A Slow Walk to Hell (18 page)

W
hen Nicole passed away, I promised myself I’d never let my daughter Emily go to bed without wishing her good night. In the five years since, I’ve kept my word. If I couldn’t be with her in the evening, I always called. As a single parent, you have to remember the little things, so your child will always know how important they are in your life.

Amanda and I continued down the hallway toward the rear of the house. Forensic technicians were still visible in several of the rooms. Because of the sheer size of the home, they’d probably work through the night and the way this case was going, we would also.

“Emily?” Amanda said.

A conclusion she’d reached because I’d punched the speed dial. She asked to talk to Emily when I was finished. “A little girl talk about her dance.”

I figured as much. During the past three years, Amanda had become a big sister to Emily. It’s a relationship I’ve continued to encourage, despite the difficulties between Amanda and me. Emily needed a female role model and I learned long ago that even if I started shaving my legs or listening to adolescent boy bands, I’d never come close to fulfilling that bill. Ask any dad whose gone shopping with his daughter to buy her first bra and he’ll know where I’m coming from.

My housekeeper Mrs. Anuncio answered on the fourth ring, which was two past her norm. She’s originally from Colombia and has been looking after Emily and me since Nicole died. I said, “Hi, Mrs. A—”

“You wait.” She put down the phone and went away.

I sighed. Almost seventy, Mrs. A was set in her ways and ran the household like it was her personal fiefdom. While she doted on Emily, she tolerated me as a necessary evil. It wasn’t anything personal. My crime was being a male, a gender she’s despised ever since her husband ran out on her.

Amanda and I walked quickly. We cruised through the churchlike great room, pushed through the glass door onto the patio, then made our way across the pool deck. I heard a faint scraping sound at the other end of the line. “Em?”

It was Mrs. A. I told her I wanted to speak to Emily.

“She sleep.”

“Already?” The dance ended at ten-thirty and I’d set my watch alarm for eleven fifteen, assuming Emily would be too jazzed to go right to bed. “All right, tell her I called—”

We were approaching the rear gate. I came to a sudden halt and pressed the phone to my ear. Amanda blew past a couple steps, then looked back with a frown. I held up a finger to her, listening intently. There it was again. In the background, a muffled female voice called out to Mrs. Anuncio, as if through a door.

I said to Mrs. A, “I thought you said Emily was asleep.”

“She wake now,” she said simply.

“Is that a fact?”

“Como?”

“Never mind. Put her on the line, Mrs. A.” I rolled my eyes, garnering a smile from Amanda. She knew how exasperating Mrs. Anuncio could be.

As I waited, I realized I could hear breathing. Mrs. A was still on the phone.

What’s with her?
“Mrs. A, will you please go get—”

“I no get her.”

“What?” I was taken aback. “Why not?”

“She shower. Talk tomorrow.”

I was confused. It almost seemed as if she was trying to prevent me from talking with Emily. “How can she be in the shower if she just woke up?”

“She shower,” she repeated stubbornly.

That did it. My irritation meter was pegged on high, but I tried to remain calm. “Mrs. Anuncio, listen to me. I don’t care if Emily is in the shower. I want you to take the phone to her—”

I heard Emily call out again. Her voice was louder, more distinct, as if she’d opened the door. I immediately recognized the telltale slurring of her words. For a moment, I tried to deny the implication. My daughter would never—

Emily called out a third time. This time there was no doubt.

I gripped the phone so hard I thought I might break it. “My God, she’s
drunk.
Emily is drunk.”

Amanda looked stunned. In an instant, she was by my side, squeezing her ear next to the phone.

“No drink,” Mrs. Anuncio insisted. “Sick.”

“Goddammit,”
I exploded.
“Don’t lie to me.
I want to know how Emily got drunk and why you are lying—”

My mouth froze in the open position. There wasn’t any point in saying anything more because Mrs. A had hung up on me.

I lowered the phone and sagged against the fence. My mind felt numb as I tried think this through, comprehend why it had happened. From somewhere I dimly heard Amanda’s reassuring voice. Moments later, she appeared before my eyes, her face filled with concern.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It happens. Kids experiment. It’s called growing up.”

“Not Emily.”

“Meaning what? She’s not going to grow up.”

“Of course not, but—” I gazed off into the night to reign in my emotions. Without looking at Amanda, I said, “It’s just that I’ve tried so hard to make sure she was raised right. Knew what’s important. And now, it seems as if…as if—”

“It was all a waste of time? Is that it? You believe you failed her somehow?”

I swallowed, felt myself nod.

“You think this wouldn’t have happened if Nicole had been alive?”

“It…wouldn’t. I’ve been working long hours. Nights. I haven’t been there for Emily—”

“Cut it out.”

I gave her a look of annoyance.

She said, “You’re pathetic when you get like this. Stop it.”

“Now hold on—”

“I told you about your martyr complex. This compulsion for accepting the blame for other people’s actions. It’s pathetic. It really is.”

“She’s my daughter and she’s drunk.”

“So what? You didn’t serve her booze or tell her it was okay to get pickled. She made that decision
on her own.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s
precisely
the point. She’s not some computer you can program. She’s a teenage girl. She’s going to make errors in judgment. When she does, you have to realize it’s not your fault. It’s
hers.”

My anger faded as I realized what she was trying to do. Still, I couldn’t accept her rationale and told her why.

“You don’t have kids,” I said. “You don’t understand what it’s like to raise a child. Emily’s my responsibility. Mine. Any decisions she makes, any values she has are a reflection of me. What I’ve instilled.”

She listened calmly as I spoke, giving the impression that she empathized with my position.

Not quite.

“Fine,” she said mockingly. “You’re right, Marty. You’re absolutely right. I don’t have kids. I can’t possibly know what I’m talking about. I haven’t a clue what it’s like to be a teenage girl and you do—”

Not again.
“Amanda, all I’m saying—”

“I
heard
you, Marty. And I’m holding you to what you said. You want to blame yourself for Emily getting drunk, be my guest. God forbid she ever tries pot or has sex—don’t look at me like that. She’s a
teenager.
These things happen. When they do, you can really screw yourself in a circle. Hell, you’ll probably spend a year in therapy, trying to figure out where you went wrong. It’s a shame. It really is. Someday you’ll wake up and realize life is a lot more enjoyable when you’re not laying guilt trips on yourself.”

I didn’t reply. There wasn’t any need. We both knew the guilt she was referring to had nothing to do with Emily. Rather, it was the rationale she’d used to justify her martyr comment.

She’d once told me that she believed the main reason I’ve held onto my wife Nicole’s memory so long was because I felt guilt over her death. That I considered myself somehow responsible.

The truth was, I did feel guilty for one simple reason that made perfect sense to me. I was alive and Nicole wasn’t.

“Who are you calling now?” Amanda asked.

Sara Winters was my neighbor who had driven Emily home from the dance. She’d intended to call me in the morning, to tell me about what happened with Emily. “The news mentioned you’re working on the murder of Congressman Talbot’s nephew and I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Tell me now.”

At this, Amanda again pressed close to listen to Sara’s account.

It wasn’t as bad as we thought.

When Sara arrived at the dance, she couldn’t locate Emily. With the help of her daughter, Sara learned Emily had gone with a group of friends to Larry Nelson’s place. Larry was a farmer and had a couple of high school sons who were pretty wild.

“Larry and Marge were out of town,” Sara said, “so the boys decided to have a party in the barn. Must have been fifty, sixty kids there. Most were drunk or close to it. I called Deputy Haney and he shut the party down. He said he’d talk to you tomorrow. If it helps, there was a big bowl of fruit punch that some of the girls were told contained no booze. But it did. Quite a bit, according to Haney. So, does it, Marty? Help, I mean?”

“It helps, Sara,” I said.

“You ask me, that’s probably what happened with the younger girls. They’re all good kids like Emily. They’d never had alcohol before. They didn’t know what they were drinking.”

“I appreciate all your help, Sara.”

“Anytime. I’m just sick about this, but you know how it is with kids. Lord love ’em. Anything else you want to know?”

I asked her how bad off Emily was.

“I had to stop the car so she could throw up. She felt better afterwards. She’ll be fine by morning, other than a hangover.”

“Thanks again, Sara.”

“Night, Marty. Try not to worry, huh?”

“I won’t,” I lied.

As I put my phone away, Amanda stepped back, looking as relieved as I felt. Her response was understandable. In some respects, she was closer to Emily than I was. She certainly had a better rapport. She said, “Guess we should have known better. Checked the facts before overreacting.”

We, not you. I smiled my appreciation to this gesture. “She still shouldn’t have gone to the party.”

“Chill, Dad. She’s paying for it. It’ll be a long time before she touches booze again. You got off easy.”

When I thought about it, I realized I had.

I pushed away from the fence and reached out to unlock the gate. Amanda had the same idea and our hands met on the latch. This time neither one of us jerked away.

Her fingers lingered on mine longer than necessary before she withdrew it. She said softly, “You’re a good father. You have no reason to ever feel guilty about the way you’re raising Emily.”

“I know, but sometimes it’s difficult to—”

“Or about anything else.”

In her gaze, I sensed rather than saw the message it contained. I nodded I understood and she smiled. I waited for her to turn away, but her big eyes remained focused onmine. Standing so close to her in the semidarkness, it occurred to me that this might be my last opportunity. I had to ask her now.

Gathering my nerve, I drew in a breath—

She turned away. “You hear something?”

Someone was calling to us.

Enrique jogged across the pool decking, shouting for us to stop. Behind him, we could see Simon striding briskly, talking on a cell phone. Under an arm, he’d jammed the folder I’d given him and in his free hand, he carried—

“A
pillow?”
I said.

“Must be evidence,” Amanda said.

Approaching us, Enrique slowed to a walk, speaking rapidly. “Change of plans. Officer Hannity called. Simon’s talking to him now. If it pans out, you’ll only need to question General Baldwin to verify. The problem is getting there without tipping off the press. They know Simon’s limo and are sure to follow. Simon’s got an idea that should work. I’ll drive the limo and—”

So much for being deliberate. Enrique’s words were bouncing around too fast for me to understand. I told him to take a breath and he sucked one in, loud enough for us to hear.