The Hiding Place(87)

“By name, by nature.”

“Go home, Joe.”

“Okay. If you come with me.”

“Nice try.”

“Try this then—if you don’t come with me, a crazy lady is going to kill your husband.”

“Even if I believed you, why should I care? When this is done, Jeremy and I are leaving Hurst and this shithole. For good.”

“You must know that this is insane.”

“It’s my only chance.”

“The clinic in America was your only chance. Did you ever intend to go? Or was it all just a ploy to get the money?”

Finally, she turns her head toward me. Her face, in the lamp’s illumination, looks frighteningly thin and terrifyingly calm.

“Do you know what the remission rate was—thirty percent. Just thirty percent.”

“I’ve bet on worse odds.”

“Did you win?”

I don’t reply.

“Thought not. And I don’t want to take that chance. I don’t want to die.”

“We all have to die.”

“Easy for you to say, when you’re not about to.” She blows out smoke. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? Closing your eyes every night, wondering if this time will be the last. And some nights you hope it is because you’re scared and in pain. Others, you try to stay awake, to fight it, because you’re so terrified of falling into the darkness.”

Her eyes find mine. The lamplight gives them a feverish glow.

“Ever thought about death? Really thought about it? No feeling, no sound, no touch. Not existing. Forever.”

No, I think. Because we all try not to. That’s what living is. Keeping ourselves busy, averting our eyes so we don’t have to stare into the abyss. Because it would drive us insane.

“None of us knows how long we have.”

“I’m not ready.”

“It’s not your call. We don’t get to make the choice.”

“But what if you could? What would you do?”

“Not this.”

“Says you.” She glances toward the tunnel. “We both know what’s down there.”

“Bones,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s what is down there. Bones of long-dead people who didn’t have drugs and chemo and pain relief. Who still believed in God and the devil and miracles. We know better now. It’s not real.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Joe. You were there. We all were.”

“Marie, you are ill. You’re not thinking properly. Please. There is nothing down there that can help you. Nothing. Believe me.”

“Fine.” She stubs out her cigarette and reaches into the backpack. She takes out a bottle of vodka and a packet of sleeping tablets. “If you really believe that, then let me go. I’ll take these and that will be the end of it. At least I get to make the choice.”

I don’t reply.

She smiles. “You can’t, can you? Because you know. Because of what happened to your sister.”

“My sister was hurt. She got lost. She came back.”

“From where?”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “She didn’t die.”

She laughs. A horrible, brittle sound, devoid of humor or humanity. And a part of me wonders if she was always like this, on the inside. Or if something changed in her, that night, when we went down there. Maybe something changed in all of us. Maybe guilt and regret weren’t the only things we brought back.

“You don’t believe that,” she says.

“Yes. I do.”

“Bullshit.” Her mouth twists: “She was dead. No way she survived that blow. I know because—”

She breaks off. I freeze. Every nerve ending suddenly humming.

“Because what?”

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

But that’s a lie. It’s everything. And suddenly I can see it all again. Annie in a small, crumpled heap. Hurst a short distance away. The crowbar on the ground. Marie clinging to Hurst’s arm. But Marie hadn’t been standing there before. She had moved. She was closer; to me, to Annie.

“It was you,” I say. “You were the one who hit her.”

“I didn’t mean to. I panicked. It was an accident.”

“You let Hurst take the blame. He covered for you, protected you.”

“He loves me.”

And now it all makes sense. Why she stayed. Why they married. He loved her. But he also had something over her. She couldn’t get away from him. And maybe the swimming pool and the bifold doors helped. Just a bit.

“Were you really going to leave us down there?”

“I tried to talk him out of it.”

But that’s not quite true. I remember her placing her hand on his arm. The look that passed between them. I thought she wanted to help us. But now, I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

“And Chris? I told you where I was meeting him that evening. Did you send Hurst after him? Was that your idea too?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. You know what Hurst was like. I was scared of him.”

I recall the bruise around her eye. Her right eye. And then I picture Hurst pouring my whiskey. Right-handed. Another chunk of the pedestal crumbles.