So far, so good. He’d stuck to the plan. The next phase should have been straightforward: smack her around a little more, throw her into the van, dump her somewhere and then give the hospital a call.
Except that’s not how it went, was it?
What actually happened was that he got a little over-zealous. The old baseball bat became a little too verbose. Became a veritable chatterbox as it arced and swung and pummeled and smashed.
Not how it was meant to happen. Not at all.
Hell, why would he have bothered putting on a ski mask if he hadn’t intended the girl to survive? What would be the point in that?
So why the deviation? Why the fuck didn’t he just stick to the sequence of events that he outlined at the beginning?
Thinking about it now, he realizes that a part of him — a subversive element buried within his subconscious mind — has been having other ideas all along. It concocts its own, darker plans. It allows him to think that he’s just being businesslike, that he’s just taking one logical step at a time. And when the moment is right, it asserts itself and shows him as the monster he truly is.
And right now, looking back on what he did to that wretched human being, ‘monster’ does not seem too strong a word.
Especially since he enjoyed it so much at the time.
TWELVE
At Doyle’s request, he drives Rachel home in her car. He tells Amy to ride in Daddy’s car with Nadine, and waits for the whines. Instead he gets a ‘Yay!’ So much for being pleased to see him.
Doyle takes his eyes off the road for a glance at Rachel. Little more than a murmur or two has escaped her lips since they left the hospital.
No biggie, he thinks. She’s been through a lot. Me, I got plenty to say. I just can’t find the words.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps staring straight ahead.
‘This is hard for me, Cal. I haven’t experienced anything like this before. It’s scary.’
‘I know, babe.’
‘I don’t know what the hell is happening to us. Who could do something like this?’
‘I really don’t know. But I’m gonna stop him. Okay? I’m gonna get this sonofabitch.’
They lapse into silence again. Doyle can sense a pressure building up in his wife.
‘You said you’d call me.’
A few simple words, but Doyle knows there’s an avalanche of emotion waiting just behind them.
‘I know. I tried. I couldn’t get through to you. Obviously you had no cellphone, and-’
‘When? When did you try?’
Be careful here, he thinks.
‘Earlier this evening. It’s been kinda hectic today.’
‘I understand. What with the death of Tony Alvarez and all.’
Shit. This ain’t gonna work out well.
‘You heard about Tony, huh?’
‘Yes, I heard. Eventually. You want to hear how my day went? I spent the morning trying to come to terms with what happened to Joe. Then I spent the afternoon doing exactly the same thing for Tony. And for most of this evening it looked as though I would have to do it all over again. Only this time for you, Cal. For you.’
‘Look, I’m okay. We’re both okay. He was just trying to frighten us, that’s all.’
‘Well, he did a damn good job. I’ve been worried ever since you told me about Joe. And when I heard about Tony, you know what my first thought was after I got over the shock? I thought, Christ, I need to call Cal. I need to find out what’s going on, check he’s okay. Because that’s what wives and husbands do, Cal: they check on their loved ones when bad things are happening around them. And then I thought, No, why should I call? He should be calling me, just like he promised less than twenty-four hours ago. He should care enough to pick up the telephone and pass on a few reassurances to his wife and daughter that he’s not wearing wings just yet.’
Her words are broken by sobs, and she brings a hand to her mouth to stifle them.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hush. It’ll be okay.’
‘Don’t shut us out, Cal. Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Remember that.’
He just nods then. He has an answer, but he knows she’s not ready for it. Not yet.
They park the cars and congregate on the front stoop. It’s clear to Doyle that Nadine has detected a frostiness in the air that has nothing to do with the icy December weather. When Rachel invites her in, it’s voiced without conviction. Doyle can almost see the subtitle that says,
In the apartment, all conversation is between Doyle and Amy, or between Rachel and Amy. Anxious to restore the third side of the triangle, Doyle follows Rachel into the kitchen. She keeps her back to him as she opens and closes cabinet doors.
‘Rach.’
‘I have to fix something for Amy. She hasn’t eaten yet, and it’s already way past her bedtime.’
Her voice is flat, emotionless — her way of telling him how mad and upset she is.
‘Rach.’
‘Can you get Amy in the shower, please?’
He stays in the doorway for a while, watching Rachel and wondering how she manages to keep her back aimed in his direction no matter where she moves to in the room. Eventually he slips away.
He coaxes Amy away from the TV, bribing her with a ride on his shoulders that he feels he’s not making as much fun as it usually is. He helps her undress, and talks her into carrying her dirty clothes to the hamper. He struggles to push all of her strands of hair under a Clifford the Dog shower cap, then lifts her into the shower and heads back to the kitchen.
Rachel is warming something up in a pan on the stove. Her arms crossed, she watches the pan like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. Which maybe it is to her right now.
‘Amy’s in the shower,’ he says, because he needs to say something even though it does nothing to make him more interesting than the pan.
‘Thanks,’ she says over her shoulder, still not turning, still not facing him.
He leaves her to her thoughts and goes into the bedroom. He starts to do what has to be done.
In the background he hears Amy singing a nursery rhyme. Something about cheeky monkeys and what they get up to on a bed. She can hold a tune too, unlike either of her parents.
He continues with his task, but remains alert to the distant drone of family life. He smiles at Amy’s usual complaints when the shower is turned off before she’s had a chance to flood the floor. Later, he hears the chink of cutlery against plate as she eats, her mother constantly reminding her to take another mouthful. He hears the trip back to the bathroom, the garbled chatter of Amy as she speaks through foam while getting her teeth brushed.
These noises, devoid of interest to anyone else, are precious to Doyle. They represent normality. He bitterly resents having them stripped from him.
Five minutes later Rachel enters the room, a monotone sentence already on her lips. ‘You should say goodnight to your-’
She stops then, as she takes in what she did not expect to see.
‘What are you doing?’
Doyle straightens up, drops a clumsily folded shirt onto the bed. ‘I’m packing, Rach.’
‘Why?’ she demands, the question tainted with hurt and anger.
‘I have to get out of here.’
