Perfect Match (36 page)

“Why is this cop working for us?” Fisher demands, as soon as he's bustled m e into a private conference room upstairs.

“Because he's my friend. He's always been there for me.” At least, that is th e only explanation I can give. I knew, of course, that Patrick would have to testify against me, and I didn't take it to heart. Part of what makes Patrick Patrick is his absolute devotion to the clear line dividing right and wrong. It is why he would not let me talk to him about the murder; it is why he has wrestled so hard to stand by my side while I was awaiting trial. It is why h is offer to find Father Gwynne on my behalf meant so very much to me, and was so difficult for him.

It is why, when I think back to Christmas Eve, I cannot believe it ever happ ened.

Fisher seems to be considering this odd gift that has dropped into his lap. “ Is there anything I should watch out for? Anything he won't do to protect you ?”

The reason we slept together isn't because Patrick tossed morality to the win d that night. It's because he was too damn honest to convince himself the fee lings weren't there.

“He won't lie,” I answer.

Quentin returns on the attack. Whatever game this detective's playing, it's going to stop right now. “Why were you in court the morning of October thirt ieth?”

“It was my case,” Ducharme answers coolly.

“Did you speak to the defendant that morning?”

“Yes. I spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Frost. They were both very nervous. W e discussed who they could leave Nathaniel with during the proceedings, be cause naturally, they were very wary of putting him into anyone's care at that point.”

“What did you do when the defendant shot Father Szyszynski?” Ducharme meets the prosecutor's gaze head on. “I saw a gun, and I went for i t.”

“Did you know Mrs. Frost had a gun before that point?”

“No.”

“How many officers did it take to wrestle her to the ground?”

“She dropped to the ground,” the detective corrects. “Four bailiffs dropped o n top of her.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I asked for cuffs. Deputy Ianucci gave me a pair. I secured Mrs. Frost's han ds behind her back and took her into the holding cell.”

“How long were you in there with her?”

“Four hours.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

In the practice session, Ducharme had told Quentin that the defendant confes sed to him that she'd committed a crime. But now, he puts on a choirboy's ex pression and looks at the jury. “She kept repeating over and over, 'I did ev erything I could; I can't do any more.' She sounded crazy.” Crazy? “Objection,” Quentin roars.

“Your Honor, it's his own witness!” Fisher says.

“Overruled, Mr. Brown.”

“Approach!” Quentin storms up to the bench. “Judge, I'm going to ask to have this witness declared hostile, so that I can ask leading questions. ” Judge Neal looks at Ducharme, then back at the prosecutor. “Counselor, he is answering your questions.”

“Not the way he's supposed to be!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Brown. But that's your problem.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, turning away. The real issue here isn't that Pa trick Ducharme is single-handedly destroying this case. The issue is why. Either Ducharme is holding a grudge against Quentin, whom he does not even really know ... or he's trying to help Nina Frost for some reason. He glanc es up, and notices the detective and the defendant staring at each other, a bond so charged that Quentin imagines walking through it might give him a shock.

Well.

“How long have you known the defendant?” he asks evenly.

“Thirty years.”

“That long?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe your relationship with her?”

“We work together.”

My ass, Quentin thinks. I'd bet my retirement pension you play together, too . “Do you ever see her outside the office in a nonprofessional capacity?” It might not be noticeable to someone watching less closely than Quentin .

. . but Patrick Ducharme's jaw tightens. “I know her family. We have lunch together every now and then.”

“How did you feel when you heard this had happened to Nathaniel?”

“Objection,” Carrington calls out.

The judge rubs a finger over his upper lip. “I'll allow it.”

“I was concerned for the boy,” the detective answers.

“How about Nina Frost? Were you concerned for her?”

“Of course. She's a colleague.”

“Is that all?” Quentin accuses.

He is prepared for Ducharme's reaction-a face bleached completely of color . An added bonus: the way Nina Frost looks as if she's been molded of ston e. Bingo, Quentin thinks.

“Objection!”

“Overruled,” the judge says, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

“We've been friends for a long time.” Ducharme picks through a minefield of words. “I knew Nina was upset, and I did what I could to make it easier.”

“Such as ... help her kill the priest?”

Nina Frost shoots out of her seat at the defense table. “Objection!” Her attorney shoves her back down. Patrick Ducharme looks ready to kill Quen tin, which is fine by him, now that the jury thinks it's possible the detective could have been an accessory to one murder already. “How lo ng have you been a policeman?”

“Three years.”

“And before that, you were a detective in the military police?”

“Yes, for five years.”

Quentin nods. “As an investigator and a detective and a police officer in bo th the United States military and the Biddeford Police Department, how often have you testified?”

“Dozens of times.”

“You are aware that as a witness, you're under oath, Detective.”

“Of course.”

“You've told the court today that during the four hours you spent in a holdi ng cell with the defendant, she sounded crazy.”

“That's right.”

Quentin looks at him. “The day after Father Szyszynski was murdered, you a nd Detective Chao came in to talk to me at the district attorney's office. Do you remember what you told me then about the defendant's state of mind ?”

There is a long stalemate. Finally Ducharme turns away. “I said she knew ex actly what she was doing, and that if it was my son, I'd have done the same thing.”

“So . . . your opinion the day after the shooting was that Nina Frost was pe rfectly sane. And your opinion today is that she was crazy. Which one is it, Detective . . . and what on earth did she do between then and now to make y ou change your mind?” Quentin asks, and he sinks into his chair and smiles. Fisher is playing the insider with the jury, but I can barely even follow hi s words. Watching Patrick on the stand has turned me inside out. “You know,” Fisher begins, “I think Mr. Brown was trying to imply something about your relationship with Mrs. Frost that isn't accurate, and I'd like to have a cha nce to make clear to the jury what is true. You and Nina were close friends as children, isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“And like all children, you probably told a fib every now and then?”

“I suppose so,” Patrick says.

“But that's a far cry from perjury, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Like all children, you two hatched plots and schemes and maybe even carr ied through with them?”

“Sure.”

Fisher spreads his hands. "But that's a far cry from planning a murder, right?

"

“Absolutely.”

“And as children, you two were particularly close. Even now, you're particula rly close. But that's all you two are-friends. Correct?” Patrick looks directly at me. “Of course,” he says. The state rests. Me, I'm too keyed up for that. I pace the confines of the small conference room where I have been left alone-Caleb is checking on Nat haniel, and Fisher has left to call his office. I am standing by the window -something Fisher's told me not to do, because photographers down there hav e some super telephoto lenses they're using-when the door cracks and the so und from the hallway oozes inside. “How is he?” I ask without turning aroun d, assuming Caleb has returned.

“Tired,” Patrick answers, “but I figure I'll bounce back.” I whirl around and walk to him, but now there is a wall between us, one only he and I can see. Patrick's eyes, that beautiful blue, are swimming with sh adows.

I state the obvious. “You lied about us. On the stand.”

“Did I?” He comes closer, and it hurts. To have so little space between us, an d to know I cannot erase it entirely.

We are only friends. It's all we're ever going to be. We can wonder, we can pretend otherwise for a single evening, but that is not the measure of a lif e together. There is no way to know what might have happened if I hadn't met Caleb; if Patrick hadn't gone overseas. But I've made a world with Caleb. I can't cut out that piece of myself, any more than I can carve away the part of my heart that belongs to Patrick.

I love them both; I always will. But this isn't about me.

“I didn't lie, Nina. I did the right thing.” Patrick's hand comes up to my fac e, and I turn my cheek into his palm.

I will be leaving him. I will be leaving everyone.

“The right thing,” I repeat, “is thinking before I act, so that I stop hurting th e people I love.”

“Your family,” he murmurs.

I shake my head. “No,” I say, my good-bye. “I meant you.” After court is dismissed, Quentin goes to a bar. But he doesn't particularly feel like drinking, so he gets into his car and drives aimlessly. He goes to a Wal-Mart and buys $104.35 of items he does not need; he stops at a McDonald 's for dinner. It isn't until two hours later that he realizes he has somewhe re he needs to be.

It is dark by the time he pulls up to Tanya's house, and he has trouble getti ng the passenger out of the car. It wasn't as difficult as you'd imagine to f ind a plastic skeleton; the Halloween merchandise at the costume store was di scounted sixty percent, heaped into an untidy corner.

He hauls the skeleton up the driveway like a buddy who's drunk too much, p halanges dragging on the gravel, and he uses one long bony finger to push in the doorbell. A few moments later, Tanya answers the door. She's still wearing her scrubs, and her braids are pulled back into a ponytail . “Okay,” she says, looking at Quentin and the skeleton. “I've got to hear thi s.”

He shifts position, so that he can hold the skull and let the rest dangle, fr eeing up one hand. Quentin points to the shoulder. “Scapula,” he recites. “Is chium, ilium. Maxilla, mandible, fibula, cuboid.” He has labeled each of thes e on the appropriate bone, with a black permanent marker.

Tanya starts to close the door. “You've lost it, Quentin.”

“No!” He wedges the wrist of the skeleton inside. “Don't.” Taking a deep brea th, Quentin says, “I bought this for you. I wanted to show you . . . that I d idn't forget what you taught me.”

She tilts her head. God, he used to love the way she did that. And how she 'd massage her own neck when the muscles got sore. He looks at this woman, who he does not know at all any longer, and thinks she looks just the way home should.

Tanya's fingers slip over the bones he could not recall, wide white ribs and parts of the knee and ankle. Then she reaches for Quentin's arm, and smiles.

“You got a lot left to learn,” she replies, and she tugs him inside. That night I dream that I am in court, sitting next to Fisher, when the hair s tands up on the back of my neck. The air gets heavier, harder to breathe, and behind me whispers run like mice on the hardscrabble floor. “All rise,” the cl erk says, and I'm about to, but then there is the cold click of a gun against my scalp, the surge and stream of a bullet in my brain, and I am falling; I am falling.

The sound wakes me. Unmistakable, a celebration of clangs and clatter in ri nging tin. Raccoons, but in January?

In my flannel pajamas I tiptoe downstairs. Stuff my bare feet into boots, my a rms into a parka. Just in case, I grab the fireplace poker, and then I slip ou tside.

The cover of snow masks my footsteps as I walk the few feet to the garage. As I get closer, the huddled black shape is too large to be a raccoon. The head i s bent into the trash. It isn't until I smack the poker against the can like a gong that the man even lifts his head, dizzy and ringing.

He is dressed like a cat burglar, and my first, too-charitable thought is th at he must be freezing. His hands, covered in rubber gloves, are slick with the contents of my refuse. Like condoms, I think-he does not want to catch a ny dread disease, and who knows what you can contract by looking at the detr itus of someone's life?

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

A war plays across his face. Then he takes a tape recorder out of his pocke t. “Would you be willing to give me a statement?”

“You're a reporter? You're going through my trash, and you're a reporter?” I advance on him. “What did you think you would find? What else could you possibly need to say about my life?”

Now I notice how young he is: Nathaniel, give or take fifteen years. He is shaking, and I don't know if it is the temperature out here, or the fact th at he has come face-to-face with someone as evil as me. “Do your readers wa nt to know that I had my period last week? That I finished a box of Honey N ut Cheerios? That I get too much junk mail?”

I grab the tape recorder and punch the record button. "You want a statement?

I'll give you a statement. You ask your readers if they can account for every minute of their lives, every thought in their heads, and b e proud of it. You ask them if they've never jaywalked . . . never gone thir ty-one miles per hour in a thirty-mile zone ... if they've never sped up whe n they saw that yellow light. And when you find that single, sorry person wh o hasn't taken a misstep, that one person with the right to judge me, you te ll him he's just as human as I am. That tomorrow, his world could turn upsid e down and he might find himself capable of actions he'd never believed poss ible.“ I turn away, my voice breaking. ”You tell him ... he could have been me."

Then I take the tape recorder and throw it as hard and far as I can, into a hi gh drift of snow. I walk inside and lock the door behind me, lean against it, and catch my breath.

Nothing I do will bring back Father Szyszynski. But nothing I do will ever wipe from my mind the error I've made. No jail sentence can punish me mor e than I will punish myself, or turn back time, or keep me from thinking t hat Arthur Gwynne deserved to die as much as his half-brother didn't. I have been moving in slow motion, waiting for an inevitable ax to fall, list ening to testimony as if these witnesses are discussing the destiny of a stra nger. But now, I feel myself waking. The future may unfold in indelible strok es, but it doesn't mean we have to read the same line over and over. That's e xactly the fate I didn't want for Nathaniel ... so why should I want it for m e?