On the Loose

by Andrew Coburn

  "He's our cousin. I'll say hi and give him a kiss."

  Jennifer stared at the television screen, a sitcom, and saw none of it. "If one of us died, Sam, what would the other one do?"

  Sammantha threw her a startled look. "What did you ask that for?"

  "You know why. Bobby."

  On the drive home from Cinema Showcase in Lawrence, Belle Sawhill said, "When he's back, will we dare leave the girls alone?"

  Ben stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. "Why would he want to hurt them?"

  "I don't know. Why did he kill Claudia MacLeod? We don't know that either. And Mrs. Bullard. There's another unknown. Lots of things we don't know, Ben."

  The lights of an approaching car flashed bright because Ben had neglected to lower his.

  "I think we should move out of Bensington," she said. "It's not the same anymore. He's changed everything."

  "We can't let him do this to our lives. Where would we go? To another part of the state? Another part of the country? No, Belle, it wouldn't solve anything."

  Another car hurled its lights at them.

  "Will you dim your fucking lights, please!"

  He did. "Belle, calm down."

  She took some deep breaths. "So what are we going to do?"

  "We'll deal with it, somehow. Trust me."

  She looked away. "No, Ben. I'm afraid I don't."

  Chief Morgan viewed it from the street. A few shingles were sliding off the roof, slats escaping blinds, paint vanishing from the sun side. He tailed Gloria Eisner through the low gateway. The flower garden was weeds. Rose bushes had turned wild, some looked vicious.

  "I know it needs work," Gloria said. "That's one of the reasons I got it cheap."

  Morgan said, "A purchase agreement doesn't mean you have to go through with it. You can get your money back."

  "I don't want my money back, I want the house. I want to make it mine. I love that little balcony, don't you?"

  "It could fall off," he said, mounting the steps with her. He pushed a button. The doorbell was failing, the ring of a faint stutter.

  "You expecting someone to answer, James?"

  "Just testing it."

  "The young couple living here separated and walked away from it. The bank gave me a key."

  When she opened the door and stepped in, Morgan drew back. "I don't care to go in," he said, and she stared out at him. He frowned. "I've seen death in it. Two times. Two women."

  "Will you never come in?"

  "I don't know. It may take awhile."

  "I estimate it'll be a couple of months before I can move in. Will that be time enough?"

  He moved forward a bit and looked into her eyes. "Change your mind."

  "It would be healthier if you did," she said.

  Reverend Stottle carried two coffees from the Blue Bonnet onto the green and presented one to Trish Becker, who'd been waiting for him on a bench, her attention fixed on a towering red maple. Leaves were breaking loose from branches and taking flight. "Summer's gone," she said. "It forgot to say good-bye."

  Settling beside her, Reverend Stottle enjoyed the closeness. When she glanced at him through dark glasses, he viewed himself in the lenses. "When I was a boy I looked forward to autumn, loved the smell of burning leaves. Now it's outlawed."

  "I want them to stay where they belong. On the tree."

  "A leaf turns and a rose withers because God demands it. He demands it of every living thing, even of himself. Like stars that die but still shed light, he may already be gone. He may even have left -before-we-began."

  Her coffee had sugar in it, but she didn't complain. She said, "Life is tough, isn't it?"

  Reverend Stottle liked sugar and had extra in his. "Living requires courage, fortitude, and from time to time a good stiff drink. Indulging in the latter can make you an alcoholic. God knows we don't want you-ending-up like Harry."

  "Sometimes I think I'm going crazy."

  "What a coincidence. I have that feeling each day."

  She dumped some of her coffee out to prevent spilling it, then spoke vulnerably, as if reduced to her underwear. "Ben and I are fucking. How wrong is it?"

  He raised his eyes and thought carefully. "The sex act takes its cue from the to-and-fro motion of molecules, the molecules that keep our world intact, that keep us from falling apart. Seen another way, woman is the inclined plane and man the lever, the rigid bar that transmits force. Everything is physics. Maybe God put us into play, but my private opinion is that he's long gone. Otherwise he'd be refereeing."

  "What the hell are you saying, Reverend? You're not answering my question."

  "I'm saying that if getting it off with Ben Sawhill keeps you whole, how can it be wrong? If, on the other hand, it's tearing you apart, how can it be right?"

  She studied the smudge of lipstick on the edge of her coffee cup. "I'm so confused."

  "It's the human condition. Otherwise men and women would have no need of each other."

  She placed the cup on the bench and stood up. He rose at the same time. "I don't know how much it has helped," she said, "but I'm glad we talked."

  "Call on me anytime. Day or night," he added.

  She would have stepped closer and kissed his cheek, but his erection, straining thin trousers, was in the way. She pictured it as the tongue of a church bell. She shook his hand. "Thank you," she said.

  Officer Floyd Wetherfield appeared in Chief Morgan's office in full uniform, with tears in his eyes and his wife at his side. "We both come to thank you, Chief." He flung an arm around his wife. "Tell him what it means to me, Betty."

  "It means everything." Betty, a bit of a thing, had a high voice and an uncommonly pretty face of apple pink. "Now he can hold his head up."

  "I won't have to sling newspapers at doorsteps."

  "I used to help him stuff 'em in plastic sleeves when it rained."

  "You must've missed one. Mine came wet the other day." Morgan tipped back in his chair. "If you screw up again, Floyd, it'll be my neck as well as yours. You understand that?"

  "He does," Betty said.

  "I do."

  Morgan softened his expression. "Who's minding the baby?"

  "My mother," Betty said.

  "We have another son, we're gonna name him James. We've already decided, haven't we, honey?"

  She nodded. "We love you, Chief."

  "You don't have to go that far," Morgan said and picked up the telephone in the pretense of using it. "OK, I'll see you two later. You have a shift coming up, Floyd."

  They shuffled out, Officer Wetherfield leading his wife by the hand, but a second later he popped his head back in as Morgan was putting the phone down. "I owe you, Chief."

  "Yes, you do, Floyd."

  A little later, all smiles, Meg O'Brien rambled in, came around his desk, and rumpled his hair, something she had not done in years. "Don't you feel nice inside now?"

  "No," he said, "I feel I'm out on a limb."

  Trish Becker was toiling over a manuscript when the doorbell rang. The midmorning visitor was Belle Sawhill. Her black hair brushed severely to one side, Belle was wearing a trench coat, which she kept on. Trish wore a fisherman's sweater, jeans, athletic socks, and no shoes.

  "Coffee, Belle?"

  "Nothing." Belle sat at the table, her shoulders straight, her hands in her coat pockets, and gazed at the manuscript. "Ben got you this job, didn't he?"

  "Yes."

  A cigarette burned in an ashtray. Others had quit smoking, Trish had taken it up. She put the cigarette out. Belle's eyes ground into her.

  "You got your way, didn't you?"

  She flinched and didn't try to deny anything. "What did Ben tell you?"

  "He didn't tell me anything, but did you think I wouldn't guess?"

  "Belle, I'm sorry."

  Belle seemed offended by the apology, and the air hardened between them. "It doesn't excuse him, but you took advantage."

  "I did."

  "Break it off," Belle said, her
voice full of weight.

  "He'll soon be doing that himself. I can feel it coming."

  "The sooner the better. For all of us." Belle rose.

  "Should I tell him you've been here?"

  "You do as you like."

  Trish walked her to the door and paused before opening it. "I do love him. Pity he doesn't love me."

  Belle's face was blank and drawn. "More of a pity you don't love yourself."

  Both hands on the wheel, Ben Sawhill kept to the left, eased onto the Interstate, and immediately picked up speed. Trish, her head thrown back and her eyes closed, said, "They want me full-time. They want to make me an editor."

  Ben switched to the passing lane. "Grab it."

  "I intend to."

  They said nothing more until they reached Bensington. He mentioned his dislike of November. No finish on its surface. No tapestry on its walls.

  "December's no fun either," she said.

  He sped up the drive to her house and came to a swift stop. She reached in the back for her briefcase. His fingers played on the steering wheel.

  "It's over, isn't it, hen?"

  He nodded.

  She said, "Good."

  Bobby Sawhill and Mr. Grissom strolled the grounds. The sun was bright, but frost-bound nights had grayed the grass. A breeze delivered a false hint of rain. Mr. Grissom spoke out of the hood of his sweatshirt. "You're getting to be a short-timer, Sawhill. You excited yet?"

  "I think of other things," Bobby said. "Who'll take my place in the library? I was thinking maybe Jason."

  "Jason reads comic books, not real ones." They were passing the softball field, which had a forlorn look. Weather had expunged the chalk lines. The bases were gone. "You never played ball, did you?"

  "I wasn't much good. Dibs was."

  "Dibble was a natural. I don't forget what he did, but I can forgive. I care for you boys."

  They were walking now in the tattered shadow of the high fence, chain-link, razor wire at the top. Beyond was woodland, and beyond that, unseen, was the other world.

  "Who's going to take my place, Mr. Grissom? Who's going to be your eyes and ears?"

  "That's nothing for you to worry about."

  "Not Jason?"

  "I don't think Jason can fill your sneakers, do you?"

  "I filled Dib's. Why shouldn't he fill mine?"

  Mr. Grissom smiled. "Maybe he will, who knows?"

  As they moved away from the shadow of the fence, the sun pinched Bobby's eyes shut. Opening them, blinking, he watched the flight of a crow. "I wish I wasn't leaving," he said.

  "Nothing I can do about that. You leave here, it means you'regrown up."

  "It means I'm a man."

  "Yes, it's supposed to."

  They headed back to the main building, at a fast clip, their shadows in pursuit. Mr. Grissom had telephone calls to return before day's end, one of them to Bobby's uncle. Before they parted in the reception area, Bobby said, "Do you have Sharon's address?"

  "She didn't stay in touch. People don't."

  "Will you stay in touch?"

  "Best I don't," Mr. Grissom said.

  Jason was on his cot. He lay on his side with his palm propping his jaw. He stayed silent for as long as he could and then asked, "What did you and Mr. Grissom talk about?"

  Bobby was doing homework, trigonometry, at the writing table. Without looking up, he said, "About when I leave."

  "That ain't yet."

  "It's not far off."

  "They gonna give you a party when you go?"

  They don't do- that here."

  Jason slowly swung his legs over the side of the cot and sat up. "When you go, what if I can't handle it?"

  "You learn to let things roll off you."

  "But what if I can't, just can't?"

  "I don't know."

  A distant bell rang. It meant lights out in Dormitory C. Jason got up and stood behind Bobby. He peered over his shoulder. "Will you miss me?"

  Bobby turned a page in his book. "Sure I'll miss you, but the worst thing will be saying good-bye to Dibs and Duck."

  Mr. Grissom had been on the phone with Ben Sawhill for nearly twenty minutes and was beginning to lose his patience. Doodling on a jotting pad, "I don't know what else to tell you. I can't get into the boy's mind."

  "I want to know what I'm facing when he gets out," Ben said. "I want to know if I'll be able to sleep at night."

  "You see him one way, Mr. Sawhill, I see him another. A gentle boy. He got love here. I'll tell you something else, which I won't go into, he got mothering. That's what I call therapy, the sort similar institutions don't offer. Could I be wrong about him? Of course. What more can I say?"

  "You can tell me he won't kill again."

  Using the Parker pen Bobby didn't want, Mr. Grissom drew lightning bolts on the pad. "I'm not God, Mr. Sawhill."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Dodge Colt swerved out of the cemetery and bounded at alternating high speeds down Burnham Road, the yellow center line no matter of concern to Mrs. Perrault, nor the stop sign that lay ahead. Chief Morgan pulled her over on Fieldstone Road, just beyond the ice-cream stand. She greeted his approach with a frown of relief.

  "I'm glad it's you, not Floyd Wetherfield. He'd likely shoot me." Her voice rose. "Why'd you stop me?"

  Morgan was distressed by her appearance, for she had let herself go. Her hair was straggly, the dyes worn away, the white tarnished by age. Her blue eyes were milky. "You were all over the road," he said. "I'm worried about your safety."

  "I wish you'd been more concerned with Claudia's. I was at the grave. I told her the boy who killed her is a man now and walking free. Where's he living, James? With his rich uncle?"

  Two cars passed. Morgan waved to one of them. "His father's house, Mrs. Perrault. He's living there alone."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "Nothing f can do." He placed both hands on the window ledge. "I'm not sure you should be driving."

  "Are you going to ground me? Am I a child now?"

  He listened to the Colt's idling engine. "How's it running, Mrs. Perrault?"

  "It'll outlast me. I'll leave it to you in my will, James. Something of Claudia's. Is that a new car you're driving?"

  "Relatively. How are your sisters?"

  "Being waited on hand and foot at the nursing home. One's crazy, the other's demanding. Ida's the worst. They're waiting for me to join them. No way! I'll follow you home. I'm going to drive by the Sawhill house, see if I can get a look at him."

  "Don't do that, Mrs. Perrault. It's only torturing yourself."

  "Will you see him?"

  "Eventually."

  Leaning away from the wheel, she suddenly clamped her hands over Morgan's. "When nobody's looking, use your gun on him."

  "I don't carry one," Morgan said.

  Ben Sawhill sat in his brother's house, now his nephew's, and tried to look relaxed. A cleaning service had recently gone through each room and left everything fresh and neat. Ben had stocked the refrigerator and cupboard. He gave a start when he heard the toilet flush and forced his face back into a smile when Bobby reappeared.

  "You haven't said yet. How's it feel to be home?"

  "I don't know." Bobby flopped into an easy chair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and stone-washed jeans, part of a wardrobe Ben had bought for him. "You said you were going to have me over for dinner."

  "We are, but Aunt Belle isn't feeling well just now."

  "Why haven't the twins come to see me?"

  "They're away, Bobby. They're at camp."

  Bobby's eyes seemed overly clear. They made Ben think of washed windows reflecting only sky. "Have you given any more thought to what you want to do?"

  "No. When can I see my money?"

  "I'll go over everything with you. We'll start a checking account you can draw on. While you've been away, your father's holdings have been making money for you. Conservative investments for the most part, a few where the yields have
been higher."

  "Am I rich?"

  "No, but you're comfortable. It doesn't mean, however, you shouldn't give thought to the future. I still think you should consider college."

  "I'm a graduate of Sherwood."

  Ben kneaded his brow. Without warning he had acquired a migraine, a splitting one, as if a ham mer had been laid to his head. "Maybe you'd like to travel?"

  "No," Bobby said, a touch of malaise in his voice.

  "What do you want to do?"

  Bobby's expression was vague.

  "I don't know how to help you," Ben said, still pressing his brow. For some reason he remembered the canary he and Belle had given him, a white one with a gray crest, a marvelous singer. He wondered what had happened to it. He remembered showing him a coin trick, one hand conniving with another to pull a quarter from Bobby's ear.

  Bobby said, "You hate me, don't you?"

  "No. I simply don't understand you. I don't understand why you had to kill somebody. Maybe if I knew that I could be of help."

  "I don't need any."

  Ben dropped his hand and spoke through pain. "You could still be tried for what happened to old Mrs. Bullard. It's not a closed case. That's what Chief Morgan told me. Did you push her down the stairs, Bobby?"

  "I don't have to answer questions."

  "No, you don't," Ben said, rising with effort. "But you're back in the real world. This isn't Sherwood. The chief isn't Mr. Grissom."

  Bobby smiled. "Is he scared of me?"

  "We're all scared of you. We don't know what the hell you're going to do."

  Bobby said, "I'm going to ride my bike."

  Gloria Eisner spent all of Sunday morning in a continuing attempt to restore what was once a garden. Chief Morgan had stopped by to give her a hand, but he was more hindrance than help, stepping where he shouldn't and pulling up what wasn't necessarily a weed. She was glad he didn't stay long.

  At noon she went in to wash up and prepare lunch for her and Trish Becker. Trish, who had invited herself, arrived a little after one. Gloria set the table in the kitchen and served up salad, ravioli, and Italian bread. The ceiling fan moved at half speed.