Sharon smiled slowly. “Naw, John. Better we shake hands and go our separate ways. I hope we don’t even meet at the trial, because I’m hoping the cops kill that bastard this time.”
John nodded, but he did not want to think about that subject right now. He and she had been comrades. Surely that meant as much to her, if she would admit it, as it did to him. Tim too was a part of it. They might all go together to some sporting event, as a team, which would neutralize any hint of impropriety.
At this point Lang returned, without Tim. “Okay, folks. The DA’s people will want to talk to you both once Maranville is caught, I know. But let’s get you both home safe and sound right now.”
“Tim’s mother get here?” John asked.
“On her way. Sounds like a nice lady on the phone. Good people out there. My wife and I have been thinking of moving out in that direction. Fresh air, and I believe prices are a lot lower.”
John was brought back momentarily to professional normality. “They are, in fact. Home prices run a good fifteen-twenty percent under what they are in town here. I’m in local real estate.”
Lang smiled down from his greater height. “Sure. Think you could find us something I could afford on a cop’s income?”
“I could locate some agent for you in the Smithtown area. We all belong to associations.”
“Anything around here would do even better, though,” Lang said. “If the price is right. I’d rather be closer to work if I could, and my wife teaches at Midvale Avenue Elementary.”
“I’ll get onto it soon as I return to the office,” said John. “You can never tell. Every so often a bargain comes along. Maybe a fixer-upper?”
“Worth considering,” said Lang. “Appreciate it.” He led them along a corridor and down a stairway and through a side door to a green-and-white police car waiting at the curb.
Sharon had the shorter distance to travel, so John climbed in first. Before closing the door, Detective Lang leaned in. “John, don’t you worry about Maranville. We’ll keep that car in the neighborhood, not right in front of your house, because he might see it and take off, but it’ll be close by.”
For the first time John thought of the possibility that the same threat might apply to Sharon. He asked her, “Don’t you want protection, too? Think he knows where you live?”
“Naw.” She waved Lang off, and when he was gone, she whispered into John’s ear, “I got a gun at home. I’m just praying he shows up!”
The uniformed officer at the wheel turned and spoke through the steel-mesh barrier between front and back seats, which distinguished this car from that of the state troopers. He introduced himself as Patrolman Cardone. “Sorry about the screen.” He tapped it. “It’s the only unit free right now. We have had a lot of crime already, and the night is just starting.”
His use of the word, and not the darkness through which they walked from lighted city hall to lighted car, was what made John belatedly conscious that evening had come.
“What time is it, Officer?”
“Eight-twenty.” The car moved away from the curb.
Incredulously, John repeated the time. “God, can it be?” He asked Sharon, “Did you get your car back?”
“Cops impounded it for evidence,” she said. “But they said they’ll see I get a lift to work tomorrow.”
“You’re going back to work right away?”
The passing streetlamps intermittently illuminated her face. “Sure. I’ll bet you do, too. I need the money. Don’t you?”
“I’m not on a real salary,” said John. “I need to make a sale. It’s been so tough lately, I’m thinking of moonlighting someplace. I guess they don’t have cocktail waiters?” His question was not serious, but she took it as such.
“Not at this dump. Maybe a nice bar at some hotel. You wouldn’t want to lower yourself, John.”
“I think you’ve got a lot of natural wisdom,” John said. He was being serious now and worried that he might sound patronizing, so he added, “I mean, I think you know a lot about basic things. I wish I always did.”
“That’s why I’ve been so damned successful in life so far,” Sharon said. “That’s why when it comes to men, I didn’t pick just one loser but a whole string of them.” She stared at him. “I don’t have anything you could use, John. Take my word for it.” Her attention was diverted by what she saw beyond his shoulder. “Here we are,” she called to Cardone. “Right up there at the fireplug.” She addressed John again, gently. “I’m real sorry I don’t.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek, opened the door, and hopped out.
Watching her through the rear window as the police car pulled away, John recognized the area: there was the doughnut shop and, on the other side of the street, the taxi office, across the glass door of which stretched the yellow tape that the police post at the scene of a crime, and at the moment Cardone was driving through the intersection at which Sharon had sideswiped Richie’s car, or rather the car that Richie had stolen. He wondered whether the cops knew about that phase of Richie’s day: had the vehicle’s owner, too, been murdered? Surely it was that person’s license that Richie had displayed to the officer. In any event, Sharon had either just been starting out from home when the accident happened or coming back. She must live in an apartment over one of the neighborhood businesses. She now vanished as the car took a turn, so he could not see just where.
He supposed he might encounter her accidentally if he drove this way persistently over the weeks, but why would he do that? He was a married man and a father. He had everything he should want, and undoubtedly she was right about herself. Yet his heart seemed broken.
“Nice part of town up here,” Officer Cardone said genially, as if he sensed that distraction was needed. “You must be right near DeForest.” They were climbing the hill down which John had had the wild ride with Richie in the morning. “Nice up here for kids, I bet. You a family man?”
“Real nice. Primary school’s only a few blocks away. But neither of mine is that old yet.”
“I got two girls and a boy,” said Cardone. “Oldest girl’s graduating high school next spring. Wants to go in the Air Force. How about that?”
“There it is,” John said. “The white Cape on the right.”
The nearest streetlamp was just beyond the edge of John’s property. It lighted the front yard up to the junipers that flanked the big multipaned front window, which was illuminated now, but as always after dark Joanie had closed the venetian-blind louvers, not wishing to be unwittingly observed from outside. That was a unique practice on this block: you could look right into the ground floor of most of the houses from the street. When she had first done this John was worried that the neighbors might take offense at the obvious implication. What people thought of him and his had always been of concern, but after the day he had put in, he had less regard for the social gauges of others, he who had not long before worn handcuffs as a suspected murderer. Even now he could not be sure whether he had permanently escaped all legal liability. He must call the only lawyer he knew, Carl Kilmartin, who handled real-estate matters for the agency and had acted as his and Joanie’s attorney when they bought the house. Perhaps Carl could recommend a colleague versed in criminal law and also skilled in dealing with the civil actions that still seemed possible in the matters of the ill woman into whose house he and Richie had broken; the gentleman farmer Haverford, who might on consultation with his own lawyer renege on the easy promise to dismiss any claim once the shotgun had been returned; and finally even Tim, whose mother, needing money, might be less tolerant than her son if a lawsuit promised, even as a threat, to be a possible source of funds.
John’s position was all too uncertain, even though he had come through his ordeal physically unscathed—the damage to his knee had apparently been largely mental—and was held in respect by Sharon and the police of his own town. His reputation had not been harmed. Perhaps it had been enhanced, though that remained to be seen. It was probably all to the good that the
authorities had, so far as he knew, kept his name from the media. He would therefore have time to prepare himself, and Joanie and the kids, for the public attention that would inevitably come in the days ahead.
He was suddenly struck by the thought that the story of his day might well have financial value. Would it be sleazy to profit from the misery of others? But did he not deserve compensation for his own travail? This was a matter to be discussed with Joanie, whom he would shortly see for the first time since morning, after a moral and emotional eternity. He would in effect be coming home from the wars.
“Now, you take it easy,” Officer Cardone told him as John stepped out onto the curbing in front of his home.
As Lang had warned him, he saw no nearby vehicle that could be an unmarked police surveillance unit—unless the silver-gray sedan pulled well into his own driveway could constitute such. Now who could own that car? Lang had said a “business associate” was with Joanie, but perhaps it was rather a friend of hers. There were several women who qualified for that role, two of them old school pals who lived in the area. And Joan’s cousin’s wife was really more than a relative. Any of them might own this car, which looked new. John hoped it was not Renee Wilcox, who quite obviously had always thought little of him. Renee had gone through two divorces before she reached the age of twenty-five, and her third marriage seemed to be on the rocks within days of the exchange of vows, but ostensibly persisted, if on terms of mutual enmity. She could not be seen as ever being a positive influence. But John never said a word against her. Joan would have been hurt.
Standing there before his own door, he felt scarcely less vulnerable than when he had been arrested by the state police. He had no key and would therefore have to ring the bell. He must look a sight. It was more than a mere matter of clothes. Had he worn this attire for a day’s worth of chores at home, as he had planned, he would have belonged to an altogether different category of appearance. In his normal world it was honorable to be besmirched with the stains of honest household functions: baby food, semigloss latex enamel, machine oil. He especially dreaded being let in by Renee, who might volunteer for the job if Joan was occupied with the children. He disliked Renee but, if he could acknowledge the truth to himself, found her physically desirable, which attraction she probably could detect and exploit while obviously thinking even less of him.
He braced himself to meet her sneering amusement. But it was not Renee who opened the door. It was Richie, wearing a warm smile. It was he, all right, though he was dressed in suit and tie and wore glasses.
“We were just wondering when you’d finally show up,” Richie said, ushering John inside. “Run into some snags?”
John rushed into the living room. Joan, leaning forward from her seat on the couch, was in the act of pouring coffee from the silver pot (the most valuable of their wedding presents, gift of Uncle Phil’s, naturally) into one of the heirloom bone-china cups contributed by his mother. The polished silver tray that went with the service held a silver sugar bowl and cream pitcher. Every piece was gleaming, though he knew for a fact that all had been covered with a like coat of black tarnish time out of mind, there on the shelf in the cupboard. But a more remarkable transformation had taken place in Joan herself. Her glistening hair was pinned up in the elegant style she ordinarily used only for certain holidays and celebrations: New Year’s Eve, for example, for which they went to whichever home Renee née Wilcox was occupying with whatever husband. And the burgundy-colored dress was special as well, along with the pieces of tasteful jewelry: small pearl earrings, the gold brooch from her mother. She was wearing her best shoes, for perhaps only the second time.
John believed himself to be out of control, but in fact some sort of inner mechanism must have taken hold of him, for though he wanted to shout the question, he heard it emerge quietly: “Where are the children?”
“Well, thanks for saying hi,” Joan reprovingly replied, her dark eyebrows rising. But then she brightened. “Is this what prosperity does to you?” She lowered the pot. “The kids are in bed, as they should be at this hour.” She stood up and extended her arms. “Come here.” She looked past him, smiling, and said, “I’m sure Mr. Pryor won’t mind.”
Under the same internal, involuntary management, John went to her and was embraced and kissed.
“Congratulations, kiddo,” Joan said when she released him, employing the old nickname each had used for the other since seeing, some years earlier, a vintage 1930s film with a heroine who wore limp satin and a chain-smoking hero in wide-brimmed fedora.
“Are the children okay?”
Joan frowned. “Yes! They’re in bed! Why do you keep asking that?”
“I got to help tuck them in,” Richie said, behind John’s back. John whirled around. Richie wore a simper. “I envy you, John. One of each, and both a prize.”
“In view of the great news, I’m defrosting the steak we’ve been saving. I trust it’s still edible.” In addition to all else, Joan was wearing a good deal of eye makeup. “I talked Mr. Pryor into staying for dinner. He’s in town alone.”
“Now, Joan,” Richie said, “I’m going to have to leave if you don’t stop being so formal with me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends call me Randy.”
John could barely move his frozen lips to ask, “What good news?”
“Why, the sale, of course!” Joanie was showing an altogether false animation for the sake of her guest. All was synthetic, from the configuration of her mouth to the angle at which she held her upper body. She smirked at Richie. “It takes John a while.” There was the hint of a glare in her eye when she looked back at her husband. “I’m sure Randy would like a drink. That’s your department.”
“Anything will be just fine,” Richie said.
“Sale” was an utterly meaningless word in this context. Richie had become Randy Pryor and was now an intimate of Joan’s. He wore a suit and a blue tie and a pair of metal-rimmed eyeglasses. No weapons were in evidence. He had apparently not harmed anybody on the premises, not the children or Joan.
“You seem dazed by your success,” Joan said in her new bubbly manner. “Get going, will you please, huh? Things will move fast once the meat is thawed. Randy showed me how to put it under running water. I take it there’s some red wine left?”
John went to the cabinet under the window that gave onto the side yard. He brought out the three-liter jug, which was about a quarter full. It sloshed in his trembling grasp. When he glanced up, Joanie was gone.
Richie smiled at the wine. He had yet to give John a knowing look. “That’ll be just swell,” he said now.
Joan returned immediately. She carried two wineglasses.
Richie asked solicitously, “You’re not joining us?”
“If I had some now I’d be too woozy to cook the steak. I can’t hold much. I’ll drink a glass with the meal.”
“You’re slender,” Richie said. “That’s why it affects you. It takes a heavier person to hold their liquor.”
“I don’t want to mention any names,” said Joan, leering toward John and back, and then actually giggling.
“Come on,” Richie said jovially, “ole John’s not overweight by much, are you, fella? I imagine you’re just about right for your build.”
John lowered the jug to the coffee table and accepted the glasses from his wife. He filled one and handed it to Richie without raising his eyes.
“Okay,” Joan said, “I’ll leave you guys to your business affairs. I calculate the meal will be on the table in fifteen-twenty minutes, if that’ll give you enough time. If not, then you’ll have to wait till after! It’s late enough as is.” John found the persistent lilt in her voice to be unbearable.
He did not speak until he heard the noise of the pots and pans from the kitchen. Then he asked dully, “What sale?”
Richie had taken an overstuffed chair. He was slumped in it, with his legs spread and extended, his shoes resting on the back edges of their heels. They were black leather and so new that th
e margins of the soles were still light tan.
“I’m buying one of your houses. I don’t care which one. The one that costs most and is hardest to sell, maybe. Whatever would make you happy, John.”
“You’re going to settle down and live here?”
Richie grinned. “Why not?”
“You’re going to jail.” John was speaking clearly but at a sufficiently low volume so as not to be heard in the kitchen. He had decided that Joanie must not learn the truth about Richie until after he was disposed of conclusively, and of course the children could not be disturbed in any way.
Richie’s gleeful spirits were not visibly affected. He continued to grin. “No, John, that won’t happen.”
“You killed at least one person today and wounded several more,” said John and added, perhaps naively, “How could you do that?”
Richie lifted his hands in what probably was a kind of shrug. His body movements had changed with the donning of the suit, as his facial expressions had been altered by the glasses. “You’ve been listening to the cops.”
“You did those things. Why would they lie?”
Richie gave him a long, pitying look. “Why would cops lie? Can you be serious?”
“You were just released from Barnes Psychiatric.”
Richie swallowed the wine in one gulp. “They gave me a clean bill of health, and I walked out the door.” He passed the empty glass back and forth between his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with me, John. Don’t ask me, and don’t ask the cops, for God’s sake. Ask the doctors. And let’s face it: if they don’t know after all the examinations and therapy, who would? With all respect, you?“
John refilled Richie’s glass, but hardly in the automatic execution of his duties as host. He had resumed his old game of playing for time, even though it had been anything but successful when last tried, at the farm. He could see no weapons on Richie but had learned his lesson in that regard at least: the man was always armed with something. Whereas except for that brief period during which he carried Haverford’s shotgun, which he had wrested from the man only for his own protection, John had never, his life long, borne any arms whatever.