Married to a Stranger (22 page)

“No kidding,” he said. “But I’m relieved in a way. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of you carrying that gun. Although I admit, you did a great job with it tonight.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. She joined him in the cleanup, wadding up the napkins and picking up their glasses. “Here, why don’t you let me finish this?” she said. “You’ve got a headache.”

“I’m okay,” he said. “Although I do think I’m about ready to turn in.” Together they carried the remains of their take-out dinner into the kitchen and tossed it into the trash. “I’m going to have a shower. And you”—he said, pointing a finger at her—“no more news on TV.”

Emma followed him through to the living room and flicked on the TV with the remote. “No news,” she promised. “I’m watching the Discovery channel.” She sat back down and stared at the TV as sharks glided across the screen and the announcer began to intone interesting facts about the Great Barrier Reef. “Don’t get your bandage wet,” she called after David.

David winked at her, then he started down the hall to the bathroom. In a few moments Emma could hear the water running. She hesitated, and then got up and went over to the phone. She dialed Burke’s number and waited for six rings, but Burke did not answer. His machine picked up. Emma waited through the instructions. Then she said, “Burke, it’s Emma. Call…call us when you get back. They’ve arrested Devlin.”

She pushed up the volume on the ringer before she hung up the phone and returned to the sofa and the program she had been watching. Even the brightest of tropical fish looked dull on the TV screen. And the sharks seemed to be imprisoned by the small blue screen as if they were trapped in a ghoulish acquarium. She switched the TV off and began to think about making the long trek up the stairs to their bedroom. She had made it down the steps this morning, although it had taken her a while. And she really preferred being back in her own room, but the steps were still a little bit daunting.

Go ahead, she thought. Try it. Don’t wait for him to carry you. Give it a try.

She took a deep breath and began the climb. She was on the fourth step when the phone began to ring. She could hear David’s shower still running. She couldn’t very well call out to him to answer it. But she didn’t want to go back to the foot of the steps either. Maybe it’s Burke, she thought. And then she realized it was far more likely to be another reporter. If it’s Burke, I’ll hobble down and pick up when I hear his voice on the machine, she thought. She waited for the several rings and then heard a man’s voice recording his message.

“David, this is Bob Cheatham. Look, I feel terrible about missing our interview the other day. There were some postproduction problems on the film I’ve been doing and they needed me back in California right away. But I owe you one, and I’ll make good on it the next time I’m in town. Thanks for understanding.”

Then he hung up.

Emma stood on the stairs, staring at the phone. Then, slowly, she started back down.

In a short while David reappeared in the living room gingerly blotting his hair with a towel. “I am beat,” he said to Emma, who was sitting on the couch with the TV off. “Hey, I thought you were going to bed. Are we sleeping up or down tonight? ’Cause if you want to sleep upstairs, I’ll be glad to carry you again.”

Emma did not reply or meet his gaze.

“Honey, what’s the matter?” he said. He frowned at her. “What is it? You look…sick.”

Emma looked up at his freshly shaven face, ruddy from the shower, his hair damp and uncombed. He looked guileless and innocent. Looks could be deceiving, she thought. “We got a phone call while you were in the shower,” she said.

“You shouldn’t answer the phone. That’s why I turned down the ringer volume before. These people just won’t let up on us.”

“It was Bob Cheatham,” she said.

David’s face fell. He pressed his lips together and sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. “Oh.”

“He said how sorry he was that he had to cancel your interview the other day.”

David sighed.

“Where were you,” she said coldly, “if you didn’t go to New York?”

He opened his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I did go to New York. I didn’t know he was going to cancel. I found out when I got to the restaurant.”

She thought about how frightened she had been when she had returned home from Kellerman’s. When the wind was howling, and the nurse was gone. So frightened that she ended up calling the police over an open window and a slamming door. “So you did what? Stayed for lunch?” she asked sourly.

“No. No, of course not. Nevin called the restaurant. Told me that Cheatham had canceled and asked me to pick up another interview instead. The guy was a French novelist, very elusive, who was leaving the country the next day, and Nevin needed me to grab him. I had to jump in a cab and go meet him in the Village.”

Emma just stared at him.

“Em, I was right there in the city. I couldn’t turn him down. I had to take the job. Nevin needed me to cover it for him.”

Emma stood up and pulled her bathrobe tie tighter around the waist. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Emma.”

She turned on him. “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why lie about it?”

“Because I knew you would react like this. I knew you would take it the wrong way. You didn’t want me to go in the first place. If I told you I accepted another assignment instead of rushing home…”

She did not reply. She made her way slowly to the downstairs bedroom, where she took off her robe, laid it on the end of the twin bed, and carefully got under the covers. She could hear David as he moved around the first floor, double-checking the locks and turning off the lights.

In a few minutes he came into the room and took off his robe as well. He turned off the light and sat down carefully on the bed beside her. She turned on her side with her back to him. Their breathing was audible in the dark.

“I should have told you,” he said.

“Yes, you should have,” she said.

He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, but she shook it off. “Emma, listen, I know this sounds stupid, but I thought I was sparing your feelings.”

“You were lying, David. Please get off my bed. It hurts when your weight pulls it down.”

David sighed and stood up. He looked at her for a moment. Then he went around to the cot. “Emma, I intended to tell you the truth when I got home. I figured you were safe with the nurse, and I would just explain how the plans had changed. I knew you would understand that. You’re not the kind of woman who goes crazy over a change in plans. I wouldn’t have married you if that was the kind of person you were. So, yes, I intended to tell you.”

Emma said nothing.

“But then, when I got back and found out you were at Burke’s and that the nurse had walked out, I felt guilty. Knowing you were here all alone. And frightened. I didn’t want to make it worse by telling you that I took another assignment.”

“Excuses.”

David flopped down on his back on the cot and stared up at the ceiling.

After a few silent minutes, Emma turned over and looked at him. “What?” she demanded. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that you’re right. That is what I do. I make excuses. Anything but tell the truth. I’m afraid that that’s who I am, Emma,” he said, his voice hollow. “I tried to tell you it was a mistake for you to marry me. I knew you would regret it.”

Emma lay down again with her back to him. “I didn’t say I regretted marrying you,” she said.

They lay tensely, side by side, in their separate beds, and then, after a few moments, he propped himself up on one elbow, put his hand out, and tentatively touched her arm. She did not shake it off. “You don’t know how much I need you,” he whispered. “More than you can imagine. I’m going to try to be the husband you hoped for. No guarantees, but I will try. And at least tonight,” he said, “the most important thing is resolved. They’ve arrested the man who tried to…hurt you.”

“Lieutenant Atkins didn’t say that,” she said.

“It is Devlin. It has to be,” he said. “And now I know you are safe.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“You are,” he said. “It’s over now. You’ll see.”

She did not reply. In a few moments he lay down again on his cot. A few minutes later, he was breathing evenly. As if all was well in their world. His complacency made her angry. His lies forgotten, he slept peacefully. But why shouldn’t he? He was right. The police have Lyle Devlin. There is nothing more to fear. Still, she lay beside her sleeping husband, wide awake.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Joan Atkins arrived at the Clarenceville police station around ten o’clock and stopped at the coffee machine to pour herself a mug as she looked around the busy squad room.

Trey was seated at his desk. Perched on the chair beside him was a girl with a heart-shaped face wearing cat’s-eye glasses and a turquoise blue Orlon cardigan that she probably thought of as vintage—meaning she bought it at a thrift shop.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” said a passing patrolman.

“Morning,” said Joan.

Hearing her voice, Trey looked up. Then he rose from his seat and walked over to the coffee machine, holding a sheet of paper.

“Morning, ma’am. You better look at this.”

“What is it, Detective?” Joan asked, sipping her coffee.

Trey stolidly held out the sheet of paper. Joan frowned and took it.

“It says Lyle Devlin rented the video of that Italian flick the night of the attack on Emma Webster,” said Trey. “He returned it the next day.”

“Okay,” said Joan slowly, feeling a pinprick of apprehension.

“Plus, you see that girl over there sitting by my desk? That’s Olive Provo.”

Joan recognized the name. “Devlin’s tutorial student.”

“You better talk to her,” said Trey. Joan set down her coffee cup and walked over to the girl seated beside Marbery’s desk. “Miss Provo? I’m Lieutenant Atkins of the state police. We have been trying to track you down. Where have you been?”

“I didn’t know you were looking for me,” the girl said.

“We checked with your roommate, your advisor. Nobody knew where you were.”

Olive rolled her eyes. “Am I going to get in trouble?” she said.

“I don’t know. What did you do?” said Joan.

“I spent the night with a guy, okay?”

“That’s your business. I don’t care about that,” said Joan.

“Well, he’s a married guy. He’s a violinist with the Portland Symphony. I met him when I did an internship there this summer. And he was in town….”

Joan held up a hand to stop the girl in midrecitation of her dangerous liaison. “It’s not important,” she said.

Olive looked crestfallen, enjoying her self-portrayal as a scarlet lady. It was not a role one would select for her on appearance alone. “Oh,” she said. “Well, anyway, I didn’t tell anybody because it was a secret.”

“We just need you to answer a simple question. Where were you Tuesday afternoon between the hours of four-thirty and six-thirty?”

The girl grinned, showing dimples, which sweetened her face. “Wow. How cool. Am I a suspect for something?”

“This isn’t a joke, Miss Provo,” said Joan.

The dimples faded away. “Okay. Let me see. I was…at my tutorial in the music building with Professor Devlin. I heard he’s in trouble….”

“And during this tutorial, did Professor Devlin leave the room at any time?”

Olive considered this, and Joan knew, with an unpleasant certainty, that this young woman was about to exonerate Lyle Devlin. “The answer to that would be no,” said Olive. “Not at all. I am working on a solo piece for the winter concert. I play the cello…and he was giving me an extremely hard time about my piece because I kept screwing up on the eighth notes…”

Joan nodded. “Would you be willing to sign a sworn statement to that effect? That you were with Professor Devlin the whole time?”

Olive’s little comma-shaped eyebrows rose above her glasses. “Yeah. Sure.”

Joan turned to Trey Marbery. “Can you oversee the preparation of that statement for me, Detective?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Trey took a step closer and spoke into Joan Devlin’s ear. “Sorry, ma’am. I guess Devlin’s not our guy.”

“Apparently not.”

“There’s something else,” said Trey.

“Great,” said Joan. “What?”

“The desk sergeant got a call on Tuesday from an agency that sends out private duty nurses. They said one of their nurses had walked off the job without any explanation. She hasn’t responded to phone messages they left for her, so they went to her apartment, and she didn’t answer the door. The sergeant on duty told them we can’t start searching for an adult until forty-eight hours had passed. So they called back this morning, because they still haven’t heard from her.”

“Marbery,” said Joan impatiently, “you know this is a local matter. I’m only here to deal with the case involving Mrs. Webster, because the case involves two jurisdictions. Some missing nurse—”

“Hear me out,” said Trey. “According to the agency the client’s name was McLean.”

“So?” Joan asked irritably.

“Rory McLean was paying for the nurse, but she was sent to take care of his stepdaughter, Emma Webster. That’s where she disappeared from. The Websters’. The sergeant didn’t recognize the name of McLean when they first called. But I figure there may be something suspicious about this nurse’s disappearance. I mean, the last place she was seen was Emma Webster’s house.

“Shit,” said Joan.

“That’s what I thought,” said Trey.

E
MMA HAD NOT FALLEN
asleep until dawn, and she was not ready to be awakened when the phone rang. When she opened her eyes she saw David, in the dim light of the office bedroom, stitting on the edge of his cot, murmuring into the phone. Then he hung up and turned to look at her. “Did that wake you up? I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Who was it?” she asked.

“Birdie, calling from the hospital. They’re letting my mother go this afternoon around one, and she needs my help to take her home.”

“Can I come with you?” she said.

David frowned at her. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said gently. “I’m going to have my hands full with her and the oxygen tank and all that.”

“You’re saying I’d be in the way.”

“No,” he said patiently. “I’m just saying that you aren’t a hundred percent yourself. You don’t need to be trooping up and down the hospital corridors.”

“Whatever you think,” she said, feeling a little insulted.

“I know you’d like to visit with her and help her get settled, but it might be better for you to visit once she’s back in her own house, in her own bed. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” she said, mollified.

“But you can’t stay here alone,” he said. “Not even for an hour or two.”

“I’ll be all right. They’ve got Devlin now,” she said.

“No. Until we know for sure, I don’t want you here by yourself. I did look into getting a bodyguard for you yesterday. I talked to a guy who used to play in the NFL who does this for a living. He lives about twenty minutes away from here. He said all I needed to do was call him and he’d come over. He gave me a few references, and I checked them out. He’s got a good rep.”

“You did all that?” she asked.

“Sure. I said I would.”

“Thanks.” Emma gazed at him. In the morning light she wondered why she had been so angry at him last night. His lie about the interview might have been…unnecessary, but it wasn’t some sort of unforgivable deception.

“So, why don’t I give him a call?” David said. “Tell him we need him here by one o’clock this afternoon. Then I can go pick up my mother and get her situated without having to worry.”

“Actually, you know what,” Emma said. “Don’t bother calling this guy. I think maybe I’ll go into work today. I have my group this afternoon, and I’d like to meet with them. By the time my group’s over, you’ll probably be done taking Helen home, and you can come and get me. I’ll go see your mom when she’s settled back in her own house.”

“You have to have the security guard at work with you,” he said. “Just in case.”

“All right. Just in case.”

J
OAN
A
TKINS
stood on the front porch of the brick-front duplex where Lizette Slocum lived and pounded on the door for the tenth time. Lizette’s mailbox, which was attached to the wall beside the door, was stuffed full of mail. A short, pleasant-looking woman wearing a johnny-collared sweatshirt embroidered with hummingbirds stepped out onto the adjacent porch. “There hasn’t been a peep over there in the last few days,” the woman offered.

“Do you know Miss Slocum?” Joan asked.

The woman shook her head. “She only moved in a few months ago. My husband and I say hello when we see her, but that’s about it.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Joan asked.

The woman frowned. “I saw her on Monday morning, leaving here.”

“Do you normally see her every day?” Joan asked.

“No, not every day,” said the woman. “But you do hear a person, coming and going.”

“Who’s the landlord here?” Joan asked.

“His name is Jarvis. I’ll get his number. I’ve got it inside,” said the woman. She disappeared into her own house just as Trey Marbery came hurrying up the sidewalk to the foot of the porch steps.

“What is it?” said Joan.

“I heard it on the two-way radio. A couple of our officers just located her car. It’s parked at the bus station.”

Joan stepped away from Lizette’s front door and leaned against the porch. “The bus station? So maybe that’s why we can’t find her. Maybe Miss Slocum took a bus trip. We better see if anyone there can remember selling her a ticket.”

The woman in the hummingbird sweatshirt emerged from her house with a slip of paper. “This is the landlord’s number,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Joan, taking the piece of paper. “He may have to come over here and let us in. Does he live far away?”

“He lives the next town over,” said the woman.

“When you saw Miss Slocum on Monday, did she mention she might be leaving town?”

The woman shook her head. “She didn’t mention anything. We just waved.”

“She didn’t ask you to take in her mail for her or anything?”

“No. Do you think she went away on a trip?”

“I hope so,” said Joan.

E
MMA
was seated in the circle of chairs for her group session when Sarita Ruiz led in a new patient named Rachel, who was missing both her eyebrows and her eyelashes. Emma greeted the girl kindly and told her to take a seat. She felt her energy for work coming back to her, her desire to root out the psychic pain that caused a pretty girl to look in the mirror and pluck every hair and eyelash from her face.

The group consisted of six that day—four boys and two girls. One of the boys was Kieran, who slumped in his chair and refused to meet her gaze. She began the group by deflecting questions about her injuries and turned the talk firmly back to their lives. “I’d like to hear about the future that each of you imagines for yourself. The dreams you have that you tell yourself will never come true. But still, you secretly hope for them. Finish this thought. In five years I’d like to be…”

The group members avoided one another’s gaze, all too timid to put their dreams out where they could be publicly trashed. “What about you, Kieran?” Emma asked. “For example, I know that you are a song-writer and a guitar player of considerable skill. When you watch MTV, do you ever imagine a music video of yourself?”

Kieran did not look up or reply.

Emma leaned forward and spoke to them earnestly. “I’m not trying to set anybody up here for ridicule. I think you all know that’s not what this group is about. Each and every one of you has shown, in some very tangible way, that you feel hopeless about the future. I’m asking you to imagine yourself in a future that excites you.”

“I’ll be dead,” said Kieran dully.

Emma turned to Kieran. God, that tattoo is revolting, Emma thought, trying not to stare at the third eye. “That’s what you imagine?” she said. “What about your music? No one will ever hear it,” Emma said.

“Yes, they will,” Kieran insisted. “They’ll play my music everywhere and they’ll say, ‘Love kills. Sex kills. He was trying to tell us.’”

One of the boys snickered, and the other kids in the group stared at Kieran as if he had landed in their midst in a flying saucer.

“Why do you say that, Kieran?” Emma asked.

Kieran looked at her as if she were dense. “Sex is the ultimate drug,” he said. “Everybody knows it, but nobody wants to talk about it.”

Emma looked around the group. “Anyone want to comment on that?” she asked.

Then the eyelash-less Rachel meekly raised her hand.

“Rachel?” Emma said.

“Sometimes I think about becoming an aromatherapist.”

The boys all started sniffing the air. And we’re off, Emma thought.

O
NCE THE SESSION WAS OVER
Emma turned down the corridor to Burke’s office. Geraldine was not at her desk, and the door to Burke’s office was open. “Burke,” Emma called out.

There was no answer. Emma went up to the door and looked inside, hoping to see him there, lost in thought, or listening to someone on the telephone, but the room was empty. The bare branches of a silver birch snapped against the long panes of the bay window behind his desk. There was no overcoat on the coatrack. The banker’s lamp on his desk was not lit. Burke, where are you? she thought. For a moment she had a terrible thought. Burke had been with her at Lyle Devlin’s house. There was no answer at Burke’s house last night. He hadn’t called them back. What if Devlin attacked Burke before he came after Emma, and she shot him in the knee? What if Burke was lying injured somewhere, or worse?

She saw Geraldine Clemens carrying a coffee mug into the reception area.

“Geraldine,” she said, coming out of Burke’s office.

“Oh my Lord, you startled me.”

“Is Burke here today?”

“No. He called this morning and said he wouldn’t be in. Said he was involved in some kind of urgent business.”

“Oh, I see. Good,” said Emma, relieved. “As long as you talked to him.”

“Any message for him?” Geraldine asked.

Emma shook her head and walked out into the hall. Kieran was clomping by, chains and buckles jangling, his car keys jingling in his hand.

“Glad you came today, Kieran,” she said.

Kieran stoppped and looked at Emma, tongue-tied again. “Uh, yeah,” he said.

Emma fell into step with him on the way to the front door.

“You leaving, Dr. Webster?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Emma. “I’m still taking it a little bit easy.”

“You need a lift?” he asked, reddening slightly.