Except for the Bones (7 page)

Meaning that here—now—all the time had gone. The hours had been consumed by the minutes, the minutes by the seconds. Because if she said she’d been at the Cape, then she would go on. She would say more—and more. Until one was the victor, the other the vanquished. This time, there’d be no doubt.

Honesty, she’d learned, was the cruelest weapon. Answer the question—reveal the wound—and the victim was the winner, loser take all.

She drew a deep breath. Then, watching her mother’s face carefully, she said, “Yes, I went to the Cape. I got there about ten o’clock.”

“But you didn’t stay at the beach house.” It was a bitter statement, laced with contempt.

Once more, she made no response. Why? This was her chance, her opening. A final thrust, and she’d win. Why couldn’t she do it?

“Answer me.”
The command echoed and reechoed, torn from deepest, earliest memory, a well of endless bitterness.

Releasing her. Finally releasing her.

“No,” she answered, “I didn’t stay at the beach house. I stayed at a motel. I forget the name. But it’ll show up on the credit card statement.”

“You slammed out of here, and drove up to the Cape, and went to a motel with that—that—” Wordlessly, her mother began to shake her head. Her calm, cool expression was disintegrating. Her impeccably drawn features, a miracle of makeup, were distorting.

“His name is Jeff Weston.”

They were close, now. So close they could touch each other. So close that her mother’s whisper stung like a scream of rage: “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Freeing her to strike out again: “Would you like to know why we stayed at a motel, instead of the beach house?”

“I imagine it was because your father told you not to—”

“He’s not my father, Goddammit. He’s your husband. He’s your rich, handsome, successful husband. But he’s sure as hell not my father.”

“He’s also the one who sends you to college, and who bought your car, and who pays your bills.
All
your bills.”

“He doesn’t pay for college, and you know it. Dad pays.”

“He pays the tuition. But he doesn’t pay for—”

“Forget it. Just forget it, all right?” Breathing heavily, aware that she was losing control, she moved forward an angry half step. Saying: “Excuse me. I was going to my room. Do you mind?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Diane. You might be eighteen, but as long as you’re living here I’ll thank you to—”

“Listen, Mother—” She broke off, struggled for control. Then: “Listen, if that’s what’s bothering you, then maybe you shouldn’t sweat it. Because I don’t think I want to go back to Swarthmore. When I think about it, I hate the place. From the first week, I hated the place. So why don’t I just leave? Why don’t I go out to San Francisco and see Dad? What about that?”

Now the flesh around her mother’s perfectly outlined mouth had gone pale. When someone got angry enough, she’d read, or got scared enough, then the blood went to the solar plexus.

“This isn’t something we can discuss now, Diane. It’s almost five o’clock. And we’ve got to—”

“Don’t tell me. You’ve got to go to a party. You and Preston. You can’t stop to talk. Tomorrow, maybe, we can talk. Should we make an appointment, Mother? Should we?”

“I’m giving a speech, as it so happens, at the museum. A very important speech.”

“Oh.” Viciously mocking, she struck a pose. “Oh. How nice. How jolly for you.”

“Listen, Diane—your father’s coming. And I—”

“Oh. Well. If he’s coming, then I think I’ll leave. I think I’ll get a few things together, and leave.” She stepped forward again, struck her mother’s shoulder with her shoulder. It was the first time they’d ever made angry contact. Or, in recent memory, any contact. “Excuse me. I want to go to my room. Do you mind?”

“Diane.”
Just the one word. All that hate—eighteen years—all of it distilled in the one word. Here. Now. Everything.

“Forget it.”
At her own door now, she flung the words over her shoulder. She went into the room, slammed the door, locked it. Wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands, she went to the bookcase, reached up, withdrew the plastic envelope.

She’d never taken the whole stash with her before. It was a terrible risk, taking the whole stash. But she’d never felt like this before. Never.

She checked the closure of the envelope, thrust it into the leather tote bag, at the bottom. She went to the bureau, opened a drawer, took out underwear and blouses, jammed them into the bag, together with a pair of jeans. She’d always been amazed, how much the tote bag could carry. She went to the door. Then, with her hand on the knob, she hesitated, turned back, let her eyes linger a last time on the room, with all her things. Over the desk, she’d tacked a movie poster: James Dean, squinting against smoke curling up from a dangling cigarette, her favorite poster. It was an original, a collector’s item. She went to the desk, ripped the poster down, tore it up, went to the unmade bed, scattered the pieces on the bed. Eyes stinging, she stood motionless for a long, final moment, looking down at the bed. Then she went to the door, picked up the tote bag, opened the door. A half-dozen steps down the hallway revealed that, yes, her mother had left her door open. It was an assertion of authority; a closed door would have signified defeat, retreat. Holding the tote bag, she went to the doorway. Facing the mirror, her mother was seated at her dressing table. She was working on her eye makeup. Had tears damaged the makeup? Was it possible that her mother could actually cry?

Diane stood silently for another moment, watching. Then, quietly, she said, “On your way to the party, ask Preston what he did last night. Ask him where he was, what he was doing, about midnight.”

She turned, walked down the corridor to the front door. One last time.

“Y
ES, SIR?” BEHIND THE
counter, the sales clerk smiled. He was a tall, gaunt man with washed-out eyes and a pinched, uncertain mouth. His face was gray-stubbled. Resting on the counter, his blue-veined hands were knob-knuckled.

“Do you have any short lengths of iron pipe?” Kane asked.

“We sure do. What diameter? What length?”

“An inch, three quarters, it doesn’t matter. About eighteen inches long.”

The clerk nodded. “How about an inch? We’ve got that in stock.”

“Fine.”

A
FTER LOCKING THE TOTE
bag in the BMW’s trunk, Diane slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, sat motionless, staring at the concrete wall of the parking garage. As she’d ridden down in the elevator, fighting tears, she’d remembered the things she should have brought: her favorite bomber jacket, her snapshot album, her Madonna tapes, the serape that went so well with blue jeans. Her big saddle-leather purse was beside her on the seat. She opened the purse, checked inside. Yes, she had her wallet.

Was she really going to San Francisco?

Would Daniels cancel her credit card, if she went?

Once she’d gotten five hundred dollars in cash, on her credit card. She could do it again. And again—five, ten times. Right now. Then, if Daniels canceled her credit, she’d still have enough money to get to San Francisco. She wouldn’t stay with her father and his family, wouldn’t make that mistake. Instead, she’d tell her father that she was going to work in San Francisco. He would stake her to an apartment, first and last month’s rent—a fraction of what Swarthmore cost for a year. She would be a waitress at a health food restaurant. She would get a dog, take him running on the beach. She would—

Behind her, shapes were shifting, the light was changing. In the mirror she saw a familiar shape: Daniels’s black town car, with the tinted windows in back. Instinctively, she thrust her key in the BMW’s ignition, about to start the engine. But the town car had stopped, blocking her way out. In the mirror, she saw the black car’s rear door swing open. Carrying his attaché case, that permanent extension of himself, Daniels was getting out of the town car, striding to the passenger’s side of the BMW. Unaware that she’d meant to do it, she swung her own door open, got out of the car. Was she escaping? No, she couldn’t leave the BMW, not with her stash in its trunk. Across the roof of the BMW, she faced her stepfather. The town car was moving away, leaving them alone.

“Where’re you going?” Daniels’s voice was flat, his CEO’s voice. But his eyes were different. Here—now—his eyes were different. It was as if, for the first time, he was really looking at her. Really seeing her.

“You can ask my mother where I’m going. She’ll tell you. On the way to the party, when you’re having your little chitchat, she’ll tell you where I’m going.”

“What little chitchat is that?”

“You’ll find out. It’s about last night. I told her to ask you about last night.”

Still facing each other across the roof of the car, she saw his eyes change again: murderous eyes, cold and steady and deadly, boring in, impaling her. Thank God for the car, her shield.

His voice was hardly more than a whisper: “Where were you last night, Diane?”

“I—” Her throat closed. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t reply.

“Were you on the Cape last night?”

She was shaking her head, involuntarily backing away. But her buttocks touched a car in the next parking stall. If he came for her, she would move in the opposite direction, keeping the BMW between them. When she was a child, it had been her first hint of power, keeping the dining room table between her and her mother, avoiding a spanking.

But Daniels wasn’t coming for her. Instead, still speaking very softly, he asked, “Were you with Jeff Weston last night, on the Cape?”

“I—I—” Even if she could speak, she couldn’t have found the words. God, it had started as a spaced-out prank, trick or treat, Halloween in July. Did he know that? Should she tell him?

“You
were
there.” It wasn’t a question; it was a calm, calculated statement. He knew. Looking at her face, he knew.

She saw him draw a deep, decisive breath, then glance down at his watch. Preston Daniels and his watch, the inseparable duo. How much was a minute of his time worth? It was a problem for a computer. His net worth, someone had said, was more than some small countries.

When he spoke, his voice was dispassionate: “I’ve got to change. I’m running late.” He let a beat pass, his eyes locked with hers. Then, very softly: “We’ll talk later. In the meantime, don’t talk about this. To anyone.”

Without waiting for a reply, he picked up his attaché case, turned his back on her, walked quickly, decisively, to the elevator.

S
HE OPENED HER ADDRESS
book on the scarred shelf of the phone booth, punched zero, punched the area code and the number, then punched in her credit card number. Along with the BMW and a sound system and a closetful of clothes, Daniels had given her a private phone and a calling card.

On the Cape, the phone was ringing.

Where were they now, her mother and Daniels? Were they in the town car, on their way to the museum? Had Daniels—

“Cape Cleaners.” It was Mrs. Weston’s voice.

“May I speak to Jeff, please?”

“He’s out on deliveries, and we’re just closing here. Who’s this speaking?” It was a suspicious-sounding question. She could imagine Mrs. Weston, petulantly frowning, with the phone on its long cord propped in the hollow of her shoulder as she waited on a customer, or sorted through tags.

“When’ll he be back, do you think?”

“Who’s this, please?”

“I’m a friend of his. Just a friend. I’ll call back. Thanks.” She broke the connection, tucked the address book in her purse, stepped out of the oven-hot phone booth; momentarily leaned against the glass sides of the booth, eyes closed. She could hardly remember leaving the parking garage, fighting her way through the midtown rush-hour traffic and up to the New England Expressway, where she’d finally found a service station with a pay phone that worked. Then she’d taken two Valiums, just enough to steady her. Then, already feeling better, she’d made the call.

But now, instead of driving west to California, she must drive north, to the Cape. Because only when she’d talked to Jeff, only when he’d told her what happened, could she leave for San Francisco.

A
HEAD, THE PANEL TRUCK
was turning off the blacktop road and into a narrow, cypress-lined lane, no more than two tracks in the sand. Now the truck’s brake lights winked. The truck came to a stop, the lights went out, the engine died. Was Weston making yet another delivery, this late? How many cottages could there be in the lane? Three? Four? Kane drove slowly beyond the entrance to the lane, turned off onto the shoulder of the blacktop road, switched off the engine, let the Buick coast to a stop, lights out. As far as he could see in either direction, from one low rise to another, the blacktop road was deserted. Overhead, shreds of low-lying cloud cover crossed in front of a pale half-moon.

Wrapped in black friction tape, the pipe was on the car’s floor, on the passenger’s side. But first he must decide about the keys. Should he leave them in the ignition? It would save a few seconds, afterward. Yes, he would leave the keys. Here, now, during the next few minutes, the risk that the car would be stolen was nonexistent.

He’d unscrewed the Buick’s courtesy light, so when he swung the door open there was only darkness. He stooped, got the pipe, hefted it, held it in his hand while he carefully closed the door. Across the dunes, in the direction of the ocean, the lights of a few scattered cottages shone. To the east, toward the airport, a corporate jet was turning onto the ILS approach for Barnstable. The blacktop road was still deserted. He turned to face the row of cypress trees that defined the nearby lane—and concealed the panel truck with
CAPE CLEANERS
printed on either side. From the lane, he could hear voices. Could one voice be Jeff Weston’s?

At eight o’clock—more than an hour ago—driving at random, he’d first seen the panel truck at Tim’s Place, the bar on Route 28 frequented by locals. If he’d been ready, he could have done it then, in the dimly lit parking lot at Tim’s Place. It would have made sense: a barroom argument settled in the parking lot. Two men struggling silently, viciously, until one of them picked up a tire iron.