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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

The Glass Butterfly (32 page)

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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Doria's mind was foggy with laudanum, her thoughts blurred by pain. She knew Zita was there. She knew something had happened, something with the
signora,
but she couldn't remember it. In the evening Dr. Giacchi came once again, with more laudanum, in a greater concentration. For a little while then she was better, the pain receding enough that she could listen to him telling Zita and Emilia that the chemist said Doria had bought poison at the
farmacia
. She heard the word as if from a great distance.
Suicidio
.
No! It wasn't true! That much she knew, that much she could remember. She struggled toward consciousness to deny it, to explain, to tell them she would never—
Her mother misunderstood the strangled sounds she made. “Oh, Doria
mia!”
she shrieked. “Why would you do such a thing? She wasn't worth it, that
strega,
that creature! I'll kill her with my own two hands if—if you—” She broke off into wild weeping, and Doria, helpless in the grip of her torment, could only listen, and mourn for her.
Another day passed, and another. The agony of her body became a constant, as regular as the rhythm of the unceasing rain on the roof, of the lapping of the lake against the shore, of the visitors who came to hold Emilia's hand and speak to her in low voices of the offenses of Signora Puccini and what the Manfredis could do to win justice for Doria.
By the fourth morning, Doria lay limp, exhausted by the pains that now wracked her whole body. She was too tired to fight them. She let them buffet and torment her, but she didn't resist. She took the laudanum when it was offered. She drank the other draughts the doctor prepared, but if they made any difference, she couldn't tell. It had begun to seem like a dream, a nightmare, dark and foreboding, an endless round of whispering, weeping, praying, and pain.
Zita came again, and knelt beside Doria's bed, stroking her hand. “I brought you something, Doria
mia,
” she said sadly. “The
signora
is off to Milano. She says it's a shopping trip, but I think she's afraid to stay here. Everyone says this is her fault, that she drove you to it.” She stroked Doria's hand, and her voice broke a little. “
Bella,
can't you speak to me?” When there was no answer, she went on. “She left me all those things to box up for the church, but I kept something for you. I know you always liked it. I thought it might cheer you a little.”
Doria felt something cool and smooth tucked under her fingers. It did feel familiar. Her fingers curved around it, and she managed to lift her eyelids enough to see Zita's face bending close to hers. Zita was weeping tiny tears that glistened in the dim light as they coursed along the seams of her wrinkled face.
Doria breathed, “Don't cry, Zita.”
Zita said brokenly, “I
will
cry for you, Doria
mia
. Of course I will cry for you!”
“I didn't do it,” Doria said thinly.
Zita misunderstood. “We all know you didn't do it!” she said in a rough whisper. “That crazy woman wouldn't believe you, wouldn't even believe
him—
”
Doria didn't have the strength to argue. It wasn't what she had meant, but what did it matter now? They would think what they would think.
She let her eyes close again, but she felt the butterfly paperweight cupped in her palm, and she was comforted.
Father Michelucci came to administer the last rites. She could no longer open her eyes by then, but she heard his sweet, familiar voice, felt the touch of his hand as he made the sign of the cross on her forehead with the blessed oil. Her lips barely moved in the amen.
They would bury her outside the churchyard, she supposed, where those who had committed mortal sins were laid to rest, but that didn't matter, either. The Virgin knew she was not a suicide. The Virgin also knew that Doria, like Her sacred self, was a maid untouched.
And the Virgin knew that Elvira had killed her. Cruelly, heartlessly killed her. Put the poison in her teacup, persuaded her to drink it, then fled the village so she wouldn't be here when her victim died.
There was nothing to be done about it now, nothing but to leave it to God and pray for release. She cradled the paperweight against her, a reminder of her beloved maestro, and she awaited the moment.
29
Tienti la tua paura; io con sicura fede l'aspetto.
 
Persist in your fear; I, with sure faith, await him!
 
—Butterfly,
Madama Butterfly,
Act Two
J
ack turned south at a town called Astoria, where the Columbia River drained into the Pacific Ocean. It was early morning, and traffic was light. Holiday traffic, he supposed. Christmas lights bloomed here and there, flowers of red and blue and green, blurred by fog.
He felt as if he had been driving forever, the hours stretched to infinity by solitude and the monotony of his circling thoughts. Now, relieved to have reached the coast, he drove along a twisting, ice-slicked highway between forested hills. To his right, where there was a break in the trees, gray breakers surged toward the land. Huge rocks thrust up here and there from the spume-filled water. From the highway he saw picturesque hamlets nestled along bays and inlets. Scraps of snow persisted in shadowed spots, but mostly there was fog, sometimes so thick he had to turn on his headlights, sometimes in scraps and tatters, drifting ghostlike among the evergreens.
He had played through every CD in Tory's collection, the Mozart symphonies, the Bach Brandenburg concertos, the Verdi Requiem. As he caught sight of the signs warning him of the towns he had marked on his map, he turned off the music. It was Octavia Voss singing Puccini arias, and he liked it, but he needed to focus. He had a good idea of where he was going, but he would need luck. And his newfound intuition. He was pretty sure he could be more sensitive to his instincts in the silence.
He stopped for gas in a town called Seaside. The cell phone could have originated there, but as he watched the attendant pump his gas, he felt certain—a certainty that was as much physical as emotional, marked by that tingling sensation in his skull—that this wasn't the right place. He wasn't there yet.
It was when he handed over his money—his cash was almost gone—that a prickle sprang up on his neck. He turned, and saw a car, its engine running, waiting at the edge of the gas station parking lot. He rolled up his window, just stopping himself from twisting in his seat for a second look. He bent forward to start the engine, allowing himself a single glimpse in the rearview mirror as the motor turned over. The goose bumps spread over his shoulders and down his arms.
He had seen that car before. Where had it been? Not on the freeway, he was certain. Astoria, perhaps. He hadn't taken any particular notice the first time. It was just a car, almost aggressively neutral-looking, a beige sedan with no distinguishing features. Jack didn't have a lot of experience, but he thought it looked like a rental.
He pulled the Escalade out onto the highway again, keeping an eye on the sedan. At first it didn't move, and he hoped perhaps he'd been wrong. Five minutes later, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he spotted it, several car lengths behind him and in a different lane, but definitely there.
“Fucking sticky note,” he muttered.
All he had to aid him in his search was the telephone number of the cell phone that had called him, and the information he had been able to glean about its location. But she—she was a cop. She had taken the sticky note, and consequently had all sorts of resources he couldn't even imagine. He had been naïve to think he could outwit her. Childish.
“Dammit!” he said, pounding the steering wheel with his fist. A glance in the mirror showed him she was still there, the neutral beige of the rental car standing out among the black Priuses and red SUVs. “Damn you, what do you
want?
”
His temper in full spate, Jack stomped on the accelerator. The Escalade downshifted, all its power rising to his challenge as if the car, too, had lost its temper. He passed several cars and a truck as if they were standing still. He flew past a sign for a town called Cannon Beach, and one named Arch Cape. When he reached a place called Manzanita, he slowed, a little worried about the highway patrol. He looked into his rearview mirror once again, but he didn't see the beige sedan. A viewpoint was ahead, with an enormous silver-and-blue RV parked in it. Its driver and passengers were out of the car, leaning over a low stone wall to admire the fog-shrouded vista.
Jack stepped on the brake, cleared the traffic to his right, then spun the Escalade into the tiny gravel-strewn parking lot. He parked the car in the shade of the RV. Spectacular cliffs fell away to the ocean on his right, the water hidden now by the mist. On his left, the RV hid him from the highway.
Cautiously, he climbed out of the car. His sneakers crunching on the gravel, he walked toward the restraining wall where the tourists, muffled in thick jackets and wool scarves, were pointing down at the cliffs, chattering together as they peered into the mist. Jack hung back, taking shelter behind their vehicle. When he saw the beige sedan fly past the viewpoint, he barely restrained himself from an exclamation of triumph.
He spun, gravel sliding beneath his toes, and hurried back to the Escalade. He was in the car, and had just started the motor again when he realized that the tourists had climbed back into their RV. They were beginning the laborious process of backing and turning to return to the highway. The RV blocked his own view of the road. There was steady traffic now, and the RV would be slow to accelerate. The big vehicle waited for a break in the stream of cars, and Jack, fuming, had to wait behind it.
Probably no more than three minutes passed while the RV's driver watched for his moment, but they felt like three hours to Jack. When he finally was able to accomplish his own merge into the traffic, his heart was pounding so that perspiration broke out on his chest and forehead. He drove south at a moderate speed, watching for an exit where he could reverse direction and drive back to the north.
He found an exit about five miles on, and left the highway. He turned left at the end of the exit, and followed the signs on the surface road toward the entrance to the northbound lanes.
He was already on the highway again when he realized she had found him. His head buzzed with that feeling he had come to recognize. He glanced in his rearview mirror, and saw that the beige car was right on his bumper, so close he could see her through the windshield. Her brush of sandy hair and the silhouette of her wide shoulders were clearly visible in the gray light slanting through the side windows.
He was tempted to see if the Escalade could outrun the sedan, but he gritted his teeth and restrained the urge. He was so close to his goal now. He could feel it. It would be better to face her than to have her follow him. He would have it out, get it over with before he found his mother. He was afraid of her, of course, but that fear made him angry. He was calm enough to recognize that, but angry enough not to care.
“Just do it!” he muttered, and spun the wheel at the first turnout he saw.
He could have chosen a better spot. He saw that right away. The exit led into a two-lane road that ran alongside the highway before twisting up into the forested hills. He didn't want to move that far away from a road he already knew, so he swung the Escalade onto a wide triangle of gravel that looked as if it might be meant for parking construction trucks. The beige sedan was right behind him, shuddering onto the gravel as it turned and stopped. He was trapped, his access to the road blocked behind him, a grassy water-filled ditch ahead of him.
Jack took one tight, deep breath, and opened his car door. The warning bell dinged, telling him the key was still in the ignition. He pulled the key out just far enough to silence the bell, but left it where it was. He jumped down onto the gravel, leaving the door open behind him. He stalked toward the sedan, though his nerves shrilled with dread. He didn't want to wait for her to approach him. He wanted—somehow—to take control of the situation. She was probably armed—she was a sheriff's deputy, after all, and could no doubt carry a gun on an airplane if she wanted to—but there was nothing he could do about that. She could as easily have shot through his car window, if that was her intent, as she could out here in the open.
She opened her own door slowly, and stepped out with a deliberate motion. Jack stopped several feet away, and put his hands on his hips. Seeing her made his anger grow until it swallowed his fear. He felt well and truly pissed off, and that was a hell of a lot better than being terrified.
She was wearing a black denim jacket that hung to just below her waist. He couldn't see her gun, but he felt sure it was there. She leaned on her open car door and surveyed him.
“How'd you find me?” he asked.
“That's a stupid question, Jack,” she said. “You don't strike me as a stupid kid.”
“The cell phone number,” he said.
“Obviously. If you could trace it, it was nothing for me to do the same. The only question is, where is it now? Where is
she
now?”
“I don't know,” Jack said. He dropped his fists from his hips, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Even if I knew—” He shrugged.
“What do you think you're going to do?” she asked. “Visit every pissant little town in the area code?”
Jack shrugged again. “What are
you
going to do?”
“I,” she said with icy calm, “am going to let you lead me to her.”
“I'd drive the goddamn car into the ocean first.”
At that, she laughed. He eyed her with distaste. She wasn't ugly, exactly, but her face was unpleasant, as if the eyebrows and the nose and the mouth didn't work together somehow. He hadn't noticed that before. Or hadn't paid attention.
Jack said, “What is it you want, deputy?”
“Same as you. I want to find Tory.”
“But why?”
She was still leaning on the open door, but she straightened, and let her gaze drift out into the misty distance. “Not that it's any of your business,” she said casually, “but Tory betrayed me. Let me down.”
Jack said, “I'm not much of a son, but I know one thing about my mother. She never lets anyone down. Ever.”
“Bullshit.” Ellice stepped away from the sedan, and closed the door with a decisive click. “You don't know anything about it.”
“Tell me, then.”
She laughed again, a mirthless bark. “What, are you the therapist now?”
Jack didn't bother trying to answer that. He could feel, in the buzzing of his head and in the hollowness of his belly, the danger of this woman. She didn't want to kill him. At least she didn't want to kill him yet. Not till she got what she wanted.
He had to lose her somehow. He stood where he was, trying to think what to do. He said, after a moment, “Well, deputy. I'm no therapist, obviously. But you want my diagnosis anyway? I think you're batshit crazy.”
She stiffened, and her right hand moved toward the pocket of her jacket. “Better watch what you say, Jack.”
He stood still as stone, though his muscles trembled with the desire to flee. “You trashed our house. Searched through our mail. Followed me out here—what did you do, fly? Get on an airplane to go after a woman who was probably only trying to help you?”
“She didn't help me.”
“Maybe,” Jack said, proud of the evenness of his voice, “you're beyond help.”
Ellice Gordon's face flushed scarlet, and she smacked the roof of her rental car with the flat of her freckled hand. “Where's Tory?” she shouted.
“Don't know!” Jack shouted back.
She said, “Goddammit,” and started toward him, freckled fists clenching, muscles bulging in her long jaw.
Jack whirled, and with one leap, he was in the Escalade again. He saw her reach in her pocket as he jammed the key back in the ignition, turned it, slammed his door, and stamped on the accelerator. He couldn't back up, because the sedan blocked his access to the road. He went forward, jolting over the edge of the gravel patch, down into the drainage ditch with a bruising bump, skidding on the wet grass as he drove up the far side to reach the surface road. As he turned back the way he had come, he blessed Tory for having all-wheel drive and great tires. His wheels slid on the slick asphalt, then abruptly found traction. The car lurched forward, throwing him back against the headrest as its engine roared as if in triumph, as if it knew how important this was.
There was a stoplight and a Y intersection where the road met the highway entrance. Jack ignored both. He crossed the verge in the most illegal fashion possible, bridging the distance between the two-lane road and the highway with bone-jarring speed, taking his chances on cops and traffic.
It worked. He drove much too fast for the foggy conditions, but he was out of sight of the beige sedan in seconds. He kept on, breaking the speed limit by a good twenty miles an hour, his heart thudding in his ears, his mouth dry, every sense fired by adrenaline.
After a few moments he began to slow the car, glancing in his rearview mirror over and over to make sure she hadn't caught him. His breathing eased and his heart ceased its pounding. Now he could feel it. The buzz in his skull, the alarm of his fey. It grew until he thought he couldn't stand it. It was so intense it was almost audible.
BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
4.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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