minutes. Then you came out; you got Tasered and kidnapped. You were driven to the south side of the island and I watched you get carried into a motel room. You were there for about three hours. Then, you and the other guy went and had coffee on Strand Street. My sister got murdered last week, her fiancé is in a mental hospital, you’re breaking into her apartment and getting kidnapped, and then you’re having breakfast with your kidnapper at five in the morning before walking back here. So what I want to know is, what the fuck ?”
“Allison Clayborn was your sister?”
“I just said that.”
“Twins?”
“No. She was a year older than me. Nobody will tell me what’s going on, or if there are any leads; I can’t see her body; I can’t get in touch with my parents; the detective in charge of the case hasn’t returned any of my calls; I don’t know where Ben is.”
“Why can’t you reach your parents?”
“They’re on a cruise in Turkey. Will you stop asking questions and please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Can I get dressed? I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“No. Maybe later. Right now I want answers.”
He moved his hands up—slowly, so she wouldn’t think he was reaching for the gun—and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he rested his elbows on the table and put his forehead in his palms. His reconnaissance from the night before might as well have been on network TV. How many other people had watched him?
“Six years ago my wife was murdered in Honolulu. She’d come home early from work to jog on the beach. No one ever found the killer. He—I’ll spare you the details.”
But her eyes said he couldn’t spare her, that no gap in his story would veil what she already suspected. So he told her.
A police officer came to his office in Honolulu, and told him his wife had been found.
Found? He hadn’t known she was missing.
He went with the officer, all feeling receding from his body. He rode in the passenger seat of the cruiser, up over the Pali Highway and down through the tunnel in the mountains to the other side of the island. It was raining by the time they got to the pass, and came harder on the windward side.
He’d asked too many questions. How had they found her in the house? Why were they looking? Who said they could go inside? The officer had been evasive, then finally gave answers Chris wished he’d never heard.
A neighbor reported screams.
Dispatch sent a unit to roll past the house and the cops saw blood on the front steps. The door was unlocked. No one answered when they called, so they went inside.
Later, disoriented by grief, Chris would think he’d sabotaged his last chance. She hadn’t really been dead until then. If he hadn’t asked the questions, it could have all been taken back.
But that chance slipped away, if it had ever been a chance. They came to the house. The yard was a parking lot for police cars, evidence vans, unmarked detectives’ cars, all of them sinking into mud beneath the soaked grass. He could see the blood on the threshold of the door, still bright and wet. A man wearing plastic bags on his feet was taking photographs of the doormat. Someone took Chris’s elbow and looked at another officer.
“This the husband? The fuck they bring him for?”
Chris shook off the hand, pushed past the detective, past the photographer. Inside there were more of them, technicians everywhere with bagged feet, gloved hands, and shower caps. He called Cheryl’s name. Halogen lights mounted on tripods filled the living room and illuminated the kitchen.
“Grab him, don’t let him past.”
He made it to the kitchen and saw her on the floor in front of the oven. They dragged him away a second later, but by then he’d seen enough. He could, and would, replay that single second for days at a time.
He hadn’t recognized her face. Only her hair. One eye was gone; the other stared straight up. Her breasts were cut off and gone. It looked like an
“Allison Clayborn was your sister?”
“I just said that.”
“Twins?”
“No. She was a year older than me. Nobody will tell me what’s going on, or if there are any leads; I can’t see her body; I can’t get in touch with my parents; the detective in charge of the case hasn’t returned any of my calls; I don’t know where Ben is.”
“Why can’t you reach your parents?”
“They’re on a cruise in Turkey. Will you stop asking questions and please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Can I get dressed? I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“No. Maybe later. Right now I want answers.”
He moved his hands up—slowly, so she wouldn’t think he was reaching for the gun—and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he rested his elbows on the table and put his forehead in his palms. His reconnaissance from the night before might as well have been on network TV. How many other people had watched him?
“Six years ago my wife was murdered in Honolulu. She’d come home early from work to jog on the beach. No one ever found the killer. He—I’ll spare you the details.”
But her eyes said he couldn’t spare her, that no gap in his story would veil what she already suspected. So he told her.
A police officer came to his office in Honolulu, and told him his wife had been found.
Found? He hadn’t known she was missing.
He went with the officer, all feeling receding from his body. He rode in the passenger seat of the cruiser, up over the Pali Highway and down through the tunnel in the mountains to the other side of the island. It was raining by the time they got to the pass, and came harder on the windward side.
He’d asked too many questions. How had they found her in the house? Why were they looking? Who said they could go inside? The officer had been evasive, then finally gave answers Chris wished he’d never heard.
A neighbor reported screams.
Dispatch sent a unit to roll past the house and the cops saw blood on the front steps. The door was unlocked. No one answered when they called, so they went inside.
Later, disoriented by grief, Chris would think he’d sabotaged his last chance. She hadn’t really been dead until then. If he hadn’t asked the questions, it could have all been taken back.
But that chance slipped away, if it had ever been a chance. They came to the house. The yard was a parking lot for police cars, evidence vans, unmarked detectives’ cars, all of them sinking into mud beneath the soaked grass. He could see the blood on the threshold of the door, still bright and wet. A man wearing plastic bags on his feet was taking photographs of the doormat. Someone took Chris’s elbow and looked at another officer.
“This the husband? The fuck they bring him for?”
Chris shook off the hand, pushed past the detective, past the photographer. Inside there were more of them, technicians everywhere with bagged feet, gloved hands, and shower caps. He called Cheryl’s name. Halogen lights mounted on tripods filled the living room and illuminated the kitchen.
“Grab him, don’t let him past.”
He made it to the kitchen and saw her on the floor in front of the oven. They dragged him away a second later, but by then he’d seen enough. He could, and would, replay that single second for days at a time.
He hadn’t recognized her face. Only her hair. One eye was gone; the other stared straight up. Her breasts were cut off and gone. It looked like an
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