Degree of Guilt (40 page)

Linton’s eyes opened. ‘Perhaps it was the fire, the stone floor, the elk head on the wall. Suddenly I felt like I was under the spell of something primitive. It was like being in a nightmare, yet being lucid, all at once. I saw his madness clearly, knew that it was becoming my reality. And then his thumb and forefinger tightened on my nipple.’

Linton turned toward the empty fireplace. ‘That,’ she said slowly, ‘was when I pulled away.

‘His eyes got big. He simply stared at me, and then he smiled.’ Linton nodded, rocking herself. ‘It was what he’d wanted me to do.

‘I was still caught up in his eyes when he slapped me.

‘My neck snapped back, and then I fell against the arm of the couch. I saw yellow flashes, tasted blood inside my mouth.

‘He got up on his knees, waiting for my eyes to open. And then he ripped open my blouse.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It was like it wasn’t enough for me to feel him. He needed me to watch him.’

Linton closed her eyes. ‘“Shall I hit you again?” he asked softly.

‘I couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. I just shook my head.

‘“Then show me your breasts,” he said. “And keep your eyes open.”

‘My bra unhooked in the front.’ Linton’s eyes opened. ‘Even then, unhooking it was hard. My fingers couldn’t move right.’

Terri wanted a drink of water, she found. But she couldn’t speak. As if in a trance, Linton kept on talking. ‘When I was uncovered,’ she said, ‘he just looked at me. I had this crazy hope – if he liked my breasts, perhaps it would end there. I was so pathetic that I tried to smile at him. But my mouth was swollen, and I couldn’t make it.’

‘“That’s good,” he said. “Eyes open now.” His voice was soothing but impersonal, like a doctor’s. And then I felt his fingers on the clasp of my jeans.

‘When I began to wriggle, he slapped me again.

‘I started to cry. “
Eyes open
,” he said angrily.’ Linton looked pale again. ‘He made me unzip my jeans, pull them off. Even to myself, I looked so thin.

‘At first, he let me keep my panties on.’ Once more, Linton nodded to herself. ‘He opened my legs, forced his knees between them. I had to watch while he undid himself.’

Linton’s eyes were dry. Terri, watching, struggled for control. ‘When he was finished,’ Linton said quietly, ‘he told me to hold his penis while he pulled my panties down. To keep him hard.

‘I did that.

‘When he had me naked, he pushed me back. I felt his wool sweater, his face against my neck. And then I felt
him
.’ Linton looked away. ‘He didn’t care whether he hurt me.’

Linton’s voice became tired, as if with shock. ‘It hurt. But I was too afraid to close my eyes. I tried finding something to look at.’ She paused. ‘So I lay there, staring up at the elk head, while he had me.

‘Afterwards, he made me cook him dinner. Without any clothes, while he watched me.

‘I did that, still in shock, like a little robot homemaker. Then I cleaned up.’ Linton shook her head. ‘The more I moved, the more it hurt. And he just watched me.

‘I was cleaning up the living room, wiping beneath the wineglasses, when I saw the stain on the sofa.’ She looked at Terri. ‘It was right where you’re sitting now.’

Terri could only stare at her. ‘I turned the cushion over,’ Linton said softly, ‘so my uncles wouldn’t see the stain. For all I know, it’s still there.’

Terri got up, walked to the window. Her legs felt weak; perhaps, Terri told herself, she had been sitting too long.

‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ Linton asked.

Terri turned to her. ‘Is that all right?’

Linton nodded. ‘I need to stop this. At least for a while.’ She paused, touching her chest. ‘It’s almost a physical thing. To talk about it hurts in here.’

God, Terri thought, there can’t be any more. She followed Linton to the hall closet, borrowed a ski parka and some boots, went outside.

It was crisp and still; the cold felt good on Terri’s face. Silent, they began walking toward the road. There was no sound except the crunch of their boots on crusted snow.

It was midafternoon, Terri realized. Daylong sun had warmed the pine boughs; once or twice the branches bent and their burden of snow fell to the ground, needles stirring with the fall. Terri and Linton walked side by side. For perhaps a quarter mile, neither spoke.

‘When did he leave?’ Terri asked.

Linton paused, staring out. ‘The next morning.’

Terri let it go for a time. They reached the bridge of railroad ties; Linton stopped and leaned against the railing. Next to her, Terri watched the icy flow of the stream, listened to the water rush beneath them.

Terri turned to her. ‘Why did he stay?’

Linton shrugged. ‘Because he wanted to.’

Terri kept watching her. Linton leaned forward, arms resting on the railing, cradling her chin. ‘It was as if,’ she said quietly, ‘he wanted things normal. To believe that I’d felt something more than pain.’

‘And you?’

Linton shook her head. ‘I was a shell.’

Terri was silent.

‘Have you heard of the “Stockholm syndrome”?’ Linton asked.

Terri nodded. ‘I think so. Isn’t that where victims begin to identify with the kidnapper, because they’re so afraid?’

‘It was something like that. I was in shock, torn loose from my moorings. I wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. And at the same time, I was afraid of what he’d do if I asserted myself at all.’ Linton turned to Terri, hazel eyes full of confusion and self-doubt. ‘Can you understand any of this?’

Terri was quiet for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I can.’

Linton turned to the stream. ‘That night, he slept with me. I couldn’t sleep at all.’

Terri tried to imagine lying in bed with the man who had raped her. It was like recoiling from a flame; the thought left a residue of shock.

‘In the middle of the night,’ Linton said softly, ‘I felt him reach between my legs.

‘It was semidark. The only light was from the bathroom; I’d gone to wash inside me, and left the light on and the door ajar. Like a child afraid of the night.’ Linton paused. ‘It hurt to be touched there.

‘Suddenly he stopped. For a moment, I thought I was safe. Then he got up, pulled aside the sheets to uncover me. As he turned, his profile caught the light from the bathroom, and I saw that he had an erection.

‘I lay there, stiff. But when he opened my legs, I reached out to him. So that he wouldn’t hit me again.

‘He pushed against me, trying to get in. I was wondering if it was dark enough to close my eyes.’ Staring at the stream, Linton shook her head. ‘Then I realized that his penis wasn’t hard.’

Linton turned to Terri. ‘He flung my arms away, got back up on his knees, still between my legs. Just staring down at himself. He became so still that it frightened me. I didn’t move, could hardly breathe.

‘For a crazy moment, I thought he’d kill me. Because, somehow, I’d failed him.’ Linton was shivering in the cold. ‘And then, without a word, he gathered his clothes and went downstairs.

‘I lay there for hours, a prisoner in my uncles’ house, listening for sounds from below. The sun came up; there were streaks of light across the bed. Every once in a while I heard him pacing the stone floor. All I could do was pray that he would leave without wanting me again.’ Linton paused. ‘Then I heard him coming upstairs.’

In her imagination, Terri heard Ransom’s footsteps on the stairs. Felt herself waiting, as Linton had.

‘I covered my shoulders,’ Linton said. ‘When I looked up again, he was standing at the foot of the bed.

‘The look in his eyes was so peculiar: confusion, anger, fear. He stared at me as if I had tried to destroy him.

‘Once more, I was sure that he would kill me.

‘He came closer. Then he sat on the bed, placed one hand on my lips, and said in a whisper, “You can never tell anyone.”

‘I stared at him, and then I nodded. He looked into my eyes, as if deciding whether to believe me. Then he whispered, “Good. Because that never happened to me before.”

‘I didn’t know what he was talking about. And then it came to me.’ Slowly, Linton shook her head. ‘He wasn’t asking me to hide his rape,’ she said with quiet bitterness. ‘He was asking me to hide his failure.’

Terri was silent. When Linton spoke again, her voice held a kind of amazement. ‘Even then, his only feeling was for himself. He left without saying another word.’

Terri turned to her. ‘After that, what did you do?’

‘I got dressed and sat down to write, as if it were a normal day. An hour later, I was staring at a blank page.’ Linton stared at the floor. ‘The scene I was writing was between a man and a woman, about to make love.

‘For weeks, the book wouldn’t come. I left here, took time off, tried writing different scenes. What I was really trying to do was lose myself in a story. Nothing worked. Mark Ransom had killed something in me – in life, and in fiction.’

‘You never told anyone?’

‘I just couldn’t do it.’ Her voice went flat. ‘It would make such a mess. Part of me felt, somehow, that I’d let him do it. Then, when I got away from here, it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.’ Again, she shook her head. ‘As you said, I just stuffed it somewhere. Sometimes the only way I knew that it had happened was how careful I was to avoid Mark Ransom. So
I
wouldn’t feel dirty and ashamed.’

‘And David?’

‘We broke up. Before, I thought maybe I could let him get close – emotionally, that is.’ Linton paused. ‘I just never did.’

Terri hesitated. Finally, she asked, ‘Did you ever think of telling him?’

‘Sometimes. But I never could really imagine it. David was a lawyer – shy about his feelings but very aggressive and literal about everyone else’s rights. If I’d told him, he wouldn’t have stopped there. And he would have taken what happened with Mark Ransom personally.’ Linton sounded weary, defeated. ‘Sometimes I think men and women see these things so differently.’

Terri searched her face. ‘The book,’ she asked. ‘What was it about?’

The bitterness left Linton’s face; its residue was another look, more distant yet profoundly sad. ‘It was to be about David and me. Only a better, wiser version of us both.’ Linton’s tone grew softer. ‘Like many writers, I used fiction to bring order to the world, make life and people as I wished them to be. Including me.’

‘And you’re trying to write it again?’

‘Yes. But it’s not going well.’ The bitter smile returned. ‘I seem to have lost the feeling for it. Perhaps, as Mark Ransom suggested, I’m a writer of short fiction – “little people, little feelings, little stories.”’

Terri was quiet. Finally, she asked, ‘What do you call the novel?’

‘Now? Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘When I gave it to Mark Ransom, I called it “The Pursuit of Happiness.”’ She turned to Terri again, her eyes glistening. ‘I can’t seem to be happy, if I ever was.’

Terri did not know what to do or say, except to touch Linton’s shoulder. ‘Marcy,’ she said gently, ‘you don’t have to testify. No one will ever know.’

For a time, Linton regarded her, and then spoke with equal quiet. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll never finish “The Pursuit of Happiness.” But if I testify, perhaps someone else will understand why I’m so damned glad Mark Ransom’s dead.’

‘That’s a terrible story,’ Paget said.

They sat at a restaurant in the mountains above Aspen, one night later. Paget had flown out to help make Marcy Linton comfortable with him and to prepare her for what was to come. He had been candid and factual; although more reserved with Paget than with Terri, Linton was determined to testify. But watching Linton become the centerpiece of Mary Carelli’s defense, Terri found herself resenting Christopher Paget for the relief he felt.

She looked around, pretending to enjoy the room. On another day, she would have. The restaurant Paget had managed to find was a long drive into the mountains and set off by itself; a rustic cabin that offered excellent food and, in the kennel just below, dog sleds for hire. Inside were candlelit tables, rough walls, and, through the windows, a view of snow filtering through the pines and aspens that covered the mountainside. They sat in a corner; the other tables were filled with twosomes and foursomes in jeans and boots and sweaters who had come for the food rather than to be seen. Beyond the murmur of the room, close and convivial, Terri could hear dogs yipping below, their cries echoing in the mountains.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I guess I’m not very good company.’

‘Oh, you’ve been surprisingly lifelike.’ Paget seemed to wince at his own words. Forgive me. Sometimes I don’t know what to say, when a simple “What’s the matter” would do nicely. What
is
the matter? Marcy Linton?’

For once, Terri thought, his intuition had failed him; she was better prepared for banter than for serious talk. She searched for something that would seem like enough to explain her mood and, at the same time, invite a change of subject. Finally, she said, ‘It’s just how Richie sounded last night, I guess.’

Paget tilted his head in inquiry. ‘How was that?’

‘He’s not happy about my being here.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’m never sure anymore how attractive Richie really thinks I am, but he’s absolutely certain that
other
men find me compelling.’

Paget looked mildly surprised. ‘Me, for example?’

Terri nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

Paget seemed to consider that a moment. ‘You
are
compelling, of course. But that misses the point of our relationship. As professionals, or as friends.’

‘I know that. But Richie never will.’

Paget stared out the window. His gaze was distant, directed at the mountainside. ‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘people just need a safe place to go.’

The waiter cleared their plates and wineglasses, took coffee orders. For once, Terri did not want dessert. She felt Paget watching her again.