Perkins choked on his tea. He coughed and sputtered. Tea splashed over the rim of his cup, off his saucer, onto his sweater. “What?” he finally managed to say.
“Well, it’s such a catastrophe, isn’t it!” said Nana. For a moment, there was a wicked little gleam in her damp eyes.
Open-mouthed, Perkins stared at Tiffany. She looked … thunderstruck, was the only word for it. Her cheeks had gone gray as slate. Her eyes were hollow and haunted. She cast an unhappy gaze at the old woman.
“How …?” Perkins coughed again before he could speak. “How did you find out about it, Nana?”
“Find out? Oh now. Ollie.” Nana looked down her nose at him reproachfully. Strands of gray hair played on her brow. She looked almost ephemeral in the shadows. As if she might dissipate and vanish, a wisp of smoke. “You didn’t think you could keep it from me, did you?”
“I … I just …”
Tiffany sipped her tea carefully. Watched him. Watched them both.
“I own the place after all,” Nana went on. “The police called me early this afternoon. A very nice man named Nathaniel something. Mulligan. Nathaniel Mulligan.”
Perkins swallowed. He closed his eyes. Mulligan must have called her just before he started questioning him. She probably knew more than he did. “I didn’t want you to worry,” Perkins said. He tried to capture his usual tone. “You know what a horrible old crone you are when you worry.”
“Well, and I do worry,” said Nana. “I am worried. Of course I am. Look at me. I’m coming apart at the seams, anyone can see that. I called you right away and again this afternoon but you weren’t in. Where were you? I finally had to take a pill! Oh, Oliver!” The full appeal of her damp old eyes was on him. “I knew I should have sold that place the minute you boys moved away. Now look what’s happened! I won’t ever be able to survive it.”
At this, Perkins and Tiffany exchanged a long glance across the tea table. Tiffany’s sweet face was all terror now. Her big eyes seemed to glow in the semidarkness like lamps. She doesn’t know, Perkins thought. She doesn’t know what I’ll say. She doesn’t know how far I’m willing to go.
I’ll tell. I’ll tell everything.
But if Nana knows, if Nana already knows the worst … He bit his lip. Maybe he should just make his play. Maybe he should just call the police right here and now and hand Tiffany over …
“Mr. Mulligan said I had to call him right away if I heard anything,” Nana rattled on, almost picking up his thought. “It was so strange. He said I had to call him if I found out where Zach is. And I said, ‘Zach? Why do you have to talk to Zach? Zach doesn’t know anything about this.’ And he said, well, yes, he knew that, but he did need to talk to him, that it was part of his routine. But I don’t know, Ollie. What sort of routine is that? I told him, I said, you know, ‘I have a very bad heart, Mr. Mulligan, and I am very easily upset and you are making me very frightened.’ And he said, well, no, I shouldn’t worry about anything. But, of course, that isn’t possible at all, now is it?”
Perkins swallowed hard. He was still looking at Tiffany. She was still looking at him, trying to gauge his reactions.
“Just don’t get all crazy,” Perkins said thickly. He looked at Tiffany as he said it. Then he cleared his throat, willed himself to look at the old lady. Her shapeless body trembled. Her teacup clattered on its saucer in her hand. At any moment, it seemed to Perkins, she would keel over. Spill to the floor. And yet he still thought he saw that gleam. “Zach is fine,” he said. “I talked to Zach and he’s okay. Okay? Don’t worry about Zach.”
Nana’s hand moved to her chest. Perkins couldn’t tell if it was a gesture of relief or if this was the Big One. “Zach is all right?” she said.
Perkins hesitated. His blood seemed to have turned to acid. He could taste the burn when he licked his lips. No, he thought. No, Zach’s not all right. Zach’s in bad trouble and Tiffany here knows why. We’ve got to turn her in, Grandma. There’s gonna be police and ugliness and you’ll hear about what I did with Tiff and Zach will hear. But they’re going to kill him otherwise … His mouth opened, as if he were about to speak. But he didn’t speak. Nana waited for him eagerly, fingers at her breast. The teacup chattered in her other hand. Perkins stared at it.
“I have to go,” Tiffany sang out suddenly. She stood up. She looked from one to the other of them. “I’m sorry, Nana. I have an appointment. I have to go.”
Quickly, she set her saucer down on the marble table. She smoothed her quilted shirt. Even in the half-dark, the quilt looked bold and colorful against the fading antiques around the room. Why are they dressed alike? Perkins thought. Why are they always dressed alike?
“Oh, but Tiffany, dear,” Nana said. “You just got here. And you mustn’t leave me to worry about this by myself. I can’t possibly handle it.”
Tiffany looked at her. Looked at Perkins. Looked at her. Her lips moved a moment before she could force out the words. “I’m … I’m sorry, Nana, really. I have an appointment. I really have to, I … I’m sorry.”
And with that, she rushed from the room. Hurried down the hall.
The back door! Perkins thought at once. The back door was down there, across from the bedroom. Tiffany could duck out there, take the fire stairs or the freight elevator.
“Excuse me just a minute, Nana,” Perkins said. He spilled tea again as he set the cup down. He was on his feet and following Tiffany.
“What on earth is happening?” said Nana.
But Perkins was already on his way down the hall.
At first, he thought she must have gotten away. He saw the rear exit to his right, the heavy metal door with the bolt across it. He saw the dark bedroom doorway to his left. He thought: She’s gone, she’s already gone. Then he reached the bedroom doorway. He saw her.
She was bent over in the dark, lifting something from beside Nana’s bed. She straightened and he saw it was an overnight bag. A red overnight bag just like Zachie’s. She turned with it gripped in her hand. She took a step toward the door before she saw Perkins there.
She was breathless, her voice low. “Let me go, Oliver.”
He stepped toward her. “Not until you tell me the truth.”
“You know the truth. You don’t want to know the truth. Just let me go.”
She charged him. Stormed toward the door, lugging the suitcase, her head down as if to butt him out of the way.
This time, Perkins stood his ground. He braced himself in the doorway, his heart pounding, the fear coursing in him. Tiffany pulled up, flung her head back. The silver streak in her hair flashed in the light from the hall. Her teeth flashed. Her eyes flashed.
“Let me go, damn you! It’s too late to stop it now. It’s too late to stop anything. Oh God!” she cried. “Why is this happening to me? Oh God!”
“I’m calling the police, Tiffany.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, anything else to do. With the pounding fear in him, he couldn’t think of anything except: I broke the typewriter. Me! “I’m calling Mulligan.”
For a moment, she could only shake her head at him. He could hear the hoarse rasp of her breath, the choked-back tears. “Go on then,” she said through her teeth. “For the love of Christ, for the love of sweet Christ, go on.”
And for another moment—another interminable moment—they faced each other in the bedroom doorway. Perkins couldn’t move. He did not want to move. He wanted to reach out and grab her. He wanted to shake her again and make her tell him. Make her say that Zach was innocent. Zach was innocent! She had to say it! His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, but he couldn’t lift them. He did not want to touch her again. He did not want to feel her shoulders in his hands.
He turned away from her. There was a phone by the bed. An old-fashioned Princess on the bowlegged nightstand. Perkins knew it was there. But somehow, it did not occur to him to use it. He just didn’t think of it. He went back down the hall instead. He crossed through the living room.
“Ollie???
? said Nana from her chair.
He went right past her, back into the kitchen. There was a phone in there too. It was hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. He lifted it—lifted the handset to his ear. He stood there, staring at the number pad. He raised his hand to the numbers.
But he did not press the buttons. He just stared. He held the handset to his ear. He listened to the dial tone. He saw the kitchen in his peripheral vision. The gleaming copper cookware. The green linoleum floor. He stared at the phone and listened until the dial tone broke. A recorded voice came on: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again …”
Then, slowly, Perkins lowered the handset into the cradle. He stared at the phone. He felt black and sick inside and the oddest thought came to him suddenly. Suddenly, he thought: I’m going to die tonight. Just like that. All at once, he was absolutely certain of it. They’re going to kill me. It wasn’t just a premonition. It made sense in a way, after all. If Tiffany and her partner were setting him up, they would have to kill him, wouldn’t they? Otherwise, he might be able to clear himself. He might be able to convince the police of the truth. If they could kill him, if they could make it look like an accident or a suicide … Well, that way, they could pin the whole thing on him.
And Zach too.
Zach too, he thought. That’s right. They would have to kill Zach too …
He stared at the phone. His hands began to tremble at his sides. His fear was no mere butterfly anymore. It was a great batlike thing. Squatting there in his stomach. Squatting with its wings furled. Waiting to spread those wings. Waiting to rise …
You know the truth. You don’t want to know the truth.
Perkins stared at the telephone and trembled. Why hadn’t he called the police? he wondered.
I’ll tell everything.
And why—it occurred to him now—why hadn’t he used the phone in the bedroom? Why had he come in here instead?
Perkins closed his eyes, his heart sinking. The bat-thing inside him tested its wings, beating them against him, yearning to rise. It would rise too, if he let it. He knew that. If he relaxed for a single moment, it would tear its way to the surface. Grinning, shrieking. If he let himself go. If he let himself think. If he let himself stay sober too long. If he let himself love someone. If he let himself write his poems, it would rise …
It would rise, and it would ruin everything. It would destroy everything—everyone—that he loved.
You don’t want to know.
With an effort, he lifted his head. He turned and looked down the hallway. He already knew what he would see.
The door across from the bedroom stood ajar. The rear exit. The bolt was thrown back and a dark silver of hallway showed between the jamb and the door’s heavy edge. Perkins stood where he was and looked at it, and the black thing squatted down deep in his belly, its wings furled again, its eyes red and eager. It was waiting for the right moment …
“Ollie?” It was his grandmother’s voice. Frail and tremulous. Calling to him from the living room. “Ollie? What’s going on?”
Perkins said nothing. He took a breath. He held on to himself, held himself together. He stood in front of the telephone and he looked down the hallway at the open door.
She’s gone, he thought dully. Tiffany’s gone.
And it was true. He had let her get away.
Nancy woke up to the sound of sirens. Sirens in the air above her head. Red demons, flitting here and there, howling. The flash of them: red lights, white lights … She rolled onto her back and groaned. Her eyes fluttered open. She saw the sky. The washed-out black of the Manhattan sky with no stars. A gibbous moon in rainbow wisps of clouds. The jagged city skyline: half-lighted towers reaching up like fingers, clawing up the purple wall of the night.
“Oh God,” she grunted. There was so much pain. And the sirens were screaming at her. Swooping and diving at her head. Whoop, whoop, whoop. Louder and louder. They’re here, she thought hazily. They’re here to get me. She lifted up a little. The pain! It made her throw her head back, open her mouth in a silent scream. The muscles in her back felt torn in two. The wind seemed to have been pounded out of her belly with a baseball bat. Her head—it was ringing—throbbing—Jesus! She put her hand to her brow to keep her brains from spilling out. The screams of the sirens were intolerably loud. The red lights danced in the sky.
She felt something damp in her hair. Something warm and sticky just above her temple. She brought her fingers away and looked at them.
Blood?
It was. Blood. What the hell had happened? Where the hell was she? She looked up. It made her neck hurt. Her vision went blurry. She squinted into the dark. There was a dwarf up there. Just hanging up there. Squatting lewdly above her head, as if pinned to the brick wall behind him. He was grinning, his legs spread wide, his eyes malicious and bright. He was lifting an alabaster ledge in his two upraised hands. He seemed about to hurl it down on her.
Gargoyles, she thought. Right. She remembered now. The stone gargoyles had come to life. They had chased her, scrabbling right down the side of the building. Oh yeah. It had been that kind of day. She shifted, grunting with the flash of agony through her back. She lifted herself into a sitting position. The sirens now seemed to be a solid dome of sound, ear-hammering sound, surrounding her, pressing down on her. She blinked a little. Peered at the asphalt around her. She remembered that too. She had been at the corner of the ledge when she fell. Lexington Avenue on her left, the flat roof of the connecting building to her right. She had fallen to the roof. If she had fallen the other way, if she had fallen toward the street, it wouldn’t be the cops coming for her now, it would be the Sanitation Department.
She almost laughed—and then she grimaced instead as she felt something like a punch in the pit of her stomach. She was working herself over onto her hands and knees now, trying to push her way to her feet. The asphalt roof, the flashing sky around her, tipped and swayed. The sirens throbbed inside her head. She jacked her eyes open wider, fighting down nausea. Other things were also coming back to her. Coming to her in flashes, bathed in the red light all around. Her mother. Her mother’s face. Pressing in on her. Her voice. Murderer! Murderer!
“Uh!” She let out a syllable of pain as she got her feet under her.
Murderer!
And the newsman’s voice: The brutal killing of Nancy Kincaid.
Murderer!
Who the hell am I? she thought.
And with a great effort, she stood. Her knees felt raw, bone scraping against bone as she straightened. She groaned and looked down at herself. Her jeans were torn at one knee. Her skin was torn and bloody. Her gray turtleneck was ripped at the sleeve, stained with blood, streaked with dirt in front.
And I just changed my goddamn clothes five minutes ago and now my lipstick’s probably smeared and …
The sirens stopped. Just like that, they went off like a light bulb, that suddenly. They reached a peak of sound, they filled the sky, the flashing lights danced and sparkled around the moon—and then the sirens died. The lights flashed silently. Nancy stood swaying in the eerie quiet, the whoosh of wind and traffic. Her head felt loose on her neck. Her thoughts were blurred and slow, as if they were underwater. She heard doors opening and clunking shut on the street below. Half-staggering on stiff legs, she moved toward the sound. She moved to the edge of the roof. There was a low parapet there. She leaned her hands against it. She looked down over it onto Lexington Avenue.
The cars had halted to her right. They were strewn around the corner, near Gramercy Park. There were six of them that she could see. More, probably, out of sight. God, you’d think she was Public Enemy Number One or something, the way they were clustered down there. Their red and white flashers spun swiftly. They threw light off onto the wall of the building. The underside of the leaves. The trees and statues and iron gates of the little park. Red and white light everywhere. Nancy leaned against the parapet and watched. The cops were now piling out of their cars. Tw
o cops from one car. One from another. Two from a third. They were all running toward the building’s front entrance. Their faces set, their hands to their gun butts. And now, on Twenty-first Street, a huge blue and white truck was pulling up too. A whole truck! It looked about a block long and a story tall. Nancy watched, amazed, as the truck’s back doors opened and an army of policemen poured out. Cops with body armor, Plexiglas visors, and metal shields. They rushed toward the building’s doors as well.
“Whoa,” Nancy murmured. She shook her head. It made her feel tired. All those cops. Coming to get her. She hurt so much. Too much to run for it. And what would happen, anyway, if they caught her now? What would be so bad about it, really? They’d probably just take her back to the hospital. Pump her full of tranquilizers again. Maybe they’d even let her have more therapy sessions with what’s-his-name. Dr. Schweitzer, whatever. That sweet man she’d kneed in the balls. Then, of an evening, she could sit around with Billy Joe. Chat about her heroic journey to find the magic word, about sending dead Jews to the moon …
Nancy’s eyes drooped closed. She swayed back and forth, her mouth open. What would be so bad? she thought. She was tired. So tired …
Oliver …
She snapped awake. She straightened at the parapet, her fingernails scraping the concrete. Her heart beat fast as her eyes came wide open, as she stared down at the police below. The blue men, gripping their holsters, ran toward the building under the flashing red lights.
And she thought: Oliver. Oliver Perkins. She had to find him. That was the thing. The urgent thing. The one thing she really knew. She remembered him. No. She remembered the feel of his book. The slick feel of his book’s white cover in her fingers.
He gave it to me. He said I had to carry it for identification.
She remembered the rough texture of the pages, their corners between her finger and her thumb. And the black print of the words beneath her eyes.
What if we went off together into the hills
and on into the hills beyond the hills where the