Chasing Darkness (19 page)

“Sit
down, Whitney,” her mother said.

“Please,
I want to ask him about that day—about being outside.”

“Whitney.”

“He
might know something. Can you ask him, Tony? Just see what he says. Please,”
Whitney begged.

Her
stepfather gave her mother an annoyed look. “Marge, please.”

“Whitney,
sit down and be quiet.”

“Mom,
but he might know who killed her.”

Her
mother grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her chair. “Talking to Ohio is
very expensive, Whitney, especially like this. We’re not going to waste money
on any nonsense.” She pressed her finger into Whitney’s shoulder.

Whitney
could feel the long fingernail biting through her shirt.

“Now
sit and eat your meat.”

Pouting,
Whitney kicked at the chair. No one ever listened to her. They listened more to
Randy and he couldn’t even talk. “He could know something, Mom,” she said half
under her breath.

Her
mother didn’t answer her.

“Geez,
Louise,” she imitated her mother, “can’t we just ask?”

Her
mother clenched her teeth. “Not another word.”

Whitney
stabbed at her chicken and then dropped her fork. It fell and knocked over her
milk. “Uh-oh.”

Her
mother snapped her out of the chair. “To your room. I don’t want to see your
face again. No dinner, no dessert. You go up there and think about your
behavior, young lady.”

Whitney
felt the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks. “I was only trying—”

“Now.”
Her mother slapped at her bottom, and Whitney started to cry, running from the
table.

Sprawled
on her bed, Whitney sobbed. She hadn’t meant to spill the milk. It was a
mistake. She was worse off than Cinderella. She didn’t even have any mouse
friends to play with. Her mother wouldn’t even let her have a pet hamster. She
never got to do anything fun.

She
buried her face in her pillow and cursed the police and her mother and most of
all stupid Randy.

He
hadn’t intended to go in. He had only wanted to look in on them. But even with
the flashlight he couldn’t see anything from outside. All the shades were
drawn. He hadn’t been sleeping, and it was affecting his brain. He didn’t want
to go through it again. He had to check on the girl, though. Why risk going in
and leaving footprints or hair? He knew all too well what they would look for.

He
couldn’t see her through any of the windows, and she didn’t answer when he
knocked. He heard her. He knew she was inside. Why hadn’t she answered the damn
door? He just wanted to see Becky.

He
knocked on the door harder and waited, glancing over his shoulder. People in
this neighborhood didn’t pay attention. No one cared who was visiting a crack
mom.

With
his jacket shielding his hand, he jiggled the knob. The door creaked open.

“Hello?”
he called, making himself polite and harmless. But she hadn’t responded. Before
he could stop himself, he’d stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The
picture of the little girl popped like a flashbulb in his mind. Becky—just like
his Becky. She needed him.

He
surveyed the room, taking in the stench of soiled clothes and unwashed dishes.
He swallowed his own nausea. A dreary rainbow of stains marked a ragged gray
carpet. The bed had been stripped, and a stained mattress was strewn with
threadbare sheets. He remembered his childhood house, his own room, the misery
that had followed him there.

And
yet as he looked around the dirty apartment, he realized he’d never had it this
bad. Some might have even called him lucky by comparison.

The
terrible stench overwhelmed him and he wanted to leave. Becky’s face crossed
his vision again. He halted. Turning back, he stepped over a moldy spill in the
carpet and called out again. “Hello.”

He
could hear someone throwing things in a back room as he moved slowly through
the apartment. A woman was cursing and crying. Cautiously, he followed the
sounds.

When
he reached the bathroom door, he looked in. The toilet was unflushed and had
overflowed. Someone had shit in the bathtub and it was dry, the smell stale and
old like the couch in his parents’ house that stank of beer no matter what his
mother did to clean it. A thin, strung-out woman was pulling medicine bottles
down from a shelf. Glass crashed against the floor, the pieces crunching
beneath her stockinged feet as she tore at the contents of the cabinet.

“Where
is it? Where is it?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and wracked with
desperation.

“What?”

At
the sound of his voice, she whipped around and bumped against the toilet, nearly
falling in. Her face was yellow, and deep bluish-black rings circled her eyes.
Her arms were thin and bare, and he could see the tracks the needles had made,
like fat blue bugs crawling up her skin.

She
straightened slowly, her back slightly hunched, her teeth bared. He took a step
back, but she lunged at him before he could distance himself further.

Her
claws lashed out. He turned to run, but she leapt onto his back and knocked him
to the hall floor. “Where is it? Give it to me,” she screamed, scratching at
his eyes and face. He lifted his hands to his face, protecting himself.

She
caught his ear between her nails, and he howled. Throwing his right arm up, he
knocked her off him. Her head landed with a thud against the doorjamb, and she
crumpled to the floor. He picked himself up quickly and ran the back of his
hand across his ear. It was bleeding. “Damn.”

He
looked back at the woman on the floor. She groaned and turned over, holding her
head.

“Where’s
Becky?”

The
woman frowned, but didn’t respond.

He
left her and walked into the back bedroom. It was worse than the others: the
smells stronger, the foulness more penetrating. In one corner, Becky lay on the
floor. Crossing the room, he started to stoop but caught himself. The grayish tint
of her skin and her wide eyes stopped him.

“What
happened to Becky?” he said, walking back toward the woman.

Her
eyes were wide and crazed. “I don’t know. She went asleep. Never woke up.”

“When?”
he demanded, shaking her shoulders. Her head snapped against the carpet as
though it were attached by thread instead of bone.

“Don’t
know,” she said. “Can’t think. I need a fix. Please. I’ll do anything,” she
added.

He
let go of her and she rushed out from under him. He knelt next to Becky. “Dear
God. Another one. Two Beckys,” he whispered to himself. He had failed them
both. Why hadn’t he come sooner?

From
his peripheral view, he could see the woman come at him again. A heavy kitchen
knife was raised above her head.

He
stood up. “Put that down.”

She
crept toward him, her eyes unblinking as she prepared to strike.

He
looked for a way out, but he was trapped. “Christ.” He needed to get the knife
away from her.

Suddenly,
she dove toward him and swung the knife. He ducked and ran into the living
room. Right on his tail, she howled and he could feel the knife swish through
the air next to his head. She was emaciated and weak but desperate. She caught
his coat with the tip and shoved it through. He could feel the blade against
the hairs on his arm. The knife was wedged in his coat—when he swung around, he
took her and the knife with him. He grabbed her hand and tried to pry it off
the handle.

She
twisted the knife back toward him, trying to free it from his coat. Ignoring
the knife, he went for the source. He wrapped his hands around the fragile
diameter of her neck and squeezed, trying to weaken her grip on the knife.
Instead, she turned the handle, and he could feel the blade etch at his arm.

His
grip tightened. She pressed the knife deeper. Her cheeks turned purple, her
eyes bulged, but she didn’t let go.

“Let
go of the knife.”

“You
killed Becky,” she choked.

“No.”
How could she say that? He would never hurt her. He squeezed tighter now,
filled with rage, feeling a heavy throb in his forehead. His arms cramped and
he felt a quick snap. The knife fell away from his arm and he loosened his
grip. She was limp in his hands and he knew she was dead.

Panic
buzzed through his head like a swarm of angry bees, but he waved it off. He had
done what he had to do. She had tried to kill him. She had taken the girl away
from him. She was the one who deserved to die.

He
laid her on the floor and stood quickly, pulling the blade out of the hole in
his jacket. His blood was on the blade. He looked around the room, thinking
fast. He felt the slow ooze of blood on his arm but knew it wasn’t a deep cut.

He
had to get out. He wished he had a pair of rubber gloves. Taking a dirty
T-shirt from the floor, he wrapped the knife and put it in his jacket pocket.
He used another shirt to wipe down everything he’d touched. He wiped the
flashlight and wrapped it in the dirty T-shirt.

He
put his nose to the sleeve of his jacket and took a quick breath before pushing
on. He went outside and pulled two branches from the tree out front, careful
that no one saw him. He put one behind each of her ears, double-checking that
each had six leaves. Then he went back to the other room.

He
knelt beside Becky and touched her cold cheek. He wanted to pick her up and
hold her—to rock her against him. He would have loved her. He would have taken
care of her. He wished he could take her home and watch her sleep. Even now, he
wanted to make it better.

But
he knew he couldn’t help her any longer. They watched him too closely. He had
no privacy. He thought of his own sister. Maybe the two would find each other.

With
his fingertips, he closed her eyes, the skin of her eyelids cool. He leaned
forward and touched his lips to her cheek. Then, wiping his wet palms on a
shirt from the floor, he hurried out of the apartment.

Nick
slept fitfully and awoke early—too early. Even after he was showered and
dressed, it was only a few minutes before six. Sam’s hurt voice kept echoing in
his head. How could anyone think she was a killer? He’d tried to get her to
open up, to talk to him, but she wouldn’t.

Now
he felt like crap. He should have known she would be upset. Maybe he should
have kept it from her until he had something more substantial. But he didn’t
want to lie to her. He only wished he could get her to lean on him a little
more. She needed to be alone, she’d told him. She couldn’t depend on anyone.
She would handle this herself. It would only hurt his career if he took her
side. Damn it, he wanted to take her side. He wanted to be with her, to help
her. But she’d refused.

It
wasn’t even such a big deal yet, but to Sam the job and her reputation meant
everything. Shit like that happened all the time at the station. Lots of cops
had been blamed at one time or another for becoming too involved in a
case—getting in too deep, crossing the line. But being accused of the actual
crime—that was almost unheard of. Nick didn’t think it would stick.

But
he couldn’t get angry with her. She had the right to handle it however she
wanted. Worrying about their relationship shouldn’t be his focus right now. He
rubbed his eyes. Their relationship—there was no relationship. When was he
going to figure it out? Christ, he was like a damn teenager around her, and she
wanted him for running prints, playing softball with Rob, and talking music
with Derek. That was it. He was a colleague, maybe a friend, but certainly
nothing more. He needed to back off and get a life, find someone who wanted
more. And that someone was not going to be Sam Chase.

Looking
around his apartment, he realized he should’ve gone for a run. He could have
used something to burn off steam. And right now he had enough steam for a
marathon.

Instead,
he got in his car and headed toward his sister’s house. She lived in a town of
young urban professionals. Gina and Mike had been one of the first black
couples in Moraga almost thirty years before. The house was colonial style, not
huge but tidy, with a deep grass yard and a brick walkway. Two large oak trees
stood at opposite ends of the front yard like pillars holding up an invisible
shelter above the house. The only person in his family who would be up at this
hour lived with his sister. And right now he needed to see his mother.

He
parked at the curb and walked to the side of the house, passing the white gate
into his mother’s yard. Ever since he could remember, his mother could sense
when one of her children was nearby. She had a nose for it. With Nick, she’d
sniff quickly and say, “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Or “you’re hungry.”

He
wasn’t sure how that smelled, but she was always right. When he needed to talk
to her, he would just stand nearby and her nose would lead her to him.

Now,
he passed over the plush lawn and looked into her garden. She’d sectioned it
into three parts. The largest was the vegetable garden, the middle patch
directly beneath the kitchen window. She grew tomatoes, carrots, peas,
eggplant, and squash. On the far side of it, she had a small rose garden. All
peach and yellow roses, her favorites. And the near side had herbs and his
father’s geranium.

It
had been a small, rather sickly red geranium that his father had given his
mother a few months before he died. She had nurtured and potted and repotted
that plant at every turn. Every winter she’d taken careful cuttings, rooting
them in jelly glasses on the windowsill. Some of them made it and some didn’t,
but every spring she had new little geranium plants that had sprung from the
old. Nursing had not only been her profession, it was also the way she
approached life.

Early
morning was her hour for gardening. Sometimes she started before it was even
light enough to see well. In the summer, it was the most comfortable hour to be
outside—before the temperature rose to ninety-five or higher.