Hard Case Crime: Witness To Myself (20 page)

I began thinking of the times when he was, say, three or four, and I’d tell him things like, “Alan, I just came back from a trip to the moon.” And he’d look at me with wonder and say, “Really, Colin?” Totally believed me. There’d been so many times like that. I wished I could say what I wanted to say now, and that even though he was grown, a man, he would believe me too.

I stood there, trying to think. And then on an impulse I went to the closet and took out a light jacket. As I was putting it on, Patty said, frowning, “Where you going?”

“I want to see Alan. He’s still quite upset and I want to see what I can do.”

I knew what her look was saying: Why not over the phone? But she said nothing.

I drove there, not knowing what I would say to him. I tried to think it out. He would wonder what the hell was I there for, and I guessed I would say you didn’t sound right to me and I’m concerned about you. And maybe he would open up to me, just maybe. Or if he didn’t, maybe I would come out with the coincidence of their going to the Cape that summer, and the sketch — the sketch. No, not maybe, I would! And maybe he would have a perfect explanation, and we’d even laugh about it. But what if my suspicions were right? Would he lie? Say you’re crazy? Tell me to get the hell out of there? Maybe — who knew — even grab a knife?

For the first time I felt a little afraid of him.

After Alan phoned me he felt bad about having lied about calling the police. But he just didn’t want me possibly wondering about his behavior.

He put on a windbreaker and started walking to the door. He told himself he only wanted to find out if he had Bruster’s actual address, nothing more than that. Just to see for himself. But he paused as he was opening the door, stood there in thought for a few moments. Then he went to his bedroom and pulled open the night table drawer and took out the gun. Holding it in his hand, he looked down at the box of shells. He started to reach for it, then stopped. Then he picked up the box and put it in one of his wind-breaker pockets. The gun went under his belt, partway in the back. Like he’d seen so many times in the movies.

Only he was never going to shoot anyone — God, he hadn’t shot at anything since that blackbird.

But he wasn’t going to let anyone kill him either.

I rang the buzzer for his apartment four or five times without getting an answer. I hadn’t wanted to call him to say I’d like to come over, because I was afraid he might say no; had simply hoped he was still there after making that call to me.

I rang again, twice more. Still nothing.

I went back to my car, stood there looking up at the windows of his apartment. The living room blinds were slightly parted and I could see that a light was on. But the room looked somewhat faint in the darkness, perhaps because that light was the only one on.

I was angry at myself for forgetting to bring along my cell phone.

I told myself: Go up there and ring the bell again. Hold your finger on it for five minutes, even longer. But I knew I was just playing with the hope he was in. I was sure he was out of there. Gone. But I couldn’t make myself leave.

I felt that it wasn’t just nervousness I’d detected in his voice; it seemed, as I thought of it, more like desperation. I could almost feel that desperation through my skin. I tried to imagine what he might be thinking: that he’d done something terrible, but that ever since he’d lived a good life, that he had a girlfriend he cared about and a good job and a reputation, and that he would never voluntarily give all of this up. Never.

Alan had wondered if the address he’d been given even existed, but he found that it did. It was a two-story frame house on a block of widely separated houses. The place was dark except for a small light on the first floor in a back room. He sat in his parked car near a streetlight, aware that this still didn’t mean Roy Bruster lived there. He wanted to go up that path by the lawn and ring the bell, and if he answered just confront him. Or maybe not even say anything; just stare at him and leave. Or say, quietly — nothing that would bring the police — stay out of my life.

No, just stare at him.

He walked up the path to the door, which was on the side of the house and lit by an overhead light. The blinds over the door were closed. He rang the bell and waited, his heart going fast. But no one answered even after several rings.

Back on the sidewalk he looked at the house again, thinking he might catch someone peering out. But no.

He started to get back in the car, then looked at his watch. It was a little before nine. He was thinking of going up to a few other houses on the block to see if anyone knew Bruster, decided to try the houses on either side of this one to start. The woman who answered his ring at the first house simply looked through the drape and called through the closed window, “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a Mr. Bruster and I was wondering —”

“No one in here.” And the drape fell.

No one answered at the second house

He walked to the corner. The intersecting street was lined with stores, all of them closed except for a taproom at the far corner. There were only three people at the bar and no one at the tables. He stood at the end of the bar, waited until the bartender came over.

He said, “I wonder if you know a Roy Bruster. I lost his address but I think he lives somewhere around here.”

The man thought. “No, never heard of him.” Then he said to the others, “Anyone here know a Roy Bruster?”

Two of them shook their heads. The third raised a finger as if asking permission to speak.

“It could be a guy I heard about,” he said, “but I don’t know.”

A friend who lived down the block, he went on, had told him that one day last summer he and his son were playing chess on their patio when he noticed a man looking at them from the sidewalk.

“I never forgot this, it’s that funny. This guy simply walks up and asks if they’d mind if he watched the game. My friend don’t want him there, but what’s he going to say? So, he says okay, and then this is funny” — the man turned to the others at the bar and grinned before looking back at Alan —” crazy but funny, but he just quietly takes over for the kid and beats my friend in like two moves. And my friend is quite a chess player.”

Alan said, “Your friend didn’t know him?”

“Not at all.”

“So why do you think it might be Bruster?”

“Well, he introduced himself. Now it’s been a long time but I’m sure my friend said something like Bruster. The reason I remember that,” and he grinned and looked over at the bartender, “was that it sounded like brewery.”

“Did he say anything about where he lives?”

“I don’t think so, but the guy was walking, so it’s probably somewhere around here.”

Alan went back to his car and stared at the house again. Everything looked the same but he decided to try once more. He rang the bell, twice, and then noticed a stirring of the blinds. The door opened narrowly, just enough for him to see an elderly man’s face behind the chain.

“What d’you want?”

“Is this the Brusters? Does a Roy Bruster live here?”

“No.” Then, “Are you the one that rang before?”

“Yes, I —”

“I was in the tub,” he said angrily. “This is no time to come ringing people’s doors.” He started to close the door.

“Wait, wait! He said he lived here, he —”

“Look, fellow, no one by that name lives here.”

“Well, do you know anyone by that name?”

“No.” And the door closed.

Alan stood for a few moments, just staring at the door. He was sure at first that the guy was lying. But then he was not so sure. Possibly Bruster, asked at the gym to give his address, had simply reached out for one close to his own. But where in this darkened neighborhood did he live?

He felt himself growing more desperate. He walked back to the sidewalk. He didn’t want to leave, but soon the feeling grew that the man was staring at him from one of the windows, that he might even call the police. Alan got in his car, started it reluctantly, and then began driving away slowly.

Soon, though, he was aware that he was driving fast, much faster than the speed limit. He immediately slowed down but his heart was still racing. He’d been fantasizing about confronting Bruster, and Bruster taunting him, and his anger and fear and frustration rising.

And then as he got out of his car in the driveway, he saw me walking back to my car.

I think we saw each other at the same time. He stood near his car as though frozen, staring at me. He looked a little disheveled; his hair, always so neatly combed, was mussed, and his windbreaker hung open.

I felt stupid, wasn’t sure what to say. I only hoped my nervousness wouldn’t show. He spoke first.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I didn’t like the way you sounded on the phone, that’s all.”

“Why, how did I sound?”

“I don’t know. Just something. But it worried me.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He sounded angry. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Everything’s fine,” he insisted.

“Well, can I at least come in for a while?”

He looked at me for a long moment, as though deciding what to say. Then he began walking to the door, and I accompanied him.

In his apartment he said, “I don’t know what you thought you heard.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s nothing.”

“I just called to tell you I called the police, that’s all. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Of course I did. What did they say?”

“I told you,” he said, annoyed. “They’ll let me know if anything.”

I sat down on the sofa. He looked at me as if trying to decide if he should too. He sat down without taking off his windbreaker. It was as though he was telling me not to get too comfortable. I could feel myself growing more nervous.

I said, “How’s Anna?”

“She’s fine. Just fine.”

I was running out of superficial things to ask. “And your work? How’s it going?”

“Good. Everything’s fine.”

I don’t know how I seemed to him, but my face felt hot and I wondered if it was red. I took a deep breath and said, “Alan, is there anything you want to tell me?”

He looked at me narrowly. “What do you mean?”

“Just that.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. What are you trying to say?”

I looked at him. “Alan, you’re acting worried, I know you’re worried. And I want to be on your side.”

He kept staring at me. “I don’t know what the hell you’re saying. What do you mean you want to be on my side? I’ve got no side. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I was growing fully afraid of him but I’d gone too far to stop.

“Alan, I saw the sketch. Talk to me.”

“Talk to you.” That’s all he said. But he said it as if I were crazy.

“I remember you and your mother and father stopping at our place on Sea Belle that summer. And your father mentioning you’d be going to Cape Cod.”

He said nothing but now there was a frantic look in his eyes.

“You’re crazy,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you’re crazy.”

I took another deep breath. Maybe more than one.

“You know,” he said, “you’re talking out of the top of your head.”

“Really?” I kept staring at him. And then it burst out of me: “The girl, Alan. The girl!”

“What girl? What girl? You’re crazy, you know?”

“Alan, I do know. Do you hear me, I know!”

“You’re.”

He stopped and we both stood staring at each other. And then what happened next was so fast that I couldn’t react to it. His right hand darted under his windbreaker and came up with a gun. Two hands held it pointed at my face. They were trembling.

His face over the gun was furious. I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t. I thought: I’ll grab it, I’ll die fighting for it.

“Oh God.”

The words came from him, like a soft cry. And now the gun came down, slowly. He kept looking at me for a few moments more, his face anguished. Then he turned and ran to the door.

It wasn’t until he was in the car and was hurrying to start the motor that he became fully aware that he was still holding the gun. He put it on the seat next to him, horrified that he’d actually drawn it on me. It was only then that he realized that it wasn’t loaded. But that didn’t matter: He’d pulled it on me.

He put the gun on his lap. He knew what he had to do, and though his heart was beating hard he wasn’t afraid.

He pulled away fast, not knowing where he was going, only that he had to find a place. He didn’t want to do it on a public street, where people would gape at daybreak, or anywhere kids played or people shopped or drove by on their way to work. He thought of the woods and the creek where he and Will Jansen had played as kids; that seemed an ideal place to call it quits. But suddenly he couldn’t clear his head enough to remember how to get there.

He drove on, still without knowing the way. Soon he had no idea what street he was on or what neighborhood he was in. He pulled to the curb to try to clear his thinking. He leaned back against the headrest, exhausted. The image of him aiming the gun at me was so loathsome, so ugly, that he could hardly bear it. He tried to calm down, tried to concentrate on his breathing. It was so heavy he had to breathe through his mouth. He was only partly aware that he was looking at the sky. The moon, a half moon, was out, which came as a surprise: He could have been wrong but he felt as if he’d been driving through a moonless night.

He looked at it, thinking: No more. Never again.

He closed his eyes but couldn’t keep them closed. What was starting to come into his head now terrified him. It was a terror far different from anything he’d felt before. And yet it seemed right to him. He felt his head clearing, began to have some idea of where he was. He started driving again, through streets he recognized now. And drove deep into the night.

For a long while he tried not to let a clear thought into his head. And then when thoughts started to break through they were jumbled. They were about Anna and him and how much he loved her. They were about his mother and his relief that she’d never know, at least on this earth. They were about his father and did he somehow know and could he help him, perhaps with God. They were a little bit about Bruster too, but with a touch of pity this time for all that he was suffering.