Trust Your Eyes (41 page)

“Okay,” he said.

Ten minutes later, we were standing side by side at the kitchen counter. I was filling the sink with soapy water as Thomas put our glasses and cutlery into the KitchenAid. Our shoulders were brushing up against each other, and we actually had a kind of rhythm going. We weren’t talking, but it was the closest I’d felt to him since coming back here.

But later, as he was wiping down the kitchen table, Thomas said, “You ever feel like someone who was your friend really isn’t your friend anymore?”

He wasn’t looking at me when he asked. He was focused on making the table as clean as possible.

“Yeah, that’s happened to me a few times. Who are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

“It’s okay. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

He caught my eye. “The president.”

“Clinton?”

Thomas nodded, walked over to the sink to rinse out the cloth, and draped it over the faucet. “He’s always been nice to me, except the last couple of times we’ve talked, it’s kind of different.”

“What do you mean, different?”

“I don’t know. He’s been putting a lot of pressure on me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to him anymore.”

“When the president calls, you kind of have to talk to him,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s true.”

“But he’s telling me I can’t talk about certain things. Things that don’t have anything to do with my mission.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder. “You want to go in and talk to Dr. Grigorin tomorrow? I could see if I can set something up.”

“That might be good,” he said. “I don’t like it when the
president says I’m going to look weak.”

“Weak?”

“Like, if I say certain things, I’ll be in trouble. He doesn’t even want me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“About when I was in the window. When I waved to you, and you didn’t see me. Because you didn’t look up.”

I stood there with him, the two of us leaned up against the kitchen counter. “When was this, Thomas?”

“The day you tried to find me. When you found my bike in the alley. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I rode all over downtown trying to find you. I even shouted out your name.”

“I heard you,” Thomas said quietly. “That was when I got away, and ran to the window. I wanted to call out but I knew he’d get mad. But if you’d seen me, then Dad would have believed my story.”

“Got away? Thomas, what happened?”

“He hurt me,” he said. He briefly tucked his hand under himself. “He hurt me back here.”

I put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezed. “Tell me what happened. Someone did something to you? Who? Who did something to you?”

“Dad got so mad,” he said. “He got so mad when I told him. He said I had to stop making things up. He said if I ever talked about it again, he didn’t know what he’d do. But I knew it would be something awful. Maybe he and Mom would send me away. To a place. So I never talked about it.”

I hugged him. “Thomas, I’m so sorry.”

“And I think…I think I’m ready to talk about it. But the president says I can’t. He says if I tell anyone, bad things will happen.”

“Thomas, who hurt you?”

He looked down into his lap. “I need to think about this. I don’t want to go against the president’s wishes.”

“Would you tell Dr. Grigorin?”

“I’ve wanted to, but haven’t. You know who I would be okay telling?”

“Who?”

“Julie.”

“You’d tell Julie?”

He nodded. “She’s nice to me. She talks to me like I’m a regular person.”

“Okay, well, she’s coming back tonight, kind of late, but I’m sure she’d talk to you.”

“Is she coming back to have sex with you?” he asked.

“Probably not now,” I said, and smiled. “I think it would be great if you talked to her. I do. Can I be there, or would you like to talk to her by yourself?”

He thought about that. “She’ll tell you later, won’t she?”

“If you asked her not to, no, I don’t think she would.”

He looked down, pondering. “It would be okay if you want to be there.”

“Okay. But she’s not going to be here for a while, so do you want to watch some TV or something?”

“No. I have to go back to work. Even if I don’t like the president’s attitude lately, I still have my work to do.”

“Sure,” I said.

“But before Julie comes, I want to get some pictures to show her.”

“What pictures?”

“Our photo albums. So she’ll know what I looked like then. And what you looked like. They’re in the basement.”

“Whatever you want. You know where they are?”

He nodded, then left me for his room. I went out to the porch and sat down for the better part of half an hour, until it was dark enough that you could see the stars. I went in, plunked myself down in front of the TV, and flipped through the channels. Nothing held my interest. It wasn’t likely that anything could. I was preoccupied. Thinking about Julie. About my father. About Len Prentice.

About a face in a window, and two dead people in Chicago, and the late Allison Fitch.

About how I wouldn’t have to be thinking about a lot of these things if Thomas had a different hobby. Stamp collectors never saw possible homicides, so far as I knew. Same for jewelry makers and gardeners.

I wondered whether Harry Peyton had had a chance yet to talk to this Duckworth guy he’d mentioned. Barry Duckworth. Was that why I hadn’t heard anything yet? Had Harry talked to him, and Duckworth was looking into things right now? Or did Duckworth listen, and say it was the biggest crock of shit he’d ever heard in his entire life?

I couldn’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t just find out myself.

I turned off the TV, grabbed the laptop, and looked up the Promise Falls Police Department. I found a nonemergency number and dialed.

“Promise Falls Police Service,” a woman said.

“I’m trying to reach Detective Duckworth,” I said.

“I think he’s gone home,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“Ray Kilbride.”

“Let me check.” She put me on hold. While I was waiting, Thomas came down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my hand over the receiver.

“I’m going downstairs to look for the photo album,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the basement.

“Hello?” the woman on the switchboard said. “Mr. Kilbride?”

“Yes?”

“I reached Detective Duckworth at home for you. Hold on and I’ll connect you.” There was a pause, and then, “Go ahead.”

“Hello?” I said. “Detective Duckworth?”

“Who is this? You told the switchboard you’re Mr. Kilbride?”

“That’s right.”

“This some sort of joke? Not Adam Kilbride.”

“No, sir. This is his son.”

“Which son?”

“I’m Ray Kilbride.”

“Okay, right,” Detective Duckworth said. “You’re the one from, where is it? Vermont somewhere?”

“Burlington.”

“And your brother, that’s Thomas?”

“Yes.” I was guessing Harry had filled him in pretty thoroughly.

“You’ll have to forgive me there a second ago,” he said. “It threw me, when the girl called, said it was Mr. Kilbride. I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Well, thanks. And thanks for talking to me. I don’t know where to turn. I’m in kind of a mess here, as you probably know.”

“Yeah, your dad and I had spoken,” Duckworth said.

I felt as though someone had put my head in a paint mixer for a second. “Excuse me?” I said. “When was this?”

“A couple of weeks back,” Duckworth said.

From the basement, Thomas shouted, “Ray!”

“My father spoke to you a couple of weeks ago?” I asked.

“That’s right. That isn’t why you’re calling?”

“No—I mean,
yes
. I was just following up,” I said.

“I told your father, if he wanted to proceed, it wasn’t going to be an easy thing to prove.”

“Ray!” Thomas shouted again.

“Hang on!” I shouted back. “Sorry about that. My brother’s trying to find something in the basement. You were saying, it wouldn’t be easy to prove.”

“Not considering all the time that has elapsed. And the fact that your brother’s testimony is going to be problematic, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Your father did. Also, he wasn’t sure he wanted to put your brother through all that. He was a good man, your father. Only spoke to him the once, but he seemed like a decent guy, a good father. With a lot on his plate.”

“Detective Duckworth, you won’t believe this, but only in the last minute have I gotten any kind of inkling what you’re talking about,” I said. “My brother was assaulted, wasn’t he?”

“Your father didn’t share this with you?”

“No. But since I’ve been back here, since Dad died, some things have come up that have made me wonder whether something was going on. Something my father was worried my brother would never forgive him for. And…” I hesitated about whether to get into it, but what the hell. “My father had looked up child prostitution on the computer, but I don’t know what sites he actually went to. My brother erased the history before I could find out.”

“Yes, well,” Duckworth said, “that does figure into it. I’m not sure how much to discuss this with you, Ray, and to tell you the truth, your father held back some pretty relevant information. Like exactly who—”

“Ray!”

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Detective, have you got a number where I can get back to you? In a couple of minutes? I really need to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

I grabbed a pencil from a kitchen drawer and scribbled the number down on a scratch pad. “I’ll get
right
back to you.”

“I’ll be here.”

I ended the call and left the phone on the counter. As I approached the basement door, I shouted, “For Christ’s sake, Thomas, I was on the phone.” I didn’t see him as I came down the stairs. The basement was L-shaped, and I figured he was around the corner, where Dad had kept the photo albums.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Over here,” he said.

I came around the corner, and there was Thomas. His eyes wide with fear. His arms were pulled back, like he was clasping his hands together behind himself.

And he wasn’t alone. There was a woman standing behind, and to his side. She was holding Thomas by the hair with her left hand. In her right, she had what appeared to be an ice pick, and she had the tip touching the soft part of my brother’s neck, just below the jaw.

FIFTY-FIVE

THE
woman said, “So you’re Ray.”

“Yes,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the ice pick.

She tugged on Thomas’s hair. “And this one? Thomas? He’s your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Ray, no one has to get hurt here if you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay,” I said. “Please don’t hurt him.”

Thomas looked like he was standing out in the cold. His body was trembling. I couldn’t see his hands, but I bet they were shaking. In our life together, I had never seen him look more terrified.

“Ray, tell her to let me go!”

“It’s okay, Thomas. I’m going to give her whatever she wants.”

“That’s good, Ray,” the woman said. “So long as you cooperate, everything will be fine.” I noticed she had one of those Bluetooth thingies in her ear that was mostly hidden by blond hair that fell to her shoulders. “You’re clear to come in,” she said, like she was talking to her shoulder. “We’re in the basement.”

“Just tell me what you want,” I said.

“Right now I want you to be quiet,” she said, still holding Thomas by the hair, the ice pick dimpling his neck. “Things’ll be moving along shortly.”

Even from down in the basement, I thought I could hear a car pulling up to the house. A distant sound of crunching gravel, then a door opening and closing. About half a minute later, the front door opened, and seconds after that, I heard someone coming down the steps behind me. I turned my head around, and once the man had descended far enough for the bare bulb to cast light on his face, I got a look at him. Tall, bald, heavyset, a nose that had been broken at some point.

He looked at me. “So you’re Ray Kilbride.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“This is the brother,” the woman said. “Thomas.”

“Hello, Thomas,” the man said, his voice even. “I’m Lewis. I see you’ve met Nicole.” As he came up alongside me I noticed a bulge under his leather bomber jacket that was larger than an ice pick. Slung over his shoulder was a small backpack.

“There’s not much here but you’re welcome to it,” I said.

“Not my computer!” Thomas blurted.

Lewis cocked his head slightly to look me in the eye. “You think this is a robbery? Is that what you think?”

“They can’t have my computer,” Thomas repeated. “You can have my dad’s.”

“What do you want, then?” I asked.

“I want you to put your hands behind your back,” Lewis said. He unzipped the backpack and took out a set of plastic handcuffs, the kind you see riot police using on protesters.

“Please,” I said. “This is some kind of mistake.”

Lewis said, “If I have to ask you again to put your hands behind your back, my friend’s going to let some air into your brother’s neck.”

His voice carried a calm sense of authority. Coplike. My guess was, if he’d ever been one, he wasn’t now.

I put my hands behind me. He slipped the narrow plastic bands over both wrists and pulled them snug. They bit cruelly into my skin. I immediately wiggled my fingers, wondering how long it would be before I started losing feeling in them.

“You good, Lewis?” the woman asked.

It worried me that they didn’t care if we knew their names. I tried to calm myself with the thought that maybe they were using assumed ones. But that struck me as unlikely.

“Yeah,” he said, at which point the woman took the pick away from Thomas’s throat and released her grip on his hair. She gave him a small shove in my direction.

“I’m scared, Ray,” he said. He turned enough that I could see his wrists were already cuffed similarly to mine.

“I know,” I said. “Me, too.”

“We take them both?” Nicole asked Lewis.

“Good question,” he said. “Let me think on that. First, I’m gonna do a walk-through of the house. Make sure there isn’t anyone else around.”