Monk simply watched. ‘A man will do a lot of things,’ he said, ‘if someone holds a gun to his head.’
Paget smiled a little. ‘Including swallow it?’
But Monk, it was clear, knew he had said enough. And he had what he had come for: answers, impossible for Paget to run from, recorded on tape. Noting the hour and minutes, he clicked off the machine. ‘We appreciate your time,’ he said.
Even this small courtesy haunted Paget a little. ‘Sure,’ he answered.
The response felt insufficiently outraged. But Paget had entered a territory without a map: he no longer knew what to say, or even how to act. Only a couple of hours had passed, and now nothing in his life felt natural.
Shepherding Monk and Lynch to the door, Paget said little. From the window of his library, he watched them leave.
Damn Ricardo Arias to hell.
For the next hour or so, his thoughts cold and clear, Paget entered the mind of Charles Monk. When he rose from his chair, his skin felt clammy, like the aftershock of a nightmare.
He went to the kitchen, took out an oversize green garbage bag. Then glancing at the front door, Paget climbed the stairs to his room.
His walk-in closet was filled with suits. For years, Paget’s response to depression, or even boredom, had been to buy an Italian suit: about twenty-five suits were jammed so tight that it was hard to find the one he was looking for. A gray suit, with a speckled stain on the cuff of one sleeve.
He pulled it out, examining the cuff. The dry cleaner, he decided, could do nothing with it. Even if that still made sense.
Paget took the suit off its hanger and stuffed it into the garbage bag. It was only when he was outside, standing over the garbage can, that he realized the police might search his trash.
Paget went to the library, gazing into the fireplace. But Carlo, he realized, might come home.
He hurried upstairs to his room.
Randomly, he pulled out three more suits. Then he put the gray suit back on its hanger, threw it on his bed with the others, and began looking for the shoes.
This was easier. Paget was indifferent to shoes; the three pairs of dress shoes wedged between the running shoes and Dock-Siders were all that he owned.
Which ones were they?
The simple black ones, he remembered. They were almost new; he had worn the pair before that until Terri had pronounced them older than she was. Putting them in the garbage bag, he felt a twinge of sadness. And then, more deeply, felt furtive and alone.
He had no choice, Paget thought; he could not keep the suit and shoes.
He walked outside, into the bright sunlight, and drove to the Goodwill bin at the supermarket. It was gone: a sign said that the only drops now available were at the Goodwill stores.
He sat there in the parking lot, apprehensive now, considering his choices. The image of Charles Monk, coming to his home at random, kept breaking through his thoughts.
Nervous and irresolute, he drove to the Goodwill outlet in the Mission District. Not far, he reflected, from where Terri had lived as a child.
The outlet was a dark room with a long counter, where a pleasant Hispanic woman with vivid makeup and round beautiful eyes was taking donations of clothes and scribbling out receipts for tax deductions. There were two men in the line ahead of him: Paget looked at the floor, still debating with himself. And then the woman looked up, smiling brightly, and met his eyes.
It was a moment before he showed her what he had brought. ‘Suits,’ she said. ‘Nice ones too.’
‘Thank you.’ Paget hesitated and then placed the bag on the counter. ‘I also have some shoes.’
She pulled them out of the bag. ‘They look new.’
Paget nodded. ‘They don’t fit quite right. It’s sort of like walking on roller skates.’
She laughed at that, looking into his face, flirting a little. ‘You should be more careful with your money.’
Would she recognize him, Paget wondered, or remember him? ‘So my girlfriend tells me,’ he said.
The woman laughed again. But now she turned to the receipt pad in front of her. ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Paget said.
She glanced up. ‘No? I’ll be happy to give you one. Help with taxes. I mean, this has got to be over a thousand dollars, even used.’
Too much conversation. ‘Okay,’ Paget said. ‘Thanks.’
The woman scrawled out a receipt. ‘The name?’ she asked.
‘Paget.’
He watched the woman write ‘Padgett.’ He did not correct her; as he took the receipt, Paget saw the woman slide her copy into a drawer.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and quickly left. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her smiling after him and waved. A few feet down the street, looking back again, he crumpled the receipt and tossed it in a trash container.
Paget drove home, fervently hoping to become a shadow in the mind of a busy woman. That was likely, he tried to tell himself, unless she saw his face again. With that thought came another, as insidious as superstition: he had made a mistake that he could not correct.
When Paget entered the house, it was not Monk he found in the library, but Carlo.
It was a surprise. Carlo did not spend much time there anymore; Paget sensed that his son had been waiting for him.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Carlo asked.
His voice had a touch of anxiety. ‘Running errands,’ Paget answered, and stopped to look at Carlo. In another voice, far less careless, he said, ‘I’m sorry about today.’
Carlo looked away. ‘I was worried I’d say the wrong thing.’
Paget smiled. ‘As I’ve always said, just tell people the truth. It’s less confusing.’
Carlo gave him a sideways glance. ‘I wish I’d seen you that night.’
Or even heard you, Paget sensed him thinking. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They’re just acting like police. They treat any unexplained death as suspicious, and anyone who was connected with the dead guy is going to get a visit.’ Paget paused. ‘I’m sorry they dredged up that stuff about Elena. But I was proud of how you handled it. The whole thing, really.’
Carlo watched him closely. ‘You sound pretty calm.’
Paget had thought his unconcern plausible enough. But he knew his son very well. Well enough to know that this was not a statement but a question; more than well enough to hear the worry that crept into Carlo’s voice. But then not every teenager was as perceptive as Carlo.
‘In two weeks, Carlo, they’ll have disappeared. Meanwhile, don’t talk to them about this. Or, for that matter, to anyone.’
Watching his son’s face, Paget felt the sadness return: it was as if the fears of his clients, the consciousness of being hunted, had silently entered his home. Then Carlo gave a fatalistic shrug that did not conceal how strange he must feel.
All at once, Paget wanted to be with him, to be as normal as possible. ‘What are you up to tonight?’ Paget asked.
Carlo considered this. ‘Nothing, really. Katie’s parents are putting her through family night – happy faces around the table, that kind of thing.’
Paget smiled. ‘Some families are like that. Especially ones with mothers.’
Carlo smiled back a little. ‘You’re like that too. Anyhow, what are you doing?’
‘Zip. Terri’s tied up with Elena.’
Carlo scrutinized him. ‘Ever miss all those women without kids?’
‘Nope. Just the ones without husbands.’
Carlo laughed now. ‘Oh, well.’
Paget leaned back in his chair. ‘So why don’t we go to a movie?’
Carlo raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you offering?’
‘I don’t know. What are you suggesting?’
Carlo pondered that for a moment. ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger.’
Paget tilted his head. ‘Clint Eastwood?’
Carlo grinned. ‘Sold,’ he answered. ‘Arnold was just my opening move.’
Chapter 5
Paget kissed Tern’s neck, the line of
her chin. She laid her head against his shoulder, baring her throat; Paget could smell her skin and hair, hear her murmur of contentment.
They were in the library two nights after the police had come, stretched out on the Persian rug, with Paget’s shoulder against the couch, Tern’s back to his chest as she rested in his arms. The room was dark and quiet; the only light was from the fireplace, flickering tongues of orange and blue, wood crackling as it burned. The fire glistened in the crystal snifters on the coffee table, burnishing the cognac Terri and Paget had forgotten to finish. He felt content.
It had been a leisurely evening, their first in days. They had eaten cheese and smoked salmon, talked about their day. They knew that they would make love; there was no rush. Time, drifting through their talk, their touching, felt sensual and easy. Tonight, Paget thought, they were a lot like any couple.
‘This Dr Harris,’ Paget asked. ‘What is she like?’
Terri shifted her weight slightly, settling against his chest. ‘Fine, I guess. With shrinks, I don’t have a big frame of reference. The problem is that we’ve spent more time on my childhood than Elena’s.’
‘To what end?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’ Terri reached for her snifter of cognac. ‘What do you remember about your childhood, Chris? Say at around Elena’s age. Anything at all?’
Paget reflected. ‘I haven’t thought about it for a while. But a fair amount, I think. Both good and bad.’
‘What’s your first childhood memory?’
‘The clearest? I think it’s a tie between getting spanked for lying and a big toy car I got for Christmas, with pedals so that I could ride it like a tricycle. I thought it was a Rolls.’
Terri smiled. ‘Of course you did. How old were you?’
‘A little younger than Elena. Perhaps four or five.’ Paget took a sip of Terri’s cognac, warm and velvety. ‘What’s yours?’
Terri was quiet. ‘My mother being beaten,’ she said at last.
Paget’s eyes narrowed. ‘What brings all this up?’
‘The other day, Denise Harris asked for my memories at around Elena’s age. There was just a blur. And then I suddenly remembered pulling the blanket over my head so I couldn’t hear my mother crying.’ Terri sipped some cognac. ‘It was like if I couldn’t hear her, then my father had stopped hurting her. But I was protecting myself, of course.’
‘Where were they that you could hear them?’
‘In the bedroom. It was next to mine. I think, somehow, he wanted me to hear.’
Paget watched the fire. ‘You must hate him. Still.’
He felt her shrug, a small movement of her shoulder blades. ‘I don’t feel anything. I don’t think about him, really. It’s fine now.’
It would do no good to question this, Paget knew. ‘What did Harris make of that? If anything.’
Terri felt quiet. ‘I didn’t tell her,’ she said at last.
‘Why not?’
‘I couldn’t.’ Terri turned to him. ‘It’s hard to explain, Chris. It was like I was afraid to.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘I don’t know, really – it’s more instinctive. It’s like I’m still sitting at the table, watching him, hoping to get through dinner without some kind of an explosion.’ She shook her head, as if to herself. ‘At school, I was always the quiet one. A pleaser. Like if I didn’t make trouble and got good grades, no one would get angry. He wouldn’t get angry.’
‘Where was your mom in all this?’
‘She loved me.’ For the first time, Terri sounded defensive. ‘She couldn’t change him, that’s all.’
‘That’s no way to live, Terri.’
The small shrug again. ‘Lots of people do. And I came out all right, in the end.’
Paget was quiet again. How much, he wondered, did she truly remember? ‘Are you going back to Harris?’
Terri sipped more cognac, placed the snifter in his hand. ‘When I left, I didn’t want to. I hate talking about that stuff. Except, sometimes, to you.’ She paused. ‘But I’m going to. I have to trust Denise – God knows I haven’t helped Elena. I can’t let her go on like this.’
Paget watched the fireplace, the spit and dance of flame, sinuous and hypnotic. ‘One of these days, Terri, you might try out that dream on Harris. Just for the hell of it.’
Terri delayed in answering. ‘Maybe I will, all right? I just don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not tonight, at least.’
The best response, Paget thought, was silence: there was an edge to her voice, as if she regretted telling him about the dream. But when, moments later, he kissed her, the feel of her mouth was grateful, ready.
They went upstairs to Paget’s bedroom.
Terri undressed. Her body, a profile in the moonlight, was slim and silver. His first touch brought it to life.
Paget held her close. So many women, he thought, and yet the first time Terri and he were skin to skin it was like coming home. Except that this was a place where he had never been before and never knew to find. He could feel her heartbeat.
‘I love you,’ Terri said.
The sheets were cool and crisp. There were no more words.
Later, she lay with her hair strewn across the pillow, one arm outflung, a woman surprised by sleep. Her breathing was deep and even.
For a time, he watched her as she slept. Sometimes he would do this: it was as if he could discern the child Terri in her woman’s face and yet still see the strength that had brought her through so much, and that he honored more than she could ever know. Perhaps, someday, they would have a child of their own; Paget knew that he would love that child with the depth of his love for Terri. And, in loving them both, have what he had never had before.
Turning, Paget gazed at the luminous numbers of the clock radio, read 11.15. He could let her sleep awhile longer. But he could not sleep himself, even if he had been able.
He rose from the bed, watching Terri’s face for signs of waking, and slipped on a pair of shorts.
In the hallway, no light came from beneath Carlo’s door. Paget walked through the silent house, down the stairs from the deck off the kitchen, and entered the garage.
It was musty, the smell of cement and dirt, dampness and wood. The nose of the car pointed to where he had hidden it: behind a cinder block, loosened from the others holding back the dirt at the end of the garage.
Kneeling, Paget pried loose the block.
It was still there, although smudged with dirt. Paget reached above him, pulled the chain that hung from a bare bulb. The bulb flickered; the leather-bound journal opened in his hand.
The script, small and distinctly feminine, moved across the page in tight, relentless coils. Beneath the yellow bulb, Paget read the last entry. Pensive, although he had read it several times before.
It was hard to believe that no copy existed. But with every day that passed, this seemed more likely.
Tomorrow, after Carlo had left for school, he must find a safer place for it.
Paget hid the journal where it had been and slipped back through the house.
In the bedroom, Terri’s head tossed on the pillow. A soft cry came from her throat. When Paget bent over her, her jaw was working, her eyes shut tight.
Gently, Paget kissed her, then raised his head to look into her face.
Terri’s eyes flew open. She stared at him in fright.
‘It’s me,’ he said softly. ‘Chris. Your white knight.’
Her eyes focused. Her body gave a shudder. In a tone soft with self-disgust, she murmured, ‘Jesus.’
‘The dream again?’
‘Yes. Please, don’t say another word.’
He sat by her, silent. Her breathing was still rapid. In a cold, clear voice, she said, ‘This is really fucked, Chris.’
Paget took her hand. ‘You all right?’
‘Now I am.’ She turned to look for a clock, as if for a frame of reference. ‘What time is it?’
‘Around midnight.’
It seemed to startle her. ‘God, I’ve got to go. My mother’s waiting up.’
Paget gave a short laugh. ‘This is the part that I don’t like. Where you turn into a pumpkin.’
‘No help for it.’ Terri still sounded distant; seemingly aware of that, she touched his face. ‘All the rest of it was good, Chris. Every part.’
After a moment, Terri stood, flicking on a bedside lamp. Watching her dress, Paget realized that there was a part of him, even now, that found their intimacy a kind of gift. That loved their nakedness together; her touch as she lay with him. That lightened at her voice on the telephone.
‘Something’s occurred to me.’ He said it softly, reluctantly. ‘About our phones.’
Terri stopped, finger resting on the last button of her blouse. ‘Monk?’ She paused to look at him. ‘They can’t wiretap us, Chris. They’ll never get authorization for it – not in this state.’
Nodding, Paget felt the pressure of his own fear. ‘I know. But I’m in politics now, and there are such things as illegal taps, by people other than Monk.’ He spoke more quietly. ‘I just think we should be careful. Not talk too much about Richie, or Elena, or even your sessions with Harris. Anything at all personal.’
Terri watched him. ‘I just never thought about anyone doing that to us, that’s all. We don’t say anything, really.’
Paget smiled. ‘When I talk about your body, it says something to me. I don’t want an audience.’
Terri finished the button. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little paranoid?’
‘Maybe. But spying is not unknown in politics. And McKinley Brooks has all sorts of political friends. Particularly James Colt, who continues to let it be known that my own ambitions don’t jibe with his.’
Terri stepped into her shoes. ‘Screw them, Chris. We don’t get to talk much as it is. I’ve gotten to like calling you after Elena goes to bed. It’s like being a teenager, phoning your boyfriend in bed.’
‘Your mom let you do that?’
Terri smiled. ‘As long as I did my homework, she pretended not to know. But she did, of course.’
Eyes of a Child Page 20
