The Pact

by Jodi Picoult

  The walls upstairs were cinder block, but painted a pale, sunny yellow. The catwalks were twice as wide; the cells a foot and a half bigger in all directions. There were four bunks in each cell, but there was also a large common room that connected the two pods, with tables and chairs and so much space that Chris felt his spine stretch and was only then aware that he'd been stunting himself.

  "What did I tell you?" Steve said, tossing his things onto the left upper bunk. "Nirvana."

  Chris nodded. Their other cellmates were not in, but their belongings were neatly arranged in boxes set squarely on the two lower bunks, a clear attempt to let the newcomers know their place.

  About fifteen men were sitting in the common room, some watching the television mounted high on the wall, others fitting together pieces of the jigsaw puzzles that were stacked on top of the lockers.

  Chris sank down onto a plastic chair--plenty of room for it here, unlike the narrow catwalk in maximum security. Steve sat across from him and propped his feet on the table. "What do you think?"

  Chris grinned. "That I'd sell my own grandmother to keep from being sent down to maximum again."

  Steve laughed. "Yeah, well. Everything's relative." He reached on top of some lockers and pulled down two Milton Bradley boxes. "This is all they've got," he complained. "Someone set the Monopoly board on fire last month."

  Chris laughed out loud. A room full of felons, and the only games were Sorry! and Risk.

  "What's funny?" Steve asked.

  Chris reached for the box in Steve's left hand, Sorry! "Nothing," Chris said. "Nothing at all."

  JAMES STOOD UP AND walked toward the podium to the thunderous applause of his colleagues. Gus thought he was strikingly handsome against the burgundy walls of the dining room, holding up his plaque. "This," he said, brandishing the award, "is a tremendous honor."

  Bainbridge Memorial Hospital toasted one of its own every year in conjunction with the teaching staff of the nearby medical school. Ostensibly, the dinner was supposed to make the young men and women entering the medical field realize what sort of demigods they'd be joining. This year, Dr. James Harte had been chosen as the honoree for his continuing contribution to Bainbridge Memorial Hospital, although everyone present knew that James was being feted because of his inclusion in the "Best Doctors" listing. Unfortunately for the nominating committee, the event had already been planned when the small glitch regarding Dr. Harte's son had come to pass.

  "The good thing about this particular award," James said, "is that I've had some time to figure out what I'm supposed to say to you all. I was told: something inspirational. So before I begin perhaps I should apologize for choosing to become a surgeon, instead of a minister."

  He waited for the polite laughter to die down. "When I was much younger, I believed that studying hard and passing a battery of exams was all I needed to become a doctor. But there is a great difference between being a practicing physician, and a practiced physician. I used to think that the study of ophthalmology was all about getting to the malady. I was looking people, literally, right in the eye, and I wasn't necessarily seeing them. In hindsight--no pun intended--I realized how much I was missing. I urge those of you at the start of your careers to remember that you aren't being trained to treat afflictions, but patients."

  He gestured to the director of surgery. "Of course, I never would have gotten this wise without a brace of bright colleagues to spur me on, and a fabulous institution like Bainbridge in which to do it. And I'd have to thank my parents, who gave me my toy doctor's kit at age two; my mentor, Dr. Ari Gregaran, who blessed me with everything I know; and of course, Augusta and Kate, for teaching me that if there are patients at a hospital, there has to be patience at home." He lifted his plaque again, and the room dissolved into applause.

  Gus clapped woodenly, a smile pasted to her face. He had forgotten to mention Chris.

  Intentionally?

  Her head was spinning. She stood up before James could even make his way back to the table and pushed her way blindly toward the ladies' room. Inside, she leaned against the sink and ran cool water over her wrists, James's words circling inside her head: I was looking people right in the eye, and I wasn't necessarily seeing them.

  She straightened her dress and took her handbag, intending to walk out of the bathroom and head into the lobby where she'd ask the concierge to call her a cab. James would figure it out, and maybe by the time he got home she'd have spit enough anger out of her mouth to be able to speak to him.

  She yanked open the wooden door of the bathroom and almost fell on top of James. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you sick?"

  Gus tilted her head. "As a matter of fact," she said, "I am." She crossed her arms. "Do you realize you didn't mention Chris in your acceptance speech?"

  James had the grace to blush. "Yeah. I realized it just as I was coming off the podium, when I saw you leaving the room. I always said it was a damn good thing I wasn't an actor, because I'd forget someone important when I went up to get my Oscar."

  "It's not funny, James," Gus said tightly. "There you were, preaching acceptance to all these ... fawning medical students, and you can't even practice that in your own backyard. You left Chris's name out on purpose. You didn't want anyone associating the little scandal with your Big Night."

  "I didn't do it intentionally, Gus," James said. "Subconsciously? Well, that's a different story. Yes, if I'm going to be truthful, I didn't want anything to ruin tonight. I'd much rather have the audience pointing at me and saying 'Oh, that's the Best Ophthalmalogical Surgeon in the Northeast' than 'His son's on trial for murder.'"

  Gus felt her face heating. "Just get away from me," she said, trying to push past him. "No wonder you feel so comfortable here. These people are all like you. Not one of them mentioned Chris to me. Not one of them asked if he's all right, if we know when the trial is going to be, nothing."

  "That's not my fault," James pointed out. "It hits too close to home. Don't you see, Gus? I am too similar to these people. If this sort of thing can happen to me, who's to say that one day, it couldn't happen to them?"

  Gus snorted. "Well, it has happened, James. It is happening. And no matter what you say--or don't say--you can't just wish it away."

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard her husband's voice, so soft that she might have imagined the pain striped through it. "No," he said. "But you can't stop me from trying."

  ONE OF THE THINGS THAT Selena Damascus had learned in her ten years as a private investigator was that accidents did not just happen. From time to time they were carefully plotted, calculated, and arranged to one's advantage--all, of course, under the cloak of happenstance.

  She would tell anyone who asked that there was no magic to being an investigator; it required only common sense and an ability to get people to talk. To that end, however, she had developed a repertoire of skills, designed to get her as much information as quickly as possible. She was not above using her looks, her body, or her brain to get her behind a closed door; and once she weaseled her way inside she'd be damned if she left before she had something worthy to take home.

  The day she intended to meet Michael Gold, Selena woke up at four in the morning. She dressed in jeans and a white Gap T-shirt, and was waiting in her car on a Class IV road that veered off Wood Hollow when Michael Gold's truck rambled out of his driveway shortly after five. Of course, by that point, she already knew that Michael owned his own veterinary practice, mostly large animals. She knew that he drove a Toyota 4X4. She knew that when he stopped for coffee en route to his first call, he added milk but no sugar.

  Selena followed Michael's truck discreetly, an act made all the more challenging by the lack of cars on the road at this hour. When he pulled into a long driveway marked "Seven Acre Farm," she drove by without glancing back. She parked a half mile down the road and doubled back, following the sweet scent of hay and horses to a field in the distance.

  Having studied Michael for a few days, Selena kn
ew that he started in the barn, greeting all the animals and getting the lay of the land no matter what the call was for. That morning, the farrier was working as well, which was a wonderful boon since the burly man pounding horseshoes would assume she was the vet's assistant, and the vet would assume that she was the farrier's. She smiled at everyone she passed--bloody busy here, for so early in the morning--and found Michael bent over the foreleg of a sorrel mare in one of the stalls.

  Hearing her approach, he let the horse's leg fall to the straw. "I don't see any signs of abcess, Henry," he said, twisting to see over his shoulder. "Oh." He came to his feet, brushing off his hands and leaning against the horse. "Sorry. Thought you were somebody else."

  Selena shook her head. "No problem. Can I help you in there?"

  "Everything's under control. You haven't seen Henry around, have you?"

  "No," she answered honestly. "If I do, though, I'll send him your way." Before he could ask any questions, she disappeared down the aisle of the barn.

  She studiously avoided Michael for an hour, until he shook hands with a man leading a big bay out of the barn and walked toward the driveway. Then she positioned herself at the fence post closest to his truck, smiling when he greeted her as he began to store away the tools of his trade.

  "You're Dr. Gold?" Selena asked.

  "Yeah," Michael said, "but only on my letterhead. My clients call me Michael."

  "I'd imagine your clients don't call you much of anything at all," Selena teased.

  Michael laughed. "Okay, then. Their owners."

  "I wonder if you've got a minute to talk," Selena said.

  "Sure. Is it about one of the horses at the farm?"

  "To be honest," Selena said, "it's about Christopher Harte."

  She watched the shock leap into his expression, carefully smoothed by a creditable blankness. "Are you a reporter?" he asked finally.

  "I'm an investigator," Selena admitted. "Working for the defense."

  Michael laughed. "And you actually thought I'd want to talk to you?" He pushed past her and opened the door of his truck, swinging himself inside.

  "I didn't think you'd want to," Selena called out. "But I thought you might need to."

  He unrolled the window of the door he'd already closed. "What do you mean by that?"

  Selena shrugged. "I've seen how you go about your work. And I can't imagine why someone who goes to such great lengths to save animal lives would intentionally ruin a human one." She paused, watching the play of emotions on his face. "That's what it would be, you know," she added softly.

  Michael Gold looked at her, his throat working. Selena placed a hand on his forearm. "What happened to your daughter was horrible, and terribly sad. No one on our side is discounting that."

  "I don't think I'm the person you ought to be talking to," Michael said.

  "You're wrong," Selena countered. "You're exactly who I ought to be talking to. I want to ask you--Emily's father--a question: Would she have wanted Chris caught up in this circus? Would she have believed he could kill her?"

  Michael ran his thumbnail along the lip of the steering wheel. "Ms., um ... "

  "Damascus. Selena Damascus."

  "Selena, then," he said. "How would you like a cup of coffee?"

  THE DINER THAT MICHAEL drove to was more of a truck stop than anything else, peopled with burly men in red flannel and grimy baseball caps, whose rigs were lined up in the parking lot like the long keys of a xylophone. "Not much in the way of cuisine around here," he said, by way of apology, and slid into the booth in the rear of the restaurant. He played with the salt and pepper shakers--nervous, Selena thought--while waiting for the waitress to bring over two white ceramic mugs filled with steaming coffee.

  "Careful," he warned, as Selena brought the rim to her lips. "It can be pretty hot here."

  Selena took a more tentative sip, and grimaced. "And as corrosive as battery acid," she added. She set her cup down on the table and spread her palms flat on the table, on either side of a small notebook and pen. "So," she said casually.

  Michael exhaled. "I need to know," he said. "Is this off the record?"

  "I already told you, Dr. Gold. I'm not a reporter. There is no record."

  He seemed surprised by this. "Then why do you need to speak to me?"

  "Because there is going to be a trial," Selena said softly. "It's important for us to know what you might have to say."

  "Oh," Michael said. Clearly the thought had not yet occurred to him that he'd be dragged onto the stand to replay his grief in front of a jury. "Is anyone going to know that you and I talked?"

  Selena nodded. "The defense attorney will know," she said. "Chris will know."

  "Well, that's all right," Michael said. "It's just--how can I explain this to you? I don't want it to look like I've switched to the other side."

  "I don't see how it could," Selena said. "I only want to ask you some questions about your daughter, and her relationship with Chris. You don't have to answer if you feel uncomfortable."

  "Okay," Michael said after a moment. "Shoot."

  "Did you know that your daughter was suicidal?"

  Michael sighed. "Wow. Don't start off soft, do you?" He shook his head. "That's a catch-22, you know. If I tell you that she was suicidal, I'm admitting to something I don't really want to. The thing is, I don't know if I can't believe it because of what it is--you know, suicide with a capital S--or because I'm still in denial." He bit his lower lip. "But if I tell you that Emily wasn't suicidal, then how do I explain the fact that she's dead?"

  Selena waited patiently, fully aware that he hadn't really answered--and that he hadn't blamed Chris. Michael exhaled slowly. "I didn't know she was suicidal," he said finally. "But I'm not sure if that's because I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for, or because she wasn't suicidal at all."

  "Did she come freely to you to discuss problems?"

  "She could have," Michael said, leaving Selena to think that she didn't.

  "Who else," she pressed, "would Emily have turned to for support?"

  "Melanie, I suppose, more than me." He smiled ruefully. "It's a girl thing, I guess. Sometimes when she was angry she'd lock herself in a room and paint three or four canvases until she got it all out of her system." He hesitated, then shook his head.

  "What?" Selena urged.

  "I was going to say: And of course she'd talk to Chris. But then I decided I shouldn't."

  "It's no secret that your daughter and Chris were involved," Selena pointed out.

  "Involved," Michael said, turning the word over on his tongue. "You could say that."

  "What would you say?"

  He smiled. "They were flip sides of the same coin. There were actually times when the kids were growing up that I forgot Chris wasn't my own son."

  "Sounds like they spent a lot of time together."

  "Inseparable, I think you'd call it."

  "Pretty intense for a high school romance," Selena observed.

  "It wasn't a high school romance," Michael said. "At least, nobody saw it like that. Nobody would have been surprised to find them getting married after college."

  "You think that's what Emily wanted?"

  "Yeah. And Chris. Hell, to be honest, all four of us parents."

  Selena wrote down: Together out of love? Or to live up to their parents' expectations? "It would be very helpful to the defense if you'd grant me access to Emily's bedroom." A total longshot, but inside, she knew, would be a multitude of clues that might help the defense--photos tucked into a mirror, love notes stored in a jewelry box, pads still imprinted with the curl of Chris's practiced name.

  "I couldn't," Michael said. "Even if I--well, my wife wouldn't understand." He ran a finger around the rim of the coffee cup. "Melanie, you know, she's seized on this ... trial. I look at her sometimes, and I wish it was that easy for me, too. I wish I could forget that, oh, six months ago we all were joking about where we'd hold the wedding. I've tried, you know, because of Emily,
but I can't seem to throw the past away."

  Selena held her tongue, the time-honored interrogator's trick for getting a subject to keep talking. "See, I identified Emily's body at the hospital. But the morning before that I had seen Emily at breakfast, running outside when Chris honked in his car to take her to school. I watched him kiss her as she got into the car. And I can't hold the two things together in my head."

  Selena studied his face. "Do you think Chris Harte killed your daughter?"

  "I can't answer that," Michael said, staring at the table. "If I do, I wouldn't be putting my daughter first. And nobody loved Emily more than me." He lifted his eyes. "Except, maybe, for Chris."

  Selena inclined her head. "Will you speak to me again, Dr. Gold?"

  Michael smiled, feeling a weight burst free. "I'd like that," he said.

  FOR A MOMENT MELANIE STOOD at the doorway of her daughter's bedroom, staring at the thick layer of paint on the six-panel door, which could not completely obliterate the deeply carved warning KEEP OUT.

  Emily had been, oh, maybe nine, when she'd scraped the message into the wood with an X-Acto knife, earning her a grounding for defacing the door and another one for taking a dangerous tool from her father's desk drawer. And if Melanie recalled correctly, she'd made Emily paint the door again by herself. But even if the words had been erased, the idea behind it hadn't, and from that day on neither Michael nor Melanie entered the bedroom without knocking first.

  Feeling only slightly stupid, Melanie raised her fist to the door and pounded twice, then turned the knob. As far as she knew, Michael had not been coming in here, either. The last people through had been the police, searching for God knew what. Melanie didn't think they'd taken anything, at any rate. The pictures of Chris were still tacked around the dresser mirror, the arms of his swim team sweatshirt still wrapped around the pillow on the bed--Em had said it smelled of him. The book Emily had been reading for English class was cracked open, face down, on the nightstand. A pile of clothing that Melanie had washed and given to Em to put away remained on the edge of the bureau.

  Sighing, Melanie took the first items of clothing and began to put them back in their respective drawers. Then she stood in the center of the room, turning around, trying to decide what she should do next.