Emancipated (34 page)

“God, John-Michael, that's just awful. I'm
so
sorry.”

John-Michael just shook his head. Grace checked quickly, but there was no hint of tears in his eyes. He was very calm, one hand on the wheel, his left palm laid flat and easy on a knee.

“So anyway, I got there, showed him how to do the injection. He hated needles, said he wouldn't be able to find a vein. Okay, I didn't know how, either. But I'd seen it done plenty of times. The begging really scared me. He was never like that with me. I could see he was fighting his own impulse to scream at me and order me to do it. Like, he could barely manage to control himself. He must have known that soon he wouldn't be able to do even that.”

A silence followed. John-Michael looked at Grace briefly. “This is where you say—'You had to do it, he made you.' Something on those lines.”

She returned his gaze, blinking back tears.

“But you're not going to, Grace, are you?” His eyes were back on the road. “Have you guessed what I did next?”

“You told us he choked to death.”

“He must have been drinking. I mean, before. Maybe to get the courage or dull the pain. Deep inside his heroin coma, he started to vomit, to choke. Really fighting for air. I couldn't help it—instinctively, I turned him over, started clearing his mouth and throat. He regained consciousness. Then I realized what I was doing. He wasn't going to die. He opened an eye and kinda roared at me. A horrible sound; wrong. Like a gurgle. A sound that just didn't belong to him. Didn't belong to a human.
Finish me!

“I took a pillow. He saw what I was doing. Just gave a nod. I put it over his face. He was too weak to resist. It was over a couple of minutes later. I changed the pillowcase so it didn't have any puke on it. I put the pillow back on the other side of the bed. I checked to make sure there were no signs I'd been there. Then I left. Ditched the dirty pillowcase in a garbage can back in LA.”

Grace breathed out slowly, then asked the question she'd been waiting to ask.

“Why are you telling me?”

He gave her a sad smile. “The cops have already guessed this much. You telling them wouldn't be enough to convict me. There's no corroborating evidence. And of course I'd deny it in court. I don't want to go to prison, Grace.”

“John-Michael—you didn't answer my question.”

“I thought you more than anyone would understand why I don't want to go to prison.”

“Because I visit a man on death row?”

“When it came down to it, Grace, he was my dad. And he was
pleading
for my help. I couldn't say no to him, I couldn't. He never asked me for anything before, except not to be gay. I couldn't do that for him. You understand? I couldn't do anything to make him happy. But I could do this.”

“Well,” Grace admitted, “I'd do anything for my dad, too.”

John-Michael nodded in sympathy. “Where is your dad anyhow? You never talk about him.”

“I talk about him all the time,” she said with a glance at John-Michael. “We're on our way to see him right now.”

He'd gone quiet then, but there had been a wild light in his eyes—fearful and unpredictable, like a trapped animal scouting for a way to escape.

Later she'd wonder if that was the moment when he'd first had the idea.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

BALCONY, MEMORIAL DAY, EVENING

John-Michael and Grace arrived back late on Memorial Day. They'd had to call Paolo to come to pick them up along the Pacific Coast Highway. Everyone in the house was shaken by what John-Michael had done on the drive back.

They didn't understand. How could they? They just thought it was a horrible loss. Wasteful and pointless.

Beyond stupid
.

“You'll have to come up with some kind of excuse for what happened on the road,” Grace warned John-Michael as they stood together on the balcony, exhausted after the long day. “Maybe even say you were stoned or something. Whatever you do, don't tell them what you told me about your father.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Maybe you shouldn't even have told me.”

John-Michael knew Grace was right. The confession had been cathartic. And as he'd pointed out to her, without evidence or a written confession, what he'd told her couldn't convict him. But it still wouldn't be good if the information got out. Who knew where it could lead?

He'd bound himself to Grace forever, had to trust that she could keep a secret. Otherwise he would drive himself crazy, worrying about it. It made him feel more secure to know she'd kept one of her own. But maybe he'd just lost all good sense a while back and now he was running on the heady vapor of hope.

Without knowing what had really happened with his father, however, the other housemates couldn't possibly begin to understand what he'd done on their way home.

Even Grace was taken aback at first, but once she'd recovered from the shock of it, Grace had understood. He knew she would. She had a darker heart than any of the others might suspect.

Prison had a way of contaminating everyone it touched. Now Grace was urging him to rein in the secrets he'd unleashed.

“I'm done talking about what happened with my dad,” John-Michael said. “I mean it. But seriously, you don't think Lucy has already guessed?”

“Perhaps. But if Lucy did hook up with Paolo—I'm not so sure she's a safe bet. Pillow talk—it's notorious.”

“So I'll deny it.”

“I mean it,” Grace insisted. “Don't even get into a conversation about fathers. You never know where talk like that might lead.”

“Oh, I get it. You're worried that if I talk about fathers then people might start asking about
your
dad.”

For a moment a look of sharp anxiety had appeared on her face. “John-Michael, this isn't about me. Sure, I prefer it if people don't start up about my dad. Candace doesn't know about him—my mom wanted it that way. If she finds out I've been hiding it all these years, I don't know if she'll ever trust me again. But mainly, it's about you. You committed a serious crime That's a secret you'll have to keep—maybe for the rest of your life.”

“Hey, hey, I know. You can trust me. On the subject of fathers, I'm all, like, zip-lipped. I'm an Easter Island statue.” His face wore an immobile frown until Grace reluctantly smiled.

“Okay,” Grace said. But then, “Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should talk to Lucy about what happened. Why we went to San Quentin, I mean.”

“I should tell Lucy about
your
dad?”

Grace nodded. “Lucy. But
only
her. And only about my dad. Not the stuff about
your
dad.”

John-Michael still couldn't figure why Grace thought Lucy was a safe bet with Grace's secret about her father and not with John-Michael's secret about his. Yet she insisted.

“Lucy's your best friend in the house. She's going to expect some explanation for why you upped and decided to spend your holiday weekend taking me to visit some con. Being a total statue about it will only rouse her suspicions. Tell her about my dad. And
nothing
else.”

His first chance to speak alone to Lucy came later that night.

“Come up for a smoke.”

“On the balcony—are you insane? The SoCal offenserati will be walking their dogs right about now. They'll sue you for giving them cancer.”

John-Michael tipped his head toward the rear of the house. “In the backyard then?”

“Fine.” Lucy followed him outside.

He reached into his jeans for a packet of cigarettes, snapped a lighter, and fired up. Wordlessly, Lucy plucked the cigarette from his fingers. She took two drags and handed it back.

“I'm quitting,” she told him with an easy confidence. “First, I only bum smokes from other people. Next month I go cold turkey.”

With an almost seductive swing of her hips, Lucy settled into one of the leather-backed easy chairs on the tiny lawn. She folded her arms. The skin of her shoulders, neck, and arms was glossy with a sheen of perspiration. John-Michael admired her poised sexuality.

“What is it, JM? What really happened on the road today? I mean, dude, why'd you do it? C'mon now and talk to Lucy.”

He ignored her question and went straight to what he'd agreed on with Grace. “Grace needed to see her father.”

The mental processes were almost evident on Lucy's face. After a moment she said, “What are you saying—you didn't go to San Quentin after all?”

He kept his eyes on hers. “Oh, we went to San Quentin all right.”

Grace had instructed him very firmly against actually making the final connection for Lucy. With nothing but silence and his firm gaze between them, Lucy finally caved in and said it. Just as Grace had predicted she would.

“Grace's
dad
is Dead Man Walking . . . ?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Grace's mom made all the kids from her first marriage take her second husband's name—Deering. But her real name is Grace Vesper. And her father is Alex Vesper. ‘Alan Vernon' is just a
name she made up. Vesper is who she's been writing to, been seeing.”

Lucy didn't visibly react. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It didn't to me, either. But just take a look on the internet. He's all over it. Around eight years ago.” He waited for Lucy to say something. She didn't. “That Hollywood murder in the swimming pool? Tyson Drew, the movie star?”

Finally, Lucy responded. “Grace's dad killed Tyson Drew?”

“No. He didn't. Cops pinned it on him anyhow. Grace's mom's managed to get her family away from the stigma. They were separated at the time it happened anyway, so no love lost. Poor guy doesn't have too many folks believing in him.”

“But Gracie believes.”

He knocked cigarette ash onto the nearby strip of lumpy, reddish-brown dirt. “Yeah.”

“I see.” Lucy's expression was grave, calm. Yet there was calculation behind those eyes. Her profound silence told him that.

John-Michael continued. “Can you imagine the pain of something like that? I spent one night in jail, Lucy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, I was fuckin' terrified. The moment they lock that door. And you know for the next however many hours, that's your world. The stink of piss, stale tobacco breath, sweat. I was lucky—I'm a minor, they couldn't lock me up with any of the lousy scumbags they were bringing in. But I saw them when I was waiting. Drunks, junkies, guys from rough neighborhoods looking at me like I was something to slice up and lay on a sandwich. And I'm not a wuss, I've spent nights under freeways. That was sweet blessed freedom and perfumed sheets by comparison.”

She said nothing, only stared back at him with eyes that were only now beginning to register anguish.

“Imagine all the soul and life sucked out of a building and replaced with fear and despair and rage that's barely suppressed. That's San Quentin. Last time, when I went with Paolo and Gracie, I stayed in the car and Grace went in with her cousin Angela. I didn't go in. I couldn't. This time, she made me go in with them. Said she wanted me to meet her old man. So I'd understand. And I did. I thought that night in jail had toughened me up. But no. The minute that security gate closed behind us, I felt the walls closing in. Throat all tight. Like all the air was used up. Like any minute someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, pal, there's been a mistake, it's your time.'”

Barely audible she whispered, “But they didn't.”

“How I didn't just turn round and run screaming out of the place, I don't know. Maybe I was afraid I'd look guilty. Anyway, I sat down with Gracie in front of some glass. Alex Vesper on the other side. Eight years on death row, you gotta figure that's going to waste a man, right? Well, I never saw the dude before, so maybe he was a fat slob once, but I doubt it.”

Her voice quavered. “How'd he look?”

“A real tough guy. Not an ounce of fat on him. Face hard, like granite. But in his eyes, he's all Grace. Glacier-blue. When he smiled at her, it was like a sledgehammer cracked open that ice. Smiled at me, too. Grateful to me for driving her up there. Two visits in a month. That's better than the last six. Gracie told him what was going on with me. And he told me:
Don't expect the truth to protect you. That's a crock
.”

He paused then, waiting for Lucy to respond. But all she did was to take his cigarette, and return his gaze with a level stare. After a minute, she stood, paced over to the French doors, slid the door open, and stepped into the living room. She closed the door, didn't look back even once.

For a moment John-Michael just stood there, stunned. He'd poured his heart out to her, but nothing.
Lucy was as inscrutable as she was evidently irresistible.

He pitied any guy who got too close.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY, MEMORIAL DAY, AFTERNOON

The ocean shimmered. It had a particular deep blue brilliance in the midafternoon that drew the eye, so long as you could bear its dazzle.

From behind dark brown sunglasses, Grace looked out at the Pacific. It felt so close now, just a short reach beyond the tip of John-Michael's elbow. He was driving with one arm resting lazily on the open window of the Benz. The car sped round the cliffs of the coastal road, its tires clinging to the tarmac as they took each bend.

Grace marveled at the aerodynamic design of the convertible, so perfectly engineered that even with the top down, her hair barely moved. The car stereo was playing the Shins track “New Slang” from John-Michael's indie music playlist. Not the kind of music that she would have picked for a road trip. Yet for a long, long time after that day, the tune would instantly evoke in Grace an exquisite ache of nostalgia; the memory of their drive back from San Quentin along the Pacific Coast Highway.