In the Night Season (4 page)

Lombard held a handkerchief to his face, blew his nose, then seemed to study him. “What?”

“Hate mail.”

“No.”

After another swipe at his nose, Lombard regarded him. “Hate mail. What the hell’re you talking about? Hate mail.”

“It’s nothing,” Shaw told him. “There’s been a few. You know, the usual racist, neo-Nazi crap.”

“Racist.” Lombard seemed offended.

“The mail—these letters some people have been getting. It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Shaw said.

“I ain’t no racist,” Lombard said, again wiping his nose.

“No, the people sending this—these hate letters.
They’re
racists.”

Lombard thought a moment. “Shit, I guess I am, too, if you get down to it. I can’t help thinking this is some of those black punks from the high school. Gangs or some shit like that.”

“You had any kind of a run-in with anybody?” Shaw asked him.

“Hell. I don’t know what you’re getting at. I wanna know who killed these cattle, that’s what I wanna know.”

The two men stood there looking at the scattered carcasses, and a little wind moved the fur along the neck of the closest one.

“Damn,” Lombard said.

B
ISHOP NOTICED ALMOST IMMEDIATELY
that there was a similarity about the two men—the same odd dull green eyes, the same timbre in their voices when they spoke, though one was tall and muscular, and the other was fat, round-faced, with a wide, flabby neck and deeply sloping shoulders. This one didn’t look more than about twenty years old. He wore a red ear-flapped hunter’s cap, a lumber jacket, and overalls, on which there were several dark stains near the bottom cuff of one leg. The tall one wore jeans, a thick sleeveless denim jacket. He was thirty or so and seemed to be the one in charge. A scar ran down the right side of his face, from the corner of the mouth.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Bishop managed to say, though he was very much afraid.

The tall one smiled. “No need to be.”

“What do you want?” Bishop asked.

“Move it,” said the fat one. “Upstairs.”

Bishop made the slow ascent, with the fat one behind him. The one at the top of the stairs moved back as they came up and stood at the doorway of the study where the music was playing. “In here.”

“I don’t know what you hope to accomplish,” Bishop said.

“We just want to talk.”

He entered the room, or was forced in, the fat man with his thick fingers wrapped around his upper arm. Bishop put his weight low and pushed suddenly against the heavy middle, at the belt, and the fat man fell against the wall, jarring the music all the way on the other side of the room.

“Don’t touch me,” Bishop heard himself say. His own bravado astonished him. He felt terror all along his spine; it was cutting off his breath, and yet he had done this, pushed this big, stupid boy away from himself.

The taller one put the pistol in his face. “No trouble. Okay?”

Bishop breathed the oil-metal odor of the gun; it almost choked him. “I don’t have to be manhandled,” he said.

“Be still.”

The fat man rubbed one heavy wrist. “Son of a bitch hurt me, Travis.”

“Go keep a lookout.”

“Yeah. There’s nothing out here to lookout.”

“Just do it,” the one named Travis said.

When they were alone, he moved Ed Bishop to a chair and pushed him down in it. Then he stepped back and regarded him, arms folded, the one hand still holding the pistol. “You a tough guy?”

Bishop was silent.

“Yeah, you’re tough. You serve?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“The army navy marines coast guard—you know.”

“What do you want with me?” Bishop asked him, still surprised at the strength of resistance he felt.

“Need to ask you some questions.”

He waited.

“So, you served?”

“What has this got to do with anything?”

“You know these people in the next house. The woman and her son?”

“I help out with the boy,” Bishop said. “It’s—it’s not what you think it is. You people have made a mistake.”

“You people?”

“It just isn’t what you think it is.”

“What I—what?”

Bishop said nothing.

“No, no, no, no. I don’t care what you do with the lady. You know the lady.”

“I—yes, I know her. But not the way you think.”

“Look,” the man said. “Maybe you better let me do the talking.”

Bishop glared at him.

“Did you know the lady’s husband?”

“No. He died last—”

The other interrupted him. “Yeah, I know that. Do you know anything about him?”

“I just said I didn’t.”

“You don’t know what he did for a living?”

“I know he was contractor. That’s all. We never spoke. If you want to know the truth, he wasn’t all that friendly as a neighbor.”

“Kind of quiet and sneaky?”

Bishop said nothing to this.

“You’ve been going over there in the afternoons.”

“What is this? Who are you people? There’s nothing wrong with helping a lady who asked for help. Why don’t you find someone else to spend your hate on.”

“Hate.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Bishop said.

“You want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

“You know,” Bishop said.

“Hey, it’s nothing to us—we don’t mind you helping her,” Travis said. “I don’t even care if you’re screwing her. Okay?”

Bishop felt a wave of exhaustion. “I don’t understand you,” he said.

“You’ve been going over there.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Yes. If you know that, why do you need to ask me?”

“Well, here’s the deal. We’re gonna need your help and cooperation. We’re gonna need you to try and remember anything you can about the husband. Anything she might’ve told you about him.”

“What are you? Is this—are you an investigator or something?”

The other gave forth a small laugh. “That’s right. FBI.”

“FBI.”

“A little joke.”

“Well, who are you? Why’re you doing this?”

The man stepped close and seemed for a moment nearly sorrowful. “We’re leaving no stone unturned, you might say.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I go over there on school nights to check on the boy. I don’t know them. Haven’t—haven’t really known them.” The real truth of this seemed to dawn on him as he spoke it. “I’m nothing to them. Understand? She—she talks about the kid and her troubles on this—this job she had to take. That’s all. The husband used up everything—I don’t know any more than that.”

“So she talked to you about her husband’s business.”

There was a loud series of thuds downstairs, the fat man running along the porch. Travis seemed momentarily distracted by this.

“Well, so—right?”

“I don’t understand what you want.”

The other was growing angry. “I want to know did she talk to you about his business.”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t lie about it.”

The fat man came lumbering back up the stairs. “I’m bored,” he said. “You should see the cats around this place. Loads of fun.”

“Jesus, Bags. You’re chasing cats?”

“Why not?”

“Will you get down there and keep watch?”

“There’s nothing to watch. This ain’t exactly Times Square.”

“Shut up,” said Travis.

“You feed all these cats?” the fat one asked Bishop.

“He don’t know a damn thing.”

“Well, then let’s get on over there, if there’s nothing here.”

Travis leaned in close to Bishop. “She ever give you anything to bring back here for her? Anything at all?”

“No,” Bishop said. “Nothing.”

“You never brought anything with you out of that house.”

“No.”

“Never even baked cookies for you?” said the other one. “Gee, it looked like such a nice friendship.”

Edward Bishop turned to him and felt his own dismissive expression.

“You see the face he gave me, Travis?”

“Well,” Travis said. “She’ll be home in a minute.”

“No,” Bishop corrected him. “She has meetings after school. She won’t get out before six o’clock.”

“I told you,” said the fat man, lighting a cigarette. “Thursdays she comes home later.”

“Shut up, Bags,” Travis said.

“This is getting boring. It’s all fucked up.” The one named Bags opened the drawer of the desk and took out some of the papers. “Look at this.” He held one out to Travis. It was the latest communication from the Virginia Front.

“Oh, okay—now I get it.” He showed it to Bishop. “You think we had something to do with this.”

Bishop kept silent.

“Shit.” Travis dropped it on the floor. “That’s funny.”

“You screwing the lady?” Bags asked. “Huh?”

“Okay,” Travis said. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to tie you up until we can figure out what to do. Unless there’s something you can think of to tell us.”

“I don’t want to be tied up. I’m not gonna—what did you think I’d do?”

“It’s just for a little while, pal.”

They put him on the floor. He tried to resist, but the fat man hit him twice on the side of the head. He lay very still, the pain thundering under the bones of his skull. The fat man held his arms back while the other bound his hands and ran the cord to his ankles.
Bishop was on his side on the floor, and they had risen to their feet, were standing in the doorway of the room. There had been an interval. The music was still playing. It sounded weirdly out of place now. He kept still, eyes closed.

“Wait here,” the tall one’s voice.

“I’m bored,” the heavy one said. “Come on. He’s not going anywheres. He’s out like a light. Look at him.”

“Just do what I say, Bags, will you. For goddammit once?”

“What about her?”

“What
about
her?”

“One of us is supposed to be there when she comes out of the building.”

“Look. Just wait here until I get back. We’ll both go get her. We’ll use his truck.”

“You don’t think I can be trusted?”

“Jeez, I wonder why. If the son of a bitch finds out about what went on today—”

“Shit. I think you’re afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of him, okay, Bags? Jesus Christ, you know what scares me? What a dumb fuck you are. You’re gonna end up blowing the whole thing.”

“Creating havoc,” the fat man said. There was something chiding in his voice. “That’s all. Imagine the laws trying to figure it out.”

“You stupid son of a bitch—”

“Don’t call me stupid, Travis.”

“Just—shit—will you do what I say? Suppose we can’t get everything today? Suppose we have to look for it?”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re the genius.”

“Just quit fucking around.”

“I don’t like to be bored.”

“Do what I tell you,” the tall one said. “And don’t hurt this guy, either. Understand? You leave him exactly like he is.”

“I’ll go get her and you go get the boy.”

They went out into the hallway, then, and kept arguing, in whispers. Bishop struggled with the tightness of the cord around his wrists. He managed to get one hand almost out of the loop. One
more pull might do it. He gathered himself for the next attempt, and then the fat man came back into the room, took the lumber jacket and hunter’s cap off, and stood over him.

“Comfortable?”

Bishop heard the little dull-witted laugh, the sound of him blowing smoke. He didn’t answer. He saw the wide, dirty fingers, wrapped with more cord, and now he was being turned over onto his stomach. His left hand came loose, and he tried to use it to hit at the other man, but the weight of the knee dropped down on him again, and the cord was being wound tight around the free hand. A band of it came against his face, chafing the soft flesh under his nose. The fat man worked on him, one knee down in the middle of his back. He thought his back might break. The pain brought him almost to unconsciousness. He couldn’t get enough air to scream. He was spinning off somewhere else, the room losing definition, light fading. He tried to open his eyes wider to take in more light. He felt blind. But then he could see again, the room was as it had been, and the heavy man was still working to tie him.

“Oh, my God,” said Bishop. “I won’t say anything, please.”

“Just hold still,” the fat man said. When he was finished, he went to the other side of the room, leaned against the dresser there, and continued smoking the cigarette. “You know what you look like?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You look like somebody could pick you up and shoot a arrow with you.” He laughed at this, pleased with himself, standing there smoking. The music played, stopped, repeated itself. “What is this anyway?”

Bishop didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, nigger.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t know what nigger means?”

Bishop said nothing.

The oddly self-satisfied little laugh came forth again. “I’m talking about this shit on the record player.”

“It’s—it’s music.”

“Don’t be cute.”

Bishop waited, feeling sick from the pain in his back.

“Kind of boring, id’n it?”

The muscles were beginning to cramp up, seizing. The pain was awful. He was aware that this man had orders not to harm him. But harm was coming, and he knew it. He remained silent.

“I said, ‘Kind of boring, id’n it?’”

The agony he felt had begun to fill him with rage. It mixed in with everything—the whole of his life, with all its straining to be better, its striving for the smallest changes. It was all being taken from him, all being scorned, disrespected. He began to scream. It came out of him in a tearing. Some part of him understood, after the screaming, that screaming was useless. This heavy, nonchalantly brutal man could cause him more pain, and he was surprised to find in himself nothing but white-hot anger. An obstinate seething hatred.

Bags moved toward him. “I
said
, ‘Kind of boring, id’n it?’”

Bishop could hardly speak. He said, “Fuck you.”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard.”

The fat man went over and crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the dresser and stepped slowly back to where the older man lay on the floor, stomach down, head and feet pulled up. “No shit, we could fire an arrow with you, man.”

“Aren’t you brave,” Bishop managed. “Aren’t you smart.”

“Yeah, I’m not tied up.”

“You poor sad dumb—” Bishop began. But once more the other’s knee came down in the middle of his back. For a long time, there was just the terrible weight of the knee, pressing on the nerves of his spine. He screamed again. And then he had stopped it, was trying to draw air.

“Apologize,” Bags said.

In his gasping for breath, he got the words out: “Go fuck yourself.”

“You think I won’t do it.”

Bishop saw the other’s hand, with something bright in it. But then Bags was behind him. Something had reflected light. The weight had lifted. He could breathe again.

“Well,” said Bags. “I think it’s time to get going.”

Bishop closed his eyes, trying to remember the words of a prayer, any prayer. It had been so long since he had said anything like a prayer. The fat man moved somewhere in the room, out of sight. Something was being made ready. Faint sounds he couldn’t interpret. “Our Father,” he said, coughing. “Who—art—in heaven.”

And then the hand came down across his forehead and pulled.