In the Night Season (21 page)

Agnes looked aghast. She put one hand over her heart.

“Something,” Travis said.

“Why would they—”

“They said they found a small shoe print in the blood.”

“Oh,” Agnes said. “Please. We ought to go.”

There was an interval where Nora supposed bitterly to herself that she was expected to step in and ask them to stay. She refrained from allowing even her gaze to betray her, staring down into the folds of the stained handkerchief.

“We’re sorry,” Marsha said, preparing to rise. “We shouldn’t have imposed.”

“Well, it’s a bad time for everybody,” Travis said. “Right, hon?”

Nora said, “Yes—right.”

Marsha settled back. The two women sat there, waiting for
someone else to speak. Agnes sighed heavily and held tightly in her leathery, mannish fist a handkerchief she had brought from somewhere inside the poncho she wore.

“Well,” said Travis, crossing the room in front of them—it was almost as though he meant to parade himself. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes—the serial killer posing as a religious guy. Now that’s really the worst.”

“It’s terrifying,” Marsha said. “I wish we could talk about anything else.”

They seemed to be waiting, then, for the new subject, whatever it would be, to emerge. Nora could not get the tension out of her face, and for an instant she felt the horror that they might have asked her a question. “Pardon?” she said.

Travis went on. “The thing is, you don’t want to turn yourself into a suspicious type of person, either.” He was still pacing. There was something fitful about him now.

“I think we should go,” said Agnes to Nora. “We know you’re not feeling well.”

“Oh, she’s better, though,” Travis said. “Right?”

Nora sought to indicate that she was, but the revulsion was rising in her. He had walked over and put his arm around her. “So nice of you two lovely ladies to stop by.”

Agnes got to her feet and tottered toward him. “My back, you know. I’ve got arthritis.”

“My mother had that,” Travis said. “So I will, too. And I ain’t looking forward to it.”

“No, I guess not.”

He pulled Nora with him to the door and waved them off the front porch. “Bye now,” he said. He squeezed her at the waist. Under his breath, he said, “Wave to the nice ladies.”

She lifted her hand and tried to smile.

Marsha had stopped, turned, and labored back along the walk. Travis straightened and murmured, “Well, okay. Here we go, then.”

“No,” Nora murmured. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Marsha said, struggling up on the porch. “But I do need to use the bathroom.”

“Bathroom, of course,” Travis said. He turned to Nora. “Did we clean up in there after the mouse?”

“Mouse?” Marsha said.

“Afraid so. I had to put a broom into the air vent to chase him. I’ve been chasing them all over the damn house.”

“Oh.” Marsha stood there.

“Excuse my language.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

“You know how going through things in a house can stir things up.”

“I—yes.”

“They’re as persistent as rats.”

“Oh, yes—well.” She turned. “Maybe I’ll—I’ll just go on down the road—”

“You’re welcome to use it here,” Travis said. “Really.”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I went down the road twice today myself.”

“Yes, well—”

“Bye.”

She had started off along the walk. The sun had dipped behind a drifting cloud, and the light was gray-bright, the sky beyond the tops of the trees a deep cerulean blue. Out in the driveway, Marsha’s sister waited for her, hands held up to shield her eyes. Marsha made her way to the car and got in. They backed away, waved, and were gone.

“That was close,” Travis said. “I thought it just might get ugly. Though I have to say it certainly was fun, too.” He left her there, returning to the little room. She stood at the bookcase, pulling books out—all Jack’s volumes on the wars. No, she decided. He would not put important papers in a book. She went to the entrance of the room where Travis was working. “Jack wouldn’t hide anything in a book,” she said. “He just wouldn’t.”

Travis stopped, leaned against the bookshelf. He was out of breath. “Shit.”

“Whatever the answer is, he took it with him.”

“What about this?” He held a small thin notepad out to her, and she saw, in Jack’s hand, the scribbled words
Fauquier County Savings Bank
and a number:
706877-9
.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the middle of this book.” He held it up. “And this, too.” He brought out of the pages a single sheet of paper, a contract for bulk storage at the same bank. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You bank there?”

“No.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so.”

“That contract isn’t filled out, or signed, or executed. Maybe he was thinking of using that bank.”

“Yeah. And maybe he went ahead, too. What else would this number mean?”

“I told you he didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t confide in me. I don’t
know
.”

He tore the page out of the pad. “All you have to do is prove you’re his wife, and he’s dead. And you can get into whatever he’s got there. Right?”

“I worked at a bank when I was in college,” she said. “The answer to that is no.”

He stared.

“You better hope that’s not where he stored the cartons. Because if it is, nobody can get to them.” Her own voice sounded exhausted to her. It made her feel all the more depleted and discouraged.

“Shit.” He folded the page and put it in his shirt pocket. “He didn’t put them in no
bank
. He put them somewhere so he could get at them in a hurry and not during any damn banking hours. Hell, when we first started shipping them he was keeping them in a motel room. I saw them there. He had them in a big blue trunk next to the bed. He was paying for the room by the week. Reuther was sending him money.”

For what felt like too long a time, they were quiet.

“They’re somewhere obvious, you wait. Right in front of our noses.”

“Reuther sent him money?”

“Couple hundred a month, yeah. Sure. Good-faith money.”

Again, they were silent. The extent of her husband’s involvement in this scheme began to take on its true proportions; she cast about in her memory for any sign of it and could find nothing, save his odd estrangement from her. She had a sorrowful few seconds of realizing that this was sign enough.

Travis stood there, watching her. She thought she saw something of the cold-blooded killer in his expression; there was an element of the predator in it, almost hungry.

“You would’ve hurt those two women,” she said.

“Like playing mumblety-peg,” he said calmly. “You know what that is?”

“No.”

“It’s a little game you play with a knife.” He nodded at her, smiling.

“Just because they irritated you.”

He gave a sardonic little laugh. “Now don’t put me with
that
guy. That wasn’t me. Did you think that was me?”

She didn’t answer. He was entertaining himself with her, the same way he had entertained himself with Agnes and Marsha James.

“You must see that it’s possible we’re never going to find what you’re looking for,” she said.

“Oh, we’ll find them, all right. I’m planning on being rich.”

She said nothing.

He stepped away from the bookshelf and folded his arms. “Okay. Listen up. I’m not a former abused child, and I ain’t got any body parts stashed away in no meat lockers. I have two years of college, on the GI Bill, I’ve held down steady jobs before, and I don’t normally do a lot of drugs. I got a baby brother who’s a little slow and easily
irritated
, and I’ve spent some time and trouble trying to keep him in line. I’d like to get what we came for and fly as far away from here as it’s possible to get, and to tell you the truth, things’re pretty desperate. But there’s no use crying about it. And this ain’t about Bags, anyway. This and poor Mr. Bishop and Bags and his stupid animal ways are
separate things, and not about this problem in the least. This is about an enormous—a stupendous amount of money—okay? A mountain of money, and you gotta understand that I’ll do anything to get my hands on it. The whole fucking world is falling apart and this money can fix it right up, you know what I mean? Fix it right up.”

“We don’t have the chips,” she told him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well.” He moved past her, out into the hallway. “Come on, let’s get to the other rooms.”

“They’re not here,” she said. “And I think we know where they are.”

He paused. “Okay.” His expression was blank.

She went to her coat and brought the key out of it. “I think this is a key to a bulk-storage cage.”

He had followed her, was standing too close. “At Fauquier.”

“I don’t know that. But there must be something among the papers.”

“No—he was thinking of it, but he didn’t put them in no bank.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Why didn’t you give me this key earlier?”

“I—” She couldn’t find the lie to tell him.

He took the coat and held it out for her to step into it. Then he closed his arms around her. “You’re getting to like me, just a little, admit it.”

She said, “Travis, please.”

“I like the way you say my name.”

Her heart flailed in her chest, pure terror and loathing, as his hands trailed along her arms, down to her hips, near the pocket with the hacksaw blade in it. He had interpreted her silence, her stillness, as acquiescence. She said, “Please leave me alone.” The words dropped from her lips in the plaintive tone of a beaten child.

“Come on,” he said irritably. “Back down to the basement.”

They went down. They commenced picking through the papers in the desk, looking over the bank slips again. None of them were from Fauquier Savings. He pulled out the tin of old nails and screwdrivers, opened it, and stared at the contents for a long time. Then he closed it and crossed to the other side of the basement, running
his hands through his hair, thinking. She watched him. There was a toolbox on the shelf on that side of the room. He walked over and lifted the lid. “Bring me the key.”

She did so. He put the key into the slot on the lid and turned it.

“Shit,” he said. “This ain’t no storage key.”

She said nothing.

He took hold of her wrists and held them tightly. The bruises on them hurt. He reached into the pocket of her coat and brought out the hacksaw blade. He held it up in front of her face, pulling her toward him. She could feel the other blade in her shoe, the pressure of it bending against the ball of her foot. “What were you gonna do with this?” he said. “What were you thinking you might do, hiding the goddam key?”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t push the air through her larynx to make the words, or any sound at all.

He tilted his head slightly. “This ain’t some—movie,” he said. “This is real life. You know what happens in real life? In real life, I cut your throat with this thing and leave you here for the citizens to find.”

She said, “You’re—hurting me.”

He stepped behind her, still holding on to her wrists, and now he let go of them, one hand gripping the hair at the back of her head and yanking downward, so that her throat was exposed, and the other hand bringing the blade of the hacksaw to her neck. She felt the cold, minutely serried metal. When he spoke, his voice was at the level of a soft, almost tender murmuring. “You know how it works, don’t you? The blade cuts through the arteries on each side and you bleed to death in a couple minutes. Are you appreciating the severity of the situation now?”

She forced out a thin whimper of assent.

He threw the blade across the room. It made a small dinging sound on the concrete floor. Then he released her and bent down to pick up something at her feet. It was half of the note from the woman, Ruth. He opened it and read, then grabbed for her and forced the other one from her. He pieced them together and stood there reading, one side of his mouth curling up. “This must’ve hurt. You just found this, huh?”

She said nothing.

“Where’d you find it?”

“I’ve had it for weeks,” she told him.

He didn’t believe her. It was in his face. “What were you gonna do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is the friend, ain’t it? Morrisey, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t
know
,” she said.

“Shit.” He folded it carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. “Looks like you need somebody?”

She waited, afraid to breathe or move. He was a shape to her left.

“You ever cheat on hubby?”

She started to step around him, and he shifted to stand in front of her.

“Answer the question. It’s just a friendly question.”

“No,” she said. Something moved in her stomach. The nausea had started again.

“You feel, like, you—you missed chances?”

She kept still.

He put his hand on her arm, and she let a small sound of alarm escape her. “If you would—please, please stop,” she heard herself say.

He hesitated a moment, not moving, then let go and stepped to one side. “After you.”

H
ENRY
S
PENCER SAT NEXT TO HIS
wife on the sofa of his violated house and watched the man wolf down a sandwich. They had spent the long night in almost unbearable silence. The intruder had told them he didn’t really feel like talking. His voice cracked. His hands shook. He might do anything. Sometimes he seemed on the verge of panic. The hours passed. Spencer cared for his wife, under the wide-eyed gaze of the man with the gun. They knew Nora was in trouble, and they knew little else. The tension felt like a thickness in the air. Sometime after midnight, the young man had insisted that they lie down side by side on the bed, where he wrapped them in the blanket, then placed himself on its edge, so he could doze off. He never let go of the gun. Spencer fell asleep for fleeting, tortured periods and woke feeling the restriction of the blanket. His stirring always brought the intruder to his feet, and once the man pointed the gun and cocked the hammer.

“Don’t,” Henry Spencer said.

Gwendolyn cried, holding on, her arm thrown over her husband’s chest.

“Keep still,” the young man said. “Christ. You realize I almost shot you. I almost shot you, man.”

Later, Spencer asked if they could get up.

“Be still,” the man said.

They lay there, awake—Spencer and his wife—listening to the intruder’s heavy sleep-breathing, afraid to stir.

When the phone rang, the stranger jumped up, waving the gun. Spencer managed to pull the blanket toward him, and Gwendolyn screamed.

“Hold it!” the gunman said. “Don’t move, man, I mean it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Spencer said.

Then the other seemed to come to himself. “Here,” he said. “Answer the phone. Quick.”

Gwendolyn had got out of the bed, was already moving to get it, and the man backed away from her, pointing the pistol. She answered the phone. It was Nora. She was alive and safe for the time being.

Tears dropped from Gwendolyn’s eyes, though she made no sound at first. A little later, the gunman took the phone. Henry tended to his wife, trying to hear what was said. She buried her face in his chest. The man was arguing with whoever was on the other end.

“You said a few hours. This has been all night.”

Henry paid close attention to the color of the skin around the gunman’s mouth; it was flushed and red.

“Well, come on. Tell me what’s happened. I don’t understand. Why does she have to be the one to answer?”

Finally, he hung the phone up. He sighed and appeared frustrated. As he told them what Gwendolyn was supposed to do when the next call came in, the phone rang again. It was a friend of hers from the church who wanted to come see her about plans for Easter. Gwendolyn put her off. After she hung up, the man made her write down what her script was for anyone else.

“Why?” Gwendolyn said. “What are they going to do?”

“I’m just following orders. Something’s come up, and they’re dealing with it.”

“I don’t understand.” She commenced crying again.

“Look, it’s gonna be a long day. Let’s just make the best of it.”

“Something’s happened,” Gwendolyn said. “I know it.”

“You gotta stop talking like that,” said the other. “It’s gonna be okay.”

For a time she worked to get hold of herself. Spencer held her, without taking his eyes from the stranger, who said, “Everybody just has to stay calm. Everybody just be cool, really.”

“You’re the one with the gun,” said Gwendolyn.

The other seemed not to have heard this. “I think we should just go on about the business of the day,” he said. “Who’s gonna make me something to eat?”

“You have to tell us what this is,” Spencer said. “Please.”

“I don’t have to do anything. You have to fix me a sandwich or something.”

“Please,” said Gwendolyn.

“I’ll talk after I eat, how’s that?”

Now he sat across from them on the piano stool, with his pistol lying on one thigh. The pistol was a Glock 9mm, ten-shot. Spencer had entertained an intellectual interest in small arms, from his days in the military.

“Where’d you get the gun?” he asked.

“I’ve had it a while.”

The rain kept rolling down the windows; the same slow falling of yesterday, and all night, without the slightest breeze; the sky looked like dawn, though it was past ten o’clock. At his side, Gwendolyn sniffled and took her hand from his. She was, he knew, mostly frightened for Nora and Jason. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The stranger, chewing, held up one hand.

Spencer waited. It was not the first time he had asked the question.

“Okay. You can call me—” There was a pause. “Um—Ricky.”

“Ricky.”

“Sure.”

“Why’re you doing this, Ricky?”

“I told you, I think. Money.”

“We don’t have a lot of money.”

“It’s not
your
money.”

“My daughter doesn’t have any money,” Gwendolyn said.

“Maybe she doesn’t know where to look for it.”

Gwendolyn’s hands made fists in her thin lap.

“Don’t worry,” Ricky said. “It’ll probably be okay.” But a note of doubt sounded in his voice. Spencer was certain he’d heard it.

“You want to tell us what this is about?” he said.

“I just did.”

“I’d like to understand it better,” Spencer told him. “I might be able to help you.”

The other man took another large bite of the sandwich. He had stood in the kitchen with the gun on them, while Gwendolyn made it, and he had thanked her for it when it was done. Now, his cheeks bulging while he chewed, he held one hand up again. “Best case,” he said. “I get a call, and I take off out of here, and you never see or hear from me again.”

After a long pause, Spencer said, “Is this—some kind of ransom?”

The other pondered this. “Naw.”

“Didn’t you hear my wife? Our son-in-law didn’t leave them with anything.”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “Well.”

“This is
his
trouble, isn’t it.”

“It’s our trouble right now. And yours.”

“How long?” Spencer asked.

Ricky shrugged and put the last of the sandwich in his mouth.

Gwendolyn murmured something about having to use the bathroom. Spencer helped her to her feet and escorted her, under the wary gaze of the stranger, to the entrance of the bathroom. She went in and closed the door, the small click of the latch sounding in the quiet. Ricky stood at the end of the hallway, with the Glock aimed at the floor. Spencer had the thought that if he could somehow get into a position to surprise the other man, he might strike him, might be able to surprise him enough to get the gun from him. There was something obscurely reluctant and jittery about him, for all his pretended casualness. Spencer believed that he had probably
never used the gun, that he was involved in this particular scheme—whatever it was—for the money and would not want to compound his troubles with violence.

He said, “I don’t have the feeling you’re a criminal.”

“No.” Ricky smiled. “I been in some trouble.”

“I wouldn’t say you struck me as the criminal type.”

“Yeah. Well, I want a lot of money and I don’t want to work for it. I guess that qualifies me for something.”

“You ever fired that gun?” Spencer asked him.

“This?” He held it up. “Sure.”

The older man kept very still. Perhaps he had miscalculated.

“Want to see me fire it?”

“No.”

“You know what? I liked it better when we didn’t talk.”

The door opened, and Gwendolyn emerged. She walked with a rickety slowness, toward the living room. Henry followed. They went past Ricky, who stepped back and leveled the gun at them. When they were seated, he let the gun hand drop to his side. “Aren’t you all hungry?”

“No,” Gwendolyn said.

“It might be a while. You ought to go on about your usual stuff, you know. I’ll try not to be in the way. As long as you understand that I can’t have you mess with me, or try anything. And she answers the phone and says what she’s supposed to. I don’t want to hurt you but I will.”

No one said anything for a time. They sat there. The clock made its small, orderly sound on the wall and chimed the quarter hours. Ricky put the television on and they all watched it. Quiz shows, reruns.
The Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy
. Now and then he laughed, but as the time dragged by he grew nervous again. It was possible that he had been nervous all along, Spencer thought, observing him. The skinny legs were all jittery motion, and he kept biting the cuticles of his fingers, holding the pistol.

There was a long span of quiet—just the chatter and frantic light of the television.

“Shit,” Ricky said, finally. “I’m gonna have to tie you both up for a while.”

“Why is that?” Spencer said.

“I gotta use the bathroom.”

“We’re not going anywhere. You have our daughter and grandson, for Christ’s sake.”

Ricky stood. “Come on. Into the kitchen.” He waved the gun.

In the kitchen, he said, “Where’s the duct tape?”

“Duct tape?” Spencer said.

“Come on, man. I’ve been watching you. Where do you keep it? I really don’t want to shoot you.”

“Here,” Gwendolyn said, opening the utility closet. “Here’s the duct tape.”

“That’s right,” Ricky told her. “That’s doing the right thing.”

He got her to tape her husband’s hands to the back of a kitchen chair, then made her sit in another chair with her back to him and taped her hands to her husband’s. Spencer felt her lean her head on his upper back, and he asked in a whisper if she was all right. Ricky said, “Sure she’s all right. We’re all okay.” Then he said how sorry he was about everything.

“I wish I could believe you,” Spencer said.

“I don’t think it matters,” said Ricky, sounding sad. He left them there, and he was gone in the bathroom for a long time. Gwendolyn wondered aloud, sobbing softly, if he might be sick.

“I can’t catch my breath,” she said.

Spencer lightly pressed her hands with his own, under the duct tape. Ricky came out of the bathroom, but did not come into the kitchen right away. He remained in the living room, watching the midday news. There were the nearly identical voices, male and female, the asinine disconnected and unrelated tones of television news.

“Hey,” Spencer called out. “My wife needs help.”

“Don’t,” Gwendolyn said.

Ricky entered the room. “Sorry.” He took the tape off in a ripping motion that stung their wrists. “You okay?” he said to Gwendolyn.

“No, I am
not
okay. How can you ask me that?”

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. If you can just please not get out of control here.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Gwendolyn said.

“Look, you don’t want to know me, and I don’t want to know you. Let’s just leave it there.”

They returned to the living room and sat facing each other.

When the telephone rang, Ricky came to his feet, holding the gun on them. “Okay,” he said to Gwendolyn. “You know what to do.”

She picked up the handset. Spencer reached over and held her hand. She said, “Hello,” then looked at them both and nodded. “Is something the matter?” she said into the phone. Ricky held the pistol to her head. She faltered, couldn’t speak, and it was evident that the person on the other end had started repeating her name, might even think the connection was broken. “I’m—I—” The words caught in her throat.

Spencer signaled for Ricky to remove the gun, to step back. He did so.

“I’m—yes—I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn said into the line. “I’m—I dropped something.” Her gaze traveled to Spencer’s face, sought him, as if for something on which to anchor itself.

But she controlled her voice and spoke into the phone. “No, he went east—to spend time with his grandson. Is something wrong?”

They waited.

She was trying to keep her fear quiet, holding one fist to her mouth. Then she took it away to speak again. “Yes, yes, that’s—that’s right. Thank you. Good—good-bye then.” She put the handset down with a suddenness and almost collapsed. Spencer hurried to her side, held her by the elbow, supporting her.

Ricky had relaxed a little. “Well?”

“That was someone named Shaw,” Gwendolyn said. She looked at Spencer. “Henry, they’ve—they’ve already killed somebody.”

“What?” Ricky said. “
What
?”

Gwendolyn glared at him. “Don’t look so innocent. My daughter’s neighbor. They murdered him.” And now she broke down.

The other seemed to waver. Henry Spencer was certain he’d seen it. “You didn’t plan on anybody getting hurt, did you?”

Ricky shook his head. “It must be some kind of fucked coincidence.”

“It was already done when they called you this morning,” Gwendolyn said. “And my girl—oh, God,” she sobbed. “If they hurt my girl, or that little boy—”

“Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” Ricky said.

“Why don’t you let me have that,” Spencer said to him, indicating the Glock.

The other seemed startled by the suggestion. “Both of you be quiet. I have to figure this out.”

Gwendolyn kept weeping into her hands. She was off in her own suffering now, far from both of them. Spencer put his arm around her, and she pulled away. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.”

“Please make her stop that,” Ricky said.

“What are you going to do,” Gwendolyn said. “Shoot us?”

Ricky got up and went to the other side of the room. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Jesus, Jesus.”

“What do we do now?” Spencer asked him.

“Jesus.”

“You don’t want to be an accessory to murder.”

“Shut up.”

Spencer took a step toward him. “Think clearly, son.”

“Shut up, goddammit. And stay there. And don’t call me that. I’m almost forty fucking years old.”

Gwendolyn lay with her head on the arm of the sofa, her hands over her eyes, moaning to herself.

“You can’t tell me you want to be a part of murder,” Spencer told him. “You didn’t know what they’d do in Virginia. I’ll testify to that. We’ll both testify to it.”

Ricky said, “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”

“We understand,” Spencer told him.

“Jesus.”

“We’ll help you. We can help you, can’t we?”