What Strange Creatures (14 page)

Only Brendan and Tish knew. When I went back to the doctor at fourteen weeks—right before I was about to tell everyone else—the heartbeat was gone. They estimated it had stopped at around twelve weeks. I remember thinking that that clever little soul must’ve read my thoughts and decided that breaking the monotony of my marriage wasn’t a job he was up for—or the life he was looking for. And frankly, I came to respect that. Eventually.

At the time I was disappointed, but I didn’t cry. It was all too abstract, still, at fourteen weeks, for me to cry. I could tell that Brendan was relieved. And I couldn’t forgive him for it. Not that I tried. I didn’t want to. I was too lazy. That was when I knew it was over.

Whenever I see Penelope, though, I think about this kid. Less intensely than I used to, but still consistently. I always think of him as a boy. He’s a quiet kid with a pointy chin, horsey teeth, and a fruit-punch mustache. He likes to build elaborate towers with his blocks, and Penelope comes over and knocks them down and describes the broken bodies beneath the rubble. My boy doesn’t seem to mind. He’s chill. He’s all in his head. He barely hears what she’s saying. When she gets really graphic, he tries to divert her attention by talking about Dora the Explorer.

I’ve never named the kid, because that would be creepy.

Creepier even than Penelope.

Usually I try my best
not
to think of him at night. Anything but him.

But on this night he was a more comfortable thought than Jeff in jail.

I picture the kid kneeling in one of my kitchen chairs. I’m feeding him a fried-egg sandwich like the kind my father used to make for Jeff and me. When I’m not looking, the kid slips out the egg and feeds it to Boober. I pretend not to notice. I sip a cup of coffee while he eats his ketchup and bread.

As my brain succumbs to exhaustion, cartoon mama bears and baby bears begin to dance clumsily around us, twirling strong and reliable toilet paper. We try to ignore the bears—Boober, the boy, and me—but they are brighter and more real than we are, somehow. We don’t want to fade in their presence, but the more we try, the more we do. I let go of my coffee cup, I let go of everything, and we’re gone.

A
uniformed officer brought Jeff into the courtroom, holding him gently by the arm. Even though Jeff was wearing a blue jumpsuit, I felt comforted for a moment by the officer’s white hair. He reminded me a little of Rusty the bailiff on the old
People’s Court.

When I allowed my gaze to fix on Jeff, though, a wave of reality swept over me: He was in shackles. This was not the damned
People’s Court,
and I needed to stop looking for little reassurances everywhere.

As I tried to refocus my attention, everyone began to stand. I stood with them. The female judge entering the room looked to be about my mother’s age—with more sensible hair than my mother, however, and natural, unplucked eyebrows.

“Thank you,” she said. “Please be seated.”

At that point the clerk read a string of numbers. All I could understand was the phrase “murder in the first degree,” which he said twice.

“Good morning, Your Honor.” A woman in a perfectly tailored gray suit stood up. “Jessica Dorrin for the Commonwealth.”

A portly bald man at the table in front of us stood up and turned to the judge. The thick, layered flesh at the back of his neck reminded me of a shar-pei. “Good morning, Your Honor. Patrick Marsh on behalf of Mr. Battle.”

I’ve always wanted a shar-pei, but I’d probably never be able to afford one.

“Mr. Battle, how do you plead to this indictment?”

Patrick Marsh nodded to Jeff.

“Not guilty,” Jeff said.

“Your Honor,” said the woman prosecutor, stretching her arms out wide and tapping her fingertips on the edge of the table.

As she turned to the judge, I could see she was about my age. Her layered brown hair framed her face quite symmetrically, as if it had been cut that very morning.

“We are prepared today to outline for you the seriousness of the crime as we address the question of bail.”

This woman sure had her shit together.
She
could have a shar-pei if she wanted one. But I’d bet she’d rarely be home to pet it.

“Proceed,” said the judge.

“Kim Graber—Mr. Battle’s girlfriend—was first suspected missing on October ninth, when personnel at the Best Western in Rowington reported her belongings abandoned in one of their rooms, which coincided with a report of her vehicle abandoned at a Denny’s restaurant on the same road—Fillmore Street in Rowington. When Mr. Battle was questioned as to her possible whereabouts, he informed police she had told him she had gone to see her sister in New Jersey and he had not seen her since October fourth. On October eighteenth Kim Graber’s body was found in a wooded area, about ten yards from the side of Highway 114. According to autopsy reports, she died of strangulation and also had a deep wound in her upper left thigh, consistent with assault using a screwdriver or scissors. Investigators Neely and Clement ascertained through E-ZPass records that Mr. Battle had in fact driven to Rowington on the very day Ms. Graber had. Additionally, Mr. Battle had given police a false alibi—Michael Lansing, who employs Mr. Battle occasionally at Lansing Cabinetry. According the Mr. Lansing, Mr. Battle was late for his job on Saturday, October fifth, and he could not vouch for Mr. Battle earlier in the weekend. Upon learning this, police investigators obtained a search warrant for Mr. Battle’s apartment and vehicle. In the trunk of the vehicle, in the spare-tire compartment, they found a screwdriver with blood on it, which late this morning tested as the same type as Ms. Graber’s—A-negative. Additional DNA tests are being performed.”

I began to feel dizzy—and then I felt Tish squeezing my arm—more out of shock than a desire to comfort, it seemed, but it brought me back to full consciousness.
Between this news and Tish’s fingernails, this creature thought she might cry out.

“Police also found that Mr. Battle’s trunk had been saturated with vinegar and an ammonia-based cleaning liquid. We believe that Mr. Battle was angry at Ms. Graber for a recent romantic encounter with her ex-boyfriend, Kyle Spicer.”

As she continued, I heard a light weeping coming from the seats on the other side of the courtroom. A middle-aged lady was hunched over her giant brown leather purse, tearing at a tissue. A young woman with Kim’s dark eyes and hair was sitting next to her, touching her lightly on the shoulder, staring at the judge. I felt dizzy again. Despite the quiet of this room, the prosecutor’s words were difficult for me to hear—as if being spoken underwater, or into a glass jug.

“According to some of her friends, this had been a source of tension between herself and Mr. Battle in recent weeks. The evidence here suggests very strongly that Mr. Battle followed Ms. Graber to her Rowington hotel and killed her in cold blood.

“Your Honor, we also believe that given the nature of the charges, and given that Mr. Battle has willfully undermined the police investigation into Ms. Graber’s death, it’s appropriate to ask that he be held without bail. Additionally, we think Mr. Battle is a flight risk. His father works overseas and has contacts in several different countries. He is currently in Sardinia.”

I took a deep breath. I was pretty sure I was losing my mind. Kim’s eyes. Sardinia.
The People’s Court.
Shar-peis. No bail. Could they
do
that?

I didn’t hear the prosecutor’s next few words, but I heard her say the words “bail hearing.”

“Counsel for Mr. Battle?” the judge said.

Mr. Marsh stood up. “I’d ask that Mr. Battle be held without prejudice until we can have a bail hearing.”

“All right,” said the judge. “Let’s set the bail hearing for October twenty-fourth.”

“What just happened?” I asked as the grandfatherly officer led Jeff out of the room.

“I think they’re deciding bail on Thursday,” Tish said.

“But I thought they were supposed to do it
now,
” I whimpered.

“I thought so, too. But I’m not sure how it works. I think you ought to let me ask my dad’s lawyer to help.”

I got up and shuffled from the courtroom. Tish followed me down the hall and out to the front steps of the courthouse.

“That’s nice of you, Tish.”

An elderly man walked by us, reading the front page of a folded newspaper as he walked. He smelled yeasty and sour. I stared after him.

“Should I?”

A young woman in shiny black boots walked by next, texting and sighing. Then an older lady with a stroller, pushing a toddler of ambiguous gender. The child was blond and smiling and shaking a plastic container of goldfish crackers. A couple of goldfish crackers flew in our direction.

“Theresa?”

For a moment I wished to be any one of these people passing by. Anyone but myself. “I don’t know. All I know is I want to talk to my brother.”

I stooped and picked up one of the goldfish.

“Maybe this is good luck,” I said.

“I’ve had those pelted at me for a few years now,” Tish said. “I can assure you it’s not.”

There were several security hoops to jump through at the county detention center, but once I got to the visiting area, it wasn’t what I expected. There was no security glass separating Jeff and me, and we didn’t have to talk on the phone.

There was a row of booths—blue plastic seats attached to the floor and a square white table. We sat facing each other, like we were eating a really awkward meal together at McDonald’s—with an armed guard.

“I’m separate from the convicted prisoners,” Jeff assured me. “They keep the people awaiting trial separate.”

“Still, I bet you’ve met some interesting people,” I whispered.

“Yeah, just like summer camp,” he said, fingering the top button on his jumpsuit. “Friends to last a lifetime.”

I decided not to point out that neither of us had ever been to summer camp.

“Can I bring you anything?” I asked Jeff. “I mean, next time?”

“Like what? Magazines and crosswords, you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like anything you want. Can you watch MSNBC in here?”

“Uh . . . yeah. There’s a room where we can watch TV. So far I haven’t piped up to ask them to switch it to
Rachel Maddow.
”

“Can I bring you doggie bags or something?”

“No.” Jeff looked exasperated by the question. “You can’t bring food.”

“How’s the food here?”

He flashed me a big, fake smile. “It’s
free.
”

“What did you have for dinner last night?”

He pressed his palms into his eyes and rubbed them slowly. “Jesus, Theresa. Do you really want to know?”

“Jeff. You need to talk to me.”

“Fine. American chop suey.”

“No, I mean about . . .” I took a deep breath. “Well, for one thing, what’s with the screwdriver?”

Jeff leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said.

“What do you mean you don’t know? How did it get there?”

“I think the police must’ve planted it.” His voice was on the verge of breaking. “I can’t think of any other way.”

“The police?” I said. I had the vague sensation of my neurons misfiring. I rarely disbelieved anything Jeff said. But my brain wasn’t quite letting in this process as it was supposed to.

“Um . . . so they figured out that you followed her.”

“Yeah. From my E-ZPass. Like they said. I guess you were right about them figuring it out.”

The way my brother said it—and the way the guard looked at us as he spoke—made me squirm. So I decided to change the subject to something that had been bothering me.

“You didn’t notice that Kim was acting weird lately? She must’ve disappeared a few times in order to take those pictures, call that reporter, and whatever else she was doing.”

“I did notice. That was why I thought she was fooling around with Kyle again.”

I chose not to ask about the “again” part of this. “And that’s why you followed her to Rowington.”

“And that’s why I followed her to Rowington,” Jeff repeated quietly.

“I think this obsession she had about Donald Wallace
was
connected to Kyle, actually,” I said. “It sounds to me like they had a messy relationship.”

Jeff shrugged. “Good for them. Kim liked messy. Messy excited her.”

His words stunned me for a moment. Jeff never spoke that way. At least not to me.

“You’re pretty certain she was cheating on you with him?” I asked him.

“Certain? No. I’m not certain of anything right now, Theresa. Except that I’m fucked.”

“No you’re not. They’ll figure out who really did it.”

“Not if they’ve already decided it was me.”

“I don’t know if that’s accurate yet.”

“Look at me, Theresa.” Jeff flapped the arm of his blue jumpsuit. “
Look
at me. You think I’m being punked here?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Maybe some of them have decided. But we need to help them realize they’ve gotten it wrong.”

Help them realize.
How psychobabble-sunny I sounded. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeff wanted to slug me. I rather wanted to slug myself.

“How do you propose we do that?” he demanded. “Has it crossed your mind that some of them might not even care about getting it right?”

“It’s not like you have enemies in the Thompsonville police department. Why wouldn’t they want to get—”

I didn’t finish my sentence. I thought of Donald Wallace—a man so powerful and ambitious that he might as well be from a foreign land, if not made of an entirely different substance from Jeff and me. What if our scrappy little Kim had been more of a threat to him than we realized?

We’re Battles. What chance did we have?

“Is there any way you can think of that could help us find out more about Kim’s project?” I asked. “About her relationship to Donald Wallace?”

“I don’t think there was a ‘relationship.’ Do you know something I don’t?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jeff put his head down in his hands, clawing at his hair for a moment. The corrections officer turned and stared at him.

“Jeff!” I snarled, and he stopped, setting his hands on the table again. “Why do you think Kim didn’t tell you about
any
of this?”