Truths of the Heart (40 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Her body melded with Seth's, Rachelle opened an eye and glanced at the clock
- 10:45 A.M. She yawned and Seth opened his eyes.

She said, “We better get up.”

After a leisure breakfast, packing to leave, Seth dressed in the same outfits
he had worn on the trip up, Rachelle wore her white Bermuda shorts, a yellow
polo shirt and, sans socks, her Adidas. Just before noon they departed the
cottage and began the two-hour trip to East Lansing.

Rachelle driving, windshield wipers on three-second pauses, she and
Seth touched fingertips.

Rachelle said, “What are we going to do?”

“You're the professor.”

“Smarty.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to do what you said. Go away, get lost, but how?”

Discussing the options, the problems, they concluded they had to do something.
How long could this go on? Sooner or later Carl would find out. At one point
she had begun divorce proceedings but....

“But what?”

She explained and concluded, “And I’m the professor.”

As they talked, time had chased past them and they went under an overhead
sign—LANSING 30 MILES.

Dropping Seth off at his apartment, before parting, she said she would call
him.

Driving home, her thoughts were on a way to make this happen. It wouldn't
be easy. There must be a way. It was then she remembered: She had forgotten to
insert a cervical cap before leaving for Houghton Lake. She wondered if
'forgot' was as in Herr Freud. Then she wondered if she had lost her mind.

Of course you have, and gloriously!

Home, she pressed the remote for the garage door. As it opened her
mouth sagged in shock. Carl's BMW sat in its familiar slot.

Zombie-like, she pulled inside, stopped, and turned the engine off.
Frozen, she listened. Silence except for the ticking of the Saab's engine cooling.
She began a quick rehearsing of what to say:
The meetings were a bore, I
mostly did some reading, caught up on some writing
.

She took her overnight bag and went to the stairs to the kitchen door.
She tried the door but it was bolted from the inside.

She went outside and walked up the side stairs around the deck to the
front entrance. On the welcoming mat she saw T.S. Eliot stretched out. He
looked like he was sleeping. She wondered, he was a house cat, never went
outside. She went to him. He didn't move. She touched him. He didn't move. She
rolled him over and the sight gagged her. T.S.'s belly sliced open, he had been
gutted. She looked to the left. His food bowl contained his innards. She fell
to her knees and began to vomit.

The door opened. Carl, hateful eyes, in nothing but Jockey shorts, a
glass of rum in his hand, glared down at her. He slurred, “`umb cat `issed on
my Gucci loafers.”

Sobbing, she picked up T.S.'s limp and bloodied carcass. “You bastard, you.”

“Playing for keeps, Doc.” He cocked his right index finger and wagged
it back and forth, “Come see what I found.”

Clutching T.S., she followed him inside, spitting at his back, “You
filthy sick, sick bastard.”

Chuckling, he sauntered to the kitchen counter and pointed to her
journal which lay opened. “What the `uck is that?” He said.

“You bastard.”

“Whore.” He slapped her face. She crumpled to her knees. He laughed, “and
come take a look at what else I got.” He took her arm, pulled her to the great
room bar. There sat a camcorder.

He pushed a button. Video of her and Seth lying on the deck of
Esther
II
played on the camera’s LCD video display.

Carl said, “What the fuck is that?”

Over her sobs, he shoved the camcorder in her face. “What the fuck is
this, huh, huh, whore bitch.”

He pinched her nose roughly. “Huh, huh?”

She fought off his hand, “You're hurting....”

“Hurt my ass. Who the fuck is this whore with, huh huh!”

He smacked her face with a crushing blow. “I called the Sheraton, brilliant
PhD, get the story straight, never checked in.” He mashed the camcorder against
her face.

Clutching T.S., she ducked and ran toward the spiral staircase. Up
three steps, Carl reached through the railing and grabbed her by the ankle. She
kicked between the railings, hitting him in the face.

Startled, he grabbed his nose, looked at his hand, blood covered it.
She ran to the top, darted to the bathroom and locked herself in.

He broke down the bathroom door. Rushed toward her. She sidestepped him
and ran back downstairs.

Breathing heavily, cursing under his breath, he was behind her. T.S.
under her left arm, she ran to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and, as she
turned, Carl lunged for her. She sided-stepped and, air-born, he came to a
thumping stop when his head hit the stone of the fireplace.

Rachelle, breathing deeply, studied Carl's motionless mass.

She wiped sweat from her face and, poker in hand, edged up to his side.
He didn't seem to be breathing. He reeked of alcohol. She looked at his chest.
He wasn't breathing.

In a surreal daze, she wrapped T.S. in a white towel, laid him on the
front seat of her car and drove through pelting rain to Seth's apartment.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Filled with dizzying thoughts of a future with Rachelle—her smell on
his fingers—Seth unpacked and thought:
Carl. I have to get her away from him
as soon as possible.

Unpacked, thinking of places they could run off to, there was a tapping
at his apartment door. Antenna up, his first thought—Laura.

He opened the door.

Rachelle stood like a melting ice sculpture. Dark glasses askew, yellow
polo shirt soaked, wet hair hanging around her face, ugly bruises on her
cheeks, she cradled a white towel that appeared to be soaked with something
red.

“Rachelle.” He took her by the arm. “What on earth...?” He took her sunglasses.
Her eyes red, swollen brown circles had begun to appear.

He led her inside and closed the door.

Clutching the bloody towel to her breast, she fell into a kitchen
chair.

Seth said, “What is that you're holding?”

She lay the bundled towel on the table. “Carl killed T.S. Eliot.”

“Whhaat!”

She loosened the towel.

Speechless, Seth stared at the dead carcass.

Rachelle stood and walked to a window. After a silent moment, walking back
through the kitchen, she went to the bathroom sink and began washing her hands.

Seth, beside her, she said, “I think Carl is dead.”

Speechless, he stared at her.

She talked: “When I got home his car was in the garage. The kitchen
door was bolted from the inside. I went to the front door....” She choked back
a sob. “I found ... bastard told me T.S. had messed his shoes....” She studied
Seth's eyes, “He had a video of us at the lake.”

“Video?”

“On
Esther II
.”

“That speed boat....”

“He hit me, I got away, ran, he dove at me, hit his head … he wasn't
moving when I left … I came here.”

“Did you call 911?”

She looked at him pathetically.

“I don't know.”

“All I could think of was coming here, you. I thought he was going to
kill me, it all happened so fast ... I came here.”

He took a towel and dried her.

She said, “Hold me.”

He did and after some time, she said. “We have to go to the house.”

“We?”

She locked his eyes with hers, “You chickening out on me?”

“No, but....”

“You wanted to run away, goddamn it, now we can.”

“But, think about how that would look?”

“What?”

“Perception.”

“Perception!”

“You're not thinking clearly.”

She picked up the towel with T.S. in it and walked to the door. “Let's
go braveheart, we're in this together now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T .S.'s swaddled carcass placed in the trunk, a fierce thunderstorm pummeling
the area, Seth beside her, Rachelle drove to Lake Lansing. The garage door left
open, Carl's car still there, she pulled in and stopped. The Saab engine
idling, Seth reached to the ignition key and turned it off. He touched her arm.
They got out and she stopped.

The kitchen door was ajar. It had been bolted from the inside before.

She said, “We better go in the front door.”

They walked to the front entrance and, the door unlocked, Rachelle went
in. Seth followed. Inside, Rachelle stopped and put her hand to her mouth. Carl
was not sprawled on the floor where he had been when she left for Seth's.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, “he's not there.”

It came as the sound of a rushing wind at first then a blood thirsty
scream.

She turned.

Carl—forehead crusted with blood, grotesque rage in his eyes—charged from
the kitchen. A butcher knife raised over his head, he slashed at Rachelle,
nicked her arm, tripped, the knife flew across the floor, and he landed on his
face. Instantly, as if from a blind-sided tackle, he sprang up and seized Seth
by the throat.

Seth gasping, face ashen, Rachelle screamed, pounding on Carl's back.

Carl's fingers like sharp teeth clutching Seth's throat, Rachelle leapt
on Carl's back and began pulling his hair, screaming at him to stop.

He didn't.

She bit his ear hard. Blood flowed.

His fixation on Seth broken, he released him and, smiling broadly,
swung violently around. Rachelle flew to the floor. He lunged for her. In a
darting move, she rolled to the side, stood, and to lure Carl away from Seth,
ran up the spiral stairs.

Carl ran after her. Caught her at the top. She fought free, ran to the bedroom.
He caught her beside the bed, punched her. She kicked him in the groin. He
doubled over. She ran back to the balcony overlooking the great room and turned
to him.

Seething, lumbering, cursing under his breath, he lunged for her. She
sidestepped. He hit the railing. It gave way. He teetered back.

Rachelle stepped behind him, whispered, “Playing for keeps,” and shoved
hard.

Screaming, flailing arms, he fell to the first floor.

Rachelle stepped to the broken railing and looked down. Carl lay
sprawled out with his head, neck, and shoulders at a tortured angle.

She saw Seth step to Carl's side and look at him.

Breathing labored, Rachelle made her way down the stairs, walked to Carl,
kicked him hard, “You son of a bitch, get up.” He didn't move. She kicked him
again. “Get up.”

He didn't move.

She looked at Seth. “Are you all right?”

Rubbing his throat, “Yes.”

Breathing less labored, she bent over Carl and listened. Nothing. She reached
an index finger to Carl's carotid artery. Nothing. She looked at Seth who was
still rubbing his throat. She went to him and led him to the sofa, sat with
him. She kissed him. “Are you okay, my love?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“When?”

“Just now, Carl.”

“I heard him screaming, then I saw him hit the floor, very hard.”

She was not going to tell him she helped with a shove. That would
remain her secret forever. “He fell, it was an accident, I'll handle it and you
don't exist. I'm going to call 911, you must better be leaving.”

“But....”

”No buts. Best we don't see each other for a few days. I'll call you.”

“But....”

”I love you, Seth, soon you will have your wish, now please.” She took him
by the hand and led him to the kitchen door that led to the garage. “Go out
this way through the garage. And Seth, if anyone has happened to see you leave,
us drive in, you are a student of mine, we were collaborating on your
manuscript. Go.”

“What about that Houghton Lake video of us … you said....”

“I’ll take care of it, go.” She opened the door. The rain had slackened
to a steady pour. She said, “I'm sorry you have to get wet.”

He kissed her and stepped down to the garage.

She whispered, “Wait.” She went back and got a newspaper, returned and gave
the paper to him. “Cover your head. I'll call you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

After Seth left, Rachelle took the SD card from the camcorder, put it
in her pocket, and stuffed the camcorder in a drawer. The sight of Carl's body,
what he had done to T.S., she wanted to kick him again. She went to him and
again searched for a pulse. None. She opened his eye lids. Blank. He was dead.