today. He had to consult “Uncle Gary” and retrieve some article, the liquidation of which would finance our cruise. I figured he had to navigate a pretty complicated path to convert the items to untraceable cash. Or maybe he melted the gold into bars and sold it under the table. Whatever the process, it would take time and I’d indicated a desire to get underway. He would go today.
Paul was the faster and more experienced hiker and I was too clumsy to follow without getting caught. My best strategy was to get there first and be ready for him. I knew he still had to cook and eat a hearty breakfast, dress and pack his gear, and gas up the car. Also, I’d played a little trick with his car keys, knocking them off the hook so that they fell behind the heavy dresser. I figured I had at least an hour of lead time.
I was in place, with eight minutes to catch my breath, when Paul walked into the clearing.
~~~~
It was disconcerting how silently he arrived. The day was overcast, with a mist that hadn’t quite burned off and the cloud cover seemed to cast a feathery shroud over the forest, muting and distorting sight and sound. Rough tree bark bit into my hands as I leaned forward, peering cautiously through a screen of fern and pine boughs. He shrugged out of his pack and let it fall to the needle-strewn soil. He turned a slow circle, as if checking for bear, skunk, and highway robbers. Finding none, he lowered himself onto a stump and began whittling at some sticks he had gathered on the trail.
I watched, mystified, and finally realized Paul was setting up a rudimentary alarm system to alert him to anyone approaching. After arranging things to his satisfaction, Paul reached into his pack and removed a folding shovel. He cast a look in my direction and a thud, like a cold hammer, tapped against my breastbone. Then he walked left, off the trail about a dozen yards, and stopped at a rock about the size of a large, sleeping cat.
He cleared away the leaves and needles around the base of the stone and began digging. After completing a shallow trench around the stone, he used his knife to scrape away the fine grit before levering the shovel and shifting the stone off its base. Underneath was a concrete slab, and sunk into the concrete, was a safe.
Paul stood and stretched, taking another look around. I shrank behind my leafy cover, controlling my breath in a steady in and out. Then he spun in the combination and opened the safe. I watched him remove a small wooden cask and poke through the contents, a throb of anguish squeezing through me. What I saw removed the last crumb of reasonable doubt. Paul murdered my brother, and shamed my family by casting the blame for Bill’s death and the stolen goods on Gary.
The memory of that night is tight-shuttered. I released the catch and let it flow, bitter and corrosive, washing over me in nauseating waves. I remembered the lights and noise of the casino, the clank of coins, the beeps and whistles, the shouts and groans of the players. I was a regular there, and I’d won a great deal of money. Enough to sucker me into losing even more. A lot more.
Rona was a blackjack dealer there. That’s how we met. I remembered how her smile, from the center of her green baize table, turned to horrified comprehension as they led me away to the soundproofed room. The carpet was swathed in plastic sheeting, and I remembered the creatures who inhabited that room and how I’d felt brittle as glass when I realized my debt was coming due and I had no way to pay.
I remembered my tears, my pleas for mercy, and the phone call. The relief that flooded over me when I heard Gary’s voice. Gary, my big brother, swearing to help me, saying he could get the money, promising to come for me. I remembered the agony of waiting, learning all the meanings of pain and fear. The popping of my fingers, one by one, and the slow, sharp burn of the knife, collarbone to breast. I remembered the despair of abandonment.
I knew, then, that Gary was dead.
I wished they’d killed me, too. Instead, they ran me out of town and I was happy to go. I spent three days in the hospital. Rona brought the newspaper, her eyes rimmed red, nails chewed to the quick. I read the press accounts and formed my own theory. Gary was going to ransom me with the gold. He’d been coming for me, but Paul got in the way.
I filled out the paperwork and changed my name to Adalet. The Turkish word for justice.
Rona and I moved to Seattle where she got a job as a flight attendant and I went to work for Microsoft where I could learn all sorts of computer tricks and meet people in a position to help me. I opened a file, labeled it “Paul,” and started digging. When I knew enough, I followed him to Colorado and stalked him until we “met” and fell in love.
As Gary’s friend, Paul knew all about his little sister. But we’d never seen or spoken to one another. As Gary’s sister, I knew a lot about Paul—enough to recognize how to bring him down.
A finger of breeze ruffled the carpet of needles, pungent pine, like smelling salts. Paul was still kneeling over the safe. I reached for the Glock I’d brought along, felt its hardness and heft. My research suggested that a shot to the stomach would produce a slow, painful death, allowing time to chat and wrap up any loose ends while Paul watched everything he loved dissolve away.
I stepped out, holding the gun in front of me. Paul froze, like a deer assessing danger. I stopped across the concrete from him and motioned for him to drop the loot and raise his hands.
“Adalet.” His face was pinched, not with surprise, but with chagrin. “Did you find out before or after the wedding?”
“You’re wondering if I married you for the money?”
My hand was steady, my words, clipped and icy. I looked into his eyes. “Yes. That, and so
much more. You killed my brother.”
Paul’s eyes flared, showing the whites, and he licked his lips. “This stuff is not easy to unload, Adalet. I’ve got a network set up, but without me, this is a stick of dynamite.”
He wasn’t connecting the dots to my satisfaction. I raised the Glock’s barrel, pointing at his head. “You murdered Gary.”
“No, I never—” Comprehension flickered into his eyes. “Grace?”
I pointed the gun a little lower now, focusing just below his belt buckle. He uttered a series of low, moaning wails.
“You’re my wife! We’re in this together, now. Your choices affect my life. Our future is…”
“Shut up!”
I jabbed the gun at him and another memory flooded my head. I was five years old, new on the playground and assaulted by a second-grader for my lunchbox. I ran to find Gary and dragged him to the far corner where the bully was stuffing the last of my Twinkie into his mouth. I watched him, equally fascinated and disgusted, while sandwich bags and cellophane crackled under his fat feet. I’d grabbed a stick and approached him, jabbing and shouting. The boy started to cry. A little glob of cream filling clung to his upper lip and trembled there, threatened by hot breath and tears. Gary dropped a gentle arm around my shoulder and led me away. Those kind make their own unhappiness, he told me, taking the stick I’d brandished and tossing it in the bushes.
The memory settled so solidly upon me that I sensed Gary’s arm across my shoulders, and I felt oddly suspended. I had planned, and worked, and suffered for this moment, and now I was dismayed at the tendril of doubt that began to curl at the edge of my resolve. I hesitated, struggling with a strong urge to surrender the stick. In the instant I let go, the mad man emerged.
Quick as a snake bite, Paul flicked his hunting knife at me, knocking the gun from my hand and slicing my palm. I backed away, but my feet got caught in the elaborate network of whittled sticks he’d erected, setting them a-clatter. Paul leaped across the safe and fell upon me.
I went down hard and he buried his hands in my hair, pounding my head repeatedly into the dirt. His knee came up and pressed into my neck, blocking my airway. My legs were free and I did my best to kick out or turn myself over, but the slippery needles made it a futile effort. Finally, I gained some purchase and leveraged myself into a roll. I was aided by the downhill angle and Paul and I slid and bumped and crashed to a stop about twenty yards from our starting point. Our new spot was a sort of ledge and beyond it, a sheer drop.
Paul must have taken a blow to the head because he seemed dazed and slow, and a large amount of blood covered his face, spreading over his checkered shirt. I pushed myself up, discovering that I couldn’t move very quickly either. I’d hurt my left ankle. I began limping away from Paul, but he roused himself and charged me, knocking the wind out of me and proceeding to crush any future attempts at breathing. He pressed both hands against my neck in an obscene parody of life-saving compressions and I felt my consciousness leaving me.
We were close to the edge now. Dislodged detritus clattered into the void at my shoulder, and a bolt of terror ran through me. I groped over my head, hoping for a loose rock or a handy rattlesnake. What I found was a petrified piece of Silverwood.
I brought it down on Paul’s head, striking for all I was worth as the darkness closed in, pushing me into a long tunnel. I’d staked every last shred of myself on winning this thing.
Against the odds, I won.
~~~~
I spent long minutes learning to breathe again and by that time, Paul had forgotten how. He lay still beside me, one limp arm stretched out across my belly. I scooted cautiously away, letting the arm plop to the earth. My teeth chattered and a frigid coldness seeped beneath my skin, drawing me down, wrapping me in lethargy. I roused myself, and shoved Paul’s body over the drop, wincing at the sounds it made as it bounced to the bottom of the canyon. Pulling in a deep breath, I worked my way up the slope, the slithering pine needles closing over my tracks like waves on the beach. I did a careful sweep, leaving Paul’s pack untouched and doing my best to eradicate all clues of my own presence. I transferred the contents of the safe to my backpack, slammed down the thick metal door, and heaved the rock back into place, scattering leaves and needles over all.
It was not a good day for hiking, and I met no one on my return trip. I went home, took a hot shower, and nursed my wounds. At dawn, I called the police and reported Paul missing.
Tuesday afternoon, my doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, I saw a male and a female cop standing on the porch, rounded at the edges by the fish-eye view. I invited them in. We sat on the white furniture while they informed me, in somber tones, that my husband’s body had been found. I saw the look that passed between them as they noted my bruises and the marks on my neck. I knew they’d seen me limp to the sofa and collapse onto it. I knew they saw the mix of relief and regret on my face. Cops are trained to see so much, but they are still people.
There was an investigation, neighbors were canvassed, but in the end, Paul’s death was ruled an accident and I attended his funeral the following Friday. Mourners were few. Paul had likely killed everyone who ever cared for him.
~~~~
Sunday again. I dug the phone out of the rice bin and dumped the rice in the trash.
“Hello, Rona. I’m wearing widow’s weeds.”
“No…tell me you didn’t, honey.”
I thought about what to say. “Rest easy. I’ll tell you about it someday.”
There was a silence, filled with all the things we wanted to say that had no words. Finally she spoke. “You all right, sweetie?” Her voice was so tender I had to swallow three times and pat myself on the chest before I could answer.
“Grace. I’m Grace again.”
“Good to have you back, Grace.”
“Can I come see you?”
“Always. When are you coming?”
“Soon. There’s something I have to do first.”
~~~~
I drove to the coast and checked into the Hyatt. In bed, unable to sleep, I drifted from thought to thought. Long ago, people died when a ship sank, spilling its treasure. Bill had taken that spoil, and he and Gary were murdered because of it. Paul took it next, and made his own unhappiness, dying in the end because of the gold. And now I have it.
I rented a boat. In the milky light of early morning, I loaded it with burlap sacks and heavy stones, firing the motor and heading out to sea. I felt Gary beside me as I steered into the darkness, the rising sun warm on my back. Lifting my head, I breathed in the salt-sprayed air, and smiled.
I intended to live.
NOTES
It’s crazy, but the idea for Adalet was sparked when I read a Victorian courtroom drama. I’m not really sure how the kernel I took from that story grew to become the rather horrifying Adalet, but the idea, once planted in my mind sprouted with ferocity until I had to write it out of me.
The woman in my mind had a fierce sense of justice, willing to go to extraordinary lengths to avenge her brother’s murder. She also wanted to restore her family’s honor but ironically, these two goals were at odds, for in order to clear her brother’s name, she’d have to bring the real murderer to justice, rather than killing him.
To me, the pivotal moment in the story is when she chose justice over vengeance, when she surrendered the stick. Her brother’s memory finally allowed her to let go of her bitter vendetta, and after that she was fighting for her own life, rather than for revenge.
To me, that changed everything, and Adalet became Grace.
Furrows
____________
A countryside mental facility, isolated
in the hills of rural Virginia.
An award-winning psychiatrist,
reticent about revealing his methods.
An ambitious journalist, still a little
green around the edges.
When the three come together,
there is mischief afoot.
> And it’s not the benevolent kind.
“You’ve heard of Pavlov’s dogs,” the man said. He wore a blood-streaked apron and a crooked smile. “These fellows put them to shame.”
He dropped the pull-rope of the bell he’d been clanging, and turned to throw chunks of raw meat to the slavering, solemn-eyed hounds. Watching them tear into their meal, I agreed, though I’d not expected to see dogs in a hospital setting. We stood on the flagstone patio outside the patient’s lounge, the French doors open so I could hear the sporadic tap of a ping pong ball from inside.
It’s true that the standards of cleanliness need not apply as strenuously to a mental hospital as to one where the patients’ diseases are spread by germs, and their protective skins pierced by needle and scalpel. Still, it struck me as odd and that’s why I begin my story here. There were bits that came beforehand, and I’ll get to those, but this moment—the blood-stained apron, the raw chunks of meat, the ravening hounds—this is when I got my first inkling I’d put a foot wrong coming here.
Gladwell Hollow is a private mental facility in the rolling hills of western Virginia, founded and headed by Dr. Bartholomew Hellier. Dr. Hellier had captured the acclaim of the medical world, and his success in treating certain types of psychotic illnesses was lauded and applauded in the journals and lecture halls of America, but he’d been shy about sharing the secrets of his success. As a free-lance writer, I’d been thrilled when he accepted my request for an interview, but he stipulated that I come immediately. I cleared my schedule, filled my gas tank, and enjoyed the two-hour drive through hills studded with budding oaks and maples, reaching the hospital by late afternoon.
I pulled into the small, paved parking lot and got out to stretch my legs. A light breeze buffeted my hair and the slack line of an empty flagpole ping-pinged as if sending out a Morse-coded message. Gravel crunched under my feet as I approached the entry, and I caught sight of two or three people—patients I presumed—watching me from the windows. I smiled, raising my hand in greeting, but got nothing in response.
