Delusion

by Peter Abrahams

  “Not too well. He knew the other one better.”

  “The other one?”

  “The other detective.”

  “Clay Jarreau?”

  “Him.”

  CHAPTER 17

  And what about the live lineup, the one that came a day or two after the photo spread: Was it possible there’d been no blue-eyed men standing behind the one-way glass, other than Alvin DuPree? Nell sat up in the night, her pulse racing. Clay was sleeping on his side, facing the other way. Moonlight came through the window, shone on his profile. For a moment, Nell saw how he would look as an old man.

  She got up, walked out on the balcony. The moon hung high in the sky, only a half-moon but very bright. Her mind formed some connection between the half-moon and Clay’s profile, wanted her to take it further, but she couldn’t.

  Something was floating in the pool. Nell put on her robe, went outside, found the skimmer and skimmed in what turned out to be a page from the Guardian, the print all blurred. Water ran down the pole of the skimmer and dripped on her arm. It felt warm. She took off her robe, slipped into the pool, started swimming, not fast, but on and on. The moon sank, lower and lower, was hidden behind the treetops by the time Nell climbed out, water dripping off her body the only sound. She wrapped herself in her robe and lay on one of the chaises. Now, with the moon so low, the stars seemed brighter. So many, yet all those she saw were in just the one galaxy, the Milky Way—Johnny had taught her that. And how many galaxies were there?

  Not just billions and billions, Nellie, but billions times billions. You see what this means?

  That we’re next to nothing?

  No, no—the opposite. The fact that we’re figuring it all out makes us important, gives us meaning.

  And what’s the meaning—they’d been in bed at the time and she’d reached down under the covers—of this?

  Must be the strong force, Johnny had said.

  And she’d said: We’ll see about that.

  Nell opened her eyes. The stars were gone and pale light was showing in the east. A breeze blew, hard enough to ripple the water in the pool. Nell shivered, got up, went inside. She had coffee brewing and was making toast when Clay walked into the kitchen, knotting his tie.

  “You’re up early,” he said.

  “Lots to do,” Nell said, taking a quick glance at him; did he really not know she’d left their bed in the middle of the night? She poured a cup of coffee, set it before him on the butcher block.

  “Like what?” he said; he raised the cup and made a little motion with it, thanking her.

  “At work,” Nell said. “We’re going to put all the Civil War material in the atrium. Toast?”

  “Please.”

  She served him toast, with butter and peach jam, his favorite. Nell could smell his shampoo and aftershave, and beneath them his own smell, fresh and healthy, a smell she loved.

  “Aren’t you having any?” he said.

  “Maybe later,” said Nell. “Clay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve had this idea, kind of strange.”

  “Oh?” He buttered his toast, not looking up.

  “It’s about Darryll Pines.”

  “Go on.”

  “Have you ever noticed his eyes?”

  Now Clay looked up, his own eyes wary. “What about them?”

  “They’re blue. Very light blue.”

  “So?”

  “The killer had eyes like that, very light blue—that’s one thing I’m sure of.”

  Clay put down the butter knife. “You’re saying Darryll did it?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Asking what?”

  “Where he was that night, for starters.”

  Clay pushed his plate away. “Did Darryll know Johnny?” he said.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did he know you?”

  “No.”

  “Ever heard of Darryll getting involved in a robbery, or any crime at all?”

  “No.”

  “So he just up and murdered a man, a complete stranger, for no reason.”

  Nell said nothing.

  “Making him a pyscho,” Clay said. “You think Darryll’s a psycho?”

  “I know there’s tension between the two of you—it even came out at—”

  Clay banged his fist on the butcher block, hard and sudden. She jumped, maybe even let out a little cry: she’d never seen him do anything like that before. The butter knife spun through the air and clinked across the tiles. “There is no tension,” he said, his voice rising. He pointed his finger at her—another first. “This has got to stop. You’re going to do damage.”

  Nell was stunned, almost frozen in place, her eyes on his pointing finger. It was partly the aggressiveness of the gesture, so alien to him, and partly the reminder of the little finger tap over the pictured head of Alvin DuPree. Not the recent finger tap, here in their own kitchen, but twenty years before down at One Marigot: Had that really happened, or was it some kind of false or invented memory? Clay followed her gaze, lowered his hand, a pained expression crossing his face.

  “Please, Nell, enough,” he said, his voice now soft. “If there was a mistake, I feel bad about it…” He paused for a moment, as though his throat had thickened inside, choking off whatever was coming next. “…but there’s no reason you should.”

  “But I do.”

  “We’ve been through this. The system isn’t perfect. People aren’t perfect. But everybody”—he paused again, took a deep breath—“did their best.”

  “I didn’t,” Nell said.

  “Stop.”

  But she couldn’t. Tears came, and she couldn’t stop them either. Twenty years: there was no fixing something like that, no making it go away, not even a silver lining, so what would ever make this stop, her guilt, her doubt? Clay came around the butcher block, held her, patted her back. She calmed down.

  “I want you to do something for me,” she said, her face against his shoulder, “even if you think it’s crazy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Look into the old records. See if Darryll was working that night.”

  Clay’s hands tightened on her back. “Those records are all gone—Bernardine,” he said. “But I don’t need them. He was working.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Darryll was on the desk that night,” Clay said, “took the first call. Easy to remember.”

  That should have wiped the Darryll idea from her mind; why didn’t it? Nell had another thought. “Are the lineup records gone, too?”

  “Lineup records?”

  “The names of the men I saw,” Nell said. “Pictures of their faces.” He was silent. She felt him go still inside. “Did Bernardine get them, too?” she said.

  “Nothing to get,” Clay said. “We don’t keep records of who the fillers were. There’s only one real suspect in a lineup—I thought you knew that.”

  She knew it now, from her conversation with Professor Urbana. Nell might have told him about Professor Urbana right then, but something about that stillness deep inside him stopped her. “I just have this worry,” she said.

  “What worry?”

  “That maybe, somehow…”

  “Go on.”

  “That DuPree was the only blue-eyed man in the lineup.”

  Clay let her go, fast, reflexively, almost as though he’d been hit with an electric shock. He stared down at her. “Go on,” he said again.

  “Go on?”

  “You’re driving at something.”

  “I’m not. I’m not driving at anything.”

  “Then who is?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Has someone—Lee Ann, maybe—been putting ide—been influencing you?”

  “Putting ideas in my head? Is that the way you see me?”

  “I didn’t say putting ideas in your head. I said—”

  “You did. Don’t lie to me.”

  “What did you just say? Y
ou think I lie to you?”

  “You just did. You—”

  Norah walked in, her face still rumpled from sleep. The room went silent. Nell realized she and Clay had been out of control, totally.

  “What’s going on?” Norah said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Nell said.

  “Nothing? You’re screaming at each other. What happened?”

  “Your mom and I were having a slight disagreement,” Clay said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Norah looked from one to the other. Nell could read her mind: But you never fight like this. “A slight disagreement about what?” Norah said.

  “Nothing,” Nell said again. “Nothing important. Nothing to worry about.”

  “About me?” Norah said. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Clay said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.” He walked up to Norah, moved to kiss her on the forehead. She backed away.

  His face tightened. “Everything’s all right,” he said. He checked his watch. “Got to run.” Clay walked over to Nell, kissed her forehead, barely touching. “See you tonight.”

  “It really wasn’t about me?” Norah said.

  “No,” said Nell.

  “Then what?”

  “How about some breakfast?”

  “What’s it about? What’s the problem?”

  Nell poured coffee for Norah. Her hand wasn’t quite steady; some coffee splashed into the saucer. She took it to the sink, fetched another from the cupboard.

  “Something to eat?”

  “I want to know, Mom.”

  “It’s just this case, honey, the tape and everything. It’s all very…” Nell felt tears coming again, forced them back down; this, the loss of control, was unbearable to her, had to end. “…stressful, that’s all.”

  “You and Dad disagree about it?”

  Was Norah back to calling him Dad, as she had all her life, or was it just a slip? Had pizza with Joe Don improved her mood? The darkness in Nell’s mind started to recede. “Not really,” she said.

  “Then what?”

  “Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t worry.”

  Norah sat down, sipped her coffee. Nell made an omelet, split it with Norah. Nell took one bite before her stomach closed up, but the sight of Norah eating lightened her mood a little more.

  “Ines called yesterday,” Nell said.

  “Yeah?”

  “To see how you’re doing.”

  Norah chewed slowly on her omelet.

  “She wants you to call.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nell sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter. “Coffee all right?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Norah said.

  “I don’t think you ever mentioned Ines.”

  “No?”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Nice.”

  “I gather she lives in your old…your dorm?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  Norah, gazing down at the remains of her omelet, said, “That’s enough questions.” Those words—their unexpectedness, the quiet delivery—gave Nell a sudden chill.

  “What…what did you say?”

  Norah looked up, anger in her eyes; her mood had changed completely. “You heard me.”

  “Norah! What’s going on with you? What’s wrong?”

  Norah laughed, a derisive laugh that scared Nell. Then she rose and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. Nell heard a muffled smash from the cupboard where she kept the good china.

  Ten minutes later—Nell in her bathroom, putting on her pearl earrings, almost ready for work—the wrecker drove up Sandhill Way. Through the window, Nell saw Norah hurrying toward it across the lawn. She raised the window.

  “Norah, where are you going?”

  Norah turned. “Out.”

  “But where?”

  “I’m nineteen years old.”

  “I know, but—”

  Joe Don stuck his head out the window of the cab. “Just goin’ out for a little breakfast, ma’am,” he said.

  But she just ate. Nell somehow kept that reply, so idiotic, inside. She gave them a little wave. Joe Don waved back.

  Nell left the museum at five, picked up three small New York strip steaks—Clay’s favorite cut—on sale. Driving up Sandhill Way, she checked the rearview mirror, saw Duke’s Porsche coming up fast. She parked in the driveway. Duke pulled in behind her, jumped out of his car, a bottle of champagne in hand.

  “Hi, darlin’,” he said. “Clay home yet?”

  “Any minute now,” Nell said.

  “Mind if I wait?”

  “’Course not—come on in.”

  They went into the house. Duke set the bottle on the counter. He was practically jumping up and down.

  “Something up?” Nell said.

  “What makes you say that?” He laughed. “Can you keep a secret—just till the news hits?”

  “What news?”

  “We’re going to come out clean. Absolutely spotless.”

  “Come out of what?” said Nell. “Who?”

  Duke laughed again. “The company. DK Industries. The Corps of Engineers’ report’s out tomorrow and we’re cleared, one hundred percent.”

  Had Lee Ann said something about this? Nell couldn’t remember. “Cleared of what?”

  “Cleared of what? My God—hasn’t Clay discussed this with you?”

  “Discussed what?”

  “We could have been ruined,” Duke said. “Lost everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because we built the ship canal—the beginning of everything, our first big project.”

  “Where the flooding started?”

  For a moment, Duke didn’t look so cheery. “One of the places the flooding started,” he said. “But I don’t deny if we had known certain things, the dikes would have been higher and the Canal Street gates stronger. The opposite—I guarantee it.”

  “What things?”

  “Technical things.” He waved them aside. “All kinds of geologic data we didn’t have and—this is the whole point—couldn’t have been expected to have had by any regulating agency. Not back then, twenty years ago. We built, quote, according to acceptable, customary and legal standards of the time, end quote. Meaning it was an act of God, end of story.”

  “That…that’s great, Duke.”

  “Thanks, Nell. Can’t tell you how good it feels. Calls for a celebration—one of the reasons I’m here, in fact. I was hoping we could fly over to Little Parrot tomorrow for a day or two, just the four of us, take a quick break.”

  “That’s very nice, Duke, but I don’t—”

  She heard the front door open. Clay walked in, holding a big bouquet of roses.

  Duke shook his head. “You two lovebirds,” he said.

  Nell felt herself turning red; Clay’s face was reddening, too.

  CHAPTER 18

  Nell wasn’t a gambler, had never made any kind of bet in her life, but she would have put almost anything on Clay turning down the trip to Little Parrot Cay.

  “Sounds good,” he told Duke.

  Duke popped the cork. They finished off the bottle in a minute or two, all of them drinking fast, as though they’d been living through a drought.

  “See you at the strip,” Duke said on his way out. “Seven sharp.”

  “What about Norah?” Nell said when he’d gone.

  “It’s only a day or two,” said Clay. “She’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t like leaving her.”

  “Then we’ll bring her along.”

  Norah was in the family room, talking on the phone. “Oh, I’d never do something like that,” she said, then saw Nell. “Call you back.” She hung up.

  Never do something like what? Who was on the phone? Nell swallowed both questions. “We’re going to Little Parrot for a day or two.”

  “Have fun.”

  “We were hoping you’d like to come.”
<
br />   “No thanks.”

  “But you loved it there—remember when we went, that Easter?” Nell could picture Norah, bursting through the surface of the water, a conch held high.

  “It was all right.”

  “You could…bring a friend, if you want.”

  “I’ll just hang out here.”

  “I don’t know, Norah. It just seems to me—”

  “Mom. I’m nineteen.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Say it—you don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that. But you’ve been through a bit of a rough time and—”

  “Take the keys.”

  “The keys?”

  “To the Miata. To all the cars. I’ll be safe and sound, watering the plants.”

  At that moment, Nell came close to canceling the trip, or trying to persuade Clay to go without her. Norah was watching her; Nell could almost feel her daughter reading her mind.

  “Do I live here or not?” Norah said.

  “Okay,” Nell said. “But don’t screen my calls out.”

  Norah said nothing.

  “I mean it.”

  Norah nodded, just barely.

  “Say you won’t screen me out.”

  “I won’t screen you out.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Clay sat in the cockpit with Duke; Nell and Vicki in back. Vicki’s perfume smelled of orange blossoms, orchards and orchards of them.

  “I’m so excited,” Vicki said.

  Nell smiled at her. Vicki was wearing a tiny dress, high heels, lots of makeup.

  Vicki lowered her voice, said something that was drowned out by engine noise. Nell leaned forward, put her hand to her ear.

  “This is my first time,” Vicki said.

  First time? In a plane? In a small plane? Nell waited for more.

  “Going to this Parrot place. How come everybody says key when it’s spelled cay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Are there parrots?”

  “I’ve never seen one.”

  Vicki shrugged, her breasts almost spilling free. “Don’t like birds anyway,” she said. “I’m so excited. He’s never taken me there before. And look.” She held out her hand, displaying a small emerald ring.

  “Beautiful,” Nell said.