Enright Family Collection (10 page)

In the end, it all came down to this, she later reflected: She had done what no one had been sure she would be able to do. She had won a conviction on all charges—kidnap, rape, assault, and first-degree murder—for two of Axel Thomas’s three victims.

And for you, Lizzie
, she whispered.

“I’m asking for the death penalty,” India said softly into the receiver.

“Sic semper tyrannis,”
replied August. Thus always to tyrants. “Well then. Corri is jumping up and down here— she wants to know if you’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“Not dinner tonight, but tomorrow night for sure. Tonight I’m planning on being in bed by seven. I can’t remember the last time I was this tired. And I plan to sleep late.”

“Will you be able to take a few vacation days?” Concern was clearly evident in August’s voice. “You’ve been working far too hard, India, for far too long. You haven’t taken any time off except when Ry died. And God knows, that was no vacation.”

“I’m taking a few days, but I have to bring some work with me. I have another trial starting in about ten days.” India bit the nail on her right index finger, the Mobley case starting to swirl slowly in the recesses of her mind. How to play it. How to win. “I’ll bring some files home with me, but I will have a little time to relax. I want to spend some time with Corri.”

“That’s exactly what you need to be doing right now, India. It’s a necessity.” August knew of India’s commitment to her work and understood better than any living soul the depth of that commitment. At the same time, August knew how desperately the child needed India—as much, August suspected, as India needed Corri.

India heard August’s sigh as she hung up the phone and knew exactly what her aunt was thinking: At least India would be home for a few days, and she, August, would see that her niece was well fed, warm and surrounded by love for however long she would stay. And to India, coming off the Thomas trial and weeks of missing meals, missing sleep and living inside the head of a madman, well fed, warm and loved sounded like pure luxury. Even better, it sounded like home, and she couldn’t wait to get there.

She played back the messages on her answering machine and made notes as the recorded voices broke the silence of the small house. A magazine salesman, a credit-card company whose bill she had somehow managed to overlook in
the midst of the past few weeks of frenzy, her hairdresser scolding her for having missed the appointment she had scheduled weeks ago before her trial had begun and she had optimistically thought that she might have a day when she could leave the office early enough to make a 7:30 P.M. appointment. Indy hung up her jacket in the closet as the hairdresser’s high-pitched voice was replaced by a husky, masculine one.

“Indy, hi, it’s Nick. Sorry I missed you tonight, but I know you’ve been really busy. I did get the names of two people you might want to run a check on. A guy named Hap Manning and a Gene Hatfield. Both had apparently been active last summer with the environmental protests over in Lincoln’s Beach, and both were seen in Devlin’s Light on several occasions. Dave Shelby at the gas station said he thought that one or both of them may have been around the week or so before Ry died, so you might want to look into them. Well, good luck tomorrow, I’ll be thinking about you.”

Indy played it back twice, just to listen to his voice.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” she said aloud to the answering machine, “between briefs and arguments and rulings.”

There were several more messages, mostly from tonight, to congratulate her. There was one from the D.A. himself, several from her fellow A.D.A.s, several more from members of the police force, even one from the mayor. All the local television stations, the local newspapers, all looking for interviews. She called the police department and chatted with the detectives, then asked that they run checks on Manning and Hatfield as soon as possible. She pushed the play-back button, just to hear Nick’s voice one more time before she hit the pillows.

And hit them she did, hard and fast and grateful, almost joyful, to be doing so. No files to read tonight. No statements to run through, over and over in her mind, searching for exactly the right inflection to make a key point, the most apropos expression for delivering a thought she wanted the jury to recall, the correct body language for commenting without words on a statement of the defendant. Not tonight.
Tonight she would sleep. Habit lifted her arm toward the alarm clock, and she smiled broadly, remembering that she would not need it. She would sleep until her exhausted body told her she could get up.

The aroma reached out to welcome India even as she climbed the back steps of the house on Darien Road. She stood in the doorway and breathed it in, certain what the dark blue enameled pot on the stove held. Dropping her suitcase and her bags, she crossed the well-worn yellow pine floor and lifted the lid.

Aunt August’s New England clam chowder. Fresh chopped clams and potatoes, onions and bacon. A cholesterol-counter’s nightmare of butter and cream. She peeked in the oven, where a loaf of bread was baking to golden brown perfection. On the counter a pan of fresh gingerbread, still warm and fragrant, rested upon a wire cooling rack next to a bowl of homemade applesauce. All in all, it smelled like her childhood, like comfort. The very scents had the power to refresh and restore her.

“Ah, there you are, Indy. I thought I heard your car.” Aunt August came into the kitchen through the doorway leading to the back stairwell, which led from the pantry to the second floor.

India returned the firm embrace her aunt offered, holding the older woman for a second more than she had in a long time. August’s hair was flattened slightly on one side, and her usually crisp white oxford shirt—sleeves, as always, rolled to the elbows—was a little wrinkled.

“Were you napping?” How unlike her aunt, she of endless energy, tireless of mind and body.

“Just a catnap, dear.”

“Why?” India’s eyes followed the beloved face before it dipped down to peer into the oven, checking on the progress of the bread.

“Why?” August chuckled. “Because I was tired, India. That’s why most people seek rest.”

India couldn’t recall a single nap that August had taken in all the years they had lived under the same roof. She recalled the recurring migraines, and a tingle of fear pricked the back of her neck. “Aunt August, are you all right?”

“India, this will come as a great shock to you, I know,” August said, trying not to smile, “but I’m not as young as I once was. And life is more hectic than it has been in years, with an active six-year-old to keep up with. Goodness, we have homework to deal with again. Granted, it’s usually no more than a few letters of the alphabet to print in a little copybook every night, but it’s still homework. And all the parents are asked to volunteer to do something with the class, so I go in once a week during story hour and read a book.”

August busied herself with removing the bread from the oven while India leaned against the counter under the weight of guilt that pressed against her. She should be tending to Corri’s schoolwork and volunteering in the library, not Aunt August, who had never borne a child of her own, yet had raised her brother’s children with love, and who now was blessed with the task of raising the child of a woman she hadn’t even liked. As much as August loved the child, raising Corri might well prove to be more than August could handle.

“I’m sorry, Aunt August,” Indy said as she tossed her keys on the counter. “It shouldn’t all be left up to you. I should be doing some of those things with her. I should try to be more of a… a
parental
figure.”

“Rather difficult to do, wouldn’t you say,” August said, folding her arms over her chest, “since you live in Paloma and Corri lives in Devlin’s Light.”

“I don’t know how to resolve that.”

“I suggest you give it some serious thought, India. Corri needs a
younger
parental figure in her life on a permanent basis. I won’t live forever.”

“Of course you will. But you’re right: I need to make some decisions about her future as well as about my own. I’m just not sure I know what’s best.” Looking out the window over the sink, India filled the glass coffeepot with water while watching a V of Canadian geese fly over the garage.

“Paloma doesn’t have a lock on bad deed doers, India. And I heard that our county D.A. is looking for an experienced trial lawyer,” August said softly, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I’ve made a life for myself in Paloma, Aunt August.”

The back door burst open and Corri flew in, a whirlwind of plaid overalls and light blue long-sleeved T-shirt, little white sneakers and enormous grin. She hesitated only slightly before flinging herself onto India’s lap.

“You’re home! You did come home!”

“Told you I’d be home today, silly, didn’t I?”

“We’re having clam chowder for dinner and gingerbread. I have homework—wanna see my copybook? And I got a red star on my color worksheet today, see?” The serene kitchen of only moments earlier disappeared in a flurry of paper.

“And look—I spelled my name… see? I don’t make my
r
backwards anymore, and look…” she said, pointing a small finger, smudged with dirt, at the
C.
“Isn’t that a good one?”

“That is one great C, Corri. I’ll bet I couldn’t do better than that myself.” India leaned over and followed Corri’s finger as she traced the letter she had earlier that day printed across the top of the yellow construction paper. “Indy, is my name still Devlin?”

“Sure.” India wondered where
that
had come from.

“Good.” Corri bounced off India’s lap and across the kitchen to hug August. “Everyone I like best is named Devlin, ’cept for Darla and Ollie. And Nick. And Darla and Ollie would have been married to Ry if he hadn’t died, and they would have been Devlins too. Nick never could be, though. Can I have some gingerbread?”

“After you wash your hands,” August said, laughing.

“Is she always like this?” Indy laughed with her as the blur that was Corri flew into the powder room and turned on the water.

“Every day.” August shook her head. “And yes, it’s tiring, but if the truth were to be told, I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s my heart, India.”

She met India’s eyes across the room and India got the message, every bit as clearly as if August had spoken the words aloud. Just in case Indy harbored any thoughts of taking Corri to Paloma, August had wanted to go on record to make it known that she wanted the child to remain in Devlin’s Light.

“Quieta non movere,”
August told India pointedly as Corri emerged from the powder room, water sloshed on the front of her overalls where she had tried to remove some paint. Do not move settled things.

India got the point: Leave well enough alone.

Later, after dinner had been eaten and homework dispatched, India sat in her father’s old dark blue leather chair in the den, her files spread out around her as she organized her notes and made lists of evidence and witnesses to help her organize for her next trial. At her feet, Corri mimicked Indy’s procedure, stacking her school papers according to the color of the stars that her teacher had placed in the upper right-hand corner of each completed page. The child was uncommonly quiet, as if being very careful not to disturb India’s concentration. August watched from the doorway, acutely aware of just how much Corri’s efforts to please India cost in terms of self-control, and she marveled that the child she’d dubbed Hurricane Corri could actually sit still for close to half an hour.

Amazing. And for Corri, totally unnatural. And that was exactly what August would tell India in the morning. For now, for August, there was a bridge club waiting at Liddy’s. With India home, August was spared searching for a baby-sitter.

Imagine
, she mused, as she kissed Corri goodnight and reminded India to lock the door,
having to worry about
getting a babysitter at
my
age.

“Indy, will you tuck me in bed tonight?” Corri asked shyly.

“Sure. Is it bedtime?” Indy frowned and looked at the clock. What time do six-year-olds turn in, anyway?

“Almost. I have to be in bed by eight, but tonight…” Her eyebrows arched hopefully.

“Maybe tonight I could read you a story after you get in bed,” India offered. “Don’t you have to take a bath?”

August hadn’t given her any instructions, and she wasn’t sure what the routine should be.

“Umm-hmm.” Corri nodded. “I usually take my bath at ten minutes A.J.”

“’A.J.’? What’s ‘A.J.’?” India thought about that one for a moment.

“After
Jeopardy.”

“Oh. You mean the television show?”

Corri nodded.

“Well, I think it’s a little more than ten minutes A.J., so how ’bout you go up and get your nightgown ready and get your towel and I’ll meet you in the big bathroom, okay?”

“Are you gonna lock the doors? Aunt August said we have to keep the doors locked.”

“I will do that right now. I’ll be up in a minute.” Corri went up the steps two at a time, humming the
Jeopardy
theme song. India hunted around in her purse for her keyring, then locked the back, front, and side porch doors, lamenting as she did so the loss of the Devlin’s Light she had grown up in, where no one ever locked the doors. At least, not until that summer…

Abruptly, she pulled the curtains across the windows overlooking the yard and followed the back steps to the second floor.

Corri was already down to her yellow-flowered Carter’s underpants by the time India made it to the big second-floor bathroom. Once a bedroom overlooking the back yard, it had been converted to a bathroom with the advent of indoor plumbing. Due to its considerable size, the floor was covered with several bath mats of varying shapes. Corri instructed India on how much water and how much bubble bath, then settled down in the tub, where she played with mounds of frothy bubbles and washed herself with soap shaped like colored crayons.

“India, can you come to my school?” Corri asked. “You can meet Miss Millett.”