Eyes of a Child (80 page)

Terri looked into Rosa's eyes with dread and awe; Rosa's life
had
led her places where Terri would never go. ‘When Ricardo heard it was me,' Rosa said with quiet irony, ‘he buzzed me in. After all, what harm could I be?'

Rosa paused; Terri was uncertain whether she wished to hear more. As if sensing this, Rosa turned from her, voice tired and drained of feeling. ‘I went to the door and knocked. When Ricardo peered through the door, face behind the door chain, his nose was bleeding.

‘“You're too late,” he told me.

‘At first, I didn't know what he meant. And then I realized he must be talking about Elena.' Rosa's face turned to stone. ‘He stared at me. For a moment, I didn't know what would happen. When he opened the door and let me in, it was like the beginning of a dream.

‘I closed the door behind me,' Rosa said quietly, ‘and took out the gun.'

Simply and Sparingly, Rosa described the next few minutes. As Terri listened, her mother's voice became a monotone. As if in a silent movie, Terri matched words with images – Richie backing fearfully from his door to the desk, picking up a pen, putting it down. Saw her mother, with lethal irony, placing Elena's picture by his note. Compared her mother's story to the medical examiner's flawed imaginings: the nosebleed when Dr Shelton believed Christopher Paget had struck Richie in the face; the bruise on the leg and gash on the head when Richie had fallen backward. Except that Richie had been running from the gun in Rosa's hand.

‘While he lay there,' Rosa said with terrible calm, ‘I put the revolver in his mouth. I wanted him to die knowing how Elena had felt.

‘The last thing he said was, “Please –”'

Terri could feel her own silence. Reaching for her daughter's hand, Rosa Peralta closed her eyes and pulled the trigger, in memory.

Richie's eyes froze in shock.

A fine red mist rose from his mouth. Only then did the muffled sound of the gunshot register in Rosa's brain.

As Richie's head popped backward, she began to gag.

A deep breath. The nausea stayed where it was.

Swallowing, Rosa stared down.

There were specks of blood and black powder on her wrists and hands. Sliding from Richie's mouth, the gun left a trail of powder on his lips. The bullet had done little more than end his life; it had not, Rosa guessed, gone through his head. He looked innocent, even frail, surprised that life had not been fair to him.

They stayed there, killer and victim, staring at each other.

The telephone rang.

Rosa started. The phone rang twice more and then stopped. Gazing at the dead man, Rosa heard his voice.

‘Hi there. This is 769–8053. I'm not in at the moment, but I know I want to talk to you. So please leave a message, and I'll call back. . . .'

His eyes seemed black and shiny. For a moment, Rosa imagined they were wet with tears, and then she realized that the tears were not in his eyes, but in hers; wept not for him, but for Elena.

‘Bye now,' his voice finished.

Richie stared emptily. And then a second voice echoed in the dark.

‘Richie . . .'

Rosa jerked upright, turning toward the voice.

‘It was
you,
Teresa. Begging him to see you that night.'

Terri felt the words in the pit of her stomach. Her mother's hand tightened on hers.

‘I listened to you plead for Elena, while I looked into Ricardo's face. And then I placed the gun in his hand, wiped my fingers on the raincoat, and went to the machine.

‘When you finished the message, I turned off the machine and erased the tape.' Rosa turned away. ‘I didn't want them thinking you might have come there, you see. They might have suspected you.

‘It was the last clear thought I had. It took all my strength to walk to the car and drive home.

‘I went to the basement and put my raincoat in a garbage bag. The garbage men were collecting the next day. By the time they found Ricardo, the raincoat would be gone.

‘I climbed the stairs and went to Elena's room.'

There were tears in Rosa's eyes. ‘She was having a nightmare,' she finished simply. ‘And so I held her, as I once held you, until she fell asleep.'

Terri stood staring out the window at Dolores Street. Behind her, Rosa sat on the couch, silent and still. It was deep night. Terri did not know how much time had passed.

‘You let Chris go to trial. You let Carlo believe him a murderer.' Her voice trembled with shame and anger. ‘You let
me
believe him a murderer.'

‘It seems you're always misjudging men, Teresa. First Ricardo, and now Chris.' Rosa's voice was soft and sad. ‘Never did I suspect what would happen to Chris. Either that they would arrest him or that you would believe him guilty.'

Terri turned from the window. ‘And when it happened?'

‘I had Elena to think of.' Rosa's tone grew firmer. ‘My silence was harsh, I know. But Christopher Paget is an unusually strong and resourceful man. Meeting him, I could feel that.'

Terri walked toward her in a silent fury. Standing over her mother, she asked, ‘And Carlo?'

Rose stared up at her. ‘Carlo,' she answered, ‘is not my grandchild.'

Terri jerked her mother upright, grasping the front of her robe.
‘Carlo,
' she spat out, ‘is not a child molester.' She drew her mother's stiff face close to hers. ‘You could have sent Chris to prison.'

Rosa did not struggle. ‘No,' she answered with quiet dignity. ‘I would never have permitted that. But now he is acquitted, and Elena need never know.'

‘What about
me
?'

‘I would have told you, Teresa. In time.'

‘But you didn't.' Terri's voice grew soft again. ‘You did what you thought was right. And so can I.'

Rosa gave her a weary look. ‘And will you tell the police, then? Send me to prison and traumatize Elena? For what – Richardo Arias?'

Terri shook her head. ‘For Carlo, and especially for Chris. For the rest of his life, people will think him a murderer.'

Rosa's face went from fatigue to fatalism. ‘Ask him, then. Let Christopher Paget do justice.'

Slowly, Terri released her mother.

Gazing calmly into her face, Rosa said, ‘There's more, I think. You called Ricardo
twice,
didn't you? That's why
you
believed Chris guilty, and why you feel so guilty now.'

Terri did not answer. Looking at her, Rosa nodded at what she saw. ‘At the trial, Teresa, you told them you had called Ricardo around eight-thirty, and that he told you he had an appointment. But you never told them you'd called a
second
time, much later, and that Ricardo hadn't answered.

‘That was why, in Italy, you were so worried when you could not find Ricardo. It's why you concealed from the police that you'd called him again. Because you were certain that Ricardo had died between your first and second calls.' Rosa paused. ‘You thought that
Chris
had erased your message. That was what you could never speak of. Especially to Chris.'

Chapter
5

Chris answered the door in a white sweater and blue jeans. It was two o'clock.

‘I have something to tell you,' Terri said.

He looked into her face. ‘It's okay. I was waiting up for you.'

They walked through the silent house to the library, the room where Chris came to think. It was dark; by the glow of a dying fire, Terri saw a snifter of cognac on the table.

He flicked on a small lamp and sat on the couch, looking up at her in the half-light with an expression of inquiry, intent but not unkind. ‘Cat got your tongue?' he said softly.

Terri did not sit. ‘You didn't kill Richie,' she said.

There was the barest trace of humor in his eyes. ‘Yes. I know.'

‘Chris, it was my
mother
.'

His expression changed but slightly, a narrowing of his eyes, and then he nodded.

She watching him take this in. ‘You
knew
.'

‘I suspected.
Knowing
is something very different.' Chris seemed momentarily to withdraw deep within himself, and then he looked up. Something in her face kept him from going to her. Quietly, he asked, ‘Do you want to talk about Rosa?'

If he said or did anything more, Terri thought, she would lose control. ‘Yes, and no,' she said at last.

The fire spat, embers dying. ‘Tell me how she did it, then,' Chris said. ‘I already know the why.'

It started her. ‘You
knew
about Elena?'

His face changed, becoming watchful. ‘I know that Carlo didn't abuse her.'

Terri felt shame overtake her. ‘No,' she said softly. ‘
Richie
did.'

‘Richie?' For the first time, Chris looked surprised. ‘Your mother
knew
that?'

‘Yes.'

He stood abruptly, staring into Tern's face. ‘Then she let Carlo hang there.'

Terri did not flinch. ‘She let
you
hang there.'

‘I'm not sixteen.' Chris's voice was quieter yet; it was as if he felt too much for anger. ‘You'd better tell me everything.'

The sense of his self-control, maintained at a cost, made the moment that much more terrible. Looking into his face, she told him all she knew, without emphasis or inflection. His expression never changed. His body was unnaturally still.

When she had finished, Terri felt exhausted.

Softly, Chris said, ‘Does your mother understand what she did?'

‘No.' Terri's voice fell. ‘I want you to clear yourself, Chris.'

A first ironic smile. ‘I thought I had.'

‘You know better.' Terri paused, and then made herself finish. ‘I was afraid that you'd killed him.'

He looked into her face. ‘What about Carlo?'

‘I wasn't sure.' With so much lost, there was no sparing the truth. ‘That's why you should do it, Chris. At least you'll salvage Carlo.'

‘You're right. As far as
that
goes.' He tilted his head. ‘But you're leaving out Elena.'

Terri felt herself draw breath. ‘If my mother had told me about Richie, we could have confronted him.
I
would have gotten Elena, and Richie's charges against Carlo would have vanished.'

‘All true. It has a certain irony, if you enjoy the ancient Greeks.' Paget paused, as if to check his anger, and then shrugged. ‘But your mother didn't do that. So here we all are.'

Terri went to him, looking up into his face. ‘There's no “we” anymore. It's time for you and Carlo to bail out and let me pick up the pieces of my family. As best I can.'

Chris stared down at her. ‘One of the pieces is Elena. If it were up to you, this would never come out.'

‘No. But that's not the point.'

‘Isn't it? The only thing your mother got right is that this would devastate Elena. That's not a decision I'm prepared to make by myself.' He paused, finishing quietly, ‘Nor, in the end, is it
my
decision. Or yours.'

Terri stared at him. ‘You'd involve Carlo?'

‘Yes.'

Through her exhaustion, Terri felt a flash of anger. ‘You can't do that to him.'

‘Your fucking mother did it to them both.' Chris stopped himself, and then said more calmly, ‘Carlo's sixteen, Terri. Elena's only six.'

Terri shook her head. ‘I can't permit that. Even if there weren't also
you
.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘Me? I deserve whatever I get. If only for my own stupidity.'

Terri looked into his face. ‘For what? Loving me?'

‘No,' Paget answered softly. ‘For being at Richie's that night.'

Ricardo Arias opened the door.

Paget looked at him – the hint of a smile, the thin, clever face, the bright eyes that seemed to Paget somehow feral, as if Richie saw without feeling. In the car, Paget had wondered how the reality of Richie would seem to him: this man had once lived with Terri; slandered Paget; used Carlo in a despicable way. But the first thing he felt was distaste and unease, as if he was entering the presence of someone too troubled, and too lacking in conscience, to be dismissed.

‘Come on in.' Richie's voice was oddly pleasant, that of a new neighbor or a helpful salesperson. ‘I've been looking forward to this.'

Silent, Paget stepped into the living room. Though the apartment was new, Richie's things made it seedy – a worn desk; a lamp with its shade askew; a cheap coffee table; dated posters on the wall, faded with time. Pieces of the life that Terri once had shared with him.

Richie closed the door behind them.

Paget turned to face him. Paget had worn a suit: wearing jeans was how one called on a friend. This, at best, was business.

‘You told me what you had,' Paget said. ‘I want to see it.'

There was a certain pleasure on Richie's face, as if Paget had confirmed the importance of the moment, and of Richie himself. ‘I have copies,' Richie said. ‘So don't even
think
about doing anything crazy.'

‘Show it to me,' Paget demanded.

Richie walked to the coffee table. On the table was a redbound journal, its spine cracked with use. Richie picked it up and gave it to Paget. ‘Read the last entry. It's all you'll need to know.'

The journal felt heavy in Paget's hand. When he opened to the first page, there was the faint smell of mildew.

The writing was feminine, careful and precise, recording the events in the order they occurred. That the language was flat, without emotion, made the entries worse.