Chosen for Death (14 page)

I inched my way along to the next window, hoping for a better view. When I raised myself back onto my toes, the muscles in the arch of my foot cramped, refusing to support my weight. My leg buckled, slamming my knee loudly into the side of the building. Four faces turned toward the window, three I didn't recognize and one I knew too well. Chuck, or Charlie as he was now known, got up and headed for the door. I lowered myself to the ground and went to meet him.

Suddenly, I had a brief, absurd vision of myself as the heroine in some gothic novel, all alone miles from the nearest house with the villain coming toward me. I wondered if I really knew what I was doing. If I'd been foolish to come here alone like this. I knew Chuck, so I hadn't been worried, and I was determined not to let Carrie's killer go unpunished, even if it meant taking a few chances. I'd never learn anything if I sat at my desk in Massachusetts and worried about the admissions statistics of independent schools. My mother would have been shocked at what I was doing, insisting that we let the police handle it. But even if the other police were as competent as Andre seemed to be, nearly two weeks had passed and they didn't have a suspect. If I was going to get involved I had to ask questions, and Chuck was a good place to start.

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, a bright light came on overhead, half blinding me. The door opened and a rough hand grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. "Whooee, look it this," my captor yelled. "It's a girl." There was a scuffle of feet as the others came over, and more hands pulling at me. They backed me up against the wall and surrounded me. I knew how a deer must feel, trapped by hunters.

Another voice, deep and authoritative, said, "Back off, you cretins, and let's see what we've got." I knew that voice. Charlie, the bad-guy dope dealer, and Carrie's old flame, Chuck the car thief. I still thought of him as a punk kid, but people change and not always for the better.

Charlie pulled me away from the wall, where the light was dim, and shoved me out into the room. He followed, pushing me along with a series of little shoves, until I was directly under the light. He stared at me, not saying anything, then gave me a powerful shove that propelled me across the room. I landed in a heap on the floor, scrambled quickly to my feet, and turned to face them. This was no time to be in a humble position. I waited to see what Charlie would do. He brushed the hair roughly back from my face, grabbed my chin, and pushed my head up until our eyes locked. "Well, well," he said, "if it isn't the lovely Theadora."

The other three hung back a bit, staring at me, waiting to take their cues from him. Only one of them, a slight, tidy blond kid who looked too young to be hanging around with the others, looked like a civilized human being. The other two were the products of too many generations of inbreeding. Spotty chin-less wonders with scanty facial hair and rabbity eyes. They had to be brothers. Looking at them, I felt like I'd driven down a peaceful Maine road and ended up in a moonshiner's hut in Tennessee. They all three reeked of alcohol.

"There's no need for this, Chuck," I said, trying to sound calm and controlled, not easy when someone has a hand on your throat, pressing your head back. "I'm sorry I came unannounced, but I needed to talk to you. About Carrie."

"Still trying to look out for your little sister, I suppose," Charlie said. "But she's all grown up now. She doesn't need your help. She doesn't want it either. She came up here to get away from all of you." He took his hand away. I resisted the urge to massage away the ache, knowing it would please him to have hurt me. I concentrated on staying calm. "It was just by luck," he said, "that we met again. If you'd had your way, that never would have happened. You and your fine family. You didn't think I was good enough for your little sister, did you?" His handsome face was twisted with hate. "When I went to prison, you all had a party to celebrate, didn't you? Maybe tonight I can return the favor. We can have a little party of our own. A little pay-back party."

I'd been watching his face instead of his hands, so I didn't see the blow coming until it was too late. His open palm smashed against my cheek, knocking me backwards. The sting radiated from my cheekbone, surprisingly painful. I glared up into his grinning face. He was enjoying this. "That's right, Chuck," I said, "you weren't good enough for her then, and I can see you haven't gotten any better, except at hurting people. There you're a real prize."

I realized, too late, that he hated me. That I should be afraid of him. That I shouldn't have come out so blithely on this mission. For Chuck the Brat, prison had been the finishing school that turned him into a lethal character, and I'd delivered myself neatly into his hands. I was a "people" person. It was something I should have anticipated, if I hadn't been so single-minded in my determination to do something to help find Carrie's killer. It was a little late for second thoughts now. I had no idea how I was going to get out of here. All I knew for sure was that if I begged or pleaded or cringed it would please him. I had to stand up to him, whatever he did. If I could. Part of the fun of hurting people is humiliating them. I'd come here thinking of him as a source of information, not a potential killer. Now I wasn't so sure. "What else are you good at, Chuck," I asked, "murdering people?"

He checked to be sure his buddies were watching. "If necessary," he said. "I wouldn't mind killing you. In fact, it would give me great pleasure." He sounded matter-of-fact, as if killing was something he did every day. It might have been, for all I knew. I'd come expecting a mean kid. It seemed prison had hardened him into something more dangerous. "Stop calling me Chuck," he said. "No one calls me that. It's Charlie now."

My face stung where I could feel the print of his fingers. A warm, salty trickle of blood from my split lip ran down into my mouth. The others were watching us like Charlie and I were stars in a show being staged for their benefit. I decided to stay on the offensive. I had nothing to lose. It looked like he was going to hurt me, and he wouldn't hurt me any less because I begged him not to. "Charlie," I said, "did it please you to kill my sister?"

The mocking smile faltered and fell away, replaced by confusion. Grabbing my arms, he pulled me toward him until our faces were only inches apart, suffocating me with his beery breath. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You like to hurt people, Chuck. So I want to know did you enjoy killing Carrie?" I yelled back, emphasizing the "Chuck," mad at him for the way he was treating me, for making me scared, for all the times he'd hurt my sister. "Was it you who left her lying there on the ground with her head crushed?" I wrenched one arm free and slapped his face. "Did that please you? Did it, Chuck? Was it fun to watch her die? Did she beg you not to, Chuck? Did you make her beg?" He had always brought out the best in me. Time hadn't changed that.

"Shut up. You're not making any sense," he said, hitting me again. Harder this time. A hard right to the jaw that knocked me off my feet and slammed me against a chair. He followed me, grabbed me by the shoulder, and slammed his fist into my stomach. A sensible person would have been scared witless by now. Normally I'm sensible, but this was bringing my simmering rage to a boil. He brought out the pit-bull side of my personality. The more he hurt me, the more tenacious I got. This must have been how he'd treated my sister, too.

I didn't scramble up as quickly this time. I spent a minute on the floor curled protectively around my stomach, pressing my hands against the pain and trying to catch my breath, discovering that people really can see stars, or something resembling stars, and that unlike studying the skies on a clear evening, it was not a pleasant experience. Beyond the stars, Charlie dropped heavily onto a chair and pointed to the one I was leaning against. "Sit," he said. "Lenny? Bruce? You want to help the lady?" The chinless wonders picked me up and set me on the chair. I huddled there, still bent protectively around my stomach. If I could have pulled my head in, turtle-like, I would have done so. He was probably destroying my brain cells at a dangerous rate. That accounted for why I sat there dumbly and let him hit me.

So far, all the blond kid had done was stare. Us tough guys were out of his league. Charlie looked dazed, like he was the one who'd been slugged a few times. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he said.

"About Carrie," I said, "and murder." I turned to the kid. "Could you get me some water, please." My mouth was dry, but I couldn't have drunk from a glass either of the others had handled without boiling it first. He looked at Charlie, waiting for permission like good lapdog.

Charlie nodded. "Bring me a beer," he said. The boy trotted off obediently to fetch. While we waited, I looked around, noting possible escape routes. The cottage had a big living room running all along the front, where we were sitting. In one corner was the door I'd come in. Another door led to a big porch facing the lake. Behind it was a dining room, where they'd been playing cards; beyond that, I assumed, was the kitchen. That was where the kid had gone. In the corner, a pine staircase led to the second floor.

Fear, or confusion, was distorting my sense of reality, making the room seem too bright and too loud. The chair I was in felt soft and yielding. I rested my head against the back, smelling the leather. The chinless wonders lit cigarettes and the sound of lighters filled the room. I flinched at the sound. I felt light-headed, felt like relaxing into the rich, buttery leather and letting life flow around me, but this was no time to lose control.

Charlie and I sat staring at each other until the kid came back. He gave Charlie a beer and then handed me my water. The glass felt like it had been rolled in grease. At least his hands were clean. I shut my eyes and drank. "Thanks," I said. The kid shrugged and retreated.

Charlie's face was unreadable. He wore a mustache now, which covered much of it. I'd forgotten how handsome he was. Handsome and cocky. He'd always drawn stares, wherever he went. Carrie had been proud of that. It ought to be hard to be a successful crook when you stand out like that, but he seemed to be succeeding. The furniture was real leather, and the focal point of the room was a big-screen TV. Real marks of prosperity, especially in rural Maine. There was probably a satellite dish out in the yard to improve reception. Charlie looked good even though he was unshaven, his hair needed washing, and his clothes were dirty, like some rugged, outdoorsy guy just back from a camping trip. "What makes you think Carrie is dead?" he said.

I couldn't tell if his ignorance was feigned or genuine. He'd always lied as automatically as most of us brush our teeth. "There's no think about it, Charlie," I said. "Carrie is dead and buried. I chose her casket. I took her favorite dress to the funeral home. I kissed her good-bye before they put on the lid. Don't tell me you didn't know."

"This is just another one of your family's tricks to keep me from seeing her," he sneered. "Send her away somewhere and pretend she's dead, right? Where'd you send her this time? Europe?"

"Hey, Charlie," I said, "where have you been, on the moon? Don't you read the papers? Carrie's been dead for two weeks. Murdered. Right here in the picturesque town of Camden. I figured you were just the guy for a crime like that. A guy who likes to hurt people. Carrie was hurt real bad." I watched his face as I spoke, hoping he'd give something away, but I couldn't read anything.

He turned to the gallery. "Any of you guys know what she's talking about?" The chinless brothers just shrugged. They probably couldn't read.

The kid murmured a quiet "Yeah," but he didn't volunteer anything further. He seemed intimidated by Charlie, but otherwise unconcerned about what was going on. I couldn't figure out what he was doing there.

"Yeah?" Charlie said loudly. "Yeah? What the fuck does that mean?" The volume hurt my head.

The kid studied his feet. "I don't know much," he said. "I've been away, like you, Charlie. At that dumb school my parents sent me to. But there was a murder in Camden, couple weeks ago. Young girl found on one of the Mount Battle trails by some hikers. But I didn't know it was Carrie." His speech was disjointed, as though retrieving words and putting them into sentences was hard work. When he finished he smiled. A goofy, inappropriate smile, and I knew why he hung around with Charlie. Drugs. The kid was high on something.

"Thanks, Kev," Charlie said. "You're a real asshole, you know that?" He didn't seem upset. It was just more news. There's a sixty percent chance of rain today, the blueberry crop looks good this year, Carrie McKusick is dead, the Sea Goddess will be crowned on Friday. I was on a futile errand. When he was just a punk kid, Charlie lied for fun and had no scruples, but underneath you could still see the kid, trying to act tough. That reality, the kid, was gone now. Score one for the correctional system. They'd taken a kid who might have been rehabilitated and turned him into a man who was beyond redemption. I'd never know from watching him whether Charlie had killed Carrie and was just toying with me or he was truly surprised. So far I'd seen anger and a touch of confusion, but it looked like sorrow and remorse were no longer in his emotional repertoire.

"I'm leaving, Charlie," I said, getting up carefully. The floor didn't wave and the walls stayed straight, so I guessed my head was OK. His chair was between me and the door. I started walking. He reached out casually as I passed and jerked me back. "Not so fast, beautiful," he said. "We're not done talking, you and I." I was standing beside his chair, looking down at him. "Tell me how she died, Thea."

"She was hit on the head with something heavy and it crushed her skull. I don't want to talk about it, though. It makes me sick to think about it. I'm tired, Charlie. Can I please go now?"