The Pact

  As in most grand jury hearings, the defendant was not only absent, but blissfully unaware that a court was convening in his name.

  At 3:46 P.M., S. Barrett Delaney was handed a sealed envelope, inside which was a paper indicting Christopher Harte on the count of murder in the first degree.

  "HELLO. CAN I SPEAK to Emily?"

  Melanie stilled. "Who is this?"

  There was a hesitation. "A friend."

  "She's not here." Melanie clawed at the receiver, swallowing convulsively. "She's dead."

  "Oh." The voice on the other end seemed stupefied. "Oh."

  "Who is this?" Melanie repeated.

  "Donna. Over at The Gold Rush. The jewelry store on the corner of Main and Carter?" The woman cleared her throat. "Emily bought something from us. We have it ready."

  Melanie grabbed her car keys. "I'm on my way," she said.

  The drive took less than ten minutes. Melanie parked in a spot directly in front of the jewelry store and went inside. Diamonds winked at her from within their cases; parabolic ropes of gold rested on blue velvet. A woman, her back to Melanie, was fiddling at the cash register.

  She turned around with a brilliant smile, which withered and died as she took in Melanie's wild hair, her lack of a winter coat. "I'm Emily's mother," Melanie said.

  "Of course." Donna stared at Melanie for a full five seconds before her body shocked itself into response. "I'm so sorry," she said. She went to the cash register and retrieved a long, narrow box. "Your daughter ordered this some time ago. It was engraved, too," she said, lifting the lid to reveal a man's watch. To Chris, Melanie read. Forever. Love, Em. She laid the watch back on its satin cushion and picked up the sales receipt. Boldly printed at the bottom was a note to the store personnel: "Gift is a secret. When calling, just ask to speak to Emily. Leave no information." Which explained the cloak and dagger routine, she thought. But why keep it a secret?

  Then Melanie saw the price. "Five hundred dollars?" she exclaimed.

  "It's fourteen-karat gold," the woman hastened to point out.

  "She was seventeen!" Melanie said. "Of course she wanted to keep this secret. If her father or I found out she'd spent that much money we would have forced her to take it back!"

  Clearly uncomfortable, Donna shifted. "The watch is paid for in full," she offered as a concession. "Perhaps you'd still like to give the gift to the person your daughter was thinking of."

  Then it struck Melanie. This would have been a birthday gift for Chris, something special to mark his turning eighteen. That, in Emily's mind, would justify spending a full summer's wages.

  Melanie picked up the box and carried it back to her car. She sat down and stared at the windshield, still seeing that incredibly ironic message. Forever.

  And she wondered why Emily would have ordered a watch for Chris's birthday, if--as he said--they were going to kill themselves before then.

  MELANIE HAD HER HAND on the doorknob when the telephone began to ring. She pushed inside, hurrying, some small part of her certain that this was Donna the jeweler calling to tell her this had all been a mistake; there was another Chris and another Emily and--

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Gold? It's Barrie Delaney of the attorney general's office. I spoke to you last week?"

  "Yes," Melanie said, dropping the watch on the counter. "I remember."

  "I thought you'd want to know," Barrie said, "that a grand jury indicted Christopher Harte today on the charge of first-degree murder."

  Melanie felt her knees give out. She slid to the floor, her legs awkwardly splayed. "I see," she said. "Is he--is there a hearing?"

  "Tomorrow," Barrie Delaney said. "At the Grafton County Courthouse."

  Melanie scribbled down the name on a pad she used as a grocery list. She heard the prosecutor talking, but she was incapable of understanding another word. Softly, she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  Her gaze fell on the jewelry box. Very carefully she lifted the watch from its satin bed and rubbed her thumb over the wide face. Chris's birthday was tonight. She knew the date as well as she knew Emily's.

  She pictured Gus and James and even Kate sitting at their wide cherry table, their conversations tangling in knots the size of fists. She pictured Chris standing up and bending over the cake, the flicker of candles softening his features. Under different circumstances, Melanie and Michael and Emily would have been invited, too.

  Melanie clutched the watch so tight its edges cut into her palm. She felt the rage grow inside, uncontainable. It pushed past her heart, broke through her skin, sprouting thick as an extra limb on which she gingerly, doggedly, tested her weight.

  EVERYTHING HAD TO be perfect.

  Gus stepped back from the table, then moved closer to fuss with a napkin again. The crystal goblets stood at attention, the spiral ham curled introspectively on its serving platter. The fancy china that hibernated in the hutch with the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas had been arrayed in full regalia, gravy boat and all. As Gus left the dining room to call everyone in, she tried to tell herself they were not celebrating another year of life for someone who'd wanted to prevent just that.

  "Okay," she yelled. "Dinner's ready!"

  James, Chris, and Kate came in from the family room, where they'd been watching the early news. Kate was gesturing with her hands, talking about a helium balloon the size of a Chevy that had been released with a message attached as part of a school science project. "It'll maybe get to China," she exuberantly proclaimed. "Australia."

  "It won't get around the block," Chris muttered.

  "It will too!" Kate shouted, then closed her mouth and looked into her lap. Chris glanced from his sister to his parents and slammed himself into his chair with more force than necessary.

  "Now," Gus said. "Isn't this nice?"

  "Look at that cake," James said. "Coconut frosting?"

  Gus nodded. "With strawberry filling."

  "Really?" Chris asked, seduced in spite of himself. "You made that for me?"

  Gus nodded. "It's not every day," she said, "that someone turns eighteen." She glanced at the ham and the carrots, the sweet potato pie. "In fact," she added, "in honor of the event I think we should start with the cake."

  Chris's eyes gleamed. "You're all right, Mom," he pronounced.

  Gus took the pack of matches from beside the cake platter and lit the nineteen candles--one for good luck. She had to strike three matches in all, the shafts burning down to her fingertips before she'd finished. "Happy Birthday to you," she sang, and when nobody joined in, she stood, hands on her hips, and scowled. "You want to eat," she said, "you've got to sing."

  At that, James and Kate joined in. Chris picked up his fork, ready even before Gus managed to cut him the first slice.

  "Does it feel different being eighteen?" Kate asked.

  "Oh, yeah," Chris joked. "Arthritis is setting in."

  "Very funny. I meant, do you feel, like, smarter? Mature?"

  Chris shrugged. "I could be drafted now," he said. "That's the only difference."

  Gus opened her mouth, about to say that, thank God, there weren't any current wars, but realized this was untrue. A war was what you made of it. Just because U.S. troops were not involved did not mean Chris was not fighting.

  "Well," James said, reaching for a second slice of cake. "I think Chris should turn eighteen every day."

  "Here, here," Gus said, and Chris ducked his head, smiling.

  The doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Gus said, tossing her napkin onto the table.

  It rang again just before she reached the door. She swung it open, the porch light falling on two uniformed police officers. "Good evening," the taller officer said. "Is Christopher Harte at home?"

  "Well, yes," Gus said, "but we've just sat down--"

  The officer held out a sheet of paper. "We have a warrant for his arrest."

  Gus gasped, the air knocked from her lungs. "James," she managed, and her husband appeared. He took the warrant from the poli
ceman's hand and scanned it. "On what grounds?" he asked tersely.

  "He's been charged with murder in the first degree, sir." The policeman pushed past Gus, toward the lighted dining room.

  "James," Gus said, "do something."

  James grasped her shoulders. "Call McAfee," he said. He rushed toward the dining room. "Chris!" he shouted. "Don't say anything. Don't say a word."

  Gus nodded, but did not turn to the phone. She followed James toward the commotion in the dining room. Kate was sitting at the table, crying. Chris had been pulled out of his chair. One officer was cuffing his hands behind him, the other was reading him his rights. His eyes were huge; his face chalk white. Coconut frosting trembled on his lower lip.

  The policemen each took one of Chris's elbows to escort him out of the house. He stumbled between them blindly, his brows drawn together in confusion, his eyes unable to light on any of the familiar furnishings of the house. At the threshhold of the dining room, where Gus stood, the officers hesitated, waiting for her to step aside. In that brief pause, Chris looked directly at her. "Mommy?" he whispered, and then he was yanked away.

  She tried to touch him, but they'd moved too quickly. Her hand, hovering in midair, clenched into a fist which she pressed against her mouth. She could hear James racing around the house, calling McAfee himself. She could hear Kate hiccupping in the other room. But over all this Gus could hear Chris, eighteen years old, and calling her by an endearment he had not used in a decade.

  PART II

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but

  The truth in masquerade.

  --LORD BYRON Don Juan

  There is no refuge from confession but suicide;

  and suicide is confession.

  --DANIEL WEBSTER

  NOW

  Late November 1997

  In the back of the police car, Chris shivered. They had the heat turned up full blast but he had to sit sideways so that his handcuffs didn't cut into his back and no matter what he did to get his bearings, he found himself shaking. "You all right back there?" the officer who wasn't driving asked, and Chris said yes, his voice cracking like a melon on that single syllable.

  He was not all right. He was not even marginally okay. He had never been so scared in his life.

  The car was redolent with the scent of coffee. The radio chattered in a dialect Chris did not understand, and for a moment that made perfect sense--if his whole world went to pieces, didn't it stand to reason that he'd no longer be able to speak the language? He bounced a little on the seat, concentrating on not peeing his pants. This was a mistake. His father and that lawyer would meet him wherever they were taking him, and Jordan McAfee would do a Perry Mason speech and everyone would realize they'd made a mistake. Tomorrow he would wake up and laugh this off.

  Suddenly the car lurched to the left and he saw light flash by the window. He'd completely lost track of time and direction, but he figured they were at the Bainbridge police station. "Let's go," the taller policeman said, opening one of the rear doors. Chris scooted to the edge of the seat, trying to keep his balance with his hands all houdinied behind his back. With one foot on an embankment, Chris levered himself from the cruiser and landed flat on his face.

  The policeman hauled him up by his handcuffs and unceremoniously dragged him toward the station. He was carted in a back door he'd never noticed. The officer locked his gun in a box and radioed on an intercom, then a connecting door buzzed open. Chris found himself at the booking desk, where a sleepy-eyed sergeant sat. He was allowed to sit while they asked him questions about his name and age and address that he answered as politely as possible, just in case he got brownie points for good behavior. Then the policeman who'd taken him in stood him against a wall and had him hold a card up, just like in TV movies, with a number on it and the date. He turned right and left while a camera flashed.

  On command, Chris emptied his pockets and held out his hands for fingerprinting--twenty-one separate prints; a set for the local police, the state police, and the FBI. Then the officer cleaned his hands with a diaper wipe, took his shoes, his coat, his belt, and called on the intercom to have cell three opened. "Sheriff's on his way," he told Chris.

  "The sheriff?" Chris asked, shuddering all over again. "How come?"

  "You can't stay here overnight," the policeman explained. "He'll transport you to the Grafton County jail."

  "Jail?" Chris whispered. He was going to jail? Just like that?

  He stopped walking, effectively halting the cop who was beside him. "I can't go anywhere," he said. "My lawyer's coming here."

  The policeman laughed. "Really," he said, and tugged him forward again.

  The holding cell was six feet by five feet, in the basement of the police station. Chris had actually seen it before, when he was in Cub Scouts and they'd taken a field trip to the Bainbridge public safety building. It had a stainless steel sink and toilet combination, and a bunk. Its door was made of actual bars, and there was a video camera trained on the inside. The policeman checked beneath the mattress--for bugs? weapons?--then unlocked the handcuffs and ducked Chris inside.

  "You hungry?" he asked. "Thirsty?"

  Shocked that the policeman would care about his creature comforts, Chris blinked up at him. He was not hungry, but sick to his stomach from everything else. He shook his head, trying to block out the sound of the cell clanking shut. He waited for the policeman to move down the hall, then stood up and urinated. He wanted to tell the policeman who had booked him, and the one who'd led him to this cell, that he had not murdered Emily Gold. But his father had told him to keep quiet, and the warning cut through even the thick swath of fear that blanketed Chris.

  He thought about the birthday cake his mother had made; the candles burning down to the frosting, the untouched half that was still on his plate, with its strawberry filling as bright as a line of blood.

  He ran his fingers along the pitted cinderblock, and he waited.

  TO JORDAN MCAFEE, there was nothing better than sliding one's way down the terrain of a woman.

  He rustled beneath the covers of his own bed, his lips and his hands measuring their way, as if he were going to map this information. "Oh, yes," she murmured, fisting her hands in his thick, black hair. "Oh, God."

  Her voice was getting loud. Uncomfortably loud. He smoothed his hand over her belly. "Quiet," he murmured against her thigh. "Remember?"

  "How," she said, " ... could I ... ever ... forget!"

  She grabbed his head and held it against her at the same moment he reared back to clap a hand over her mouth. Thinking it was a game, she bit him.

  "Shit," he said, rolling off her. He slanted a glance at the woman, lush and cross. Jordan shook his head, not even aroused anymore. He was usually better at judging these things. He rubbed his sore palm, thinking that he'd never go out with a friend of his paralegal's again, and that if he did, he sure as hell wouldn't drink enough at dinner to invite her home. "Look," he said, trying to smile amiably. "I told you why--"

  The woman--Sandra, that was it--rolled on top of him, fusing her mouth to his. She pulled back and traced her lower lip with her finger. "I like a guy who tastes like me," she said.

  Jordan felt his erection swell again. Maybe he wouldn't end the evening just yet.

  The telephone rang, and Sandra batted it off the nightstand. As Jordan cursed and went to grab for the receiver, she wrapped her hand around his wrist. "Leave it," she whispered.

  "I can't," Jordan said, rolling away from her to fumble along the floor. "McAfee," he said into the phone. He listened quietly, coming alert instantly, his body performing by rote to pull a pen and pad from the nightstand and write down what the caller had said. "Don't worry," he said calmly. "We'll take care of this. Yes. I'll meet you there."

  He hung up the phone and came to his feet with leonine grace, smoothly stepping into the trousers that had been discarded near the bathroom door. "I'm sorry to do this," Jordan said, zipping the fl
y, "but I've got to go."

  Sandra's mouth dropped open. "Just like that?"

  Jordan shrugged. "It's a job, but someone's got to do it," he said.

  He glanced at the reclining woman in his bed. "You, uh, don't have to wait for me," he added.

  "What if I want to?" Sandra asked.

  Jordan turned his back on her. "It could be a long time," he said. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, offering her a last look. "I'll call you," he said.

  "You won't," Sandra cheerfully disagreed. Swinging her naked body off the bed, she disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door.

  Jordan shook his head and walked quietly into the kitchen. He fumbled around, looking for something to write on. Suddenly, the room flooded with light, and Jordan found himself staring at his thirteen-year-old son. "What are you doing up?"

  Thomas shrugged. "Listening to things I shouldn't be," he said.

  Jordan scowled at him. "You ought to be fast asleep. It's a school night."

  "It's only eight-thirty," Thomas protested. Jordan's brows shot up. Was it really? How much had he had to drink at dinner? "So," Thomas said, grinning. "Did you come up for air?"

  Jordan smirked. "I liked it better when you were little."

  "Back then I used to pee on the bathroom wall if I wasn't careful. I think this age is a hell of a lot better."

  Jordan wasn't so sure. He'd been raising his son alone since Thomas was four, when Deborah had decided that motherhood and marriage to a career-driven lawyer did not suit her. She had walked into his office with their son, divorce papers, and a one-way ticket to Naples. The last Jordan had heard, she was living with a painter twice her age on the Left Bank in Paris.

  Thomas watched his father swill straight from the carafe of day-old, cold coffee. "That's gross," he said. "Although maybe not quite as gross as bringing home a--"

  "Enough," Jordan said. "I shouldn't have. Okay? You're right, and I'm wrong."

  Thomas smiled radiantly. "Yeah? Can we get this historic moment on video?"

  Jordan set the carafe back in the Mr. Coffee machine and tightened the noose of his tie. "That was a client on the phone. I've got to go." He whirled into his jacket, still draped over a chair, and turned back to his son. "Don't call the beeper number if you need me. Apparently it's on the blitz. Ring the office; I'll check my voice mail."