Mad River Road (31 page)

“You didn’t hurt her?”

“Didn’t have to.” He shrugged, turned right at the next corner.

“I don’t understand. What did you say to her?”

“I explained that it was all a mistake, and that if she promised not to call the police, I promised not to come back and wring her neck. She seemed most agreeable.”

“That’s it?”

“More or less.”

“How much more?” Jamie asked, holding her breath.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Jamie-girl.”

“But you promise you didn’t hurt her?” Jamie asked again, her voice a plea.

“Told you I didn’t, didn’t I?”

Was it possible? Jamie wondered now, as she had somehow managed to convince herself last night.

They’d driven back to the motel. She’d been unable to muster the strength needed to open the car door, so he’d had to do it for her, holding the door open and helping her to her feet, supporting her elbow as she stumbled toward the motel. Once inside their room, she’d staggered into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, gasping at the sight of the blood staining her panties, the dark red bruises on her breasts and arms and thighs, the splotches of dried blood around her buttocks. She’d been sick again, although there was little left in her stomach. Then she’d curled up in the middle of the tiny white squares of bathroom tile, hugging her legs to her chest, and cried, using her knees to muffle the sound. It was only when Brad threatened to come inside that she’d scrambled to her feet and into the shower, staying there until the water turned cold, and even after, until she heard the door open and saw Brad step inside the room, his features distorted by the translucent plastic of the shower curtain. The real Brad Fisher, she’d thought as he’d pulled back the curtain and turned off the tap, suddenly very much in focus. The devil, she thought.

And she, the devil’s disciple.

He was surprisingly gentle with her, using all the available towels to pat her dry, then tucking her into bed and pulling the blanket up around her ears before climbing in beside her, wrapping her in his arms and holding her until her shivering stopped, and she succumbed to sleep.

“Jamie,” Brad called again, a whoosh of cold air accompanying his entrance into the room.

Jamie turned off the shower, gathering the shower curtain around her body like a giant shawl.

“It’s time to go,” he said.

She nodded, waiting until he retreated back into the main room before climbing out of the tub, using a blood-streaked towel to dry herself off. Where were they going? she wondered. Was he really serious about continuing their trip? As if last night never happened? As if they hadn’t broken into Laura Dennison’s house and made off with her jewelry? As if he hadn’t raped and sodomized her in her ex-husband’s bed?

Come on, Jamie. It wasn’t that bad. It was really kind of fun, when you think about it
.

The door opened a crack as Brad threw her jeans and T-shirt inside, along with some clean underwear. Jamie got dressed, then brushed her teeth until her gums bled, combed her hair until her scalp hurt. She pulled the gold-and-pearl earrings from her ears, tearing her lobes, leaving dots of blood in their place. Then she abandoned them at the side of the sink.

“Where are we going?” she asked, returning to the bedroom.

Brad looked quizzical. “What do you mean? You know where we’re going.”

“We’re still going to Ohio?”

“Of course. I thought you wanted to meet my son.”

“But after last night …”

“How long are you going to obsess about last night?” Brad asked impatiently, holding the front door open for her, then guiding her toward her car, dragging her overnight bag behind him. It bumped along the pavement, occasionally spinning off its wheels and ultimately turning on one side, as if it too were reluctant to proceed. “Get in,” he instructed Jamie, who thought only fleetingly of trying to make a run for it. What was the point after all? Where was she going?

The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, with only a few large, fluffy clouds on the horizon. The temperature was warm, the air dry. A perfect day, Jamie thought as they pulled out of the parking lot, her eyes scanning the intersection for police cars, her ears straining for the sound of sirens. But there were none. Was it possible Brad had been telling the truth about Mrs. Dennison? That he’d managed to convince her it would be in her best interest to pretend last night hadn’t happened?

On the radio a woman was singing about lost love, and Brad started singing along. He has a nice voice, Jamie realized. A gentle voice, she thought with a shudder, turning away.

“Should probably stop for gas,” Brad said, pulling into a station just before the entrance to the highway. He jumped out of the car, withdrawing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “Let’s see if we can get this stupid card to work today.” He pushed the credit card into the appropriate slot. “Come on, Gracie-girl. One more time.” Seconds later, the card was once again declined. Brad made a derisive snort, then tossed the card back onto
the front seat. “You got any cash?” he asked Jamie. “I’m running a bit low.”

Who is Gracie-girl? Jamie wondered, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill, handing it through the open window to Brad.

“Thatta girl,” Brad said.

Gracie-girl, Jamie repeated silently, glancing at the credit card on the seat beside her, then lifting it to her eyes.

G. HASTINGS
.

Who was G. Hastings?

If you’ll just sign here, Mr. Hastings
.

I’m sorry, sir. Would you have another card, by any chance?

Gracie-girl.

He just called you Mr. Hastings
.

Hastings is my middle name. Brad Hastings Fisher
.

Brad Hastings Fisher. Such a distinguished name
.

“Who’s Gracie Hastings?” Jamie asked as Brad climbed back behind the wheel.

His answer was to take the credit card from her hand and bend it in half, folding it back and forth until it split in two. He tossed the two halves from the window as they pulled onto I-75, heading north.

Jamie turned away, said nothing, concentrating on the scenery as it sped by. I could open the door, she was thinking, throw myself out of the car. In her mind’s eye, she watched her body tumble from the front seat, wafting through the air like a discarded Kleenex toward the dark pavement; she felt her head hit the hard surface and split apart, her face disappearing into the back of her skull as her broken body bounced along the highway, setting off a wave of sparks before being hit by a second
car and catapulted to the side of the road, like an errant football. Would such an ignominious end be enough to quell the fire still tearing through her? She closed her eyes, feigned sleep.

“Hey, Jamie,” Brad said about half an hour later. “Look where we are.”

Reluctantly Jamie opened her eyes.

“Barnsley Gardens, next cutoff,” he announced. “Still feel like going?”

Jamie shook her head. Was he serious?

“You’re sure? ’Cause I’m more than happy to go, if it’ll make my girl love me again.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I’ve been thinking about that five-star restaurant. Thought you might be hungry. You haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

“I don’t want anything.”

They drove past the exit to Barnsley Gardens in silence. “So … what? You’re not going to talk to me all day? You’re just gonna keep giving me the silent treatment?”

“I’m tired, Brad. I don’t feel like talking.”

He said nothing for several minutes. Then, “You know, I read somewhere that all women fantasize about being raped.”

Jamie said nothing, although she thought there was probably some truth to the assertion. She herself had occasionally entertained such fantasies. There’d been something strangely enticing, even liberating, about the idea of being taken against one’s will, about not being given a choice, of being forced to submit, to do what was forbidden. But what might have been erotic, even pleasurable, in fantasy had proved both terrifying and repulsive in real life.

In Jamie’s fantasies, no matter how violent, how perverse the attack, she never actually got hurt. She felt no discomfort, no humiliation, no fear. There was no real pain. Her insides didn’t burn; her heart didn’t break. The fantasy rapist had no real power over her. He did only what her imagination would permit. Ultimately, he was as concerned with her pleasure as his own. Ultimately, she was the one in control.

Reality was a different matter entirely.

There was no pleasure in this reality.

“Oh, by the way,” Brad was saying, reaching into the side pocket of his jeans. “You forgot these at the motel.” Two gold-and-pearl earrings winked up at her from the palm of his hand. He gave her the coldest of grins, then dropped the earrings into her lap.

E
mma froze, the massive hand weighing heavily on her shoulder, threatening to sink through the denim of her jacket, the wool of her sweaters, the cotton of her T-shirt, to rub through her skin and cut through her bones, like an eraser through chalk, to bring her to her knees. Her breathing grew labored and her head light as the air turned cloying and miasmal. The store blurred around her, one aisle merging with another, the menswear colliding with the jewelry, women’s casual garments tumbling into the shoe department, the checkout counters collapsing one on top of the other like a row of dominos. Was she going to faint? “Look, I can explain.” She swiveled around, the heavy hand tightening its grip on her jacket, preventing her total collapse.

The eyes Emma found herself staring into were navy blue and closely set around a nose that had been broken at least several times and never properly reset. A small, Y-shaped scar cut through the middle of the man’s right cheek, and his dark hair was closely cropped. A policeman’s hair, Emma realized, as the room around her stopped spinning, and she was able to put a name to the
face. “Jeff,” she said, the word floating from her lips on a sigh of relief.

Detective Jeff Dawson stared at her as if he had no idea who she was.

“It’s Emma. Emma Frost. We met the other day at Scully’s. You’re the member in good standing,” she joked, hoping to elicit a smile. “I’m Lily’s friend,” she continued when he failed to respond. Why did she always have to keep reminding people who she was? Her hands flew skittishly to her head. “I changed my hair. It’s probably why you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, I recognized you, all right,” he said coldly. “I just couldn’t believe my eyes. What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” she stammered. “I was going to pay for the earrings. Of course I was going to pay for them.”

“And that’s why you put them in your pocket?”

“I was afraid of dropping them.”

“And the scarf you’re wearing?”

Emma’s hand shot to the green chiffon scarf tied casually around her neck, her fingers fumbling with the knot at her throat. The damn thing was starting to feel like a noose, she thought, whipping it off. “I was just trying it on, trying to make up my mind.” She held it out for him to see. “The price tag is still on it, for God’s sake. Don’t you think I would have removed it if I were planning to steal it?” Was he going to arrest her?

The salesgirl with the multiple crystal studs in her ears approached warily. “Is there a problem?”

Emma glanced from the police detective to the salesgirl, then back again. “These must have fallen on the floor,” she improvised, reaching into her pocket and
withdrawing the pink rhinestone earrings, then depositing them on the counter.

“Oh, my God. Thank you.” The salesgirl quickly returned them to their proper place behind the glass.

Detective Dawson leaned forward, whispered in Emma’s ear. “And the purple blouse in your purse?”

Emma closed her eyes in defeat, shook her head in frustration. “How long have you been watching me anyway?”

“At least half an hour.”

Damn, Emma thought, wondering if he was going to take her to the station to be strip-searched. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not when everything was just starting to come together for her. “Please,” she begged as Jeff Dawson began leading her away from the jewelry counter. “You can’t arrest me. It would kill Dylan. He’s my son, and he’s got all these problems. If you arrest me, I don’t know what will happen to him.” If she could only make herself cry, she was thinking. Like those actresses on the daytime soaps who are able to cry on cue.

“You should have thought of your son earlier,” Jeff said, as she’d known he would.

Cops were so predictable, she thought. “I know. It was stupid.
I
was stupid. Please, I’m begging you—”

“You don’t have to beg.” Jeff Dawson let go of Emma’s arm, scratched at the side of his head. “I’m not going to arrest you.”

“What?”

“I said I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Oh, thank God. Thank
you.”

“Providing you put everything back.”

“Of course.”

“Believe it or not, I actually came in here to find you.”

“What? Why? Has something happened? Dylan …?”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“I don’t understand,” Emma said.

“Look, why don’t we grab a coffee over at Starbucks.”

“You want to have coffee?”

“I want to talk.”

“About?”

“We’ll talk over coffee.”

“Coffee it is,” Emma agreed, thinking, He’s not taking me to the police station; he’s taking me to Starbucks. She started toward the front doors.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jeff Dawson glanced at Emma’s purse.

Emma carefully reached inside her bag, managing to withdraw the fuchsia-colored silk shirt without disturbing the yellow cotton blouse she’d also managed to sneak out of the changing room, reluctantly dropping the shirt into a nearby shopping cart.

He seemed like a decent enough guy, she thought, as they walked briskly to the Starbucks at the far end of the mall. No wonder Lily liked him. She wondered if she’d ever have a man like Jeff Dawson in her life, then quickly dismissed the idea. Men like Jeff didn’t fall for the Emmas of this world. They preferred the Lilys, who were simpler, and purer of heart. At the very least, they preferred women who didn’t shoplift and tell lies.