Until Death

by Alicia Rasley

  I heard his chair push back and looked up to see him standing over me. In a voice throbbing with emotion, he whispered, “That’s not fair. You are holding it against me and you said you wouldn’t. If you’d just try—”

  “Try what? Try to love you? But I don’t want to.” This burst out of me, and I stopped short, unsure of what I meant, all too sure I didn’t want to mean it. Hastily, I added, “Besides, I don’t think it works if I have to try. You’re a terrific guy, Will, and I hope we’ll always be—”

  But I said this last to his back, as he was stalking out of the coffee shop to the elevator.

  I sat there for a few minutes, sipping at my cooling coffee, wishing that Will hadn’t started noticing me that different way, wishing he were more self-aware and understood why I was suddenly so appealing, wishing that I could . . . I don’t know, love easily, or love more, or love less, or give up on love altogether.

  Finally, I gathered up my purse and my newspaper and headed out. But as I was waiting for the elevator, a hand came from behind me and gripped me claw-like on the wrist. I swung around to confront Olen Murdoch. His eyes were burning with something colder than anger.

  “Tell your friend Bowie that he better dismiss that lawsuit, or I’ll make him wish he had.”

  I reacted instinctively, grabbing his thumb and pulling it back until with a sharp exhale he let go of my arm and backed off one step. My self-defense instructor would have been proud. Somehow I found the right mix of sneer and command. “You better keep your hands off me, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

  Resolutely, I turned back to the elevator, and when the door opened, I stepped in and turned to face him, just daring him to try and follow me. But the door closed on him, still glaring at me, and with relief I got out at the main floor and headed out into the rain.

  At the office, there was a message from Brad. I was relieved when I got his machine, so I didn’t have to go through another polite round of why I couldn’t do what he thought I should do. It also diminished the temptation to tell Brad that while he was trying to get Wanda onto the symphony board, Will was succeeding in getting her into bed. To his voice-mail, I said, “Brad, Will’s adamant. No settlement. He’s determined to see it through. And Murdoch . . .” I thought of his fingers on my arm. “I don’t think he’s going to cave in either. So we’re just going to have to prepare ourselves. This is one of those cases where the truth will out, you know? Sorry.”

  I declared a plague on all their houses—Wanda and her men, Olen Murdoch and his vendetta. But by the next day, my conscience was smiting me. I’d gone to parochial school, so my conscience smites pretty hard, and at long last I’d learned to give in if I wanted any peace at all.

  So I made that difficult phone call, wincing at the lilt of hope in Will’s voice as he said, “Gillie’s after work? Sure.” I had to tell him straight out that this was about the lawsuit, not the relationship that we weren’t going to have, and heard the hope give way to sullenness. I didn’t let myself give it much attention. But perhaps in the nature of my current ironical universe, I was wanted passionately by a man I wanted only in small doses and safe ways.

  This meeting, I told myself firmly, was for his own good. I’d tell him . . . well, what he needed to know about Murdoch and murder. Maybe I’d tell him only that much and no more, that Murdoch had threatened him. I wish I had greater courage of conviction in my own theory. I just didn’t think he’d believe me. Will would have no problem accepting that Bill Gates had personally hired a saboteur just to ruin Netware’s latest project, but he wasn’t going to be as credulous about my murderous-Murdoch story. Maybe I was the only one who looked in those farmer-flat eyes and saw a limitless prairie of resentment. And now he had threatened Will, only buoyant, bold Will wouldn’t be intimidated. In fact, he’d look at me, if he wasn’t too mad about that other thing, with that patented male benevolence and say I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head any more, or something like that.

  So I made another call, and as the overcast afternoon darkened into an early evening of wind and wet, I pulled into the emergency room drive and picked up Mike Warren. My sanity check. My sanity voucher.

  Chapter Seventeen

  HE DIDN’T LOOK angry or put out. Although, I imagine after a shift of saving lives, or at least stitching up kids’ split lips, he wanted to drop into an easy chair and drink a beer and watch on the weather channel as tornado watches turned into tornado warnings. Instead, he was climbing into my car, dashing the rain from his face.

  “The interstate is closed,” he said by way of a greeting. “A semi jackknifed. Salad oil spilled all over the road.” He brushed a hand through his hair, dark and curling with raindrops. “We got the truck driver in about an hour ago. So you might want to take the surface streets.” Abruptly, he added, “Now tell me what role you see me performing in this scene.”

  “You’re my reality check. You know. Will’s going to think I’m crazy when I tell him that old Murdoch threatened him.”

  “When did that happen?”

  I recounted the confrontation in the coffee shop, and Mike said, “So now he knows you’re connected to Bowie.”

  “I guess he saw us together, or saw the picture. But now maybe Will’s the one in danger. And I need you to reiterate that to Will, first because he’s a typical man and thinks women are frequently seized by flights of fancy, and second because he’s trying to be macho and doesn’t think an old guy with a pitchfork is any threat, and third because he . . . he might be mad at me, and thus discount everything I say.”

  “Why would he be mad at you?”

  Heat rose in my face. Fortunately, the streetlights we passed didn’t radiate far in the wet darkness so he couldn’t see my flush, though I could feel his close study. “Will wants more of a relationship than I do. I mean, he wants a relationship, and I . . . don’t.”

  “I see.”

  Usually that non-illuminating shrink response drove me crazy, but this evening I found it comforting. I didn’t really want him to ask me any questions about the embarrassment of un-requiting someone’s passion. “And I knew he’d believe you. Because you’re so entirely sane.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded as if he meant it.

  “Well, you are. And this time, at least, you’re not wearing bloody surgical greens.”

  He glanced down at his black t-shirt. “This time you gave me time to change. So, all you want me to do is look sane and nod when you tell your theory.”

  “You can agree out loud too, whenever you like. I’m going to suggest he settle the whole lawsuit. Just to be safe.”

  Mike shot me a glance. “What’s that going to do for your attempt to nail Murdoch?”

  “I guess it won’t help.” It would make Wanda and Brad happy, however. “Maybe if the lawsuit went through, I’d get what I needed. But it’s more important that Will understand the danger and make his own decision.”

  “You have to be cautious. If word got back to Murdoch . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.” Briefly, I debated swearing Will to secrecy. Murdoch had no idea that anyone suspected him of murder. Wanda had, I acknowledged grudgingly, proved she could keep her mouth shut. But Will . . . I wasn’t sure about him. He was ruthless in his own genial way. If he found some advantage in presenting Murdoch as a murderer, he might use it in his lawsuit.

  “I won’t say anything unless I have to. I’ll just warn him to watch out. Just don’t bring up the suicide theory. Because that’s what Will believes already.” I added, “I got your fax, by the way. Thanks.”

  He didn’t answer. I guessed that I wasn’t supposed to mention this breach of patient confidentiality. So I drove in silence across the bridge, my windshield wipers slapping futilely against the onslaught of rain.

  “River’s up,” Mike said as we got to the other side.

  I glanced over at the west b
ank, where the floodlight beside a traffic security station caught crystals of rain in mid-fall. Below, on the edge of murky dark, the stand of white-barked sycamores stood in the fast-swirling water. I remembered with some relief that Tommy was ensconced on the third-floor of a dormitory high over the Wabash.

  With a more impersonal curiosity, I wondered whether this first flood since the floodways were redrawn would spare Olen Murdoch’s much-contested farm.

  It was a testament to the power of the storm that the parking lot at Gillie’s was mostly empty, even at happy hour. But there was Will’s infamous car, parked diagonal across two spaces. I pulled in five yards away—I was in enough of a dispute with the insurance company without door-banging a Diablo—and we dashed through the whipping wind into the bar.

  Will had been there awhile, to judge by the three empty glasses on the scarred wooden table. He was watching the overhead TV intently as the evening news anchor concluded a story, then he looked away from a live shot of a reporter shouting over the whipping wind a few feet from the downtown riverbank.

  His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Mike, but he just gave a curt nod and hooked a chair with his foot, pulling it out away from the table for me. Without preliminary, he said, “More rich guy sues poor guy shit on the news.”

  “Barb just sent out a press release about your starting PCs for Public Schools, so that might remind everyone why it’s good to have rich guys around,” I said. Then, with a glance at Mike, I began, “I wanted to warn you about something. About Murdoch.”

  “Well, sure. It’s not like you’d come see me just to see me or anything.”

  There was no slur in his voice, but the slight petulance told me he was halfway to drunk. Mike must have noticed too, because he raised his hand and told the waitress to bring some pizza bread, breaded mushrooms, and mozzarella sticks. I gathered he determined the alcohol-absorbing qualities of all these carbohydrates would outweigh the damage done to our cholesterol counts.

  Indeed, when the food arrived, Will automatically reached out for a mozzarella stick and popped it in his mouth. “So what’s this about Murdoch?”

  “He grabbed me after you left yesterday and told me to tell you that if you continued the defamation suit, you’d be sorry.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m real terrified.”

  “No, Will, listen to me.” I was glad of the steady buzz of voices and the music blaring from the jukebox in the next room. No one but Will and Mike could hear me as I said, “I think Murdoch is dangerous. I think he—” I looked pleadingly at Mike, but he refused to finish my sentence for me. “I think he might try to harm you.”

  Will laughed. It wasn’t a mirthful laugh, but one poised on the disbelieving side of amusement. “Oh, come on. He’s an old man. What’s he going to do to me? Beat me up?”

  I thought of Don and that wall and a farmer used to pitching hay. “Don’t underestimate him, Will. You don’t have to be Rambo to shoot a gun.”

  Will snorted. “Yeah, well, no one is shooting anything at me. Except briefs and interrogatories.” He beckoned to the waitress, and a moment later she was there with another scotch. Obviously, he was well-known here.

  “I mean it. Maybe you should—” I swallowed hard. “Maybe you should think about giving up on this defamation suit.”

  “He slandered me.” Will downed his drink in a gulp. “He’s not getting away with it.”

  Mike finally spoke. “There’s been an attack on your integrity, and you don’t want to let it stand without rebuttal.”

  Will must never have been in therapy, as he didn’t recognize this rather transparent shrink trick of mirroring back his statement in different words. In fact, he regarded Mike with a dawning, if reluctant, appreciation. “Right. If I don’t respond, then it’s like I’m saying he’s right. A man’s got to defend himself.”

  “Still,” Mike said in a musing voice, as if he were actually trying to think this through, “Murdoch seems like something of a loose cannon. Obsessive. He’s willing to provoke the richest man in town. It might be in your interest to defuse him.”

  I had to admire that subtle use of weaponry metaphors. Defusing was so much more macho than my settling had been. And loose cannon—that was masterful.

  Will was nodding as if Mike had confirmed a bet he’d made. “Yeah, defuse him. That’s what I’m going to do. If I snow him with discovery documents, he’s going to run up legal costs he can’t pay, and his attorney’s going to tell him to take the million or two from Wanda and drop the case against me. And then . . . maybe . . . I’ll settle for an apology on my suit.”

  “That doesn’t sound like defusing to me,” I said. “That sounds like provoking.” I was about to add something even more heated, but Mike put a calming hand over mine, and I reminded myself why I’d brought him along.

  But Mike didn’t have a chance to make any more reasonable and helpful comments. Will looked down at the hand on mine and abruptly pushed his chair away from the table. “I don’t need your goddamn advice anyway. It’s not like you give a shit. You’ve made that pretty clear, bringing him here with you, holding hands.”

  I yanked my hand away, feeling stupid even as I did so. I could hold hands with whomever I pleased, after all. Will had nothing to say about it. Not that I was holding hands—oh, it was all too silly. And now Will was stalking out the door into the wet night.

  I started after him, calling, “Will, don’t be silly. Come back here.”

  But he didn’t even turn around, and I hesitated there at the door, watching him slog through the floodlit parking lot, shoulders bent against the wind. I was damned if I was going to go after him, begging him not to be mad. I was never going to humble myself like that again. But then I saw the lights of the car go on, and Will hunched there over the door, fumbling at the handle.

  I went back to the table and picked up my bag. Mike was sitting there, calmly pulling the pepperoni off a slice of pizza bread.

  “He’s drunk,” I told him. “I’m going to drive him home.”

  Mike shook his head. “You know, Meggie, there are some disasters you can’t fix.”

  “Yeah, well, a friend driving drunk isn’t one of them. Come on.”

  Without further protest, he rose and dropped a fifty on the table. “Richest man in town, and he stuck me with the check.”

  “I’m sure he’s good for it. Let’s hurry.”

  But by the time we got to the door, all I could see were those fancy taillights wavering through the rain. There was nothing to do but follow him home. Fortunately, it wasn’t far. Years ago, Will had built a house on twenty acres on a bluff a few miles north of Netmore. I’d been to enough parties there to find it even in the dark.

  I was soaked and shivering by the time we were safe in the car, defroster and wipers going full-blast. As I pulled out of the lot, I saw no more sign of Will’s car, but, concerned as I was, I had no intention of racing a Diablo on a night like this. I’d just make sure he got home safely.

  The headlights had little effect in this torrent, but I had the road to myself—all the sensible people were already home in their jammies listening to the rain pelt the roof. The only other vehicle I saw was a pickup truck coming out of the river road just as we turned onto it. “At least the road must not be flooded, if the truck got through,” I said cheerily.

  “Your car rides lower than that truck,” Mike pointed out.

  “But higher than Will’s.” I peered through the fogged windshield. “So if the road over Fort Creek is washed out, he’ll get stuck there as a warning to us.”

  We were lucky. The crossing was only a couple inches deep in water, but over the howl of the wind I could hear the ominous rushing as the creek surged into the river. That was the lowest point, however; the road wound up the bluff and emerged into the clearing marking the edge of Will’s property. When I made the sharp r
ight into his drive, I could see the house sprawling dim against the gray-black sky, then dark against the flash of lightning. No lights. No car.

  I drove around the semi-circle and back out. “Maybe he didn’t go home,” I said hopefully.

  “Maybe. Drive slower on the way down, will you?”

  Mike turned his head to watch the riverside as we crept back down the bluff. Then, a hundred yards past the old abandoned covered bridge, just before the bend where the road curved towards the highway, there was a break in the row of sycamores lining the bank.

  “Stop!”

  I braked, feeling the tires slide and then grab on the slick pavement. There was no shoulder to speak of here, so I pulled as far as I could over to the right side and put on my hazard lights. “What did you see?”

  “Lights.” He jumped out of the car and crossed to the riverbank. I opened my door and heard him call back in a calm but urgent voice, “Call 911. Ambulance. Do you have any rope?”

  I didn’t even spare a glance at him. I just grabbed the cellphone and punched the numbers as I ran back through the rain to the rear of the car. As I yanked open the back door, I told the dispatcher where we were, then stuck the phone in my jacket pocket and rummaged through my emergency box until my hand closed on the length of nylon rope.

  The river was a hundred yards of deep roaring dark between us and the streetlights on the other side, but beyond the bank were two red glows. Taillights, slowly sinking into the water.

  “Tie one end to your bumper.” Mike was yanking off his shoes. “The car’s hung up on a log, it looks like, but the current is pretty bad. I don’t know how long we have.”

  Quickly, I did as he ordered, my rain-slick fingers instinctively forming the rope into the double half-hitch I’d taught the Cub Scouts six years earlier. He was already taking the other end and looping it around his waist. “Let me have the tire iron too.”