by L. R. Wright
Alberg looked around quickly, to make sure that he was alone there, in the damp grassy place near the sea that was his own private hideaway...and suddenly he knew what had happened to him.
Chapter 18 Tuesday, April 2
DENISE HAD SAT in the rocking chair for most of the night, shivering, occasionally rubbing her arms, but refusing to wrap herself in a blanket or turn the heat up. Maybe the cold would sharpen her thinking. And there was also a need to punish herself for what she’d done.
She had gone over it again and again. Her memory was clear, now. She had—somehow—wrestled his body into the trunk of his car. She didn’t know why she hadn’t considered at the time that he might be merely unconscious—she just hadn’t. She had folded him into the trunk—she was sure she had done this with tenderness and regret. Hadn’t she? And now, it seemed that he hadn’t been a corpse after all.
It was a good thing the Cavalier had a big trunk: he had had lots of room in there.
But how had he gotten out?
And when? His belongings had disappeared only yesterday—had he been in the trunk all that time? Or had he escaped almost right away and spent the intervening days lurking around the yard waiting for Denise to leave?
And now that he had his things, where had he gone?
Denise’s head sank forward. She was so tired. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. It was too late for sleep now. Oh dear god—what was she going to do?
Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. It’s Ivan, Denise thought immediately, not surprised that he should knock: this seemed completely appropriate, under the circumstances.
She didn’t move from the chair at first. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to him. But after all, she told herself, the banging of her heart loud enough to deafen her, there was no law that said she had to say anything at all. Perhaps she’d just listen, let him do the talking.
It occurred to her as she stood up—which set the chair to rocking slightly—and crossed to the front door, that Ivan, horrified and angry though he must certainly be, would be every bit as frightened of her as she apparently was, at this moment, of him.
And it wouldn’t matter what happened between them from now until the end of their lives, her fear would fade, was already fading, but Ivan would continue to be afraid of her. Was this a good thing, she wondered, or a bad thing?
Mrs. O’Hara stood on the Dyakowskis’ porch, without pails or cleaning supplies, although she was dressed for work in a T-shirt, overalls, and a denim jacket, with her hair pinned up in a bun.
“I see his car out there,” she said, with no preliminaries, when the door opened. “I guess I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” said Denise, whose eyes were narrowed against the morning light. She raised a hand to shade them.
“He’s back, then, is he?” said Mrs. O’Hara.
Denise looked toward Ivan’s car. “No. Actually, he isn’t.” Her head dropped, slowly, until she was looking at the ground. She stepped out onto the porch. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” she said, still looking down.
Mrs. O’Hara put a large hand on Denise’s shoulder.
“I don’t know where he is,” said Denise, calm but detached. “He’s alive, though,” she went on. “Which is a relief. I guess they’d have put me in jail.”
Mrs. O’Hara squinted upward, toward the rusty gutter that ran unevenly along the eaves. “Did you try to kill him, then?”
Denise quickly lifted her head. “No!” she said, shocked. “I mean to say, that wasn’t my intention.”
Mrs. O’Hara looked at her sturdy wristwatch. “I’ve got time for a cup of coffee. How about it?”
Denise stepped back and Mrs. O’Hara went inside, straight to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. While it dripped through, she leaned against the counter and said to Denise, “What happened?”
Denise sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “We had an argument. I hit him with a frying pan. He bled so much—” Her bottom lip was trembling uncontrollably.
“Sometimes they do,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “Sometimes not.”
The fragrance of coffee was filling the room and through its burbling Mrs. O’Hara heard the clock on the wall ticking loudly.
“He bled so much I was sure he must have been dead,” said Denise, hurrying now. “I put him in the trunk of his car and drove the car into the woods and left it there. And I forgot what I’d done—” She looked imploringly at Mrs. O’Hara. “I really did, I really truly did.”
Mrs. O’Hara nodded.
“As soon as I remembered, I went back there. But he was gone. He’s gone!” she said, clasping her hands, clutching them to her chest.
“Have you called the hospital?”
“No,” said Denise.
“Do you want me to call them?”
Denise nodded, and Mrs. O’Hara went to the phone.
“He was there,” she said to Denise a few minutes later. “He told them there was nobody he wanted them to notify. They kept him for a while because he had a mild concussion. He was released yesterday.”
Denise leaned forward and rested her forehead on her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Oh god, oh god.”
Mrs. O’Hara waited.
Finally, Denise sat up and wiped at her face with her fingers. Mrs. O’Hara got a box of tissues from the bathroom and gave her a handful. “Thank you,” Denise mumbled.
Mrs. O’Hara poured two cups of coffee and sat down, checking her watch again. “What was the argument about?” she asked.
“Oh...” Denise looked vaguely around the room. “It was about...” She looked directly at Mrs. O’Hara. “He was having an affair.”
“Huh,” said Mrs. O’Hara.
It was still on, then. Mrs. O’Hara acknowledged the presence of destiny, that familiar figure, black, with winged arms.
Denise, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, said, “It’s somebody at school, I think. I think it must be.” Her voice was thin and fragile, pushed out with effort on a shelf of pain.
Mrs. O’Hara remembered that Raylene’s back had been warm, yielding, and slightly damp when Mrs. O’Hara had flattened her hands against it and pushed. Raylene had made an exclamation of surprise, then had grunted three or four times, as she tumbled down the stairs. There was a cracking sound when her head hit the concrete floor. Mrs. O’Hara had known immediately that she was dead because of the angle of her neck. As Raylene fell, Mrs. O’Hara had yelled, “Raylene! Raylene!” as if she hadn’t actually expected her to die. And perhaps she hadn’t. While Raylene lay still at the bottom of the steps Mrs. O’Hara, standing at the top, had pressed her hand against her chest, to quiet the thumping there.
Mrs. O’Hara studied Denise for a while, watching her sip coffee, stare at the floor, run her hand through her hair. Then she looked again at her watch. “I have to go,” she said.
Denise walked to the door with her.
“You get yourself to work today, young lady,” said Mrs. O’Hara.
“Oh no,” said Denise faintly. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Oh yes you can.” Mrs. O’Hara took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “You must. Whatever’s going to happen next, you need to have something to hang on to. Your job’s about all you’ve got, as far as I can tell.” She shook her again, less gently. “Go back to work.”
***
Eddie went down the hall to Alberg’s office and tapped lightly on the door. He waved her in, but he was on the phone, so she stayed out there until he called out to her to enter.
“Just wanted you to know, Staff, I’m going to talk to Andrew Maine again.”
He nodded. “Now?”
“Yeah,” said Eddie.
“Good,” said Alberg. “Because I’ll be away this afternoon and you’ll have to hold the fort.”
“What time are you leaving?”
“Twelve-thirty or so.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure I’m here.” She ducked out into the hall, but Alberg called
her back.
“How are you settling in?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “Fine, I think. What do you think?”
He remained expressionless. “Yeah, fine. So far.”
“Good.” She hesitated. “Well, I’m off, then.” He didn’t respond, so she backed out again.
Shit, she thought, furious, hurrying down the hall. She hated it that she still craved, if not kindness, then a considerateness of which that goddamn Alberg was clearly incapable. She rushed through the back door, letting it bang closed behind her, heading for one of the patrol cars parked in a neat row in the fenced compound behind the detachment, reminding herself that it was this hunger for appreciation and approval that had made her vulnerable to goddamn Alan, that psychopathic son of a bitch.
She got into the car, opened the driver’s window and sat still for a few minutes, her hands on the wheel, recovering her calm.
Then she set off for Andrew Maine’s townhouse.
The menswear store was open late on Tuesdays and Fridays: Andrew’s hours on those days were noon to closing.
It was shortly after ten o’clock when Eddie knocked on Andrew’s front door. It took him a while to respond and when he did, he opened the door just a crack, revealing a strip of white face, one bloodshot eye, and a small chunk of hair. He said nothing, only looked at her.
“Can I come in, Andrew?”
“Did you catch him?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“You already did.”
“I know. But I’d like to talk to you again. Maybe you’ll remember something new, something that’ll help us find out who did this. Okay?”
He hesitated. Eddie thought he was frowning now. “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“This won’t take long.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s about ten, Andrew,” said Eddie, controlling her exasperation. “How about it?”
“Could I have coffee while you talk to me?”
“Sure.” He pulled the door open wider. “Okay.”
Andrew was wearing rumpled blue pajamas, the lapels edged with cord that was a darker blue, slip-on leather slippers, and a white terry cloth robe, the belt dangling from its loops. He tied the belt as he shuffled into the kitchen. Eddie followed him.
Andrew filled an electric kettle with water, plugged it in, and heaped instant coffee from a lidless container into a mug sitting next to it. There were only a few dirty dishes lying around: Andrew hadn’t eaten much, Eddie figured, in the week since his wife’s death.
He stood by the window, looking outside, while the kettle came to a boil. “The funeral’s in two days, I think,” he said.
“Andrew,” said Eddie, “are you alone here?”
A few seconds passed before he turned to look at her, clearly baffled. “Alone?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you got anybody staying with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Of course I’m alone. She’s dead.” His eyes filled, and overflowed.
“I’m sorry, Andrew.” Eddie crossed the room and touched his arm. “I didn’t intend to upset you. I meant, don’t you have a relative, or a friend, who could stay with you? Because you’re so unhappy.”
“Yeah, I know I am.” He pulled away from her and filled the coffee mug. He stirred the coffee with a spoon and sat down at the table. Eddie sat opposite him. He drank some coffee. Eddie took her notebook and pen from her pocket. “I’m sorry,” said Andrew, “do you want some coffee, too?”
“No thanks.” Eddie smiled at him and flipped her notebook open to a blank page. “Okay. Now, the day Janet disappeared, last Monday, tell me again why you were working late that day, Andrew. Because you don’t usually work late on Mondays, do you?”
He was looking at the window, maybe looking through it, at the cloudless April sky. “Yeah,” he said, “I did have somebody staying with me. My mom and dad were here. They had to go home, though. They went home on Sunday, I think,” he said, eyes on his coffee now.
“Andrew? Why were you working late that day?”
“It was the last day of the month,” he said. “So we were taking inventory.”
Eddie nodded, and made a note. “Okay. Now—I saw you going into the store yesterday morning. Why are you back at work so soon?”
He poked at his coffee with the spoon.
“Andrew?”
Carefully, he scooped something out of his coffee—a teabag. He looked at Eddie in astonishment. “Look at that,” he said.
“I see it,” said Eddie.
“I don’t like tea.” Andrew frowned, his head craned to stare closely at the teabag. “It must’ve been my mom’s. Jeez.”
Eddie sat back with a sigh that was almost a giggle.
Andrew peered into his coffee and took a cautious sip. “Can’t taste it, though. Good thing.”
“Andrew.”
“Yeah?”
“I said, you were back at work yesterday—”
“Oh yeah. Yeah.” He shuffled his feet under the table. “Yeah, I’m going to work again.” He put his elbow on the table for support and pressed his head into his hand, clutching his temples tightly.
“This is a bad time for you, I know,” said Eddie.
After a few seconds Andrew lifted his head. “My mom’s gonna help me pack up Janet’s things.”
Eddie nodded.
“When she comes back for the funeral. She’s gonna stay a couple more days and help me do that.” He sat back. “My mom, when Janet and I got married, she said she had only one piece of advice to give us.” He pushed the mug of coffee away from him. “She said, never let the sun go down on a quarrel.”
“That’s good advice,” said Eddie.
“But I did. I did.” His face was contorted with misery. “I—she—I couldn’t make it up with her. I just couldn’t.”
It flashed into Eddie’s mind that she ought to have been doing this at the detachment, in an interview room, with another officer present and a tape recorder going. Shit, she thought. Had she screwed up here? But she decided that if Andrew would confess here, he’d confess again; he’d confess as many times as anybody wanted him to.
“What did you quarrel about, Andrew?” she asked softly.
He planted his hands on the table, tears streaming. “She told me this thing, Janet did, this awful thing, and I—I just couldn’t—she killed it, see?” He was sobbing now, hanging on to the edge of the table, as if this were the only thing preventing him from floating away. “She didn’t call it that, of course—I needed to talk about it. I tried to talk to somebody at work, but it was no use, the vacuum was on, and I talked to my manager, and Norman that I bowl with, but they wouldn’t call it killing either, but”—Andrew made a fist of his right hand and banged the table—“but that’s what it was, that’s what an abortion is, right?” He leaned across the table, toward Eddie. “Right? Right?” Eddie didn’t reply. He sank back into his chair. “It hurt me,” he said dully. “That’s all I could think about, was how much I was hurting. And so. And so. We didn’t make up. And the sun went down.” He raised trembling hands to rub at his face.
Slowly, Eddie closed her notebook and put it away.
***
“You might be interested to know, Miss Atkinson,” said the principal, catching her in the hall at lunchtime, “that we have heard from the errant Mr. Dyakowski.”
Susan, her jacket half on and half off, arrested in midflight, looked at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, and elected not to speak.
“He’ll be here tomorrow,” said the principal, his eyeglasses glinting in the overhead light.
“Oh good,” said Susan. “Good.” She nodded, and continued to nod, feeling like a mechanical bird—perhaps a woodpecker—as he darted skillfully through the throngs of children who clogged the hallway, heading in helter-skelter fashion for the lunchroom. Susan shrugged her jacket on and hurried in the op
posite direction, toward the parking lot.
Less than fifteen minutes later, she was letting herself into her apartment.
Ivan, no less whitefaced than yesterday, no less grim, had made a plate of sandwiches and brewed a pot of coffee, and they sat in the living room to eat lunch together.
“I’m not going to press charges,” said Ivan. He got up and moved toward the balcony. Halfway there, he turned. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing toward the sliding doors. Susan shook her head and he pulled the doors open, admitting a cool rush of air and the sounds and scents of the sea. He stood still for a moment, looking out. Susan felt that she ought to get up and embrace him, but decided that it would be better to keep her distance from him now, and in the immediate future—until he gave her a sign.
“I think she must be crazy,” he said. “That’s what I’ve decided.” He turned around. “Not because she hit me. I can understand that. But because—because of the rest of it.” His car keys had been in his pocket, with the remote opener attached. Susan knew that if this hadn’t been the case, he probably would have died. “She wouldn’t have done that,” he said with conviction. “She couldn’t have done it. Not Denise. Not unless she’s gone crazy.”
“I don’t know her,” said Susan. “So I can’t say.”
Ivan crossed the room and sat down again. “I don’t know if I should phone her, or write her a letter. Or what.”
“What do you want to say to her?”
Ivan sighed. “I don’t know, exactly.”
Susan said, slowly, choosing her words with care, “Do you think that you want to explore the possibility of—of resuming, or renewing, your marriage?” The sandwiches were still untouched. Perhaps they could have them for dinner, she thought. She glanced at Ivan.
He looked astounded—then he burst into laughter. He stood up, and sat down again. “I can’t believe this.” He looked at her curiously. “No, Susan. I don’t want—I think, Susan, that when your wife clobbers you on the head, stuffs you into the trunk of your car, and abandons the car in the middle of a forest, I think that’s a pretty clear indication that the marriage is over.”
