The Perfect Husband (7 page)

She didn't like to think about Jim. She wanted definitive answers and the clarity of hindsight. She didn't have that. Even after all these years the images were murky and disjointed in her mind. The press could package her story as neatly as they wanted. She'd lived it and the truth did not allow her that luxury.

Jim Beckett had been handsome. He'd been strong. He was a highly commended police officer and a lonely man who'd been orphaned as a child. His mother had been frail, sickly, he'd told her. She'd collapsed when he was eight and his father had died in an automobile accident rushing to her side. With no surviving relatives, he'd been placed with foster parents. He'd grown close to that family, but tragedy had struck again. When he was fourteen, his foster father had been killed in a hunting accident. His foster mother had fought to keep him, only to succumb to breast cancer while he was in college. Jim Beckett was alone in the world, but then he'd seen her.

On their fourth date he sat with her on the porch swing at her father's house and took her hand. “Theresa,” he whispered somberly. “I know about your father, how he treats you and your mother. I understand how afraid you must be. But you're not alone anymore. I love you, baby. We're alike. We each have no one. But now we'll be together forever. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

She believed him. She cried that night while he rocked her against his chest, and she thought,
Finally, my white knight has arrived
.

Six months later she became Jim's bride in one of the largest weddings Williamstown had ever seen. She moved from her father's house and watched Jim hang a blown-up wedding portrait above the mantel of their new home. It was the first thing anyone saw when they walked into the Beckett house: a huge glossy photo of the most beautiful blond couple in Williamstown. People nicknamed them Ken and Barbie.

On their honeymoon Jim sat her down and explained that there were a few rules she would need to follow. She was a wife now. A police officer's wife. The rules were straightforward. Always walk two steps behind him. Always ask his permission before buying anything. Wear only clothes he'd approved. Always keep the house immaculate and always cook his steak rare. Never question him or his schedule.

She nodded. She was confused, but she promised to try. She was an eighteen-year-old bride, she wanted to be perfect.

She made mistakes.

The second night after they returned from their honeymoon, Jim burned her wedding dress to punish her for buying note cards without asking. She begged him not to, so he burned her veil as well. She wasn't supposed to question him. She must remember not to question him.

She struggled to remember that. She struggled to adapt. In the first few weeks she lost most of her personal belongings to the fire. Her cheerleading outfit. Her baby blanket. Her yearbook. For a change of pace Jim cut up her childhood teddy bear into little pieces, then burned the pieces when she didn't have dinner on the table in time. Jim told her she must be stupid to lose so much stuff, so she tried harder.

She didn't want to fail the only person who claimed to love her. And he didn't hit her. He yelled sometimes. He was strict, he told her she was stupid, but he never, ever raised his hand.

She was so grateful for that.

She learned. She ran out of stuff for him to destroy. Then she discovered she was pregnant and life settled down. Jim couldn't wait to be a father. When she gave birth to Sam, he showed up at the hospital with the most ridiculously expensive strand of pearls. He told her she was beautiful. She'd done well.

And she thought everything would be all right.

Two months later Jim announced it was time to have a second child. She sat at the dinner table, breast-feeding Samantha and feeling so exhausted, she could barely keep her eyes open. She made a mistake. She forgot about the rules and said no, she couldn't handle two babies and maintain a spotless, perfect household. Jim grew quiet. He set down his fork. He pinned her with his overbright blue eyes. “You can't handle it, Theresa? Do you think of hurting Samantha? Is that what you're telling me? Do you think of beating my baby? I know it's in your blood.”

She cried. She said no, she'd never do such a thing. She could tell he didn't believe her. Later that week she committed her first act of blatant rebellion: She bought a diaphragm and hid it under the bathroom sink. The week after that she pulled it out and discovered a pin resting delicately on top. Jim stood behind her, his face implacable. She couldn't take it anymore. She hadn't slept in two and a half months. She was exhausted, overwhelmed, and frightened she would fail as a mother. She began to sob. Jim finally moved. She cringed, but he just took her in his arms. He stroked her hair, touching her gently for the first time in months, and told her everything would be all right, he would help her. He lowered her to the bathroom floor. He pushed up her skirt. He took her while she lay there, too exhausted, too shocked, and too much in pain to move.

Afterward, he told her he wanted a boy this time. A boy to name Brian, after his father.

Jim's absences grew longer, and his returns crueler. Whatever she did, it wasn't good enough. She was a bad wife, a horrible mother. She was a stupid, stupid girl who should be grateful he'd agreed to marry her. A handsome, charming, well-respected man like him could certainly do better.

One day he sat her down in the living room and told her he was going out. He would be gone for a while. Maybe he'd return. Maybe not. He hadn't decided yet. No matter what, she was not to go down into the basement.”

“The basement? Why would I go into the basement?”

“Because I told you not to go there, so now you're thinking about it. And you'll think about it the minute I leave. ‘What is in the basement? Why shouldn't I go into the basement? What is he hiding in the basement?' I've planted the suggestion in your mind, you won't be able to rest until you go into the basement. I know you that well, Theresa. I can control you that much.”

“No. I won't go into the basement. I won't.”

But the minute he left, her eyes fell on the basement door. She put her hand on the doorknob. She twisted. She opened the door and stared down into the gloom —

Tess quickly cut off the rest of the memories. She pressed her fingers against her temples, already tasting bile.

Some days she could recall things objectively. She could distance herself, analyze the scenes as if they'd happened in somebody else's life. Some days she couldn't. Now she concentrated on breathing and the feel of the warm Arizona sun.

Down the hall, Marion and J.T. continued to war.

“He is dying, J.T. It's not some twisted ruse.” Marion's voice was brittle. “Our father is dying.”

“
Our
father? I don't think so. I gave him to you when you were fourteen. We were playing poker, as I recall, and I was beating you quite badly. You threw a fit. So I said fine, what was the one thing you really wanted—”

“Fuck you, Jordan Terrance.”

“—and you said you wanted ‘Daddy' all to yourself. So I gave him to you lock, stock, and barrel. To this day I believe you got the bad end of that deal. Or tell me, Marion, did you forget that as well?”

“I didn't forget anything, J.T. I just choose to remember happier days.” There was a long pause, then Marion said, “It's because of
her
, isn't it?”

A second pause. “She had a name, Marion. She was a human being.”

“She was a lying, manipulative prostitute who caught Daddy in a weak moment. He'd just retired, he was vulnerable to… to female attention.”

“Mom will be happy with this analysis.”

“Mom has more bats in her belfry than a gothic church.”

“Finally we agree on something.”

“The point is, Daddy made a mistake—”

“A mistake? He got a seventeen-year-old girl pregnant. Our father, the pedophile.”

“He took care of her.”

“Is that what you call it?” J.T.'s voice dropped to a low tone that prickled the hair on the back of Tess's neck. Marion didn't recover quickly this time, but when she did, her retort was sharp.

“Oh, that's right. Daddy is the root of all evil. Hell, he was probably the one standing at the grassy knoll.”

“I wouldn't put it past him. Have you ever watched the JFK tapes closely?”

“Grow up, J.T. Daddy needs you right now, though God knows why. Maybe you don't like him, maybe you're never going to see eye to eye with him, but for chrissake, he gave you life. He put a roof over your head. He raised you and gave you anything you ever asked for — the sports car, West Point, military appointments,
cover-up
— you got it all.”

“And it still burns, doesn't it, Marion?” J.T. said quietly. “Though Roger was hardly a shabby consolation prize.”

“Roger left me, J.T. But thanks for asking.”

“What?” J.T. sounded genuinely surprised, perhaps even stunned. “Marion, I'm sorry. I swear to you, I'm sorry—”

“I did not come here for your pity. You utter those words one more time and they'll need Super Glue to put your face together again. No, don't say anything more. I'm sick of this conversation — it never gets any better. I'm staying seven days, J.T. Seven days for you to see the light. Then I wash my hands of this whole mess.”

“Merry Berry—”

“Don't call me that! And tell your ‘guest' that if I catch either one of you doing anything remotely illegal, I'll arrest both your asses. Got it?”

“You don't have to scream for me to know how much you care.”

“Oh, go knit yourself a Hallmark card.”

Tess heard the sharp, ringing sound of heels against hardwood floors. The fast, furious footsteps grew closer and Tess held her breath. But the sound passed her by. Marion stormed to the end bedroom, where her arrival was punctuated by the sound of the door slamming shut.

Tess released her breath. Her body sagged against the door. Everything was okay. This Marion was an FBI agent, but she was also J.T.'s sister and was here for reasons that had nothing to do with Tess.

She was safe, no one knew who she was, and she was still in Arizona.

She couldn't take any more. It was still afternoon, but her exhausted body demanded rest. She crawled into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and welcomed slumber.

IT WAS COLD in the basement. She could feel a draft but couldn't identify the source. The light was feeble, just a bare overhead bulb that lengthened the shadows. Beneath her feet she felt hard-packed dirt
.

What was that leaning in the corner? A shovel, a saw, a hammer. Clipping shears and two rakes. Had she ever seen Jim use any of those things? There was a baseball bat as well. A long, golden baseball bat. She'd thought he kept his bats in the coat closet. Why in the basement? They hardly ever went into the basement.

She smelled fresh dirt and turned toward the scent. In the far corner she saw a mound of dirt perfectly shaped as a fresh grave.

No. No, no, no.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

She screamed. She screamed and the palm shoved the sound back down her throat. She was pinned against a body, struggling and squirming wildly. Dear God, help me.

Thick fingers dug into her jaw and pinned her head into place. “I thought you wouldn't come down here, Theresa. I thought you said you wouldn't.”

She whimpered helplessly. She was trapped. Now he was going to do something awful.

She felt his arm move behind her. A black scarf slid over her eyes, shutting out the light, cutting her off from everything.

She moaned in terror.

He tied a rolled pillowcase over her mouth, the cloth pressing against her tongue and digging into the sensitive corners of her lips like a horse's bit.

He released her and she fell to the ground.

“I told you not to come down here, but you had to, didn't you, Theresa? You had to know. You shouldn't pry if you don't want answers.”

He dragged her to her feet and pulled her across the dirt floor. The pungent odor became stronger. The smell of dirt and something else, something astringent. Lime. Fresh lime to cover the scent of decaying corpses. She gagged against the pillowcase.

“That's right. You're standing at the edge of a grave. One push and you'll tumble right in. Fall into the grave. Want to know what you'll find there?”

He pushed her forward into empty space and she screamed in her throat. He jerked her back against him and laughed softly in her ear. “Not quite yet. Let me show you everything else.”

His fingers dug into her hand, forcing it to reach out. She begged, her words muffled, gasping sobs behind the pillowcase. He was going to make her touch something. Something she didn't want to touch.

Her hand was buried into a glass jar. Round, firm, and moist shapes slid around her fingertips. “Eyeballs,” he whispered. “I saved the eyeballs from all my past wives.”

He yanked her hand back and plunged it into something else. Hair. Long and smooth and sickeningly damp at the ends. “Scalped 'em too,” he hissed.

Again he yanked her hand back and plunged her fisted fingers into something else. Squishy and tangled and oily. Caught on her fingers, twisted around her fingers.

“Guts. Lots and lots of guts.

“And here, baby, is my crowning achievement. Her heart. Her warm, pulsing heart.”

Her hand was forcefully closed around the mass. His fingers curled around her throat. Tightening, tightening, tightening as his breathing accelerated with excitement in her ear.

“You have no idea who I am, Theresa. You have no idea.”

And just as the spots formed before her eyes, just as the abyss opened before her and she knew she could fall right in and never have to think again, his fingers let her go and the air rushed into her oxygen-starved lungs.

The blindfold was snatched from her eyes. She was staring down at blood, so much blood. She turned, too horrified to run.

She saw his face clearly. His leering, cold face.