The King Of Lies

CHAPTER 31

I fled the room because I had no choice. Jean was distraught; I’d pushed her to a dangerous place. She had two things in this world, Alex and me. But right now, Alex was all that mattered to her, and I’d tried to take that away.

But at least I had the truth, finally. Jean had not killed Ezra. She was not a murderer, and without that weight on her conscience, she might eventually pull out of the nosedive that had brought her to this hospital in the first place. Yet the alternatives could be equally devastating. Someone was going down for Ezra’s murder, and the way it looked now, it would either be Alex or me. Could Jean recover from either of those eventualities? She would have to. It was just that simple.

For me, things had changed dramatically. I might have been willing to take the rap for Jean, but not for Alex. No way in hell.

I leaned against the wall. It was hard and cold under my back, and I closed my eyes. I thought I heard her weeping, but then the sound was gone. Imagination, I told myself. Guilty conscience.

When I opened my eyes, a nurse was standing in front of me. She looked worried.

“Are you okay?” she asked. The question took me by surprise.

“Yes.”

She studied me. “You’re as pale as a sheet and look dead on your feet.”

“I’m okay. Just tired.”

“I’m not going to argue about it,” she told me. “But if you’re not a patient, you’ll have to leave. Visiting hours aren’t for another hour.”

“Thanks,” I said, and walked off. When I looked back, she was watching me, a puzzled look on her face. I could almost read her mind. Don’t I know you from somewhere? she was thinking. Then she turned away.

As I followed the hall toward the elevators, I thought about Alex. I was no shrink, so I could only guess at the state of her mind, but it had to be a wreck. Why the name change? I could understand wanting to escape her childhood, but why take her dead sister’s name? Because she’d died untouched and unspoiled, purified by her innocence and by the fire that killed her? Or was it guilt, and the desire that she live on in some small way? I would probably never know. But one thing was crystal clear, and that is what scared me. Alex Shiften was fiercely loyal, and she would take drastic measures to eradicate any perceived threat to herself, to Jean, or to their relationship. She’d killed her father to protect her sister. She’d killed Ezra to protect her relationship with Jean. Now I was the threat, and she was setting me up for the murder. She’d turned Jean against me. She’d undermined my alibi, somehow acquired a copy of the will, and planted it in my house.

Suddenly, I froze, paralyzed by a thought that came unbidden yet with horrifying clarity. Alex had undermined my alibi. She knew that I was not home with Barbara when Ezra was shot. Did she know where I was that night? Did she know about Vanessa? Dear God! Did she know that Vanessa could give me an alibi? Now Vanessa was missing.

She didn’t come home last night.

I couldn’t finish the thought. But I had to. There was no time left for fear or denial. So I asked the question. If Alex knew that Vanessa could ruin her plans, would she kill her?

The answer was unequivocal.

Absolutely.

The elevator opened. I pushed through the waiting crowd of green shirts and white coats and nearly sprinted for the exit. Outside, I realized that I had no plan. Nowhere to go. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30. I called Stolen Farm, knowing better than to hope, yet doing so with every fiber of my being. Just pick up. Please, pick up. The phone rang four times, and each unanswered ring was a nail in my heart. Alex had killed her. Vanessa was dead.

The grief almost overwhelmed me, yet through the pain, like a whispering traitor, came a single selfish thought: I had no alibi. I could go to jail for the rest of my life. The presence of that thought made me think that maybe I should. I squashed it and it did not resurrect itself, for which I was grateful.

Next, I called Hank. I had to talk to him, now more than ever. He didn’t answer at home, so I tried his cell phone.

“I was about to call you,” he said.

“Hank, thank God.”

“Shut up for a minute. We’ve got big fucking problems.” I heard his hand go over the mouthpiece, heard muffled voices. Almost a minute passed before he came back on the line. “Okay. I’m outside.”

“Listen, Hank. I think I’m onto something about Vanessa.”

“Work, I mean this in the most polite way, but we don’t have time to deal with your missing girlfriend. I’m at the police station now.”

“In Salisbury?”

“Yeah. I came here to check accident reports before I started looking for your friend. But it’s a damn hornets’ nest down here. We need to talk, but not on the phone. Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the hospital. I’m standing outside the emergency-room exit.”

“Stay there. Try to stay out of sight. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Hank, wait.” I caught him before he hung up. “What the hell is going on?”

“They found the gun, Work. The one you threw in the river.”

“What?”

“Just sit tight. Two minutes.” He hung up, and I stared at the dead cell phone in my hand for what may have been the longest two minutes of my life.

They’d found the gun. Could Alex have been responsible for that, too?

When Hank turned into the parking lot, I met him at the curb. I climbed into his sedan. He neither looked at me nor spoke. He turned left out of the parking lot, made several seemingly random turns, and then stopped at the curb. We were in a residential neighborhood. It was quiet, nobody in sight. Hank stared wordlessly through the windshield.

“I’m waiting for you to speak,” he finally said, looking at me.

“What do you mean?”

His face was hard; so were his eyes. When he spoke, I found that his voice had chilled, as well. “What river? What gun? Those are the questions you should have asked. It concerns me that you did not ask those questions.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was right. An innocent man would have asked the questions.

“I didn’t kill him, Hank.”

“Tell me about the gun.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” The lie came instinctively.

“You don’t have many people in your corner, Work, and you’re about to be all alone. I don’t help people who lie to me; it’s that simple. So you take a minute, and think about the next words that come out of your mouth.”

I’d never seen Hank so tense, like he could punch me in the face or rip his own hair out. But it was more than anger. He felt betrayed, and I couldn’t blame him.

If Jean hadn’t pulled the trigger, then I had no reason to lie about the gun. In fact, I should want the police to have it, if that would help convict Alex. But I’d wiped it down and ditched it, a crime in and of itself. Yet all that mattered right now was finding Vanessa, and if Hank could help me do that, then I would tell him anything he wanted to know. I had one question first.

“How’d they find the gun?”

Hank looked like he was about to drive off and leave me, so I spoke again.

“Swear to God, Hank. Just tell me that and I’ll answer your questions.”

He seemed to mull it over. “Someone called in an anonymous tip, said that they’d seen someone toss a gun into the river. A diver from the sheriff’s department went down this morning and found it right where the caller said it’d be. That was about an hour ago. They know it’s Ezra’s gun because it has his initials right there on it.”

“Do they know who made the call?” I was thinking about Alex. She would have had to know that the gun was clean before she’d do something like that. She would not want it traced back to her.

“The guy didn’t identify himself, but he described someone who looks a hell of a lot like you. Same build, same age, same hair, same car. They’re trying to track him down to do a lineup. If they find him, you’ll be the first to know. Mills will have you downtown so fast, your head will spin. And if he identifies you, that’s it; you’re as good as convicted.”

“It was a guy?” I asked. “The caller?”

“Didn’t you hear me? They’re trying to link you to the gun.”

“But the caller. It was a man?”

Not a woman?

“Look. That’s what I heard, okay? It’s not like I was on the phone. I heard it was a guy. Now tell me about the fucking gun. I don’t want to ask again.”

I scrutinized his features. He wanted me to be innocent; not because he liked me, although I thought that maybe he did, but because he did not want to be wrong, not about something like this. Hank Robins would never help a killer, and, like everybody, he hated to be played.

“You want to know why I ditched the gun if I didn’t kill him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

So I opened my mouth. I started talking and didn’t stop until I’d explained it to him. He didn’t say a word until I was through.

“So, you were going to take the heat for Jean.”

I nodded.

“That’s why you ditched the gun.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me again why you thought that Jean had pulled the trigger.”

I’d been vague about this. No way could I discuss the night Mom died, not with Hank or anybody else. I didn’t know if he’d accept my theory without understanding what could have driven my sister to murder, but that was the chance I’d have to take. That body was buried, and I meant for it to stay that way.

“Jean has not been well, mentally, for a long time now. She and Ezra had problems.”

“Hmmm,” Hank said, and I knew that I was losing him. “Problems.”

“It’s a family matter, Hank. I can’t talk about it. You can believe me or not. Help me or not. But that’s all I can say about it.”

He was silent for a full minute. He didn’t look away from my face, and I could almost see the wheels turning.

“There’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

“Yes. But like I said, it’s family stuff.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to beg but knew that I was close. “I didn’t kill him, Hank. He was deceitful, arrogant, and a first-class bastard. All right. I admit that. But he was my old man. I could have beaten him bloody on any number of occasions, but I could never have killed him. You’ve got to believe me.”

“And the fifteen million dollars?” Hank asked, doubt again clouding his features.

“I’ve never cared about making money,” I said.

Hank raised an eyebrow at me. “Making money’s not the same as having it. Your father was born poor. I bet he understood that.”

“I don’t want it,” I reiterated. “Nobody gets that, but I don’t. He left me the house and the building outright. That’s probably one point two million. So I’ll sell them, give half to Jean, and still be richer than I’d ever planned on being.”

“Six hundred grand ain’t fifteen million.”

“It’s enough,” I said.

“For about one guy in a million.” Hank paused. “You that guy, Work?”

“I guess I am.”

Hank settled back in his seat. “I’d take the fifteen million,” he said, and I knew then that he would help me.

He put the car in drive and eased away from the curb. We drove in silence for a few minutes.

“So what do you want me to do?” Hank asked. “The way I see it, we have a couple choices. We dig deeper on Alex or we go talk to Mills, let her check Alex out. Now I understand if you don’t want to talk to Mills, so I’ll be glad to handle that. That would probably be the best idea, the more I think about it. You’ll have to come clean about the gun, but nobody says that has to be done quickly. Once Mills is convinced, once she’s built a case against Alex, maybe then we’ll tell her. Of course, if they find the anonymous caller, that point will be moot. It’s not going to be pretty, no matter how we do it. Mills would chew your face off if she could get away with it. She won’t be easy to convince. She wants you to be guilty. It’s almost personal.”

I was barely listening; my mind was elsewhere. “I think Alex will come looking for me,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I told Jean about my suspicions. Alex won’t sit still for that. She’ll come looking for me.”

Hank was already shaking his head. “If she’s the killer, that’s the last thing she’ll do. She’ll play dumb. She’ll wait for the world to land on you. All the hard work’s done. She can relax and watch her tax dollars at work.”

“Maybe,” I said, but was not dissuaded.

“So, do you want me to talk to Mills?”

“I want you to find Vanessa,” I said. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Damn it! This is not the time to waste energy looking for some missing person. I don’t care how you feel about her. As soon as Mills finds that caller, you’ll be arrested, and as far as we know, they’ve already back-traced it. They could do a photo lineup easily enough. They could be coming for you already, and this time there won’t be any bail. Not after attempting to destroy evidence. No judge alive would let you out. You’ll rot in jail, Work. So get your priorities straight! Playtime is over.”

“I want you to find her, Hank.”

“For fuck’s sake, Work. Why?”

I didn’t want to say this, because it was not the most important reason, and I already felt bad enough. But Hank had to hear it.

“She’s more than my girlfriend, okay? She’s my alibi.”

“What?” Hank’s disbelief was plain on his face.

“I was with her when Ezra was shot. I was at Stolen Farm.”

“Well, Jesus, Work. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“For Jean’s sake, Hank. But there’s one other thing. And I hope I’m wrong about this.”

“What?” Hank asked.

“I think Alex knew that Vanessa was my alibi. It’s possible that she went after her; she may have already killed her.”

Hank settled into my revelation; his features solidified into resigned determination. “I’ll find her, Work.” He did not smile. “Alive or dead. I’ll find her.”

“Find her alive, Hank,” I said, but he didn’t respond. He looked at me once, then put his eyes back on the road.

“Is your car at the hospital?” he asked.

“I have a car there.”

When we arrived at the hospital, I directed him to Dr. Stokes’s minivan. “I want you to go home,” Hank told me.

“Why? There’s nothing for me there.”

“Actually,” he said. “There is. Toothbrush, razor, clothes. I want you to pack all that crap up and find a motel room somewhere off the beaten track. Not too far away, just someplace you can lay low for a day or so. Get cleaned up. Get some sleep. Once I find Vanessa, we’ll go to Mills. But I don’t want to do that until we can walk in her front door with a sworn alibi.”

I got out of the car, leaned in the open door. “What are you going to do?”

“My job, Work. If she can be found, I’ll find her. Once you’re set up, let me know where you are. Call me on my cell.”

“I don’t think I can just sit around.” I tried to find the words to express what I felt. It was difficult. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“Twenty-four hours, Work. Thirty-six at the most.”

“I don’t like it.” I started to close the door.

“Hey,” Hank said. I turned back, and he said, “Don’t waste any time at the house, okay? Get in and get out. Mills could be looking for you already.”

“I understand,” I said, and watched him drive away.

I got in the minivan and went home. I looked at the high walls where once-white paint had grayed and then peeled. Barbara had always said the house had good bones, and she was right about that; but it had no heart, not with us living inside it. In place of laughter, trust, and joy, there was a hollow emptiness, a kind of rot, and I marveled at my blindness. Was it the alcohol, I wondered, that had made it bearable? Or was it something else, some inner failing? Maybe it was neither. They say that if you drop a frog into boiling water, he’ll hop right out. But put the same frog into cold water and slowly turn up the heat, and he’ll sit quietly until his blood begins to boil. He’ll let himself be cooked alive. Maybe that’s how it was for me. Maybe I was like that frog.

I thought about that, and then I thought about what Hank had said. His heart was in the right place. His head, too, for that matter. But I couldn’t go to a hotel. I couldn’t hide and I couldn’t pretend that this would just go away. If Mills came for me, she came. Alex, too, for that matter.

Done is done, I thought, and went inside.

I found Barbara in the kitchen, poised ten feet from the door, as if frozen or about to turn away. For a split second, her face seemed fluid, but then her mouth opened in a half smile and she ran to meet me. I stood there, straight-armed and stiff, as she threw her arms around me and squeezed.

“Oh, Work. Oh, honey. I’m so sorry I didn’t meet you at the jail. I just couldn’t.” The words came fast from her over-eager mouth, and the feel of them against my jail-grimed neck unsettled me. She pulled back, framed my face with her hands. Her words accelerated onto a slippery track. They ran over one another, tripped, and fell. They were soft and too sweet, like chocolate left in the sun. “People have been looking at me, you know,” she said. “The way people look sometimes, and I know what they’re thinking. And I know it’s no excuse, not compared to what you’ve been through, of course, but still it hurts. And I couldn’t go there, not to the jail, not to see you like that. I just knew that wouldn’t be a good thing for us. Unhealthy, you know. So when your Mr. Robins showed up, I asked him if he would meet you. I hope that was okay. I thought it would be. But then you didn’t come home, and you didn’t call, and I didn’t know what to think.” She sucked in a breath. “There’re just so many things I wanted to say to you, and not being able to, why, that was just about the worst.”

She fell silent, and in the absence of my response, awkwardness blossomed between us. She took her hands from my face, slid them to my shoulders, and squeezed me twice before allowing them to fall away. Eventually, they clutched the front of her shirt and settled there, white-knuckled.

“What was it?” I asked. She looked startled, as if she did not expect me to speak after all. “What was it that you wanted to say to me?”

She laughed, but it was born small and died a second later. She unclenched a hand and rubbed my right shoulder. She did not look at my face.

“You know, honey. Mainly just that I love you. That I believe in you. Those sorts of things.” She finally risked a glance at my face. “The kinds of things I hoped you’d want to hear, especially at a time like this.”

“That was very considerate of you,” I managed to say, for the sake of civility.

She actually blushed and smiled. She cast her eyes at the floor as if her carefully groomed eyelashes could still entice me. When she looked up, her uncertainties had vanished. Her voice firmed, as did her eyes and the renewed grip on my shoulders.

“Listen, Work. I know this is difficult. But we’ll get through it, okay? You’re innocent. I know that. There’s no way you’ll go back to jail. This will pass, and when it does, we’ll be fine. We can be the perfect couple again, like we were in the old days. People will look at us, and that’s what they’ll say: What a perfect couple. We just have to hang on and get through this. Get through it together.”

“ ‘Together,’ ” I parroted, thinking of the frog.

“It’s just a glitch. Huge and unfortunate, but just a glitch. That’s all. We can handle it.”

I blinked, and this time I actually saw the frog. The water bubbled and his blood began to boil. I wanted to scream, to warn him, but did not; and as I watched, his eyes boiled away. Poof. Right out of their sockets.

“I need a shower,” I said.

“Good idea,” Barbara agreed. “You take a nice hot shower, and when you get out, we’ll have a drink. We’ll have a drink and everything will be okay.” I started to turn away, but she spoke again, so softly that I almost missed it. “Just like old times,” she whispered. I looked at her eyes, but they were impenetrable, and her lips curved into the same half smile. “I love you, honey,” she said. I turned out of the kitchen, and she called after me, her voice already fading. “Welcome home.”

I went to the bedroom, where I found the bed perfectly made and flowers in a vase. The shades had been opened and light flooded in. In the mirror above the dresser I looked old and stepped upon, but there was resolution there, too; and I watched my eyes as I emptied my pockets and shed my days-old clothing. They did not look so old or so stepped upon as the rest of me.

In the shower, I turned the water as hot as I could bear. I lifted my face to the nozzle, let the water beat upon me. I didn’t hear the shower door open. I felt the draft, and then I felt her hands. They settled on my back like autumn leaves. I might have flinched.

“Shhh,” Barbara said gently. “Be still.” I started to turn. “Don’t turn around,” she said.

She reached around me and wet her hands in the shower. She ran the soap between them and replaced it on the soap dish. Then she put her hands on my chest, which grew slick beneath them. She must have felt my resistance, in my tense muscles, in my unyielding posture-perhaps in the rigidity of my silence. Yet she chose to ignore it, and her hands lathered a path from my chest to my stomach. She molded herself against my back and I felt the firm press of her flesh against my own. Water cascaded across my shoulders, forced its path down the joining of our bodies, and she opened herself to it, let it wet her. She slithered against me, insinuated her slender leg between my own. And her hands worked down to a place where in the past they had always been welcome.

“Barbara.” My voice was an intruder. Her fingers worked harder, as if persistence alone could make me want the absolution she thought was in her power to offer.

“Just let me do this,” she said.

I did not want to hurt her. I wanted nothing to do with her at all. “Barbara,” I said again, more insistently this time. I reached for her fingers. She pulled me around to face her.

“I can do this, Work.”

The front of her hair was wet, the back still dry, and her face was so serious that I almost laughed; yet there was desperation in her eyes, as if this was all she had left to offer and she knew it. For a moment, I did not know what to say, and in that moment she lowered herself to her knees.

“For God’s sake, Barbara.” I could not keep the disgust out of my voice, and I pushed roughly past her; I opened the door and grabbed my towel. Steam followed me out, along with a dread silence. The water stopped. I did not look back. When Barbara stepped out next to me, she didn’t bother to cover herself. She ignored the water that ran into her eyes and pooled on the floor; and I ignored her until I knew she would not simply walk away. So I turned and faced her, my towel heavy with cooling damp, my heart just heavy.

“My life’s falling apart, too,” she said. But it wasn’t sadness I saw in her eyes. It was anger.