Authors: Susan Lewis
So we know you’re in Culver, Indiana, hiding away, pretending to the world that you’re Justine Cantrell, when you’re really Justine McQuillan. Lucky you finding an escape. There’s not one for the rest of us. We continue to suffer thanks to your son. We just hope that you’re suffering too.
“And it came to your current address?” Matt asked when she read it to him.
“Yes, it did. I don’t know how they found it, but I guess the publicity surrounding the rabbit rescue finally made its way to them.”
“Whoever they are. No clue from the ID?”
“It’s just a series of numbers from a Hotmail account. I’m going to guess it’s Melanie or Maddy.”
He didn’t disagree. “Forward it to me. I’ll see if I can find someone to trace the sender.”
And then what will we do?
Probably nothing.
Since she was sitting in front of her computer, she sent it right away, before closing the laptop down. “I take it you’ve been receiving the photos of Lula?” she asked. Why hadn’t he acknowledged them? What was wrong with emailing back to say how beautiful his daughter was?
“Of course. She’s beautiful,” he said. “I can hardly believe how fast she’s growing up.”
“She’s four now.”
“I know. I got the pictures of her party. Where was it again? The Lakeside Grill? Looks like you all had a great time.”
“We’d have enjoyed it more if you were there.”
Sighing, he said, “It’s not that I don’t want to be, you know that.”
“Do I? You could have come.”
“Yes, but then I’d have to leave again, and what would that be like for Lula? For us?”
Awful, but maybe better than not seeing him at all. They couldn’t go on like this; surely he realized that.
“I’m not visiting Ben this weekend,” he told her. “Apparently he’s sent the order to somebody else.”
Justine drew back, startled and immediately suspicious. “Who else would go to see him but you?” she demanded.
“He won’t tell me, but my best guess is he’s agreed to receive drugs or some other sort of contraband for a fellow inmate. It might even be for himself, because he’s seemed pretty spaced out the last couple of times I’ve been there.”
Hating that—her son, the drugged-up, bruised-faced, bloody-knuckled prison thug—she said, “Is he getting into any fights?”
“Some, I should think. He doesn’t tell me about them.”
“Then what does he tell you?”
“Other people’s business, mostly. Who’s picking on whom, how long someone’s been there, what they’re in for, whether they’ll ever get out.”
“Such edifying stuff. Have you told him we’re in touch?”
“I have, but he had nothing to say about it.”
As all the harrowing, conflicting emotions surrounding her son assailed her, she put a hand to her head. She had no idea what to read into his apparent dismissal of her, if there was anything to be read into it at all, so why was she trying?
“Are you still there?” Matt asked.
“Yes, I’m here. Do you still think he’s depressed?”
“Probably. Most of them are in there.”
“Did you hear anything back from the prisoner safety people?”
“Only to say they’re looking into it.”
Which didn’t sound very reassuring at all. “So what will you do at the weekend?” she asked.
He sighed. “I’m not sure yet. Hayley’s trying to persuade me to go to London for a change of scene; she thinks it’ll get my creative juices flowing.”
A weekend with Hayley, but not with her and Lula.
Knowing she was in danger of being unreasonable, she forced herself to sound light as she said, “Is she inviting you to stay with her?”
“I don’t think so, but let’s not go there, OK? We both know it won’t end well. Tell me more about the lake house. Judging from the photos it’s in a pretty sorry state.”
Forcing herself to go with the change of subject, she replied, “Yes, it is, and it’ll take a fortune to restore, if that’s what we decide to do. Mum says she’s happy to sign it over to us now, so it’s up to me and Rob what we do with it.”
“What does Rob want to do?”
“He can’t afford to put much into it, but he’s willing to sell me his share at current market value if I want to buy him out.”
“How much would that be?”
“I’m not sure. Given its position and the amount of land, it’ll be a sizable sum, and then I’d have to consider how much all the work would cost. It’s a very big house, Lula and I would rattle around like peas in a barrel, and with it being on the east shore, it’s a bit far from town.”
She hadn’t told him about the paintings yet, mainly because she was afraid—if they did turn out to be genuine—of how wrong it would seem for them to receive so much good fortune. A lake house
and
a cache of valuable artwork, when the result of Ben’s actions was still causing so much suffering. It might seem like their grief and punishment were over and the gods were smiling on them again. What a slap in the face that would be for the others. If there were a way of sharing the good fortune, she’d do it in a heartbeat, except what would that entail? Handing out a couple of paintings to each bereaved parent as though their monetary or investment value might make up for a house they couldn’t sell, dreams that had been shattered, a child they’d never see again?
“Isn’t Thanksgiving coming up?” Matt asked chattily.
“Next week. Sallie Jo’s parents are coming back to Culver tomorrow, so they’ve invited us to join them at their place on the lake.”
“Is it anywhere near yours?”
Startled by the “yours,” she said, “No, it’s much closer to where I am here, on the South Shore. It’s beautiful, old, another one of the originals, but obviously in a much better state of repair than May’s.” That felt better, May’s.
“So will it be roast turkey?”
“Of course, and at the weekend we’ve all of us, Sallie Jo’s family included, been invited over to Al Leith’s farm for a hog roast.”
“Al Leith your cousin?”
“Twice removed.”
“So you’re getting quite friendly with him?”
“Not really. We’ve spoken on the phone a couple of times since we met at the cottage, and he came into Café Max the other morning while I was having breakfast.”
“So he joined you?”
“And Sallie Jo. She was there too.”
“Is there a Mrs. Leith?”
“Not that we’ve heard any talk of. I guess we’ll find out when we go to the farm.”
“Has he met Lula yet?”
“No, but Daisy seemed to quite like him. There’s nothing much not to like. He’s very easygoing, considerate, good sense of humor.”
“Is this going to end in pistols at dawn?”
Unable not to laugh, she said, “I hope not, because I expect he’s a much better shot than you.” The words and their grotesque reminder of Ben’s skill smothered the humor like choking black clouds.
“I’ve been thinking,” she lied, because she wasn’t sure she’d been considering this at all, at least not consciously, “maybe I should write to Ben.”
Sounding surprised, and cautious, he said, “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“He told me he wouldn’t read it if I did.”
And why should she be allowed contact with her son when Gina, Melanie, and Maddy would never have contact with theirs again?
As though reading her mind, he said, “You can’t make a difference for anyone else, but you probably could for him.”
“In a positive way?”
“That’ll depend on what you write.”
She had no idea, couldn’t even think how she’d begin.
I won’t read it anyway
.
Maybe it would be easier to go and see him again, except that wasn’t going to happen, at least not anytime soon.
“Did I tell you that he gets quite a bit of mail?” Matt said.
She frowned. “Who from?”
“Fans, he calls them. Women, girls, who consider what he did to be macho, attractive, even heroic.”
“Oh God,” she groaned in disgust, though she knew very well that many mass killers received this kind of attention. “That is so sick.”
“Exactly what he says, but I think he writes back.”
“Maybe it’s one of them who’s visiting at the weekend.”
“It could be. I have no idea.”
Feeling queasy at the mere thought of Ben being allowed anywhere near a female who clearly wasn’t of right mind herself, she said, “I wonder if he’ll write back to me.”
“I guess you won’t know unless you write to him.”
“I’m not sure what I’d say. Tell me what else you talk about when you’re with him. Something to give me some guidance.”
“To be honest, there are long stretches when we don’t talk at all, just sit there like a couple of no-hopers waiting for the time to pass, but other times he’ll tell me about something he’s watched on TV, or a new kind of exercise he’s trying out in the gym. When he’s in the mood to wind me up he’ll tell me about fights, or attacks he’s planning. I don’t know how much of what he says is true, but I’m guessing from the black eyes and bruises that some is.”
Repulsed, she closed her eyes in hopeless despair. This was how his life was going to be, year in, year out, until he wouldn’t be able to live any other sort of life, even if they allowed him to come out.
And all the time Matt would be growing old in his self-imposed prison a mile away.
Unless he went to London at the weekend with Hayley.
“Prison’s a tough place,” Matt was saying. “I guess we have to feel glad he can take care of himself.”
Has he been raped?
She’d never ask, and couldn’t imagine Matt ever did either. For all they knew Ben’s savagery had turned him into a violator himself.
“Tell me,” Matt asked, “have the letters from your grandmother and mother helped you let go of some of the guilt?”
Sighing, she said, “I’m not sure. Sometimes I think so, but how can I ever feel anything but ashamed of what he did? How can you? It’s going to completely dominate my life, I know it is. You know, there are times when I envy the parents in our position whose sons took their own lives after going on a killing spree. At least they don’t have to tear themselves apart deciding whether or not to be in touch with them, what might be happening to them on the inside, if they’re ever going to get a chance at normal life again, which of course they aren’t. How do we carry on when we know he’s there, hanging around like some awful nemesis—OK, paying for what he did, but never,
ever
making up for it? And let’s not forget how he’s constantly standing in the way of us properly mourning Abby, the way she deserves.”
Very softly he said, “Let’s talk about something else.”
Wanting to, more than anything, she closed her eyes, needing time to shut out the angst, fear, loathing, hopelessness, and despair. Worst of all was knowing that in coming here she’d abandoned her son. Did Matt have any idea how much worse he was making her sense of guilt by staying and having regular contact with him?
In the end she managed to focus on Daisy, who was tossing around a squeaky hedgehog. “How’s Rosie?” she mumbled hoarsely.
Instantly sounding upbeat, he said, “She’s great.”
“Will you take her to London if you go?”
“Sure. We go everywhere together, don’t we, old girl?”
Easily able to picture Rosie’s adorable face as she enjoyed the attention, Justine said, “Except the prison.”
“No, she can’t go there, but we make up for it after by going for a long walk, or to an out-of-the-way pub where they allow dogs.”
Suddenly realizing she wanted the conversation to end, she said, “Will you let me know if you find someone to trace that email?”
“Of course.”
“And don’t worry about calling again. Maybe you’re right, it’s easier if we don’t talk.” She didn’t mean that, wasn’t even sure why she’d said it, except everything was feeling so mixed up and beyond her right now.
He didn’t argue, simply said, “We can always hope things will get better, maybe become clearer over time.”
Almost without thinking she heard herself murmur, “Hope is the thing with feathers,” and with a brief goodbye she put the phone down.
—
It was Thanksgiving Day morning. Justine and Lula were getting ready to go to Sallie Jo’s parents at midday, packing enough to stay the night in case the cold winds rushing in from the Arctic decided to bring in a blizzard. The temperature outside was well below freezing—around twenty degrees, Justine had heard on the TV. Figure in the wind chill and she was sure it was colder than she’d ever experienced before.
Thank goodness for a good furnace, a generous-sized woodstove, and reasonably small rooms, which weren’t difficult to heat. She just hoped Sallie Jo’s parents’ place wasn’t as drafty upstairs as she feared. To be on the safe side she’d packed extra sleeping bags for her and Lula, and even a little hot-water bottle for Daisy.
She was allowing herself to look forward to the day, for in spite of everything she’d lost and had been through she had plenty to be thankful for, and that was what the celebration was all about. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to feel sad and troubled again; to worry about Matt and Ben, Cheryl and where she might be, Simon and Gina, and all the others who were still trying to pick up the pieces.
Today she was going to be a lively, entertaining guest for Sallie Jo’s parents, who were as warm and friendly as their younger daughter, and who’d already gone out of their way to make her and Lula feel a part of their family. Angela, Sallie Jo’s sharp-eyed, energetic mother, who looked far closer to fifty than over seventy with her glamorous blond hairdo and peachy skin, had even made a point of setting time aside later in the day to tell Justine all she could remember about her “dear grandmother May.”
“We were none of us ever too sure about what happened back then,” she’d already confided, “which was why I didn’t want to get into conjecture when Sallie Jo rang. You can imagine, nothing like it had ever happened in Culver before, so in spite of what the police reports said everyone took to making up their own version of events…Some reckoned your uncle was a victim of the Ku Klux Klan and your grandma got in the way, and let me tell you, there were plenty ready to believe it, because the Klan were around this way back then, and not going after blacks, but Catholics. Others decided someone from Pennsylvania with a grudge had tracked them down and got his revenge…I actually heard someone say once that there was some sort of Satanic ritual involved. Well, of course, those of us who knew May knew
that
wasn’t true. She was the sweetest, sassiest, most level-headed woman with a saucy laugh you could wish to meet. Not that she socialized much; she usually preferred keeping herself to herself, and we hardly ever saw your uncle. Some people thought he had an illness of some sort, but of course no one really knew anything for certain, and they seemed to think it was more fun to make things up.”