The Pact Read online

  As in most grand jury hearings, the defendant was not only absent, but blissfully unaware that a court was convening in his name.

  At 3:46 P.M., S. Barrett Delaney was handed a sealed envelope, inside which was a paper indicting Christopher Harte on the count of murder in the first degree.

  "HELLO. CAN I SPEAK to Emily?"

  Melanie stilled. "Who is this?"

  There was a hesitation. "A friend."

  "She's not here." Melanie clawed at the receiver, swallowing convulsively. "She's dead."

  "Oh." The voice on the other end seemed stupefied. "Oh."

  "Who is this?" Melanie repeated.

  "Donna. Over at The Gold Rush. The jewelry store on the corner of Main and Carter?" The woman cleared her throat. "Emily bought something from us. We have it ready."

  Melanie grabbed her car keys. "I'm on my way," she said.

  The drive took less than ten minutes. Melanie parked in a spot directly in front of the jewelry store and went inside. Diamonds winked at her from within their cases; parabolic ropes of gold rested on blue velvet. A woman, her back to Melanie, was fiddling at the cash register.

  She turned around with a brilliant smile, which withered and died as she took in Melanie's wild hair, her lack of a winter coat. "I'm Emily's mother," Melanie said.

  "Of course." Donna stared at Melanie for a full five seconds before her body shocked itself into response. "I'm so sorry," she said. She went to the cash register and retrieved a long, narrow box. "Your daughter ordered this some time ago. It was engraved, too," she said, lifting the lid to reveal a man's watch. To Chris, Melanie read. Forever. Love, Em. She laid the watch back on its satin cushion and picked up the sales receipt. Boldly printed at the bottom was a note to the store personnel: "Gift is a secret. When calling, just ask to speak to Emily. Leave no information." Which explained the cloak and dagger routine, she thought. But why keep it a secret?

  Then Melanie saw the price. "Five hundred dollars?" she exclaimed.

  "It's fourteen-karat gold," the woman hastened to point out.

  "She was seventeen!" Melanie said. "Of course she wanted to keep this secret. If her father or I found out she'd spent that much money we would have forced her to take it back!"

  Clearly uncomfortable, Donna shifted. "The watch is paid for in full," she offered as a concession. "Perhaps you'd still like to give the gift to the person your daughter was thinking of."

  Then it struck Melanie. This would have been a birthday gift for Chris, something special to mark his turning eighteen. That, in Emily's mind, would justify spending a full summer's wages.

  Melanie picked up the box and carried it back to her car. She sat down and stared at the windshield, still seeing that incredibly ironic message. Forever.

  And she wondered why Emily would have ordered a watch for Chris's birthday, if--as he said--they were going to kill themselves before then.

  MELANIE HAD HER HAND on the doorknob when the telephone began to ring. She pushed inside, hurrying, some small part of her certain that this was Donna the jeweler calling to tell her this had all been a mistake; there was another Chris and another Emily and--

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Gold? It's Barrie Delaney of the attorney general's office. I spoke to you last week?"

  "Yes," Melanie said, dropping the watch on the counter. "I remember."

  "I thought you'd want to know," Barrie said, "that a grand jury indicted Christopher Harte today on the charge of first-degree murder."

  Melanie felt her knees give out. She slid to the floor, her legs awkwardly splayed. "I see," she said. "Is he--is there a hearing?"

  "Tomorrow," Barrie Delaney said. "At the Grafton County Courthouse."

  Melanie scribbled down the name on a pad she used as a grocery list. She heard the prosecutor talking, but she was incapable of understanding another word. Softly, she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  Her gaze fell on the jewelry box. Very carefully she lifted the watch from its satin bed and rubbed her thumb over the wide face. Chris's birthday was tonight. She knew the date as well as she knew Emily's.

  She pictured Gus and James and even Kate sitting at their wide cherry table, their conversations tangling in knots the size of fists. She pictured Chris standing up and bending over the cake, the flicker of candles softening his features. Under different circumstances, Melanie and Michael and Emily would have been invited, too.

  Melanie clutched the watch so tight its edges cut into her palm. She felt the rage grow inside, uncontainable. It pushed past her heart, broke through her skin, sprouting thick as an extra limb on which she gingerly, doggedly, tested her weight.

  EVERYTHING HAD TO be perfect.

  Gus stepped back from the table, then moved closer to fuss with a napkin again. The crystal goblets stood at attention, the spiral ham curled introspectively on its serving platter. The fancy china that hibernated in the hutch with the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas had been arrayed in full regalia, gravy boat and all. As Gus left the dining room to call everyone in, she tried to tell herself they were not celebrating another year of life for someone who'd wanted to prevent just that.

  "Okay," she yelled. "Dinner's ready!"

  James, Chris, and Kate came in from the family room, where they'd been watching the early news. Kate was gesturing with her hands, talking about a helium balloon the size of a Chevy that had been released with a message attached as part of a school science project. "It'll maybe get to China," she exuberantly proclaimed. "Australia."

  "It won't get around the block," Chris muttered.

  "It will too!" Kate shouted, then closed her mouth and looked into her lap. Chris glanced from his sister to his parents and slammed himself into his chair with more force than necessary.

  "Now," Gus said. "Isn't this nice?"

  "Look at that cake," James said. "Coconut frosting?"

  Gus nodded. "With strawberry filling."

  "Really?" Chris asked, seduced in spite of himself. "You made that for me?"

  Gus nodded. "It's not every day," she said, "that someone turns eighteen." She glanced at the ham and the carrots, the sweet potato pie. "In fact," she added, "in honor of the event I think we should start with the cake."

  Chris's eyes gleamed. "You're all right, Mom," he pronounced.

  Gus took the pack of matches from beside the cake platter and lit the nineteen candles--one for good luck. She had to strike three matches in all, the shafts burning down to her fingertips before she'd finished. "Happy Birthday to you," she sang, and when nobody joined in, she stood, hands on her hips, and scowled. "You want to eat," she said, "you've got to sing."

  At that, James and Kate joined in. Chris picked up his fork, ready even before Gus managed to cut him the first slice.

  "Does it feel different being eighteen?" Kate asked.

  "Oh, yeah," Chris joked. "Arthritis is setting in."

  "Very funny. I meant, do you feel, like, smarter? Mature?"

  Chris shrugged. "I could be drafted now," he said. "That's the only difference."

  Gus opened her mouth, about to say that, thank God, there weren't any current wars, but realized this was untrue. A war was what you made of it. Just because U.S. troops were not involved did not mean Chris was not fighting.

  "Well," James said, reaching for a second slice of cake. "I think Chris should turn eighteen every day."

  "Here, here," Gus said, and Chris ducked his head, smiling.

  The doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Gus said, tossing her napkin onto the table.

  It rang again just before she reached the door. She swung it open, the porch light falling on two uniformed police officers. "Good evening," the taller officer said. "Is Christopher Harte at home?"

  "Well, yes," Gus said, "but we've just sat down--"

  The officer held out a sheet of paper. "We have a warrant for his arrest."

  Gus gasped, the air knocked from her lungs. "James," she managed, and her husband appeared. He took the warrant from the poli