Buch lesen: «Dead Secret»

1

Jodie loaded the gun the way she’d seen Ethan do it: finger-checking the rounds so they were lined up flush, then smacking the magazine up into the grip.

Her jittery hands almost fumbled the manoeuvre. She clenched them steady, then racked the slider back to chamber the first round.

Clack-snap.

Nine bullets loaded, but she’d only need two.

One for Ethan.

The other one for herself.

She flashed on her husband’s face; on his fixed stare, and the twisted mind-games shape-shifting behind it. Sweat prickled down her spine. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it would take more than one bullet to kill Ethan.

Fireworks hissed and crackled outside the car, and the sky exploded into a weeping willow of light. Jodie peered through the windscreen, scanning the strobe-lit crowds that lined the lake perimeter. Ethan was out there somewhere, masquerading tonight as Mister Nice Guy, a back-slapper and hand-shaker for the Fourth of July celebrations.

She slid the gun into her bag, then reached out to the drawing pad that lay on the seat beside her, lifting it onto her lap to leaf through it one last time.

The paintings were childlike but imaginative, showing uncomplicated feelings rather than copies of objects: the tangle of scribbly black for the cranky family cat; the sunshine-yellow splodge for the spring picnic; bursts of colour splattered from a height, paint squeezed straight from the tubes to the page.

‘Look what I can do, Mommy!’

Jodie brushed her fingertips across the rounded letters marking the bottom of every page: Abby McCall Age 3.

Her throat constricted. She swallowed against it, but the ache intensified, crushing her chest, choking her, smothering her, sending her spinning.

Breathe!

She bowed her head, took deep, shuddery breaths. Found a dead, flat place somewhere inside her and invited the numbness back in.

Slowly, Jodie straightened up. Touched a hand to the drawing pad. Turned a page.

Blob-figures. The family unit. Abby holding Badger, the black snarl of a cat, flanked by Jodie and Ethan. Wide curves for mouths, vibrant red and yellow clothes. Finger-daubed by Abby.

The next few pages were the same. But by the last set of drawings, the colours had muted: faded blues, dull browns. With each painting, Ethan’s blob-figure stood further apart from the others, the mouth growing straighter, the features fainter, until finally he had no face at all.

Jodie shivered. Even little Abby had seen it.

She closed the pad, cradling it in her lap before setting it back on the seat. Then she lifted her chin, shouldered her bag and clambered out of the car.

The night air was cool against her skin. Volleys of rockets sizzled skywards, erupting into starbursts over the lake. Her eyes raked the spectators by the water’s edge, hunting for her husband’s lean, elegant frame.

She threaded through the crowds, the air dry and flinty with the smell of burned-out fireworks. She pushed closer to the shoreline, where the water, normally tea-coloured, looked black and oily in the dark.

Up ahead, her gaze snagged on a familiar figure: the plump silhouette of Nancy Adams. Jodie went still. For an instant, she caught the other woman’s eye, then Nancy glanced away.

Something small tugged at Jodie’s chest. Even Nancy was avoiding her now. But she wasn’t surprised. People had been talking, saying Jodie had gone over the edge. For ‘people’, read Ethan.

She and Nancy had settled in Hillsborough County around the same time, Jodie as Ethan’s Irish bride, Nancy as the new proprietor of Attic Corner, a quirky little café tucked into an art gallery in Peterborough. It was Nancy who’d pitched Jodie’s paintings to the gallery and made them see her potential.

‘Us blow-ins got to stick together in this godforsaken place,’ Nancy had said once, hefting a pan of cinnamon rolls from her oven. ‘Especially in the winter. All these blizzards and power outages, snowdrifts barricading your front door. Talk about isolated. Drive you five kinds of crazy.’ She’d given Jodie a probing look, the scent of brown spices billowing from her in waves. ‘Especially way out in the wilderness where you are.’

Jodie had smiled, shrugging off the concern, her mind skittering away from her own growing misgivings. It was only later she’d admit that the backwoods had turned oppressive.

The whirr of crickets pulsed from the lakefront.

Slowly, she pulled away from Nancy, angling wide along the embankment, still scouring the crowds for Ethan.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here, Jodie.’

She whipped around. A blocky, compact figure was stalking towards her, dark eyes pinned to hers. Her heartbeat tripped.

Zach Caruso, Sheriff of Hillsborough County.

She slipped a hand inside her bag. Touched the gun like a talisman.

Caruso halted in front of her, his solid bulk blocking her path. ‘You sure being here is such a good idea?’

‘I’m just looking at the fireworks, Zach. Like everybody else.’

His eyes were watchful. ‘Ethan didn’t mention you’d be along.’

‘Ethan doesn’t know.’

Fireworks exploded overhead, spotlighting Caruso in the dark. His expression was hard and flat with suspicion. He had to be in his fifties, over twenty years Jodie’s senior, but his hair was still thick and dark. That and the high-bridged nose spoke of Italian lineage, but the accent was pure, abrasive Boston.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe I should let him know. You don’t look too good.’

‘I’m okay.’

Jodie knew how she looked: rail-thin in jeans and T-shirt; skin stretched taut, bare of makeup; up-slanted eyes dull and vacant; straight dark hair unkempt and shoved back behind her ears. Her world had been annihilated. Made desolate. Her appearance was nothing.

Caruso stepped closer. ‘You had a chance to reconsider things since this morning?’

Jodie felt her jaw clench as she recalled their earlier encounter, when she’d made the mistake of thinking that the law might be on her side.

Caruso went on. ‘You were overwrought, I can understand that. After all you’ve been through.’ The sympathy was a mismatch for the guarded look on his face. ‘Ethan says you’re trying to work through it together. I told him, if I can help, he just has to ask.’

‘I’m sure he’s glad to know you’ve got his back.’

‘You got to understand, making groundless accusations is rash. People can get hurt.’

His closeness was suffocating. Jodie touched her bag.

‘I’m not here to make trouble, Zach. There’s just something I need to give to Ethan.’

Caruso shot her a wary look. Jodie made her face bland, breezed on.

‘He’s catching a ten-thirty flight after the fireworks.’

‘I know. He told me.’

‘Did he tell you he forgot his passport?’

His gaze dug into hers, looking for the lie. The explosions paused overhead, and a mosquito whined next to Jodie’s ear. Caruso’s stare was unblinking.

‘Not like Ethan to screw up on details,’ he said. ‘Usually has everything under control.’

‘I guess everyone slips up once in a while.’

Caruso dropped his eyes to her bag. She groped for a distraction, gestured at the lake.

‘You’re a little way off your turf, aren’t you, Zach?’

He darted a look out across the water that geographically resided in Cheshire County, close neighbour to his own jurisdiction. He shrugged.

‘Doesn’t hurt to broaden your horizons, does it?’

Jodie eyed the crowd, a new batch of voters for Caruso to get his hooks into. Whatever scheme he was cooking, Ethan was probably involved. She used to wonder what kind of backscratching they had in place to make Ethan align with such a crook. But none of that mattered any more.

Caruso held out a hand. ‘Why don’t I take him his passport? You get on home, get some rest.’

She gripped her bag, her heart rate climbing. ‘Thanks, but I want to do it myself.’

She edged away, sidestepping his bulk.

‘I want a chance to say goodbye.’

Jodie hiked along the lakefront. By now, she’d combed most of the northern shore, and she still hadn’t found Ethan.

She checked her watch. He was scheduled to leave for the airport any time now. Maybe he’d already gone.

A rush of dizziness flooded her head. Her encounter with Caruso had left her shaky, but worse was the thought that she’d missed her chance. That Ethan had slipped away. She blundered onwards along the embankment.

The weight of the gun dragged at her bag. She’d only used it once before, six months earlier. Her first time ever handling a firearm.

She’d been alone in the house, finishing up another painting for the gallery. She could still recall the graveyard silence of the rooms, deadened further by the waist-high snowdrifts outside. Jodie shivered.

When she’d first come to New Hampshire five years earlier, Ethan’s house had charmed her. The Irish place names had charmed her too, lulling her with a false sense of the familiar: Kilkenny, Antrim, Dublin Lake.

She’d never had a home of her own. She’d grown up on the move in Irish foster care, twelve moves in all over eighteen years, to places where nothing was ever really hers. And each time, she was told she’d be safe with the next family. She wasn’t.

But Ethan had seemed safe. He’d wooed her with an old-fashioned attentiveness, and his secluded Colonial home had reinforced the gallant image. Maybe she’d finally found a home.

But the truth was, it was all a fake.

Fireworks burst into bloom overhead, brilliant red chrysanthemums of light. Jodie stumbled through the cheering crowds, out of whack with normal life.

She flashed again on Ethan’s house in the backwoods: six miles from the nearest town; no neighbours, no boundaries; the garden blending without warning into dark, dense forest. Not forest like she knew it, but vast, primeval hinterland that besieged three sides of the house.

Incarceration.

She could still hear Ethan’s voice echoing in the banquet-sized rooms.

‘If Mommy wants to work, it means she doesn’t love you, Abby.’

‘It’s Mommy’s fault you don’t have any brothers or sisters.’

‘If Mommy leaves, we can’t be a happy family any more.’

Jodie’s throat closed over. She clenched her fingers around the gun in her bag, re-living the day she’d last fired it, six months earlier.

She’d been painting for three hours straight, her spine crunching with the backache she always got from standing for too long. She stepped back from the easel to eye her work, a vigorous landscape of the local Contoocook River. Like all the paintings she sold, it offered plenty of wild, improbable colour but almost nothing of herself.

She wiped her hands on a turps-soaked rag, stirring up a pungent, piney scent. Then she selected a fine rigger brush and signed the canvas: Jodie Garrett.

She eyed her signature with misgiving. Another battleground with Ethan. She still used her maiden name, signing her work with it the way she’d done ever since she was a child. Ethan railed at her to switch to his, as though the other was some kind of veiled threat; some act of defiance.

Maybe it was.

She tossed the brush aside, got ready to clean up. Then an eerie screech tore through the silence.

Raucous, inhuman.

Jodie raced to the window. Stopped dead when she saw the malevolent forest animal skulking in her back yard.

Black as the devil against the snow. Dense, glossy pelt, humpbacked like a rodent, haunches high and round. Maybe four feet long from nose to bushy tail, about the size of a family dog.

A giant fisher cat.

That was the local name, though there was nothing feline about it. A gigantic member of the weasel family, to Jodie it was furtive and diabolical-looking.

The fisher froze, its eyes trained high on the birch tree by the back door. Jodie’s stomach lurched. Abby’s cat, Badger, was clinging to one of the branches.

Jodie yelled, and pounded on the glass. The fisher ignored her, twitched its tail. Then it streaked up the tree and wrestled Badger to the ground.

The fisher’s high-pitched shrieks were blood-curdling. Badger yowled, staggered free. Jodie cried out, bolted to the study. Couldn’t bear to think of Abby’s face if her beloved cat was killed.

She wrenched open drawers, scrabbled for keys, unlocked the cabinet where Ethan kept his gun. Loading it with shaking fingers, praying she was doing it right, she sprinted to the back porch.

The fisher had a jaw-lock on Badger’s neck, and was thrashing him against the snow. The cat emitted a keening sound. Jodie fired into the air, but the fisher ignored her. By now Badger was silent, his throat ripped open. She took aim this time, fired at the fisher, knowing it was too late. Kept on firing, round after round in a frenzy of bullets, until the fisher lay still over Badger’s limp body.

That night, Abby was inconsolable. The cat had been her ally in the silent house, his robust crankiness a match for her own wilful, tomboy spirit. Jodie sat on the bed, rocking her on her lap. Ethan glared at Jodie, his eyes full of dark reproach. Eyes that looked so much like Abby’s.

‘You let the cat outside? What the hell were you thinking? You know those goddamn fishers attack pets around here.’

Jodie stared in disbelief. From the start, she’d wanted to safeguard Badger in the house. It was Ethan who’d insisted the cat be allowed to roam; who’d scoffed at her caution, dismissing the threat of fishers as old wives’ tales. After all, he’d argued, it was his home country, he should damn well know.

His eyes challenged her to contradict him, the faint sneer betraying his certainty that no one would believe her if she did. Her gut turned cold as she realized something else: Ethan had wanted something bad to happen to Badger.

Dazed, she watched him lift Abby into his arms, watched his head bend to hers, the two so alike. Same dark hair, same strong brows; same stubborn set to the mouth. Ethan kissed Abby’s plump, damp cheek.

‘It’s Mommy’s fault poor old Badger is dead.’

A fireball of colour exploded over the lake.

The flash defined a knot of spectators on the shore, and Jodie’s heart double-thudded. Backlit in their midst was Ethan’s sculpted profile.

She edged forward. He was less than two hundred yards away. Close enough to make out the faint Van Dyke beard, its thin vertical line carefully etched from lower lip to chin. As a beard, it was barely there; just a whispered suggestion of maleness, pirate-style.

A pulse hammered high in her throat. Behind Ethan, Dublin Lake seemed on fire, the blazing sky twinned in the water like paint pressed from a centrefold. A dramatic backdrop to Ethan’s buccaneer looks, as though he’d staged it with that in mind. Then again, maybe he had.

She inched closer, eyeing his group of companions. They were mostly men, their body language proclaiming Ethan as the dominant figure. She saw it all the time; that potent sway he had over people.

She watched as one of the men leaned in to make a comment, saw the other low-rankers all peek at Ethan, gauging his reaction before committing to theirs. Jodie noticed Ethan appeared a head taller than the rest, and guessed it was no accident he’d ended up on higher ground than they had.

Power and control: his motivation for everything.

Jodie clutched her bag, felt the hard outline of the weapon inside. She tried to picture the moment when it was done. When Ethan was dead, and the time finally came to turn the gun on herself.

Would she hesitate?

Would it hurt?

She probed her psyche, plumbed deep. Took an honest pulse-check of her soul.

Found no fear.

Pain would be cathartic. A final scream of release.

She took a deep breath, scanned her surroundings. Felt a twist of unease. The lakefront should have emptied out by now, but the shore was still lined with people. She couldn’t risk a shot from here. What if she hit someone else?

She had to get up close. But all those people. One of them might try to stop her. Putting Ethan back in control.

Her spine hummed. In less than two hours, Ethan would be on a flight to New York, gone for three weeks. She couldn’t last that long. Couldn’t survive it. It had to be tonight.

Her gaze rolled down the shoreline, out to the road, her brain scrambling for a way to get him alone. Then her eyes came to rest on the cars by the kerb, settling on the stately black sedan that dwarfed its neighbours.

Ethan’s Bentley.

Jodie’s skin tingled.

With a last look at Ethan, she struck out towards the highway, willing the car to be open. He’d never given her a key. No point, he’d said, since he wasn’t going to let her drive it. She climbed the slope up to the road, pinning her hopes on his complacent habit of leaving the vehicle unlocked. She could see his point. Who’d steal from the local hotshot lawyer, especially when his ally was an ambitious thug like Caruso?

She clambered over the guardrail onto the road. Stole up to the Bentley. Tried the handle.

The door eased open.

She let out a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. Then she slid into the roomy back seat, closing the door with a thunk that blocked out all sound. She lowered herself to the floor, crouching in the space between front and back. A travel rug lay folded in the foot well beside her, and she shook it out, covering herself head to toe. Then she slipped the gun out of her bag and hugged it to her chest.

She lay there, cramped, her nostrils filled with the scent of leather upholstery. From outside, the rug and tinted windows would hide her. By the time Ethan knew she was there, it would be too late.

Fatigue pressed down on her like a dead weight. Maybe it was the horizontal position, but suddenly the world seemed to tilt, as though she was losing her grip on it. Her mind scrabbled for a foothold. Fastened on Abby: all rough-and-tumble in her dungarees, frowning as she brushed a squirming Badger; never crying when he scratched and ran away, just wrestling him back.

A faint hum started up in Jodie’s throat, and she clenched her teeth to shut it off.

Her head buzzed with tiredness. She’d been fighting Ethan for so long now. Fighting for freedom. Freedom to work and be independent; freedom for Abby to make friends outside the house; freedom for herself to do the same; freedom to sell her paintings; to paint at all.

And more recently, the freedom to leave.

Jodie closed her eyes. Felt herself drift.

None of that mattered any more. Tonight would be the last battle. After this, there was nothing left to fight for.

Not now that Abby was dead.

The door clunked, cracking open the vacuum in the car.

Jodie’s eyes flared wide.

Cool air seeped around her, washing in with it the thrum of night insects.

She tried not to breathe.

Leather stretched and creaked. The door slammed shut. Jodie’s heart pounded, too loud in her own ears. Something light flopped onto the back seat. Ethan’s jacket. Jodie took shallow breaths, the rug trapping her respiration, turning it hot against her face.

She strained for sounds. Heard the friction of running fabric. Pictured him whipping off his tie, loosening his collar; his preferred style, since it played better to his daredevil looks.

Jodie listened for more.

Heard nothing.

Just a hold-your-breath stillness.

Ethan wasn’t moving.

She stiffened, every skin cell on high alert, waiting for a hand to snatch the rug away. Then his keys jingled, the engine fired, and she felt herself being dragged backwards against the seat as the car pulled out onto the road.

A tremor started up in her limbs. She fought against it, tried to keep track of their route. She’d wait a few minutes, just long enough to get further down the unlit road where no one else was around.

He switched on the radio, scratching through the stations till he hit on a cheesy talk show. The chit-chat was banal, but he chuckled along, turning up the volume.

The grieving father.

Jodie’s grip tightened around the gun.

He hadn’t mourned Abby; he’d just cleaned house. The week after she’d died, he’d boxed up all her stuff and got rid of it without asking Jodie. He wouldn’t tell her where he’d sent it. Just said they’d no more need of it and her railing at him wouldn’t change a thing. All Jodie had left of Abby was the drawing pad.

She twitched the rug down from her face, breathing in cool air. Dense trees whipped past the window. She pictured the dark, narrow road: tall birches lining both sides, the grassy verge rising to the left, sloping downwards to the lake on the right.

As good a place as any.

She eased out of her crouched position, slid quietly onto the back seat, keeping the gun out of sight till she was good and ready.

‘Hello, Ethan.’