Lying in vengeance, p.5
Lying in Vengeance, page 5
Numbed by her invective, Peter shook his head again.
She covered herself again and closed the distance between them. “That doesn’t even include the cuts and bruises that healed without leaving a mark—and the psychological traumas that never show up on the skin. Now, do you think he can be stopped by ordinary, civil means? Do you think he’ll stop hurting me just because someone in a black robe or blue uniform tells him to? Do you?”
He shook his head again.
“Good. I’m glad you’re finally convinced.” She exhaled and ran a finger down his chest, letting it rest at his waistline. “So. Are you going to help me, or not?”
He stared blankly at her. Words would not form.
“Or...do I need to talk to the police again about what happened in November?” She leaned closer. “Because, while Kyle can’t be stopped by the police and the courts, you can. Right, Peter?”
He closed his eyes, his body swaying. His head weighed a thousand pounds. He could not feel his feet. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be.
“Christine, I...I can’t kill a guy in cold blood.”
“Of course you can. You already have.”
“No!” His eyes sprang open and he latched onto the counter behind him with a white-knuckle grip. “It wasn’t like that. It–it was an accident.”
“An accident? How? You beat him to death with a tire iron. That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“He attacked me first. I fought back—”
“You followed him and crashed into his car. That’s practically the definition of premeditation.”
“I didn’t mean to! I mean, I meant to follow someone else. The crash was an accident. Then things just got out of hand.”
She laughed, a wicked, cunning cackle. “Got out of hand? You beat him a hundred times with an iron bar. Cracked his skull. Pulverized his hands and fingers. Crushed his damned testicles. You meant to kill him!”
“No!” He lunged at her, grabbed her arms. “I didn’t even know him!”
Her face went white, then relaxed again. “Of course. It was all a mistake.” A sneering smile drifted across her face. “You meant to kill the other guy.”
He stared at her, still holding her arms another long moment, then another. Then, against his will, his head bobbed up, then down. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose I did.” He let go and turned away from her.
She surprised him by pressing her body against his from behind, her lips behind his ear. “And, my dear Peter,” she said, “you will do it again.”
“I—”
“Or,” she said in a whisper, “you can take your chances with the police. See if they like your story of what happened that night.”
His head swam. She had him, right where she wanted him. All exits blocked. If he resisted, or if he ran, she’d turn him in. His life would be over. His mother’s care would be in the hands of his crazy brother and sister, who believed they could cure her life-threatening strokes through prayer. Thelma would never understand. Everything he’d lived for would be wiped out. He would die in prison.
There had to be another way. But he couldn’t see one.
Chapter Seven
“Dude,” Frankie said, finishing his pale ale off with a giant gulp, “we got slaughtered last night in the darts tourney without you. Skip couldn’t hit the broad side of a brewery, much less a bull’s-eye.” He motioned to the waitress for a second round, then pointed to Peter’s mug, still two-thirds full of a dark, chocolaty porter. “Drink up, man. You’re already a pint behind me.”
“Maybe you could slow down a little,” Peter said. “I can’t guzzle this stuff. Besides, it’s meant to be savored.”
“Cut the crap and drink. Where the hell were you last night, anyway? And don’t tell me it was a woman, or I’ll—”
“It was. I had a date.”
Frankie’s jaw dropped. “No way. You? With who? That new blonde gal, what’s her name, in Accounting?”
“Get out of here. She’s old enough to be my mother.” Peter cracked open a pistachio from the bowl on the table and tossed the tender meat into his mouth.
“When’s that ever mattered to you? Your taste in women has always been, what should I call it, a mystery?” The beers arrived and Frankie drained a third of his in one swig. “Speaking of your mother. How’s she holding up?”
Peter grimaced. “Physically the same. Holding steady. No strokes since the one in May. But the dementia is getting pretty scary. The doctors say if she has another bad stroke, even if she survives it physically, she could end up...” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Frankie clapped a hand on his arm and gave it a reassuring shake. “At least you got her in the right place. They take good care of her at Sunset.”
Peter frowned and drank a giant gulp of beer. “Tell that to my brother Jimmy. He’s making noise about moving her again. Some new fundamentalist, evangelical facility near him, down in Oakland, with no in-house medical staff.”
“That bozo. What’s wrong with him? He knows damn well he can’t take care of her like you do.” Frankie took a long sip and grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl, crushing them in his fist.
They sat in silence for a long moment, drinking beer and munching pistachios. Peter imagined life for Thelma in Oakland with Jimmy and their volatile sister Libby. Jimmy’s plans would fall apart like so many of his empty promises in the past, starting with his broken commitments to contribute more money to pay her escalating bills. Her ongoing therapy, essential for her recovery, far exceeded the amount Medicare would pay, but at least Sunset could provide it in-house. It would cost double if it had to be provided by a separate caregiver—if Jimmy or Libby even allowed it, given their religious objections to all things scientific. Her health would decline faster than the bank accounts of Jimmy’s enthusiastic parishioners.
Frankie interrupted his reverie. “So, okay, who was she?”
Peter, startled, nearly spilled his beer. “Who?”
“Who? The woman, man. Your date last night. Anyone I know?”
Peter shook his head, swallowing a small sip of porter. “Gal I met on the jury a couple of months ago. Christine.”
“The hottie?”
Peter smiled and ducked his head. “She’s pretty, yeah.”
Frankie raised his glass in salute. “Well, good for you. It’s about time you moved on. I mean, Marcia’s practically married already, ain’t she?”
“Engaged, so I’m told. Whatever. That’s her business. And not mine, anymore.” He sipped his porter again, got it down below half full. The second pint sat sweating on the table. “Anyway, thanks. I think.”
“So, how’d it go? You, ah, get any?” Frankie’s eyebrows widened on his forehead, and he leaned in conspiratorially.
“You know I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Oh, so she stiffed you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you stiffed her?” He guffawed. “Get it? You stiffed her?” He smacked Peter’s arm, causing porter to splash onto the table.
“Yeah, I get it. Dork.” Peter wiped up the mess and took another long hit on his beer.
“Okay, so you were a perfect gentleman. Where’d you go? A nice dinner somewhere? Paley’s, The Huntsman, what?” Frankie drummed on the table with flat palms. “Come on, spill. It’s the least you can do, since it cost us a hundred bucks each in lost prize money.”
“We, ah, hung out at my place.”
“Wha...? Oh, you dog, you!” Frankie laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You did get some sugar—and on the first date. Man! I’m impressed.” He toasted Peter with his pint glass and sipped from it. “Damn. So, tell me. What’s she like? She go for anything kinky, or—”
“Forget it, I’m not talking. Never have, never will.”
“Not true. You told me all about that red-haired gal, freshman year of college. What was her name? Gertrude?”
“Gwen. Lordy. You had to remind me of her? I still have bite marks on my neck from her.” Peter laughed and rubbed the spot of the ancient injury. “I thought I’d need garlic and a cross to get rid of her.”
“See? There’s precedent. Now, spill.”
“No.”
“Come on, man.”
Peter finished his first beer, sipped from the second. “So, how did you shoot last night?”
“Dude. You’re killing me here.”
“We should move, so we can see the TV. The Mariners game is coming on.”
“Peter.” Frankie shook his head in disgust, then shrugged. “So, you think she’s a keeper?”
Peter’s turn to shrug. “She seems interested.”
“What’d you guys talk about?”
Peter’s mouth went dry. A long sip of porter didn’t cure it. He sipped again anyway. “Ah, well. You know. The case we were on. Ourselves. Stuff like that.”
“She rebounding too?”
Peter’s brow moistened with sweat. “Kind of. She had a guy a while back, didn’t treat her too well. She’s still kind of afraid of him.” He swallowed a lump forming in this throat. It remained, making it hard to breathe.
“That sucks. Maybe you should give her some space, let her work it out with him first.”
“Why, so you can ask her out? Screw that, buddy.” Peter laughed, and Frankie joined in after a moment’s pause.
“No, seriously. If she’s got a bad dude hanging around, she might be more trouble than she’s worth.” Frankie slammed the rest of his beer and wiped foam off his lip. “Take it from me. I’ve got more experience than you on this.”
“Yeah, well. The thought crossed my mind.” Peter chewed another pistachio, then washed it down with beer. Everyone had more experience than he did.
“But...” Frankie drummed on the table again.
“But what?”
“But you already have another date with her set up, don’t you?”
Peter spread his arms wide, opened his mouth to protest, then closed it and nodded. She’d insisted on getting together again over the weekend, to start “planning,” as she put it. The very idea sent chills down his spine. It did again, sitting in the pub with his friend.
“Dude. She has you wrapped. Or should I say, whipped?”
“Huh? Did you say wrapped, or trapped?”
“Which should I have said?”
“I–I don’t know. God, I’m a mess.”
Concern spread over Frankie’s face. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Dude, what’s wrong? You don’t seem real happy about this. From the way you’ve described her, I’d have thought you’d be ecstatic.”
Peter sighed and shook his head. “I should be. But...” He looked all around them and leaned forward also. In a low voice, he said, “She knows.”
“What do you mean, she knows?” Frankie’s voice stayed low and even, but filled with trepidation.
“Remember I told you about that guy I beat up last fall? After the car crash?”
“Marcia’s dude? Yeah. Except it turned out not to be her dude, right? So, who the hell was it?” Shock replaced concern on Frankie’s face. “Dude. She knew him?”
“No, no. But...she knows about it, somehow. And she’s holding it over me, like a, you know. A threat, or something.”
Frankie sat back, puzzled, and poured some of Peter’s beer into his empty glass. “I don’t get it. How could she do that? I mean, who cares? You got into a fight, right? So what? What’s he gonna do, sue you or something? Dude, what is the matter?”
Peter gripped his beer glass with both hands and took quick, shallow breaths. He glanced up at Frankie, then back to the table. He shook his head.
“Dude? If that’s not what—wait. Peter. What happened to the guy?”
Peter stared into his beer, unmoving.
“Did he...go into the hospital?”
Peter shook his head.
“Did he come looking for you or something?”
Again, a shake of the head.
Frankie stared at him, the dawn of recognition sweeping over his face. “Can he come looking for you?”
A third, very slow, shake of Peter’s head sank Frankie back in his chair. The lump in Peter’s throat doubled in size.
“Peter.” Frankie’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Did the guy survive?”
A fourth, and final, glacial shake of Peter’s head. His vision blurred. The lump in his throat expanded to the size of a basketball.
“Oh. My. God.” Frankie collapsed forward onto the table, all air rushing out of him. “How in the hell...why in the hell did I not know about this, all this time?”
Peter fought to remain in control, taking deep, slow breaths. He failed. Moisture leaked from each eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “It just...I didn’t know for a long time, and then you got in your car crash, and...I didn’t want to bug you with it.”
“Bug me? Jesus, Peter. Of all things. God.” Frankie sat up and rubbed his face with his palms. “How did she find out? Christine, I mean?”
Peter gestured palm-up with one hand. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
He sighed and bit his lip. “The jury I was on? The victim? That was my guy. My freaking guy.”
“Holy shit.” Frankie’s mouth hung open. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Yeah.”
“And she, like, figured it out?”
Peter nodded.
“Holy mother of tacos. That is some screwed up shit, boy-o.”
Peter’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
“And so...you said she’s threatening you with it. How? What’s she gonna do?”
“She wants me to...” He swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to budge. “To do it again.”
“What?”
“To her ex. Or else she’ll turn me in.” Peter sucked down every last drop of beer in his glass.
“That’s insane! You’d be better off knocking her off.” Frankie laughed. “Hey, maybe that’s not the worst idea.”
“No way. That’s...that’s just as crazy.” Peter’s face felt warm. For a brief moment, he could envision being free of her, stopping her threats, wrapping his hands around her throat...He shook himself, trying to rid his mind of the horror he’d imagined.
Frankie squinted at him. “Dude, I was only kidding. So, anyway, how’d she react?”
“To what?”
“To you telling her no.” Frankie waited. “Dude. You did tell her no...?”
Peter bowed his head, unable to look at his friend.
“You’re not seriously considering it?” Frankie’s voice reached a screeching pitch, far too loud. Peter shushed him.
“Of course not. But I had to play along. What the hell else am I gonna do?”
“You’re gonna get the hell away from her, that’s what!” Frankie stood and gripped both Peter’s shoulders. “Dude. Get. The. Hell. Out. Now!”
“I can’t. I’ll go to prison.”
“So what? Instead you’re gonna kill a guy?” His voice got even louder and screechier, but he ignored Peter’s attempts to shush him. He rose to his feet and leaned over the table, breathing in Peter’s face. “Dude. Listen to me. Get away from this bitch before she gets you killed!”
Peter covered Frankie’s mouth with a firm hand. “Shut up, you idiot! You’re making a scene!”
Frankie smacked Peter’s hand away, pulled cash from his wallet, and slapped it on the table. “Fine, then. You want to screw up your life and be a stubborn idiot, you can do it without me.” He spun on his heel and stomped out the door.
Peter slunk into his seat. Frankie was right, of course. Part of him wanted to break it off with Christine, sooner rather than later. But another part of him knew he could not. Not, anyway, until he came up with a way to escape her trap.
And on that front, he had nothing.
Chapter Eight
PETER PULLED INTO SUNSET Hospice’s parking lot at ten minutes before eleven on Sunday morning, giving him plenty of time to make it to his mother’s room before she returned from her knitting group, an all-female club of seniors that the members referred to as the “Stitch and Bitch” club. Thelma rarely made any progress on her knitting since her last stroke―she’d been working on the same scarf since April―but being around the other elderly women at Sunset stimulated her mind, a must for any patient battling senility. As such, Peter always took care to arrive after the session ended.
He arrived at her room two minutes early, and, to his surprise, found her door open. A short, brown-haired woman in nurse’s scrubs bustled around the room with her back to him. He cleared his throat and knocked on the open door. The nurse turned toward him, providing his second surprise of the morning.
“Angela Wegman? What are you doing here?”
The nurse, a buxom woman of about thirty, smiled in recognition. “Peter Robertson! How nice to see you!” She extended her arms and closed the gap between them, enveloping him in a warm hug. He stiffened, then forced himself to relax a bit, and patted her shoulders.
“H-have you left OHSU?” he asked. Angela had been the nurse on duty at Oregon Health Sciences University hospital the night of his mother’s first stroke. He’d never seen her at Sunset before.
The embrace continued another uncomfortable moment. Every microsecond reminded him of his secret, murderous connection to her friend, Alvin Dark. Just when he thought she would let go, she enveloped him in an even tighter, vice-like grip. His chest constricted. Breathing became impossible. Her arms surrounded him, engulfed him like his own guilt, like Christine’s threats to expose him, like the trap in which she’d ensnared him—
