Not Guilty (27 page)

T
ry those breathing exercises the next time you feel the anxiety start to get to you,” Evan Stover advised the patient who was getting up from the chair in front of his desk. “It’s really a very good way to stop the escalation.”

“I’ll try it,” the young man said glumly. He turned back to ask something else, but Dr. Stover pointedly looked at the clock. The young man sighed again and walked over to the door behind the desk, letting himself out. Dr. Stover began to make some notes on the patient’s file while the session was fresh in his mind.

There was a timid tapping on the door to his office, and then the receptionist slid inside and closed the door behind her. “Dr. Stover,” she said, “I’m sorry. Your next client is here, but the district attorney is outside and she says it’s very important that she speak to you right now.”

“Hmmmm . . .” said Dr. Stover. “When is my next free hour?”

“Six o’clock.”

“All right, reschedule the patient for six and tell Miss Chase I’ll see her now.”

The receptionist looked surprised, but she retreated, closing the door softly. Dr. Stover swiveled around and opened a file drawer. He pulled out a worn, yellowed file and glanced into it. Then he placed it on his desk just as Maureen Chase opened the door to the office.

“Maureen,” he said. “Come in.”

Maureen sat down in the seat recently vacated in front of Dr. Stover’s desk. She crossed her legs and pulled her narrow skirt down over her knees. Then she rested her forearms on the arms of the chair.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

“I received an unpleasant surprise last night,” she said.

“Oh?” said Dr. Stover.

“A . . . colleague of mine called to tell me that you had approved the release of Dylan Bennett to his mother.”

“That’s true.”

“I want to know why you let him go home. I specifically asked you to keep him here. Do you want to tell me why you did that?”

“This is not a prison,” he said. “It’s a hospital. I felt he was well enough and that his mother would be reliable about managing his care.”

“It’s my understanding that you had a very negative report from the social worker,” Maureen said.

“Mrs. Erlich,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Is that who called to tell you about Dylan’s release?”

Maureen hesitated, surprised by the accuracy of his guess. Mrs. Erlich had heard about Dylan’s release from a friend who worked in the hospital pharmacy. She had called Maureen instantly to apprise her of this development and to assure her that she had made as negative a report as possible after her interview with Keely. Now, facing Evan’s keen-eyed gaze, Maureen considered lying or refusing to answer. Then she reminded herself that she must not allow herself to be intimidated by Evan Stover. “As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Erlich. She was extremely upset. She wanted me to know that she disagreed most emphatically with your decision.”

Dr. Stover nodded. “I’m sure she did. And I can assure you that I took her report under advisement. But I also took into account her . . . bias in this case.”

“What bias?”

“Her indebtedness to you. I know all about the Gaskill child and how you went to bat for Mrs. Erlich.”

“She was being blamed unfairly.”

“That may be true. Nevertheless, she owes you her job. And I understand that she could ill afford to lose that job because her husband has kidney disease and they rely heavily on her health-care plan.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Maureen . . .” Dr. Stover said, shaking his head.

“Are you insinuating that I am pressuring Mrs. Erlich in some way?” Maureen demanded.

“Maureen, you cannot pretend to be impartial when it comes to Dylan Bennett. You were once engaged to his stepfather.”

Maureen gripped the armrests as if to keep herself seated. “That information was given to you in confidence.”

“Several people have told me. It’s hardly confidential.”

“My relationship with Mark Weaver is not at issue here. We’re talking about a kid who is dangerous to others and to himself.”

“We’re talking about a troubled boy who has had more than his share of tragedy in his life. And who is very vulnerable right now. Don’t you feel any empathy toward him? You, of all people, should understand. Show the boy a little compassion.”

“Don’t say another word about me,” she said. “I am doing my job as a prosecutor.”

“Well, I’ve reviewed all the circumstances, and I don’t see any convincing reason to think that Dylan was to blame for Mark Weaver’s death.”

“
You’ve
reviewed the circumstances,” she scoffed. “Now you’re an expert on crime?”

“No. But I am an expert on the psychology of adolescents. And I don’t see this patient as posing a danger to anyone but himself. And your very public badgering of him is making his situation much more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Badgering!” she cried.

“Yes, badgering. What does Dylan Bennett represent to you? I think you need to ask yourself that question.”

Maureen regarded him with an icy stare. “He’s a menace to the community,” she said. “The community I represent. And if there’s another so-called accident, you will be held accountable, Dr. Stover.”

Dr. Stover sat back in his chair. “Maureen, I try to be cooperative with your office. We’re not adversaries. But I’m not here to help you carry out your personal vendetta. I draw the line there.”

Maureen stood up. “Fine,” she said. “You do whatever you have to do. And I’ll do what I have to do. I don’t need your help.”

Dr. Stover returned her stare without blinking. “Are you sure about that, Maureen?”

A
LL THE WAY HOME,
Maureen fumed.
I’ll show you,
she thought.
You bastard. I don’t need you for this. You think that because you were once my doctor, now you can dictate my life to me?
She didn’t like to remember the way she had first met Evan Stover. The death of her twin at such a vulnerable age had caused her to lose her way temporarily. Things had gone from bad to worse until, when she was sixteen, she swallowed a handful of pills. It wasn’t anything like Dylan Bennett. Evan Stover had been a help to her then. And she’d seen him from time to time over the years. Like when Mark left her. She hadn’t known who else to talk to. There was no one she could trust, so she figured it was safest to go to someone who was legally bound to silence. But Dr. Stover never let her forget it. It seemed that he enjoyed throwing it up to her. He got a kick out of it.

Lost in her ruminations, Maureen turned the wrong way on a one-way street and nearly ran head-on into an oncoming car. The other driver shook a fist at her, and she pulled over to the side of the road to collect herself.
Calm down,
she thought.
You’ve got to calm yourself.
Taking a deep breath, she rummaged through the tapes in the plastic organizer beside the driver’s seat. She popped a tape into her tape deck, and it began to play. She sighed as the voices began. It was one of her favorites of her collection of Mark tapes. She could hear the murmur of her own voice, and then the sound of Mark’s voice, droning on about his day while she massaged his back on her bed. She could not help thinking ahead. After a few more minutes of tape, he would be turning over on the bed, beginning to caress her. As usual, she began to float, like a feather in a stream, carried along on the memories. She turned her car around in a driveway, then headed in the right direction down the street.

Long ago, she had playfully suggested videotapes, but Mark had immediately turned prudish and refused, so she had dropped the subject and let him think she had not meant it. Then she had made the audiotapes secretly, just for fun, so that she could keep him near her
when he was not around. Those were the days when Mark was often flying out to Michigan, ostensibly to help sort out the legal affairs of the widow of an old friend. Little did Maureen know, at that time, that the lonely widow, Keely Bennett, was busily stealing him away from her. No, when she made those tapes, she still lived in ignorant bliss, never knowing that one day, these tapes, a few photos, some old clothes, would be all she had left of him to hold on to.

She reached her driveway, just as Mark was praising her for the way she could arouse him, pleading with her to continue, to do more. She started up the long drive to her house, anticipating the moment when she could turn off the engine and sit there in the darkness of her car, her eyes closed, her pulse pounding, reliving it. But as she rounded the curve and her house came into view, she could see, to her intense irritation, that her reverie was about to be interrupted. There was a car parked at the end of the drive near her house, blocking her path to the garage. It was a car with a sign fastened to the roof. She parked her own car and squinted. Tarantino’s Pizza.

What the hell is this?
she thought.
Somebody’s idea of a stupid, practical joke? Probably Phil Stratton,
she thought with a shudder, remembering how she had almost let herself be seduced by him last night. She’d had a little wine with dinner, and it had gone to her head. To think she had almost gone to bed with a nosy, beer-swilling detective who liked to poke around in women’s closets. God. Talk about pearls before swine. Maureen got out of her car and walked across the driveway toward the delivery car.

A man with a bad complexion and two-toned hair leaned against the side of his car smoking a cigarette. He tossed the butt down and ground it into her driveway as she approached him. He looked vaguely familiar to her, she thought.

“I didn’t order a pizza,” she said bluntly.

The man had hooded, reptilian eyes. “I know. I’m not here about pizza, Miss Chase.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “I know you,” she said. “I’ve prosecuted you, haven’t I?” Automatically, she reached into her bag for her cell phone.

The man nodded. “Afraid so,” he said.

Maureen refused to show that she was afraid. “I’ve got a cell phone here with the police on speed dial . . .”

“I don’t think you want to call them,” Wade said slyly. “’Cause if they hear my story, it’s you they’ll be taking away.”

“What are you talking about?” Maureen demanded, still holding her finger poised over the buttons of the cell phone.

“Mark Weaver,” he said. “The night he died. I tried to deliver a pizza to his house, but it turned out he didn’t order a pizza. He was getting a delivery from the district attorney that night. Is it coming back to you now?”

Maureen’s stomach flipped over, and she stared, remembering now where she had seen this man’s face most recently. Slowly, she put the cell phone back in her bag.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

A
fter Abby was asleep in her crib, Keely came into the living room where Dylan was slumped in front of the TV.

“Honey,” she said. “I have to go out.”

He looked up at her, surprised. “Why?”

She had been trying, for the last hour, to think of a way to justify this surprising sortie, so soon after his return, but she knew she had to start telling him the truth and showing him that she trusted him. She hesitated. Then she said, “Remember I told you about the pizza delivery guy?”

Dylan nodded.

She took a deep breath. “He was here. Night before last. It seems . . . that he does know something. But he wants money before he’ll tell me anything more. At first, I refused because I was so . . . I just wasn’t sure what to do. But now I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to talk to him.”

“I don’t think you should pay him, Mom. That sounds really bogus to me.”

Keely sighed. “It might not prove to be anything. But I’ve got to try.”

“No, you don’t,” Dylan protested. “It doesn’t matter that much to me.”

“I’ve told you already, Dylan—it matters to me.”

“Well, I’m not going to let you go off and meet this guy all by yourself.”

Touched by his concern, she smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to the pizza place. There will be lots of people there. I’ll be fine, honey. You’re tired. You just got out of the hospital. I want you to stay put. But
thank you. Besides, I can’t leave Abby alone here. I need you to stay here with her.”

“I don’t like this, Mom,” he said, frowning.

“Honey, I don’t like it either. But I have got to find some way to get Maureen Chase off our backs and out of our lives.”

Dylan shook his head. “This is my fault,” he said. He trailed her to the door as she picked up her pocketbook and keys.

She turned and held him by the upper arms. “No, it’s not. That’s just the point,” she said. “Now, you stay here. You keep yourself and Abby safe for me. I’ll do the rest. Okay?”

“Be careful,” he said.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Keely said. “Just keep an ear out for the baby. I’ll be home before long.”

She drove through the dark, rain-slicked streets of St. Vincent’s Harbor toward the strip mall where Tarantino’s was located. The young woman she’d met the other day, Gina, had answered the phone this afternoon and said Wade would be working between four and eleven. Keely glanced at her watch. It was after seven. She ought to be able to catch him coming or going this evening.

Keely parked in the lot in front of the pizzeria and went inside, dodging the raindrops. All of the tables were full, and there was a teenage girl who was the sole waitress, rushing from one table to another and then back behind the counter as Patsy Tarantino snarled at her. Keely steeled herself for a hostile reception and walked up to the counter.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Patsy turned and peered at her. “Yeah? Whaddaya want?”

“My name is Weaver,” said Keely, pushing her damp hair back off her forehead. “I talked to your wife earlier. I’m looking for Wade—”

“You’re not the only one,” Patsy barked.

“Well, if he’s not here, I don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”

The man’s dark eyes flashed angrily. “I don’t know where he is. That worthless . . . he never came back,” he growled.

Keely shook her head. “What do you mean? Where did he go?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Patsy cried. “He went out to make a
delivery, and that was the end of it. He didn’t come back. He didn’t call me. That was hours ago.”

“But I need to see him,” said Keely.

“You and me both, lady. I want my money. My customers want their pizzas. Look, I wouldn’t wait around here if I was you.” The waitress edged by Keely and smacked an empty tray down on the counter.

“Two meatball subs,” the girl shouted.

Keely stepped out of the way and looked around the place, confused. She didn’t know whether she should wait. She had steeled herself for the encounter, thinking this was going to be it. Her heart sank at the thought of going home empty-handed. She walked back out into the rainy evening and returned to her car. She got into the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition and the heat.
Maybe I’ll wait right here,
she thought,
and keep an eye out for him.
She checked her pocketbook for the envelope of money and then zipped the bag shut.

She turned on the radio, and it played softly in the darkened, running Bronco. She also switched on the windshield wipers when she realized that she couldn’t see through the steady drizzle on her rain-spattered windshield.
Why tonight?
she thought.
I get the nerve up to make a deal, and he disappears.
She sat waiting, scrutinizing each arriving vehicle and customer, through the clear arc made by the windshield wipers, but there was no sign of Wade’s car with the pizza sign. She didn’t want to leave Dylan and Abby alone for too long. She felt guilty leaving her son alone on his first night home from the hospital.

After waiting an hour, she decided to quit. She would try again the next day. Putting the SUV into gear, she drove slowly through the parking lot and turned out onto the main road. A car turned into the lane behind her. She drove slowly through the downtown area, where gas stations, diners, grocery stores, and a building supply store were all alight and customers were still coming and going, despite the hour and the rain. At Quincy Street, she turned and headed for home along Cedarmill Boulevard.

But although there were still shoppers out, there were few vehicles driving the road at this hour, and she noticed that a car, behind her, had also turned onto Cedarmill. When she exited the boulevard, she was on
the unlit winding roads that led to her exclusive neighborhood. But she was not alone. The car that had been behind her on Cedarmill also made the turn and was still driving behind her—only now, the car’s driver had switched the high beams on, and the reflection in her mirrors, exacerbated by the rain, was blinding.

“Turn off the damn brights,” she said aloud, knowing the other driver couldn’t hear her. These roads were dark and it was difficult to see, but anybody with a driver’s license knew you shouldn’t use your high beams so close to another car. She flashed her own vehicle’s taillights, hoping he would notice, but the car stayed steadily in her wake, just far enough behind her to keep the reflection glaring in her eyes.

“Goddammit,” she said. She sped up the SUV, hoping to leave the other car in the dust, but that car also picked up speed, so that it stayed the same short car length from her rear bumper, the brights blazing.

For a moment, road rage almost got the best of her. But it wasn’t worth having an accident over, she reminded herself.
The hell with you,
Keely thought. She figured if she turned off this main road, she could make a U-turn at the next block after the obnoxious driver was gone. She signaled briefly, then turned. As she straightened out the Bronco, she realized that the car behind her had made the turn as well. All at once, she thought, with a sickening sensation in her stomach, that it was not a coincidence that she and the other driver were going in the same direction. For some reason, the car was following her—on purpose.

Keely’s stomach did a flip-flop, and her hands suddenly felt clammy on the wheel.
Stop it,
she thought.
Stop thinking like that. You’re making yourself crazy. Get ahold of yourself. Just because it’s a gloomy night and a lonely road, you’re starting to imagine things. There’s no reason in the world why anyone would be following you.

Suddenly, the high beams moved up on her and then disappeared. Before she could comprehend why she could no longer see them, she felt a jarring thud as something slammed into her rear bumper. Shocked by the impact, Keely loosened her grip, and the steering wheel started to spin in her hands.
Hold on,
she thought. She gripped the wheel as she felt a second jolt from behind. She couldn’t believe it. The car was deliberately hitting her. “Why?” she cried out. “Stop that!” But no one
could hear her. Too stunned to do more than pray and hang on, she felt her car start to slide crazily across the shining, wet road. She saw an embankment and slammed on the brakes, but the SUV was no longer in her control.
God help me,
she thought as the Bronco spun out and plunged down while, on the road above, the car whizzed by and disappeared into the night.

“W
HAT IS IT?
What’s the matter?” Dylan opened the door of the nursery. By the light from the hallway and the night-light near Abby’s changing table, Dylan could see Abby, standing up in her crib, her tiny fists clutching the railing, her little face red and contorted from crying.

She turned to see his silhouette in the doorway, her eyes bright with tears, and her screaming dwindled to little gusty sobs.

“You want your bottle?” he said hopefully. “Just a minute. I’ll go get it. I’ll warm it up for you. I’ll be gone only a minute.” He held up one finger as if to indicate one minute, then backed out of the room, leaving the door ajar. His disappearance from the doorway only provoked renewed screaming from Abby. He could hear her shrieks chasing him down the hall as he rushed to the kitchen, pulled the bottle from the refrigerator, and put it in the microwave.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he yelled.

The timer dinged and he snatched the bottle from the microwave, then rushed back toward the nursery. Just as he was passing the foyer, the front doorbell rang.

Oh shit,
he thought. He had a feeling he knew who it would be. The old witch from next door. Probably called the cops because Abby was crying again. He had half a mind to leave her standing out there in the rain, but the doorbell rang insistently again, and he knew his mother would want him to deal with it. She had left him in charge. He walked to the door and pulled it open.

“What?” he demanded.

Nicole Warner stood on the doorstep. “Dylan?” she asked. “I’m Nicole.”

“I know.”

“Is that Abby crying?” she asked.

“Yeah. What do you want?”

“Don’t you think you should get the baby?” she asked.

“Yeah. Come in,” he mumbled as he turned away from her and went down the hallway to the nursery.

Abby was still standing in the crib, screaming, her face scarlet. Dylan lifted her up out of the crib and began to bounce her in his arms.
“Hey, look what I got for you,” he said, but Abby pushed the proffered bottle away and redoubled her screams.

Nicole, who had followed him down the hall came forward timidly.
“Do you want me to try?” she asked. “I took care of her before.”

Dylan handed the baby to her like a UPS package. “Be my guest,” he said.

Nicole took the baby and, once Abby was secure in her arms, the bottle. “Here Abby,” she cooed. “Have your bottle.”

Abby continued to wail, trying to wriggle away from Nicole.

“Try the rocker,” Dylan suggested. “Sometimes that works for my mom.”

Nicole carried Abby to the rocker and sat down. “Where is your mom?”

Dylan glanced at the clock on Abby’s wall with the cow jumping over the moon. “She went out. She should be back by now.”

Nicole rocked the chair with one foot and tried to talk soothingly to the baby, whose sobs were quieting down. She nudged Abby’s lips with the nipple, and finally, Abby accepted the nipple and began to suck.