Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Now that was a very good question, the kind of question an innocent man asks. ‘‘Not really,’’ she told him reluctantly. ‘‘Ginger says there are a number of reasons why no DNA would be found even if Alex was wearing the shirt, with the current state of testing.’’

  ‘‘I wonder what I should do. Being accused like this, and never completely cleared, it’s like having plague or leprosy in the old days. The only thing left for me to do is go hide. It’s true, isn’t it? There’s no way to prove a negative. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m marked for life.’’

  ‘‘Don’t— Try not to be bitter, Jim. It’ll just hurt more.’’ Jim turned away from her. He stared out the window at the mountain beyond. She hoped he could find comfort there, since she didn’t seem to be much use in that department.

  During the silence that followed, Nina let herself tune into her own interior struggle. Collier had scared her, maybe stampeded her. What facts had he given her? She was a defense attorney. Her job was to fight for her client, not to allow these constant doubts to shake her up. And Jim seemed to be genuinely suffering.

  He might be innocent! What about the scene between Marianne and her stepbrother that she’d witnessed at the Festival of Lights? Did she really believe Malavoy was that dangerous? Yes, she did. They were both viable suspects.

  ‘‘I almost forgot. You called me in. Why did you want me to come over?’’ Jim asked.

  ‘‘Because—because I want to bring in another attorney that we can consult with, who’ll be available to help with any trial, if it should come to that—’’

  ‘‘But you’re doing great!’’

  ‘‘Thanks, but I do recommend we bring in Artie Wilson. He’s got tremendous experience. He’s outstanding. You’ll like him, Jim.’’

  But Jim was shaking his head violently. ‘‘No! Let’s just keep on like we have been.’’

  ‘‘But can’t you just—’’

  ‘‘I don’t want to meet him—I don’t want to deal with somebody else. I don’t want to pay two sets of lawyers. No!’’

  His vehemence surprised her, but did not deflect her. She wanted Artie. She needed him. Without Paul . . . she stopped that line of thought. Artie would provide a very necessary role as a sounding board in this case. She couldn’t discuss the case with Collier or anybody else, but Artie, as co-counsel, could know everything. In her last big civil case, she had discovered both the virtues and drawbacks to collaboration. This time, she could imagine nothing but good coming out of the association.

  She hated thinking in a vacuum. Every once in a while, the nagging thought intruded that maybe she had constructed something so faulty in her own mind that the entire edifice would crumble under the least scrutiny. Artie would keep her on track and keep her thinking sturdy. Nothing Jim said would sway her from that determination.

  ‘‘Look, Jim. I don’t feel able to advise you, handle all these complications, alone. I want Artie to join the team. I can’t keep on myself if you won’t allow me to bring in a co-counsel. Artie isn’t going to need a separate retainer. We’ll just call him in if and when we need him. Let me assure you, he’s very good.’’

  ‘‘Will you quit if I don’t hire this guy?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say that,’’ Nina waffled.

  ‘‘What—who’s got you thinking this way?’’

  ‘‘C’mon. Let’s go upstairs and meet him. Then you can decide.’’

  They climbed the stairs together in silence, Nina in the lead, Jim clomping up behind her.

  Artie’s receptionist was out, but he already had clients in his office. Nina and Jim waited in the reception area, allowing plenty of time for Jim’s already dark mood to turn to black. Nina leafed through a glossy magazine about travel to remote islands, one eye on Jim, totally unable to concentrate on anything except her agitated client.

  After ten tense minutes, Jim stood, preparing to leave. As if listening behind his closed door, a busy lawyer heeding the call of the totally disgruntled at the last possible moment, Artie suddenly appeared. A couple of rough-looking characters drifted out behind him, ignored Nina and Jim, shook hands with Artie, and left.

  ‘‘Into the conference room.’’ Artie nodded in that direction.

  As soon as the three of them were together, Nina knew she had done the right thing. She felt much less anxious with Artie involved.

  So, of course, Jim couldn’t stand him. He didn’t like him at the beginning of the conversation, and he seemed to like him less toward the end. Artie tried to jolly him along, asking questions thoughtfully and gently, but Jim answered monosyllabically. To him, young and fit and interested in nothing better than rushing down a mountain as fast as was humanly possible, Artie must have looked like an old fool who couldn’t ski his way out of a paper bag.

  And Artie, to be honest, was tired, not at his best. He had a perfunctory air, which Jim clearly sensed.

  So when they had said polite good-byes and were back out in the second-floor hall, Jim said only, ‘‘I have to take him if I’m going to keep you?’’

  ‘‘I’d feel better with Artie on board. Yes.’’

  ‘‘Then I guess he’s on board.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Jim. It’s for the best. Now try to get some rest tonight.’’

  ‘‘I couldn’t do without you, Nina. Can I—that is—’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Could I just—give you a hug? To thank you for everything? I’d like to.’’ He took a step forward.

  She felt prudish, or was it prudent? Anyway, she said only, ‘‘I don’t think that would be a great idea.’’

  ‘‘What’s the matter? I let you bring him in. Don’t I get a reward?’’

  ‘‘Drive safely.’’

  They were locked tight on Nina’s bed. Candles flickered on the bureau.

  Downstairs, a chicken roasted in the oven. The half-eaten appetizers, some olives and havarti with crackers, and two glasses of wine, lay neglected on the bedside chest.

  They had proceeded to the first course, urgently communicating in the new way between them. As Collier moved on her and she gave back, he said, without using words: I need you; I want you forever. I’ll never leave you. And Nina answered: I can’t stand being away from you; I don’t care about anything but you.

  He rocked her, his face buried in her hair. I love you . . . Yes, go ahead, do it, yes, I’m greedy but I don’t care, I don’t care . . .

  She held him tight. And up they went, into the new and timeless place they had found, up and up and then shuddering back down into the world and time.

  Collier fell on her. She accepted his weight. They didn’t move.

  Hitchcock whined at the door, grouchy at being locked out. Collier had said, ‘‘No witnesses.’’

  After a long while had passed, and their breaths had synchronized into a peaceful doze, Nina said, ‘‘Let me up, Collier. I have to go check on dinner.’’ She climbed down and went into the bathroom. When she came back and saw him sleeping on the bed, breathing heavily, the sheets covering one leg, his head hidden under his arm, she smiled.

  He could have an hour. He could have the night. At nine o’clock he came down, looking surprised and still sleepy. Nina was reading on the couch in her bathrobe. His plate still lay on the table; hers had long since been taken to the kitchen.

  Smiling, she motioned to the table and said, ‘‘Sorry. Couldn’t wait.’’

  ‘‘I ought to be the one apologizing.’’

  ‘‘Don’t. I loved the idea that you were upstairs.’’

  He smiled back. His hair was damp and he was wearing a pair of boxers. He seemed very dear to her.

  ‘‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ He wolfed down a big plate of chicken and fettuccine at the table and then joined her in front of the fire. They talked, as usual, about nothing much. A lot of the time they didn’t say anything, just held hands while Nina’s head lay on his shoulder.

  ‘‘Let�
��s go back to bed,’’ she said at eleven. ‘‘You’re staying the night, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’’

  The four-poster seemed to be waiting for them. Hitchcock lay on his blanket at the foot of the bed, twitching now and then in his dreams. And now they did talk in the darkness, in total safety.

  ‘‘Did you take my advice?’’ Collier said. ‘‘I’m sorry to have to ask.’’

  ‘‘It’s all right. Not exactly, but I did associate in Artie Wilson.’’

  Collier breathed in sharply. Her hand on his chest witnessed its rise and fall. ‘‘You said you would!’’

  ‘‘I—I—’’

  ‘‘I’ve already lost someone I loved. I don’t want to lose you!’’

  ‘‘Give me some facts! I have a duty to my client, and you want me to ignore that just because you say so?’’

  ‘‘Yes!’’

  ‘‘You can’t tell me any more about what has you so alarmed?’’

  ‘‘No!’’

  ‘‘Are you going to arrest him again?’’

  ‘‘I hope so,’’ Collier said. ‘‘I don’t want you representing him. Why won’t you take the benefit of what I know, even if I can’t tell you the precise facts?’’

  ‘‘I can’t.’’

  ‘‘God damn it!’’ He got up and paced around the cold bedroom in the dark.

  ‘‘Collier, come back to bed. Please. I can’t abandon this client just because you’re worried. We’re going to have to live with a lot of worry because of our work. You have to accept that.’’

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and she pulled him gently down.

  ‘‘Let’s not talk about this,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’ll try.’’

  ‘‘Let’s not talk about this either.’’

  ‘‘This? Or this?’’

  ‘‘Ohhh. Let’s—’’

  ‘‘Let’s.’’

  On Thanksgiving Day they went to Sandy’s wedding.

  Running south from Tahoe, the Luther Pass Highway led through forests which burst out in spectacular displays of color in fall. Now the many deciduous trees thrust skeletal branches to the sky, very Currier and Ives, as specks of cross-country skiers, hikers, even bikers, brightened the white with their rainbow parkas.

  ‘‘Let’s go snowshoeing soon,’’ Collier said. He was driving.

  ‘‘I always wanted to try that. You know, if the Donner Party people had known how to make snowshoes, they could have walked over the last pass easily. But they were mostly Missouri farmers. It was the snow depth that did them in.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that’s a hell of a story. Stuck just below a seven thousand foot pass that would have led them straight down and out of the snow.’’

  ‘‘It is. I think about them when winter comes here, imagine the mothers trying to feed their kids . . . you know, the Irish family never resorted to cannibalism because they were the only ones who could manage to eat the cattle hides they had used for roofs.’’

  ‘‘Pretty grim to think of them coming to America to escape the potato famine, only to starve here.’’

  ‘‘The luck of the Irish—I always wondered in what way we were so lucky,’’ Nina said. ‘‘What luck? We’re just above the Sudanese on the luck scale. But at least the Irish have one talent to keep us going.’’

  ‘‘And what might that be?’’ Collier asked, somewhat warily.

  ‘‘We’re famous bullshitters,’’ Nina said. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. ‘‘It’s no secret. And did you know that it was an Irishman named Thomas Maguire who invented snowshoes?’’

  ‘‘No, I didn’t know that.’’

  ‘‘Yep, he made the first set, and then he called in his family and said, ‘See what I’ve made.’ And his wife says, ‘Well, Thomas, what’re they for?’ And he says, ‘They’re for trampling down the grass on the trail down to the pub.’ And trample it he did, for the next twenty-four years until he passed away, and the rest of the world had to wait until somebody else reinvented them.’’

  ‘‘You just made all that up on the spot.’’

  ‘‘Never! I can prove it.’’

  ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘Okay, I can’t prove it,’’ Nina said.

  They were in Alpine County, the least populated county in California. They passed through the forests into open meadows, and passed the quaint settlement at Sorenson’s Resort through Woodfords, where the main event was a small general store. In another few minutes they had arrived at Markleeville, the county seat, little changed in a hundred years.

  Nina, holding the wedding present and the map, said, ‘‘Take a left here. Sandy’s friend lives near Indian Creek.’’

  ‘‘The reservation?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she said, studying the map. ‘‘She’s between Indian Creek and the Carson River, right before you get to the reservation.’’

  ‘‘Wait. I have to put it in four-wheel-drive.’’ In summer, the road would be dirt. Now, slush and snow covered it, and two wavering grooves led the way for wheels to follow. As they pulled off to make sure they weren’t heading off into complete wilderness, a pickup truck full of Native American men whooshed by, sending up a rooster tail of snow.

  After some time, they came to a large, rustic ranch-style cabin on a wooded knoll, completely surrounded by a classic car dealer’s dream of trucks and cars, some battered and just old, others spiffed-up and gleaming. Small groups of people were still arriving—elderly ladies with covered baskets, small children in snowsuits and mittens, young men in cowboy hats. The sky glowed high-altitude blue, with a few clouds on the eastern horizon.

  A wide-planked porch surrounded three sides of the house, and colored lanterns had been strung and lit. Bunches of pinecones, pine branches, and red berries tied with ribbons decorated the railings.

  At the green front door, surrounded by the smell of white gardenias from a wreath hanging behind them, Sandy and Joseph stood together, receiving their guests. For the first time Nina could remember, Sandy looked nervous.

  She wore a fitted blue suede jacket with a thousand small beads sewn on it and long fringe along the arms and across the shoulders, a long skirt, and her turquoise earrings. Handing her the present, Nina said, ‘‘Happy Hey You Guys Day. I’m so happy for you, Sandy.’’ Sandy nodded. Nina reached up to shake Joseph Whitefeather’s hand. He looked upright and handsome in his white cowboy hat. Close up, she saw where Wish had gotten his long jaw and benevolent expression.

  The house framed a large interior courtyard, paved in stone and swept clear of snow. In spite of the cold weather, somebody put on recorded music and the kids got into a circle and started dancing out there, a simple one-two step in unison, while the grown-ups stood on the sidelines, some from behind the warmth of plate glass, looking on and drinking punch.

  A few of the kids, up to about age thirteen, were dressed in full regalia, with headbands and feathers that stuck straight up on their heads like elaborate punk hairdos, or drooped down their backs like raccoon tails. Their clothes were long sweeps of fabric in blue, yellow, red, and white decorated with diamond patterns.

  The youngest, about two years old, wore what appeared to be an oversized, fringed bib with a large yellow star centered with a smaller red one. Watching an older dancer, he lifted his tiny feet solemnly, staring first at the ground, then back at the other dancer’s feet, then at his own.

  Nina watched him. God, he was cute. Maybe someday soon . . .

  The guests talked to each other in low tones, formal sounding and subdued. A few men wore suits, and Nina noticed Hal Cole, the current mayor of South Lake Tahoe, and Cathy DiCamillo, the city attorney, earnestly explaining something to Sandy. From the kitchen in back the smell of roasting turkey emanated, and Nina could see the backs of the men and women crowded in there. A big red cooler sat against the wall. Wish was handing out sodas.

  ‘‘I’ll bet that’s got something for me in it,’’ Collier said,
heading for it. Nina leaned against the wall watching the children dance, sipping her punch and feeling quite content.

  A shadow fell over her.

  Looking up, she felt a weird sense of displacement. What was he doing here?

  ‘‘But you’re supposed to be in Washington!’’ she said. She touched his arm. ‘‘Of all the places . . .’’

  ‘‘I got an invitation to a good friend’s wedding, so I flew out,’’ Paul Van Wagoner said, grinning. ‘‘I figured you’d show up.’’

  With his blond hair and white sweater, he seemed to attract all the light in the room.

  ‘‘You do get around,’’ Nina said.

  ‘‘Told you I was getting bored. I have to go back tonight and be back on duty at eight A.M.’’

  ‘‘It’s good to see you.’’

  ‘‘It’s been a while.’’

  ‘‘Remarkable. You flew all the way out here.’’

  ‘‘Why not? She’s my friend.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’ Nina echoed.

  ‘‘So Sandy’s broken down and decided to make it official with Joseph. I never thought they would do it.’’

  ‘‘You knew about them?’’

  ‘‘I know more than you think. About everything.’’ How Paul loved double entendres. ‘‘It’s so sudden,’’ she said, not ready to open the conversation they would have to have too soon.

  ‘‘You have to go for it while you’re hot together, or it never happens,’’ Paul said.

  ‘‘To be honest,’’ Nina said, ignoring his suggestiveness, ‘‘Sandy was the last person I expected to remarry. She’s so independent. She’s lived alone so long.’’

  ‘‘At three A.M., when the traffic shuts up and the birds go to sleep and the only sound is the noise of your own damn thoughts, even the strong get lonely,’’ Paul said, and gave her a look that reminded her of the many occasions that they had kept the loneliness at bay with each other. ‘‘You look terrific,’’ he went on.

  ‘‘Remember the dance at the Elks Lodge, that spring —what was it, two years ago? When we met each other again. I had just moved to Tahoe.’’

  ‘‘We had some drinks. You wore red wine on your sweater. I wore beer on my shirt.’’