“There is something about the car, something to hide.”
“Brian,” I said flatly, annoyed by his response. I pressed. “Will you do it?”
He gave me a reluctant nod. “I will,” he answered. “Whatever you need buried will be buried.”
“When?” I asked, pressing again. I swiped the tablet’s surface, taking it back to the screen with the identification numbers and motor vehicle records. “Steve said he’d be working late and wouldn’t be in the office. He might be headed to the car today.”
“I’ll leave right away,” Nerd began. “I’ve got something I can use.”
“Burn it until there’s nothing left.”
“I will,” he said as he handed me a phone. “Wasn’t sure what happened to the other burner. Use this one. I’ll text a shot of the fire.”
I took the new burner and immediately tested our security code. It brought the screen alive. I tapped out a short message to him. His phone vibrated. “It’s working,” I confirmed. “And fully charged too.” I stuffed the burner into my pillowcase, hiding it.
“I’ll text when it’s done.”
And as he stood to leave, I extended my hand and took hold of his arm. “Thank you, Brian.”
TWENTY-FIVE
WHEN I WAS ALONE again, when Nerd had gone to set fire to the memories of my past, I waited. The late-afternoon sun dipped from the highest point in the sky, reflected harshly off the building across from the hospital. The nurse offered to draw the window’s shade, but I insisted she leave it open. She asked about the television too, offering me the remote, knowing another episode of Fantasy Island would air soon. I kept the television off and glanced at my phone every few minutes, waiting for a message. There was no word from Nerd. I dozed.
The buzzing phone woke me in a room that had become dark. The sun was nearly behind the buildings, leaving behind a crisp line of fire where sky met earth. I heard a low rumble roll in and remembered the nurse saying the humidity was going to break with some storms. I blinked the sleep from my eyes. I was awake now. I was ready to hear the news.
At the church, Nerd texted.
Okay, I thumbed, and waited to see a picture of the barn engulfed in flames.
Surrounded. Can’t get to it.
Surrounded? I texted back, confused by what he meant.
He texted a single word: Cops.
Steve?
Sorta, he replied.
A picture showed up next, a picture of the barn and police cars. And in the middle of it all, I saw Charlie and a younger woman I didn’t recognize.
Shit! Unsure of what else to say, I wanted to let him know I had received the image.
Think they’ve got something.
He sent another photo. The woman held up a bag, showing it to Charlie. I zoomed in on the phone’s screen, but only saw a pixely blob hanging from her hand.
Too late.
My gut soured knowing the police had beat us to the station wagon. I thought I’d die if Steve were there, inside the car, learning the truth about what my mother and I had done.
Heading back, Nerd replied. Will be at the office.
I’ll text you later, I typed, then hit Send for the last time.
I knew what I had to do next.
I dialed a familiar number on the burner phone. The earpiece rang only once before I heard my mother’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Amy?” she asked. I froze. I tried moving my lips, but nothing happened. I hadn’t talked to her since Katie’s funeral, when she had said Snacks was just like us, that my baby girl was a killer. I’d slapped her across the face and turned to run, sworn never to speak to her again. It was a promise I guess I wouldn’t keep. “Steve told me about the baby. I stopped by while you were in recovery—”
“Never mind that,” I said, cutting her off.
“Amy, I’m so sorry about the . . . about everything.”
“Mom, listen to me!” Silence. “Mom, you there?”
“I’m listening,”
“It’s about the station wagon,” I continued. I heard her shuffle the phone. She let out short, rapid breaths, filling the speaker with noise.
“Gone,” she answered in the same tone she’d use when talking down to my father. “Your father took my car. He just took it, without asking me!”
“Mom, the police have the car,” I told her. The earpiece went silent. “Mom?”
“I’m here,” she said.
“Mom, those men—all those men—Steve’s been working the case without realizing he was investigating us, and he has Dad’s belt, and now they have the station wagon—”
“Lies!” she screamed into the phone. “Impossible lies!”
“Why would I lie about this?” I said, nearly yelling.
“Oh my God,” she said, her voice becoming a whisper. I heard a soft cry next.
“Mom, what’s in the car?
“Your father took the car before I could get them, before I could take them back,” she answered, speaking more clearly. “I know how I can fix this.”
“Fix what?” I pleaded, but the phone went dead. She was gone.
For hours, I shivered with both fever and fear. I’d tried a hundred phone calls, a hundred text messages. I’d nearly killed the phone’s battery, whittling it down until it showed only 25 percent remained. I shoved the phone back into the pillowcase, knowing I’d need it.
I had terrible thoughts of Steve confronting my mother if she showed up at our house, but then he walked into the hospital room.
“Steve?” I asked, sensing concern. “Steve, what is it? The kids?”
“They’re fine. They’re with my mom.” He pressed his lips thin, until they went white. “Amy, there’s going to be some mention on the news about the case I’ve been working. About the case involving the belt buckle you found.”
“So that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked, playing along. My insides were on fire, and I shoved my shaking hands deep into my lap. I was shaking all over, though, the fever making me flush and woozy.
“Amy, are you feeling okay?” Steve asked. I shook my head, pushing my hand into his. “You’re warm, babe. I shouldn’t be talking work. Just didn’t want you to hear about the case on the news.”
Could I go to prison? That was what I wanted to ask, but I bit my lip. I shook again as another cramp from my incisions set in. Whatever they found would lead to my father and then to my mother. My mother would tell them everything.
“Oh Steve,” I said. My voice sounded sloppy. My throat filled. Whatever I had managed to hold down that day came back up in a hot gush. It was all over my front in a single wretch. “I’m not feeling very good.”
Steve jumped back and out of the way, but then grabbed hold of my head and held me up. “Amy?” he asked without more to the question. He pressed the palm of his hand onto my arm and then touched his lips to my head. “Babe, you’re burning up!”
“Stupid flu,” I told him. “I’m sorry I threw up.”
“No. No, this isn’t flu,” he said and rushed from my side, his cane hitting the bed and walls as he left the room for help.
I stung my face with a slap, trying to focus and shake the dizziness. I needed to be alert and convincing so that he’d finish telling me about the news. When he was gone and I was alone for the night, I could use the burner phone. Nerd might be able to do some of his hacking magic to tell me what the police had found. My head spun and another vile gush spilled from my mouth; this time the nurse caught it in a bedpan.
“I got that one,” she told me as she began to lift my hospital gown. “We’ll need to change your gown. The sheets too.”
“Is this from the flu?” I heard Steve ask. I reached out to take his hand.
“Well, it might have started out that way, but we’ll get the doctor to look at her,” she answered as she yanked my gown back to reveal my legs. I shook uncontrollably.
“Cold,” I said, and pawed at the vomit-stained sheets, t
rying to pull them back over my legs.
“Oh my,” the nurse said. “Look at that.”
“Look at what?” I asked.
“Does this hurt, honey?”
The nurse’s dry fingers touch my belly. I shook my head. She pressed again, and a sharp pain knifed my side. I reeled back and let out a yell, shoving at her hands. My belly spasmed like I was having a contraction.
“Don’t!” I screamed, trying to turn away from her.
“You might want to leave,” she told Steve. He pinched my fingers and struggled to kneel by my side so his face could be level with mine. I longed to be at home, to be lost in the crook of his body, his arm around me as we slept.
“It’s okay, babe,” I told him. “I’ll feel better soon.”
“I can stay,” he insisted, standing with a cringe.
I shook my head and draped my hand across his cheek, touching my finger to his mouth. “I’m good. See the kids. Tell them I love them.”
TWENTY-SIX
I DOZED TO THE sound of voices, to the last of the daylight, and to the moon lifting into the sky. Steve decided to stay after all and discuss my course of recovery, having caught the unease buried in the doctor’s voice. I thought it was sweet, but was too tired to tell him to leave the doctor alone. By the end of the exchange, I could only half listen—I only half-cared. The sedatives and painkillers numbed my mind and turned the conversations into audible oatmeal. One of the last things I remembered, though, was feeling Steve’s lips brush against my cheek and his warm breath in my ear whispering “I love you.” I mumbled something incoherent and heard the dreamy sound of laughter. I might have smiled briefly and even joined in the gaiety. Painkillers make everything better.
***
Hours wore away, and so did the painkillers. A bloom of heat grew around the infection. I was sweaty again. I wiped at my face while trying to sit up. The bandages slipped from my skin, coming loose from the dampness. I hesitated before pulling the tape, but then dared a peek beneath them. The gauze had become stiff with ooze, but I forced a look. In the dim light, I could make out swelling and redness. I laid my fingers where my baby had been and gently pressed. A short, jagged rupture came with a burst of heat. I threw my head against the pillow and covered my mouth, stifling a scream in my throat. I tried to puzzle the bandage back into place by lining up the corners. The antibiotics clearly weren’t working. Not yet, anyway.
The evening made the room seem unfamiliar. The fever played with my head, setting my mind racing. Pale light flashed through the window, promising a storm, and a thumping percussion shook the glass.
“A stormy night,” a nurse had forecast earlier in the day.
I focused on the rain—focused on anything that I thought might help lull me to sleep. I even counted the lightning flashes as if they were sheep. The storm sent hail next; it ticked recklessly against the glass like unwary bugs. I counted them too, and finally found my way back to where I needed to be. I found sleep.
***
“Amy!” I heard.
It jarred me, wrenching me from a light sleep. I instinctively pulled the sheets up to cover my arms.
“Amy, I know how to fix this.”
“Mom?” I asked, recognizing her voice and wondering if I was dreaming.
A dull ache told me this was no dream. It told me I was awake. I found my mother standing in the doorway, the hallway lights pitting her face in black.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked, searching around her, trying to figure out how she could be standing in the doorway.
“Amy, I need to fix this,” she repeated as she stepped into the room. “For you, Amy. I need to fix this.”
“The station wagon?” I asked, confused. Her figure rocked side to side and stepped back and forth in a nervous do-si-do.
“The car!” she yelled. “And what I hid inside it! What we did! All of it!”
I sat up as she continued to stammer, saying words I couldn’t understand. She shuffled in and out of the doorway, scraping her bare feet against the floor. She’d come with an urgency—an anxiety and terror—I hadn’t seen before. I could smell the danger on her and was instantly afraid. I cowered against the bed, but had nowhere to run.
A razor-blue flash exploded, lighting her face like a Polaroid. And in the roll of thunder that followed, the hairs on my arms stood on end. Fear ran through me so deep I could feel it in my bones. Her hair hung wet against her head and face. Black mascara ran from her eyes, leaving dark, streaky tears. She wore a nightgown that clung wet to her skin—the outline of her breasts told me she wore nothing beneath it. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her breath came in heavy rasps that mixed in with the tempo of water dripping onto the floor. She stood in a puddle of rainwater. I could tell from her posture that she had something hidden behind her back.
“What are you doing here?” I repeated, straining to see what was in her hands.
She said nothing and stepped closer, nudging her thigh against the bed. Her arms stayed tucked away.
My heart rose into my throat. I reached behind me, searching for Nerd’s burner phone. It wasn’t there. I turned around, desperate to find the phone, ignoring the pain. I lifted the pillow and heard my mother’s feet dragging over the wet floor. I braced, knowing what she was capable of, and plunged my hand into the pillowcase.
“Mom?” I asked, wanting her to say something.
I closed my fingers around the phone, gripped the plastic. My lungs filled with hot air, and when I spun back my mother pressed her finger to my lips. My mind screamed for me to swing wide, to throw everything I had into crushing the phone against the side of her head.
I froze.
“Shush,” she whispered, swiping at the rain dripping into her eyes.
I brought the phone to rest in my lap. She glanced down at it, ignored it, and leaned forward to touch the side of my face. Her fingers had pruned and were as cold as ice.
“Amy, I was wrong in doing what I did to those men, for taking you. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take it all back.”
I didn’t move—couldn’t move. A strange calm came into my mother’s eyes as she let out a sigh. I blinked, thinking my fever was playing with my mind. It wasn’t. For a moment, I no longer saw a killer. I saw my mother—and dread and guilt.
“Oh Mom,” I said. “There you are.”
Her face cramped, a cry coming with the shake of her head. “I’m so sorry for who I am and for what I’ve done.” I brushed away the wet on her face as she forced a smile—the kind a mother gives to comfort their own children while hiding troubles. “My baby girl.”
“It’ll be okay,” I tried to assure her, meeting her eyes, returning the smile, and wanting to make everything right. “We can talk to Steve about the station wagon—make up a story about someone else using it. He can help us—”
My mother shook her head again and waved her hand, cutting me off. “Amy, don’t you understand? There should never have been an us.”
She leaned back and brought around her other arm. I didn’t flinch or brace myself. I knew she wouldn’t hurt me. In her fingers, she held an envelope with Steve’s name scrawled on the front—the blue ink ran as if tearfully, staining the paper.
“Use this,” she said, laying the envelope on my bed.
“What is it?” I asked, touching the wet paper.
She struck like a poised snake, slapping the top of my hand and taking my wrist between her fingers. She squeezed with a viselike pinch until I pulled away.
“It’s not for you. Give it to your husband.”
“Mom, what is it?” I demanded.
“I told you, I know how to fix this.”
Her face emptied and she put her cold lips to mine before standing to leave.
“Momma, don’t go,” I said, insisting. I reached up to take her arm. She swung around, batting at my hand impatiently as she moved to the window.
A deadly idea ticked inside me—a frantic warning.
�
��Mom! What are you doing?” I yelled. I leaned over the edge of the bed, my heart walloping and a pulse racing in my gut. “Mom!”
A flash of light framed her form in the window, making a shapely silhouette. She turned her head to one side briefly, as if listening to my plea, but then placed her hands on the lip of the window’s sill.
“I know how to make this right,” she muttered, throwing the giant window upward in one swift heave. The air became laden with rain and filled the room with a cold wind.
I screamed, understanding what she intended to do.
“Mom!” I begged, sliding from the bed until my hands reached the floor. Blood rushed in my ears. I gripped the wet tile with a grunt, pulling myself down.
“I’m doing what I should’ve done when your father found out,” she screamed over the storm, climbing up on the sill and perching herself on the ledge. “I broke your father’s heart, you know. It killed him. Especially when I kept doing it. When I kept taking you with me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. My heart broke, crushed by the idea that my father had known.
“I told you! I know how to fix this,” she repeated and swung her legs until they were outside the window.
“No, Mom. Wait!” I shouted, pleading, my voice breaking. “Someone help me!” I fell from the bed, slamming onto my side. My belly tore open, and pain knifed my insides. I cried out as a wet gush warmed around my middle. My mother inched over the sill and leaned forward. I ignored the bleeding and slid toward her.
“Oh my!” I heard from behind me, followed by the pummel of footsteps. “Ma’am, please come down from there. Please come inside!”
“I love you, Amy,” my mother said, her face filled with a contentedness I’d never seen. I got up onto my elbows and then my hands, my bare legs sliding in a slippery mix of warm and cold. My gut pulsed as I bled onto the floor.
“Please, Momma!” I begged, taking hold of her nightgown in my fingers. “Please!”
Affair with Murder The Complete Box Set Page 38
