Tainted (32 page)

Sitting in Henry's chair on his porch, looking out over the water, staring at the sailboats and the tankers and the buoys and the glistening sea, she still heard it. She couldn't get it out of her head. Even when she managed to get some sleep, she'd wake up and it would be there.

Lady Macbeth kept washing her hands; Holly kept hearing the song. Coldplay's “Fix You.” On an endless looping sound-track, accompanied by the image of Jack's body floating in the water in a pool of blood.

Five days had passed since it happened. Everyone kept telling her she had nothing to feel guilty about. She'd saved Katy from Jack. She'd had no choice. At breakfast this morning, Anna had even called her a heroine.

“Jesus, Holl. You never told me you knew how to use a gun. You never even told me you
had
a gun. You're a real-life heroine. Just think what would have happened if you hadn't figured out where Jack was, if you hadn't had the gun.”

“Shooting a human being doesn't make me a heroine.”

“It does when that so-called human being was going to kill Katy.”

“How do you think Katy is? I know she doesn't say much, but how do you think she is?”

“Quiet, like you said. It's hard for me to tell, I've only been here one night. But listen, there are good child shrinks in Boston. You have to get Katy to see someone. You really do.”

“I know,” she replied. “I've talked about it to Billy. I will. In a while. I just want her to settle back down in the environment she's used to. And at least she talks to Bones. Bones is here for her—he sleeps in her bed. I hear her whispering to him for hours every night.”

“I wouldn't call that healthy,” Anna remarked.

“Nothing's healthy.” Holly shook her head. “Nothing's healthy, Anna. But right now, I think Bones helps her. I know he does.”

Anna had given her a quizzical look then dropped the subject. An hour later, she'd offered to take Katy and Bones down to the beach.

“It's a beautiful hot day. A swim would be good for her. And you've got to let her out of your sight for more than a minute. You have to give her some space, Holl. You can't keep sitting holding her on your lap forever.”

“I know, but it's hard.”

“Let me take her to the beach. Please. That will be at least semi-healthy.”

“OK.” She knew Anna would keep pushing until she gave in. “OK. Thanks.”

As soon as they'd left the house, Holly had walked over to Henry's. Sat down on the deserted porch and wept.

“I remember once when I went to visit your grandmother in the hospital and she had just been having a talk with someone else there, another woman with cancer.

“Isabella said to me, ‘Henry, I know how hard this is for you. And I know how wonderful you've been. But no one really understands what it's like—they can't. Not unless they're going through the same thing. I can't tell you what a relief it was to talk to Sarah.'

“It made me realize, sweetie, that there are times when sympathy doesn't really do the trick. You need empathy. You need someone who really has walked a mile in your shoes.”

You're right, Henry, but how do I find someone else who has killed someone? Killed the husband she loved? And if I did, would it help? Really? And who could Katy find? What child has been through what she's been through?

Katy was alive. That's what she kept telling herself. Katy was alive. Holly had spent hours trying to explain to her what had happened: how Jack was sick, how he'd done bad things, but that didn't mean he hadn't loved her.

It was so confusing, all of it. Holly couldn't understand, so how could Katy? She asked so many questions, all of which Holly did her best to answer honestly without terrifying her. What she could never tell Katy was that Jack had tried to kill her. The look of fear and incomprehension and pain in Katy's eyes when she'd told her Jack was responsible for Henry's death was terrible enough. She couldn't go further, tear Katy's world apart any more than it had been torn already. Henry dead; the man she'd thought was her father dead.

And in the midst of it all, learning from Holly that Jack had lied and that Billy Madison was her father. Which of course meant that Holly, her mother, had lied to her too. The Explorer wasn't an explorer. The world Katy had lived in her whole life had been blown to smithereens.

“When you feel so tired but you can't sleep. Stuck in reverse . . .”

Katy was alive: that's all that mattered. She had time, years and years, to try and cope with the awful things life had thrown at her. Holly would take her to Boston, get her counseling. She'd do everything she could to help Katy through this.

But right now she couldn't move further than a walk to Henry's house. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time; she couldn't eat, either.

I killed Jack. I killed another human being. I know I had to but that doesn't change the fact that I killed someone.

Jack.

Why didn't you tell me about your past to begin with? Why did you murder Henry instead of leaving, taking off by yourself? And why, really why, did you take Katy?

Everything he said on that island was burned into her soul and yet none of it made sense. Did he love her? Had he ever loved her? If he loved Katy so much how could he possibly want to take her with him to oblivion?

Answer me, Jack.

People tiptoed around her. She didn't blame them. What could they possibly say? Friends of Henry dropped by to pay their respects. And left as quickly as possible. A few mothers from Katy's kindergarten came too, maybe to offer support, but it felt more as though they were there to gawp, driven by a gossipy desire to see a cause célèbre. But they never mentioned Jack. No one wanted to, no one could bring themselves to say his name.

Even the police had treated her with kid gloves. They knew Jack Dane had murdered Henry, they established that Jack had bought a knife at Walmart, they found the knife on the ocean floor, ten feet out. Billy and Holly's stories were identical; they knew, too, from Katy's short stay in the hospital, that she'd been given a sleeping pill and had had water in her lungs. Plus, of course, they'd delved further into Jack's past, read all about the killing of the twins. So they weren't going to make Holly go to jail or to trial. It was a clear case of a mother defending her child's life, a child who was in the hands of a self-confessed murderer, one who had already killed two children.

Billy was the only one who dared mention Jack's name. He'd come over a few times, sat down with her in the kitchen, had a cup of coffee. Katy stayed in the living room watching television, but he was good about not trying to push his way into her life. “She needs to get used to me,” he said. “I think she still believes Jack is her father. It will take time.”

“I know I should take her to see someone, a child psychologist.”

“It's only been a few days since—”

“I know. I can't do anything right now. I'm so tired, Billy.”

“I bet you are. And you'll do the right thing with Katy. She'll be fine, I know she will.”

“I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything.
I
need to see someone.”

“It would be a good idea, Holl. Listen, maybe we can all go together. But then the shrink would need to see a shrink. Way too much crazy information. Major overload.”

She almost smiled.

“Why didn't you tell me about the gun?”

“I don't know. Honestly. I don't know.”

“Thank God you had it.”

“Because of Henry. He gave it to me in case I ran over a deer on the road and had to put it out of its misery. He taught me how to use it.”

“Thank God.”

“I wouldn't have been able to—if he were any further away, I would have missed the second time too.”

“But you didn't.”

“No. I didn't.”

He never stayed long, but she was relieved to see him when he came. He hadn't killed someone he loved, but he'd been there with her; he'd been at her side from the moment they'd found Henry until the end. He
knew.

He knew and he didn't throw any of it back in her face; he never reminded her how stupid she'd been not to listen to him.

“
When you love someone, but it goes to waste, Could it be worse?
”

“Stop it!” Holly shouted, covering her ears as if the music were blaring from a speaker system on the porch. “Leave me alone!”

He was haunting her. In her dreams, in reality, all the time. Jack was always with her; fragments of conversations they'd had coming back to her, memories of the sex they'd shared, his body melting into hers; images of him alive and laughing, images of him dead, floating on the sea. And that song. That song.

Holly got up. The smell of Henry's pipe had been embedded in the chair; she breathed it in, trying to capture him.

Were you in pain, Henry? God, please, no. Please let it not have been painful. I love you so much. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry.

When she walked back home, she saw a car traveling down the road toward her.

Oh no, not a reporter. I can't take it.

The first couple of days had been a zoo. This wasn't just a local story, it was big news. Huge news, especially in England. The house phone only stopped ringing when she unplugged it. Hordes of reporters tore up and down the Birch Point Road and camped outside her house. She and Katy had had to hide inside until Billy got rid of them all. It was a private road, they were trespassing on private property. He set up a gate at the beginning of Birch Point, a gate with a lock, and made keys for all the residents. He also paid for a security guard to man it. They were no longer prisoners in their own houses, only on the Point. Billy had worked on that, too. He'd had neighbors do their food and essential shopping for them in town.

But whose car was this and what was it doing here? And why was it turning into her driveway?

It pulled in, stopped and a woman got out. She was tall, with silver hair; an older woman. Holly felt herself relax. This wasn't a journalist, probably a friend of someone on the Point who had gotten lost.

“Hello, can I help you?” she said as she walked up to her.

“I'm looking for Holly Barrett.” The woman shut the car door. She was wearing black linen trousers, a white blouse, a black linen jacket.

“I'm Holly Barrett,” she said, fear punching her in the stomach. The woman spoke in an English accent.

“My name is Eliza McCormack.” She put her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. “I'd like to speak to you about Thomas Grainger.”

Holly couldn't move, couldn't respond.

“I was Thomas's lawyer. I'd like to speak to you for a few minutes. I won't take up much of your time.”

“I don't know. I'm not . . . I'm not—”

“I know this must be hard for you, but I'd appreciate it hugely if you could just give me a few minutes of your time. Please?”

“All right.”

Holly walked up to the door, opened it, and Eliza McCormack followed her inside.

“Thank you very much,” she said as they went into the living room. “And what a lovely house you have. People these days spend so much money and time trying to put their stamp on a house. I think it's nicer if you let the house put its stamp on you.”

“Thank you.” Everything about this woman made her nervous.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“No. Please. Go ahead.”

“I don't mind.”

Those last words floating across the water just before she pulled the trigger.

Eliza McCormack sat in the armchair Henry had sat in when he'd come over the last time she'd seen him alive.

“Would you like some coffee or something?”

“No, no, thank you. I'm fine.”

Holly sat down on the sofa across from her. Eliza McCormack looked so chic and pulled together, Holly felt suddenly embarrassed by the fact that she wasn't wearing shoes, had on an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

“I should tell you. I came over from London to identify Thomas's body. I couldn't come immediately because of a case.”

“What?”

Identify his body? They knew it was Jack. Why . . .

“The authorities needed someone from England, you see. Someone who knew him in his original identity. And of course his parents weren't about to—”

“His parents?” Holly's hands flew up in the air. “What do you mean, his parents? His parents are dead.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes. Yes, I don't—”

“I see. But haven't you looked him up, read the cuttings? But of course not—you'd know if you had. His parents disowned him. Completely. It was dreadful, but, given those two, not unexpected. I'm surprised though. Don't you want to know?”

“Know what?” She could feel herself shriveling under this woman's intense stare.

“All about Thomas. His history.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Could you please stop saying that?”

“Saying what?” Her eyebrows arched.

“That word—‘mind.' ”

“I'm sorry, of course I will.”

“It was a private thing between Jack and me. I can't explain.”

“No need to. This must be so distressing for you.”

Holly nodded.

“And I know you haven't given any interviews. But I want to assure you that what we say here is strictly between us. I have no interest except a personal one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'd like to know what happened at the end. I understand it may be painful for you.” Eliza McCormack frowned. “And I don't want to cause you any pain. But I knew Thomas—Jack—well. He was . . .” She paused. “Special. Intelligent. Thoughtful. He used to say to me he could never have a ‘normal' life again, but I made him believe he could.