A minute later, with the pencil broken in half, he turned toward the door and tossed the remains in the garbage.
"Madge?" he bellowed.
She appeared in the doorway.
"Get me Harris. Now."
She didn't have to be asked twice. A minute later, Harris was standing in front of the desk.
"I need you to go out to the Timson place. Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on whoever goes in and out of there. If anything looks out of the ordinary--and I mean anything--I want you to call. Not just me--I want you to put it out on the radio. I don't want any trouble out there tonight. None at all, you got me?"
Harris swallowed and nodded. He didn't need to ask whom he was watching for.
After he left, Charlie reached for the phone to call Brenda. He knew then that he, too, was going to be out late.
Nor could he escape the feeling that the whole thing was on the verge of spinning out of control.
Chapter 28
After a year, my nocturnal visits to their home ceased as suddenly as they'd started. So did my visits to the school to see Jonah, and the site of the accident. The only place I continued to visit with regularity after that was Missy's grave, and it became part of my weekly schedule, mentally penciled into its Thursday slot. I never missed a day. Rain or shine, I went to the cemetery and traced the path to her grave. I never looked to see if anyone was watching anymore. And always, I brought flowers.
The end of the other visits came as a surprise. Though you might think that the year would have diminished the intensity of my obsession, that wasn't the case at all. But just as I'd been compelled to watch them for a year, the compulsion suddenly reversed itself and I knew I had to let them live in peace, without me spying on them.
The day it happened was a day I'll never forget.
It was the first anniversary of Missy's death. By then, after a year of creeping through the darkness, I was almost invisible as I moved. I knew every twist and turn I had to make, and the time it took to reach their home had dropped by half. I'd become a professional voyeur: In addition to peering through their windows, I had been bringing binoculars with me for months. There were times, you see, when others were around, either on the roads or in their yards, and I hadn't been able to get close to the windows. Other times, Miles closed the living room drapes, but because the itch was not satisfied by failure, I had to do something. The binoculars solved my problem. Off to the side of their property, close to the river, there is an ancient, giant oak. The branches are low and thick, some run parallel to the ground, and that was where I sometimes made my camp. I found that if I perched high enough, I could see right through the kitchen window, my view unobstructed. I watched for hours, until Jonah went to bed, and afterward, I watched Miles as he sat in the kitchen.
Over the year, he, like me, had changed.
Though he still studied the file, he did not do it as regularly as he once had. As the months from the accident had increased, his compulsion to find me decreased. It wasn't that he cared any less, it had more to do with the reality of what he faced. By then, I knew the case was at a standstill; Miles, I suspected, realized this as well. On the anniversary, after Jonah had gone to bed, he did bring out the file. He didn't, however, brood over it as he had before. Instead he flipped through the pages, this time without a pencil or pen, and he made no marks at all, almost as if he were turning the pages of a photo album, reliving memories. In time, he pushed it aside, then vanished into the living room.
When I realized he wasn't coming back, I left the tree and crept around to the porch.
There, even though he'd drawn the shades, I saw that the window had been left open to catch the evening breeze. From my vantage point, I could glimpse slivers of the room inside, enough to see Miles sitting on the couch. A cardboard box sat beside him, and from the angle he faced, I knew he was watching television. Pressing my ear close to the window's opening, I listened, but nothing I heard seemed to make much sense. There were long periods where nothing seemed to be said; other sounds seemed distorted, the voices jumbled. When I looked toward Miles again, trying to see what he was watching, I saw his face and I knew. It was there, in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the way he was sitting.
He was watching home videos.
With that, recognition settled in, and when I closed my eyes, I began to recognize who was speaking on the tape. I heard Miles, his voice rising and falling, I heard the high-pitched squeal of a child. In the background, faint but noticeable, I heard another voice. Her voice.
Missy's.
It was startling, foreign, and for a moment I felt as if I couldn't breathe. In all this time, after a year of watching Miles and Jonah, I thought I had come to know them, but the sound I heard that night changed all that. I didn't know Miles, I didn't know Jonah. There is observation and study, and there is knowledge, and though I had one, I didn't have the other and never would.
I listened, transfixed.
Her voice trailed away. A moment later, I heard her laugh.
The sound made me jump inside, and my eyes were immediately drawn to Miles. I wanted to see his reaction, though I knew what it would be. He would be staring, lost in his memories, angry tears in his eyes.
But I was wrong.
He wasn't crying. Instead, with a tender look, he was smiling at the screen.
And with that, I suddenly knew it was time to stop.
After that visit, I honestly believed that I'd never return to their house to spy on them. In the following year, I tried to get on with my life, and on the surface, I succeeded. People around me remarked that I looked better, that I seemed like my old self.
Part of me believed that was so. With the compulsion gone, I thought I had put the nightmare behind me. Not what I had done, not the fact that I had killed Missy, but the obsessive guilt I had lived with for a year.
What I didn't realize then was that the guilt and anguish never really left me. Instead they had simply gone dormant, like a bear hibernating in the winter, feeding on its own tissue, waiting for the season yet to come.
Chapter 29
On Sunday morning, a little after eight, Sarah heard someone knocking at her front door. After hesitating, she finally got up to answer it. As she walked toward the door, part of her hoped it was Miles.
Another part hoped that it wasn't.
Even as she reached for the handle, she wasn't sure what she was going to say. A lot depended on Miles. Did he know that she'd called Charlie? And if so, was he angry? Hurt? Would he understand she'd done it because she'd felt she didn't have a choice?
When she opened the door, however, she smiled in relief.
"Hey, Brian," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"Sure ... come in."
He followed her inside and sat on the couch. Sarah sat next to him.
"So what's up?" she asked.
"You ended up calling Miles's boss, didn't you?"
Sarah ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah. Like you said, I didn't have a choice."
"Because you think he'll go after the guy he arrested," Brian stated.
"I don't know what he'll do, but I'm scared enough to try to head it off."
He nodded slightly. "Does he know that you called?"
"Miles? I don't know."
"Have you talked to him?"
"No. Not since he left yesterday. I tried calling him a couple of times, but he wasn't home. I kept getting the answering machine."
He brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezed.
"I have to know something," he said. In the quiet of the room, his voice seemed strangely amplified.
"What?" she asked, puzzled.
"I need to know if you really think that Miles would go too far."
Sarah leaned forward. She tried to get him to meet her eyes, but he looked away.
"I'm not a mind reader. But yeah, I'm worried, I guess."
"I think you should tell Miles to ju
st let it go."
"Let what go?"
"The guy he arrested...he should just let him go."
Sarah stared at him in bafflement. He finally turned to her, his eyes pleading.
"You've got to get him to understand that, okay? Talk to him, okay?"
"I've tried to do that. I told you."
"You've got to try harder."
Sarah sat back and frowned. "What's going on?"
"I'm just asking what you think Miles will do."
"But why? Why's this so important to you?"
"What would happen to Jonah?"
She blinked. "Jonah?"
"Miles would think about him, wouldn't he? Before he did anything?"
Sarah shook her head slowly.
"I mean, you don't think he would risk going to jail, do you?"
She reached for his hands and took them forcefully. "Now wait, okay? Stop with the questions for a minute. What's going on?"
This was, I remember, my moment of truth, the reason I had come to her house. It was finally time to confess what I had done.
Why, then, did I not just come out and say it? Why had I asked so many questions? Was I looking for a way out, another reason to keep it buried? The part of me that had lied for two years may have wanted that, but I honestly think the better part of me wanted to protect my sister.
I had to make sure I didn't have a choice.
I knew my words would hurt her. My sister was in love with Miles. I had seen them at Thanksgiving, I had seen the way they looked at each other, the comfortable way they related when they were close, the tender kiss she'd given him before he left. She loved Miles, and Miles loved her--she'd told me as much. And Jonah loved them both.
The night before, I finally realized that I could keep the secret no longer. If Sarah really thought Miles might take matters into his own hands, I knew that by keeping silent, I was running the risk that more lives would be ruined. Missy had died because of me; I couldn't live with another needless tragedy.
But to save myself, to save an innocent man, to save Miles Ryan from himself, I also knew I would have to sacrifice my sister.
She, who had been through so much already, would have to look Miles in the eye, knowing that her own brother had killed his wife-- and face the risk of losing him as a result. For how could he ever look at her the same way?
Was it fair to sacrifice her? She was an innocent bystander; with my words, she would be irrevocably trapped between her love for Miles Ryan and her love for me. But as much as I didn't want to, I knew I had no choice.
"I know," I finally said hoarsely, "who was driving the car that night."
She stared back, almost as if she didn't understand my words.
"You do?" she asked.
I nodded.
It was then, in the long silence that preceded her question, that she began to understand the reason I had come. She knew what I was trying to tell her. She slumped forward, like a balloon being slowly deflated. I, for my part, never looked away.
"It was me, Sarah," I whispered. "I was the one."
Chapter 30
At his words, Sarah reared back, as if seeing her brother for the first time.
"I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm so, so sorry...."
After trailing off, unable to continue, Brian started to cry.
Not the quiet, repressed sounds of sadness, but the anguished cries of a child. His shoulders shook violently, as if in spasm. Until that moment, Brian had never cried for what he had done, and now that he had started, he wasn't sure that he would ever stop.
In the midst of his grief, Sarah put her arms around him, and her touch made his crime seem even worse than the terrible thing it was, for he knew then that his sister still loved him in spite of it. She said nothing at all as he cried, but her hand began gently moving up and down his back. Brian leaned into her, holding her tightly, somehow believing that if he let go, everything would change between them.
But even then, he knew it had.
He wasn't sure how long he cried, but when he finally stopped, he began to tell his sister how it happened.
He did not lie.
He did not, however, tell her about the visits.
During his entire confession, Brian never met her eyes. He didn't want to see her pity or her horror; he didn't want to see the way she really saw him.
But at the end of his story, he finally steeled himself to meet her gaze.
He saw neither love nor forgiveness on her face.
What he saw was fear.
Brian stayed with Sarah most of the morning. She had many questions; in the process of answering them, Brian told her everything once more. Some questions, though--like why he hadn't gone to the police--had no meaningful answer, except for the obvious: that he was in shock, he was frightened, that too much time eventually passed.
Like Brian, Sarah justified his decision, and like Brian, she questioned it. They went back and forth, time and time again, but in the end, when she finally grew silent, Brian knew it was time for him to leave.
On his way out the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.
On the couch, hunched over like someone twice her age, his sister was quietly crying, her face buried in her hands.
Chapter 31
That same morning, while Sarah sat crying on the couch, Charlie Curtis strode up Miles Ryan's walkway. He was dressed in his uniform; it was the first Sunday in years that he and Brenda wouldn't make it to church, but as he'd explained to her earlier, he didn't feel he had a choice. Not after the two phone calls he'd received the day before.
Not after staying up for most of the night and watching Miles's house because of them.
He knocked; Miles came to the door wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball hat. If he was surprised to see Charlie standing on his porch, he gave no indication.
"We need to talk," Charlie said without preamble.
Miles put his hands on his hips, not hiding the anger he still felt at what Charlie had done.
"So talk."
Charlie pushed the brim of his hat up. "Do you want to do this on the porch where Jonah can hear, or do you want to talk in the yard? Your choice. It doesn't matter to me."
A minute later, Charlie was leaning against the car, his arms crossed. Miles stood facing him. The sun was still low in the sky, and Miles had to squint to see him.
"I need to know if you went looking for Sims Addison," Charlie said, getting right to the point.
"Are you asking or do you already know?"
"I'm asking because I want to know if you're willing to lie directly to my face."
After a moment, Miles glanced away. "Yeah. I went looking for him."
"Why?"
"Because you said you couldn't find him."
"You're on suspension, Miles. Do you know what that means?"
"It wasn't anything official, Charlie."
"It doesn't matter. I gave you a direct order and you disregarded it. You're just lucky that Harvey Wellman didn't find out. But I can't keep covering for you, and I'm too old and too tired to put up with crap like that." He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, trying to keep warm. "I need the file, Miles."
"My file?"
"I want it admitted as evidence."
"Evidence? For what?"
"It concerns the death of Missy Ryan, doesn't it? I want to see those notes you've been scribbling."
"Charlie..."
"I'm serious. Either you hand it over or I'll take it. It's one or the other, but in the end, I'm going to have it."
"Why are you doing this?"
"I'm hoping it'll knock some sense into you. You obviously didn't listen to a thing I said yesterday, so let me say it again. Stay out of this. Let us handle it."
"Fine."
"I need your word that you're going to stop looking for Sims and that you'll stay away from Otis Timson."
"It's a small town, Charlie. I can't help it if we happen to bump into each other."
Ch
arlie's eyes narrowed. "I'm tired of playing games, Miles, so let me make something clear. If you so much as get within a hundred yards of Otis, or his house or even the places he spends his time, I'll throw you in jail."
Miles looked at Charlie incredulously. "For what?"
"For battery."
"Battery?"
"That little stunt you pulled in the car." He shook his head. "You don't seem to realize you're in a heap of trouble here. Either you keep your distance, or you'll end up behind bars."
"This is crazy...."
"You brought it on yourself. Right now, you're so worked up that I don't know what else to do. Do you know where I was last night?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I was parked right down the street, making sure you didn't leave. Do you know how it makes me feel to think I can't trust you after all we've been through? It's a crappy feeling, and I don't want to have to do that again. So if you don't mind--and I can't make you do this--along with the file, I'd appreciate it if you'd just let me hold on to your other guns for a while, the ones you keep in the house. You can have 'em back when all this is over. If you say no, I'm gonna have to put you under surveillance, and believe me, I will. You won't be able to buy a cup of coffee without someone watching every move you make. And you should also know that I've got deputies out at the Timson place and they're watching for you, too."
Miles stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. "He was driving the car, Charlie."
"Do you really think that? Or do you just want an answer--any answer?"
Miles's head snapped up. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? I'm the one who talked to Earl, not you. I'm the one who reviewed every step of the highway patrol's investigation. I'm telling you, there's no physical evidence linking Otis to the crime."
"I'll find the evidence--"
"No, you won't!" Charlie shot back. "That's just the thing! You won't find anything because you're out of this!"
Miles said nothing, and after a long moment, Charlie put his hand on Miles's shoulder.
"Look, we're still looking into this--you've got my word on that." He let out a long sigh. "I don't know... maybe we'll find something. And if we do, I'll be the first one to come and tell you that I was wrong and that Otis will get what's coming to him. Okay?"
Miles's jaw clenched involuntarily as Charlie waited for a response. Finally, sensing that none was coming, Charlie went on.