She laughed. He stood, pulled her up with him.
"I wish I could help," she said.
He wanted to tell her the best way she could help now was to not do anything conspicuous, anything that might reflect on him.
"You're thinking about Shoreham, aren't you?"
"Kind of. How'd you know?"
She shook her head. "Waldo, after all these years how can you ask me that? Don't you think I know you?"
"I guess."
"You guess! You know it. Well, what about Shoreham?"
"I wasn't really thinking about that. Just..."
"Just that you hope I'll behave myself and not go marching or writing letters or anything else right now."
He nodded.
"Well, don't worry, hon'. The only thing I've got scheduled for the next two weeks is collecting clothes for the poor and a very quiet NOW meeting."
"Good. I have to be getting back." He put a big hand on either shoulder. "I'll probably be late tonight. You and the kids better eat without me."
She walked him to the door. "I'm just making meatloaf. You can have a sandwich when you get home."
He loved meatloaf sandwiches with plenty of ketchup. "Sounds good." Hallock kissed her forehead, then her lips. It started out friendly, then developed into something more.
"Wish you didn't have to go back," she said, smiling.
"Me, too."
"It's been a long time since we had a matinee."
He laughed. "A matinee? Where'd you get that?"
"I don't know. Read it, I guess."
"A matinee," he said again, shaking his head. "How about a late show?"
"Okay with me."
He kissed her again, then hurried down the front steps.
She called, "Was that a real invitation?"
"'Course it was."
"Okay, then."
He opened the door to the cruiser. "Okay, what?"
She looked up and down the street, thinking of the neighbors, then stepped back into the doorway, gave a little bump and grind, and shut the door.
Hallock sat in the car laughing. He was pleased Fran wasn't going to be doing anything public or all-consuming for awhile. He needed her. And when she got deeply involved in one of her causes, she vanished emotionally. And that was especially hard on him because it reminded him of his mother. Marion Hallock had always been distant, like a governess, not a mother.
Well, hell, he didn't want to start thinking about his mother now. He started the car and backed out of the driveway. He couldn't think about his mother or Fran. He had to get his mind on this case. First thing he had to do was see Mark Griffing and make him understand that he had to downplay the murders. Fat chance.
LOOKING BACK—50 YEARS AGO
A certain young local businessman hates to get up in the morning and go down to his store. How he does love his sleep. His friends claim he sleeps better in the morning after the sun comes up. One morning this week it was about 10 o'clock when he reached his store. Hanging on the door was a large wreath made of yellow crepe paper, seaweed, and onion tops, with the words: "Not dead but sleeping." He tore the wreath off the door and threw it in the gutter, then saw a number of his friends laughing heartily across the street. In a moment he joined in the merriment, saying: "Well, the joke's on me."
TWELVE
Colin had decided to wait until after lunch to tackle the story. Now it was after lunch. The story was no closer to being written than it was before lunch. He lit a cigarette. It was his second pack of the day. Mark had told him he wanted the story by three. The clock said ten after one. There was plenty of time. Plenty of time, if he could write it at all.
For the third time that day he considered telling Mark he couldn't write stories about murder—they made him sick. But would he understand? Or would that get Mark thinking, wondering if there was more to it than just a man losing his wife and children through murder, wondering if maybe Colin had done it after all. And why not? He was sure even his mother had had a moment. The year that he'd spent with her, he'd caught her looking at him a number of times, a strange expression on her face. He'd interpreted that look to mean that she was wondering had he or hadn't he? She'd never asked of course. Not Betsy Maguire. No, she'd most likely go to confession and tell the priest she'd had unkind thoughts about her youngest son, then say a bunch of Hail Marys and maybe the Act of Contrition. One time when he'd caught her looking at him that way he asked what she'd been thinking.
Disconcerted, she said, "Just how much you look like your father."
He knew it was a lie but he'd let it ride.
Christ. This wasn't getting him anywhere. Either he was going to write the goddamn story or he was going to tell Mark he couldn't do it. But if he begged off, it might make Mark think he had something to do with the murders here. No, Mark would never think that. Colin knew what he had to do was detach himself, the way he'd been taught, and write the sucker.
"Some guys got real tough jobs," Hallock said.
Colin was startled. "Hey, you scared me, creeping up like that."
"Didn't creep. I walked. You were in a dream world, buddy."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Who is she?"
"Hmmm?"
"Man's dreaming like that, it's gotta be a woman."
"Matter of fact, it wasn't. I was just wondering how to write this story about the murders."
"Funny thing. That's why I'm here."
Colin waited for him to go on.
"We need to play it down."
"I can't do that, Chief. I mean, I have to tell it like it is. A murder's a murder. Especially two. How can I play that down?"
"You know what I mean. Is it going on the front page?"
"Probably." He knew it was.
"See, that's just what I'm talking about. Why do you have to feature it?"
"I think you'd better talk to Mark."
"Will you come with me?"
"If that's what you want."
"That's what I want. I don't expect to win this one, but I've gotta try."
"Okay." Colin buzzed Mark, told him they were coming up.
Hallock followed Colin past the offices and front desk to the stairs. Griffing's office was on the second floor. When they came in Mark shook Hallock's hand.
"Nice to see you. Sit down, make yourself comfortable." He crossed to his tape deck and turned off David Bowie.
The room looked more like a living room than an office. There was a fireplace, two blue easy chairs facing it, and a gray denim couch with colorful throw pillows on the right wall. Griffing's desk was a white parsons table, his chair soft tan leather. He sat on the couch while Colin and Hallock took the chairs.
"What can I do for you, Chief?"
Colin watched Hallock pull on his long nose, stalling. It wouldn't be so easy to tell Mark he wanted to downplay the story.
"Well, the thing of it is, Friday's the start of Memorial Day weekend, and I don't have to tell you what that means."
Griffing looked at him blankly. "Maybe you do, Chief."
Hallock glanced at Colin as if he were asking for advice. Colin felt for him but didn't know how to help.
Hallock continued. "It's the start of the season. Our merchants got twelve weeks to make enough to carry them through the year."
Griffing nodded.
"The real estate people, too," Hallock amplified.
"And?"
"Well, hell, what I'm trying to bring out is that if you go splashing those murders all over the front page on Thursday, it's gonna hurt this town. Real bad."
Griffing ran a hand over his gray hair, then lit a Camel as he assessed Hallock. Colin noted something cold in Mark's brown eyes.
"I'm not saying you should suppress it or anything. I know you can't do that. Just don't make a big deal out of it," Hallock suggested.
Griffing laughed mirthlessly. "But it is a big deal, Chief. You of all people should know that."
"'Course it is. That's not what I meant."
"So what did y
ou mean?" he asked, an edge to his voice.
Hallock pressed his lips together. An aureole of white appeared around his mouth.
"The chief doesn't want it to get front-page coverage," Colin explained.
Mark shifted his gaze to Colin, the baleful look still present. "Really?"
"That's right," Hallock said.
Eyes still on Colin, Griffing inquired drily, "And you agree with this?"
"I didn't say that."
"Well, do you?" The tone was frosty.
As Colin had noticed many times, there was almost a feminine quality to Mark's good looks. The features were small, delicate. But when he was angry or challenged his face took on a hard edge, making him almost ugly. "You know I don't," he answered. For a moment he felt guilty, as though he were betraying Hallock. But he was a newspaperman and certain values were ingrained. You didn't bury a hot story because someone outside the paper wanted you to.
"Thanks, pal," Griffing said sarcastically. He turned back to Hallock. "Two people have been found murdered, Chief. We're not talking about somebody catching a big fish, or winning the annual foot race, or giving some money to the hospital. We're talking about murder. That gets the front page and no two ways about it."
Hallock had begun to sweat. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his neck and forehead. "I don't think you understand what kind of repercussions that story's gonna have."
"Like you losing your job?" Griffing asked.
Colin didn't like the small smile that played around Mark's mouth.
"Me losing my job is only a drop in the bucket. It's everybody. You want to see a ghost town, you print your story up big and bold, you'll see what happens."
Griffing leaned forward. "I have no desire to screw up the merchants of Seaville, Chief, but I have a duty to report the news. Newsline has already printed a story, so how would it look if I skipped it or buried it on page fifteen? I don't think you understand that this is out of my hands. I really don't have a choice."
"I don't think you understand that if you put that story on page fifteen, nobody in Seaville would bat an eye. They'd be grateful to you."
"I'll live without their gratitude."
Hallock stood suddenly, as if he were snapping to attention. "Ah, hell, what do you care? This isn't your town."
"Oh, shit," Griffing said, "now we're going to get the outsider routine." Even if you lived in the town for fifty years you were still considered an alien of sorts. To be accepted you had to be born in Seaville. "No matter what you think, Chief, I feel that Seaville is my town, and I have a moral obligation to tell the truth. What you're asking me to do is immoral."
Colin could see that Hallock was shaking, hands at his sides in fists.
"I'm asking you to think of the town, is all."
"You're asking me to bury an important story."
"Why do you keep saying it like that?"
"Like what?"
"Burying it."
"Because that's what it would be. If I put that story anyplace besides the front page, where it belongs, then I'm burying it. And that's immoral."
Hallock stiffened; a vein in his temple throbbed. "You calling me immoral, you preppy twerp?"
Griffing stood up. "I think we've said everything we need to say to each other."
"Hey, come on, guys," Colin pleaded.
Griffing whirled on him. "You stay out of this!" Then back to Hallock. "And maybe if you got down to the business of finding the murderer instead of trying to get me to compromise my ethics, maybe then the town would be grateful to you."
Hallock stretched his lips tight across his teeth. A sound came out, like a horse neighing. Then he pushed past Colin, and fuming, left the room.
"Waldo, wait," Colin called.
"Let the prick go."
"Jesus, Mark."
"What?" he asked innocently.
"Did you have to imply that he was immoral? Don't you know what kind of a man he is?"
"Listen, Colin, don't try to lay a guilt trip on me because you're in bed with Waldo Hallock. The man was trying to get me to suppress a story. You heard him."
"What I heard was a frightened man who was trying to get you to downplay a story, not suppress it."
"Same thing."
"No, it isn't," Colin contradicted. "It really isn't."
"Well, fuck it. Who cares?"
"I do. You should. We need the chief of police on our side."
"Before you got here I managed very well without the chief of police on my side."
Was he jealous? Colin wondered.
"So where's the story?" Griffing asked suddenly.
"I was working on it when Waldo came in."
Griffing looked at his watch. "You'll have it by three?"
"I think you should apologize to the chief."
"You've gotta be kidding, pal."
"I'm not. You maligned his character. He's not going to forget that so easily."
Griffing sat behind his desk and picked up his pen. "I want the story by three."
"Mark, don't you realize what you've done? We've got murder cases here, and you've cut off our best source of information for the future."
"You sound like there's going to be more murders, pal." He smiled wryly. "Do you know something I don't know?"
Colin stepped back as if he'd been shot. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Take it the way you want." He shuffled the papers on his desk. "The story, Colin. By three."
Colin felt his limbs beginning to tremble. He wanted to know what Mark had meant but he needed to get away more. He couldn't afford a full-blown panic attack in front of Mark. Quickly he moved to the door and hurried down the stairs. Judy, the bookkeeper, called to him as he rushed by her.
"Not now," he snapped and ran for his office. Slamming the door shut, he hurled himself into a chair. His mouth was dry, as if he'd been in the sun for hours, but his body was clammy with cold sweat. The noise in the room was deafening. He realized then that it was his own shallow breathing coming in quick gulps.
He closed his eyes, afraid to see the walls crumbling, the floor buckling, as he had so many times before. Desperately, he tried to remember what Dr. Safier had told him to do, but no constructive thoughts would come. Only the sickening, ruinous ones: He was going to vomit, become insane, die.
It's not really happening, he told himself. I only think I feel these things. I won't go insane. I won't die. He tried to open his eyes. Hundred-pound weights pressed down on his lids. He was alone, lost, a minute particle swirling in the universe, growing smaller and smaller, ready to disappear, evaporate.
A roll of nausea eddied through him, and he dropped his head between his knees. When that had passed he sat up slowly, only to have dizziness overtake him. His mind whirled round and round like a dancer gone mad. Then the pains began. First in his elbows, sharp and piercing, then moving on down his arms, jumping to his thighs, knees, calves, shooting through his feet, exiting from his toes.
It was subsiding. His breathing slowed, began to come more regularly. The dizziness had narrowed, the nausea gone. He had to open his eyes, see that he existed. Slowly he pushed up his lids, the long lashes forming a scrim. He opened them further, until his eyes took in the room. His desk, chair, typewriter were all in place. The walls were straight.
Holding out his hand, he saw that there was only a slight tremor now. He felt as if the attack had gone on for hours, but experience told him this wasn't true. Looking at his watch he saw that only seven minutes had elapsed. Mark had never witnessed one of his panic attacks, and Colin was grateful he'd been able to get out of his office before it was too late.
In comparison to others, this attack had been fairly mild. He'd had the first one when he was twenty-seven, following his father's hideous death. Edward Maguire had been a doctor. At the age of fifty-two, when he developed cancer, he refused treatment. Instead, he stayed at home and slowly disintegrated.
Both Colin and his brother, Brian, had been sum
moned home for the last week of their father's life. It had been a nightmare. Edward's screams precluded sleep. They tried to get him into a hospital, but he refused. None of them dared defy him, even in his weakened, pitiful state.
"It's my punishment," he'd said." God's punishment."
But when Colin tried to pursue it, Edward looked at him with glazed eyes and declined to answer. After he was dead, Colin asked his mother what his father had meant.
"Ask Robin," she'd advised.
Colin did ask her. Robin Wise had been his father's nurse for twenty years and his mistress for seventeen.
It was after the funeral and he'd spoken to Robin that he'd had his first attack. Although it frightened him, he thought it was understandable considering the strain of that final week and the revelation of his father's affair. He dismissed it from his mind. Nothing like it happened again until after the murders of his family. Then the attacks became constant and relentless. When he'd finally faced that he couldn't go on that way, he'd left Chicago and gone to live with his mother. It was there he'd found Dr. Safier. The first six months he had his sessions on the telephone, afraid to leave his mother's house for fear of an attack. Eventually he was able to travel to Safier's office by car.
Here in Seaville he felt safe almost anywhere. If panic seized him he could always leave a room, a restaurant, a party. He was able to travel up and down the Fork, but the fear of becoming hysterical and causing a scene kept him from riding in a car with another person. Safier was in New Jersey, so he was back to having phone sessions; fortunately, he had one tonight.
But before that he had to write the goddamn story. The goddamn fucking story about murder.
He had forty-seven minutes.
LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO
Jimmie Hand of Seaville and a young lady—it wouldn't be nice to mention her name—were thrown from their carriage while driving one night this week, by being run into by another vehicle. If the young man had looked after the ribbons instead of the waist, things might have been different. But then maybe it was worth it.
THIRTEEN
He couldn't believe how stupid and gullible they were. Or how easy this whole thing was going to be. He had nine more to go in this grouping. Then he'd start again.
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