He thought of all those nights he’d slept beside her while Mack was working, or sleeping on the couch after they had been fighting. And Michael would lie there and listen to her crying, pretending that he was asleep. She would hold onto him, seeking warmth and comfort from him. And he cherished those moments with her, because she belonged only to him. He could see that she didn’t need Cara in the same way, that Marla didn’t draw the same kind of comfort from her that she did from him. She needed him. She couldn’t leave him. What was he? Who was he without his mother?
He might have come back to himself if she hadn’t tried to run from him again. But she burst from a hidden corner and tried to make it to the door. He caught her easily and his hands wrapped themselves around her neck. It was so small, so delicate under his powerful fingers.
From another place, another world, he watched himself. He watched her flail and struggle. He listened to her horrifying rasp for air, felt her weak pounding at his arms and kicking at his legs. He watched her eyes go wide, bulge, redden. And then he watched them go blank. Her body slackened, and all the fight, all the life, drained out into his hands. But it hadn’t happened to him. It didn’t happen at all. It was a dream, a terrible dream. It happened to someone else, another Michael-one who didn’t even exist on a normal day.
He didn’t remember anything at all after that. Even now, wandering in the rain, carrying the memory of what he had done to his mother, he remembered nothing else of that night. What had his father done? Why had Mack hidden it all from the police, from Michael himself? Why? He could never answer those questions for his father. He could never make amends to his mother. There was no more chance of his ever living in the light again.
It was then that he saw her running.
“Don’t go,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to go.”
He walked out into her path, and she stopped short, stared up at him with blank, nearly uncomprehending terror. On some level, he could see that it wasn’t his mother. It was just some girl, a stranger who couldn’t hold a candle to Marla because no one could. She issued a panicked scream that sent a jolt of fear through him. And she started to flee, nearly tripping once in her panic to get away from him. But this time, he didn’t give chase. He wouldn’t. He’d let her run, just like she had wanted so long ago.
“Heavy rainfall in the region tonight,” the radio announcer said. “We have reports of flooded streets. Some local roads are washed out completely.”
Jones hated the way newscasters always seemed to enjoy giving bad news. They had this faux-somber delivery that wasn’t in the least bit sincere. “It’s been thirty-five years since the Black River overflowed its banks. But authorities say the levels are rising. Folks, I’m sure I don’t have to say it, but I wilclass="underline" If you don’t have to go out tonight, stay home.”
Jones brought the SUV to a stop in front of the Carr house and sat. He remembered the hours spent waiting and watching, sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner, the endlessness of it. Though often, when Ricky was young, he’d cherished the silence and solitude of it. But sometimes being alone with his own thoughts was the last thing he wanted. It was in those quiet, empty spaces that all the things you didn’t want to think about paraded before you, demanding to be noticed.
Maggie had already called twice, first to ask him when he’d be home. She was worried about him out in the weather. Next she called to ask him to look in on her mother. Cell phones were working, but some of the landlines in the older parts of town were out. Elizabeth’s phone was always one of the first to go in a storm. And of course, like the stubborn old mule that she was, she refused to get a cell phone-because that would make things easier on Maggie and Jones.
“No problem,” he told Maggie. “I got it covered.”
“And don’t fight with her.”
“I won’t.” And he wouldn’t-unless Elizabeth started with him. Jones had always had a somewhat contentious relationship with his mother-in-law. But since the events of last year, it had gotten much worse. They could barely make it through a meal without arguing. It was another thing Maggie was angry with him about, even though he didn’t think it was entirely his fault.
“Even if she starts with you, Jones,” she said. “And see if she’ll come back to the house with you.”
“She won’t.”
“Just ask,” she said. “And where are you now?”
During their last conversation, he’d told her about Robin O’Conner and the money he’d given her. You old softie. Was she cute? He’d told her about his trip to the doctor, what the other man had said about Jones finding his father. It’s true we don’t talk about your father much. Maybe he’s right-it bears looking into. Now he told her that he was sitting in front of the Carr house. It was a dark, empty space in a street of warmly lit homes. In other houses he saw open garage doors, television screens flickering. Somewhere he heard the faintest sound of a ringing phone.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“What would Columbo do?”
“Columbo? Really? All the sexy, tough-as-nails television detectives out there, and that’s who I remind you of?”
“I don’t watch much television. Besides, I always found him kind of appealing,” she said. “Do you have your gun?” His wife, the pragmatist.
“No. Just the Maglite.” On the job you had your gun, your blackjack, and your Maglite, the favored flashlight of police officers everywhere. About three pounds of metal, including D batteries, it could do some damage in a pinch.
“Hmm,” she said, sounding uncertain. He watched the house for movement in the windows. There was nothing.
“Just be careful. Okay?”
She used to say that to him every time he left for work. Even though he was only a small-town cop in a place where things were quiet most of the time, she’d always worried about him. She’d get mad at him back then if he didn’t call when he was supposed to or if he got hung up with overtime and came home late. Don’t worry, he’d tell her. They’ll come to the door if there’s really something wrong… Is that supposed to make me feel better? He’d liked it that she worried. He liked it now that she wanted him to come home.
“You mean you still love me?” he said.
“Don’t be silly.” She had that warm, flirty tone in her voice.
“You were pretty mad at me the other night.”
“Not mad,” she said. “Concerned.”
“No. Mad.”
“Okay,” she said. “Angry. Upset.” He remembered that she didn’t like the word mad. That it implied insensibility, something out of control. “But I do love you. You know that, don’t you?”
He did. He did know that. He told her so.
“This is the part where you tell me you love me, too.”
He had a hard time with those words. They felt so awkward, so inadequate on his tongue. Abigail had demanded that he say it over and over to her, day after day. I love you, Mommy. It was like she’d used the words up. He’d said them so many times, not meaning them, saying them only to appease and escape, that the words seemed fake. And they were never enough for her. Nothing was ever enough for Abigail.
“I do,” he said. “You know I do.”
Maggie understood. She never hassled him about it. She didn’t need him to say it. What Maggie needed was a lot of touching, a lot of holding. He hadn’t always been good at that over the years, either.
“Seriously,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I guess I’m going to ring the bell and see if anyone’s home. Go from there.” He’d been sitting and watching for the better part of fifteen minutes now. He’d come to believe over the years that an empty house had an aura; you could tell somehow when no one was home. It was more than just a lack of the lights and movement. It was like a lack of breath.