The Juror Page 26

  Now he takes his HKP7 automatic from the bag. He places it on the little dressing table catty-corner across the room from the bed.

  She switches on the lamp.

  He can feel her stare as he takes his shirt from the chair back and puts it on and buttons it.

  “Who are you?” she says.

  “You haven’t figured that out? I’m Annie’s friend.”

  He listens a moment to her wide-open hoarse breathing. As he tucks in his pants, zips up, buckles.

  “You… you bastard, you—”

  “When you were putting Oliver at risk,” he says, “the boy you love so much, then you had ice in your veins. You felt like such a heroine. Now I ask you if you can be a real heroine.”

  He takes out his vivid green contact lenses, puts them in their case.

  She tries to speak. “Why—”

  “Because now after what you’ve done, after you’ve interfered, it’s Oliver’s only chance. Unless we do something, he’s going to die. You don’t believe it. You think I’m lying. You think I’m an opportunist, a rationalist. But you don’t understand me at all. I’m a child at play, Juliet. I’m a sentimental fool. And I will have him killed. Like that.”

  He leans over the bed and snaps his fingers in her face.

  “Even though no good will come of it. Even though it will cause immeasurable pain. Even though I love him as much as you do, Juliet—still. I’ll kill him. I told Annie, I told her what we’d do if she betrayed us. And I’m a man of my word. The Way of Power is an unvarying way. What, do you still think we’re playing? You don’t believe me?”

  She stares at him.

  “Annie doesn’t believe me either. Not really, not in her gut, not since you were so persuasive. And now the police are with her. Babysitting her, waiting for her to break. There’s a choice that she has to make, and there’s no one to help her, no one with her interests in mind. No one but the police. All day and all night. Which way do you think she’s going to go? I think she’s going with her new friends. Unless she gets some kind of signal, something clear, something to convince her that I mean what I say. We have to wake her up. Give her a little taste of grief, an inoculation, does that make sense? Just enough to make her afraid. So she’ll believe me.”

  Juliet says nothing.

  “It’ll be easy for you. Enough Tuinals, enough rum, get your GABA system hopping, flood your neurons with chloride ions—it’ll be simple and sweet and painless. And forgiving, Juliet. Will you help me? Will you help me to save Oliver?”

  She doesn’t answer. She’s no doubt scared out of her wits. The pupils of her eyes are tiny pinpricks. But he’s sure she hears what he’s telling her.

  He says, “Or you can try to fight me. In which case I’ll kill you now. I’ll leave a suicide note for you anyway but I’m not sure the cops will buy it. I’ll have to vanish for a few years. Someone else will have to kill Oliver. I’ll have to go down to my place in Curasao. Snorkeling, sailfishing, waste of time. No good for me, no good for you. No good for Oliver. No good for anybody. But it’s your choice, Juliet. Is that the way you want to do this? What do you think?”

  For a long time she doesn’t move. Then her left eye twitches—and then there’s something resistant, something he finds ugly and primitive and mulish that passes across her features. He braces himself. He wonders if she’s going to try to rush him.

  But that look passes. She blinks, and her eyes slip shut.

  He says, “Juliet? Oh, Juliet. Do you want Oliver to die before he’s lived?”

  He whispers, “We can save him.”

  He whispers, “Juliet?”

  13

  Does it seem depraved—my fascination for that man?

  ANNIE the next morning is in her studio, on the phone to Inez.

  Inez complains, “A house? Are you crazy? Do you know how much a house costs in Westchester?”

  Says Annie, “But I’m talking about an abandoned house. Get me a falling-down house anywhere. Nobody’s going to live in this house, Inez. It’s going to be a sculpture.”

  “What kind of sculpture?”

  “I don’t want to say any more.”

  “You want me to get you a fuckin grant to buy a house but you don’t wanna tell what it’s for? What are you, nuts?”

  Says Annie, “I just don’t know the details yet. I need to see the house first.”

  “So who you think’s gonna spring for this house?”

  “I don’t know. Find somebody for me. If you love me, find me this house because this is going to be a work like nothing anyone’s ever done or will do—”

  “OK. I’ll call Zach Lyde.”

  “No.”

  “No? What’re you talking about? He’s got the bucks, he worships the ground you walk on, he might even be crazy enough to do something like this—”

  “Not Zach Lyde. Not for this one.”

  “But he’s the only one, Annie.”

  “Not that son of a bitch! You hear me?”

  “Hey girl—”

  “NOT YOU! ARE YOU LISTENING TO THIS? STAY OUT! THIS IS MY WORK!”

  “Who the hell you think you’re talking to, girl?”

  “Inez, I don’t, I don’t mean you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you? You in trouble? Are you depressed about something, Annie?”

  “No no, I’m soaring. Really. I’m going to do my house, Inez, I know it. Somehow or other.”

  After the call, Annie paces in her studio. Thinking about the house. She hasn’t been this wild for her own work since she was in school. Back and forth she walks, with sudden inspired spurts. The phone rings and she grabs it just to shut it up. It’s Henri, Juliet’s friend from the hospital.

  He says, “Annie? Annie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Juliet is dead.”

  “Juliet is dead,” she says back to him.

  “They say she killed herself.”

  “Wait.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Wait.”

  “She took sleeping pills. There was a note, she left a note. Said she was tired of the hospital, tired of the pressure, tired of no way to escape, tired of her life. Tired of pretending that she was strong enough. Annie. But I don’t believe it, she, Annie, why didn’t she fight? Annie, what is this? What is this?”

  Desperate to dampen the pain, Annie finds herself in the tool corner of her studio and she has her hands on the long-handled garden shovel, and she brings it up and swings it against the glass panes of the studio door. Shatters the glass. Then she swings it against the casement window. Her heart’s raw wish being that in the thousands of glass tidbits, in the sheer anarchy of their trajectory, there will be distraction—some measure of oblivion. But the smashing makes no dent on her grief, none at all. Her shovel changes the Grope Box called The Dream of Giving Notice into splinters and bits of cage-lace and flying screws, but the pain is invulnerable. There’s no cure, never will be, no relief….

  She drops the shovel. It bounces at her feet. Her howling shrivels. She bites down on her hand. Silence. Her face is bleeding. Her cheek when she touches it feels white hot.

  OLIVER and Jesse pull into the driveway on their bikes. The clouds are low and fat, it’s chilly, another day of this rotten weather. Mom’s car’s not here. Maybe she just drove out to do a chore but Oliver feels an inkling of worry.

  He and Jesse cruise around to the back. Suddenly Oliver squeezes hard on the hand brakes, nearly wipes out: what he sees. The glass has been busted out of one of the studio windows. The door hangs on one hinge. Shards and slivers everywhere.

  Jesse says, “Holy shit.”

  Oliver’s off the bike and running up to the broken door. He swings it open, scraping it over the concrete step. He looks into the studio.

  Sons of bitches have trashed one of Mom’s pieces. Scraps of wood and motor and wire mesh all over, and then he sees the blood, blood on th
e handle of the shovel and spattered on the floor.

  “Mom!”

  He runs out again—pushing deadweight Jesse aside. He slips on the thin gravel of the drive, crying, “Mom! Mom!” He uses his key to get into the bungalow but the bungalow is also quiet. He shouts for her again and scrambles up the stairs, but she’s not there and he wonders what he’s supposed to do. Does he call the cops now, does he dare call the cops, will that guy hurt Mom if he calls the cops? Why would the fucker want to hurt her, didn’t she do everything he asked? “Mom!”

  And then he looks out her window and he sees the Subaru pulling in. Jesse looks up and sees him in the window and calls, “Hey man, chill. She’s right here.”

  The Subaru beeps. Cheerful little chirp.

  He races down again—nearly breaks his neck on the stairs. He runs outside and she’s waiting in the car and he cries out, “Mom!” He’s crying. Rushing toward her side of the car. “What happened?”

  She unrolls the window. Doesn’t seem to notice his tears. Her cheek’s been cut by something, and there’s a slash above her eyebrow. She’s dyed her hair red. She’s got a vague smile on her face. “Get in the car,” she says. “You and Jesse, I’m taking Jesse home. How was school, baby?”

  “Mom, what happened?”

  He can feel Jesse standing at his shoulder.

  She looks casually over at the studio. “Oh. I got into a mood. You know? One of my moods? The hatch is open, put Jesse’s bike in and let’s go.”

  They do as they’re told.

  She pulls out onto Seminary Road and she offers them Life Savers.

  Driving beside the lake with that odd smile. She’s got the radio going, bubblegum music, and she sucks away happily at her Life Saver and doesn’t say a word.

  Once, Oliver looks back at Jesse, and Jesse does a mock-paranoid shifting of his eyes, as if to say your mother is a spooky woman.

  When they get to Jesse’s, Oliver gets out and helps him to unload his bike. Mom gets out too. Jesse’s saying goodbye when suddenly out of nowhere she asks him, “Hey Jesse? Do you know where your passport is?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your passport. Didn’t you and your parents take a trip to Wales last year? Where’s your passport?”

  Jesse looks over at Oliver. He says, “Um, my mother keeps the passports in, in a drawer. In the living room.”

  “Could I look at yours?” she asks. “I mean just for a second—I’m doing this sculpture and I want to paint Oliver’s passport in it. I need a model.”

  “So why don’t you use Oliver’s passport?”

  “Oliver doesn’t have a passport.”

  “Mine is real stupid looking,” says Jesse. “I mean the picture, it’s dumb.”

  “Just for a second?”

  Jesse does his shrug.

  He goes to fetch the passport. Comes back in a minute and hands it over. “I look goofy, though.”

  Mom studies the snapshot. She opens her purse and takes out her own passport and compares that photo.

  “It’s a lot like mine,” she says. “Not smiling—very serious.”

  Oliver wishes she’d get over this weirdness and let’s get out of here. But she keeps looking at Jesse’s picture and shaking her head. She says, “You look like your dog just died, you know?”

  “Yeah?” he says.

  She gives him back the passport and she and Oliver get in the car.

  They’re driving on Old Willow and Oliver asks her, “What was all that for?”

  But she puts a finger to her lips.

  When they get home, as soon as they’re out of the car she draws him to her and says in a whisper, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “OK,” he says. “Where?”

  “You remember your shortcut through the woods? Back to the old railroad right-of-way?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Show it to me.”

  They walk around behind the studio. Mom keeps glancing behind her—and then she takes off running into the woods and he follows her.

  She doesn’t slow down till they get to the power line cut. They stop a moment to catch their breath. After that she lets him lead, lets him guide her along his secret trail through the brambles.

  He says, “Mom, why did you pull that switch on Jesse?”

  “You saw it?”

  “Yeah.”

  She asks, “Do you think he saw it?”

  “Uh-uh. He was looking at you. He just thought you were nuts. But why did you want his passport?”

  “Because you don’t have one,” she says.

  He holds up. “Do I need one?”

  She simply steps around him, ducks under a vine and walks on. She’s in a hurry.

  He follows and says, “What, are we leaving the country? Mom, what’s happening? What happened to your studio? What’s going on?”

  “Another time,” she tells him.

  “Mom, the trial’s over. The Mafia guys, they won’t bother you anymore. You’re not flipping out, are you? I mean, you know that it’s all over?”

  “Almost,” she says.

  “We should talk about this, Mom.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, OK, but maybe you could talk to Juliet? Why don’t you call Juliet?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  They emerge at the old railroad right-of-way. Just a straight trail through the woods. She asks him, “If we go this way, where would we come out?”

  “Morris Road,” he says.

  “No, I mean farther,” she says. “If we cross Morris Road, keep going?”

  “I don’t know. Croton Falls?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “But that’s like seven or eight miles.”

  “So let’s get a move on.”

  They walk. Soon a drizzle starts up. Gray drizzle and a gray junco flitting above a gray wall. Oliver’s bewildered, and frustrated by her silence. But as they walk a strange contentment falls over him. Are they running away? If they run away forever, math quizzes and Laurel Paglinino will no longer be a concern. Only problem is he’s going to miss Juliet. He’s already missing Juliet.

  They walk for hours. This long mysterious side-by-side trudge down the straight path through October trees and pastures, through the soft rain.

  Once he asks her, “Couldn’t we have stopped in the house to pack something? Anything?”

  “What do you want, Oliver? What do you need?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  But after a while he says, “That skull that Juliet gave me. Would have been nice to have that. For good luck. Does Juliet know where we’re going?”

  “No.”

  By the time they get to Croton Falls, to where this old right-of-way connects with the active commuter line, it’s past noon and he’s starving. They grab sandwiches at the village deli and then cross to the station and take a train down to the city.

  From Grand Central Station they take a cab to a luggage store. She buys them each a suitcase. Next a quick spree in a cheap clothing store. Then a cab to La Guardia Airport. She buys the tickets under the name Juliet Applegate. She uses Juliet’s passport—she won’t tell him why. She’s changed a few numbers. She’s changed the height from 6′2′′ to 5′3′′, she’s taken thirty pounds off the weight.

  At the ticket counter she pays cash. When she hands over Jesse’s passport she says, “My nephew.” She ruffles Oliver’s hair and tells the lady, “I finally made him cut it. Don’t you think it looks better?” She lies with such grace and easy polish and insouciance.

  The plane to Guatemala is leaving in thirty minutes. She sets him into a plastic scoop-chair at the boarding gate, and she goes off to make a call.

  CAREW turns down the sound on the Islanders game. His wife sets the phone on the coffee table in front of him and he picks it up and it’s Annie Laird. He hears some kind of public jostle and bustle in the background.

  She says, “I’ve decided I will work with you.”<
br />
  “Good.”

  “He killed Juliet,” she says. “Did you know that? He made it look like a suicide but he killed her.”

  “I don’t, um, who is that?”

  She’s silent.

  He says, “They killed someone? What was the name again?”

  “Juliet Applegate,” she says slowly. “My friend. The doctor. You didn’t know she’d died?”

  “I don’t know anything about her,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what, Ms. Laird?”

  “Why don’t you know? He knows. He knows everything about my life.”

  “Well, maybe he knows because he’s looking for ways to hurt you. Me, I’m not looking to hurt you.”

  “But you are hurting me,” she says.

  “Now that you’re working with us, we’ll stop him.”

  “Right,” she says. No irony in her voice. No enthusiasm either. Nothing he can read.

  He says, “Do you want to come down to the office now?”

  “Not now.”

  “OK. We’ll start in the morning?”

  “Soon,” she says.

  “When?”

  But then his call-waiting goes off, and he says, “Could you hold on for just a second?”

  It’s Harry Beard on the other line, telling him, “Annie Laird has flown the coop.”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s no lights on in her house. We checked, she’s gone. So’s the kid. The car’s there. Somebody smashed up her studio—”

  “Harry, she’s on the phone with me right now.”

  “Oh shit. Where is she?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” says Carew. “Let me ask.”

  But of course by now the other line is a dial tone.

  ANNIE and Oliver ride in the back of a bus that threads through the sprawls of Guatemala City. They’re headed north to the mountains, to Huehuetenango, where they’ll look for a ride to Turtle’s village. They have to share their seat with two stout Mayan women. Oliver sits nearest to the window. Next comes Annie, then the two women in their bright complex huipiles.

  All four of them shoehorned into this one school bus seat.