Cold Night (Jack Paine Mysteries) (8 page)

"Oh!" she said. "I thought I heard someone at the door." She smiled uneasily. "How are you?"

She was wearing a denim skirt and a turtleneck top that showed the outline of her small waist and breasts.

He shrugged. "And you?"

"I'm okay. I hope you don't mind me taking those things . . ."

"Good a time as any. Should I leave?"

"No, of course not. I'm . . . almost finished."

"That's good."

"Why don't you . . . make some coffee or something? I'd like some."

"All right."

He went into the kitchen. He heard her hurrying through the bedroom. When he came out with two mugs and set them on the coffee table, she had four bags filled with clothes and a couple of garment bags laid neatly across the arm of the chair with her coat.

"You'll need help," he said.

"I've—" she began again. "Someone is coming up to help me."

He gave her the coffee and sat. She perched on the thin arm of the chair with the garment bags on it. She didn't look at him. He found himself thinking again about her moving under him, trying, her eyes going from moist to rock-hard, the fright in the corners filling them up—

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," she said.

"Neither do I."

"Jack . . ." she said, trying to make herself sound reasonable, "I really don't know if this is a good way to end things."

"It's as good a way as any."

"Do you have to be cryptic? You always sound so cynical about everything."

He said nothing.

"Jack," she said, "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish it had worked out. I think I'll always wish that."

"Always?"

"Yes."

"As long as it was both our faults, I guess that's okay." Something changed in her face. He knew he had chipped away a piece of her.

"Ginny," he said, "I'll always feel that you thought, deep down inside, that almost everything was my fault."

"Yes, that's true."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Because you didn't have to do the things you did. You
could have been better than what you are."

"I don't understand, Ginny."

Her face began to change. The self-consciousness was
gone; it was as if she had realized that this was the last time
she would be able to say these things.

"Goddammit,"
she said. "What do you think it was like living with you? I never knew what the hell you were going to do. Every time I talked to you I didn't know which Jack I
was going to get—the happy one, the one in a black mood,
the wiseass one or . . ."

She bit her lip.

"Or what?"

"The one with the gun to his head! Don't you think I knew about the box of shells in the kitchen cabinet? Goddammit, Jack!" She began to cry.

She stood up and gathered her things. She threw her coat over her arm, scooping the bags of clothes into her two
hands. "I've got to go."

"Can't I help you?"

"I'll . . . meet him downstairs. I've got to go."

She opened the door and walked out.

He rose and put his hand on the door. He stood with it open, listening for the elevator, and then it came. The elevator doors kissed shut and he heard it go down.

Behind him, the telephone rang.

"Jack?" Bob Petty's voice said.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm all right. You have something on Paterna?"

"Sort of. Paterna is dead."

A slight chill rose up Paine's back as Petty went on.

"He hung himself in his bedroom. His girlfriend found
him about three this morning. She says they had a fight and
she sent him home alone last night."

"Was there a suicide note?"

"No. That's one of the reasons we're holding the girl
friend. But there's something else funny. I started poking around and hit a brick wall on this guy. There wasn't any Les Paterna seven years ago."

"He was a wash job?"

"New name, new face. Probably a federal witness."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"No problem. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Want to shoot some pool tonight?"

"I'm all right, Bobby."

"Remember what I said about Dannon."

"I will. Thanks."

He hung up.

H
e was in the second bad place. Again, it was more a feeling that it would get bad because it didn't start that way. He was with Tom, and they were in the woods. For the first time in a long time it was like it had been. He was home. He had his uniform on. Tom had a beard and long hair. The air in the woods smelled good, and it was getting late in the day. He always liked this time. He had his coat off and if it had been just a little warmer he would have taken his shirt off, too. He had an axe in his hands. He swung it in long high arcs and it felt good coming down on the wood. The wood made a good clean sound when it split.

"Been a long time since I did this," he said.

"Bet they had you doing plenty of other shit in the Army," Tom said.

"Like peeling potatoes? Not much."

Tom fiddled with the radio resting on a tree stump. He glided through channels until he found a station playing loud rock and roll.

"What the hell band is that?" Jack asked, indicating the music that was on.

"Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young."

"Didn't they used to be in different bands?"

"Now they're playing together. Like it?"

Jack nodded. "I haven't heard much of anything the last six months."

Tom put the chain saw he was oiling down. "You think you'll end up over there?"

"They say it'll be over by next summer."

"If Nixon wins in the fall. I know they're holding up those peace talks till after the election."

"I don't think about it anymore. The news is we won't end up in Nam even if it doesn't end. They're pulling so many guys out now they wouldn't have anybody for us to relieve. I'll probably end up at Fort Bragg. Maybe in Germany." He looked at the head of the axe, then put it down on the tree stump next to the radio. "You want to hear some real news? I've got a girlfriend."

Tom grinned. "You're kidding."

"I'm serious."

"You must be. You never told me about any of the others."

"This one is for real."

"How long have you known her?"

"I met her three weeks ago."

"Three weeks! Christ, you hardly know her."

"I've got a good feeling about her, Tommy. We've talked
about getting married."

"Jesus!"

"Her name is Ginny. I'll bring her around." Jack picked up the axe and swung it into the wood.

They piled the cut logs and covered the pile with a tarp. Then Tom pointed to the sky. "Better get going before it gets dark. I'm tired, anyway."

"Give me one minute," Jack said, sitting on a stump. "I wanted to ask you about Dad."

"What's to say?"

"He looked like shit when I saw him yesterday down at the house. Doesn't he do anything?"

Tom made himself busy packing the chain saw and its gas. "No."

"Does he give you any trouble?"

"He sits and watches TV, or stares at the walls."

"What the hell did they do to him in that place?"

His brother looked at him with annoyance. "Haven't you ever thought about it? What do you think they did to him? They kept him in there. All his problems are in his own head. That's what the trouble is." He turned back to the chain saw, snapped it into its case.

"I think about him all the time," Jack said.

"He talks about you. You're all he talks about."

"What does he say?"

"What do you fucking
think
he says? He talks about what happened to you. He talks about what he did."

"Isn't there any way to make him forget?"

"How? He shot his own fucking brother in the head—and he thinks you hate him for it. How are you going to make him forget that? Did
you
forget it?"

They walked back to the house. They stacked some wood against the wall and went in.

The phone rang, and Jack picked it up.

"Jack," his father said. It was a stranger's voice. It was as if pain itself was talking, using the old man's voice. "Dad, what is it?"

"I'm going," his father said.

"Da—"

"Mizar and Alcor, Mizar and Alcor in the handle of the Big Dipper. Two stars, Jack. Brother and brother."

"Dad, what the hell's wrong?"

"Forgive me, Jack. Love your own brother. Oh, Jesus—"

There was a sound over the phone that was louder than anything he had ever heard. His mind went on fire. For a moment he thought the phone had exploded in his hand. Then he knew what the sound was—he had heard it in the Army. He had heard it that day in the police station, when his father had raised his hand—

He screamed "No!" into the phone, and then he kept on screaming.

"Oh, Jesus."

He sat up on the couch. He had sweated right through his shirt and jacket. There was a dull ache behind his eyes; it was as if the projector was still on and the pictures he had seen were still there after the lights had gone up. His palms were wet.

He rose and went to the window. It was still midday. There was some sun but mostly there was just gray where he looked down toward the street. Gray sunlight.

He wished he had Rebecca Meyer with him. But the thought turned sour in him immediately. He was glad she wasn't with him.

Gray sun. The day would go on and then the world would darken to gray night. Tomorrow the sun would come up and the world would be gray again.

He went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. It went down his throat like bile, sticking to the roof of his mouth instead of washing down the bile that was already there. He nearly threw the glass but instead placed it very gently on the counter. He walked to the bedroom.

The closet was still open. He saw that there was a dress that Ginny had left. It was white and black, white with large black dots on it. He didn't recognize it. He could not remember ever seeing her in it. Had he ever really looked at her in anything? He couldn't remember. There was that one sweater, the one a little like the one that girl on the bus was wearing, a shade of rose that was neither red nor pink. It was the first time he had looked at Ginny's breasts. The sweater wasn't tight but still it showed her breasts off through the wool. That was the second time he had seen her. What had she worn the first time? He didn't know.

He turned from the closet and sat on the bed for a moment, his hands heavy on his knees. Then he moved one hand to the small table beside the bed. There was a long drawer, and he slid it open, pulling it all the way out until the weight of what was in it started to push the drawer down and threatened to pull it out of the table.

There was only one thing in the drawer. He took the gun out and let it sit in his hand. It had the weight of a dead bird. It was cold and blue, the blue of metal. He closed his eyes and it still felt like a bird in his hand.

He remembered a time when he was drunk, before he had given up drinking. He had been at it all night, had started after getting off duty. This night it had done nothing but sharpen what was in his head. He had taken in so much Scotch that it meant nothing to his body. The one part of his mind that he wanted the liquor to kill had become sharp and bright as lightning. Bobby Petty had driven him home and then left. He knew that Petty hadn't been drunk because Petty never got drunk, and because he had started to get on him for drinking so much.

After Petty left, he sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the lightning in his head to go away. It stayed bright. He sat there for a long time. Then he looked down and his gun was in his hand. There were bullets scattered over the kitchen table. He had taken the bullets out of the gun, but there was still one in it.

It was then that he closed the cylinder and spun it, and put the gun to his temple. He felt nothing. Suddenly the lightning in his head flashed out and all he could feel was his finger on the trigger of the gun. No other part of him was alive. He felt the pressure on his finger, nothing else. His finger was alive, filled with electricity; the rest of him was dead storm. He felt the pressure against the finger grow. The finger was living for him, a lightning bolt, doing everything for him. No other part of him had to think, or eat, or breathe.

Then something (his finger?) made him look up. Ginny was standing in the doorway to the kitchen in her bathrobe. Her eyes were not wide because he had caught her at the exact moment when her eyes first made contact with him. None of the things that should be were in her eyes, the disbelief, the screams, the pleading for him to stop. Nothing was there but her first pure reaction, which
was
—get it over with.
There was relief in her eyes in that unadulterated, frozen moment—relief that it would happen now and not some other night, or day, not while he was on duty or in a bar or by himself in a hotel room with a razor in front of a fogged mirror, with only silver and white the colors of the world, the white and silver of the bathroom and the white of his undershirt and underwear, staring at his own face while the silver razor did the job, and she would have to go somewhere to look at his body with all that blood on it. They wouldn't clean the blood off, and his undershirt would be caked with it, and his face would have the lusterless pallor of a stranger.
Let it happen now, her eyes said. Get it over with.