Dark Lie (9781101607084) (25 page)

A nurse rushed in to check my machines before Sam could answer, but I could tell by the warm feel of his hand on my forehead and hair that his answer was yes. Yes.

* * *

Later, Sam told himself, much later when Dorrie was much stronger, he would tell her what her parents had done. The same day Dorrie had ordered them out of her life, they had put their narrow brown-shingled house and its contents up for sale, loaded some personal items into their old green sedan, and left Fulcrum without telling anyone where they were going and without leaving a forwarding address.

Sam did not think Dorrie would be very hurt by their final gesture of rejection. He himself hoped never again to see them. But it was hard to tell what Dorrie might feel deep down. Parents were parents.

Even though Dorrie was looking better every day, Sam still kept reminding himself not to question her, not to mention Appletree or anything that might upset her. His own feelings, which were pretty well mixed up between wonder and hurt and awe and shock and love and jealousy and fear, were going to have to wait. First things first: Dorrie needed time to recuperate. Even Sissy's questioning had been limited to five minutes a day. Now, more than a week after it had all happened, Dorrie was conscious, talking some, and the doctors said she was in stable condition, but Sam had decided that any discussion of Juliet Phillips, or more specifically how Juliet Phillips had come to be born, was out of the question unless or until Dorrie raised the subject herself.

Dorrie was peacefully napping and Sam was in his customary bedside chair, thinking along these lines, when the door of the private hospital room opened. “Mr. White,” called a nurse, “there's a gentleman out here who would like to speak with you.”

Sam got up from his chair, glancing back at Dorrie over his shoulder as he went out. Who would want to talk with him? Any doctor would have come into the room. If Dad was in perplexities trying to run the machine shop, he would have called, and if Mom wanted to discuss dinner plans, she would have just popped in. So who—

He saw the man, although it took him a moment to place him.

Oh. Don Phillips.

Don Phillips?

This was odd, the district attorney and gubernatorial hopeful, three-piece suit and briefcase and all, a man with lots of things to do, waiting in the hospital hallway.

“Sam.” Don Phillips took Sam's hand and grasped it more than shook it. Sam could have sworn it wasn't the gesture of a politician. The man seemed off his stride, poise in abeyance for some reason.

But then, the district attorney seemed to be studying him with similar sympathy. “You look like hell,” Don Phillips said.

“I'm fine. Things are getting back to normal.” Somewhat. Mostly thanks to parents who insisted that their son eat, shower, change clothes, sleep. “Dorrie's resting comfortably.”

“Your wife deserves a medal for what she did. I intend to nominate her for the Carnegie Heroism Award.” Don Phillips steered Sam down the hospital corridor toward one of those little closed-off lounges the hospital provided for families to confer in—crying rooms, Sam called them. Following him in there, Sam tried to think what might be on the guy's mind. Juliet Phillips's statement had cleared Dorrie of any wrongdoing. The police and FBI were busy with the artifacts in Blake Roman's shoe box, which had already enabled them to link that unspeakable punk to the rapes and/or murders of seven young women in California, Wyoming, Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio. They were also happily preoccupied with the guy's customized knife, which featured remote control panels in the hilt. They surmised that either Juliet or Dorrie had pressed the one that had opened the green metal door, probably without even knowing it.

On top of all that, they had old Bert Roman's ravings to sift through. Appletree PD had dropped all charges except such as were necessary to keep Bert in the psychiatric wing of the local hospital, because he had been acting mighty strange since he had shown himself to be a possible danger to himself and others by discharging his gun. But the coroner said Blake Roman's body had already been dead when Bert Roman had plugged a bullet into it.

That had been a doozy of a surprise, finding out that the serial killer had been the old guy's grandson.

Not the scariest surprise, though, to Sam.

“You sure you're okay?” Don Phillips asked, closing the door of the crying room behind Sam and him.

Sam clenched his teeth. What the heck did this guy want from him? “I'm not sure of anything.”

“I know the feeling.” Don Phillips reached into his suit jacket pocket and produced a cell phone Sam vaguely recognized. “Juliet thanks you very, very much for the loan of this,” the DA told him, handing it over, “and asked me to return it to you.”

“She's very welcome. How is she doing?”

“Wonderfully.” Don Phillips sat down on an unlovely tan vinyl sofa, his facial expression not reflecting what he had just said. Yet he repeated it. “Wonderfully. She's just tired and a little confused. Barely traumatized at all.” Don Phillips raised a haunted gaze to Sam's face. “I can't stop thinking what would have happened to her if it weren't for your amazing wife. I can't get over it.”

Sam sat down on a tan vinyl chair facing the matching sofa. He didn't lean back; he perched on the edge of the stiff square cushion, elbows on his knees and his big hands dangling, waiting to see what this was really about.

Don Phillips sighed and met his eyes. “Have you talked with your wife at all about Juliet?”

Oh. That was what this was about. Whether Dorrie got to be a mother.

Which, by God, she deserved after all she'd been through for that girl's sake.

“No. Not yet,” Sam replied levelly. “Have you talked with Juliet at all about Dorrie?”

“No. But I know Juliet wants to see her just as soon as the doctor will permit it. I wish—I truly wish I could just let nature take its course, but I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because the adoption . . .” Don Phillips continued to study the soiled beige carpeting. “Morally I don't think Pearl and I have done anything wrong, but legally, um, the adoption agreement is, um, somewhat questionable. . . .”

“I don't blame you,” Sam said. “I know what it is to pray for a child.”

“Thank you.” The DA met his eyes with visible relief. “But not everyone is going to be so understanding. Your wife's parents have threatened to ruin me if anything is made public.”

Sam sagged back into his chair. He felt his mouth hanging open and struggled to close it. “That's just the sort of thing they would do,” he said when he could speak. “Old buzzards. But they've left town in a snit, did you know that?”

“No. But it doesn't really matter. They can still get me into a lot of trouble.”

“All right. So we want to keep you out of trouble. So how many people know about Dorrie and Juliet?”

“Quite a few, actually, but they are police or FBI, and they're with me on this.”

I bet they are,
Sam thought. This guy had clout.

“Angstrom told his people it was all a mistake, the idea that there was anything suspicious about Dorrie's involvement. They'll forget about it. End of story.”

“Which leaves me and Dorrie,” Sam said. And Sissy Chappell, but he felt no need to mention her. Sissy wanted only the best for Dorrie.

Don Phillips nodded. “Did you personally tell anybody?”

Sam gave the question some thought. He hadn't told his parents a thing except what they could read in the newspaper: A heroic woman named Dorrie White had seen a teenage girl being abducted, had followed and confronted the abductor, and had ultimately gotten his knife away from him and killed him in self-defense, then freed the girl, and was now recovering from her injuries.

Trying to remember whether he had said anything more to anyone else, Sam reviewed the past week and a half in his mind. The early days seemed like a bad dream to him, his memories of them fading, but he didn't think he'd told anyone. . . . Bert? Had Bert made the connection that Juliet was his great-granddaughter? As far as Sam could tell, no, the old guy had not. Moreover, Bert seemed not likely to make connections of any kind anytime soon.

And Phillips wouldn't make the connection with Bert either. Besides Dorrie, only Sam himself, as far as he could tell, knew the whole story, and it made him feel sick just to think about who Juliet's father was—or had been. But Phillips didn't know. And Juliet didn't know. And for the sake of all mercy and sanity it should stay that way.

“No,” Sam replied to Don Phillips, “as far as I can remember, I didn't tell a soul. No reason I should.”

Don Phillips requested humbly, “May I ask you to continue that policy? Don't tell a soul?”

Sam liked it that Don Phillips was being man-to-man with him, not acting like a politician or any sort of superior being. He liked it that Phillips had not once mentioned his contribution to paying Dorrie's considerable hospital bills. Heck, he liked the guy, period. He said, “I don't have a problem with that.”

“Thank you.” Don Phillips looked and sounded genuinely grateful. “I knew you wouldn't wish any harm on me.” Don Phillips consulted his lower lip with his teeth for a moment, then asked, “Now, here is where I feel like I have no right even asking—how is your wife feeling?”

How was Dorrie
feeling
? Sometimes she cried. Other times she lay there looking so frail that Sam wanted to protect her forever, yet in her face he saw something so stark strong it frightened him, such potency in a woman; what if she ever turned against him? Yet other times she seemed far away, her open eyes dreamy, looking at something only she could see. And still other times she focused on Sam and smiled at him with a brave tilt of her chin that he'd never noticed in her before.

But none of this was what Don Phillips really wanted to know.

Sam took the bull by the horns. “You haven't told Juliet.”

Looking at the floor, the DA conceded, “My wife and I talked it over and agreed we had no choice.” With a visible effort Don Phillips raised his head to face Sam. “We told Juliet we didn't know who your wife was or why she did what she did.”

In other words, they'd lied. Sam pressed his lips together to keep from saying so.

Don Phillips went on, “Apparently, your wife didn't tell Juliet anything differently during the time they were together.”

Sam allowed himself to retort, “I imagine they didn't get much chance to talk.”

“Exactly.” Don Phillips leaned forward, his expression one of sincere appeal. “And I'm sure your wife will agree that, under the circumstances, it will be better for Juliet if we just leave things that way.”

Your wife, your wife, your wife,
Sam thought. Not once had the DA referred to Dorrie by name.

Don Phillips went on, “Will you please talk with her, tell her what I've told you, and request her—”

“I ought to punch your lights out.”

Considerably startled, Phillips squeaked, “I beg your pardon?”

“You think I'd tell Dorrie what to say to her daughter? I ought to brain you. I'm not going to mention a word of this conversation to her. But just so you can stop fussing, I think Dorrie has her own very strong reason for keeping things the way they are.”

“Oh. Um, then that takes care of it, I guess.” Possibly never had a DA sounded less certain, but reaching for his briefcase seemed to give him back some of his aplomb. “Just one more thing.” Setting the briefcase on a chair, he opened it and pulled out something flat protected by a paper bag. “Will you return this to your wife for me? And please see that no one else looks at it?”

Accepting the parcel, Sam nodded, because, almost as if the color pink were leaching through the paper to give him hives on his fingers, he could tell without looking what was in it.

TWENTY

I
was sitting up in bed, bored now that Sam's parents had gone home and Sam had gone back to work, wondering whether there might be anything worth watching on daytime TV, when the door of my hospital room shot open and Juliet flew in, her entrance so impetuous it was as if she were being carried away by a huge bouquet of helium balloons, their yellow, turquoise, pink, and violet ribbons gathered into one hand.

So many times I had thought what I would say to her, but when my mouth opened, all that came out was a banal, “Oh! I love balloons.”

Juliet did better. She ran straight to me and put her arms around me, carefully, as if I might bruise. “Thank you for what you did,” she said close to my ear, her voice vibrant with emotion. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She kissed the side of my head.

My arms had gone around her, of course. A Supreme Court injunction could not have kept me from embracing her.

Even though I knew what I had to do.

I patted her strong young back, but a clotted feeling in my chest made it difficult to speak. I managed only another banality. “I'm just glad you're okay.”

“Me!” Juliet let go of me and stepped back, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling. “You're the one who got knifed. Do you really like balloons?”

“I adore them. They make me feel good. Too many flowers, it's like a funeral.”

“I totally concur.” She glanced around the small room crowded with funereal flora. “Where—”

“Tether them right here beside me, on this table thingie.”

She did, tying the ribbons around the gooseneck stand, then sat down on my bed, as close to me as she could get.

I knew what was coming. I'd tried to prepare myself for this moment, but no amount of forethought seemed like much help right now.

Juliet looked me straight in the eye. “Please,” she requested firmly, “who are you, really?”

Here it was. The moment of my dreams. The moment when I could have looked deeply into her eyes and said, “I'm your birth mother.”

And I wanted to, I longed to, I yearned to; my heart burned with wanting to say, “I'm your mother.”

But I must not. Because if I did, then someday, maybe not today, but too soon, she would ask, “Who is my father?” And she must never know. Never ever.

Feeling my way through the quandary, I quipped, “Who am I? As opposed to Maria Montessori?”

“That was cute.” She allowed me a half smile. “I can't believe that self-kissing psycho creep didn't know who Maria Montessori was.”

That psycho creep. Her biological father.

I asked, “Do you have nightmares about him?”

“Oh, yeah. Majorly.” She shuddered. “But I'd be having a lot worse nightmares if I was raped or dead.” Despite the obvious whimsy of this statement, she did not smile. She gave me a no-nonsense stare from under her strong dark eyebrows. “You saved me. I want to know why.”

I said slowly, “Well, you know, Juliet, I have no children of my own—”

She broke in. “That's another thing. You told me you had a daughter in school with me, and you don't.”

Oops.

“And you knew my name,” Juliet went on, leaning toward me, passionately earnest. “My parents are trying to tell me you're just a nice lady who happened to be passing by, but they're lying.”

I'd expected her parents wouldn't tell her too much. Such prominent people were likely to be protectors of the status quo
.
Although I hadn't thought they'd outright lie.

I wondered why, but Juliet gave me no time to conjecture, speaking on in a rush. “I can tell they're lying. Anyway, I'm not stupid. Nice by-passer ladies might call the police, but they don't go chasing after the creep and they definitely don't climb into his van. They don't hang around distracting him, they don't get in his face, and they don't take a knife . . .” Juliet faltered, gulped, breathed deeply.

I said, “Sweetie, it's not that big of a deal.”

“It is too. It's huge. Ginormous. You got wounded and somehow you got the knife away from him and killed him.”

“I had to.”

“You didn't have to do any of it. You should have been home taking your lupus medicine. Instead you're crawling down the hallway to cut the duct tape off me before you pass out. No big deal, my ass. It's humongous. Extreme. It's
crazy
. Unless . . .”

Once again my chance to say it.

No. NO. She must never ask about her father.

“Sweetie.” I couldn't look at Juliet or I might not have been strong enough. Instead, I looked at the balloons she had brought me, sunlight from my hospital room window glorifying them into a celestial celebration of—some tender rainbow-colored event, a wedding, a baby shower, a prom. . . . I wondered whether Juliet had a date to the prom, whether he was the boy of her current dreams, whether she would be wearing a gown she adored, what style, what color. . . . Maybe someday we'd have a chance to girl-talk about things like that.

Please, God.

I took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. “Sweetie, okay, you're right, I did know your name beforehand. And I was kind of keeping an eye on you that day at the mall.”

The rapture on her face . . . I could only just bear it. Emotions opening to the light. A pink rose blossoming. She breathed, “Like a guardian angel.”

I said softly, “More like a lonely, neurotic woman who ought to see a therapist. I have problems you don't know about, honey. So do your parents, most likely. Juliet, do your parents love you?”

The sudden question caught her off guard, with her shield of adolescent coolness lowered. She blurted, “Of course.”

“Yet you say they're lying to you. Why would they lie?”

The shield went up. She rolled her eyes. “To be
stupid
. Probably something to do with my father. Politics.”

“Or could it be because they love you and want to protect you from something?”

Out came the pubescent pride. “I don't need protection!”

“Really? I sure do. Most of us do.” Especially from our own families, I thought, trying not to wince as I thought of my parents, grandparents Juliet could definitely do without. I told my daughter quietly, “But you're right just the same. Nobody should lie to you. I want
never
to lie to you, Juliet. Never ever.”

With a gasp that was not quite a sigh she leaned toward me, gazing into my face, rapt. Her lips parted.

Tenderly I told her, “So, the question you're about to ask, please don't.”

Her dark eyes went wide, shadowed, but I did not allow myself to flinch away from facing her. I willed her to understand. For a moment, despite bright balloons and sunlight, it was like that nighttime first meeting in the van, with unspoken communication flying between us: Be strong, be smart. We're in this together. We'll handle this our own way. You know the truth as well as I do.

Trust me.

And she did; she trusted me. She gave a gasp that was not quite a word, and her eyes misted over with tears, but she didn't ask the question that would have forced me to lie. My heart squeezed. I wanted to cry with her, for her. But I must not.

She had leaned so close to me that I could pull her into my arms, and I did that. I whispered, “Hush. Shhhh,” and I didn't mean just her weeping. I stroked her back, patted her head, memorizing the feeling of hugging my . . . my daughter.

She relaxed into my embrace. I felt her breathing shudder, then steady.

“One thing I will say,” I murmured into her dark hair. “I care about you. I care so much.”

I felt her head nod against my shoulder before she gathered herself and sat up, trying for a shaky smile. “Duh,” she told me. “I never would have known.”

“Your parents are the ones who have earned the right to say they love you.”

“I think you have too.”

“I . . . I'd feel presumptuous. But . . . Juliet, sweetie, may I come see you? I'd like to meet your parents.”

“Of course.”

“And will you come see me?”

“Yes,” she said, and I could tell it was a promise she made with all her heart, as if she were declaring “I do” in front of an altar.

* * *

Sam came in. “I met Juliet in the hallway,” he said as he sat in his customary chair.

Very tired, I managed a smile at him as I reclined the bed so I could lie down.

Sam said, “She looked kind of teary.”

I nodded.

“So I gave her a hug and asked her what was the matter.”

“And?”

“She said, ‘Nothing, really. I think everything's going to be okay.' Then she stepped back from me and lifted her chin like a little soldier and said, ‘Actually, everything
is
okay.'”

I breathed out.

“She's a great kid,” Sam said.

I nodded.

Sam peered at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I meant it. My future was looking a lot brighter than it had a week ago. I felt well enough to give Sam a teasing glance. “You saw her come in and you were waiting down the hallway, weren't you?”

He's cute when he gets sheepish.

“Well, yes, I did and I was.” Sam loosened his tie and his belt, leaning back in the chair as if he meant to stay a while. “So, Juliet's coping. What did you tell her?”

“Just that I couldn't tell her.” I turned my head on the pillow so I could watch Sam's face, so gently contoured yet solid, like a mountain's weathered summit. “But she knows who I am, and she knows I know she knows. It's just that we're not going there.”

Sam nodded. “Because you don't want her to find out who her father was.”

It took my breath away. I had been wanting to tell him, had been trying to figure out how to tell him, but I had no inkling he already knew.

“Blake Roman,” he confirmed. “I found the notes, and then I just kind of read the writing on the wall.”

It shocked my heart, the stark way he said that. Tears filled my eyes, spilled down my temples into my hair. Sam leaned forward and took my limp, cold hand between his. “Now, what are you crying about?” His hands were warm, but his voice wasn't, not very.

“You,” I whispered. “You're hurt.”

“I'll live.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“For what? For being human?”

“Don't try to tell me it doesn't bother you.”

“No, I admit, it does.” Slowly he let my hand slip out of his grasp. He sat back. “You were in love with that pervert.”

“Not anymore.”

“But you were. For years.” Just trying to verify data, his tone said, not accusing. “Weren't you?”

“I was living in a dreamworld. If you want to call that love, then yes.”

“And you thought about leaving me?”

“No. You're my real world. I never wanted to leave you.”

He exhaled a long, slow breath. “Well, then I'm a fool,” he murmured.

“No, you're not. You sensed I was keeping my distance. Sam, up till now we've barely been married. We've just been two people sharing a house and a business, because up till lately, I didn't know what honest love was.”

Silence, during which I breathed in the fragrance of too many flowers, listened to rainbow balloons rustling.

“But I've grown to love you more than I knew until . . . Sam, in that awful basement, I was looking down from the ceiling, and you were holding me, you were dirty and rumpled and freaked-out, and you were
there
for me. So I came back.”

“God, Dorrie, you're scaring me.” He turned his head away. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like
what
?”

“Like a—like an angel with a fiery sword, like a dragon slayer. You killed your dream to save Juliet.”

“And to save myself. And us.”

He nodded, but I could see him thinking hard about something. Then he faced me and took a deep breath. “Dorrie, I've been waiting for the right time to tell you something, and I'm not sure this is it.”

“Go ahead, tell the dragon slayer,” I reassured him.

“Well, if Blake Roman was just an empty dream, Mother and Father Birch were a real live nightmare, and, bless your fiery sword, you've gotten rid of them too. Your parents have left Fulcrum and I don't think they mean for you to see them ever again.”

It took me a moment to absorb this. Then I felt angry. The old crows, they had done it to hurt me, I knew. But almost immediately joy took over, because rejection by those two didn't hurt, and freedom felt so long overdue. “Good,” I said.

“Good? Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Good.”

Sam studied my face.

I studied his. “What about you? How are you, Sam? Really?”

I saw him take a deep breath as he forced himself to tell me, although not quite steadily. “I'm kind of a mess, honey. Everything's changing, and I'm off-balance. I'm so uncomfortable, it's like I'm sitting on a knife's edge.”

A rush of empathy made me smile. Leaning toward him, I told him earnestly, “Sam, I've been there too, but now I'm not afraid anymore. Not of knives. Not of living. And I'm not afraid of loving you.”

I reached out. He hesitated only a heartbeat before he responded. Our hands clasped.

“It's going to be all right,” I told him the way I had told Juliet in the van.

We gazed at each other as if touching for the first time.