A Gift for Dying Page 8

  She sounded desperate, whiny, which only angered her further.

  ‘I will. I do.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You pretend to understand, but that’s not the same thing.’

  ‘It’s not like that at all –’

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘It’s not my job to believe you, only to understand you.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Kassie replied, pushing past him.

  ‘Kassie, what you’ve told me is incredibly unusual. And if you feel I haven’t supported you properly, it’s only because I haven’t got the tools to process what you’re telling me. It’s my failing, not yours.’

  Kassie hesitated. His tone was so contrite, so concerned, that she suddenly felt bad for stalking off without a backward look. She paused, turning to him once more, her arms folded across her chest. She was still furious, but she would give him one last chance.

  ‘Teach me,’ he continued. ‘Help me to see what you see. But try to understand that I have spent my whole life studying brain function, psychological constructs, the rational and irrational processes of the mind. I’m a scientist – I decipher the world based on the evidence in front of me, so if I sometimes reveal … a lack of imagination, then don’t judge me too harshly. I’m trying to get there, but maybe I need a little help.’

  He sounded sincere, like he was genuinely keen to help, but Kassie had heard this speech many times before from a dozen different do-gooders.

  ‘Give me your scarf.’

  Adam looked bemused by the request, only now seeming to realize that the tail of his burgundy scarf was hanging from his coat pocket.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied stutteringly, pulling it from his pocket. ‘Are you cold or …’

  ‘Like I said, we all have our time.’

  Kassie turned away from him, marching the last few feet to Lake Shore Drive with the scarf in her hands.

  ‘Kassie … what the hell are you doing?’

  The concrete barrier by the roadside was less than a foot high and Kassie cleared it easily. She took a brief look in front of her, at the eight lanes of traffic speeding up and down the coast, then placed the scarf over her eyes, tying the ends together tightly together at the back of her head.

  ‘Kassie, for God’s sake, you don’t have to prove anything to me.’

  Adam’s voice was shrill, desperate, but Kassie didn’t hesitate. Even though she couldn’t see a thing through the itchy wool, she took a step towards the traffic. She could hear the roar of the trucks, could feel their side winds buffeting her as she approached the first lane, but she kept going.

  From nowhere, a deafening horn blast. Kassie jumped, even as a truck roared past. Kassie felt a hand grab at her – Adam presumably – but pulling away, she pressed on. Her heart was beating, she could feel sweat seeping from her forehead, but there was no turning back now.

  ‘Kassie, please don’t do this.’

  His voice was muffled by the noise of the vehicles. Suddenly, Kassie heard a shrieking squeal of brakes right next to her, followed by a volley of abuse.

  ‘Crazy fucking bitch!’

  On she went, faster and faster. Another deafening horn now, right under her nose. For a moment, she thought she’d been hit. But the car clipped the front of her toes, speeding on past her in a flash.

  She pressed on remorselessly, but her shin now hit something hard, arresting her progress and sending pain searing up her leg. Groping, she felt the dividing barrier between the north and south carriageways and clambered over it.

  ‘You wanna get yourself killed?’

  The accusation faded, as another startled driver sped on his way. Gritting her teeth, Kassie kept going, but almost immediately she was stumbling forward – the jet stream of what must have been a sixteen-wheeler knocking her off balance. She tried to right herself, clawing at the air, but it was too late. She was already on her way down and hit the hot tarmac hard, her hands and knees jarring with the impact.

  And then she heard it. An ominous, high-pitched whine, as brakes locked and protesting tyres skidded towards her across the dry, unforgiving surface. In that moment, she knew that she’d made a mistake, that the car would hit her.

  She could see herself flying backwards, pirouetting across the lanes into the path of oncoming traffic …

  But then the whining suddenly ceased, even as Kassie felt her right cheek kissed by the nose of the braking car. Grabbing hold of the grille, she hauled herself up, even as she heard the car door open.

  ‘Mother of God, honey, are you ok?’

  She lurched on, keen to be away from his concern, his questions. She could sense she was only yards from the other side now, so she moved faster, half stumbling, half running. She was almost there, almost there …

  She felt her feet hit solid concrete and she stopped dead. Yanking her blindfold off, she took in the barrier next to her, then turned to look back across the eight-lane highway.

  Adam Brandt was still there, staring at her from the other side of the highway, his face white with fear.

  28

  She was surrounded by death.

  Looking around the carriage, Rochelle Stevens took in the wall of tabloid newspapers, all of which majored on the brutal death of a local state’s attorney. She usually enjoyed her journey on the ‘L’ – it was a short twenty-minute hop from Loyola to Cermak – but today it was disquieting, even a little scary. The headlines in the local papers were gory and unpleasant, making great play of the fact that the mutilated body of a nice, middle-class attorney had been found in the trunk of a car, wrapped in a bloody plastic sheet. Several of them were already peddling a line of police incompetence – the paper claiming that the CPD had arrested and released a fifteen-year-old girl and were now scratching their heads for suspects. The coverage in the Tribune was scarcely better – most of the front page was given over to the grim discovery, while the inside featured a double-page spread about the life and death of the dedicated state servant. According to reports, the poor man was due to be married later this year.

  Saddened, Rochelle flicked through the pages, hastening away from the news to the travel section. This was more like it. There were numerous adverts for breaks to the Caribbean – Puerto Rico, Cuba, Jamaica – but perhaps she should consider going further afield? Could she scrabble together enough money to go to Hawaii? The thought made her giddy and she suddenly realized she was smiling. She was the only one in the carriage who was.

  Hang it, she thought to herself, she refused to be downcast today. She couldn’t control what happened in the world, but she could steer her own destiny. It had taken her so long to get over her college experiences, to face up to what had happened, process it and then get to a better, more constructive place. She had rebuilt her confidence step by step, refusing to let her life be defined by the date rape inflicted on her by a trusted friend. Now that she finally felt she was on firmer ground, she was determined to enjoy herself. Hell, she’d earned the right to a little happiness.

  It was time for her to stop worrying, to stop going over the same old ground and look forward. She would talk to some of her girlfriends, see if they fancied an impromptu spring getaway – but if they couldn’t, her sister could be relied upon to row in. Suddenly, Rochelle felt exhilarated, excited by the possibilities, by the feeling of freedom. The days of self-reproach and recrimination were over.

  It was time to live a little.

  29

  He ran a gloved finger over the chest of drawers, before letting it fall upon a set of framed photographs. He was tempted to wipe the dust from the glass – Rochelle really was so sluttish in her habits – but there was no question of betraying his presence in that way, so he contented himself with drinking in the family snapshots. They were obviously taken a few years ago: Rochelle’s hair was much longer, badly dyed, and there was something awkward in her stance, as she stood flanked by mother, father and sister. She was so fragile, so uncertain. She was stronger now of course, but for all her self-proclaimed p
rogress there was still an obvious vulnerability which he found appealing.

  Replacing the frame carefully on the chest of drawers, he turned to survey the rest of the bedroom. Rochelle was not a tidy person, often leaving the bed unmade and odd items of clothing on the floor. He stepped over them carefully, as he made his way towards the bed and sat down on it. All was quiet, nothing was moving in the house, and he was suddenly intensely aware of his heart thundering in his chest. His excitement was growing, his anticipation of what was to come making him light-headed and sweaty. The first one had been good, but he felt sure the second would be better. Rochelle’s fragility would make her reaction greater, her terror more extreme.

  Even as he thought this, he was rocketed back in time. To the day his mom had woken up, drowsy and confused, to find him standing over her on the bed. He only had a bread knife on him and he had no intention of using it, but the shock … the fear in her cold grey eyes was indelibly stamped on his memory. He had been beaten for his misbehaviour – beaten half to death – but every one of those brutal blows was sweet. He cherished them, along with her bitter, addled curses. He had never felt more significant than on that day.

  Outside a car horn honked. Rising quickly, he left the bedroom and returned to the living area. He still had to complete another circuit of the perimeter, wanted to double-check his plans, and it wouldn’t do to become complacent. Not when there was so much at stake.

  Rochelle lived alone on a quiet suburban road, she had no pets, so when she was out the whole place was filled with this reverential hush. He moved around it now, quickly and quietly, enjoying the freedom, commanding the silence. It made him feel like he owned the space, which in a way he did. Pretty soon, he would own Rochelle too. She was busy making plans of course – shopping, researching vacation options – unaware that it was all pointless.

  She was living on borrowed time.

  30

  ‘Are you sure you’re ok? You’ve not eaten anything …’

  Adam snapped out of it, suddenly aware that his fork was hanging in mid-air. Faith watched him closely as he slid the fork into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on his linguine. The change in his demeanour was striking. When he’d first arrived, he couldn’t stop talking and, as he’d begun to explain what had happened with Kassie, Faith had understood why. But slowly Adam had receded into himself, and after a while conversation had ceased altogether.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied eventually, placing his fork back in his nearly full bowl. ‘I’m just preoccupied …’

  ‘Look, if you’re that worried about her, maybe you should have her sectioned? If you think she may harm herself, or others.’

  Adam looked up. He seemed eager for her counsel, but was obviously torn as to what to do.

  ‘I’ve spoken to her social worker and that should be enough for now,’ he responded. ‘Sectioning her will open a whole can of worms with her mother, her school, her outreach team, plus it will destroy any semblance of trust that we’ve managed to establish.’

  ‘Are you going to see her again?’

  ‘I don’t think I have a choice. It’s more a question of whether she’ll see me. I nearly lost her today.’

  ‘Do you think she’s having a breakdown? Is she delusional?’

  Adam considered his response, seemingly grasping for the right words.

  ‘If you’d asked me that this morning, I would have said she was experiencing some form of psychotic break. Lord knows, she’s been through enough to provoke that, plus she’s very isolated and the drugs don’t help …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But she doesn’t sound crazy, she doesn’t act crazy.’

  ‘Apart from running across eight-lane highways. And breaking into peoples’ homes.’

  ‘Apart from that,’ Adam responded, managing a brief smile, which pleased Faith. ‘She is lucid, calm, reasoned. Most people in the midst of a psychotic break struggle to be articulate, you can hear their brain misfiring in their odd patterns of speech, the lack of logic in their statements, their general disorientation. Also, they tend to let personal hygiene go, forget to change or wash their clothes, run out of cash … but she’s neat, clean and self-possessed. And, actually, looked at from her point of view, her actions make sense.’

  Faith could see Adam was struggling, so she reached out and took his hand, earning a warm, approving look from the middle-aged lady at the table next to them. They were in the brasserie at the Chicago Art Institute, Faith’s favourite place in Chicago. She and Adam had spent many of their early dates here – they used to sit for hours in the Monet room, surrounded by those amazing canvases, exchanging confidences in hushed whispers. When Adam had called earlier asking to meet, sounding upset, she had immediately suggested lunching here, hoping it might have a calming effect.

  ‘How close was she to …?’

  For some reason, Faith couldn’t quite say it.

  ‘She nearly got hit five, maybe six times. The cars must have missed her by inches.’

  ‘And you’re sure she couldn’t see? It wasn’t … I don’t know … a trick?’

  ‘No,’ Adam protested, involuntarily shooting a look at his scarf, which was now stowed back in his coat pocket. ‘She was blindfolded, and even if she could peek out it was still an incredible risk to take.’

  ‘But if she’s unwell, not thinking straight …’

  ‘That’s just it. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was proving a point. In her head it’s not her time yet, which is why she didn’t look scared at all.’

  ‘Then maybe she’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Faith,’ Adam reprimanded her, irritation creeping into his tone.

  ‘I’m not. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” ’ she replied reprovingly.

  ‘Look, you know it’s not my style to rain on anyone’s spiritual beliefs …’

  Faith could tell Adam was choosing his words carefully. She had always been more open to these things than her husband. She believed in Fate, in omens, even the power of mediums – insisting that a fairground fortune teller had once accurately predicted she would marry a doctor – and though Adam didn’t share her views, he never mocked them.

  ‘But this is off-the-scale weird and … it frightens me. She’s only fifteen.’

  Faith looked at him, worried by his fevered tone. She had been wanting to talk to him today, but it didn’t seem the right time now to burden him with her concerns. They would have to wait for another day.

  ‘Would it be worth referring her to someone else, then? A fresh pair of eyes?’

  But already Adam was shaking his head.

  ‘She’s seen too many health officials already. What she needs now is consistency.’

  ‘But why you? When you’ve got so much else on your plate.’

  ‘Because I care. Because maybe I can help her.’

  ‘You help people every day and you can only do so much.’

  ‘I know, but still …’

  ‘I’m just trying to understand what’s so special about her. Why you feel you need to reach out to her specifically.’

  ‘Because she’s got no one else.’

  The words hung in the air, simple but triumphant. Faith was an only child and had often been lonely growing up. Wittingly or unwittingly, Adam had pressed the one button that was guaranteed to sway Faith in Kassie’s favour.

  ‘Then you must do what you think is right. If you think you can help her.’

  ‘I want to try …’

  ‘That’s my boy.’

  It was said with humour, but also with love. She couldn’t resist him when he was like this. Taking his hands in hers, she kissed them gently. He immediately leaned forward, resting his forehead on hers. And there they remained, Faith filled with love for her man, but also something else.

  Pride.

  31

  Nancy Bright sat in the interview suite, her hands shaking slightly as she cradled a cup
of coffee. She made no move to drink it, simply staring into its depths. Pale, drawn and restless, she was still a woman in deep shock.

  ‘I know this is hard. There’s so much for you to take in,’ Gabrielle sympathized. ‘But I do need to ask you these questions.’

  Nancy nodded, but said nothing. So far, her answers had been monosyllabic.

  ‘Had anyone threatened your fiancé recently?’

  Nancy shook her head slowly, looking slightly mystified.

  ‘Someone to do with his work? Someone he’d crossed or helped incarcerate?’

  ‘Not that he mentioned to me.’

  ‘Anyone in his personal life, then?’ Detective Miller overlapped. ‘Family member? Friend? Ex?’

  ‘No, no …’ Nancy insisted. ‘He wasn’t that kind of guy. Everyone liked him. Hell, most of his ex-girlfriends are still in love with him.’

  It was said with rueful humour, but prompted tears to fill her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you noticed something out of the ordinary, then, in the last few weeks,’ Miller persisted gently. ‘Someone hanging around the house? Someone who didn’t seem to fit in the neighbourhood?’

  Nancy turned her gaze to the ceiling, as if racking her brains. A single tear slid down her cheek, but she wiped it away.

  ‘I don’t think so. We’ve only just moved to West Town, but it’s always seemed very safe.’

  ‘And Jacob hadn’t shared any concerns with you? Any worries, however insignificant, might have a bearing on this case,’ Gabrielle suggested.

  ‘Just the usual work politics. He … we were in a good place. We’d just bought the house, we were planning our wedding …’

  Once more emotion mastered her. Dropping her eyes to the floor, she dug her nails into her hand, fighting to contain her distress. Gabrielle gave her a moment, then nodded to Miller, who opened the file in front of her.

  ‘Nancy, I’d like to show you some photos. I won’t burden you with the details, I just need to know if you recognize any of these faces.’