“No need. One of my colleagues let me know. Dreadful business, of course. I've always said I didn't think it was a good idea to go with foreign nannies. Poor girls. They simply can't handle the pressure. Nathan must be horribly distraught. Let me talk to him—”
He made a move to step forward; she blocked his advance. “Nathan's sleeping.”
“Amid all this chaos?”
“He's very tired.”
“All the better reason to let him come with me. We have a positively gargantuan suite at the LeRoux. Nathan can have his own bed; he'll get plenty of rest. Maryanne will be delighted.”
“I appreciate the offer. However, given that Nathan's already asleep, I think it would be a shame to disturb him.”
“Catherine . . .” James's voice remained kind, patient. He said, as if speaking to a very small child, “Surely you're not considering letting your son spend the night at a homicide scene.”
“No. I'm considering letting my son spend the night in the comfort of his own room.”
“For heaven's sake, there is fingerprint powder everywhere. How are you going to explain that to a four-year-old boy? Let alone the smell!”
“I know what's right for my son.”
“Really?” James gave her a smile. “Just as you knew what was right for Prudence?”
Catherine thinned her lips.
There was nothing she could say to that, and they both knew it.
“I hate to state the obvious,” James said now, “but perhaps you don't know what's going on in your own household as well as you think. Prudence was obviously deeply upset about what happened to Jimmy. God only knows how Nathan is feeling.”
“Get out.”
“Now, Catherine—”
“Get out!”
James still wore that horribly paternal smile upon his face. He tried to clasp her shoulder; she whirled on the policeman still in attendance.
“I want this man gone.”
“Catherine—”
“You heard me.” She pointed a finger at the officer, who was blinking his eyes in shock at being dragged into the middle of this scene. “This man is not welcome in my home. Escort him out.”
James was still trying. “Catherine, you're upset, you're not thinking clearly—”
“Officer, do I need to call your superior? Escort this man from my home!”
The young man pushed away from the wall, belatedly springing into action. As he stepped forward, James's voice dropped to a low octave, heard only by her ears.
“I'm running out of patience, Catherine.”
“Out!”
“Mark my words, things for you are only going to get much, much worse. I have so much power, Catherine. You have no idea . . .”
“I said get out!”
She was screaming. The noise woke Nathan. He started to cry.
The officer finally crossed the room. He put his hand on James's elbow, and the judge had no choice but to comply.
He said out loud, for the officer to hear, “I'm dreadfully sorry to have upset you, my dear. Of course, Maryanne and I only want what is best for our grandson. Perhaps in the morning, when you're thinking more clearly . . .”
Catherine pointed stiffly toward the open door. James tilted his head forward in chilly acknowledgment. A moment later, she stood alone, listening to the sobbing hiccups of her hysterical son.
One battle at a time, one battle at a time . . .
She entered the parlor and picked Nathan up from the pile of pillows. He flung his thin arms around her neck, gripping hard.
“Light, light, light,” he sobbed. “Light, light, light!”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . .”
The foyer wasn't going to work anymore. Too dark, too strange. Her son needed deep, undisturbed sleep in an overly bright room where all the lamps could chase the demons away. Where he could finally relax. Maybe she could, too.
The police officer had already returned. No doubt James had told the man there was no need to walk him out. He'd go, not make any trouble. He was merely trying to help his family. His daughter-in-law was not quite stable, you know. . . .
Catherine took a deep breath. With her arms wrapped tight around Nathan, she looked the officer in the eye and announced, “I'm taking him to his room. I'm closing the door. He's going to sleep. I'm going to sleep. Whatever else you people need, it can wait until morning.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the officer said, sounding only slightly sarcastic.
Catherine turned away from him and, before she could lose her courage, mounted the stairs.
The smell was dissipating now, probably carted off with Prudence's body; she had seen the girl's corpse roll out the door on a metal gurney. Her mind hadn't come to terms with it yet, hadn't reconciled the image of Prudence sitting on the floor reading to Nathan with Prudence zipped up in a black body bag. The concept of Prudence dead remained abstract to her. It seemed more like the girl had gone out on her day off and had simply chosen not to return.
It was easier for Catherine this way. Not so much because she was attached to the girl—in all honesty, she'd cared for Prudence no more and no less than the others. But the nature of the killing—neck snapped, body hanged from the rafters of Catherine's bedroom—led to horror beyond imagining. It implied an intruder in Catherine's home. It implied a man targeting her and the people around her. It implied that if she didn't surrender Nathan as her father-in-law demanded, she would be next.
She thought of James's soft-spoken threat. That he would make life miserable for her. That he had all the power. That she was nothing.
She thought, almost bitterly, he should tell her something she didn't know.
Right before she'd met Jimmy, she'd sunk so, so low. Her mother was dead, her life empty. Day after day she spent standing in a department store, spritzing perfume and trying not to flinch as man after man hit on her. She would study all the male faces, wondering which ones touched their children inappropriately and which ones beat their wives. Then she'd go home to her cockroach-infested apartment and dream of a darkness without end.
There came a morning when she just couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't stand the thought of spending one more day in a state of such perpetual fear.
She'd crawled into the tub. She'd gotten out a razor. She'd started to slice her paper-thin skin. And the phone rang. Without giving it a second thought, she'd crawled out of the tub to answer it. Ironically enough, it had been a telemarketer. Someone asking her if she wanted to buy life insurance, which had made her laugh, and that had made her cry, and while she'd stood there, sobbing hysterically into the ear of a very flustered salesperson, she'd seen the ad flash across her TV screen.
Feeling alone? Feeling like there is no way out? Feeling like no one cares?
A suicide hotline number had scrolled across the screen and, driven by a survival instinct she didn't even know she had, she'd slammed the phone down on the telemarketer, then dialed the number.
Thirty seconds later, she was listening to the calmest male voice she'd ever heard. Deep, soothing, funny. She had curled up on the floor and listened to him talk for an hour.
That's how she'd met Jimmy, though she hadn't known it then. Hotlines had protocols. Handlers were not to give out too much personal information. But they could ask questions, encourage their troubled callers to talk. So he did, and so she did, about her dead-end job, her apartment, her mother.
It wasn't the next day, that would've been too obvious, or even the day after that.
But Jimmy came to the department store where she worked. He found her, he flirted with her, he wooed her. And she found herself strangely moved by this charming young man with his incredibly calm voice. He'd asked her out. Much to her own surprise, she'd said yes.
It wasn't until months later that he admitted to her what he'd done. That he'd been so moved by her call, he'd felt compelled to find her in person. Please don't tell anyone, he begged prettily. Oh, she could get him in so much trouble. . . .
At the time, she'd found it romantic. This man had moved heaven and earth to find her. Surely it was a sign. Surely it meant he loved her. Her life was finally looking up.
It was only later, after they were married, maybe that one Monday evening when she'd commented on his drinking and he'd shocked her by slapping her across the face, that she'd started to wonder. What kind of man used a suicide hotline to pick up girls? What did that say about what he was looking for in a prospective mate?
Like his father, Jimmy had liked power. He'd liked to remind her that she'd be nothing without him. He'd liked to tell her that he'd scooped her out of the gutter, and he could damn well throw her back.
Sometimes, when Jimmy spoke, she actually pictured Richard Umbrio, standing way above her, haloed by daylight as one arm held up the wooden cover that would soon be sealing her in. “Better make my next welcome even more exciting,” he'd tell her gleefully. “Because otherwise, you never know when I might decide not to visit. I've given you this much, Cat. You never know when I might take it all away.”
Jimmy had never wanted to save Catherine. He'd simply wanted to extend her programming.
Well, she now thought matter-of-factly, she had shown him.
In Nathan's room, she snapped on the overhead light. Two sixty-watt bulbs blazed from the ceiling. It wasn't enough, however. For her, for Nathan, it would never be enough.
“Cowboy,” Nathan murmured sleepily against her shoulder. Obediently, she went to that night-light first. Snap.
Nothing.
She frowned, tried it again. No light magically illuminated the cowboy's cheery face. Bulb must be burnt out. She went to the night-light beneath it, the traditional clam. Click.
Still nothing.
Maybe a blown fuse? The police with all their spotlights and recorders, maybe they'd overloaded the system. She crossed to the dresser, Nathan's weight growing heavy in her arms. Two table lamps. One had a cactus as its stem, the other a bucking bronco. She tried both, fingers shaking slightly, breathing accelerated.
Nothing. Nothing.
Okay, lots of options. Plenty of options. What was the point of having a neurosis if you didn't do it properly? Nathan's room offered six night-lights, three table lights, and two standing lamps. The overhead light worked, which meant there had to be electricity to at least part of the room. She just had to find those outlets, get those lights humming.
She moved quicker now. Nathan was lifting his head from her shoulder, as if sensing her agitation.
“Mommy, lights!”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
The damn bear lamp didn't work. Two hundred bucks, she'd found it in Denver and mailed it home as a gift. The antique brass desk light, five hundred dollars from a tiny little shop on Charles Street, also out of commission. She moved to the standing lamps, halogen bulbs, the kind that illuminated the entire ceiling.
Nothing.
More night-lights now. Small little specks of radiance, topped with stained-glass images, or a red plastic Elmo, or a beaming Winnie-the-Pooh. They had to work. At least one or two or three. Dear God, something in the monstrous room had to break up the dark.
She was breathing too hard, panting really. Nathan pushed rigidly away from her body, arching his spine in growing distress.
“Light, light, light!”
“I know, I know, I know.”
Fuck the room. It was too big, too vast. What did two people need with a space this huge? She cradled her son close and bolted for his adjoining bath. Quick flick of the finger and she snapped on the overhead light, waiting for the white-tiled space to come brilliantly into view.
Nothing.
She clicked again. Then again. Hysteria was coming now. She could feel it bubbling up in her throat.
Nathan kicked in her arms. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, where are the lights? I want light!”
“I know. Shhh, baby, shhh.”
It came to her. His closet. The small walk-in space boasted two more sixty-watt bulbs. They could curl up on the floor, taking refuge in a puddle of illumination. It would get them through the night.
“Nathan, love, we're going to have an adventure.”
She rubbed his back, trying to calm him, as she whirled out of the bathroom and bolted for the closet. She rolled back the mirror-paneled door, reached in her hand, and found the switch. Click.
Light. Bright, brilliant, wondrous light. It flooded the scene, reaching glowing tendrils to each dark corner, shoving back the shadows. Lovely, lovely light.
Catherine took one look inside the closet, then she stuffed her hand in her mouth to muffle the scream.
They were there, in the middle of the floor, right where she would see them: every single bulb, from every single light. They'd been taken out, then arranged into one simple, three-letter word.
BOO
Catherine forced her son's face back down into her neck. She stumbled away from the closet. She careened down the hall, clambered down the stairs. In the foyer, she grabbed her coat, her purse, her car keys. Didn't look at the uniformed officer. Didn't bother to talk.
She burst out of the front door of the townhouse. “Light, light, light,” Nathan was sobbing.
But there was no light. She understood it better than anyone. Now it was just her and Nathan, alone in the dark.
Chapter
30
“Y
OU TOLD ME
you and your father had made a pact about drinking,” Elizabeth said. “I believe you mentioned an incident with him driving under the influence and that scaring him into sobriety.”
“I lied.”
“Do you lie often?”
Bobby shrugged. “For certain things, you need a ready explanation. Saying my father attacked my brother with a knife isn't an explanation I feel like giving. Besides, the DUI incident happened. It was one of my father's relapses—sobriety wasn't exactly a one-step plan for him. More like one step forward, two steps back. And around that time, I was having my own issues. So yeah, we made the pact.”
“I see. So you lied to me, but in your own mind, it was a lie containing the truth.”
“Something like that.”
“Uh-huh. And as a child, every time you had a bruise, I imagine you had an ‘explanation' for that. And every time your father couldn't attend a school function or embarrassed you in front of your friends, another ‘explanation,' which may or may not have contained a kernel of truth?”