Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

Homer’s mouth flattened. “They just did.”

The police car pulled up to the curb of Addie Peabody’s home. In the passenger seat, Wes Courtemanche began to open the door and get out. He was champing at the bit, but Charlie shook his head, rested his wrist on the steering wheel. “Just wait a sec,” he said.

“I don’t want to wait a sec. I want to cuff the son of a bitch.”

“Cool down, Wes.”

The officer turned, his heart in his eyes. “He’s in there with her, Charlie. With Addie.”

Charlie knew Addie Peabody, of course-anyone who lived in town did. He’d known her before that, too, when they were both kids growing up in Salem Falls. But since he’d moved back, he’d had little contact with her.

Wes had told Charlie about Addie and Jack’s relationship . . . and he didn’t fault Addie one bit. People misjudged other people all the time-Charlie ought to know. And now he was going to have to walk in there and arrest Jack St. Bride in front of her.

He thought of the way her face would crumble the moment she opened the door and saw him holding his badge. It made him remember the way she had looked in high school, too: all pinched and quiet and curled up into herself.

Charlie sighed. “Let’s go,” he said, and turned off the ignition.

Over a bowl of cereal, Addie realized she could quite comfortably spend her life with Jack St. Bride. His hair still damp from a shower, he was bent slightly over his Lucky Charms-a brand that had made his face light up (“When did they start doing blue stars?”). As Addie poured him a glass of juice, he slipped his arm around her hips, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And when she sat down across from him to eat, too, the space between them was stuffed with the easy quiet of people who are sure of each other and will be for years.

Suddenly, he looked up, his mouth stretching into a lazy grin. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, with a blush?” Jack laughed. “You look like I’m the next course.”

Addie raised one brow. “Not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“We have to get to the diner. There are hungry people out there.” But as he spoke, Jack tugged Addie into his arms. “Then again, there are hungry people in here.”

He began to nibble at her neck and kiss the freckle behind her ear, and Addie heard music. Tiny, tinkling silver chimes, the kind tied to the wings of angels. It took her a moment to realize that the noise was real and was coming from the doorbell.

On the threshold of the front door stood Charlie Saxton, with Wes slightly behind him. Addie stared at the policemen and felt all the life draining out of her, an island town evacuated before a storm. “Charlie,” she said stiffly. “What can I do for you?”

His face was red, and he couldn’t make eye contact with her. “Actually, I’m looking for Jack St. Bride.”

Addie felt a soft touch on her upper arm as Jack came to stand beside her. “Yes?”

Charlie waved a piece of paper, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Mr. St. Bride, I have a warrant for your arrest. You’ve been charged with committing the offense of aggravated felonious sexual assault against Gillian Duncan last night.”

Addie felt her entire body start to shiver from the inside out.

“What?” Jack cried. “I was nowhere near Gillian Duncan last night!

This is crazy!” He gazed wildly around, his eyes seizing on Addie. “Tell them,” he said. “Tell them I didn’t do it.”

He didn’t do it, Addie thought. And on the heels of that: He was not with me last night. He was drunk. We’d had a fight.

He might have done to Gillian Duncan what once was done to me.

Jack must have seen it, the what-if that flickered over her face before she managed to get her mouth to move. “He didn’t do it,” she whispered, but by then Jack had already turned away.

“We’re just gonna take a little trip to the station,” Charlie said. He stood back as Wes slid handcuffs over Jack’s wrists, then tugged him none-too-gently out the front door and into the waiting police car.

Addie wanted to throw up, to crawl into bed and die. She did not want to see Jack St. Bride, never again. She wanted to hold him close and tell him she believed in him.

She was so upset, in fact, that it took her a moment to realize Charlie remained on the steps outside the front door. “You all right?” he asked softly.

Her face came up, eyes hard and dark. “How dare you ask me that?”

Chagrined, Charlie reached forward to close the door, then hesitated. “It would be a big help if we could get the clothes he was wearing last night.”

“Do whatever you want,” she answered, crying. She remained in this small shell during the five minutes she could hear Charlie moving through her home. And she did not bother to glance up when he left with Jack’s muddy boots, his dirty clothing, and a handful of condoms from the nightstand beside her bed.

When Charlie led Jack to the booking room to take his mug shot and his prints, St. Bride moved through the routine easily, as if it were a complicated dance to which he had long ago learned the steps. Charlie photographed the cuts on his brow, his swollen eye, all without St. Bride saying a single word or giving him any trouble. He paid careful attention to a long scratch on the man’s cheek-a scratch Gillian Duncan had said she’d given him while trying to fight the guy off.

Charlie had gotten a warrant for Jack’s person, too, which meant securing blood and hair samples. Now, as he drove to the hospital, he glanced at St. Bride in the backseat. The man was staring out the window, deep in thought. “You got something on your mind, Jack?” Charlie said conversationally. “Or maybe on your conscience?”

St. Bride’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “Go to hell,” he murmured.

Charlie laughed. “Maybe later. First we’re going to the ER.”

In the parking lot, Charlie got out of the car and opened the back door for Jack to do the same. “I’m not coming,” he said. “You can’t force me to.”

This surprised Charlie; St. Bride had been so complacent up till now. “Actually, I can. I have a warrant that says I’m getting your blood and your hair whether you like it or not.” He squatted down, so that he was at eye level with his suspect. “And I’m thinking that when your trial comes up and I testify that you refused to give us samples, that jury is going to believe you have something to hide.” Charlie shrugged. “If you didn’t do it, then you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”

“Right,” Jack said tightly, and unfolded himself from the car.

He was led into the ER in his handcuffs and almost immediately shuffled into a tiny cubicle. A nurse came in and efficiently drew blood from the veined valley of Jack’s arm. Charlie initialed the vial, so that he could verify the chain of custody of the blood. Jack hopped off the examination table, but Charlie stopped him with a shake of his head. “I’m not done with you.” Slipping his hand into a rubber glove, he yanked a swatch of hair from St. Bride’s head.

“That hurts!”

“Like I care,” Charlie muttered, sealing it into an envelope.

Jack’s gaze was murderous. “Are we finished yet?”

“Nope. Drop your pants.”

“I don’t think so.”

Charlie regarded him evenly. “Either I can pull your pubic hairs or you can have the honor.” Slowly, Jack extended his wrists, shaking the cuffs. “You don’t need a lot of range of movement for this,” Charlie said. “Nice try.”

Exhaling through his nose, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and reached into his boxer shorts. The handcuffs caught on the buttons, but Charlie pretended not to notice. If the asshole sliced his dick off by accident, the world would be a safer place. Jack flinched as he pulled out the first hair and set it on a sheet of white paper Charlie had placed on the exam table. “How many?”