Gone for Good (17 page)

I waited in that little room for a long time. It felt as if that little room existed on its own plane of the universe, cut off and separated from everything else happening in the world. It was hard for me to imagine that Ronnie lay in a hospital bed less than a hundred feet from where I sat. He might as well have been on the moon. If I opened the door, it wouldn't have surprised me to see not a hallway but a steep cliff, something that separated me from everything else in the world.

I had thought Mom's death was bad enough. But I was suddenly living through something even worse.

I had to do something. Something for Ronnie. It did none of us any good for me to sit and stew.

I pulled out my phone and dialled a number. Frank Allison wasn't in on Saturday, so I told his answering service what I wanted. I didn't spare the melodrama.

‘He needs to call me back right away,' I said.

‘I'll pass it along, dear,' the efficient voice said.

I stood up and paced. It didn't take long. About two minutes later the phone rang in my hand. It was Frank Allison, and I gave him the rundown on Ronnie's situation.

‘He confessed, huh?' he said, his voice low and distracted.

‘I don't know where that came from,' I said. ‘It's crazy talk.'

‘Sure,
sure,' he said. ‘And you say you're at the hospital? Is it Dover Community? And he's still there as well?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll get there as soon as I can,' he said. ‘And, Elizabeth? Don't let him say anything else if you can help it.'

‘Got it.'

I felt a momentary shiver of relief pass through my body. I wasn't being completely worthless. I started towards the door to go down to Ronnie's room. I intended to keep the police away from him if I could. I didn't know how, but I meant to try. But Paul came through the door before I left the room. We almost bumped into each other, and when I saw him I didn't care about the fight or the things he had said to me. It didn't matter. I was just glad to see a friendly face, a comforting face.

But the strain showed on him again. He looked as ashen and grave as he had in the wake of Mom's funeral. He entered the room and came right over to me. He sat in the chair next to mine and draped his arm over my shoulder. He pulled me close. I smelled shaving cream and mouthwash, smells that reminded me of my dad. I let him hold me. We didn't say anything to each other right away. We just sat like that. I closed my eyes.

When he finally released his grip, I straightened up. Paul's eyes were red rimmed, either from crying or a lack of sleep or both.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘It's not your fault,' I said. ‘The police … and Ronnie …'

‘I mean the other night,' he said. ‘I said some awful things. I shouldn't have said them.'

‘It's
fine,' I said. ‘I got my back up. I do that sometimes. You know that.'

‘You've been very good to your mom and Ronnie,' he said.

‘Not as good as I could have been, but thanks.'

‘I think we've all been negligent here,' he said.

He reached up with his right hand and wiped a tear from his eye. His hand shook as he did it. That combined with the poor colour of his skin made him look older than I'd ever seen him look. It was as though the past week had accelerated his ageing process like a time-lapse film. If things kept going the way they had been going, he'd look like a centenarian soon.

‘What did the police say?' he asked. ‘Did they tell you anything?'

I related my conversation with Richland, leaving out the shitty comments he'd made at the end about Ronnie not respecting my mother's authority. Paul didn't need to hear about that. Then I told him about my conversation with Ronnie from the night before, how he hadn't answered when I'd asked if he had hurt Mom.

‘Why wouldn't he answer me, Paul?' I said. ‘I know Ronnie can be moody just like anybody else. Lord knows moodiness and reticence run deep in this family. But he brought it up. He said, “They think I killed Mom.” And when I asked him if that was true, when I gave him a chance to put my mind at ease and deny that, he wouldn't take it. He didn't say anything at all. He didn't admit it, but he didn't deny it either.'

‘I don't know,' Paul said. ‘I bet they pressured him or coerced him. Hell, they've had him cooped up here, alone
basically. Anyone would say anything to get out of here. Or he might just say something to get people off his back.'

‘That's what I said. I told the detective that people with disabilities might say anything to please an authority figure.'

‘You wouldn't have to have a disability to do that,' Paul said.

I knew he was right. And yet there remained unspoken things between us, things I didn't dare bring up. I didn't bring them up because I didn't want to risk having another fight at a time when we needed each other the most. I didn't want to bring them up because, on some level, I didn't want to know whether he harboured the same doubts about Ronnie that I did. I suspected he did. Why else would he have advised my mother to have Ronnie sent away after one of his outbursts? He saw Ronnie more than I did. He must have understood him better in some ways. And I just wasn't ready to see into all of those dark corners.

‘I'm going to see him,' Paul said.

‘I was just about to. They wouldn't let me before, but I called Frank Allison. I want a lawyer here to deal with this.'

‘Good.' Paul looked at me a long moment, his tired eyes growing angry. ‘That's bullshit,' he said. ‘We can see him if we want.'

‘Richland said no,' I said. ‘He said everything is too delicate right now. I guess he means the case, but Allison said to not let Ronnie talk.'

Paul looked away. ‘He's in the hallway – Richland. He didn't even look at me when I walked down here. He just pointed to this room. You know, he waves those hands
around like he's corralling butterflies or something. He was talking to a nurse or doctor.'

‘I wish Detective Post were here,' I said. ‘At least I could talk to her a little. At least she seems human.'

‘She's a woman,' Paul said. ‘She has a lighter touch. She listens. Or pretends to.'

‘Come on,' I said. ‘Let's both go down there.'

As if his ears were burning in the hallway, Detective Richland came through the door. He nodded at both of us as though we were friendly acquaintances, then took a seat. I'm sure he didn't notice, but I didn't grant him the courtesy of eye contact. I looked at a spot on the wall above Richland's head. I bit back on my anger.

‘I want to see my nephew,' Paul said. ‘Something isn't right here.'

‘I've already explained to Ms Hampton that I can't let you do that right now. I was just on the phone with someone from the county attorney's office. They certainly don't want any family members going in there and confusing the story your nephew has to tell.'

‘Confusing it?' I asked. ‘Are you saying we'd try to get him to lie?'

‘It's best to just keep things simple right now.'

‘Our lawyer is on the way,' I said. ‘He requests that you stop talking to Ronnie.'

‘Detective,' Paul said. ‘I need to talk to you.' His voice sounded level and calm, strangely so given the circumstances. It fit Paul's demeanour since Mom's death – sober and a little detached. He'd really only showed a full spark of life when he yelled at me in the cafeteria. ‘Could we speak somewhere?'

‘We can speak right here if you have questions,' Richland said. ‘I don't want you all to feel this is adversarial. I'm aware of the issues surrounding your nephew's condition –'

‘It isn't a condition,' I said.

‘Well –'

‘ “Condition” suggests an illness,' I said. ‘Ronnie doesn't have an illness. He has a disability.'

‘Okay,' Richland said. He reached up and adjusted his shirt collar. ‘I understand that. I'm trying to be sensitive to the issues that come up.'

‘I was hoping we could speak alone,' Paul said.

That sentence landed in the room like a lead weight. Richland looked at me, and I looked at Paul. Paul had his eyes steadily placed on Richland, waiting for a response. He acted as if I wasn't in the room any more.

Richland took a long time to answer. Then he said, ‘Sure. If you would like to, we can speak alone.'

But I wasn't going to be cut out of the conversation. I wasn't going to get up and leave the room, not if they were talking about the fate of my brother. I had no idea what Paul wanted to say to the detective that I couldn't hear, but I didn't intend to make it easy for him. I remained rooted to my spot, as obstinate and stubborn as a child.

Richland read my body language. He said to Paul, ‘Would you like to speak out in the hallway? Why don't we do that?'

They both rose from their chairs and went through the door, trying to leave me alone in that little room again. Paul turned back to me before he walked out. ‘Just wait,' he said. ‘I'll take care of this, okay?'

But I decided not to sit still for being banished. I pushed myself up out of the chair and followed them into the
hallway. Paul and Detective Richland were standing just a few feet away from each other, the difference in their heights striking. Paul looked like a child. When they heard me come through the door, they looked up. Disappointment crossed Paul's face, but I didn't slow down. I brushed right past him, heading for Ronnie's room.

‘Ms Hampton?' Richland said behind me.

I was tired of being called ‘Ms Hampton.' I was tired of his forced and overly formal public servant manners. I didn't stop. My shoes squeaked on the hospital tile. I yanked open the door to Ronnie's room.

He lay in there alone, the TV playing. His eyes opened wide when he saw me. Not in fear or shame, just surprise. Maybe the police had told him he wouldn't be having any visitors, or maybe he knew how strange it was for his sister to be showing up anywhere so early in the morning.

‘Ronnie?' I said. ‘Why? Why did you tell them that? Tell them the truth, Ronnie. Tell them.'

Before Ronnie could say anything, the door opened again and Detective Richland was there behind me. Then he moved in front of me, blocking my view of my brother.

‘You can't –'

‘Ronnie. Tell them. You don't know what they're going to do –'

‘That's it,' Richland said. ‘You have to go. You can't be here.'

‘Ronnie?' I said.

Paul took me by the arm, applying gentle pressure. ‘Come on, honey,' he said.

‘No,' I said. ‘He has to know. He has to understand this.'

‘Mr
McGrath,' Richland said. ‘Please, can you take her out of here?'

‘Elizabeth,' Paul said.

I turned away from both of them. I turned towards Ronnie.

‘Ronnie?' I said. ‘It's not true, is it? Tell them it's not true, or you'll get in trouble.'

He looked at me, his eyes focused and clear. But he didn't say anything. He turned his head to look at the TV screen again, and that was all the fight I had in me. My body wilted, physically and emotionally.

I let Paul lead me out of the room.

Paul sent me away from the hospital. He walked me down to the front door and told me that I wasn't doing any good there, especially if I was losing my cool.

‘Losing my cool?' I said. ‘If anyone deserves to lose her cool, it's me.'

‘I'm not disagreeing with that,' he said. ‘But the days ahead just grew a lot darker, don't you think?'

I couldn't argue. The days ahead had just turned as black as night. I wasn't sure we could even call them days any more.

‘We're both going to need to be at our best,' he said. ‘Why don't you go home and rest? I'll stay here with Ronnie, and you can come back later.'

What he said made sense, and I could feel the logic of it seeping into my brain. But I still didn't like it.

‘No,' I said. ‘My place is here. There's so much more to talk about –'

‘I know. And we'll talk about it.'

‘What did you want to talk to Richland about?' I asked. ‘I don't like there being secrets. If you had something to say, you should say it in front of me.'

Paul's face flushed, as if he'd been caught in a lie. I don't know what I liked least – the fact that he might have tried to keep something from me or the fact that I'd exposed him for it. Had he been planning to tell Richland that
Ronnie really did need to be put away? And he just didn't want me to hear him say that in the wake of our fight?

‘It wasn't anything about Ronnie,' he said. ‘Not directly.'

‘Then what?' I asked.

He let out a deep breath. ‘Look, just … I wanted to talk to Richland about our legal options with Ronnie. And I didn't want to say it in front of you because I thought you were running out of patience with the whole thing. And I was right.'

I started to object, and he stopped me.

‘I'm not saying you didn't have a right to. I'm just saying you were on the verge of losing your cool. And that's why I think you should go now. Go home. Regroup. If anything changes, I'll call. When Frank Allison gets here, I'll deal with him. I know him a little. Otherwise, you can come back later.' He paused and looked at me a long time. His eyes contained a message, some significant meaning I was meant to understand but couldn't. ‘Who knows? Maybe some things will be clear then.'

He gently guided me through the glass doors of Dover Community and into the midmorning sun.

‘What could possibly be clarified by then?' I asked.

But Paul just waved at me and turned to go back into the hospital.

I didn't like being dismissed and shunted aside. I didn't like having my emotions questioned, as though I were a hysterical woman who couldn't stand the pressure of a big moment in the life of our family.

I didn't like not knowing everything that was going on.

I also
had no idea of what I could do about those things unless I went back into the hospital demanding answers from the detectives, the doctors, or even my uncle. And if I did that, if I pitched one more fit or made one more scene, I might have ended up doing more harm than good.

Then I remembered the person who might be able to help me in the way a lawyer could not, who might be able to hold my hand while I stepped through the minefield.

I didn't have his phone number, but I did have his e-mail address. And I knew how to reach him through Facebook. I tried both approaches sitting in my car in the hospital parking lot.

As soon as I sent the messages, I felt empty again. It was a Saturday morning. What were the odds he would write back? And what were the odds he could help?

It took only thirty seconds for me to hear something. My phone chimed with the new e-mail message, and I read it with a little bit of a smile on my face.

Good to hear from you, Teach. Want to have coffee at the Grunge?

I arrived at the Grunge first. I ordered coffee, black. I didn't feel like messing around with anything as dainty and polite as tea. As I sipped the coffee and felt the first jolt of the caffeine hit my bloodstream, I wished I carried a bottle of whiskey with me. I could have used a shot of that to go along with it. But I settled for ingesting the only drug it was really acceptable to ingest so early in the morning.

I drummed my fingers on the table while I waited. The Saturday morning crowd in the Grunge consisted of locals, mostly professors, who came in for a coffee, a bagel, and a
copy of the
New York Times.
A few students occupied tables in the corners, their eyes still droopy from sleep, their bodies still recovering from the previous night's debauchery. I downed half my cup before Neal came through the door. He smiled when he saw me and came straight to the table without ordering anything.

‘Hey, Dr H.'

‘Neal,' I said. ‘You know you can call me Elizabeth. We're outside of class, and I'm asking you for a favour.'

‘Elizabeth,' he said. ‘Whoa. What's that one book? You know, the one about the guy sleeping with his female professor?
Lolita
?'

‘That's not what that's about. And neither is this meeting.'

‘Still. Okay, Elizabeth. What do you need from me?'

He was wearing the army jacket again, and his beard looked a little fuller, a little less scraggly. He wore a grey shirt open at the collar with nothing on beneath it.

‘Are you going to drink anything?' I asked. ‘Coffee?'

‘I don't touch the stuff when it's fresh,' he said. ‘Besides, I have enough energy.'

‘Okay,' I said. I leaned forward a little. Despite the noise around us, I still felt worried about everyone hearing our conversation. ‘I'm not even sure if you can help me. I just … Some things are beyond my control and understanding right now.'

‘Is this about your mom getting offed?' he asked.

Offed?

‘Yeah, it is.'

‘Tell me all about it,' he said.

‘You need to tell me something first,' I said.

‘Shoot.'

‘What
exactly do you do?' I asked. ‘I mean, outside of school? What is it you spend your time doing?'

‘Why do you want to know about this stuff?' he asked, half smiling.

I had to admit the smile was charming. He wasn't my type. He was too scruffy, too unwashed. I could imagine whoever lived with him spent a lot of time picking up dirty socks and putting the toilet seat down. But he had a presence, an energy that I suspected drew a certain kind of undergraduate girl to him like iron to a magnet.

‘You said something to me in the hallway the other day, something about your dad working to help people. I just wanted to know what you meant.'

‘Oh, that,' he said. ‘It's true. My old man's a lawyer. Well, he was a lawyer at one time. Are you looking for a lawyer?'

‘I have one of those.'

‘Who?'

‘Frank Allison. He practises here in Dover.'

‘Never heard of him,' Neal said. ‘But my dad doesn't do the law stuff so much any more. You know?'

‘Then what does he do?'

‘Like I said, he helps people. Say somebody suspects their husband is cheating on them, and they need to know for sure in order to go to court. Or maybe somebody has an employee, and they think the guy's doing drugs and is in danger of ruining the company. My old man checks that stuff out. He helps people.'

‘He spies on them?' I asked.

‘He investigates,' Neal said. ‘Like a PI, I guess. But
without all that Tom Selleck shit. Sometimes I help him, especially if it's a matter involving the campus. Look, we can get the job done for you. Just tell me about it, and we'll figure something out.'

I hesitated. I didn't know that he could really do anything for me. I stood up and went to the counter, where I refilled my mug. When I came back, Neal sat with his face eager and open and expectant.

‘Okay,' I said. ‘You read the stuff in the paper about my mom, right?'

‘I did.'

‘There's something else to it, something that hasn't had time to be in the paper yet, but believe me, it's going to be there tomorrow or the next day.'

I told him about Ronnie's confession as well as the reason the police had suspected Ronnie in the first place. I told him about the scene at the hospital that morning, and Ronnie's refusal to answer my questions about whether he'd committed the crime or not. Neal listened to all of it attentively, his eyes fixed on my face as though I were telling him the most important story in the world.

When I was finished, I said, ‘Well?'

He stood up. ‘I'm hungry. I need a bagel or something.'

I waited while he went through the line. He came back with a bagel smeared with peanut butter. He took a big bite and started chewing with his mouth open. He didn't say anything.

‘Well?' I asked. ‘What do you think of what I just told you?'

‘I'm kind of wondering what you think we can do to help you,' he said. ‘You have a lawyer, like you said. It's
always good to have a lawyer on your side if you're charged with something. That's what Dad's always told me. He first told me that when I was eight.'

‘I guess I don't know what I want you to do,' I said. ‘That's what I thought you would figure out.'

He nodded his head, chewing the whole time. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You want to know if it's possible that someone else killed your mother, and you want us to help you find that out. You think the cops are taking the easy way out, letting this confession thing fall into their laps. Right?'

‘I guess so.'

‘And you think this lawyer guy you have – What's his name?'

‘Frank Allison.'

‘Frank.' Neal laughed a little. ‘You think he's too old-school for the case. I mean, he'll do his job and everything, but you don't think the legal wheels will turn as fast as you want things to turn. Right?'

‘Sure.'

‘I have to say, if you want my professional opinion –'

‘Are you a professional?' I asked.

‘I get paid, don't I?' he said.

‘Okay. Go on.'

‘Anyway,' he said, ‘I have to say it looks pretty rough for your brother. I mean, the lack of an alibi, the violent past. And, hell, a confession. Looks like a slam dunk.'

‘I know.'

Just hearing the facts recited back to me weighed me down. My shoulders dipped as though someone had placed bricks across my back.

Neal
must have seen the slump in my posture. He leaned forward, leaving his bagel alone for a moment. ‘Hey,' he said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I know Ronnie,' I said. ‘There's just a part of my mind that can't accept he would do this.'

‘But a part of your mind does?' he asked.

I didn't answer.

Neal pressed on. ‘Is it typical for people with whatever it is your brother has –'

‘Down's syndrome, Neal.'

‘Right. That. Does it tend to make people violent?'

‘No more than anyone else,' I said. ‘I guess if you have a disability that limits some aspects of your life, you might tend to get frustrated easily.'

‘That makes sense.' He stuck a finger into his mouth and dislodged some peanut butter. ‘And was your mom pretty tough on him? I mean, did she ride his ass about things?'

‘She was tough. She expected a lot from him. And me.'

‘Sort of like you in class,' he said. ‘A hard-ass.'

‘She loved Ronnie. She'd do anything for him.'

‘I hear you, Teach. We all love our moms. Right?' Neal shook his head. ‘My mom. Sheesh. She's a tough lady. I bet your mom was like that too. I can see it, Teach.'

‘Can you do anything?' I asked. ‘Or can your dad?'

He chomped on the bagel again. This time he didn't bother to wipe the peanut butter and crumbs from out of his beard. I wanted to grab a napkin and reach across the table myself, but I knew better.

‘I'll poke around a little bit, see what we can find out.'
He threw the last bite of the bagel into his mouth. ‘Hell, I'll do it pro bono. That means free, right?'

‘Yes, it does,' I said. ‘But you can't just do it for free. If you're working, you should get paid something.'

He nodded, a large smile spreading across his face.

‘What?' I asked.

‘I know what my fee will be,' he said.

‘What?'

‘Have you graded my paper yet?'

He laughed and winked at me.