Salem Falls (47 page)

“But not so sorry a physical state that he couldn’t manage to get to a bar and drink himself sick.” Jordan shook his head. “I can defuse what the girl says, but I can’t refute it. The only pieces of that night Jack can recall are laughable. Ribbons and bonfires and naked teenagers-”

“Naked?” Thomas squeaked. “Chelsea was naked?”

“How am I supposed to get a jury to buy that? And then to vote for an acquittal?”

“That’s why you need proof, Jordan,” Selena said gently. “Reasonable doubt works most of the time . . . but like you said, the alternative you’re proposing is so strange that it’s still going to be hard to swallow. You need to hand the jury your own evidence, so that they know Gillian was playing witch in the forest that night. And a cup doesn’t cut it.”

Thomas stacked his books and headed down the hall. “See you,” he muttered. “I’m sure you’ll really miss me being in here.”

“I know,” Jordan sighed. “But if she took the atropine, it was nearly two months ago. The half-life of the drug is about six hours. It’s not like we can get a sample of her blood tonight and still find it swimming around in there.”

“We should have had her blood screened by a private lab right after Jack’s arrest. What were we thinking?”

Jordan met her gaze. “That she was telling the truth.”

Thomas’s voice floated down the hall. “You did have her screened,” he called out. “In the ER.”

“Routine drug tests don’t show atropine.”

“So . . . why couldn’t you try it again with some fancy test? What did they do with the blood when they were done?”

“It went off to the state lab with the rest of the rape kit,” Jordan explained, and suddenly his jaw dropped. “Holy shit, the rape kit. The known samples they used to type DNA came from blood that was taken that night.”

“And they save that stuff.” Selena was already out of her seat. “How fast can you get the judge to sign off on a motion for independent testing?”

Jordan reached for the briefcase that held his laptop. “Watch me,” he said.

Roman Chu had started Twin States Forensic Testing in a clean room partitioned off in his parents’ garage. Having cultivated a reputation for getting things done in a fraction of the time it took the state lab to do them, he generated enough work to pay for his own building, and to hire ten employees who worked miracles for attorneys at the eleventh hour.

“I appreciate this,” Jordan said for the twentieth time.

After the judge had granted the motion, Selena had secured Gillian’s blood sample from the state lab. The prep work had been done during DNA analysis: The blood had been spun down and separated from the cells, the serum frozen. All Roman had to do was run the mass spectrometry. Now, they both stared at the computer, waiting for the results. “I want Cuban cigars,” Roman muttered. “Not that crap from Florida you got me last year.”

“You got it.”

“And I’m still charging you for overtime.”

The screen blinked green, and suddenly a stream of numbers came up. Roman grabbed a reference text and compared it to what was on the computer, then whistled softly.

“Translate,” Jordan demanded.

Roman pointed a finger at the percentiles. “The blood’s got atropine in it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Oh, yeah. The drug concentration’s so high I’m surprised it didn’t put her into a coma.”

Jordan crossed his arms. “So what do you think the physical effect was?”

Roman laughed. “Buddy,” he said, “she was tripping.”

For the first time in nearly a decade, Addie took a lunch break during lunch hours. With Delilah and her father sharing the kitchen and Darla waiting tables, Addie had found herself wandering around useless. She would have gone to see Jack, but visiting hours were not until tomorrow-the night before the trial started. So instead, she went to see Chloe.

“This,” Addie said, “was your favorite kind of day.” She set a small nosegay of Queen Anne’s lace in front of Chloe’s gravestone. “Do you remember when we used to pretend it was summer, in the middle of January? With a beach blanket picnic, and the heat turned up, and you and me in our bathing suits in the bathtub.” She touched the granite slab. It was warm from the sun, nearly as warm as a child’s skin. “Is it summer all the time up there, Chlo?” she whispered.

What she wished, more than anything, was that she had a store of memories like those. Losing Chloe had been like reading a wonderful book only to realize that all the pages past a certain point were blank. Addie had been cheated out of watching her daughter get her first training bra, helping her choose a prom dress, seeing her eyes darken the first time she spoke of a boy she loved. She missed driving her to the high school, and getting ice cream cones and swapping halfway through to try the other flavor. She missed talking, and hearing an answer back.

“Miz Peabody?”

The sound of a girl’s voice startled Addie so much she whirled around to find its source. Meg Saxton stood a few feet away, looking just as surprised as Addie.

“Meg . . . I didn’t know you were here.”

There was a wall between them, invisible but thick. The last time Addie had spoken privately to Meg was at Chloe’s funeral. Meg and Chloe had played together on the swing set in her yard. But here Meg was, all grown up, and Chloe was dead.

“How . . . have you been?” Addie asked politely.

“Fine,” Meg answered. Silence sprouted. “Did you come to visit her?”

They both turned toward the gravestone, as if expecting Chloe to appear. “I wish I’d known her,” Meg confessed. “I mean, she was older than me, but I think . . . I think if things had been different, we could have been friends.”

“I think Chloe would have liked that,” Addie said softly. Tears filled the young girl’s eyes, and she turned away, trying to hide. “Meg? Are you all right?”

“No!” Meg cried, a sob hitching the word in half. “Oh, God.”

Instinctively, Addie reached for her, and the contact was electric. Meg smelled of shampoo and cheap cosmetics and childhood, and Addie was overwhelmed by the shape and feel of a girl roughly the same age as Chloe. So this is what it would have been like, she thought, her eyes drifting closed.

Meg whispered so quietly that Addie didn’t believe she had heard correctly. “She’s so lucky.”

“Who is?”

“Chloe.”

Addie’s hands stilled. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Meg wiped at her face with the bottom of her T-shirt. “I wish I were dead.”

It hit Addie then, what Meg had been doing at the cemetery. She had come back to the spot where the alleged assault had occurred. Jack hadn’t done it-she knew this as surely as she knew that Chloe was buried close by-but something had rattled Meg that night, all the same.

Addie squeezed Meg’s shoulders. “I think we should go. This place has bad memories for both of us.”

Meg reluctantly glanced in the direction of the clearing. “Ms. Peabody,” she whispered, miserable. “I think . . . I think he touched me, too.”

“Touched . . . you?” Addie said, the words round, with no sound behind them.

“Touched me,” Meg repeated, mortified. “You know.” And God help her, Addie did.

In the end, it came down to this: Being a mother was something that stayed with you, dormant, ready to flare at a single match-stroke of circumstance. And apparently it didn’t matter if the child was one of your body or just one with a place in your heart-instinct was instinct.

Addie loved Jack. She believed him when he said he hadn’t attacked Gillian Duncan. But she was a mother, and she knew what had to be done. So she took Meg to Charlie’s office at the police station and closed the door behind them. She kept her expression blank. Then, holding Meg’s hand tight for moral support, she listened as this girl-this friend of her daughter’s-told Charlie what she’d told Addie minutes before.

Charlie knew the floor was stable, but he could feel it rocking beneath his feet. He cleared his throat for the hundredth time and swallowed, then turned on the tape recorder that sat between himself and his daughter.

Meggie was shivering, although she wore the blue uniform jacket that usually hung on the back of his office door. Her hands fell at elbow-length in the jacket, and it made him think of how he and Barb would dress her up when she was just a baby, crazy angel wings made out of real feathers and soft headbands with antennae, things like that that were immortalized in dusty photo albums.

Oh, Christ.

“Where, um, did he touch you?”

She couldn’t look him in the eye, and that was fine, because Charlie couldn’t look at her, either. “Here. And here.”

“The victim,” Charlie said thickly, “is indicating her left hip and breast.”

Every muscle in his body was rigid with tension. How was he going to tell Barbara about this? How was he ever going to finish? You could not be a detective when you wanted so badly to be simply a father.

“Charlie.” Houlihan’s voice fell heavily. “You don’t have to do this.”

Charlie shook his head tightly. “Meg, did Jack St. Bride expose himself to you?”

“No,” his daughter whispered.

“Did he touch you anywhere else? In any other way?”

“Did any part of his body come in contact with part of yours?” Matt asked quietly.

“Jesus Christ!” Charlie was out of his seat, punching the button on the tape recorder to shut it off. Why couldn’t you rewind your own life? He paced to the far end of the room, Matt coming up beside him. “My little girl,” Charlie choked. “He did this to my little girl.”

“We’ll get him,” Matt promised. “We’ll press charges for this, too.”

Nodding, Charlie started back to the table, only to be restrained by Matt. “No,” the county attorney said. “Let me.”

Molly lay curled like a fiddlehead against her flannel crib sheets, her thumb tucked in her mouth as she slept. Matt stared down at her and could easily imagine the kind of pain that Charlie was in right now. God, if someone ever did anything to his child, he couldn’t be held accountable for his actions.

This latest drama was not what Matt needed the night before the trial began. But Meg’s accusations would be a different case, brought before a different judge on a different day . . . if there was enough evidence to try it. He would never have told Charlie, but part of Matt had to wonder how reliable Meg’s tearful confession was. She had already been taking hallucinogenic drugs that night. . . . It was possible that this alleged assault was imagined.

And that was how it affected his current case-he could no longer risk Meg as a witness. If she testified to bringing the drugs and then confessed to being attacked, too, would the jury believe her? And if they didn’t, would they still believe Gillian?

Matt couldn’t say for sure whether Meg was going to help or hurt the case. He didn’t need her to convict Jack St. Bride; therefore, he would simply omit her. He’d call Chelsea Abrams up for her eyewitness account, instead . . . and if her story didn’t match quite as neatly with Whitney O’Neill’s as Meg’s had, it was still less of a gamble with the jury.

Matt touched his hand lightly to the sweet globe of his daughter’s head. “Good night,” he whispered, but for long minutes afterward, he made no move to leave her.

The moon slipped over the windowsill and beneath the covers, but Jordan and Selena didn’t notice. Selena stared down at her arms, tangled with Jordan’s just below her breasts. “What are you thinking?”

“That I plead temporary insanity.”

“Ah.” Selena turned in his embrace. “Feeling guilty?”

“No. I feel . . . I feel . . .”

She swatted at his hand. “Yeah, I see what you feel.” Laughing, she darted out of the way. “Get out of there.”

“That’s not what you said ten minutes ago.”

“Maybe I’m pleading temporary insanity, too.”

They had fallen asleep sitting on the couch, watching reruns of Perry Mason on TVLand. Somehow, when they’d awakened, they’d been lying down in each other’s arms, pressed together from chest to thigh. It was all the impetus they needed; a subliminal reminder that no matter how hard they tried, they weren’t meant to be apart. From there, they’d been lucky to make it to the privacy of a bedroom.

“Hey, Selena?”

“Mmm?”

“Why didn’t we do this a month ago?”

“Oh, take your pick: We were smarter then. We had better self-control.”

Jordan looked at her soberly. “You really think that?”

For once, she had no smart answer. “Actually,” Selena admitted, “I don’t.” She stared at him. “How do you think this will all turn out?”

Jordan shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Selena smiled against his chest. “Are you talking about us, or the case?”

“Either one.” He sighed, choosing the easier route of conversation. “All we’ve really been able to prove is that she’s a witch.”