The Pact (40 page)

He turned to her one night in the middle of a TV-movie and asked her how she was going to do it.

“What?” It was the first time Emily had ever heard Chris bring it up; usually she was one to broach the topic.

“You heard me. I figure you must have been thinking it over.”

Emily shrugged, gave a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her parents were still upstairs.

“I have,” she said. “Not pills.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's too easy to do it wrong,” she said. “You wind up with your stomach pumped, in a psychiatric ward.”

He rather liked that idea, actually. “So what's your alternative?”

“There's carbon monoxide poisoning,” she said, and then smiled. “But I'd probably have to use your Jeep. And slashing wrists seems ... deliberate.”

“I think killing yourself in general is pretty deliberate,” Chris said.

“It might hurt,” Emily said meekly. “I just want it to be over right away.” Chris looked at her. Before you can change your mind, he thought, or I can change it for you.

“I was thinking of a gun,” she said.

“You hate guns.”

“Well, what does that have to do with it?”

“Where are you going to get a gun?” Chris said.

Emily looked up at him. “Maybe from you,” she suggested.

His eyebrows raised. “Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

“Please, Chris,” she said. “You could just give me the key to the cabinet. Tell me where to find the bullets.”

“You're not going to shoot yourself with a hunting rifle,” Chris muttered.

“I was thinking of the little one. The Colt.”

She saw him put up a wall, and her chest spasmed. Chris had seen that look before-wide and resigned, backed into a corner-like a doe, the moment before he took it down. And he realized that this was Emily now, that the only time she seemed happy was when she was planning the way she would die.

Tears were running down her face, thickening his own throat and making Chris cry the same way her orgasm sometimes triggered his. “You used to say you'd do anything for me,” Emily pleaded. Chris looked down at their hands, linked over the textbooks, and accepted for the first time that-for whatever reason-he might fail, that this might really happen. “I would,” he said, his heart breaking beneath the weight of the truth.

THEY SAT IN THE DARK of the movie theater, holding hands. Whatever they'd gone to see-Chris couldn't even remember the title-was long finished. The credits had rolled, the other patrons had left. Around them one or two ushers swept empty popcorn containers out of the aisles, moving in a hushed rhythm and doing their best to ignore the couple still curled in the back of the theater. Sometimes he was certain that he'd come away a hero, and one day he and Emily would find this all very funny. And other times he believed that he would be only what he'd promised Emily: someone there to witness her, as she went.

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” Chris whispered.

He could see Emily turn to him, her eyes shine in the dark. “You could do it with me,” she said, and swallowed, the suggestion still bitter in her throat.

Chris did not respond, purposely letting her feel sick to her stomach at the thought. He wondered silently, What makes you so sure we would still be together, after? How do you know it works like that?

“Because,” Emily said, as clearly as if she'd heard him. “I can't picture it any other way.” One NIGHT HE WENT into the basement and took the key from his father's workbench. The gun cabinet was locked, as always, to keep out children. Not teenagers like Chris, who knew better. He opened the cabinet and took out the Colt, because he knew Emily well enough to be certain that the first thing she'd ask was to see the pistol. If he didn't bring it, she'd realize something was up, and stop trusting him before he had a chance to keep her from going through with it. He sat there, the weight of the gun cradled in his hands, remembering the acrid smell of Hoppe's Solvent #9 and the way his father's hands, gifted and precise, had rubbed the shaft and the barrel with a silicone cloth. Like Aladdin's lamp, Chris had once thought, expecting magic. He remembered the stories his father had told about the piece, about Eliot Ness and Al Capone, about speakeasies and secret raids and sloe gin fizzes. He told Chris that this gun had driven home justice.

Then he remembered his first deer hunt, which had not been a clean kill. Chris and his father had tracked the animal into the woods, where it lay on its side taking great, heaving breaths. What do I do? Chris had asked, and his father had lifted his rifle and fired. Put it out of its misery, he said. Chris reached into the bottom of the gun cabinet and drew out the bullets for the .45. Emily was no fool; she'd ask to see these too. He closed his eyes and made himself imagine her lifting the tarnished silver barrel to her forehead; made himself picture his own hand coming up and drawing the gun away from her head, if it came down to that.

It was selfish, but it was simple: He could not let Emily kill herself. When you'd been with someone your whole life, you could not imagine living in a world that did not have her in it. He would stop her. He would.

And he did not let himself wonder why he'd slipped two bullets into his pocket, instead of just the one.

NOW May 1998

us sat on the edge of her bed and smoothed her pantyhose up her legs. Next, she thought woodenly, clothes. She stepped into the closet to retrieve a simple navy dress and a pair of matching lowheeled pumps. She would wear her pearls, too-elegant and understated. She was not allowed in the courtroom. Witnesses were sequestered until they gave their testimony. In all likelihood, she would not be called to the stand today, maybe not even tomorrow. She was dressing up on the off chance that she might see Chris, even in passing.

Gus heard the water running in the bathroom as James shaved. It was as if they were going to a dinner party, or a conference with one of the children's teachers. Except they weren't. And so James emerged from the bathroom to find Gus sitting on the bed in her bra and pantyhose, her eyes closed and her body bent, taking small shallow breaths as if she'd been running forever. Melanie and Michael walked out of the house together. Her feet sank into the soft earth, mucking up her heels. She opened the door of her car, and without saying a word, got inside. Michael got into his own truck. He followed his wife all the way down Wood Hollow Road, staring at the rear end of her car. There were two high brake lights on each side of the wide back window, and a low strip of lights across the bumper of the car as well. Every time Melanie stepped on the brake, they all flashed, making it seem as if the car were smiling.

BARRIE DELANEY'S CAT KNOCKED OVER her cup of coffee the minute she was scheduled to leave for the courthouse. “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, pushing the yowling cat away from the mess and soaking it up with a dish-towel. It was not enough, the coffee was still running in rivulets beneath the kitchen table. Barrie glanced quickly at the sink, deciding that she did not have time to clean up.

It was not until days later that she realized coffee would stain her white vinyl flooring, that for the next ten years she'd come into her kitchen and think about Christopher Harte. JORDAN SET HIS BRIEFCASE DOWN on the kitchen counter. Then he spun around toward Thomas, one hand flattening his tie. “So?”

Thomas whistled. “Looking good,” he said.

“Good enough to win?”

“Good enough to kick some ass,” his son crowed.

Jordan grinned and slapped Thomas on the back. “Watch your mouth,” he said half-heartedly, and lifted the box of Cocoa Krispies, his face falling. “Oh, Thomas. You didn't.” His brows drew together as he peered into the dark, empty recesses of the cereal box.

Thomas, in the middle of a mouthful, let his jaw drop open. “Isn't there some left? I swear, Dad, I thought there was.”

Every morning before a trial, Jordan had Cocoa Krispies. It was a sorry superstition, one with no more meat to it than a baseball pitcher who didn't shave for consecutive wins, or a cardsharp with a rabbit's foot sewn into the lining of his jacket. But it was his superstition, dammit, and it worked. Eat the Krispies, win the trial.

Thomas squirmed under his father's glare. “I could run out and get some more,” he suggested. Jordan snorted. “With what vehicle?”

“My bike.”

“So you'll be back in time for... oh, maybe lunch.” Jordan shook his head. “I just wish,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check, “that sometimes you'd think before you acted.” Thomas stared into his bowl. “I could go next door and see if Mrs. Higgins has some.” Mrs. Higgins was seventy-five if she was a day. Jordan highly doubted that Cocoa Krispies was a pantry staple for her. “Forget it,” he said irritably, reaching into the refrigerator for an English muffin. “It's too late.”

It FELT WEIRD, being in a suit. An officer had brought Chris the clothes with his breakfast; the jacket and slacks he hadn't seen since his arraignment seven months before. He remembered when he and Em and his mother had gone shopping for the suit. The store had smelled of money and worsted wool. He'd stood on the inside of the dressing room booth, hopping around to get the pants on, while Em and his mom chattered about ties, their voices coming through the door like the pipe of finches.

“Harte,” an officer said, standing at the door of the cell. “Time to go.” He walked through the pod in his suit, sweat beading at his temples,

aware of the conspicuous silence from the occupants of other cells. It hit

too close to home, was all. You could not watch someone march off to trial

without thinking what might happen to you.

When the heavy door was locked behind him again, the officer led him to a deputy sheriff, one of several stationed at the Grafton County Courthouse. “Big day,” he said, cuffing Chris and then attaching the links to a waist chain. He waited for the officer to unlock the jail's main door and led Chris out of the prison, one hand firmly on his upper arm.

It was the first time in seven months that Chris had stood outside, fenced in only by the mountains and the lazy strip of the Connecticut River. The farm beside the jail reeked of manure. He took a deep breath and lifted his face, the sun soaking his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, his knees buckling under the tentative weight of freedom.

“Let's go,” the deputy said impatiently, yanking him toward the courthouse. The courtroom was conspicuously empty, most of the players in the drama having been pulled aside as future witnesses. James sat stiffly in the row of seats just behind the defense table. Jordan, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was talking to a colleague, his foot braced up on a chair. He stopped speaking when a side door opened, and James followed his gaze to see Chris being brought inside.

A bailiff led Chris to the defense table. James felt his throat close at the sight of his son, and before he could remember himself he reached over the divider and tried to touch Chris's arm. Chris was directly in front of James, but a foot out of reach.

They built it this way, James thought, on purpose.

“I don't think so,” Jordan was yelling, pointing to the handcuffs, which were horrible but had been expected. In fact Jordan had been the one to mention it to the Hartes, so James didn't see why he was so surprised. He gesticulated wildly, striding with the prosecutor toward the judge's chambers. Chris turned around in his chair. “Dad,” he said.

James reached out his hand again. For the first time in his life he was completely oblivious to an entire room of people looking on. He straddled and swung his legs over the divider, sitting down in the chair Jordan had vacated. Then he embraced his son, his body enveloping Chris's, so that the reporters and onlookers who poured into the courtroom to ogle the defendant could not even see that he was fettered.

In chambers, Jordan exploded. “For God's sake, Your Honor,” he said. “While we're at it, why don't I put him in dreadlocks and have him grow a beard and-hell, let's put a skinhead tattoo on his forehead so the jury really forms a bias before we've even started the trial!” Barrie rolled her eyes. “Your Honor, it's perfectly within precedent to have an alleged murderer brought to trial in handcuffs.”

Jordan rounded on her. “What do you think he's going to do here? Start hammering someone to death with a Bic pen?” He turned to the judge. “The only reason for the shackles, as we all know, is to make everyone think he's dangerous.”

“He is dangerous,” Barrie pointed out in an undertone. “He killed a person.”

“Save it for the jury,” Jordan muttered beneath his breath.

“Jesus God,” Puckett said, spitting an almond shell into his hand. “Is this what I have to look forward to?” His lids drifted shut as he rubbed his temples. “It may be precedent, Ms. Delaney, but I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that Chris Harte isn't planning to go off on a murderous rampage. The defendant can remain uncuffed for the duration of the trial.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jordan said.

Barrie turned, bumping shoulders with Jordan on her way out the door. “Must be a pretty feeble defense,” she whispered, “if you're already begging favors from the bench.” Jordan smiled confidently at Chris, who was still rubbing his wrists. “This,” he said, nodding down at Chris's newly freed state, “is a terrific sign.”

Chris didn't really see why, since even an honest-to-God murderer would have to be a total idiot to attack someone in the middle of a court of law. He knew and Jordan knew-hell, everybody knewthat the only reason he'd been brought in, cuffed, was to strip him of his dignity.

“Don't look at the prosecutor,” Jordan continued. “She's going to say some awful things-you're allowed to do that in an opening argument. Ignore her.”

“Ignore her,” Chris repeated dutifully, and then some skinny guy with an Adam's apple as big as an egg told everyone to rise. “The Honorable Leslie F. Puckett presiding,” he announced, and a man in a flowing robe entered from a side door, his teeth cracking audibly against something.

“Be seated,” the judge said, opening a file. He plucked a nut out of a squat, square jar in front of him, and sucked it through his lips, like krill being drawn through a whale's baleen. “The prosecution,” he said, “may begin.”