Gavin's shoulders slumped. His head dropped.
Gillian wanted to attack Fiona the way she'd attacked the boys under the bridge, but this was Gavin's battle. She'd warned him about her, and he hadn't listened.
To her credit, Mary didn't follow Fiona. She stayed and apologized to Gavin. She made excuses for her friend. "I don't think she heard you," Mary told Gavin.
"Come on," Gillian said, knowing an argument was pointless. She took Gavin's arm. "Let's go."
Gavin looked at her from under his bowed brow and hanging hair, and his eyes were full of such bleak pain that for the first time in her life Gillian wanted to kill somebody. Fiona Portman.
She shared her desire with Gavin. The bleakness left his eyes, and that afternoon they discussed how it could be done. Together, they fantasized about kidnapping her. They would torture her. They would kill her.
Gillian forgot all about the incident until two months later when Fiona was dead and Gavin was arrested for the crime.
Gillian never knew if Gavin killed her or not, but if he had, Gillian knew she was to blame for planting the idea in his head.
It had been'bullshit, kid stuff, not anything she ever thought would be carried out. But she was young. She hadn't understood about Gavin, about how he sometimes had a problem separating fantasy from reality. As a child, he'd developed the skill to protect himself. That armor lent him the power to be able to move through the world without being crushed by it.
She pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to escape. She'd fucked up his life-that's what she'd done. All along, she'd convinced herself that once he got out of prison, everything would be fine. Well, now he was out and he wasn't fine. He was a million miles from fine.
She hadn't only fucked up Gavin's life; she'd also fucked up Mary's. If Fiona had lived, Mary would eventually have seen her for what she was: a spoiled little bitch. Now she'd been relegated to sainthood, and Mary-Mary, who used to be funny, who used to laugh and dance and act as crazy as a person could act-was now on some holy mission to right the wrongs of the world. She'd so immersed herself in darkness that she could no longer see a pinpoint of light. She was no longer Mary Cantrell. She hadn't been Mary Cantrell since the day she'd stumbled over Fiona's dead body.
Chapter 11
"I'm home!"
He hurried down the basement stairs. In one hand was a cup of hot chocolate and a carryout bag of food he'd picked up at an all-night gas station. He'd agonized over what to get her as a reward, and then he'd spotted the hot chocolate. Bingo. She would be hungry. She would be glad to see him.
His heart beat in anticipation. This was the one. He was sure of it.
He unlocked the door to the narrow room and leaned his shoulder into it, shoving it open.
The acrid smell of vomit hit him in the face. He recoiled and then forced himself to step inside. She was lying on the mattress, her hands cuffed behind her. He rolled her toward him; her body was heavy and cold.
"I brought you hot chocolate," he said with hesitation.
Skin the color of paste.
Eyes partially open and dried out.
He ripped the duct tape from her mouth to reveal blue lips and not a stirring of breath.
NO!
Dead! She was dead!
He roared like a bull elephant and threw down the cup. Hot chocolate exploded against his pants.
She'd suffocated.
NO!
Not Charlotte! Not his Charlotte!
He'd covered her mouth so she wouldn't scream while he was gone. How was he to know she would get sick? He didn't have all the answers. He wasn't the Answer Man.
He slammed the door and went upstairs. This can't be happening.
He sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped the prepackaged sandwich he'd gotten for her. He wouldn't have picked it out for himself. It was something a girl might like, with thin slices of turkey, slimy cheese, and wilted lettuce. Light mayonnaise. He would have preferred regular. He was halfway through the meal when he started sobbing. He almost choked because his mouth was full of food that just wouldn't go down. He gagged and spit it out.
He quit coughing. He quit crying. He sat there trying to figure out what he was going to do.
Daylight will be here in a couple of hours.
"I know. I know," he said to the empty room. "Don't you think I know that? I'm thinking. Just let me think."
Twenty minutes later, he went back downstairs.
She was still there, just the way he'd left her, lying on the mattress he'd put there just for her. He would like to have kept her awhile, but he knew from experience that it didn't take long for a dead body to start smelling, start drawing flies.
It was hard getting her upstairs. He was out of breath, and his back hurt by the time he got her to the bathroom.
Once there, he removed her clothes, then put her in the tub. He arranged her legs so she would be comfortable. He filled the tub with cool water and, with a washcloth, removed all traces of vomit. When he was finished, he crossed her arms over her chest. He caressed her hair, smoothing it on either side of her face.
"Not your fault, little girl." Not his, either. Like the bumper sticker said, Shit Happens. It was an oldie but a goodie.
Oh, she was beautiful and sweet and innocent. He was terribly afraid she'd been the one.
Don't think about that. You can't think about that.
He let the water out of the tub, then photographed her, snapping frame after frame. He shot close-ups of her face and shots that took in her entire body. He was caught up in the wonder of her. He wanted to have sex with her. Should he? Did he dare? He finally decided it wouldn't be right; she deserved to be treated like a lady. He wrapped her in the shower curtain and carried her back through the house, into the garage. He put her in the trunk of his car.
He could see her face through the plastic.
Under cover of darkness, he drove.
He wanted to take her back where he'd found her, but cops were crawling all over. They had dogs and helicopters. The National Guard. He'd seen it on the news. So he'd have to take her someplace else. She was special; she deserved a place that was special.
He didn't want to leave her where nobody would find her. He didn't want to leave her where animals might eat her. He wanted to baptize her. He wanted to give her extreme unction. where the current would carry her away with cheT-ished abandon. She was heavy, and he staggered under the weight as he walked along the old railroad tracks that led to the bridge.
The night was dark, and the water was black.
"I commit you to the night, to the water," he whispered, unwrapping her from the plastic shower curtain. Standing on the bridge, he let her go. A moment later, he heard a faint splash.
It was one of those autumn days that brought people out to enjoy the fall colors and possibly the last warm day of the season. Children perched on their fathers' shoulders, chubby hands splayed across foreheads. Bicyclists cruised the Mississippi Mile, and groups of people paused in their stroll across the Stone Arch Bridge to admire the river gushing through the dam.
"Ball," a baby said, pointing with a wet finger.
The object tumbled into view and then vanished into the churning, roaring water.
"Ball," the baby repeated, giggling.
"Where'd it go?" asked the mother, enunciating clearly.
They waited but didn't see it again.
"All gone," the father said with mock sadness. "All gone."
Just then, to the right of the tumbling falls, something bobbed to the surface where the water became silent and smooth as black glass.
"Ball," the baby said, happy again.
Everyone at the bridge smiled and looked. The object drifted closer, and the voices fell silent.