The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,46

His breathing had become fast and shallow. She was sure he was about to deliver a revelation, but she sensed how deeply unhappy he was, mired in a state of despair where nothing mattered anymore. For a moment she was afraid they would lose him; he was perilously close to collapsing into himself and retreating into silence. He looked away, but then his eyes returned to hers.

“The violin,” he said firmly. “A violin, but without a bow. And afterward it disappeared.”

Joseph Andrews Jr. told everyone who would listen to him that he didn’t believe for a second his father had murdered the family. His conviction gradually began to weaken as Detective Nelson interviewed him. The policeman was doing his best to sound sympathetic, but the man’s tone betrayed him, and Joseph could tell that the cop didn’t buy his assertions. The detective wasn’t sympathetic; what the man was feeling was pity. Joseph had an innate ability to read other people’s emotions. The cop’s pity undermined Joseph’s certainty, because Nelson’s attitude suggested the police might know something they weren’t telling him.

Joseph had been steeling himself for what he’d face when he entered his parents’ home. Nelson had described the condition of the house, the disorder, the broken windows. Joseph couldn’t help imagining the bodies of his family in the living room. Standing on the street, he knew he wasn’t ready. Seeing the scene of the murders was going to change his life forever, but this was his destiny, whether he was ready or not.

The neighbor, the same one who’d complained about his kid brother, had called in specialists to clean everything up and nail plywood panels across the broken windows. The neighbor was trying to explain all this as he accompanied Joseph up the front walk.

Joseph had prepared himself for overwhelming terror, but there was none. Even as he listened to his neighbor, he became increasingly bewildered. He looked for reminders of what had occurred, but he found nothing. Horror had left no trace. He saw his little brother’s backpack leaning against the coat rack in the entry hall. Marveling, he breathed in the delicate perfume of the white orchids his mom had placed all about the living room. The abstract painting in shades of blue that his sister had done in her Sacramento art class the year before stood out against the brilliant white living-room wall. There was the enormous flat-screen television Dad had bought so they could watch Tulane football games together. Those memories crowded in upon him. It was as if everyone had gone out to the movies or the mall, and they’d walk in the front door any moment.

Joseph was terribly tired. He walked the good neighbor to the front door and ushered him out. Shutting the door against him, he suddenly felt stronger, as if latent energy from his family members was bolstering him. This was his house; he would stay here with the souls of his family. It all made sense. He’d transfer to Texas A&M’s Galveston campus, he’d bring his grandmother from California, and they’d live here together.

When someone dies, those left behind frequently ask themselves what that person would have wanted them to do. But death changes everything. Would they have wanted their son, their brother, to stay here after what had happened? The unknown answer suddenly became moot. Because that was when he saw the violin, a dark, shining instrument, both innocent and incongruous. Someone had leaned it against the steel chiminea, the decorative metal fireplace his mom had filled with stout white candles. The presence of that violin was as revealing as if the murderer had scrawled the names of his victims across the wall in their own blood.

Joseph couldn’t take his eyes off the violin. He backed away, still focused on the instrument. He reached the front door and opened it. The breeze from the Gulf did nothing to lessen the sensation that he was trapped inside a mausoleum. Joseph was trembling from head to foot.

He’d been mistaken. This wasn’t his home anymore. His parents were never coming back, because someone had murdered them.

16

CARESSING THE BEAST

New Orleans, Louisiana

Officer Jason Bull drove through the increasingly deserted streets, engaged in lively conversation with his partner, while in the back seat, Johnson and Amaia stared silently through the side windows. Jason could tell they’d had an argument; that was obvious. Or maybe just a difference of opinion. Johnson had caught up with Amaia next to the vehicle and had said something sharp and