White Lies (25 page)

“I was taking a piss,” he said, poker faced.

“That's not what she said.”

“She's wrong.”

Jack smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes this time, which remained cold, black chips. It seemed to say, “Go on, prove it.”

“Why would I care about a stupid pickup truck?”

“Let me tell you why,” Jack said, leaning forward. “I think you were pissed off with Katrina because she wanted nothing to do with you. I think when Crystal let it slip that the cabin wasn't Katrina's, you thought you could use that to get some dirt on her. And I think you followed the truck to see what you could dig up. Are you following me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” It was all he could think of to say.

“Don't dick around with me here, Zach. I
know
. Get that through your fucking thick head. So what we've got to do now is decide what we're going to do about this little predicament we're in.”

He wants to cut a deal?
Zach wondered, amazed and incredibly relieved. Given the direction the conversation had been headed, he had been thinking he was never going to leave his basement alive. “It's not a predicament,” he said immediately. “I'm cool with it.”

“How so?”

“I won't tell anyone anything.”

“And I'm supposed to trust you?” Jack was speaking conversationally, had been for most of the interrogation, and there was something about that which flooded the ventricles of Zach's heart with ice water. It was the way someone spoke to you before they shot you in the back of the head. “You already told me you don't like me,” he went on. “I bet the first thing you're going to want to do is tell someone what you know. And then they'll tell someone. You know how it goes.”

“I won't tell anyone anything.”

“When you're drunk?”

“No, I swear.”

“And what about the cops?”

“No, never.”

“This isn't a game. You know that, Zach, don't you?”

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

Jack leaned so close Zach could see a hairline scar on his chin and smell the musky-woody scent of his cologne. “Because if you ever tell anyone,” he hissed, “even hint at it, I will track you down and kill you, do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“
Yes
.”

“Good.” He sat back. “But I'm not satisfied yet.”

Zach groaned inwardly.

“You know why I'm not satisfied?” Jack said. “Because you're a sneaky little rat. I can tell that. Everyone can. It's something you have to work on, Zach. I know how fucks like you work. I bet you think you can report me, then go and lay low somewhere until I'm arrested, isn't that right?”

“I wasn't thinking that.”

“Sure you were, Zach. Because you're a sneaky little rat.” Jack stood suddenly. He still held the photo in his hand. He focused on it. “Your mother. She's pretty. What does she do?”

“She's a lawyer.” Zach thought that may distress Jack. It didn't, not in the slightest.

“You don't want to see any harm come to her, do you?”

“Leave her out of this!”

“Because if something were to happen to your lovely mother, it would be your fault. You would be responsible. You do know that, don't you, Zach?” He paused to let what he was saying sink in. “I have a friend. I'm going to call him when I leave this dump of yours. I'm going to tell him to kill her if I ever go to jail. Run her down while she's crossing the street out in front her law office, maybe. Rape and murder her in a park, maybe. Something like that. My friend, you should know, is very creative. And you should also know he's just gotten out of jail. Seven years, he was in there for. Needless to say, he doesn't like lawyers too much.”

Zach wanted to tell Jack his mother was a corporate lawyer, that she didn't deal with slime like him or his friend. But that wouldn't help his situation any. Jack might lose it and punch him the way he'd punched that old man. Then he might rip out the gas line to the stove and shove some newspaper in the toaster. Blow the entire house, and his landlady upstairs, to smithereens. Zach wouldn't put that past Jack. He wouldn't put anything past the lunatic.

“Are we clear?” Jack asked. “Do we understand one another?”

Zach nodded.

Without taking his eyes off him, Jack dropped the picture to the floor. Glass shattered. He picked the frame up, shook away the jagged shards, and peeled the photo out.

“I'm going to keep this,” he said. “For reference.”

He turned and left.

As soon as the side door banged closed, Zach was up the stairs and bolting the deadbolt. He returned to the basement and began pacing back and forth because he was too worked up to sit. His heart was beating like a hummingbird's. His head felt like it might explode.

Did Jack really have a friend who would kill his parents
?

Zach swore to himself, angry. That was the thing. He could never know. Nor could he take the risk and call Jack's bluff. If it was just his life on the line, he might have done as Jack so aptly suspected, going into hiding, then reporting Jack to the police. But there was no way he could tell his parents to do the same. His mother was a partner in her law firm. She couldn't simply stop working, pack up, and move across the country all because of him. Even if she did, she would have to return at some point—her friends were here, her life was here. Since no one knew who this real or fictional friend of Jack's was, she would never have any peace of mind.

Run her down while she's crossing the street out in front her law office, maybe. Rape and murder her in a park, maybe
—

An epiphany froze Zach to the spot. Had Jack threatened Katrina the way he'd just threatened him? Had he forced her to help dispose of the body and keep quiet about it? If he had forced her, that meant she was not in on it with him, not a coconspirator. She was on Zach's side, a prisoner of circumstance and fear. He could talk to her, figure out what to do next—

There was another knock at his door.

After Jack left to speak with Zach, Katrina went inside the bungalow and made green tea, thinking it would calm her nerves. It didn't. She ended up tossing it down the sink after two sips. She took up pacing around the house aimlessly, finding the unfurnished rooms a reflection of how she felt inside. Barren. Lonely. Empty. As if her insides had been dug out like a pumpkin's a week before Halloween. This was the first time she'd been alone since Jack had told her that Charlie was dead, that he needed her help to make his death look like an accident, and his iron steadfastness and confidence had left a vacuum in his departure, which was quickly filling up with growing despair and self-hatred. What had seemed like a bad idea to begin with seemed utterly unthinkable now. How had she ever gone along with Jack's plan? The dam of lies they'd built was straining under the pressure of the enormity of them all. Each time they repaired a crack, another one opened somewhere else. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that sooner or later the whole thing was going to explode.

Then turn yourself in
, she told herself.
Stop protecting Jack. He's a murderer. And a liar
.

She shook her head. Was he? Was he really? Or was he simply a decent man doing what anyone in his position would have done?

She stopped pacing when the picture of Shawn on the fireplace mantel caught her eye. She looked at her one-time fiancé with sad nostalgia.
God, I wish you were here, Shawn
. Jack and Shawn were complete opposites. While Jack was a walking magnet, his presence inescapable, Shawn had been Mr. Everyman: average height, build, looks. Never the life of a party but always polite and interesting.
Steady, stable, and reliable. On paper he didn't seem extraordinary in anyway, especially when compared to Jack. But she had been very comfortable with him, happy. Isn't that all that mattered? Because she'd been a contestant on the “Jack Show” for less than a week, and she had become an absolute mess. Of course, she had been placed in exceptional circumstances, but that was just the point. Shawn would never have let her be put in those circumstances.

During his annual physical a little more than two years ago, Shawn had complained to the family doctor of an increasing loss of memory and muscle coordination. The doctor had referred him to a specialist, who'd ruled out common forms of dementia such as inflammation of the brain or chronic meningitis. When there was still no clear diagnosis, more tests were performed, including a spinal tap, an EEG, and a computerized tomography. Finally an MRI scan revealed patterns of brain degeneration that led the specialists to believe Shawn was suffering from variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Shawn and Katrina's perfectly happy life was flipped upside down. CJD, they learned, was a very rare and fatal brain disorder that affected but a sliver of the population. The physicians—and they had gone to see a number—all told them Shawn had roughly six months to live. The illness progressed quickly. Shawn soon began suffering from involuntary muscle jerks and went partially blind. He lost the ability to move and speak before falling into a coma. Katrina didn't want him to spend his final days in a hospital bed, so she converted the first floor of the house they'd recently purchased—and renovated to accommodate a nursery—into a dreary sickbay, where she served as his full-time nurse. Eleven days after he came home, he died.

Katrina turned away from the picture, wanting to clear those haunting thoughts from her mind. She noticed Bandit standing by the stereo, staring at her, likely sensing the string holding her together was getting ready to snap. She decided to take him for a walk, simply to do something until she heard back from Jack and learned how his “talk” went with Zach.

“Come on, buddy,” she said, grabbing the leash from where it hung on the key hook next to the front door. “Let's get some air.”

He smothered her with rough licks while she attempted to link the leash to his collar. Once she had it secured, she grabbed a three-quarter-length wool jacket from the closet and went outside. Dark storm clouds had drifted in front of the sun while she'd been inside, and the bright afternoon sunlight had been filtered to a gritty gray. The temperature had dropped as well. It felt more like late October than early September. As she walked Bandit down the street, she thought about fast-approaching Halloween. She decided an appropriate costume for her would be one of those black-and-white-striped prison uniforms, with the plastic ball and chain manacled around an ankle—that is, if she wasn't wearing a real prison uniform by then.

A little ways down Wheeler Street she stopped when she spotted Our Lady of the Snows Catholic Church across the road. It was a sprawling white building with a portico and a blue roof. Parents and children and the elderly were filtering inside. Katrina stared at the building for a long moment. Then she knotted Bandit's leash around a utility pole and crossed the street. As she climbed the church's front steps and entered the narthex, she had the irrational thought she would instantaneously combust, her skin bubbling and sizzling and melting under a ball of flames while families looked on in horror. That didn't happen, of course. She took a seat in a pew and waited for everyone to get settled and for Mass to commence.

She hadn't been to church for years, and nothing seemed to have changed. It was, after all, one of the oldest institutions in the world whose evolution had taken centuries, not decades, or even years or months. The high ceilings dwarfed the congregation. The light filtering through the stained-glass windows was a brilliant red and icy blue. A hushed silence layered everything, what you only experienced in churches and libraries and, perhaps, the waiting room at the dentist's office.

The opening hymn began. The priest, dressed in a white-and-purple cassock, made his way down the center aisle, followed by his entourage. “Welcome to Sunday Mass,” he began in a loud, clear
voice when he reached the altar. “My name is Father O'Donovan, and thank you all for joining us today in our time of worship.”

For the next hour Katrina followed the familiar ritual of Mass: standing, sitting, kneeling, praying, singing. Throughout it all she found herself thinking about the past. When she was six or seven, before Crystal had been born, she had been unlike most of her other friends in that she'd always looked forward to attending church. For one, she liked the dressing up bit. But more than that, she liked the Sunday school where all the younger kids were ushered after the initial hymn was sung. She enjoyed the tales of miracles and adventures she learned about in the picture Bible, and when her teacher once told her that Jesus watched down over everyone, she'd spent the entire afternoon that day in the backyard, looking up into the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus, or even God, peeking over a cloud. Years later, in grade nine, she received the top mark in her religious studies class for a paper outlining the existence of God using St. Anselm's ontological argument.

The Good Girl, she mused.

Not anymore.

Katrina wondered why, after all these years, she'd decided to attend Mass now. Because if her parents' death had made her discard any notion of an omnipotent, beneficial God, Shawn's death had hammered the nails into the coffin of her belief, all but making her an atheist. She couldn't put a finger on the answer, only that there had been something about the sight of the church. It had given her some reassurance, some comfort, which had been what she'd needed most right then.

“And the Lord be with you,” the priest was saying.

“And also with you,” the congregation answered in unison.

“May the almighty God bless you. In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit. Our Mass has ended. Let us go forth in the joy of the Lord.”