Remember Me (24 page)

"The master bedroom's closet is plenty big," Mrs. Parish said. "That's my daughter's room. I'd be happy to show it to you."

Garrett smiled, showing a trace of discomfort. "Maybe I should go myself. I'm afraid all that coffee I drank has gone straight to my bladder. If you ladies will excuse me for a minute."

"There's a bathroom in the hall," Mrs. Parish said.

Garrett waved aside her suggestion as he turned and started off. "I'd like to see if Amanda's room is the same room as mine."

"He wants in her bedroom," Peter said.

I nodded as Mrs. Parish sat back down. "And he wants to be alone," I said.

"Let's follow him."

We barely got into the room before he closed the door. He didn't even bother with the bathroom. He flipped on the light and quickly scanned the gray carpet.

Then he strode to die closet door and flung it open, getting down on his knees and examining the soles of the three pairs of shoes that sat beneath the hems of Amanda's clothes. He didn't appear to find what he was looking for. Staying on his knees, with his nose in the carpet, he turned and carefully made his way across the floor to the bed. There he pulled up the corner of the bedspread.

A pair of white Nike tennis shoes lay under the boxspring.

"He's studied everybody's shoes that he's talked to," Peter said, thoughtful.

Garrett picked up one shoe and turned it over, tracing the sole with the tip of his finger. A fine orange chalk caught at the edge of his nail. I recognized the color.

I had seen it on the roof of Beth's condo.

"Wait a second," Peter said. "Isn't that the chalk Garrett found on the carpet in Bern's living room?"

"That bitch," I swore. "She pushed me off the balcony and then went over the roof!"

Garrett didn't have to hear me. He knew what was what.

He must have suspected such a scenario from the beginning; that was why he had drawn the crisscrossing lines on his diagram between the wall that separated the kitchen from the bedroom, a few feet behind where I had been on the balcony.

He stood and carried one shoe into the bathroom. He wrapped it in wads of toilet paper.

"He's preserving the evidence," Peter said.

"That bitch," I said again, my fury knowing no bounds.

"But why would she kill you?" Peter asked.

When Garrett had the shoe completely covered, he took it to the window and threw it into a bush at the side of the house. Then he straightened the bed—

leaving the other shoe where he had found it—and returned to the living room.

He was an amazing actor. He looked as natural as ever. But he made no move to rejoin the ladies at the table for more coffee.

"That room could have been mine," he said. "I guess that's how it is with tract houses, and I mean that as a compliment." He smiled. "Go into a neighbor's around here, and you can always find the bathroom.'' He took a step toward the door. "I promised to be brief, and now I must go.

Thanks for your time."

"Nice meeting you," Mrs. Foulton called out, a bit puzzled.

"Let me see you out," Mrs. Parish said, hurrying to the door.

"Do you know when Amanda will be back tonight?" he asked casually as he stepped onto the porch with Peter and me.

"She's spending the night at a friend's," Mrs. Parish said.

"With Joanne?" he asked.

Mrs. Parish hesitated. "No. She's at another friend's."

He glanced at his watch. "I'd like to talk to her tonight if possible. I have a couple of small questions I'm sure she could clear up for me. Would you know where I can reach her?"

He asked the question with an air of complete nonchalance, but Mrs. Parish was suddenly alert. He was inquiring about her daughter, she must have realized, and policemen did not normally spend a lot of time investigating suicides. Despite what she knew, she must have still thought of Amanda as her child. Mrs. Foulton had probably told her the truth too late, when Amanda was hers for good or bad.

"No, I'm afraid not," she said.

He caught her eye. "She wouldn't, by any chance, be at her boyfriend's house?"

She did not flinch. "No. They've gone out of town for the week."

"I see." He handed her his card. "Well, please have Amanda give me a call at this number when you see her.

Thanks again for the coffee."

Mrs. Parish smiled tightly. "It was nice of you to stop by."

She had no sooner closed the door than Garrett dashed for the side of the house. He reappeared a moment later with the shoe in his hand and ran to his truck. Pulling open the door, he put a foot up on the floor near the clutch, took out his notepad, and grabbed his cellular phone.

"He's dialing my number!" I exclaimed.

"Mrs. Parish didn't fool him," Peter said. He added a moment later, "He's getting a busy signal."

"We have call standby on our phone," I said, my anxiety growing in leaps and bounds.

"You never get a busy signal unless the phone's off the hook."

Garrett threw down the phone and reached for his CB.

"Ten-forty, this is Garrett," he said into the receiver.

"Ten-forty, over," a voice cracked with static.

"Code sixteen. Send the two nearest available units to three-four-two-nine Clemens.

Cross streets Adams and James. Repeat, code sixteen. This is an emergency. Locate and restrain Amanda Parish. Over?"

"Ten-forty, copy. Two units to three-four-two-nine Clemens. Code sixteen.

Restrain Amanda Parish. Over."

"Out," Garrett said, hanging up the receiver and climbing in.

"Quick, let's get in the back," Peter said.

"No!" I cried. "It's twenty minutes to my house from here. We've got to get there now!"

"Jim's in no danger," Peter said. "Amanda won't hurt him."

"She killed me! She's crazy! God knows what she could do!"

Garrett started his truck.

"If you don't go with Garrett, you'll be stuck," Peter said.

I couldn't think. I had to go by my gut feelings. I knew Peter was wrong. Alone with that witch, Jimmy was in grave danger. It was almost as if God himself was telling me that my brother needed me. Garrett began to pull away.

"Oh no," I moaned.

Peter touched my arm. "If you're worried, Shari, I can beam myself there and return in a few minutes and tell you what's happening."

"No! I have to go with you!"

Garrett laid down rubber as he raced up the street. He was worried, too.

"Why?" Peter asked.

"I don't know why!" I shouted. "Look, I have a mental block against ending up as part of a piece of furniture, all right, but I think I can fly. I was never afraid to go up in planes. What do I do?"

"Did you ever see the Superman movies?"

"Yeah, all of them. I saw Supergirl, too."

"Good. Just recognize the fact that you are Supergirl. You can do anything, and nothing can be done to you. Your arms can propel you on the breeze faster than any set of wings.

Close your eyes, Shari, and let yourself float into the air.

Don't concentrate, don't strain. Simply desire the ability. It is easier to fly than it is to walk."

I closed my eyes and did as he suggested. Nothing appeared to happen. "It's not working," I complained a minute later.

"Open your eyes, Shari," he said.

I did so. I almost gagged. I was ten feet off the ground!

'You're safe," Peter said quickly, floating up by my side.

"You're not going to fall, and even if you do, you won't get hurt. Trust me. Trust yourself.

Look around you. See, you can fly."

"Do I have to flap my arms to get going?" I asked, shaking my hands in the air like a tar-soaked pelican.

"Does Supergirl?"

"No." I raised my arms over my head and held them firm.

'Let's haul ass," I said. "Warp eight."

CHAPTER

XVI

Y ANXIETY RUINED my first experience of flying, and that was a pity. It should have been a glorious moment. We rose up rapidly to about a thousand feet and then turned toward my street and let rip. Direction and speed seemed to be purely a function of will, and my desire to get there was overpowering. We flew like mad witches on burning brooms.

The houses and yards raced beneath us in a blur. I felt no wind in my face, only the fear in my heart.

One thing I did notice, however, was that the city looked much brighter from high up than it did on the ground. I was reminded of the time I had returned to Southern California on a night flight, how easy it had been to identify the cars moving in slow motion up and down the square map of roads, to spot the miniature people walking the paper-thin sidewalks and even tell what color clothes they wore. Yet now plasmatic auras of violet and red drenched the neighborhood, shifting lazily from one end of the rainbow to the other as the thoughts and feelings of those beneath us waxed and waned over the spectrum of love and hate.

Even from high above, I could feel Amanda's hate. Or perhaps it was another dimension of my Shadow, my own hate for her closing in on me. Despite all I had learned and seen, I wished to God someone would choke her to death so I could get ahold of her and choke her some more.

I saw the smoke pouring out of my chimney from far off. It made no sense. It was summertime.

My window was open. We swooped into my room like gods of vengeance. But we had sacrificed our thunderbolts for wings when we died. We were here, but so what? What could a thousand angry ghosts do against one insane mortal?

We found Jimmy downstairs in the living room with Amanda.

They had a regular blaze going in the fireplace. The lights were all off. It looked as if Amanda had had Jimmy carry in half my family's winter supply of logs from out back. They were lounging together on the cream carpet in front of the flames, with Amanda sitting up on her knees and Jimmy resting on his back on a bundle of brown pillows. They appeared tired but relaxed.

They had on white bathrobes, nothing else.

"He looks like he's doing all right," Peter said.

"No," I said, pointing to a partially eaten chocolate cake and a largely empty bottle of red wine resting on the nearby coffee table. "She's been feeding him that junk."

"So what?" Peter asked.

"He's diabetic. She knows that. I don't like this."

"Don't panic. Garrett will be here in a few minutes."

We didn't have to listen long to learn that a few minutes would be too long.

"Would you like some more cake, Jimmy?" Amanda asked, reaching for the big knife near the dessert tray.

"No, I better not," Jimmy said, his voice drowsy. "I'll get sick."

Amanda made a long face. "That's not saying much for my baking, is it?"

He smiled and reached up to touch her long hair. "You're so beautiful."

She continued to hold the knife in her hand. "But you can't eat me."

"Oh, I don't know," Jimmy said. "I could try."

Are you sure you don't want another piece? It'll go to waste."

Jimmy let go of her hair and put his hand over his tummy and groaned. "I'm sure. How come you don't have some more? You hardly touched that piece you cut."

"I never eat cake. It has a bad effect on me. The last time I ate cake was the time Shari made me."

Jimmy blinked. "When was that?"

"The night of the party."

"But why does cake have a bad effect on you?" he asked.

Amanda slowly set down the knife and turned and faced the fire. "For the same reason it bothers you."

Jimmy stared at her profile, which must have been difficult for him; his eyelids were half-closed. "You know I'm diabetic?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?" Jimmy asked.

"Shari told me," Amanda said.

"She did?"

Amanda nodded. "But I knew anyway. I could read the signs."

"You're diabetic too?" Jimmy asked, confused.

"Yes." Amanda tugged softly on the ends of her hair, her face warm in the glow of the fire. "We have that in common."

"She never told me." He was dumbfounded. "Why did you tell her?"

"She caught me giving myself a shot of insulin,'' Amanda said. "She tried to pretend like she didn't know what I was doing, but she did. She knew all kinds of stuff." Amanda shrugged. "I went along with it. For as long as I could."

"But I didn't know," I cried. "Peter, she's wrong.'"

"Shh," Peter cautioned. He was getting worried.

"She never told me," Jimmy repeated.

"She would have," Amanda whispered.

"What?" Jimmy asked.

Amanda turned toward him. "She was a funny girl, Shari. She and Jo. They used to give people nicknames. Do you know what Shari used to call my mother?"

"Mother Mary. She didn't mean anything by it."

"Oh, I thought it was a perfect name. Mother was always saying the rosary. Did you know she would sometimes pray in the middle of the night? Mother would think I was asleep, but I could hear her right through the wall. Praising the Blessed Virgin and asking God to forgive her for her sins."

Amanda chuckled softly. "Her sins and mine. I used to listen to her sometimes.

I told you that I'm a virgin, didn't I, Jimmy?"

My brother shifted uneasily, sluggishly. Amanda had probably tricked him into drinking most of the wine. I hated to think what his blood sugar level must be.

"The way I feel right now," he said, yawning. "I think you'll still be one tomorrow."

Jimmy sat up with effort. "It's late. We should get to bed."

"It's only ten o'clock," Amanda said.

"I have to get up for work tomorrow."

Amanda put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him back down. "No you don't,"

she said sweetly. "You’re not going anywhere."

"She's going to hurt him," I moaned.

There was evil in the room. A perceptive mortal might have sensed it, but I could see it.

The astral barbed wire from the addict's den was growing in the ether, hanging from the rafters like red and black celebration threads strung for a party in hell.

"Garrett's coming," Peter said, dropping all pretense that the situation was not critical. He could see the blossoming decadent products of Amanda's mind as well as I could.