Lost Girls

a full swing with the back of my hand.

''Now, I'm going to give you the benefit of my legal advice. That's part of my job,'' I start again, keeping my voice low as possible. ''I know when a hand has been forced. And in light of this new evidence it is my obligation to advise you that the best course of action for you to take at this point--the only course of action--is to plead guilty.''

''To say that I--''

''It will have a positive implication on your sentence, maybe get you into a counseling program a little sooner. It's expedient, Thom, but it's also wise.''

''Say I killed them?''

''Strategically it's the only option, and frankly--and I say this on a personal level--you'd be doing yourself a favor.''

Tripp considers this, or at least appears to consider it, his hand raised to support his chin.

''It's going to require you to confess,'' I go on. ''But you don't have to think of it in those terms if you don't want to. All you have to do is stand up and say a few words. Admit to each of the elements of the offense in more or less specific terms.''

''What should I say?''

''That you took them to the lake after school, walked down to the water with them, did what you did.''

''What did I do?''

''Do you really not remember?''

''Sometimes. Certain things.''

''Like what?''

''Their faces,'' he says. ''How they smiled and everything would change. The way they could make you believe for a second that nothing could possibly be wrong with anything anywhere.''

''That's fine, Thom. That's nice. But what I'm asking is, now that we've come this far, don't you remember anything of what happened at the lake that day?''

''Sometimes I'm sure I remember. Other times I'm sure I must be wrong.''

''That's how it is, is it?''

''You think I did it.''

''Jesus, Thom! Yes, I think you did it! Everyone in this town thinks you did it. You're the only one who's not so sure. I'm sorry you don't remember, maybe someday it'll all come back to you, but for Christ's sake it's time for you to admit it. And you know what else? I think you want to. I think you know that either you take a good look at what you did right now or you're going to be alone with the voices in your head forever.''

With the last dozen of these words the most unfortunate thing occurs. My voice breaks. Dry sinuses suddenly melting into a stream of children's glue. But whether out of good manners or the hearing of voices, Thom Tripp appears not to notice.

''I didn't do it alone,'' he says after I've wiped the heel of my hand across the tops of my cheeks.

''Give me a name, then.''

Pulls his chin up and shows me something new in his eyes. The fear that's been there all along but hidden by dreams.

''It was the Lady.''

''You saw her?''

''She told me things.''

''Like what?''

''Like she has them now. And that's why they'll never be found.''

''That's not good enough, Thom.''

''What do you want, then?''

''For you to tell me that you killed Ashley Flynn and Krystal McConnell. Because you did and you know it, even if you thought some dead lady was giving you directions from the Great Fucking Beyond.''

Cocks his head to the side and in a second the glimpse of fear drains away from his face. Half nods as though the most clever little joke has just been delivered to his ear.

''What'd you do?'' he says.

''There's no me in this. Do I have to explain again that this--''

''Who did you hurt?'' His breath blown cold across the hot room. ''Tell me her name.''

For a moment I see myself sitting here in the instant chill of Interview Room No. 1 and feel certain that this is how I will stay forever. Thinking her name and willing it to my lips but nothing ever coming out. That this is how it ends, me and Tripp caught in each other's stares, perspiring and shadowless. We're to be roommates together in the eternity of names.

But as it turns out it doesn't end this way at all. Instead I'm a rubber band shot across the room, tumbling up into the air with all my limbs loose and grasping and quick. Then the more specific details begin to arrive: I'm throwing myself over the table at Tripp. Grabbing him by the collar of his prison overalls, his hair, the hanging lobes of his ears, wrenching him out of his chair to the floor. He doesn't have a chance. Didn't even see it coming. But then again, neither did I. Had no idea I was about to sit on my client's chest, set my knees on his shoulders, and start swinging down on him with both fists. The sound of contact surprisingly hollow and dull, like checking to see if a coconut is ripe yet, and not at all the bright crack I'd learned to expect from the movies. I wouldn't know otherwise. Until this moment I've never hit anyone in my life.

Part of me expecting one of the guards to burst in and throw me off him at any second, but either they've left their post to fetch coffee or are too busy enjoying the show themselves. Whatever the reason I get in a few direct thuds on both sides of Tripp's head before he starts blubbering for me to stop, blood spilling out from his nose and over my hands, almost orange in the institutional light of guttering fluorescent tubes. Only then does the thought occur to me that maybe this isn't an entirely wise idea, physically assaulting my own client in this way. Knocking the living shit out of him as a matter of fact. And I'm supposed to be the guy's lawyer. There are still professional obligations to consider, basic expectations of conduct, oaths of the bar to be honored. But it appears I don't care about that anymore.

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, I'm panting into his face, his collar still bound in my fists.

''Stop!''

''Tell me the truth.''

''Why do you care?''

''Because I fucking do, that's why.'' I loosen my grip. The tickle of air pulsing up his windpipe beneath my hands. ''Because I've heard them too.''

''So you know.''

''I know you have to give their story an ending, Thom. Because keeping it to yourself is going to kill you. It's already killing a lot of others. The McConnells, Brian Flynn, the people in town who loved them. And you're the only one who can let them go.''

''What about you?''

''Me, too, probably,'' I say, the air between us thickening into a liquid fog. ''It's killing me too.''

His breath enters and exits in tin-whistle squeaks, and it's some time before I realize his chest is still supporting the full load of my weight. Without letting go of his collar I get to my feet, bend over close enough that I can smell the sharp lemon-lime of prison soap on the skin at his neck. Then I'm dragging him forward across the tiled floor, his head lowered into his overalls as though tucked within a body bag yet to be fully zippered closed at the top. When I reach the opposite wall I lean him up against it, palms pressed against his collarbone in order to hold him steady.

''It was the Literary Club, wasn't it, Thom? That's where you got the idea to go to the lake. For the girls to wear their dresses with the blue ribbons. For the three of you to have your last performance.''

Tripp looks down at his hands that lie limp on the floor, each of his fingers painted with a coating of his own blood.

'' 'By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.' ''

''The three witches. Was that it? You and the girls going off to the lake to cook up a spell?''