The Unwanted (40 page)

Fuzzily, he recognized Gene Templeton staring at him with a face of stone from outside the cell.

“Heard the toilet flush,” Templeton said.

Ed managed a nod. “Sick,” he muttered. “Puked my guts out during the night.”

“Tough,” Templeton replied. “Wash up. You’re getting out of here.”

Taking a deep breath, Ed heaved himself into a sitting position and dropped his feet to the floor. His shirt, smeared with his own vomit, clung to his body like cellophane, and when he cradled his head in his hands, the smell from his shirt assaulted his nostrils with a force that once more threatened the stability of his aching stomach. “What happened?” he asked. “What am I doing here?”

Templeton regarded him silently for a moment. “You don’t remember?”

Cavanaugh hesitated, then slowly shook his head. “I was on my boat,” he finally managed. “I was on my boat, and then … then …” His voice trailed off into silence as slowly, a piece at a time, memories of the previous night trickled back to him. “Fuckin’ bitch wife didn’t have the guts to file any charges, did she?” he finally asked, his lips twisting into an ugly grin.

Now it was Templeton who took a deep breath, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists as he stared with disgust at the man in the cell. “She not only wouldn’t charge you, she showed up an hour ago and put up bail for the only charge I could dream up.” His lips tightened grimly. “I did my damnedest to talk her out of it, but she’s afraid of what you’d do to her if she left you here. But sooner or later you’ll go too far, and when you do, it’s going to be my pleasure to ship you off to the slammer, Ed. Then we’ll all see how tough you are. The only thing those guys hate more than a rapist is a guy who slaps his wife and kid around. Now clean yourself up. You’re disgusting.”

Templeton turned away, taking a malicious pleasure in slamming the metal door as he left the block of three small
cells. Returning to his desk in the corner of the squad room, he dropped into his chair. His stomach growled in protest against the fact that it was now nine o’clock in the morning and he had missed—so far—two complete meals, not to mention several snacks. He picked up the phone to call Ellie, knowing his wife would cheerfully bring an enormous breakfast to his desk, then dropped the phone back on the hook as he realized that he wasn’t really hungry, despite the fact he hadn’t eaten since noon the day before.

It was Paul Samuels’s report on the manner of Lisa Chambers’s death that had cost him his appetite. Not the fact of her death—Templeton had long since learned to deal with death itself. But what Samuels told him a few minutes ago had left him feeling completely helpless.

As he’d feared, there was not a mark on Lisa that Samuels could definitely identify as having been made by human hands. She had died by strangulation, but the doctor was certain that it had been mud in her throat and trachea that had killed her, not some external force closing around her neck. Nor were there bruises on her flesh where hands might have clamped on her, forcing her down into the mud.

“But she fought,” the doctor had assured him as they went over the report together. “Some kind of animal attacked her, and she struggled to fight it off. I found traces of fur under her fingernails, but it’ll have to be analyzed before I can tell you what it’s from. The main thing is, she fought hard, and if it was Ed Cavanaugh she was fighting, he’ll have some marks to show for it. But frankly, I don’t think he did it. As near as I can figure it, she was trying to fight off whatever jumped her, but she stumbled into the quicksand and lost her footing. And that was it.”

There were a few cuts on her arms, but the ones that weren’t easily identifiable as having been made by an animal’s claws had the exact characteristics of the lacerations made by two varieties of marsh grass. In several of the cuts Samuels had discovered minute traces of the grasses themselves.

“If she’d kept her head,” Samuels had finished, “she might have been all right. Whatever it was probably abandoned the attack when she fell into the quicksand, and she could have lain there all night. She’d have been cold and
miserable, but she would have lived. Still, you can’t blame her for panicking, can you?”

Of course he couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t blame anyone yet. Despite all the talk and speculation in the village there was no proof of anything. In Templeton’s gut, however, he was now certain that in some way he didn’t yet understand, Cassie Winslow was involved.

Cassie’s words from last night still haunted him.
He didn’t even try
. Her face expressionless, her eyes fixed as though she were staring into the distance, she had spoken in a strange monotone—as though she were reliving something she had already seen.

And then there were the eerie similarities between the wounds on Lisa’s face and the angry slashes that had marked Harold Simms.

“What about a cat?” he’d asked Samuels just before he left the clinic.

“It’s possible,” the doctor had replied. “But it did a hell of a lot of damage. If it was a cat, it sure was no ordinary house pet.”

It all added up to zero: no evidence to charge Ed Cavanaugh with Lisa Chambers’s death, and no satisfactory explanation for what had happened to her.

And with Laura bailing Ed out of the single charge Gene had been able to devise—obstructing justice by not reporting the discovery of Lisa’s body—Templeton couldn’t even keep the son of a bitch off the streets for a few days.

His thoughts were interrupted by a banging on the steel door to the cell block, and he got up to bring Ed Cavanaugh into the squad room. Fleetingly he wondered if he could get away with punching the smug look off Cavanaugh’s bloated face, but knew he couldn’t—bullies like Cavanaugh were the loudest screamers when someone finally gave them what they deserved. Instead he contented himself with telling Cavanaugh exactly what he thought of him while he unlocked the safe and retrieved the other man’s keys and wallet.

Not that it did much good.

“Aren’t you gonna drive me home?” was all that Cavanaugh said when Templeton’s warnings were over.

“Walk,” Templeton growled. “The fresh air won’t kill
you. And if we all get lucky, you might just be hung over enough to get hit by a truck. Now get out of here.”

When Cavanaugh was done, Templeton considered going back to his desk, then gave it up. With a nod to the deputy, he headed home. Maybe with a little sleep—and a good meal—he could start to make sense out of what was happening in False Harbor.

Ed Cavanaugh let himself in through the back door. Laura was standing at the kitchen sink, washing up the dishes from the breakfast neither she nor Eric had been able to eat. He said nothing, but stripped off his soiled shirt, dumped it into the washing machine, then slipped his arms around Laura’s waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. When she stiffened in his arms, he felt a surge of anger, but quickly put it down. He nuzzled her neck for a moment, then pressed his mouth close to her ear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about everything. I just—well, I guess I let things get out of control last night.”

Laura twisted away from him. Her voice was cold. “Last night?” she repeated. “What happened last night wasn’t anything new, and you know it! You don’t expect me just to forget it, do you?”

When he replied, Ed’s voice had taken on the slight whine that had become familiar to Laura over the years. “But you have to forgive me, honey. You’re all I’ve got. I just—well, sometimes I love you so much that when I think about losing you I go all to pieces. But last night was it. I promise you that if you forgive me this time, it’ll never happen again. Never.”

“Until you get drunk again,” Laura blurted out, then wished she could reclaim the words. But she’d heard it all so often before. He’d drink, then beat her, then—the next
morning—swear it was the last time. And always she wanted to believe him. Wanted to hope.

As if he were reading her thoughts, Ed pulled her closer and pressed her head against his chest. Though the sour odor of vomit still clung faintly to him, Laura could feel his heart beating, and the gentle throbbing gave her a strange sense of security. I don’t understand, she thought. I don’t understand how he can still make me feel so safe sometimes.

“I had a long time to think about things in jail,” Ed said, stroking her head now. “Maybe that was what I needed—for Gene to haul me in. And I want you to know I don’t hold it against him. I’m not holding anything against anybody, sweetheart. Not against you, or Eric, or even Rosemary Winslow. All we have to do is start fresh. I’m going to stop drinking, and start taking care of you and Eric. But I can only do it if I know you still love me. You do, don’t you?” he added anxiously. “Isn’t that why you bailed me out?”

Laura felt herself weakening. He sounds as if he means it this time, she found herself thinking. But then she reminded herself that he’d always sounded as if he’d meant it when he apologized. Not once had it ever made a difference. “I bailed you out because I didn’t want Eric to have to face his friends knowing his father was in jail.” It was only half true, she knew, but this time she wasn’t just going to give in to him.

Once again he seemed to read her thoughts.

“But this time it’s really true. I swear it is. I never landed in jail before, and it scared me, Laura. It scared the shit out of me. I lay there all night thinking about my life, and your life, and what I’ve done to you, and I felt like a heel. If you left me, I don’t know what I’d do. I—I think I might go crazy.”

He was kissing her neck now, his lips working gently over her skin. Despite herself, Laura felt the first stirrings of excitement rising in her. Almost involuntarily her arms slid around his neck and her fingers ran through his hair. A moment later he picked her up and carried her upstairs.

Eric was sitting at his desk when he heard his bedroom door open, but he didn’t turn around. For half an hour he’d been trying not to hear the sounds emanating from his parents’ room, sounds he hated to hear almost more than he
hated to hear the sounds of his father beating his mother. How could she do it? How could she let him touch her, after the things he’d done? When he first heard his father coming up the stairs, he’d gotten his baseball bat out of the closet and stood in the middle of the room clutching the bat, waiting for Ed to open the door. But instead his father had walked on by. In a few moments Eric had understood what was happening.

He’d had a terrible urge to rush into his parents’ room and kill his father right then. Had his mother screamed—just once—he knew he would have done it. But she didn’t scream, not at all. Instead he heard only moans of pleasure, and his grip tightened on the bat as his rage grew even wilder. But he didn’t lose control. When he became aware that he had actually taken several steps toward the door, and understood what he was about to do, he forced himself to turn around and go to his desk, put the bat on the floor next to his chair, and open one of his textbooks. It was the wrong time; the wrong place. Since then he’d been staring unseeingly at the same page, battling to keep his emotions in check.

Now his father stood in the doorway to his room, and Eric had to turn around and face him. Ed was clad only in a pair of underwear. “I want to apologize,” he said, taking a tentative step into the room. When he saw Eric reach down and pick up the baseball bat, he stopped where he was, a look of puzzlement coming over him. “You don’t want to do that, Eric,” he said softly. “You don’t want to hurt the old man. Hell, I told Templeton you didn’t have anything to do with what happened last night.”

Eric said nothing.

“I didn’t kill her,” Ed went on, his voice taking on its whining edge once again. And he hadn’t, not really. Some of it had come back to him as he’d walked home. He had a vague memory of being on the beach, chasing Eric and Cassie in the truck. He remembered Eric disappearing down one of the paths in the marsh, but Cassie …

Cassie had not been able to get away from him. Finally she’d stumbled into the quicksand. He’d watched her die. But he hadn’t killed her. If he had, why would Templeton have let him out of jail? “I didn’t do it, son.” He licked his lips nervously and his mind raced as he saw the cold fury in
Eric’s eyes. “I’m sorry she’s dead,” he lied. “But you can’t hold it against me, can you? Hell, you hardly even knew her. And you’ve still got Lisa.…”

Eric’s eyes widened. He doesn’t know, he thought numbly. He doesn’t even know who was out there.

Then, as Eric watched his father with an almost detached curiosity, he saw the blood drain from Cavanaugh’s face and a look of terror come into his eyes.

“No,” his father snorted. “
No
 …”

Eric realized that Ed was no longer looking at him. His eyes, wide with shock now, were fastened on the window. Eric’s own eyes followed his father’s gaze. Then he understood.

Standing in her window, staring at Ed Cavanaugh with an unblinking gaze, was Cassie Winslow.

“No,” Ed Cavanaugh breathed once more as he stared at the girl who should have been dead. “It can’t be her! She’s dead, goddamn it! She’s dead!” Wildly he tore his eyes from Cassie and glared furiously at Eric. “I saw it!” he managed to say, his voice strangling now. “I tell you I was there, and I saw her die!”

Eric shook his head, his lips curling into a faint smile. “It wasn’t Cassie, Dad,” he said quietly. “It was Lisa. You killed Lisa!”

His face purpling with rage, Ed took another step toward Eric, but Eric raised the bat.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you come near me, or I swear to God I’ll kill you, even though you are my father!”

Ed froze, staring at the bat and at Eric. Now his voice turned venomous. “She’s really got you, doesn’t she?” he snarled. “Just like Miranda. She’s got you the same way Miranda had you!” His eyes sparkled malevolently. “Miranda should have let you die out there, boy! She should have let both of you die! Nobody ever wanted either one of you anyway!” An evil laugh bubbled up from his throat, and he lurched out of the room, his mind suddenly consumed with a single thought.

A drink. He had to have a drink.

Eric didn’t know how long he’d been lying on his bed, didn’t know whether he’d been sleeping or awake.