Authors: Mary Chase Comstock
The calmness of her voice sent a
shiver down Manny's spine. Her face was absolutely serene. Her hands were
trembling, though: the only sign that this distinguished-looking woman had just
taken another's life.
He sat down in the visitor’s chair across
from her desk. “And then you called the police?” he asked.
“Yes. I just finished writing my
confession.” She hit a couple of keys on her computer and the printer at her
side whirred into action. She smiled weakly. “That way, there won’t be any
nonsense involving anyone else in the investigation.”
She took the page from the printer
tray and signed it. Then she pushed the document across the desk towards him.
He glanced at the words and saw a brief description of her motive, the story
she’d told Deirdre days ago.
“I’m glad you came up here,” she
said. “Tell Deirdre I’m sorry for everything she went through. I should have
killed the bastard twenty-five years ago.”
XXXIII.
All
alone now, Deirdre clutched the jacket Manny had left draped around her
shoulders like an embrace. From outside came the rising of the wind and a
spatter of rain. It was a good night for a storm, one that would cleanse the
sky and clear the air. She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil,
then set out a china pot and spooned in some chamomile tea.
At the back of
the cupboard, she spotted a bottle of sleeping pills that had been prescribed
for her a few ago. Her mind was spinning with ideas, her heart with emotions.
She knew she might never sleep unless she took one. She’d have to sleep if she
was going to be any good tomorrow, and there was so much to do. She’d have to
sleep if she was going to be any good tomorrow, and there was so much to do.
She glanced at the label—it wasn’t that far out of date. She shoot a pill into her
palm and downed it with a handful of tap water. As she recalled, these pills
worked quickly. Good.
She wandered to
the living room again. The message light on her answering machine was blinking,
but she ignored it. Panda could wait until morning. And there were classes
tomorrow–she'd almost forgotten, but she could plan those in the morning.
Instead, she pictured Manny standing at the door where she had last seen him.
Now, she indulged the fantasy that if she opened it again, he would still be
there. On a whim, she went to the door and threw it open. Only the wind rushed
in.
The storm
circled around her, and the raindrops flew against her face, fresh and cool.
Manny, of course, was gone. She had heard him drive off some time ago. But the
restive spirits of nature whirled in the door. The air was charged.
It was late,
but nervous energy coursed through her veins. What a change one day could
make!
She had opened her eyes and her
heart to the world, and she could already feel a new life blooming within her with
more purpose and intensity that any writing prize or offer of job security had
done.
As the wind and
rain whipped around her, the possibilities swirled through her mind. She didn’t
need to spend her life alone. She didn’t need to bury her despised treasure.
Stashing away her father’s money hadn’t made the nightmare go away, but,
strangely, using it for good had. From the kitchen came the shriek of the
teakettle. She pulled the door shut and went to silence it.
Later, sipping
tea drowsily, she took in the changes Mrs. Ruiz had made earlier in the day.
The woman was a wonder. She had not only cleaned, but reconfigured the
apartment as well. The armchair where Freemont Willard had sat not so long ago
now stood against the opposite wall. It was covered with a bright quilt she had
purchased a few years ago but had never used.
Her plants had been pruned to encourage new growth, and the smoke of
burned sage still hung vigilantly in the air.
She
had feared that the memory of what happened here last night would linger. Even
though her memory of the encounter was still fresh, the ghosts had been
exorcised. She leaned back against the cushions and pulled Manny’s jacket more
closely around her. She missed him. She missed what would have happened if
she’d stayed with him.
There would be
a time for love, though. She felt the future opening before her, beckoning like
a familiar, beloved dream. She’d led a cramped and fearful life—that’s all
she’d known how to do—but now she sensed a stretching of spiritual and emotional
muscles. It was a good and wholesome pain.
Although she
was getting sleepy now, ideas were still bubbling. Grabbing a notebook and pen,
she began to make a list:
Set up a
trust fund to help the displaced children of migrant workers, safe houses and
counseling for abused women and their children, cash to help them resettle.
Teach a writing class to heal emotional battering.
There was so
much she would do now. Make the money grow so she could continue to give–that
was the solution to that particular ghost. The hundreds of millions molding
away in various accounts would be let loose on a wounded world.
When she
couldn’t keep her eyes open a minute longer, she made her way to bed. Mrs. Ruiz
had remade it with fresh linens and turned down the blankets. Deirdre pulled
off her clothes and, for the first time in her life, slipped between the cool
sheets without wearing a long nightgown. She felt like a stranger in her own
bed.
Hugging the
pillow to her, she settled herself in the memory of Manny’s arms and the comforting
thrum of his heart. The fear of discovery, the fear of whatever Freemont could
do, had fled now that she knew she would not have to face the future alone. How
ironic that she’d kept herself isolated so long out of fear. It was the
connection with another person that had finally brought her freedom.
To the
comforting rhythm of rain, sleep wrapped itself about her and she curled into
it like a child.
In the lobby of
the theater, Mrs. Ruiz stood with the children waiting for Carlito to bring the
car around. The clear autumn day had faded into drizzle and now it was raining
hard. As the big Buick rolled around the corner, the children ran toward it and
jumped in the back seat.
“¡
Abrochen los cinturones de seguridad
!”
Carlito called back to them. Grumbling, they fastened their seat belts.
“Thanks,
Carlito,” she said. “These two, they never remember.”
“That is the
way of children. They remember popcorn and candy, but never what they are told.
You look tired, Rosa. The children are a trouble to you, no?”
She smiled.
“They come into my life, so they cannot be trouble. Just a blessing to drive me
a little crazy.”
“A troublesome
blessing." He glanced over at her and cleared his throat. "There’s
something else wrong? You did not pay attention to the film, I know.”
She shrugged.
“I kept thinking about a friend. She has troubles. I see danger, but now she’s
safe, I think.”
“This vision of
yours is a burden. You should go to the priest.”
She shook her
head. “Not a burden. Another blessing.”
“Maybe you
should ask God to bless someone else.”
She laughed.
“Maybe you want to volunteer?”
“Not this
simple man. Why don't you tell me what you are feeling. Maybe if you talk, it
won’t be so bad.”
“It’s probably
nothing. Just a lot going on lately. I know in my head that everything is all
right, but my heart keeps turning—like something’s wrong. It happens that way
sometimes,” she told him. “The vision isn’t perfect. Sometimes, I just get
messages about what
could
happen, not
what will.”
“And so you
worry?”
“That’s not my job.
I pray.”
Manny stood
outside the precinct office in the rain. Freemont Willard was dead, and now so
was Bess Seymour. How had he not known what was coming? He’d left her to get
Malone and before he’d reached the end of the hall, the gunshot came.
He should have
known she’d kill herself, too. She had been too calm when they spoke to be
anticipating arrest.
She was dying
anyway. Why would she trouble her last days with police and jails? Why else
would she have given him a message to deliver to Deirdre?
He’d made his
statement. Even though murder-suicides were tidy from a paperwork standpoint,
and this case had been further expedited by Bess’s confession, it was well
after midnight. He wanted to call Deirdre to tell her what had happened, but if
he woke her with news like this, she’d spend the rest of the night awake.
Who was to say,
though, that wasn’t the case already? He was in no hurry to go home. He could
spin by Deirdre’s and see if the lights were still on. He headed toward his car
and into the night.
XXXIV.
Deirdre was dreaming of the Sargasso
Sea. The water, blood-warm and thick with seaweed, pulled her down into its
suffocating depths. The sinuous strands slipped around her and she thrashed
silently among them, straining to swim upwards towards the light of the moon.
Unthinking, she tried to scream.
I’m dying. Manny, help me!
The best she could do was a thin, wordless moan.
Her
mouth filled with the slick tendrils.
She flailed
about clumsily, desperately, trying to signal to him, but again she sank.
The warm, clotted water closed silently over
her head.
Desperately pushing to break the green morass, she made a
final effort and found herself propelled up into the moonlight.
She gasped for breath in the silver
light, consumed with relief and grateful to be alive. Then she saw him coming,
walking toward her across the waves: her father, smiling. He reached for her:
Take my hands. I’ll save you.
She
couldn't move as he came closer.
Take my
hand. Come home with me.
His hand, with its perfectly manicured
fingernails, opened before her and she let her body go limp, sinking once again
under the blanket of waves.
Deirdre
dragged herself up from sleep,
groggy from the pill she’d taken, and the
air was thick with sleep.
What an awful dream.
The
clinging softness of seaweed, the taste of salt water, her father’s smile—it
had all seemed so fresh and real. Yet here she was in her room, safe and dry.
What time was
it?
She leaned over, trying to see the
luminous dial of her clock.
Then a wave
of panic swept over her.
Hair.
Both of her hands were
tangled in hair. This shouldn't be.
Around her feet and legs she felt the
cool shiver of sinuous strands, like a thousand twists of raveled silk.
Desperate now, Deirdre forced
herself to penetrate the fog of sleep. She had cut her hair off. How it had
come back to her?
Mrs. Ruiz had made the bed fresh today.
Everything had been fine when she’d slipped between the sheets. It was clear.
Someone had put the hair into her bed while she was sleeping. That someone was
here now.
It could only be Freemont. No one else
was so sick, so arrogantly sure of himself. But how? The lock had been changed.
Then she felt her stomach lurch. Had she locked the door after she came back
inside from watching the storm? The teakettle had whistled, she’d gone back in,
but had she locked the door?
She couldn’t remember. How could she be
so stupid? After everything that had happened, how could she not remember
whether she’d locked the door or not?
It didn’t matter now.
Steeling herself, she slipped silently
from the bed. She was naked, vulnerable. Hair clung to her bare legs like
sticky cobwebs. She swept it off in handfuls, then felt for the shirt and jeans
she’d taken off earlier and silently pulled them on. That was better.
She stood still and listened. Nothing.
Then, step by step, she advanced. Her
cell phone and gun were still in the living room. If she could get to either,
she would have some measure of control.
Slowly, she slid against the walls,
tracing the perimeter of each room. When she reached the bathroom door, she
thought briefly about locking herself in, but rejected it as more trap than
refuge. Was there anything she could use for weapon, though? She did a quick
mental inventory and almost laughed at the ridiculous notion of confronting
Freemont with a can of hairspray and a disposable razor.
Inch by inch she made her way farther
towards the front of the apartment. Then she froze as the floor creaked. Had it
come from her own footstep? She swallowed hard and waited, her heartbeat
marking the seconds. Still nothing but silence.
She ventured another step. Then another.
Noiselessly she made her way toward the living room. Only a few more feet and
she could get to the drawer where her gun lay hidden. Then she’d go for the
telephone.