The Last Secret (39 page)

“Help me. Please help me.” Robin's eyes burn into hers.

Like some crazed ringside fanatic, Eddie's insistent demands continue in the background. Threats, warnings, outrage. His menacing voice pitches higher.

“Help you? Help you do what?” she asks, confused and biding for time. What she should do is reach inside the door for the phone—and call who? Ken? To come and rescue them from each other? From Eddie Hawkins?

“Call the police,” Robin whispers, barely moving her lips, sending a chill through Nora. She can't do that.

“What? You think I'm just gonna keep sitting here?” With that, he starts the car, pressing down on the gas so that the garage resounds with the acceleration.

“No!” Robin screams, and darts out to stand inside his open door. The only way he can back out is to knock her down in the process. “Don't leave. Please don't leave. Wait. Just wait,” she begs, palms outward, trying to soothe him. “I'm talking to her. Nora and me.” She points back. “See? We're talking. She's telling me what you said, everything, and now I understand. I … I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I mean, you of all people,” she says, and he turns off the engine.

She's good, Nora thinks in the silence. Such a good liar. Smooth. But then, of course, she'd have to be, wouldn't she? Because of her openness, deception comes easily. Caring, that's her skill. A hound on the scent, relentless. Frailty, her prey.

“What'd she tell you?” His angular face sharpens with suspicion as he peers up at Robin. Reaching, he touches her hair, combs his fingers into it, an almost tender gesture, and Nora feels Robin's abhorrence, reads in the practiced tilt of her head the strained forbearance necessary to placate a drunken husband. She even tries to smile.

“What you said, that you weren't trying to hurt me or anything.” Robin's hands have slipped behind her. Suddenly, there's a click, door buttons unlocking. Robin has managed to yank open the back door, at the same time, screaming for Lyra to get out, get out, but in the split second of the terrified child's hesitation, Eddie has leaped from the car. He lunges at Robin, pinning her against the hood.

“Bitch! You no good, lying cunt bitch.”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Nora cries from the doorway, still only dimly comprehending. Or so it seems. There is the struggle and beside her, cowering, clawing at Nora's long sweater, as if to climb inside with her, this sobbing child in lime green boots. Nora pulls Lyra closer, holds her head to keep her from seeing. Robin is athletic and strong but no match for such crazed, ruthless anger. With every punch her head snaps back. She keeps trying, but she can't escape his viselike weight pinning her against the car. Finally, she brings her knee up into his crotch, but it's a weak, off-balance thrust that only seems to enrage him to new heights of savagery. Staring closely at her now, as if with necessary precision, he grunts as each blow of his fist batters her face, the side of her head. Her mouth and nose are bleeding. When she tries to speak, he roars with an almost childish rage, telling her to shut up, shut up, shut up, over and over and over again, but she keeps trying, even as his hands close around her neck, and Nora's eyes lock on those writhing, tightening fingers that are squeezing all the careless ardor and easy laughter out of her, she who in only wanting to love and be loved has destroyed everything. Robin's mouth sags open and she looks back at Nora in disbelief, shock, because how can any of this be happening? Now, as if in answer, he bangs her head back, smashing it against the car with a series of sickening thuds. Robin's arms hang limply at her sides.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Lyra shrieks. Tearing herself away from
Nora, she bolts to her mother, and her screams seem to feed a last, weak flame in Robin. She lifts her head and in sickening gags tries to say something as if begging Lyra to go away. Screaming at him to let go of her mother, Lyra kicks Eddie's ankles and the backs of his legs, but it's futile. A mere swipe of his arm sends the little girl crashing into the garden cart. Finally released, Robin slides down against the car, her head sagging so far forward it seems connected to her body by only the thinnest wire. Either too badly hurt or too afraid to stand, the little girl scoots on her backside as far as she can get from him, scuttling in between the bags of Ken's clothes, shaking her fists, bawling, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

“Shut up! I said shut the fuck up, you little bitch,” he bellows, advancing on the child, hand raised, warning her to stop unless she wants the same as her mother. Glancing back at Robin, his shadow obscures Lyra, and suddenly Nora knows, having seen it, having dreamed it so many times before, exactly what will follow, and how necessary, how justifiable it seems in this deadening ether of fear and hope.

But a helpless child. No, not her, she would scream, and will later remember, if not shrieking, then the searing rawness in her throat, but in this moment there is only his roar over the child's mewling pleas to leave her alone. Please, please, please, and yet here she stands, again, doing nothing, because there is nothing to do, though the shameful choice is clear, an insidious pact only she can end, as it began. The ceremonial shovel first from the glinting row on the wall is surprisingly heavy. The initial blow lands between his shoulders, does little more than make him glance back. She swings higher, at the back of his head, hits his neck instead, the silver blade's sharp edge slashing deeply. Spurts of blood darken his white collar, and his hands shoot to his head. Turning, his face is monstrous, a festering welter of pain and rage as he comes toward her. An animal, a cornered animal, desperate, beyond feeling or reason, she strikes again, this time slicing his cheek. With a wounded, bowel-deep bellow, he lunges for the shovel, but she hits him, keeps hitting him. Again and again. He staggers a moment then sinks onto the floor, and she stands over him, sobbing with every
blow after chopping blow, even though the side of his face is gashed wide. What she wants is for him to look away or close his eyes, but they stay open, their dull knowing stare holding hers. A halo of blood pools out onto the spotless gray concrete. As his torso twitches, his hands and feet spasm because he won't die, won't be silenced no matter how many times she must hit him.

She doesn't remember hanging the blood-streaked shovel back on its hook with the others, but that's where they will find it. She doesn't remember Drew chasing her down the street through the lighter, lifting rain that finally promises spring. She doesn't remember him begging, then insisting, she come back with him. She doesn't remember him crying. All she knows is that right now she has to get away, far, far away. She wants to go home. That's all she wants. Come with him, then. That's where he'll bring her. That's what he does, holding her hand.

There are two ambulances left in the driveway that is cordoned off by yellow tape. Jimmy Lee is out there as well, taking pictures of the house. Her lovely home is teeming with people, some in uniforms, most of them somber strangers, these very busy people, hurrying back and forth, respectfully, quietly as they can. Knees together, hands folded, she sits at her kitchen table, shivering, waiting, knowing it's out there. Where it's always been, dormant, capable of flaring up at any moment, a chancre in her life. Behind her, Ken paces back and forth, talking on the phone. Everyone else speaks in whispers. Her marriage is over, but she is a very lucky woman they want her to know, keep assuring her. Can they get her anything? the policewoman asks. Is there anything anyone can do, yes, explain how such evil can be, because that was her agony of puzzlement, Robin, who would carry spiders and ants outside rather than kill a living thing, even bees, though she was deathly allergic, trapping them in cups against the window glass then sliding cardboard over the opening until she could set them free. A very brave woman, someone else insists, resting a hand on her shoulder, a gesture she's distantly aware of, sees and doesn't feel. Probably saved her own children's lives as well. And who knows how many
others. Men's voices. Women's. Excited, yet subdued. Yes. Who knows, she wonders as they hurry by, measuring, taking photographs, fingerprints. Clues, facts to tie it all together. To make sense of the dream. The secrets. Will they know? Will they guess?

“Here you go, Mrs. Hammond,” Jimmy Lee says, coming in from the family room with the teal blue afghan that Robin knit for her, once, a long time ago. He arranges it over her shoulders. He heard the call on his scanner.

“Did they take them yet?” she asks, but he doesn't seem to hear. When the policewoman leaves, he looks around, then hands Ken a thick envelope. Found it under the car seat, he says. Must be Mrs. Hammond's. Her stationery, anyway.

“Did they?” she asks. No reply. No need. Details matter now. Yes, of course. She understands, though most are hard to remember. Like waking up with a start and trying to make sense of a nightmare. Who had the shovel first? How did she get it away from him? Is that what he hit her with? He never hit her. Who did, then? She's not sure what they mean. They're confusing her. The coffee in her mug is cold, untouched. A brown ring stains the porcelain. Bleach, that works. But not on blood.

Ken's pallor is grimly white. His hands tremble, can't even hold the phone still against his ear. He is trying to contact their lawyer. The police detective has agreed to wait before asking any more questions. From the other room now comes a piercing scream, Emily Shawcross crying out, “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She has just arrived and they are telling her what has happened, the little they know. No one has yet been able to locate Bob Gendron.

He's not answering his cell phone, his mother told Ken, who's been trying to reach him for the past half hour. The door opens and another police officer comes in from the garage. Frowning, he tears a sheet from his notepad and leans over the table to jot something down. Nora watches his heavy-handed pen, knowing it will leave indentations in the polished cherry wood. But what does it matter, she thinks with dull relief to be this bodiless creature who no longer needs to think or care about anything or anyone. Not even her children who are holed up in
Ken's study with Stephen. The world goes on quite well without her, doesn't it? Interesting, how unnecessary she actually is. Everyone has their job to do. They are very kind. Donald is on his way. To make sure Nora's all right, Ken has just told someone. Her own personal anesthesiologist. To numb her, she hopes. Forever. She only has to sit here. Nothing left to do. They will take care of everything. These most efficient strangers. Outside, someone is smoking. She smells it when the door opens. There's a terrible taste in her mouth.

A woman sits next to her and takes her hand.
Celery, not onions, that's all she has to say.
But it's Kay. Her skin is jaundiced. Her wig is brown. So her hair really did fall out, Nora realizes and tries to look sympathetic but instead is grinning, she sees by her reflection in Kay's glasses.

“Here, honey.” Kay is holding a glass of water to her lips. “Take a few sips.”

“Where's Robin?” she whispers.

“They've already taken her.”

“Where's Lyra?”

“With an EMT But Emily's going in.”

Going where, she wonders, doesn't ask. “Robin's dead.”

“No, but she's in a pretty bad way.”

“It's all my fault,” Nora tells her.

“Of course it's not.”

“Okay, good. Good. That's what we'll do,” Ken says before he hangs up the phone. He pulls a chair out from the table and leans in close to the two women. Bruce Levant is on his way from Lincoln. He doesn't want Nora speaking to anyone until he gets there. Just sit tight.

“She's upset. She thinks it's her fault,” Kay whispers, and Nora averts her head from the foul breath.

“Take it easy,” Ken says, and she knows that cautionary tone.

“Everything's going to be all right. You'll see,” Kay says, and tries to hug her.

“No,” Nora says, pulling away, and Ken glances at Kay. He says he'll take her into his study. There's too much commotion in here. People passing through, most of them out of curiosity, he says, that's
what's upsetting her. He asks Kay if she minds going on ahead and telling Chloe and Drew to wait upstairs. Their mother needs to be alone right now. Yes, of course, Kay says, hurrying off, glad to have a mission. He's very accomplished, Nora thinks. Cooler in a crisis than she ever would have guessed. She never appreciated him enough. She wanted to be in charge so he let her think she was.

Stephen closes the study door. She asks where Robin is. She's been brought to the hospital, Ken says. She's in a coma. Swelling on the brain. It was a brutal beating. Savage, Stephen adds, sitting down across from them. Crazy bastard almost killed her. Probably would've if she hadn't stopped him.

“But what the hell happened?” Stephen asks. “I still don't get it. I mean, why here? Who the hell is he?”

“Levant's on his way,” Ken says. “We'll let him handle it.”

“Handle what? Jesus, Kenny, she … there's a dead man out there. Nothing wrong with getting your ducks a little lined up.”

“Ducks?” Ken snaps.

“I'm sorry, but you know what I mean.”

Their discussion doesn't seem to involve her, though the details are important, Stephen is saying. He keeps looking at her. Damage control, she thinks as he fires off questions they need to anticipate if this is to come out right in the end—the way it should for good people. The script matters if they are to go on being decent people. The dead man, was he an intruder? Was he breaking in? What were Robin and Lyra doing here? Why the savage attack on Robin? Not to offend Ken, he's only playing devil's advocate here, but there must have been some kind of prior relationship for a crime of such passion. Was the guy … well, was he an old boyfriend or something? No, Ken answers bitterly. He blames her, she realizes. And well he should. Poor Robin, poor all of them, caught in such a mess. She can't stop seeing Robin's last look of bewilderment. Now Stephen is asking her exactly what happened.

“I hit him. I killed him.”

She knew right away he was dead, so yes, the details are important. She understands that. She has to remember. Everything, but it's very confusing with the taste of cocktail onions, cherries, rum, and bile
souring her bloody mouth, the reek of his sweaty crotch as he shoves down her head. The empty stare. Her silence alarms them. They need her to talk, the right words to frame the story. Spin.