Nightlines (20 page)

“Oh, I wasn’t joking, Mr. Nudger.”

“No?” Nudger put on his gravest expression. He reached into the glove compartment of the Volkswagen and got out his spiral notebook and a pen. This was something American Hosts would have to know about in detail. “Suppose you tell me about it, Mr. Ferris.”

To say Ferris was glad to cooperate was to say bears liked honey. “There’s no way to really know the person you marry, not until it might be too late. I knew Claudia had a temper, that she’d hit one of the kids too hard now and then. But it got worse every year, then every month. She’d beat up on our two daughters regularly when I wasn’t around— sometimes when I was around. I couldn’t stop her; she was like she was crazy. Hell, she really
was
crazy.”

“Did she seek professional help?”

“Yeah, she saw a shrink. It cost plenty and it didn’t help.”

“You mentioned murder,” Nudger said, pen poised. He glanced down the street and saw two young, sober faces peering from the Ferris picture window. Dark hair, dark eyes. Nora and Joan. What did they think of their mother?

“Yeah, murder,” Ralph Ferris was saying. “I told you Claudia had beaten our two daughters, but we had a third kid, Vicki. She was only three years old, and Claudia hadn’t really gotten to her yet. At least not that I knew of. Then one winter Vicki came down with a bad case of the flu. She was puking and crying a lot, causing a fuss, making trouble like any sick kid would. Claudia went into her bedroom one night, opened the window, and left it open. The temperature outside was nearly zero. The flu became pneumonia, and Vicki died. Claudia left the window open on purpose. She murdered Vicki. A court of law said so.”

Nudger pretended to take notes, glancing up occasionally at Ferris. The man was speaking in a kind of furious monotone, as if by rote, and seemed more angry than sorrowful over the death of his daughter. The righteous wrath of the guilty?

“She got probation, can you believe it?” Ferris said in disgust. “She never spent a night in jail. Nobody even mentioned the death penalty, what with the pansy-ass courts we got these days.”

Nudger was surprised. “Do you think she should have been executed?”

Ferris stood up straight, his anger suddenly aimed at Nudger. “Sure, I think that! Don’t you? An eye for an eye, the Bible says. She took a human life, didn’t she?”

“I guess so,” Nudger said, drawing another five-pointed star in his notebook without lifting the pen. He started a Terrible Swift Sword.

Ferris was grinning gauntly, like a cadaver aglow with a life not its own. “You’re not here representing some hotel chain,” he said. “Am I right?”

Nudger said nothing. He realized that he’d never had Ferris completely fooled.

“Sure, I’m right. You really are that murderous bitch’s boyfriend, trying to find out if what you heard about her is true. Well, it is true, brother. But don’t take my word for it; it’s a matter of public record.”

“So is the burning of witches.”

“Meaning?”

“The people who did the burning, they were the real murderers.”

The flesh around Ferris’s mouth twitched involuntarily, not at all like a smile. He went pale and stood rigid with rage, eyes gleaming with a hate that needed fear to fuel such intensity. “We’re done talking,” he said. There was a fleck of spittle on his taut lower lip.

Nudger snapped the notebook closed. “All right.”

“You’ve got more than your quota of nerve, coming around here spying and pretending to be what you’re not. It’s a good thing you outweigh me by twenty or thirty pounds.” “Don’t let that stop you,” Nudger said.

Ferris looked remotely puzzled and backed away. The perplexed expression changed feature by feature into one of defiance. “You threatening me?”

“You’re a sick bastard, Ralph.”

Ferris laughed and licked the fleck of spittle from his lip with a darting tongue. “You’re just saying that because I told you what you didn’t want to hear. But it’s the truth, and you know it and have to eat it.”

Nudger was struck by a wave of revulsion for this skinny, venomous, self-righteous antagonist. Or was it possible that the revulsion really was for what Ferris had told him? Either way, the anger would follow. Nudger could feel it building to bursting inside him. He wanted to get out of there before it escaped and took control of him. He tossed the note-book in through the Volkswagen’s window, onto the passenger’s seat, opened the door, and got back in behind the steering wheel.

“Did you learn more than you bargained for?” Ferris asked tauntingly, as Nudger started the engine.

“Everybody always does,” Nudger said. He worked the shift lever into gear. “Incidentally, Ferris, she gets the job.”

“Fine,” Ferris said. “They can give her a mallet and put her in charge of tenderizing the meat. She’d like that.”

Nudger fought hard not to yank the wheel to the right and run over Ferris, as he pulled the Volkswagen away from the curb and accelerated down the street.

“Think about what I told you next time you’re with Claudia!” Ferris yelled behind him. Probably everybody on Nightingale Drive heard. Probably they’d heard it before.

Nudger still had plenty of time before his appointment with Kelly. He stopped at a motel on Lindbergh and went into the lounge. It was a quiet, dim place with a faintly dampish odor, as if the carpet might be moldy. He got a draft beer at the bar and carried it to a booth near the entrance to the lobby, where the dampness hadn’t reached. He’d decided to skip supper entirely and give his digestive system a rest. It had to need it, after his conversation with Ralph Ferris.

Unpleasant though the experience had been, Nudger was glad he’d talked with Ferris. If nothing else, it had convinced him of one thing. It wasn’t because he was Claudia’s former husband that Nudger disliked Ralph Ferris; it was because Ferris was damned unlikable. Nudger was pleased. Possibly that was what he had needed confirmed.

Halfway through his beer, he’d managed to shove the conversation with Ferris to the back of his cluttered mind. He thought instead of Jeanette Boyington. There sure was a lot of hate in the world.

He sat wondering about Jeanette. The woman almost vibrated with her unbending commitment to vengeance. Maybe Hammersmith was right about how the surviving twin of a murder victim might feel. Maybe Jeanette thought that when Jenine had died, a flesh-and-blood part of herself had been slain. Nudger remembered how Danny had acted while talking about his twin brother who had been dead for decades. And weren’t there studies that showed how identical twins separated at birth developed remarkable similarities in their behavior even though they had never met? Who really knew what complex universal equations ruled the lives of twins? Ruled the lives of us all?

Nudger decided that he shouldn’t be thinking this way after only half a mug of beer. It was unnatural and uncharacteristic. It could lead to error. Save the metaphysics for good Scotch, Dr. Shamus.

He went to the phones in the motel lobby and dialed Natalie Mallowan’s number, hoping he could catch her at home and remind her of his nine hundred dollars.

When he got no answer, he called Claudia to try to arrange to see her tonight or tomorrow. No answer there, either. No one seemed to be home tonight. No one other than Ralph Ferris.

Nudger hung up the phone, feeling an unaccustomed emptiness after not being able to talk with Claudia. He was beginning to understand why he’d had to go to the Ferris house on Nightingale Drive. It was part of Claudia’s past, which made it part of Nudger’s future. He felt a need to acknowledge and fully reckon with her life with Ralph Ferris, to know what he could about it, place it in its proper mental slot, and so reduce it to a negligible factor in his relationship with her.

He felt an overpowering desire to talk with Claudia’s daughters, to explain some things about their mother so they might understand her better. He could imagine what Ralph Ferris told them about her.

His drive to the Nightingale house on what had seemed a whim had been significant and irreversible, Nudger belatedly realized. That people had time to contemplate forks in the road of life was a lie. Usually they went one way or the other without realizing it, and could only gaze back over their shoulder as those fateful three-way intersections faded into the past.

He stood supporting himself with one hand fisted against the wall. It had been a depressing day and a demanding evening. For a moment he considered driving home, taking in the Cardinals’ game on television, and forgetting about the appointment with Kelly. Forgetting about everything except hits, runs, and errors, and how nice it felt to be dozing off on the soft sofa instead of meeting another might-be murderer.

But he knew he wouldn’t return to his apartment. He couldn’t. He was destined to remain a while longer in the legions of those not home, doing his job. It was a job he often loathed, but it was all he had, a burden and a salvation.

He went out the lobby door to the parking lot and walked toward his car, trying to decide which was the most direct route to Twin Oaks Mall, forgetting all about going home.

XXI
I

r maybe Nudger was home. The area around the Twin Oaks Mall fountain was beginning to seem as much like home as his apartment. He settled down on his customary concrete bench to wait for Kelly.

The mall was more crowded in the evenings than during the afternoons. And there were more male shoppers, more family units of husband, wife, and trailing, misbehaving offspring. The tempo of the mall was quicker. Fewer shop
pers were here for idle recreation. Now the real business of buying was being conducted by many of the people hurrying past. Mr. and Mrs. Consumer, marching to the rhythms of the latest catch phrases and advertising jingles. Nudger sat back and observed the orderly lockstep madness. It was enough to make him wish he had disposable income.

A gray-haired man, easily in his seventies, sat down gingerly on the opposite end of Nudger’s bench and sucked on a nasty-looking black briar pipe, all the time watching the passing parade of women with his weary but interested eyes. A couple of young boys ran up to the fountain and tossed coins in, then threaded their way at high speed back
into the crowd. Two teenage girls in tight jeans walked past chattering and giggling. The old guy on the bench, probably a retiree well out of the melee, useless now to the mall except as a consumer of dentifrice and laxative, looked on with approval before fixing his wandering gaze on a buxom woman yanking a pre-schooler along behind her. Nudger had played this scene over and over during the past week. Home, all right.

With the old man, Nudger watched the woman with chest and child until she veered and entered the drugstore. When he looked away from her, there was Kelly.

Nudger glanced at his wristwatch. Kelly—and he was immediately sure it was Kelly—was on time to the minute. He was indeed close to six feet tall, but he was so broad through the chest and shoulders that he appeared shorter. He was wearing a black shirt with pearl buttons, and neatly creased gray slacks, all as Jeanette had described. But what claimed Nudger’s wary attention was Kelly’s full head of very curly coarse blond hair. Nudger let his gaze drop to Kelly’s hands. They looked as if they could crush a week-old Danny’s Dunker Delite.

Kelly’s features were broad and flat, and because of their blandness barely missed being handsome. He wasn’t at all fat, but he was wide through the waist, hips, and thighs. His arms were tanned and muscular, dusted with blond hair, with wrists as thick as many men’s ankles. Not more than two hundred pounds, but a born strongman, the kind that made natural college halfbacks or ends that could block.

As Kelly rested a foot on a concrete planter and looked around with wide-set blue eyes, Nudger pretended to study the shoppers streaming toward him, as if someone were keeping him waiting. He felt Kelly’s gaze slide over him like a cool wave that stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. Wearing a carefully neutral expression, Nudger glanced at the blond man with seeming disinterest.

Kelly was looking away from him now with those omi
nously guileless blue eye, eyes so emotionally void that they must conceal much, placidly surveying the throng of shoppers. Then he walked over to the circular concrete bench encompassing the fountain, sat down as if settling in for a wait, and began gnawing on a hangnail on his right ring finger.

He gnawed persistently for quite a while, although without real concentration, his wrist twisted at an awkward angle to allow him to use his incisors. He was lucky not to dislocate his arm.

Finally he gave up gnawing, then waiting, and began walking toward the main exit. Nudger stood up from the hard bench and followed.

Kelly strode slowly past the cafeteria, toward the glass doors that would let him out onto the lower-level parking lot. Despite his bulk he moved in a glide, with a jungle cat’s grace. Nudger’s Volkswagen was parked on the upper-level lot. There was no time for him to rush to his car and drive to the lower level with any expectation of spotting Kelly again in the acres of parked cars. All Nudger could do was stay behind the blond man and try to get his car’s description and license-plate number.