“Michael told me a funny thing in that cellar, Aunt Lydia.” Her fingers hovered over the keypad but she did not dial. “He knew he was going to die. He was absolutely certain that he was going to die and he wanted to tell me something.”
The cord slapped against the metal table as Lydia let the receiver slide to her shoulder.
“Michael told me that he killed Mary Alice and that you knew all about it. He said it was your idea to frame me. He said that you planned the whole thing from the very beginning.” He gave her a wink. “Deathbed confessions aren’t considered hearsay, right? Not if the person knows for sure he’s going to die.”
She clutched the receiver in her bony hand. “No one will believe you.”
“You know that cop he took—the one he kidnapped, nearly beat to death and was about to rape and kill?” He lowered his voice as if he was telling her in confidence. “I think she heard him say it, too.”
The table banged against the wall as she sagged against it. Her eyes blazed with outrage.
John asked, “Who do you think the prosecutor is going to listen to when he’s trying to make the decision about whether or not to file charges against you for obstruction of justice, false imprisonment and conspiracy after the fact?”
A noise came from the receiver, a recorded voice advising her that if she would like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again.
“The prosecutor will come to us,” John continued. “He’ll ask me and he’ll ask Joyce whether we want to pursue criminal charges against you or just drop it.” The phone started to make a loud busy signal that echoed in the cavernous room. “Let me tell you one thing I’ve figured out, Lydia: Michael was a predator, but you were his gatekeeper. You were the one who knew what he was and still let him out in the world.”
“No…”
“Go ahead,” he dared her. “Dial the number. Make the call.”
Lydia stared at him, nostrils flared, eyes wet with angry tears. He could almost see her thinking it out, that fine legal mind of hers working all the angles, considering all of the options. Somewhere in this pristine white prison of a house, a clock was ticking. John silently counted the ticks in his head, biding his time.
“All right,” she finally agreed. “All right.”
John knew what she meant, but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to be the one who made her say it. “All right what?”
Her hand trembled so badly that she could barely replace the phone in the cradle. She could not look at him. Her voice was choked with humiliation. “Tell me what I have to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY
FEBRUARY 18, 2006
Will was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Devils & Dust as he brushed the dog. He wasn’t certain why his neighbor had insisted on the brushing. Betty’s fur was short. She didn’t shed much. Will had to assume the origin of the task was somehow connected to the little dog’s pure pleasure in the sensation; however, the neighbor had never struck him as particularly interested in the animal’s comfort.
Not that he was assigning a personality to the thing, but there was no denying she liked a good brush.
The doorbell rang and Will stopped mid-stroke. It rang again, and then there was a staccato of knocking.
Will sighed. He put down the brush and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. He scooped up Betty in his hand and walked to the door.
“What the fuck took you so long?”
“I assumed it was you.”
Angie grimaced, which was hard considering her face was still healing. She had butterfly bandages on her forehead and her cheek had turned from black to yellow. Band-Aids on each of her fingers covered more sutures. A neon pink plastic cast was wrapped around her right arm, metal bolts sticking out around her wrist where the bones had been screwed back together.
He looked over her shoulder and saw her car parked in the street. “Did you drive here?”
“Arrest me.”
“Why?” he asked. “Do I need to lock you up so you won’t skip town?”
“Not this time.”
“You’re not leaving me for John?”
She laughed. “He’s already had half of his life fucked up by some asshole. I figured I’d let him live the other half in peace.”
“You didn’t sleep with him?”
“Of course I slept with him.”
Will’s chest fell, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Do you want to come in?”
“Let’s stay out here,” she suggested, awkwardly bending down to sit on the porch.
Reluctantly, Will joined her. He kept the dog close to his chest, and Betty tucked her head down, her snout dipping inside his vest.
“It’s Saturday,” Angie told him. “Why are you wearing that suit?”
“It’s a good look for me.”
She bumped her shoulder into his, teasing, “You think?”
He tried to make a joke of it. “You know, I’m not wearing any underwear.”
She gave a deep, bawdy laugh.
He smiled, relishing the ease between them. “How come it’s sexy when you say it, but not when I do?”
“Because the type of man who doesn’t wear underwear usually hangs around playgrounds with lots of candy in his pockets.”
“I’ve got candy in my pockets,” he told her. “You want to put your hand in and see?”
She laughed again. “You are all talk, Mr. Trent. All talk.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “You’re probably right.”
They both stared out at the street. Traffic noise from Ponce de Leon followed the breeze; car horns blaring, people shouting. Will heard wind chimes clanging in the distance, and a bicyclist rode by the house.
“I love you,” Angie said, very quietly.
Betty stirred. He felt a flutter in his chest. “I know.”
“You’re my life. You’ve always been there.”
“I’m still here.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “I talked to you when I was in the cellar. Before you came.” She paused, and he knew she was thinking back to that awful place. “I promised you that I would leave you if I got out of there alive.”
“I’ve never expected you to keep your promises.”
She was quiet again. Another cyclist rode by, the metallic whiz of the turning wheels sounding like a field of grasshoppers. Will thought about putting his arm around her shoulders, then remembered the gash from the glass. He was about to put his arm around her waist instead when she turned to him.
“I’m really bad for you.”
“Lots of things are bad for me.” He listed some examples. “Chocolate. Artificial sweetener. Secondhand smoke.”
“Passion,” she said, holding her fist to her heart. “I want you to have passion, Will. I want you to know what it’s like to fall in love with somebody, to stay awake at night thinking you’re going to die if you don’t have them.”
All he could say was, “I’ve stayed awake plenty of nights thinking about you.”
“Worrying about me,” she corrected. “I’m not an old pair of shoes you can wear for the rest of your life just because they’re comfortable.”