Robert B. Parker

by Wilderness

  They went out of the show-up room and back to Croft’s desk. Lieutenant Vincent came out of his office. Croft nodded at him. Three times.

  Vincent smiled. “Very good,” he said. “His lawyer with him?”

  Croft said, “Yeah, but we got the son of a bitch, Murray. Lawyer or no lawyer.”

  Vincent said, “If he sticks.” He nodded at Newman.

  Newman said, “I’ll stick, I’m sure it’s him. I saw him.”

  Vincent smiled. “Sure. I know you will. And it’s a damned good thing to bag Karl. We’ve wanted him for a long time.”

  “What happens now?” Newman said.

  “We’ll process Karl. There will be a preliminary hearing. We’ll let you know. Eventually we’ll go to court and you’ll testify.”

  “Can I leave now?”

  “Yeah, but first a man from the Essex County DA’s office wants a statement.”

  “They bring you in in the cruiser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bobby,” Vincent said. “When he’s through, whyn’t you run Mr. Newman up to wherever it is.”

  “Smithfield,” Newman said.

  “Yeah, Smithfield. Whyn’t you run Newman up to Smithfield. When you come back, come in and we’ll chat.”

  Croft nodded.

  It was nearly 2 A.M. when they went north up Route 93. Newman said to Croft, “What did the lieutenant mean, ‘If he sticks’?”

  The police radio was a soft murmur in the background, so low Newman wondered how Croft could hear it.

  Croft shrugged in the dark. “People change their minds sometimes. Decide they made a mistake. An eyewitness is good at the beginning but a lot better at the end.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake,” Newman said.

  Croft was silent. The radio murmured. The dispatcher’s voice rhythmic and without affect. The messages indistinguishable to Newman.

  Croft glanced over at Newman, then looked back at the road.

  Newman was exhausted. He’d been up since six-thirty. The coffee he’d drunk made him jumpy but no less tired. It felt corrosive in his stomach. He leaned his head back against the headrest and took a deep breath. Forty-six, he thought. I’m forty-six years old.

  Croft turned off at Route 128. “Mr. Newman,” he said, “I’m going to say something that Lieutenant Vincent would cut off my balls for saying.”

  Newman opened his eyes and rolled his head over and looked at Croft.

  “The reason we’re wondering if you’ll stick is because we’re wondering if someone might squeeze you. You got a right to know what you’re getting into, and Adolph Karl is a fucking psychopath.”

  A thrill of fright flickered in Newman’s stomach.

  “You mean he might try to stop me from testifying.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would he kill me?”

  “I think he’d threaten you first. We can give you protection. It ain’t all that bad. But it may be awkward for a while.”

  “How long would I have to have protection?”

  “Hard to say,” Croft answered. “We don’t have to worry about it now. Nobody knows who you are.”

  “But at the hearing?”

  “Then they’ll know. Then we’ll cover you. It’ll be all right, but I figure you got the right to know how it’ll work. And the sooner you know, the longer you’ll have to get used to it.”

  The car pulled off 128 at the Main St.-Smithfield exit. It was twenty minutes of three and the streets were empty.

  “Where to from here?” Croft said.

  “Keep going straight. I’ll tell you.” The thrill of fright vibrated steadily now in Newman’s stomach. He could feel the electric buzz of it in his fingertips and along the insides of his arms.

  3

  The house was dark when he went in the kitchen. Janet would be in bed. She was not a waiter-up. He switched on the light and looked at the kitchen clock: 2:50. He got a can of Miller beer out of the refrigerator and opened it and turned off the kitchen light and sat at the kitchen table and sipped the beer. The outside spotlights were on, and he looked at the roll of his lawn back up to the big white pines that marked the end of his lawn and the beginning of Chris Hood’s. The house was still. He looked at the paneled walls of the kitchen and the copper stove-hood and the chop-block counters. Janet had planned it all. And what she made was beautiful always. The house was two hundred years old and she was careful to keep the sense of age even in a modern kitchen. He got up and got another beer. The tingle of panic that he’d felt since Croft had spoken of reprisal had faded. He felt strong and calm in this house, looking out of the darkened room at the lighted green lawn.

  He’d do what he must. A man had to do that. He laughed a little to himself. Sound like someone doing a parody of my novels. There was no shame in the fear. But there was shame, he thought, if you let the fear control you. I’ll do what I must. And the police would protect them. He drank some of the beer. He was tired but he no longer felt jittery. The coffee seemed to have lost its sting. Janet won’t be too thrilled with a bodyguard. Explain that one to the folks in the department, lovey. He smiled again to himself in the dark, finished the beer. One more can. He imagined his wife giving her course in sexual stereotyping while a swag-bellied cop in a Sam Browne belt and black holster leaned against the door frame. She’ll be pissed.

  But you couldn’t let some guy shoot a woman and walk away. A man couldn’t do that. “Christ, she doesn’t even know,” he said aloud. She gave a graduate seminar every Tuesday evening. She probably hadn’t gotten home till ten. His note had simply said In Boston, back late. He hadn’t wanted her to worry and it was too complicated to explain in a note. He drank beer. There was half a can left.

  He hated to be out when she came home. He loved to see her come home from work. She dressed so well. Her makeup was so perfect. She was so in charge with her black briefcase and her tailored clothes and her hair in perfect order. She always looked so beautiful that he wanted to make love with her on the couch with her clothes still on in an explosion of affection and desire. He never did, though. She never wanted to. Always had to be when she said, and under her circumstances. Control. She’s always gotta be in control. Always it was at night when she didn’t have to wash her hair. Never when she had an early class. Always after a bath. Never if her good clothes would wrinkle. Always she touched him. Never he touched her. Always she ended the foreplay. Still, it’s regular. You can count on it. He finished the beer. No point running over that dead trail again. Nothing’s perfect. We’re doing fine.

  He put the three empty beer cans in the kitchen wastebasket, went to the downstairs bathroom to urinate, and headed up to bed.

  The bedroom was dark when he went in. The air-conditioner was on. He closed the door behind him. Janet made a muffled noise on the bed and moved. The noise was something like a groan. She made it again. The thrill of fear surged back. His face felt hot. He turned on the overhead light.

  “Oh my Jesus Christ,” he said.

  His wife was lying naked on top of the bed. Her ankles were bound together with clothesline and so were her knees. Her hands were tied behind her back. Three loops of clothesline pinned her upper arms against her body. Her underpants had been wadded tightly and wedged into her mouth. One leg of her panty hose had been ripped off and used to hold the gag in place. The length of tan nylon was very thin where it held the wadded cloth in her mouth, and wider at the corners of her mouth and across her cheeks to where it had been knotted behind her neck. Her eyes were wide and tearful but she looked more angry than frightened. On her stomach, just above the line of her pubic hair, someone had scratched AK with a sharp point. The scratches were shallow. The gag forced her mouth slightly open, and Newman noticed that the wadded underpants had a floral pattern.

  She groaned at him again, insistently, and her eyes were as wide as she could make them. She shrugged her body angrily on the bed. For a moment he stood soundless and without motion. The panic that flooded over him gave way to an urge to
rape her. There she was. Miss Complete Control, absolutely helpless for the first time since he’d known her. She couldn’t turn away. She couldn’t even talk. The two impulses flushed his face and paralyzed him for a moment. Then he thought of who might have done it. AK. He reached behind the bedroom door and took the double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun he always kept there. From the ledge above the door he took two shells, broke the shotgun, put in the shells, and snapped the gun closed.

  She made a series of grunting sounds at him through the gag. He cocked both hammers. Holding the shotgun in his right hand he sat on the edge of the bed and, with his left hand, he fumbled the length of panty hose from her mouth, slipping it down over her chin. He took the gag from her mouth. It was soaked with saliva. He kept his eyes on the door.

  “Ahhhh,” she said. “Ah, ah ah.” It wasn’t crying. Exactly. Her breath shook as she dragged it in. “They’re gone, you sonova bitch, untie me. Bastard, sonova bitch. Fucking bastard untie me.”

  “Who …?” he said.

  “Untie me you bastard bitch fucking bastard untie me.”

  She kicked her bound feet up and down, banging her helpless heels on the bed in a frenzy of frustration.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, hold still.” He slid the bolt on the bedroom door. They’d put it there so the kids wouldn’t come in and catch them making love. Now the kids were gone and they usually didn’t need it.

  “Will you untie me you bitch master.”

  He took a jackknife from his pocket and sawed through the ropes that held her. Cutting always with the blade edge away from her. He did it all with his left hand. In his right he still held the shotgun.

  She sat up on the bed, her knees drawn up, her hands crossed across her breasts, her shoulders bent forward, her head almost touching her knees. She inhaled. Her breath went in long trembling gasps. He shifted the shotgun to his left hand and put his arm around her. She pulled away, then scrambled off the bed and went to the closet. She took out an ankle-length green robe and put it on and zipped it up.

  Standing at the foot of the bed she looked at him as he sat with the shotgun held up, barrel toward the ceiling, both barrels cocked.

  “They were here when I came home,” she said. “I came home from my class and came in the kitchen door and put my briefcase on the table and there they were. Two of them. They had guns and one of them had clothesline coiled up, with the paper label still around it, right like it comes from the store. And I said ‘What the hell are you doing here,’ and they took hold of me and pushed me down on the floor and one of them tied my hands behind me and the other one undressed me. I tried to scream but the first one put his hand over my mouth, and then they gagged me and made me walk upstairs with no clothes on and they put me on the bed and tied me up the rest of the way, and then the one who had the rope took his jack-knife and scratched my stomach with it and they left.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  She shivered. Her arms were folded tight across her chest and her shoulders hunched. He wanted to put his arms around her and have her bury her face in his shoulder and cry, and he wanted to say There there it’s all right. I’m here. Go ahead and cry it out. But he knew if he reached for her she’d shrink away.

  “No. It was awful. Neither one ever said a word. Not to me. Not to each other.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  She shrugged. “They had guns. You’d have ended up beside me.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “The sons of bitches. I’ll kill them if I can.”

  She smiled very faintly.

  The phone rang. They both looked automatically at the clock. Four fifteen. It rang again. With the shotgun pointing toward the floor, the hammers still cocked, he stepped to the bedside table on her side where the phone sat. He picked it up with his left hand.

  “Hello?”

  “You find her yet?” The voice was uneducated, flattened by a Boston accent.

  “Find who?”

  “Your old lady. The bimbo we left done up like a wet wash in the bedroom.”

  The fear wasn’t a sudden stab anymore. It was a steady hurt that waxed and waned but never vanished. Now it was powerful and he felt weak from it.

  “Yeah, I found her,” he said.

  “See the initials above her snatch?”

  Newman nodded.

  “Did you?” The voice was harsher.

  “Yes. I saw them.” He squeezed his hand around the smooth stock of the shotgun where it narrowed at the breech. What if they came and it wouldn’t fire. Or there were three of them and they came from different directions. It was hard to swallow.

  “You know whose initials they are?”

  “AK?”

  “Yeah, douche bag, AK. You was talking about him to some people just a couple hours ago.”

  “Yes.” His throat seemed closed. It was hard to squeeze the words out. “Yes, I know whose initials they are.”

  “Good. Tomorrow you go in and tell those people you were mistaken, douche bag, and that you never seen AK do anything. Right?”

  “If I do that you won’t bother us?”

  “Smart. Smart, douche bag. If you do that you won’t never see us again. If you don’t we’ll come back and kill you both. You see how easy we done up your old lady. We can do you both just as easy. You believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And don’t think we won’t know. You see how fast we knew what was happening? You see how fast we got there. You believe we can find out whatever you do?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gonna do what we told you to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Your old lady’s got a nice-looking pussy. Be a shame to feed it to the worms.”

  “I …” There was a click. The flat voice was gone. Newman put the receiver down very carefully.

  Janet said, “Was it them?”

  Newman nodded.

  Janet said, “Call the cops.”

  Newman shook his head.

  “No?” Janet said. “Why the hell not? If you won’t, I will.”

  He shook his head again. “We can’t,” he said. “Listen.”

  Then he told her about the man with the slicked-back hair and the black woman and Corporal Croft and Lieutenant Vincent. He told her about the picture of Adolph Karl in the book and about seeing Adolph Karl in the lineup. He told her about Croft’s warning and promise of protection.

  “But they knew so fast. They must have a cop on the payroll,” Newman said.

  She nodded. “What a fucking mess,” she said.

  “What could I do. I couldn’t just keep jogging when the guy shot the girl.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  “I mean, I had to do what I thought was right.”

  “Yes, always. Sometimes, Aaron, I think you read your own books too much.” She shook her head angrily. “Never mind. We can’t have a damned argument. We have to think what to do.”

  “We know what to do. I go in tomorrow and tell the cops that I was wrong. And no matter what they say I stick to it and we keep our mouths shut and lie low. Maybe we should go away.”

  “I can’t go away,” she said. “I have to work. I have a graduate seminar. I’m up for associate this year. I can’t just up and leave, for crissake.”

  “What’s more important,” he said, “your life or your fucking job?”

  “I can’t leave my job,” she said. “You go and tell the police you were wrong. And that will be the end of it.”

  “And it won’t bother you to think about it?” he said. “You won’t feel like they’ve demeaned us?” He was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. He looked at the floor.

  She snapped her head around at him. “Demeaned? Who demeaned you? Were you stripped naked and gagged with your own underwear? And tied up so tight you couldn’t wiggle your toes? You know anything about that?”

  “Did they …?”

  “Did they fuck me? Did they feel me up? Isn’t that a swell
question. No. They just stared at me and didn’t say anything and I was lying there on my back with all that rope around me stark naked and they stared at me. You like the scene?”

  “Shut up,” he said.

  “And one of them takes out his knife and puts it down there and I thought he was going to cut me wide open and he cut me on the belly. And I couldn’t do a damn thing or even scream. Feel demeaned?”

  “Shut up,” he said. The trapezius muscles on each side of his neck were bunched and his hands were clenched and clamped between his thighs and the muscles in his forearms bulged.

  “And then they left,” she said. She was breathing a little hard. Her face was flushed. “And I lay there in the dark all tied up with my underwear stuffed in my mouth and didn’t know what to do and couldn’t do anything anyway and didn’t know if you’d be home or not and couldn’t get loose. And you’re talking demeaned to me? Who the fuck demeaned you?”

  “Shut up,” he said. His voice rose and his shoulders shook. “You’re demeaned I’m demeaned. You think it’s better to sit here and listen to you talk about how some goddamned hoodlums mistreated you and me not around?”

  “It’s a lot easier than to have it happen to you, buster.”

  He stood. His back was to her. He looked out the window at the darkened lawn.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if it is any easier. What I do know is you’re making it harder. You like grinding it into me.”

  “Maybe. And maybe you liked looking at me when you came in, bound and gagged and naked. Maybe you liked that,” she said. “Maybe it turned you on.”

  Newman half turned away from the window and hit the bedroom door with his right fist. The door didn’t break but his hand hurt badly.

  4

  Lieutenant Vincent stood with his hips resting against his desk and his arms folded across his chest. Croft sat on one straight chair and Newman on the other.

  Croft shrugged. “So that’s it, Lieutenant. He says he can’t make the ID in court. Says he was mistaken.”

  “Has anyone threatened you, Mr. Newman?”

  Newman shook his head.