Kiss Her Goodbye (34 page)

Then she set the knife down . . . and that was it.

It was easy. So easy to reach in with a gloved hand and snatch the knife, warning her that she'd die if she made a sound.

She didn't make a sound.

She died anyway, her white throat splitting open as neatly as apple skin beneath the sharp blade.

Five minutes later, Jen walked down the stairs, right into the trap.

But unlike her friend, she didn't mutely obey orders. No, she put up a struggle, fighting, scratching, screaming.

Then came the sound of shattering glass, and the old man who seemed to come out of nowhere like some bizarre superhero dressed in a white collar instead of a cape.

In the chaotic aftermath of that shocking moment, Jen made her escape, fleeing out the back door and into the night.

She didn't get away. Almost, but not quite.

She was surprisingly tenacious, as tenacious as the surprisingly strong old priest. He managed to get the knife away, battling ferociously to save the girl's life even as his own was cut—quite literally—viciously short.

Then it was Jen's turn, once again. She was badly wounded, not just from the knife, but from the struggle. Her leg was bent at a grotesque angle. She stood and tried to run, but couldn't put weight on it. She fell again, her eyes gazing up just as they had fourteen years ago from her crib.

But this time, thanks to the mask, there was no recognition in her eyes. There was no trust, either.

This time, there was only stark terror.

Just like before, all it would have taken was another few seconds . . .

But headlights swung into the driveway before the job could be finished. There was nothing to do but run, leaving Jen and the old priest for dead.

In the end, though the girl survived, the priest's presence was more help than hindrance. His fingerprints were all over the knife. So were Jen's.

Nobody ever suspected that another person was there the night of the murders. There was no evidence. No reason. Especially after the media took the Killer Priest angle and ran with it. The papers were full of tales of deviant men of the cloth: evil disguised as good. Psychiatrists were interviewed and agreed that it wouldn't be the first time a seemingly sane person had lived an exemplary life, then suddenly snapped and gone on a homicidal spree.

It would be amusing to watch if it weren't so infuriating. Twice, Jen Carmody has managed to evade her destiny. Then she spent weeks in the hospital, frustratingly out of reach.

But she's home now.

 

 

After a long, hot bath complete with bubbles, a magazine, and a glass of merlot, Kathleen walks into the den to find Matt dozing peacefully on the rug in front of the dying fire. The room is lit only by the flickering hearth and the drapes are open to the floodlit crystalline wonderland beyond the glass.

Her body relaxed from the hot water and wine, cozy in flannel pajamas and a terry cloth robe, the last thing she wants right now is a return to the heightened tension of an hour ago. It would be so nice just to pour another glass of wine and sit here watching the fire and the falling snow for a while, then go upstairs and crawl into bed.

She walks over to the fireplace and reaches for a black wrought iron poker. After moving the screen aside, she jabs the charred logs, sending sparks flying and chipping away the powdery bark to reveal red-hot wood.

“What are you doing?” Matt asks, stirring to life behind her.

“Keeping the fire going.” She reaches into the kindling box and tosses several small pieces of wood onto the fire.

“I'll do it.” Matt is at her side, reaching for the poker.

“I've got it.”

“That's not how you do it.” He takes the poker from her.

Kathleen clenches her jaw, the tension back full force. Well, what does she expect?

She should have just had it out with him earlier, when he blew in the door on a gust of snowy cold air just as she was putting the boys' dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher.

Her instant relief that he was alive swiftly gave way to a flurry of questions about where he'd been, followed by growing anger at his unsatisfactory reply that he was at work. When she asked why he didn't call her back, he told her he didn't get the messages. And when she asked why he was home so late, he told her the roads were terrible because of the snow.

Then Jen was calling her from upstairs, asking for a glass of water and some more pain medication, and Riley and Curran were scuffling over what to watch on television. Kathleen had no choice but to drop the subject for the time being.

Now, however, she faces her husband with renewed anger and suspicion.

“So you didn't get all those messages I left on your voice mail?” she asks.

“Hmm?” He looks up from the fire. “Oh. I told you, no.”

“How could you not have gotten them?”

Matt shrugs. “I guess I forgot to check the voice mail.”

“You can do better than that.”

“What?”

“I expected you to say the system was down because of the storm or something. You never forget to check your voice mail. You always call me back right away.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

“Oh, come on, Matt. You've been so worried about Jen there's no way you would have been out of contact for an entire day. You checked it and you got my messages and you were too pissed to call me back. Admit it.”

She fully expects him to deny it.

Again, he surprises her. With obvious reluctance, he says, “All right, I'll admit it. I was pissed. I didn't feel like calling you back.”

“How could you let me worry about you like that? I thought your car might have gone off the road or something.”

She closes her eyes, blocking out the memory of an ice-slicked highway, crumpled metal, shooting flames.

“It did go off the road,” Matt is saying. “A few times.”

“I was sliding all over the place. I should have left the office early this afternoon, when I wanted to. But . . .”

He trails off, looking back at the fire, poking it ferociously with the black iron prong.

His unspoken words hang as heavily between them as the wood smoke wafting in the air.

For a long time, they're silent. There's nothing to say.

Nothing but
I'm sorry,
and Kathleen can't bring herself to do that. The words would seem more trite than contrite in light of all that's happened.

Then Matt asks, quietly—too quietly—“How's Jen?”

“She's sleeping. The pain medication knocks her out.”

“Did she eat anything with it?”

“No, she—”

“That medication is supposed to be taken with food, Kathleen. It says so right on the—”

“I gave her food. She didn't touch it. She said the pork chops were too dried out.”

And that's all your fault,
Kathleen wants to add. If Matt hadn't been so stubborn about coming home . . . if he had only answered his goddamned phone when she called him, and given her a chance to apologize before the whole thing blew up.

Yes, the dried out pork chops are his fault. Not hers.

She's to blame for the rest of it, though. All of it. The shambles of their marriage. The lies they told their daughter. The threat to Jen's life. The loss of Erin's. And, beneath it all, she's to blame for the very tragedy that triggered all the rest.

The death of her first daughter fourteen years ago.

Jen wakes up in the middle of the night to the eerie sensation that she isn't alone in her room.

Rolling onto her back, she realizes that the closet light, which she always leaves burning through the night, is off.

Jen scans the room, her eyes gradually growing accustomed to the darkness.

Is somebody standing at the foot of her bed?

Her heart begins to pound.

She sits up, a torrent panic rushing over her along with the painful physical effort as she realizes that somebody is there.

“Mom?”

“No, it's me.”

Relief sweeps her at the sound of Matt Carmody's voice. She sinks back weakly against the pillows.

“You scared me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What happened to my closet light?”

“What? Oh . . . it must have burned out.”

She nods, then realizes he can't see her. “I guess it must have,” she tells him, wanting to ask if he can replace it for her, wishing he'd offer.

There was a time when she wouldn't hesitate to ask a favor of her father. But now there's a wall between them that stilts every conversation, making even the most inane requests off limits. In the hospital, she asked her mother or the nurses to fetch water and magazines and help her to the bathroom, but she refused to ask him. On rare occasions that he was the only one in the room and she needed something, she would simply wait.

Jen glances at the digital clock on her night stand, hoping to find that it's almost morning.

No. Only two-forty-two.

She either has to ask her father to change the lightbulb, or spend the rest of the night in the dark.

Neither option appeals to her, but as long as he's here . . .

Come to think of it . . . why is he here? She often wakes to find her mother looming over her, but not him. Not now that she's home.

“Dad?” she asks, the once affectionate word sounding forced.

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you're okay.” His silhouette shifts position; he steps closer, coming around to the side of the bed. “Mom said you didn't eat your dinner.”

“It was dry and disgusting.”

“Yeah, well . . . you need to eat. Especially with the pain medication. It's dangerous not to. You know better than that.”

She shrugs, not caring that he can't see her in the dark. So now he's back to scolding her about everything, all the time? It was better when they weren't speaking at all.

She turns her back, facing the wall, Behind her, she feels him come closer to the bed, hears him reach for something on the night stand. Something rattles and she realizes he's picked up one of her prescription bottles. He shakes it a little, then sets it down again.

Sensing he's going to say something, she waits.

When he remains silent, she asks, “What are you doing?”

“Just checking to see if you need me to pick up a refill for your medication on my way home from work tomorrow, but you have enough.”

“Oh.”

Great. Now she feels guilty. Maybe he really does care—at least a little. At least enough to make sure she's not in unnecessary pain.

She hears the floor creak beneath his weight, realizes he's about to leave the room.

“Um, Dad?” she finds herself saying.

“Yeah?”

She hesitates a long time, finally allowing herself to ask only, “Would you mind opening my window shades? I like to watch the snow.”

She hears him cross the room, hears one shade snap up, and then the other, just to the left of her bed.

“Better?” he asks.

Her eyes are closed and she's still facing the wall, but she tells him, “Yeah. Thanks.”

She hears him hesitate again in the doorway.

Does he want to say something else?

Does he expect her to?

Jen lies tense beneath the covers, torn between wanting him to come back to the bed, hold her close, tell her he loves her and he's still her daddy and will always be her daddy . . .

And just wanting him to just go away.

That's the part of her that gets her wish.

His steps retreat down the hall to the master bedroom, then pause again.

Is he standing in the doorway watching Mom sleeping? What is he thinking?

Finally, the door closes behind him, and she hears the faint sound of bedsprings squeaking as his weight descends.

Jen opens her eyes and rolls again onto her back.

The room is much brighter with the shades raised. Beyond the window that's closest to her bed, she can see that the snow is still falling.

It looks so peaceful out there.