Kisscut (35 page)

Friday

Chapter Twenty-One

Lena gritted her teeth, pounding her feet into the pavement. She could hear Hank's heavy footsteps behind her, his cheap Wal-Mart sneakers popping against the ground like a stick on an oil drum.

"That all you got?" he asked, pulling ahead of her. She let him take the lead for a while, watching him from behind. The sun did not agree with him, and rather than tanning, his pasty skin had taken on a reddish tone. The track mark s on his forearms stood in a burgundy relief against this, and the back of his neck was as red as fire.

His breathing was more like a wheeze, but he held his own against her as she sped up to run beside him. His yellowish-gray hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and the turkey giblet hanging down from his neck bounced with each step he took. Still, Lena couldn't help but think he wasn't in bad shape for an old man. She had certainly seen worse.

"This way," he said.

Lena followed him as he took a sharp turn off the road, and jogged along a path through the woods. The soft ground underfoot brought some relief to her aching knees, and her thighs started to feel like they might not ignite from the heat in her muscles as her second wind kicked in. Before, this was what she had lived for: the intense pain, then overcoming it. Pushing herself past the physical through sheer force of will, making herself finish the course. Her body felt strong and powerful, invincible, like she could do anything she wanted. Like she was the old Lena again.

She knew in the back of her mind where he was going, but she was still surprised when they reached the cemetery. They jogged through the rows of stones, both of them keeping their eyes straight ahead, not stopping until they got to Sibyl's marker.

Lena put her hand on top of the gravestone, using it to steady herself as she stretched her legs. The black marble stone was cool to the touch, and it felt good against her hand. Touching it was like touching part of Sibyl.

Hank stood beside her, lifting his T-shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

"Jesus, Hank," Lena said, shielding her eyes from the glare off his white belly. There were track marks there, too, but she did not comment on them.

"It's a warm day," Hank said. "I think the heat's about to break, though. Don't you?"

Lena took a minute to realize that he was talking to her and not Sibyl. "Yeah," she mumbled.

Hank continued to talk about the weather, and Lena stood there, trying not to show how awkward she felt.

She looked at Sibyl's gravestone. Hank had taken care of the arrangements, and chosen the words on the stone. Above the dates, chiseled into the stone, were the words SIBYL MARIE ADAMS, NIECE, SISTER, FRIEND. Lena was surprised he had not put "lover" for Nan 's benefit. That would have been just like him.

"Look at this," Hank mumbled, bending down in front of the stone. Someone had placed a small vase with a single white rose at the base, and it was starting to wilt in the morning heat. "Isn't this pretty?"

"Yeah," Lena said, but she could tell from the startled look Hank gave her that he had been talking to Sibyl.

He said, "I bet Nan left this for her. Sibby always liked roses."

Lena was silent. Nan had probably left the flower here that morning. She must have always done this early in the morning, because Lena had never run into her. Not that Lena made a habit out of visiting Sibyl's grave. At first, she had been incapable of making the trip because it was difficult to walk, let alone sit in the car for the ride from the house. Then, she had been embarrassed, thinking that Sibyl knew what had happened, that Lena had somehow been changed, compromised. Lately, it just felt eerie, visiting her dead sister. And the way Hank talked to Sibyl, as if she were still there, made Lena feel uncomfortable.

Hank said, "White looks pretty against the black, don't you think?"

"Yeah."

They both stood there, Lena with her arms crossed, Hank with his hands in his pockets, staring at the stone. The single rose did look pretty against the black marble. Lena had never understood people sending flowers to a funeral home, but she finally realized that the flowers were something for the living to enjoy, a reminder that there was still life in the world, that people could go on.

Hank turned to her, waiting for her attention. "I guess I'm going back to Reece," he said. "Maybe tomorrow."

Lena nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Yeah," she said, "that's probably a good idea." She had not told him that Jeffrey had given her an ultimatum: either take the time to get some help, or don't bother coming back at all. Partly, she had kept this secret because she did not want Hank to make the choice for her. He would easily take her back to Reece, give her a job in his bar, so that she could live her life under his watchful eye. That wouldn't really work, though, because one day Hank would be gone. He was an old man. He would not be there forever, and then what would Lena do?

For some reason, the thought that one day Hank would be dead brought tears to her eyes. She looked away from him, trying to gain her composure. Silently, he took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. The cloth was wet from his sweat, and hot, but she used it to blow her nose with anyway.

"I can postpone it," he offered.

"No," she said. "It's probably better."

"I'll sell the bar," he offered. "I can find a job here." He added, "You could come with me, back home."

She shook her head no, feeling the tears coming again. There was no way to tell Hank that she wasn't upset about his leaving so much as about knowing that one day he would be dead. It was all too morbid, and what she really wanted from him, needed from him, was to know that she could always pick up the phone and he would be there. That was all Lena had ever wanted from Hank. That was actually the one thing he had always given her.

Hank cleared his throat and said, "You've always been the strong one, Lee."

She laughed, because she had never felt so weak and helpless in her life.

"With Sibby, I knew I had to be there, had to hold her hand every step of the way." He paused, staring back at the tent from the recent funeral. "With you, it was harder. You didn't want me. Need me."

"I don't know if that's true."

"Hell, yes, it is," he countered. "You always did everything on your own. Skipped college, joined the police academy, moved here, didn't tell me about it until after it was all done."

Lena felt there was something she should say, but could not think what.

"Anyway," he said, taking back the handkerchief. She watched as he folded it. "I guess I'll take off tomorrow."

"Okay," she nodded, turning back to Sibyl's grave.

"They'll probably need you here for a while, anyway," Hank said. "What with that girl being found. I'm sure there's a lot more kids around here who went through the same thing. Those people don't tend to be as isolated as you'd think."

"No," Lena agreed. "They don't."

"Good that girl's back, though," Hank added. "That your chief found her."

"Yes," Lena said, but she wondered about that. What kind of things had been done to Lacey Patterson in that house? What memories would she carry with her for the rest of her life? Would she even be able to carry them, or would she take the easy way out, like her brother? Lena knew from her own experience that the lure of not having to think about the things that happened was seductive. Even after all she had been through, she was not sure that tomorrow she might decide that it wasn't worth it to keep on going.

Hank said, "I'm sorry about pushing Preacher Fine on you. I guess it's hard to see something like that."

Lena took the apology in stride. "Brad's a cop and he didn't see it either," she told him, though if Hank knew Brad, he would know that wasn't much of a consolation.

Hank tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He dropped his hands to his sides, the back of his hand brushing against hers for just a moment. Like Lena, he was sweaty, and she could feel the heat coming off his skin.

After a while, he said, "You know if you need me you can call me, right? You know I'll be there."

Lena smiled, and she really felt it this time. "Yeah, Hank," she said. "I know."

Lena walked through the hospice, trying to breathe through her mouth so that the smell didn't overwhelm her. The building had a certain odor that reminded her of piss and alcohol. It kind of reminded her of Hank's bar.

She jabbed at the button on the elevator, feeling claustrophobic as it slowly climbed to the third floor. Her neck felt gritty, and she used her hand to wipe it. After her run with Hank, she had taken a long shower, but she was already sweating again from the heat.

Lena sighed with relief as the doors opened and the smell of urine did not assault her nostrils. Most of the residents on Mark's floor were catheterized and somewhat sterile compared to their more active counterparts on the lower floors. The stench was controlled because of this.

She stepped into the hall, looking out the window across from the elevator. The clouds were dark and fluffy, filled with rain that seemed on the verge of falling. She was reminded of the morning Grace Patterson had died, and how she had stood behind Teddy Patterson while he slept, watching the sun come up and relishing the thought that the monster lying in the bed would never be able to feel the sun on her face again. Lena never questioned herself about making sure Grace did not go peacefully. She knew she had done the right thing. There was no doubt in her mind.

"Can I help you?" a woman asked as she walked in front of the nurses' station.

"I'm looking for Mark Patterson's room," Lena told her.

"Oh," the woman said, obviously surprised. "He hasn't had any visitors."

Lena could have guessed that Teddy Patterson would not want to see his son, but she still felt surprised.

Even though Lena knew the answer, she had to ask, "Has he regained consciousness?"

The woman shook her head, saying, "No," as she pointed down the hallway. "Three-ten," she told Lena. "Right, then left, across from the linen storage."

Lena thanked her and followed the directions. She traced her fingers along the railing lining the hall as she walked, purposely taking her time. There was no reason for Lena to see Mark. She wasn't working the case. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she was a cop anymore.

Even though Mark was not about to tell her to come in, Lena knocked on the door marked 310. She waited outside, then pushed the door open. The lights were out, and no one had opened the blinds to let the sun in. Mark lay in bed, tubes running in and out of him, looking paler than she had ever seen him. Machines beat softly in the background, and a bag filled with urine hung off the railing around the bed. The room was stark and institutional. There were no flowers on the bed table, and the single chair pushed against the wall had not been used. The television was off, the dark screen looking almost sinister.

"Let's let some light in," Lena said, not knowing what else to do. She twisted the wand on the blinds and the slats opened, pouring in light. She turned back to Mark, and adjusted the blinds so that he wasn't getting the full force of the sun.

There was a tube in his mouth helping him breathe, and saliva had built up around it. Lena went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water. At the bed, she wiped Mark's mouth. Then, because she had appreciated this when she was in the hospital, she folded the cloth and ran it along his face and neck, then along his arms. Next, she got some lotion out of the unopened patient-care kit in the stand beside the bed. She warmed it in her hands before rubbing it on his arms and neck, then patting some on his face. Lena wasn't sure, but his skin seemed to have more color to it when she was finished.

"Looks like they're treating you okay here," Lena said, though she didn't think that was necessarily true. "I, uh…" Lena began, then stopped. She looked at the door, feeling foolish for talking to Mark when he obviously could not hear her, thinking this was about as stupid as Hank talking to Sibyl's grave.

Despite this, she took his hand. "Lacey's okay," she told him. "Well, she's back. They found her over in Macon and she's…"

Lena looked around the room not knowing how to do this.

"They're watching the post office," she told him. "The chief thinks Dottie will show up soon." Lena took a deep breath and held it awhile before exhaling. "We'll catch her, Mark. She won't get away with this."

She was silent, listening to the in and out of his breath as the machine pushed air into his lungs. Of course Mark did not respond to her, and again she felt foolish. Why did Hank do this with Sibyl? What did it accomplish, telling her things? It was like talking to the wind. It was really just talking to yourself.

Lena laughed, realizing that of course this was why Hank did it. Talking to someone who could not answer you, who could not voice concern or disapproval or anger or hatred, was the ultimate freedom. You could say anything you wanted without fear of repercussion.

"I'm not sure I'm going to be a cop anymore," she told Mark, feeling a little giddy as she spoke the words aloud. Her mind had been playing around with this thought for a while, like a marble spinning through a maze in a child's game, but she had not let herself accept the possibility until just this moment.

"I've got to talk to my boss in a couple of days." She paused, looking at the tattoo on Mark's hand. She wondered briefly what she could do to have the tattoo removed. There were procedures that could take them off. She had seen them advertised on television.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell Jeffrey," Lena said, still feeling silly. "I talked to Hank, and I know I could move back to Reece with him." She stopped. "I don't know, though. I don't know if I can go back."

Lena noticed that his blanket had come undone, and she walked around the bed to tuck it back in. She smoothed the material with her hand, saying, "Anyway, I don't want to leave Sibyl here alone. I know she's got Nan to look after her, but, still…"

Lena walked around the room, trying to think of what to say. The sound of her voice in the room was making her self-conscious, but it felt better to say these things, to speak the words that had been jumbled up in her head for so long.