The Saint (18 page)

“Aurora,” Kieran broke in. “The hot water heater?”

But Claire heard Aurora babbling all the way out the door and down the steps. Obviously that was what had been bothering the good-hearted old busy-body—she felt left out. Claire was glad that Kieran would be the one to walk that particular tightrope, deflecting awkward questions while assuring Aurora she was getting all the interesting details.

Claire sat down on one of the foyer chairs, the one next to the bust of a veil-draped woman with flowers at her breast. She ought to go get ready for that early dinner. But being completely dressed seemed to eliminate all chance of finding herself back in bed with him…

She shut her eyes against a shiver of remembrance. Oh, she had been right to worry, hadn't she? She was already addicted to him.

Sighing, she looked at the two envelopes Aurora had handed her, both special deliveries requiring someone's signature, which must be why the courier had refused to leave them at the unanswered McClintock door.

One of them was addressed to Kieran from the firm of Gordon and Gordon, Esquires. Maybe information about the trust? She lay that one aside and turned to the other. Odd. It had Claire's name on the front, but listed no return address.

Curious, she ran her finger under the flap and opened it. Two things fell out. The first was a carefully cut clipping from the
Heyday Herald—
a short article that Claire still knew by heart. It had run in the bottom left-hand corner of the front page the day after Steve's death.

HHS Quarterback Dies on Way To Practice

And a subhead—
Slick roads, speeding blamed for tragic accident.

Claire barely glanced at it. She didn't want to see the small, black-and-white photograph of Steve, smiling boyishly, so cocky and full of life. She had torn up her own copy of that picture, which the newspaper had returned to her, apparently unaware that it was forever poisoned now.

The second thing that fell out was a note addressed simply to “Mrs. McClintock.” It was handwritten, but employed an awkward, artificial lettering that was obviously designed to keep the author anonymous.

If the newspaper continues to ignore my letters,
the note began,
I'll have to expose the truth myself. You think your husband is such a saint. But why don't you ask him about the conspiracy he cooked up to protect his precious football team?

And the final, blood-chilling line.

Why don't you ask him how your brother really died?

 

T
HE MOST BORING PLACE ON EARTH
was Eddie Mackey's house on a weekend afternoon. You couldn't have friends over—even if Eddie still had any friends—because his mom was always dusting and doing laundry and stuff, and she said she couldn't bear for people to see the place looking such a mess.

His father sat in front of the television all day long, hypnotized by one news show after another. His mom had always explained to Eddie that “Dad needs time to unwind,” as if being a dentist were as stressful as international espionage.

To Eddie, it looked more like a power issue. Eddie's dad sat there on his Barcalounger throne, pointing his remote control at the TV like some kind of magic scepter. No one, not even Eddie's mom, was allowed to talk in the room except during the commercial breaks. So if you had something to say, you had to carve it up into three-minute sections.

Mostly Eddie avoided being home on the weekends. That was one advantage of mowing lawns, at least. But today his lawn mower was in the shop until five o'clock, which, combined with the recent lousy weather, pretty much meant he was screwed.

After buying Binky those earrings, he didn't even have money to get his mower out of hock. He was going to have to ask his dad for a loan. Frankly, he'd rather eat the contents of his mom's vacuum cleaner bag with a spoon.

His dad was a news junkie, and he was flicking through eighteen different news channels as fast as the remote control could go. If he didn't settle on something, Eddie didn't see how he was ever going to
get
a commercial break.

But finally, with a grunt of annoyance, his father settled for a stock market report. Eddie waited patiently, and the minute a car ad came on, he jumped right in.

“So, Dad, I was wondering. Is there any chance you could advance me some money? I had to have the clutch replaced on the mower, and it's kind of expensive.”

His father muted the television. Not a good sign. He looked at Eddie, frowning. “Why haven't you put any money aside for situations like this? Every businessman knows equipment needs to be repaired occasionally. If I had to ask for a loan every time I needed a new X-ray machine—”

“It's the weather,” Eddie said. “It's rained practically every day for three weeks. I haven't been able to cut grass for ages.”

“Well, that, too, could have been predicted, couldn't it? That's a pretty typical summer in Heyday. I can't say I'm impressed with your financial planning, Ed. Where has all your money gone?”

Eddie willed himself not to look guilty. His dad had told him from the very beginning that Binky Potter was playing him for a sucker. If he found out about four hundred dollars' worth of silver jewelry, not to mention the other little rings and hair-thingies and little fancy boxes and figurines and…

His mother came in, her arms full of cleaning supplies. “He's a teenager, Ted. It's expensive being a kid these days. And he doesn't get an allowance anymore—”

“It would be a lot less expensive if he hadn't chosen that decorative little bloodsucker for a girlfriend.”

“Ted.” Eddie's mom looked almost angry. “Don't say things like that. Binky is a sweet girl. Eddie really likes her.”

“Yeah, well, I like Jaguar XKEs with camel-colored leather seats, too, but I can't afford them, so you may notice I don't have one.”

That pretty much was the trump card. Eddie's dad worked very hard, and he found it annoying that he couldn't have exotic cars and boats and stuff like most doctors and dentists did. He always said that was the price of practicing in a Podunk town like Heyday, but Eddie's mom had family here, so they couldn't really move.

Eddie's mom should have known better than to say anything else. But apparently she was pretty mad. She squeezed the bottle of Tilex so hard her fingertips were white and a hint of lemony scent wafted into the room.

“He isn't asking for a Jaguar, Ted. He's asking for a loan. Don't you think you could help him out?”

“No, I don't.” Eddie's dad's mouth set in a tight, straight line, and he didn't look at either of them. He stared at the soundless television, on which a happy family frolicked around a pool, laughing and hugging and drinking name-brand sodas. “He's not a kid anymore. He can vote and sign contracts and choose his own associates, whether we like them or not. It's about time he learned how to solve his own problems.”

And then he hit the mute button one more time, just as the newscaster started talking about the NASDAQ. The king had spoken, and that was the end of the matter.

Except for Eddie, who still needed seventy-five dollars by five o'clock.

His mother looked as if she might be struggling with an impulse to throw the Tilex bottle at the television. Instead, as usual, she took a deep breath and turned to Eddie.

“Oh, Eddie, I forgot. You got a call earlier, while you were taking in the mower.”

Eddie's father punched the button to raise the volume—his signal that conversation in the room was annoying him. But Eddie and his mom seemed to have entered into a mini-rebellion.

Eddie smiled at her. It wouldn't change anything, but it helped to know someone cared. And his heart leapt up irrationally, hoping against hope that it might have been Binky.

“Yeah? Who was it?”

“Let me think. Oh, that's right. It was Mrs. Tremel.”

W
HEN
K
IERAN CAME HOME
,
less than an hour later, Claire was dressed and sitting in the library, her hands folded in her lap over the anonymous letter. She knew she must look like a stiff, unpleasant mannequin, but she just couldn't seem to relax.

Not until he told her that this hideous letter was just a collection of lies. Not until he assured her that no one had kept secrets from her about the details of Steve's death.

Kieran seemed to sense instantly that something was wrong. He entered the library smiling, but the smile dropped as he registered her posture and the unmistakable chill in the room.

He tightened then, too. “Sorry to take so long,” he said, obviously testing to see if that might be the problem.

As if she might resent the time he devoted to helping Aurora. As if Claire were one of those spoiled, bitchy women who hated to be kept waiting. How wrong could he be? Apparently having sex with someone really didn't give you any insight into their true character.

Something she'd be smart to keep in mind herself.

“It's no problem,” she said. “It's just…the mail Aurora brought over—yours was some correspondence from the lawyers. It's on your desk.”

He looked relieved. “Oh. That's probably just the paperwork on the trust.” He strode over to the large desk and slit open the packet, apparently eager to show her that he had no secrets.

He leafed through the document quickly. “Yes, that's all, it's just the trust. And—” He seemed surprised by the papers at the end of the stack. “Oh, good grief. What is this? Damn all, Gordon. I shouldn't ever have told you—”

He seemed to be talking to himself. She wondered what could cause such emphatic annoyance. “What did John Gordon do?”

Kieran tossed the papers onto his desk. “I told him about the baby last night, after I realized Aurora had found out. I thought it would be best, because Aurora was bound to blab it all over town anyhow. Well, it appears he's drawn up tentative agreements to lay out what we'd do about custody in the event of—”

He looked uncomfortable. “You know. Hell, it's so typical, so like a lawyer to go racing around protecting my interests whether I ask him to or not.”

“Protecting your interests?” Something cold slithered down her spinal cord. She had been such a fool. Such an amazing fool. She tightened her hands. “Is that what you call the baby? Your
interests?
”

He shook his head impatiently. “You know what I mean. That's how lawyers think.”

“And protecting them from what? From me?”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out where her flat, distant tone had come from. With a low curse, he came over and knelt beside her chair. “Claire, what the hell is going on
here? What's wrong? If you're angry about what happened upstairs—”

“No,” she said. “It's not that.”

“Are you sure? Have you decided that you're sorry it happened?”

She couldn't look at him. “No, I'm well aware that I instigated it.”

He chuckled softly. “
Instigated?
You're not taking vocabulary lessons from John Gordon, are you?”

“I mean, I chose to…to make love. I don't regret my choice.”

“Neither do I,” he said. He touched her hands. “So what is it, then? Surely you can't be upset about Gordon being an overzealous fool. You know him. He pushed for a prenup, and now, because I told him our plans, that you'd agreed only to a short-term marriage, he's pushing to formalize the custody arrangements. Lawyers just aren't capable of leaving things alone—”

“It's not John,” she said. She forced her lungs to expand enough to draw the breath she needed. Moving her hands, she exposed the letter beneath. “It's this.”

He looked confused, but he reached out and picked up the letter. The clipping drifted to the floor. Looking down at it, a dirty beige slash against the rich pink Oriental carpet, he made an angry sound.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “No.”

She stared at him, blood draining from her face as if someone had opened a plug. “You know what it is,” she said. “You've seen one of these before.”

“Yes,” he said. “The goddamn cowards. Yes.”

She had been so very afraid of this. Sometime during the past forty-five minutes, as she sat here waiting for him to come home, she had remembered the
other anonymous letters he'd mentioned that afternoon by the pool.

Hate letters about Kieran. Anonymous accusations that had been sent to Arlington Woodstock at the
Heyday Herald.
She felt stupid now, that she hadn't connected the two events immediately.

“Well?” She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded, considering her heart was in a free fall. “Is it true? Was there some kind of conspiracy?”

He stood, the letter still open in his hands.

“Yes,” he said. His face completely blank. “I suppose technically there was. Although a conspiracy usually implies intent to harm, doesn't it? And our motives were exactly the opposite. In a way, we simply conspired to protect.”

“And that makes it right?”

“We thought it did,” he said quietly. “But maybe it would be better if I just tell you the whole story, from the beginning.”

She nodded. “I'm listening.”

But even now that he had decided to tell her, he couldn't seem to settle down. He started to dump the letter into the trash can, but stopped himself. As if acknowledging her rights, he handed the letter solemnly back to her. Then he moved to the desk, and then to the window. And then, finally, he stood behind the chair next to hers.

“The day Steve died, after they took you home, I went back to the scene of the accident. Steve's car was still there, though he… They had already taken his body away. Bill Johnson…” He paused. “You remember Bill?”

“Yes.” She would never forget the young policeman who had stood there, crying, and tried to tell
her Steve was dead. Poor Bill, only about twenty-one himself. He hadn't yet mastered the vocabulary of tragedy. She wondered if the world had changed for him that day, too.

“Good.” Kieran gripped the back of the chair. “Bill came up to me, because he knew Steve and I had been close. He said he needed to confess to someone that he had removed something from the scene of the accident.”

“Something? Something like what?”

“A couple of bottles of beer, one of them open and half empty. Bill said he grabbed them without thinking. He said he didn't want people maligning Steve, implying that he'd run into that tree because he'd been drinking.”

Bottles of beer? She couldn't quite take it in. But it was strange, Claire thought, irrelevantly, that cold blood trickling icily through your veins could keep a heart beating so very, very fast.

“Of course he wasn't drinking,” she said. “The beer probably wasn't even his. He had a lot of friends, they were always riding around together, it could have been anyone.”

“But it wasn't, Claire.” Kieran looked sad but unflinching. Now that he had decided to unburden his conscience, apparently he was going to plow through to the end. “It wasn't one of the other boys. It was Steve.”

Steve drinking—and driving? Oh, wouldn't Kieran like that? It would shift the blame away from the arrogant coach who ran his team like boot camp, forcing his players to race through murky streets to mandatory predawn practices. Instead it would place the blame on Steve himself.

It was a dirty, self-serving lie. She wanted to slap him. She half rose from her chair, intending to do so. Then she caught a glimpse of his face, which already looked as tormented as any man's could be, and she slowly sank back down.

“You can't prove that bottle was Steve's,” she repeated dully.

“Yes, I can. Dr. Tremel, the medical examiner, found alcohol in his blood. Steve wasn't far over the limit, just a fraction of a point. But legally he was drunk when he got in the car that morning.”

Oh, Steve, no…
She wanted to cry the words out loud, as if she could make her brother hear her, two years too late.
Not after what happened to Mom…

But she didn't let a single sound escape. She refused to show weakness now. And besides…

“That's not possible. Someone would have told me. It would have been listed on the death certificate….”

But again, as she saw the look on Kieran's face, she let her words trail off. “So this is the conspiracy. You and Bill Johnson and Dr. Tremel conspired to keep the blood alcohol levels from showing up on Steve's death certificate?”

“Yes.” Kieran ran his hand through his hair roughly. “Technically, Sam Tremel decided by himself. He came to Bill and me later and asked us to corroborate what he'd already recorded. We agreed to keep silent. So, if there was a conspiracy, in the end we were every bit as guilty as Tremel.”

It was surreal. Was it possible that, while she had been lying in the dark, mourning the loss of her laughing young brother, the only family she had left in the world, these men had been behind closed
doors, deciding what version of the tragedy she would ultimately be forced to live with?

“But you said you were trying to protect someone….” The letter had accused him of protecting his precious football team. But maybe that wasn't the whole answer. To her horror, she heard herself, even now trying to help Kieran find excuses. “Were you trying to protect Steve?”

Kieran shook his head. “Steve was beyond needing our protection.”

She lifted her chin. “I hope you aren't going to contend that you were trying to protect
me.
”

“I— We—” He hesitated. “It was very complicated, Claire.”

“Tell me anyhow.”

Kieran ran his hand over his face, as if he were very tired. “Tremel, I think, was trying to protect me—and the Heyday High football program. We were on a roll, we were set to be the state champions. A lot of the good old boys around here are big boosters in the alumni program. If it had come out that these underage players were drinking, were even coming to practice under the influence…”

“Yes, I see. Quite a scandal. St. Kieran might not have survived it.”

Kieran didn't seem to hear her sarcasm. He was looking out the window. “Bill Johnson, I think, really was trying to protect Steve's reputation. He was very young. He idolized Steve because he was so gifted on the football field.”

She braided her fingers. “And you? What is your excuse?”

“I'm not sure. I guess, in the end, I didn't see how revealing the information could do anything but
harm. To Steve, to the program, to you—and, of course, to me.”

“Ah, yes. To you.”

His hands tightened on the chair back.

“You don't need to work so hard at blaming me, Claire,” Kieran said, with the first flare of anger she'd seen in the entire conversation. “I'm not trying to spare myself. I have known all along that I'm guiltier for Steve's death than anyone realizes, even the author of those disgusting letters.”

“And why is that? Because you started your practices so early? Because you rode the boys so hard?”

“Much more than that. I'm responsible because I knew there was the possibility Steve was drinking. I'd already caught him at it once.”

She sat upright. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I had caught him drinking a few weeks before, after one of the football games.”

She could hardly sort through all the implications of this revelation. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I know, Claire.” His voice was black. “I thought I could handle it, though I see now that was foolish—”

“Not foolish,” she said, her voice harsh and bitter. “Arrogant. Criminally arrogant.”

“Yes, all right. Arrogant. I thought he respected my judgment. I read him the riot act, and he promised me it would never happen again. I believed him.”

She was suddenly so angry her vision was cloudy and tinged with red.

“But damn you, Kieran, it wasn't your decision. I was his
sister,
his guardian, his best friend. I needed
to know. I could have stopped him. I could have forced him to get help. I could have—”

“I know,” he said again. “But he begged me not to tell you. He said you had enough to worry about. I agreed that I wouldn't, not as long as he stayed clean. I told him that if I ever caught him again, he'd pay for it big-time—”

She heard a small, wounded sound, but she wasn't sure whether it had come from Kieran—or from her own open mouth.

Kieran looked at her with dead eyes. “I never dreamed that he'd pay for it with his life.”

 

B
Y THE TIME IT GREW
completely dark, Claire had driven up and down the streets of Heyday for more than two hours, trying to get her emotions under control. After a while, she'd parked the car and walked aimlessly. She'd spent the last hour of blue twilight sitting on a park bench, watching a father and his son race remote control boats in the pond, terrifying the ducks.

But nothing she did really seemed to help. Her mind was a gnarled ball of shock, anger, disappointment and fear. No matter where she pulled, trying to unknot the mess, it just seemed to draw the tangle tighter. She never could lay the feelings out separately and get a clear look at them.

Two boys jogged by, one a little younger than Steve, both of them wearing T-shirts stamped with the distinctive striped logo of Heyday High School. She watched them until they disappeared into the leafy shadows of the tree-lined sidewalk. One of them was much shorter than Steve, but had his
smooth running style. The other was heavier, but he had Steve's shining brown hair.

She felt, once again, on the edge of tears, and wiped the moisture away so roughly her skin burned. This was why she'd fled from Heyday in the first place. No one really existed here, except in relation to Steve.