The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

  Oh, God! I’m dying!

  It was as if the water were tugging her down. She battled against the flood pulling her to the bottom.

  The water held her, embracing her like some demon lover, squeezing the breath from her, twisting her into its darkness. She could no longer tell which was up and which was down. The night had been ripped away, replaced by the thick grasp of the pond.

  Where is the air!

  Help, me! Help, me! Oh, God! Please! Don’t let me drown!

  She thrashed and fought like a tigress alone in the blackness against death.

  I won’t, I won’t, I won’t let it happen like this! Susan! God! Help me! Susan, no!

  She suddenly thought that it was all wrong to die so close to victory. And in some microsecond of reason that penetrated the fear that gripped her, she thought: Do not give in.

  And so she didn’t.

  Within the vacuum of panic, she knew to clutch the flotation cushion. She seized it with a fury, screaming to herself her desire to live. She wrestled it around, so that it was suddenly riding beneath her chest. She could feel, abruptly, the cushion pushing her up, and in a second her head broke the surface of the water.

  She did not understand exactly how it had happened, but she gratefully gulped in great gasps of air, resting.

  Her eyes remained on the house. It was closer.

  “I’m still coming,” she said between gritted teeth.

  As she started to work herself forward, she saw an extraordinary sight: a flight of six ghost-white swans soaring three feet above the pond surface flew directly over her as if pointing the way. She watched as the birds, their wings glowing in the moonlight, pivoted above the house and then disappeared into the night sky. “Susan,” she said out loud in near delirium. “I’m coming.”

  She realized then that she had lost her mind.

  Perhaps I did die, she thought. Perhaps I’m dreaming this.

  I’m really dead, beneath the water, and this is all the last fantasy before entering the void.

  She paddled on, stretching with every fiber for the mixed safety and danger of the waiting shore.

  “Well,” Douglas Jeffers said rigidly, “that proves something.”

  Martin Jeffers stared wide-eyed, on the promontory of panic. He could smell cordite and powder, and the gunshot still rang in his ears, deafening him. He did not dare to turn and inspect the wall where the bullet had slammed in, a foot, perhaps two, above his head.

  “Now you know,” said Douglas Jeffers. “Now you know.”

  Know what? Martin Jeffers thought. He did not speak.

  Douglas Jeffers turned and stepped to the sliding glass doors, standing, looking out over the water. He paused, seeming to absorb all the night sensations.

  Martin Jeffers blinked his eyes and took a deep breath, as if double-checking to be certain he remained alive. He watched his brother. He’s right. He has no choice.

  “I would never tell,” Martin Jeffers said.

  “Yes, you would.” Douglas Jeffers snorted, a small laugh. “You’d have to, Marty. They’d make you. Hell, you’d make you.”

  “I keep confidences—in my profession . . .”

  The older brother interrupted. “This isn’t part of your profession.”

  “Well, there are lots of families with great dark secrets that they never tell anyone. It’s in all the literature. It’s in dozens of novels and plays. Why not . . .”

  Douglas Jeffers interrupted, a weak smile flitting across his troubled face. “Awww, come on, Marty.”

  He paused before continuing.

  “And, anyway, it would ruin your life. Think about it. No one could carry that kind of knowledge about their brother forever. It would eat away at you, gnawing like some determined rat at your guts. No, you’d tell. And then she’d find me.”

  “How?”

  “She just would. Never underestimate what madness and revenge can drive someone to.”

  Martin Jeffers said nothing. He knew his brother was right.

  A silence filled the room.

  “So?” said Martin Jeffers. He was filled with confusion. He heard his own voice speaking in the room, but it was as if it were someone else giving the commands to talk. What are you saying? he said to himself. What are you doing? Stop, for Christ’s sake! But his voice continued, unchecked: “I guess you’re just going to have to kill me.”

  Douglas Jeffers continued to look out the door. His silence was his answer.

  “What about Boswell?” Martin Jeffers asked.

  Again Douglas Jeffers didn’t reply.

  Anne Hampton stared at the two brothers and thought: This is the end. He does not need anyone. He has the notebooks. He has a new life.

  She tried to will her body to move. Run, she thought. Escape! she was unable to. I know I can, she said to herself. I know I can. She gritted her teeth together and squeezed her hands. She looked down and saw that her knuckles were white around the edge of the pen and started to push it against her other hand. Pain filled her. You’re still alive! she screamed to herself. It hurts and you’re alive. She looked at the two brothers and, slowly, she said to herself: My name is Anne Hampton. Anne with an e. I am twenty years old and I attend Florida State University. I have a home in Colorado and I am a literature major because I love books. I am me.

  She repeated this over and over to herself.

  I am me. You are you. We are we. I am me.

  Martin Jeffers watched his brother, filling with dread at what he might do, despair at what he was.

  “Doug, why did you become you? Why not me, too?”

  Douglas Jeffers shrugged.

  “Now who the hell knows? Maybe it was the difference in years. A few months can mean you see things differently, feel things differently. It’s like asking ten people to recall the same event that they witnessed. They’ll all come up with slightly skewed versions of the same thing. Why is it any different with people?” He laughed. “I’m just a slightly skewed version.”

  “I’m sorry,” Martin Jeffers said.

  “Fuck you, little brother,” Douglas Jeffers responded. “Do you think I don’t want to be the way I am?”

  He turned and eyed his brother.

  “I am one of the greats of all time.”

  He gestured at Anne Hampton. “She can tell you.”

  Douglas Jeffers looked back at his brother.

  “You will be forgotten. Me? Never.”

  Douglas Jeffers warred within himself. He refused to let his brother see the raging factions of his heart, masking the internal battle with all the savage words he could muster. It’s all gotten screwed up, he thought. And it was all moving so perfectly before he showed up. He was supposed to learn after I disappeared. Damn! Damn that damn detective! He kept his back to his brother for fear that the younger would see the indecision that had crept into his eyes. Hundreds of images from their childhood swept him. He remembered the night in New Hampshire. He remembered all the nights that he’d crept to his younger brother’s side, to comfort as best he could the little boy’s tears. Does he remember? Douglas Jeffers wondered. Does he recall all the lullabies and stories, all the times I rocked him to sleep? Does he remember how I pinned him to the sand so that he wouldn’t rush out into the water to his death? That man would have killed us both if he could. But I protected him. I always protected him. Even when I teased him or mocked him. Even when I knew what I was becoming. I always took care of him because he was always the good part of me. He laughed inwardly: They’re wrong, he thought. Even psychopaths have some emotions if you dig deep enough.

  Then he thought: Maybe we don’t.

  He measured, on the balance scale within him, his life against his brother’s.

  One of us starts over tonight.

  One o
f us dies.

  He could see no other options.

  He turned away, staring back out across the night waters. “You know, all those summers we were here, I always loved it,” he said. “It was always so damn wild and beautiful at the same time.”

  His eyes caught a flashing shape of white, and he watched a flight of swans skim the surface of the pond.

  “Have you noticed?” he said. “Everything is the same. Even the swan family that lives on the pond.”

  “Nothing is the same,” said Martin Jeffers.

  But his brother didn’t hear him, his attention suddenly riveted elsewhere.

  It was as if someone had sent a red-hot stake through his core. Douglas Jeffers stiffened, his eyes burning into the darkness, directly at the shape he saw struggling in the water. For an instant he was confused. What the hell is that? he asked himself. Then, immediately, he knew.

  She’s here!

  He pivoted and abruptly brought the automatic to bear on his brother.

  “Boswell! The rope and the tape!”

  Anne Hampton was incapable of refusing the summons. She grabbed the satchel with the equipment in it and rushed it to Douglas Jeffers.

  “Marty, don’t screw around. Don’t try anything. Just reach out your hands and let me tie them.”

  Martin Jeffers, suddenly filled with apprehension, complied unwittingly, as any younger brother would do. He felt the loops of rope encase his wrists tightly. He wanted to complain, but before he had a chance, his brother had slapped a piece of tape across his lips. He looked up, trying to say, I don’t want to die tied like some animal, but his brother was moving too quickly to stop and meet his glance.

  “Boswell! Stand there. Don’t move. Regardless of what happens, don’t move.”

  Anne Hampton froze in position and waited.

  Douglas Jeffers took one quick look about and slid through the open porch door, disappearing into the blackness that pressed against the weak light of the living room.

  For a moment he stood on the porch, peering down toward the water where he’d seen the shape. Then he cast about quickly. An idea struck him and he moved into position.

  Relief flooded her as her toes and knees scraped against the bottom.

  Detective Mercedes Barren pushed forward, suddenly realizing that the water had grown shallow. She stood, liquid dripping from her like great tears, her eyes lifted upward as if in gratitude. She strode through the water, trying to make as little noise as possible, then threw herself on the beach. She dug her hands in, feeling the dry solid sand slip like wealth through her fingers. She allowed herself one totally unbridled moment of relief and joy.

  Then she breathed in and whispered to herself, “That was the easy part.”

  She climbed to her knees and retrieved her bearings.

  She got up, crouching over, and moved to the edge of the sand, hiding behind gnarled and tangled beach scrub brush. She could see the lights of the house, but she couldn’t see anyone inside from her position. She removed her weapon from her belt and started to maneuver forward.

  She crawled through the brush.

  It seemed as if the night were alive about her. She could hear the scurrying sound of a small animal, perhaps a skunk or muskrat, that dashed away. The steady hum of cicadas filled her, almost deafening, though she knew that it would not mask the sound of her movements.

  She remained in a half-crouch, half-crawl, as she approached the house. She stopped once to make certain her weapon was ready, safety off, round chambered. Don’t hesitate, she told herself for the millionth time. Take the shot when it is there.

  She longed for some sound from the house, but it remained quiet. She kept moving, steadily, patiently. Death never hurries, she thought. It moves at its own pace.

  She reached the edge of a wooden deck and slowly raised her eyes above it. She could see past a set of lounge chairs to the living room. She saw that the sliding glass door was wide open, as if in invitation. Well, she said to herself, here we go.

  She crawled up onto the deck, thinking that every squeaking sound she made was like a bell pealing in the night. She got to her feet gingerly, maintaining her crouch. But now she put both hands on her pistol and steadied herself. She was surprised that she didn’t feel more anxiety. I am calm. I am deadly.

  She slid to the edge of the doorway.

  She took a deep breath.

  Then, slowly, she peered around the edge.

  Confusion struck her. She saw Martin Jeffers, tied and trussed, sitting directly across from the door. She saw a young woman standing stock-still, a few feet away from him. She could not see the brother anywhere. She took a tentative step toward the opening.

  And then she heard the voice.

  “Behind you, detective.”

  She didn’t even have the time to fill with panic.

  I’m dead, she thought.

  But she pivoted, bringing her weapon up, trying to get it into position to fire at the sound of the voice. She caught one small glimpse of a shape, stretched out on one of the outdoor lounges, and then everything exploded before her, as Douglas Jeffers fired his gun.

  Pain impacted on her entire being.

  The force of the shot ripping into her right knee spun her like a child’s top, throwing her back into the living room, where she sprawled desperately on the floor, writhing in agony. Her own weapon had slipped from her fingers, flung violently across the room as she spun in helpless agony.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and thought: I failed.

  She opened them when she heard the voice above her.

  “Is that her, Marty? Boswell, rip that tape off my dear brother’s mouth so he can respond.”

  Douglas Jeffers stood over Mercedes Barren.

  “My hat’s off to you, detective. At least it would be if I had one.”

  Holt Overholser swore as the big Ford bucked and scraped its way down the dirt road. He had paused, almost giving up, when he reached the multiple fork in the path. Damn, he said to himself. Which damn road is it? Got to be the blue arrow. He made a mental note to contact all the homeowners on Tisbury Great Pond and inform them that for security reasons all roads had to be clearly marked with names and addresses and all sorts of identifying material. Damn! he thought again.

  Every ten yards he changed his mind.

  “What the hell are you doing, Holt?” he swore.

  “Have you really got some damn good reason for being out here in rich people’s heaven in the middle of the night? Jesus H. Christ, I hope the selectmen don’t hear about this little escapade. You ought to turn around now and get out of here before you make more of an ass out of yourself.”

  His speech made him feel better. He kept on driving.

  When he broke out of the forest into the clear, he felt better still.

  “Well, it ain’t all that late, and if nothing’s up, why, she’ll probably appreciate your concern. Hell, she’s a cop, she’ll understand.”

  He laughed. “Well, maybe.”

  He stopped the truck, switching off the engine and stepping outside into the starry night.

  “This better be the right place, Holt, old boy, or you’re gonna look pretty damn stupid.”

  He was about to get back into the truck when he heard the shot.

  “Now what was that?” he asked himself.

  “Just what the hell was that?”

  He answered his own questions out loud:

  “That sounded to me like a handgun. Damn. Damn. What the hell’s going on?”

  He got back into his truck and quickly drove ahead.

  Martin Jeffers did not ask how she’d found them. He simply said what jumped into his mind: “I’m sorry, Merce.” He realized it was the first time he’d used her first name. “I’m sorry you found us . .
.”

  “But clever, very clever. Tell me, quickly, what was it? How did you guess?” Douglas Jeffers interjected.

  “It was something one of them said,” she moaned.

  “One of who?”

  Martin Jeffers answered. “She must have talked to my group. They were the ones who gave me the idea of coming here.”

  Douglas Jeffers looked at his brother. “We are all Lost Boys,” he said. He stared at the detective. “Clever. Very clever.”

  She twisted in pain on the floor. She wished that she could look defiantly at him, but the pain surging like some runaway electrical impulse within her prevented any brave looks. She realized that her eyes were filled with tears, and she thought again: I tried. I’m sorry. I did my best.

  Douglas Jeffers aimed his automatic at her head.

  “This is like shooting a horse with a broken leg.”

  He hesitated.

  “I’ll give you a few seconds, detective. Welcome death.”

  She closed her eyes and thought of Susan, of her father, of John Barren. I’m sorry, she said. I’m terribly sorry. I would like to say goodbye to all of you but I haven’t the time. She hoped there was a heaven, suddenly, and that she would be pitched by pain into their waiting arms. She squeezed her arms tight and said to herself: I’m ready.

  The explosion filled her.

  Her head spun in red and black, dizzy, out of control. I’m dying, she thought.

  And then she realized she wasn’t.

  She opened her eyes and saw Douglas Jeffers standing over her, pistol still poised but unfired.

  As she watched, he seemed to step back in slow motion.

  Her eyes searched about madly and she saw the young woman standing a few feet away. In her outstretched hands was Detective Barren’s large handgun.

  “Boswell,” Douglas Jeffers said, genuine surprise covering his voice. “I’ll be damned.”

  He looked down and saw a streak of red on his shirt.

  The shot had torn through his side, ripping the flesh of the waist, then spinning off into the night. He knew instantly that it was not a killing wound, that it would be painful, but he could live.

  And in the same thought he knew it had killed him.