No Way Home (27 page)

Reverend Stottle slipped out, stopped short, and looked back in horror. “I think I may have left something there.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“My underdrawers.”

“That happened to me once.”

Reverend Stottle’s smile came out nervous and conspiratorial. “We’re no angels, are we, Chief?”

• • •

Christine Poole may not have found a suitable dress at Roberta’s, but she did come upon running togs that caught her eye in Donna’s Sportswear. They were crimson with white reflective bands, and she bought them immediately, though the price was outrageous. She had them on that evening, when the sun was nearing its low, and jogged three miles along the byways of Oakcrest Heights. She would have done more had the air not been so sultry. Her late supper was cottage cheese on a leaf of lettuce.

She was not surprised that her husband was not yet home, for she knew that the regulators had been expected that day and were probably still there with their treacherous little calculators. She imagined they even wore eyeshades. Poor Calvin.

Later, the stereo providing the haunting theme music from
Once Upon a Time in America
, she stretched out with a magazine and read women’s secrets of weight loss. At ten o’clock she became concerned and called the bank, but heard only a recording. At eleven the front bell rang. She opened the door and saw a broad-shouldered state trooper, whose summer hat was in his hands. Her mind raced. Poised in her crimson sweats, she felt like something said too loud.

“My husband?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was in an accident on Eye-Ninety-three.”

“He’s hurt.”

“It was a bad one, ma’am.”

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

11

With Chief Morgan watching from the shore, two scuba divers from the Lawrence Fire Department spent the morning searching Paget’s Pond and came up with nothing of interest. They promised to return after lunch for another try. Hopes still high, Morgan returned to the station. Meg O’Brien, eating at her desk, said, “Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

She was eating homemade potato salad laced with onion and herbs. “Want some?”

Dropping into a chair near her desk, he took some. Sergeant Avery was at the Blue Bonnet, and they had the station to themselves. Morgan had briefed her on all pertinencies, which neatened his mind but did not soothe it. He took a swig from her can of root beer.

“I want him, Meg.”

“I know you do.” She passed a napkin over her mouth. “Are you sure he threw it in Paget’s?”

“Of course I’m not sure! He could have buried it. There are miles of woods. When I was at his place yesterday I could’ve been walking over it.”

His tone was sharp, and he regretted it. Meg rose from her desk to retrieve something of no significance from a table, her way of giving him time to pull in his horns. She was wearing no stockings, which revealed the veiny luster of her legs. She was no spring chicken. Christ, neither was he. She had to be fifty, at least, and what was he? Forty-fucking-six.

“Meg, I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“Everything. Me especially.” He finished off her root beer. “What do you think about when you wake up at three in the morning?”

“My ulcer. That’s what wakes me.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“A lot of things you don’t know, but that’s all right. You’re not supposed to. Watch the phone, will you?”

She gathered up containers and cutlery from her desk and went into the lavatory to wash them out. He stayed seated and gave way to a mood. What if they don’t find the rifle? What if they do? Can I connect it to Papa?

Meg returned and said, “You didn’t ask me what I dream about.”

“OK, what do you dream about?”

“A lover dying in my arms and leaving me an annuity.” She sat down at her desk, poised unevenly as if her buttocks were of unequal balance. “You’re right, water’s the best place to throw something, but I wouldn’t pick Paget’s. It was me, I’d toss it in the river from the bridge at the West Newbury line.”

Morgan studied her face. “Yes, so would I.”

• • •

Clement Rayball drove to Lawrence. The place he was looking for, Sherman’s Rod & Gun, was situated between a pet store with a sick parrot in the window and a woman’s shop where the mannequins were gussied up to suggest accomplished whores. A bell rang when he entered the gun shop and did not stop until he stepped back and closed the door securely. Sherman was a gaunt fellow with pouched eyes and an embroidery of neck skin. Clement explained what he wanted, and Sherman, whose eyes stayed hooded, wheezed down, opened a low drawer under the counter, and came up with two heavy-duty handguns of the sort that cost serious money.

“Take your pick.”

Clement said, “I don’t want one to keep under my pillow forever. I just want one that works.”

“You want a cheap-o.”

“I don’t want one that’s going to break up in my hand.”

Sherman returned the big handguns to their privileged place and produced a Saturday night special. Clement inspected it carefully, and Sherman said, “It works, don’t worry.”

Clement balanced it in his hand, opened and closed the chamber case, tried the trigger, and said, “How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“One hundred. That’s as low as I go. You want ammo?”

“I don’t need much.”

“I got a few loose slugs. I’ll throw ‘em in the bag. Got your permit?”

“Do I need one?”

“You sure do,” Sherman said, and Clement peeled off a hundred-dollar note and laid it on the counter. Then he added two more.

“Do I need one?”

“You sure don’t.”

• • •

Reverend Stottle was in bed, suffering. Mrs. Stottle brought him broth, and he sat up so she could arrange a tray over his lap. The napkin was one of their linen ones. When everything was settled for him, he reached for her hand, which was always there to accompany him through strife. He could always count on her. “My Sarah,” he said.

She felt his brow. “I’d say it’s nothing more than a little touch of something.” Her eyes went wise. “You haven’t been up to anything, have you?”

He tasted the broth, letting the grease linger on his lips before licking it off. “God,” he said, “gave all of us hindsight, but few of us foresight.”

“That means you have,” she said and went to the window to raise the shade. A ceiling fan, whirring quietly, rearranged the heat in the room. “Who have you antagonized now?” When he did not answer, she said, “You’d better cool it if you want to keep your job.”

“I had a dream last night.”

“I thought so. You were tossing.”

“I dreamed I answered a knock on our door and found Jesus lying on the step, dead of his wounds. Why would I have such a dream? What does it mean?”

“It means you shouldn’t have eaten all those Oreo cookies before you went to bed.”

He stared at her. She was a down-to-earth woman, someone to whom he could always return after his flights of fancy. He soaked a Saltine in his broth and ate it when it turned to mush. “All of us,” he said, “are born in blood and usually die in a bigger mess. That’s our beginning, Sarah, that’s our end.”

Her back to him, she was busy poking in the dresser, where he could see her face in the glass. She was no beauty, granted, but she had provocative features and had never lost her shape. When they were young she had dished herself up to another man before settling on him. A man unworthy of her. But that was years ago and ninety percent gone from his mind.

“Only Adam,” he said, “came into this world pure. He had no belly button. He was God-made.”

She shut the dresser. “And you have lint in yours, and a wonderful lady made you.”

That was true, and it brought tears to his eyes. His mother, God rest her soul, had died last winter, a year younger than Mrs. Dugdale. He wished he had been there to do for her what he had done for Mrs. Dugdale in those short hours before death.

The telephone by the bed detonated.

It split his head and spilled his broth. His wife rushed forth and snatched it up before it could explode again. Her voice was clear and gracious, that of a reverend’s helpmate. She placed her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Matthew MacGregor wants to talk to you.”

He paled and gestured hard and fast. “Tell him I can’t talk to him right now. Tell him I’m indisposed.”

“He can’t talk to anyone right now, Matthew. He’s under the weather.”

“Way under,” Reverend Stottle whispered.

Her hand was back on the mouthpiece. “He says he’s coming over.”

• • •

Chief Morgan glimpsed Randolph Jackson leaving the Blue Bonnet and caught up to him on the green when Jackson paused to breathe in the scent of the grass and other growing things. His eyes were small, as if he had not had his required sleep. The chief said, “I’m expecting a break in the Lapham case.”

Jackson looked at once expectant and dubious. He patted down his hair and waited.

“Two scuba divers from Lawrence are searching Paget’s Pond for the weapon,” Morgan said.

“That’s where you think it is?”

“That’s where I thought it was, and it might be, but since then I got a tip it’s in the river, at the West Newbury bridge.”

“So they’re probably wasting their time in the pond. Where’d you get the tip?”

“From a wonderful woman,” Morgan said.

“I hope she’s not from the Heights,” Jackson said with his eyes in the air and started to move on. Morgan stopped him.

“There’s a problem, Randolph.”

“A problem, Jim. Don’t we have enough of those?”

“The divers are working the pond gratis, a personal favor from the fire chief in Lawrence, but if they come back tomorrow to do the river I might have to think about paying them.”

“Well, you have a budget, Jim. Unless you’re already in the red, which is usually the case.” There was an edge to Jackson’s voice. He was generous in many ways but never with money, his own or the town’s, which he considered his own. “And you’ve always been a sloppy bookkeeper.”

“I was wondering if we could come up with some creative accounting,” Morgan said blithely, and Jackson gave out a wild smile.

“Do you know what my wife says, Jim? Do you know what Suzy says about us? She says you intimidate me. She says you do it by just being your damn self, like the whole town revolves around you.”

“I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“Well, this time I won’t be intimidated. If you want to search that river, you jump into the water yourself. So there you have it!”

Jackson swaggered away in triumph, whacking down his sandy hair, though none of it was up. Morgan watched him for a while and then turned and left the green. Malcolm Crandall and Fred Fossey were standing on the town hall steps, and he quickened his pace to avoid conversation. In the station, Meg O’Brien gave him a grave look. Sergeant Avery was still not back from the Blue Bonnet and the station was quiet, but she said, “Can we go into your office?”

He went in first and plunked himself down at his desk, tearing off two bygone pages from his calendar block, which he seldom used. He preferred keeping things in his head. “So what’s up?” he said.

“Christine Poole from the Heights, she’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”

“I know her.”

“Her husband was killed last night on Ninety-three. His car hit an abutment.”

For a number of seconds Morgan did not react. Then he ripped another page from the block. “How do you know?”

“Ethel Fossey’s been phoning people. I must’ve been last on the list.”

He ran a hand across his chin. “Thank you, Meg. On your way out, close the door please.”

Alone, he looked at his watch. The seconds ticked in his head. When they made a minute, he lifted the phone and tapped out a number, which rang and rang and, like many things in his life, went unanswered. He imagined her sitting alone, stone still, as if under an infernal spell; then he wiped the image from his mind and rang up Drinkwater’s Funeral Home.

“Everett, this is Jim Morgan. Do you have Calvin Poole there?”

“Yes, we do. We got him in this morning. He’s not too bad, considering.”

“Is Mrs. Poole there?”

“Yes, she is. My oldest boy is helping her with arrangements.”

“How is she doing, Everett?”

“Holding it all in. A lot of people do that.”

“Yes, she would,” Morgan said without meaning to, and the image of her alone returned, this time with her face stark and frozen. “Everett, she didn’t come by herself, did she?”

“No, Chief, one of her sons is here. The boy flew up from New York. Also she has a friend with her. A Mrs. Bowman, I believe.”

The image fled. “Thank you,” he said and started to hang up. “Everett, don’t tell her I called.”

Too late. The line was dead.

• • •

Clement Rayball pushed himself out of his car and trod over grassless ground to where Papa was tinkering with a bicycle. He said, “You make much money doing this?”

“It adds to Social Security and what you give me. ‘Sides, I do it only when I feel like it, keeps me busy.” Papa spun a wheel. “I pick the bikes up and I bring ‘em back. I give people service.”

Clement glanced around. “Where’s Junior?”

“He’s off again. Yesterday he didn’t do the weekly wash, and he still ain’t done it.” Papa wiped his hands in a rag and shook sweat from the tip of his nose. The heat was abrasive. “You messin’ up his mind, Clement? I didn’t ask you to come all the way back to do that.”

“Why did I come back, Papa?”

“ ‘Cause this is family. You like it or not, you ain’t got no other.” Papa tossed the rag aside. “You wanna get out of the heat, we can go in the house. No, it’s hotter inside. We can go over there.”

They ambled to the taller pines, where the wet was sultry and bright greenery had been spored into existence overnight. The claw marks of some wild animal gave drama to the soft ground. Missing heads of wildflowers suggested a groundhog.

“You know, Papa, you always made me think Ma was no good. I grew up thinking that, even when she was alive. But in my heart I know the kind of woman she was, she was a good woman.”