The Throat

by Peter Straub

  Alan hooked an arm through mine. I asked him how he was doing.

  “I’m still on my feet, sonny boy.”

  We moved toward the Ransoms.

  Paul Fontaine came up to us and said, “Four-thirty?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You want Alan there, too?”

  “If he can make it.”

  “I can make anything you can set up,” Alan said, not looking at the detective. “This at the morgue?”

  “Yes. It’s a block from Armory Place, on—”

  “I can find the morgue,” Alan said.

  The hearse swung around the corner and parked in front of the Pontiac. Two cars filled with people from Ely Place completed the procession.

  “I thought the mayor gave a wonderful tribute,” Marjorie said.

  “Impressive man,” Ralph said.

  We got to the bottom of the stairs, and Alan wrenched his arm out of mine. “Thirty-five years ago, Merlin was one of my students.” Marjorie gave him a grateful smile. “The man was a dolt.”

  “Oh!” Marjorie squeaked. Ralph grimly opened the back door, and his wife scooted along the seat.

  John and I went up to the front of the car. “They turned my wife’s funeral into a sound bite,” he snarled. “As far as I’m concerned, fifty percent of their goddamned bill is paid for in publicity.” I let myself into the silent car and followed the hearse to the crematorium.

  5

  WHY DO YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE MORGUE? I don’t see the point.”

  “I don’t either, Dad.”

  “The whole idea is ridiculous,” said Marjorie.

  “The cops at the service must have overheard something,” John said.

  “Overheard what?”

  “About that missing student.”

  “They didn’t overhear it,” I said. “I mentioned the student to Paul Fontaine.”

  After a second of silence, John said, “Well, that’s okay.”

  “But what was the point?” Ralph asked.

  “There’s an unidentified man in the morgue. It might have something to do with April’s case.”

  Marjorie and Ralph sat in shocked silence.

  “The missing student might be the person in the morgue.”

  “Oh, God,” Ralph said.

  “Of course he isn’t,” Marjorie said. “The boy just dropped out, that’s all.”

  “Grant wouldn’t do that,” Alan said.

  “I might as well go to the morgue, if that’s what the cops want,” John said.

  “I’ll do it myself,” Alan said. “John doesn’t have to go.”

  “Fontaine wants me there. You don’t have to come along, Alan.”

  “Yes, I do,” Alan said.

  There was no more conversation until I pulled up in front of John’s house. The Ransoms got out of the backseat. When Alan remained in the passenger seat, John bent to his window. “Aren’t you coming in, Alan?”

  “Tim will take me home.”

  John pushed himself off the car. His mother was zigzagging over the lawn, picking up garbage.

  6

  ALAN PULLED HIMSELF across the sidewalk on heavy legs. Shorn grass gleamed up from the lawn. We went into the house, and for a moment he turned and looked at me with clouded, uncertain eyes. My heart sank. He had forgotten whatever he had planned to do next. He hid his confusion by turning away again and moving through the entry into his hallway.

  He paused just inside the living room. The curtains had been pulled aside. The wood gleamed, and the air smelled of furniture polish. Neat stacks of mail, mostly catalogues and junk mail, sat on the coffee table.

  “That’s right,” Alan said. He sat down on the couch, and leaned against the brown leather. “Cleaning service.” He looked around at the sparkling room. “I guess nobody is coming back here.” He cleared his throat. “I thought people always came to the house after a funeral.”

  He had forgotten that his daughter lived in another house.

  I sat down in an overstuffed chair.

  Alan crossed his arms over his chest and gazed at his windows. For a moment, I saw some fugitive emotion flare in his eyes. Then he closed them and fell asleep. His chest rose and fell, and his breathing became regular. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes again. “Tim, yes,” he said. “Good.”

  “Do you still feel like going to the morgue?”

  He looked confused for only a moment. “You bet I do. I knew the boy better than John.” He smiled. “I gave him some of my old clothes—a few suits got too big for me. The boy had saved up enough to be able to pay tuition and rent, but he didn’t have much left over.”

  Heavy footsteps came down the stairs. Whoever was in the house turned into the hall. Alan blinked at me, and I stood up and went to the entrance of the room. A heavy woman in black trousers and a University of Illinois T-shirt was coming toward me, pulling a vacuum cleaner behind her.

  “I have to say that this was the biggest job I ever had in my whole entire life. The other girl, she had to go home to her family, so I finished up alone.” She looked at me as if I shared some responsibility for the condition of the house. “That’s six hours.”

  “You did a very good job.”

  “You’re telling me.” She dropped the vacuum cleaner hose and leaned heavily against the molding to look at Alan. “You’re not a very neat man, Mr. Brookner.”

  “Things got out of hand.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than this if you want me to come back.”

  “Things are already better,” I said. “A private duty nurse will be coming every day, as soon as we can arrange it.”

  She tilted her head and looked at me speculatively for a moment. “I need a hundred and twenty dollars.”

  Alan reached into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a flat handful of twenty-dollar bills. He counted out six and stood up to give them to the cleaning woman.

  “You’re a real humdinger, Mr. Brookner.” She slid the twenties into a pocket. “Thursdays are best from now on.”

  “That’s fine,” said Alan.

  The cleaning woman left the room and picked up the hose of the vacuum cleaner. Then she dragged the vacuum back to the entrance. “Did you want me to do anything with that floral tribute thing?”

  Alan looked at her blankly.

  “Like, do you water it, or anything?”

  Alan opened his mouth. “Where is it?”

  “I moved it into the kitchen.”

  “Wreaths don’t need watering.”

  “Fine with me.” The vacuum cleaner bumped down the hall. A door opened and closed. A few minutes later, the woman returned, and I walked her to the door. She kept darting little glances at me. When I opened the door, she said, “He must be like Dr. Jeckel and Mr. Heckel, or something.”

  Alan was carrying a circular wreath of white carnations and yellow roses into the hallway. “You know Flory Park, don’t you?”

  “I grew up in another part of town,” I said.

  “Then I’ll tell you how to get there.” He carried the wreath to the front door. “I suppose you can find the lake. It is due east.”

  We went outside. “East is to our right,” Alan said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He marched down the walkway and veered across the sidewalk to the Pontiac. He got into the passenger seat and hugged the big wreath against his chest.

  On Alan’s instructions, I turned north on Eastern Shore Drive. I asked if he wanted the little community beach down below the bluffs south of us.

  “That’s Bunch Park. April didn’t use it much. Too many people.”

  He clutched the wreath as we drove north on Eastern Shore Drive. After ten or twelve miles we crossed into Riverwood.

  Eastern Shore Road shrank to a two-lane road, and it divided into two branches, one veering west, the other continuing north into a pine forest sprinkled with vast contemporary houses. Alan ordered me to go straight. At the next intersection, we turned right. The car moved forward through
deep shadows.

  Indented orange lettering on a brown wooden sign said FLORY PARK. The long drive curved into a circular parking lot where a few Jeeps and Range Rovers stood against a bank of trees. Alan said, “One of the most beautiful parks in the county, and nobody knows it exists.”

  He struggled out of the car. “This way.” On the other side of the lot, he stepped over the low concrete barrier and walked across the grass to a narrow trail. “I was here once before. April was in grade school.”

  I asked him if he’d let me carry the wreath.

  “No.”

  The trail led into a stand of mixed pine and birch trees. I moved along in front of Alan, bending occasional branches out of his way. He was breathing easily and moving at a good walker’s pace. We came out into a large clearing that led to a little rise. Over the top of the rise I could see the tops of other trees, and over them, the long flat blue line of the lake. It was very hot in the clearing. Sweat soaked through my shirt. I wiped my forehead. “Alan,” I said, “I might not be able to go any farther.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have a lot of trouble in places like this.”

  He frowned at me, trying to figure out what I meant. I took a tentative step forward, and instantly pressure mines blew apart the ground in front of us and hurled men into the air. Blood spouted from the places where their legs had been.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Open spaces make me nervous.”

  “Why don’t you close your eyes?”

  I closed my eyes. Little figures in black clothes flitted through the trees. Others crawled up to the edge of the clearing.

  “Can I do anything to help you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  Two teenage boys in baggy bathing suits came out of the trees and passed us. They glanced over their shoulders as they went across the clearing and up the rise.

  “You need me to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here goes.” I took another step forward. The little men in black moved toward the treeline. My entire body ran with sweat.

  “I’m going to walk in front of you,” Alan said. “Watch my feet, and step only where I step. Okay?”

  I nodded. My mouth was stuffed with cotton and sand. Alan moved in front of me. “Don’t look at anything but my feet.”

  He stepped forward, leaving the clear imprint of his shoe in the dusty trail. I set my right foot directly on top of it. He took another step. I moved along behind him. My back prickled. The path began to rise beneath my feet. Alan’s small, steady footprints carried me forward. He finally stopped moving.

  “Can you look up now?” he asked.

  We were standing at the top of the hill. In front of us, an almost invisible path went down a long forested slope. The main branch continued down to an iron staircase descending to a bright strip of sand and the still blue water. Far out on the lake, sailboats moved in lazy, erratic loops. “Let’s finish this,” I said, and went down the other side of the rise toward the safety of the trees.

  As soon as I moved onto the main branch of the path, Alan called out, “Where are you going?”

  I pointed toward the iron stairs and the beach.

  “This way,” he said, indicating the lesser branch.

  I set off after him. He said, “Could you carry this for a while?”

  I held out my arms. The wreath was heavier than I had expected. The stems of the roses dug into my arms.

  “When she was a child, April would pack a book and something to eat and spend hours in a little grove down at the end of this path. It was her favorite place.”

  The path disappeared as it met wide shelves of rock between the dense trees. Spangled light fell on the mottled stone. Birches and maples crowded up through the shale. Alan finally halted in front of a jagged pile of boulders. “I can’t get up this thing by myself.”

  Without the wreath, it would have been easy; the wreath made it no more than difficult. The problem was carrying the wreath and pulling Alan Brookner along with my free hand. Alone and unhindered, I could have done it in about five minutes. Less. Three minutes. Alan and I made it in about twenty. When it was over, I had sweated through my jacket, and a torn zipper dangled away from the fabric.

  I knelt down on a flat slab, took the wreath off my shoulder, and looked at Alan grimly reaching up at me. I wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him toward me until he could grab the collar of my jacket. He held on like a monkey while I put my arms around his waist and lifted him bodily up onto the slab.

  “See why I needed you?” He was breathing hard.

  I wiped my forehead and inspected the wreath. A few wires and some stray roses protruded, and a dark green fern hung down like a cat’s tail. I pushed the roses back into the wreath and wound the stray wires around them. Then I got to my feet and held out a hand to Alan.

  We walked over the irregular surface formed by the juncture of hundreds of large boulders. He asked me for the wreath again.

  “How far are we going?” I asked.

  Alan waved toward the far side of the shelf of rock. A screen of red maples four or five trees thick stood before the long blue expanse of the lake.

  On the other side of the maples, the hill dropped off gently for another thirty feet. A shallow groove of a path cut straight down through the trees and rocks to a glen. A flat granite projection lay in a grove of maples like the palm of a hand. Below the ridge of granite, sunlight sparkled on the lake. Alan asked me for the wreath again.

  “That’s the place.” He set off stiffly down the brown path.

  After another half-dozen steps, he spoke again. “April came here to be alone.” Another few steps. “This was dear to her.”

  He drew in a shuddering breath. “I can see her here.”

  He said no more until we stood on the flat shelf of granite that hung out over the lake. I walked up to the edge of the rock. Off to my right, the two boys who had passed us at the beginning of the clearing were bobbing up and down in a deep pool formed by a curve of the shoreline about twenty feet below the jutting surface of the rock. It was a natural diving board.

  I stepped back from the edge.

  “This is April’s funeral,” Alan said. “Her real funeral.”

  I felt like a trespasser.

  “I have to say good-bye to her.”

  The enormity of his act struck me, and I stepped back toward the shade of the maples.

  Alan walked slowly to the center of the shelf of rock. The little white-haired man seemed majestic to me. He had planned this moment almost from the time he had learned of his daughter’s death.

  “My dear baby,” he said. His voice shook. He clutched the wreath close to his chest. “April, I will always be your father, and you will always be my daughter. I will carry you in my heart until the day of my death. I promise you that the person who did this to you will not go free. I don’t have much strength left, but it will be enough for both of us. I love you, my child.”

  He stepped forward to the lip of the rock and looked down. In the softest voice I had ever heard from him, he said, “Your father wishes you peace.”

  Alan took a step backward and dangled the wreath in his right hand. Then he moved his right foot backward, cocked his arm back, swung his arm forward, and hurled the wreath into the bright air like a discus. It sailed ten or twelve feet out and plummeted toward the water, turning over and over in the air.

  The boys pointed and shouted when they saw the wreath falling toward the lake pool. They started swimming toward the spot where it would fall, but stopped when they saw Alan and me standing on the rock shelf. The ring of flowers smacked onto the water. Luminous ripples radiated out from it. The wreath bobbed in the water like a raft, then began drifting down the shoreline. The two boys paddled back toward the little beach at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m still her father,” Alan said.

  7
r />   WHEN WE PULLED UP in front of John’s house, only the shining gap between Alan’s eyelids and his lower lids indicated that he was still awake.

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  John opened the door and pulled me inside. “Where were you? Do you know what time it is?”

  His parents were standing up in the living room, looking at us anxiously.

  “Is Alan all right?” Marjorie asked.

  “He’s a little tired,” I said.

  “Look, I have to run,” John said. “We should be back in half an hour. This can’t take any longer than that.”

  Ralph Ransom started to say something, but John glared at me and virtually pushed me outside. He banged the door shut and started down the path, buttoning his jacket as he went.

  “My God, the old guy’s asleep,” he said. “First you make us late, and then you drag him out of bed, when he hardly even knows who he is.”

  “He knows who he is,” I said.

  We got into the car, and John tapped Alan’s shoulder as I pulled away. “Alan? Are you okay?”

  “Are you?” Alan asked.

  John jerked back his hand.

  I decided to take the Horatio Street bridge, and then remembered something Dick Mueller had said to me.

  “John,” I said, “you didn’t tell me that April was interested in local history.”

  “She did a little research here and there. Nothing special.”

  “Wasn’t she especially interested in the Horatio Street bridge?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  The glittering strips at the bottom of Alan’s eyelids were closed. He was breathing deeply and steadily.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Alan wanted to go to Flory Park.”

  “What did he want to do in Flory Park?”

  “April used to go there.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” His voice was flat with anger.

  “There’s a flat rock that overlooks a lake pool, and when April was in high school, she used to sun herself there and dive into the pool.”

  He relaxed. “Oh. That could be.”