TWENTY-EIGHT
The story appeared in Newsline Monday morning, with Babe Parkinson's byline. The first Colin knew of it was a phone call at eight-thirty waking him from a deep sleep. When he reached for the receiver he dropped it. Leaning over the side of the bed, he picked it up by the cord. It swung freely, banging against the nightstand and the metal spring of his brass bed. He finally got it to his ear and said hello.
"Okay, buster," a deep male voice said, "we got your number now. You better get outta Seaville or else."
"Who is this?"
"Never mind who. Just know this. If the police don't put you away where you belong, the rest of us will."
Colin started to speak, then heard the click breaking the connection. He'd had a terrible night, dreaming of people chasing him, Mark laughing, then Mark swinging from a noose. Then he thought about the phone call and suddenly understood. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his robe. Newsline was delivered to him; he hoped it would be on time.
The second call came as he was going down the stairs. He ignored it. The paper, in its yellow wrapper, was on the lawn at the far edge of the property. Colin was convinced that the delivery guy tried his damnedest to throw the paper as far from the house as possible.
Back in the house the phone was still ringing. He picked it up, cradling it between ear and shoulder while he unfolded the newspaper. A male voice said, "This Colin Maguire?"
"Yes."
"We don't want your kind here, Mister. Go back to Chicago where you belong. You can't go killing your wife and kids and then-"
Colin slammed down the phone. Almost immediately it began to ring again. He took it off the hook and laid it on the chair.
From the receiver came, "Colin? Colin, are you there? It's Mark."
He picked it up. "Mark?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Don't come in, Colin. I'm coming over there."
Mark hung up before Colin could tell him not to come. He pushed down the cradle and it rang again.
This time it was a woman. He didn't listen, hung it up, got a dial tone, and rang the paper. The line was busy. He broke the connection and laid the phone on the chair again. After putting on the kettle he sat at the table and opened the paper. He found it on the third page. There was a picture of him taken the day after the murders. He looked insane. The headline was CHICAGO MURDER SUSPECT IN SEAVILLE. Shaking with anger, he read the story.
Colin Maguire, a suspect three years ago in the murders in Chicago of his wife and two children, is now residing in Seaville, New York, where four slayings have occurred in the past three weeks. The Chicago murders are still unsolved.
Maguire, a former crime reporter for the Chicago Tribune and now managing editor of the Seaville Gazette, was discovered after his family's slaying running through the streets near his home covered with blood. He was unable to account for his whereabouts the previous evening during which the murders took place. He said he had been drinking in a neighborhood bar and "blacked out" for a period of several hours. Charges against Maguire were eventually dropped for lack of evidence.
The rest of the article was a rehash of the Seaville murders. It was all innuendo. But that's all it took. The kettle whistled. He made a cup of instant coffee, lit a cigarette. In the background a man's voice told him to put his phone back on the hook. He didn't. The voice repeated the message; then there was silence.
He felt numb. He wasn't going to run, start over again. But maybe he'd have to, at least for awhile. And what was he going to do about Mark? He wished like hell that Hallock wasn't in Florida.
Loud knocking made him jump. He went to the door.
"Who is it?"
"Mark."
Unsnapping the lock, he thought Mark was the last person he wanted to see.
Wearing a red Ralph Lauren polo, chinos, and blue Adidas sneakers, his gray hair perfectly groomed, Mark took off his sunglasses and stared at Colin.
"Jesus, pal, you look like hell."
"Thanks."
In the kitchen Mark said, "I mean it, Colin. You look like you've been up all night."
Colin sat at the table and took a slug of his coffee.
Mark glanced at the paper. "What a bitch," he said.
Colin nodded, smoothed out his mustache.
"Hey, you left your phone off the-oh. Crank calls?"
"Three before I got smart."
"This sucks, Colin."
He stared at Mark, trying to imagine him slitting Ruth Cooper's throat.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing right now. If you want me to come in to work I will." Could Mark have cut the symbol on Joe Carroll's chest?
"Do you want to?"
"No."
"That's fine with me."
He couldn't see him killing Mary Beth Higbee.
"Do you think there'll be any more stories?" Mark asked.
Colin shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The damage is done."
"We could run something," Mark said hesitantly.
"Like what?"
"I don't know, off the top of my head."
"How are things with Amy?" Colin surprised himself as well as Mark.
"Amy?"
"Yeah, Amy. You remember her, don't you?"
"I haven't seen her again," he said smoothly.
"Since when?"
"What do you mean, since when? Since Friday. What is this?"
"What's what?"
"This shit about Amy." Two spots of color, like rosebuds, appeared in Mark's cheeks.
"Is it shit?"
"Hey, pal, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Amy. I'm talking about Amy."
"What about her?" Mark said sharply. "Come on. If you've got something to say, say it. We've been friends too long for this kind of crap."
"Forget it, Mark, I'm just… I don't know. I mean, it's not my best day."
"No, come on, you've got a bug up your ass about Amy and I want to know why. Do you think I wasn't there or something?"
Colin felt cold inside, as if all compassion had been drained from him. "Why did you ask that?
"Wait a minute. Shit. It's Sarah, isn't it? She called you, right? Goddammit."
He said nothing.
"Christ, did she give me a hard time this weekend. She accused me of everything under the sun except committing the murders."
Colin forced himself to look at Mark, who was smiling, laughing.
"I got her calmed down, though. I just stuck to my guns about the meeting with Gildersleeve. I told her to call him up if she didn't believe me, knowing she wouldn't. But she called you, huh?"
"No."
"She didn't? So, then what's all the shit?"
"Forget it, it's nothing. I'm just crazy this morning." He couldn't go on with it. "Want some coffee?"
"No, thanks. I've got to get back."
"Have you gotten any calls about me?"
Mark waved a hand. "Don't worry about it, pal."
"A lot?"
"A few. Listen, nobody's going to tell me who I can have working on my paper, so don't sweat it."
"Who's telling you?"
"Come on, Colin, you don't need to know that."
"No, I want to know."
"Just some cranks, that's all." He started for the front door.
Colin followed. "Mark, I want to know."
"Well, Gildersleeve called. You'd expect that, wouldn't you?"
"I guess. Who else?"
"Just people. Listen, pal, they're all stupid fucks and I'm not going to pay any attention to them, so don't you. Okay?" He put a hand on Colin's shoulder, squeezed. "Look, I have to get back but call me if you need anything. Do you want to come up later for dinner?"
"I'm seeing Annie." But would he? he wondered.
"Hey, terrific." He slapped Colin on the back. "If you want me to drop by later give me a buzz, okay?"
"Okay. Thanks for coming over, Mark."
"No
sweat. Talk to you."
Colin closed the door after him and locked it. He'd had no idea Mark was such an accomplished liar. Still, he was having a hard time believing Mark could murder anyone, let alone four people, one a child. Oh, Christ, it was all too much.
Back at the table Colin finished the last swallow of coffee. What would Mike Rosier think if he told him of his suspicions? He picked up the dead phone, pushed down the cradle, got the tone, and dialed the number of The New York Times.
– -
Hallock had never been to Florida before. With the exception of the heat, ninety-five in the shade, he liked the place. The sand was whiter than Seaville's, sky brighter, water bluer. And those palm trees made him smile. But he wished Fran was with him. Maybe he'd call her later, see if she'd come down. Ah, hell, what was he thinking? This wasn't some damn pleasure trip. Besides, he was supposed to be mad at Fran. And day dreaming around like this he was almost late for his appointment with the Conways.
They lived in a high rise two streets back from the beach. On the phone she'd said they'd met, mentioning a benefit party for the hospital twelve years ago. He'd lied and said he remembered it well. He told her to think back over the past, to try and remember anything about their lives that might have been unusual, or anything about Ruth Cooper's life, even when she'd been Ruth Conway. Mildred Conway had said they would. Going up in the elevator Hallock had a feeling based on nothing, that he was going to get lucky. He reached into his jacket pocket and rubbed the gold coin his father had given him forty-three years before. Even though he'd never been a superstitious man he'd always carried it. What the hell, it couldn't hurt.
– -
At ten o'clock on the nose Colin pulled up in front of the Seaville Library. It was a one-story building, its facade made of fieldstone, the wooden trim painted white. Above the door was a plaque that said 1870.
Inside, the library felt cool. Betty Mills was checking something in the card catalog. She was a fairly tall woman, young, probably no more than twenty-five. Her hair was brown and she wore it long, parted on the side. She was pleasant looking, and had a sweetness to her that was immediately evident. When Colin approached her she smiled, her eyes reflecting her good humor. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"I hope so. Annie Winters said you might be able to." He wondered if Betty had seen the story in Newsline. "Well, I'm willing to give it a try."
Colin handed her his notebook with the copy of the symbol cut on Joe Carroll's chest. "I'm interested in finding out what this means."
Betty studied the drawing carefully.
Colin was startled by her fingernails. They were about an inch long, painted a carmine red. He'd never seen anything like them and wondered how she typed.
"I think I know where to find this," she said. "Just a minute." Taking long strides she walked back into the stacks. Colin looked around. On Betty's desk he noticed a copy of Newsline still in its wrapper. He felt a little less nervous.
Betty returned, holding an open book. "I think this is what you're looking for." She handed it to him, the red nail of her thumb marking the place like a bloody talon. "If it's not what you want I'll look further."
"Thanks very much." He sat down at a table and began reading:
The swastika is generally considered a form of the cross whose extremities are bent back at right angles. This popular device is known by many names, probably because of its widespread distribution throughout the ancient world. From the Sanskrit word it may be freely translated into "it is well" or "so be it” implying acceptance and denoting life, movement, pleasure, happiness, and good luck.
Theories and speculation as to the origin of the swastika are conflicting. This mystic symbol, common to both eastern and western peoples, seems to appear and reappear consistently, yet always is its significance one of happy omen.
Colin skimmed the paragraphs devoted to what the symbol meant in different countries until he came to America:
In America it is found in prehistoric burial grounds. From the earliest times this famous sign undoubtedly indicated the rotation of the heavens, expressed the power of the sun, sky, and rain gods, and symbolized all harmonious movement springing from a central source.
The many interpretations assigned to the swastika are indeed bewildering. But for the sake of brevity we may conclude by saying that in modern times it is best known as a symbol of motion, good fortune, health, and long life.
He closed the book and carried it over to Betty. "Thanks very much." On her desk Newsline was open to page 2. Colin wanted to get out of there before she read the article.
"When you talk to Annie, tell her I said hello," she said.
"I will. And thanks again."
At the door he glanced back over his shoulder just as Betty was turning the page of the paper. He sprinted to his car and drove away immediately.
More bewildered than ever, he wondered why a murderer would carve a symbol of good fortune and long life into the chest of his victim? Could it be that the killer meant it to be a Nazi swastika after all? Somehow he didn't think so. Then what? The answer came to him with numbing clarity. The symbol must have special meaning to the murderer, a code of some sort. A code he'd have to break if he wanted to stay in Seaville.
When Colin didn't show up or call, Annie called him. The line was busy. And it stayed busy. She asked the operator to try the number. The operator said the phone was out of order. Annie was sure it was off the hook.
It had been Burton Kelly who'd brought her the article. He was waiting for her at her office, the newspaper under his arm.
"I have something to show you," he said.
She smiled, trying to make him feel less awkward about having been rejected by her. "Come in, Burton. Aren't you working today?"
"I'm going in late."
She sat at her desk, swiveling the chair around to face him. "What can I do for you?"
His face was stony. He held out the paper. "Have you seen this?"
"No, not yet."
He handed it to her.
"What is it?"
"Read it."
She tried to decipher Burton's expression, but she couldn't glean anything from his face. Yet something made her afraid. Glancing down at the paper she saw Colin's picture. He looked terrible- gaunt, his eyes staring straight out. And then she read the headline.
When she finished the article she asked calmly, "Why are you showing this to me, Burton?"
His mouth twitched to the left. "I think that's obvious."
"Is it?"
"He's a dangerous man."
"I don't see where it says that."
"It's clear. All you have to do is read between the lines."
She stood up, slapping the paper back in his open hand.
He was startled. "I thought you'd want to know. I mean, under the circumstances."
She didn't ask him what he meant; she knew. "Is there anything else, Burton? I have a nine-fifteen appointment, so if there's nothing else I'd like to get ready for it."
He pressed his lips together, tugged at his belt, hitching up his pants. "You're playing with fire," he said.
"Burton, what I do with my personal life is no concern of yours. Now if you'll excuse-"
"It's a concern of the board's, though."
"Is that a threat?"
"Just some friendly advice. You'd better watch your p's and q's."
"Thanks for the advice." She pointedly looked at her watch.
"All right, I'm going. But don't say I didn't warn you."
When he was gone she had immediately dialed Colin's number. It was busy.
And now it was half an hour past the time he was expected to dinner. She knew that he wasn't coming, had known it most of the day.
The shock of reading the newspaper account had lessened. She supposed the worst part of it was that he hadn't told her the truth. As she'd said to Peg when she called, "I thought we had a real rapport, that there was a basic honesty between us."
Peg said, "Giv
e me a break, Annie. Would you have told Colin if things had been reversed?"
"I think I would have. I mean, why not? It isn't as if he was guilty."
"Annie, the murderer has never been caught. I guess there's still some suspicion about him. Or at least it was there between the lines."
She'd wanted to shout at Peg, tell her she was just as bad as Burton Kelly. But she hadn't. She got off the phone and read the article again. This time she saw that the implication was there.
But her main concern was what Colin must have suffered at the time, still suffered. She couldn't imagine anything worse. When Bob had died she'd been devastated. She tried to think what it might have been like if he'd been murdered, but couldn't. And in Colin's case there were his children. It was almost impossible to know what she would have felt in his circumstances. Surely rage. Bitterness. And frustration. She was amazed that Colin functioned as well as he did.
During the day ten people came in to show her the article and sixteen phoned to tell her about it. So it wasn't odd that Colin had taken his phone off the hook. If she'd gotten calls, he must have too. But why hadn't he phoned her? Surely he must have known she'd be on his side. Still, he might have felt embarrassed by not having told her the truth. And maybe he was trying to protect her by not appearing at her house.
Well, that was foolish. They were friends, weren't they? Were Colin anyone else she would have gone to his house and tried to comfort him. She was, after all, a minister.
The night was cool. She slipped a sweater over her shoulders and went down the back steps. Behind the wheel she faced a truth. She wasn't going to Colin as a minister, she was going to him as a woman. And it felt perfectly fine.
LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO
On Wednesday of this week the Ladies' Sewing Society of Seaville celebrated its 90th anniversary by serving a delicious supper to nearly 150 guests, after which a most appropriate program was rendered. The original constitution states that its object was to furnish and beautify the House of God and also to promote social and friendly intercourse in the village. The initiation fee was 12 cents for the ladies and 25 cents for the gentlemen.
Razzamatazz Page 22
