The Witness: A Novel (66 page)

Jenny found his presence reassuring, because it reminded her of her time in witness protection, although she could leave the house if she wanted to. Sean MacKenna didn’t walk with her, trailing a dozen or more yards behind. “Best if I keep my eyes about,” he said, and he did. If she took a book with her and propped her feet on the bench in the arbor, he was in the area but not close enough to smell the honeysuckle. When she stopped at the duck pond, she could see his stocky form leaning against a tree, watching and waiting for her to move on. His eyes were never on her, peering instead over her head, around her, making a complete circuit and then beginning again. He rolled his own cigarettes, bending his ruddy face forward when he lit them and smoking them until the ash blackened his fingers. When the butts were cool, he placed them in a handkerchief in his pocket. He kept his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and in his hands, smoking was a tidy habit.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

C
olin’s weekend in Kent had passed quickly. When he left on Sunday, his mind was heavy with the memory of his conversation with Jenny about Scott. She had pressed him for information, not understanding how someone from a nice family could have so many crime connections.

“He was involved with drugs, Jenny. That subculture is peopled with unsavory characters. Drug raids often yield caches of weapons as well. Dealers and their henchmen are prepared to use them to protect their investment. He could have had contact with any number of persons who were willing to do anything for the right price.”

“Did drugs make him a rapist? And a murderer?”

“No, we believe that he was predisposed toward violence against women. We had a psychological profile prepared, so we knew a good deal about him before we knew his specific identity. A profile is an investigative tool, you understand. It can’t be used evidentially unless we can root out material to support it.”

“What did the profile say?”

“That we were looking for a man in his thirties, possibly late thirties, who had been abused as a child, either by his father or another male authority figure. He would have been angry at his abuser but envious of his power and stature. Somehow sex and violence became inextricably linked. As he grew, he modelled his abuser’s behaviour and discovered that violence empowered him. He felt rage at his mother, who likely knew and didn’t protect him. His sadism and need to dominate wouldn’t have led him to be successful with women in traditional relationships.”

She shook her head slowly. “It’s hard to believe that a father would do that to his own son.”

“We were never able to demonstrate it. Jenny, if Scott had sought help—instead of acting on his impulses—I would have every sympathy for him. When he injured someone else, however, he passed the point of no return. As far as I’m concerned, he deserves everything he gets.”

“Is he raping people in prison, do you think?”

“No, it’s likely they’re raping him. A sort of justice exists behind bars.”

“Will he ever stop coming after me?”

“I believe so. Prison has a way of settling a man.”

“I want to come home, Colin.”

“I know, Jenny.” There were flowers in bloom around them and clear skies above. He changed the subject and postponed telling her his decision as long as he could. It would take time for her image on the flyers to fade and for him to be convinced that this incident was a one-off.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

J
oanne was worried about Jenny. After Colin had left Sunday night, she’d brought her into the kitchen for a cup of tea and tried to comfort her. Jenny had asked about the times she was separated from her husband. Had she ever been afraid?

“Some of the countries where he was posted weren’t politically as stable as ours,” Joanne admitted, “but most of the time our only real enemies were the climate, the shortages, and the lack of consistent telephone service. There were times when I’m certain I would have been safer somewhere else, but I would never agree to go.”

“I’d rather be afraid with him than without him. I couldn’t make him understand that.” The tea was still too hot even to sip. Maybe she should stir it a few thousand more times.

“When conditions were less than ideal, we made do together. When we missed the children, we reminisced together. And we were never apart for very long. But Jenny—I was never threatened personally.”

“How did you stand it? When he died. If you’ll forgive my asking.”

Joanne gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes death is a release,” she said. “He was in such pain. Something better was awaiting him, and there came a time when I had to let him go.”

Joanne’s tea was almost gone. The milk she added to it must have cooled it. Jenny had not yet adopted that English habit. “You seem happy now. Does grief end?”

Joanne looked at her thoughtfully. Was Jenny grieving? “It eases; it never ends. I miss all the things we would have done together. But I have so many wonderful memories—we raised a family together, we had many years together. And we had time to say good-bye. That’s important, I think. Although his death still felt sudden when it came.”

“Time to say good-bye,” Jenny echoed. The tea was warm in her throat. Good-bye was the last thing she wanted to say, to Colin at least.

“In a way I am still connected to him,” Joanne continued. “I sleep on his side of the bed. I eat his favourite foods. I see that his son is happy, happier than he has been in years.”

Jenny didn’t even know what Colin’s favorite foods were. And she’d never slept in his bed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

D
aydream, Dr. Knowles had said, and her first daydreams were about Rob. Their lives had been so carefree! It seemed almost blasphemous now that they had referred to final exams and research papers as pressures. And he hadn’t included “‘til death do us part” in his promise to her. It hadn’t occurred to him—to either of them—that death would come between them. Perhaps she should say good-bye to him. She never had—his death had been so sudden, and afterward she had wanted to hold on to him, not let him go. So in her mind she wrote to him, a long letter, and when she finished, she was thankful that there was no notepaper for her tears to soil.

Of course the person who wrote the letter was her younger self, who no longer existed. She should say good-bye to her, too, to the innocent Jenny whose only pains had been growing pains and whose smiles had outnumbered her tears a hundred to one. For some reason this farewell was more difficult. Words were not enough. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed for her naiveté and her unmarred skin. Colin did not seem affected by her scars, but they were smaller on the outside than they were on the inside. The pain on the surface was gone.

Charming, gentle, loving Colin. She had dreamed of meeting someone like him—how cruel of life to send him to her when circumstances conspired to keep them apart! He wanted to do things
with
her, not to her. He’d begun to show her how he liked to be touched, and she’d discovered that sex, even her incomplete experience of it, was not all dark and intense. They’d laughed sometimes, and always he’d wanted to be sure that he was giving her pleasure.

Gradually she let her thoughts travel across the miles. If she were with him, what would she do? Kiss him so passionately that it would take his breath away! Then what? If she were in charge, where would she want him to kiss her? Where would she want his fingers to be? When would she stop him? No, this wasn’t supposed to be about stopping. She imagined that the breeze she felt, soft on her face and ruffling her hair, was his breath. His fingers were agile enough to undo her buttons and tender enough to make her flesh tingle. He had never hurt her. Hurt—wrong word, wrong thought. She started again, thinking, no, planning each stage. She felt a little more confident each time she saw him in her mind, caressing her, but she didn’t know if she could yield completely. No. Yielding implied that something wasn’t freely given. Would she ever be able to involve her body? Think it through, Dr. Knowles had said, but some things she’d just have to take on faith. Oh, she wanted
Colin’s
arms around her, not her own, and the tears that ran down her cheeks were cleansing ones, tears of longing because something deep inside her had softened and relaxed.

T
he flyers that appeared the following Tuesday had been reworded. “
Our daughter is still missing,”
they read.
“We are desperate. Please help us!”
The photograph of Jenny was the same, but an arrow pointed to her cheek with the caption,
“Small scar here,”
and another detail suggested that her hair might be shorter. Scott’s defence team was the likely source, but none of them acknowledged anything when questioned by police. The contact number led only to an untraceable mobile phone. In addition, they’d been unsuccessful in identifying the individuals who had posted them. You didn’t have to be a criminal to accept a quick fifty quid for an easy job like that.

Damn, Sinclair thought. She would not be able to come home at the weekend, and he would have to tell her. But not everything—not that this time bus shelters had been plastered with the bloody things as well as the train and tube stations. Last weekend had been difficult enough. She had been overjoyed to see him, but she had expected that they’d go home together on the Sunday, and when she’d heard him tell MacKenna to report back that evening, she’d known he would be leaving without her. They’d had a real row, Jenny not understanding his caution. He’d felt a right prick saying no, and the fact that he’d been correct in doing so was no consolation. She’d been in tears when he left.

The danger was twofold. Someone could see her and report where, and someone could see her with him. She hadn’t left a paper trail anywhere that he knew of, but he could be traced. If a link between them were suspected, she could never come home. For her own good he had to keep her away.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

J
oanne had been shocked by Colin’s news that a second round of circulars had been distributed—MacKenna as well—but Jenny most of all. “Something has to be done,” the taciturn MacKenna insisted, and Joanne knew that he expected her to figure out what it would be. She rang her vicar, explained about Jenny, and asked him to call by.

“Jenny, I’d like you to meet Father Rogers. Selwyn, this is my guest,
Jennifer Jeffries. I’m serving tea in the conservatory, Jenny. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

The table was already set. Sponge cake, fresh strawberries, sugar, clotted cream, all served on china plates. If Father Rogers were fed treats like this everywhere he went, no wonder his cheeks were round and his expression virtually jolly. All he needed was the red suit, and he would have been a perfect Santa.

She shook his outstretched hand and accepted the cup of tea that Joanne poured. While they made small talk, Jenny blew gently on her tea to cool it.

“Jenny, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ve told Selwyn a little about you.”

“What did you tell him?” The heat she felt spreading from her chest to her face burned more than her tea.

“Your history and the trials that are keeping you and Colin apart. I’ve wanted so badly to help you, and I’ve felt so inadequate. Jenny, I trusted him to bury my husband. You can trust him. I’ll leave you now.”

Jenny watched her go, not knowing which was worse, the shock or the shame. She looked down. Her hands still held the teacup, but she couldn’t feel it. If Father Rogers spoke, she didn’t hear him. “Are you going to talk to me about God?”

“If you’ll allow me, yes. If you prefer, I can help you talk to God.”

“I have a psychiatrist. I don’t need to talk to God.”

Rogers nodded. “A good psychiatrist can accelerate emotional healing. That’s a very positive thing to be doing.”

“But not sufficient.”

“In my view, no. A psychiatrist uses words and feelings. Sometimes God speaks to us with words, but more often he responds with gifts that are more lasting—hope, peace, and love.”

“Well, he hasn’t sent me any of those!” she said angrily. “I’ve struggled for months, and the only difference is, now I get to do it all by myself!”

Father Rogers ate another strawberry. “Jennifer, do you believe in God?”

She raised her chin. “I think God would call me Jenny.”

“He calls you Beloved,” Rogers answered. “Do you believe in Him?”

His gaze was disconcerting. His glasses had no rims, and she felt he could see her far too well. “I guess so. Everyone says I should, because I didn’t die.”

“That’s right. God has power over life and death. He is very powerful—powerful enough to break the chains that bind us to the past, powerful enough to create freedom from fear, powerful enough to bring good out of evil.”

“Franklin Roosevelt used that phrase,” she said slowly. “Freedom from fear. I read a book about him recently.”

“I don’t believe it’s a coincidence then that I used it today. God is very serious about communicating with us.”

“What is He trying to tell me?”

“That it is possible to live a life free from the bondage of fear. Love is the answer. Love God and trust that He loves you. He created you, and He loves you. And when you love someone, you always hope that they’ll love you back, don’t you?”

Oh, yes. Colin in particular.

“There is a corollary, forgiveness, because love and forgiveness go hand in hand.”

She shook her head. “Forgive and forget the monster who attacked me? No!”

“Jenny, I will never, ever ask you to forget. I will encourage you to remember and yet to forgive. Your forgiveness doesn’t excuse his behaviour; it doesn’t endorse it. It doesn’t affect his healing, but it does affect yours. It will remove the power your abuser still has over you and bring you peace.”

“I can’t do this,” she said, unable to restrain the tears. “As Faulkner said, ‘The past isn’t dead. It’s not even past.’ He is still trying to kill me. There is no way I can do this.”