I walked up to her, knowing in my gut that we were being watched, but also knowing that I was in no immediate danger; the eavesdropper would never strike out at me with Julia present. He couldn't risk being discovered. It was time to bring his pathological jealousy to a fever pitch.
I got down on one knee in front of Julia and forced myself to kiss the slopes of her abdomen, running my tongue into her navel, amazed I could still be excited by her, even with what she had done. I looked up, into her eyes, more luminous than ever. "I want you to marry me," I said. I moved my tongue to the top of her groin.
"Frank," she said, closing her eyes. She took a deep breath and trembled as I moved my tongue even lower.
I took hold of her wrists. I could feel her pulse racing. I stood up. "Marry me," I said again. I brushed my fingers along her cheek. I understood now that Julia was addicted to at least three things: sex, money, and glamour. I wanted to offer her a cocktail of all of them. "We charter a jet to fly us to Vegas tomorrow, get married, and spend the rest of the week in Paris. I already booked a suite at the Ritz. I want to spend my life with you."
She ran her fingers over my lips. "I want that, too," she said. "I just…"
"Just say yes," I said.
She looked into my eyes. Several seconds passed. "Yes," she said. Then, without another word, she melted to her knees and unbuttoned my jeans.
24
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
It was just after 1:00 a.m. I had turned out all the lights of the cottage at midnight. Only a hint of the crescent moon seeped through the slats of the window shutters.
I lay awake in bed, fighting exhaustion, fully clothed under a sheet. My Browning Baby handgun filled the front pocket of my jeans.
I was confident I had put enough bait on the hook. Julia had already begun to pack for our elopement. I was claiming the sexual prize Brooke's killer thirsted for. He had to come for me.
The cottage had a back door with a chain lock. I left it dangling. I also left the back two windows of the cottage wide open-invitations to murder.
I was pretty sure who to expect in my midst, but the forensic data at the heart of my theory wasn't foolproof. My own attempted murder would be the definitive piece of evidence.
My eyes were getting heavier by the minute. I had had no sleep the night before. I hadn't had any real rest in weeks. I got up, walked to the kitchen sink, and splashed cold water on my face. It didn't do much. I got back into bed, pinching my thigh now and then to stay awake.
That didn't work, either. I drifted off and woke in a panic. Five minutes might have passed. Or fifteen. Or fifty. I couldn't tell. My heart raced, and my eyes darted left and right, searching the shadowy cottage. I saw nothing. I was alone, safe, for the moment.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the mattress. Maybe a very quick, very cold shower would help, I thought to myself. I stood and started toward the bathroom. But then I froze, hearing footsteps outside the cottage, somewhere beyond my back door.
I felt for the Browning Baby in my pocket and walked toward the sounds. Someone was stepping on the leaves and fallen branches outside. I listened a little longer. The sounds went away.
I stayed close to the wall and carefully pushed aside one of the little drapes that covered the window in the back door. I squinted into the night. Then my breathing stopped as my worst nightmare gripped me.
Garret was perched on the lowest branch of a majestic elm, about nine feet off the ground, fifteen feet from the door. The moon's glow barely illuminated his muscular torso and the noose around his neck.
I rushed outside, horrified to see my life repeating itself in the worst way. I had lost a young man to suicide only once-Billy Fisk, whose memory had finally drawn me into the Bishop case. Was I about to witness the lethality of my failings again? I had obviously pushed Garret too far, not to the edge of murder, but to suicide.
Seeing Garret's bookshelf the night before, stocked with titles by the poet Yeats, had clued me in to his guilt. Julia had quoted Yeats in the mystery letter:
My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end.
I had finally realized that Julia had intended that letter for Garret, not her therapist or some business associate of Darwin 's. She had taken Garret as her lover.
Garret had been the one who had attacked me in a jealous rage outside Mass General Hospital, uttering a line from Yeats before plunging a knife into my back:
What could she have done, being what she is?
"Good morning," Garret said softly.
I looked up at him. The muscles of his chest twitched. He was closing and opening his fists rhythmically. Wired. "Don't do this," I said.
"You need her so badly," he said. "Take her."
"Let me help you," I said.
He laughed a gruesome laugh, craning his neck toward the dark sky, like some sort of deranged animal. Then he looked down at me, his eyes wide. "You wanted this," he said. "You made this happen."
A wave of nausea swept over me. Was it possible my psychological strategy-increasing the sexual tension in the house to a fever pitch-had actually been an unconscious way of finishing off my last rival for Julia's attentions? Darwin was in prison, charged with murder. Garret might soon be dead. Had I designed to vanquish father and son alike? "Your mother used you, Garret," I said. "She manipulated you. Just like she did me and North Anderson and who knows how many other men. I see that now. I know you're not fully to blame for what happened to Brooke. Or Tess."
He stayed silent.
"I think I know what happened," I said, keeping my tone even. "After your mom had the twins, she stopped the 'special relationship' you two had. She had somebody else to love. Brooke. And Tess. And when she moves on, she moves on. Cold. It's brutal. And it's painful."
"Billy didn't kill any cat," he said. "You deserve to know that. You care about him." He lifted one foot off the branch.
"Please," I said.
"You asked for this," he said.
I looked down and shook my head, trying to come up with words that would give Garret hope.
"Good-bye, Frank," Garret said.
I looked up just as Garret leapt off the branch. I closed my eyes, picturing Billy Fisk's face, bracing for the sound of his spinal column fracturing with the force of the rope. But, instead, I felt the full weight of Garret's body drop on top of me, knocking me to the ground. My head bounced off the dirt, leaving me dazed. The partially healed muscles in my back gave way, and a searing pain ripped through me.
Garret crouched over me, smiling, holding a knife in one hand and the end of the rope in the other. He lifted the noose off his neck, dropped it. "It wasn't tied to anything," he said. "The proverbial loose end. You should have checked."
I reached for my gun, but Garret dove toward me before I could get to it. I barely managed to raise my knee as he fell, burying it in his abdomen and knocking the air out of him.
The knife landed between us.
We both scrambled for it. His hand found it first. I grabbed his wrist and forced him onto his back. I nearly had him pinned when he rammed his head into my chin. I lost my grip on one of his arms, and he rammed an elbow into my face and pushed me off him.
He climbed on top of me and drove the knife downward, toward my chest. I caught hold of his wrist again. He was even stronger than I had imagined. The tip of the blade was getting closer.
"Those that I fight I do not hate" he said, pushing even harder on the knife. "Yeats. My favorite." His lip curled. "You had no business moving in on us, in the first place. If you had just left us alone…" He put everything he had behind the knife.