Chapter Forty-four

The backseat was cold, and he shivered in his T-shirt, trying to stay warm. His father had his window rolled down, and the cold air blasted against him. He pulled his arms inside the shirt and held them against his chest. Next to him, the baby slept. And next to her, his brother. Neither of them looked cold. Maybe only he was cold.

His father was grumbling to himself, but the wind and the metal ticking sound of the car made it impossible to understand the words. He pulled his knees up to his chest and dropped his head to his lap. They would be home within an hour. He could survive another hour. It wasn’t that cold. Shivering again, he raised his head and looked around the backseat for something to cover himself with, but the baby’s blanket was the only thing back there except his dad’s cooler.

His father reached back, his hand feeling for the top of the cooler and lifting it to reach for another beer. He brought it forward, dripping, and handed it to his mom to open. She crossed her arms and shook her head.

“Open it,” he snapped.

She looked at him and started to shake her head again when something stopped her. From the backseat, he couldn’t see his father’s face, but he could visualize the stare. Eyes narrowed, thick nose flared. It was alook that warned everyone in the house not to screw with him.

He shivered again, harder this time. It was probably already too late. His dad had already had too much to drink. Nine beers since they got on the road. Once his dad got that look, he was already wound up and mean.

When they got home, they were in for a beating. Mom first because she had started it. Then him next. Once or twice, he’d been last. By then, his dad was always tired and too drunk to hit as hard. That was if he was lucky. But his dad never missed anyone. Luck didn’t last that long in his house.

Usually he was first. His brother was smaller. And the baby was only little. She wasn’t really a baby anymore, but that’s what everyone called her. Not that it mattered to his dad. He’d been beating them up since he was four. His dad even hit his sister from time to time when she cried too much. She barely cried at all, but even that was too much to his dad.

When it was over and his father had passed out, he always took care of his mother. He got the rubbing alcohol from the bathroom and cleaned the wounds and put bandages on. He wrapped her wrist the time it got broken. And when his father had taken her hand and punched it through the window, he had picked out the slivers of glass with a pair of tweezers.

His brother mostly hid. He’d even gotten out of a few beatings that way. But it meant his dad got him and his mother even worse. His mother looked at his brother in a weird way he didn’t understand. Like she was real sad or something.

His father’s head bobbed slightly, and he could see his mother grip her seat. She didn’t say anything. He tucked his head back in his shirt and squeezed his eyes closed.

“You cold, honey?” she turned around to ask him.

He glanced at the back of his father’s head, shook his head quickly, and tucked his head back down.

“Shut your window,” she told his father. “The kids are cold.”

His father mumbled something that he didn’t hear. He wasn’t watching, but he heard a quick smack and the sound of his mother gasping. He shut his eyes tight, trying to block it out.

“We’ll be home soon,” his mother whispered. He didn’t need to see her to know she had tears in her eyes. He wanted to cry too.

He wished they could speak some secret language. If they could, he would tell her not to worry. He would tell her it was going to be okay. His mom started to sing, low and soft. Even his dad loved his mother’s singing. She had the voice of an angel, he’d heard his dad say once.

She did sound like an angel. He loved her voice. He closed his eyes and listened to her, letting all the bad thoughts out.

His father growled something.

His mother kept singing.

He looked up and watched her. He wanted to tell her not to fight with him. But he knew she was trying to be strong, trying to stand up to him.

Just then, his father’s hand shot out. He grabbed his mother by the neck and banged her head against the window.

“No,” he screamed, jumping forward. He pounded on his dad’s shoulders, fists flying.

His dad slapped back at him, and he fell against the door. His head smacked hard against the handle of the door, but he didn’t make a sound. He tasted blood on his lip.

“I’ll deal with you when we get home,” his dad said. “Don’t you make me have to pull this car over.”

His mother was crying softly in the front seat, holding her head.

“Shut your yapping,” his father said.

His mother stopped.

He looked over at his brother. You okay? his brother asked him without speaking. He nodded and tucked his sore head back into his shirt, blowing hot air to keep himself warm.

The car grew silent. He could hear the clink of his dad’s beer can as he tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel.

He curled up in a ball, resting his head against the baby’s seat and trying to sleep. No one else moved. Even the baby knew enough to pretend nothing was happening.

He wished it was just the kids and his mom. He wished his dad would die. He wished his dad would get drunk and drive himself into a tree like old Mr. Potter did last winter. Or maybe fall in a pool and drown. Or go hunting with Sam and Lowell and get shot. How come his dad drank so much and always ended up okay?

He’d heard his father and Sam and Lowell talking about hunting accidents when they were sitting on the porch drinking. His room was right there, and he could hear everything. Some guy had aimed at a buck and took the head off another hunter. How come nobody did that to his dad?

He had to think of something. He had to get them away. The car swerved and his father snorted. His mother gasped but kept her silence. Just then, he got an idea.

He caught his brother’s eye. He tugged on his seatbelt and pointed to his brother. He nodded and pulled the belt away from his chest to show it was on. He pointed to his mom. His brother peered between her seat and the door and then looked back, nodding. He checked the baby’s seatbelt. Everyone was belted in but his dad. He had learned about seatbelts in school. They’d watched a video with two dummies. One had worn a seatbelt and one had not. The one without the seatbelt was all messed up, springs coming loose and his head almost falling off. But the one who wore the seatbelt was fine. The seatbelt would keep everyone safe. And then they could live happily, without his dad. He smiled at his idea.

His brother looked at him and frowned, but he shook his head. He couldn’t explain or his dad would wonderwhat was going on. Pretending to sleep, he rested his head against the baby’s seat and closed his eyes.

He counted to twenty-five and then opened one eye. His father’s head bobbed once and then twice and then popped back up. He reached his foot forward, resting it on the emergency brake just out of his dad’s sight. He waited, the muscle in his leg tense, until he saw his father’s head bob again. Then he kicked as hard as he could, pushing his father’s hand into the gearshift.

His father cursed and the car careened to the left. His father jerked it back, and he felt his head slam against the window.

Through the windshield he looked for the road, but it was out of focus. Grabbing hold of the baby’s seat, he heard his mother scream as the car hit the guardrail and broke through.

 

Rob woke in a sweat and wiped his face with his jacket. He stood up and tried to shake the images out of his mind. He couldn’t make them go away. He rubbed his head. He hated the dreams the most. Waking, he always felt like he was right there. He wanted to cry.

He paced the little room like a caged animal. Sweat poured down his back and pooled at the elastic waistband of his shorts. He’d long since shed his sweatshirt. Everything had gone crazy since Nick had awakened him that morning. Without any explanation—at least none that made sense to him—they brought him here and people started pointing at him like a killer. They’d taken his photo and his fingerprints, made him fill out forms.

Then they’d been in a courtroom and two people had I.D.’d him. Him. They’d said he was the killer. He put his hands in his hair and pulled. Tears caught in his throat, and he couldn’t hold them back. Please, God. What was going on? How could these people have seen him do something he didn’t do?

He was being punished. God was punishing him for what he’d done all those years ago. Jesus. He tugged at his hair, the spiky pain making tears run down his cheeks. He hadn’t meant it. He felt his knees shake at the memory of that day. Poor Becky. He’d never meant to hurt her. She was just a baby.

He leaned up against one wall and sank to the floor, crying. “I’m so sorry, Becky. I’m so so sorry.” He dropped his head onto his folded arms and let the quake of tears loose. The salty river was cathartic, draining his fear from him.

When the tears subsided, he was left with exhaustion, pure and simple. He swept his dirty shirtsleeve across his face and waited—waited for whatever was next. He had hoped the release would ease his anxiety, but every minute that passed built it back up until it threatened to overflow again. He stood and began pacing, trying not to think about anything. Just move, he told himself. But every time he paused, the word “killer” flashed through his head and brought with it the sharp, cold stab of terror.

By the time the door opened and Nick came in, Rob nearly sprang on him. “Oh, thank God, man! Thank God you’re here! What the hell’s going on? What were those people saying? I didn’t do this, Nick. I didn’t do anything. I swear. It’s some mistake.”

Nick nodded and put his hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Calm down, buddy. Calm down.”

He pulled a chair out and motioned for Rob to sit.

“I can’t. You don’t know what it’s like in here. I feel like I’m in prison.” His mouth fell open. “That’s what it’s going to be like, isn’t it? Oh, God. Prison.”

Nick took him by the shoulders and pushed him into the chair. Then he pulled another chair up and sat in it. “I’m as shocked about this as you are, believe me. You’re not going to prison. I’m sorry you had to wait in here, but I had to talk to some people. I’ll get you out as soon as I can. But you’ve got to help me answer some questions. Can you help me do that?”

“Yeah. I’ll do anything. Where’s Aunt Sam?”

“She had to go to the courthouse and talk to the judge to make sure you can go home tonight, and then she had to find your brother. She told me to tell you she loves you and everything’s going to be fine. She’ll be here soon.”

Unable to control himself, Rob started to cry again. Sob was more like it. His shoulders shook, tears tracked down his face, and he could taste their sweaty flavor when they hit his lips. He’d thought they were all gone, but a new batch had stored up that quickly.

Nick put his hands on Rob’s shoulders. “I swear, Rob. It’s going to work just like that.” He leaned forward. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Rob swiped clumsily at his tears and nodded. “Sorry,” he sniffled, trying to gather his composure.

“No problem. In the meantime, you and I need to work to answer some questions, okay?”

Rob nodded. “I didn’t do it. I swear, I didn’t kill those ladies,” he said.

Nick narrowed his eyes and watched him, nodding slowly. “I know.”

“What do we do now?”

“It’s like I said, Rob,” Nick said, meeting his eyes squarely. “We just need to answer some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“You’ve heard of a polygraph test?”

Rob shrugged. Every time he tried to clear his brain, a rush of panic blew clouds over it again. He couldn’t think of what anything meant.

“It’s a lie detector test,” Nick explained. “They want you to take one of those for them.”

He bolted from his chair. “A lie detector test? No way. I’ve seen them fake those things on TV. Hook me up to some wires and then make it look like I did something I didn’t do.”

Nick stood in front of him, their eyes almost exactly level. “Sit down,” he said, pulling on Rob’s arm. “It’s not going to be like that. No one’s tricking you into anything. A lie detector test is going to prove you didn’t do it.” Nick’s eyes met Rob’s as he made his point, and then he looked away.

“You think I did it,” Rob charged. “My God! You think I could have killed someone.”

“Of course not. But imagine how they’re seeing it for a second. These people—not just one but two of them—came forward and identified you. The deaf kid from that street, the man who said he saw you by Eva Larson’s house. How could that be?”

Rob’s breath came in fast, wheezy waves. “I don’t know. I have no idea.” But he did.

He thought about the other person in this world who looked just like him. Derek wouldn’t do this to him. He wouldn’t let Rob hang. He wouldn’t kill. Why would he have killed those women?

But an image kept coming back to him. Rob remembered the way Derek had responded to their father, the fear in his face whenever their father got close. Rob bit his tongue. It couldn’t be Derek. He shut the door on those thoughts and studied the hope in Nick’s eyes. “I’ll take the test, if that’s what they want.”

Nick nodded and stepped away from him, sitting on the edge of the table. He was silent for a minute. “Rob, what about Derek?” he asked, finally.

Rob stared at the floor. “What about him?”

“Could he ride your motorcycle?”

“No way,” Rob said, suddenly angry. “Leave Derek out of this. He can hardly walk. He’s been through enough.” Rob knew what Nick was thinking. The man who said he had seen Rob run down the street. Run. Rob could run. He was a good runner. But Derek wasn’t. Derek could hardly walk without a limp. How could he possibly have run down the street or ridden his motorcycle? Rob didn’t want to think about it. Derek couldn’t walk. He rubbed his face. He would know if his brother could walk.

“Rob, what are you thinking?”

Rob looked up at him. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“You’re sure about Derek?”

Rob’s heartbeat started to pound in his ears.

“Rob?”

“I’m—” But was he sure? Not really. He forced himself to nod. “I’m sure. Now when can I take the test?” he asked.

 

Rob watched the man set up the lie test. Polaski was his name. He was ugly with badly pockmarked skin, a huge scar, and a mean glare. Nick sat in a chair beside Rob and talked to him while the man worked.

“All you’ve got to do is tell the truth,” Nick explained. “The machine reads your heart rate, then prints it out on paper.” He pulled a test from someone else out of the trash and showed Rob. It was a continuous piece of long paper like the kind in the printer at the school library. On each page was a line that squiggled up and down like Rob had seen from the machines on TV that measured people’s brain waves or something.

“When people lie,” Nick continued, “their heart rate increases and the paper shows these peaks.” He pointed to one.

“Unless they’re sociopaths,” Polaski cut in. “Sociopaths can lie without the least reaction at all.” His eyes rested on Rob. “And I’ve seen ’em younger than you,” he added.

Rob’s mouth dropped open, fear preventing him from saying anything. He thought if the machine was hooked up to him now the red line would be off the top of the paper.

“I’ve heard assholes test similarly,” Nick said. “How about you, Polaski? You a sociopath or just an asshole?”

Polaski frowned. “No need to be nasty, Thomas.”

“One more comment like that, and your ass is out of here,” Nick told him. “This is a minor, not one of your usual suspects.”

Flushed, Polaski turned back to the machine and began working intently on something.

Nick turned to Rob and smiled. “Forget about that,” he said, as though the ugly cop had left the room. “Like I said, all you have to do is tell the truth. This isn’t a trial and it’s not going to be used for anything except helping the police figure out who did this. So you’ve got nothing to lose. Understand?”

Rob nodded, thankful Nick was there.

“Fucking prep the witness,” Polaski muttered, barely low enough to be considered under his breath.

Nick patted Rob’s shoulder and spoke without turning around. “Polaski, I’ll be asking the questions. Once you’ve got it set up, you can leave us alone.”

Polaski looked up from the machine, his gaze a hot laser in the back of Nick’s head.

Nick smiled and winked, even though he hadn’t seen the ugly cop’s expression.

Rob almost smiled, but he was still too scared.

Once the machine was set up, Polaski hooked some weird wires to Rob’s left arm, like the doctor did when he took Rob’s blood pressure. “Test it,” he said to Nick.

“What’s your full name?” Nick said to Rob.

“Robert James Austin.”

Nick looked back at Polaski, who nodded and then left, muttering something. Nick pulled his chair closer to Rob.

“So, like I said, just answer the questions honestly, okay?”

Rob nodded.

“You ready?”

Rob nodded again, unable to bring himself to speak while the machine was recording unless absolutely necessary.

“First, can you tell us where you were on the night of Tuesday, July twelfth?”

Rob licked his lips. “I went to the lookout with a bunch of kids.”

“Where’s the lookout?”

“Off Grizzly Peak in Berkeley.”

“What did you do up there?”

“We usually just hang out.”

“Just hang out?” Nick asked.

Rob looked at the floor and then up at him. “And drink.”

Nick just nodded.

He exhaled.

“What time did you get home?” Nick continued.

“About twelve-thirty or one.”

“When is your curfew?”

Rob felt the sweat start up again. “Uh—”

“Just answer honestly,” Nick said again.

“Twelve.”

Nick wrote something down. “Have you ever met Sandi Walters?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Did you kill Sandi Walters?”

“No.”

“Did you ride your bike to Mt. Diablo?”

“No.”

“How about Eva Larson? Have you ever met her?”

“No.”

The questions continued about the women who had been killed. Nick asked about certain streets, about Mt. Diablo, and about his bike.

“I think that’s about it,” Nick finally said.

Rob could feel the sweat on his back begin to cool.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Rob?” Nick asked.

Rob felt his heart lurch, knocking like a pinball against his insides. He thought he might be sick. He gripped the arms of the chair and tried to focus. Images of Becky and his mother came rushing at him.

“Rob?”

He heard Nick’s voice, but he was unable to focus on his face or to make his mouth open even just to say he was okay.

“Rob? You need to answer the question.”

His head spun and his stomach clenched tight and hard against his ribs. He sucked in a deep breath with a heavy wheezing sound. “Oh, God,” he finally said. His eyes found Nick’s and he shook his head.

Nick stared, his expression shocked.

“Oh, God,” Rob repeated, searching for the words to say something else, to try to explain.

Nick glanced at the machine beside them and frowned.

Rob imagined what the machine was registering as he fought to compose himself.

“Who did you kill?” Nick finally asked, his voice low.

Rob met his stare, tears streaming down his face. “No one,” he lied. The machine’s alarm was silent, but Rob felt it, heard the lines registering off the page at his lies. Liar, liar, it screamed. Tight bands gripped his chest, the machine compressing his ribs with every lie. He waited for Nick to say something—anything.

Nick stared at him, but didn’t speak again. Instead, he just shook his head. “Slow down, Rob, and tell me everything right from the beginning.”

Rob looked at Nick and took a breath. Then, nodding, he started his story.