The Last Thing She Ever Did(31)

“Really, Carole?” was all he said.

It was all right for her to question his fidelity. It was her go-to accusation whenever and wherever she seemed to feel the need. Sometimes he hated her so much that he would do anything to hurt her. He’d kept his mouth steel-trap shut. That was how he saw himself. Yet, every now and then, David Franklin could no longer hold his tongue. Carole deserved a jab from time to time. The drinking problem was the only thing he could grab on to at the moment. Maybe ever. He’d been in AA for ten years. He’d never so much as had a single drop of alcohol since the day he quit drinking. Never the slightest threat of a relapse. Carole had tempted him with mojitos, Manhattans, and merlot for years.

“Why’d they take your blouse?” he asked, focusing on her eyes.

She spun around and started for home, and he hurried behind her.

“Where did the blood come from, Carole?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did you lose control?”

“Don’t even dare say another word,” she said. “You know better. You know me.”

“And you know me,” he said. “I’m not playing around on you. It’s over. I promised you.”

“Over? Really? I doubt you and your whore are done.”

“It is over,” he repeated. “Believe me.”

Now back on the footbridge over the Deschutes, Carole and David faced each other once more.

“Look,” she said, speaking in a near whisper. “I’m not an idiot, David. I smell her on you sometimes. I do. I really do. And for you to say those things about me being a drunk or some kind of monster . . . I don’t think I even know you. I really don’t.”

David stood his ground. “Let’s focus on what we both know to be true,” he said, trying to reel in all the ugly words that had crossed his lips. “Charlie. Let’s focus on Charlie.”

Carole pulled her jacket tighter. “A minute ago you suggested I might have had something to do with whatever happened to him.”

David tried to hold her but she shoved him away. “I didn’t mean it, Carole. I know you better than that. I know you. Whatever we have isn’t perfect and hasn’t been great for a long time, but we’re solid in knowing each other. That counts for something.”

A fish jumped, startling Carole and shifting her focus. “The blood on my blouse was mine,” she said. “From my ear.” She touched her scabbed-over earlobe and winced. “I tore my earring out when I was calling 911.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I know. The cops know too. They are just doing what they are supposed to do: eliminate the possibilities. Exclude us. And they need to do that.”

“Right,” she said. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Me too. Me too.”

“Charlie’s out there, David. He’s scared. He’s cold. He wants to come home.”

“We’re going to find him. I know we are. Keep thinking positive thoughts. Know that our boy is only lost, not gone. Not gone forever. He’ll come home.”

The Franklins had done a good job of keeping their voices as low as possible, but the surface of the river is a good conductor of sound.

Someone could hear every word they were saying.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MISSING: FIFTEEN HOURS

Owen watched his wife. Out of it. Finally he shook her hard. Harder than he needed to. Nothing. His heart was pounding so hard inside his chest that he was all but certain the police officer planted across the street could hear it jackhammering. Maybe at that very moment the officer was calling some suspicions in to the police department.

“Liz,” Owen said, now hovering over her in the dim light. She’d drunk herself into a puddle of tears and booze. The smell of alcohol was heavy on her breath. The pills he’d fed her had left Liz’s eyes somewhat vacant. He wondered what he’d ever found attractive about her in the first place. She was a mess.

“We need to get going,” he said when she finally stirred and looked up from the sofa.

“What?”

“We need to get out of here now.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, her eyelids suddenly snapping open as she remembered what had transpired that day. “We can’t run, Owen,” she said. “They’ll find us.”

Owen grabbed her by the shoulders with such force that she winced. He yanked her to her feet. “We aren’t going to run, Liz. Goddamn you, wake up and pull yourself together. We have to get rid of it.”

It.

Charlie was no longer a boy. He was now an it. A body. Something to be discarded.

Liz started to cry. At first it was the sound of a hurt animal. A dog with its leg in a hunter’s snare. A weak dog. A dog that knew that in a few more breaths it would die. Then Liz started to get louder.

“Don’t you do this, Liz. You need to get your shit together. The cops outside will hear you. Get that? They will hear you. They’ll think I’m beating you up or something. Jesus! You’ve screwed up big-time. The biggest colossal screwup in the world. Do you know what’s going to happen if they find Charlie in our garage? Do you know how long you’ll survive in prison?”

On her feet, wobbly but able to stand, Liz looked her husband directly in the eyes. She saw the terror behind his threats. The gravity of what she’d done nearly sent her sinking down to the floor. Her pockets were full of fishing weights. Her chest was wrapped in the lead blanket of the dental office. Just then she felt immobile.