“That’s better.” He returned to his previous position at the foot of the bed. “Hey, maybe there’s a Chuck Norris movie on we can watch.” He began zapping through the channels, although there wasn’t much choice, and he quickly found himself back at CNN. “Cheap bastards. What kind of motel doesn’t even carry TNT?” He laughed. “Things’ll be better tomorrow. We’ll get us a fresh infusion
of cash tomorrow, then we can head for the nearest Ritz. No more of this shit.”
“How?” Jamie wondered, dropping her cheeseburger to her lap when she realized she’d spoken the word out loud.
Brad winked back in her direction. “You let me worry about that. How you making out with that burger?”
Once again Jamie lifted the Big Mac to her mouth, forcing herself to chew even as her taste buds grew numb. With any luck, the numbness would spread to her entire body. With any luck, the numbness would overtake her soul.
She closed her eyes, leaned back, felt her body sway, as if she were still in the passenger seat of her car. They’d driven more than six hours today, stopping only once, outside of Williamsburg, for gas, and so that she could use the bathroom. Brad had actually gone inside the bathroom with her, standing just outside her stall, like that deranged derelict in Florida on the first day of their trip. How long ago had that been? Jamie wondered. A lifetime ago, she thought.
Laura Dennison’s lifetime ago.
“Oh, God.”
“What’s the matter?” Brad asked impatiently. “You aren’t gonna be sick again, are you?”
Jamie shook her head, took another bite of her Big Mac, as if offering proof of her stomach’s newfound stability.
“Well, thank Christ for that. Don’t think I could take any more of that nonsense.”
She’d thrown up three times since they’d left Dalton, once just outside of Knoxville, where Brad had barely managed to get the car over to the side of the road in time, and again as the car was mounting the steep uphill
grade of the highway that had been cut right into the side of Pine Mountain, not far from the Tennessee-Kentucky border. That time Brad hadn’t even bothered to pull the car over, reasoning, correctly, as it turned out, that there was nothing left in her stomach to worry about. He told her then that he thought she was doing it on purpose, and that the sound of her retching was starting to get on his nerves. Jamie laughed in disbelief, a derisive snort that escaped her lips before she had time to censor her reaction. That was the first time he hit her, the back of his hand catching the side of her head, causing a series of vibrations, like shivers, to shoot between her ears. She cried out, and he hit her again, this time splitting her lip. He told her that if she made any more noise, he’d snap her neck like a twig, then ditch her body at the side of the road.
She was quiet after that.
At Berea, population 9,200, they passed the first of half a dozen police cars they were to see that day, and Jamie held her breath, as she did each subsequent time a state trooper came into view, praying one would pull them over. But Brad stuck resolutely to the speed limit, and her tires stayed stubbornly full of air, and so the police took no notice of them. They drove past the exits for Lexington, population 241,800, Georgetown, population 11,400, and Florence, whose population was too small to consider noteworthy, despite its enormous water tower with the words
FLORENCE Y’ALL
printed in huge letters across it—until they reached Cincinnati, population 1,820,000. “Almost there,” Brad said, announcing, with something approaching glee, that Dayton was a mere half hour drive away. Which was when Jamie threw up the third time. This time Brad waited until he’d checked them into a
rundown motel just south of Middleton, population 46,000, to hit her again.
Jamie lowered the food to her lap, brought her fingers to her mouth, gingerly patted the spot where he’d hit her. No one had ever struck her before. Not her mother. Not Tim Rannells. Not even Mark Dennison.
“Stop playing with your lip,” Brad told her, although she hadn’t seen him turn around. “You’ll make it bleed again.”
Jamie dropped her hand as Brad crawled up the bed to her side.
“Here,” he said, leaning his head toward her. “Let me kiss it and make it better.”
Jamie held her breath as his lips touched hers, burning into her bruised and tender flesh, like acid.
“You finished your dinner?” he asked, checking inside the paper bag.
“I can’t eat any more, Brad,” she cried softly. Please don’t make me eat any more, she begged silently.
“That’s okay, Jamie-girl,” he said soothingly. “Looks like you did a pretty good job for somebody who said she wasn’t hungry.”
Jamie nodded gratefully. She’d done a pretty good job. He was happy with her.
“You know what I think you should do now?” he asked suddenly.
Jamie shook her head, afraid to ask what.
“I think you should call your sister.”
“My sister?”
“You told her you were gonna call her in a few days, and I think you should do that.”
“You want me to call my sister?” Jamie repeated in disbelief.
“Well, she’s probably heard the news about that old bitch in Atlanta getting her head bashed in, and we don’t want her getting any funny ideas, now do we? So I think you should call her, set her mind at rest.” He reached for the phone, handed it to Jamie. “Tell her … tell her you’re in Savannah—that’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to go—and that you’re having the time of your life. Go on,” he directed, grabbing the phone from the end table and dropping it in her lap. “I think you gotta press eight or nine first for an outside line.”
Jamie slowly lifted the receiver and dialed her sister’s number, pressing the phone tight against her ear. What could she say to her? she wondered. How could she begin to tell her the kind of trouble she was in?
“Remember I’m hanging on your every word,” Brad warned, extricating the knife from his side pocket and waving it lazily back and forth as he snuggled up against her.
The phone was picked up as it was beginning its second ring. “Hello?” a tiny voice chirped.
A press of a button. The blade of a knife.
“Melissa?” Jamie asked, her eyes welling at the sound of her three-year-old niece’s voice.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s your auntie Jamie, honey.”
“Who
is it?”
“It’s Jamie,” Jamie repeated, louder this time.
“Who is it, Melissa?” she heard her sister ask in the background.
Maybe if she started screaming, Jamie thought. Except that once she started screaming, she knew she’d never stop.
Until he stopped her.
The way he’d stopped Laura Dennison.
“Melissa, let me speak to your mother,” she said sharply.
“Hello?” Cynthia said in the next second.
Jamie pictured her sister in the middle of her spotless kitchen, a law book in one hand, a recipe book in the other, little Tyler perfectly balanced on one hip, Melissa playing happily at her mother’s feet.
“Hello?” Cynthia said again. Her tone said she didn’t have time for games. “Hello?”
“Say hello to your sister, Jamie,” Brad whispered.
“Cynthia, it’s me.”
“Jamie? Jamie, where are you? Todd, it’s Jamie.”
“Where is she?” she heard Todd bellow.
“Where the hell are you?” Cynthia repeated. “We’ve been worried sick.”
“Tell her you’re in Savannah,” Brad directed, his hand covering the receiver. “Tell her you’re fine.”
“Everything’s fine, Cynthia. I’m in Savannah.”
“Savannah? She’s in Savannah,” she heard Cynthia tell her husband. “Thank God. We’ve been so worried. I didn’t know what to think, especially after … Have you been watching CNN?”
Brad nodded.
“Yes,” Jamie said, following his lead. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“We didn’t know what to think. I mean, obviously I never believed you had anything to do with what happened to Mrs. Dennison, but you’d been acting so strangely lately, quitting your job and taking off the way you did, and I know how much you hated that woman, and then not
hearing from you, well, let’s just say I’m really glad you called. When are you coming home?”
Brad shrugged.
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?”
“Another week or two,” Brad whispered.
“Another week or two,” Jamie mimicked.
“A week or two? Jamie, what’s going on?”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Please promise me you didn’t get married again.”
“What?”
“We both know how impulsive you can be. I’m just hoping you learned your lesson after the last time.”
“I didn’t get married again.” The conversation was becoming surreal.
Brad put a hand over his mouth, in an effort to keep from laughing out loud.
“You swear?”
“Goddamn it, Cynthia …”
“Okay, good enough. She didn’t get married,” Cynthia told her husband. “So, what are you doing exactly? Are you alone?”
“You’re with friends,” Brad mouthed.
“I’m with some friends.”
“What friends? You don’t have any friends.”
Oh, God, thought Jamie. This would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.
“Tell her you have to go,” Brad said, making circle motions with his knife, signaling her to speed things up.
“I have to go now, Cynthia,” Jamie told her sister.
“Wait! Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“You promise?”
“I’m fine, Cynthia. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Oh, sure. Like that’s ever gonna happen.”
“Give my love to the kids, and give Todd a really big, sloppy kiss for me.”
“What?!”
“I love you.”
There was a pause. Jamie could almost see the confusion on her sister’s face.
“I love you too,” Cynthia said.
“I’ll call you in a couple of days.” Jamie quickly hung up the phone, her heart racing.
“Good girl,” Brad said.
Jamie nodded, wondering if Cynthia had understood her pitiful cry for help. Surely she would know that the last thing Jamie would ever advise her to do was give her husband a big, sloppy kiss, even if she liked the man. It wasn’t much, but along with the equally uncharacteristic expression of sibling love, it might be just enough for Cynthia to twig to the fact that something was indeed terribly wrong. Was it enough to have her call the police, alert them to the possibility her sister was in some kind of trouble, that they should be on the lookout for an old blue Thunderbird? Jamie tried imagining the conversation between Cynthia and her husband.
That was peculiar
, she heard Cynthia say.
And that surprises you?
Todd asked in return.
This is your sister we’re talking about, remember?
She just told me to give you a big, sloppy kiss
.
She’s probably been drinking
, her brother-in-law said, dismissing his wife’s concerns.
She told me she loves me
.
For sure, she’s been drinking
.
Yeah. I guess you’re right
, she heard Cynthia agree.
God, do you think she’s ever gonna get her act together?
Jamie closed her eyes. Her sister wouldn’t be calling the police. Instead she’d finish feeding her husband and children their dinner, then she’d tidy up some legal work from the office, maybe return a couple of phone calls, then read for a while before going to bed. Maybe she and Todd would make love, maybe not. Maybe she’d wonder about her older sister for a few minutes before drifting off to sleep. Probably not. Thinking about her big sister was too frustrating, too exhausting. It was the stuff of nightmares.
She’s not your problem
, she heard Todd say as Brad returned the phone to the end table beside the bed.
“So, what’s the problem, Jamie-girl?” Brad was asking now. “Feeling a little homesick?”
Jamie stared up at the man standing beside the bed. She watched him as he raised his arms high in the air above his head in a protracted stretch, the knife a natural extension of his hand, as if it were part of his flesh, an extra finger. “Who are you?” Jamie asked, the question escaping her mouth on a sigh. She shuddered, bracing herself for the back of his hand.
Instead Brad laughed. “What kind of question is that?”
“You never designed any software, did you?”
He laughed louder. “I don’t know a goddamn thing about software.”
“And there’s no computer company.…”
“That I sold for a vast fortune? No, ’fraid not.”
Jamie nodded acceptance of what she already knew. “Is your name even Brad Fisher?”
“Well, the Fisher part’s real. I borrowed the Brad from Mr. Pitt. Didn’t think he’d mind. Pitt,” he repeated. “Terrible last name. Can’t understand why he didn’t change it. Sounds like something you spit out.” He snapped the knife closed, returned it to the pocket of his jeans.
“What
is
your name?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess,” Jamie said. What difference did anything make anymore?
“Ralph’s the name on my birth certificate,” he told her, staring at his reflection in the mirror on top of the dresser across from the bed. “Same name as my father.” He ran a hand through his short-cropped, brown hair. “Always hated that name. I’m
Brad
Fisher now. New name. New haircut. New girl.”
“Those things you told me about your father,” Jamie began, ignoring his last statement and emboldened by his unexpected willingness to talk.
“What about them?”
“Were any of them true?”
“You mean about the time I took Miss Carrie-Leigh Jones out for a spin in my dad’s new car?”
Jamie nodded, watching Brad’s hands form fists at his side.
“Yeah. That one’s true.”
“He beat you?”
Brad said nothing, although the face in the mirror grew dark.
“What about your mother?” Jamie asked.
“What about her?”
“Did she ever try to stop him?”
“Oh, yeah.” Brad laughed. “And she’s got the scars to prove it.”
“He beat her too?”
“It was kind of what you’d call a family tradition.”
“What about your sisters?”
“I never had any sisters,” Brad admitted with an amused shake of his head. “That story I told you about them teaching me how to kiss? Well, I got that out of some magazine interview with our boy, Tom Cruise. Can’t tell you how many times that story got me laid.” He laughed. “Anyway, Tom’s the one with the sisters. Me, I had a little brother.”