The hunt, p.39
The Hunt, page 39
Elsie thought. “No.”
Just like that.
No.
“All right,” Decker said. “After she died in your kitchen, you cleaned up the blood?”
“Yes. With bleach.”
“Did Baer help you clean it up?”
“Yes.” Elsie thought a moment. “He was a terrible man. But I don’t think he wanted her to die. I certainly didn’t want her to die. But things happen.”
“Things do happen,” Decker said. “You cleaned up the kitchen. Then what did you do?”
“Brock and I sat down to think. It had been a crazy evening.”
The mistress of the understatement. Decker said, “I’m sure.”
McAdams said, “Where was Pauline while you were cleaning everything up?”
“In the trunk of her car, wrapped in plastic.”
“Then you were planning on burying her.”
“Of course,” Elsie retorted. “I couldn’t leave a body rotting in my house while I took Bertram and Kathrine to Germany.”
Decker said, “You buried her quite a distance from your home.”
“Yes.”
“Who chose the spot?”
“I did.” Elsie exhaled. “I wasn’t thinking well. I should have buried her closer, but I knew that spot because I had been there before. It was where Bertram and I planned on meeting up a couple of days later. It was hidden and it was wooded. After we buried the body, I camped out in my car, walking to Pauline’s grave and saying a prayer. It was only a couple of miles from the spot where I was going to retrieve Bertram at our appointed time.”
“Once you got there, you never left?” asked McAdams.
“No, I did not.”
“Elsie,” Decker said, “we found your car in the woods.”
“Yes, I left it there.”
“How could your car be at the spot—in the woods next to the diner—if it was in the shop?”
“Because we didn’t bury her until the next evening. By then, we had two cars. Hers and mine.”
“What happened to Baer?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if you didn’t bury her until the next day, did Baer stay with you the entire time? At your house?”
“Yes. I needed him to help me bury the body. I couldn’t do it by myself. He got the shovels and the bags and everything.”
“He just decided to stick around and help you bury her?” McAdams asked.
“I told him if he helped me, he could take Pauline’s car—and he did.” She shrugged. “I had to give him something. And maybe he wanted to help bury her. Together, I must say, we did a very nice job giving Pauline a proper resting place.”
A proper resting place. Decker hoped his face was flat. He said, “So Baer and you drove to the spot near the diner the next day and the two of you buried her.”
“Yes.”
“You in your car, and Baer in Pauline’s car with the body.”
“Yes. We were very lucky that no one stopped him. It was summer. The body had started to decompose and smell a little. But only a little. We kept ice on it. That was my idea.”
“Sounds like you planned for a lot of contingencies.”
“I was as thorough as I could be. If I was thinking more clearly, I would have done it closer to home. But …” She shrugged.
“What happened to Baer after you two buried Pauline?”
“He left.”
“In Pauline’s car.”
“Yes.”
“Did you two keep in contact?”
“No—well, not until the other day. But right after, no contact. This whole mess was a distraction from what I had to do.”
“Leaving with Bertram and Kathrine and taking them to Germany?” Decker asked.
“Yes.”
“If you left your car in the woods, how did you get to the airport to take them to Germany?”
“I had arranged an Uber. We took the back roads. I didn’t want any cameras picking us up. Then I rented a car and picked up Kathrine.”
“It looked like your car.”
“It did but it wasn’t. It was a rental.”
“Seems like you put a lot of energy into taking Bertram and Kathrine to Germany.”
“I did.” She paused. “They needed to be together. Anyone could see that. I just helped.”
Decker said, “How much money did you get for it?”
“I didn’t ask for anything,” she said. “Just for the tickets, the rental, the hotel, and expenses.”
“You didn’t receive anything beyond your expenses?” McAdams asked.
“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t ask for anything. Once we all got to Germany, Bertram insisted on giving me something for all my help.”
“How much did he pay you for helping him?”
“None of your business!”
Decker said, “Bertram didn’t have access to a lot of money while he was in the States.”
“Well, maybe not in the States, but he has access to plenty of money in Germany. And how much compensation he gave me isn’t your affair.”
“Indeed, it’s not,” McAdams said. “Unless charges are brought against you for kidnapping.”
“I didn’t kidnap anyone. They were going to leave anyway. I just helped.”
Decker said, “Right now, kidnapping is the least of your worries, Elsie.”
“I know. I will go to prison. It was in self-defense, but I’m sure you don’t see it that way. Nonetheless, I had to set the record straight. I refuse to hide and be a fugitive, because I did nothing wrong. It was an accident, and she had no chance of survival.”
Decker said, “How do you know that? You said she was barely breathing.”
“I was there. You were not. Now it will be up to my lawyer and a jury.” She stood. “I have nothing more to say. I’m tired and hungry, and I’d like to rest in a jail cell.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “Elsie, I’m going to charge you with murder, among other things. I’m going to read you your rights.” He turned to McAdams. “Do you have the card?”
Tyler sprang up. “I’ll get one.” He left.
“What card?”
“It’s a card that tells you your rights. You sign it after I say them out loud to you.”
“Okay. And what happens after that?”
“We have a holding cell here in the station house. You’ll be booked on the charges—”
“What charges besides murder?”
“Murder, tampering with evidence, concealing a body, kidnapping—”
“I told you I didn’t kidnap anyone.”
“Sometimes not all the charges stick, okay?”
“Good.” She shrugged. “What happens once I’m booked and in jail?”
“I’ll get you some lunch and consult with my captain on the charges.”
McAdams was back with the card. Decker Mirandized her, and once that was over and she signed the card, he said, “You’ll be appointed a lawyer unless you have one.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Okay, we’ll get you one. You should be arraigned in the afternoon. Because you have a current passport and access to somewhere outside the country, you probably won’t get bail. The prosecutor will deem you a flight risk. But your lawyer can try.”
“Very good.”
He looked at McAdams. “Let’s go.”
She offered her wrists. When Decker didn’t do anything, she said, “No handcuffs?”
“Do I need them?”
“No. I just thought it’s what the police do.”
“We have discretion,” Decker said. “Besides, there are two of us and only one of you.” The two men flanked her, and the trio walked down the hallway. They took the elevator down one floor to the booking station. No one was there.
McAdams said, “I’ll find someone. Hold on.”
Decker waited with Elsie. She said, “Can’t you just do this?”
“I can roll fingerprints and take a DNA swab, but I’m not good with a camera.”
A minute later, Kay Arby, the booking officer, came back. “Sorry. I’ll take it from here.”
While Elsie was being photographed, Decker said, “Harvard, stay here until she’s behind bars. Once that’s done, get her some lunch. I’m going to talk to Radar, and we’ll call the D.A.”
The kid smiled. “No problem, boss, it’s all good. And while you’re making phone calls, ring up Rina and tell her to start packing. Have a good trip.” Another smile, but this one was sad. “Have a good life.”
Decker should have felt elated. Instead, he was weary and more than a little depressed. He gave a small smile and tried to muster enthusiasm. “You rock, Harvard.” He mussed up the kid’s hair. “Thanks for a wonderful ride.”
Sincere words. But sad ones nonetheless.
CHAPTER 29
THE NIGHT BEFORE Chris was scheduled to leave for India, I went to sleep earlier than usual, not because I was tired but because I was a nervous wreck and didn’t want my anxiety to rub off on him. He seemed completely normal when I left for the bedroom, absorbed in manning his Captain America video pod.
I was all set for his departure. Chris had finally entered me into his high-security system. I had total freedom. I could come and go from his room and from Juleen’s room. I could use the private elevator. And in addition, he arranged for me to have access to a driver and his hot tub adjacent to his downstairs office. The final act of liberation included access to his vault, ergo his money. It was a tremendous act of trust, one that I didn’t take lightly. It said to me the most horrific of statements.
I may not make it back with your son.
When he came to me at four-thirty in the morning, he didn’t even have to wake me up. I had been up most of the night except for several catnaps from which I woke up startled and disoriented, in a cold sweat with my heart going a mile a second.
He usually slid under the sheets and scooped me to his chest. Instead he sat on the bedcovers. I rolled over and faced him.
“Everything all right?”
He stared at me. His white hair reflected the moonlight coming in through the window. “I’m in a mood, Teresa. Don’t fight me. It won’t end well.”
Okay, I thought. He’s feeling mean. Maybe that was what he needed to get the job done. To feel mean. If that was the case, it was okay with me. I wanted him to feel mean. I wanted him to be mean and cruel and merciless and the biggest son of a bitch imaginable. Because when working with amoral, conscienceless beings, nice guys were toast. If I had to bear the brunt of his cruelty in order for him to get the job done, so be it.
I turned around and supported myself on all fours, waiting for the pain. He hiked up my Manson girl dress, and then he growled out, “I hate this fucking thing.” He ripped it in two along one of the seams. Once naked, I closed my eyes and felt my whole body go tense.
He did nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathe. I sensed his sweaty presence. I felt him grip the nape of my neck with his massive hand. But then he released his long, spindly fingers and I felt them travel down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, the tips dancing over each bone as if he were reading braille.
When the sex came, it was normal … assured but gentle—so much so that after it was over, I found myself aroused.
Afterward, he said, “Sit up against the headboard.”
I did what he said. He came toward me. I waited for him to make a move, to loop his hand around my neck and bring me to him. When he didn’t, I said, “What do you want, baby?”
“Don’t close your eyes, Terry,” he told me. “Look at me when you do it, angel. Look at me.” Telling me: I’m the one you’re doing it to. I’m the one in control.
Anything he wanted. When he climaxed, he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, his eyes closed, his head tilted toward the ceiling. I waited for him to disengage. He did a few moments later, then he nodded to me. My signal that I could get up and head to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, and stepped into a steamy shower.
He joined me a minute later, just as I was soaping up my hair. He dumped shampoo on his hair, and then took my face in his hands and kissed me hard and with desperation. He kissed me again. And then again. I felt him grow and I reached down, but he batted my hand away.
“Ignore it.” He continued to kiss me, his tongue intertwined with mine.
“I don’t want to ignore it,” I said. “I want you.”
He pulled his face from mine. “The sexiest words in the English language.”
He carried me from the bathroom and tossed me on the bed, both of us wet and covered with shampoo. As he lowered his head between my legs, I stopped him. I said, “I don’t need it.” I flipped him on his back and climbed on top. The room was cold, I was dripping water, and I started to shiver. He sat up until we were chest to chest and brought my mouth to his. We kissed as we made love. He said, “You’re cold.” He rubbed my back. Then he flipped me around until my back was against his chest. With one hand between my legs, he pulled my head back by my hair with his other hand and kissed me hard. I brought one hand to his cheek and the other between his legs.
He sighed like a moonstruck teenager. It brought me back to years ago and made me feel like that hormonally driven sixteen-year-old girl who would have drunk poison for him. Two stupid kids in love. And twenty-six years later, I was having sex, tingling with electric shock as his hands trawled my body. I climaxed first, but only by a few moments. It was a long, hard orgasm that came in waves of hot blue fire.
After we both caught our respective breaths, he carried me back to the shower—still running and still mercifully hot. He took the handheld showerhead and washed off my soapy hair and then his own. He got out first and gave me one of his many black silk robes. He took a hand towel and dried my hair.
He said, “I’ll blow-dry your hair.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can, but I want to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to cut it. It’s too long. Sit down on the bed. I’ll be right back.”
I sat. When he came back, I said, “Not too short.”
“Stop worrying. I like you with long hair. Just not that long.” He brushed out my hair and took scissors to my back. He drew a line about eight inches below my clavicles. “Right here.”
I didn’t answer. When the snipping was done, I felt the warm air going through my tresses as he brushed and curled. When he had finished, he took the dryer and passed it through his own shoulder-length white locks.
I looked in the mirror.
He said, “What do you think?”
“You’re a man of many talents.” I actually did like the length. It still made me feel feminine but a lot freer. “It’s lovely.”
“Glad you like it, angel.” He took out his phone. “Now take off the robe and lie on the bed.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He aimed the phone and a bright light attacked my eyes. “Settling old scores.”
“What old scores?”
“Last time we did this, you shut me down.”
“Chris, I was sixteen.”
“The statement still stands.”
I sighed. “Nothing porno.”
“To be determined.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “The pictures are just to get a feel for what I want …” Another shot. “Which is to draw you.”
“Full circle, huh?”
“Full circle.”
“Don’t tie me up.” I was serious. “I always hated when you did that.”
“Yeah, I was really into bondage back then. Take off your robe. Have you ever seen Goya’s naked Alba?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Let’s do a variation of that. Okay?”
“That’s fine. What do you want?”
“Lie on your side with your head propped up with your hand.” He positioned my hair so that my nipple played peekaboo with the tresses. He shot a few photos. “I must say that this is a pleasant surprise. I expected more resistance.”
“If I did it at sixteen, I think I can handle it at forty-two with my husband.”
He smiled. “Yes, you are indeed my wife.”
“Happy about that?” I asked.
“Yes, I am. If you ever take that band off your finger, I’ll put it around your neck.”
“You say the most romantic things.”
“Chalk it up to my charm.”
“Remember the first pose I did for you?”
“Of course. I have the old sketch pads in my vault.” He lowered the camera. “We should do a then and now.”
“Okay.” I sat up. Then I hunched over and folded my legs, bringing my chin to my knees. At sixteen, I was very embarrassed, and the pose was the most efficient way to cover my chest. “It was something like this, right?”
“Yeah, except you were wearing panties.”
“Not the entire time.”
“No.” A wide smile. “You’re right about that.” A pause. “I’ll get my sketch pad and my pencils. Just stay like that.” He returned with a chair and his art supplies. He came over to me and made adjustments, pulling my hair over my shoulders, slightly parting my legs to allow a little visibility. He stood up and nodded with approval. “Beautiful. Don’t move.”
He put on a pair of rimless glasses and laid out his supplies. I heard his pencil going over the paper in quick movements. A sound etched in my brain from so long ago. After Gabe was born and we got back together, he rarely drew me. I felt he wasn’t a fan of my postpartum body. After a few minutes of silence, I said, “The sex … tonight?” He waited. I said, “It was wonderful.”
“Yes, it was.”
“It wasn’t what I expected.”
“You and me both.”
“What changed your mind?”
He scratched his cheek and stopped drawing. “I just got this overwhelming feeling of warmth. I didn’t want what I thought I wanted.” He started drawing again. “And I’m perverse. If you resist, I’ll fight. If you give in, I’m flexible.”
His pencil against the paper: scratch, scratch.
He said, “I can’t stand to be told no. But I especially hate it from you. I feel it’s a prelude to you leaving me. I don’t trust you.”
