Locust Lane(87)

He found his phone and summoned Danielle’s number and typed.

I’m taking care of this now.

He pressed send and got his keys. His car made an ominous sound when it started. He must have hit that curb pretty hard. His body drove carefully. It didn’t take long to get to Fox Chase Lane. He parked down the road this time. He passed three houses walking back to the Parrishes’, all of them massive and still. He didn’t hesitate as he crossed the weedless lawn. He walked around the side of the house, where he passed a lit window. Through it, he could see a large, book-lined office, a sanctuary of burgundy and chestnut brown. Oliver sat at the massive desk, speaking on the phone, his back to the window, his voice muffled by the thick glass.

At the back of the house there was a patio guarded by a low cordon of ribbon. Furniture had been piled on the lawn beside it. He stepped over the flimsy barrier and walked across freshly laid stone to the French doors. They were open a few inches, but the screen was locked. He used his keys to cut a wound in the mesh, then reached inside and opened it.

The kitchen was empty. A dishwasher churned; Oliver’s voice droned down the hall. Patrick waited to see what his body would do next. And then someone was thundering down the steps. He walked deeper into the kitchen. He passed the sink, where a slight vegetable odor emerged from the drain. He kept moving until he was in a recessed alcove that overlooked the lawn.

Jack walked into the kitchen. He wore a pair of sweatpants and a Van Halen T-shirt. His hair was mussed, as if he’d just been sleeping. He pulled the refrigerator door open and started rummaging inside. Patrick’s hand took his phone from his jacket pocket. His fingers worked over it and then there was a photo of Eden, the one everyone had seen, with her red hair and her smile. Patrick stepped out of the alcove and walked quietly around the far side of the island, so that he was blocking Jack’s path to both the hallway and the back door. The boy saw him just after he shut the refrigerator. He held a cheese stick.

“What the fuck?”

“You have to tell people.” Patrick held up the phone so the boy could see her face. “You have to tell them the truth about what you did to her.”

The boy understood he was trapped. Even if he went around the far side of the island Patrick needed only shuffle a few steps to block him. And then Jack’s eyes widened and he shook his head. Patrick turned. Celia had walked into the room. He hadn’t heard her coming. Her body seized up and she took a step back.

“Patrick? Why are you here?”

“Your son needs to tell the truth.”

There was a sound somewhere in the house, a doorbell ringing, followed by urgent knocking.

“You should leave.”

“Not until he tells the truth.”

She turned her head back toward the hallway but kept watching him.

“Oliver!”

“No…”

“Oliver!”

He contemplated fleeing out the back door but Jack had to tell the truth. He went toward the boy. Jack started to back away but Patrick was moving quickly now, as swiftly as he had when he was young. He grabbed Jack’s arm. He held the phone in front of the boy’s face, so he had no choice but to see.

“Look at her.”

There was more noise and movement behind him. He turned, lowering the phone as he did, though he did not let go of the boy’s arm. Oliver was in the room now. He looked at Patrick’s eyes and Patrick looked at his eyes.

“Wait…” Patrick said.

There was another man. Procopio. He took his pistol from his hip and pointed it at Patrick and started shouting. Patrick raised the phone to show them Eden. Before he could speak again, before he could explain, Oliver shouted, a single word, and then there was a sound that covered all the voices and Patrick once again didn’t see the hit coming. And then he was lying on floor, knowing he’d been hurt, but feeling elation and the possibility of freedom. So this is it, he thought. And then the pain came, carrying its own end inside it.





Tuesday





MICHEL


Cantor called just after midnight. He had to repeat the story before Michel, still reeling from that morning’s Herald article, understood what he was being told.

“But why?”

“He was on a mission. He claimed to have seen Jack on the night of the killing.”

It was impossible to imagine. A home invasion, bullets, blood. Patrick Noone. All he could see was a well-mannered, impeccably dressed man seated alone in a corner booth, closing his eyes at the first sip of the bottle of grand cru he would proceed to quietly finish.

“So where does this leave us?”

“It makes it seem like only crazy people think Jack Parrish is guilty. Look, Michel, everything’s in flux right now. To say the least. I need to have some conversations, take stock. I’ll come by tomorrow and we’ll see where we stand.”

That night became an endless succession of hours and minutes and seconds. Unbidden images flashed through his mind every time he neared sleep. Those broken toys in the prison’s visiting room. The newspaper photo of him and Alice. Patrick Noone, smiling at Sofia as she refilled his wineglass. He dreaded morning’s clarity, the pale light and passing cars.

Cantor arrived just before noon. He didn’t look happy.

“So?” Michel asked.

“It’s like I thought. People see this as exonerating Jack.” He shook his head in frustration. “And there’s something else. I’ve finally learned what sort of forensics they have beyond the scratches. It’s not good for us.”