Chill Waters (15 page)

Behind her, water dripped … dripped… into the tub. She continued to listen for the breathing, and soon realized it was herself she was hearing. Her own breathing. As suddenly as the shadow had fallen beneath the door, it lifted.

Rachael resumed drying her hair, slipped into her robe and, with only the slightest trepidation, opened the door. Stepped into the hallway

No one there. No sinister being lying in wait for her. Iris’ talk of the Bates’ nephew had gotten to her. She let out a long shuddering breath she hadn’t known she was holding and went to the window at the end of the hallway. The sun was still shining, laying a path of light along the polished, brown linoleum runner

A cloud must have passed over.

Nineteen

Tommy sat listlessly on his cell cot, staring at the cement floor. He heard the footsteps approaching, but paid them little attention until they stopped at his cell door. He looked up, fully expecting to see one of the guards, was surprised when it wasn’t.

“Hey, Tom. How’s it going?”

“Mr. Gardner. What are you doing here?”

“I wondered if maybe you and I couldn’t have a little talk. Are you up for that?”

“Sorrel think because you used to be my teacher you’ll have better luck in getting a confession out of me?”

Peter remained silent as the guard unlocked the cell door for him. Closeby, another cell door clanged shut. “I got a right to make a phone call,” someone yelled in a slurred voice. “Where the hell is the stinking justice in this place anyway.” This followed by a string of colorful expletives.

Stepping into the cell, Peter felt the walls closing in on him. “Do you
have
anything to confess, Tom?”

“Shit. You mean the cops don’t already have all the answers?” The hard-edged words were no sooner out of his mouth, when the tears came. Grinding his fists into his eyes, he choked out, “The old man’s right. I am gutless. A goddamn baby.”

Peter fished a handkerchief from his back pocket, shook out the folds and handed it to him. “It’s no sign of weakness to cry,” he said. “Your father might be a better man if he knew how.” He eyed the raised bruise on the side of Tommy’s face. He also knew that beneath the shirt, his ribs were strapped up. Luckily, none broken, though badly bruised.

Paul Goldman, the lawyer Peter hired for Tommy, told him that when he first saw the boy, he’d been ready to sue for police brutality. Tommy had no choice but to tell him what really happened.

Peter sat down on the cot beside him, tapped his breast pocket. “Cigarette?”

Tommy accepted, trying not to looked surprised at the offer. Peter lit two, averting his eyes from the brown stained toilet bowl in the corner. “At least you won’t have to hide in the john to smoke this one,” he said. “Considering you’re already in one.”

“Funny,” Tommy said, unable to suppress a small grin.

“Just for my own curiosity, Tommy. Why did you bust out Rachael Warren’s windows?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I don’t think so. Oh, what’s the use talking about it?” He stared at the lighted tip of his cigarette as if the answer might be inscribed there.

“Indulge me, okay.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’ve been trying to get it clear in my own head. Not much else to do in here,” he said bitterly. When he spoke again, his voice had grown soft. He did not look at Peter, but at the floor. “I know I was really out of it. I, uh, swiped a pint of the old man’s whiskey. I wanted to get drunk, block out everything. I wanted to…”

“Run away?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I can relate to that. Do you drink often?”

“No,” he said adamantly, his head snapping up. “I don’t smoke anymore, either, if you want to know.”

“Good. Neither do I.” He took Tommy’s cigarette from his hand, and dropped it with his own into the toilet bowl, where they sizzled, adding to the stench of the small space. He turned to Tommy, hands in his pockets. “You ready to ditch this place?”

Twenty minutes later, they were setting in a booth in Burger King.

“How did you manage it, Mr. Gardner?” Tommy asked, spearing a French fry from his plate and swirling it around in the puddle of ketchup.

“I didn’t. Your lawyer did. The evidence was circumstantial. Nothing a good defense lawyer couldn’t poke holes through. Heather’s father had you banned from visiting her so you snuck in in the middle of the night. Besides, Paul thinks you’re innocent. For the record, so do I.”

“How come? Everyone else thinks I’m guilty.”

“Not everyone.”

Watching Tommy salting his fries so liberally, Peter winced inwardly. He was grateful when he finally put the shaker down. “I wanted to see her,” Tommy said. “I needed her to know I was there for her.”

Sensing Tommy’s need to talk about it, to get it all out, Peter said nothing.

“I couldn’t even go to her funeral.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“We were going to get married someday.”

Peter nodded.

“Funny thing is, we didn’t get together until I quit school and went to work at the scrapyard. I just never figured someone as pretty and smart as Heather could ever be interested in me. She said she sent me lots of signals, but I guess I was just too dumb to pick up on them. Anyway, she was always nice to everyone. I thought that’s all it was.”

“You sell yourself short, Tom. So,” he prompted gently, “when did you finally get the message?”

Tommy smiled, and Peter noticed that right side of his mouth tugged down slightly. A weak muscle. Odd, he’d never noticed that before. Then again, he’d rarely seen Tommy smile.

“She drove out to the scrapyard one day at lunchtime, said she was looking for a good used muffler for a friend. I was so thick I reminded her that her dad owned a brake and muffler shop. She smiled and said, ‘Yeah, I know.’ Then she handed me one of the Cokes she was holding. I thought I must be dreaming.”

“Not exactly subtle,” Peter smiled.

“Guess she figured I needed a sledgehammer. I’ll never find anyone like her, Mr. Gardner.” He swallowed hard. “Heather was special.”

“Yes, she was. And no one will ever take her place. But you’re a young man. You will find else someone one day. Someone special in her own way.”

Tommy looked squarely at him. “You didn’t.”

The question came out of left field, catching him off-guard. “I’m an old man compared to you,” he said, brushing the comment off. He had no desire to get into his private life with anyone, much less an ex-student.

Tommy sipped his coke. Speared another fry.

“Something’s been bothering me, Tom. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“No.”

He paused. Then, “Why do you continue to live with your father? You don’t have to, you know. Until things are settled, you’re welcome to bunk at my place. It’s not fancy, but there’s a pullout.”

“Thanks.” Tommy looked thoughtfully at the ketchup-smeared fry on his fork. “But she wouldn’t know where I was.”

“Who? Was he talking about Heather? Did he think she was coming back? Maybe he was in serious need of grief counseling. Peter leaned forward, asked quietly, “Who wouldn’t know where you are, Tom?”

Tommy’s reply was barely audible, almost a whisper. “My mother.”

As Peter was trying to make sense of the words, the door opened. Sensing a new tension in the atmosphere, Peter turned to see Bob Myers standing in the doorway, crazed eyes scanning the restaurant. Peter’s stomach clenched, knowing who he was looking for. He looked even worse than he did at Heather’s funeral. Bob’s eyes found them, flared with rage. He made for their table. Peter sprung to his feet. “Afternoon, Bob,” he said, putting out a hand, which Myers ignored.

“Saw your car outside, Peter. Though I’d drop in and say thank you for taking such good care of my little girl’s killer.”

News travels fast, Peter thought, and hoped this wasn’t going to turn into an ugly situation, knowing with a sinking sensation that it already had. “Bob, you’re jumping to conclus…”

“The hell I am. He’s got you conned just like he conned Helen and me. Heather had a good heart. She was always picking up strays and bringing them home. Like this animal here.”

Tommy’s color had gone from pale to a sickly grey. Suddenly the manager was there, threatening to call the police. Peter had to talk him out of it. They both did their best to calm Myers down, but there was no reasoning with him. Other than Bob Myers’ hate-filled voice, the restaurant had fallen silent.

“You’re a worse creep than your sleazy old man ever was,” he told Tommy. “Smoother is all, smarter. But you don’t fool me. It’s not over yet. The cops know you did it.” His voice lowered dangerously. “You put my baby girl in the ground, you bastard, and one way or the other, I’m going to see that you pay for it. You just keep looking over your shoulder, boy,” he said, punctuating every word with a hard finger-jab to Tommy’s shoulder, “because one of those time I’ll be there.”

Peter stepped between them. “Okay, Bob, you had your say. Go on home now.”

“Sure, I’ll go. But not because you say so. I’m not one of your worshipful students, Peter.”

Torn between concern for Tommy, and compassion for Bob Myers, he caught up with him in the doorway. “Bob, can we talk about this? I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling, but…”

He wheeled around. “Good. Because you don’t know. If you had even the remotest idea, you wouldn’t have gotten that murdering creep out of jail, and you wouldn’t be mollycoddling him now. I got nothing more to say to you, Gardner.”

His cold fury shifted back to Tommy, who’d sat through the torrent of abuse like he was made of stone. “I mean what I say, Prichard. You mark my words.”

There was a deafening silence at Peter’s back as he paid the check. The instant they were out of here, he knew the place would erupt into a cacophony of gossip and speculation.

He was glad he didn’t have to hear it.

Twenty

Despite the sunshine, temperatures had dropped to below zero, and by the time Rachael reached Iris’ house, she was shivering in her thin all-weather coat.

Iris’ house was just three blocks from where she’d abandoned her car. Or, to be more precise, where the car had abandoned her.

It was a pretty house, white colonial with hunter-green shutters, set well back from the road, fronted by a cedar hedge. Pocketing the business card Iris had given her three weeks before, Rachael started up the stone walk. But before she reached the door, it opened and Iris stood smiling at her in the doorway.

“I’m so glad you came, Rachael.” Just as if she’d been expecting her.

Maybe she put a hex on the car, she thought, even knowing how ridiculous that was. Almost as ridiculous as sitting in her dead car feeling like a lost child because it wouldn’t start. When the engine refused to turn over for her, she’d seen it as an act of betrayal, somehow deliberate. And how crazy was that.

“Thanks,” Rachael said, grateful to let Iris lead her into the warm foyer.

Before closing the door, Iris looked past her, toward the street. “Where’s your car?”

What? You didn’t know?
“Quit on me. About three blocks from here.”

“Oh, I see.” Mild amusement crept into her smile. “The proverbial last straw, huh.”

“Something like that. But I’ve been planning on calling you anyway. I was wondering if you might consider telling me a little more about that illusory control in one’s life you talked about.”

“Pottery making, you mean? Sculpting?”

“If you really think I could…”

She was fairly glowing as she took Rachael’s coat. “It’s a wonderful idea, Rachael. And I’d be delighted to teach you what I know. And I’ll drive you home after your lesson.”

“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I'll just call a cab.”

“Nonsense. I insist,” she said, picking up the receiver. “I’ll get my mechanic to tow your car to the garage.”

For the next hour they sat in Iris’ kitchen talking and sipping tea from china cups adorned with tea roses.

Cleo was curled up asleep on the braided mat at Iris’ feet. Every now and then, as if one of them had said something that sparked her interest, she would open one blue eye. Then she would yawn with boredom, stretch and settle back to sleep.

“When I was a girl,” Iris was saying, speaking about the changes in the area over the years, “the streets in St. Clair weren’t even paved. Most folks got about in horse and wagon. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re looking much better today. Not so peaked. How are you feeling?”

“Actually not too bad. I’ve been running in the mornings. It helps.” It was true. She liked the rhythmic sound of her feet running on the sand, the wind in her hair. Running was a great stress-releaser, she found. Although that first couple of times she had to force herself out of the house, and then had run only a short distance before doubling over, the blood pounding in her ears like Niagara Falls. She hadn’t realized she was in such lousy physical shape. But she was improving. This morning she’d jogged a good two miles before working up a sweat. Along her run, she ran into the photographer taking his pictures. They waved to one another, an oddly comforting exchange. Neighbors greeting one another.