Icarus. (51 page)

It's a plan, he thought.

But it was a plan interrupted. As he stepped out to walk through the lobby to the mailboxes, he saw someone waiting for him. Raoul, the doorman on duty, looked fidgety and the expression on his face said that the person had been waiting a long time.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Waiting to see you."

"I've been calling up every fifteen minutes, Mr. Keller," Raoul said. "In case you came in through the garage. Also, Frankie said a cop was here to see you; he let her into-"

"How long have you been here?" Jack asked, interrupting the doorman. He was focused only on his visitor.

"Two hours. Maybe more. I don't know. Do you want me to leave?"

"No, no." Jack realized he was flustered. But pleased. As tired and drained as he was, he was very pleased. There was no one he wanted to see more.

"Come on up," he said to Grace Childress. "We have a lot to talk about."

– "-"-"HE USHERED HER out of the elevator and as he did he cocked his head slightly to the left.

"What?" she asked.

"Ever since the break-in," he said. "I'm just skittish. I keep feeling like someone's here. Or has been here." He listened intently – she stayed absolutely quiet – and glanced around the entryway and living room. Then he shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he told her. "Just you and me."

"Could I get a drink?" she asked.

"Anything you want is in the bar in the living room. I'm just going to check my messages."

He walked to the den, unable to shake the feeling that something was different, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was broken. There was a strange odor, he thought, but he couldn't put his finger on it. And it was so faint, it could be coming from anywhere. Still…

He told himself he was being ridiculous. He saw the green light flashing on the phone machine, saw that he had three messages. He wondered if any were from McCoy. He'd been so consumed with his own search he hadn't even thought about the fact that she might have uncovered something new.

Jack went to press the "Play" button but as he did, he heard a noise from behind him. Grace was standing in the doorway, her hands empty, her shoulders hunched down.

"What happened to your drink?" he asked. But she didn't answer. And when she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "Do you want to talk?" he said.

"No," she told him. "I don't want a drink and I don't want to talk."

"What do you want?" Jack Keller asked.

"I don't want you to ask me any questions till the morning. And I want to make love to you until then," Grace Childress said. And, as the tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, she said, "Please."

– "-"-"SHE INSISTED ON turning out the light. She didn't want him to see her.

"But you're so beautiful," he told her.

She kissed him then and held his hand tight, as if her strength alone could keep him from shining a light on her body. He broke away from her kiss, said nothing, didn't move for what seemed to him like hours, but he was only a second or two away from her as he thought of Caroline, felt longing for all that was past. Then he grabbed her and pulled her toward him, hugged her so it seemed their bodies might merge, and he kissed her again, a quick kiss, then another, and another, this one long and sweet and deep.

Their lovemaking was both tender and brutal. There were demons to exorcise. He knew what his were, and he was happy to unleash them. He did not know what was behind her passion but, as their bodies grazed, caressed, and rammed against each other, as he kissed her shoulder, licked her muscular back, heard her moan and even scream, felt her take him inside her and her legs squeeze around him, trapping him, draining him, exhilarating him, he did not care.

They lay quiet together in the dark. He could feel her soft, consistent breaths. He was aware now of his nakedness, and felt awkward until her hand brushed against his arm and all self-consciousness disappeared. He tried to talk once, to ask her why she was crying, but she held a finger up to his lips and hushed him. Then they fell asleep, her head buried in his chest, his arms covering her gently like a soft summer blanket.

– "-"-"JACK WOKE, THE sharp, wonderful odor of sex on his bed and in his skin, and he reached over to turn off the alarm. But the alarm was not set, he realized. Hadn't been set in quite some time. He was not getting up to go to work. There was no work. He did not have to worry about disturbing his wife. His wife could no longer be disturbed. Someone else had shared his bed last night, was about to share his morning. This was something new and while the world around him seemed to be collapsing, exploding, he couldn't help but allow a quick, contented sigh here in the world that was his bedroom.

He lifted his head, turned to see if Grace was beside him, but she was not. He heard a noise from the kitchen and luxuriated in the sudden, pungent smell of coffee that floated in. Jack swung himself out of bed, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and took a quick, hot shower. When he emerged, he put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then heard Grace calling to him: "I know you're up. Get out here."

She was on the terrace, relaxed and comfortable in one of the two chairs around the cast-iron table. It was a glorious early morn; the chill had already disappeared. Jack saw that on the table was a wooden tray, set with two mugs of coffee and a plate that held a hunk of bread and a sharp, white Cheddar cheese. It was a scene he had lived many times with Caroline and he couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart. But the softness and vulnerability in Grace's eyes forced him into the present. And the sight of his blue-and-white silk robe, loose on her body, open to reveal one thigh and the curve of her breasts, made him smile and long for her yet again.

"I'm starving," she told him. "So I just foraged in the fridge."

He went to her and kissed her. She shifted in her seat and the robe loosened further; her right leg was bared almost to her hip now. He couldn't help but glance down. She quickly went to cover her leg but the silk billowed and, again, he saw a glimpse of what she'd been trying to hide.

"What is that?" he asked.

Grace flushed. He could see her biting her lower lip. She shook her head tightly.

"What happened to your leg?" Jack asked again.

Grace stood up from the table. She turned her back on him, walked to the edge of the terrace, put both hands on the brick retaining wall, and looked out over the park.

He felt his stomach tighten. She was too close to the edge. When he spoke, he could hear the words come out thickly. "It's morning," he told her. "I'm allowed to ask questions now."

She turned around to face him, said, "Yes," and nothing more, then started crying again, silent tears that ran down her face like rain streaking down a windowpane. Jack took a step toward her, felt his legs weaken as he got too close to the balcony's edge. He reached for her arm, touched her, but as he did, she jerked away from him, stepped back. He was left alone then, by the wall, and he found himself looking out, looking down. He was horrified to find that his stomach was in his throat and his legs were like iron anchors rooting him to the spot. He felt the dizziness coming on and couldn't move. He wanted to speak, to tell her to take his arm and lead him back to safety, but he couldn't. His throat was closing and the panic was setting in.

"I didn't call the police," she was saying. "When you went to Samsonite's apartment and didn't call me when you were supposed to, I didn't call the police. You must know that by now."

Jack tried to nod. Maybe he did. He couldn't tell.

"That's partly why I came here last night," she was saying. "I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were… I didn't know what happened and I was worried about you."

He tried to concentrate. Yes, concentrate on what she's saying, he told himself. Answer her. Distract yourself. Look at her, look away from the edge and think. Concentrate. "Why?" he managed to say now. "Why didn't you call?"

Grace was trembling. "I know he told you, Jack."

And now, here it came, like an unavoidable sledgehammer. It was upon him: the vision. His legs felt like they were nailed to the floor, but he could feel his body drifting toward the edge, could feel the inexorable force lifting him, throwing him over. He could feel that he was toppling over. He was Icarus, unable to fly, falling to his death… Concentrate. Talk to her. The sweat was pouring off him. Couldn't she see what was happening to him? Couldn't she help him?

"You figured everything else out, you should have figured this one out, too. I couldn't call the police."

What was she saying? Couldn't? Why not? He could feel the wall, as if it had hands that were reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him closer and closer. What was she talking about?

"It's stupid, I know, and if you'd gotten hurt I never would have forgiven myself, but I couldn't… I'm terrified of them. Terrified of going through all that again."

And suddenly, as the robe blew open again, fluttered in the slight breeze, even as his worst fear was gripping him and squeezing, cutting off his air and his clarity, he understood. "An accident," he breathed. "When you were young." She nodded and he could see her entire face tighten and her eyes go hard.

He could hear Kid, right here on the terrace, saying: There was an accident when she was a kid. That's all it was. At least that's all I'm gonna tell you.

Jack staggered forward, one small step, forcing his feet away from the pull of the edge. He forced himself to look down, decided to focus on the table. It was important to focus on something, important to concentrate on something safe, so he stared at the tray. First he took in all the accoutrements, then made himself take in the specifics. The deep-blue color of the plates. The roughness of the bread. The pale waxiness of the cheese. And then the knife. The beautiful knife with the finely honed blade and thick dark wood handle. The butcher knife that he knew so well.

Dom's knife.

"Where…" he whispered. "Where did you get that?"

She looked down at the knife. Said: "In the kitchen." She picked it up by the handle, held it in front of her, the blade catching a streak of sunlight and glistening. "It was sitting on the counter."

"No." Jack's breath came quickly and hard. He focused on her bare leg now, lifting his head so he could see the long, jagged scar that ran from the middle of Grace's right thigh up to her hip.

Kid's voice: An accident… that's all it was… But she's definitely still scarred by it. Sexily scarred.

"The Murderess."

"Let me explain."

"You're the Murderess," he said. Staring at his friend's knife, still fighting the fear, the wind that was whistling only in his head, and the image of his body, leaping, falling, dying, he screamed at her: "Who else did you kill!"

"You have to believe me," she said. "It was an accident. It has nothing to do with today, with what's happening."

"I have to get off the balcony," he said.

"No," she told him. "I know you're frightened. But if you stay here you'll listen. I don't care if I have to force you to listen, but you have to listen."

His voice came out raspy. "Have to go in."

But she barred the door. He didn't have the strength to push her aside. When the vision came, when the fear took over, there was never any strength left. "I was fourteen," she was saying. "Fourteen years old. Just a little girl, wanting to be a cheerleader. And my best friend, Kara, she was trying out, too. And you know how important that is to a little girl. Well, it came down to me and Kara. We heard that only one of us would make it, and we made a pact that no matter who won, we'd always be best friends. And…"

Jack was trying to focus on what she was saying. Fighting the edge, struggling against the pull and trying to understand. Grace took a deep breath. "And," she continued, "on a Saturday, two days before we were going to find out which one of us made it, we were on Long Island, where we lived…" The words were painful to her. They were coming very slowly. "We snuck out. Told our parents we were biking to the library. But we biked to the train station and we were sneaking into the city. A last celebration before one of us didn't get what we'd both worked so hard to get."

What was she talking about? What did this have to do with the knife in her hand and the bloody body of Samsonite lying on the bed next to him and the girl in the bathtub with the needle in her arm?

"Only… before the train came," she was saying now, "we started talking. Kidding around. Pretending we would do anything to win. People were listening and they heard what we were saying, and it sounded awful but we were only joking, we were really only joking. And she pushed me and I pushed her back. And we started wrestling…" Grace was crying now. Not silent tears but slow and difficult sobs. She was trying to hold them back so her words came out in bursts and gasps. "And," she said. "Oh, God, and I gave her a shove but we were too close to the tracks…"

I remember this, Jack thought. Why do I remember? Why is this familiar?

"She fell right in front of the train as it was pulling in. I tried to save her, people saw me, I jumped down after her and tried to pull her up. But I couldn't and then the train was too close and I panicked. I pulled myself up, I gave her up and let her die. I didn't make it all the way, the train caught my leg, almost severed it. But it was saved. And that's what this scar is. My reminder, every single day, of what happened."

He could see it all now: The newspaper headlines from fifteen years ago. The local tabs leaping on the story and blaring it as their lead: GIRL KILLS FRIEND TO MAKE CHEERLEADING SQUAD. It was a scandal and everyone was talking about it, writing about it: How could this happen? Is there too much pressure in schools? What's happening to children today? But the name was wrong. The name was so famous for those weeks, it was like the Amy Fisher thing, people made horrible jokes, but the name was wrong…