Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (18 page)

A password? It wanted a password.

Again, I told myself to leave the flash drive alone. My instincts agreed, warning my body to stop. My mouth went dry. My stomach churned out warnings: Stop. Leave it alone. Don’t mess with this. My fingers trembled as they typed out guesses. Missed keys as they tried to produce the magic minimum six digits that would unlock the drive and reveal its contents.

What was wrong with me? Why was I so afraid to find out what Charlie had hidden?

Well, that was a stupid question. I’d lived with Charlie for over a decade. Knew that, while he dressed like a gentleman, he loved playing dirty. Taking risks. Pushing limits. And, according to Derek, the information Charlie had put on the drive was seriously limit-pushing. Bad enough to merit blackmail.

Maybe bad enough to merit murder?

And, if I opened the drive and saw the information, would my murder be merited, too?

Ridiculous. No one would know that I’d seen it. No one even knew I had the flash drive. Besides, I had no proof that the
flash drive was connected to the murder. I thought again of Sherry McBride. She might have stalked Charlie, tailed him to the house, gone inside, and fought with him. Killed him.

I tried another password: Jehosaphat, the name of Charlie’s favorite tropical fish. It didn’t work. Nor did his birthday. Nor our anniversary, no surprise. The password wasn’t Cornell, his university. Or Ithaca, its location. It wasn’t Cape Cod, where he’d once had a beach house. Not Florence, his mom’s name. Or Nathaniel, his father’s. It wasn’t Multicor, the name of his investment business. Or its address. Or Beemer, like his car. Or “money” or “profits” or “finances” or “funds.” I tried all kinds of wines, at least the ones I could think of, like Zinfandel. His favorite: Shiraz. Pinot Noir. Cabernet. Nothing. I tried team names. Charlie always bet on sports. But it wasn’t Eagles or Broncos or Saints. Also not Flyers, Phillies, or Sixers.

I knew I should quit. No question. It would be better not to know what was on the drive. And even if I saw it, the information might be highly technical, or financial. Or encoded. After all this effort, I might not even comprehend what I saw.

I gave myself just three more tries. Three only, and then I’d stop.

Okay. The password had to have at least six digits. And something that would have been second nature to Charlie, something that he wouldn’t have trouble remembering. His first car? Mustang. No. It didn’t work.

Two tries left. I closed my eyes. Felt a nervous flapping in my chest. Shivered. Heard Charlie swear, “You were the love of my life.”

I didn’t need the third try. Elf was too short, so I typed it again. ElfElf.

And I was in.

ElfElf? He’d used his private pet name for me as a password? I didn’t want to think about why. We’d been finished. Over. Almost
divorced. He’d simply chosen that password because no one else except maybe Derek knew about that nickname. It was a practical choice, nothing else. Still, the name felt personal. As if he’d called me to look at the drive.

The screen showed a menu of folders, labeled with initials and dates. I stared at it, hesitating to open anything. Why? What was I afraid to find? Records of embezzlement? Of bribery? Of illegal trading? Even if I saw those records, I doubted I’d understand them. But my hands were cold and damp, my fingers stiff. Difficult to move.

It’s just a list of file folders, I told myself. On a flat, two-dimensional screen. What’s wrong with you? Get on with it. My stomach twisted, but I clicked on the first file in the list.

The file opened to an array of photos. Initially, I felt relieved. Glad not to see technical writing or spreadsheets or complex financial records. Just photos. I clicked on one, enlarging it.

And went on to the next.

And the next, and the next.

And then, unable to take any more, I ran to the bathroom, heaving.

I didn’t throw up, just wanted to. Leaned over the toilet, feeling sick.

Children. Charlie had dirty pictures of children.

Children the age of my second graders. With baby soft skin, wide open eyes. Innocent minds. Only these children weren’t innocent. These were posing naked, doing things to themselves.

And, oh God—to each other.

I hung my head over the bowl for a while, gagging, trying not to think. But the images wouldn’t go away. What hellish secret life was Charlie into? Had Derek known? Had he been covering for him? Or was Derek into naked kids, too? Is that why he wanted the flash drive?

Oh God—I stood up too fast, dizzy, breathing shallowly.
“Charlie,” I dared him to face me. I called him names, cursed at him. “Where are you? Come out, you sick fuck.”

Charlie didn’t appear. Didn’t speak. I walked back into the bedroom, saw the bed, the dresser, the nightstands. Darkness out the windows. No Charlie.

I sat on the bed again, looked again at the screen in disbelief. Clicked forward. Saw things being done to children. By children.

I held my stomach. It hopped around like my mind. Had Charlie secretly been into children? A pedophile? I couldn’t believe that. But why else would he have these pictures?

Derek popped to mind—what he’d said about Charlie taking client information from the business. Clearly, Derek had been lying. The files didn’t contain client information; they contained child porn. So what did that mean? That Derek had lied to protect me from the truth? He might have been trying to contain the photos. To get rid of them and cover up Charlie’s perversion.

Charlie’s perversion? How was it possible that I’d had no idea? Not the slightest hint of his secret sickness. I recalled his scent, the meshing of our lips, his warm strength against me. Inside me. His gravelly whisper, “You’re the love of my life, Elf.” Oh God.

I raced back to the bathroom. When I finished heaving, my heart wasn’t racing anymore. I wasn’t even trembling. I was simply exhausted. Even so, I took a shower, scrubbing my body because I couldn’t scrub my mind. Couldn’t expunge my memories of the man I’d loved and married, or of the gut-twisting realization of how sick he’d actually been.

Some dreams are hard to wake up from. They are too vivid, too full of detail. They color waking life. The dream I had that night was like that. Too real. More real than real. Impossible to shake.

Despite how upset I was, I’d fallen asleep right away. Even in sleep, though, I was disturbed. I dreamed of a writhing pile of naked children with soulless eyes that didn’t cry. They surrounded
Charlie, who sat on the sofa in the study, oblivious and dead.

“Dammit, Elle,” he croaked, “the plane’s taking off. You killed me, and now I’ll miss my flight.” I smelled his blood.

Then he wasn’t in the study anymore. He was underground on a black stream, sitting Indian-style on a raft with Somerset Bradley, who had a hanger sticking out of his eye. Rodents swam and swarmed, gnawing at Charlie. Dark slime was everywhere. “This is your fault, Elle,” Charlie’s mouth didn’t move. But I heard his voice. “Your fault.”

I woke up shaken. Repulsed, feeling slimy. Wondering about Somerset Bradley. Why had I dreamed of him with Charlie? Because they were both dead? Because I’d killed one and was a suspect in the death of the other? Possibly. But those answers didn’t feel true. My head was foggy. I looked at the clock, trying to rouse myself. Almost eight. Out the window, bright, blinding sun behind red and orange leaves. A car parallel parking. A pedestrian walking a corgi. Life as usual.

But inside, nothing felt usual. Brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror. Saw the tangle of hair, the bruise on my head turning yellowish-green. And my eyes reflecting knowledge of something unbearable. Something too shameful to say.

Inside my head, bare children grunted. Charlie scolded. Inhabitants of my dream found tenements and took up residence, planning to stay.

You didn’t do anything wrong, I told myself. Whatever happened to those children wasn’t your fault. But my eyes contained the unacceptable truth, the culpability I’d somehow inherited from Charlie. I splashed my face with cold water, trying to shock the dream, the knowledge away. Then, avoiding the mirror, I hurried downstairs, trying to escape.

My newspaper at the door. The smell of brewing coffee. The sweet and tart tastes of granola and yogurt Morning routine comforted me; after a few minutes, I began to relax. I opened
the paper, scanned the headlines. For a welcome change, saw nothing about anyone I knew. Skimmed the editorials. The advice column. Movie and book reviews. The gossip page. Apparently, there was still a world beyond my doorstep. It was comforting to see that, despite my personal havoc, life on Earth was continuing, basically undisturbed. I finished my yogurt, poured a second cup of coffee, turned to the obituaries. And saw a familiar face.

A listing for Somerset Bradley.

I put down my cup. Felt a jolt, sharp like a slap on the cheek. Hadn’t expected to see his face. His death notice.

Well, I should have expected it. They’d bury the man sooner or later.

I squirmed on my seat, uncomfortable. I looked away, then back at the page. Away again. Back again. Picked up my coffee cup. Put it down again. And, finally, I turned to the photo, bracing to face the man I’d killed.

I remembered the feeling of thrusting the hanger—the sound it made. His scream. Or wait—did I really remember? Or was I imagining it, filling in the blanks?

I didn’t know. Wasn’t sure. Hadn’t remembered stabbing him when I’d talked to the police, so why would I remember now? God. I needed to call Susan, to get the name of that shrink, make an appointment. Find out what was wrong with me, why my memory was so riddled with holes.

The bump on my head throbbed. And Somerset Bradley smiled from the newspaper. He’d been kind of handsome, had certainly looked better without a wad of metal in his eye—Oh God. Did the obit mention his cause of death? I scanned the listing, afraid that they’d name me and my twisted hanger. But no, they’d just written, “Suddenly.” Much more polite than “stabbed in the eye.”

I read on. “Aged forty-six. Beloved husband to Gwynneth.
Father to Edmond (Heather), and Rupert. Also survived by a sister, Millicent (Haywood Reynolds) and three nephews. Memorial service at St. David’s Episcopal Church in Radnor, tomorrow at noon. Interment private. No mention of flowers or donations.