Don't Cry Now (27 page)

She gasped, and stopped struggling, her palms opening, the snake dropping to the floor.

He hit the carpet with a thud and coiled back in fury, preparing to strike.

“Don't shoot him!” Sam screamed, knocking Nick aside and racing into the room, throwing himself over the enraged boa constrictor. Bonnie's eyes remained riveted on her brother, the gun still in his hand. Was it the same gun he'd used to shoot Joan? she wondered. Was he going to shoot her now as well?

Out of the corner of her eye, Bonnie saw Sam, wincing with pain, as he rose to his feet, the snake still putting up an impressive show of resistance. Shaken and breathing hard, giving only a fleeting glance in Nick's direction, Sam carried the reptile out of the room.

Bonnie waited until she heard the top of the tank being fitted back into place before sinking to her knees and bursting into tears.

“Mommy!” Amanda cried, jumping out of bed and into her mother's arms.

“Are you all right, baby?” Bonnie asked, kissing Amanda's cheeks, patting her hair, stroking the bruise already forming a chain around the child's ankle, like a rope burn.

“What's going on?” a voice asked from the doorway. Bonnie turned, saw Lauren hovering behind Nick, his gun nowhere in sight. Was it possible she'd imagined it?

“We found the snake,” Amanda said.

Bonnie heard laughter, realized it was her own. “We certainly did,” she said.

“The snake is here?” Lauren drew back, looked warily at her feet.

“Sam has him.”

Lauren's eyes shot to Nick. “What are you still doing
here?” she asked, clearly confused by what was happening.

“Not much,” Nick said, and laughed, moving to Bonnie's side, helping her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she told him, pulling out of his arms. “But I think Sam may have been bitten.”

“He's been bitten before,” Lauren told them. “The bites sting but they're not poisonous.”

Bonnie lifted her daughter into her arms, still feeling the weight of the snake's resistance in her hands. Did she have any strength left? she wondered.

“That was very impressive,” Nick said. “Remind me not to mess with you.”

Bonnie stared at her brother. Explain, her eyes said.

He stared back. Later, his eyes said in return.

 

“Are you going to kill us?” Bonnie asked her brother after everyone else was finally settled and asleep. The snake was in its tank; the rats were gone.

“Is that what you think?” Nick asked. “That I'm here to kill you?”

“I no longer know what to think,” Bonnie said honestly, every muscle in her body crying out to lie down.

“I'm not here to hurt you, Bonnie.”

“Why then?”

“I thought I could protect you,” he said, after a pause.

“I didn't think convicted felons were allowed to carry guns.”

“They're not.”

Bonnie sank down on the foot of her bed. What was the point in trying to talk to her brother? Did she really think he'd tell her anything? “Do you think we should have insisted that Sam go to the hospital?” she asked instead.

“He said he thought a few extra-strength Tylenol would get him through the night, that he'd see a doctor about his bites in the morning, if he felt it was necessary.”

Bonnie nodded. She'd helped Sam wash the bitten area
thoroughly, watched while he applied a special antiseptic ointment. He'd said nothing about seeing the gun in Nick's hand. Perhaps she'd imagined the whole thing.

She'd put Amanda to bed in Lauren's room, Amanda quickly settling into the crook of Lauren's arm, Lauren's other arm draped around her waist, their breathing gentle echoes of one another as they drifted off to sleep.

“Is that the gun that killed Joan?” Bonnie asked, suddenly aware of the butt end of the gun tucked into the waist of Nick's jeans.

“The gun that killed Joan was a thirty-eight,” Nick said matter-of-factly. “This is a three fifty-seven Magnum.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Bonnie asked, realizing that it did.

“I would never hurt you, Bonnie. Don't you know that?”

“What's going on, Nick?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“Look,” she began, “I'm sick; I'm tired; I think my husband's having an affair; I've spent half the night wrestling with a snake. I'm not sure how much more I can take. I'm starting to lose it, Nick. My life no longer makes any sense. And if you don't start giving me some answers soon, then you're just going to have to shoot me, because otherwise I'm going to get on the phone and call the police and tell them that my brother, the jailbird, is in my bedroom with a three fifty-seven Magnum tucked into the waistband of his jeans.”

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

“If you won't talk to me, then maybe you'll talk to the police,” she repeated.

“Bonnie,” her brother said calmly, walking toward her. “I
am
the police.”

B
y the time Rod came home, Nick was gone.

“How are you, honey?” Rod asked, wrapping Bonnie in a warm embrace at the front door, then drawing back, taking a long, close look at her. “You look like hell,” he said.

Bonnie brought her hand to her hair, her fingers trying to stretch the bangs onto her forehead. Tears sprang to her eyes. She'd spent almost an hour in the bathroom trying to make herself presentable for Rod's return. She'd showered and given her hair a special treatment that promised to add new life to tired-looking hair, then brushed her teeth, careful to avoid scratching her gums, although they bled anyway. She'd even applied makeup, trying to disguise her sallow cheeks with a soft pink blush, adding layers of mascara to her thinning lashes, moistening her dry lips with pink-tinted gloss. And she'd gotten dressed for the first time in several days, exchanging her perspiration-soaked housecoat for a pretty floral print dress. And still he said she looked like hell. Well, maybe after the silicone wonder that was Marla Brenzelle, her husband had forgotten what a real woman looked like, especially when she wasn't feeling well. Real women don't go to Miami to wrestle with television executives, she thought, glancing up the stairs. They stay in Boston and wrestle with snakes.

“How are the kids?” Rod walked into the kitchen, rifled through his mail.

Bonnie followed after him. “Fine.” She checked her watch. It was either ten minutes after one or five minutes after two, she was unable to decide which. Either way, the kids were in school.

“Have you spoken to the doctor?” Rod asked.

“I called his office this morning, but the test results still weren't in. Apparently the lab's been especially busy.”

“Who is this doctor anyway?”

“Dr. Kline,” Bonnie said. “I told you. Diana recommended him.”

“I thought she saw a Doctor Gizmondi.”

“Does she?”

“Don't you remember? She went on and on about him one night. I only remember because the name was so unusual.”

“Maybe she switched,” Bonnie said weakly. She wasn't up for telling Rod the truth of who'd sent her to see Dr. Kline. Not yet anyway. As soon as she was feeling better, she'd tell him about her meetings with Dr. Greenspoon, she rationalized, wondering when that would be. Hadn't Dr. Kline told her that inner ear infections could drag on for months?

“You look like you haven't slept in days,” Rod said.

Had he always had such a penchant for stating the obvious? “We found the snake,” she told him.

“You did? Where?”

“In Amanda's room,” Bonnie told him, declining to elaborate, something else she was holding back. You kind of had to be there, she thought, images of her brother immediately filling her head.

No wonder she hadn't slept. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, studying her husband as he studied his mail, her mind racing through the events of the previous evening, replaying the encounter with her brother in every
detail, as she'd done repeatedly since Nick left the house this morning.

“Bonnie,” she could still hear him say, “I
am
the police.”

Panic mingled with curiosity. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I'm still playing cops and robbers, Bonnie, still chasing the bad guys.”

“I don't understand. You
are
the bad guy. You went to prison.”

“I went to prison, yes.”

“Since when do they let convicted felons become police officers?” Anger hovered, threatened to erupt. This really was too much. If it was true, no wonder society was in such a mess.

“Since my going to jail was a necessary part of the plan,” he told her. “The follow-through of an elaborate scheme to nail Scott Dunphy, break up his operation, put him away.”

Bonnie scoffed, shook her head, grew dizzy. “You're trying to tell me you're an undercover cop? Is that what you're seriously trying to tell me?”

“It's called deep cover, if you want to get technical,” Nick said, “and yes, that's what I'm seriously trying to tell you.” He paused, as if debating with himself whether or not to continue. “I shouldn't be telling you anything. I'm taking a chance, Bonnie. I'm trusting you.”

“You're trusting me,” Bonnie repeated, numbly.

Nick nodded.

“So I'm just supposed to trust
you
?” she asked in return. “I'm supposed to believe that all these years you've been living some sort of double life, making friends with people like Scott Dunphy, becoming part of their organization, just so you can get enough evidence to put them in jail?”

“It's what I do, Bonnie.”

“Appearances to the contrary.”

“Things aren't always what they seem.”

“So I've been told.” She took a deep breath, tried arranging her thoughts into some sort of coherent order. “The land development scheme….”

“…was part of it.”

“But you were found not guilty; you were let go.”

“We screwed up. Someone jumped the gun. There wasn't enough evidence to convict. We had to start again.”

“And the other charge? Conspiracy to commit murder?”

“We got him good that time.”

“But you went to jail.”

“I had to protect my cover.”

“I don't believe you.”

“It's the truth.”

“You're a cop?” Bonnie gasped, incredulously, afraid to believe him, more afraid not to. “But how could we not know? How could you keep it from your family?”

“I had no choice. It was for your protection as much as mine.”

“You're saying that those years you were away, the years you supposedly spent bumming around across the country….” she began.

“I was in training with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, finishing the sentence for her. She felt oddly grateful he hadn't used the letters FBI.

“And you couldn't tell anyone, not even your own mother, not even when she was dying?”

“I didn't know she was dying.”

“You let her die believing—”

“I didn't know she was dying,” he repeated, his voice cracking, threatening to dissolve. “Hell, Bonnie, she'd been dying all my life.” He brought his hand to his head, pushed his hair roughly away from his forehead. “But she didn't die because of me, Bonnie. You have to know that. You have to know she didn't die because of me.”

Bonnie lowered her head. “I know that,” she whispered after a long pause. “I guess I've always known
that.” She looked away, then back at Nick. “It was just easier to blame you for her death than it was to accept the fact that she was a self-absorbed hypochondriac who abused prescription drugs and whose body simply couldn't take it anymore.” She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “It's funny,” she said. “I always thought I was such a lousy liar. But I've been lying to myself pretty good for years.”

And suddenly they were in each other's arms, crying on each other's shoulders.

“Don't cry,” he was saying, crying himself. “It's okay now. Everything's going to be okay.”

“Does Dad know the truth?” she asked when their tears were dry.

“He does now,” Nick told her.

“And Captain Mahoney? Has he known all along?”

“Not in the beginning, no. I was a suspect, just like everyone else.”

“But he knows now.”

“Yes. But of course, the fewer people know, the safer I am. It's as simple as that.”

“None of this is simple.”

He waited, fixed her with his most serious stare. “Please don't say anything about this to Rod.”

Bonnie folded her hands in her lap, massaged her sore wrists. The last person to give her that little piece of advice was Joan, and look what happened to her. “But he's my husband.”

“Does that mean you trust him?” came the immediate reply.

Bonnie said nothing for several seconds. “Is there a reason I shouldn't?”

“The man's ex-wife was murdered,” Nick reminded her, unnecessarily. “Your husband stands to profit substantially from her death, as he would from yours. We know that Joan was worried about you. We know she knew something she wasn't supposed to.”

“What do you mean?” Bonnie asked. “What do you
know? What are you saying? How are you involved in this? What's your connection with Joan?”

“She called me a few weeks before her death,” Nick explained. “Or rather, she called Dad. She didn't know I was back at home. She told Dad she was worried about you, but she wouldn't say why, just that we should keep a close watch on you. Dad didn't know what to make of it. He said it sounded like she'd been drinking, but still, a phone call like that, out of the blue…. So I called her, went to see her, tried to find out what was going on. But I couldn't get her to say any more. One thing was certain, she was genuinely worried. I went to see Rod at the station, tried to feel him out, pretended I had some nutty idea for a series. For a few scary minutes there, I actually thought he liked the idea. Anyway, he was his usual affable self. Nothing seemed out of line. I started to think maybe Joan was talking out of the bottom of the bottle, but then the next thing I knew, she was dead. And you were the prime suspect in her murder.”

“I didn't kill her.”

“I know that.”

“But you've been keeping an eye on me.”

“For your protection.”

“So it
was
you I saw in the school yard that morning.” Bonnie pictured her brother emerging from the shadows of the nearby trees.

“You've got good eyes. I had to get out of there pretty damn fast.”

“Was it also you who paid Elsa Langer a visit?”

He nodded. “After you said you'd been to see her, I thought it might be worth checking her out. Unfortunately, she was pretty much checked out already.”

“So where does that leave us?”

There was a long pause. “There's only one person who had both motive and opportunity, no alibi, and a missing thirty-eight.”

“You're saying you think it's Rod?”

Nick looked toward the floor. “I'm saying it's a real possibility.”

Bonnie shook her head vigorously, despite the dizziness it induced. “I can't believe it. I've lived with the man for over five years. I can't believe he could kill anyone.”

“You don't want to believe it,” her brother said.

“You actually think Rod murdered his ex-wife, that he might be planning to kill me and our daughter?” The words sunk into the pit of Bonnie's stomach like stones into water.

“Who else stands to profit by your deaths?”

No one, Bonnie had to admit, although she refused to do so out loud. “But how can I stay here if I believe that? How can I keep living with him?”

“You don't have to,” Nick told her. “You can take Amanda, move out.”

“Where would we go?”

“You could move in temporarily with Dad.”

Bonnie shook her head. “I can't do that. Rod is my husband. He's Amanda's father. I refuse to believe he had anything to do with Joan's death. I refuse to believe he'd do anything to hurt Amanda or me.”

“I hope you're right. But I'd get Rod to cancel the insurance policies he has on you and Amanda, just in case. And if he refuses, I'd get the hell out.”

In the meantime, I'd get Rod to cancel the insurance policies he has on you and Amanda
, Bonnie repeated in her mind, the words gaining momentum with each breath she released, until they were careening out of control, slamming painfully against the base of her brain.

“What's the matter?” Rod was asking now, rushing to Bonnie's side, kneeling on the floor in front of her chair. “You went white as a sheet.”

“I want you to cancel the life insurance policies you have on Amanda and me,” Bonnie told him, staring straight ahead, afraid to look at him.

“What?”

“I want you to cancel—”

“I heard you,” he interrupted, pushing himself back on his feet, taking several steps into the center of the room. “I just don't understand where this is coming from all of a sudden.”

“It's not all of a sudden,” Bonnie said. “I've been thinking about it for weeks. I'm not comfortable with the whole idea, and I want you to cancel the policies.” And if he refused? she wondered. What would she do? Could she really pack up her daughter and her belongings and move out?

“Consider it done,” Rod said.

“What?”

“I said consider it done.”

“You'll do it?”

Rod shrugged. “Actually, I've been thinking about canceling them myself. I'm paying a hell of a premium on the damn things, and it doesn't really make sense when we could be using that money elsewhere.” He paused, smiled weakly. “You
are
planning on getting better, aren't you?”

Bonnie smiled, then laughed, then cried. How could she have doubted him? she wondered. It was this damn inner ear infection. It was fogging her brain, not allowing her to see things clearly.

Immediately, Rod returned to her side. “Bonnie, what is it? What's happening? Talk to me, honey. Tell me what's going on.”

Bonnie collapsed into Rod's arms, sobbing against his shoulder. “I'm so tired,” she cried. “I'm just so damn tired.”

Rod put his arm around her, lifted her gently to her feet, led her toward the stairs. “Let's get you into bed.”

“I don't want to go to bed,” Bonnie said, hating the whine in her voice. “You just got home; I want to hear about your trip.”

“You'll hear about it later. I want to check in at the studio anyway for a few minutes.”

“You're going out?”

“Just for a little while. I'll be back before you wake up, I promise. And then we can have the whole weekend together, and I'll bore you to tears with tales of my Florida exploits.” They reached the top of the stairs. “And I want to speak to this Doctor Kline when he calls, because enough is enough. If he can't do something to make you feel better, we'll find somebody who can.” Rod guided Bonnie into their bedroom, started unbuttoning the front of her dress.