Thicker Than Blood - Crouch Blake - Страница 133
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"How are you?" I asked though I didn't want to know.
"If I didn't have to be strong for my kids, I might be dead. It's the nights that are especially hard." She looked down at her son, needing him in a way his innocent psyche could never comprehend. Kissing the top of his head, she smiled at him when he glanced up at her. "I know you're busy," she said, looking back at me. Then standing, she lifted John David into her arms, and he laid his head down on her delicate shoulder. "Can I call you tomorrow?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You do the same."
"Thank you, Andy. And I'm very sorry about your mother." She kissed my cheek and tried to smile, but it failed miserably. Then she turned and walked slowly away, towards the doors which would lead out of the funeral home, to an empty house.
# # #
When the visitors had gone, leaving only myself, family members, and the pale-faced funeral director, I walked towards the open casket. It had been crowded since I'd been here, so I had waited, wanting to see my mother for the last time, alone, in a quiet room, without the disturbances of a thousand acquaintances. The mortician had warned me that the bruise around her neck would be difficult to hide, and he was right. As I set my hands on the metallic shell of her casket and peered down at her vapid face, it was the first thing I saw.
To someone who didn't know what to look for, the bruise might never draw a glance. But I'd seen her in the cold morgue, and the blackish-purple ring around her neck had been strikingly obvious then. It had looked as if someone had scribbled with black and purple magic markers on her soft, white neck. But now, in this reverent visitation room, only a light periwinkle shown through the makeup on her throat, like dull violets poking through snow.
I cried, touching her face. Though stiff and unnatural, it was hers. Her hands had been folded on top of each other, and they rested on her chest as if she merely slept. When I leaned down to whisper in her ear, I felt a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes staring through my back. My heart froze, and a cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Quickly, I spun around, darting my head towards the two sets of double doors on either end of the long, rectangular room. Jim, Hannah, and Wendy stood in a small circle, chatting by the entrance, and there was no one at the other end. I took a slow, measured breath, and turned back towards my mother, waiting for the icy feeling in my heart to retreat, though it never did.
# # #
White lights sparkled on the opposite shores, and a biting wind swept across the cold water. I stood shivering atop the grassy bank, watching the white Cadillac glide into the murky water. As it filled and lowered into the depths of Lake Norman, the air inside rushed out, breaking into tiny bubbles like a boiling cauldron on the surface. Then it was gone, the black, glassy surface smooth and calm again, except for where the wind stirred it.
I walked back through the woods, towards my property, the ground muddy from the construction that had begun on a new subdivision. No houses were finished, but concrete foundations, gravel roads, and skeletal wood frames were already in place. A wide swath of forest had been gutted, giving the landscape a bruised, beaten demeanor. It would be another six months before anyone moved here, and though my house was nearly half a mile up the shore, I still hated that I would one day have neighbors so close. I might even move when the yuppies came, with their four-wheel-drives and bratty kids.
Rarely did I think of Walter. Only when his wife called, wondering if he'd contacted me, did his face cross my mind and torture me. But for the most part, I'd mastered the management of guilt, simply by disconnecting myself from his memory. I hadn't killed him. Though heartbroken for the loss, it was business, another casualty of Orson. He knew the risk when he went to Vermont. He made the choice. It was remarkable how numb I felt.
Walter hadn't told Beth where or with whom he was going. All she knew was that on Wednesday morning, November 2nd, Walter had left before dawn with enough luggage for several days. He'd told her nothing, and she had trusted him. Now, for reasons unknown to me, Beth had chosen my shoulder to cry on. I'd been on the phone with her earlier tonight before I drove her husband's car from my garage to this muddy section of woods and sent it rolling into the lake. Though I hated myself for lying to her, there was no other way. No one could know that Walter and I had been to Vermont. As I walked in the dark, feeling my way between frozen trees, I thought, I'll help her come to terms with the possibility her husband might be dead. I'll help her through this, for Walter.
Leaves crunched beneath my footsteps, and occasionally I'd step on a stick that snapped the silence. These woods are so different from the pine forests of Vermont, I thought, picturing that dark, intimate gravesite, cloaked in pines. Here the trees were larger, spread farther apart, the forest floor soft and deep with the decades of dead leaves.
Orson was always with me, at the edge of thought, an omniscient quality to him now, like an evil god. As I passed through the woods, I saw him behind every tree, lurking in the shadows, hiding in my quiet house. I couldn't bring myself to question what had happened in Middlebury, how a man could climb out of a hole with eight bullets in his chest and an overdose of tranquilizer coursing through his veins. But the alternative was more terrifying. If not Orson, who had I buried in Vermont? Here, the retrospection ended. I had a keen ability to think myself up to the edge of madness and stop before plunging into the abyss. I had one purpose now. Utterly at Orson's mercy, I would wait for him to contact me. There was nothing else I could do. You can't sneak up on God.
In the distance, I saw my glowing house, shining like a beacon in the dark, surrounded by the sweet, bitter-smelling red junipers I'd planted last spring. I'd left the lights on, and I walked through the yard towards the back porch steps, peering through the windows into the lonely interior. For a moment, I wanted someone, anyone to be with me. A loneliness grasped me, so overpowering tears burned down the sides of my face. But angrily, I wiped them away and cursed the weakness that had struck me. It was the sort of thing he preyed upon.
Warm and silent inside my house, I turned on the television, went to the wet bar, and fixed myself a Jack and Coke. It was after eleven o'clock, so the local news was on, and as I poured the whiskey over cubes of ice, I heard an anchorwoman say, "Heart Surgeon." I turned and looked at the screen as the video cut to Agent Harold Trent standing before a dozen microphones inside the FBI headquarters in Washington. The soundbyte began halfway through his first official statement to the press since October 31st.
"…testing, we have confirmed that at least seventeen of the hearts found on East Street belong to the corresponding names. We have several leads, but I can't discuss further…"
The telephone rang, destroying my concentration. I left my drink half-made and walked into the kitchen, grabbing it on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"You son of a bitch." Her voice was heartless.
"Beth?"
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked.
"What are you talking…"
"I know you called me, Andy. I just dialed Star69 and you picked up the phone!"
"Beth, I don't understand…"
"Bullshit! Why didn't you call from a payphone this time?"
"I haven't called you, Beth."
"What'd you do to my husband?!" she screamed through tears. "Tell me where he is!"
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