Killer's Cousin

  “I thought you gave up smoking,” I said finally.

  He stubbed the cigarette out. “Sorry. I just … well, I bought a pack at the airport.” He looked at me. He said, “Can you tell me what’s going on, David? Why Vic called me—what’s going on with you?”

  “I want to tell you. But—” I stopped.

  “What?”

  I said softly, “I’m afraid you won’t believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

  “Because you didn’t,” I said. “You didn’t … believe in me—before.”

  He was very still then. “It was just at first … I didn’t know what to think. And you wouldn’t say, you wouldn’t talk …”

  “I know,” I said.

  He said, desperately, “I love you,” and I knew that was true, and I knew it ought to be enough. Especially since—then as before—I still wasn’t telling him everything.

  I went to the window. I drew aside the curtain and looked down on Memorial Drive and the river. I knew what I wanted. I wanted my father to lie to me. I wanted him to say, Of course I will always believe you, no matter what. It was the same thing I had wanted him to say the year before. He hadn’t said it then, and he still wasn’t saying it. He was promising only what he could promise. He had not changed.

  But I had. Somehow, I had.

  He said, “Tell me what’s happening, David. Please.”

  I said, “Yes. I’ll tell you.”

  CHAPTER 33

  I told him nearly everything. I related all my encounters with Lily, all Lily’s pranks. I told him about my conversations with Vic and Julia. What Julia had said about me being crazy; making my own troubles. And, finally, I repeated to him Lily’s confession.

  The only thing I did not tell him about was Kathy. Kathy, the humming shadow. Kathy, the ghost. I had made that mistake with Frank. I wouldn’t make it again.

  “Well?” I said into the quiet room, when I was done. “What do you think?” My voice strained a little. “Do you think I made it all up? Like Julia?”

  “No,” said my father. His voice was strong and sure and thoughtful. “No, I don’t think you made it all up. I believe you. Oh, there are a few points on which I’d like more information. Particularly about Lily being responsible for Kathy’s death … I wonder if Lily has conjured up her own guilt. Children often believe in the power of thought; that wishes can be magical. She certainly thinks she killed her sister, but did she? I doubt it. I think she made up a story. But apart from that, yes. Yes, David, I believe you.”

  He looked straight at me then.

  I would have said thank you. I would have said many things, if I could have. I couldn’t. Not then. I couldn’t speak, even as I heard my father say what I wanted him to say, about talking to Vic and Julia about Lily. I couldn’t speak.

  Not from relief, although I felt that. Not from gratitude, although that too was strong. Not even because I was afraid I might cry. But because, just then, I heard Kathy whispering once more, in my head. Lilyhelplilyhelplily. I stiffened.

  I said, to still the voice, “She needs help. Lily, I mean.”

  “Yes,” said my father. “Yes, I think you’re probably right. But …”

  “What?” I said.

  “Ultimately, that’s up to Vic and Julia.” My father pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’ll be honest, David. I don’t think they’re going to listen to me. And I can’t make them do anything.”

  I felt as if I were trying to seize hold of air. Helplily, came the voice, frantically. Helplily!

  “I promise to try,” said my father. “But you’re my first priority. You do see that?”

  “Yes,” I answered. I sat down on my bed. If my father had not been there I’d have pulled the pillow over my head, squeezed it tightly over my ears. Helplily.

  My father yawned hugely. “Listen, it’s after two in the morning. Let’s try to get just a few hours of sleep, okay?” Miraculously, as he spoke, Kathy’s whisper faded into silence. My relief was profound.

  My father turned off the light. And to my great surprise, with him in the next bed, I slept immediately, and deeply.

  I was on my knees by the tub in the attic apartment, vomiting into it. Kathy knelt beside me, the fingers of one hand clawing my arm. She whispered in my ear: Lilyhelplilyhelplilyhelp. Around us the air pulsed with intense heat, and the smell of smoke filled my nostrils. Kathy shook me. Helplilyhelplilyhelp—

  I woke up in the dark. Beside me, my father breathed heavily in sleep. I lay there. And the beat picked up, strengthened, increased in urgency. It pulsed in my ears, then throbbed through my entire body. Lilyhelplilyhelplily.

  I could not make it stop. And by 3:27 on the digital clock, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to get away from the pounding.

  I padded barefoot to the balcony windows, parted the curtains again, and looked out. The Charles River was iced over and beautiful in the moonlight. Across it I could see the buildings of Boston University, to which I’d applied. Directly in front of me, on Memorial Drive, streetlamps threw regular, dim washes of yellow light onto the pavement. I stared at the lights, at the river, knowing a way to get rid of Kathy’s voice, knowing I shouldn’t do it. Winter snow and sand had scarred the city streets with potholes. It was purely stupid, dangerous, to go running in the middle of a winter night.

  I pulled on sweats despite the thought. I scrawled a quick note in case my father woke up: Couldn’t sleep. Gone running. Back soon. Then I grabbed socks and my running shoes, and headed down to the ground floor in one of the Hyatt’s glass elevators. I couldn’t wait to be outside, to race alone through the dark streets, to try to catch up with my own pulse, to drown out Kathy’s voice and my own renewed irrational fears.

  It was quiet out. Cambridge isn’t much of a night town. At first I ran along the river, but it was extremely cold there and I soon headed through the neighborhoods of West Cambridge, running down streets choked with parked cars and snowbanks. The occasional dog barked at me. One even joined me for a mile or so, loping ahead in the dark, then racing back. By the time I hit the Fresh Pond rotary—part of my usual route—I was sweating freely, breathing well. And Kathy’s voice had ceased completely.

  I felt I could go on forever. I thought about jumping the fence and taking the pretty two-mile route around the pond, but even in my current mood, it was more than I wanted to risk in the dark. Instead, somehow, without any conscious thought, I found myself on Mass. Ave. heading straight north, toward home. No. Not home. The Shaughnessy house. I should have turned around, headed back toward the river and the Hyatt and my father.

  I should have turned around.

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I could not turn back. Instead, as if my body were in thrall to someone else’s will, I kept going up Mass. Ave. And my feet were pounding to a rhythm I knew very well. Faster and faster. Faster than I had ever run before. Lilyhelplilyhelplily.

  I saw the reddening of the sky ahead, and I heard the sirens. And it wasn’t just Kathy’s will anymore; it was my own. Somewhere deep in my lungs I found a small reservoir of pure oxygenated air, which had been fighting to erupt from my throat in a scream. I forced it down and used it, grimly, to speed up, to race harder, faster. A quarter mile remained; an eighth. A few hundred yards. Another fire truck streaked by me; people spilled out of their houses in bathrobes, slippers, coats. And the whole endless time the scream stayed in my throat, and pounded in my temples, bulged from my eyes.

  Crowds of people. I pushed past them frantically, trying to get close to the house, trying to see better against the glare that lit up the sky.

  The entire top floor—the attic apartment—was ablaze. The fire must have started there. Below, the air was clogged with smoke. I pushed forward, looking around frantically. Somehow I got to the front of the crowd, to the fire engines, the heavily coated men with their hats and hoses, their ladders. One ladder was just being pulled away from the house. Two firefighters were aiming a hose.

  Another
got in my way; pushed me back. He snarled something in my face. I ignored him; searched the crowd. “I live here,” I snarled back at him. I called, “Vic! Julia! Raina!” I yelled, “Lily!”

  I screamed, “Lily!”

  Ahead of me I saw Julia, draped in a man’s coat. Her cheekbones jutted out against the red sky, her gray hair frizzed around her head. She was staring at the house, shaking, her arms clasped about her. She moved, and I saw that Vic was beside her. I even saw Raina, a little distance away. She had two canvases with her, held upright by her arm.

  “Where’s Lily?” I shouted at the firefighter. “Where’s the little girl?”

  “She’s around here somewhere,” he answered. “Now, get back! It’s dangerous here!”

  Kathy had gone. The pulse in my head was gone. I stared at the fire, terrified. Because I knew the firefighter was wrong. Lily was still in the house. The burning house.

  I knew exactly where Lily was, and what she was doing, and even why. I also understood, finally, why I had come there, and what I must do. Help Lily.

  I shouted aloud to Kathy above the roar of the fire:

  “Yes. I will.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I sprinted for the house. I heard somebody shout, felt a grab at me that failed. Behind me as I reached the front porch, I heard more yells, but I knew no one could stop me, no one would pursue me—not even the firefighters. It was too dangerous. I pounded up the stairs to the second-floor landing, into Julia and Vic’s apartment.

  The heat hit me like a brick wall. I gasped, and nearly choked on smoke. I grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt and pulled it up over my nose and mouth. It reeked of sweat. I raced down the hall and through the living room, and nearly crashed into the door to the third-floor apartment. Behind my hand, behind the door, I could feel even more intense heat. I could hear the crackle of flames.

  My heart felt like it would jump from my chest. My lungs ached. I pulled at the knob. The door was unlocked, but Lily had secured it on the inside—with the chain I had so recently, so carefully, installed. I thought wildly about running at the door and shouldering it down. But the hinges were on my side; it wouldn’t have worked.

  There were only two hinges. I reached for the top one and snatched my hand back. Painted metal. Hot.

  I pulled my sweatshirt completely off and used it to protect my fingers as I unscrewed the top hinge from its casing. Thank God Vic took good care of the house; the hinge was well oiled and unfastened easily.

  I didn’t bother to unscrew the lower hinge; I grabbed the higher one and pulled, until the door parted from the frame and I could get my fingers around the door itself. Then I brought my weight down, down against the bottom hinge.

  The hinge ripped away from the frame. The door crashed open. I ducked out of the way. Heat descended in a rush from above; a fierce roar pounded at me.

  Before me was the old steep wooden staircase. Smoke roiled down the passage and enveloped me. I coughed. I shoved the sweatshirt over my face again and breathed in the stink of my own sweat and fear. I knew this place; I didn’t need to see. I ran up, directly into the smoke and haze. The snap of the fire filled my ears.

  I reached the attic. I pulled the shirt away from my eyes.

  The walls and the windows at the front and back of the apartment were thoroughly engulfed; the roof was half gone, open to the night. But the side of the attic was still whole, though the flames were eating their way across the floor.

  Still holding my shirt over my mouth, I made my way to the bathroom. And there I found Lily exactly where I knew she’d be—lying down in the tub, faceup, immersed in water.

  Only her nose was above the water line. She was holding herself entirely rigid, but her chest lifted with her breath. She was alive. She was waiting. For Kathy?

  For me?

  Her head lifted and her eyes flew open. She raised her head farther out of the water and began to scream.

  “Get out! Get away! Leave me alone!”

  I fell to my knees and hauled her out of the water and into my arms. It was like the torture-museum dream. I could barely breathe. My eyes smarted from the smoke. The skin of my bare back felt as if it was melting. For an instant I put my face against Lily’s wet neck and breathed. I put my mouth up close to her ear.

  “I’m taking you out of here!” I yelled.

  “No! No! No!” She flailed frantically, trying to scramble back into the tub.

  Lily was strong, but I was stronger and more desperate. We had very little time before the flames consumed that ancient staircase. With one hand I grabbed a big bath towel from the rack behind me and soaked it in the tub. Somehow I got it around my shoulders, around Lily. It was a good thing she was already wet. She yelled again and squirmed. “Shut up,” I told her. “Shut up and be still!”

  She kicked viciously. I got up anyway, and staggered back into the living room.

  In the few minutes I’d been with Lily in the bathroom, the fire had spread. It had formed a sheet of flame over the entire front of the living room. The sheet had just reached, and covered, the open doorway to the stairs down. I couldn’t see past it. The stairs—our only escape route—were surely only seconds from going up in flames.

  In my arms I felt Lily turn. She saw the sheet of flame before us, and for an instant she stilled. Whimpered. Her arms tightened around me. “I have to die,” she said urgently. “I killed Kathy. And I meant to do it. I’m a murderer.”

  “I know,” I said. For a bare instant our eyes met, hers now wide with astonishment and—something else. Something I didn’t have time for. “But your punishment isn’t to die. It’s to live with it. Like me, Lily.”

  Like me.

  She gasped. “Hold on,” I said. I pulled the wet towel completely over her head. I’d lost my sweatshirt somewhere. I buried my own face in the towel for an instant and took a deep breath. Then, holding Lily tightly, I ran directly into the sheet of flame that blocked the stairs.

  In the middle of fire, time changes; elongates, shortens. Pain is everywhere and nowhere, but there is no room for fear. Whoever conceived of hell as fire understood its nature.

  But also didn’t.

  We passed through the fire, Lily and I. It took less than a second; it took forever. Then we were on the staircase that—God be praised—was not yet fully consumed. I felt one of the boards crumple beneath my foot, but our combined weight had already shifted on and down. Down.

  Down.

  I have no memory of running through the Shaughnessy living room, or the hall. I do not recall the other staircase, the one that took us safely to the ground and out of the building just as the entire third floor, and part of the second, collapsed behind us. I do not remember stumbling on the porch and tripping down the stoop onto the small front lawn. I never saw the firefighters, though I’m told they were ready for us with a fire blanket that they threw over my head and back—an act that probably saved my life, since my hair and back were aflame. I do not recall that first surge of breathable air in my lungs. I have no memory of throwing myself on the earth, of rolling, rolling blindly in that blanket, still holding Lily, still clutching Lily, still protecting Lily.

  I remember only one thing. I remember that from the moment I pronounced her punishment and joined it with mine, Lily held me. She held me as we passed through that sheet of flame. She held me through that nightmare run through the house. She held me in the frozen winter air, as the Cambridge fire department extinguished what remained of the fire that had tried to destroy us. Through all of it, Lily held me, and I held Lily. Together, we survived.

  We lived.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Face it,” I said with careful nonchalance to my parents from my hospital bed. It was three days later; I lay on my stomach in a private room while a lovely intravenous needle channeled painkillers through my system. “Fate never intended me to complete high school. Can’t I just take the equivalency test?”

  Frank Delgado laughed. He was pacing idly back and forth at the
foot of my bed, his presence making the room feel even smaller. I was glad he was there.

  “No, you can’t,” said my mother, with a swift reproachful glance at Frank. Frank had shown up the day before, slipping past the security guard my father had hired to keep the reporters out.

  I wanted to see Lily—desperately I wanted to see Lily—but that hadn’t yet been permitted. I was biding my time. I hoped she knew I was thinking about her. I thought she did.

  She was in the hospital too. Although she had not been physically harmed, there was no concealing the fact that she had set the fire, that she had run back in after seeing her parents and Raina to safety. She was classifiable now: a fire-setter. Suicidal. She was where I had always thought she should be: in the hands of trained psychiatrists.

  At one time I’d have felt good about that, but I was no longer sure. I needed to see her. Talk to her.

  But I had to wait.

  My father was saying, “I’ve already arranged with Dr. Walpole for tutors. They’ll bridge the next month, and then the doctors say you’ll probably be ready to go back to St. Joan’s.”

  Oh, really? I thought, diverted momentarily from thinking of Lily. And just where am I going to live? In the Hyatt where Vic and Julia were now staying? I doubted it. They had come by exactly once, thanked me stiffly and insincerely, and left.

  I knew they blamed me for the loss of their house, their illusions, and—in a way—their second daughter. I knew they would not forgive me, ever.

  A small hard voice in me said that I didn’t forgive them, either.

  My father’s words penetrated. “We’re still working on living arrangements for you, David, but we have something in mind. We need a couple more days.”

  I stiffened, and then controlled myself. I didn’t want a fight. But the thought of another parent-conceived living arrangement made me feel distinctly queasy.

  “There’s a spare room at my house,” said Frank idly. “My mom would be okay with it.”