Becca heard the faint chime as the passenger door unlocked beneath her hand, but she didn’t open it. She looked back at the looming hospital thoughtfully, imagining a different life.
Jo tapped her keys on the roof of the car impatiently, waiting for Becca to get in. “Yes, Becca? Something?”
“Just thinking. Wondering how things would be, if they had happened just a little differently. If my mother had fired that gun, but only one shot. If she’d killed my father, but not herself. I’d be coming here to visit her, wouldn’t I?”
Becca stared at the implacable edifice of Western State until she felt Jo’s hand brush the small of her back. Jo opened the door of the Bentley, waited until Becca was safely settled in its plush seat, and closed it with a quiet click.
Light lingered long in the sky this time of year, and Becca watched the last gold rays bathe Rainier’s face as they drove back to the city.
Chapter Eleven
Jo waited until the twilight faded and it was fully dark outside. “You’re sure you’re up for this, Becca? It’s been a very long day.”
“If we really have to do it at night, yeah, I guess I’m up for it.” Becca stood across the living room, looking at Jo as if she were a dentist about to inflict an unanesthetized root canal. “You’re sure it can’t wait for some nice, sunny morning?”
“I’m afraid it has to be dark. The shootings occurred at night. We want to reproduce the conditions of the catalyzing event as closely as possible.”
“I guess I’m still not sure why this walk-through thing is necessary, period.”
“Walking through what happened will re-create a scene that holds great emotional resonance, for both you and your mother.” Jo made herself be the factual guide Becca would need to get through this. She went to the last of the radios and tuned it in. The Spiricom was set at full range. “Voices have been known to speak in moments of mutual memory — in the presence of a loved one who’s talking about a shared experience.”
“Can’t we do this at the Lady of the Rock, then?” Becca’s smile told Jo she was being facetious, perhaps a way of whistling in the dark. “I can talk about the shared experience of our picnics there; those are emotionally resonant. And Mom can float by and give us her recipe for peanut butter sandwiches.”
“I wish we could. That would be much more pleasant.” Jo wished Becca weren’t standing clear across the room. If she were beside her, Jo might be able to touch her shoulder as casually as any of her friends. “But I’m afraid your mother didn’t come back to talk to you about your picnics. Her messages all relate to the night she died.”
“I understand. I was kidding.” Becca drew her hands through her hair. “Okay. How do we start?”
Jo went to one corner to make herself as unobtrusive as possible and clasped her hands behind her. “Please start with the day, before it happened. Everything you remember about that day.”
“All right. It was my birthday. Dad had to work, but Mom took me to a movie that afternoon. Grease, I think. I remember my little baby dyke self crushing out on Olivia Newton-John.” Becca spoke methodically. “And my folks threw me a birthday party later. Cake, presents, the works.”
“The party was held in here?” Jo asked.
“No. In our backyard.” Becca drifted to a window and looked out at the dark yard. “It was a big deal, lots of neighborhood kids. Rachel brought her son, Loren. My aunt and uncle were there. Mitchell flirted with my mother most of the party.”
Jo looked up. “You remember this, Becca?”
“Jo, I’ve been through this day at least a hundred times in therapy. The details are pretty clear. And that one’s no big surprise; Mitchell still flirts with every attractive woman he sees. I grew up watching him do it.”
Jo nodded. “Go on.”
“That’s all I remember of the day.” Becca was quiet for a moment, her face reflected in the dark pane of the glass. She turned from the window. “The next thing that’s clear is all three of us, in here. It was late enough for me to be in bed. Past time, in fact. I was sitting in a corner with my new coloring book. I was miffed that my birthday was over, and they’d forgotten about me again.”
“They,” Jo said. “Your parents?”
“Right.”
“Would you go there, please? Where you were sitting.”
Becca hesitated. She crossed to a distant corner and settled on the floor. She was far away from Jo across the large room and looked as small and forlorn as she must have felt that night.
“Do you remember what your parents were arguing about?”
“Money. Mitchell.” Becca shrugged with a casual note that rang false. “Dad working too much. I really don’t remember, Jo. All the arguments kind of blended together in those years. I learned not to listen.”
Jo resisted an urge to press her on this point. “And you were drawing in a book?”
“Coloring. I had my new coloring book.” Becca swept her palm across the wood floor in front of her. “My mother must have realized I was upset, and she brought me my favorite present, the…doll. Then she went into the kitchen. Then my dad followed her. Then there were two shots.”
Jo knew they had to dissect this pedantic narration, but she dreaded this. “Do you remember where your parents were standing? Before your mother handed you the doll.”
Becca gestured briefly at the open area in front of the sofa. “I’d gotten the doll for my birthday, and I loved it. Mom must have wanted to comfort me. She brought me the doll and then she went into the kitchen.”
Jo walked to the sofa and picked up the small pillow resting against its arm. She made her movements slow and gentle as she crossed the room to Becca. Becca’s gaze was locked on the pillow, and she looked bleak and afraid. Jo reached her and held out the pillow. Becca started to lift her hands to take it.
Two pops sounded from the small globe radio, and Becca’s hands froze in place.
Two quick, muted snaps. Their sound didn’t boom through the room. They were more distorted, elongated echoes, but Jo still felt ice water sluice through her veins.
“J-Jo?”
“Listen,” Jo snapped. Silence was crucial right now. She clenched the pillow and stared at the radio, but there was only a brief crackling of static and it lost the signal. Jo let out a stale gush of air and looked down at Becca. “You’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Sonic remnants are quite rare in the literature.” Jo walked quickly to the Spiricom and studied its backlog, her scalp prickling. “I’ve never personally heard one recorded. It was a kind of echo, Becca. A reproduction of crux indices that match your mother’s—”
“English, Joanne?”
“I’m sorry.” She brought the Spiricom back to Becca, quelling the excitement in her chest. “Sometimes it’s possible for a messenger to project other sounds, other than their voice. That’s what happened here. I think we just heard the shots that killed your parents.”
“Yes. I gathered that much.” Becca’s stomach was still roiling. She was desperately glad that she hadn’t had to touch that pillow, and the relief was even stronger than her shock. “Those sounds are contained in this house, then?”
“No.” Jo sat next to her, and that suited Becca fine. “This message wasn’t generated by the house; it came directly from your mother. Would you like to see how I know?”
I’d like to keep hearing your voice. “Show me.”
Jo displayed the small glowing screen of the Spiricom, which was laced with two identical patterns, two waves made of thin spirals of color. Jo touched the one on the left. “This is a sonograph of your mother’s voice, three days ago, telling you to run.” She touched the other wave. “And here is a graph of those two strange shots.”