“She’s not going to thank you for it,” he said.
Sylvia shook her head. “I’m used to that,” she said bitterly.
Walter backed out of the room, then hurried out to his car.
• • •
“I don’t know what happened,” the engineer protested tearily, wiping sweat from his grimy forehead. “One minute the track was clear, and the next minute this guy was jumping out in front of the train “
“Did he jump or was he pushed?” Larry Tillman asked. Behind them, the train’s engine sat, its dark shape menacing in the moonlight. Police cars, clustered on the road above the tracks with their lights flashing and radios squawking, looked like little pups yapping at a great bear. The passengers were being escorted off the train, up the embankment, and through the guarded opening in the chain-link fence, to be put onto buses bound for Boston.
The engineer looked at the officer in desperation. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? I didn’t even see him for more than a second.” The man began to cry.
“All right,” said Larry, “calm down.” He turned to Walter, who was crouched beside Valerie McHugh. A neighbor had gone to stay with the children while another fetched a blanket to throw around Valerie. She was shivering in spite of the warmth of the night.
Walter motioned for Larry to leave them alone. He spoke gently to Eddie’s wife. “Did he say why he was leaving?”
Valerie shook her head and continued to sob. “He promised to take us with him,” she wailed. “He said he had to get away. He didn’t say why.”
“You know he had a court date pending,” said Walter.
“Of course I knew,” Valerie cried. “My mother bailed him out.” She looked up at Walter, her eyes wide, her face streaked with mascara.
“Did he seem depressed or anxious?”
“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“I mean, did he indicate that he might be thinking of taking his own life for some reason?”
“He didn’t kill himself,” Valerie insisted, holding the blanket tightly around her.
“Okay,” said Walter. “Take it easy.”
Chief Matthews slid sideways down the embankment, shaking his head. “These reporters are driving us nuts,” he said, gesturing to where the photographers and reporters were crowded on the other side of the fence, held back by an officer. He turned to Walter. “Is this the widow? I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” said Valerie, and then started sobbing again. “But what are you going to do about this? Somebody killed my Eddie.”
“Somebody killed our witness,” Walter said in a low voice to the chief.
Dale Matthews kneaded his forehead and sighed. “Jesus. Are we sure it wasn’t suicide? Or he just slipped and fell on the tracks?”
Valerie leaped to her feet and began flailing out at Dale with her fists, landing little pelting punches on the back of his suit jacket. “I told you, no,” she began to wail.
Larry Tillman and another officer grabbed her arms to restrain her.
“Let her go, boys,” said the chief. “This woman is distraught.”
“I’m not dis…anything,” Valerie cried. “I’m pissed off. Why didn’t you people protect him? You put his name in all the papers as a witness, and now look…”
“All right, calm down, Mrs. McHugh. Is there somebody who you can go to, who can take care of you?”
“My mother’s coming,” Valerie sobbed.
As if in response to her daughter’s cry, Ida Pence, wearing a gray-and-purple jogging suit, a cigarette hanging from her lips, came toward them down by the hill, supported under one arm by an officer.
“Valerie, my baby,” she cried.
Valerie flung herself onto her mother’s ample bosom.
“That good-for-nothing Eddie,” Ida said wearily, enveloping her daughter’s shuddering frame in her arms.
Karen made a few stops on her way back from the beach. She went to the Giant Discount Store in the mall and bought some plant fertilizer and a new garden hose. Greg had been talking about replacing the one they had before summer. She felt guilty even spending that little bit of money, but she wasn’t going to let her garden dry up and wither away. Then she went to an all-night convenience store and got a pint of Jenny’s favorite ice cream.
It was dark by the time she headed for home. She was driving along at the speed limit, preoccupied with thoughts of the photograph, when suddenly she noticed the traffic slowing to a crawl. Up ahead, when she craned her neck out the window, she could see a glow of lights and a cluster of TV vans, police cars, and buses. All at once the traffic came to a dead stop. There were people hurrying up and down the crowded street on foot and kids weaving through the cars on bicycles.
“What happened?” she asked an older woman who was walking by pushing a sleeping child in a stroller.
“A guy got hit by a train,” the woman said.
Karen nodded and drew her head back into the car. She wished she could get home. She felt claustrophobic in the car. There was no telling how long she might have to sit here. She glanced over at the seat beside her and thought about the ice cream, melting there in the bag as she sat.
People on foot were streaming by the car, chatting and calling out to one another. Karen sighed and turned on the radio, fiddling with the buttons to try to find something she wanted to listen to.
“Well, well,” said a voice near her ear.
Karen cried out, turned, and saw the head of Phyllis Hodges poked in her car window.
“Kit isn’t Mrs. Newhall!”
“Get away from my car,” Karen exclaimed. “What do you want?”
“Did you hear about the guy who got killed by the train?” Phyllis asked.
“Yes, I did,” said Karen frostily. “Now stop leaning on my car.”
“Did you know that it was Edward McHugh? The man who was going to testify against your husband? The cops think somebody pushed him in front of that train.”
Karen felt a chill run through her. She tried not to let it show.
“Oh, you didn’t know that,” said Phyllis with satisfaction in her voice.
Karen felt trapped and unable to come up with any rejoinder that didn’t sound defensive. She tried to roll up the window, but Phyllis put her hand on top of the glass, and Karen was forced to let go of the button. “Leave me alone,” said Karen, and was embarrassed by the plea that sounded in her voice.
“No problem,” said Phyllis, straightening up and peeping ahead into the darkness. “I think they’re going to let you go.”
Karen kept her eyes straight ahead as the traffic started to move again. Gratefully she pulled away from Phyllis, who was leaning against a parked car, speaking into a little tape recorder. She snapped off the radio, locked the car doors, and started to drive home. She followed the familiar roads automatically, her mind reeling from this latest piece of news. When she was forced to stop at a red light, she searched the darkened streets around her with nervous glances. She reminded herself that there was a policeman following not far behind her, but it did not make her feel safe. The police were the enemy, too. They did not want to protect her and Jenny. They only wanted to find Greg. She felt like a stranger in a hostile country whose very survival depended on understanding a language foreign to her. The harder she tried to comprehend it, the more frightened and frustrated she became. Karen had heard about McHugh’s arrest, had heard the scuttlebutt that he was going to be a witness. But why would anyone want to kill him? Except for Greg. And it couldn’t be Greg. Her certainty wavered and then returned. He was trying to clear himself. He would never push a human being in front of a train. If there was one thing their infuriating encounter in the dark schoolroom had shown her, it was that he had not somehow changed into the leering monster that the press was picturing. He was still the same Greg. No, she promised herself. A liar, maybe. But not a killer. But if it wasn’t Greg, then who? Only one thing was settling firmly into her mind. There was someone out th
ere with a vicious plan for her and her family.
She was relieved when she reached home, and she rushed into the house, locking her door behind her. Jenny appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Mom,” she said, “I just heard on TV about that guy from the motel—”
“I know,” said Karen.
“Are they going to blame Dad?” she asked fearfully.
“I don’t know,” said Karen. “Come down. I got you some rocky road.”
Jenny came down the stairs and joined her mother in the kitchen. She climbed up on a stool and twirled her spoon absently in the dish of ice cream. “Where do you think Dad went?” she asked.
Karen put the ice cream back into the freezer. She did not want to convey her fears to Jenny. “If he has any sense,” she said tartly, “he went far, far away.”
“I hope not,” said Jenny. “I want him to come back.”
“Honey,” said Karen, “if he comes back, they’re only going to put him in jail.”
“He’ll show that he didn’t do it,” said Jenny.
Karen looked through the kitchen door down the dark, gloomy hallway. The house seemed cold and desolate tonight. “You better finish that and do your homework,” she said.
“It’s hard to concentrate,” said Jenny.
“I know.”
“Don’t you miss him?” Jenny asked.
Karen frowned. The yawning emptiness inside her told her what she would not admit. “I’m too mad at him,” she said.
“But what if we never see him again?” Jenny cried.
Karen thought of the photo in the envelope. She wondered if Greg was retrieving it at that very minute. Find your answer, she thought. For Jenny’s sake. So she can have you back.
“You have to think positive,” Karen said, rubbing her daughter’s shoulder. It was the best she could do.
Chapter Twenty-eight
A small powerboat with two men in it bobbed on the peaceful, sparkling surface of the ocean as the golden, unhurried dawn broke across the sky. The two fishermen had come out in the dark, leaving their families to slumber. They sat companionably, without speaking, each thinking his best thoughts of the day, waiting for that little tug on the line that would send a rush of pleasure through the veins.
Neither man watched the beach. Neither one saw the crouching figure scuttling crablike, behind the dunes and the rocky retaining wall, heading in the direction of the gazebo.
But Greg kept his eye on them. He thought he had gotten here so early that he would be the only living soul around, but the fishermen had preceded him. Carefully he made his way toward the dome-shaped frame structure where his hopes were focused. When he got close enough, he checked the fishermen, who seemed oblivious to him, and then hurled himself flat to the gazebo floor and crawled across it to the bench.
With trembling fingers, he groped around under the slats until, with a stifled cry, he felt the paper crackle beneath his fingertips. Carefully he pried out the envelope. Crouched there, Greg nervously tore at the envelope and reached in. He pulled out the photo of Linda, smiling, then fumbled around inside, searching for a note, for some word of blame or encouragement. Anything, as long as it was a communication from his wife.
The envelope was empty except for the picture. Greg’s spirits sank a little, but then he forced himself to look on the bright side. She’d brought the picture. Whatever else she might be thinking about him, she’d gotten it and she’d left it there for him. That was no small triumph. Maybe she had not included a note. Surely an endearment was too much to hope for. But this picture said something. It said, I believe you. I am willing to help you. Right now, there was nothing more he could ask from any friend, from any partner. She had agreed, by this token, that his crimes were only personal. It was something. It was a start.
His eyes filled up as he ran his hand along the bench, like a carpenter checking for smoothness. She had come here, to their old place. She must have had memories as she sat here. He was overcome by memories. Hunger and weariness seemed only to increase their vividness.
Stuffing the picture back in the envelope, he tucked it away in his pocket. He had to get out of here before the sun was officially up and the joggers and maintenance workers began turning up for the day. He knew shortcuts from his youth, back ways around town, but it was dangerous in the light. Even this early.
When he was a kid he loved the old thriller The Invisible Man. Now he wished that it could happen to him, so he could move freely. He worked at making himself invisible. At night he stayed at construction sites that he was familiar with. He chose new construction over renovations, to be sure that no one was living there. But at least there would be a plastic tarp over the wooden frame to make a roof over his head. And the construction workers usually left something behind that he could eat or drink, even if it was the last inch of a soda with a cigarette butt floating in it or the last, two, Sheetrock-dusted bites of a bagel or a Big Mac someone had for their breakfast or lunch. No one ever really cleaned up a job site until the work was all finished. He knew from long experience that workers seemed to set their stuff down and never give a thought to throwing it away. Of course, they had big appetites because of their hard labor, but there was usually something left, something he could scavenge by night. By day he hid in the uncleared land near the sites, the long hours passing with a slowness he could not have imagined. He did not dare to sleep. He watched birds and squirrels making their progress through the trees, watched a spider spinning her web, observed, far more closely than he wished to, the blooming of spring.
But today would be different. Today he had a goal. Today he would plan for the night. He knew where the Harborview Bar was, a honky-tonk joint in a neighboring seaside town that catered to teenagers and underage drinking. He had been working on the story he would tell about the picture, a story that would earn him sympathy and trust. He nurtured his hope, however slim, that he would find the information he needed. A plan was what enabled you to survive, to keep going, to stay sane.
Greg spotted a crumpled wrapper by a tree and went over to investigate. It contained the half-eaten remains of a candy bar. There were ants crawling on it. He brushed the ants off as best he could and greedily stuffed the candy in his mouth. Sometimes he wondered if he was still in his right mind, considering the diet he had been subsisting on.
On the other hand, some people would wonder if he had been in his right mind in the first place. To just bolt out of the confines of the law and run. It wasn’t something he had thought a lot about. All his life he’d been law-abiding. He couldn’t imagine living any other way. It was more of an instinct that made him run. A realization that all of his lies of the past were adding up to make him look completely guilty. And then, when they’d brought in that blood-spattered room key, he knew he was up against something more sinister than the police. Someone had set the stage, had hung this murder around his neck. And he couldn’t just go willingly, like a lamb to the slaughter. He had to try something.
Finished with the candy bar, Greg stuffed the wrinkled wrapper in his pocket. He’d throw it away when he spotted a trash can. For a second he was struck by the ludicrousness of being concerned about littering, considering his situation. No, he thought, it’s not stupid. I have to remain civilized. One day I will be a normal person again. I will get my family back. And my home. I have to keep that in mind.
The photo in his pocket seemed to glow against his leg. Karen had believed him. No, maybe that was too strong. She had given him the benefit of the doubt. All their years together counted for something. When he found out who his tormentor was—when he was free again—he would make her understand. He would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her. But he couldn’t think about it right now. He had to think of practical things. He had to get cleaned up. He had to get a shave. He had to figure out how to get to his destination.
For the first two problems, he had an idea. There was a kitchen renovation going on at the Kingman house in a seclude
d, wealthy enclave. Very often, those who could afford it moved out temporarily when the kitchens or bathrooms were being redone. It was too inconvenient to stay. Greg’s plan was to head that way and to observe the house while the men were working. Once they were gone, he might be able to get in there and use the bathroom. He focused on this possibility and forced everything else out of his mind as he walked along. There was no room for fear or doubt. He was too weak to withstand it.
Through the branches of the trees he spotted a trash can by the side of the road. He made a mental calculation. He was going in that direction anyway. Fumbling in his pocket for the wrapper, he peered both ways up and down the lonely backwoods road. No one was coming. He came out of the brush and hustled across the street. He tossed the wrapper in the can, and as he did so, he caught sight of the headline on a newspaper in the basket, witness hit by train was all he was able to glimpse when suddenly he heard the sound of a car turning onto the road behind him.
His first impulse was to dart into the trees, but he knew instantly that would only draw suspicious attention. He did not look up at the car but started to amble down the road. His heart was hammering, and he cursed himself for not just leaving that infernal candy wrapper in the woods. Silently he prayed that it was not the police. The car, a midsize sedan, passed him by and then slowed down. Greg could feel the blood drain from his face as the car pulled up and stopped just ahead. Don’t panic, he thought. Don’t run. He tried to keep walking at a steady pace, although his legs were wobbly. The passenger was rolling down the window as Greg approached.
“Excuse me,” said a heavy-set, elderly woman leaning out the window. “We seem to be lost. Can you tell me where the Bayland Inn might be?”
Greg licked his cracked lips and was keenly aware of his malodorous clothes, his unshaven face. A flicker of apprehension crossed the woman’s face. At close range she clearly did not like the looks of him. “Sorry,” he said, barely slowing his pace. He did not want to give them a chance to study him. He heard the woman rolling up the window behind him, even though it was a beautiful, cool morning. Greg did not glance at them as they pulled away. As soon as they made the next turn, he dived back into the wood like a deer who had inadvertently grazed his way out into the open.
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