When it was over, James stroked her damp back. "Do you remember," she whispered, "the night we made him?"
He nodded into Gus's hair. "I knew it then," she murmured. "I could feel it was different from other times. Like you'd given yourself to me, to hold."
James tightened his arms. "I had," he said. He felt Gus's shoulders quiver, and the slick of her tears against his chest. "I know," he soothed. "I know."
AS THE JURY FILED INTO THE COURTROOM, Chris realized he could not swallow. His Adam's apple had lodged in his throat, and he could feel himself wheezing and his eyes watering. Not a single member of the jury looked his way, and he tried to remember what other inmates at the jail had said about that, from their own experiences--was it a good thing, or not?
Judge Puckett turned to one of the jurors, an elderly man wearing a stained broadcloth button-down. "Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honor."
"And is this verdict unanimous?"
"It is." At the judge's nod, the clerk of the court approached the jury box and took a folded piece of paper from the foreman. He walked slowly--snail's pace, Chris thought--back to the judge and handed it to him. The judge nodded, and then sent the note back to the foreman.
Leslie Puckett glanced up, face blank. "Will the defendant please rise?"
Chris felt Jordan come to his feet beside him. He had every intention of standing up, too, but his legs wouldn't work. They lay puddled beneath the bench, his feet block-heavy and immobile. Jordan looked down and raised his eyebrows. Get up.
"I can't," Chris whispered, and felt his attorney grab him beneath the armpit and haul him upright.
His heart was pounding wildly, and his hands felt so leaden he could not even clasp them, no matter how hard he tried. It was as if all of a sudden this body did not belong to him anymore.
He could sense everything in that instant: the smell of soap that had been used to clean the woodwork in the courtroom the night before; the drop of sweat that streaked between his shoulderblades; the tap of the court reporter's shoe on the edge of her work station. "In the matter of The State of New Hampshire versus Christopher Harte, on the count of murder in the first degree, how do you find?"
The foreman looked at the slip of paper he held. "Not guilty," he read.
Chris felt Jordan turn to him, a wide, astonished smile splitting his face. He heard his mother's soft cry a few feet behind him. He listened to the roar of the courtroom, exploding in the wake of the unexpected. And for the third time in his life, Christopher Harte fainted.
EPILOGUE
Everywhere Chris went, he opened windows. He drove with them rolled down, even though the air conditioning was on. He opened them in every room of the house. Even at night, when it grew cool, he piled blankets on his bed, preferring those to a small square of air that did not circulate.
But sometimes, even with all the fresh breezes, a scent would carry on the wind. He'd wake up suddenly from his sleep, fighting to get away from it, suffocating. And his parents would find him the next morning sleeping on the couch, or on the living room floor, or once even at the foot of their own bed.
What's the matter? they would ask. What happened?
But there was no way to explain it to someone who had not been there; for absolutely no reason, he had suddenly smelled prison.
IT CAME ONE SATURDAY IN JUNE, a long white truck with the world on its side, backing into the Golds' driveway and spitting out six men who would carry away their belongings. Gus and James watched from the porch as boxes were hauled and mattresses settled, as lamps were noosed with their own cords and bicycles ridden into the belly of the truck. They did not say a thing to each other, but they both found outdoor tasks to occupy themselves, so that for the entire day they were able to bear witness.
NEIGHBORHOOD GOSSIP SAID THAT the Golds were moving across town--not a long-distance move, but certainly a necessary one. The house had been put on the market and a new one purchased before it even sold.
People said that Michael had wanted to go far, Colorado, maybe, or even California. But Melanie had refused to leave her daughter behind, and where did that leave them?
The new house had an office, again, for Michael's veterinary practice, and was by all accounts a lovely, secluded place. It was a rumor, of course, but someone had heard that it had three bedrooms. One for Michael Gold, one for his wife, and one for Emily.
BEFORE GUS COULD STOP HERSELF, she walked to the end of the driveway. She watched the long van slip over the crest of the road, followed by Melanie's Taurus. And then, some way behind, came Michael's truck.
The windows were open in the truck; it was too old for the air conditioning to work with any regularity. Michael slowed as he came to the Hartes' driveway. She saw that he was going to stop. She saw that he wanted to talk to her. To take her apology, to offer absolution, to simply say good-bye.
The truck rolled to a near stop, and Michael turned, his sober gaze meeting Gus's. There was a flash of pain; the weight of possibility; and on its heels, the flat, square stare of understanding.
Without saying a word, he drove away.
CHRIS WAS IN HIS ROOM when the moving van began to pull out of the Golds' driveway. Long and white, it groaned its way through the trees that lined the gravel strip, narrowly missing the mailbox.
Melanie Gold's Ford, and finally Michael's truck. A caravan, Chris thought. Like the gypsies--off to find something easier, or better.
And then the house was empty, a yellow clapboard monolith. The windows, bare of curtains, seemed like vague and distant eyes, willing to stare but unable to remember. Chris leaned out the sill of his open window, listening to the buzz of cicadas, the settling heat of summer, and the quiet crunch of the moving van making its way down Wood Hollow Road.
Curious, he craned his neck out the window, trying to see the edge of the sill that curved around the top. It was still there, the pulley that had been one end of the tin-can message system he'd had with Emily when he was a kid. There was another one, he knew, on the top edge of Emily's old window.
Chris stretched up his hand, twanging the fishing line that was moldy, but still intact. It had long ago caught in one of the pine trees between the properties, tangling up the can and whatever message had been inside it, and they'd never managed to get it loose.
Chris had tried, but back then he'd been too little.
He twisted himself so that he was sitting on the still, his hands stretching up along the shingles outside the house. He was able to snag the string with his fingers, and he felt a disproportionate amount of accomplishment, as if getting it on the first try meant something. As the rotted string gave way, Chris watched the rusty can fall from its threaded perch between the houses.
With his heart pounding, Chris ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He headed toward the spot where he'd seen the can go down, his eyes tracking back and forth until he saw a winking of silver.
The trees grew tall and narrow here, shading away the sun. Chris fell to his knees beside a high pine and jammed a finger into the can, drawing forth a piece of paper. He could not remember what this final message had been about; could not even remember whether he had been sending it to Emily or Emily had been sending it to him. His stomach knotted as the paper slid free of the tin.
Carefully, feeling the fragile folds give, he opened it.
The paper was blank.
Whether it had always been that way, or if years had erased whatever was written, he did not know. Chris tucked the note in the pocket of his shorts and turned away from Emily's house, thinking that maybe it really didn't matter one way or the other.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every time I spoke to someone during the research for this book, it changed a little, until it was something entirely different from what I expected and far, far better. So for their individual expertise and fictional input, I'd like to thank the following: Dr. Robert Racusin, Dr. Tia Horner, Dr. James Umlas; Paula Spaulding, Candace
Workman, State Trooper Bill McGee, Alexis Aldahondo, Kirsty DePree, Julie Knowles, Cyrena Koury and friends; Superintendant Sidney Bird of the Grafton County Correctional Facility; Detective-Sergeant Frank Moran, Patrol Sergeant Mike Evans, and Chief Nick Giaccone of the Hanover, New Hampshire, Police Department. Thanks, once again, to my first critics: Jane Picoult and Laura Gross; and to Beccy Goodhart, who, with her cohorts at Morrow, is giving me back my faith in the publishing industry. And finally, a toast to my Dream Team for working late, under pressure, and pro bono: attorneys Andrea Greene, Allegra Lubrano, Chris Keating, and Kiki Keating.
PRAISE
Phenomenal acclaim for
JODI PICOULT
and
THE PACT
"A master--almost a clairvoyant--at targeting hot issues and writing highly readable page-turners about them ... It is impossible not to be held spellbound by the way she forces us to think, hard, about right and wrong."
Washington Post Book World
"As timely and disturbing as tonight's evening news ... Heart-wrenching ... Jodi Picoult captures, as did Judith Guest in Ordinary People, the ripple effect that occurs after the sudden, violent death of a promising youngster."
Orlando Sentinel
"Engrossing ... Picoult has a remarkable ability to make us share her characters' feelings of confusion and horror ... The Pact is compelling reading."
People
"The author reveals the weaknesses inherent in all of us, especially in times of extreme stress ... This beautiful novel reveals the fragility of life, the vulnerability we all face, and the transforming power of love and forgiveness."
Tampa Tribune
"THIS BOOK IS A PAGE-TURNER."
Denver Rocky Mountain News
"Picoult is a writer of high energy and conviction who has, in her fifth novel, brought to life a cast of subtly drawn characters caught up in a tragedy as timeless and resonant as those of the Greeks or Shakespeare. That is not to say that Picoult is anything but accessible; in fact, this psychologically shrewd tale is as suspenseful as any bestselling legal thriller ... She forges a finely honed, commanding, and cathartic drama."
Booklist
"Picoult excels in depicting family feelings. In The Pact, the hothouse world of adolescence comes to life, with all its trapped hopelessness ... A beautiful book ... A love story? A courtroom drama? A novel of psychological insight? The Pact is all these."
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
"One of the most deeply moving and skillfully crafted novels I have read in several years."
New Hampshire Sunday News
"An affecting study of obsession, loss, and some of the more wrenching varieties of guilt ... Powerful ... A moving story, mingling elements of mystery with sensitive exploration of a tragic subject."
Kirkus Reviews
"[AN] AFFECTING STORY ABOUT YOUNG LOVE."
Chattanooga Times Free Press
"Captivating ... Her access to the emotions of all the grieving parties approaches the omniscient ... She's concerned with love and truth, the blurry boundary lines implied by both. She forces the reader to look, however uncomfortable the experience might be, at complacent people who discover, much too late, the sad disparity between what they thought they knew and what they know now. Scenes from Chris's trial are particularly compelling, more personal and emotionally resonant than anything from John Grisham."
Raleigh News and Observer
"The Pact is a highly original work of fiction dealing with one of the most traumatic tragedies confronting parents and educators today ... This is a gripping, heart-wrenching story masterfully woven."
Portland Press Herald (ME) "Provocative ... She sensitively explores the question of how well parents can ever know their children ... Impressive authenticity and suspense, with even the minor characters evoked with Picoult's keen eye for telling detail. The courtroom scenes ... are taut and well paced."
Publishers Weekly
"[An] ingenious author ... Ms. Picoult has carved her own niche."
Dallas Morning News
ALSO BY JODI PICOULT
The Tenth Circle
Vanishing Acts
My Sister's Keeper
Second Glance
Perfect Match
Salem Falls
Plain Truth
Keeping Faith
The Pact
Mercy
Picture Perfect
Harvesting the Heart
Songs of the Humpback Whale
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE PACT. Copyright (c) 1998 by Jodi Picoult. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition (c) OCTOBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061980244
Version 01312014
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Jodi Picoult, The Pact
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