Say You're Sorry Part 10

"Are you all right?"

She crawled onto her bunk and rolled over, facing the wall.

The next morning, she didn't get out of bed. She lay in her pretty dress, not talking.

"Please tell me what happened."

"Nothing."

"Did he do something to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

I stroked her hair. We lay there for a long time. She was feverish and then s.h.i.+vering with cold.

"We're not getting out of here, are we?" I said.

She shook her head.

Normally she was the one who cheered me up. She was always coming up with elaborate escape plans that needed things that we didn't have-like shovels, or explosives, or guns.

A week later the same thing happened. George opened the trapdoor. Called her name. Tash climbed the ladder.

Again I worried that she might not come back. I didn't want to be alone.

This time she returned with treats-chocolate and soap and magazines. A part of me was jealous. Her hair was s.h.i.+ny and clean. Her legs were shaved... and under her arms. She smelled like a Body Shop and she wasn't hungry. We were always hungry.

I lay on the bunk that night and watched the shadows move across the wall beneath the window. Jealous. She was his favorite. He gave her nice things.

"What happens up there?" I asked her.

"It doesn't matter."

"Do you know where we are?"

"No."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing."

Then she curled up and went to sleep. She didn't have nightmares, not like me. Sometimes she slept so quietly I got frightened that she was dead and would tiptoe over to her bunk and put my face close to her face, listening; or I'd blow gently in her ear until she snuffled and rolled over.

Then I'd be sure.

9.

The hospital cafeteria is an echoing s.p.a.ce full of sc.r.a.ping chairs and easy-wipe tables. It's mid-afternoon and already dark outside. The lunchtime meals are warmed over in the trays: lasagna and baked vegetables and dried-out roast.

John Leece slumps in a chair, staring at the window as though looking at something that he can't quite bring into focus.

"I've never really understood what people see in alcohol, but sometimes I wish I was a drinker," he says. "It seems to bring people comfort. My father wouldn't touch the stuff, but my mother has the occasional sherry or lager shandy."

"What did you see in there?"

"I can't comment until I talk to the police."

"OK, we won't talk about the post-mortem. I'll ask you general questions."

He nods.

"How long would a person survive outside without shelter in a blizzard like the one on Sat.u.r.day?"

"A matter of hours."

"The bruises and cuts..."

"She was wandering around in a blizzard. She could have b.u.mped into trees and fallen into ditches."

"n.o.body has reported her missing."

"Maybe she's not a local."

"They haven't found a vehicle."

Dr. Leece presses his thumbs into his eye sockets. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm grateful that I don't have to understand human behavior."

Augie Shaw saw a woman standing barefoot in the middle of the road. It has to be the same one. She didn't take her shoes off next to the pond. She wasn't wearing any to begin with. Why run off? Why was she outside in a blizzard? Who was she running from?

"Did you notice anything else unusual about the scene?" I ask.

"We found a dog."

"What?"

"It was frozen with her. Maybe the dog went in after her or she was trying to rescue it. Once she hit the water, the cold overwhelmed her and she didn't have the strength to drag herself out."

"Was it a black and white Jack Russell?"

The pathologist stares at me. "How could you possibly know that?"

"One went missing from the farmhouse. Small, black and white, I figured it was probably a Jack Russell."

"The Heymans' dog?"

"Yes."

"Why would it be with the girl?"

It's the same question I've been asking myself and I keep coming back to something that Grievous told me at the farmhouse.

"Do you keep the dental records of missing persons?"

"Of course."

"Can you look up a file for me?"

"Certainly. Who?"

"It's a girl who went missing a few years ago. Natasha McBain."

Dr. Leece's eyes bobble behind his gla.s.ses. "She was one of the Bingham Girls."

"Her family used to live at the farmhouse, but they moved out after Natasha went missing."

The pathologist's mouth opens; a question half formed on his lips.

"So the dog?"

"What if they left it behind?"

10.

Charlie is waiting for me at the hotel suite, sprawled out on one of the twin beds as though bored with life. I kiss her forehead. She looks past me at the TV. Silent. Righteous.

The room is dully corporate, decorated in navy blues, with a high ceiling and an ornate plaster rosette above the hanging light.

"Sorry I'm late. I got held up."

"All day?"

"I left you a message."

"Who was that woman you were talking to?"

"Pardon?"

"Outside the college after your lecture: you were talking to her."

"She's an old acquaintance."

"Did you go to lunch?"

"Yes."

"She's very good looking."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Dad. Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Act like you're stupid."

Even without looking at her reflection in the mirror I know she's scowling at me.

"Her name is Victoria Naparstek. She's a psychiatrist. She wanted to discuss one of her patients."

"Augie Shaw."

"How could you know that?"

"He was just on the news. He's being questioned about those murders at the farm. Did he do it?"

"I don't know."

"He looks like a psycho."

"We don't call them psychos."

"They said he burned that woman alive."

"Allegedly. And you shouldn't think about stuff like that."

"What am I supposed to think about?"

"Celibacy."

She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, hands in her lap, treating a grown-up subject like true confessions at a teenage sleepover.

My mobile is vibrating. It's Julianne.