Safe Haven (14 page)

He was almost frenzied as soon as they got there, working her jeans down around her hips, then to her ankles. He squeezed her breasts and she bit her lip to keep from crying out before they fell onto the bed. She panted and moaned and called his name, knowing he wanted her to do those things, because she didn’t want him to be angry, because she didn’t want to be slapped or punched or kicked, because she didn’t want him to know about the phone. Her kidney was still shooting pain and she changed her cries into moans, saying the things he wanted her to say, turning him on until his body started to spasm. When it was over, she got up from the bed, dressed, and kissed him, then she went back to the kitchen and finished making dinner.

Kevin went back to the living room and drank more vodka before going to the table. He told her about work and then went to watch television again while she cleaned the kitchen. Afterward, he wanted her to sit beside him and watch television so she did, until it was finally time to turn in.

In the bedroom, he was snoring within minutes, oblivious to Katie’s silent tears, oblivious to her hatred of him, her hatred of herself. Oblivious to the money she’d been stashing away for almost a year or the hair dye she’d snuck into the grocery cart a month ago and hidden in the closet, oblivious to the cell phone hidden in the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. Oblivious to the fact that in just a few days, if all went the way she hoped, he would never see or hit her ever again.

19

K
atie sat beside Alex on the porch, the sky above them a black expanse dotted with light. For months, she’d tried to block out the specific memories, focusing only on the fear that had been left behind. She didn’t want to remember Kevin, didn’t want to think about him. She wanted to erase him entirely, to pretend he never existed. But he would always be there.

Alex had stayed silent throughout her story, his chair angled toward hers. She’d spoken through her tears, though he doubted she even knew she was crying. She’d told him without emotion, almost in a trance, as if the events had happened to someone else. He felt sick to his stomach by the time she’d trailed off.

She couldn’t look at him as she told him. He’d heard versions of the same story before, but this time it was different. She wasn’t simply a victim, she was his friend, the woman he’d come to love, and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

At his touch, she flinched slightly before relaxing. He heard her sigh, tired now. Tired of talking. Tired of the past.

“You did the right thing by leaving,” he said. His tone was soft. Understanding.

It took her a moment to respond. “I know,” she said.

“It had nothing to do with you.”

She stared into the darkness. “Yes,” she said, “it did. I chose him, remember? I married him. I let it happen once and then again, and after that, it was too late. I still cooked for him and cleaned the house for him. I slept with him whenever he wanted, did whatever he wanted. I made him think I
loved
it.”

“You did what you had to do to survive,” he said, his voice steady.

She grew silent again. The crickets were chirping and locusts hummed from the trees. “I never thought something like this could happen, you know? My dad was a drunk, but he wasn’t violent. I was just so… weak. I don’t know why I let it happen.”

His voice was soft. “Because at one time you loved him. Because you believed him when he promised it wouldn’t happen again. Because he gradually grew more violent and controlling over time, slowly enough that you felt like he would change until you finally realized he wouldn’t.”

With his words, she inhaled sharply and lowered her head, her shoulders heaving up and down. The sound of her anguish made his throat clench with anger at the life she’d lived and sadness because she was still living it. He wanted to hold her, but knew that right now, at this moment, he was doing all she wanted. She was fragile, on edge. Vulnerable.

It took a few minutes before she was finally able to stop crying. Her eyes were red and puffy. “I’m sorry I told you all that,” she said, her voice still choked up. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“The only reason I did was because you already knew.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t need to know the details about the things I had to do.”

“It’s okay.”

“I hate him,” she said. “But I hate myself, too. I tried to tell you that I’m better off alone. I’m not who you thought I was. I’m not the woman you think you know.”

She was on the verge of crying again and he finally stood. He tugged at her hand, willing her to stand. She did but wouldn’t look at him. He suppressed his anger at her husband and kept his voice soft.

“Listen to me,” he said. He used a finger to raise her chin. She resisted at first then gave in, finally looking at him. He went on. “There’s nothing you can tell me that will change how I feel about you. Nothing. Because that isn’t you. It’s never been you. You’re the woman I’ve come to know. The woman I love.”

She studied him, wanting to believe him, knowing somehow he was telling the truth, and she felt something give way inside her. Still…

“But…”

“No buts,” he said, “because there are none. You see yourself as someone who couldn’t get away. I see the courageous woman who escaped. You see yourself as someone who should be ashamed or guilty because she let it happen. I see a kind, beautiful woman who should feel proud because she stopped it from happening ever again. Not many women have the strength to do what you did. That’s what I see now, and that’s what I’ve always seen when I look at you.”

She smiled. “I think you need glasses.”

“Don’t let the gray hair fool you. My eyes are still perfect.” He moved toward her, making sure it was okay before leaning in to kiss her. It was brief and soft. Caring. “I’m just sorry you had to go through it at all.”

“I’m still going through it.”

“Because you think he’s looking for you?”

“I know he’s looking for me. And he’ll never stop.” She paused. “There’s something wrong with him. He’s… insane.”

Alex thought about that. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but did you ever think of calling the police?”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Yes,” she said. “I called once.”

“And they didn’t do anything?”

“They came to the house and talked to me. They convinced me not to press charges.”

Alex considered it. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It made perfect sense to me.” She shrugged. “Kevin warned me that it wouldn’t do any good to call the police.”

“How would he know?”

She sighed, thinking she might as well tell him everything. “Because he is the police,” she finally said. She looked up at him. “He’s a detective with the Boston Police Department. And he didn’t call me Katie. Her eyes telegraphed despair. “He called me Erin.”

20

O
n Memorial Day, hundreds of miles to the north, Kevin Tierney stood in the backyard of a house in Dorchester, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian-style shirt he’d bought when he and Erin had visited Oahu on their honeymoon.

“Erin’s back in Manchester,” he said.

Bill Robinson, his captain, flipped burgers on the grill. “Again?”

“I told you that her friend has cancer, right? She feels like she’s got to be there for her friend.”

“That cancer’s bad stuff,” Bill said. “How’s Erin holding up?”

“Okay. I can tell she’s tired, though. It’s hard to keep going back and forth like she’s been doing.”

“I can imagine,” Bill said. “Emily had to do something like that when her sister got lupus. Spent two months up in Burlington in the middle of winter cooped up in a tiny apartment, just the two of them. Drove them both crazy. In the end, the sister packed up Em’s suitcases and set them outside the front door and said she was better off alone. Not that I could blame her, of course.”

Kevin took a pull on his beer, and because it was expected of him, he smiled. Emily was Bill’s wife and they’d been married almost thirty years. Bill liked to tell people they’d been the happiest six years of his life. Everyone at the precinct had heard the joke about fifty times in the past eight years, and a big chunk of those people were here now. Bill hosted a barbecue at his house every Memorial Day and pretty much everyone who wasn’t on duty showed up, not only out of obligation, but because Bill’s brother distributed beer for a living, a lot of which ended up here. Wives and husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends, and kids were clustered in groups, some in the kitchen, others on the patio. Four detectives were playing horseshoes and sand was flying around the stakes.

“Next time she’s back in town,” Bill added, “why don’t you bring her by for dinner? Em’s been asking about her. Unless, of course, you two would rather make up for lost time.” He winked.

Kevin wondered if the offer was genuine. On days like these, Bill liked to pretend he was just one of the guys instead of the captain. But he was hard-edged. Cunning. More a politician than a cop. “I’ll mention it to her.”

“When did she take off?”

“Earlier this morning. She’s already there.”

The burgers were sizzling on the grill, the drippings making the flames jump and dance.

Bill pressed down on one of the patties, squeezing out the juice, drying it out. The man knew nothing about barbecuing, Kevin thought. Without the juice they would taste like rocks—dry, flavorless, and hard. Inedible. “Hey, about the Ashley Henderson case,” Bill said, changing the subject. “I think we’re finally going to be able to indict. You did good work, there.”

“It’s about time,” Kevin said. “I thought they had enough a while ago.”

“I did, too. But I’m not the DA.” Bill pressed down on another patty, ruining it. “I also wanted to talk to you about Terry.”

Terry Canton had been Kevin’s partner for the last three years, but he’d had a heart attack in December and had been out of work since. Kevin had been working alone since then.

“What about him?”

“He’s not coming back. I just found out this morning. His doctors recommended that he retire and he decided they were right. He figures he’s already put in his twenty and his pension is waiting for him.”

“What does that mean for me?”

Bill shrugged. “We’ll get you a new partner, but we can’t right now with the city on a budget freeze. Maybe when the new budget passes.”

“Maybe or probably?”

“You’ll get a partner. But it probably won’t be until July. I’m sorry about that. I know it means more work for you, but there’s nothing I can do. I’ll try my best to keep your load manageable.”

“I appreciate that.”

A group of kids ran across the patio, their faces dirty. Two women exited the house carrying bowls of chips, probably gossiping. Kevin hated gossips. Bill motioned with his spatula toward the railing on the deck. “Hand me that plate over there, would you? I think these are getting close to being done.”

Kevin grabbed the serving platter. It was the same one that had been used to bring the hamburger patties out to the grill and he noted smears of grease and bits of raw hamburger. Disgusting. He knew that Erin would have brought a clean platter, one without bits of raw hamburger and grease. Kevin set the platter next to the grill.

“I need another beer,” Kevin said, raising his bottle. “You want one?”

Bill shook his head and ruined another burger. “I’m still working on mine right there. But thanks.”

Kevin headed toward the house, feeling the grease from the platter on his fingertips. Soaking in.

“Hey,” Bill shouted from behind him. Kevin turned.

“Cooler’s over there, remember?” Bill pointed to the corner of the deck.

“I know. But I want to wash my hands before dinner.”

“Make it back quick then. Once I set the platter out, it’s every man for himself.”

Kevin paused at the back door to wipe his feet on the mat before heading inside. In the kitchen, he walked around a group of chattering wives and toward the sink. He washed his hands twice, using soap both times. Through the window, he saw Bill set the platter of hot dogs and burgers on the picnic table, near the buns, condiments, and bowls of chips. Almost immediately flies caught the scent and descended on the feast, buzzing over the food and landing on the burgers. People didn’t seem to care as they formed a crazy line. Instead, they shooed the flies and loaded their plates, pretending that flies weren’t swarming.

Ruined burgers and a cloud of flies.

He and Erin would have done it differently. He wouldn’t have pressed the burgers with the spatula and Erin would have placed the condiments and chips and pickles in the kitchen so people could serve up there, where it was clean. Flies were disgusting and the burgers were as hard as rocks and he wasn’t going to eat them because the thought made him nauseated.

He waited until the platter of burgers had been emptied before heading back outside. He wandered to the table, feigning disappointment.

“I warned you they’d go fast.” Bill beamed. “But Emily’s got another platter in the refrigerator, so it won’t be long until round two. Grab me a beer, would you, while I go get it?”

“Sure,” Kevin said.

When the next batch of burgers was done, Kevin loaded a plate of food and complimented Bill and told him it looked fantastic. Flies were swarming and the burgers were dry and when Bill turned away, Kevin tossed the food into the metal garbage can on the side of the house. He told Bill that the burger tasted fantastic.

He stayed at the barbecue for a couple of hours. He talked with Coffey and Ramirez. They were detectives like him, except they ate the burgers and didn’t care that the flies were swarming. Kevin didn’t want to be the first one to leave, or even the second one, because the captain wanted to pretend he was one of the guys and he didn’t want to offend the captain. He didn’t like Coffey or Ramirez. Sometimes, when Kevin was around, Coffey and Ramirez stopped talking, and Kevin knew they had been talking about him behind his back. Gossips.

But Kevin was a good detective and he knew it. Bill knew it, and so did Coffey and Ramirez. He worked homicide and knew how to talk to witnesses and suspects. He knew when to ask questions and when to listen; he knew when people were lying to him and he put murderers behind bars because the Bible says
Thou shalt not kill
and he believed in God and he was doing God’s work by putting the guilty in jail.

Back at home, Kevin walked through the living room. He resisted the urge to call for Erin. If Erin had been here, the mantel would have been dusted and the magazines would have fanned out on the end table and there wouldn’t have been an empty bottle of vodka on the couch. If Erin had been here, the drapes would have been opened, allowing the sunlight to stretch across the floorboards. If Erin had been here, the dishes would have been washed and put away and dinner would have been waiting on the table and she would have smiled at him and asked him how his day had gone. Later they would make love because he loved her and she loved him.

Upstairs in the bedroom, he stood at the closet door. He could still catch a whiff of the perfume she’d worn, the one he’d bought her for Christmas. He’d seen her lift a tab on an ad in one of her magazines and smile when she smelled the perfume sample. When she went to bed, he tore the page out of the magazine and tucked it into his wallet so he’d know exactly which perfume to buy. He remembered the tender way she’d dabbed a little behind each ear and on her wrists when he’d taken her out on New Year’s Eve, and how pretty she’d looked in the black cocktail dress she was wearing. In the restaurant, Kevin had noticed the way other men, even those with dates, had glanced in her direction as she passed by them on the way to the table. Afterward, when they’d returned home, they made love as the New Year rolled in.

The dress was still there, hanging in the same place, bringing back those memories. A week ago, he remembered removing it from the hanger and holding it as he’d sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

Outside, he could hear the steady sound of crickets but it did nothing to soothe him. Though it was supposed to have been a relaxing day, he was tired. He hadn’t wanted to go to the barbecue, hadn’t wanted to answer questions about Erin, hadn’t wanted to lie. Not because lying bothered him, but because it was hard to keep up the pretense that Erin hadn’t left him. He’d invented a story and had been sticking to it for months: that Erin called every night, that she’d been home the last few days but had gone back to New Hampshire, that the friend was undergoing chemotherapy and needed Erin’s help. He knew he couldn’t keep that up forever, that soon the helping-a-friend excuse would begin to sound hollow and people would begin to wonder why they never saw Erin in church or at the store or even around the neighborhood or how long she would continue to help her friend. They’d talk about him behind his back and say things like,
Erin must have left him,
and
I guess their marriage wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was.
The thought made his stomach clench, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten.

There wasn’t much in the refrigerator. Erin always had turkey and ham and Dijon mustard and fresh rye bread from the bakery, but his only choice now was whether to reheat the Mongolian beef he’d picked up from the Chinese restaurant a couple of days earlier. On the bottom shelf, he saw food stains and he felt like crying again, because it made him think about Erin’s screams and the way her head had sounded when it had hit the edge of the table after he’d thrown her across the kitchen. He’d been slapping and kicking her because there were food stains in the refrigerator and he wondered now why he’d become so angry about such a little thing.

Kevin went to the bed and lay down. Next thing he knew, it was midnight, and the neighborhood outside his window was still. Across the street, he saw a light on in the Feldmans’ house. He didn’t like the Feldmans. Unlike the other neighbors, Larry Feldman never waved at him if both of them happened to be in their yards, and if his wife, Gladys, happened to see him, she’d turn away and head back into the house. They were in their sixties, the kind of people who rushed outside to scold a kid who happened to walk across their grass to retrieve a Frisbee or baseball. And even though they were Jewish, they decorated their house with Christmas lights in addition to the menorah they put in the window at the holidays. They confounded him and he didn’t think they were good neighbors.

He went back to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. In the morning, with sunlight streaming in, he knew that nothing had changed for anyone else. Only his life was different. His brother, Michael, and his wife, Nadine, would be getting the kids ready for school before heading out to their jobs at Boston College, and his mom and dad were probably reading the
Globe
as they had their morning coffee. Crimes had been committed, and witnesses would be in the precinct. Coffey and Ramirez would be gossiping about him.

He showered and had vodka and toast for breakfast. At the precinct, he was called out to investigate a murder. A woman in her twenties, most likely a prostitute, had been found stabbed to death, her body tossed in a Dumpster. He spent the morning talking to bystanders while the evidence was collected. When he finished with the interviews, he went to the precinct to start the report while the information was fresh in his mind. He was a good detective.

The precinct was busy. End of a holiday weekend. The world gone crazy. Detectives were speaking into phones and writing at their desks and talking to witnesses and listening as victims told detectives about their victimization. Noisy. Active. People coming and going. Phones ringing. Kevin walked toward his desk, one of four in the middle of the room. Through the open door, Bill waved but stayed in his office. Ramirez and Coffey were at their desks, sitting across from him.

“You okay?” Coffey asked. Coffey was in his forties, overweight and balding. “You look like hell.”