Don't Be Afraid (23 page)

He examined the tripod again, carefully going over every surface with the light in one hand and the magnifying lens in the other. Then he checked the floors, the ceilings and then the hole. He moved the light closer to the small hole, leaning in to try and see what it had looked like from this vantage point. Had the guy been sitting here every time he took a picture? Had he put his own eye up to the hole to watch her getting undressed?

The lens caught something, a thin dark line. Was it a shadow? Mark ran the flashlight over the hole again, very slowly. It must have been a trick of the light, but no, there it was again. Something very thin. Feeling excitement building Mark pulled out the tweezers and carefully plucked it from the hole. It was an eyelash.

Amy looked so pretty when she was watching her daughter. Totally unselfconscious, her hair pulled back in a soft ponytail. He wanted to kiss the small tendrils that escaped onto the back of her neck. He wanted to put his hands on that slim white column and watch the marks of his own fingers spread like blossoms on her flesh.

She didn’t know he was watching. No one ever knew. He was so good at this that he could write a book about it, but of course that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as watching. Maybe years from now, when he retired. He could be like those former snitches and make some movie or television deal along with the book and people would come and appreciate how smart he was. They’d know it was a talent. They wouldn’t be like Violet and call him a Peeping Tom, a filthy stalker, a pervert.

Thinking of Violet made him angry. It made his throat tighten and his hands burn and he didn’t want to feel this pain, not today. He had someone else now. Violet had been an error.

Amy hadn’t left her little girl’s bedside, sleeping in a chair pulled up next to it. She was sitting there still, holding one tiny hand in both of hers, looking so tired and so desperate that he longed to make it better for her, but of course he couldn’t. Not yet.

He needed to get things ready first. That had been another mistake with Violet. He hadn’t been able to get their home prepared, hadn’t been able to present it to her the way he would have liked. That was why she’d gotten into things she shouldn’t have. It was his fault, really, as much as hers, but some things couldn’t be made right.

Now he could start again and this time he’d do it correctly. He’d take care of Amy because she needed him. And she’d understand about his needs. She’d be open to it, he could tell. Sometimes he sketched pictures of what she’d look like cuffed to a bed or hanging from a pole, suspended in space, her bare toes searching for the floor, and these images were enough to get him through a sleepless night.

He was going to make a special room. Sometimes he drew sketches of this space and what it should have. He wandered the aisles of home improvement stores considering different weights of insulation and various thicknesses of sheetrock. He bought a stud finder because it was going to be necessary to insert the hooks into a solid piece of lumber. The hooks were steel, round and solid, because they had to be big, heavy enough to support chains and the weight of a person. The chains took longer to find because he needed them coated for easy clean up.

Looking at everything he had amassed gave him a sense of security, of connection. It would take a while, but eventually he’d have the life he dreamed of and the woman to share it with.

It was clear that meeting her had been fate. It could have been anyone else on that morning, there were many realtors, but it was Amy. It was as if God was saying to him that while Violet had been a mistake, this one wasn’t.

Killing Meredith had been a gift for her. She’d hated that woman and he’d made her go away. He hadn’t meant to get her in trouble with the police, but he enjoyed watching her handle them. The police were no match for her, just as they’d never been a match for him. That pleased him, that she was smart. Only a smart woman would understand him.

Lately, she’d come to him in his dreams, a cool figure in white, her long, dark hair flowing. She’d lie next to him on the bed with that same enigmatic smile that had been Violet’s. Sometimes the smile changed, was someone else’s, and then the face would change, too, and he’d see other women that he’d known. Then their bodies would change, too, and he’d see them as they’d looked in those last, precious moments with their bodies. He’d wake up with a scream, but with the evidence of his arousal slick on his legs and the sheets.

He needed Amy and it had to be soon. What he would do about the daughter, he wasn’t sure. It seemed to him that there had to be something done with her, because when he pictured the house and the life he’d have with Amy it didn’t include the child.

The girl was frail. Perhaps she would die from this attack. If not, well, then her death was just another gift he would give Amy, the gift of freedom to devote herself to her lover’s wishes and needs. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary.

Each labored breath that Emma took was matched by one from Amy. She sat by her daughter’s bedside, holding onto her hand, trying not to notice all the tubes and the oxygen mask, and the medicine that was keeping Emma alive. She was alive, that was the important factor. Nothing else mattered.

“You need to take a break,” her mother said, wrapping an arm around Amy from behind. There was a faint smell of wool and Chanel No. 5.

“I can’t,” Amy said, reaching up to grip Dorothy Busby’s hand.

“You haven’t taken a break in hours.”

Amy didn’t respond, just kept looking at her daughter. She was afraid to look away, afraid to leave, afraid to sleep. She knew it was irrational but she couldn’t help thinking that her own vigilance was all that was keeping her daughter alive.

“I need to be here when she wakes up.”

“I’ll be here. If she wakes up, I can call you.”

Amy blanched. “She’s going to wake up, Mom.”

“I know.”

“Don’t say if, it’s just when.”

“Go, Amy.” Her mother tugged on her arm, trying to pry her from the armchair that she’d pulled up next to the wide hospital bed. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“I can’t go home. I can’t leave.”

“You’ll be no good to Emma if you’re exhausted.”

The truth of that made Amy hesitate. It was after midnight. Fatigue was hammering behind her eyes, beating a tattoo along her spine. Her muscles felt strained from the stress of staying alert, as if she were poised to run the mile and was just waiting for the starter’s pistol. The thought of sleep, of her own bed, swam into her vision like a mirage.

“But what if she needs me and I’m not here?” she said.

“I’ll call you. You can come right back.”

“You’ll call if anything changes?” Amy stood up slowly.

“Yes.”

“Promise me, Mother. Any change at all and you call me.” She stretched her arms over her head, every part of her aching from so many tense hours in that chair.

“I said I would—”

“Promise!”

“All right, I promise,” her mother said. “There now. Are you satisfied?”

Amy nodded. She picked up her purse from under the chair and checked that her cell phone was on. Dorothy settled into the chair that Amy had vacated. She pulled a paperback out of her own purse.

“How are you going to keep an eye on her if you’re reading?”

“I’m watching,” her mother said, “I’m just doing a little reading, too. Go. Don’t worry.”

Amy’s hand shook as she turned the key in the ignition. The police had brought her repaired car to the hospital parking lot, but she didn’t feel appreciative.

She could feel despair taking hold and she was too tired to fight it, letting the depression sink in and with it the self-pity. Everything she’d fought for was gone or just about gone. She had no marriage, she barely had a home, her job was in jeopardy and so was her freedom. She’d lost her best friend and stood accused of murdering her and another woman and the stress of all this had given her daughter a profound asthma attack.

In the hospital room she hadn’t been able to bear it, but driving home alone in the car, Amy made herself face the possibility that Emma could die. Looking at that squarely was like standing on the edge of a gaping dark hole. She didn’t know what would happen if she fell over the edge of that hole, but she had a feeling she’d never come out of it.

Memories flooded her. She recalled the year that Emma was one and how she’d bundle her into a stroller in the mornings and take her out for a two-mile cruise around the neighborhood, sometimes with other moms, sometimes alone, and it had always ended the same way, with a stop at the small coffee shop down the block from their apartment.

The early exhaustion of motherhood had passed, Emma was sleeping most nights, and while she had asthma and Chris had been unfaithful, Amy was blissfully unaware of just how bad life could get. She’d been so happy then. What had it been like to have nothing more to worry about than how she’d lose the last five pounds of pregnancy weight?

For the last fifteen hours, while she sat at her daughter’s bedside, Amy had relived every moment of Emma’s young life, trying to hold onto the best moments. She savored the memories of Emma’s laugh, her smile, her first words. She remembered what it felt like to have Emma’s hand slip into hers and grab hold, to hear Emma’s small voice saying, “I love you, Mommy.”

The thought of not hearing that again filled Amy with such sorrow that she couldn’t contain it. The sobs burst forth in machine-gun bursts of noise that filled the silence of the car. It was a relief not to have to muffle them. She was almost cried out when she turned the car onto her dark street.

The house was eerily still. It was the first time that Amy had ever been here alone. She hung her coat in the hall closet, uncomfortably aware that she could hear the pinging of wire hangers even after she closed the door. The floorboards creaked under her feet as she walked toward the kitchen. She flipped the light switch and saw the mess left behind when Chloe called the ambulance.

A strong smell of something burnt permeated the room. Abandoned on the counter were a saucepan with a thin foam of curdled milk and a pot half-filled with water. Next to them was an open box of macaroni and cheese. A rescue inhaler and spacer were on the floor against the wall. Amy picked them up and set them on the table next to a vase of white roses she hadn’t noticed before. The creamy petals seemed to glow under the fluorescent light. Even their beauty couldn’t make her summon a smile.

It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten in—how long? She couldn’t remember, but any hunger she’d felt had passed long ago into emptiness. All she wanted was sleep and as she slowly climbed the steps to the second floor, she was grateful for the fatigue. She wasn’t sure she could sleep alone in this house, otherwise.

Emma’s room was as it had been before Amy left what seemed like years, but was only really a morning ago. She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the empty bed and the scattered stuffed animals. The room smelled like Emma, a sweet mixture of baby shampoo and the soft skin at the back of her neck. Amy drank it in, resisting the urge to bury her face in the pink floral sheets because if she did that she might never get back up.

Her own bedroom was at the end of the hall. She kicked off her shoes as she reached for the light switch. Something moved in the corner.

“Amy?”

It was a man’s voice. She screamed and kept screaming even as her hand scrabbled blindly for the light.

“Amy, it’s me! It’s me! Chris!”

Her fingers found the switch, flipped it and the room blazed with light. She could see a tall figure blinking in the corner and her scream died away as her brain registered that it was—yes, really—Chris.

“What are you doing here?” she cried. “You scared me to death!”

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.” He rubbed his eyes. “Where have you been? What’s wrong? Your mother left a message at the office to call you ASAP. She said it was an emergency.”

“Emma had a bad attack.”

His eyes widened. “Where is she? Is she okay? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I tried calling the hospital, but they won’t give out information. Finally I just came here.”

His must be the messages she hadn’t collected off her cell phone. She saw his suit jacket draped on the armchair in the corner and realized that he must have fallen asleep while waiting for her.

“How did you get in?”

“I still have a key, Amy,” he said, “though I did wonder if you’d changed the locks.”

There was no accusation in his voice, just regret. He rubbed his eyes again, ran a tired hand over his face. She could see the faintest shadow along his jaw. His yellow silk tie was pulled loose and he’d unbuttoned the collar of his dress shirt and turned back the sleeves.

“How is she?” he repeated, reaching back to grab his suit jacket. “Why are you home?”

“She’s only semiconscious. They gave her the oral steroids and she’s on oxygen, but it could be a while before she fully comes to.” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “I didn’t want to leave, but my mother’s with her. I came home to get some sleep, then I’m going back.”

“I’ll go back with you,” he said as he reached out a hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You must be exhausted.”

She nodded. “It’s been a long day.” She sank down on the bed and he took a seat next to her.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” he said. “For everything.”

These were the words she’d secretly longed to hear him say, but never under these circumstances. Would she gain her husband back only to lose her daughter? No! No, she must not think that. Emma was going to be okay.

“I’ve missed you,” Chris said in a husky voice. He stroked her face, lightly tracing her features with his fingertips, and she closed her eyes, afraid she might cry again.

Then his lips found her face and when they reached her mouth it felt like the most natural thing in the world to return his kiss, despite everything that had passed between them and what had happened since. And when his kiss progressed, she let it happen, letting what had always worked between them work again, blocking out Emma’s illness and Sheila’s murder and the way Meredith’s body had looked hanging in that tub and the dreadful
tick, tick, tick
of the industrial clock in the interrogation room.

Afterwards they fell asleep together on top of the comforter on the bed, tangled in their clothes and a blanket. When Amy slept, it was blessedly deep and dreamless.

 

 

Mark trapped the eyelash carefully in a Ziploc bag and sealed it. He scoured the hidden space for anything else, but there was nothing. Not that he needed anything else. This was enough to get DNA and when the test proved that the DNA was not Amy Moran’s, he’d clear not just her name but his own record.

He took out the disposable camera and took shots of the inside and the outside of the hidden space, knowing they weren’t professional quality, but trying to make sure that they showed up on film.

When he was finished, he closed everything up, hiding the space again, moving the clothes back in place, leaving the house as untouched as it was when he arrived. He put the key back under the planter and jogged down the driveway, hoping that if some nosy neighbor spotted him they wouldn’t be able to give a good enough description to ID him.

As a civilian, it took him the full hour and twenty to get to Meridien and the crime lab.

Being inside the crime lab was a little like being in a hospital. The floors had the dull shine of frequent polishing and depending on the time of year, there was a lemon or pine smell in the air. This time it was pine, a strong enough disinfectant scent, but not quite strong enough to mask the other scent that hovered in the air at all times. It was a vaguely familiar, metallic smell and the casual visitor would sometimes comment on it, but the lab workers and the cops knew what it was without asking. Blood.

Loud rap music was coming from a door standing ajar. Luis Pinero was standing in front of a large, high-powered microscope and he held up a hand without looking up when Mark entered the lab.

“Don’t move please. It’s taken me five fucking tries to get this baby in focus and I’m not going for six.”

Mark watched him peering at something and muttering under his breath and smiled. Luis always talked to himself when he worked. Every once in a while he would chant the lyrics along with whatever singer was belting from the boom box set up on a shelf.

The lab was filled with high-tech equipment that Mark didn’t know the name or function of and some that he did. He’d known Luis, a forensic scientist, for eight years, introduced to him when he was visiting his father years ago on the job. A picture of Luis’s wife and two small sons had place of honor on his desk next to a New York Mets signed baseball.

“Your crap team doesn’t have the cojones to make it to the playoffs this year.”

Pinero’s head shot up and he grinned at seeing his visitor. “You badmouthing my team, burro? Everyone knows your team is like some boy band, buying the talent not cultivating it.”

He hopped off the stool and embraced Mark, both of them laughing. “Long time no see, bro,” Luis said, “are you applying for work?”

“News travels fast, I see.”

Luis laughed, but he looked concerned. “It does when you’ve pissed off Chief Photo-Op himself. Is it true that you’ve been reassigned?”

Mark nodded and explained it, ending with pulling the baggie with the eyelash out of his pocket.

“This is the evidence you want me to examine?”

“Yeah, you don’t have to thank me for keeping it so small.”

“Good, ’cause I won’t.” Luis took the bag and peered at the eyelash. “DNA screens take time, man, and on the side it’ll take longer.”

“I don’t have longer. How fast can you do it?”

“This isn’t like the laundry, you know. I’m dealing with a backlog of work and there’s only so much that can get done every day and you’re not the only one with an asshole for a boss.”

“How long, Luis?”

“Usually, it would take at least a month—”

“A month!”

Luis waved his hand. “Settle down, I said usually. I’ll try to put a rush on it. Maybe two weeks.”

“How about two days?”

“Christ, Juarez, I’m not a miracle worker. Let’s try dealing with reality, here, okay?”

“The reality is that someone is killing people and that someone’s going to do it again if we don’t catch him.”

 

 

A distant ringing woke Amy. She sat up, momentarily, disoriented at finding herself entwined with Chris on her bed, and realized the noise was the phone.

It wasn’t in its cradle on her nightstand. She reached to the floor, falling out of bed onto her knees, searching through the heap of clothing they’d left there. It had somehow slipped into one of Chris’s shoes.