Aphrodite Part 3

"What else?"

"Look at this." Westwood bent down, pointed to the girl's left knee. "A sc.r.a.pe. And it's fresh. How do you sc.r.a.pe your knee while you're sleeping?"

"Maybe she did it before she went to bed."

"She would've put something on it. A Band-Aid. That stuff that stings like h.e.l.l ..."

"Mercurochrome. Okay, maybe she did it when she fell."

"No. This floor wouldn't do it-too smooth. A bruise maybe. A b.u.mp. But this is like she rubbed it against something rough."

"So what are you saying, Jay? You saying it's not an accident?" Westwood closed his eyes for just a moment. He remembered being on Main Street, not much more than half an hour ago, with his eyes closed the same way. He remembered the feeling of locking the world out and he remembered how much he liked that feeling. Another song began to rattle inside him. Roger McGuinn. "King of the Hill." It's sunrise again. The driveway is empty. The crystal is cracked. There's blood on the wall. ... It's sunrise again. The driveway is empty. The crystal is cracked. There's blood on the wall. ...

Justin Westwood opened his eyes. He walked to the window, the one that had the fire escape outside. He fiddled with the latch, opened the window, and looked at the ledge. Then he closed the window, flipped the latch so it was locked.

Then he looked at the chief of the East End Harbor Police Department, such as it was.

"It's an accident," Westwood said. "Has to be an accident. There's no other explanation."

2.

Justin was in Duffy's again, sitting at the bar. It was the third night in a row he'd planted himself there. He was almost finished with his third Pete's Wicked Ale and was thinking about polis.h.i.+ng it off with a scotch. He wavered. Right now he had a pleasant buzz, was reasonably relaxed. The scotch would put him over the line. Well, the one scotch wouldn't, but once he started he knew he'd have more than one. Tonight he'd have three or four. Or five. Which was what he'd had the night before. And the night before that. He watched a young woman sitting in one of the four booths and for a moment he thought it was Susanna Morgan. Then he realized that it couldn't be and decided he wanted that scotch.

Donnie, the bartender, brought the shot gla.s.s over, with some water on the side. Westwood took a sip and enjoyed the burn as it went down his throat and into his stomach. It warmed him instantly and he polished off the rest of it in one more gulp, signaled for another even as his head was tilted back, drinking. When he'd finished the second one, the buzz wasn't quite as pleasant. It was more of a hum and the hum was saying to him the same thing it had been saying ever since he'd examined Susanna's body: Stay away from it. Stay away from it. Don't Don't touch this one. Just stay away. touch this one. Just stay away.

After the third scotch, he realized he wasn't getting drunk. But the hum was getting stronger. The fact was, it had been getting stronger with each pa.s.sing hour.

Leave it alone, it was saying.

You know better.

Just leave it alone.

It had been saying that for three days now.

Justin nodded to himself, nodded to the hum, agreeing with it. Knowing he should listen to it. Knowing that he had had to listen to it. to listen to it.

Then he put down money for his tab, got up from the bar, and headed to the door. When he was out on the street, the hum kept telling him to go home. It was an easy walk, maybe half a mile. The previous two nights he'd paid attention and followed instructions. But now he found himself walking toward Main Street and the center of town. He found himself walking back to Susanna Morgan's apartment.

When he got there, when he stood in front of the two-story building looking up at the top floor where the girl had died, he thought, What the f.u.c.k am I doing? What the f.u.c.k am I doing?

Then he walked around back to the alley, went to the building next door, the one with the fabric shop in the front, and he jumped up so he could grab hold of the bottom rung of the building's fire escape. He pulled it down so he could step on it comfortably, then he began to climb up to the roof, telling himself it was no problem, he knew how far to take it, he was just going to play his hunch, then he was going to leave it alone.

Halfway up, he stopped. Told himself he'd already gone too far. If he went any farther he'd get sucked in, might never be able to disentangle himself. His right foot stepped down one rung lower, but his left foot hovered in the air. He muttered "s.h.i.+t" out loud. Then, telling himself nothing, doing his best not to think at all, he put his left foot back on the fire escape and began climbing up to the top.

Westwood stood on the roof for a few moments, taking in the scene. He wasn't trying to focus on anything in particular, just wanted to get a feel for his general impressions. He slowly turned his head, taking in the shadows and the view of the town. He listened, didn't hear much. One bird. Then another, answering. From somewhere, probably several blocks away, the steady drone of a car engine.

He didn't exactly see or hear the girl. But he did feel her presence. When he turned to the corner of the roof, spotted her sitting there, then took several steps closer and was able to see the expression on her face, he realized that what he had felt was her fear.

"Don't hurt me," she said. Her voice didn't quiver, which surprised him. It was steady and strong, if extremely soft.

He held up his hands, to show he meant no harm. "I'm a policeman," he said, making his voice match her hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you." He flashed his ID, peered in closer at her, tried to smile in as friendly a manner as he could muster, and said, "You're the yoga teacher. I can't remember your name. I'm Justin Westwood. We talked once, remember? You had the guy who kept exposing himself outside your cla.s.s."

She didn't say anything but she nodded slowly. Justin said, "You live in this building?" When she nodded again, he said, "The other apartment? The other half from Susanna?" and once again her head moved almost imperceptibly up and down.

"I'm just looking around," he told her now, keeping his tone gentle. "Nothing serious. Just to satisfy my own curiosity. I'm going to go down Susanna's fire escape, just for a minute. Will you wait here for me until I get back?"

The woman nodded. Westwood thought about saying something else-she seemed to need more rea.s.surance-but he didn't know what else he could say, so he walked across the flat roof until he got to the fire escape that led to Susanna Morgan's apartment. He stepped down a few rungs. When his eyes were level with the ledge of the roof, he stopped, squinted, looking for something, then resumed his descent. When he got to the landing outside the bedroom, he examined the exterior wall and the outer windowsill. He scratched his cheek and climbed back up to the roof, expecting the woman he'd left there to be gone. But she was right where he'd left her. Sitting cross-legged in the corner. He walked closer to her, putting the smile back on his face and saying, "See? Nothing to worry about."

"I don't want to get hurt," she said when he was a few feet away from her.

"I told you." He was out of practice at being sincere, but he did his best to keep his body language as nonthreatening as possible. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I have a daughter," she said. "A little daughter. She's seven years old."

"That's nice," he told her. "What's her name?"

She didn't answer him. It was as if she hadn't heard him. It was as if she was listening instead to some kind of voice within her.

"I saw something," she finally said.

"Something about what?" He tried to keep his voice level but he could hear his heart pumping and he could feel his blood racing through his body. Suddenly, he knew he should have listened to that d.a.m.n hum, should have stayed the h.e.l.l off this roof. What did he think was going to happen by coming here? Nothing good, that's what. Nothing remotely good could possibly come from this.

"I know why you're here," she said. "I know what you're looking for."

Nothing remotely f.u.c.king good.

"You don't have to tell me," he said. "You don't have to tell anybody if you don't want to."

"I saw something."

And if you tell me, I'll have to do something about it. It won't just be pretend any longer. I'll have to do do something. something.

"Don't tell me," he said again, and he was surprised at how desperate his voice sounded. "Please. Don't tell me what you saw."

"I have a daughter," she said. "And I'm afraid."

Please ... "But I saw Susanna. Here on the roof." "But I saw Susanna. Here on the roof."

Don't ...

"She didn't trip and fall like everyone says," the woman said now. She still hadn't moved. She still had her legs crossed and she was breathing in and out, slowly and steadily, in an easy, perfect rhythm.

Don't tell me. ...

"He killed her," she said, her voice still firm and steady. "He murdered her. And I saw it."

He didn't know how long the silence lasted. A long time. She was trembling now. She looked like she was going to cry.

"It's okay," Westwood said slowly. "It's okay that you saw it."

"I have to tell somebody. I need to tell somebody. But I'm afraid."

"Let's go somewhere and talk. You can tell me."

She was relieved, he could see it. And rea.s.sured by his smile. She stood up now, in one graceful movement, not even using her hands to prop herself, just rising in one corkscrew-like motion until she was on her feet. He took her hands and led her to the fire escape at the back of the roof, the one leading down to the alley.

As she put one hand on the railing and placed her foot on the first step, she said, "You won't let them hurt me, will you?"

Westwood did his best to smile again, and he squeezed her hand more firmly as she stepped down. But he didn't say anything.

He didn't think there was anything he could could say. say.

You should have left it alone, the hum said.

And then it said one more thing, the thing that scared him the most, the thing he knew was all too true: Too late now.

3.

The dream didn't come every night. Not anymore. It had for years. Every night like clockwork Justin Westwood awakened with a scream, trembling, drenched in sweat, the sheets wet and sticky. Now it just came sometimes. There were nights he wanted it to come because he didn't ever want to forget. Other times he prayed for it to stay away because the pain of remembering had long ago become unbearable.

It came that night.

It began as it always did, in a time when he was happy. When he and Alicia were in love, even before Lili was born. In his dream he felt Alicia caressing him, felt her naked body melt into his as it always did in bed. Then there was Lili. The perfect child. Sweet right from the start. He could hear her cooing and gurgling as a baby. And he saw her take her first step. Heard her speak. Somehow the dream always let him see her in school, in first grade, maybe because he always thought of her as so smart. She should have been beautiful, Lili, like her mother, but she wasn't. She had Alicia's body, thin and athletic with long, coltish legs that, right from the beginning, seemed to go on forever. But she got his face, poor kid, so she was slightly goofy looking, at least that was what she felt. He would always tell her how beautiful she was, how perfect, how smart, and in the dream he'd hear what she always used to say: "Daaaaddddy, it's no good if you you think I'm beautiful. It's the think I'm beautiful. It's the other other ones who have to think I'm beautiful." ones who have to think I'm beautiful."

The dream changed from time to time. Jumped around. Tonight it jumped to when Lili was eight years old and things had started to go bad. His father usually came into the dream now, his face, big and close, stern and frightening. His father never spoke in the dreams, just looked at him, that look, so bitter and angry and disappointed. Then there was a jumble of images. Everything rushed in at him, like a train whoos.h.i.+ng through a tunnel: Alicia harping at him, saying What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this? What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this? and then the arrest and everyone patting him on the back, telling him he'd done a great thing, and in the dream his chest puffed out, he was so full of pride. He could see Lili looking at him like he was the most important man in the world. He handed her his medal, his s.h.i.+ny gold medal that glistened like a precious jewel. And then ... and then the arrest and everyone patting him on the back, telling him he'd done a great thing, and in the dream his chest puffed out, he was so full of pride. He could see Lili looking at him like he was the most important man in the world. He handed her his medal, his s.h.i.+ny gold medal that glistened like a precious jewel. And then ...

And then in his dream he heard a noise. In real life there had been none. Other than normal noise. Alicia at her desk, riffling through papers and paying bills. Lili padding around the living room. The TV. Everything was normal. But in the dream he heard something. A warning. And then suddenly they were there. Inside his home. And there were shots. Screams. He was on the floor. They thought he was dead. He heard laughter and felt someone touch him and then there was another noise, an explosion of heat and fire, and there was blood everywhere. Thick and red. Dripping. Flooding. Red, everywhere ...

Justin Westwood woke from his dream, breathing hard. He grabbed for his chest, feeling the physical pain as if it had all just happened. His hands quickly probed his stomach, then his neck and his thighs. There were no fresh wounds, only raised scars, reminders of the raw, scorched flesh that had once been there. His breathing eased a bit and he resisted looking at the empty half of the bed across from him. Justin reached for the gla.s.s of water he'd put on the nightstand. He gulped it down, was still thirsty, didn't want to move, though, to get more. Didn't want to disturb the images of Alicia and Lili that were still with him, still so real.

He looked at his watch. Four a.m. In another hour it would start getting light. He didn't bother closing his eyes; he wouldn't be going back to sleep. He never did after the dream. He'd stay up and wait for dawn. Then he'd wait until he could see Jimmy and the girl, the yoga teacher. Then he'd see what they were going to do. They'd hear her story, ask questions, see what was real, what was fake.

In his own life, Justin knew what was real and what wasn't.

His wife and daughter were dead and it was his fault.

He was alive. And wis.h.i.+ng he wasn't.

That's what was real.

Everything else was fake.

4.

"What were you doing up on the roof?" Jimmy Leggett asked. He was not comfortable with the conversation. It wasn't going well. He didn't want to believe what he was hearing because, if it was all true, he didn't know what the h.e.l.l he was supposed to do about it.

"I told you, I was meditating. I go up there a lot late at night. When I can't sleep. It's quiet. Peaceful. At least it usually is."

"And you just leave your daughter in your apartment?"

"I leave her bedroom window open. It's right below me. I can hear if anything happens. And if she wakes up and I'm not in my bed, she knows I'm up there. It's not like I'm off partying. I'm only a few feet away."

"Why couldn't you sleep that night?"

She shrugged, starting to look annoyed. "You want to hear about all my problems? I'm single, I'm a mom, I don't make enough money, what's going on in the world scares the s.h.i.+t out of me. ...."

"Did you hear anything?" "Before I went up there? No."

Chief Leggett took a deep breath. He looked at Justin. The chief didn't say anything but Westwood knew him pretty well. So he stepped in.

"Tell us exactly what you saw up on the roof ...uh ...Deena." It took him a second, but she'd finally told him her name last night, when he'd walked her back to her apartment. Deena Harper. He'd watched her look in on her sleeping daughter, then he'd said good night and told her he'd see her at eight.

"I told you already."

"One more time. Sometimes when you repeat things, you remember new facts, little details."

"I was up there for about half an hour. It was a little hazy. I was very relaxed, almost in a meditative state. I heard something. I don't think I opened my eyes at first. Sometimes your imagination kind of takes over when you're meditating and you hear things. You know, like if you're thinking about a river, you can hear the water."

"The roof," Justin said. "What did you hear on the roof?"

"I guess it was the door opening. The door that opens onto the roof from the attic of the house. It's usually locked. We weren't supposed to use it to go up there. Some kind of fire hazard or something."

"We?"

"Me and Susanna. The landlord told us both to stay off the roof."

"But you went up anyway?" That was Chief Leggett interrupting.

Deena rolled her eyes and nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry. I'll do my time and try to make my reentry into society a productive one."