The Last Door, page 8
She grabbed another beer and curled up in the recliner. She didn't understand how there could be so much blood. She wished she could focus, wished she could pull all the memories together and put them in order. She wished she could understand them. But she didn't. She just didn't.
Had he killed them? She simply couldn't believe it. David Quinn a murderer? She didn't believe it. She had to open that door. Had to.
She left the house before Tate woke up, leaving him a note saying she'd been called out for work. More lies. She drove and drove until she found the door, then she parked several houses away, watching and waiting.
It was barely morning, but she needed to see them leave, needed to know they were gone. For everyone else in the world, it was a typical Monday morning. It wasn't special; it wasn't about to break apart their world. Amy envied them.
How did everyone not feel her panic, her terror? How did they not hear her heart beating? How could they not see her here, waiting, waiting, waiting for them to leave?
It wasn't long before the boy and girl left and climbed onto the school bus. The father left. The mother drove off. The house was empty.
Amy watched it for an hour, but nothing changed. She drove around the block, came back,
and parked in front of it, right where their car had been so many years ago, just feet from the street lamp.
She crawled in the back seat, and there she was. It was dark. The street lamp cast shadows across the lawn making it look like there were monsters, but she wasn't scared of monsters. Daddy had always told her there were no such things as monsters, and she believed him.
She picked up her book and tried to care about Mary Anne's dad's wedding, but it didn't hold her interest. What was he doing in there? In the dark? She hated these nights. It was the only time besides school they were ever apart. It was the only time he ever gave her orders .
What was he doing behind that door? Why wouldn't he let her go with him? Was he doing something illegal? Patty at school said her dad sometimes poached. She said it was illegal, and her dad could go to jail for it. Was that what Daddy was doing? Poaching?
She couldn't quite remember what poaching meant. She knew you poached eggs. So maybe he was cooking other people's food or something. That doesn't really make sense, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
She picked up her eight ball. "Should I go in?"
"Not Advisable."
"What do you know?" she muttered, tossing it on the floor and stepping out of the car. She walked up the dark sidewalk, unnerved by the lack of sounds. Up and down the block houses sat, dark and quiet like empty dollhouses left in a corner to collect dust.
A cool breeze was blowing across the lawn, bringing with it the crisp scent of freshly cut grass. She reached the door. She stretched out her hand. She turned the knob.
Her heart was pounding. She was sure Mary Anne had never done anything like this. It was dark inside, but her eyes adjusted quickly. She closed the door quietly behind her and stepped past the entryway.
She gasped, hands flying to her mouth to stop a scream. There was blood everywhere. It looked like ketchup or thick Kool-Aid, but she knew it was blood. Gooey globs of it were splattered all over the floor, stopping right at the ends of her sneakers.
There was a body, lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, head surrounded by a perfect halo of blood. But he didn't look like an angel. He looked like the image of Satan falling to earth, face twisted in torment.
Someone was screaming. High-pitched keening screams of terror. "Damn it!" Daddy hissed, suddenly right beside her, anger making his voice rough. "I told you to stay in the car."
He pulled her into his arms and ran from the house. He plopped her in the backseat and drove away, leaving the dead, fallen angel far behind.
She screamed and screamed.
When they reached home, he bundled her into the house and held her on his lap, rocking her side to side and whispering, "Hush. We're home now."
Finally her screams died down. "Who was that?" she whimpered .
"No one for you to worry about, Sweet Pea."
"Was it Satan?"
"What?"
"Satan. He looked like Satan."
"I've told you time and again, there is no Satan. No God, no angels, no heaven or hell. Why do you think he looked like Satan?"
"He had a halo of blood," she whispered. "He looked just like Satan in Patty's Bible book she brings to school.
"I wouldn't look at those Bible books if I was you," he said, voice easy and relaxed. "Full of foolish nonsense."
She nodded, if he said it was nonsense, it was. But what about that man? That dead man? How had he died?
She buried her face in his flannel, wishing she'd obeyed him, listened to the eight ball, stayed in the car. For the first time in her life she felt scared and uncertain.
He held her on his lap until she drifted off to sleep. Everything turned hazy and grey.
Amy couldn't sleep. She wanted to, but something was beeping, and it was driving her nuts. Beep, beep, beep. Not harsh like an alarm clock, just soft and insistent and so annoying .
She opened her eyes. White blinded her. Everything was so white. There was a clear line running into her arm, attached to a bag hanging over her head, and Max was sitting beside her, face hard but eyes concerned.
"What the hell were you doing?" he snapped as soon as she focused on him.
"What?"
"In the house?"
Amy didn't know what he was talking about. "What house?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Martin's house. Their kids found you passed out in their entryway."
"Oh." It was going to be hard to lie herself out of this one. "I don't know," she whispered.
"Don't bullshit me, blondie. I called your work; you've been on leave for almost a week. You never take time off. You're looking for your dad, who you don't remember, who most likely is a criminal, and you show up passed out cold in a house that has a two-decade old cold case hanging over its head."
"A what?" Amy stuttered.
"Two-decade old cold case. Double homicide. Why were you there? "
This was not good. Max was a great detective. If he linked David Quinn to that house... "I don't know," she mumbled. "You have to believe me." She paused, trying to think what to say next. "I'm taking these drugs, prescription, but experimental; Dr. Winters gave them to me, to remember. She upped my dose the other day. But I think..."
She let tears well in her eyes. And they were mostly real. She could still feel the terror rushing through her body, the fear, the shock. What had he done? Why?
"I think maybe I'm missing things. I was on my way to get coffee. And that's the last thing I remember."
"Are you lying to me?" he snarled. "Because I swear to God if you're lying to me..."
"I'm not. I'm not, Max. Please believe me." A horrifying thought hit her. "Did you call Tate?"
"No. Do you want me to?"
"No! Did you call anyone?"
"No; I wanted to see what you had to say for yourself."
"I don't... please don't tell anyone," Amy pleaded. If he did it would ruin everything. Tate would be mad. Her parents would be hurt. They would want her to stop, but she was close, so close.
"They'll worry," she said. "I'm trying to find all the answers to who I am before my wedding, and I'm scared if I stop taking the drugs, I'll lose my chance."
"You told me to stop looking," he said, eyes flinty.
"I know! I don't want to FIND him. I just want to remember. Can't you understand that?"
"That's it?"
He didn't believe her. She could tell. She infused her voice with absolute sincerity. "That's it, Max. I just want to remember."
He sighed. "You have to promise me if you lose time again, you'll stop."
"I will; I swear." She wanted to roll her eyes. If she wouldn't stop for Tate, she sure as hell wasn't going to stop for Max.
"The Martins won't press charges if you swear to never go near their house again."
"Never, ever; you have my word. Tell them I'm so sorry. I don't know how I got there. I'm sorry." She'd gone her whole life without lying, but it seemed she was making up for it now .
Max snorted. She could tell he wasn't satisfied. "Take care of yourself," he said softly, squeezing her shoulder, then he left.
It wasn't long before a doctor came in. "You're extremely dehydrated," she said, looking at Amy's chart. "Do you normally have such dark rings under your eyes?"
Amy grimaced. "I haven't been sleeping well. I'm on an experimental drug to help retrieve my memories."
"What drug?"
"I don't know how to pronounce it, but I can write it out for you." She wrote it on the doctor's pad and handed it back to her.
"I've never heard of it," the doctor said.
"It's experimental," Amy ground out.
"Well, it goes without saying you should be drinking more fluids, no alcohol, and try to get some sleep. You need to make an appointment immediately with your psychiatrist and tell them about what happened today."
"Yes ma'am. I have an appointment tomorrow."
"Alright. I'm releasing you. Do you have someone to take you home?"
Amy paled. She hadn't asked Max where her car was. Was it still parked outside that door ?
"I'll call my friend," she said.
"Alright. Your clothes are on the chair there. Check out with the front desk when you leave."
Amy nodded, feeling numb all over. She'd screwed up. She'd screwed up bigtime. There was no way she'd ever be able to hide all this from Tate. Never. What would he say?
She called Max. "Where's my car?"
"I had it towed to the hospital."
"Oh thank you, Max. You're the best."
"Whatever you're doing, stop. Let it go. Walk away. You don't wanna ruin your life over it."
"I... I'll think about it."
"Keys are with your clothes."
"Thank you. I... appreciate it. All of it."
"Just don't screw it up."
Amy hung up. He was right. She didn't know David Quinn. Not really. She had these sweetly happy memories of him, but that should be enough. She couldn't work; she couldn't sleep; she couldn't enjoy her soon-to-be husband.
She hated that Max was right. She was ruining her life. David Quinn was ruining her life. She should stop. She should stop.
She could see the dead man, halo crisp around his broken head. Is that why she'd left? Because of the dead man? It didn't feel right. She didn't feel angry at David Quinn. She wasn't scared of him. Why had she left?
And why did she still have that anxious feeling hanging over her head? Like she was supposed to doing something but didn't know what?
She drove home, mechanically noticing what a nice day it was, how blue the sky was, how happy everyone looked. How could they look so happy? How could they be so happy when her life was crumbling to the ground, like an old book suddenly exposed to the air?
She opened the door to her house, forgot to close it, and wandered into the kitchen looking for whiskey. She'd drunk it all. Even the bottle was gone. Tate must have thrown it away.
She grabbed a beer, two for good measure, and sat at the bottom of the staircase staring at the floor in front of it, seeing that man with his halo of blood.
She didn't know, but she could guess he'd fallen down the stairs and broken his head open like an egg on the floor. Like Humpty Dumpty. She didn't imagine anyone could get all that blood back in.
Had David Quinn pushed him? Had he just fallen ?
Max's words flashed through her mind. "Double homicide."
Double. That meant two. There was someone else there that night. Someone else dead. Head cracked open like an egg or... She didn't know. She hadn't seen the other person.
David Quinn had grabbed her and carried her out of the house. Angry tone lessened by the gentleness with which he threw her in the backseat.
He'd held her and whispered comfort in her ear. He'd held her until she had fallen asleep and even after. She could remember waking in his arms.
"Sweet Pea," he said softly, "I need you to promise me you'll forget what you saw last night."
"Why, Daddy?"
"It wasn't meant for you to see. You have to forget."
His eyes were so troubled, so serious, his lips missing their easy smile, so she'd said, "Okay, Daddy," just to make him laugh again.
"This is a perfect morning to have chocolate cake for breakfast," he said, tickling her under her chin. "With a side of chocolate milk, and maybe some chocolate bar for dessert. "
"Oh Daddy," she giggled, "you can't eat three courses of chocolate."
"Of course you can! I'll show you."
And he had. They'd eaten so much chocolate their teeth had turned brown.
Then they'd laid on the living room floor in a sugar-induced stupor, and he'd said something he'd never, ever said to her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I want to protect you from everything. I want to keep you safe. I don't want you to ever be hurt. I'm sorry."
"If your mom... if your mom was alive none of this ever would have happened." He was quiet for a long time.
He sighed. "I wish she was here. I always wish she was here. But now... Now that you're older, I miss her more than ever. I know you miss her more than ever too, even if you don't realize it."
"It was so much easier when you were little," he murmured, holding her hand. "And you just loved pink and ponies and princesses. I don't know what to do now. I don't know how to talk to you about boys and bras and who likes who. She would know. She would know."
She didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know Momma, so she didn't miss her. Not really. Sometimes there was an ache inside her, an ache maybe her momma could have filled. She didn't know.
It usually only ached when Patty talked about girl's night with her mom or when Wendy showed off her braids. Wendy's mom always made her hair look amazing, like a princess's.
But she didn't need a mom. She didn't. She had him. He was enough. He was always enough.
She gripped his hand, determining then and there that she would make it easier on him. She'd always love pink and princesses and ponies. She wouldn't like boys. She wouldn't worry about bras; she'd just pick a pink one when she was ready someday.
A bird chirped outside, and Amy blinked at her empty beer. She walked upstairs, feeling totally lost and pulled open her underwear drawer. It was filled with pink bras. Some of her underwear was black or white or blue, but the bras, every single one of them was pink.
Part of her, even though she'd forgotten, part of her had always remembered. Part of her had always been that girl. The girl with the perfect, broken daddy.
Chapter Ten
He'd always been there. Just out of reach. Always. She had known him. She had loved him. She had still wanted to please him. She could see it now. In the clothes she wore, the recliner she'd had to have, Tate. David Quinn had always been part of her life.
But something was still missing. Something was still missing. The moment when she had left. The moment she had abandoned him.
Why? She knew it wasn't because of the dead man. She could feel her love of David Quinn even after that. It hadn't waned, haven't wavered. She wouldn't have left him. Not because of that. Not ever.
She opened her college notebook and stared at his face, his beloved face, the face she had never forgotten. Even now, after all this, after seeing that dead man, knowing there was another, knowing he had killed them, she still loved him. Not just the other her, but this her too, Amy .
She loved him, and she couldn't understand why she had left him. She had to know. Had to understand. Had to know what had justified causing him so much pain.
She opened her pill bottle. There were only three pills left. She had to go to her appointment tomorrow. Had to see Dr. Winters. She needed more.
What if Dr. Winters wouldn't give her any more? What if the hospital had called her? Or Malika? Or Tate? Or Max? What if Dr. Winters decided the risk was too great?
It wasn't their decision to make. It wasn't their life or their memories. They were hers!
She stared at the three little red pills, shiny bright like drops of blood, and she took them all.
She drank another beer, even though the ER doctor and Dr. Winters and the pill bottle had all told her not too. Then she walked upstairs to look into the tub.
She was in the car. It was a different house this time, purple and yellow door sort of garish on a street lined with white ones.
It had been a couple weeks. At least two, maybe four, she hadn't been keeping track. But here they were again. She was in the car. He was in the house. Both of them had excellent night vision.
She didn't bother trying to read. She knew Mary Anne wouldn't hold her attention tonight. Nothing would.
He'd been gone five minutes. She'd watched the little green numbers on the dash move steadily up. She knew he'd be gone at least five more. Maybe ten. She'd never kept track before.
The eight ball sat on her lap, misty and dark, offering no opinion whatsoever. "Should I go in?" she whispered, already knowing what it would say.
"Not Advisable" surfaced from the murky depths.
She remembered his voice, stern and utterly serious. "Now Sweet Pea, you have to promise me you'll stay in the car."
"I promise, Daddy. Pinky swear." They'd twisted pinkies. He had kissed her cheek and disappeared into the darkened house.
She had never broken a pinky swear in her life. Not once. Terrible things happened to people who broke pinky swears. They broke out in rashes. They lost all their hair. Their skin turned green.
The clock ticked up. Another minute had passed. She tried not to think about what he was doing in there. She tried to imagine he was a thief, like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor.
But she knew better. Deep down, she knew better. There were people inside that house. Live people. But when he came out, she knew they would be dead. Silent. Gone. Nevermore. Just like her mother.
Her hand twitched, and she moved closer to the door, but it was too late now. Any second now he'd come striding out. Alive. So alive. Leaving death behind him.
