Andrew looked up at Melanie, waiting until she met his eyes. He had her attention now. But did he have her anywhere close to being on his side? Was she strong enough to go against her brother? Would she see that she needed to choose between her brother and her son in order to save her son, if not herself? Andrew knew there was a bond between her and Charlie. He had witnessed the panic in her eyes earlier when she realized Charlie was gone, and seemed to be comforted only when she noticed his beat-up backpack hadn't left with him. But was the bond between mother and son stronger than the bond between sister and brother?
"You know he's going to kill me," Andrew told her in that same soft voice, keeping out the emotion despite the lump that threatened to bring it on without warning. She didn't look away and his eyes held hers. "Hasn't there been enough killing already?" He couldn't read her eyes. Couldn't tell whether or not he was getting to her. "I can help you. Both you and Charlie. But it has to stop, Melanie. It has to stop now. Can you make it stop?"
It wasn't Melanie who answered. It was Charlie with his knees up against his chest again, hugging them and rocking back and forth. "I couldn't stop," he said. "I screwed up bad, really bad. Jared said nobody can help me. I did it. I screwed up. I wasn't supposed to do anything. I was supposed to wait. Just scare everybody and hold them up while
Jared did what he had to do. I was supposed to just scare them. I screwed up." It was like a floodgate had been opened, the words coming almost without him taking a breath except to wipe at his nose with his shoulder, never stopping his rocking rhythm. "I saw her and I lost it. I lost it. I forgot that she couldn't recognize me. I forgot. And I panicked. I thought she'd tell. I didn't mean to shoot her. I just didn't want her to tell. The gun went off. Just like that. It just went off and there was blood. There was a hole in her and she was bleeding and I knew I did it. I didn't want the others to tell everybody that I did that. They saw it. They saw what I did. So I shot them, too. One, two, three. Just like that. The woman at the front desk. Bam! The guy in the doorway. Bam! The old man. Bam! I screwed up. I fucking screwed up."
And then it was over. Charlie continued rocking, his eyes still staring at the TV, but the flood of words stopped as suddenly as they had started.
Andrew looked from Charlie to Melanie, waiting. His heart pounded as he watched her. She had stood the entire time with her arms crossed, her body finally still. Her face was expressionless. Her eyes, too, seemed void of emotion, even the panic was gone as if silenced by Charlie's confession instead of being intensified by it. She'd have to do something now, wouldn't she?
She walked over to her son until she was standing between him and the TV. "Look at me, Charlie." She waited for him to look up at her. She waited for the rocking to slow. "I want you to listen to me, Charlie."
Andrew held his breath. Here it was. The defining moment. Would they finally decide to rise up and stand up against Jared? Was this the last straw for Melanie?
"Listen to me, Charlie," she repeated, and Andrew heard a strength in her voice that hadn't been there before, a resolve and command. "You didn't kill anybody. Do you hear me, Charlie? You did not kill anyone. And I don't want to hear you ever say that again-do you understand? Don't you ever say that again."
Then she walked away and began pacing again as if there had been no interruption, no confession, no exchange, as if there had been no denial. Even Charlie stopped rocking, his feet back on the floor, TV channels flipping again before his unblinking eyes.
Andrew seemed to be the only one who realized what had taken place, what this silent bond of denial meant. And Andrew Kane felt as if someone had just knocked the wind right out of him.
CHAPTER 62
9:05 a.m.
Max Kramer crushed the paper coffee cup and tossed it at the trash can, missing, not even hitting the rim. Not a good sign. The caffeine had made him shakier than usual. Probably not the caffeine but all the wine he'd managed to down last night. After Barnett's phone call Max started opening wine bottles from his wife's reserve, getting a rush each time he popped a cork. He had left before she got up this morning so he wouldn't have to endure both a hangover and her wrath.
He swiveled his leather chair around to stare out the window and down at the mall. Another fucking beautiful day. A little too warm and humid for him, but the Nebraska sky was cloudless, not a wisp of white to mar the blue. As a young man he used to brag about Nebraska's blue skies when he was traveling back and forth to New York City, working for a huge law firm and flying coach because his bosses cared even less about their attorneys than they did their clients. Back then he did have a passion for the law, for righting wrongs, even for blue skies. He couldn't remember the day it stopped. It wasn't one event in particular, some injustice or a major failing. It wasn't any one thing. Instead, it happened piece by tiny piece. First one exception, one exemption, one small unintentional slip to take advantage of the rule of law. Then another. And another. He couldn't even remember when the unintentional changed to the intentional. It had happened so gradually, so smoothly, so easily.