The Pact Read online

  Chris looked down at their hands, linked over the textbooks, and accepted for the first time that--for whatever reason--he might fail, that this might really happen. "I would," he said, his heart breaking beneath the weight of the truth.

  THEY SAT IN THE DARK of the movie theater, holding hands. Whatever they'd gone to see--Chris couldn't even remember the title--was long finished. The credits had rolled, the other patrons had left. Around them one or two ushers swept empty popcorn containers out of the aisles, moving in a hushed rhythm and doing their best to ignore the couple still curled in the back of the theater.

  Sometimes he was certain that he'd come away a hero, and one day he and Emily would find this all very funny. And other times he believed that he would be only what he'd promised Emily: someone there to witness her, as she went.

  "I don't know what I'd do without you," Chris whispered.

  He could see Emily turn to him, her eyes shine in the dark. "You could do it with me," she said, and swallowed, the suggestion still bitter in her throat.

  Chris did not respond, purposely letting her feel sick to her stomach at the thought. He wondered silently, What makes you so sure we would still be together, after? How do you know it works like that?

  "Because," Emily said, as clearly as if she'd heard him. "I can't picture it any other way."

  ONE NIGHT HE WENT into the basement and took the key from his father's workbench. The gun cabinet was locked, as always, to keep out children. Not teenagers like Chris, who knew better.

  He opened the cabinet and took out the Colt, because he knew Emily well enough to be certain that the first thing she'd ask was to see the pistol. If he didn't bring it, she'd realize something was up, and stop trusting him before he had a chance to keep her from going through with it.

  He sat there, the weight of the gun cradled in his hands, remembering the acrid smell of Hoppe's Solvent #9 and the way his father's hands, gifted and precise, had rubbed the shaft and the barrel with a silicone cloth. Like Aladdin's lamp, Chris had once thought, expecting magic.

  He remembered the stories his father had told about the piece, about Eliot Ness and Al Capone, about speakeasies and secret raids and sloe gin fizzes. He told Chris that this gun had driven home justice.

  Then he remembered his first deer hunt, which had not been a clean kill. Chris and his father had tracked the animal into the woods, where it lay on its side taking great, heaving breaths. What do I do? Chris had asked, and his father had lifted his rifle and fired. Put it out of its misery, he said.

  Chris reached into the bottom of the gun cabinet and drew out the bullets for the .45. Emily was no fool; she'd ask to see these too. He closed his eyes and made himself imagine her lifting the tarnished silver barrel to her forehead; made himself picture his own hand coming up and drawing the gun away from her head, if it came down to that.

  It was selfish, but it was simple: He could not let Emily kill herself. When you'd been with someone your whole life, you could not imagine living in a world that did not have her in it.

  He would stop her. He would.

  And he did not let himself wonder why he'd slipped two bullets into his pocket, instead of just the one.

  NOW

  May 1998

  Gus sat on the edge of her bed and smoothed her pantyhose up her legs. Next, she thought woodenly, clothes. She stepped into the closet to retrieve a simple navy dress and a pair of matching low-heeled pumps. She would wear her pearls, too--elegant and understated.

  She was not allowed in the courtroom. Witnesses were sequestered until they gave their testimony. In all likelihood, she would not be called to the stand today, maybe not even tomorrow. She was dressing up on the off chance that she might see Chris, even in passing.

  Gus heard the water running in the bathroom as James shaved. It was as if they were going to a dinner party, or a conference with one of the children's teachers. Except they weren't.

  And so James emerged from the bathroom to find Gus sitting on the bed in her bra and pantyhose, her eyes closed and her body bent, taking small shallow breaths as if she'd been running forever.

  MELANIE AND MICHAEL WALKED OUT of the house together. Her feet sank into the soft earth, mucking up her heels. She opened the door of her car, and without saying a word, got inside.

  Michael got into his own truck. He followed his wife all the way down Wood Hollow Road, staring at the rear end of her car. There were two high brake lights on each side of the wide back window, and a low strip of lights across the bumper of the car as well. Every time Melanie stepped on the brake, they all flashed, making it seem as if the car were smiling.

  BARRIE DELANEY'S CAT KNOCKED OVER her cup of coffee the minute she was scheduled to leave for the courthouse. "Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, pushing the yowling cat away from the mess and soaking it up with a dishtowel. It was not enough, the coffee was still running in rivulets beneath the kitchen table. Barrie glanced quickly at the sink, deciding that she did not have time to clean up.

  It was not until days later that she realized coffee would stain her white vinyl flooring, that for the next ten years she'd come into her kitchen and think about Christopher Harte.

  JORDAN SET HIS BRIEFCASE DOWN on the kitchen counter. Then he spun around toward Thomas, one hand flattening his tie. "So?"

  Thomas whistled. "Looking good," he said.

  "Good enough to win?"

  "Good enough to kick some ass," his son crowed.

  Jordan grinned and slapped Thomas on the back. "Watch your mouth," he said half-heartedly, and lifted the box of Cocoa Krispies, his face falling. "Oh, Thomas. You didn't." His brows drew together as he peered into the dark, empty recesses of the cereal box.

  Thomas, in the middle of a mouthful, let his jaw drop open. "Isn't there some left? I swear, Dad, I thought there was."

  Every morning before a trial, Jordan had Cocoa Krispies. It was a sorry superstition, one with no more meat to it than a baseball pitcher who didn't shave for consecutive wins, or a cardsharp with a rabbit's foot sewn into the lining of his jacket. But it was his superstition, dammit, and it worked. Eat the Krispies, win the trial.

  Thomas squirmed under his father's glare. "I could run out and get some more," he suggested.

  Jordan snorted. "With what vehicle?"

  "My bike."

  "So you'll be back in time for ... oh, maybe lunch." Jordan shook his head. "I just wish," he said, trying to keep his temper in check, "that sometimes you'd think before you acted."

  Thomas stared into his bowl. "I could go next door and see if Mrs. Higgins has some."

  Mrs. Higgins was seventy-five if she was a day. Jordan highly doubted that Cocoa Krispies was a pantry staple for her. "Forget it," he said irritably, reaching into the refrigerator for an English muffin. "It's too late."

  IT FELT WEIRD, being in a suit. An officer had brought Chris the clothes with his breakfast; the jacket and slacks he hadn't seen since his arraignment seven months before. He remembered when he and Em and his mother had gone shopping for the suit. The store had smelled of money and worsted wool. He'd stood on the inside of the dressing room booth, hopping around to get the pants on, while Em and his mom chattered about ties, their voices coming through the door like the pipe of finches.

  "Harte," an officer said, standing at the door of the cell. "Time to go."

  He walked through the pod in his suit, sweat beading at his temples, aware of the conspicuous silence from the occupants of other cells. It hit too close to home, was all. You could not watch someone march off to trial without thinking what might happen to you.

  When the heavy door was locked behind him again, the officer led him to a deputy sheriff, one of several stationed at the Grafton County Courthouse. "Big day," he said, cuffing Chris and then attaching the links to a waist chain. He waited for the officer to unlock the jail's main door and led Chris out of the prison, one hand firmly on his upper arm.

  It was the first time in seven months that Chris had stood outside, fe