Lost Girls

chapter 46

Helen Arthurs, widow of Duncan Arthurs, did exactly as she agreed she would do. The day after our meeting Goodwin called to tell me that significant new evidence had been discovered washed up on the shore of Lake St. Christopher by a permanent resident with ''considerable credibility within the community'' and would I consent to its being sent to Toronto for high-priority DNA testing or would a motion before Justice Goldfarb be required? With some obligatory grumbling my consent was granted. The trial was adjourned, the jury advised to speak to no one regarding the substance of the case for the duration of their time away from court, et cetera, et cetera. Then we waited. Snow fell, melted, fell again, melted, and on the third falling stayed on the ground with a look of serious intentions about it. I spend the better part of my time lying in the honeymoon suite's bed reading back issues of Elle and Vanity Fair borrowed from the Murdoch Public Library and gingerly drinking myself to sleep. In the mornings I write down what I remember of my dreams from the night before. In time I start to see all the characters as messengers.

On the fourth day I decide to go for a drive. North, past the side road to the lake, Bishop's Hospital, the last McConnell Auto Stop. The air bracing and loud as the sea in my ears, crashing in through the missing front windshield.

Into the wilder place where there are no longer any signs promising the arrival of another town so many miles down the road. Nothing but the narrow pavement cutting through the trees, skirting bog, working out a short-term lease with everything around it.

Stop for a lunch of tortilla chips and coffee at a gas station with a startling collection of international porn for sale alongside the cigarettes and spark plugs. Head north again. The sun not so much lowering as fading away entirely.

Then I see it. Something up ahead in the road.

I slow well before I reach it and pull over onto the gravel shoulder. A deer. Its hips knocked from their sockets, legs impossibly splayed out from each other. A spattering of blood followed by a smudged trail tracing its effort to pull itself off the road. But still alive: side rising and falling, tongue flicking out of its mouth, eyes looking up at me.

For a moment I take stock of the animal's injuries, estimate where I would be on a map, how far from someplace large enough that it might have a vet. Decide the injuries are too severe, the someplace too far. Then I drag the deer over to the side of the road where I sit down beside it and lift its head to rest on my lap.

Three cars pass in the time it takes afternoon to become dusk, dusk to become night. Two blow past without a blink of brakelights but a monkey-faced woman in a 4 x 4 slows, glances over at the young man in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, rocking back and forth with a deer's head in his lap. Then, without stopping, drives on.

Listen to it breathing in spasms that bounce my hand into the air from where it strokes the length of its neck. Lies still again, and I count the time in my head before its next breath.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four--

The foaming mouth clicks open wider and pulls another half-cup of life into its lungs.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five--

How long do we stay together? How long have I stroked its side, making a sound--shwee-sha--that I only now remember my own mother making to calm me into sleep? Can't guess. Can't guess the time it is now, how long the animal requires to die. But when it does, I know it. Something lifts away from its skin and passes through me before dispersing into the darkness.

When I finally get up my legs refuse to obey for a time, sandwiched between the deer's weight and the piercing surface of the gravel shoulder. Then I step into the ditch, grab hold of its hind legs, and pull. Even though I've got the leverage of the decline on my side it's harder than I would have expected. Not only the animal's weight but the flexibility of its ligaments and joints resists movement, absorbing every effort to haul it down. But after a time I strike upon the method that works best: short, concentrated jerks in the same direction. Taking it two inches at a time results in slow progress through the high grass to where the drooping ferns and willows stand higher yet. After a while I turn to look into the forest and over the ground that glows blue from the patches of snow that survived the day's sun. Another thirty feet or so to be out of view from the road. Grab hold of its legs again. One. Two. Three.

Start digging with my fingernails, the pads beneath my thumbs. After a time I discover that the job goes quicker using a flat stone as a shovel, sending the soil up into a growing pile. Will myself to make the hole deeper, broader, eventually rolling into it myself to improve the angle and gauge its size. When the earth begins to yield to the limestone beneath it I scrabble out on my knees and push the animal into its grave.

When I'm finished there's a bulging mound left, but I can imagine returning next spring, next week, and not noticing that anything had ever been buried here. The sun coming up weak through the starved branches. Think of words to say but none come and I'm thankful for this, closing my eyes instead and conjuring wordless thoughts for myself, the dead animal, and anything else I can think of. A random sequence of face and moment and voice that comes to form a single memory in my mind, a kind of godless prayer.

Later that morning a fax arrives with the DNA results. Two hair extractions from Mrs. Arthurs's package matched with those found in the backseat of Thom Tripp's Volvo, one of them in turn matching drops of Krystal McConnell's blood found on the same. There was also an unexpected aspect to the lab's findings. A third hair type bearing an unknown DNA identity found among the other two. Different from the others even by sight: long, straight, and blond.

''Isn't that rather odd?'' Goodwin asked me as he handed over a copy of the lab's written report. I told him I was as surprised as anyone.

Marching up the broad steps to the Murdoch Prison for Men, its blunt facade now almost dignified with a front lawn rolling out before it white with cleansing snow. The failed rosebushes on each side of the door buried along with everything else except for a few pruned branches reaching up, gray and gnarled. It's always the same with prisons. Right there at the gates of some forgotten place of grief and desperation a bored janitor or local do-gooder gets it into his head to plant something beautiful and it never grows.

Once inside I'm almost pleased to see that it's the leprechaun guard behind the desk again, grinning out at me with small teeth held together by wads of tartar the color of caramel.

''Mr. Crane! Looks like you've been out and about,'' he says, motioning his chin down to the torn, mud-caked bottom of my overcoat.

''Just the unavoidable filth to be found everywhere in your fair town, Flaherty.''

''Perhaps if your car had a windshield you could keep yourself a bit more tidy. Have a bit of trouble, did ya?''

''A fender bender.''

''Quite so! Quite so!'' He nods, allowing himself an appreciative smirk. ''Here to see your man?''

''If he has to be mine, then yes.''

Without further command Flaherty takes me down the hall to Interview Room No. 1 to await the always unpredictable entrance of Thomas Tripp. Off goes my overcoat and the suit jacket follows a couple seconds later but I'm still dripping sweat down my sides, darkening through the white cotton of my shirt. Now that winter has come they've got it way too hot in here. By the time Tripp arrives I've got my tie loosened halfway down my chest and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Seems to be feeling it himself, puffing his cheeks out in an effort to catch his breath (did they just yank him out from his morning workout?) and blowing tiny pearls of saliva out his mouth.

''Thom, I regret to say that I'm the bearer of bad tidings this morning.'' I try for a fatalistic laugh but the empty echo it leaves in the room tells me to give it up. ''As you know, a sample of hair was found at the edge of Lake St. Christopher a few days ago and it's just come back from DNA testing in Toronto. Two match with Krystal and Ashley, and there's a third nobody's sure about. The point is, this means the girls are buried in that lake, that's where they died, and they didn't do it all on their own. This completes the story the Crown's been telling. So much so, I'm afraid we have to reconsider our position in this trial. We need to take a serious look at this, you know, and maybe face up to something we'd hoped we wouldn't have to face.''

Tripp's not avoiding my eyes as he usually does, but he doesn't seem to be listening to what I'm saying either. Instead he takes me in with a politely restrained amusement, as though I've left a dried dollop of shaving cream under my nose. When he gets around to responding it's with a teacherly superiority, an adult talking to a child about stealing another's pencil crayons.

''She's been talking to you, too, hasn't she?''

''Could you be somewhat more--''

''Because she knows who you are all right.''

''Mr. Tripp, please keep in mind that you're the one accused of double murder. I would ask you to further keep in mind that I haven't been accused of a thing.''

''You don't have to be accused of anything to hear them. But you already know that, don't you? And who could accuse you, anyway? You're the lawyer!''

Laughter. A hearty cocktail-party bellow, his rheumy eyes glistening from the force of it.

''Well, thanks, Thom,'' I say when he's throat-cleared his way back to silence. ''But I'm not much interested in your expert opinion on psychotic behavior in others. You are right about one thing, though: I'm the lawyer, and you're the client. Can we stick with that for a moment without the yucks, please?''

A knowing trick of a smile at the frothy edges of Tripp's lips that makes me want to give the side of his head a full swing with the back of my hand.

''Now, I'm going to give you the benefit of my legal advice. That's part of my job,'' I start again, keeping my voice low as possible. ''I know when a hand has been forced. And in light of this new evidence it is my obligation to advise you that the best course of action for you to take at this point--the only course of action--is to plead guilty.''

''To say that I--''

''It will have a positive implication on your sentence, maybe get you into a counseling program a little sooner. It's expedient, Thom, but it's also wise.''

''Say I killed them?''

''Strategically it's the only option, and frankly--and I say this on a personal level--you'd be doing yourself a favor.''

Tripp considers this, or at least appears to consider it, his hand raised to support his chin.

''It's going to require you to confess,'' I go on. ''But you don't have to think of it in those terms if you don't want to. All you have to do is stand up and say a few words. Admit to each of the elements of the offense in more or less specific terms.''

''What should I say?''

''That you took them to the lake after school, walked down to the water with them, did what you did.''

''What did I do?''

''Do you really not remember?''

''Sometimes. Certain things.''

''Like what?''

''Their faces,'' he says. ''How they smiled and everything would change. The way they could make you believe for a second that nothing could possibly be wrong with anything anywhere.''

''That's fine, Thom. That's nice. But what I'm asking is, now that we've come this far, don't you remember anything of what happened at the lake that day?''

''Sometimes I'm sure I remember. Other times I'm sure I must be wrong.''

''That's how it is, is it?''

''You think I did it.''

''Jesus, Thom! Yes, I think you did it! Everyone in this town thinks you did it. You're the only one who's not so sure. I'm sorry you don't remember, maybe someday it'll all come back to you, but for Christ's sake it's time for you to admit it. And you know what else? I think you want to. I think you know that either you take a good look at what you did right now or you're going to be alone with the voices in your head forever.''

With the last dozen of these words the most unfortunate thing occurs. My voice breaks. Dry sinuses suddenly melting into a stream of children's glue. But whether out of good manners or the hearing of voices, Thom Tripp appears not to notice.

''I didn't do it alone,'' he says after I've wiped the heel of my hand across the tops of my cheeks.

''Give me a name, then.''

Pulls his chin up and shows me something new in his eyes. The fear that's been there all along but hidden by dreams.

''It was the Lady.''

''You saw her?''

''She told me things.''

''Like what?''

''Like she has them now. And that's why they'll never be found.''

''That's not good enough, Thom.''

''What do you want, then?''

''For you to tell me that you killed Ashley Flynn and Krystal McConnell. Because you did and you know it, even if you thought some dead lady was giving you directions from the Great Fucking Beyond.''

Cocks his head to the side and in a second the glimpse of fear drains away from his face. Half nods as though the most clever little joke has just been delivered to his ear.

''What'd you do?'' he says.

''There's no me in this. Do I have to explain again that this--''

''Who did you hurt?'' His breath blown cold across the hot room. ''Tell me her name.''

For a moment I see myself sitting here in the instant chill of Interview Room No. 1 and feel certain that this is how I will stay forever. Thinking her name and willing it to my lips but nothing ever coming out. That this is how it ends, me and Tripp caught in each other's stares, perspiring and shadowless. We're to be roommates together in the eternity of names.

But as it turns out it doesn't end this way at all. Instead I'm a rubber band shot across the room, tumbling up into the air with all my limbs loose and grasping and quick. Then the more specific details begin to arrive: I'm throwing myself over the table at Tripp. Grabbing him by the collar of his prison overalls, his hair, the hanging lobes of his ears, wrenching him out of his chair to the floor. He doesn't have a chance. Didn't even see it coming. But then again, neither did I. Had no idea I was about to sit on my client's chest, set my knees on his shoulders, and start swinging down on him with both fists. The sound of contact surprisingly hollow and dull, like checking to see if a coconut is ripe yet, and not at all the bright crack I'd learned to expect from the movies. I wouldn't know otherwise. Until this moment I've never hit anyone in my life.

Part of me expecting one of the guards to burst in and throw me off him at any second, but either they've left their post to fetch coffee or are too busy enjoying the show themselves. Whatever the reason I get in a few direct thuds on both sides of Tripp's head before he starts blubbering for me to stop, blood spilling out from his nose and over my hands, almost orange in the institutional light of guttering fluorescent tubes. Only then does the thought occur to me that maybe this isn't an entirely wise idea, physically assaulting my own client in this way. Knocking the living shit out of him as a matter of fact. And I'm supposed to be the guy's lawyer. There are still professional obligations to consider, basic expectations of conduct, oaths of the bar to be honored. But it appears I don't care about that anymore.

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, I'm panting into his face, his collar still bound in my fists.

''Stop!''

''Tell me the truth.''

''Why do you care?''

''Because I fucking do, that's why.'' I loosen my grip. The tickle of air pulsing up his windpipe beneath my hands. ''Because I've heard them too.''

''So you know.''

''I know you have to give their story an ending, Thom. Because keeping it to yourself is going to kill you. It's already killing a lot of others. The McConnells, Brian Flynn, the people in town who loved them. And you're the only one who can let them go.''

''What about you?''

''Me, too, probably,'' I say, the air between us thickening into a liquid fog. ''It's killing me too.''

His breath enters and exits in tin-whistle squeaks, and it's some time before I realize his chest is still supporting the full load of my weight. Without letting go of his collar I get to my feet, bend over close enough that I can smell the sharp lemon-lime of prison soap on the skin at his neck. Then I'm dragging him forward across the tiled floor, his head lowered into his overalls as though tucked within a body bag yet to be fully zippered closed at the top. When I reach the opposite wall I lean him up against it, palms pressed against his collarbone in order to hold him steady.

''It was the Literary Club, wasn't it, Thom? That's where you got the idea to go to the lake. For the girls to wear their dresses with the blue ribbons. For the three of you to have your last performance.''

Tripp looks down at his hands that lie limp on the floor, each of his fingers painted with a coating of his own blood.

'' 'By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.' ''

''The three witches. Was that it? You and the girls going off to the lake to cook up a spell?''

''Not me. The three of them.''

''So they knew about the Lady as well?''

''I told them the story but they'd heard it before. Weren't even scared. But then they wanted to know all the little details, and when I didn't have anything more to tell they started making things up on their own. That the Lady had risen up out of the lake and was coming after them. That she was going to take them both down to the bottom with her. To 'ease her pain through living death,' as Krystal liked to put it. Got so that all three of us were living in a ghost story and stayed so long, it started feeling as real as anything else.''

Tripp manages to raise a hand to wipe the pink speckle of spit from his chin. ''They wanted to see her for themselves,'' he says. ''And you know something? I think they finally did.''

Then he tells me how he did it, his words cool and plain and slow. Telling how it was the girls' idea to stand out in the water and crouch down to look under with their eyes open to see if the Lady would show herself to them. Up to the waist himself, his shoes planted in the loose mud, Krystal on one side and Ashley on the other. Bringing them close against his ribs when they came up for air and telling them they were his, that they'd always be his, that all he wanted was for them to stay with him forever. Asked him when they would get to hear the ghost's voice too. Right now, he told them. All they had to do was listen in the right way. How if they really wanted to see the Lady they'd have to walk out a little deeper, hold their breath, and go all the way under, look as far out into the dark as they could.

And what did they do? I ask him.

They did exactly as I told them, he says.

Then tells of how he kept them under, one hand on top of each head. Not as difficult as it might sound if you keep both arms stiff at your sides, elbows locked. A process requiring patience more than anything else, really. Eyes held out over the pallid scales of the lake's surface. Their screams, if there were any, failing to reach his ears.

And their stillness afterward. The way they floated next to him for a while, faceup, light as fabric, eyes wide as dolls'. How he stayed with them and they with him and for all this time no thought but this passed through his mind.

Oh, yes, he answers my murmured interruption. A certain amount of hair pulling was definitely involved.

But with the coming darkness he was reminded that he had to move and without considering the grim logistics involved he simply pushed them out into the water. He was surprised to see how far they went on their own, their white dresses moving about them like wings, hair lingering on the surface even as the rest of them went under until it, too, was finally pulled down and was gone. Even at the time he was aware of how none of this--their struggle, the flash of bubbles breaking about him as though the lake were boiling, the final moon-catching disturbance of the water as they went below--seemed to make any sound at all.

I ask him if he recovered the bodies later and hid them somewhere else and he tells me no, they went down on their own and he had nothing more to do with it. But I'm asking him more things. About how unlikely it is that the bodies wouldn't have been easily found if he had just pushed them out like that without their being weighed down. About the physical difficulty of holding two healthy teenaged girls underwater for that long without some kind of assistance. About whether he's sure he's telling everything known to him with regard to the circumstances of the crime. And he tells me yes, that's all. That's how it happened.

''What I need is for you to tell the court what you just told me, Thom,'' I'm saying now. ''But without anything about the Lady. Okay?''

''I thought you wanted the truth.''

''For our purposes the court doesn't need to hear the whole truth. Remember what you told me? A good story should make you believe.''

Tripp's head starts shaking in what I take to be the first signs of shock, but it's not. It's a laughter too weak inside of him to make its way out. My client with his head held an inch above my bare arms, laughing at me.

''I'm glad it was you, Richard,'' he says.

''Who told you that was my name?''

''Who do you think?''

Pull my hands away from him as though I only now recognized they were being held above an open flame. Step back until I find the table behind me and grip its edge. Even from this distance of a few feet he's suddenly smaller, his body sucked dry. Sit on my hands as much for balance as to wipe the blood off my knuckles. Tripp closes his eyes, focusing on his words.

''Can I ask you for some lawyerly advice, Mr. Crane?''

''Go ahead, Thom.''

''If I plead will it stop?''

''I don't know. But I'm pretty sure it'll help.''

Then he opens his eyes and shrugs. That's it. Nothing but a slight raising of sinewy shoulders to indicate his acceptance of damnation.

''Your wife steals them from you. They run off with the kid down the street. They grow up into women. They change,'' he says. ''It's all the same, though, isn't it, if the only thing you want is for them to stay?''

I say nothing to this, and in the seconds that follow he allows his shoulders to gradually lower again. Pulls a spaghetti noodle of half-dried blood from his nose. I step forward to take hold of him under the arms and slide him up until he's standing against the wall.

When I knock on the door it takes a full minute before the guard arrives and, with a quick look my way at the sight of the blood on Tripp's upper lip, takes him by the arm. But before the two of them make it out to the hallway they stop and my client turns to face me.

''Will they let Melissa come visit?''

''Sure, if her mother will bring her. Sure thing. I'll contact her on your behalf if you'd like.''

''I'm not allowed to speak to them anymore. I'm not allowed to call.''

''Of course. I'll see what I can do.''

I say this. I give him my assurance, promise to provide this one comfort to the man who's paying me to represent his interests. But I know at the same time that I won't see what I can do. I say this knowing that as soon as I can, I won't have anything to do with Thomas Tripp ever again.