Hiding Place (9781101606759) (39 page)

“I understand.”

“But it was too strong for that. And it wouldn’t go away.”

“How do you know what really happened?”

It took Michael a long time to go on. Janet waited, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were completely acclimated to the dark, and she watched Michael, trying to be patient, trying to let him tell the story at his own pace.

“I came back here after I lost my job. I moved back to Dove Point, and I started coming out here.” He ran his hands through
his hair. “I had a therapist who said that sometimes long-dormant or repressed memories come back if the person is placed in a situation similar to the original event. Maybe they return to the exact place where the memory was formed or maybe they experience a similar, intense emotion. So I came back here after I returned to town. And I felt it when I was here. The anger. The confusion, I guess.”

“Then?”

Michael didn’t answer.

“Then, Michael? What changed?”

“That night…the night I went to Dad’s house.”

“You lost control.”

“I wanted to kill him, Janet. I wanted to—to choke the life out of him. I can’t remember being that mad any other time…”

“Except?”

“My dad told me. He told me what happened that day in the woods. He told me I killed Justin. And that’s when I went after my dad. I would have killed him too if you hadn’t come into the house and called my name.”

“I thought it was Ray all this time,” Michael said. “I really did. And here he was getting remarried and moving on with his life. He wanted to act like what happened in these woods didn’t happen. That we could all just go on with our lives and be happy.” Michael’s voice caught. “He was going to have a new wife and pretend like I wasn’t his son anymore. I wanted him to know it wasn’t that easy to just leave the past behind.”

A chill passed up Janet’s back. “You really thought he didn’t want you to be his son?”

“He cut me off, Janet. He cut me off.”

Janet paced back and forth. Something welled inside her, a hot mixture of anger and grief. “My God, Michael. You killed Justin. You killed him.”

“An accident—”

“All these years. A man went to jail. All these years…we didn’t know. We didn’t do anything. I thought…”

“Janet.”

Janet bent double at the waist, as though racked by a sharp pain. She felt sick, nauseated. She stayed like that, hands on knees, breathing deeply, trying to regain her equilibrium. She didn’t know how long she remained in that position before she was able to straighten up again. Her sides hurt.

“Oh, Michael.”

It was all she could say.

“Janet, it was an accident.”

Janet took a couple of steps closer to Michael. She worked up to it. She didn’t know if she could bring herself to do it, to reach out to him. The man who killed her brother. But he was Michael, too. Always Michael. Always the boy she knew and loved. She knelt down next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“What do you want to do now?” she asked.

He took a moment to answer, then said, “I came to say good-bye. I wanted you to know all of this before I left, but I need to go.”

Janet took her hand away. “Go?”

“I have to,” he said. “Ray’s talking to the police right now. Whose hide do you think he’s going to save? Mine or his? It’s his fault this happened, Janet. All of it. Do you think your mother instigated the affair? Do you think she started it?”

Janet stood up. “Michael, you have to tell the police. Let’s call Detective Stynes and clear this up. An innocent man went to jail.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You were seven years old. You didn’t mean it. We’ll tell Stynes, and they’ll work it out. You have to face what happened.”

Michael shook his head. His eyes were on the forest floor, the intensity of his shaking growing. It looked mechanical and regimented. “I won’t go to jail, Janet,” he said. “Not even a little bit. I’ve had a taste of that before.”

“You have?”

“I can’t,” he said. “Not for something Ray did.”

“You did it, Michael. Yes, Ray is to blame. He should have helped you. He’s to blame as well. He manipulated us, told us not to tell the whole truth about that day. But you have to come clean.”

Michael buried his head in his hands. He rubbed his hands over his face, then spoke in a muffled voice. “Let me go, Janet. I’m just going to leave. You can get out of here and make it back to your life and your kid and even your dad. You have your job and your benefits and the whole thing. Right? I don’t have any of that. I have to go. Just get out of here, and come tomorrow, I’ll be gone.”

“Gone for good?” Janet asked.

Michael lowered his hands. He didn’t speak, but he nodded.

They didn’t touch or hug. Janet just turned and walked back up the path, out of the clearing and the woods.

Janet saw figures coming down the path, at least five of them. She thought she recognized something familiar about the one in front, something about the way he walked with his shoulders a little slumped. They all came closer to her, and despite the darkness and isolation of the woods, she didn’t feel afraid.

“Janet?”

“Detective Stynes?” she asked.

“Are you okay?”

Behind Stynes stood four uniformed officers, their thick frames looking like solid blocks in the dark night.

“I’m okay,” Janet said.

“Are you alone?” Stynes asked.

Janet didn’t hesitate. “Michael Bower is back there.”

Stynes turned to the uniformed officers and made a gesture with his hand. Without saying anything else, the four of them moved past Janet in the darkness, heading down the path toward Michael. She turned and watch them go, almost wishing she could stop them. But they had to do what they had to do. And Michael had to face his past.

“Janet?” Stynes said. “Is there something wrong?”

She turned back to the detective. “How did you know where I was?”

“Ashleigh called me,” he said. “She woke up and saw you weren’t in the house, so she got worried. She thought something happened to you.”

“How did you know to find me here?” Janet asked.

“We saw the car wasn’t gone,” Stynes said. “Ashleigh thought you might have come over here. It seemed like a hunch worth following. We thought Michael Bower might be here as well.”

“It’s strange. I never come here,” Janet said.

“Maybe it’s different now,” Stynes said.

Janet agreed. It was all different.

Janet pointed down the path. “Michael,” she said. “He’s…he told me something. He told me a story about the day Justin died.”

Stynes reached out and touched her shoulder. “I heard the same story from his father this evening. We’ll take care of it.” He paused. “And I’m sorry. I know it’s a hell of a thing to find out after all these years.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Janet asked. “Just because Ray said it…”

“And Michael just corroborated it, right?”

Janet nodded. The dark made it difficult to see Stynes’s face. He seemed to have his head lowered, to be looking at the ground.

“I think that’s it,” he said. “I do.” Stynes started down the path. He turned and looked back at Janet. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine. Can I just go home?”

“Go ahead,” Stynes said. “But you’ll be hearing from us soon. Okay?”

As the detective disappeared, Janet started up the path. When she emerged from the woods, she saw Ashleigh.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Janet folded Ashleigh into her arms, kissing the top of her daughter’s head as they hugged.

“Thanks for looking out for me, kid,” Janet said.

“Somebody has to,” Ashleigh said. Then she said, “You’ve always done it for me.”

Janet pulled her close, felt the girl’s warmth against her body. “I guess we need each other, don’t we?”

“It looks that way.”

They started for home, walking arm in arm.

“I told Kevin you want him to come over for dinner,” Ashleigh said. “He’s up for it, so long as you know he and I are just friends.”

“For now?”

“For now.”

When they reached the house, they found Bill waiting in the front yard. He came across the lawn to them.

“I woke up and no one’s in the house,” he said. He looked at the two of them, his eyes taking them in from head to toe. He looked like—he looked like he wanted to reach out and hug them. “What the hell is going on? Are you hurt?”

“No, Dad, we’re not hurt.” She almost smiled seeing the concern on his face and in his body language. “It’s a long story. Let’s go inside.”

The three of them sat at the kitchen table while Janet told them about Michael’s confession in the woods. Her father didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask questions or show emotion. When Janet was finished, he stood up from the table, acting as though he wanted to go to bed.

“Dad?” Janet said. “Don’t you want to talk about this more? Do you have anything to say?”

He hesitated, then said, “No, I don’t think I do. I guess I hope they both go to jail, Ray and Michael.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what they’ll do to Michael.”

He turned to go, but before he left the room, Ashleigh said, “Wait!”

Her dad stopped in the doorway and turned around.

Janet looked at Ashleigh. “What’s wrong?”

Ashleigh jumped up from the table. “I have something—something for both of you to see. A surprise, I guess.”

“In the middle of the night?” Janet asked. “In the middle of all this?”

“Just wait.”

Ashleigh ran up the stairs, her steps making muffled thumps. Janet sat at the kitchen table, staring at the familiar space, staring at her father. It still felt like home. He had been right: some things, some feelings never changed. Our knowledge about them changed, but not the fundamental feelings. She was home. She and Ashleigh and her dad. Home.

Ashleigh was carrying a familiar box as she entered the kitchen. Janet recognized it right away, even as her tears formed. “Where did you—? How did you—?”

“I knew you’d want it,” Ashleigh said. “I saved it from the trash the day Grandpa threw it out.”

Janet looked at her dad, who still didn’t speak.

Ashleigh said, “I figured you really didn’t mean it, Grandpa. You were probably just pissed off or something.”

Janet flipped open the top of the box. She reached in and took handfuls of pictures. Justin. Her mom. All of them as a family. Before it all changed. Before.

But some of it was still there. And not just in pictures.

Janet took one out of the stack. It showed the four of them
the year before Justin died. They looked happy in the photographer’s studio. They looked like a family.

Janet held it up.

“Remember this one, Dad? Remember going there that day? We tried to get Justin to wear that little bow tie, and he kept taking it off.”

Her dad came forward, took the photo out of her hand. He studied it a long time before one side of his mouth raised, the tiniest hint of a grin.

“I remember,” he said. “I remember.”

I want to begin by thanking my colleagues and students in the Western Kentucky English Department and the Potter College of Arts and Letters, especially Tom Hunley, David Lee, David LeNoir, Mary Ellen Miller, Dale Rigby, and Karen Schneider. Thanks also go to James Weems, Glen Rose, and their crew for the amazing book trailer. For friendship and psychological insights about memory and trauma, I am indebted to Drs. Sherry Hamby and Al Bardi. Big thanks to Kara Thurmond for her work on my Web site. And I owe so much to my family, especially my mother, Catherine Bell, my late father, Herbert Bell, and my in-laws, Mike and Penny McCaffrey.

As always, thanks to the booksellers, librarians, reviewers, readers, book club members, and bloggers who buy, borrow, sell, and talk about books.

I would be nowhere without the great efforts made by everyone at NAL/Penguin. Special thanks to my publicist, Heather Connor, and her amazing team. Thanks for getting the word out.

I can’t say enough nice things about my brilliant editor, Danielle Perez. Her sense of humor, great skill, calm demeanor, and vast knowledge have made all of this possible. Thanks for making me look good, Danielle.

I also want to thank everyone at Markson Thoma Literary
Agency for their dedication and professionalism. And a special thanks to Julia Kenny and her foreign rights team.

My amazing agent, Laney Katz Becker, has worked tirelessly on my behalf and has perhaps set a world record for answering an endless stream of questions in a timely fashion. Thanks for everything, Laney. I’m lucky to have you as my agent.

And finally, special thanks to Molly McCaffrey for years of good times, movies, and long car trips. Can you believe we pulled this off?

David Bell
is currently an assistant professor of English at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, Kentucky. He received an MA in creative writing from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and a PhD in American literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice. His previous novel is
Cemetery Girl
.