Fear Itself
Copyright © 2013 by Martin Prendergast. All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-63063-501-5
1. Fiction/Thriller/Crime
2. Fiction / Literary
13.10.24
For…Pappa
“The lamp of the body is the eye. If your eye is sound, your whole body will be filled with light; but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be in darkness. And if the light in you is darkness, how great will the darkness be.”
Mathew VI, 22
1
“How did you do it?” whispered the detective into my ear as if he were prying a secret from an intimate friend.
The paper cup of water slipped from my hand and splattered my shoes. Up to that point I thought our conversation was informal; an effort to fill in some details before putting Catherine’s case to bed. I knew that I hadn’t been there for long, but it had seemed like forever. Never before had someone so close to me died, so the whole process was new to me. I looked around the room. Mirrored walls. A long table with four plastic tan chairs. Empty brown paper coffee cups on the table.
“Do what?” I answered.
“You know. How did you do it?”
I felt the muscles in my face clench in anger, “What’s wrong with you?” My voice trembled as my mouth dried up and seemed to fill with sand. I stepped back a half pace and found the backs of my legs pressed against my chair. The taller detective half-smiled and half- sneered at me as he sat me, no, forced me, into the chair, pressing a powerful hand upon my shoulder. His frame was thick. He had blue eyes which he squinted together. His hair was full and short and neat and parted about the middle of his head. Sprigs of grey flecked the sides of his head above his ears. He wore a paper-thin white button-down dress shirt, and I saw the pink of his flesh right through it.
“You think that I killed my wife?” I felt my jaw slacken and my wrinkled brow un-furl, “She died in her sleep.”
“Did she?”
I searched his eyes for a clue but his eyes were dark and vacant. “How did she die…?” I choked on the word “die” and tears filled my eyes as the memory of Catherine’s face appeared in my mind. Auburn hair. Thick dark eyebrows and long full eyelashes. Dark blue irises. And an adorable faint birthmark on the bottom of her right cheek that she was so self-conscious of. She always wore cover up to hide it. “The cause of death…what did she die of?”
The cop heeled his palm on the Formica table between us and collapsed into a tan plastic chair across from me. My eyes darted about the room as I assembled the scattered pieces of that puzzling day into a panoramic collage. Catherine was Beautiful even in death as she lay on the bed next to me. Her skin was sun-basted, but the remnants of her summer tan were fading. She was slowly turning blue. I vaguely remember my daughter sobbing with me, and trying desperately to pull me from Catherine’s body, begging me to get up. I remember paramedics arriving, and a gurney being wheeled into our bedroom; a white sheet pulled over Catherine’s face and then a warm firm hand clasping my shoulder. And I remember some consoling words being whispered to me by a female neighbor. I could think of nothing that would have pointed to murder.
The interrogation room was dead silent outside of our breathing.
It hadn’t sunk in, until that moment, but these cops were serious. I was being interrogated. I was a suspect in the death of my wife.
“What was the cause of my wife’s death?” I heard my voice growl in an unfamiliar intonation.
He didn’t respond. He just stared at me as though he were trying to read me. Was he waiting for me to say something?
“How did she die?” Adrenaline filled my veins. I stood and pounded my fist on the table with so much force that a few empty paper-cups toppled and rolled off the table.
The cop showed no emotion. He didn’t even flinch. He stood and circled the table until he was right in front of me. He placed his face in front of mine, his nose to my nose. I backed up slightly, confused by his invasion of my personal space, but he pursued me and came within a fraction of brushing his eyelashes against my own.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Seven.” I tried to steady my breathing to ease my anger.
“Kind of late in life to start a family, no?”
“Yeah, I suppose…”
He turned away from me and took a few steps before turning around, “Was your wife happy about raising a child so late in life?” “Catherine loved Sarah.” I raised my voice, and then drew a breath to calm myself, “We tried to have children for years but we gave up a long time ago…and then….”
“So your wife wasn’t suicidal.”
“No.” I shook my head, “Catherine didn’t kill herself. That’s not the least bit possible. Catherine was happy. We…” I swallowed hard, “We made love just the night before she…” I raised my hand and shook my finger at him, “She was happy.”
“How do you suppose your wife got pregnant after all those years of trying?”
“What are you driving at? First you ask me how I did it, and then you ask me if she might have killed herself. What do you want me to say?”
“I asked you how your wife got pregnant…after all those years?”
“I don’t know, Sarah just sort of came to us.”
“After all those years of trying?”
“Yeah. Our little surprise.” I pictured Catherine holding our swaddled newborn, Sarah, in her arms as she lay on the hospital bed.
“Did you ever get tested to see if it was you or your wife that had the problem?”
I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt, “No.” I lied. It was too personal a question.
“Come on! Never asked your doc? Not the least bit curious?”
“No.”
I decided at that moment that I had nothing else to say to him. I was innocent. He stared hard at me. I could hear my heart beating. My mouth was dry again, my palms sweaty. I tried not to swallow, thinking that my dry choking gulp would convey guilt.
“Who is Amber?” A wry smile curled the sides of his mouth as he continued to stare me down. The man was amazing. He never blinked.
“Who?” I said, knowing exactly who he meant.
“Amber.” His eyes squinted at me as he feigned confusion. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know any Amber.” I pretended to search my mind. “Unless… do you mean…” I paused deliberately, “Amber Havisham?”
“You tell me?”
I waited a moment. She was the only Amber I knew. “She’s a client.” I shook my head in disbelief, though I knew that I was telling only a half truth.
There was a long uncomfortable silence. The cop seemed to like to use silence like a sharp tool, digging and prodding at my wounds for a tell. I tried to hold my expression; to keep from flinching or relaxing or blinking, but he outlasted me and I dropped my eyes.