Gavin had been put in a private room. Outside, two policemen, a man and woman, stood guard.
Gavin was lying on a gurney, an IV drip in his arm and oxygen tubes in his nostrils. A heart monitor beeped near his head. His eyes were closed, and his lips were still blue.
Gillian slowly approached the bed. She felt a wave of heat wash over her. Her ears started to ring. She was angry. Angry with herself for not seeing Gavin for what he was, angry with Gavin for tricking her for so many years.
Be professional, she told herself. Be a cop.
Wakefield moved to the opposite side of the bed, facing the door. He nodded at her to proceed.
"Gavin?" Gillian said.
Gavin heard Gillian's voice and relief washed over him. After a bleary struggle, he opened his eyes.
"Gillian?…" He lifted a hand to reach for her. She remained beyond his grasp.
"C-mere," he said thickly.
She didn't move any closer. "Gavin, this is Detective Wakefield of the Minneapolis Police Department. We're here to ask you some questions."
The curt tone of her voice made him retreat. "Sleep," he mumbled. "Wanna sleep." His eyes drifted shut.
"You can sleep later. We want to talk to you now."
He opened his eyes again.
The detective turned on a microcassette recorder and spoke into it, listing stuff like the date and time, location. Then he started with the questions, asking Gavin where he'd been last night.
Gavin wouldn't have answered-he was so fucking tired and his head hurt like hell-but Gillian was there, watching him. He wanted to be good for her. He'd always wanted to be good for her. So he told the guy about his evening, about how he'd ended up running into the chick they were asking him about. Guess he finally knew her name. Cammie.
"Where did you meet Cammie Curtis?" Wakefield asked.
"A bar. A bar on the U campus."
"Did you approach her, or did she approach you?"
"D-don't remember."
"Did you ask her if she wanted to go for a ride?"
"I asked her… if she wanted to come home with me," Gavin said. "She said yes."
"And you took her to your house?" Wakefield asked.
"Yeah."
"Did you have sex with her?"
Gavin looked at Gillian. Shit. Why was he asking those kinds of questions in front of her? He should know better than that.
"Answer the question," she said sternly.
So he answered the question. What else could he do? "Yeah."
"Consensual?" the detective asked.
"Huh?"
"Did she also want to have sex with you?"
Oh, consensual. They thought he was dumb, but he just hadn't heard right. "I think so."
"She claims that you raped her. Did you rape Cammie Curtis?"
Rape? Had he raped her? "I'm not sure."
"Did you tie her to your bed?"
Again, he looked at Gillian. Tell the truth, her body language seemed to say.
"She sure as hell didn't do it herself."
"Is that a yes?" the guy asked. "Are you saying you tied her to the bed?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"The occasion just seemed to call for it."
"Did you rape her?"
He was confused.
His brain was mush.
Were they supposed to be asking him questions when his brain was mush? Should he wait for a lawyer? Did it matter?
"Gavin?" Gillian prodded.
If she thought he needed a lawyer, she would have said so.
"Answer the question. Did you rape Cammie Curtis?"
Had he raped her? She'd wanted it, hadn't she? At least he thought she'd wanted it, but then he'd thought Gillian had wanted it too. "I don't know about the rape stuff." He thought about the knife-a knife that looked like the knife that had killed his grandmother. He thought about the huge rock that had crushed Fiona Portman's skull. "Is she dead?"
"Who?" the detective asked.
"That Cammie chick. 'Cause all I remember is that I was gonna kill her."
That shut them both up. Gillian and the detective looked at each other; then they looked at Gavin.
"Gavin, listen to me," Gillian said with insistence.
He complied, the way he always complied.
"Did you abduct Charlotte Henning?"
There was something odd about Gillian. She seemed like somebody else. "You're different," he stated.
She put a hand to her hair.
"Not your hair," he said. "You. You're different."
"Answer the question, Gavin." That command came from Wakefield.
Gavin continued to stare at her. "What was the question?" His mind had floated away.
"Did you abduct Charlotte Henning?"
He could see that Gillian wanted him to say yes.
He could see that she believed he'd done it, and if she believed it, then it must be true. His head hurt, and he wanted to sleep. "Yes," he said.
"Did you smother her-on purpose or by accident?"
"Yes."
Wakefield moved his palm-size recorder nearer, while Gavin continued to stare at Gillian.
"Did you throw her body in the river?" Gillian asked.
"Yes."
"Did you abduct Holly Lindstrom?"
"Yes."
The door opened. "Time's up," a male voice said. "No more questions."
"We've got enough for now." The detective sounded pretty damn satisfied. "Gavin Hitchcock, you're under arrest for the rape of Cammie Curtis, the murder of Charlotte Henning, and the abduction of Holly Lindstrom." He read him his rights, then shut off the recorder.
The detective and Gillian were stepping out the door when Gavin called her name.
She stopped and turned.
"Why didn't you let me die?"
For a moment he caught a flash of the old Gillian, the Gillian who had liked him and believed in him.
"Couldn't you see I wanted to die?" His voice was a rough, aching whisper.
Her only response was to leave the room.
Gavin heard the click of the closing door, heard the detective telling the officers that the patient was under arrest and would be transported to jail as soon as medically possible.
He'd be going back to prison. That was okay. Things were better in prison.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the way Gillian had looked at him. Everything was so hard, too hard.
She was all he'd ever had, all he'd ever wanted, and now she hated him. His fault. Completely his fault. He was bad. Very bad.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry, tell her how much she meant to him, tell her he was glad she'd been a part of his life.
He pulled out the oxygen tubes, ripped out his IV, shoved himself to his feet, and staggered to the door, pulling it open.
"GILLIAN!" he shouted before the guards grabbed him and dragged him back into the room. "GILLIAN!" It didn't matter. She was gone. His body stiffened. His head flew back. "He's seizing!" somebody shouted before oblivion came.
Holly was putting on makeup when Gillian returned to the house.
Upon leaving the hospital, Gillian had had to fight the urge to drive straight home. She wanted to be alone, but Holly was waiting. In the hospital hallway Mary had tried to stop her, concern on her face, but Gillian had barged past, afraid that any weakening, any personal contact-especially from her sister-would cause her to fall apart.
Why didn't you let me die?
She had to be tough; she had to be strong. And the only way to do that was to shut herself off, at least temporarily. Not like Mary, not for a lifetime, but for a few hours, maybe even a few days.
"Let her go," Wakefield had told Mary, his voice seeming to come from another dimension.