An Act of Love (32 page)

He didn’t speak either, until they were at the ward doors. There he stopped and held her hand a moment.

“Good-bye for now.”

“Good-bye.”

Then he pushed through the doors and she turned to find her friends rushing toward her, oohing and ahhing like children.

And she stood there nearly shivering with awe, because while Jorge had been with her, she had been free of pain.

Chapter Twenty-five

In the early
dark hours of Wednesday morning, the lights in Bates Hall hadn’t been out for long. Christmas break started today, after the morning’s classes, and the guys in the dorm had been wild with the scent of freedom. Their finals were over, their papers were written and turned in, they had only to pack and in the morning they’d be out of there.

Pebe had somehow managed to smuggle in a few liters of vodka, which he’d shared with Whit and Lionel and some of the other upperclassmen, and now he sprawled, fully clothed, on his bed in the dorm, not drunk, just completely asleep.

He came awake at once when the overhead light came on in his room.

“Huh?” he muttered.

“That’s not Bruce McFarland. He’s in the other room.”

Pebe sat up, confused, and looked at his watch. It was Dean Lorimer talking to two policemen.

“It’s a suite,” Dean Lorimer was saying. “Senior perk. Each boy gets a bedroom and they share the living area.”

The men left his bedroom and crossed the small sitting room Pebe shared with Bruce. They entered Bruce’s bedroom. They turned on the overhead light and the room seemed to jump into attentiveness.

“Bruce McFarland?”

Bruce was in bed, under the covers. It took him a moment to wake up.

“What’s up?” he asked, sitting up, looking at them all: Lorimer, the two policemen, and Pebe peering over their shoulders.

“This is Bruce McFarland,” Dean Lorimer told the police.

“Bruce McFarland, we have a warrant for your arrest for the assault and rape of Alison Cartwright.”

“I don’t understand.” The men loomed over him, large and frightening in their uniforms. Several pairs of handcuffs hung from their belts, as well as holstered guns and long nylon billy clubs. He’d seen all this in movies, on television, a million times, but this
reality was happening to him, and it chilled his blood. The door was blocked. He felt the panic of a trapped animal. He threw back the covers and rose.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and to have him present with you while you’re being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statements. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bruce replied, eager to appease these men.

The other policeman said, “We’d like you to get dressed now and come down to the police station.”

Dean Lorimer said, “You have to go, Bruce.”

Blinking, he looked around his room. As usual it was a mess of books, papers, clothes, email printouts, empty Doritos bags. On the floor near his bed his khakis and Jockey shorts lay in a puddle, and as he reached for them, a policeman bent over and picked them up.

“We’ll take those.”

“What?”

“They’ve got a search warrant, Bruce,” Dean Lorimer told him. “They want to take some of your clothing.”

“Man,” Bruce said helplessly.

He had worn sweatpants and a sweatshirt to bed, and now one of the policemen bent forward and briskly patted Bruce all up and down, then said, “You’re fine in that. Just put on some shoes.”

“Put on those loafers, son,” suggested the other policeman, the nicer one.

“Huh?” Bruce said, and then it hit him. He’d seen it on television. They didn’t want him to wear sneakers because he might try to hang himself with the laces.

Besides, the policeman was putting his sneakers into the bag with his khakis and Jockey shorts.

“Why are you taking those?” Bruce asked.

The officer said, “It’s all right, son. You just cooperate and everything will be fine.”

“I’ll call your father,” Dean Lorimer told Bruce. “Have him come in right away.”

“I still don’t understand,” Bruce said, and then the officer said, “Put your hands behind your back,” and it was as if the wind was knocked out of him. His knees went weak. He caved in over his stomach.

“You all right?” Dean Lorimer asked.

“Can’t breathe,” Bruce gasped.

“Just an anxiety attack,” the policeman said. “It’ll pass.”

When he could get his breath, Bruce straightened. He could feel Pebe’s eyes on him, full of pity, and he averted his gaze from his friend.

He felt the cold metal bracelets click against his skin. His teeth felt scummy and he had to pee desperately. When they left the room, with the policeman’s hand on his shoulder, the entire dorm was awake. The corridor was lined with guys in their pajamas or BVDs, rubbing their eyes and scratching their sides and staring at Bruce.

“What’s happening, man?” they called out.

“Yo, Bruce, what’s up?”

Bruce set his face into a mask of stone and did not speak as he was herded down the hall, down the stairs, out the door and into the police car. The cop put his hand on Bruce’s head as he got in. He’d seen that on TV, too. The two cops sat in front, separated from him by a grid of wire.

There were no handles on the inside of the doors in the back seat and the terror of claustrophobia once again swept through Bruce. He was afraid he was going to puke. He looked out the windows as the dark streets and landmarks of Basingstoke flashed past with a surreal familiarity. The Post Office. Antonio’s Pizza. The Academy Inn. The town library.

The police station was innocuous-looking. He’d passed it a million times. Red brick, white trim, tidy, squat. They drove around back and entered through a garage door that opened automatically and was completely shut before the policemen opened Bruce’s door to let him out.

In the station the light was glaringly bright. They took off the cuffs.

“Nothing in his pockets,” the policeman said. “No pockets.”

They fingerprinted him, then let him wash the ink off his hands. They stood him in front of a tripod and photographed him.

“You can make a phone call now,” the nice policeman said, and jerked his head toward a pay phone on the wall.

For a weird moment Bruce couldn’t remember his calling card number and panic seized him again. Then it came back and the phone was ringing and his dad answered.

“Dad.”

“Dean Lorimer just called. Where are you?”

“At the police station.”

“I’m on my way. Lorimer’s getting a lawyer for us. Bruce, don’t say anything. You don’t have to say anything until we get there, okay?”

“Okay.”

When the connection was cut, he felt achingly alone.

They led him into a room. A chipped table sat in the midst of four metal chairs. The walls were blank. They all sat down. The policemen looked at him. He stared right back.

One man leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Late, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally.

Bruce just looked at him.

“Son, we just need to get some information from you. Your name is Bruce McFarland, right?”

“Right,” Bruce replied.

“Mc or Mac?”

“Mc.”

“Good. Birth date?”

“October 21, 1978.”

“Okay. Home address.”

“Post office box thirty-five. Ebradour, Massachusetts. Oh-one-oh-six-oh.”

“Fine. You’re doing just fine. This isn’t so hard, is it?”

Bruce just looked at the man warily. The other officer, the fat one, was studying Bruce through half-closed eyes and stabbing at his teeth with a toothpick.

“Birthplace?”

“Cambridge.”

“Uh-huh. Educational background.”

Bruce shrugged. “I’m a senior at Hedden.”

“Good. How about employment? Ever had a job?”

“Just part-time stuff for friends in Ebradour. Stacking wood and so on.”

Suddenly the fat man leaned forward. “Do you know Alison Cartwright?”

Caught off guard, Bruce replied, “Sure. She goes to Hedden.”

“She your girlfriend?”

Bruce stared at the man, whose eyes glittered malevolently within the folds of fat. No wonder, he thought, they used to call policemen pigs. “I don’t think I want to talk anymore,” Bruce said.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” the other officer said. “He’s just pissed off ’cause he’s missing his beauty sleep.” Both men laughed. “You were doing so well. How ’bout this: any hobbies?”

Bruce shot the man a look of disdain. “No.”

“Going to college?”

Bruce wriggled.

“Where you wanna go? Harvard?”

“I’ve got to pee,” Bruce said.

“Sure, fine, come on.” The officer escorted him across the hall to a john, then brought him back into the room. “Want some water? Coffee?”

“No. Thanks.”

“See, that’s what I thought,” the nice guy said to the fat one. “Kid’s got manners. He’s a good kid. You can tell.” He looked back at Bruce. “So what’s the deal, here? How’d you get Alison Cartwright so mad at you?”

“She’s—” Bruce began, then stopped. “I want my dad. I want a lawyer.”

“Just a few more questions,” the nice guy said.

“I’m not saying anything else,” Bruce said, and folded his arms over his chest.

“You’ve been a student at Hedden for what, three, four years?” the officer asked.

“I want a lawyer.”

“Jeez, kid, it would be best if you’d cooperate.”

Bruce didn’t reply.

They all sat in an uncomfortable silence then, listening to the fat man suck on his toothpick.

The fat man said, “We got photographs of the bruises on Alison Cartwright.”

“I—” Bruce was determined not to talk again.

After a while, grumbling, they rose and led him to a cell. It was empty, as were the cells on either side.

“We’ll come get you when your lawyer gets here,” the nice officer said.

Then they left him alone with his thoughts.

Someone was pounding
on the door. Linda came awake with a start in what seemed, at first, a strange room. Her new bedroom in the rented apartment. Partially furnished, cardboard packing boxes everywhere, shadows in all the wrong places. Disoriented, she looked at the clock on the bedside table: 5:12.

Emily
, she thought, and her blood went cold.
Oh, let it not be Emily
, she prayed, Emily could not have attempted suicide yet again, the hospital was a safe environment, was
supposed
to be a safe environment, and besides, more important, Emily was happy now. Was coming home, coming out, to this apartment, in only a few days. It couldn’t be Emily.
Dear God please
, she pleaded, and rose and tied her robe around her and hurried to the door.

Owen stood there, shivering in his sheepskin overcoat. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and the December wind whipped around him.

“Linda.” It seemed all he could say before his voice broke.

Her heart stopped, then lunged. “Owen. What is it?” She pulled him into the apartment and shut the door.

“Bruce’s been arrested. Alison Cartwright claims he raped her last night.”

“Dear God.”

“He’s at the police station. He’s locked up. Bruce’s in jail.”

“How is Alison?”

“She’s in the hospital. She’s signed a statement, and they’ve collected—‘evidence.’ ” His voice broke. “They took cuttings of Bruce’s pubic hair.”

“Oh, Owen.”

“Bruce’s been at the police station since two. The police woke him up at Hedden, arrested him, handcuffed him.
Led him through his dorm in handcuffs
. Everyone saw him.”

“Was someone from the school administration with him?”

“Dean Lorimer. They had to go to him first to find which dorm Bruce was in. He
went with them. He called me. Then Bruce called me.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes. But he has to stay in jail until we can go to court at nine for the arraignment. Then a judge will set bail. Then Bruce and I have to meet with his lawyer.”

“Come over here, Owen. Sit down. I’ll make coffee.” She led him through a maze of packing boxes into the tiny dining room/kitchen. The windows were squares of blackness and the overhead light threw a harsh glare on the room. Owen sat at the table. He looked haggard and drawn.

“What does Bruce say?”

“He admits they had sex. But he insists she consented. He swears he didn’t rape her.”

Linda poured the water into the coffee machine, then turned to face her husband.

“Owen, Bruce is in serious trouble.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” He caught himself, moderated his voice. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“I don’t mean legally. I mean emotionally. Psychologically. Something’s wrong. He needs help.”

Bleakly Owen looked at Linda. “I know. I know that now.” Bitterly he added, “You must feel victorious.”

“Owen, that’s not fair. Bruce is my stepson. I love him. This breaks my heart.”

“Sorry. You’re right, I know that. Jesus, I’m just so fucking confused. This is such a nightmare.” He ran both hands through his hair. “I guess I’ve been an asshole about Emily. But I don’t know what else I could have done.”