Fragile (30 page)

He brought the car to a stop and killed the engine, sat in the deserted parking lot. It was after midnight, and he hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He rested his head against the window, started to doze, and immediately began to dream. He dreamed that he was swinging a bat, and as it connected with a ball pitched to him by his father, it made a sharp crack, the bat splitting in two. The sound startled him awake. Then he heard it again.

Carried on the night air, it sounded like the firing of a gun. His dad had taught him the difference between gunfire and the backfiring of an engine. The sound of gunfire had a crack to it, a report, whereas the sound of a car backfiring was more explosive. He listened for it again, but he only heard the wind through the leaves. He rolled down the window and caught the scent of cut grass and something else, the faintest odor of skunk. He kept listening for a while, hoping to hear it again, but there was nothing. Then his phone started ringing again.

Sitting there listening to it, wondering if he should finally answer, Rick felt his fatigue and sadness become unbearable. He couldn’t sit alone in the dark anymore. He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. He knew where to go, someplace where he could rest and be left alone.

He drove back through town and made a right, followed the road past Hollows High, and turned onto Blacksmith Bluff, his grandmother’s street. He pulled into her driveway, putting the car in neutral and drifting in the last fifty yards, like he did at home not to wake his dad. But as he stepped out of the car, he noticed that the light in his grandmother’s bedroom was on.

He used the key he had on his ring and pushed the front door open, stepping into the foyer. He flipped on the light and moved inside.

“Grandma?”

He saw a light shining down the stairs from the hallway on the second floor. He didn’t want to give her a heart attack. He didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping, either. But when he heard a low and distant moaning, he broke into a run up the steps. Elizabeth was on the floor beneath the attic access, her cane toppled beside her.

“Grandma,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Ricky,” she said. “You need to tell them.”

She looked pale and withered lying there, so helpless. Beneath his hand, her shoulder felt tiny and frail. It scared him. She was a powerhouse, as strong and permanent as the old oak tree out in the backyard.

“Grandma, it’s okay.” He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911, though his first instinct was to call his mother. He knew enough not to try to move his grandmother, though he could easily have scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

“You have to tell them, Ricky.” She clutched his wrist, her grip urgent.

“I need an ambulance at 173 Blacksmith Bluff,” he said to the dispatcher. “My grandma fell. She’s hurt.”

“Ricky,” Elizabeth said. “She was already dead when he found her.”

Rick didn’t know what she was talking about, tried to focus on the dispatcher’s voice while giving his grandmother a comforting rub on the arm.

“She’s disoriented,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “Can you contact my father, Jones Cooper? He’s the head detective at the Hollows Police Department.”

The dispatcher told him to stay on the line until the ambulance arrived. Rick tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Grandma.” He heard the dispatcher requesting the ambulance.
Arrival in four minutes. Hang in there
.

“She was already dead, Ricky. He didn’t kill her.”

“Grandma … I don’t understand.” He felt a tingle of panic. Was she talking about Charlene? Did she know something? “Grandma? What are you talking about?”

But her gaze was glassy and distant, staring through him. She released a sigh and relaxed her hold on his arm. In the distance, he heard the wailing of sirens.

After calling Ricky several times to no avail, Maggie found herself at a loss. She considered calling her mother and then, when she noted the time, decided against it. She wouldn’t “keep looking,” as Jones had urgently requested, nor would she go out after Ricky and drive aimlessly searching for him. She couldn’t think of anything more crazy-making.

So she found herself paralyzed, staring at the cordless phone in her hand, trying to figure out an appropriate course of action—one that was reasonable and productive, not the unhinged move of a frantic mother, or the fearful action of an overly obedient wife. Even if Jones didn’t know their son, she did. He would call or come home, and he would do it sooner rather than later. Or so she hoped.

But then the phone was ringing in her hand. She answered it without glancing at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Cooper?”

Her heart sank to hear an unfamiliar voice. “Yes, this is.”

“It’s Angie Crosby.” In the current chaotic context, it took Maggie a moment to place the name. Marshall’s mother.

“Oh, Angie.” Maggie’s worry about Marshall returned to the forefront of her mind for a moment. And she was ashamed to note that she was almost glad for it, the distraction from her personal crisis.

“It’s late,” said Angie. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s quite all right. I’m up,” Maggie said. “What’s wrong?”

There was silence on the other line and then a muted weeping.

“Angie?” Maggie said. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry I hung up on you before. I didn’t want—But now I’ve been thinking.”

“What’s happening?” Maggie felt a flutter of fear and something
else she wouldn’t have admitted, the relief of being on solid ground, of knowing what to do, what to say.

Angie issued a few more shuddering breaths, then, “He came here earlier today.”

“Okay,” Maggie said. “And something happened between you. Tell me about it.”

Stop shrinking
, Jones would say to her.
You use those benign questions and leading statements as a shield, Maggie. Always calm, always in control, always looking for a way to “help.” But where are
you
? What do you need? What do you feel?
He was right, in a way. It was always so much easier to help others than it was to help yourself. But what was wrong with that? It was her job.

“Something’s happened to him,” Angie said. “He’s changed.”

Maggie opted for silence. Sometimes that was a better way to draw things out than the affirming statement or coaxing question.

“He said that Travis was right,” Angie went on after a moment. “That all women were whores and users. Especially me.”

Maggie realized she was gripping the phone, leaning so hard against the table that the edge was digging into her rib cage. She forced herself to lean back and breathe. When the other woman didn’t continue on her own, Maggie said, “Did he hurt you?”

More muffled crying. “He pushed me, hard against a wall of shelves. I hit my head on a corner—hard enough to black out.”

“I’m so sorry, Angie. Are you all right?”

“I am. But when I came back around, Marshall was gone.”

Maggie wanted more details about how the encounter had started and what had happened to make it escalate to violence, though she saw from Marshall’s actions in her office earlier that there was a simmering rage there, just waiting for an opportunity to boil over.

“When I talked to you earlier, I was upset about what happened between Marshall and me,” Angie went on. “I figured I’d change my locks and not be so quick to answer the door to him next time. I didn’t want him to get in trouble, you know. So much of what’s wrong with him is my fault, Dr. Cooper. I know that. I left him to Travis.”

Angie started crying again. Maggie felt her own eyes tear; she could hear so clearly the pain and frustration in the other woman’s voice.

“So what’s changed since last we talked?” Maggie asked. “Did he come to your house again?”

“No, no. After I talked to you and pulled myself together, I had a horrible thought. I keep guns here in my house. A revolver and a semiautomatic weapon. I have a license and am trained to use them.”

“Angie.”

“They’re gone, Dr. Cooper. Marshall stole my guns.”

The words made Maggie feel sick, as if she couldn’t draw another breath. The thousand incredulous questions she wanted to ask—
Didn’t you have them locked up? How did he know you had those guns and where you kept them? When was this and how long did it take you to call me?—
lodged in her throat. The best she could do was to say, “Oh, my God, Angie. Did you call the police?”

Maggie heard Angie blowing her nose. Then, “No.”

“What?” she said. “Why not?”

Another sniffle. “I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Maggie issued a long, slow breath. “Okay. What you need to do, right now, is hang up the phone and report the theft to your local police department. You need to tell them that Marshall is unstable and that he is armed.”

“I don’t want to call the police on my son, Dr. Cooper.”

“You don’t have a choice. This is not just about Marshall anymore.”

Maggie found herself staring at a picture of Ricky, Jones, and her that hung on the opposite wall. Ricky was maybe three at the time. They were all dressed up, smiling. She used to think when Ricky was small how hard it was to protect him—from falls, from disappointments—how she worried about things like what he was eating and whether he was watching too much television. Compared with the things that came later, that time seemed idyllic and innocent. It was amazing how many different ways you could fail your child without even realizing it.

“Angie,” said Maggie, trying for a tone that was calm but stern, “report the guns stolen and alert the police in your area, in case he’s still nearby. And I’ll do the same here in The Hollows.”

The other woman was silent; Maggie could hear her breathing.

“Angie.”

“I thought you would want to help him,” she said, sounding petulant and angry now.
Poor Marshall
, Maggie thought.
Did he ever have a chance with parents like this?

“This
is
helping him. We’re helping him not to hurt others or himself.” Was it not obvious?

“Okay,” Angie said. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Maggie heard Angie slam the phone down hard and fought back a tide of anger.

She dialed Jones first and got no answer, left a message on his voice mail. Then she called the nonemergency number at the precinct and alerted Cheryl, the woman who answered, to the situation with Marshall. Then she called Chuck, for lack of any other options. His number was posted over the phone.

“Ferrigno,” he answered. He somehow managed to infuse fatigue and annoyance into the syllables of his name.

“It’s Maggie.”

“What’s up?”

She told him about Marshall and the stolen guns. “Does Jones know about this?” asked Chuck when she was finished.

“No, I can’t reach him.”

“Okay. I have to go.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Just stay put, Maggie. I’ll call you in a while.”

He ended the call then without another word. In her frustration at being hung up on again, Maggie slammed the phone down on the table, releasing a little roar of anger. She got up and grabbed her purse from the counter. She couldn’t just sit there waiting for a phone call for the rest of the night. She had to do something. She didn’t know what. She dug around for her cell phone and, when she found it, realized that it was dead. She’d charge it in the car.

But before she headed out the door, something made her turn around and pick up the phone again. She glanced at the clock as she dialed the number she, for whatever reason, knew by heart, though she
rarely had reason to call Henry Ivy at home. Maybe it was because he’d had the same number since he was a kid, living in the house where he grew up, though his parents had long ago retired to Florida. He answered quickly, sounding alert and wide awake.

“It’s Maggie.”

“Maggie. What’s wrong?”

“I’m coming to get you. I need your help.”

She heard the squeaking of his mattress, the pushing back of sheets. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be ready.”

23

T
he sky above them was a field of stars. Jones stared up at the swaying tips of the towering pines. If he just kept looking up, maybe when he looked down again, it would all be a dream, a mistake, a horrible imagining. But no. Melody sat cross-legged beside Sarah, holding her white hand. She was rocking, singing something softly.

“We have to get out of here,” she said when she saw him watching her.

“We have to call the police,” said Jones, rising. He realized that he was crying, that his face was wet with tears. He wiped at them with his sleeve, but they just kept coming.

“Did you kiss her?” Melody asked, apropos of nothing.

“No.” He looked at Sarah’s body and knew that they were all standing before a chasm of pain and grief, that life as they knew it had ended. He’d see her again and again over the years, every time he looked at a corpse lying crooked on the ground. It was always the same feeling, the pointless rise of wishing things were different, of knowing that things could not be undone, that these were the last peaceful moments before someone, somewhere, would be crushed by sorrow.

“We have to go,” she said. “He’ll find a way to pin the blame on us. He’ll bring his father back here, and they’ll find a way. He weasels out of everything.”

Jones was about to protest. But Melody interrupted.

“It’s your car. You picked her up. I brought the weed. I’m high right now. We have to leave. Sarah’s gone. There’s nothing we can do for her.”

Looking back now, he remembered that she was level, logical even,
far beyond her years. He felt near hysteria, about to shake apart at the seams. She stood and started leading him away from Sarah’s poor, broken body.

“We can’t just leave her here,” he said. “We’ll call the police and tell them it was an accident. It
was
an accident.”

“We have to go. I don’t want my life to end here tonight, too.”

Later, during the one and only conversation they had about that night, Melody would swear that it was he who wanted to leave, she who wanted to stay and call the police. Melody would claim that he was the one who dragged her toward the car, while she protested loudly. But Jones didn’t remember it that way. As he remembered it, they both walked back to the Mustang. He opened the door for her, as he’d been taught to do, and she climbed inside. They left Sarah. They left her there in the woods, in the dark, alone. Jones fought the rise of bile all the way back to Melody’s place.