Making plans for the next assignation?
Jake left the study quickly and went to the front door, opened it quietly, and stepped outside. Her back was to him and she blocked the driver's view. Leaving the door open, Jake approached silently and stopped within a few yards of Lucy.
He heard her giggle, then say, “Steve, you're awful."
"Lucy!"
She jumped as if she had received an electric shock. She swung around to face him, eyes wide, panicky.
Wondering whether I saw you, kissing, being caressed?
Jake's expression was grim. With a mighty effort, he held himself in check.
"Jake . . . What are you doing—"
He cut her off harshly. “Where's your car?"
"S-stolen. It—it was stolen."
"Stolen?"
"Yes."
The man, tall, bronzed, muscular, got out and watched them over the top of his dark green Jaguar. His expression was wary.
"Hi, Jake."
Jake ignored him and said to Lucy, “Where?"
"What?"
"Where was it stolen?"
"Fairview. I was over at Fairview."
"I thought you were going to stay home."
"I needed a few things. I went over to Fairview and parked, and when I came out the car was gone."
"Did you report it?"
She had recovered some and began to assert herself. “Of course I reported it. Stop barking at me. And why are you home so early?"
Jake jerked his head at the house. “C'mon in. I have something to tell you.” He turned and walked towards the open door.
"Tell me here."
"No, I'll tell you in the house."
"Has something happened to the children?"
"No. C'mon."
"Well . . . aren't you at least going to thank Steve?"
"For what?"
"For coming by quite by chance while I was looking for my car. He waited for me at the Fairview Police Station so I could report it. Then he brought me home. I could still be over there waiting for a taxi."
Jake waved vaguely, and though it stuck in his craw, said in a half-hearted voice, without looking back, “Thanks, Steve."
As he entered the house, he heard her thanking Steve in an unnaturally loud voice. She slammed the door when she came in.
"How could you be so rude?"
"Rude? What do you mean?"
"You were unspeakably rude to Steve."
Jake snorted. “Him? That cretin. He's too dumb to know what rude is?"
Lucy flushed. “What is wrong with you? I've never seen you like this."
Jake was usually a soft-spoken man, gentle in speech and action. Perhaps too gentle, he thought, perhaps an athletic coupling with the likes of Steve the Stud, the slob, the bastard, was more to her taste. He examined her closely. Her lips were swollen.
Jesus!
"Why are you home so early? You said it would be close to six."
"Andy's dead."
She was taken aback. “What? . . . Dead? . . . Oh my God. How?"
"About an hour into the hike he had a heart attack. He was standing right next to me. I caught him and lowered him to the ground. I think he was dead before I laid him down. Harry was there and worked on him, the paramedics got there quickly, but there was nothing anybody could do."
"Oh, Jake, I am so sorry."
Jake knew she was sincere. She had liked Andy and knew how much the friendship had meant to Jake.
"Poor Maggie,” she said. “Is anyone with her?"
"Louise and some other friend. After the kids get home, we'll eat and then all of us will go over."
"Is Maggie in shape for that?"
"Yes, I checked."
"The childen are likely to be beat."
"Well, they'll have to suck it up. We're going as a family.” He looked directly into her blue eyes. “That's what families do, in good times and bad. They stick together and comfort each other when things go bad. Go clean up. I'll set the table."
He had to get away from her, had to busy himself. He left her standing there in the hallway, an anxious look on her face, and walked quickly to the kitchen. He had never struck a woman, but it had taken enormous will power to stop himself from hitting her. He wanted to hit her hard, knock her down. And when he had seen Steve outside he had almost exploded.
Kate and Mimi got home just before six. They were tired, especially ten-year- old Mimi, but after Jake explained what had happened they wanted to go immediately to “Aunt” Maggie. Jake and Andy had been so close that the children had come to call Andy and Maggie aunt and uncle. But Jake sent them upstairs to shower and change. Afterwards they all sat down to Lucy's rabbit in mustard sauce. Lucy was a superb cook. Jake had often told her that she should try her hand at a cookbook. With his connections in the publishing world, he could easily get her a serious reading. Tonight, however, the meal, one of his favorites, tasted like straw to him, and he picked at it. The girls dug in, though, and Lucy also ate heartily.
Why not, after your athletic tryst with Steve the Stud.
He caught Lucy sneaking anxious glances at him, obviously wondering, does he suspect . . . did he see us . . . in the car? Jake forced himself to grin at her now and then while asking the girls questions about their outing.
Later, on the drive over to Andy's, he thought again of how he would deal with Steve. A plan was taking shape.
At a tearful meeting with Maggie, Jake broke down. They all did, but Jake sobbed so that he had to leave the house and walk around a bit, his emotions conflicted, a jumble of sorrow and regret and bitterness for Andy, for Lucy, for himself.
That night, in bed, Jake and Lucy lay sleepless for a long time. Normally Lucy would have tried to comfort him, but not tonight, and he bitterly resented it, even though he didn't want her touching him.
"Can't sleep?” he finally asked.
"No . . . poor Maggie."
You're not thinking of Maggie, it's your afternoon with that phony slob that's roiling your mind . . . How could you? . . . How could you?
"I'll get you a sleeping pill,” he said.
He came back from the adjoining master bath with the pill and a glass of water.
"Thanks, honey,” she said as he gave them to her.
Don't you dare “honey” me.
When he could tell by her deep breathing that she had fallen asleep, he got quietly out of bed. Her sleeping pills were strong. She'd be out for hours. He got fresh running togs from the closet, and underwear, shorts, and a polo shirt from his drawer, and went downstairs and left them in his study. He went to the shower off the kitchen that a previous owner had installed. There he sat on the floor of the shower for a long time and let the hot water beat on him. Once more he wept. For the shocking suddenness of Andy's death? For the enormity of Lucy's betrayal? Perhaps both? He wasn't sure. But of one thing he was sure. Steve had to be dealt with. Lucy's act of infidelity, as crushing as it was, magnified beyond comprehension when he thought who she had committed it with. That phony, that total, absolute phony womanizer. How could she? Yes. Steve had to be dealt with. Steve had to pay. But it had to be foolproof. The children. Think of the children, their vulnerability, their need for him, his need of them. So don't get fancy, keep it simple. Quick and simple.
He finally rose and turned off the hot water and got up and turned on the cold and stood under it for a while. When he turned the shower off he felt fresh. Back in the study he checked the time. A few minutes after four a.m. He put on a jockstrap and his sweatsuit and running shoes. From the closet in his study he found a pair of kid gloves and put those in the rear pocket of his sweatpants. His house keys went in the zippered pocket of his sweatshirt.
He let himself quietly out the back door, made sure it was locked, then walked across the back lawn, past Lucy's kitchen herb garden, down the winding gravel path through the English flower garden he and Lucy had made. How exciting it had been. They'd gone to see the gardens at Sissingurst on one of their trips t
o England for a week-long seminar Jake was giving at Sandhurst, and once home they had played the roles of Harold Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West. Jake designed the garden, and Lucy with her green thumb had planted and nurtured and weeded until today their splendid garden was described in garden books by well-known writers and was always on the county's annual garden tour. The old-fashioned roses with their marvelous aroma were in full bloom. Lucy and Jake scorned the modern scentless roses and favored even more the old-fashioned, aromatic peonies, but their two weeks of glory had long passed. Now he wanted to rip up roses and peonies along with everything else and leave their prize-winning garden in ruin. He savored the thought. Every morning after Lucy got up she walked through the garden, checking this and that, pulling a weed here and there, before breakfast, before anything. But he mustn't. He must go on pretending that, except for Andy's death, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
At the edge of their property he climbed the narrow trail he had cut through the woods to the public jogging path that followed the twisting turns of the Gallatin River far below. He could hear distantly the rushing waters as they tumbled over the rocks. At the path he turned left and began jogging.
He ran until he reached an opening in the narrow band of trees between the path and the cliff edge overlooking the river. He had passed several such unofficial openings, frowned upon by the trustees and staff of the Gallatin River Reservation, of which he and Lucy were members, but insisted upon by the public to provide views of the wild river that ran as free as it had for centuries. A proposal to build a fence along the cliff edge was still being mulled over by the trustees. Steve walked to the cliff edge and looked down. This was a good spot, a little over 100 feet to the river and only about fifteen yards from the path. He returned to the path and resumed jogging.
Jake was counting on Steve sticking to his normal schedule of rising early and hitting the jogging trail by five a.m. Did he sleep in on Sundays? Jake didn't know. But Sunday was good, because most people slept in and jogged later than on weekdays. He came to a slight rise and stepped off the path and stood quietly among the trees and waited. The path sloped gradually about 100 yards before rising again, and he could see Steve's back deck nestled at the bottom of the slope. Five o'clock came and went and he wondered if Steve would show. After he had been there fifteen minutes he peeked up the path from the direction he'd come but saw no one. He'd give it another fifteen, twenty minutes. By six other people would be out, and then it would be too risky.
At 5:25 Steve emerged from his deck in shorts and running shoes and began some stretching exercises. Now all he had to do was come in Jake's direction. The stretching exercises seemed to take forever, and Jake grew fidgety. But Steve finally left the deck and approached the jogging path . . . and turned in Jake's direction. Jake peeked behind him. No runners on the path. He took off in a half-sprint, passed the opening he had chosen, rounded a bend so he was out of sight of anyone behind him. Still no runners on the path. He turned and began jogging slowly back, towards Steve.
Steve came in sight just before Jake reached the opening. Jake slowed opposite the spot. Steve, about forty yards away, also slowed. He became wary, alert. Jake noticed something that he had missed when he had Steve in the field glasses in the doorway of room 453. He was getting a paunch. Didn't he realize it? Running without a shirt, showing off his bronzed, aging, athletic body—with a paunch. How could she? Jake raised a hand in greeting.
"Steve. Glad I caught you. I need to talk to you."
Steve stopped five yards away, now really wary. His body was tense. He sucked in his paunch.
"Oh. What about?"
"I have to apologize."
"Apologize?"
"I was pretty rude yesterday. I'm sorry."
"Rude? I didn't notice."
You lying bastard.
"Yes, I was, but I was pretty upset. You heard about Andy, didn't you?"
"Andy Reid?"
Jake nodded. “He died yesterday."
Steve was obviously surprised. “Andy died? What happened?"
Jake told him what had happened. At the same time he was getting nervous. This was taking too long. Other people might already be on the path. Steve, however, had visibly relaxed and looked genuinely concerned.
"So that's why I wasn't myself yesterday. Andy and I were really close."
"Oh, I know, Jake, I know. I am sorry."
Jake held out his hand. “Forgive me."
Steve smiled and shook his head as he walked over and took Jake's hand. “Nothing to forgive, Jake. I understand, I really do."
"Thanks, Steve. I figured you'd understand."
"Of course I do."
Jake dropped Steve's hand. Standing flat-footed, he put his whole body behind a powerful left hook to that inviting paunch. The solar-plexus punch for which he had been famous in college. Steve grunted loudly and jackknifed. He would have fallen, but Jake grabbed him under his arms and propelled him to the side of the path and well into the opening, where he threw him to the ground. He ran back and looked up and down the path. They were still alone. He ran back to Steve, pulling out the kid gloves as he went and drawing them on. Steve was still lying flat, his legs shaking. Jake came down in the middle of Steve's back with one knee and planted the other firmly on the ground. Steve grunted. Jake hooked his left arm around Steve's neck and took a firm grip on his wrist with his right hand. He bent to Steve's ear.
"Yesterday. Room 453, Riverview Motel. Was that the first time with Lucy?"
"Jake, I—"
"Answer me or I'll kill you. And don't lie to me. Tell me the truth and you live."
"Yes . . . Yes . . . first time . . . please, Jake."
"Were you planning another?"
"Jake, please—"
"Dammit, tell me or I'll kill you now."
"Wednesday."
That made sense. Jake was going into the city on Wednesday to give a talk on the Middle East situation to a business group.
"Same time, same place?
"...yes . . . Let me up, please."
"You won't be seeing her Wednesday, Steve. You won't be seeing her again. You won't be seeing any woman again."
Steve had begun to revive. He struggled. Jake tightened his grip and pulled up hard and fast and broke Steve's neck. He heard the crack. He let go and Steve's head flopped crazily to the ground. Just like a chicken's. As Jake rubbed Steve's arms where he had gripped him to wipe off fingerprints he might have left, he was assailed by a powerful stench as Steve's bowels evacuated. He rose, hurried back to the path, and looked up and down. No one. He rushed back and dragged Steve's body to the edge, looked across at the heavily wooded land on the other side. He saw no one among the trees and at that hour on a Sunday he didn't expect to see anyone. He tipped Steve's body over the edge and watched as it tumbled, arms and legs and head flopping, to the river, watched as it spun downstream in the current, banging against rocks, toward the falls about two miles below. He left the bank and checked the hard ground where he had dragged Steve. There were no signs of a struggle. He resumed jogging, in the direction Steve had come from.
Jake passed a couple on the way whom he knew and they all smiled and waved before disappearing in opposite directions. Two solitary runners passed him on the way back. He knew them too, and smiled and waved. Jake got home just before seven o'clock. He fetched the Sunday New York Times from the front stoop, glanced at the headlines, and dropped it on the credenza in the hallway. He showered in the unit off the kitchen, dressed, and thought about breakfast. Jake always made Sunday breakfast, pancakes made from scratch and breakfast sausage. But that would be later, when Lucy and the girls got up. He was hungry now. It was the first time he'd had an appetite since Andy had died. He was not only hungry, he was exhilarated.
But he wasn't out of the woods. He knew that. He was sure that the damage done by the rocks and the falls would mask any human involvement in Steve's death. But the police would surely ask anyone who had seen Steve o
n the jogging path to come forward, and he would do that. He mustn't lie about things like that. Yes, he passed him a little after 5:30. Did he see him on the way back? No, but people often took the Slocum Woods path that joined the river path and made a circuit instead of retracing their steps. Lots of people did that. He'd done it himself. Did he see anyone else? Yes, and after thinking a bit he could name them. Did he always jog that early on Sunday? No, he usually didn't even jog on Sundays, but his best and oldest friend had died in front of him the day before and he couldn't sleep that night and finally got up and went jogging.
As Jake drank orange juice and ate oatmeal, he thought that part through and reckoned he had it covered. But the county police were not stupid. A desk sergeant or patrol cop might mention to the investigating detectives that Steve had brought a woman not his wife to the Fairview Mall substation to report her stolen car. Did Steve go in with Lucy or wait outside? He didn't know and he wasn't going to ask Lucy. Jake grimaced. He shouldn't have moved the car. On the other hand, Lucy's shocked expression when she arrived home with Steve and found Jake there . . . that was worth the risk.
The local paper might print Steve's picture, and if the clerk at the Riverview Motel saw it she might ask herself, wasn't he here the other day? Surely, Jake thought, Steve wouldn't have used his real name or written down his real license number on the check-in card, and surely he must have paid in cash. Somebody they knew might have seen Steve and Lucy in Steve's car, which could prompt that person to come forward. The motel angle was tricky. If the police suspected foul play and found out about Steve being at the motel, they might examine the room and fingerprint it. Of course, it would have been cleaned by then, perhaps even occupied by somebody else, but a lingering print might be found. He was sure that Lucy's prints were not on record anywhere, but if the police made the connection between Lucy reporting the theft of her car and Steve . . .
EQMM, March-April 2010 Page 20
