The Dead and the Dying (26 page)

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Except from

Darper Danver

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Cassie Briggs

"Stop the car!" I shout, banging on the back of the driver's seat. "Stop! Right here!"

"I thought you were going to Branch Street," the guy says grouchily as he brings the taxi to a halt and reaches out to stop the meter. "You told me Branch Street. That's another two miles. I oughta charge you for Branch Street."

"I don't care," I mutter, furiously sorting through my purse before pulling out the voucher I was given to cover the journey, which I throw onto the front seat. "This is fine. Thank you!" Without waiting for him to reply, I get out of the car, my eyes fixed on the house on the other side of the street. My heart is racing and even though I know I should go straight home, I'm suddenly filled with an urge to go to this house instead. Actually, 'urge' isn't the right word: I
have
to go inside. My body demands it. I've waited too long.

"You'll be wanting this," the taxi driver says, limping around to the back of the vehicle and opening the boot, before hauling my suitcase out and dropping it on the side of the road.

"Thanks," I say, ignoring the suitcase and jogging across the road. The house looks exactly the same as before. It's as if nothing has changed in the five years I've been away, and I even recognize the beat-up old truck in the front yard. Hurrying toward the porch, I make my way up the steps, and even though I know this is an absolutely terrible idea, I reach out and try the door. Sure enough, it swings open and I walk into the hallway, where I'm immediately confronted by the smell of a very familiar brand of cologne.

He still lives here.

"Fisher!" I shout, hurrying to the kitchen but not finding anyone. "Fisher, where are you?"

Seconds later, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I run back out into the hallway just in time to see Fisher Benhauser stop dead in his tracks as soon as he sees me. The look on his face is priceless: he seems absolutely stunned, as if he never, ever expected to see me again. Without giving him time to react, I hurry over and put my arms around his shoulders, before shifting my weight forward and forcing him down to the ground. I quickly get on top of him, and before I know what I'm doing, my trembling hands are reaching down to the front of his trousers, undoing the button.

"Um..." he mutters. "Wait -"

"No," I say breathlessly, starting to pull his trousers down before reaching into his boxers and feeling his thick, placid penis in my hand. "I've waited long enough."

"No, Cassie, stop," he continues, trying to push my hands away.

"No," I reply, stroking him as I lean closer and try to kiss him. He resists, turning his head first one way and then the other while keeping his lips tight shut.

"Cassie!" he splutters. "Stop!"

"No!" I say forcefully, finally slipping my tongue between his lips. I can feel his penis growing in my hand, which tells me all I need to know: he still wants me. After all this time, he hasn't forgotten. He waited.

"Cassie!" he shouts, still trying to push me away. "Get the hell off of me!"

"No!" I shout.

"Fuck!" he shouts back, slamming me against the wall before moving away as he slips his penis back into his pants. "What the holy fuck is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with
me
?" I reply, shocked at the way he's behaving. "What's wrong with
you
?"

"Jesus Christ!" he says, fixing his clothes.

I stare at him. Totally out of breath and feeling horny as hell, it's all I can do to keep from leaping back on top of him. The truth is, it never even occurred to me that Fisher Benhauser wouldn't want me. It's the memory of his kiss, and his touch, that kept me going while I was in prison, and even though he didn't write to me or come visit, I know that nothing's changed between us. We've always been made for each other, and the time apart is only going to prove that more than ever. We didn't need to communicate. We're stronger than that.

"It's me," I say, figuring that maybe he's a little confused. "I'm home. Didn't anyone tell you I was coming?"

"Sure," he replies, still looking shocked. "I've had reporters door-stepping me all week, asking how I feel about seeing you again."

"And?" I ask, finally catching my breath. I wait for him to reply, and finally I can't help but break into a stupid grin. "It's me!" I say again. "It's Cassie! I'm back! After five years, I'm back!"

"I can see that," he says.

"Well?" I wait for him to say something. "What's wrong?" I continue eventually, my smile fading slightly. "You're not excited?" I reach over to grab his leg, but he quickly moves away, as if he's instinctively trying to avoid any contact with me. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It's me, Fisher. I'm back! I know it's hard to believe, but I'm back! They couldn't prove anything. We can -"

Before I can finish, I realize that there's a sound coming from nearby. For a few seconds, my scrambled brain struggles to make sense of what I'm hearing, as if I can't quite accept that this particular sound could be part of this particular scene. Finally, however, I blink a couple of times and realize that there's no question: the sound is coming from a nearby baby monitor, which means that somewhere else in the house, a baby has started to cry.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"Donovan," he replies cautiously, almost as if he's scared of me.

"Who's Donovan?"

He pauses. "My son."

"Your..." I take a deep breath. "Since when... Since when did you have a son?"

"Since about six months ago," he replies, still staring at me with wide open, terrified eyes. "My wife Edie gave birth to him back in January."

We sit staring at each other for a moment, as the baby continues to cry. It's as if suddenly, weirdly, Fisher and I have nothing to say to one another.

Florence Madison

"Quiet!"

As soon as I walk into the kitchen, I can tell that Milly and Abe have been talking about something that they don't want me to hear. They look guilty as hell, as if in their seventy-plus years of life on this earth, they still haven't learned how to tell a convincing lie. I walk over to the counter and place two bags of groceries next to the fruit bowl, before the silence becomes unbearable and I turn to find that they're both staring wildly at me.

"Well?" I ask.

Silence.

"What's wrong?" I add with a sigh. "Out with it."

"Did you... have a good trip to the store?" Milly asks.

"It was fine," I tell her, trying not to appear flustered. "The same as every day."

"That's good," she says, swallowing hard.

"You know how it is," I continue. "I head out at ten every day. I go to the grocery store
every
day, and then the bakery
every
day, and then I come home
every
day and make lunch for all of us.
Every
day. The only thing that
doesn't
happen every day is that you two never ask me how it went, so there's clearly something wrong." I wait for one of them to summon the necessary gumption to admit what they've been gossiping about. "You're both terrible liars," I continue, "and at your ages you're unlikely to get any better, so you might as well tell me."

They look at one another, like two children trying to decide who should own up.

"Spit it out," I say firmly.

"She's back," Abe says suddenly, with fear in his eyes.

"She's back," Milly says quietly, a fraction of a second later.

I open my mouth to reply, but something holds me back. It's like a physical reaction, punching me hard in the chest.

"She got back this morning," Abe continues, his voice trembling slightly. "I heard she was seen about four blocks from here, getting out of a taxi."

"She's not due back until the weekend," I reply curtly, turning to start unpacking the groceries before, finally, I freeze. "The weekend," I say again, as if a few days' difference actually matters. "That's when she's back. Not before."

"Nevertheless," he says, before his voice trails off.

An awkward silence descends upon the room. I want to run out screaming, of course, but there's absolutely no way I'm going to allow myself to do anything so utterly foolish. I was raised to be strong, and strong I shall be.

"She must've got out early," Milly says, her voice quiet and sweet. "I heard they do that sometimes, when the prisons are busy. They..." She pauses. "Well, they let them out early. To avoid a rush, or something."

"It's not right," Abe adds. "If they say something's going to be out on the weekend, they shouldn't let them out early. It's not fair. Thursday is not the weekend."

"It's not about being fair or not," I say, feeling completely drained. "It's just the way they do things. I'm sure they run to a very clear set of rules, and I'm sure they didn't change those rules in any way for..." I pause, as I realize that I was about to say her name. The last thing I want is to say or hear that murderer's name. As far as I'm concerned, she might be back in town, but that doesn't mean I have to acknowledge her in any way. I can just ignore her and hope that she slinks away. After all, it's inconceivable that she could think to show her face around these parts after what she did. She'll be gone by nightfall. She can't stay.

"You okay?" Milly asks.

I nod.

"You don't look okay," Abe says.

"You're very sweet," I reply bitterly, turning to him and seeing the concern in his sad old eyes.

"You know what I mean," he continues. "You look like you're upset. I don't remember the last time I saw you so upset."

"When that pudding deflated last summer," Milly says quietly.

"Hush," Abe says to her, keeping his eyes fixed on me.

"I..." Pausing, I realize that I'm not prepared for this conversation. When I thought Cassie Briggs was coming home at the weekend, I anticipated having time to prepare myself, but I hadn't got around to coming up with a proper plan. Suddenly the whole thing has been foisted upon me, and I feel as if I just need to back away from all this company and try to regroup.

"You gonna go see her?" Abe asks.

"
See her
?" I say, horrified by such a suggestion.

"Of course she's not going to go see her," Milly says, nudging Abe in the ribs with her elbow. "Why would she do that? There's no good that'd come of seeing her. Best thing to do is just to wait it out and assume that Cassie Briggs is just passing through town on her way to somewhere else. That's gotta be it, right? There's no way she'd actually be thinking of settling here again, not after what she did."

"You're forgetting something," I reply, feeling an awful tightening sensation in my chest. "According to the law of the land, she
didn't
do it. Even if all of us know in our hearts and in our minds that she did."

"Amen," Milly says softly.

"It's a disgrace," Abe says. "It's a cast-iron disgrace. No-one gives a crap how people around here feel."

"Language, Abraham," I say.

"What?" he asks. "Crap's not a cuss word, is it?"

I stare at him, despairing of his ignorance.

"She still can't live here," he grumbles. "I don't give a f..." He catches himself just in time. "I don't give a fig what the law says. It's just not allowed."

"I'm not sure that's true," I reply. "The last time I checked, America was still, just about, a free country. In the eyes of the law, Cassie Briggs is an innocent young woman, which means that she's subject to no limits on her freedom." I pause as the meaning of those words sinks in. Despite everything she did, despite all the misery and heartache she caused, Cassie Briggs got away with it all. "We must just hope," I continue, "that she has a thread of decency left in her body, and that she's merely come to town to pick up some things before she moves on to start a new life somewhere else."

"She can't live here," Abe says again. "People wouldn't stand for it."

"That's right," Milly adds. "People round here wouldn't stand for that little murderer being in our community. Something'd have to be done about it!"

"What would you suggest?" I reply, feeling a sense of panic starting to rise through my body.

"I don't know," Milly continues, "but
something
oughta be done!"

"By who?" I ask.

"Someone!"

"I suppose you're right," I say, turning to the grocery bags and starting to unpack. My hand are shaking, but I feel as if I have to get on with normal things. There's no point standing here arguing, at least. It's not as if anything's going to change, just because three old farts are getting worked up in a kitchen on a Thursday morning. As I focus on putting the groceries away, however, I become more and more aware that - for the first time in their lives - Milly and Abe are sitting in complete silence; I don't think they've ever been so quiet for so long, not in all the time I've known them, and although I start working faster and faster, eventually I can't take it any longer and I turn to them, accidentally letting go of a glass jar of coffee in the process.

"What?" I shout, immediately regretting my loss of control.

Before I can catch it, the jar smashes on the kitchen floor.

"Are you okay?" Milly asks.

"Are you two just going to sit there all day, asking if I'm okay?" I reply.

They look at one another.

"I'm sorry," I continue, grabbing a dustpan and brush before crouching down and starting to sweep up the spilled coffee and broken glass. "Maybe I'm a little emotional," I add, "but that's all. One can't be entirely immune to these things, but that doesn't mean that one has to fall apart, does it? I'm sure things will settle in due course. Clearly, Cassie Briggs has no intention of actually living in Fort Powell. After all, the girl has to have
some
shame, doesn't she? She's obviously just come back to tell her parents where she'll be living, and she'll be on her way either later today or first thing in the morning. Anything else would be..."

Silence.

"I'm sure you're right," Milly says quietly.

Tipping the contents of the dustpan into the bin, I turn and head to the door.

"I forgot some things upstairs," I say as I leave the room. "You'll have to excuse me for a moment."

As soon as I'm in my bedroom, I push the door shut and stand completely still, feeling a kind of trembling sensation throughout my body. It's as if a huge ocean is rushing up behind me, ready to burst over my shoulders at any moment and sweep me away.

Slowly, I walk over to my bed and sit facing the window. Outside, the sun is shining and the natural world looks so beautiful. I try to focus on the distant sound of birds, or on the rustling leaves of a nearby tree, but the problem is, all these things remind me of my son. Squeezing my eyes tight shut, I try to block him from my mind, but it's too late: images of Bobby flood into my consciousness, flashing past in a seemingly never-ending parade of memories. Fighting the urge to scream, I wait, hoping that the anger will pass soon, but instead it just seems to build and build until tears flow down my cheeks and the ocean crashes over me.