Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

didn’t have the courage to ask.
    As we got off the bridge, I said, “Where to now?”
    “Just listen, that’s all. I’ll tell you a little bit at a time.”
    When I found myself looking out at the City from the East Bay hills, taking in the view of three bridges from Tilden Park, I realized where he was taking me.

Chapter Twenty-One
    “We’re going to Inspiration Point, aren’t we?”
    “How did you know that?”
    “Because I met Jason’s brother, Michael. He told me all about the accident and how it tore his family apart; how they never recovered from it. They became outsiders, too, you know. The parents died young— and so did Jason, of course. The sister’s a dry husk of a woman, and Michael’s either an alcoholic or headed toward it.”
    “I’m supposed to care? Look at me? I’ve been an alcoholic for fifteen years! You know what my wife had to put up with? Goddammit, she was a saint.”
    “Why are we going to Inspiration Point?”
    “I’m going to kill you there.”
    No clever rejoinder came to mind.
    “You are Carlene today. She died, and you are going to die.”
    “And you?” I had an idea this was it for him as well.
    He nodded. “And I am, too.”
    I couldn’t help thinking of the Indian summer day nearly two decades ago, not much later in the season than this, when the impulse of a moment, a young boy’s desire to see his dog run free, had started a chain of events that destroyed the lives of two families. At least two of the Dunsons were dead as a result— possibly three— and so was one McKendrick. Maybe Rob was too and perhaps I would be in a few minutes. It was so senseless, all this; it reminded me of the feud in Huckleberry Finn .
    “What’s your name?” said Dunson. “I’ve forgotten.”
    “Rebecca.”
    “Today, Rebecca, you represent Carlene Dunson, who lived in horror and died in horror. It’s all I can do for her now.”
    That enraged me so much I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “You’re going to kill me for her? You really think she’d want that? The saint? You think she’d have wanted you to kill your own daughter?”
    “I didn’t kill Adrienne.” We were stopped now, in the parking lot of the Point. “Give me the keys.”
    He took them and stared at his gun a moment. “Stay in the car until I get to your side.”
    I hated myself for obeying, for remaining passive, but I couldn’t see an alternative. There was no way to slide under the wheel, out one bucket seat and into another, then out the opposite door before he got there. There was nothing to do but sit and drum my fingers, contemplate my own mortality. It made me furious, having to submit that way.
    When I did get out, he took my hand and slipped the gun in his pocket.
    “What are you doing?”
    “I’m taking you for a walk. We’re going to hold hands because I can’t keep the gun on you right now.”
    He guided me to the path that Jason and his siblings had taken the day of the accident, the path Dunson had taken as well on his bicycle, his baby son strapped on behind.
    We walked. It was a beautiful day just like that other one, and plenty of hikers were out. There were people on bicycles as well, and some dogs, safely on leashes. Such a peaceful scene, yet so much capacity for havoc. I felt a physical ache, almost, at seeing the elements laid out like this, so ironically, so vividly. Thinking about it, that fateful moment eighteen years ago, I felt tears well and I had to sniff. Dunson yanked my arm; why, I wasn’t sure. I sneaked a glance at him, and his face was hard.
    We walked. The sun was pure luxury on our skin. I had no idea how far he intended to walk, and what he would do— perhaps he would simply blow my head off without announcing his plans. One second I’d be walking under a benign sun, the next I’d be dead. I could worry about that or I could enjoy the walk. In retrospect, it seems preposterous that I didn’t worry with every atom of every cell, but we walked a long time. Perhaps endorphins kicked in. I really can’t explain it, all I can say is that I experienced a very ill-advised sense of well-being, that even under the circumstances I couldn’t close myself off to the pleasures of the day.
    My hand stopped feeling sweaty in his, started actually to feel companionable. This was, after all, another human being, and my skin was touching his. Perhaps it was the beginning of the Stockholm Syndrome, I don’t know. I just know that for the first time I was aware of