The words had become her mantra. Did she believe them, or only want to believe them?
"A doctor could give you pills to help you sleep," she told him.
"I have to be able to wake up! I have to be able to wake up when the dreams come!"
"Shhh. Okay, okay."
"I wish things could be like they used to be." He fell back into the couch, his clenched fists on his legs. "When we were kids."
"Things can't ever be that way again. Not for us. Not for anybody."
"But wouldn't it be nice?" He gave her a pleading look. "If we could go back? Don't you ever wish you could turn back the clock?"
She thought of the horrible childhood he'd had, the poverty, the neglect. My God—he'd developed epilepsy due to head trauma caused by beatings from his alcoholic father. He'd finally found a bit of happiness when the court handed him over to his grandmother, but he'd come home one day to find her dead. After that, he was shoved from one foster home to another. What did it say about his current life if he wanted to return to that?
"You have to stop looking back," she told him. "You have to look forward now."
"I've tried, but there's nothing there." He shook his head in discouragement. "Just this dark hole, this pit waiting to swallow me. I want to go back to the time when you were my friend. I know you don't want to marry me. I've come to terms with that. I don't know why I ever thought you would. Sometimes I get these ideas. Games I play in my head. After a while, I begin to believe them. I know we won't get married. But I want you to be my friend again. My sister."
She wished she could tell him she would always be there for him, but she didn't want to hurt him any more than he'd been hurt already. Regardless of what he said, she was afraid that any kind of encouragement might get him going again, might lead to more delusional ideas.
His head fell forward. He caught himself, then straightened. Poor thing. He was exhausted.
She got up. "Gavin, come on." He couldn't stay there. "You have to go home." She pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward the door. Once there, he paused and turned. He reached for her, grasping her gently by one wrist.
"I love you."
The words hung between them.
She felt a little twist inside. She'd only wanted to help him. Instead, she'd ended up hurting him. "Don't say that."
"Why? I'm just telling you the truth. There's nothing wrong with the truth. My grandmother always said the truth will give you wings."
He let her go.
She watched him as he trudged toward his car, a solitary figure. When he was gone, she closed the door and blew out the candles. Then she went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.
It wasn't love—it was devotion, she argued with herself. Gavin Hitchcock was devoted to her. He'd been devoted to her ever since that day she'd rescued him from the bullies. She thought about how different things would be right now if they'd never met. If she hadn't taken the long way home on that particular day. Gavin had unwittingly played a pivotal role in their lives. It was strange, how one seemingly innocent connection could do so much damage. How one per-son, by his very existence, had forged the destinies of so many people.
Gillian had adored her sister. They'd been inseparable until Fiona Portman had come along. Then it was good-bye, Gillian. As the months stretched into a year, then two, Gillian's resentment toward Fiona grew. She hated her. She hated the way she laughed and tossed her hair around. She hated the way Fiona would give Gillian those sly, secretive looks that said she knew she'd come between sisters and was proud of it.
Sometimes Fiona would stay over. Whenever that happened, Gillian knew she was in for a night of torture and misery. Fiona would tell her scary stories, then slip into her room after the lights were out and make scratching noises under the bed, saying she was the hatchet man. As Gillian grew older, she distanced herself more and more from Fiona and Mary. She made her own friends. She had her navel pierced and got a couple of tattoos. She wore a lot of makeup and dressed in black.
During that time, she concentrated on giving Gavin a makeover. She helped him with his clothes and hair. She coached him. Pretty soon he was standing tall, looking people in the eye. At the mall, girls ogled him, giggling and flirting outrageously. For probably the first time in his miserable life, Gavin seemed happy.
Together he and Gillian would crash parties where nobody knew them. Girls tripped over one another trying to get to him first. He was "so cute" and "so cool."
One night they went to a party where kids were drinking and smoking pot. Fiona was there, stoned out of her mind. She spotted Gavin. When she hit on him, Gillian announced it was time to leave.
But Gavin didn't want to go. For the first time since they'd known each other, he refused to do what Gillian said. He stayed with Fiona, and probably made out with her in the upstairs bedroom. Gillian couldn't take it. She caught a bus and went home.
At school two days later, Gavin saw Fiona in the hallway and went up to her, his head high, his stride confident. She was standing with her clique, Mary included in the small, exalted group. Fiona brushed him off. He stood there smiling and talking to her, and the bitch just brushed him off. Acting as if he were invisible, she walked away.
Gavin's shoulders slumped. His head dropped.
Gillian wanted to attack Fiona the way she'd attacked the boys under the bridge, but this was Gavin's battle. She'd warned him about her, and he hadn't listened.
To her credit, Mary didn't follow Fiona. She stayed and apologized to Gavin. She made excuses for her friend. "I don't think she heard you," Mary told Gavin.
"Come on," Gillian said, knowing an argument was pointless. She took Gavin's arm. "Let's go."
Gavin looked at her from under his bowed brow and hanging hair, and his eyes were full of such bleak pain that for the first time in her life Gillian wanted to kill somebody. Fiona Portman.
She shared her desire with Gavin. The bleakness left his eyes, and that afternoon they discussed how it could be done. Together, they fantasized about kidnapping her. They would torture her. They would kill her.
Gillian forgot all about the incident until two months later when Fiona was dead and Gavin was arrested for the crime. Gillian never knew if Gavin killed her or not, but if he had, Gillian knew she was to blame for planting the idea in his head.
It had been bullshit, kid stuff, not anything she ever thought would be carried out. But she was young. She hadn't understood about Gavin, about how he sometimes had a problem separating fantasy from reality. As a child, he'd developed the skill to protect himself. That armor lent him the power to be able to move through the world without being crushed by it.
She pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to escape. She'd fucked up his life—that's what she'd done. All along, she'd convinced herself that once he got out of prison, everything would be fine. Well, now he was out and he wasn't fine. He was a million miles from fine.
She hadn't only fucked up Gavin's life; she'd also fucked up Mary's. If Fiona had lived, Mary would eventually have seen her for what she was: a spoiled little bitch. Now she'd been relegated to sainthood, and Mary—Mary, who used to be funny, who used to laugh and dance and act as crazy as a person could act—was now on some holy mission to right the wrongs of the world. She'd so immersed herself in darkness that she could no longer see a pinpoint of light. She was no longer Mary Cantrell. She hadn't been Mary Cantrell since the day she'd stumbled over Fiona's dead body.
Chapter 11
"I'm home!"
He hurried down the basement stairs. In one hand was a cup of hot chocolate and a carryout bag of food he'd picked up at an all-night gas station. He'd agonized over what to get her as a reward, and then he'd spotted the hot chocolate. Bingo. She would be hungry. She would be glad to see him.
His heart beat in anticipation. This was the one. He was sure of it.
He unlocked the door to the narrow room and leaned his shoulder into it, shoving it open.
The acrid smell of vomit hit him in the face. He recoiled and then forced himself to step inside. She was lying on the mattress, her hands cuffed behind her. He rolled her toward him; her body was heavy and cold.
"I brought you hot chocolate," he said with hesitation.
Skin the color of paste.
Eyes partially open and dried out.
He ripped the duct tape from her mouth to reveal blue lips and not a stirring of breath.
NO!
Dead! She was dead!
He roared like a bull elephant and threw down the cup. Hot chocolate exploded against his pants.
She'd suffocated.
NO!
Not Charlotte! Not his Charlotte!
He'd covered her mouth so she wouldn't scream while he was gone. How was he to know she would get sick? He didn't have all the answers. He wasn't the Answer Man.
He slammed the door and went upstairs.
This can't be happening
.
He sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped the prepackaged sandwich he'd gotten for her. He wouldn't have picked it out for himself. It was something a girl might like, with thin slices of turkey, slimy cheese, and wilted lettuce. Light mayonnaise. He would have preferred regular. He was halfway through the meal when he started sobbing. He almost choked because his mouth was full of food that just wouldn't go down. He gagged and spit it out.
He quit coughing. He quit crying. He sat there trying to figure out what he was going to do.
Daylight will be here in a couple of hours.
"I know. I know," he said to the empty room. "Don't you think I know that? I'm thinking. Just let me think."
Twenty minutes later, he went back downstairs.
She was still there, just the way he'd left her, lying on the mattress he'd put there just for her. He would like to have kept her awhile, but he knew from experience that it didn't take long for a dead body to start smelling, start drawing flies.
It was hard getting her upstairs. He was out of breath, and his back hurt by the time he got her to the bathroom.
Once there, he removed her clothes, then put her in the tub. He arranged her legs so she would be comfortable. He filled the tub with cool water and, with a washcloth, removed all traces of vomit. When he was finished, he crossed her arms over her chest. He caressed her hair, smoothing it on either side of her face.
"Not your fault, little girl." Not his, either. Like the bumper sticker said, Shit Happens. It was an oldie but a goodie.
Oh, she was beautiful and sweet and innocent. He was terribly afraid she'd been the one.
Don't think about that. You can't think about that
.
He let the water out of the tub, then photographed her, snapping frame after frame. He shot close-ups of her face and shots that took in her entire body. He was caught up in the wonder of her. He wanted to have sex with her. Should he? Did he dare? He finally decided it wouldn't be right; she deserved to be treated like a lady. He wrapped her in the shower curtain and carried her back through the house, into the garage. He put her in the trunk of his car.
He could see her face through the plastic.
Under cover of darkness, he drove.
He wanted to take her back where he'd found her, but cops were crawling all over. They had dogs and helicopters. The National Guard. He'd seen it on the news. So he'd have to take her someplace else. She was special; she deserved a place that was special.
He didn't want to leave her where nobody would find her. He didn't want to leave her where animals might eat her. He wanted to baptize her. He wanted to give her extreme unction.
He took her to a spot where the river flowed swiftly, where the current would carry her away with cherished abandon. She was heavy, and he staggered under the weight as he walked along the old railroad tracks that led to the bridge.
The night was dark, and the water was black.
"I commit you to the night, to the water," he whispered, unwrapping her from the plastic shower curtain. Standing on the bridge, he let her go. A moment later, he heard a faint splash.
It was one of those autumn days that brought people out to enjoy the fall colors and possibly the last warm day of the season. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders, chubby hands splayed across foreheads. Bicyclists cruised the Mississippi Mile, and groups of people paused in their stroll across the Stone Arch Bridge to admire the river gushing through the dam.
"Ball," a baby said, pointing with a wet finger.
The object tumbled into view and then vanished into the churning, roaring water.
"Ball," the baby repeated, giggling.
"Where'd it go?" asked the mother, enunciating clearly.
They waited but didn't see it again.
"All gone," the father said with mock sadness. "All gone."
Just then, to the right of the tumbling falls, something bobbed to the surface where the water became silent and smooth as black glass.