All the Beautiful Lies(73)
Now
Harry had no memory of being at Caitlin’s motel room, but he did remember the ambulance ride, and he knew that he’d tripped and fallen, even though it was a fuzzy memory.
There was a persistent, low-frequency ringing in his ears, and the inside of his head felt swollen, almost like a balloon had been blown up inside his skull. Earlier, one of several doctors who’d come in to question him had asked him what town he was in, and he was totally surprised that he hadn’t immediately known. She’d moved on to other questions, but before she left, he’d said, “Kennewick. I’m in Kennewick, Maine.”
She’d smiled and told him that was correct.
Detective Dixon came by, and Harry told him that Caitlin was being watched. It was all he really remembered.
Later, he opened his eyes, and saw Alice staring at him so intently and with so much love that he closed his eyes again, pretending to fall back asleep. He could smell her perfume in the room, and he heard a soft, deep voice in the background that sounded like John Richards. He kept his eyes closed. He’d been awkward around Alice ever since they’d had sex, the night before that terrible morning when he had discovered the dead body of Grace McGowan. After that long, surreal day, after being questioned repeatedly by the police, both local and state police detectives, Harry said to Alice, “About what happened . . . last night.”
She’d looked at him with a tired, blank stare. He noticed, not for the first time, that the surfaces of her eyes, from some angles, appeared almost flat. It gave her a distant gaze even when she was looking right at him.
“You want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she said.
A little bit startled by the accuracy of her statement, Harry said, “No, yes. I just think it shouldn’t happen again is all.”
“Sure, it never happened.” She half smiled.
That was all they had talked about it, and Alice had not returned to Harry’s bed, even though Harry, in the moments between sleep and wakefulness, found himself replaying the memories of Alice’s naked body, the way she had controlled him, her voice in his ear. Those images fought with the constant image of Grace, dead on the hallway floor, one side of her face collapsed and ruined, the other looking just like she’d looked in real life. And he’d begun to obsess over every moment they had spent together, every word they had said during the short time they had known one another. What he kept coming back to was that Grace had come to Maine for one reason; she had come because she believed that Alice was responsible for his father’s death. She’d been convinced of it. And now she was dead, and Harry couldn’t help but think that it meant she’d been right.
The days and nights following Grace’s death seemed interminable as Harry waited to hear about an arrest. He tried to talk more to Alice about Annie and Lou Callahan, but all she would say was that she was sure they were involved, and that she didn’t want to talk about it. He also badgered Detective Dixon into repeated meetings; he felt better talking, again and again, about the events that had transpired over the last few days. And it was after one of those fruitless conversations that he’d met Grace’s sister at the police station. Caitlin looked so much like Grace that when he first saw her he thought he’d seen a ghost. Her hair was a little different, as was the way she held her body, but her mouth, her eyes, they were Grace’s eyes, and Harry, knowing it was insane, felt as though she was in Maine just so he could have a second chance, that she was there for him.
Harry, in his hospital bed, the lights now dim and the room empty, tried to focus on the man he’d seen outside of Caitlin’s motel, but the focus kept slipping away from him, like two magnets that repel one another. Every time he felt like he could see the man hiding in the dark, the image would push itself away. All that remained was the terrible fear he’d felt. Someone was watching Caitlin. She needed to leave Maine.
The pressure in his head increased, and he opened his eyes. He knew Alice was close, probably out in the waiting room. He’d seen her earlier, hadn’t he? Then he remembered that he’d also heard John’s voice in the background. Why was John there, at the hospital? It wasn’t totally surprising, but it was a little odd. It was so late at night. Had she gone to get him after she’d heard word that Harry was in the hospital? Why hadn’t she called Chrissie Herrick instead?
He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the hospital, the undercurrent of humming machines, the distant chatter from the nurses’ station. Then he heard rushed footsteps along the linoleum floor, a progressive clack-clack-clack, some nurse in clogs hurrying toward a patient in need.
His eyes suddenly opened on their own, the sound of the footsteps bringing back the woolly memory of the man running away the night before. Something had been strange about it. What had it been? Then Harry remembered. The man he’d chased had looked like he’d been flapping his wings, and there was something else . . . Yes, it was the flat slaps of dress shoes hitting the asphalt. The man must have been in a suit, unbuttoned, and it was the suit jacket that was flapping as he ran. A too-big suit jacket. And he’d been wearing dress shoes, as well.
And Harry suddenly was sure that the man watching Caitlin’s motel had been John. He knew it. And it wasn’t just the suit, John’s constant uniform, it was also the size of him, the slope of one shoulder in the dim light. There was no doubt.
But why? If John was the one watching Caitlin, then he was the one who’d killed Grace, and also maybe his own father. It didn’t make sense. John was an old man. Would he have been strong enough to overcome Bill, and also Grace, a young woman? If he’d had a weapon, sure. Harry, in and out of fuzzy consciousness, kept imagining John’s strong hands and wiry frame, his body concealed by the loose-fitting suits.