Tell No Lies Page 16

  Jack found the right boat and stepped onto its rear platform; he held out his hand to help balance her as she did the same. She grabbed his wrist, and he noticed that the few minutes in the warm air had returned her skin to a normal temperature.

  "Did you even read your rental agreement?" he asked as he untied the boat from the dock. "There's probably a limit to how late you can have this thing out."

  She grunted dramatically and plopped down on one of the bench seats that ran along each side of the boat. She pulled her knees up close and rested her chin on them. His sweatshirt was much too large and the sleeves hung down low from her arms. "Do you ever do anything you're not supposed to?" she asked.

  His first thought was of what happened in the garage, and in his need to defend himself against her accusations, he wanted to remind her of it. Instead, he turned to the controls and said, "Not when I'm running for public office."

  He put the gear in reverse and carefully backed out of the slip. As he edged out of the small harbor, he glanced back at her. She was on her back, with her knees bent, gazing at the sky.

  He set the throttle at a low speed and made minor adjustments to their direction with one finger. Despite the slow pace, it didn't take long before the lights of the resort became nothing more than a lambent glow in the distance and then, once he turned the bend and brought them into the open expanse of the lake, disappeared altogether.

  After a while, she came up front and sat in the seat adjacent to his. She didn't speak, and they both watched the gentle waves of the black swollen water. He finally started to relax. He steered the boat into a large cove where the water was calmer. It wasn't until he shut down the engine that she came out of her trance and looked at him questioningly.

  "I thought maybe you'd like it without the noise," he said.

  She smiled. "Yes, I would."

  "You really never came here as a kid?"

  She waited a moment before answering. "No."

  He sensed there was more, an explanation, because hadn't every kid who'd grown up in Missouri been to this man-made lake at least once?

  "My parents died when I was nine. There were a lot of things I didn't do." She stood, pulled the sweatshirt over her head, and dropped her shorts. "Let's swim."

  Before he could respond, she'd climbed over the railing and was poised to dive in. He stood just in time to see her sinewy body cut a hole in the water with barely a splash.

  She hooted as her head popped out of the water. "It feels great! Come on in!"

  Her voice echoed in the still air, and he looked around as if someone else might have heard her. But the only sound was the ripple of her gentle treading in the warm water. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, wanted to ask more about her parents, but she'd made it clear she didn't want that. So he dropped anchor, pulled off his shirt, and dove in with her.

  When he came up out of the water, he laughed from the sheer joy of what they were doing. How long had it been since he'd swum in a lake in the middle of the night? And apparently this was a first for her.

  "How far is Bagnell Dam?" she asked. They treaded close to the boat, and the invisible hollow that formed between the water and the boat's aluminum side caused her words to reverberate.

  "Far."

  "Can we go see it?" she persisted.

  "Jenny, it'd take all night. It's at least an hour up and then another hour back." She looked skeptical. "Anyway," he added, "there's not much to see. Trust me. It's not Hoover Dam."

  She scrunched her face in disappointment.

  "Did your family come here a lot?" she asked.

  "A lot? No. But every so often. And I spent a few weeks at camp somewhere down here. I'm not even sure where, exactly."

  "Mark, too?" She stretched out and swam farther from the boat. He followed.

  "Yeah."

  "Are you two close?" She ducked under the water, came up with her face to the sky to smooth her hair back.

  "You saw us together. What do you think?"

  "Well, if you were really, really close, I would have met him before now, I think. But yeah, I think you're close, in a drive-each-other-crazy sort of way."

  "Sort of like us?"

  She smirked, and swam away again. He watched her measured strokes; they were strong and smooth, practiced. Perhaps it hadn't been on a lake, but she'd learned to swim well somewhere. She spoke again when she was a good twenty-five feet from him. "Yeah, sort of like us." And then, "You wanna race?"

  No, he didn't want to. But he knew if he declined, she'd take it as a sign of weakness.

  They decided to start the race by diving off the back of the boat, one on each side of the propeller. They'd swim to a buoy near shore and then double back.

  It was at least two hundred feet to the buoy, and for the first one hundred or so, they swam head to head. Every few strokes he'd check her progress against his own, and if he felt she was gaining on him in the slightest bit, he pushed himself harder. But he reached a point where he couldn't do more; he was operating at full capacity, and still she was pulling ahead. The lake water was earthy-tasting in his mouth and he struggled not to swallow it. She reached the buoy a few feet before him and executed a turn like the kind he'd seen on television.

  On the way back she seemed to lose her energy, though, while he kept pushing himself, kept circling his arms like a turbine engine in the belief that she might have the skill but he had the endurance. The gap between them began to shrink, and for a moment he thought he was going to do it. The boat loomed near, but he was only a foot or two behind her.

  And then she grinned at him. Or did she? He was sure he'd seen it through their chaotic splashing. A devious, tricked-you grin. His gains evaporated as she sprinted for the finish and touched the boat a full body length before him. When he emerged, jerking his head to shake off the excess water, she was smiling broadly, panting from her exhaustion and exhilaration.

  "I'm sorry!" she said between breaths. "I couldn't resist."

  "You're good," he said, exhaling loudly. The combined rhythm of their labored breathing unnerved him, and he turned from her when he realized why. It was the sound that immediately followed rigorous lovemaking.

  He dunked his head into the water. The humiliation of being beaten, and now these thoughts invading his head. "You ready to go back?" he asked when he came up. "We shouldn't be here."

  Her face fell. "No, why?" She swam around the motor to his side. "Jack, why? You're not mad at me for beating you, are you?"

  Water beaded on her dark eyelashes, forming shiny black triangles. He wondered how long they would dance around it.

  "No, of course not," he said finally. "It's just that we have a long day tomorrow. We should get some sleep."

  "But I like being out here alone." He sensed that she didn't mean alone with him, but instead was alluding to her isolation from the world at large. He wondered if things had gotten worse for her at Newman. "I think I could stay here forever, actually," she added, laughing slightly at the absurdity of the idea.

  "Jenny? Is everything okay at Newman? With Max—"

  "Don't worry about it. I've got everything under control. I'm not going to mess up anything for you."

  "That's not what I meant," he said slowly, a bit taken aback by her aggressive tone.

  She dipped under the water and swam to the ladder. "Come on, then, let's go," she said. Her muscles were toned and slick with lake water as she pulled herself up. She pretended her sudden acquiescence wasn't sudden at all, and her refusal to meet his eyes told him to back off.

  In the boat, they realized they hadn't brought dry towels, so they shared the damp one Jenny'd had around her neck when she'd first shown up at his door. She put on his sweatshirt and took her seat again in the front, next to him, but the silence they shared was awkward now.

  "You just don't see stars like this in the city, do you?" she said.

  "You don't see stars like this as an adult," he said. She turned to him, and he knew she understood what he meant. />
  After another fifteen minutes of silence, she asked, "How much farther?"

  Jack shrugged. "Forty, forty-five minutes."

  "To the hotel? Did we come that far?"

  He looked over at her. He wanted to give her whatever she wanted, whatever he could.

  "To the dam."

  The humidity still hadn't lifted when Jack woke the next morning and headed to the main lodge for breakfast. The sky was cloudless but blurred hot with haze. He was tired and running late, but he was in a good mood. He felt that the night before with Jenny had been a test of his fidelity, and not only had he passed, he'd done so with flying colors. After all, if he'd really wanted to pursue something more with her, last night would have been the night to do it. The temptation had been high, and the risk low, but he hadn't succumbed. His behavior on the boat had been beyond reproach.

  His mood, though, proved to be short-lived. Jim Wolfe was standing outside the lodge, leaning against the valet stand, when Jack approached. Wolfe was the legal reporter for St. Louis' largest daily newspaper. They made eye contact from a distance, but as Jack got closer, Wolfe bent down and pretended to retie the shoelaces of his loafers.

  Jack planned to walk by with just a nod, hoping that Wolfe wasn't there to talk to him, but he made the mistake of trying to stifle a yawn as he passed.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hilliard," Wolfe said, standing up straight again, his tone a little too friendly. With one finger he pushed his wire-rim glasses farther up his nose. "Late night?"

  "Excuse me?" Jack said. He tried to muster a smile so that Wolfe wouldn't sense his discomfort at the question. The automatic doors that had opened when Jack first stepped on the hotel's large welcome mat now stood gaping at attention, waiting for him to pass through into the cooled air. In his mind he kept replaying the picture of walking with Jenny back to their rooms from the dock. Except for the small ground lights that lit the path, it had been very dark. The deck and pool lights had been turned off hours before, and most rooms were black, too. He was sure no one saw them.

  Wolfe shrugged like a little kid. He reminded Jack of Radar O'Reilly from M*A*S*H.

  "You yawned. I was merely joking in reference to your yawn, Mr. Hilliard. I apologize if I offended you."

  "No, no," Jack stuttered. "You didn't." He struggled to recover. "I just didn't hear you properly, I guess."

  "I was wondering if you had a few minutes to discuss the Barnard case?" Wolfe's tone was still friendly, but he reached for a Dictaphone in his shirt pocket, so Jack knew he planned to ask the questions regardless of whether Jack intended to answer them.

  "Certainly." At that moment Jack was happy to discuss anything if it would draw Wolfe's attention away from his lack of sleep. He couldn't lose the image of him and Jenny strolling back to the hotel together. He tried to remember if they'd touched or given any other indication of being anything more than friends. He knew it didn't matter; just being alone with her at that time of night would be incriminating evidence to someone like Wolfe.

  "Well, I'm sure you're aware of Mr. Scanlon's decision not to seek death for Cassia Barnard's murderer—"

  "Her alleged murderer, yes." God, now he sounded like a defense attorney.

  "Her alleged murderer," Wolfe agreed easily, shrugging his carefree Radar-like shrug again. "I'm wondering if he consulted you prior to making his decision, and whether you believe it was the right decision to make."

  Out of the corner of his eye Jack glimpsed other attorneys coming up the walk—St. Louis attorneys, and he recognized many of them. He felt the rapidly rising sun on his face and wished that Wolfe had conducted his stakeout inside the hotel.

  "We talked about it, of course. I'm not at liberty to share our conversations with you. I will tell you that I think he made the right decision. I believe it was the only decision he could make after being presented with the evidence of Mr. Hutchins's diminished mental capacity."

  The group of attorneys slowed as they neared, some nodding to Jack or smiling in silent greeting. He returned the gesture once, intending it for the whole group. Wolfe ignored all of them; he was the outsider and he knew it. He focused his attention on Jack.

  "Absent the evidence of his low IQ" —he noticed that Wolfe had reworded Jack's description of the defendant— "do you think Mr. Scanlon would have asked for the death penalty?"

  "I'm not privy to the inner workings of my boss's mind, Mr. Wolfe." He smiled in a friendly manner as he said it. He knew he was being smart with the guy, but he also knew the small crowd that had gathered to watch the exchange enjoyed it.

  "Well then, I'm sure you're privy to the inner workings of your own mind, aren't you, Mr. Hilliard? I'm also sure that you're aware this is a very hot issue in the upcoming election. So what would you have done? Would you have asked for death?"

  Jack wondered whether Wolfe and the lady from the news station met regularly to compare notes. They didn't get it, though; he was realizing the more they pushed him, the stronger he became.

  "A hot issue for a hot day, huh, Mr. Wolfe?" He smiled again, directing it at one of the female lawyers in the crowd who'd just lifted a curl of thick chestnut hair off her neck in an effort to stay cool. She smiled back. All of them were on his side. Despite their differences in the courtroom, they would stick together against a common adversary.

  But then she yawned. It was a silent, wide yawn, politely covered, but Jack saw it and it proved as contagious as the flu. He felt the involuntary movement of his jaw as his mind ricocheted once more to the two of them standing in his doorway, trying to deny their attraction to each other.

  Wolfe laughed. "Mr. Hilliard, are you sure you weren't out late last night?" He narrowed his eyes as if he, too, was in on the secret.

  Jack tried to remember the question before his yawn. He had to divert Wolfe back to Barnard before he began to inquire more about Jack's evening. He didn't want to be forced to lie outright.

  "Mr. Wolfe, to answer your question, the one I think you really want an answer to—" He would tell Wolfe exactly what he wanted to hear. "I do think that if Clyde Hutchins had an IQ like me, or you, or any of these ladies and gentlemen standing here with us, Mr. Scanlon would have been justified in asking for the death penalty."

  Even as he spoke these words, words so contradictory to what he really believed, he knew that he couldn't stop now. "And if I were in his shoes," he continued, purposely using the phrase the woman from the television news had used, "I, too, would be justified in asking for the death penalty."

  Justified, not right. Justified was different from right, wasn't it? But his throat tightened. He sensed that he'd just given away something that he could never get back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS SUMMER NEARED its end, the campaign picked up speed. In addition to the activities scheduled during the day, Jack's nights were increasingly being eaten up by functions that, according to Dunne, required his appearance. Even the weekends became hectic after Dunne saw a picture of Jack's family in the paper, taken at a festival, and decided he wanted Claire to attend as many events as possible. "She's got a certain quality about her, a genuineness," he'd stated matter-of-factly. "There are certain people who will vote for you merely because of her." Claire agreed. Whatever misgivings she had about the campaign—and she had many, as Jack's expressed position became more opposed to what he really felt—she saved for home, and he discovered that he enjoyed having her along; he enjoyed showing her off.

  But he was eager to leave the campaigning behind and return to the courtroom. The Barnard case was scheduled for early October, and the date was fast approaching. In the weeks leading up to it, the late nights began to exact their toll at home. The routine wasn't unusual; he'd always prepared for his big trials at night, when the office was quiet and it was easier to concentrate. Claire had always understood, but this time her patience gave out quickly. They both were exhausted from the campaign, so he tried to ignore her sighs whenever he called to say he'd be late. But it soon became an escalat
ing cycle that they couldn't break. He'd have to work late, she'd complain, and then, to avoid further conflict, he'd make less of an effort to get home to her.

  One morning in mid-September he left early for work, pulling out of the driveway before the sky began to lighten. Claire was still sleeping, and he hadn't woken her to say goodbye. They'd fought the night before over something silly and had gone to bed with little conversation, back to back, not touching. By the time his anger had dissipated and he'd whispered into the dark for her to come closer, she'd fallen asleep, or at least had pretended to.

  But the thought that she might still be angry gnawed at him, so at lunchtime he called her.

  "Hi," she said, immediately dropping the professional tone she used at work. She sounded tired. "What do you need?"

  He swallowed. As if he only called when he needed something. "Nothing. I just missed you" —he decided to take a chance— "and hoped that maybe you missed me, too."

  Her response, delivered without humor, wasn't what he'd been fishing for. "I've been missing you for a while, Jack."

  "I know." He looked at the picture of her on the beach in Amangasett and wished she were in the room with him. "I'm sorry about last night. The trial and the election's making us crazy, but they'll be over soon, okay? A few more weeks. And I'm leaving at five tonight, come hell or high water. I promise."

  The line was silent for a moment, and then she said, "You left so early this morning."

  "Yeah, I wanted to get here before the office opened so I could work without any distractions. I just wanted to be alone for a while, that's all."

  He could tell by her silence that she'd taken it the wrong way. She'd taken it as an indictment of her. Maybe, in a roundabout sort of way, it was. "Claire, I don't mean to—"

  "I've gotta go. My class starts at five after."

  He sighed again. No matter how hard they tried, it seemed that lately every discussion ended this way, with him trying to explain himself and her misunderstanding, and then cutting him off before they reached some sort of resolution. "Okay" was all he said.