Tom Piccirilli - The Last Kind Words

I kept hoping she’d step farther into the room, or that her arms would tire, or that she’d drop her gaze and give me half a second to make some kind of a break. But it wasn’t going to happen. I could usually make a lie sound like the truth, but I was floundering with her. I felt sheepish just being here. I wondered if I could make the truth sound like the truth.

I said, “I’m in your house because I was hoping your parents hadn’t changed Rebecca’s room.”

“Why would you care about that?”

“I wanted to look at photos. I wanted to know a little more about her. My brother says he didn’t kill her. He admits he murdered the other seven people but says he didn’t touch her. He begged me to look into it.”

She started to laugh very quietly. It was grotesque. I’d made a similar noise when I’d run from my brother, pale and shaking. Her pupils were very large.

The girl said, “First you called her Becky, then Rebecca.”

I’d noted that too. “It was wrong of me to act so familiar.”

“Your game doesn’t even have any rules, does it?” she said. “You think it’s wrong to call her Becky but you don’t mind going through the drawers of a home you’ve invaded? Standing in a room of a girl murdered by your brother?”

“Actually, I do mind. I’m pretty ashamed. Listen, why don’t you call the cops?”

“What makes you think I won’t shoot you?”

“I was raised as a burglar. My whole life I’ve done nothing but take stupid chances. This is just one more.”

She lowered the gun a fraction, then raised it again. I was hoping if she pulled the trigger she would only shoot me in the leg. I very carefully reached for my pack of cigarettes and shook one out.

She said, “There’s no smoking in the house.”

I put the butt back in the pack. “Where do you smoke your pot?”

“In the yard, when no one else is home.”

“Fire your dealer. It’s cheap weed.”

“Your brother,” she said. The word itself seemed to dry her mouth. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Do you believe him?”

“No,” I told her. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Then why come around?”

“He’s my brother. I’ve hated him most of my life. But he’s my brother.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

The question flustered me. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever thought about it before. I struggled for an answer. Long before the competition over women, even before the bad blood over incidents I remembered clearly-the times he ran out on me during a job, the taunts, the drunken posturing, the fights he started with fences that came back to cause me troubles-I had loved him. We had been friends. He’d protected me. I could remember riding on the handlebars of his bicycle while he kept one arm around my waist to keep me from falling. I thought he would never hurt me. But it had shifted somewhere, in a way I still didn’t understand. He grew angry with me, seemed to always be on the attack. I thought of him stabbing me with the Revolutionary War figure that led to the awful scarring on my chest.

But I supposed that he had his reasons too, if someone had bothered to ask him. Maybe he was only reacting to something I put out into the world. He probably thought that I was distant, cold, a tightass. Maybe I didn’t watch his back enough. Maybe he expected me to love him more, or better. Perhaps the truth was no deeper than the fact that Collie and I were simply wired to be enemies.

She squinted at me as if my hesitation was enough of a response. “You said a detective beat you up. That the truth?”

“Last night.”

“I don’t see any marks.”

I lifted my shirt. The bruises on my kidneys were a mottled blue and yellow. She appeared to be impressed with either my asskicking or my dog tat. She seemed to come to a decision. She lowered the gun. I had no doubt that if I moved toward her or tried to run or said anything out of line she’d shoot me out of my shoes. I stood still in the center of the room.

“Why did he hit you?” she asked.

“Because I stole some files from him. I wanted to read the original reports.”

“I thought you weren’t a thief anymore.”

“I’ve backslid a little,” I admitted.

“And?”

“And Collie confessed to all the other murders but not your sister’s.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. That’s why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you look into this five years ago?”

“He only just asked me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She kskiрaskept the.45 low against the side of her leg, the way the pros did when they walked into a place to knock it over. “He’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And you’re crazy for helping him.”

“Probably,” I said. “Tell me about Rebecca.”

“Tell you what? I don’t know what to say.”

“She was seventeen.”

“That’s right.”

“The report I read said she was being tutored in an advanced physics class that evening. That she and several other students were at a teacher’s home. Mrs. Dan-” I couldn’t remember the name. It was Greek.

“Mrs. Denopolis.”

“Who lived near Autauk Park. Your sister didn’t drive?”

“She jogged. She was on the school track team. She ran everywhere.”

“You must live at least eight or nine miles from the park.”

“For Becky that was nothing. She was a long-distance runner. She’d run down Old Autauk Highway.”

I thought I had a good poker face in place but she must’ve read something in my expression.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just jogged that way yesterday morning.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Right. Did she ever mention Collie? That she knew him? That he was bothering her? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did she mention having any trouble with anyone? An ex-boyfriend?”

“No. I was only twelve but we talked a lot and shared secrets. The same way Sharon and I do now.”

It reminded me that I didn’t know her name. I asked and she said, “Cara.”

“Why aren’t you at school?”

It made her scoff. “What are you, a parole officer? I quit and got my GED. I work part-time at Kohl’s. I’m taking night classes at Suffolk Community.”

“Cara, would it be all right if I called you in case I have any other questions about your sister?”

“I’ve told you everything I can. But if you want to come back you can talk to my parents. I think they might listen. But I’m not sure they could help at all.”

“I doubt anyone can. I’m just spinning my wheels.”

“So am I. That’s how it feels. Like I’m wasting time. That’s why I-” She didn’t have to finish. I knew she meant the pills. She was beginning to tap the gun against the side of her leg. Her agitation was growing worse. I could see the fear in her eyes. It had nothing to do with me. The meds were wearing off. She had to be popping ten or twelve a day. The charge of her emotions was overcoming her, and she needed to deaden it.

“Where’d you get the scrips?”

“Like that’s your business? I stole them from my mother’s ob-gyn.”

“You’ve been on the meds for too long. You’re taking sseрem"too many.”

“I need them.”

“But they’re making you sicker now. You know it’s the truth. You’re taking more and more pills and they’re not working as well.”

“Who are you to say that? You don’t know me.”

“I know when someone is an addict. You need to ease off. Slowly.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You can’t do it on your own. Talk to someone.”

“I think I might. Soon. One of these days.”

“Listen, Cara, one final thing. Even if you’re out of the house for a few minutes, even if you’re only walking to the corner. Lock your door.”