Last Seen Alive (27 page)

He sighed. Chyna felt she should say something wise, but nothing came to mind. Besides, she didn’t want to break Rusty’s talkative mood. “I used to watch her run. She was so agile, so
elegant,
even when she was running and panting and sweating, that I was amazed. I knew where she went to every evening, and I’d hide and watch like some nasty voyeur, just to see how she could manage to be so charismatic even when she was just jogging.”

A pinecone from a nearby evergreen fell and blew across the terrace. Rusty kicked at it and missed, although it was only an inch away from his shoe. “I started doing some soul-searching and decided I was acting stupid. Watching Nancy wasn’t going to help me to be more charismatic. Besides, it felt weird, almost… dirty.

“So I started taking my evening walk down a different path,” Rusty went on. “I’d been doing this for about two weeks when one evening I heard someone running behind me. Not close, but definitely running. Fast. I don’t know what got into me.” He paused. “Okay, I was scared. Another one of my admirable traits—I scare easily. So I got off the path and sort of hid behind some trees. In just a minute,
Nancy
ran by. At first she was running like usual, with that professional style. Then she started running like a regular person would if they were running
from
something. At least I thought that’s how she looked. I didn’t want to spook her, so after she passed by me, I moved forward and stood behind another tree. I just stood there.”

“Nancy didn’t see you?” Chyna asked.

“I don’t think so. She was going so fast, mostly looking straight ahead, but a couple of times glancing over her shoulder. Her face…” He shook his head. “I only caught glimpses, but she looked alarmed. Panicked, actually. And then …” He broke off and closed his eyes. “And then she fell. Well, she didn’t really just fall; she stepped in a hole in the path and crashed to the ground. I’m sure I heard a thump

as her head hit that rock. I could swear I heard the bones in her ankle breaking, but maybe that’s just my imagination. Before she fell, though, I heard something else. I heard someone running behind her. There were hard footsteps pounding down the path. They weren’t as fast as hers. In fact, they sounded a little bit clumsy. But they kept coming. When she fell, though, they slowed, then stopped.”

For a moment, Chyna fell silent. Rusty was lying, she thought. He was making up a story, covering for himself. He must be.

But something within her demanded, What if he isn’t? You can’t just dismiss what he’s saying. You
can’t.
Softly she asked, “Rusty, did you see who was running behind Nancy?”

“N-no.” Chyna focused, trying to sense whether he was lying, but she failed. He sounded sincere, but she wasn’t certain. “I didn’t see anyone,” Rusty said mechanically. “Only an empty path. No person.”

“All right,” Chyna said softly, determined not to sound as if she were interrogating Rusty. She instinctively knew that would send him into silence. “What did
you
do after Nancy fell?”

Rusty was silent, gazing into the distance as misery grew on his face. “I stood there behind that tree, looking at her. I just
stood
there! I didn’t have my cell phone with me, but I could have gone for help. I could have, but I didn’t!”

“Why not?” Chyna asked casually.

“Because then everyone would have known about me. Because everyone in my family, hell, everyone in town, would have said, ’There’s that awful Rusty Burtram. He hides and
watches
girls.’ I couldn’t bear the shame. I couldn’t bear my father’s anger and indignity, I couldn’t bear his disgust with me, and believe me, he would have been disgusted. He would have felt repulsion every time he looked at me, even more than there already is, and I just couldn’t bear it.”

“Would he have fired you?”

“Fired me?” Rusty almost laughed. “No. Worse. He would have stood behind me in public. The public image is what counts, you know. He would have praised me and made

up some story about why I didn’t do something for Nancy. But in private—”

Rusty shivered. He’s like a little boy, Chyna thought. A little boy terrified of his father.

Rusty swallowed. “So I just stood still, watching her. I saw how her foot was twisted in a way that had to mean her ankle was broken, and I saw blood seeping from her scalp onto that rock. So much blood.” He shivered again, then looked at Chyna. “I thought I heard the other footsteps running away, but I wasn’t sure, so I waited for at least twenty minutes. And then I left. Nancy was still alive, breathing, bleeding, so badly needing help, and I… just… left!”

Rusty’s voice had risen dramatically. His gentle eyes looked wild and he slapped a hand over his mouth, as if to choke back more words and maybe sobs. Sensing trouble, Michelle stood up and moved closer to Chyna, never taking her amber gaze off Rusty. Chyna didn’t take her gaze off Rusty, either. She couldn’t imagine that the cringing, tortured man standing in front of her now was the same nonchalant, smiling guy she’d seen earlier today in the park. She knew strong emotion could change a person’s physical aspect remarkably, but the difference was almost unbelievable.

“I let Nancy die because I was worried about me!” Rusty ground out. “Don’t you see how loathsome that is?”

Silence spun out for a few moments before Chyna managed to say, “I can’t say it was heroic, Rusty.” She was glad her voice was gentle and steady even though she felt as if she was quivering on the inside as hard as Rusty was on the outside. “But no one is perfect. We’ve all done things or
not
done things we regret.”

“Like let someone die? Have ever just
let
someone die, Chyna, because you were afraid of what people would think of you?”

Chyna drew a deep breath and thought, wondering what harmless, soothing thing she could say to this hysterical man. But she didn’t have to say anything, because Rusty went on in that awful voice turned gravelly by torment. “And the worst thing is that I know her death wasn’t just an acci

dent! When Nancy ran by me, she looked scared. After I heard the other footsteps, I knew why. She was fleeing. Good God, Chyna, Nancy was
chased
to her death!”

By now Rusty’s face was crimson from the effort of speech, sweat pouring from his forehead over his slender cheeks, his hands held out to Chyna almost in supplication, as if he were asking her forgiveness for his cowardice. She sat rooted on the fountain rim, her dog pushing in alarm against her right leg, her mind blank, unable to come up with one consoling, calming word.

Suddenly Rusty’s head jerked around to the kitchen doorway and his eyes filled with dread. Almost in slow motion, Chyna turned as well to see Owen, Rex, and Gage standing there, staring, motionless.

Then Owen, looking at Rusty with narrowed eyes cold as winter ice, said in a quietly furious voice, “It’s time for us to go home, son.”

By seven o’clock, darkness cloaked the Greer house and Chyna wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake by not accepting Ned’s offer to stay with him and Beverly. Then she thought of the children, who would no doubt expect to stay up later than usual because they had a special guest— Michelle the dog, not Chyna. Beverly would enforce bedtime, which would cause arguments and perhaps tears, neither of which Beverly needed when she was already upset about Deirdre Mayhew. Ned, in the meantime, would be watching any sports show he could find, not a difficult task, because they could get about two hundred channels using their satellite dish. Chyna didn’t mind watching an occasional live ball game, but she couldn’t bear Ned’s whooping and yelling at the television.

No, she’d made the right decision to stay in this house tonight even if she felt slightly uneasy, she thought as she sank down on the couch, Michelle beside her. Chyna needed her dog, a light dinner, time to read or to listen to music, and, most of all, peace.

Peace. It sounded nice, but how could she have peace with her mother gone forever? They had been so close. They’d talked to each other on the telephone every three or four days. Sometimes, when Chyna had endured a particularly grinding

shift at the hospital or a child she’d come to love had died, she’d called her mother, who always managed to make her feel better. If not better, at least calmer. And Vivian had always been there for her, day and night, knowing just what to say. Now they could never talk again.

Tears filled Chyna’s eyes and her throat tightened. Never again would she hear her mother laugh, joke, console, praise, or pour out her love. Vivian was gone and for a few minutes Chyna felt as if she simply could not go on without her. Michelle, sensing her distress, laid her blond head on Chyna’s knee. She rubbed the dog’s ears and face, and in return, Michelle gently licked Chyna’s hand. “I’m so glad I brought you,” she said to the dog. Michelle licked Chyna’s hand again and looked up at her expectantly. “And I’m showing my gratitude by not giving you your dinner. Are you hungry?” Chyna thought it might have been her imagination, but the dog suddenly looked joyful. “Dinner it is, girl,” Chyna said. “Maybe some food will make both of us feel better.”

Food seemed just the ticket for Michelle, who ate with gusto. Chyna, however, couldn’t even finish a bowl of soup and a sandwich she’d made for herself. She’d thought she was hungry, but the food simply would not go down. Every time she tried to swallow, Rusty Burtram’s tortured face flashed in front of her. Then she would remember Owen’s hard, cold eyes gazing with disgust at his son. Chyna had felt afraid for Rusty when she’d seen Owen’s face. Rusty had felt afraid, too. Hell, we were
all
afraid, she thought, remembering Gage’s look of frozen helplessness and how Rex’s customary expression of careless ease had vanished in seconds.

Chyna was glad Rex had made an excuse to follow Owen home for a talk about investing in the mortuary business. Rusty didn’t live with Owen, but it was clear that Owen intended something nasty for Rusty—a punishment of some sort, as if Rusty were a little boy. Rex’s excuse had been lame, but he’d skillfully managed to force Owen into accepting his company for the evening. Owen couldn’t immedi

ately vent his wrath on Rusty, thanks to Rex. That would probably come tomorrow, Chyna thought, and was proud of Rex for stepping in to delay or, she hoped, diffuse what could have become a disgraceful, even violent situation, at least for a while.

She’d watched the three of them leave, Owen walking toward his black Lincoln with a solid, measured step, jaw tight and lips clamped shut. Anyone could tell he was seething. Rusty had trailed behind, still shaking, his head hanging. He and his father had come in Owen’s car and Chyna was cringing inside, thinking of what that ride home would be like for Rusty, when Rex suddenly grabbed Rusty’s arm and said, “Why don’t you take the wheel of my car? I’ve had a couple of drinks and I don’t want to get arrested for drinking and driving. You live just a couple of blocks from your dad. You can get out at your house, and I can certainly make it two blocks without causing an accident.” Rusty had looked as if he were going to fall at Rex’s feet in gratitude.

Poor Rusty, Chyna thought, feeling almost sick as she thought of his agonized face and his uncontrolled shaking. He hadn’t done the right thing when he saw young Nancy fall and he felt wretched about it.

Chyna suddenly dropped her soupspoon. Or did he?

She sat at the kitchen table, her bowl of soup growing cold, and replayed every word Rusty had said to her. First he’d talked about how Nancy had always interested him; “fascinated” was the word he’d used. He’d said he was homely and clumsy, a disappointment to his family. Chyna had no trouble believing Owen considered Rusty a letdown. The man thought he was perfect and would expect his child to be perfect. Suddenly she remembered Rusty asking her if she’d been intimidated by her father. The question had startled her because she’d focused on her own childhood. Edward Greer had been distant but always loving and accepting. Rusty’s experience must have been different, Chyna realized. Growing up, Rusty no doubt had feared his father. The way he looked at his father standing cold and unyielding in the doorway today told her Rusty still feared Owen.

Nancy had been different. Rusty had said she wasn’t just beautiful but also extroverted. She seemed to excel at everything she did. Rusty said he thought that if he watched her enough, he could learn how she managed to do everything right, to make people love her. He’d watched her all of her life. He even kept an eye on her when she went out running, because studying her had become customary for him.

Chyna sat up straighter in her chair. She understood how watching Nancy perform in society could have become a habit with Rusty if he wanted to see how she managed to charm people, to win them over with her wit and poise. But how could watching the girl run every evening possibly help Rusty? He didn’t want to become a runner. But when she ran, especially in summer, she probably wore tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt over a sports bra. Could Rusty have been watching her run in the evenings because she looked tantalizing? After all, even the surgical improvements he’d made in his looks didn’t seem to have made him more popular with women. He’d been stumped when Beverly had asked him to come to dinner and bring a date. He clearly didn’t have a girlfriend now. Chyna wondered if he’d ever had a serious relationship with a woman.

Chyna sighed in sympathy for him. He’d had a lifetime of being thought of as awkward, homely, a disappointment at best, more likely an embarrassing misfit, by his father. No amount of plastic surgery could correct those mental scars. Rusty had probably been emotionally crippled for life.

But did his emotional scars make him an object of pity or one of danger? He’d watched Nancy constantly. That certainly wasn’t normal. And in spite of what he’d said to Chyna on the terrace, he hadn’t watched Nancy just so he could learn and imitate her style. At the funeral home he’d said, “Nancy did as she pleased. Always. I suppose quite a few people would consider her spoiled.” And Chyna had known he felt the same way. He’d admired Nancy and hated her at the same time.