Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [239]
"Sure," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You do the same."
"Thank you, Andy. And I'm very sorry about your mother." She kissed my cheek and tried to smile, but it failed miserably. Then she turned and walked slowly away, towards the doors which would lead out of the funeral home, to an empty house.
# # #
When the visitors had gone, leaving only myself, family members, and the pale-faced funeral director, I walked towards the open casket. It had been crowded since I'd been here, so I had waited, wanting to see my mother for the last time, alone, in a quiet room, without the disturbances of a thousand acquaintances. The mortician had warned me that the bruise around her neck would be difficult to hide, and he was right. As I set my hands on the metallic shell of her casket and peered down at her vapid face, it was the first thing I saw.
To someone who didn't know what to look for, the bruise might never draw a glance. But I'd seen her in the cold morgue, and the blackish-purple ring around her neck had been strikingly obvious then. It had looked as if someone had scribbled with black and purple magic markers on her soft, white neck. But now, in this reverent visitation room, only a light periwinkle shown through the makeup on her throat, like dull violets poking through snow.
I cried, touching her face. Though stiff and unnatural, it was hers. Her hands had been folded on top of each other, and they rested on her chest as if she merely slept. When I leaned down to whisper in her ear, I felt a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes staring through my back. My heart froze, and a cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Quickly, I spun around, darting my head towards the two sets of double doors on either end of the long, rectangular room. Jim, Hannah, and Wendy stood in a small circle, chatting by the entrance, and there was no one at the other end. I took a slow, measured breath, and turned back towards my mother, waiting for the icy feeling in my heart to retreat, though it never did.
# # #
White lights sparkled on the opposite shores, and a biting wind swept across the cold water. I stood shivering atop the grassy bank, watching the white Cadillac glide into the murky water. As it filled and lowered into the depths of Lake Norman, the air inside rushed out, breaking into tiny bubbles like a boiling cauldron on the surface. Then it was gone, the black, glassy surface smooth and calm again, except for where the wind stirred it.
I walked back through the woods, towards my property, the ground muddy from the construction that had begun on a new subdivision. No houses were finished, but concrete foundations, gravel roads, and skeletal wood frames were already in place. A wide swath of forest had been gutted, giving the landscape a bruised, beaten demeanor. It would be another six months before anyone moved here, and though my house was nearly half a mile up the shore, I still hated that I would one day have neighbors so close. I might even move when the yuppies came, with their four-wheel-drives and bratty kids.
Rarely did I think of Walter. Only when his wife called, wondering if he'd contacted me, did his face cross my mind and torture me. But for the most part, I'd mastered the management of guilt, simply by disconnecting myself from his memory. I hadn't killed him. Though heartbroken for the loss, it was business, another casualty of Orson. He knew the risk when he went to Vermont. He made the choice. It was remarkable how numb I felt.
Walter hadn't told Beth where or with whom he was going. All she knew was that on Wednesday morning, November 2nd, Walter had left before dawn with enough luggage for several days. He'd told her nothing, and she had trusted him. Now, for reasons unknown to me, Beth had chosen my shoulder to cry on. I'd been on the phone with her earlier tonight before