The Truth Hurts (13 page)

“These
guys ?
We don’t know anything about him, Franklin! This isn’t a kidnapping, it’s not a hostage situation, he’s not one of
these guys!
He may not be like anybody you’ve ever run across before. He said he’s new, he said he’s something different, and what if he is? You don’t know what you’re doing. None of us does, yet. Please, just take the kids and go home tomorrow and let this play out a little more until I get a better sense of who he is and what he wants. He won’t hurt me, not yet, not if he’s telling the truth about doing an entire book with me.”

“Marie, I have to do what I believe will protect all of us.”

“Even if it kills us?” At a loss for any more words, all I can do is whirl on my heel and leave him standing there. I half-expect Franklin to say something conciliatory, to put out his hand, to try to stop me from running away from him when I’m angry. But no strong hand reaches out for me, no loving voice says, “Marie . . .”

In the unhappy silence, I run upstairs to my bedroom on the second floor.

Again, I undress and get into bed. This time, instead of falling asleep I lie there, listening to him slowly climb the stairs, use a bathroom as he gets ready for bed, turn the water on and off, flush the toilet, put the seat and lid back down. I close my eyes, feeling very alone again, and tears sting them. But then I sense, more than hear, him entering my room. Childishly, I keep my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep.

I smell toothpaste, then feel a soft kiss on my temple.

I begin to cry, and then to sob, and Franklin takes me into his arms and holds me while I try to stifle any noises that might awaken his children.

“I’m sorry,” I blubber. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine,” he says, with gentle sarcasm. “Somebody wants to kill you, they’ve completely disrupted your life and your work, they’ve threatened people dear to you whom you can’t possibly defend, and you can’t imagine why you’re so upset.” I hear a smile in his voice in the dark. “This is a natural reaction, baby—a little
delayed,
maybe, but perfectly natural.”

“Franklin, I was so scared when I heard that tape,” I confess in a tearful whisper. “And I’m so tired right now I don’t even know if I can sleep, and I’m so scared of doing something wrong that will hurt you and the kids.”

“We’ll be fine, we’ll all be fine, believe me.”

I turn my mouth toward his and our embrace begins to turn into something else . . . until we hear a little voice call out from another bedroom.

“Daddy? Daddy!”

Franklin groans softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Go.”

He gently disengages, and I slump back down onto the pillow. The last thing I’m aware of before I fall asleep is the warmth of his hands on my shoulders.

I am asleep in my bedroom, my cat and small dog are sleeping near my feet. My mother and father are also asleep in their bedroom at the opposite and far end of this stark all-white ultramodern undecorated house in which we all live. Long corridors separate me from them, them from me. I bolt up in bed, shocked awake by something terrible.

Below, in our basement, a deadly creature has entered. It is “only” a dog, but it is a hound from hell. It is Cerberus, ferocious, devouring, and its growling bark awakens me.

It is standing under a small square grate in my bedroom floor. I can see its deep brown color, its terrible snarling face full of hunger and hate.

I race screaming from my bedroom, running through corridors. “Daddy! Daddy!” I am trying with all my heart to scream for him. “Daddy! Daddy!” But no matter how hard I try my scream is weak. He’ll never hear me. He’ll never come running to save me, to kill the dog for me. I can’t call him and I can’t find him in the house! The corridors all stop at walls or sharp turns that don’t lead to my parents’ room.

In the single bed in the condo, my eyelids fly open like windows pushed up violently.

I am screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!” inside my mouth, though my lips are sealed shut, as if I am paralyzed.

My God.

Did I wake Franklin, or the children?

No, the screams didn’t get out of my mouth.

I get up and make my way into the bathroom where I bend over the sink to splash water onto my face.

My God, I’m frightened.

My heart is pounding.

I return to bed, too dazed to think clearly.

What did the dream mean ? Am I in danger right now, this minute ? Did we bolt all the doors to this place ? Yes. Yes!

Nothing can get in, nobody can get in to get us.

I remember everything about the dream.

I was not a child in it, I was me, now, an adult screaming for her daddy. The sound and the appearance of the hound were horrifying, and yet even in the dream I knew that I was in no immediate danger from it. It couldn’t have gotten to me through the grate, there was no other way in. And even as my dream self—in a gauzy, flowing white gown—ran screaming down the blind corridors, she knew that if she awakened her father, and even if he raced to her rescue as she knew he would, there was little he could do that she couldn’t also do. And she would only be placing him in danger, possibly even a danger greater than her own. What if he felt he must go down into the basement and attempt to kill the beast for her? What if he called for emergency backup and then all of those people were put in danger, too?

All because she couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t—face it, herself.

She wasn’t a child anymore.

I’m not a child anymore.

If I go looking for “Daddy”—for somebody, anybody, to save me—they won’t be able to save me any better than I might save myself and I might destroy them by asking.

In my half-sleep, half-awaking state, I’m dazed and confused.

Destroy Daddy ? How can I destroy a man who’s already dead ? My father is dead, I’ve always known that, deep in my gut and my heart, even if I have no facts to support it. I cannot wake my father from the dead. He cannot save me this time.

“This time?” I whisper to myself. What do I mean by “this time”?

When my heartbeat finally subsides to normal and my body unclenches, I remember that the last thing I heard before I fell asleep was one of Franklin’s children calling, “Daddy, Daddy.”

Ah.
That’s
why I dreamed what I did, I assure myself.

There’s no deep meaning to it. Not at all.

I merely heard that and my unconscious picked it up and put it into my dream in the strange way of such things. And anyway, why would I be dreaming about my own mother and father now, after all these years?

A new thought comes to me:
What a bitter irony this is . . .

My anonymous “murderer” cynically predicted that Franklin will abandon me in order to save himself and his children. Instead, I can’t get him to leave no matter how hard I argue in favor of it!

But by the time I finally fall asleep, I have devised a perfect strategy to force Franklin to remove himself and his children to safety and to leave me to my own fate.

He may hate me for it.

“But I have to do it,” I tell myself as sleep finally wins again.

And tomorrow—today—I will do it. I will. I have to.

Paulie Barnes isn’t the only one who can plot surprises.

15
Marie

I awaken to an earthquake. At least that’s what I believe is happening as my body bounces helplessly in the bed. But earthquakes don’t squeal, I think then, with the one-sixteenth of my brain that is awake, they rumble. And they don’t smell like syrup. This one squeals. And smells like maple syrup. I open my eyes to discover that the quake is only one small boy, jumping from the floor to my bed, bouncing up and down, jumping down to the floor again, and then repeating the whole process.

I shoot up in bed and grab hold of him.

“Wake up, wake up, M’re! We’re going swimming in the ocean and we’re going to see Big Bird and we’re going swimming in the swimming pool and Daddy’s fixing pancakes right NOW! Come on, come on!”

“You run on down, sweetie. I’ll be right behind you.”

He races away, hooting, “Pancakes!” all the way down the stairs. I can hardly believe Franklin is already up and cooking, but I suppose that parents don’t really have much choice in the matter. Go to bed at 1
A.M.
and your kids still get you up at 7
A.M.,
isn’t that how it works?

Well, if Franklin can get up this early, I suppose I can, too.

In a flash, I’m out of bed, brushing my teeth, running fingers through my hair to comb it, pulling on fresh shorts and a T-shirt and running downstairs after Arthur.

If I hurry fast enough, maybe I’ll forget the bad dream entirely.

“What’s this I hear about Big Bird?” I inquire as I enter the kitchen.

All three DeWeeses look up, with varying degrees of welcome.

“There’s a nature center on Marathon Key where college students are counting hawks as they fly over Florida.” Franklin looks as tired as I feel, but he manages a good morning smile for me anyway.
If there is any lingering upset between you and me,
the smile says,
we don’t need to inflict it on the kids.
“There was a flyer for it in our door this morning, and Diana found out all about it.” His smile turns wry and apologetic, as if to say, I’m sure that’s just what you want to do, go count hawks.

“Cool,” I say, reassuringly. “I love bird-watching.”

I smile at Diana, who crooks up the edges of her mouth as if she’s been told to be nice to me.

“I promised the kids we’d take them to the beach to swim,” her daddy adds. “Then lunch. Then we’ll go see the hawks, how about that? Diana really wants to see the hawks.”

“Me, too!” Arthur protests. “I want to see Big Bird, too!”

“They’re big
birds,”
his sister informs him with all the exaggerated patience of a superior six-year-old. “Not Big Bird.”

Arthur sticks out his tongue, pinches her, giggles, and runs away.

“OW,” Diana yells, and the chase is on, turning into a game of tag around the furniture and up and down the stairs, while their father serenely continues to turn bacon and stir pancake batter. Over the happy din of the children’s play, he says, “How’d you sleep?”

“Okay, except I had a strange dream about my parents.”

He gives me a look, part curiosity, part wariness. I’ve told Franklin as much about my parents as I know, which is enough to make him almost as leery of mentioning them as I am.

“Why do you suppose you dreamed about them?” he asks me.

I shrug it off. “Indigestion. Listen, about the birds—I have to work this morning, but I’d love to spot hawks later.”

“Work!” His voice fills with mock horror. “I promised Diana and Arthur that I wouldn’t work all weekend, so are we going to have to extract the same promise from you?”

I stare at him to let him see that I can’t quite believe he said that. “I have a second chapter to write for our friend Paulie Barnes, remember?”

Looking reluctant, as if he doesn’t want to give in to any of it this morning, he nods. “Right, okay, but only if we can come back and pick you up to take you to lunch with us.”

This seems a rather cavalier reaction, considering how seriously he was taking things last night. And now he’s only thinking about whether I go to lunch with them?

“How’d
you
sleep?” I ask in return, as I see that Franklin actually looks
more
tired than I feel. There are bags under his eyes, and his whole face seems to droop a bit. Maybe he tossed and turned all night and so he isn’t tracking well this morning.

But he turns on the television with the remote control, and so my question is drowned out by the sound of cable news.

After breakfast and dishwashing, I walk them out to their car, carrying the children’s life jackets for them. Before Diana steps up into the backseat, I slip something into her hands, and then move away before she can see that it’s a little beaded bracelet that will look pretty with her swimming suit. On the other side of the car, I give Arthur—in the name of sibling equality—a plastic toy to bob upon the waves. Franklin belts the kids into their car seats, closes the car doors, then takes me by an elbow and walks me around to the rear of the car where the children can’t hear what we say. “How do you feel about staying here by yourself this morning?”

Ignoring that, I counter, “I thought you were at least going to
pretend
to leave today.”

He looks annoyingly sure of himself, as if the pancakes have made him invulnerable. Usually, I find Franklin’s self-confidence attractive, but it worries me today. “He said in his E-mail that he expects me to abandon you, but he never said you had to make us leave here. Right?”

“I guess, but—”

“So we’re staying.”

I nod, but only because it wouldn’t do to stand out here in the parking lot and scream at him in front of the children. But while I appear to be acquiescing, what I’m really thinking is,
You’re forcing me to take extreme measures.

Diana has twisted around and is staring at us through the rear window.

“Have fun,” I mouth at her, and get a tiny but real-looking smile in reply.

Tiny is better than nothing. Tiny is progress.

When Diana waves good-bye to me the bracelet slides down her arm.

I wave them off, and then go back inside to do what I must do. I feel encouraged by that little smile and that wave, even if they were crassly bought. If Diana DeWeese can smile at Marie Lightfoot, then all good things are possible. Right now, however, I have to write a chapter that I don’t want to write. But first, I must make a phone call I
really
don’t want to have to make.

Before I start to write, with bated breath I check my E-mail.

Thank God, there are no new messages from Paulie Barnes, but strangely, there is one to me from Franklin. How sweet, is my first thought. It must be a love note. Why else would he send me an E-mail when I’m right here in the same condo?

When I open it, I see why.

Now I understand why he looked so tired this morning, why he avoided my question about how he’d slept, and why he seemed so sure of himself when we were outside by his car.

His E-mail to me is a copy of a message he has sent to Paulie Barnes.

“Franklin, no!” I cry aloud, as if he’s there to hear me.

Caught between feelings of fury and dread, I read what he has done:

“I hope you don’t object to the fact that I’m writing to you,” it begins. “Let me make it clear that Marie has no idea I’m doing this.”

She certainly does not,
I think when I see those words. Franklin’s E-mail goes on:

I think you must agree that this letter from me in no way violates your rules. Marie has told me everything, but only because you encouraged her to do that. In every way, she has done as you asked. You told her not to notify law enforcement, and she has not done that. You told her to fire her assistant, and she did. In your most recent E-mail, you encouraged her to write to you in a personal way, which I’m sure she will do.

You have not forbidden me to do the same.

Man to man, prosecutor to criminal, let’s talk about this.

Oh, Franklin!
He should have written it and then sat on it until this morning. The light might then have dawned on him in more ways than one. When the sun came up, he surely would have hit Delete. But now—we’re all going to be stuck in this new situation he has created by letting his testosterone get the better of him.

You seem to think I will leave her, because I’m afraid for my own skin and kin, as it were. You have badly misjudged me. I will
never
leave her to deal with you by herself. Never. I will take whatever steps I need to take to protect my children, but I will not abandon Marie in the process.

You also seem to think that I will not only disappear into thin air, but that I will tie my own hands so that I cannot identify you, locate you, arrest you, prosecute you, and see you punished as you are virtually begging to be. Exactly whom do you think you’re dealing with here? A first-year assistant prosecutor? A law student? A boy?

Allow me to familiarize you—or possibly reacquaint you—with the lawsyou have already broken, keeping in mind that you have not yet done anything that cannot be bargained down. You haven’t killed anybody. You haven’t harmed anyone yet. It is still possible for you to step back from the edge
now.
It is still possible for
you
to disappear from Marie’s life before you make things any worse for yourself than they already are, and let me make it clear to you that they are on the verge of becoming very, very bad—for
you.

For example, I strongly advise you to look up on the Web: Florida State Criminal Statute 836.l0. You may access that information by entering “Florida statutes” in your search engine. Pay particular attention to the mandatory sentencing requirements as they may apply to you.

You may contact me directly at . . .

And there, Franklin offered his own E-mail address, circumventing me entirely. He signed it with the full weight of his authority, “Franklin DeWeese, Esq., State Attorney, Howard County, Florida.”

Shit! I’ve got a choice right now. I can hang my head in my hands and moan. Or, I can stomp around the condo and curse like a sailor.

For the next few minutes, before I force myself to sit back down and write my “chapter,” I turn the air bluer than the water in the bay.