Voices in the Dark (29 page)

The doctor, nevertheless, grasped everything.

Gunner said, “You’ll have to restrain her.”

Two silent ambulances and the doctor’s Infiniti arrived in thirty minutes, time enough for him to go into cardiac arrest, but he didn’t. He was breathing with difficulty when the doctor, whose face was sharply cut, the details poignant, scanned his wounds and administered a shot. Two ambulance attendants, both burly, gripped him, said, “Heave ho,” and landed him on the stretcher.

On the way down the stairs, Gunner gave further instructions, wheezing each word. His breath was fire, which reached out and tried to pull the doctor in. “And call Bodine,” he said.

“It can wait,” the doctor said.

“It can’t.”

The attendants loaded him into the ambulance and drove away as silently as they had arrived. The doctor stood with the men from the other ambulance, both black, one tall like a basketball player. The tall one had a gentle voice. “He gonna make it, Doc?”

“If he does, he can thank his blubber. You two find the woman.”

“She’s not in the house.”

They went behind the house and walked the grounds beyond the reach of the floodlights. They called out in one direction, then another, their voices knocking about in the dark. When they came upon her, she rose from the chair. “I don’t believe there’s any blood on me,” she said. “Shouldn’t there be some?”

The tall man approached her first. “You just take it easy.”

“Something really happened, didn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, something did.”

She smiled. “I was afraid it was only a dream.”

Each man took her by an arm, one firmly, the other gently. At Hanover House, Isabel Williams’s sleep was always broken. If her bladder didn’t wake her, a dream did. She dreamed of a past lover, a jazz guitarist from the forties, the tips of his long playing fingers worn smooth and producing an eerie melody over her skin. The dream, or perhaps a sound from the depths of the building, woke her. Unable to fall back to sleep, she rose, donned a fitted robe, and stepped into the bathroom, where the mirror mocked her with the skin of her stretched face, as smooth as the guitarist’s fingers had been.

She slipped out of her room and in soft slippers traveled the long, well-lit corridor. Here and there a door was ajar, a light on, the occupant unable to sleep without it. Reaching the grand stairway, she paused at the painting of nymphs bathing in a brook. Her eye saw what the guitarist had seen with his some fifty years ago when she was exquisite and he a white woman’s dream.

Downstairs, she entered the common room, where coffee was available through the night for those like herself, the small hours a trial, sanity always a chore. Mr. Skully in silk pajamas was slurping coffee from a mug under subdued lamplight, a cane hooked to the arm of his chair. The trace of smoke that once was his hair was wafting into the light. Always he had something out. This time it was his teeth, which he thoughtfully returned to his face.

“They brought somebody in,” he said in a crusty voice. “Half hour ago. They got Mrs. Nichols up to see to it.”

“Who is it? Anyone famous?”

“A woman. They gave her something. She’s out cold.”

“Where’d they put her?”

“Heard Mrs. Nichols say the third floor.”

She poured coffee from a Silex, half a cup, and carried it with her to the birdcage elevator. Any break in routine was a gift. Any hint of drama was cherished. In the elevator she sipped her coffee and smoothed her hair. On the third floor, some distance down, she approached an open door and heard low voices. A nurse stood at one side of the occupied bed, Mrs. Nichols at the other. Mrs. Nichols’s robe was satin, and the glint from her round glasses was sharp.

“What are you doing here, Mrs. Williams?”

She craned her neck for a look at the face in the bed. She saw a crushed helmet of hair and features supremely at rest. “Good Christ, that’s Hilda’s daughter-in-law.”

“Let’s keep it to ourselves,” Mrs. Nichols said.

“Is she alive?”

“She’s quite alive.”

“You sure? She doesn’t look it.”

“Take my word for it.”

“Who’s going to tell Hilda?”

“I’ll attend to it, Mrs. Williams. In the morning.”

Clasping her coffee cup in both hands, she took the staircase down to the second floor. A line of light lay under Hilda Gunner’s door. With a rap, she entered the room. Mrs. Gunner, a childish sight, was occupied.

“Jesus Christ, Hilda, why use that when you have a perfectly good toilet?”

“This is my place, I’ll do what I want.”

“I had something to tell you, but it can wait.”

“Tell me now,” Mrs. Gunner demanded.

“They brought your daughter-in-law in. Feet first.”

• • •

Harley Bodine, who had got little sleep but was as fresh and alert as ever, arrived in Boston early, law offices of Phelps, Fin-berry and Monk, where he was valued for his close association with Paul Gunner, through the years an esteemed client worth his weight in gold. Bodine worked twenty minutes at his desk and then called in a young associate. He tossed a sturdy folder across the desk and said, “Think you can handle it on your own, Winger?”

“No problem,” the young man said.

Bodine threw out another folder. “This needs tighter language. Don’t fudge, you understand?”

“Yes, sir. No problem.”

Bodine stared at the part in Winger’s hair, as precise as his own. Winger was a Dartmouth grad and had a smooth face pink with confidence. Bodine trusted his brain but nothing else about him. “I’ll be with Mr. Gunner all day. Double-bill him.” Bodine shut a drawer and rose. “How come everything’s no problem for you? Things that easy for you, Winger?”

“There are always ways of doing things, sir. You taught me that.”

Some minutes later, in traffic, his well-polished BMW purred for him as no woman ever had, though he had passionate hope for Regina Smith, who could invade his thoughts without warning, her image vivid one instant and wavering the next, as if she were a gift that might be taken from him. He steered onto a ramp. No other woman, not Kate, not his first wife, had had such a hold on him. Merely thinking about her made him large.

On the interstate, he drove with uncustomary speed, slowing only when the number of lanes diminished. Regaining too much speed, he had to swerve to avoid overshooting the Stoneham turnoff.

The medical clinic lay beyond a stand of maples with great sprawls of leaves, some turning before their time. He parked in a reserved space, not for him, near an electrical contractor’s van, and entered the building through a sleek double door. The doctor was waiting for him beyond the reception desk. In the doctor’s office, he said, “Is he going to make it?”

“He’s a lucky man. I’m concerned about infection, but I don’t think we have too much to worry about. We set up a special room for him.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I don’t know if he’s awake. We just gave him more medication.”

Alone in Gunner’s room, Bodine leaned over him. Gunner’s head was deep in a pillow, his face flattened out and yellowish. The eyes burned. He looked like a man unable to die. He gave Bodine instructions in torn whispers. He could not wipe his mouth. Bodine did it for him. “The boys,” he said.

“Yes, I’ll arrange it.” Bodine stepped back. “I’ll let you rest.”

With what could not have been a smile, too much of a twist, Gunner said, “She’s certifiable.”

“Yes, that’s a plus.”

He drove to Andover, to Phillips Academy, parked beyond the Andover Inn, where he had occasionally taken Kate to dinner, and bumped into Ted Pitkin before he had a chance to look for him. Pitkin was with three students, who went on their way. “This is a surprise,” Pitkin said, smiling out of his beard. Bodine led him to a bench.

“Mr. Gunner’s sons have been here since yesterday. He’s due to pick them up this afternoon.”

“I know,” Pitkin said. “They’re at the gym. Volleyball. They’re not skilled, but they show spirit.”

“Mr. Gunner would like you to look after them for a few days. I’m sure there’s dormitory space.”

“Of course. Most certainly.” Pitkin wore no socks. His ankles ran raw into tennis shoes. “Is anything the matter?”

“Mrs. Gunner is having some personal problems, rather serious. Mr. Gunner doesn’t want anything spilling onto the boys.” Bodine handed him a check. “This is for your help.”

“No need of that!”

“Mr. Gunner prefers it that way.” Bodine rose from the bench. “He knows the boys are in good hands.”

“Wait a minute.” Pitkin glanced at the check. “What’ll I tell them?”

“You’ll think of something.”

Bodine returned to his car, the finish reflecting his approach and the mischievous beauty of blossoming ivy creeping over stone. The rest of the day was his. His and Regina’s.

• • •

At ten and again near noon, Chief Morgan rang up the Gunners’ number, each time reaching only the answering machine, with Paul Gunner’s voice telling him to leave his name and number, which he didn’t do. He had nothing really to say to Beverly Gunner, but he felt acutely responsible for whatever might be in her mind. After lunching at the Blue Bonnet, he drove to the Heights.

Newspapers —
Times
,
Journal
, and
Globe
— lay on the wide steps leading to the Gunners’ grand front door. He stepped over them and rang the impressive bell, several times. Pushing through shrubbery, he looked in windows and saw only stately furniture in a context of fine walls and floors. Glass strips in the garage doors revealed a handsome automobile in each stall.

He reconnoitered. Nothing foreign floated in the pool. Gardens sprang up only flowers. Walking over the clipped lawn, he saw a deck chair in the distance and went to it, though it told him nothing. He sat in it, feeling both foolish and uneasy.

He drove back not to the station but to the Blue Bonnet. Reverend Stottle was coming out, and he walked with him onto the green. The reverend had a dreamy look. Their pace was slow.

“Ever feel you made the wrong career choice, Reverend?”

“I’ve had doubts all my life,” he said. “Doubts are what make us human. Today distorts yesterday, and tomorrow surely will give today a different twist. It may even bend it all out of shape.”

Morgan waved to a woman he’d known since the first grade. She had sons in high school and a daughter in college. He said, “I never seem to come up with clear answers, only more of a muddle.”

“Central truths are all that matter,” Reverend Stottle said with force and clarity. “The peripheral you don’t have time for.”

“I’m not sure I’d know the truth if it hit me in the face. That’s scary for a policeman.”

“Our small darknesses grow deeper as we grow older, Chief. And each of us lives different, rich man, poor man, fat fella, thin one, but we die the same. The lights go out, we eat the ground.”

Morgan suspected he and the reverend were a little out of sync, but it didn’t bother him. Birdsong filled a void, the sound touching him. “I thought we went to heaven, Reverend.”

“We do, and the vehicle that will take us there is a beam of light, nonpolluting, energy-efficient. How does that grab you?”

“How do we get to hell?”

“No transportation needed. Hell is here.”

Morgan let the reverend wander on without him. Flower beds on the green were never the same from week to week. Much multiplied, sprang loose, roamed. After several steps Reverend Stottle looked back.

“My wife is worried about you.”

“I’m a little worried myself.”

“A psychiatrist using hypnotism can bring you back to the baby bottle but not back to God. Come to church this Sunday, Chief.”

“That’ll do it?”

“No, but you’ll hear a super sermon.”

• • •

Harley Bodine was in her house. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, the reproof mildly delivered. She was attending to plants, picking off dead leaves, her back to him. He embraced her from behind and told her how good she felt. Then he told her about the Gunners, the aftermath, Stoneham, Hanover House. “Christ,” Regina said, staying in his grip. “She really stabbed him? Scissors?”

“Several times.”

She was shocked. Then she wasn’t. “He must’ve had it coming.”

“Nobody deserves that.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said, still in his grip, his face in her hair. Hanover House. She’d heard of it. A discreet place for the rich and famous. Bette Davis was said to have dried out there — or was that at Baldpate? Bodine’s hands ran up to her armpits.

“Can we go somewhere?” he whispered.

“Where do you want to go? No, don’t tell me.”

“I could meet you there.”

She inclined her head. “You’re getting too much of a good thing.”

“You’re teasing me,” he said.

“You complaining?”

“Never.”

Through his voice she heard a sound, which her keen ear interpreted. Her head dropped back. “Kiss me,” she said in her most seductive tone, and he did, protracting it. She took his hands and ran them over her. Her stepson stood in the doorway.

“Are you spying, Anthony?”

Bodine leapt back as the boy vanished, like a fish that had been still. With a jolt it was gone. “My God!” Bodine said, his face pale. “I’m sorry, Regina. I’m really sorry.”

She smoothed her hair, her dress. “You’d better go.”

“Yes.” He turned. He stopped. “What can I do?”

“Nothing, Harley. Seems you’ve already done it.”

“Will I see you again?” he asked, his eyes panicking. Hers were quite steady.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

When he was gone, she picked a sere leaf off the floor. It was brittle as a bug, and she crushed it in her hand. She walked over hardwood. She had a long, gliding step, purpose to it. She mounted the stairs. Anthony stood at a window in his room. His legs ran straight. Such a handsome boy.

“I wouldn’t say anything about this if I were you, Anthony. Not a word. It would break your father’s heart.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “I know that,
Mother.
“

“Don’t call me ‘Mother,’ I’m not your mother.”

“I know that too.”

“This will be our secret,” she said. “You’ll tell no one and live with it. Not a word to Patricia. If you do, I’ll tell your father myself.”