The silence went on after he was done. And when she finally did say something, it was not at all the reaction he’d expected.
“Goddamn you, Jack Hollis.” In a coldly furious voice. “You make me so fucking mad sometimes, I could scream.”
“Cass, I’m sorry, but I thought I was doing the right thing—”
“The right thing.”
“Yes.”
“By lying to me, keeping me in the dark.”
“I wanted to protect you, too—”
“There, that’s what I mean. That’s it exactly. It’s not Rakubian or what you did that’s got me so upset, it’s you. You and that Superman compulsion of yours.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Superman, Superdad, Superhusband. Protect Eric, Angela, me. Shoulder all the responsibility, make all the decisions, take all the risks. Try to be better than your father in every damn way.”
“My father? What does he have to do with this?”
“He has everything to do with it. Your whole life has been one constant struggle to prove to yourself that he was wrong about you, that you’re a better man than he was. Smarter, stronger, more capable, more compassionate, more protective, more loving, more nurturing, more everything. But you’re not the strong, silent, macho type. You’re Jack Hollis, not Bud Hollis, and you try too hard and lose judgment and perspective and make mistakes and shut people out because you can’t admit that you need help or advice, that you’re even a little bit weaker than hard-as-nails Bud Hollis.”
The accusations stung him. Denial surged hot into his throat, but he had no words to express it.
“The cancer, too, that’s another thing. You’re so full of rage and anxiety at what’s happening inside your body that it’s clouded your reason.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true. You think I don’t know, don’t understand? You’re angry and bitter and afraid, and there’s a part of you that needs to lash out at something or somebody... Rakubian, for instance. But you can’t admit it to yourself, it’s not an acceptable attitude, so you’ve shifted it around to something that is acceptable — protecting your family at all cost, making sure we survive because you’re afraid you won’t survive yourself.”
“My God,” he said in a choked voice.
“I’m right, you know I am. Can’t you see it? Those are the real reasons you’ve been trying to deal with all this on your own... your father, the cancer. But you can’t deal with it alone, you never could, and you don’t have to. They’re my problems as well as yours. I’m your wife, your partner, your coconspirator if necessary, and whether you like it or not I’m just as angry as you are, just as tough and capable, and more clearheaded in a crisis. I don’t deserve to be treated as a weakling or an inferior, because I’m neither one. I don’t deserve to be treated the way your father treated you.”
He shook his head, more reflex than anything else, and got to his feet. Stood indecisively for a few seconds, then sank back down again. All at once he was very tired; his arms and legs had a boneless feel.
“I know all that hurt you,” Cassie said in softer tones, “but it had to be said. You’ve hurt me, too.”
“I... never meant to hurt you.”
“A sin of omission is still a sin.”
“All right. All right. Why the hell have you stayed married to me if you think I’m such a loser, if I offend you so much?”
“For God’s sake, don’t start pitying yourself. I stay with you because I love you and I need you, flaws and all. I’m not attacking you, Jack, I’m only trying to make you see things the way they are so we can move on.”
He saw, he really did see; the denial was no longer hot, not even lukewarm. She was right. Everything she’d said, right on the mark. But all he could make himself say was, “Move on to where?”
“Jack... you...” Her voice had grown hoarse; she cleared her throat. “My mouth is so dry I can’t...” He watched her get to her feet, move to the refrigerator. With the door open she said, “Do you want anything?”
“No.”
She poured a tumblerful of milk, swallowed half before she sat down again. “Better,” she said. Then she said, “You haven’t told Angela yet. About Rakubian.”
“Not yet.”
“Do you intend to?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
He shook his head.
“It’s cruel to keep it from her. You know how frightened she is. You have to tell her — we have to tell her. As soon as possible. Tonight.”
“She can’t come here. The living room...”
“We’ll go to her apartment.”
“I won’t do it in front of Pierce.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not?”
“Who do you suppose killed Rakubian? Wrote those notes, did all the damage here today?”
“You think it’s Ryan?”
“Who the hell else?”
“What possible reason—?”
He told her what possible reason.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
“You don’t believe it. He’s a shining example of manhood in your eyes, is that it? Unlike me. The new, improved Ryan Pierce.”
“That’s the anger talking again.”
“Is it? Not if I’m right about him.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Then what’s got you so convinced he’s guilty?”
He was silent.
“You don’t like him and you want him to be the one? You were sure it was Eric and you were wrong. Now you’re sure it was Ryan and you can be just as wrong about him.”
“Who else could it be? Tell me that.”
“I can think of somebody right off the top of my head. You won’t like it, but he’s got just as much motive as Ryan.”
“Who?”
“Gabe Mannix.”
“Gabe?” he said incredulously. “That’s ridiculous.”
“He’s in love with Angela, you know that.”
“So he’s in love with her. From a distance. My God, we’ve known the man more than twenty years. He’s my best friend. You can’t honestly believe he’s capable of all this lunacy?”
“Of course not. Any more than I believe it’s Ryan. That’s my point.”
“I still think Pierce is the one.”
A little silence. Then Cassie said, “You’re forgetting something. Angela had a date with him the Saturday Rakubian was murdered. She left the house the same time Eric did, remember?”
“She wasn’t with him all afternoon, was she? He could’ve driven to the city after he left her.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There was time. It was two-thirty or so when you called me, and after four by the time I got to St. Francis Wood. If Pierce left town right after he left her, he had nearly two hours to get down there, kill Rakubian, and disappear before I showed up.”
“I suppose so,” she admitted. “But that’s cutting it pretty close.”
“Not if he went there planning to kill him.”
“So what do you want to do? Confront him, accuse him?”
He hesitated. “It seemed like the best way to handle it.”
“But now you’re not so sure.”
“No.” Because she had put doubts in him, not only about Pierce’s guilt but about himself, his judgment. “What do you suggest I... we do?”
“Talk to Angela before making any decisions,” Cassie said. “Right now that’s the most important thing.”
The aura of violation was strong in the house. They took plastic trash containers, brooms, dustpans, a mop, spray cleaner, and a handful of rags into the living room, and made an attempt to clean up the wreckage. It gave Hollis a sick feeling of déjà vu; he kept having memory blips of Rakubian’s library, the blood and gore he’d swabbed off the floor. Futile, wasted effort here. The living room would have to be gutted completely, repainted and recarpeted and refurnished, and even then, as Cassie had said, it would never be or feel the same — the house itself might never be the same comfort zone as before. They managed to wipe most of SUFFER! off the one wall, righted some of the chairs and tables, swept up the worst of the breakage. As they worked they talked in fits and starts, the strain still there between them. That, too, was wasted effort.