Thomas Perry - Blood Money

“Did you get annoyed?” Jane realized that Rita wasn’t interested in indirection. “Jealous?”

“I just felt lost. I didn’t know what to do, or where to go. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t leave. It was awful. I knew they wanted me to go, but I didn’t know how. It was like being a ghost. They were alive, but I wasn’t. They would look at each other, talk to each other, but hardly ever to me. It wasn’t even like they were being mean. It was like I wasn’t even there. It started to affect me. Every day, I felt a little weaker, a little less real. They were always … touching each other, and I hated that the most, because they wouldn’t do that in front of anyone.”

“How did it end?”

“Danny offered me the job in the Keys.”

Jane’s mind was jerked back into practical matters. “Did you tell them where you were going?”

“Sort of, but not exactly,” said Rita. Then she added, “I lied. What I did was, I bought some stuff from the grocery store while they were at work. It took most of the money I had left from my paycheck. I made this really nice dinner, with a cake. I bought a card—a blank one with a picture of a red Lamborghini on it, because I knew he liked cars. Inside I wrote this thank-you note, you know, for letting me stay here, and helping me get a job and everything? Then I left and met Danny at the parking garage near the hotel.”

“Good,” said Jane. “Then there are no extra people who know more than they should. What exactly did the note say?”

“I said in the note that I had met an older guy who was taking me to live with him in the Keys.”

Jane said, “I think you can be forgiven.”

“It was a lie.”

“You may be confessing to the wrong priest,” said Jane. “I’ve told a few myself.”

“I said a little bit more.”

“What was it?”

Rita said, “I left the note right by the cake where they’d both see it at the same time. He used to get off work at the hotel and then pick her up from her job, so they came in together. I knew he would read it first, because he always went straight to the refrigerator, but she would see him read it. The way I said it was that I was sorry to dump him, but I had met somebody else. I did it so that he would be stuck. He wouldn’t want her to read that. He couldn’t throw it in the garbage, because if he did, she would dig in and find it as soon as he turned his back. He couldn’t hide it, because then she would think he was trying to save it. If he tore it up, she would know he didn’t want her to read it, so she’d really be sure to dig out the pieces and put them together. See what I mean?”

Jane gazed at Rita with new interest. “I wonder what he decided. Do you suppose he ate it?”

Rita frowned at her, then abruptly giggled. “I don’t know.” Then she frowned again. “It was a mean thing to do. It was just pure meanness.”

Jane smiled. “What made you do it?”

“I didn’t start out to. I guess it was being in the store buying their dinner. I just kept thinking about how all they would ever buy was beer and pizza, or they’d eat out on the way home from work, and I would eat alone. I would buy regular food at the grocery store, and when I went to look for it in the refrigerator it was gone, or at least opened and partly eaten. Then I thought about how I was still paying half the rent even though there were two of them now. And they got the bed, while I was out on this couch with broken springs, and I couldn’t even go to sleep sometimes because they worked in the evening and sat on it to watch television. And a lot of other times it would be worse, because they would be in the bed and I could hear them until it was just about time for me to get up, because I worked early in the morning.”

Jane said, “Okay. You shouldn’t have done it, even though they probably deserved it. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because that was in another life. That wasn’t you.”

Rita gaped at Jane in disbelief. “Of course it was me.”

Jane shook her head. “I’ll say this another way. Rita Shelford’s life is like a book, and you just read the last page and closed the back cover. It’s over. You can’t go back in and fix anything to make it a prettier story. Starting now, you’re in the next life. In this one, you don’t just have a new future, you have a new past, too. You’re Diane Arthur, and you’ve always been Diane Arthur, so you have to make up what’s happened to Diane Arthur until now, and it will be the only truth.”

“Why can’t Diane Arthur stay with you and Bernie?”

Jane winced. “Why would you want to?”

“I didn’t tell you what it was like to work at his house. The house was big, so they had a nice maid’s room. It had its own bathroom and a window that looked out on the part of the back yard by the fence where nobody but me ever went. The job wasn’t hard. Bernie didn’t go out and get muddy shoes and walk on the carpet. And we liked each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would try to clean the places where he wasn’t, and then stay in the kitchen cooking, or at least be out of the living area. But a few times a day we would run into each other. He would drink a cup of coffee, and then bring it in himself and put it in the sink. He’d see me and say, ‘How’s it going, kid?’ If I was doing something big, like waxing this huge floor in the living room, he’d say, ‘It’s too hot to do that today. Why don’t you take a load off? Nobody sees how shiny that is but me.’ ”

Jane noticed that Rita had a good ear. The voice she gave Bernie was unmistakably his. “That’s not exactly a close relationship.”

“But it is,” Rita insisted. “Don’t you see? There were all these other men. There were the two who were always around, younger ones like Danny, but not nice. I don’t know what to call them … ”

“Bodyguards.”

“I guess so. They never talked to me. It was like being a ghost again. And whenever they talked to each other, it was ugly: fuckin’ this, and fuckin’ that, like the word didn’t mean anything at all, just a sound. And the others, the ones who came about once a month, they were worse. They always acted as though they didn’t trust anybody, even to be alive. If I walked through a room while they were in it, they would whirl around and glare at me.”

“They were probably bagmen. They had good reasons to be jumpy.”

“They were the enemy. Bernie and I were on one side, and they were on the other. They didn’t seem to like him any better than they liked me. It was almost as though we were prisoners in our own house.”

“You were,” said Jane. “You just didn’t know it because you didn’t try to leave.”

“But we did know it, sort of. That was how we got to be friends.”

“He said that too—called you his friend,” said Jane. “It’s kind of unusual to see two people so different who feel that way.”

“He’s a special person. He doesn’t seem to look down on you just for being young. He can tell you things—all kinds of things—that you wouldn’t find out unless you were as old as he is and remembered everything. I used to get him to play cards with me, just so he’d tell me stories. He’s so good at games that it doesn’t use up enough of his attention, so he talks and talks. And he remembers so much that it’s just like a movie, only you can stop it whenever you want, and he’ll show you another part that you’re curious about, or go back and let you see everything about one of the people, only it’s all true.” She chuckled at the memory of it. “Pretty true, anyway. And I could tell him things, too, and never worry that he would embarrass me, or tell anyone else. I would get him to go out in the yard with me, like he was taking exercise, and he would listen as long as I wanted, and never give me his opinion unless I asked for it.”