The Night Swim(85)
“I can’t help you,” he said when she was done. “I told you before. I mind my own business. It’s the only way I can survive, living the life that I live.”
“Sometimes a man has to speak up or be responsible for the repercussions of his silence,” Rachel told him.
He turned back to the boat and tossed in the pike with a clatter before climbing in. The boat rocked unsteadily as he scrambled to a seat next to the outboard motor. Rachel slipped off her sneakers and waded barefoot into the water.
“Wait,” Rachel called out, approaching the boat.
He ignored her and pulled the cord to turn on the engine. It spluttered. He reached out to pull the cord a second time when Rachel called out again.
“Bobby, wait,” she shouted. He dropped the cord and looked up at her.
“How do you know my real name?”
“A girl who once knew you, she wrote me some letters that mentioned a boy with gray eyes called Bobby,” said Rachel. “Bobby helped her injured sister by taking off his shirt and wrapping it around her like a blanket to keep her warm. To stop her from going into shock. Just like the way you did with the seagull. And just like the way you did on this very beach last year when you found—” Her words were swallowed by the wind.
“Who is the girl who wrote the letters?” he interrupted. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Hannah Stills. Her sister was Jenny Stills,” said Rachel. “Do you remember them?”
“A little,” he said. “My memory is bad from that time, on account of the accident.”
“What accident?”
“I drove a truck into a tree when I was younger. Killed my two friends. I survived. If you can call looking like this surviving,” he said, lifting his T-shirt to display the third-degree burns she’d seen before on his chest. He laughed, an angry, bitter laugh. “I was in the hospital for nearly a year after that. Had skin graft after skin graft. Fourteen surgeries in all. That whole period is a haze. I remembered only what I was told. That I’d driven into a tree and killed my friends. I reckon that these scars here are a small price to pay for what I did.”
“Maybe you don’t remember Jenny Stills,” Rachel said. “But you remember another girl you helped on this beach. You were there that night. Weren’t you?”
He didn’t hear her. He’d turned on the outboard motor and was heading out into the ocean. Rachel listened to the whine of the motor as he navigated the boat through the crests of incoming waves until he had escaped the pull of the tide and was out at sea.
When he returned, two hours later, Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the beach, waiting for him. Once he’d secured his boat and stepped onshore, he looked at her and nodded.
49
Rachel
Dale Quinn failed to hide his elation when he saw the dejected slump of Mitch Alkins’s shoulders at the prosecutors’ table as he walked into court on Monday morning. Victory was within touching distance.
Quinn took his seat at the defense table and leaned back for a lighthearted exchange with Greg Blair. The courtroom was crackling with anticipation by the time Judge Shaw entered in his black robe. His eyes were steely when he asked Mitch Alkins, as he’d done every morning the previous week, whether the complainant was ready to resume her cross-examination.
“Your Honor,” said Alkins, “Miss Moore’s parents and therapist have advised that her mental state is too fragile for further questioning in open court. However, she can provide written answers, or videotape her answers to a list of questions provided by the defense. I ask for latitude in this regard. She is very young and very traumatized and I am certain we can elicit her testimony under cross-examination without tormenting her further by bringing her back into this courtroom.”
“Your Honor.” Dale Quinn bounded to his feet. “I need to cross-examine the witness myself before the jury. Anything less would prejudice my client’s right—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Quinn,” interrupted Judge Shaw. “Your client’s right to a fair trial. Believe me, Counselor, we are doing contortions here to keep it as fair as possible.”
Judge Shaw gestured for Quinn and Alkins to approach the bench. Nobody so much as cleared their throat as the judge conferred with the two attorneys at a sidebar, everyone straining to hear their hushed discussion. Sophia, the courtroom artist next to Rachel, stopped sketching while they spoke. It was impossible to know exactly what had been discussed when Judge Shaw finally ordered Quinn and Alkins to step away from the bar and return to their seats.
Mitch Alkins’s shoulders were hunched and he scratched the side of his forehead as if he was deeply unsatisfied with the outcome as he returned to the prosecutors’ table. Rachel guessed that Judge Shaw had refused his request to allow Kelly to provide testimony in writing or by video.
Back at the defense table, Dale Quinn stood up, trying not to look jubilant as he buttoned his jacket. “Your Honor,” Quinn said. “Since the complainant, Miss Moore, is unavailable today, which was the deadline for her to return to court for cross-examination, I move that her entire testimony be struck from the record.”
“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Quinn,” said Judge Shaw.
“Your Honor,” Alkins interrupted.
“I’ve given you ample time, Mr. Alkins,” Judge Shaw said. He instructed the jury to disregard all of Kelly Moore’s testimony. The jury would not be able to draw on anything she said when she took the witness stand earlier in the trial. All of her testimony would be erased, as if she’d never said a word.