Trust Your Eyes

FIFTY-FOUR

“This is good,” Thomas said, shoving another forkful of Marie’s tuna medley into his mouth.

“Yeah, not bad,” I said. But I’d found, once Marie had left, that I did not have much of an appetite. The things Len had said to her, that she’d repeated for me, were stuck in my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was up to something. Trying to lay something on Thomas that he hadn’t done.

“I’m going to have seconds,” Thomas said.

“That’s fine. And maybe you’d like to clean up after dinner.”

“Is that fair?” he asked.

“What do you mean, is it fair? Sure, it’s fair.”

“But you didn’t make dinner. I thought, if you make dinner, I clean up. Or if I make dinner, you clean up. But Marie made dinner.” He shoveled some more in.

“So if I follow your logic,” I said, “if someone other than us does some of the duties, whatever’s left is my job.”

He chewed slowly, like he was formulating an argument. “Well,” he said, “that was just how it struck me at the time.”

“So maybe we should both clean up,” I said. “What about that? You clear the table and load the dishwasher, and I’ll scrub out that casserole dish. Judging by how you’re going there’s not going to be any left over.”

“Okay,” he said.

Ten minutes later, we were standing side by side at the kitchen counter. I was filling the sink with soapy water as Thomas put our glasses and cutlery into the KitchenAid. Our shoulders were brushing up against each other, and we actually had a kind of rhythm going. We weren’t talking, but it was the closest I’d felt to him since coming back here.

But later, as he was wiping down the kitchen table, Thomas said, “You ever feel like someone who was your friend really isn’t your friend anymore?”

He wasn’t looking at me when he asked. He was focused on making the table as clean as possible.

“Yeah, that’s happened to me a few times. Who are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

“It’s okay. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

He caught my eye. “The president.”

“Clinton?”

Thomas nodded, walked over to the sink to rinse out the cloth, and draped it over the faucet. “He’s always been nice to me, except the last couple of times we’ve talked, it’s kind of different.”

“What do you mean, different?”

“I don’t know. He’s been putting a lot of pressure on me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to him anymore.”

“When the president calls, you kind of have to talk to him,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s true.”

“But he’s telling me I can’t talk about certain things. Things that don’t have anything to do with my mission.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder. “You want to go in and talk to Dr. Grigorin tomorrow? I could see if I can set something up.”

“That might be good,” he said. “I don’t like it when the president says I’m going to look weak.”

“Weak?”

“Like, if I say certain things, I’ll be in trouble. He doesn’t even want me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“About when I was in the window. When I waved to you, and you didn’t see me. Because you didn’t look up.”

I stood there with him, the two of us leaned up against the kitchen counter. “When was this, Thomas?”

“The day you tried to find me. When you found my bike in the alley. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I rode all over downtown trying to find you. I even shouted out your name.”

“I heard you,” Thomas said quietly. “That was when I got away, and ran to the window. I wanted to call out but I knew he’d get mad. But if you’d seen me, then Dad would have believed my story.”

“Got away? Thomas, what happened?”

“He hurt me,” he said. He briefly tucked his hand under himself. “He hurt me back here.”

I put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezed. “Tell me what happened. Someone did something to you? Who? Who did something to you?”

“Dad got so mad,” he said. “He got so mad when I told him. He said I had to stop making things up. He said if I ever talked about it again, he didn’t know what he’d do. But I knew it would be something awful. Maybe he and Mom would send me away. To a place. So I never talked about it.”

I hugged him. “Thomas, I’m so sorry.”

“And I think…I think I’m ready to talk about it. But the president says I can’t. He says if I tell anyone, bad things will happen.”

“Thomas, who hurt you?”

He looked down into his lap. “I need to think about this. I don’t want to go against the president’s wishes.”

“Would you tell Dr. Grigorin?”

“I’ve wanted to, but haven’t. You know who I would be okay telling?”

“Who?”

“Julie.”

“You’d tell Julie?”

He nodded. “She’s nice to me. She talks to me like I’m a regular person.”

“Okay, well, she’s coming back tonight, kind of late, but I’m sure she’d talk to you.”

“Is she coming back to have sex with you?” he asked.

“Probably not now,” I said, and smiled. “I think it would be great if you talked to her. I do. Can I be there, or would you like to talk to her by yourself?”

He thought about that. “She’ll tell you later, won’t she?”

“If you asked her not to, no, I don’t think she would.”

He looked down, pondering. “It would be okay if you want to be there.”

“Okay. But she’s not going to be here for a while, so do you want to watch some TV or something?”

“No. I have to go back to work. Even if I don’t like the president’s attitude lately, I still have my work to do.”

“Sure,” I said.

“But before Julie comes, I want to get some pictures to show her.”

“What pictures?”

“Our photo albums. So she’ll know what I looked like then. And what you looked like. They’re in the basement.”

“Whatever you want. You know where they are?”

He nodded, then left me for his room. I went out to the porch and sat down for the better part of half an hour, until it was dark enough that you could see the stars. I went in, plunked myself down in front of the TV, and flipped through the channels. Nothing held my interest. It wasn’t likely that anything could. I was preoccupied. Thinking about Julie. About my father. About Len Prentice.

About a face in a window, and two dead people in Chicago, and the late Allison Fitch.

About how I wouldn’t have to be thinking about a lot of these things if Thomas had a different hobby. Stamp collectors never saw possible homicides, so far as I knew. Same for jewelry makers and gardeners.

I wondered whether Harry Peyton had had a chance yet to talk to this Duckworth guy he’d mentioned. Barry Duckworth. Was that why I hadn’t heard anything yet? Had Harry talked to him, and Duckworth was looking into things right now? Or did Duckworth listen, and say it was the biggest crock of shit he’d ever heard in his entire life?

I couldn’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t just find out myself.

I turned off the TV, grabbed the laptop, and looked up the Promise Falls Police Department. I found a nonemergency number and dialed.

“Promise Falls Police Service,” a woman said.

“I’m trying to reach Detective Duckworth,” I said.

“I think he’s gone home,” she said. “Who’s calling?”

“Ray Kilbride.”

“Let me check.” She put me on hold. While I was waiting, Thomas came down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my hand over the receiver.

“I’m going downstairs to look for the photo album,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the basement.

“Hello?” the woman on the switchboard said. “Mr. Kilbride?”

“Yes?”

“I reached Detective Duckworth at home for you. Hold on and I’ll connect you.” There was a pause, and then, “Go ahead.”

“Hello?” I said. “Detective Duckworth?”

“Who is this? You told the switchboard you’re Mr. Kilbride?”

“That’s right.”

“This some sort of joke? Not Adam Kilbride.”

“No, sir. This is his son.”

“Which son?”

“I’m Ray Kilbride.”

“Okay, right,” Detective Duckworth said. “You’re the one from, where is it? Vermont somewhere?”

“Burlington.”

“And your brother, that’s Thomas?”

“Yes.” I was guessing Harry had filled him in pretty thoroughly.

“You’ll have to forgive me there a second ago,” he said. “It threw me, when the girl called, said it was Mr. Kilbride. I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Well, thanks. And thanks for talking to me. I don’t know where to turn. I’m in kind of a mess here, as you probably know.”

“Yeah, your dad and I had spoken,” Duckworth said.

I felt as though someone had put my head in a paint mixer for a second. “Excuse me?” I said. “When was this?”

“A couple of weeks back,” Duckworth said.

From the basement, Thomas shouted, “Ray!”

“My father spoke to you a couple of weeks ago?” I asked.

“That’s right. That isn’t why you’re calling?”

“No-I mean, yes. I was just following up,” I said.

“I told your father, if he wanted to proceed, it wasn’t going to be an easy thing to prove.”

“Ray!” Thomas shouted again.

“Hang on!” I shouted back. “Sorry about that. My brother’s trying to find something in the basement. You were saying, it wouldn’t be easy to prove.”

“Not considering all the time that has elapsed. And the fact that your brother’s testimony is going to be problematic, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Your father did. Also, he wasn’t sure he wanted to put your brother through all that. He was a good man, your father. Only spoke to him the once, but he seemed like a decent guy, a good father. With a lot on his plate.”

“Detective Duckworth, you won’t believe this, but only in the last minute have I gotten any kind of inkling what you’re talking about,” I said. “My brother was assaulted, wasn’t he?”

“Your father didn’t share this with you?”

“No. But since I’ve been back here, since Dad died, some things have come up that have made me wonder whether something was going on. Something my father was worried my brother would never forgive him for. And…” I hesitated about whether to get into it, but what the hell. “My father had looked up child prostitution on the computer, but I don’t know what sites he actually went to. My brother erased the history before I could find out.”

“Yes, well,” Duckworth said, “that does figure into it. I’m not sure how much to discuss this with you, Ray, and to tell you the truth, your father held back some pretty relevant information. Like exactly who-”

“Ray!”

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Detective, have you got a number where I can get back to you? In a couple of minutes? I really need to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

I grabbed a pencil from a kitchen drawer and scribbled the number down on a scratch pad. “I’ll get right back to you.”

“I’ll be here.”

I ended the call and left the phone on the counter. As I approached the basement door, I shouted, “For Christ’s sake, Thomas, I was on the phone.” I didn’t see him as I came down the stairs. The basement was L-shaped, and I figured he was around the corner, where Dad had kept the photo albums.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Over here,” he said.

I came around the corner, and there was Thomas. His eyes wide with fear. His arms were pulled back, like he was clasping his hands together behind himself.

And he wasn’t alone. There was a woman standing behind, and to his side. She was holding Thomas by the hair with her left hand. In her right, she had what appeared to be an ice pick, and she had the tip touching the soft part of my brother’s neck, just below the jaw.