Darker Than Midnight. Maggie Shayne
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The nurse paused in the doorway at the sight of the legs sticking out from the open bathroom door. Then she rushed into the bathroom, and he heard her whisper, “Oh, my God,” as he slipped out of his room and down the hall.
Within seconds, staff members were rushing toward his room, barely noticing one lone orderly in the corridor, moving in the opposite direction. He found the stair door, used the key card that hung from the orderly’s lanyard to unlock it, and took the stairs rather than the elevators. All the way down, all the way to the basement garage, where his footsteps echoed in the cool, exhaust-scented air.
God, it was getting harder and harder to walk. To focus. Maybe some of the meds had dissolved before he threw them up. Or maybe he was just tired. He didn’t know what to do next, and he groped in the orderly’s pockets as if for an answer. His hands closed around a set of keys, and he pulled them out and stared at them.
Car keys? They had a remote device on them. The kind with the button you could press to start your car from a distance, another to unlock the doors and yet another that had an emblem of a horn on it. Frowning, River pressed that button and heard, in the distance, two short beeps.
Blinking, trying to focus, he followed the sound, thanking his lucky stars. After a while, he hit the button again, and again the car’s horn sounded, guiding him in. It was a small Toyota. Yellow. He hit the unlock button and got behind the wheel. And he knew damn well he shouldn’t be driving, but he had no choice.
It was a strain to steer the vehicle. Had another car come along he would have surely hit it, or hit one of the parked cars trying to avoid it. But no other car came, and finally, he was at the gate, where a striped bar blocked his exit, and a little box with a blinking yellow light stood beside him.
He nearly panicked. There was a man inside the small booth, smiling at him and shaking his head, then he pointed at the box and held up a little card.
Right. Put the card in the slot in the box. That’s all. He took the lanyard off his neck, turned to thrust the key card into the box and banged his hand against the closed window. Swallowing his panic, he put the window down, tried again. He put the card into the slot. Pulled it back out. The gate rose. The man in the booth waved at him. River waved back, tried to smile, and struggled to steer the car out of the garage and onto the long strip of pavement that wound away from the Vermont State Mental Hospital.
He pressed the accelerator a little harder and left the place behind.
When he made it to the highway, he hesitated for one brief moment, wondering where on earth he was going to go where they wouldn’t find him. Because eventually, they were going to realize the dead man in his room was not Michael “River” Corbett. Hell, they’d probably call what he’d done back there murder.
That would be two on the list. Three, he reminded himself. He mustn’t forget—couldn’t forget—the baby. Three murders.
It didn’t matter if he was found, if he was caught, if he ended up dead—nothing mattered except learning the truth. He had to know what had happened the night of the fire. He couldn’t have murdered his wife and his child.
For a moment, as he sat there, turn signal blinking incessantly, he closed his eyes, and it came rushing back to him as if it were happening all over again.
He found himself lying on the lawn in the cool green grass, surrounded by searing heat and light and a stench that burned his lungs. Rex was there, licking his face, whining plaintively. And even as he slowly fought to grasp what was happening, he realized he’d had another damn blackout. Yet another episode when he lost minutes, sometimes hours of his life, only to return to himself with no idea of what he’d done during that time. He patted the dog’s head. “Okay, boy, okay. I’m back.”
But this time was different. He’d felt it even before he struggled to sit up, and then leaped to his feet at the sight of his beautiful home going up in flames.
He screamed his wife’s name, lunged forward, only to be clasped by a pair of strong hands that held him back. “Easy, Mr. Corbett. Easy. We’re doing all we can.”
He blinked up at the face of the firefighter, a young man, one he didn’t recognize, though he’d met most of the men in Blackberry by then. Rex was barking at the man, and he told the dog it was all right, to quiet down.
Rex sat obediently, but still whined every now and then.
“Thanks,” the firefighter said, and then the young man’s face changed. It turned ugly as he sniffed. Then he looked at the ground beside River’s feet and his eyes widened.
River looked, too. A gasoline can lay there, toppled onto its side, no cap in place. A high-heeled shoe lay beside it, bright orange in the flashing lights.
It might be Steph’s shoe. He didn’t recognize it, but God knew she had so many—maybe she got out already.
“Just why is it you’ve got gas on you, pal?” the firefighter asked.
River frowned, and then he smelled the gas, as well. Not just from the fumes that open can emitted. The smell of gas was coming from him. From his hands. From his clothes.
“I think you’d better come with me, Mr. Corbett,” the firefighter said. And then he took River by the arm and walked him toward the flashing lights of Frankie Parker’s police car, a black-and-white SUV.
A horn blew, jerking River from his muddled thoughts and gap-riddled memories. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw a car behind him, the driver waiting impatiently to get on the highway. Sighing, he flicked his own signal light off again, opting instead to take back roads. Less chance of killing someone. God knew he didn’t need any more blood on his hands. And he knew the way. He knew the back roads of Vermont so well he could find his way even from within the thick chemical clouds in his brain.
If he’d murdered Stephanie, he deserved whatever he got. But dammit, he had to know. He had to know the truth. And there was only one place where he would find it.
He had to go back home to Blackberry.
That was where all the secrets were buried.
2
“Stop!”
Dawn shouted the word and Bryan hit the brakes of her Jeep. It skidded a little on the road, then came to a stop right in front of the empty, beautifully painted Victorian house that sat alone a few yards away.
“What?” Bryan asked. “What’s wrong?”
He knew something was. Something had been wrong for months now, and she was running out of ways to deny it, or avoid it, or block it out.
She swallowed hard, tried not to notice the worry in his dark eyes, or the way his hair had fallen over his forehead, making her want to smooth it away. He hadn’t cut it since they’d started college. She liked it this way.
“Dawn?”
“There was something in the road….” She watched his face, knowing immediately there had been nothing there. Nothing he had been able to see, anyway. Certainly not a woman in a white nightgown, holding a baby in her arms. Certainly not that.
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Sorry, Bry. I—it was just a squirrel. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He sighed in relief, seemed to relax visibly. “You’re wound awfully tight lately, Dawn. I’m really glad you’re gonna spend Thanksgiving break at the inn with Beth and my dad.” He smiled. “And me.”
She shrugged and chose to ignore the final part of his comment. He knew she needed to cool things off between them. He didn’t know why—pretended to accept her decision and be fine with it. But he wasn’t fine. She’d hurt him and she knew that. If there were any other way—
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I get a little torn. It’s tough, trying to find time to spend with both families—breaks from college are few