Compulsion (42 page)

He shrugged.  "I’ve noticed the same kind of thing about myself since you’ve been living with us," he said.  "Like this room.  I could never have left it this way with Darwin around.  Not unless I wanted the strap.  I think I’ve let it get this messy to see if you’d cut me slack."

"It’s really not my place to tell you how to keep your room," I said.

"You’re pretty much the man of the house," he said.

I wasn’t feeling much like the man of the house.  I nodded at his desk.  "So what are you reading, anyhow?"

"Poetry," he said.

"Who?" I asked, looking at the title,
The Land of Heart’s Desire
.

"Yeats," he said.

"Is he your favorite?"

"I don’t really have a favorite," he said, easing himself into a beanbag chair in a corner of the room.  "I like Emerson and Poe just as much.  Maybe better."

I glanced up at the bookshelves, the only space in the room that was neat and clean.  The volumes were arranged alphabetically, by author.  I scanned the names.  Auden, Beckett, Emerson, Hegel, Hemingway, Locke, Paz, Poe, Shakespeare.  Yeats was at the end of the shelf — seven, eight volumes strong by himself.  "What do you like about poetry?" I asked.

"Saying more with less," he said.  "People use too many words.  They become meaningless."

"Agreed," I said.  "You like to write poetry, too?"

"Some," he said.  "Just for myself."

That seemed to say I shouldn’t expect to read any of Garret’s work any time soon.  "You’re the most important audience," I said.

"Darwin would get pissed if he caught me writing," Garret said.  "He said it was for girls.  That’s one of the reasons he wouldn’t let me stay too long in my room."

"That’s ridiculous," I said.  "Nobody thought of Hemingway as a girl."

"His mother did," Garret said.

I smiled.  Hemingway’s mother had dressed the budding author in girl’s clothes from time to time, one reason he might have become almost hyperbolically male as an adult.  "Except her," I said.

"Maybe I will show you some of my stuff, someday," Garret said tentatively.

"I’d love to see anything you write," I said.

He looked out his window, then back at me.  "She just needs time — and some space.  Maybe it’s good you’re taking Billy to that Riggs place."

"I want to thank you for helping him with the decision to go there," I said.  "It’s the right one.  You think you can hold the fort down a couple weeks by yourself?"

"No problem," he said.

"I’m sorry to worry you — about your mom and me," I said.

"Don’t be," he said.  "I’ll never have to worry the way I used to."

I left Garret’s room just before 1:00
A.M.
  As I walked by Billy’s room, his light went out.  Had he been eavesdropping, I wondered, or had Garret and I simply been keeping him up by talking so loudly?

On my way out of the house I paused to look at the toys Candace had arranged in the curio cabinet.  A little windup bear with brass cymbals caught my eye.  It was the kind of thing that had probably kept Julia entertained for hours as a child.  I smiled, thinking how delighted she must have been the first time she wound it up and watched it perform, how simple her pleasures were back then.

A chill blanketed me.  Because in my heart I knew, without knowing exactly why, that everything really had started to unravel, and that she would never be mine.

*            *            *

My sleep that night was broken into naps.  Each time I awakened, it was with another memory of Julia, Darwin, or the boys.  I pictured the first time I had met Julia outside the Bishop estate, remembered our lunch at Bomboa Restaurant in Boston.  I thought back to my visit with Billy on the locked unit at Payne Whitney, to my verbal altercation with Darwin at Brooke’s funeral, to Anderson and me searching Garret’s locker at the Brant Point Racket Club.  I thought again of Claire Buckley’s demeanor when she had turned the mystery letter over to North Anderson and me.  And I reviewed what Anderson and I had each said to Julia at Mass General after she had been assaulted, what she had said to us.  The sleep between memories became shorter and shorter, the images more and more vivid.  It was as if my mind was replaying the last three weeks, looking for a window onto the Bishop family’s secret.

At 3:47
A.M.
that window opened wide, letting in an icy wind that literally made me shiver.  I sat up in bed, my mind snapping to full attention with a memory not from days or weeks before, but just hours.  It was something I had seen in the main house, and it felt like a stray, abnormal laboratory result on a patient, one that tells you that a cancer long thought vanquished has been quietly invading deep into the bone, eating away at the marrow.

A whole train of thoughts began moving through my mind.  I stood, squinting into the darkness, starting to connect the dots in a very ugly picture. An almost unthinkable one.  I started to pace.  The thoughts came faster and faster, careening through the night.  I felt nauseated and lightheaded.

I did not return to bed until more than two hours had passed.  I did not sleep at all.  Because I was no longer convinced Darwin Bishop had killed little Brooke.  I was growing more and more certain, in fact, that someone else had.  Someone I had trusted.  And for reasons that both saddened and sickened me.

A cold sweat covered me.  If I was right, that person was still stalking Tess, who was sleeping in her nursery, not fifty feet from my door.

My mind raced until sunrise, refining a strategy to expose the killer.  It was a strategy of psychological warfare designed to quickly strip away the person’s emotional defenses, uncapping explosive rage.  If it worked, whoever had taken Brooke’s life would make an attempt on mine within the next twenty-four hours.

*            *            *

Tuesday, July 23, 2002

At 9:00
A.M.
I called the Payne Whitney clinic and had the operator page Laura Mossberg.  She answered a few minutes later.

"It’s Frank Clevenger," I told her.  "I need your help."

"Really," she said, that special, therapeutic kindness in her voice.

"With the Bishop case," I said, to keep her off mine.

"I thought the case was closed," she said.  "I read about the father being arrested.  I was shocked."

"You just never know with people," I said.

"
You
seem to," she said. "You never believed Billy was guilty."

I sidestepped the compliment.  "There’s one loose end I still want to tie," I said.  "For my own peace of mind."

"What’s that?" she asked.  "Does it relate to the records I sent?"

"Yes," I said.  "And I wondered if you could get me a little more information from the family’s medical records."

"What is it that you need?" she said.

"I’m hoping you might be able to find blood types for each member of the Bishop family, including he children," I said.  "Julia, the twins, and the boys."

"That shouldn’t be a problem," Mossberg said.  "We have the surgical record from Mr. Bishop’s vasectomy, his wife’s obstetrical chart, and birth records for the little girls.  I’m sure Billy and Garret were also blood-typed, given that they were adopted."

"Excellent," I said.

"I won’t ask why you want the data," she said, her tone hinting that she really wanted to ask.

"Well, I appreciate the help," I said.  "I don’t expect the information to change anything, but I’ll certainly let you know if it does."

She laughed at the way I had avoided her curiosity.  "I’ll always be interested to hear from you," she said.

After we’d hung up, I walked back over to the main house.  I wanted to start tightening the psychological vise on the Bishops.

Luckily, I found everyone together, assembled in the kitchen for what were becoming routine family breakfasts.  "Hey," Billy said, from his seat across from Garret at the breakfast nook.  "Sleeping in these days?"

Garret gave me a good morning nod.  I returned it.

Julia was frying eggs.  She didn’t turn around.

I glanced at Tess, playing with Teletubbies in her Pack N’ Play, then walked over to Julia.  She was wearing tight, white tennis shorts that showed the outline of her thong.  I gave her a slap on the ass, hard enough to be certain the boys wouldn’t miss it.  Before she could move out of the way, I kissed her neck.  "God, you taste good," I said.

She turned around, controlled rage burning on her face.

I gently touched her cheek.

The eggs sizzled.

Julia cleared her throat.  "Sleep well?" she said tightly.

"Great.  You?"

"Yeah, great," she said.  She glanced at Candace, who looked down and went back to cutting asparagus when I tried to make eye contact with her.  It seemed pretty clear there had been a mother-daughter chat before I’d arrived.

I stepped away from Julia and walked over to the breakfast nook.  Billy slid over to make room for me.  I sat down.  "What’s on tap for today, champ?" I asked him.

"Not much," he said.  "I was supposed to hang out with Jason."  He shrugged.  "That won’t be happening."

"I’m trying to convince him to go fishing," Garret said.

"Where?" I said to Garret.  "I’ll give you guys a lift, if you want."

"We don’t need a ride," he said.  "We can fish the stream.  There’s nothing big running in there, but it’s fun, anyhow."

I nudged Billy.  "Why not give it a try?"

He gave me a fake half-smile.

I winked at him, nodded toward Julia, then got up and walked back over to her.

She saw me coming this time.  The expression on her fact told me to keep my distance.

I stopped a few feet from her.  I held up one finger, mouthed, "I’m sorry," and saw her expression mellow slightly.  "Forget those medical records," I whispered.  "Forget the letter, too.  I’ll never bring them up again.  No looking back."

She searched my eyes for sincerity, nodded once, tentatively.

I took another step toward her and took her hand gently in mine.  I leaned and whispered into her ear.  "Meet me at the cottage later."

She looked toward the breakfast nook self-consciously."

"I couldn’t sleep last night," I whispered, even more quietly.  "I couldn’t stop thinking how much I wanted you."

She blushed.  "Cut it out," she said, catching her lower lip seductively between her teeth.

"I’ll be in the cottage," I said, raising my voice to a stage whisper.  I backed away.

Candace smiled knowingly at me.

"I’m gonna take a quick walk," I said, looking at Billy and Garret.  "Anyone up for it?"

Billy looked down at his food.

Garret stood up.  "Sure," he said.

"Catch the rest of you later," I said, and headed out with him.

*            *            *

Garret and I hadn’t gotten ten yards from the house when his bodyguard Pete appeared behind us.  That was unusual.  He and Garret had gotten sloppy and were rarely together on the property.  I turned around.  "We’ll be fine," I called to Pete, waving him off.

We started down a path that ran about two hundred yards, curving toward the ocean, then turning back on itself to from a kind of ellipse, with Candace’s house on one apex and the horizon at the other.  "Your mom seems a little better now," I said.

"It’s like I told you," he said.  "She was testing you."

"I’ve been thinking about that," I said.

"What about it?"

"Maybe I’m being tested in more than one way.  This whole thing with Billy — the trouble with the Sandersons and killing that cat — could be a test, too.  To see if I’ll stick by him, by the whole family."

"Could be," Garret said.

"So I’m thinking I need to define my role here,"

"What do you mean?"

"Like I think we should be a real family," I said, watching for his reaction.  "That way Billy can look to me as a real father.  He’ll be able to count on me.  You, too."

Garret stopped walking at stared at me.

We were still within throwing distance of the house.  I set the jaws of the trap I was laying:  "I’m going to ask your mom to marry me," I said.

"Wow," he said.  He looked confused.  "Wow," he said again.

"How would you feel about that," I asked him.

"Great," he said.  He sounded like he meant it.

"I know it would take some getting used to, for everyone," I said.  "I haven’t even mentioned the idea to your mother.  But, suddenly, it seems obvious that it’s the right thing to do."  I looked toward the ocean, a rippling blue-green blanket beneath the sun-soaked horizon.  "I have to tell you, Garret, I’ve never felt the way I feel about her.  When I’m with her, I feel complete.  When I’m not with her, I want to be."  I looked back at him.  "Have you ever felt that way?"

"I don’t know," he said.  "Maybe."

"Then you haven’t.  You’d know for sure.  It’s the best feeling in the world," I said.

He nodded.

"You’re leaving for Yale in a couple weeks?" I said.  "Believe me, there’ll be more than one coed who turns your head.  I hope one of them moves you the way your mom moves me."

"I guess I’ll find out," he said.

"And, I mean, there’s another reason we should make it official:  I don’t feel good about — well, you know — sharing a room with your mom until we’re married.  Neither does she."

Even Garret, at seventeen, recognized I had invited him across a boundary deeper than a World War II trench.  "That’s between you and her," he said.

"We just want to be respectful," I said.  I let a few seconds pass.  "I’m thinking we should elope.  I’m going to ask her to fly to Vegas with me — maybe leave tomorrow."

"She isn’t divorced yet," he said.

"Nevada won’t sweat the details," I said.  "The paperwork will fall into place, eventually."

"Sounds... amazing," he said.

"Not a word to your mother," I said.  I didn’t mention keeping Billy out of the loop.  I knew Garret would fill him in within the next five minutes.  I wanted him to.

"I guess I’ll head back," Garret said.  "Pretty amazing news."