The Sitter Page 24

  In the hall, she looked at her watch. It was almost midnight. She groped her way along the wall into her bedroom, and then into the bathroom. For the first time in she couldn't remember when, Catherine didn't feel like drawing a tub for a soak. She just wanted the comfort of bed.

  After brushing her teeth, she daubed at her face with a damp cloth, and went into her bedroom. Turning on the small TV on her bureau, she slid between deliciously cool sheets with the remote. Catherine worked it until she heard the familiar, friendly voice of Jay Leno introducing somebody. “First time on the show...please make him welcome... ”

  Man talking...laughter...don't understand...doesn't matter... She fumbled for the remote, turned the TV off and gave herself up to sleep.

  What's that? A sound. Brought her back but not all the way. Larry...bathroom... Slipping back down...

  Then...heavy. Oh, Lord... air so heavy! Hard to breathe! She struggled, fighting sleep, fighting the weight. Air grew heavier still...until...there was no air!

  Catherine couldn't breathe. Dear Lord! Something was pressing down onto her face, so hard. Then, harder. Her eyes were open against the something on her face, and it was so black--she saw nothing. Frantic, she bucked upward, tried to arch her body, tried to throw off that awful pressure on her face. Got nowhere. Something leaden on her waist pressing against her sides. Arms too. Holding her down.

  Catherine was pinned to her bed by painful, strong weights. No leverage, no momentum.

  And, no air! Oh, Lordee-Lord-Lord... Please!

  The blackness and the pressure continued, relentless. She fought on in full blown panic. She thrust her head up, straining against that monstrous weight. Frantic for air, she had no strength.

  At a primal level, Catherine knew exactly what was happening.

  I know it is my little boy Larry on top of me, ending his mother's life.

  She was drifting then, as if underwater. I'm drowning, thought Catherine, but her panic was gone. A weakness, a giddy lightness--a strange sort of comfort had taken its place.

  She was suddenly so wonderfully light, and so delightfully free.

  Catherine sank deeper and deeper into warm, tranquil water. Still no air, but she no longer needed air.

  How fortunate she was, after all, going to her reward.

  *****

  “Why couldn't you just stay out of it?”

  Larry sat on the edge of his mother's bed, weeping. “I didn't want to do it, Ma. I didn't!” He smacked at his head, remembering the shattering blow to his gut when he found Jeannie and his mother having a drink together--like they were friends! The threat of police was what decided him. No way could Larry afford to have them involved. He wasn't that sure of his efforts to hide what he had done. He could only hope that she or that bitch Emma hadn't already called the police.

  He turned and looked back at his mother. The pillow was still on her face and she lay perfectly straight on her back as if she had been carefully placed there. The comforter was pulled neatly up to her neck, her wild red hair spread out around her head. Did he do that? Did he tuck her in that way? It was too dark in the room to see her clearly.

  But he had to--had to have a closer look. Larry opened the bathroom door and flipped on the light. It was enough. Her fat arms were on top of the comforter, flung out to each side. There was a sense of drama to her posture as if she had given herself up...to what--fate? To him? Suddenly anxious, he cautiously lifted the pillow. Was she really dead? Her eyes and mouth were wide open. The green of her eyes had already faded to a lifeless gray. There were faint red lines in the whites of her eyes. With gentle fingers, Larry closed his mother's eyes. He heard his breathing; its harsh sound filled the room.

  “You...you were quicksand to me, Ma.” He gazed down at poor, dull, common Catherine Cutler. “I'm sorry, Ma,” he whispered. “I thought about it and thought about it...there was no other way. You were just in the way, you know? If you had called the police... fuck, Ma, you would have ruined everything!”

  She had been so strong! Amazed at the way she'd fought him, he had to hand it to her. Straddling her had been wild, like riding a bull. And, she had damn near thrown him off! Her flabby arms had turned to iron as she pushed up against his knees. And her head! He had a terrifying vision of his mother chewing her way through that pillow and then gnawing on his hands. It was all he could do just to keep her down.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, Larry reminded himself that he had to get on with it. There was much more to be done.

  In the kitchen he took the half bottle of scotch from the cupboard and grabbed a roll of paper towels and a spoon. He unscrewed the bottle cap as he hurried back to Catherine.

  He placed it and the scotch on the bedside table. He climbed onto the bed and, shuddering with revulsion, straddled his mother's body. Larry was so thankful he had thought to close her eyes. He reached for the spoon and put the handle into her still open mouth, sliding it along her tongue to the back of her throat. Pushing down on the spoon handle, he created what he hoped was access to her stomach. Holding the spoon in place with one hand and grasping the bottle with the other, he began to slowly pour the straight scotch into her open mouth. The liquid quickly filled her throat and mouth and came out onto her chin, spilling onto her throat and neck.

  He thrust a knee up to his mother's chin and pushed. With her chin back, the scotch flowed easily for a moment, then spilled out again. What the hell, thought Larry, maybe that was enough. Here was a woman so bombed after a night at her crazy church, she brought a bottle of booze to bed with her. Death by alcohol poisoning--open and shut!

  He put the almost empty bottle back on the table, jumped off the bed and hurried to the kitchen with the spoon, which he rinsed off and put away.

  Back in Catherine's room, Larry tore a couple paper towels off the roll and wiped the bottle clean. It was unlikely anyone would dust for prints, but if they did, he was home free. He pulled her clothes off the chair and tossed them onto the floor as if she'd been too drunk to put them away. He looked around, figured he had done a good job, and went back to his room.

  Larry flung himself onto his bed, exhausted but so wired he knew sleep was impossible. It didn't matter though because in the morning Poor-Larry-Cutler would make the heartbreaking discovery that his mother had died in the night. Sad. Devastating. But he would call the Connor's and Steven would know what to do.

  Friday, December 15th

  He couldn't believe it. Could not fucking believe it. Steven had a raging headache and was so tired he couldn't think--couldn't put anything together. Up all night with the deputies and still no Bertie. Or Louie. Leo, worried as hell, was flying back from San Francisco early today. And then, this morning, the unbelievable call from Larry. Steven stood in Catherine Cutler's bedroom, looking down on her pale face, his fingers checking her cold wrist for a pulse he knew wasn't there. Her mouth was open as if gasping for air. He glanced at Larry who was standing near him and staring down at the floor. He was fussing with the buttons at the cuffs of his flannel shirt.

  My God. Bad luck follows this boy like a hound.

  Steven reached out, placed a hand on the back of Larry's neck. He pulled the boy to him and hugged him.

  “I'm sorry.” he said softly, and felt Larry relax against him. “It's tough...I know it's tough.” What could he say? What words were there?

  Larry pulled away from him. “What...what should I do?”

  “Go on out of here,” Steven said firmly. “Go into the kitchen and get yourself something to eat.”

  Larry turned obediently and left the room.

  Steven walked around the bedroom slowly looking for what he couldn't say. The place reeked of whiskey, and he couldn't very well miss the empty bottle on the bedside table. He went to the phone and called information for the Coroner's number.

  When he joined Larry in the kitchen, he found the boy sitting quietly at the table, his feet up on a chair and a bottle of orange soda in front of him.

  Steven noticed th
e tread on his Nikes; it looked almost new. “Is that all you could find to eat?” Larry was silent, staring down at the table. “I called the Coroner's office,” Steven said. “They're sending a medical examiner over--shouldn't be too long.” He took a breath. “Your mom...she drinks a little?”

  “Yeah.”

  Steven nodded. “Anything unusual happen last night?”

  Larry thought a moment, then shook his head. “She went to church.”

  “Church?”

  “Yeah. Some kind of loony church in the desert.”

  Another nod. Steven couldn't think of anything to say.

  “I...I don't think I can stay here tonight, Steven,” Larry said in a faint voice.

  “Well, of course not!” Steven said, his voice too loud in the quiet room. He felt guilty, remiss. “You're coming home with me. Right after we get your mother taken care of.” Larry looked relieved and grateful all at once, and Steven felt better. Even Jeannie would be okay with that, he thought. Not exactly thrilled, but she wouldn't want Larry to stay alone--not after his mom...

  “You're sure Jeannie will be okay with that?” Larry asked, as if reading his mind.

  “Absolutely,” Steven said with an easy confidence he didn't quite feel. “You can stay in Stevie's room. That will give you some privacy. Until you get back on your feet.”

  Steven hugged the boy again. Poor kid, he thought sadly. Nice work, Catherine Cutler--what a legacy you've left your boy.

  Jeannie was stricken, that was plain to see.

  “She's...dead?” She pronounced the word as if it were lethal in itself.

  Steven nodded. Larry stood by, looking down at his tennis shoes.

  “But I just saw her. Yesterday.” She stared at Larry. “Remember?”

  “Yeah.” He didn't look up.

  Steven was surprised. Jeannie hadn't mentioned that.

  “We had a...talk together. She told me all about her church. How? How did she die?” she asked Larry, who was still gazing down at his Nikes. To Steven her tone was somewhat hostile.

  He frowned and put his arm around her. “Later,” he murmured, not wanting to tell her in front of Larry that it looked like his mother had killed herself with alcohol. He was afraid all this on top of the missing Bertie was going to be too much for her. But he just couldn't leave poor Larry on his own.

  “I didn't want Larry to be alone at a time like this, Jeannie. I told him he could stay here with us for a few days. We brought his bike along so he can get around and maybe get to feeling a little better.”

  “A few days?” Jeanne said as a look of absolute panic crossed her face and she lurched closer to Steven.

  “Just for a while,” he said quickly, steadying her against him. “Just until he feels--”

  But her face contorted and she began to cry. She turned to Steven, burying her face against his chest. He held her tightly, knowing she was close to losing it completely. Jeannie pulled away from him and started up the stairs.

  “She's upset of course.” Steven said to Larry and leaned down to pick up his duffle. “C'mon, you can use Stevie's room.”

  “No!” Jeannie shouted. Steven and Larry looked up at her with amazement. There were two bright pink spots on her cheeks. “Larry may NOT use Stevie's room!” She punched each word with anger.

  “Okay, okay. He can bunk in with Kevin,” Steven said.

  “No!”

  “Well, Jesus, Jeannie--”

  “Wait a minute!” she cried. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands into fists at her sides. He could hear her ragged breath, and knew he should have called her with this awful news from the Cutler's. At least that would have given her time to get herself together.

  “You can... ” Jeannie paused, gulping air, “use Stevie's room. BUT, you must NOT,” she spoke directly to Larry, “touch anything. NONE of his things!”

  “I won't, I swear!” Larry said loudly. “Don't worry, Jeannie—I won't!”

  “I need to see you, Steven,” she said. “Alone. In the studio.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  *****

  “Listen to me,” I say urgently after Steven has explained to me the probable cause of Catherine Cutler's death. We are sitting in the studio facing each other, our chairs pulled close.

  “Larry...is evil. He is not who you think he is.” My heart is pounding with such intensity, I can feel its wild heat coursing through me.

  “Oh, Jeannie, I know you're upset.” He clasps my hands in his. “I think this is more about Bertie than Larry and his mother. I mean, we didn't even know her. I think once we find out where the hell Bertie is, we're all going to feel so much better. But darling I just couldn't--”

  “Steven, 'upset' is not the word to describe how I feel. There are too many people dying or disappearing around Larry Cutler.”

  He withdraws his hands.

  “Please, Steven, think about it!” He opens his mouth to speak, but I hurry on. “First our Stevie, then Jordan, then no one can find Bertie, and now Larry's mother is dead. You think all those people are mere coincidence?”

  Steven rises, goes to his wall desk and pulls a bottle of scotch out of a drawer.

  “Don't do that, Steven...please.”

  He pours three fingers into a glass, returns to me, and sits down. His face has lost its intensity. He appears casual, almost indifferent.

  “I am your wife,” I say. I stand and begin to walk around the room.

  Are we lost? Are we beyond hope?

  “You owe me some consideration, Steven. So please, allow me the faint possibility that I may be right about Larry Cutler.”

  “You didn't tell me,” Steven says softly, not meeting my eyes. “Why did you go to see Larry's mother?”

  “I wanted to get to know her a little, see what she was like. And, I wanted to tell her I thought Larry was spending too much time over here with us. Catherine was very emotional--maybe a little drunk. She said she thought Larry was never happier than with us. She cried. Then Larry appeared, and I could swear, Steven, she was afraid of him. Afraid of her own son!”

  Steven shook his head. “I think you should see someone, Jeannie. Someone to help you through all this.”

  Perhaps so.

  If I'm imagining all this...if I'm wrong about Poor-Larry-Cutler, then I am surely mad. If I'm right, the situation is far worse than my being crazy.

  Looking into Steven's closed face, I know Bertie McQueen is the only person I can really talk with about this. Oh, Bertie, please come home!

  “Is it too much to ask for some credibility from my husband?”

  “Oh, hell,” he says. “Instead of credibility, why not just go for straight information? Just ask him. Hey Larry, you a killer, or what?”

  I pray I'm just crazy.

  I hear Larry drawing a bath in Stevie's bathroom and that pisses me off.

  The phone rings, jarring us both, and Steven answers. “Yeah, Leo.” He frowns. “Dogs? Well, sure, that's...sure, you bet.” He looks at his watch. “Yeah, I'll be right over.” He hangs up, still frowning.

  “What?”

  “Leo just got in from San Francisco. He said a Deputy Schmidt is bringing a couple of blood hounds to search the McQueen grounds. Leo wants me to join them.” He rubs his face harshly with both hands, running his fingers up into his hair.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” He comes to me, pulls me close. “I'm sorry, Babe. Sorry I can't seem to give you—”

  “Hush, Darling.” I put a hand over his mouth. “Just find Bertie. Alive. Please.”

  I know that whatever this seemingly endless day brings, I have to do something about Larry Cutler's presence in my home. I have to make it clear to both Larry and Steven that the boy can stay no longer than tonight--just the one night.

  My God, how can I possibly sleep with him here? And, in Stevie's room?

  We will take Kevin in with us tonight, I decide. In the meantime, I must speak to Larry.

  Stevie's d
oor is closed. I tap lightly thinking Larry may be in the bathroom. No response. I open the door quietly.

  Larry is sitting cross-legged on the bed, Stevie's earphones on his head. He is listening to one of Stevie's tapes. Larry's promise to not touch anything in Stevie's room rings in my ears. There are baseball cards strewn all over the bed among the clothing he's taken out of his duffle. He is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and I see several ugly red gouge-like marks on his arms. The cards, I realize are from my son's collection. He kept them in the small locked metal box.

  Locked! The box was always locked!

  My eyes go to Larry's face; his eyes are still closed. He's holding Stevie's quilt all bunched up in his arms. I see a small smile come to his mouth as he brings a corner of the quilt up to his face, and rubs it slowly across his cheek. He does this in a way I can only describe as sensual.

  Larry opens his eyes. Wide. He stares into mine as his mouth drops open. For a tiny mote of time--a millisecond really--he just looks surprised. Then a shameful rush of red stains his cheeks. Guilt. Guilt is a visible, almost tangible presence on Larry. He is awash with it and I know it's not just that he's been caught touching Stevie's things. His crime is much deeper than that.

  I know. I know it all.

  A spasm of trembling shakes me.

  Larry rips the headphones off, slides off the bed, and jumps to his feet. “Jeannie! You surprised me!” He gestures toward the bed. “I'm sorry about all this. The cards--”

  A wave of hot strength washes through me. Stevie had baseball bats in the corner of his room near the door, leaning there. I must have reached for one because I'm holding it now, marveling at the heft of it, the way it fits so nicely into my hands.

  “Stevie loved baseball,” I say to Larry, feeling my mouth form a smile.

  “Jeannie... ” Larry is pale now, all the color has drained from his face.

  “You look scared,” I say and smile some more. “I know, Larry,” I say. I take a step toward him, swinging the bat back and forth in front of me. “I know all about you.” My hands are sure and steady on the bat. It feels like I've held this bat before. It's familiar to me, as if it's been waiting for me. I know it's a weapon now; I know I can kill with it.